Grandparents

I have had a lot of grandparents in my life. I have been exceptionally fortunate.

My mom's parents were Myrtle and Henry. They lived in a little town in central Minnesota. We visited as often as we could. My two strongest memories are of popping popcorn with Grandma, the old fashioned way, in a pot, with real kernels and oil! Grandma lifted up the lid to check and some popped right in her face. We laughed and laughed and laughed. I remember running in to the house and sitting next to Grandpa on the huge arms of the brown arm chair. I had to fight with my sisters for one of the arms. He always had juicy fruit gum for us, so we loved that special treat. I was barely four when my mom lost both her parents. Grandma the day before Christmas Eve, and Grandpa on St. Patrick's Day. Even with few memories, the strongest emotions associated with them is how warm and loving they were with us, and how very much they loved us.

My dad's parents were Mildred and LA. They were in their 70s when I was born and had something like 27 other grandchildren. My dad had 13 brothers and sisters so it was a crowded family into which to be born. My grandparents lived close enough, and we visited them on many Sundays. They didn't have a lot of money and on Christmas, we would cherish the dollar bill we got in an envelope with a bow. Because I had a cousin named Amy, my envelope always said, "Bob's Amy." Grandma made homemade donuts and we would enjoy the donuts with unsweetened koolaid. Grandpa didn't talk much as we would sit around an visit. He would just quietly get up, go and get his bag of mints or sometimes Snickers, and come back and shake the bag in our faces to ask if we wanted one. I was as close as I could have been, I guess, to my grandma. They weren't overtly affectionate people but my sisters and I knew that our grandparents were proud of us, that they loved us in the way that they knew how.

I remember later when my grandma was sick, that she was in and out of the hospital, the Granite Manor, the Bellview Nursing Home, but that in her final days she was in the Granite Falls Hospital. I visited her when I knew that her passing was imminent. I was there when the pastor spoke a final prayer, we said prayers together, and I felt a certain quiet gladness that I was there at that time.

Later I was at BB practice and while running warm up laps, I saw my mom and asked how grandma was and she told me that grandma had died during that very day. And then, I went back to BB practice. Really? I went to practice? But, I guess that's what you do when you are a staunch Norwegian and that's how death goes in your family. I am sure that my grandma was proud of me. For, when she had passed, we found a selection of articles from the local newspaper about me that she had cut out and saved.

I still think about my grandma. I think about that white sweater that she wore forever. Even when we bought her a new one from JC Penney, she still wore that OLD one with holes in each elbow. I think about the fact that my aunts called her bird legs and that my husband calls me Birdie. I think about how when my oldest sister laughs or chuckles, it sounds just like my grandma. I wonder how my little bird of a grandma had 13 children....and how they were raised with a stern dad and a mom who must have been extremely worn and tired for much of her life. I think about how my dad looks so much like my grandma and how much my grandma relied on him in her later life...how close they were when it wasn't cool for a son to be close to his mom.

I also think about how shortly after I met my future husband, I lost my last grandparent. My grandpa died at the age of 96 when I was a sophomore in college, literally weeks after I started dating my future husband. That's crazy for me to think about now when I understand that at that time his grandparents were not much older than my parents. So there I was, 20 years old, and missing all 4 of my grandparents.

After my grandpa died, I quite literally adopted the grandparents of my then, boyfriend, now husband. He had two living sets of grandparents. This was quite a novelty to me. I would attend his basketball games and see both sets of his grandparents sitting together watching him play.

We would visit one or the other set on a Sunday, have a great dinner and go back to our dorm rooms or apartments. I loved having grandparents. I loved being fed. I loved being cherished. Even though they weren't MY grandparents, they grandparented ME! I appreciated every minute of that time.

When we got married a few years later, I felt so incredibly blessed to be able to have FOUR grandparents at my wedding, nevermind that they weren't mine, because they WERE! At least I felt that they were. When we told Matt's grandparents that we were getting married, Earl pulled me aside and told me that he was happy that I was going to be a Northrop. Seriously, from a man of few words that was, and still is, incredibly high praise.

Early in our marriage, Earl passed on. I was at work and prior to the age of cell phones, I arrived home to an empty apartment. I called to talk to my father in law, who told me the news. He had already talked to my husband that day, so this was the first I had heard. I sat on our old, gold couch and felt the grief of my own grandpa's passing all over again. Here was a man who had loved me and now he was gone. That night, Matt and I went for a walk and saw the Northern Lights. We were convinced that this was Earl saying "Hey Cowboys! I made it!" At his funeral, we felt remorse for the fact that not everyone had known the side of him that we had. We were grateful for the good parts that we had known and the love he had shown us.

We continued to foster our relationship with Gma Lois and with Gma and Gpa Devitt. We would visit Lois every time we were in Fargo. She would bring us to breakfast or have lunch at her apartment. Lois and I have always had good conversations about books we have read or Bible studies with which our groups are involved. She will often ask me what she has that I might want when she is gone. I try to laugh some of that away, but find it hard to address directly. Last time we visited her apartment, she took us and the kids to the pool in her apartment complex and told us of the 90th birthday party that she was planning for herself. I am grateful that she has been a good grandma for me, my husband, and for my children.

Grandpa and Grandma Devitt will always be my very own grandpa and grandma. A few years ago when Grandpa Devitt started to show signs of dimentia/Alzheimers/Lewey Body Disease not one of us wanted to admit that really this was something that could be happening to OUR family. Grandma and Grandpa and Uncle Randy moved to Omaha to be closer to Matt's mom.

I don't really think any of us realized how how much A. this would affect Matt's parents' lives or B. how much this meant for the end of Grandpa's life. First of all, this became of a full time job for Matt's mom. Not only did it involve caring for Grandpa, but also caring for Grandma who had always cared for Grandpa. It meant finding adequate facilities when it became too much for Grandma and Uncle Randy and Mom.

Really, there's no class or study for this. What do you do when your parents can't care for themselves or each other? but think they can? or want to but can't? What do you do when the facilities you find can't care for your dad the way you want? What if they can't provide your mom or your brother with the support they need? What if you aren't eligible for hard earned veteran's benefits?

Whew, lots of heavy stuff. Now, my husband is WAY better at this stuff than I am. I prefer to put my head in the sand and wait for a solution to appear. He and his mom are very alike in how they care for and interact with others. We would go to the nursing home and I would want to spend 5 minutes and GET OUT. He would spend as much time as he could with not only his grandpa, but everyone else in the facility. I admire that and love that about him. One of my children is like that as well.

Whenever we would visit Grandpa, my second son Benjamin would be the one to stroke Grandpa's hand, sit with him, show him things, or talk to him. It would break my heart every time we left when Grandpa would want to go with us, and wouldn't understand why he would have to stay in that narrow confinement.

The last time we visited him it was at the Veteran's Home in Nebraska, where finally it seemed he was being cared for with respect and dignity. It was on Christmas Eve. We all came together. We had seen him in August and he was okay, not wonderful, but knew mostly who we were, at least he always knew Matt. And even if he didn't know me, he always just called me Squirt. Well, when we saw him in December, there were some dramatic changes. He wasn't verbal with us at all. Matt spent a lot of time with him. He wanted to give his grandpa a beer and when the attendant finally gave us a Busch NA beer (warm), Matty gave it to him. He said, "How's that Gramps?" and Jim said, "Tastes like shit." Totally appropriate! So, Matty brought him a Pabst Blue Ribbon Silo the next day and he drank that down like a thirsty man in a desert.

A short time later, he was gone. We take comfort in the fact that we were able to provide him with some moments of pleasure in his last days. We miss his humor, we miss his realism, but mostly we just miss him. I miss that he called me Squirt. I miss that he thought our kids were ridiculously out of control and told us so. I miss that he said, "Jimmy don't eat no junk." I miss that he said, "Holy Shit, Dolores!" when talking to Grandma.

And, what do I love best about Gma Devitt? It's tough to pick just one. Mostly, I just love how much she loves my husband. I get to hear stories about when he was a naughty little boy who you couldn't help but love. And, when he is with her, he radiates happiness and little boyishness. Grandma has a special way of making Matt feel like he is the favorite. I suspect she must do that in some way for all four of her grandchildren. For Matt, she knows that the way to his heart is through an angel food cake with brown sugar frosting. I will never attempt to make it because I would never get it right and would always have to hear, "It's not as good as my grandma's cake." She also makes an awesome pecan dessert, pheasant under glass (although she told me it was chicken!), pork chops, eggs, sausages, the list goes on and on and on and on. It's not just the food, though. It's the love and hugs and acceptance and pride in our kids that I appreciate the most. And, when she lets it show, she has a wicked sense of humor. I am sure that it's not easy grandparenting a grand-daughter-in-law who is stubborn and speaks her mind. She is beautiful and smart and encouraging, and I am lucky to have her.

The point of all of this grandparent talk is to say that I am grateful. I am grateful that I had four grandparents while I was growing up. I am grateful that I inherited such wonderful grandparents when I married my husband. I am grateful that I still have two grandmas via my husband. I am grateful that my children have SIX grandparents who love them ridiculously, because having people who are irrationally crazy about my kids makes me feel ridiculously loved as well.

Carpe Whatem?

I read a blog post lately about a woman writing from her heart about not being able to carpe diem every moment with her young children. I've been thinking about this very thing for a long time. Ever since I had kids who were 3.5, 1.5 and a newborn. Heck, probably before that, but my brain was too clouded from lack of sleep to form coherent thoughts.

My boys were both born in the summer. A dreamy time to have a newborn. When I was feeling trapped in my house, jiggly, and stir crazy, I could pile the baby in the stroller and walk and walk and walk. I did the same with my second son. Identical scenario with the exception that it was now a double stroller instead of a single. In addition to the whole weather factor was the bonus that my husband is a teacher, so he was home for the first eight weeks or so of my boys' lives.

When my daughter was born, it was January. The coldest one on record in recent history. So, we didn't go anywhere. And for those of you not in the know, teachers work in January so my husband was not available. Oh, wait, I take that back. Lyndee was born on a Tuesday. He got her actual birth day off, plus Wednesday. Then he called in sick the next two days to be able to take me home from the hospital and help us settle in before going back to work on Monday.

So, to escape the house one day and also to attempt to feed my family something more than Cheerios, I took the kids grocery shopping. Gabe had to walk (at 3.5 not an easy task through the whole grocery store), Ben was sitting in the cart, and Lyndee was in the baby bucket in the basket of the cart. We made it two aisles before Lyndee started screaming. And I mean, screaming in that nothing will console this baby, way. But, it had taken me an hour to get everyone bundled and in the car, darned if I wasn't going to FINISH getting what I came for....food!

One woman kept looking at me. And when I say looking at me, what I really mean is that she was pointedly glaring at me. It was as if she was saying, "What are you doing bringing those poor children out today? It is January and cold and it might storm tonight. You should be home carpe dieming this maybe by snuggling or making snowflake cupcakes or celebrating the month of January or something. You should be anywhere but here, disrupting my peaceful shopping experience."

Oh man, I was so postpartum on this day that it was all I could do to keep from bursting into tears right there in the shredded cheese aisle. I hadn't showered in a couple of days. I was feeling pasty and heavy and tired. But, I persevered. I got my shredded cheese and everything else I came for. And, I got something else, too. I gained a little perspective.

As I was getting ready to FINALLY check out, an older woman was in line behind me. She patiently stood and waited and asked my oldest a few questions while I found my coupons, the pacifier, and my checkbook. And when I was done and wheeling away, I looked back and said, "Thanks for your patience. I know we are kind of a circus."

And she said, "Oh honey. I know. I've been there. You are doing a great job. Keep it up. You, too, will make it through." Then, I cried.....and said, "Thank you....so much."

And I thought, "That is what I will do. That is the kind of mentoring mom I will be. Someday I will be in a grocery store and say the very same thing. And maybe I will add that it is hard to cherish every moment. There will be time your kids will be puking, or late with their homework, or crying or fighting nonstop with their siblings over nothing. But, you will persevere and survive. You will get your shredded cheese and go home and take a shower....finally. Then, you can carpe diem or make snowflake cupcakes. Or not. Either way, I have been there. You are doing a great job and you, too, will make it through."

Why Do I Run?

Why do I run? As you prepare to run what may be your final race of the season, you may or may not examine your own reasons for running. Be warned, some of this may sound Debbie Downer to you. But, I hope it may inspire you, too!

Let me take you through my timeline of running. I remember my first race. I remember what I was wearing. Of course it was a hand me down from my oldest sister, already an established runner. It said, "Runner, runner, runner" in an orange and yellow rainbow. It was probably a Nike shirt. I also had on a pair of hand me down running shorts, terrible shoes, and my glasses. I was in 5th grade running my first road race. It was a 2K, and I was scared out of my mind. But, I was also excited. Now I can't remember how I finished or if I won an award or anything. But I can remember that I was disappointed in how I finished. So, I was determined to train more for the next year. Did I? I don't remember, but I do know that it made me want to train for track and field day in 6th grade.

That was my 2nd foray into the running world. My sister was already, as I said, an established, somewhat of a small town hero, high school runner. When I was in 6th grade, she was a junior in High School. She had already gone to state in track and field 4 times and cross country 4 times. She achieved her fifth time, not long after my epic track and field day fail.

Every day of my elementary school career I walked past the track and field day record board outside the elementary gym where Miss Ulmer held court. Every day, I saw my sister's name under the record for the 600 yd run. Every day, I wanted that record. So, I trained...a little....a very little. I visualized myself on that awards podium every night as a fell asleep. I thought I could pull it off, but sadly...I couldn't. And I was disappointed. It doesn't matter that I won the long jump for the 2nd year in a row, or that my 4x100 team had done well (after much 6th grade drama), I had failed myself.

So, I decided to go out for 7th grade cross country. And, if a person ran 100 miles over the summer, that person would earn a tshirt that said "Century Club." That was my goal. I'd like to say I made it, but alas, I think I covered something like 62 miles that summer.

I did well my 7th grade CC season, and in fact placed first in my very first JH race in 7th grade at Ortonville. I even ran a few varsity meets. I probably should have lettered and thought I was going to do so. But, at the banquet, there was no asterisk next to my name denoting me as a letter winner.

I considered volleyball, but truly, I was terrible at that sport. So, I decided to go with CC again. Every year after that I lettered. I was determined to be better. I knew that I might aspire to be as talented and accomplished as my oldest sister, but that I was not as runningly gifted as she. I made the Century Club every year, I ran hard, made my school's honor rolls. I even placed 10th at Regions my senior year in Redwood. This was a course that I still think of as the hardest I have ever run. I was thrilled with 10th place, but only two things marred my accomplishment. First, the top 6 advanced to State (which was later changed to the top 10, and still is different today), and one of my teammates who was picked to go, didn't make it in. Most of my high school career, in fact, I hated running. It was a chore. Something that caused me anxiety, stress and fear.

Track was a little different, more team oriented. I made it to state two years in relays. Some of that was joyful, some of that was not. My junior year at Osseo was great. We medaled and it was thrilling. My senior year at Blaine was filled with angst and disappointment, even though we medaled. I remember that I CHOSE not to run an open event in Districts because I thought it would help our relay team to advance. Looking back, I can see that I CHOSE to run only relays because my psyche really couldn't handle individual disappointment.

It wasn't until I didn't HAVE to run, that I was able to find joy in running.

I watched my sister collapse at a couple of meets, since then I've watched numerous HS girls collapse from exhaustion, poor nutrition, high expectations, and stress. And I'm sure people look at them and think....WHY DO YOU RUN!?

And, I have asked myself that question numerous times. I have taken hiatuses from running, I have quit running with a watch, I have quit racing. But, now, at 41, still I run. Why?

I will tell you. Running has been one thing that has been truly constant in my life since literally the age of 10. Running has inspired me, motivated me, disappointed me, cheered me, angered me, sustained me.

I run when I am happy. I run when I am mad. I run to celebrate. I run when I am frustrated. I run when I am sad.

Running now gives me joy, peace, stress relief, thinking time, time alone, time with nature, time with the spirit....time.

Why do I run? Because three steps into a run, I feel....well.....I feel better! I feel like things are right in my world again. I feel strong, healthy and fit. I feel accomplished. I feel like myself.

Now, as I coach cross country and track and field I run because of my athletes. I run so that they can see that you actually still CAN run over the age of 40. I run to show them that I feel their pain during the mile repeats, the hills, or the long run. I run so that they know that I know how frustrating it can be to not be physically able to achieve what you want to achieve. I run because, to them, I am the fun police. I run so they are not alone.

Mostly, I run because I can. And I will continue to run, in spite of those who think I'm crazy.

Collecting My Way

If you read my previous post, you know that my number one son's collections drive me a bit crazy. I like things orderly (although you might not guess that if you visit my house). When I vacuum, it makes me feel better. A clean purse, makes me think more clearly. I know it's unfortunately rubbing off on my kids when my number two son spends his play time at night cleaning up his room because "I don't want you to be stressed out." I feel chastened, but a little bit proud when we cuddle in his spotless room.

When I was a kid, I was a bit of a collector. I collected stuffed animals, Holly Hobby dolls, and Garfields. My husband collected baseball cards and basketball cards that he plans to share with our boys as they grow older. Much to his chagrin, I've also discovered his binder of scratch and sniff stickers and Garbage Pail Kids. It reminds me of the little boy (her number two) that drove his mom a little crazy, but yet managed to snake his way into her heart permanently.

My husband - still a collector - saves Husker memorabilia, ticket stubs, jerseys. Me? not so much. My family thinks I'm hard to buy for because I'm not a collector or saver. I throw away my kids' school papers (but save art projects) and birthday cards.

My mom gave me an article last summer on collecting, ostensibly to help me understand my collecting son. But, something from that article resonated with me. It said...collect what you love. Well, what do I love? My husband, my kids, my family, food, shopping, running....you get the picture. I love things that aren't simply collectible.

So, this became what I call a niggle. Something I think about and ruminate about and something that just sits in the back of my mind until I figure it out. What do I collect, what should it be, what, what, what.

The answer came to me on a warm night in July on the shores of Lake Carlos. It had been a near perfect summer day. We spent the afternoon on the pontoon, enjoying conversation and sun. We had stopped at Bug A Boo Bay and had happy hour and I was relaxing on the beach soaking inthe last of the day's rays. I watched Ben and his over 70 year old Nanny snorkeling in the shallow waters of the lake, swimming a little, standing up and having conversation, gesturing to each other and snorkeling again. It was then that I thought "I love THIS. THIS is what I want to collect."

So, it was decided. I was going to collect moments. Since then, I've collected many moments. It's those happenings that you want to freeze, those that you want to remember forever. There were many this summer. Summer is often when I have the time to appreciate the little moments and not rush through them like the daily to do list.

Lyndee catching fireflies in her brother's hulk costume, sporting a messy ponytail...
Finishing a 10 mile race with Matty while his dad cheered us on....
Endless snuggles in bed.....family cuddle time determined by my husband, the ultimate cuddler....
Gabe's grand slam homerun in 2nd grade baseball when he jumped in the air after crossing homeplate, his joy palpable to all those who witnessed it....
Playing in the woods with my kiddos, after they had already been there for hours...
Tossing bean bags at my mom's, merlot in hand, while my daughter hugs and laughs my mom with great joy.....
Giggles of Lyndee as she rides a two wheeler for the first time....
A campfire with my sister, brother in law, and nephews - till 2 am.....
Watching my nephew/Godson graduate from HS....
Hanging out on the new patio, drinking a peach dacquiri with my mother-in-law....
Visiting the zoo with the kids on my own....
Helping my sister move in to her WI home, after being gone from the States for 22 years....
The hot, hot, hot wedding of two dear friends....
Going to the Douglas Saloon with my sister-in-law and my hubby....
Any moment when I catch my oldest reading a chapter book, or my middle son searching out bugs and nature, or any time my daughter is dramatic about something.....
Hanging out at the pool while our kids swim and we hold hands....
The fireworks and good friends in Park Rapids...

I'd say my collection is growing daily. And I do love these moments. In the hustle and bustle of mid-life, I forget to hold on to these. They are fleeting. As every parent/grandparent tells me. ENJOY the time when your kids are little, it goes so fast. And yes, it does. But, I will put these moments in my memory jar and remember that while the days may be long, time is short. Love it and don't forget to live it.

My Son, the Collector

I read an article recently about collecting. Immediately I thought of my oldest. He is a collector extraordinaire. Anything shiny, ugly, valuable, or the least bit interesting goes into one of his collections. I first noticed his collecting habit when he was four and sleeping on the top bunk (chastise me later, I KNOW the warnings say he was supposed to be six!) and I was changing his sheets. Stuffed between his mattress and the side board of the bunk was a veritable conglomeration of items representing my son: pine cones, dried flowers, Happy Meal toys, broken crayons, a plastic fork, and a Starburst candy wrapper. "What is this stuff?" I asked him.

"That's my collection, Mommy."

"Hmmmm...some of this looks like trash." (Great parenting moment - trashing, literally, what your son thinks is sacred and valuable. Start the therapy fund.)

"No, Mommy, please don't throw it away! I took a long time collecting those things!"

"Okay, let's think about this. Plastic fork?"

"That's from our picnic on the deck. Remember, Daddy came home from work to have lunch with us on the first day of school?"

"Broken crayons?"

"I took those from preschool, they were going to throw them away. Mrs. S. said I could have them."

"Pine cones?"

"From our hike at Quarry Hill."

"Okay, at least give me the Starburst wrapper. That is trash."

"Nooooo Mommy," he wailed, "that's the first wrapper I ever read!"

Sigh, battle lost. Collection returned to the side of the bunk bed.

Currently under his bed he has four shoe boxes. One is his treasure collection. It holds pretend coins, a pirate map, real coins, sparkly jewels, mardi gras beads (don't ask), and anything shiny he can lay his hands on. One box is cards, notes and valentines from me, his friends, and his teachers. And two boxes are filled with random items of varying significance. Rubber bracelets? Check. Yugioh cars? Check. Broken erasers? Check. Nest? Check. I could go on and on. This doesn't even take into account the four peanut butter jars, one tub, squinkie collection or the silly bands collection he has in his closet. The peanut butter jars are his nature collections sorted by type: leaves, rocks, shells, and for lack of a better term - other. The tub contains notepads, sticky notes, and small notebooks that he can't resist buying because of the art and writing possibilities they represent.

We address these boxes (and jars and tub) about once every two months. During that two months (my mother probably wishes it were more often), other items find their way to the top of his dresser, his closet, the end of his bed, and his back pack. Also, via his pockets, we have a interesting mix of items next to the washing machine that he has found at school or on the playground.

I remember watching a show called "Clean Sweep." I have no idea if it's still even on television, but the premise went something like this: the featured owner's house is out of control so the clean sweep team comes in and does just a couple of rooms. They take everything out of those rooms and have just an hour or two, with the owner's input, to sort the items into 1. Keep 2. Sell and 3. Donate (maybe it was even throw, I can't remember).

Well, G and I do the same thing. We take out the collection boxes and gather the items that have accumulated around his room in the preceding two months. We decide - do we keep this, throw it or sell it? If we keep it, it has to fit in one of the existing collection boxes. If the collection boxes are full, some items have to be taken out to throw or sell. If we throw it, it simply goes in a plastic bag to be tossed. G also has a thing for recycling, so many things also go in a "to be recycled" pile.

Then comes the sell bag. Since I live in the country, and I'm kind of beyond the stage of having a garage sale, I use the term "sell" loosely. It applies to me buying his items from him. Did I mention that he likes money? He's a saver (go figure) and money has turned into a good motivator for controlling his collections. However, his idea and mine are quite different about what things are worth. A Happy Meal toy? He wants $3, I will give him $.25. We negotiate back and forth until we reach a fair price. He will also pick things to give to our little friend Evan or things to donate to Goodwill.

At the conclusion of the "Clean up the Collections" project, we both feel so much better!

I think there are two reasons he puts up with going through his collections with me. First, he loves the one on one time with me. Second, he loves the money. Me? I love the end result - a clean room.

I've gotten better about his collections. We've learned from each other. I am coming to terms with his habits, but I never want to see him on the show "Hoarders" so I will still try to help him control his desire to collect. As time has gone on, I've come to understand a little more of his need to hold onto things. Because for him, each thing holds meaning, a memory, a moment in time. And, who can blame him for that?

On Becoming a Grown Up

When I turned 18, I thought, "Yes! I am finally a grown up!" I went to college, got a job, went to graduate school, got married and then I started to wonder.

"When will I feel like a grown up?"

I was doing all the things grown ups do...like paying a mortgage, paying various other bills, joining my church, heading up committees at work, coaching a variety of sports teams and finally, having children of my own.

There, that should make me feel like a grown up, right?

It's not like I am a childish person. I'm not. I'm not even silly. I don't run around and jump around. I don't even like to play games with my kids.

I'm really bad at pretend, especially with action figures and Barbies.(Hi, I'm Ken/Superman/Barbie/Green Lantern. Who are you? Are you a good guy or a bad guy? What are you doing? Okay, well, I'm going to go take a nap.) See? I told you I'm bad.

I get bored easily. I don't watch a lot of tv. I'm not particularly crafty or have any hobbies. I am, in fact, pretty boring.

Even when my kids were small and I was parenting 24/7, I still didn't feel like a grown up.

I am just starting to feel more like a grown up now. The transformation is not yet complete, but I think I may have figured out some of the contributing factors.

1. I went back to work.
There is something about putting on professional clothes and teaching history that makes me feel more grown up. Especially since the history I am teaching has to do with Minnesota and the era in which I grew up. See, my childhood life is history!


2. I am now older or the same age as most of my students' parents.
When I first started teaching, I was the new teacher in the school, one of the youngest ones. I didn't have children, so how could I be an authority on your child when I didn't know what it was like to have little ones of my own? Plus, for some of the parents I worked with, they were not much younger than my own parents. A few had children my age.


3. I went through the house buying process a second time.
The first time we bought our house, we really had no idea what we were doing. We survived it, built equity, and then moved on to bigger and better. The second time we bought a house, we knew more - about the process, about our own financial state, about each other. Plus, much to the chagrin of our realtor, HGTV's House Hunters and Property Virgins helped.


4. I have school agers of my own.
This might be the biggest determining factor in feeling like a grown up. I provide birthday treats. Do homework. I get to read chapter books to my boys, good chapter books like Harry Potter. I go to parent/teacher conferences as the parent.

Next year my daughter will be in school. Then, perhaps my transformation to adult will be complete. I mean, I am 40 after all. When my parents turned 40, they were OLD! Am I a grown up? Perhaps, but definitely not OLD!

Sick of Sick

I'd like to preface this post by stating that generally, the family is pretty healthy. We've had our ups and downs, but nothing terminal or really terrible. So, I know there are worse things out there. I know I should be grateful, and I am, and I try to be grateful for my times of trial. I just don't always succeed.

That being said, I am sick of sick in our household. I have to admit that I've developed somewhat of an obsessive side about illness. If you've read any of my earlier posts, you will know that it really began when I was pregnant with Ben and Gabe had an 8 week bout of rotovirus. Ugh. Most of the time when I was a Stay at home mom, I managed it pretty well. After all, if someone got sick, the worst that would happen is we didn't go to the library, or a playdate, or MOMS group at church.

Since I returned to work, it has become ever so much more complicated. It's a dance of negotiation...

Can you stay home today/tomorrow?

No, can you?

Not really, but I suppose I can run in and put in sub plans tonight.

Yeah, I stayed home last time.

But, I'll have to miss a staff meeting, and I'm supposed to be prepping my students for the chapter 6 test that I wanted to get in before the end of second quarter, and it's Wednesday so I have mileage club, and we have AIMSWEB testing this week that I have to administer.

Yeah, I stayed home last time.

Oh, okay, guess I'll find a a sub. Mary, are you available? No? Kay are you available? No? Donna? Jan? Bette? Kelli? Down to my last resort...we all know who that is, the sub who comes in, has no control, doesn't get anything done and it takes a solid week to get pubescent 12 year olds back on track.

Hubby is very, very good about staying home. But, we do still feel great responsibility to our students. We feel like we are gone all the time, and I'm sure the parents of my students don't entirely appreciate that either. But, when you have sick kids, what else can you do? They're not at the age yet where they can stay home alone, and who really wants that anyway when they are sick? I still want my mom, wouldn't my eight year old want me?

So, it becomes very stressful when someone is sick. Not only because of the dance about who is going to stay home and manage the sick cherub, but also because of the GERMS!

Note from above, remember that I said "obsessive" not "compulsive." I am not a classic germ-a-phobe. I don't run around with my hand sanitizer everywhere, but I have been known to decline an invitation if someone has been sick in the last 4 days. I do go around with my clorox wipes and clean every knob, handle, and floor space that I can when someone is sick. I do loads and loads of laundry. I don't share food or drink, or take bites of anyone else's food or drink. I run my dishwasher A LOT. I spray lysol like room freshener. You get the picture.

But the worst part is, I can't stop THINKING about sickness and WONDERING how long it will be before everyone else gets it! I see germs as super sonic live beings that could hop from a light switch to my coffee cup handle into my mouth. I know that they can't, but it doesn't stop me from the constant worry. Also, keep in mind that I work in a cesspool of germs...an elementary school. So does my husband. And my boys spend all day in that same cesspool. My daughter, well, she's in preschool (cesspool) and daycare (not so much a cesspool, probably cleaner than my own house!). So you see, it's not like my worries are unfounded. Just totally inescapable.

My husband THINKS I am a bit crazy. I KNOW I am a bit crazy, and I tell him all the time....I'm working on it.

So, this brings me back to sick of sick. It started on Halloween, a Monday, Ben threw up. Thankfully, we had grandparents here to help on that day so we could still go to work. Poor little guy couldn't go trick or treating. Friday, Lyndee threw up. Saturday, she was diagnosed with strep. Monday, Gabe stayed home. No strep. All week, the kids didn't feel well. The next Monday, both boys were diagnosed with strep. The following Wednesday, Lyndee had an ear infection. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday after Thanksgiving Gabe had three days of fever. Saturday, Sunday, Monday Lyndee had three days of fever.

I removed myself from facebook mostly because I cannot stand how often people post about their kids or themselves throwing up. I do the whole Kevin Bacon Six Degrees of Separation thing. Only, it's six degrees of sick. I know you live in Nairobi, but we were with someone that was with you? Did we have a playdate with your cousin's best friend's girlfriend so we could have been exposed? How long has it been since we've seen you? If we plan on seeing you anytime soon, I will cancel our date with some lame excuse just because my psyche cannot take the thought of illness.

Back to the sick of sick timeline. Lyndee was not herself all through Christmas break. January came, we started to think, maybe we are done with all of this, maybe we can start fresh. January 12th, Lyndee threw up at preschool, January 13th negative strep. Monday, the 16th, Ben threw up, and up, and up. I went to school, felt sick, came home and now am trying to manage my stress associated with all of this.

It is still the 16th. It is also Lyndee's 5th birthday, some fun birthday, huh? Now begins the extrapolation, how long will we be sick? Will Gabe and Matt get sick? Am I really sick or is the stress making me sick? Your guess is as good as mine. (Side note, after picking Lyndee up at daycare, Gabe did get sick...in the truck...the new truck).

I am trying. I ask myself, what's the worst that will happen. Gabe will get sick. What else? Lyndee will get sick again. What else? Matt and I will both be sick and won't teach all week? Then what? We will get better. Then what? My students will survive. Then what? Life will go on. I know I vowed...in sickness and in health...and I will always, always take care of the kids. It pains me greatly when Mommy can't make it all better. I would take the illness for them a thousand times over if it meant that they wouldn't be sick. But, just so you know....it wears on me.

I know there's a vaccine for rotovirus. Is there a vaccine for the common stomach flu? If there is, bring it on, I would max my credit cards to pay for it. My psyche (and my husband) would thank me for it.