It's Better

Looking down at the green tile floor that creaked and seemed to get more uneven by the day, I noticed that the trim on the chalkboard matched the floor and thought that if they'd let me decorate the school, it'd look so much better.  Hixson Junior High School.  Ninth Grade.  Bum-mer.  To move the very year I'd entered high school,to a school where being a freshman was still being in "junior high" really stunk.  So, to pass time in a setting where learning certainly wasn't the priority, I'd just imagine what it'd be like if I were in charge. since, at times, it seemed no_one_else_was.  First off, I'd have referred the kid drooling by the wall to the counselor because he was stoned, daily.  Not to mention he was propped up in front of the very wall I wanted to paint an accent yellow.  Even cooler, I imagined, would be a place on the wall for us students to dialog back and forth about stuff--right on the wall.  I mean, it was Freshman English, shouldn't we write more than do pages from the textbooks? Back to stoned kid-- The teacher would seem disgusted with him, but she never got much farther than the disgust and then ignoring him.  Ninth grade was the year everyone did a poetry unit.  You read a bunch of poems, copied some down and made up one of your own.  Studying proise, rhyme, imagery.....not so much.  But doing a nice little poetry unit grabbed my attention from wanting to visually levitate the stoned kid and paint the walls of the classroom buttercup yellow.  This one poem made me think really hard.  That's the thing about poems.  They, to me, are so much more satisfying than say.....visual art where the meaning is usually only in the artist's mind and is as subjective as the day is long.  Art...fun in elementary school to be later exluded in high school if you took a music class to be ruined in college when you got a bitter art professor who hadn't a teaching ability in sight.  I liked art until it seemed like a secret club of ashtray makers and then it lost my interest.  Squirrel!  Okay, sorry.  Poems depend on your experiences, what's happening at the time you read them and the questions you ask yourself while reading.  So, in the 101 Book of Poems there was the Emily Dickens poem about "Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all...."  While I was pondering the poem, I could hear my grandmother commenting she had to memorize poems in school and she began to recite something about a tree in which my Aunt Sue joined in.  As their voices trailed off still reciting the poem with a sense of accomplishment, I wondered about what Emily Dickens must have had happened when she wrote that poem.  At that instant, I knew that I agreed with her.  At 14, I would have agreed that it would be better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.  

I thought of that poem today, on Thanksgiving, as I looked at the plastic cake carrier.  I  recalled my Granny Souther preparing several things at once and preparing to go somewhere in her perfect dress and shiny high heels.  She made a pot holder look stylish and seasoning an iron skillet a right of passage you hoped to one day grace yourself through.  I immediately thought of all the sweet Thanksgivings past.  Those where you hustled and bustled to see grandparents who are since gone.  Her kitchen still.  Her table linens untouched.  The culinary smells a gone vapor.  I thought of the fullness they, Granny and PawPaw Souther brought to life, to holidays, to everything and I just wondered is it really better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all? 

What about that road not taken?

***Please note:  This is my opinion, not fact.  :)

I was watching A&E's "Teach:  Tony Danza" and something he said at the very beginning of the show made me think, "What about that road not taken?"  I'd safely say that there are two types of people in the world when it comes to listening to teachers talk:  1) Those who would rather not, and 2) Those who actually have a fascination with education.  The second group are the minority.  So, if you are in the majority, this post will not interest you.  Stop reading now.   Honestly, I fall in the first group more than you'd think.  :)

Each school year when the new year starts, I think several of the same thoughts.  Now, how many years is this?  I wonder what are my students from each year are up to now?   Why does each year feel like the first year? How will this school year end?  I also remember that first year.............

My first year was almost the last year.  I couldn't think of a harder existence than that defining year.  I couldn't have spent more time or money trying to get  it figured out.  I had an interview at an inner city school near Erlanger just before my wedding.  I hadn't even walked across the stage to get my diploma yet.  I got a call just before the we left for our honeymoon offering me the job.  It was kindergarten.  I told the principal I preferred 3rd grade.  She hesistated and offered me 3rd grade.  Obviously, she knew my long blonde curls, satin bow and sailor dress were better suited for kindergarten in the inner city. However, I was convinced my life would be over if I didn't teach 3rd grade. 

Because I had attended UTC, the area didn't seem that rough to me.  Boy, was I wrong!  It was a very rough area of Chattanooga and I didn't find that out until I decided to offer pick up and drop off service to my parents who couldn't get to the school for conferences.  Oh?  There's a rule that you don't drive parents/students home without another school personnel in the car with you?  How come, as a first year teacher, I didn't find out about rules until I broke one? 

In addition to all the rules and norms I was clueless about, there was the race factor.  For the first time ever, I was in the minority.  It was so interesting.  I didn't know that I was in the minority until I stood in front of my class on the first day of school.  Before standing in front of my class, I spent hours cleaning and decorating the room.  Little did I know, I should have spent hours studying the neighborhoods, the students' stories, the data in the perm records, and the curriculum.  I prepared my classroom with help from family and friends blinded by what I wanted to see and not what I was seeing. 

This school was the oldest, most dilapidated building Hamilton County had to offer.  Wow.  But, I couldn't see anything bad about it because I just wanted my own classroom and students.  I decorated the room and it still looked shabby.  It was part of an old auditorium and located all the way across the school from my grade level.  I didn't even know I had a grade level until one of the students said, "I wish I was in Miss Williams' class because she's black like me."   That comment prompted another student to say, "Are you light skinned or white?"  Then another student said, "On Lesson Line where you record our homework, at the beginning Peyton Manning says something about stay in school and work hard.  Are you kin to Peyton Manning?  He's white too."  The room had a broken air conditioner that hung on to the window just by a wing and a prayer.  It was three flights of steps to get to my room which made fire drills a free for all regarding behavior and was across from a set of bathrooms that had a trickle for running water.  Rats got into the snacks I provided for the students each night.  That taught me that I had to bring things in plastic, sealed containers. 

I can remember getting so frustrated because no matter what idea I had (putting pencil sharpeners at each group so they'd stop being obssessed with pencil sharpening, allowing them to earn their seat choices in the classroom to increase attention levels, mentoring kids with successful minority adults in the community, going to homes for conferences because of "house arrest" parents...), it was still my first year and I felt like nothing more than a lead student left to take names. 

The road was taken, but almost took a different direction very quickly.  I could not resort to what I saw others doing who were surviving the inner city teaching gig.  I had made a pact of "refusals" to myself--things I wouldn't do because of my ethical committment to kids, not just the profession.  I refused to yell at or belittle children.  I felt that if I respected them and provided them with things they were interested in, gave them everything they needed to do what I was asking and was there for support than they shouldn't be a disruption.  I did have to implement consequences, however.  I had no educational training on children of poverty, drug environments, etc.  I refused to use textbooks with kids who couldn't read.  I wanted to use their curiosities of things that interested them to encourage a desire in them to learn the sight words and sounds they'd need to read about their interests.  I refused to ignore that their basic needs weren't met.  I wanted to make sure that even if they were eating my lunch for their breakfast, that they weren't not learning because they were hungry.  I refused to worry about curriculum until I met their basic needs.  My beginning salary paychecks went to furnishing my classroom with chapter books that we could use to do units, supplies that the children needed (okay, the monogrammed LLBean bookbags I gave some who didn't have bookbags was an over the top gesture) and anything else I thought was a barrier that could be removed with money. 

One day during lunch, I decided this was not for me.  I felt that I couldn't finish this rough journey because I couldn't fix everything within the 180 days I had.  I told the Assistant Principal that I felt like quitting.  I told him this wasn't at all like student teaching, it wasn't like school when I was a student, and it wasn't something I could do with the ease I was used to.  He looked at me and said a few things to me that helped me know that I had to not fight this struggle to make things easier for me, but to fight the fight to make things easier for the students.  He said, "This might not be the placement for you at this time in your career, but that doesn't mean you need to give up on education."  He matched me up with a mentor teacher who said, "Take that bow out, lose the teacher clothes and let them know you are the boss of that room."   Well, I decided that bossing kids wasn't what I wanted to do.  I wanted to look at standards and students' interest and create work for them that they were excited about.  I decided I wasn't in a school where that was the way things were done.  So, at the end of that first year, I applied for and trained to teach at a magnet school for fine arts, where the administration felt agreed that that's where "people like me belonged."  They further remarked that the magnet school was for, "Teachers who don't want to use textbooks, teachers who want to have socratic circles at the end of the day with students,............."Sounded like heaven to me! 

Thirteen years later............I wonder what if I had not taken this road?  Would I have a degree in education, but be....?.....

School Marries Baby

Two of my worlds overlapped in my thoughts because of my being at home with C right now. So, I'm going to share a thought I have.

Okay, here's what I've learned today: Babies are content sitting in poop. It's warm, cushiony and the smell doesn't bother them because it's their stinkiness.

It would drive an adult crazy. Why? Because we know better and can do something about it. That's kind of like being empowered. Babies don't feel empowerment because they don't have the tools to do something about the poop in which they've created and sit in, orrr lay in. They just stay in the poop and are content, until it probably starts to sting their hineys. I think that we as adults sometimes stink things up because we are comfortable sitting in poop, haven't found a voice to holler out for help and don't know any better.

Just a random thought that probably won't seem so profound to me in about 5 minutes. Babies are content sitting in poop, metaphorically--are you?

She said, "He likes the ocean," and I think she was talking to me. I couldn't really tell though because all I heard were beeps, clinks and liquids releasing from tubes. Making sense of everything around me was another obstacle to me figuring out who she was talking to and about. Not to mention, who was she? When I picked my head up from the plastic incubator it was really hurting because I must've just layed my forehead against the edge which was slightly less comfortable than the hospital bed I'd been in for some time. I was in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit with my new baby boy and about nine other very sick babies, all of which seemed to go home well before mine. And that's who she (the nurse) was talking about-our baby. I looked up and saw a stuffed animal that played ocean sounds, and apparently, that what she was talking about. Pieces of the puzzle to this place were falling together rapidly, almost like when you press "finish" on a Solitaire game just to see the solution because you are tired of playing/thinking. So, into the stack goes the curiosities of where I am.

I had this strange stiffness that came over my swelling body around my 32nd week of pregnancy. These weird ailments came on so swiftly that I figured that it was just how this pregnancy was going to go, and I never thought I was "sick". I thought I just felt like crap. Heck, I got so used to feeling like crap, I didn't know what it was like to not feel like crap. I hadn't been sleeping for more than 30 minutes a night for a couple of weeks. My hands were numb. My left knee felt like it was being operated on in a third world country at all times. My vision---what exactly should 20/20 look like? Nothing tasted good, everyone sucked, and I was miserable. My face looked like---it_was_huge.

So, two weeks of being swollen and about 3 days of not being able to pee were pretty rotten. Finally, on Friday, July 9 I woke up to my husband telling me that he was going to work. I told him I really didn't feel well and that my right shoulder was hurting so bad that I couldn't talk without gasping. He gave me Libby's ladybug ice pack and left for work. I'd been so sick for so long, nothing seemed out of the ordinary to him either. His mom came to entertain Libby and the muralist worked on a mural in the nursery. I knew at about 9 am things weren't right. I called the doctor's office and he happened to be out of town. The receptionist put me on hold for what seemed like an enternity. Finally, I learned I needed to be checked (for the third time that week) in Labor and Delivery. Not checked to see if I was in labor because we all knew that wasn't the case at 34 weeks, but rather what story my blood pressure might be able to tell. I decided to drive myself because I was hurting in my shoulder, sleep deprived and flat out miserable.

Steven gets wind of me preparing to go to the hospital and comes home to get me before I could leave on my own. My bp was unreal when they checked it, but my mani/pedi was to die for--and by the looks of my bloodwork, I was headed that way.

Before I knew it, a doctor I hadn't met was checking me, nurses were doing all kinds of things to me and an anesthesiologist was praying with me. When the team of what looked like "Holy Crap, what do we have here" left the room, I looked at Steven who'd just returned from having stepped out with my phone for a bit. He looked blank. Soon, I saw various family members coming in quietly one by one and just staring at me. I thought that was freaky. I asked for my phone so that I could read or occupy myself while they quitely stared at me and just patted the sheet I was under. I was headed to an emergency c-section and thought I'd calm my nerves. However, what I saw on my Facebook status, that apparently had been updated by Steven was prayer requests for my liver and kidneys which were gearing up for a shutdown. I heard the nurses mention HELLP syndrome and my mom had mentioned it to me, but surely not...

I was super puzzled, but had to hand off my phone and be wheeled by a stool where S was told to sit to a room where people began introducing themselves and asking if it was alright if they cut my undergarmets off. I thought to myself, "Well, the nurse just did some handy architectural work down South, do you really need to ask if you can cut my bra off"? I heard a roar of laughter so that thought must have come out of my mouth rather than been to myself.

Once I was strapped to a table, a team of doctors ready for the premature baby were ready and came to the top of my head to introduce themselves and to tell me all kinds of junk I wouldn't remember. I was also told it would be wise to not get pregnant again and that a tubal would be appropriate during the surgery. I thought to myself, "So would lipo". I heard laughter once more and realized that I must have said that outloud, as well.

Steven came in. The anesthesiologist's cellphone rang several times during the surgery (and he answered it). I finally looked at him and asked him to tell me what was being done. He said, "They are putting you back together like Humpty Dumpty". I said, "I feel that". He said, "What"? I said, "I don't feel pain, but I feel what they are doing". He said, "It won't be much longer". Then the doctor who was doing the c-section said to the anesthesiologist, "Push from up top. The baby is transverse and wrapped in the cord. Push now. Push hard".

The anesthesiologist hung up his cellphone and shoved hard just below my chest. The baby came out. There was no crying. I didn't have my contacts in and couldn't see much. They whisked him away and began working to get him on a ventilator. The next thing I remember is waking up in a tiny dark room with a nurse, my sister and Steven on his laptop working. Everytime I looked at him, he just pushed a Morphine drip button and I fell back to sleep.

Finally, the next morning, I asked to see my phone and I saw that my Facebook status said something about someone being in ICU and bloodlevels not being right or something. I asked, "Who's in ICU"? My sister and Steven simultaneously said, "You are". I said, "What? This is ICU? I'm in ICU? Why?" The nurse said, "You are very sick. Very sick".

I remember people coming by to see me and finally getting moved to a regular room late Saturday night. I wasn't aware I could take anything to help me sleep or be in less pain, so I didn't ask for anything, but I thought I was never going to be out of pain. Walking to the bathroom, though I was just thankful I could pee, hurt so bad. Laying hurt. Laughing hurt. Talking hurt. I was hurting. Steven was working on his laptop because some deadline was upon him. On the way to that regular post partrum room, I was wheeled in to see the baby. I was wheeled past the "Normal Nursery" as it was referred to and to the "Special Care Nursery". This is where you don't hold your baby, he is fed and monitored by tubes. And she said, "He likes the ocean........."

Jesus, listen.

Jesus, listen. You probably aren't a follower of my blog, but just in case, I thought I'd write you an entry. Let me start with catching you up right quick since you may have been busy beckoning on the behalf of POW's, Haitian Crisis, BP Oil Spill, etc.

As you already know, we have a baby coming in about 10 weeks. I know I didn't say "thanks" at first, I get a little behind on thank you notes when I have questions, but "thanks".

It would be twelve weeks away, the delivery that is, but with the anxiety issues you and God gifted me with, I have to have a planned inducement to manage my freakingoutness. Let me get right to the point so that you can go back to helping out world catastrophes and so forth.

So, what kind of joke is it you and God are doing by not letting me be able to have an ultrasound telling me if it is a girl or boy? I'm just really curious. It's freaking me out not being able to get things done. I'm not the unisex type. (You probably knew that because you're Jesus, and all.) I need to know if I'm having another girl so I can get the hot pink and toile fired up in that room.

I'd love to be able to post a picture of the nursery, but......who wants to see a 1/3 guest room, 1/3 nursery storage, 1/3 Steven's closet combo?

I bet if you audibly answered me right now, you say:
"It looks like you have a closet to clean up in your master bedroom, so Steven (who I highly favor), can move his clothes back in from the guest/nursery room. Why don't you work on that?" And, Jesus, since this post is just mainly about my concerns with the sex of the baby (feels funny to say the s word in a blog to you, but how else do you skip around that in this case) and not why Steven always seems highly favored. I would like to ask why things are always so much easier for him, one of these days--be thinking on that, okay, Jesus? Is it because his parents churched him up more than mine did? Is it because he doesn't have generational curses? Is it....oh, that's another time, but Jesus, you know I wonder stuff. Okay, anyway...

Well, Jesus. That leads me to my next cyclical level of curiosities--My swelling self! Why do I have to swell? It's not like I have room for this mess. I feel like a one legged man in a butt kickin' contest trying to get stuff done because the swelling makes me clumsy. PLUS, my nostrils are swollen on the inside and hearing myself breath is freaking me out, too. I sound like a vaporizer.

My second, or twentieth, question is in response to what you are probably thinking is the answer to my swelling. This is you Jesus---->"Drink more water." Well, I'm good with commands and all, Jesus, (okay, honestly, I'm stil struggling with the "Fear Not" command and when ocean BP spill is cleaned up, if you can look into my fear issues, that'd be cool with me) but can I just ask on the way--why the heck does water not taste like KoolAid, Sweet Tea or Sprite? Why can the stuff that's bad for you taste bad and the stuff that's good for you taste good?

Jesus. Jesus? Where'd you go? My questions are really plaguing you, I guess. You probably rushed right over to God to let him in on the few things like my ultrasound, my swelling and water taste that He forgot when He was doing the seven day creation thing. Thanks, Jesus. I'll text ya later. You didn't tell me bye, but that's cool. I talk so fast that I know you got the gyst.

The Soundtrack Of Your Life

When I watch Dateline NBC, I always let my mind wonder. The guy who narrates, Keith Morrison, always has these zinger lines that he says in a way that gives me the hibby-jibbies. Recently, he started like this: "You know back in the 80's when you'd make a mixed tape for a friend as a special gift....." He lingered on every two words so that all you could do was put yourself in that situation.

Well, that got me to thinking..........If you had to make a soundtrack of your life, do you know what your songs would be? There are so many components that would come into play, right?

The first being, significance. The songs would have to have significant meaning to your life's events. It might not even be an event you'd want to commemorate with a song, but it happened and it's a part of you.

The second component would have to be sequence. The songs would need to be in some order to make the story complete. Each chapter of your life makes a story. Is your story one that you would be able to put on ITunes for all to download? Is it one you'd rather put in a drawer to never hear again.

Are parts of it those that should be earmarked as, "Subscribers Only". Would you have a soundtrack that you give to others, but one that you'd have that was REALLY your soundtrack?

I think I could sit down with Billboard's Top Hits for each year and identify pretty well with certain songs and pretty accurately be able to match them to events--most small, insignificant events, but those where you were you and you were there. <---That sentence I just wrote, a teacher would have slammed me for in school---WHICH IS WHY I NEVER WROTE IN SCHOOL. :)

What I mean by that is you may have heard a song that just reminds you of a ride down a certain road when the song came on the radio. That's not significant, riding down the road, but what is significant (<--and, I'd have just gotten slammed for overusing that word) is that you were you and you were there. If that still doesn't make sense to you, go back to teaching college and begin a career where you shut writers down. I'm just sayin'.

Soooo, back on track (minus 10 points for being off topic)--could you list out your soundtrack? How would it differ from what someone else would have you upload to ITunes? I think I'll work on what my soundtrack would be and I'll post it when I get it together. (minus 20 points for being late, Phillips!)

That's All Folks

I don't even know where to begin. I really don't know where to go even from here now that I have begun, and I certianly don't know where to end.

One thing I do know, however, is that I'm stinkin' tired of looking at the "$3.50 a Box" entry from last time.

Cartoons have always seemed unproductive to me. Even as a kid, I couldn't tolerate a cartoon too long. I used to wonder why Popeye wasn't miserable with his one eye, why Tom never caught Jerry and if Pink Panther would EVER talk. I'd get bored with cartoons because I couldn't find out the answers to my questions and I'd then find other things to do. I especially disliked the "ThThThThaaaat's all folks!" at the end.

Those are mainly the reasons that it surprised me to like the movie "Up" so much. I actually really liked about a third of it and slept through the rest. (I'll go ahead and step aside for that "Mother of the Year" award.)

Much of what I liked about the movie didn't even have words. Isn't that the case often times? What isn't said is what SCREAMS at you? It is as if you stop talking or thinking about what your going to say long enough to let conversation go on the journey it's intended to, you'll see things far more clearly in future interactions. I'd be willing to bet that you could get to know someone pretty well by just watching them for a while, it might make future conversations have more purpose because you actually have things you want to know based on observation than based on what they've just said.

You'd just have to watch that movie to see how the couple interacts. The main character married this girl who had huge hopes for her future and he worked his whole life trying to meet those goals, but always seemed to lose ground because of the "life" happening around them. At the end of the couple's time together, he has become a grouchy old man. Seeing the grouchy old man without having seen all that led up to his grouchy demeanor, would ordinarily make you just write his grouchy tail off, but because you know what's led up to it, you have compassion for him and want well for him. You watch him with interest. Have you ever watched someone with interest?

Growing up around my mom's parents always provided for some great entertainment. A typical afternoon at their house in the summer would be Pappaw bringing in vegetables from his garden and everyone shucking corn or "stringin' beans" to get them ready to be canned for winter. Then, it'd get quiet as we watched cars pass and all the sudden, one of the two, Granny or PawPaw, would say, "You know, I been a settin' here a-studyin'..........." and you knew whatever epiphany they'd had was a good one that completely changed the direction of things.

Do we, as a hurried society, ever just "set and study"?

$3.50 A Box

There are two brands of Girl Scout Cookies: One brand made by ABC Distributers and the other made by Little Brownies. One of the companies has cutesy names for the cookies, but unless you are a seasoned consumer, you can't tell what you are ordering. The other distributor calls it what it is.

Don't you think most people like for you to call it what it is? Not just in the world of cookies, but in life in general. I know that when you "call it like it is," you really have to "see it like it is" and that's where some people THINK they are calling it like it is, but in actuality, they are calling it like they see it.

If you don't get the Girl Scout cookie metaphor, maybe you'll get the Thelma metaphor.

On one side of my family, we had the two Thelmas. There was "Aunt Thelma" who saw things for exactly what they were and would lay it on the line. For example, if she saw a kid acting out of control around the house, she'd say, "Marie, trust me, that kid's going to grow up to be out of control if you don't bust her hiney this instant. Trust me. Trust me. I tell it like it is." Well, looking at Aunt Thelma's track record, she must have known she didn't give out enough "butt whoopins" because a majority of her kids (I think she had like 9) were incarcerated or running from the law. There were actually three who were very good people. They probably got the "whoopins". So, my Nanny Ree, tried hard to talk or bust the bad out of our hineys to adhere to Aunt Thelma's telling it like it is. I'd like to say I got a many of preventative "whoopins". I not only got them on the Thelma's side of the family, but I attempted to outrun my other granny's hickory, too. I'm thinkin' preventative and reactive where what encompassed my "whoopins".

So, what about the other Thelma? Well, she renamed herself, "Betty B. Dobbins". She didn't like the name "Thelma" and without any legal papers changed her name to Betty B. She always had a new car and when she went places with you, you never got to ride in the new car. You rode in Nanny Ree's car. It was a rust colored station wagon with not back door and it honked the horn every time a corner was turned. Oh, yeah. Absolute classic. She said she needed that station wagon because she never knew when she'd have to haul a good roll of carpet or something. Even at 9, I couldn't get that rationale, but, you know...Now, Miss Betty B. was full of opinions. She thought she was "telling it like it is," but she was actually "telling it like she THOUGHT it was." Here's an illustration of Betty B.'s "telling it like it is." Said kid was running around the house acting crazy and Betty B. would comment, "Hmm. " She'd never tell you what she was thinking (possibly there weren't any complete thoughts there) and just look at everyone she felt was responsible for the said child as though she were making a prediction of the future by raising her eyebrows and josteling her keys. She'd never tell you like it is. She'd just act like she knew what it would be. And, she didn't have much of a track record for perspective either because she typically absorbed the environment around her, but never really contributed to it herself. Maybe her not summing it all up for you, led you to think a little on your own....

You have Thelma #1 that ironed in full make up at the kitchen table telling everybody like it was and Thelma#2 that was in and out of situations long enough to form her opinion, but never be able to sway outcomes because she really wasn't around long enough to make a solid observation that would lead to anything productive.

A Thin Mint's a thin mint, right? What the heck's a Tag A Long?

I think a good piece of advice is that if you are calling it like it is, make sure you know enough to call it like it is. Right?

Memory Lane

NOT EDITED! SORRY! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK! Six years ago (I feel like I should be starting out "Four Score and...) I decided to mimic my sister's hobby of scrapbooking. The art of scrapbooking is one that you should do if you are interested in creatively chronicling (<--word or unword?) events. I am not much of a fan of capturing events because it's the memory or unimportant moments that I could just swim in without even pedaling. Like right now, Libby is running from her frustrated Daddy after her bathtime reciting her Kindermusik CD to try to make him laugh. She is saying in a European accent (that which is the same of the narrator on the CD), "Here's the sound of an adult parrot....." She also loves to put her hands in his hair and just mess it up and run away as he says in a low voice, "Liiiibby." How do you capture that in a scraptbook? You don't. The only way you capture that moment, and moments like that, you know those that seem rather insignificant, but are absolutely delicious, is by just stopping and getting every second of it with your ears, heart, eyes and emotion! So, back to my short stint with scrapbooking. My sweet sister, trying to encourage a mutual hobby, gave me everything I would need to scrapbook. I scrapbooked mine and Steven's lives with all the Creative Memories Stickers one could imagine, put the fancy cut trims on and closed the book in like a few hours. Scrapbooking didn't work for me. It was proabably the cheesed up Olan Mills posed shots I tried to use. Maybe the magic, well the magic of scrapbooking has to be in the skill/talent of the photographer. The pictures have to get that feeling or that moment just right so that when you look at it you have memories as describable as Taylor Swift's song, "Best Day Ever". No matter what time of month, I CRY. LIKE. A. BABY. when I listen to that song. So, scrapbooking--I just wasn't feelin' it! That's the type of person I am, once I lose heart in something, I not only don't want to be in it, I don't even want to remember or think about it. I just want to close the book and take in things I love, things that are delicious, things that capture the essence of your mind moving quickly down a path you once trampled. I just think about things much later when I have time and wonder what all the details were. Maybe a picture would help! I just start mulling around the concept of remembering life at 33, life with a 5 year old, life when you still prepared her food and got to show her things for the first time--simple things like moving clouds, how to work the blinds or the names of characters from her favorite cartoons. How will I ever capture how it sounded when her little feet would run down the hall so fast that you just held tight thinking, "she's going to crash or fall" and then two seconds later she was in the playroom, fine, using her fake cartoon voice with her toys and all was well.....How will I remember that? A scrapbook wouldn't get it. It's just everyday. It's just everyday, right now, but soon, it will be faded past. I don't have time to write, though I still manage to have time to think. It's an ironic thing, really. For example, Libby started school last week--we think. On the twentieth day, we have to decide if "big school" or Kindergarten is ready for her! I word that honestly as I know intellectually she is fine, but maturity wise--who knows? We'll see on the 20th day. Will we remember this dilemma, so big now, but soon to be a small and faded part of the past everyday trivialness (<--unword, I know). We celebrated her 5th birthday on August 17th. We tried to do everything in the world to make her feel special. I think we did that for many reasons, most of which center around the fact that she is old enough to interact with us. Will we remember those interactions as she grows up sooooo fast? Maybe a scrapbook would be a good "Memory Lane", it seems like I am wanting to put velvet ropes around memory lane! Hmmm....

Pretty Soon

Pretty soon, our Bridenstine3 Life With Libby, will go Invitee Only. If you are on my Facebook, it won't matter because it imports itself there. If you aren't on my Facebook friends' list and want to keep reading, let me know so that I can be sure you are on the readers list. Thanks.

I'm Jus' Sayin'

I have been discouraged in my blog because someone recently summed up blogging in a play on a Winston Churchill quote saying, "Never have so many had so much to say where so few cared". To me, that thought just wasn't inspiring. It made me get confused and think several things.

One, do I care HOW MANY people care, as long as they care? Of course not. However, I am the type of person, that if I am talking to you and can tell you don't care what I am saying or that you aren't listening, I can quit mid-sentence and move on with my life. So, do I care if others care what I have to say? More importantly, do I care how many care about what I have to say? I hit those walls of questions with no answers and went into writer's hiatus. You'll see several starts of blogs I wanted to do below, you'll see my being plagued by that Churchill comment and you'll be unrequited...if you care......

This past weekend, I watched a movie that made me realize that it is the really big things in life that make you see the small things. The big things aren't necessarily the important things, but the small things are what's important. It was the stupidest movie ever, which is why my mind wondered into that epiphany. Want to know more? Then, hey, maybe you care.......however, that stupid quote from above haunts me and so I stop that thought.

Tenth grade English...........stream of conscience writing...........magical ability that lies within everyone...........it is the secret of writing..........want to know how to tap into that...........do you care.................the quote. prohibits. me. from. sharing. that......

If you were in a car and knew it wouldn't go off the road, would you even need to work at keeping the car going? Would you work at keeping it in the lane? JK8 saga...........maybe if divorce had been viewed as a option, they'd have worked harder to keep their "car" on the road. Divorce, irregardless of religious jargon, is always an option. Thank God for it in many people's lives. It's their perogative. Though I've never been divorced, I'm not anti-divorce. How many people who are divorced probably never considered it an option until it became a "have to". If you don't consider it an option, you won't work at avoiding it..........I think I'm right on that. I feel strongly that if you know something can't be taken away, you'll just bitterly exist in a prison that isn't really a prison and eventually you'll burst of out of that prison with a run in such an opposite direction that there will be no coming back. Divorce is an option. If it is to be avoided, it must be acknowledged. You can't take the "head in the sand" approach on that, otherwise, you'll be blindsighted by something you hadn't even explored. Accountants know that to catch a thief, you have to be trained in at least, knowing how to think like one............therefore, if you don't look at divorce and the ramifications of it......you'll end up in it and won't realize the energy you were putting in to not even acknowledging it could have been used in preventing it................said more than Churchill would have wanted there...............I'mjussayin'

Chivalry AIN'T dead. Knights are extinct. Chilvarly is not. Everyone desires courtship behavior. "I'm a guy just lost in myself, doing my thing, she's okay with it" is JUNK. Google manners. Use them. I'm just sayin.............more than Churchill cared to hear............

Overrated

I remember when I first heard the word overrated and actually got the concept of something being "overrated". Oh, how I loved that concept. I could liberally label anything or anyone as overrated and felt better about having categorically defined things.

This elated discovery stuck with me for only a short time when I equated it to the fable of "The Fox and the Grapes". Often times, I was labeling something as overrated because I couldn't attain it, but really wanted it. So, if I gave it a "well, I never really wanted that anyway", then I'd feel better and move on.

Or, would I?

Is being wealthy overrated? Is being beautiful overrated? Is being at the top of your job field overrated? Is being married overrated? Is being famous overrated? Is being a parent overrated? Is having a great family overrated? Is having a recollection of a great childhood overrated?

I might say that being wealthy/famous, for instance, after watching a few episodes of "E! True Hollywood Story" is overrated. However, how would I know something was "overrated" if I hadn't ever really walked that walk? If I watch an episode of "Cribs", I think that 30 minutes in that lifestyle would be so NOT overrated, however, 30 minutes is about all I can take before I've seen all I wanted to see. I have no desire after seeing their lavish lifestyle to "miss" the person. So, would that mean I could lop "fancy house, fancy cars" into my "overrated" slot? Not, if I truly believe you have to walk the walk before categorizing it.

Therefore, I learned that my newfound attachment to the stamping of "overrated" was not overrated, but rather underrated. You have to have some significant experience with something in order to label it overrated and quite frankly, I hadn't any significant experience with being rich or famous.

I could say, with certainty, that a Light Bright, an Etch-A-Sketch, and college life were overrated. The benefits of college, of course, were not overrated. You strive for college life as high schooler to be able to live as an adult while someone else foots the bill. Now, for many people this is how it works and the only thing "overrated" about it is the morning after some of their wild charades. (Yes, that statement was from the mouth of an assuming prude, right?)

However, college life for me was 100% overrated. I did not live on campus. I was an education major which had zero value to some of my family that thought you should make six figures your first year out of college. I worked two jobs. I was so tired half the time, I wasn't sure when I answered the phone at my job if I was at job A or job B. I NEVER had money. I actually had a tab at a local diner in Red Bank so that I could eat between my jobs.

So, college life for me was overrated. I can say that with all the experience in the world. Could I tell that to someone else? No, it wouldn't be fair. They may have a different experience and who would I be to detour them from that opportunity. In addition, the education you get drastically changes your path, for some people. See, I am even eluding to the fact that the college education itself, for some because of their lives, could be overrated. It might even be a financial burden they wouldn't have otherwise acquired. It's all in the person's experience.

Furthermore, a Light Bright and an Etch-A-Sketch, for example, were unequivocally overrated, to me. Who can remember their first encounter with "overrated". I can, possibly because I've drawn on this connection because of my fascination with the concept of "overratedness". At seven or eight, I had wanted them, saved up for them, gotten them and found the level at which they were enjoyable to me to be less than exciting or even unfulfilling. Those two "showy" toys were overrated. The child on TV.... looking like they were having hours of fun with a newfound talent..... (albeit the talent was absolutely in a zero demand with no future of helping them with anything) was such a magnetic pull that when I got the box with many black sheets of guide dot paper, oodles of pegs and a plug in peg board, it stunk to high heaven that I couldn't make use of it---at all. I could go on and on about being able to do nothing with an Etch-A-Sketch, maybe a primitive house drawing or, if you had an easy name, that could appear, but really, it could go with my Rubics Cube and other 'funless' toys. Suddenly, the commericals didn't even come on anymore and I couldn't even remember why I wanted those things. So, I discovered the experience of the word overrated before I ever knew I couldn't just make flippant use of it.

So, I'd definitely say that being a grown up is overrated. It comes with a certain degree of freedom, yes, but so much more that could be sailed like a Plinko chip from Price Is Right into the "overrated" column.

Might it be that we, as grown ups, bring problems on ourselves, therefore making what we don't have the grapes high in the tree? Do we spend too much time focusing on what we "don't" want or "can't have".

So, overratedness....it's really just all those things we spend time loathing because some part of us really wanted to attain it, master it or be the one to 'trade up' from it..........just a thought.

Road Trippin'

I like road trips. The two things that I like about road trips? The waiting to go phase and about the first hour of the trip. After that, I hate road trips and will act as though I never had an affinity for even the remote idea of a road trip. But, that first hour is such a nice diversion from my everyday life, or is it?


To start, for my husband's blood pressure to resemble anything but shape of Applachian Mountain Range, I don't usually drive. For some reason, his driving pattern of "as fast as you can go while not signaling anything and slam on your breaks periodically" keeps his blood pressure at a steady rate. This pattern is always followed by the statement, "I'm not the one that's ever had a wreck, Meleia". I usually think, but don't say, well statistics would clearly show your time could be near, not to mention the way you drive.

His driving means I get Libby settled in her "back suite" as I fondly refer to it. We could put that backseat on vrbo.com and run a tight race with some of the advertised cottages....sleeps 3, tv/dvr, cold drinks, lots of entertainment. Then, I put my huge sunglasses on. i.e. The ones that are the total opposite color and shape from the Kate Gosselin white, plastic huge square sunglasses that go with the red-pink clash, mini skirt outfit.....you know the picture. My faithful sunglasses are what allow me to view everything along the way and to gaze off into thought without being asked what I'm thinking.



Traveling takes money, which is why we don't. It's so unlike my Nanny Ree's favorite saying, "have 'drawers' will travel". At seven years old, I knew the saying, but hadn't a clue what she lightheartedly meant. At 33, I know what drawers means and I know it takes more than drawers to travel.


Anyway, every blue moon, we plan a little road trip. I can't much tell you about the planning phases because my form of planning is to say, "let's go somewhere that we can see....or somewhere we can get....." and that starts the process with sbridenstine. He budgets it out to a tee, spreadsheets it up and before too long the Purchase Order is processed and we are on our way. (somewhat exaggerated, there).


Here's the magic of that first hour...........you're driving--well, riding, along and you begin to look at things in a way you don't look at them on your normal beaten path. Obviously, there are times when you really "eye" those houses on your neighborhood street and harbor those same questions that you have on a road trip, but far too little. Those thoughts like...."I wonder who lives in that house..how the heck do those folks live like that, or awww, that person drives a bus...wonder what their neighbors think about them parking it in their yard...." Those random "wonders", those thoughts that would lead you to waltz right up to their door and ask if it weren't for speeding along at 75 mph.


A perfect example is when I see a school. I think, "you know, my world revolves even if that school is scoring X or even if that school does Y" and it puts my sometimes "school tizzies" into perspective.


I really like analyzing the community and thinking how it's somewhat like an anthill. The ants busy along doing what makes their hill survive, doing what they know and not until someone disturbs it do the ants realize there's a whole world out there or at least a reminder of why they stay in their little circle of existence.


Do you think that's how we are? Do you think, we as Daltonians or Georgians or whateverians, don't even notice the things in other places that make them matter? Why is it that things that make a world of difference to us don't make a bit of difference to the passerby?


I bet that's why I can't be on a road trip more than an hour before I'm tired of it. I try to analyze way too much!


There used to be this show on CBS Saturday Mornings that showed a guy open a phonebook, run his finger down the page and lands on a name that he called and met with to show the point that "everyone has a story". I loved that show segment. If it were on 24 hours, 7 days a week, I'd have wasted away the remainder of my life because I'd still be sitting there in absolute amazement at people's stories. There was another guy that did documentaries about living in people's lives for a period of time. He did one where he lived on minimum wage. It was fascinating to me. It was kinda what I invited Oprah to do a couple of blogs ago. When her people call my people, 'cause you know she must be amongst my five faithfuls, I'll have a whole list of them for her to try.

Think along your drives. Wonder about those around you who have their own little universe of issues spilling out.

Twice!? In ONE day??

I bet you thought that title was something to reckon with. You probably thought a true yummy secret was about to come out, however, nope. The title just refers to the fact that I am blogging twice in one day. I'd promise this one would be short, but I don't really know until I get it all written out, and then I don't look back. My sister said she doesn't like my new blog layout. She says the colors are difficult to see and the posts I've written as of late are too long. So, FOCUS, Sanna. Good thing these posts are free to readers or I might have to give a pooh about what readers think of me/posts.

I try not to be a bragger. However, today, is a BIG day!!! As a high school senior, I had no idea what I DIDN'T want to be after college. I just knew that pretty much anything captured my fancy. Therefore, when it was time to apply for scholarships, and my grades were definitely good enough, I chose not to apply for any. I just couldn't bring myself to write about something like it was my "forever choice". I couldn't write essays for scholarships I didn't REALLY want. There was no way I was going to try to convince an unknown audience I had a desire to do something I really didn't have a desire for. So, a few automatic college scholarship letters came in the mail, as I'm sure they do with everyone and I didn't reply. I would see the award amount and compare it to what the college would cost with the award and still feel that it wasn't something I wanted to even try for. I decided to attend the local university because it was a good school and a better use of my "money" if I didn't know for sure what I wanted to do. My mom was just proud I didn't cringe at the thought of more schooling and would help me with gas money, clothes and extras that I wanted when she could. My dad felt that if I wasn't going to get out of college and earn a six figure income that it was useless for me to go. So, I decided that I would start at UTC and just see what happened.

Gosh, the days were long and difficult. My first memory of college, which should have been a sign of hard times to come was that I can remember getting a parking space that was by the arena and my first class being at 8 by Memorial Auditorium. I thought 8 was a nice late start compared to my high school start time that was in the 7 am hour time frame. So, trudging to classes carrying books that were heavy and pricey stunk. Nothing about college was fun nor easy. However, I had watched a video in the Financial Aid office that said if I quit college or even took a break, I'd have to pay back the money and it would be hard to start back. So, I stuck it through. Year one---learned what "study" meant and that it didn't mean "no homework". Year two---learned I had better try to take classes that would help me figure out what I wanted to do. Year three---went to the career planning office and took an interest survey that showed I'd do well in social work, teaching or anything with elderly people. Shortly after that test, I began my classes in the education department. I busted my butt and worked two jobs to get through years three and four, and took as many classes as I could to graduate on time. Year four---was already dreading the student loan payments that were sure to start upon my graduation. Due to that dread, I never took out another student loan. Steven and I paying for my undergraduate loans and his made for lots of nights eating Rice-A-Roni and Hamburger Helper. We paid for our graduate schooling as we went. I'll be starting back in Fall of 2010 and will pay as I go because I do not heart student loans.

Well, guess what?! MY UNDERGRADUATE LOANS ARE FREAKIN' PAAAAAAID OFFFFFF! Wahooo! Here's a dear john letter to my student loans. Pardon the lack of, a-hemmmm, excitement.

Dear Student Loans,

We took you out in June of 1994 and carried you on our back until June of 2009. Kiss our butts and never come back! Stop the auto bank draft and do as "DX the wrestler" tells people.

Best regards,
Steven Bridenstine, MBA and Meleia P. Bridenstine, M.Ed

Dear Oprah, Shuuuuuut Up. Thanks, Meleia

I know that I just committed a terrible act in telling the Queen of Goodwill and Charity to shuuuuut up. But, seriously, Oprah, shuuuuut up. This directive has been coming on for a couple of weeks. It all started when our TV was tuned in to her show and I was doing something else while listening. I overheard that the topic of the show which went with her ongoing theme of "Live Your Best Life". Oprah went on to lament to a person on the show, who was jobless, that he should "live his best life, pray more..." I overheard Oprah's voice trail off as I thought about how she is so out of touch and people actually listen to her in masses hoping to get a smidgen of some kind of "insight" as to what they should do in their lives. Ugh. Oprahhhhh, shuuuuuut up.

Steven used to have the hot sauce called, "Nothin' hotter than a scorned woman". I kind of wondered if a scorned Oprah might could identify better with people if she had to maybe not be jobless, but try living on minimum wage, throw in a medical problem of two, and combine that with a child who saaaaaay is oppositionally defiant. Think Oprah could "live her best life, listen to her inner voice....."?

I know that faith is truly tried and exemplified when all is not well, when all you have is God and you learn that He is all you need. I'm sure Oprah had lots of things in her childhood that helped her connect with that "voice" or "best life vision". I'm thankful for her and am sure the world would be a better place if she could be cloned. However, in this economy, Oprah, unless you are giving the person a job or some type of life training/skill, shuuuuuut up.

Thanks,
Meleia

My Favorite Car

I would say I just made a HUGE mistake, but I can't call it a mistake, I think it's actually the beginnings of a very bad trend. I think you can only call something a mistake if you did that thing completely oblivious to the outcome it could have. I knew the outcome of eating a bowl of lowfat popcorn with a little added hot butter and dark chocolate almonds. OUCH. Just writing that like made my laptop gain weight. The bad thing about the mistake is that it's the second time this week and it makes the my dreadmill efforts not make a difference. Ugga Bugga!

Anyway, eating the popcorn reminded me of my favorite car ever. I have to first start this story with listing the cars I've left in my path of short term favorites:

1) Used 89 Chevy Corsica--grey paint defect car (the color on the title could have read primer--really). Gave it to my grandmother because my dad said it was his and I couldn't trade it. Its air condition quit.

2) Used 93 Teal Nissan Altima--like 140,000 miles on it....when I got it, hey I was a struggling college kid. Got rid of it because it started have problems.

3) Used 98 White Honda Accord--wrecked it REAL good. Didn't like it until after it was totaled and I couldn't have it anymore.

4) fLEASED 2000 White Toyota Camary--I felt like I needed a boat license to sail this thing. I bought this one in like 15 minutes at night and just didn't realize how long five years was. Steven ended up driving it.

5) Maroon 98? Jeep Cherokee--Steven's parents took it over because we decided to try to get more fiscally responsible. Bought this one because I thought I needed more space to carry stuff. Steven ended up driving it.

6) Red 98 Saturn SC--bought this one because it was what I really wanted when I was 16 and I thought it would be great to zip into parking space and hide shopping bags in the back. Steven ended up driving this one.

7) Brownish 200? Nissan Altima--bought it off Ebay because it was a good deal and I missed my teal one. I don't think Steven ever had to drive this one.

8) 200? White VW Passat--bought this one because I like the interior light colors and I thought it was THE ONE until I got preggars and the smell made me puke. Steven ended up driving this one.

9) 2004 Black Nissan Murano--hated them at first, then liked the crossover component of it. As I walked around the new car inspection and signed off on it, someone sprayed paint nearby and it went all over my brand new car right there in the parking lot of the dealership. Fought with Nissan in Kennesaw for the last 2 months of my pregnancy until they agreed to buy it from me and sell me...

10) my second 2004 Black Nissan Murano--love it, but Steven drives it because I just had to have.....

11) my current 2008 White Nissan Altima--love it, but my favorite car isssssssssssssss: what I have yet to get which is an Infinity G20 which I'm waiting for Joey at Pye to start selling and then I can buy it.

So, I got my first car at 17 and sixteen years later, I have had 11 cars! Steven says that we aren't trading anymore. But, how does he know I won't find my the car that will make everything seem right? **Shallow laugh**

So, if I had to choose from the eleven cars, each one has reasons it could be my favorite--

1) Corisca--got me to and from some of my first jobs, hauled my precious sister who was the most patient person in the world around, as well as my sweet cousins Anna, Amy and Phil on some afternoons from school

2) Altima--the interior was so soft

3) Accord--the airbags saved my life in a crash where I was hit head on twice while sitting still and the other person was going like 60 mph

4) Camry--NOTHING, hated it

5) Cherokee--first SUV

6) Saturn--fun to drive

7) Ebay Altima--great experience

8) Passat--great insides, "Your bootlid is open." The German factor wore off!

9 & 10) Murano--lots of fun ride to vacations, it's just a sexy car LOL

11) current Altima--has lots of buttons to press inside, the blue tooth is interesting, the color is good, the trunk is big

So, there, my I'm so promiscuous when it comes to cars. It kinda makes me feel bad.

Look at the path of favorites! YIKESEE!

Production Notes and Reality Shows

I'm not writing this entry about reality shows because I necessarily heart them, but I do feel like being the devil's advocate on some things regarding reality shows.

Okay, most people say, "reality shows are anything but reality". Yes, they are right. However, here's two things about that statement: you have to watch them often to really be able to say that and YOU WOULDN'T watch it if it were true reality.

Case in point, "my reality show" yesterday (and it would be a bit more exciting because of a couple of very short moments) would have run a camera crew off and had a TV set begging for a power outage.

Yesterday started with waking up and deciding that I wished I was a good little sleeper. It's actually a ritualistic thought I have when I wake, "man, I wish I slept so deep and so long I felt like I had been elsewhere" and "gosh, let me calucate the less than seven hours I get on daily basis." See, you would have already turned the channel.

The upcoming happenings are even worth fast forwarding to, but here goes. After my B-ah session about sleep, I decide to do 30 on the dreadmill.

Steven leaves for work. I'm sure before he left, he reminded me of what times I needed to take Libby places and not to spend any money. Oh, here's an exciting question I answered, "is my tie tied too short?"

Now, hang on to your seats, it finally picks up pace as Libby wakes up.

Of course, her usual waking is that, as mentioned many times before, of someone directly off the battlefield beginning combat from mid sleep. She enters with a wail, "IIIIIIIIIIIIIWWWWWWWWWWaaaaaaannnnntppppppaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnncccccccccakes." Of course, the only way to stop the wailing is to either do it or respond with something that will spawn another long wail, but with a beginning conjuntion of "BUT" and emphasis on "IIIIIII".

Seeing as how SuperNanny hasn't ever taken me up on an all accomadations stay at my house, I've decided to implement it myself and say no when not asked properly.

She and I went downstairs to eat Life cereal together. See, my reality show would have all kinds of product placement and network affilitation (i.e. SuperNanny).

She, who stomped her way down the stairs rambling a list of all things unfair that have been imposed on her, decides to not notice the slow pace at which I am taking every step. As I went downstairs, I could easily say that every single step I argued with myself that I do love summer and it's the right thing to save daycare money and spend every waking second with my darling-there's-an-obvious-reason-she's-an-only-and-I'd-have-moved-to-China-to-keep-it-that-way-but-thank-God-sbridenstine-sees-it-the-same-way daughter.

Once downstairs, sparring #2 occurred with daughter because she demands to do a marathon of her shows. She argues that she needs to learnnnnn something and that she can't learnnnnn if she can't watch: Backyardigans, Dora, Go Diego Go, Little Einsteins, Ni Hao Kai Lan, Sid the Science Kid.......and at this point I take the other side of my, "it's best for her to be home with me this summer argument" and toss it out the door.

I think of A. laying facedown on the couch and not moving until 5:30 when I can have an adult conversation with the working mate of the household about the summer decision, B. sitting in my car with the door shut so that I can just hear silence, or C. running on the dreadmill and pretending I am going somewhere.

However, I of course, enter negotionations with North Korea (or you can still call her Libby). I tell her that she can make her own shows and soon it will be time for swim lessons.

North Korea doesn't take that for an answer and says if she can't watch "ch-oweys" all day, then maybe I can just read to her all day.

I think if we were on a reality show, at this point, the camera crew would whip her butt. And, I smile at that thought.

So, we read and read and read until I hate books. It's the blunt truth of the matter.

Here's a high point for the show: I contemplated, well threw away, a copy of the Madeline book because I was SICK OF FREAKIN' reading it. I hate Madeline. Those two straight lines. bleh

After reading it five times, I didn't ever want to see it again. So, when North Korea went to get 'nudder book, MWWWWommy. I tossed it in the trash-WAY under a bunch of junk because I am well aware that North Korea will sense it's in there and then it will turn into Peyton from "Hand That Rocks The Cradle" when she's after Solomon at the end of the movie. I know my kid.

I knew I could have some silent therapeutic tossing of a book moment, but certainly it must be well hidden. So, bye bye Madeline and her dumb butt lines. That was mean. At that point, the reality show would probably bring in a shrink and do a complimentary DFACS referral.

However, it is only my IQ in danger when staying at home. It just gets lower and lower.

So, next on a real reality show, you'd see the getting ready portion of the day where I ask myself why I cut my hair so short and why haven't I gotten Libby's hair cut.

Then, we'd be off to swim lessons. The whole way to swim lessons, Libby remarks how Kaylee told her to stay away from water that she'd drown. Convinced that we are journeying to her demise in my Altima, Libby chatters the entire way about it. No matter how much I reassure her that she is LEARNING to swim so she won't ever have problems in the water, she continues.

Once at the Wellness Center pool, she thinks her role as North Korea will be accepted by Miss Sandy the Swim Teacher. What she doesn't know is Miss Sandy is France and she is not going to negotiate. It was like choir singin' satisfaction to see someone else work with North Korea. I took EXXXtra long filling out those swim papers, just to be sure I could watch North Korea concede.

After screaming, "walley" for about 15 minutes of my $19, she finally decides participate in the swim lesson Miss Sandy was progressing without her through.

That moment would have gone two ways on a reality show: 1) it would have been stretched out to the whole show or 2) it would have been about two minutes long.

Next, we go to get Steven, who can play golf on his league now but still can't lift heavy stuff, so he can pick up a box for me from school. Then, we go to Taco Bell lunch on a budget in Murray County.

Steven would only make a small appearance on the reality show because he is a man of few words and is not in the least bit a source of drama.

So, back to the two drama queens. Libby and I then go home where she assumes the role of North Korea on the topic of napping. She refuses to nap and I get sleepy commanding it. This is the point where I'd like an emergency red phone like they are rumored to have in the basement of the White House. I'd like to pick up the red phone and say, "hello, I can't do this another second of this day, help."

The nap negotiation goes on for about two hours. What else do we have to do? We can't spend money and I'll be derned if I am going to read another book.

I facebook a confession that I didn't pay daycare enough the past four years. My day 2 with Libby proves in my soul that it's HARD to do. (By the way, I love when a proper noun can become a verb...facebook).

Here's where the drama reaches about two on a scale of one to ten, ten being Nancy Grace level of drama.

I take Libby to TaeKwonDo. I miss a rejection call. What? You blinked and missed the drama, right? That's why reality tv can't be true reality. It's flippin' boring as all get out. Just writing about it makes me bored.

So, then, we go to my sister's house for supper and to take her the boxes we picked up for her.

Lastly, we go to Cremo because sbridenstine was dying for a chocolate soft serve. That's how I KNOW we are opposites. I do not like ice cream. I would never drive across town for it and certainly not chocolate flavor. Yuck.

Finally, we get home, try to negotiate with North Korea that it's bedtime.

I talk on the phone with a friend for about an hour and it's night time.

Of course, reality tv would have stopped at the pilot and edited out 90% of that day, don't cha think?

What Makes Me Cry

If you know me well, you know I am not one to show my emotions with tears. You can cry in front of me and I'm your rock, I'm the one to hear you out and pray for you a ton, but chances are, no matter what, I won't cry with you.

It's not that I don't think what you are crying about is unworthy, it's not that I think you are stupid for crying, I just am not a co-cryer. Steven is just the opposite. If you cry, he'll probably tear up about it with you. My sister will not only cry with you, but she'll cry FOR you. Why she'll cry about an email forward that she herself has verified to be an urban myth. She's very in touch with that side of her emotions.

I don't know why I don't tear up easily or feel the urge to cry with others. It's not that I don't ever cry. I cry, just not a lot, not with others and it's a rare hap. Usually, it's more that I'm angry about something that brings about the cry rather than sad about something. It's like when I reach a point of crying, it's that I've finally had to concede that I can't fix something. It's almost like a battle between two worlds when I have to finally let go of the hope and hang on to the desperation for a period that is crying. If I had to list all the things that could make me cry, it would be numerous. If I list all the things I'd let make me cry, it'd be in the single digits because to really give up and cry about something is something of a concession I can't remotely own. The single digit list would be mostly comprised of people in hopeless situations (spriritual, health, financial wise, etc).

However, there's this book that makes me cry. And Honey, if you've never cried with a book, Lawwwww help you! I've loved this book for four years. I've bought it for a few others when their child entered kindergarten, son got married or had a special birthday.

Rarely can I make it through the book. I actually keep it on a shelf so I don't even have to look at the cover because it tears me up. It's a text that breaks me. The illustrations, however, are amazing, too. It gets right through my tough game face and bores right to the core of my soul. I HAVE to share the text with you because I can finally read it and not SOB through it.

The book is written by Karen Kingsbury and is titled, "Let Me Hold You Longer". It's one of those...............delicious books.

Here's the text, hopefully I won't end up in copyright jail. I'm not claiming as my own text, but won't deny it captures my feelings and makes me face the uncontrollable concept of passing time.

Long ago you came to me,
a miracle of firsts:
First smiles and teeth and baby steps,
a sunbeam on the burst.
But one day you will move away
and leave to me your past,
And I will be left thinking of
a lifetime of your lasts....

The last time that I held a bottle
to your baby lips.
The last time that I lifted you
and held you to my hip.

The last night when you woke up crying,
needing to be walked.
When last you crawled up with your blanket,
wanting to be rocked.

The last time when you ran to me,
still small enough to hold.
The last time that you said you'd marry
me when you grew old.
Precious, eimple moments and
bright flashes from your past--
Would I have held on longer if
I'd known they were your last?

Our last adventure to the park
your final midday nap.
The last time when you wore your favorite
faded baseball cap.

Your last few hours of kinderarten,
those last days of first grade.
Your last at bat in Little League,
last colored picture made.

I never said good-bye to all
your yesterdays long passed.
So what about tomorrow--
will I recognizeyour lasts?

The last time that you catch a frog
in that old backyard pond.
The last time that you run barefoot
across our fresh-cut lawn.
Silly, scattered images
will represent your past.
I keep on taking pictures,
never quite sure of your lasts...

The last time that I comb your hair
or stop a pillow fight.
The last time that I pray with you
and tuck you in at night.
The last time when we cuddle
with a book, just me and you.
The last time you jump in our bed
and sleep between us two.

The last piano lesson,
last vacation to the lake.
Your last few weeks of middle school,
last soccer goal you make.

I look ahead and dream of days
that haven't comet o pass,
But as I do, I sometimes miss
today's sweet, precious lasts....

The last time that I help you with
a math or spelling test.

The last time when I shout that yes,
your room is still a mess.
The last time that you need me for
a ride from here to there.
The last time that you spend the night
with your old tattered bear.

My life keeps moving faster,
stealing precious days that pass.
I want to hold on longer--
want to recognize your lasts...

The last time that you need my help
with details of a dance.
The last time that you ask me for
advice about romance.

The last time that you talk to me
about your hopes and dreams.
The last time that you wear a jersey
for your high school team.

I've watched you grow and barely noticed
seasons as they pass.
If I could freeze the hands of time,
I'd hold on to your lasts.

For come some bright fall morning,
you'll be going far away.
College life will beckon
in a brilliant sort of way.
One last hug, one last good-bye,
one quick and hurried kiss.
One last time to understand
just how much you'll be missed.
I'll watch you leave and think how fast
our time together passed.

Let mehold on longer, God,
to every precious last.

What'd you think??? What makes you cry??? Have you ever cried with a book???

Oh, No It Jus' Di'iint!

I got a new treadmill, which will be referred to as a dreadmill from here on out.

Top 3 Reasons I call it a dreadmill:

1). I actually comtemplated when Lent was so I could give it up...missed that, plus I hadn't even started using it. I was like, "Lent is already passed....oh, no it jus' di'iint."

2). The delivery people delivered it and set it up a week and a half ago. I didn't figure out it didn't work until like 2 days after that. I was like, "broken...oh, no it jus' di'iint." The motherboard was blown. It's brand new. How could that be that I got a defective dreadmill?

3). A new one got delivered and set up today. It only burns like a 60 calories on a short run. PLUS, if you're not on it, it's not burning. I think that's a ripoff. Of course, 60 calories made me say, "oh, no it jus' di'iint."

Maybe tomorrow, I'll "suit up" and try again.

When I Grow Up..........

Remember when you were little and you'd think, "when I grow up...". Well, I remember what I thought when I was little, not that they were lofty or even productive aspirations....I used to think, "when I grow up........."
1). I'm going to go to Six Flags without planning it.
2). I'm going to eat only things I like for meals.
3). I'm not going to worry about anything.
4). I won't have to mind any grown ups.
5). I'll go on vacations once a month.
That's about all I remember thinking. I'm sure I thought of other things, but those are all I can really remember. It's funny what actually ends up happening when you "grow up." You don't go to Six Flags, if you do, you plan NOT to go back. You eat things because they are healthy and you want to live longer, thereby eating things you don't like. You worry constantly. At least, I do. I worry that I'll let someone down mostly. I spend a majority of my time "minding" other grown ups. My livelihood depends on that. I don't go on vacations once a month--others might like a vacation FROM me once a month, however. I just think it's funny how you have the thoughts of adulthood being freedom from anything when it's actually freedom from nothing. Isn't that weird? I don't know, I think it's weird. It was just a thought I had today. I realized how I work in order to play, I respond to things in order to please, and derned if that's not adulthood in a nutshell.

Here's a little snippet of Libby's latest...