Friday, February 26, 2016

Worried free

I got a nifty little phone call today.  My husband's doctor's office about a bit of insignificance and, it just so happens, I'm not allowed to hear details over the phone because HE HASN'T AUTHORIZED ME to do so


I'm starting to rethink all of the forms that on which he's my one and only.  I might have to start making some calls.  I mean, fair is fair. 

I'm legally obligated to pay off all of his debts in the event of his death, but I can't find out what killed him. 

I'm also entitled to all of his worldly possessions upon his demise, so there is an upswing there.  I can't wait for the day until that stack of Scientific American are mine and mine alone. 

Not so.  Those are hitting the Goodwill or the recycling bin.  (Especially now that I found out I'm not married to you HIPPA-ly ever after.)

But in all actuality, there are some interesting bits that come out of those Scientific A-blah-blah-blah magazines.  Usually, they surface when I'm trying to read something that's actually interesting and he's trying to regale me with theoretical gobbledy-gook.  We're something of a matched set: I know about the good stuff and he mops up all of the rest. 

Last night, however, the Scientific American proved that I'm not too much of an over-anxious, overly worried nitwit.  (It's good to be assured of this occasionally.)  The boy was reading (and then regaling me) about a study or op-ed or some such thing about the needless bits that average Americans worry about, i.e. carcinogens in food and other things that I can't now remember because I was maybe only half listening.  And at the end of this list, the boy stopped and asked me "Are you worried about any of those?" 

You feel like you really know someone and then you find out that they're not even positive about your deepest fears and about the things that keep your mind racing at night.

No, spouse.  Those are not in my wheelhouse of things that drive me batty with worry.  (I could easily match that list point by point and then some, though.)

I'm not a completely overly zealous worrier of inconsequential but socially popular non-issues.  It's like I'm a less than average worrier.  I don't have to be worried about my worrying.  Three cheers for that.

Monday, February 22, 2016

The 6-year old knows things

The Elder decided to bring home a snotty nose and general headache-y-ness this weekend.  This means that when she crawled into our bed at 6:18 Sunday morning and moaned about feeling garbage-y, I was all like "I'll make the sacrifice and stay home from church with you, which also means that I'll give up teaching Sunday School, which I love SOO SOO SOO much."  Sometime, I'm going to talk about my new gig as a Sunday School teacher.  (Someday when I can contain my sarcasm, that is.)

So the boy went to church all by his little self (he's a choir boy and usually cantors his little heart out), and the girls and I were all like "Comfy clothes!  Sunshine!  An extra mug of coffee!  Sticker books!"  And it turns out, that as soon as I said "stay at home," the Elder was thinking "ToDays to do list."  Humor me cause I find this highly amusing.  (This is verbatim, by the way, except for I don't know how to insert a check mark, so those are spelled out for you.  Part of me wants to correct her 6-year-old-ness and portray her as a young prodigy, but let's get real here.  She's six.  That's why this is funnier.  She also obviously gave this up fairly early in the morning.  We nailed it throughout the day.)

Brades __[check mark]__  (She's figured out that she likes her hair braided, but only the front part.  She hasn't realized that she's tapped out all of my hair styling talent in so doing.)
read __
Play __
fun with mommy __
color with mom __[check mark]__  (Okay, we never colored, but at one point, right when she gave up the list, she said "What should we do next?  Let's color.  And then the Younger pulled out a sticker book, and that was that.)
read Books from School __
snack __
rest __

Later when the boy came home from his faith-y stuff, the Elder excitedly exclaimed "Daddy!  Mommy and I made corpse[s]!"  She meant "crepes," but it also made me realize that when I'm disposing of evidence, I can't involve her in the process.  She'll sing like a bird.

The boy was also gone all day Saturday at Science Fair bonanza 2016 (my title), so the girls and I actually had a lot of at-home-all-by-ourselves time throughout the weekend, and when that happens, the Elder likes to write notes to Daddy to inform him of the goings-on for when he gets home.  This lead to "Dear Daddy: [hearts] I have BRADSE!  Mommy Braded my hair.  Love: Ally  I love you [heart] Ally PS. wi are you going to science fair PS. again I chaged my Name it is Ally." 

That's right.  My kid changed her name.  WHY? you might ask?  Simple.  Apparently, "Ally" is "easier" to write in cursive.  And my kid thinks cursive is all that and a bag of cheese crackers.

And shortly after this realization, she started a list of "favorites," obviously to keep for posterity.  First, we have the names that she would prefer over what is the perfectly acceptable option that we actually did name her:


(At this point, I'm so very glad that she has no naming rights, not even for pets.  'Cause if she did, then I'd be stuck with either a kid or a pet living at my house named "Mrista."  Well, no.)

We also have favorite colors, favorite foods, favorite animals and, the best part, favorite I-don't-know-whats:


For the love of a 6-year old. 

Tuesday, February 16, 2016

Wit and (a small bit of) wisdom

the Younger, as she goes through her nightly struggle of going to sleep:  "Every night I dream about cereal and...just cereal."

I just wanted to include that.  I'm on here grading away, and she is talking at us from her doorway.  Sometimes I have a chance to record her in real time.  It's all accuracy all the time, friends.

Essentially, it's been drudgery-doo and disappointment-ing around here.  The Younger keeps it real, though.  Like this morning, when we returned from our weekly library expedition ("Carry me!" begs the child..."My legs are tired of walking!" laments the child..."I'm carrying about 50 children's books and they ain't light as a feather" replies the pack mule) and the Younger went from throwing off shoes and coat to "Let's play Uno!" in about 1.8 seconds.  At times like these, I need a few minutes to transition.  I need a quiet moment or two.  I need to not have to be engaged in an active conversation every waking second.  I need a precious moment unloading my dishwasher! 

The Younger did not agree.

This led to stomping to her room and some loud wailing.

Cruel injustices are not lost on a three-year old.

The ensuing silence was not lost on this thirty-three year old.  The kid...she put herself down for a nap at 10:30 AM.  As in Morning.  And then she promptly took her day's nap. 

Sometimes, life hands you an unexpected nap and you boot up the old computer on the double cause these rough drafts aren't grading themselves.  And that's really where I'm heading with this.  I've been a grading fiend for the last couple of weeks, and it's rendered me at any given moment in a horrid mood, a sarcastic mood, a groaning-and-gnashing-of-teeth mood, or a are-you-kidding? mood.  I graded for 16 hours last week, Monday-Wednesday.  And I taught 2 classes (another 7 hours) during that stretch.  And this is all fit around my kids' schedules.  I had some pretty touchy moments, I'm not too proud to admit. 

And then because by the grace of schedulers go I, once I got one batch of drafts graded and returned, I had a quick breath and have been plugging away at the next round. 

Regardless of when I shut down for the night, I make it a point of reading before bed (which is where I'm headed after this, so I'm typing fast fast fast so I can get there soon soon soon), and last week's book was about all sorts of things pertaining to recognizing and then accepting your life's calling.  But two things that continue to percolate with me this week are
*I can't move forward if I continue to play the victim, and
*I have to let go of that which I cannot control.

Nothing cause for gasps of shock and awe here, but still.  "Lord, I want to give it to you.  If you want me to be here, show me.  If you want me to go, lead me" has been my off-and-on prayer.  I'm trying to be more intentional with this the moment my mind starts to turn Negative Nelly on me.

And I can't be the victim anymore.  I mean, DRATS.  It's such a deliciously yet horribly murky place to languish. 

Right now you might be scoffing at me, pointing fingers at my earlier woe-is-me-ness.  But, I did that on purpose.  In part, yes, this is absolutely why I haven't blogged for a couple of weeks.  Nuts to writing for myself after I spend hours advising others on writing.  Yet I want to state right here that I don't want to be my own victim anymore.  It's gotten old.  Call me on it if/when you see me flounder.

I need and absolutely want some good mojo instead, and there's no space for that when woe-is-me is so loud and obnoxious.

To bookend, here's a conversation that happened last week in a big patch of sun, while I was doing some easier bits of work and the Younger was coloring in her Frozen coloring book and chattering away beside me.

"This is Elsa with her big head.  She's gazing up at the sky."  (She had drawn a stick figure, which did, in fact, have a big head.)  Later, she was telling me a story by flipping through the pages of the coloring book.  "...Now they're hearing a racket.  Elsa was so annoyed...they couldn't play because they heard a racket.  And after a while, it was finished.  The end."

The end...indeed.