Tag Archives: parenting

Top 5 reasons NOT to donate to St. Baldrick’s

1. My tiny donation won’t make a difference.

2. They’ll never find a cure for cancer.

3. Those charities don’t give enough of the donations to the cause.

4. I won’t make a difference in the life of any one person.

5. It doesn’t really affect me.

–  –  –  –  –  – –  –  –  –  –  – –  –  –  –  –  – –  –  –  –  –  –

Do any of those sound familiar?

Here are a few facts:

st bald

1. Every dollar matters. I’m pretty sure no one reading this can donate a million dollars. But if everyone who reads this would share it with a few friends, and each one donated $2, we could put thousands of dollars in the hands of researchers in no time flat. (But just in case someone is reading this who can donate a million dollars, that would be really awesome!! In fact, if I can raise a million dollars I’ll shave my head, too!)

2. We can and will find cures. But it takes money.

3. Before getting involved with this event, I checked CharityNavigator.com, and was pleased with what I saw. I even pulled up a few other well-known charities for a comparison. Then I signed up. Click HERE to see their rating.

4. There are parents and children drawing hope every day from these fundraisers. I know, because Robot Boy’s mom is a friend of mine, and I see her getting more excited every day as this event approaches. She knows it’s making a difference.

5. I’ll be posting pics of the event, and I guarantee that seeing what hope and gratitude in action look like its going to make you feel good. And don’t we all like to feel good?

So…

Pay a visit to us over at Team Robot Boy’s Fundraising Page. We’re hoping to break our goal today, and are setting a stretch goal of DOUBLING it before the event Saturday! But we NEED you.

So click. And donate. It’ll feel good. And it’ll make a difference.

LINK TO TEAM ROBOT BOY’S FUNDRAISING PAGE.

And if you’d like to read more about Robot Boy, his Badass mom who’s going to let me shave her head Saturday, and St. Baldrick’s, grab a tissue and click HERE. You’ll be a better person for having done so.

 

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Through My Eyes

Image

He even rides a unicycle.

My youngest son is twelve years old. He’s small for his age, with a high-pitched voice and tiny hands. He looks out of place among his peers.

He’s different in other ways, too. His small stature means he can’t compete physically with other boys his age, so he sits on the sideline for team sports, chosen last at pick-up games.

He has a quirky personality. He gets lost in his thoughts sometimes, unable to articulate them to others, coming across as goofy and aloof. His short attention span often gets him in trouble.

He doesn’t care about clothes like a lot of kids his age. He has a handful of favorite t-shirts and shorts, and wears them when he wants to, regardless of how they look.

He has trouble organizing his thoughts. Information doesn’t line up in his brain in a linear manner like it does for most people. Instead, his mind is a kaleidoscope of ideas, whirling around in a manner that makes sense only to him.

He doesn’t handle stress well. When he’s anxious, he’ll pull the right side of his shirt collar into his mouth and start chewing. When I see him doing that I’m grateful that he’s moved on from his other nervous habit: hurting himself.

.  .  .

This is how the world sees him.

.  .  .

This is how I see him.

He’s small, just like his brothers. He’ll probably be a late bloomer just like they were, but he’ll catch up to the crowd eventually.

I’m glad he likes running cross-country. It’s a team sport where you compete against yourself. Your own improvement is what really matters, at least at this level. He’s growing stronger, running faster, developing self-discipline.

He comes up with the most impressive thoughts. Really out-of-the-box things – like designs for machines, concepts for movies and lyrics for songs. He has taught himself sound production and movie-making on his own. Someday he will create something really amazing, or invent something new, because he thinks so big.

He’s attached to things that mean something to him. The t-shirt he bought when we saw The Lion King in the theater is his favorite, and he loves the shirts from the races he’s run. He wants them close to him as often as possible.

When his mind starts racing, I wish I could get inside it with him, because I know he’s coming up with some pretty amazing stuff in there. He’s getting better at expressing himself verbally, but the words still fly out faster than I can grasp them. Written expression is still miles away, but he’ll get there. I know he will. Because I won’t give up until he does.

He’s still afraid of failure. Who wouldn’t be if they walked in his shoes? He can’t read on grade level, can’t make a decent oral argument, has handwriting no one can read (not even himself). He stinks at sports and doesn’t have many friends. But he’s handling anxiety better now than he used to. I  tremble when I think of the days he used to bite his arm until it was purple, or hit his head on the floor out of frustration. I will always watch him closely, because I fear he’ll be the one who cuts himself.

For the rest of the world, my boy wears a lot of labels. Labels like ADD, dyslexia, dysgraphia. Runt, girly, immature, weird.

But to me he only wears one.

Son.

My son.

And I long for the day when others see him the way I do.

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Is there someone in your life who is often misunderstood?

Toilet Water with a Wine Chaser

Yesterday we left the youngest home alone for a little while. Upon returning, I notice a spill on the kitchen counter, on the opposite side from the sink and fridge. Not a spot where we usually pour drinks or spill ice cubes, so it was a bit unusual.

And, as everyone knows, in order to clean something up effectively, you should know what it is. For example, if it was water, I would have wiped it up with a paper towel. If it was Sprite or some other sugary beverage, I would have used a wet rag. If it was wine, I would’ve probably used a straw.

But the location of this had me puzzled, and I really didn’t know what it was or how it got there.

So, like any crazy practical woman would do, I dipped my finger in the spill and tasted it. Water. Good. Wipe it up and go on, and no point wondering for too long how it got there.

But a few minutes later, there was more water on the counter, so I looked up. I noticed some water on the bottom edge of the upper cabinet. My mind is trying to figure out how water got there. Did someone smack a cup or bottle of water on the counter, causing it to shoot up? Had it been a carbonated drink, the kid might have had a gusher, but it was water. Where was water coming from?

I looked further up, and there it was. Water dripping through the ceiling. Must be the water heater. Mr. Wonderful and I dash up the stairs and into the attic, but that’s not it. We move into the bathroom.

But the bathroom floor is dry. So we check under the sink. Dry. Then I feel the wet rug, and all the pieces of the puzzle fly into place in an instant. The boy overflowed the toilet. The boy tried to clean it up so we wouldn’t know. I just tasted potty water. Dirty potty water.

Yep. I drank what came out of one of these. (Thank you, Microsoft, for the royalty-free image.)

 

So now I have a new item on that list of Things I Never Thought I’d Do.

I drank a glass of wine to sanitize my mouth calm my nerves.   Then I got out the mop and bleach and cleaned it up. And now my kitchen and bathroom smell Clorox-fresh, and I’m out of wine.

*  *  *  *

This post was submitted to Yeah Write!

Life is Good Enough.

Good enough.

I used to hate those words. They always seemed like a cop-out.

Then I had three kids. And we bought an apartment building. And got a dog. And I started taking care of my in-laws. And I just couldn’t keep up with my old standards any more. I started to feel inadequate, and beating myself up regularly over the things I couldn’t get done.

But I found a solution. A way out of the self-imposed guilt. I’ve turned over a new leaf.

I’ve embraced mediocrity.

And now, good enough has become . . . Good Enough. Not just a measure of acceptance, but a whole new philosophy for life. A new mantra.

Here are a few excerpts from the Good Enough Manual:

Good Enough Laundry = clean (for the most part). The kid who hasn’t yet gone through puberty may occasionally wear shirts more than once. Folding is optional. And you already know how I feel about sorting socks.

No more shame!

Good Enough Dinner = everyone eats something. Most nights I provide the meal. Most nights we eat together. But if we can’t, we can’t. My children are now old enough to handle sharp knives and prepare food. They know the way to Subway. They won’t go hungry.

Good Enough Housekeeping = a reasonable standard of hygiene in the bathrooms and kitchen. Enough said.

Dusting is now optional.

Good Enough Landscaping = the weeds will die once we have a cold snap. Probably. If not, they’ll bloom in the spring and I’ll call it a garden.

I’m no longer envious of my friends with their picture-perfect homes and spotless cars. They can hop in with me and we can go to lunch. Or we can drive out to the lake and eat Cheerios off the back seat. It doesn’t matter to me.

This weekend we’re going to a cross-country meet in Baton Rouge. Instead of rushing home as soon as The Caboose crosses the finish line, we’re going to go visit The Trailblazer at LSU. We’re going to enjoy a little October weather and I’m not going to worry about housework.

When I get home I may print up some membership cards to the Good Enough Club. Who wants one?

 

 

Boiling Frog Syndrome

I often use a metaphor to describe how we sometimes find ourselves in situations we didn’t see coming. It goes something like this:

If you put a frog in a pot of hot water it will jump out immediately, because it senses danger. But if you put a frog in a pot of cool water and heat it slowly, the frog will adapt to the changes. It will not perceive danger, and eventually it will cook to death.*

I fear I’ve become a victim of Boiling Frog Syndrome.

(Photo © 2010 J. Ronald Lee.)

I used to live a very organized, efficient life. I worked outside the home, worked inside the home, mothered three kids. As an Army wife, I often did it solo. I managed our rental properties, cared for my parents, volunteered at my kids’ schools, taught Catechism at my church. And all the while I managed to maintain a decent standard of hygiene in my home and a semi-active social life.

I’m not sure when the fire was turned on under me, but somewhere along the way that cool pot started heating up, and my surroundings became a threat to my survival.

At some point, having the right uniforms clean on school days became a challenge. (Enter Febreeze into my life.)

Homework became a lifestyle-altering component of my family’s schedule.

Carpool and lacrosse practice became the events that dictated the rest of the day.

I had to take an afternoon off of work to wait for the exterminator, the plumber, the AC guy.

Meals at home became grab and go events, not sit downs.

Taking my parents and in-laws to the doctor became a frequent activity.

I was overwhelmed by my routine day.

Lists didn’t help. I never could get the things on the list done by the time they were supposed to be done. The unchecked list became a reminder of my failure.

Requests for assistance didn’t help. I had created a system that only I knew, so asking for help meant doing it over when it wasn’t done right, and stopping to explain ‘what or how’ became as time-consuming as doing it myself. I had painted myself into a proverbial corner.

Years went by, and I couldn’t figure a way out. I reminded myself to be patient. “This, too, shall pass,” became my mantra. I watched as my friends went on weekend jaunts to Napa, while I tried to dig out of paperwork. I was jealous of those who went to the zoo when I could barely get to the grocery store. The lists grew longer and longer. But I couldn’t figure out how to change anything.

The events of the last year turned the fire up even hotter. And I started to feel the heat. Anxiety attacks, hives, a trip to the ER after passing out. My body was sending me clear signals, but I still couldn’t figure out how to reduce the flame beneath me. I knew I had to get out of the pot for my own survival, but I just couldn’t find the way out.

So I scoured the internet for some inspiration, and I stumbled on this blog.

The steps seemed simple enough, so I thought I’d give it a try to see how I could apply these business practices to my life.

7 Tips for Prioritizing Tasks Effectively

1. Respect Deadlines.

An absolute must. I was prone to putting off the things that stressed me the most, even if there was a cost. Practical translation: Laundry must be done. If I have to Febreeze a uniform so my son can wear it to school unwashed, I’ve failed. Monday morning, laundry must be caught up.

2. Set Milestone Deadlines.

Don’t complete one task at the expense of the others. If it all has to be done, set reasonable milestones and work toward them. Leaving a monumental task until the last minute will bite you in the ass every time. Practical translation: The insurance claim must be filed within two weeks. The apartment must be ready to show by the 20th.

3. Consider the Consequences.

There will be things that just can’t get done. Choose the ones you can let go, and then… let them go.  Practical translation: I won’t be making those spectacular Halloween decorations I saw on Pinterest. In fact, I’m may delete my Pinterest account. All it does is make me feel more inadequate.

4. Consider the Payment Terms.

Some commitments do pay rewards. Get them done. Practical translation: Get the apartment ready. Missing another month’s rent will set the cause back even further. Two teenage boys on the car insurance is no laughing matter.

5. Consider Time Required.

When facing two equally important tasks I’ve started using the low-hanging-fruit method. Practical translation: Choose the one I can get finished. The reward of checking something off that list will often give me the energy to tackle the next one. And then the next one.

6. Set Goals and Work Backwards.

Keep the big picture in mind. Prioritize the steps, keeping in mind that some are foundational for others. Doing things in the wrong order makes for extra work. Practical translation: Clean the kitchen before starting dinner. Put away laundry before packing for vacation.

7. Schedule a Percentage of Your Time for Personal Projects.

Personal indulgences were always the first thing to be cut. But tasks that energize me – even if they take up valuable time – leave me better equipped to tackle the necessary things. Cutting these activities backfired on me in the long run because it left me feeling unfulfilled. Practical translation: Don’t eliminate the things that fulfill me. Spend time with friends. Exercise. Read. Dare I even say it… travel.

Now I’m not sure if using this method is going to solve my problem. But I am already gaining some sense of control over things, and I’m sure that will cool the water down a bit. I’m giving myself a month to knock out some big items and make decisions on how to work smarter on the small items. And I’m planning a trip. (A really big trip! Just for me! More on that later.)

Because I’ve already lost enough time sitting in this pot, waiting for the water to cool on its own.

* Before publishing I confirmed the accuracy of this anecdote with the trusted online source Wikipedia. According to Wiki, the frog will eventually realize its demise is near and jump out. But revealing this at the beginning of the post would have ruined the whole metaphor. Ignorance is bliss. 

** No frogs were harmed in the writing of this post.

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How do you manage tasks and stress? What organization methods help you function more efficiently? And have you ever actually seen a frog in a pot of water?

A study of cause and effect: If you give a boy a paintbrush

Image source: Microsoft.

Image source: Microsoft.

If you give a boy a paintbrush, he’ll want to help you paint.

If you agree to let him help, you’ll have to give him a bucket of paint.

If you give him a bucket of paint, he’ll spill some on the floor, and you’ll have to give him a rag to clean it up.

When he has a rag to clean up, he’ll make a bigger mess trying to wipe up the spill, and he’ll get paint all over himself.

When he gets paint all over himself, you’ll send him to the bathroom sink to clean himself up.

While cleaning himself up, he’ll splash paint-water all over the bathroom mirror, and you’ll give him paper towels and window cleaner to clean the mess.

After cleaning up the mirror mess, he’ll get water all over the floor.

When he gets water all over the floor, he’ll need more paper towels to clean it up.

After cleaning up the water on the floor, you’ll tell him to go chill out and listen to his iPod for a little while.

After listening to his iPod for a little while, he’ll get bored.

And when he’s bored, he’ll ask if he can help you paint.*

          * Inspired by actual events.

Moral Relativism: How I taught my son to tell a lie.

The Truth is not always clear.

Yesterday I sold myself out.

The Caboose had a concert last night, the “final exam” for his chorus class. It was at 7:00 P.M. at a church about 30 minutes from home.

My Mother-in-Law (who lives with us) has been having some medical issues this week, and my husband and I thought it best that she stay home and have her visit with the home health nurse. Knowing she’d be upset if she found out he was performing and we weren’t taking her, I did something I’ve never done before.

I told my son to lie.

I wrapped it around an explanation that, albeit true, was justification to disregard one of the standards I hold highest. At least I did until yesterday.

Since we’d be leaving the house just a few hours after getting home from school, she was bound to ask where we were going. And in his chorus uniform (dress clothes with a tie) a casual explanation wasn’t plausible. I suppose I could’ve just sneaked out the back door in stealth mode, but there would have to be an explanation of why the sitter was staying late. I felt trapped by The Truth. So I made a judgment call. And I lied.

We all tell lies. We really do. “This is the best cake I’ve ever tasted.” “I can’t make it in to work today.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t get the message.” We rationalize the lies we tell by pretending they’re harmless. We justify their use by the goal we’re trying to achieve.

As adults, we live in a world where things are not always black and white. We rely on experience and outcome to make judgment calls at times. And we sometimes lie in the process.

But at eleven years old, he doesn’t yet have that body of experience, or the understanding to make those calls. I told him that it was OK to lie because the truth would hurt her feelings. I packaged it up neatly in a way that would make it easy. Then I engaged him in the process, we told the cover story, and left.

On the way to school this morning, he was the first to bring it up. “It felt weird lying to Grandma last night.” I told him that I thought so too, and that we shouldn’t do it again. But the fact of the matter is that we will have to do it again, because she can’t do everything we do. I’ll just have to make sure I have a better plan, one that doesn’t require his participation.

And I’m now left to wonder where else he’ll apply this new standard of relativism.

“If it doesn’t hurt anyone, it’ll be OK.”

“She’ll never find out, so why not?”

“I’m only lying because I don’t want to hurt her.”

So The Truth, which I used to hold in such high regard, is now reduced to a standard I’m willing to sacrifice for a greater good in my son’s eyes. I sure wish I could get a do-over on this one.

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What do you think? Is it OK to tell a lie in certain situations?