A Simple Christmas Reminder

This is the first Christmas since 1989 with no kids.  This is also the first Christmas my husband and I will celebrate alone.  Our oldest son was born a few weeks before the holiday the first year we were married.  With both boys in the Navy, and unable to be home, I didn't even bother to put up a tree or lights.  I picked up a couple Christmasy scented candles, a little holiday cheer in a bottle, and whipped up a Christmas Eve lasagna for the husband today.  Tomorrow, I will roast the turkey he requested since we didn't have plans to go anywhere or do anything. 

It's eerily quiet.  It seems like a million years ago when the kids anxiously awaited Santa's arrival.  Or I thought I'd lose my mind trying to scrape together enough money for gifts or get everything wrapped.  Each year, they'd put out milk and cookies for Santa and carrots for the reindeer (which I'd nibble on before tossing them on the sidewalk to look like the reindeer had grazed).  Glitter would get tracked back into the house after they'd sprinkle "reindeer food" outside to attract them and ensure that Santa wouldn't fly on over our house.  We'd spend half the night chasing kids back to bed while they peeked to see what was under the tree. 

I thought about this column today that I wrote many, many years ago about our first Christmas together. 

*****

Nothing like a little panic to start the Christmas season off right.  A box, its entire contents being all the Christmas ornaments, was missing.  I looked everywhere.  Either I was going senile, or they had been accidentally thrown away over the summer while I cleaned out useless junk.   

While looking, I thought of the ornaments that have survived cats, dogs, and tiny hands plucking them off the tree.  "Ball?" a toddler would inquire before chucking a glass ornament across the room before "noooooo!" could escape my lips.  Many are special simply because the kids made them.  Thinking they were as good as gone, it took all I had not to sit down and have a good cry.  Finally, in the back of a closet, I found them. 

Ornaments are easily replaced, but some could never be.  Every year as I hang the ornament that says “Our First Christmas” on the tree, I remember that Christmas Eve when we lived in Arizona.  It was my first time being away from home and my family during the holidays.  Homesickness set in, and the postpartum depression overwhelmed me.  I spent about as much time crying as I did changing diapers.  Being sleep deprived, the days blended together.   

Our oldest son was born on December 7.  While I couldn't have asked for a better early Christmas present, I was exhausted and on an emotional roller coaster ride.  There were no gifts to give, and that was fine with me.  On a military salary with a newborn, there wasn’t much money for anything but necessities.  Our Christmas tree, which my Grandma sent, stood no more than a foot high. 

As I was trying to convince myself that we were lucky to have what we did…a warm home, a healthy baby, and each other…the doorbell rang.  It was an overnight delivery.  I opened the package to find gifts for the baby, and two $100 gift certificates from my husband’s family.  Braving the crowds and traffic, we headed out to shop.  We went our separate ways, selecting gifts for each other, several packages of diapers, baby formula, and all the trimmings for a real Christmas dinner.       

Once the colicky baby was settled in his cradle, I drifted off to sleep.  Though I missed my family, I felt better knowing there was something to give my husband the next morning.  I slept soundly; it was Christmas morning before I realized my husband hadn’t come to bed.   

Frantically, I jumped from bed sure something was wrong with the baby since I hadn’t heard him cry.  The baby wasn’t in his room.  I rushed to the living room to find my tiny newborn sleeping soundly on his father’s chest.  What a relief that everything was all right.    

Running on a few hours of sleep each night left me with little energy to do much of anything, especially housework.  I did what had to be done, but the dishes were stacked to the side to wash bottles.  Laundry set unfolded in baskets.  Many things had been neglected.  

I couldn't believe my eyes when I went to the kitchen to start the coffee.  It was spotless, as was the rest of the house.  A note hanging from the cupboard read "Merry Christmas!!  I hope I got all the dishes put away where they belong.  I love you, Santa."  Between feedings, my husband had done the dishes, cleaned, and folded laundry.  I don’t know how I slept through all of this, or how he kept the tiny cries from waking me. 

I received one of the greatest gifts that Christmas.  There wasn’t anything he could have wrapped and put beside our tiny tree that could take the place of a full night’s sleep and a clean house on Christmas morning.  No monetary gift in the world could compare to what I was given.  I didn’t need anything else.  Waking to a clean house and seeing my newborn son sleeping with his daddy was all that I needed. 

Every year when I am feeling overwhelmed and frazzled instead of full of the holiday spirit, I think about our first Christmas, and how simple things were back then.  When the shopping isn’t done, the gifts aren’t wrapped, and my to-do list is full of a gazillion things, I try to remember that it is not the cost of the gift or how it is wrapped that matters during this season of giving.  I am reminded the greatest gifts have no price tag; they come from the heart. 

 

(I may miss that craziness just a tad bit this year, too.)

Dolls and dogs don't make realistic babies

When I was a little girl, I had one goal in mind.  Well, two if you counted my desire to be a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader.  I wanted to grow up and have a baby.  

I might have explored the cheerleading thing more if I could have gotten in some good practice.  But try as I might, I couldn’t convince anyone that pom-poms were imperative in achieving my goal.  What I would have given for a pair of those little white boots with tassels.  I asked my parents; I even asked Santa Claus, but no such luck.   Not that pom-poms or boots possessed the power to change my life, in retrospect.   I've never been athletically inclined - which loosely translates into the fact that if it requires running, jumping, bending, throwing or anything remotely physical, really, I'm not good at it.  Plus, my young body never exactly morphed into Dallas Cowboy cheerleader material. 

 

I did, however, find ways to get hands-on experience for my main life’s aspiration.  When my baby sister was born, I'd turned five years old a few months prior.  We didn’t actually get off to a good start because my mom decided the day of kindergarten round-up was the perfect time to go to the hospital to get the baby from behind a closet door (because that’s where the hospital kept the babies, after all).  Yet, I became more intrigued by babies as the days passed, and wherever my sister was, I wasn’t far behind.  I needed to learn all I could about this mothering thing. 

While my sister was getting a sponge bath, I noticed something peculiar about her belly.  There was a raisin on it, and I told my mom as much.  She laughed and said something about a cord and that it was normal.  I never knew babies were plugged in while in the hospital closets, so this was all news to me.  It piqued my interest even more.   

Thought, it didn’t take long before I grew bored following my mom around trying to help take care of the baby.  There was little satisfaction in watching what she did.  Occasionally, Mom would let me hold her, but mainly, my mom and I didn't have the same idea of what constituted help. Nothing would have made me happier than to change a diaper, rock her, give her a bottle, or even give her a bath in the sink.  Thankfully, my mom had my baby sister's best interest at heart and didn't have a great amount of trust in my abilities.  She trusted me to watch my baby sister to ensure she didn't roll off the bed so long as I promised not to try to pick her up and carry her.  Beyond that, I wasn't getting much practice in this mothering thing.  I needed my own baby.  

I loaded up an old purse with all the things a baby needed – a bowl, spoon, bottle, blanket, and a roll of Lifesavers.  Okay, so the Lifesavers were for me.  I dragged my diaper bag and favorite baby doll wherever we went.  From the back of the station wagon, I nearly drove my mother insane in my quest to be a good mom.   

“What time is it?”  I asked. 

“Five minutes since the last time you asked me,” she said.   

“I just wanted to know if it was time to feed my baby.”   

It seemed to me that it was important to stay on a schedule, and since my baby didn’t cry to let me know she was hungry or wet, I had to rely on my mom’s time telling skills.   

I even talked my mom out of one of my sister’s diapers.  It proved to be frustrating because back then, diapers gave you one shot.  Once you peeled back the tabs, there was no resticking.  I grew even more discouraged that Mom wouldn’t give me more.  "Stop taking it off," she told me. 

 

How could I check if the diaper needed changed if I didn't take it off?  She didn't understand the importance of honing my mommy skills.  I finally commandeered some diaper pins and cloth diapers, which wasn't hard since she was often distracted by caring for a newborn.  Mom wasn’t too pleased when once clean diapers ended up in the laundry soaking wet after I’d dipped the “soiled” ones into the toilet like I’d seen her do.    

This baby of mine wasn’t nearly as interactive as I would have liked.  It wasn't one of those high-tech versions that cried, took a bottle, crapped itself from pretend food, or even said random things like "I want another drink of water" or "I'm sleepy."  The winging it thing was mind-numbing.  How was I supposed to know what to do next with no context clues?  I did the next logical thing in motherhood training.  I moved onto my grandparent's Chihuahua. 

 

He was nervous by nature like most dogs of his breed.  He didn't necessarily need to be scared to shake like a leaf or piss all over the place.  That came naturally for him.  When he saw me coming with the doll clothes and diaper bag, he wasn’t shaking because he was overjoyed at the prospect of being the baby.  I’d swaddle him and rock him, which did anything but comfort him because he'd pee all over his dress and receiving blanket.   

My grandma was a better sport than my mom, and she let me handwash his delicates that he’d piddled all over.  Once he’d wet all the clothes I had that fit him, I would release him from my clutches until his dresses and blankets were dry on my makeshift clothesline.   

I’d start all over again, and he’d pee all over the place again.  It started to get a little like work, and not so much like fun.  Who knew motherhood could be like that?  I hoped most babies didn't nip at one's face while you sang "Rock-a-bye-baby."  When he bared his teeth and growled at me while I was trying to teach him to patty cake, I realized dolls and dogs didn’t make realistic babies.  I’d have to wait until I grew up, had a real baby that cried when she was hungry, and hopefully, didn’t try to maul me. 

 

Of course, that was eons ago when I played mom.  After raising two sons into adulthood, I suspect it's too late to go after that other goal of mine.  That's likely for the best, and I'm okay with only obtaining one of my life's main goals considering I never learned to do a cartwheel. 

Just the other day...at least six years ago

Just the other day, I was at a friend's house on a Saturday evening when I posed the question, "What's behind that door?"   Sitting on the couch, I suppose I'd never noticed the door in the living room and where exactly it led. 

By the way, "just the other day," can mean last week, last month, or five years ago.  I'm guessing this experience was closer to six years ago.  This is what happens when you get a little older and seasoned.  Months turn into years, which turn into decades.  Ask me what happened in the 90s or early 2000s, and it is sort of a blur of memories.  Once your kids start walking and talking, go off to kindergarten, get their drivers' licenses, and graduate high school, those milestones are further and farther in between, and it's hard to remember if it was 1998 or 2008.  Hell, it might have been 1989. 

But, I digress, which happens a lot, too, once you are over 30something. 

"Oh, it's a closet full of crap.  Mainly stuff that we moved here seven years ago or so."  She opened the door, and sure enough, there was still stuff packed in boxes.  She reached for the top shelf to show me an old Barbie lunchbox and a few other cool things. 

I was hardly fazed by the fact she had unpacked boxes in the closet.  My grandma was a hoarder extraordinaire.  I personally have a tendency to hold onto crap that goes untouched for long stretches of time.  It's sort of like having mini-time capsules all over the house.  I go looking for a turkey platter and find the first pair of Mickey Mouse shoes my kids wore, a dried up corsage from prom, and a cancelled check from 1995.  

"I wonder what's in this box," she said pulling it out of the depths of the closet. 

She began digging through it, and it was almost like Christmas morning to me.  Other people's boxes of junk are nearly as exciting as unearthing my own.  Strangely enough, she found a letter written by me dated Oct. 4, 1991 when I was living in AZ when my husband was in the Army.  She was clueless how it ended up in the box considering she'd moved at least three times since the letter had been written. 

She read the letter aloud, and I was waiting to cringe over my young thoughts and ramblings.  I was only 22 at the time.  I didn't cringe, though.  I did giggle a few times to realize that my sense of humor was very much intact back then.  Proof of it was a discussion of when I'd be visiting my in-laws, and when we thought a trip there might be more enjoyable.  The latter was followed with the line, "If a trip there can be enjoyable." 

The letter recounted the fact that my oldest son, then about ten months old, was suddenly waking up in the middle of the night.  I called the pediatric clinic at the Army post hospital, and was told by the nurse that it wasn't normal, and that he should see his pediatrician because he could have psychological problems causing him to wake in the night.

At least I was smart enough to call the same Dr.'s office off-post, and pose the same question.  The nurse there told me that yes, it was quite normal, and no, it didn't mean I was raising a child with mental problems, and to not worry.  As long as it didn't appear he was sick with a cold or flu, he should be fine. 

It also strikes me as funny because with my second child, I wouldn't have even picked up the phone to inquire about his new sleeping habits, or lack thereof.  I probably would have figured if he wasn't sprouting vampire fangs, it was a phase he was going through, and not morphing into a creature of the night, with or without psychological problems. 

It did make me recall what seemed at the time some really horribly scary things I endured at the mercy of a military hospital and its doctors.  The first time I went in pregnant, they wouldn't take my word for it.  "I need to make an appointment because I'm pregnant," I told the nurse at the desk.  She essentially told me that I wasn't pregnant until they took a urine or blood test to confirm it.  I succumbed to a pregnancy test, and then and only then, was I pregnant.  I wasn't pregnant until the Army told me I was.  It didn't matter that I'd taken my own test, twice just to be sure, or that I was so nauseous that certain smells sent my stomach churning.  Obviously, projectile vomiting down a hallway in a house trailer proved little in my argument that I had no doubt I was with child. 

They scheduled me for blood work after I returned to the same desk to get the test results.  "Congratulations, Mrs. Potter, you are indeed pregnant." 

I had to curtail the urge to respond with a, "No freaking kidding?" 

I took my seat in the little white room, and told the Lieutenant dude also dressed entirely in white  that I'd never had it done before.  I was a little scared, and didn't really know what to expect.  He said, "That's okay.  I've never done this before, either." 

He had jokes. 

I guess he realized I didn't see much humor in his attempt to be funny, and told me he was only kidding.  Well, duh.  He finally hit a vein during his third attempt.  "Seriously, if you don't get it this time, I'm going to have to go home and come back another time.  I'm not feeling so good."  I knew from the eye doctor incident when I was fitted for contacts and slumped over the edge of the chair after my ears started ringing what was going to happen next. 

I left bruised and dizzy with the knowledge that I had really deep veins. 

I was 1,863 miles away from home.  Operation Desert Shield would soon become Operation Desert Storm.  I knew my husband could be deployed at any time.  I knew next to no one in the depths of hell that was the desert.  I'd be lying if I didn't admit that it was one of the scariest times of my life. 

The fun and games wouldn't end there, though.  The topic of Rh factor came up with my doctor, "Duck Kwan Oh."  I kid you not.  My doctor's name was Duck.  He told me around the 26th week of pregnancy that I needed to go have more blood drawn because of the Rh factor because I have a negative blood type. 

Now, it wasn't like I could just pull up the information on the Internet at the time.  And, I'd read everything I could get my hands on about pregnancy.  The library was one of the few places I'd venture alone, and I'd checked out everything I could find.  There was very little mentioned about the Rh factor, though.  I'm sure if Google existed and was readily available then I could have had a million search results about the subject.  Instead, I asked around.  One well-meaning, and yet very ill-informed friend told me that she thought they had to give you the shot through your belly button if you had the Rh issue.  Seriously, a shot in the belly button.  Oh, hell no.  Count me out. 

When I asked my doctor Duck about it, he said, "Yes, you get shot so the baby no die."  Okay, so maybe his English wasn't that broken, but it was darn close. 

I came home in tears, and remained in tears until my husband got home.  He promptly called the office and got to the bottom of it, and finally, I had an explanation beyond "shot means no dead baby."  It was terrifying. 

Another experience I remember is being told that my baby around the age of six months was obese, and that he would have problems crawling and walking.  This was because he was off the charts for percentiles in his height, weight, and head circumference.  But, he showed them wrong.  He did everything he was supposed to do, all right on time.  I did fret many a night that I had a fat baby, though, and of course, it was all my fault because I was a bad, bad mommy. 

While I reminisced about those days in the desert, my friend continued to dig around.  In the same box that she'd scrounged the letter, she found some stuff she'd brought home from the hospital when her son was born.  "See, I told you it was all crap that we moved here and never unpacked." 

"Let me see that stuff," I said.  I dug through the bag, finding samples of baby detergent, dish soap, and some cream for lactating moms. 

"What's this?" I asked, never having seen anything like it before.  I learned it was something new after I had babies who latched onto my mommy parts, and that it worked really well.  Who knew some ingenious sort would invent an ointment to soothe nipples.  Well, besides what you can buy at farm or rural stores called Udder Ointment meant for the bovine and swine population. 

We also found her discharge papers.  "You got Darvocet?  What the hell?  Man, I got an extra-strength Tylenol and no cream for my nipples.  Sheesh.  I'm surprised they didn't have me squat in a corner and go back to the fields the next day." 

Ahh, the memories of having a baby.  I did enjoy being pregnant, but it seems like a lifetime ago when I worried about my pregnancies and the babies.  At that time, I'd come to terms with the fact I was too old to have another go at it, and I knew there was some reason that I was content with having two kids who would be off and on their own before too many more years passed.  (Those years did pass, and they are both out on their own in U.S. Navy.  One is married with a four-year-old step-daughter.  It's all good.)

However, as we continued to go through her stuff,  I found something that almost made me change my mind and want another baby.  Some gift bags that had been folded carefully, and stowed away.  I opened one up, to be sure there wasn't anything tucked inside.  There wasn't, but this smell of baby wafted to my nostrils. 

"What in the hell are you doing?" my other friend who was there, mainly sitting back watching the two of us, asked. 

"This bag smells like baby," I said and deeply inhaled again. 

"No way," she doubted.

"I'm telling you.  It smells like newborn baby.  The powder, the lotion, that new baby scent." 

Like a druggie, I took another toke, and passed the bag around like we were sharing a bong. 

Had anyone seen us, they'd seriously wonder if we were the ones with psychological problems and not my son who had stopped sleeping through the night.   

Amazon Kindle Countdown Deal - 99 cents! Get it now!

 Great 99 cent deal!  Get it before the price increases to $1.99.  It's a great read for moms of any age.  The short column format makes it a great book for moms to pick up and put down - while waiting in the car for kids at practice, those few minutes of reading before bedtime, or even those few moments alone in the bathroom.  Full of humor and observations about parenting we've all had that have driven parents to just this side of the looney bin.  Know a mom with a Kindle, Apple or Android device?  It can be sent as a gift.  They don't have to know you only paid 99 cents.  (The Kindle App is available so you don't have to have a Kindle to enjoy this book.) 

 

 

 

 

Nod sympathetically if you’ve ever…

…extracted a gum wrapper from a toddler’s nostril, but sought medical treatment when it came to a piece of a colored pencil lodged deeply into an ear canal.
…punished a child because he wouldn’t stop taunting his brother with a Peter Frampton album.
…played a rousing game of “What that’s funky smell?” only to discover what might be a petrifying bologna sandwich behind the recliner.
…needed a prescription for a tranquilizer when your firstborn started driving.
…spent any amount of time trying to describe why a Sleestack scared you, why you wanted to marry the Fonz, and who Mork from Ork was.
…installed a security system to keep a three-year old from going on the lam with his beagle, and pondered if it were possible that both of your children were reincarnates of Harry Houdini.
…wondered how a child who once emitted the sweet scent of newborn now puts off an odor that could make a skunk feel inadequate.
…ever rambled incoherently, “These kids are going to drive me to drinking,” or something about a frontal lobotomy.

If you nodded like a bobblehead, chances are you’re a parent - or you’ve got some really strange hobbies. A Little Off-Kelter…the parenting years is a collection of forty columns that originally ran in print. (Hey, the compilation thing worked for Ronco and K-tel, didn’t it?) Whether the kids are underfoot or have flown the nest, moms and dads alike will relate to these humorous tales of woe and wonderment.

http://www.amazon.com/Little-Off-Kelter-parenting-years-ebook/dp/B00E9EFIWI

Take a look and listen

Herbert Did It!

I first heard the story about George Washington and the cherry tree when I was in third grade.  According to the teacher, George was a young lad when he received a new hatchet.  Looking around, he spotted a cherry tree, and without thinking about consequences, he gave the tree a good whack. 
 

When George’s dad saw the fallen tree, he put two and two together.  Obviously, he knew his son was likely the lumberjack guilty of the crime.  Our teacher paused here, asking the class what they thought happened next.  Hands flew up into the air.  
 

A few theories of the class:  He ran away.  He hid the hatchet under his bed and said someone stole it.  He said a stranger cut it down.  He said a big gust of wind blew it over.  The consensus was that George probably lied so he wouldn’t get in trouble, but as the teacher continued the story, most of us were shocked. 
 

"I cannot tell a lie.  I chopped down the cherry tree," he confessed.  The teacher suggested that George didn’t get sent to his room or even in a bit of trouble because he’d told the truth.   
 

As a group, my class really didn’t grasp the lesson about being honest.  Days later, we spent an entire afternoon recess sitting at our desks, heads down, in the dark while waiting on someone to fess up to stealing an apple from our teacher’s desk.  Though I didn’t know the term irony then, it was ironic the connection between an apple and the apple tree story.   

 

 

One at a time, we were called to the teacher’s desk to shed any light we might have on the missing apple.  The mystery was never solved, and thankfully, recess was later granted.   
 

While watching a morning news show, I was reminded of the apple incident when they did a segment on why people lie, especially kids.  Interestingly, all kids begin to lie around the ages of 3 to 5 years old.  It’s actually a developmental step.  This is a common timeframe for imaginary friends to crop up, too.   
 

"Who got into the cookies?"  I asked my then very young sons. 
 

"I didn’t do it.  That other boy did," one replied.   
 

"What other boy?  Your brother?" 
 

"No, that boy Herbert.  He took them.  Oreos are his favorite," he replied with cookie crumbs on his lips.   
 

Unaware of any child with that namesake in our household, I figured out that Herbert was imaginary.  I escorted Herbert to the front door, helped him zip his imaginary coat, and sent him on his way.   
 

"Sorry, Herbert," I told thin air, "You can’t be around here if you’re going to eat all the cookies without asking."  All was good until Herbert’s brother showed up.  Strangely enough, he wouldn’t tell his name, and he had a penchant for M&M’s. 
 

Once the imaginary friend isn’t a reliable scapegoat, a child will look for a real, live, in the flesh person to blame. 
 

"Did you write your name on the wall?"  I asked our oldest son.  I knew he did it.  Only two of us in the house with opposable thumbs knew how to write.     

 

 

"I didn’t do it!  He did it!" the oldest professed while pointing to his baby brother.  The same two-year-old brother who wasn’t allowed to use crayons just yet because he tried to eat them.  After some slight prodding, he admitted to writing his name.  
 

All children tell lies, and my children are no exception.  As they grow older, they learn the difference between reality and fantasy.  At least as parents, we hope they do.  
 

 

Much time has passed since Herbert visited and the wall sported a name scribbled by a preschooler.  My children grew and understood the importance of honesty and not breaking trust.  For years, I looked at the wall that I tried to clean with everything imaginable – nail polish remover, rubbing alcohol, stain removers.  It wasn’t until I got a "Magic Erase" that I was able to remove the crayon. 

 

And, like George Washington, I cannot tell a lie.  I miss my son’s name on the kitchen wall – a reminder that my kids were once little ones

A Date with Blind Stupidity

The following is an excerpt from my next book Four Eyes Were Never Better Than Two...and other observations, which will soon be available in paperback and digital format. 


We have all done some really stupid things in our lives.  There are things I didn’t think I would ever live down.  It is bad enough that occasionally one of my friends will throw open a closet door and let a few of my skeletons creep out.  Even worse is the fact that I kept a journal for the majority of my teen years.  Several years ago, I decided to type all these journals to the hard drive of my computer.  What compelled me to do this is beyond me.  I cringed as I typed my teenage thoughts and actions.  But, I didn't stop.  I just kept right on typing.   

The thoughts were more like obsessions over the boy I happened to find cute at the time.  I know it’s perfectly normal for girls to have crushes on boys, but at that point in my life, my words read like a diary of a fat girl/cliche memoir/rant.  Yes, I was chubby.  Yes, I had thick, huge glasses and acne.  Why I wanted to write down my thoughts and feelings for posterity, well, I don’t know.  Maybe they serve as a reminder that I survived those teenage years, maybe slightly scarred and somehow better for it.  That could be a stretch.   

“I thought I saw ‘him’ looking at me today,” I wrote.  Yeah, he probably was looking at me because he got that uncanny feeling he was being stared at.  Maybe I had a booger.  He could have been admiring my sweat stains.  I'd get so nervous at the prospect of being called on in class that I'd sweat profusely, no matter how much antiperspirant I slathered on that morning.  Boys were only friends during this time, but I always held out hope that one would like me.  Well, one besides the one who looked and walked like Frankenstein's monster and rocked a greasy mullet. 

Nonetheless, as a parent now, those aren’t the most painful recollections to recollect.  As most young people, I made some poor decisions.  Most of which I would like to completely forget.  However, thanks to having my own words but a click of the mouse button away, it is a little harder to overlook those "what the hell was I thinking?"moments. 

From top speed adventures in cars to tromping through graveyards after dark, it amazes me that I am still alive.  I cringe while reading about late night jaunts down Ft. Wayne side streets being driven by curiosity, and possibly a teenage death wish.  We’d heard you could see hookers on a certain street, and who doesn’t want to see a hooker?  So, off we went to see if it were true.  I don’t know what we might have done if we’d seen an actual prostitute.  I'm not entirely sure we'd have known one if we did see one.  I was in my 30s and in  New Orleans when my husband pointed one out to me, and she sure didn't look like my vision of a working woman.  No fishnet stockings or nothing.  I guess we didn’t think it all through.  Other than bragging rights, oh heck yes, I’ve seen a hooker before, there really wasn’t any motivation other than being dumb asses.  We returned home, sans a hooker sighting, and I wish I could say that was the last time we ventured through that seedy neighborhood, but sadly it was not.    

By the date of the journal entry recounting the evening that marked my ultimate stupidity, I was about nineteen years old.  After discussing personal ads and being dared by a friend, I scanned the newspaper looking for the ideal mate.  I believe the challenge put to me was, “You would never do something like that.  You’re chicken.”   Yes, I might have been chicken, and probably a little desperate, too.  I'd dropped some weight.  Made the switch from thick glasses to contacts.  My acne wasn't nearly as prominent as it had been, yet, no boyfriend. 

It never occurred to me that perhaps someone might be a little on the desperate side to take out a personal ad.  Yes, I suppose that's ironic because likely only someone a little desperate would answer one back in the day pre-Internet.  It also never came to mind I could have ended up dead in a ditch because most teens do believe they are somehow immortal.  Luckily, I was not found shackled in a pit.  It could have been the making of those movies of the week they used to show.  Now, it could run on Lifetime for Women as a cautionary tale.   

This young man and I spoke on the phone several times, and it never dawned on me that even giving a stranger my phone number might not be the wisest move I could make.  He seemed nice enough.  He described himself as blonde with blue eyes and much taller than he actually turned out to be.  He had a good job, bragged about his new Chevy Beretta, and said he liked Mexican food.  Though quite naïve, at least I was bright enough to meet in a public place, a restaurant in Ft. Wayne.  (Nowhere near the purported hooker sighting area, either.) 

With a great amount of optimism and nervousness, I arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early.  And I waited.  The first strike against him was the fact that he was late.  I sat alone waiting for nearly twenty-five minutes.  When he finally arrived, he said something along the lines of, “I recognized you immediately because you said you would be wearing a pink sweater.”   

I had mentioned nothing about wearing pink, and in fact, the sweater was peach.  "I'll be in a peach sweater and jeans," I told him.   He was obviously confused, and perhaps colorblind.   

Honestly, I tried to give the guy the benefit of the doubt.  He mentioned working a lot, and that his coworkers had encouraged him to place the ad  Don’t get me wrong, he was a nice enough person, but his eyes never left either his shoes or his plate while he spoke.  I did my best to make conversation over our burritos and nacho chips, even though I knew he wasn’t my soulmate and was never going to be.  But, I like people in general, and maybe if he ever made eye contact, we could’ve been friends at least.  I didn’t want to be unfriendly or rude to him. 

I realized halfway through dinner that he would answer any question I had with a simple “yes” or “no.”  He wasn’t exactly one to elaborate.  It was a challenge offering him multiple-choice questions just to keep a conversation going.  "Where did you enjoy living most and why?"  "What is it you like most about your job and why?"  I felt like a lawyer, and he the person sitting on the witness stand.  Strike two.   

After we ate, we stood outside the restaurant saying good-bye.  I stood holding my take-out box of leftover chicken nachos, kind of glad an inanimate object took up the space between us.  I wasn’t worried necessarily that he might make a move because he wouldn’t even make eye contact, but stranger things had happened.  I felt fairly safe from shackles, a ditch, or even a peck on the cheek.   That is when he made his proclamation that I was one for him.  While staring at the tire of his car, he told me that he saw no need to call any of the other girls who had answered his ad.  This terrified me.  One evening of staring at his plate, and he was ready to date exclusively.  He tried to pencil in two dates before the following weekend.  Strike three.   

From the pages of my journal, I had written:   “I had a date Friday night with a guy from the personals.  It was awful.  He had sounded like a nice guy at the time on the phone.  He asked me out for one night this week, and then for the next weekend.  I told him to work on his fifteen other responses because he just never knows.  I know he was disappointed.  He told me that I was nice.  He also said I looked nice, and he blushed while he said it.  Then he gave me his business card.” 

As I drove home that evening, I could only shake my head wondering what I was thinking.  I still don’t know the answer to that question.  I do know one thing, though.  I kept those journals hidden from my children.  Not that they probably needed any help coming up with their own their own crazy adventures, but I didn’t need them getting any ideas from me.  

 

I know I often treat making stupid choices and doing dumb things like a profession.  This is not a new revelation to me.  One observation  is - do you know how you’re getting old?  When you realize you could have ended up dead in a ditch and still cringe twenty-five years later.  

Oh, the stupidity.   

Diff'rent Strokes and Such

My head hurts and I'm mentally and physically drained.  I'm not complaining.  Just stating a fact.  I'm also watching Diff'rent Strokes on Antenna TV. 

I woke up this morning at 5:50, and for a refreshing change of pace, I only lied in bed for twenty minutes checking out Facebook posts, and my usual morning check to see if I sold any books overnight.  I always hope to be astounded that overnight the book fairies have orchestrated some fantastic advertising for me, and I'll discover that I moved up into the top of the charts on Amazon.  It's yet to happen.  Damn fairies. 

In some ways, I'm grateful that I was compelled to make a run to the store to get cat food and some cleaning products before I got sucked into rewriting or time squandering.  I'd carried the bags in, gave the dogs their treats (heaven forbid I come home without a prize for those three....and I thought my kids were spoiled back in the day getting their surprises), replenished the cats' bowl, and realized I didn't have my cell phone. 

There was a text from a friend letting me know that my step-sister had lost her battle with cancer and she didn't want me to read it on Facebook, even though she felt it was a crappy way to tell me in a text.  It was nice she was thinking of me.  To make a long story short, my sister (that's what I'd always considered her even though our parents are no longer married) was diagnosed with breast cancer some years back.  It seemed at the time the prognosis was really good because they'd caught it early.  They knew to look for it because she'd lost both her mom and grandma to the disease. 

The cancer had returned sometime after the first of the year, and it just wasn't good.  Those damn cancer cells migrate through the body, and it's my understanding, it can take years for them to show up again even with regular testing.  She'd spent a good portion of the last almost three months in the hospital, coming home for only a few days before returning.  Family was called in about three weeks ago as they thought she was fading fast.  She continued radiation for pain management, and was moved to a continuing care unit. 

Her mom died when she was in sixth grade.  It wasn't too long after my mom married her dad.  She and her brother were whisked from their home and moved in with my step-dad and mom.  I never saw her cry, and mainly we were instructed to be nice because she'd just lost her mom.  No one talked about it, and I suppose I didn't know what to say.  I do remember her listening to a taped recording of her mom singing, "Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah."  It creeped me out a little because at that time at the ripe ole age of 15 or so, I didn't understand that she wasn't listening to a dead woman.  She was listening to her mom.  Looking back now, it was sweet and her way of coping with the loss.  But wow, she was strong even then.  And, I suppose when you lose a parent like that and life as you know it is turned upside down moving into someone else's home, changing schools, and not having your mommy, well, some people do adapt and become strong.  I don't know how she did it, in retrospect. 

She certainly was one of those people. 

This post clearly has nothing to do with Diff'rent Strokes, consequently, but is a disjointed rambling attempt at something.

She was a fighter and tough.  Through my tears and grief today, I wanted to crawl into bed, have a good cry, and go to sleep, despite the fact the world was still revolving and life was taking place around me.  My oldest son will be home on leave from the Navy next week.  I've got a billion things to get done.  I have a book project in its final stages of proofreading that is just screaming to be uploaded to Amazon and CreateSpace.  I didn't, though.  I tried to attend to what was needed of me today with happy memories of those younger years growing up with my step-sister. 

People move on all the time to whatever lies beyond for us when this life is over.  Others will stop, reflect, decide life is too short, and oftentimes, it's a fleeting thought before we're drawn back into the daily grind of life.  We get caught up in what is going on right in front of us, and we forget those feelings brought on by grief and mourning.  I personally know that sometimes a death of someone, and it doesn't even have to be someone close, can propel us into creating and reaching a goal.  When a classmate of mine died at the age of 30 from melanoma, I decided life was too short to lollygag and landed my weekly column that I wrote for ten years. 

Today, I've been thinking about what a complainer I can be even when I'm not solely stating a fact.  I can be so impatient, easily annoyed when others get in the way of what I'm trying to accomplish.  My struggles are hardly comparable to what some people go through on a daily basis merely to survive, get by, make ends meet, and plainly cope.  There's certainly no reason I couldn't strive to better...in general.  She could certainly serve as a source of inspiration for me. 

My sister was a great lady.  She leaves behind a caring husband and five wonderful daughters that range from pre-teen to young adult, and a two year old grandson.  She was kind, caring, giving, and I never heard her complain.  Ever.  And it wasn't because it was not polite to complain, but because it wasn't in her nature to do so.  I know people say these things about others once they are gone, but it's the honest truth.  I'm not painting a picture for posterity misrepresenting.  She was a great mom and friend to others.  Undoubtedly, she will be missed by everyone who knew and loved her. 

She was also my favorite margarita drinking companion.  This weekend, I shall go to our favorite Mexican restaurant and raise a glass or two in her memory and to the lessons a little sister can teach a big sister. 

Perfect Stocking Stuffer for Moms, New or Used Ones!

Looking for the perfect gift for the moms in your life?  New moms or moms that are well, a little on the used side like me.  Well, look no further.  My book, A Little Off-Kelter...the parenting years, is now available in paperback. 

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00E9H3J6C  Here's my Amazon writer's page where you can purchase the Kindle or paperback version.  Either can be sent as a gift.  If your favorite mom doesn't have a Kindle - no problem!  The Kindle App is available for Android and Apple products. 

If you'd like to order from CreateSpace, the link is https://www.createspace.com/3853575 

For a chance to win a free paperback copy, visit and like my Facebook fan page.  I need a few more likes in order to do the promotion.  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Kelly-Coleman-Potter-writer/212737235506584

 

 

Coming soon, Four Eyes Were Never Better Than Two...and other observations.

 



Revisiting the 90,000 Questions of Summer

One great thing about writing a weekly column for ten years is that I did so when my kids were growing up.  It's almost like I have a weekly summation of what was going on during those ten years since I did write a lot about parenting. 

Now that both of my boys are in the Navy and in their 20s, these summer days seem like a lifetime ago.  I don't necessarily miss those long days of summer, but I can read this and fondly remember. 

 

 

90,000 Questions of Summer   

As a child, summer vacation seemed to last an eternity.  While I wasn’t anxious to get back to the books and the teachers, it didn’t seem like the carefree summer would ever end.  

It’s one thing that has remained the same.  Summer break still feels like the longest three months of the year.   It isn’t that I don’t love my children, but I dread summer vacation.   

I’m not some ungrateful shrew who can’t stand kids, but it takes time to adjust to no longer having quiet time, Monday-Friday, from 7:30 a.m.-3:30 p.m.  This quiet time is replaced with constant interaction until the end of August.  

I’ve read that the average four year-old will ask 437 questions a day.  What the statistic didn’t note was that they don’t stop asking that many questions, and as they grow older, they ask even more.  

With each day of summer vacation, approximately 1,000 questions are posed to me in one day.  When the sun starts to rise, and I haven’t had my coffee, they begin: 

What’s for breakfast?  Why don’t you ever buy good cereal?  Who ate my favorite cereal?  Can I go out to play?  Why can’t I go out at 6:00 a.m.?  Can I ride my bike?  Can I ride my bike on the highway?  Then can I ride my bike to Grandma’s?   

Can I get the hose out?  Are we going swimming today?  How do you know it’s going to storm?  What happens if you swim while there’s lightning?  Does getting struck by lightning hurt?  How do you die?  Did the dog die from lightning?  If I dug him up, would he still have fur and bones?  What does “morbid” mean?   

It’s guaranteed there are always lunchtime questions: 

What are we having for lunch?  Is there anything I like?  Do we have any of those little things?  You know, those one things?  Why don’t you ever buy me anything I like?  Why did you get that kind of mustard?  Is this bologna really made from pig lips and snouts?  Are you going to make something I don’t like for dinner too?   

After I’ve sent them outside to play, and they’ve had all the brotherly love they can stand: 

Why did I have to have a brother?  Why wasn’t I an only child?  Do you love him more?  Doesn’t he ever get in trouble?  If I put him in a big box, would the mail truck take him away to China?  Are there really kids starving there?  Can we go wrestle on the trampoline?  Does a broken leg hurt?  Why do you always tell us you aren’t in the mood for spending the day in the emergency room? Are you going to tell Daddy what we did today?   

By afternoon, they take full advantage of the plethora of information that is their mother:   

Can I give the cat a bath?  Why not?  Why don’t cats like water?  Have you ever given a cat a bath?  Didn’t you tell me that you did once?  What would happen if I gave the cat a bath?  How would my eyeballs get scratched out?  Would the scratches bleed?  Would the cat really run away?  Do you have to get stitches if a cat bites you?  Can you get rabies from a cat?  How do you know cats don’t like water? 

Would the dog like to go for a ride on a motorcycle?  How about the go-kart?  What if I went really slow and put him in a seatbelt?  Could he wear a helmet?  Do they make helmets for dogs?  Can you kill flowers by peeing on them?  How come dogs can go to the bathroom outside then?  Could dogs wear diapers if they wanted to?  Would they bite me if I tried to put a diaper on one?  How many days is grounded for a month?   

The inquisitive little boogers are still at it even at bedtime:   

Do I have to go to bed?  Why do I have to go to bed when I’m not tired?  What if I can’t go to sleep?  What if I stayed up all night?  Are you feeling all right, Mommy?  Why do you make a funny face like you are growling?  What’s high blood pressure mean?  Why do you tell us cussing is bad when you just said a bad word?   

I seem to have all the answers, but just one question.  How many days until school starts? 

 

First book!

Nod sympathetically if you’ve ever…

…extracted a gum wrapper from a toddler’s nostril, but sought medical treatment when it came to a piece of a colored pencil lodged deeply into an ear canal.
…punished a child because he wouldn’t stop taunting his brother with a Peter Frampton album. 
…played a rousing game of “What that’s funky smell?” only to discover what might be a petrifying bologna sandwich behind the recliner.
…needed a prescription for a tranquilizer when your firstborn started driving.
…spent any amount of time trying to describe why a Sleestack scared you, why you wanted to marry the Fonz, and who Mork from Ork was. 
…installed a security system to keep a three-year old from going on the lam with his beagle, and pondered if it were possible that both of your children were reincarnates of Harry Houdini.
…wondered how a child who once emitted the sweet scent of newborn now puts off an odor that could make a skunk feel inadequate. 
…ever rambled incoherently, “These kids are going to drive me to drinking,” or something about a frontal lobotomy. 

If you nodded like a bobblehead, chances are you’re a parent - or you’ve got some really strange hobbies. A Little Off-Kelter…the parenting years is a collection of forty columns that originally ran in print. (Hey, the compilation thing worked for Ronco and K-tel, didn’t it?) Whether the kids are underfoot or have flown the nest, moms and dads alike will relate to these humorous tales of woe and wonderment.

http://www.amazon.com/Little-Off-Kelter-parenting-years-ebook/dp/B00E9EFIWI/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1375359164&sr=1-1

It's available on Kindle.  If you don't have a Kindle, there's a Kindle app that works with most readers, android, and Apple products.  http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=dig_arl_box?ie=UTF8&docId=1000493771