Jennifer Templeman's Blog
June 26, 2014
Hindsight
“Hindsight is twenty-twenty.” I’ve heard that saying for years and just assumed it was true because it’s easy to agree that after the dust has settled it’s often simpler to announce what the best course of action should have been. However, I’ve had a few recent instances where I no longer believe the cliché can be universally applied.
A recent example involves my youngest son David. He’s six now, and just finished kindergarten. Last summer when he finished Pre-K we realized quickly that he does better with structure and having him at home with Dad most every day was a recipe for a bored youngster and a stressed parent. As winter turned to Spring and we began to plan our summer we looked at day camps and suffered from the sticker shock of how much they cost, deciding the kids could once again spend their days at home with my husband until I got home from work. On day three of our master plan, my husband called to ask, “Do you remember how we realized David has to have specific activities to be involved in?”
“Sure,” I answered, “It keeps him out of trouble.”
“Why didn’t that come up when we decided to not register him for anything?” Do you remember that sticker shock I mentioned of registering kids for day camps? It’s nothing compared to how it feels when you're faced with late registration fees for the same camps.
At work I complain when I have back to back meetings for eight hours with no breaks between them at all. Yet, when the invitations come in, I accept every one of them, never checking myself to say, “Remember the last time your calendar was this full? It didn’t end well for your chocolate stash or your attitude.”
The fact that I have three children at all is probably the greatest piece of evidence that this expression is worthless. After months of sleep deprivation, the exhaustion of trying to juggle working full time with midnight feedings, I swore after each of my children was born that I wouldn’t go through that again – I couldn’t do it. However a few short years later, my hindsight was blind. “Do you think we should have another baby?” my husband asked innocently.
“Yes, that sounds wonderful!” I replied, picturing our family with a new member being lovingly held in my arms, apparently having learned nothing the last time.
Perhaps I’m being unfair to the idiom. Maybe hindsight is perfect, it’s just I have yet to learn how to apply what was learned to current my situation.
I consider myself to be a logical person; level headed, able to weigh facts and make well informed decisions. I do it all the time at the office. I ask for historic information, I look at trends and projections for the future, I give hindsight a chance to inform the process so that only the wisest option is considered to move forward. Yet, in my personal life, I don’t seem to give decisions the same level of consideration. Maybe it’s that the scope of what would happen as the result of a poor choice is very different, or that after concentrating on considering all the facts during the day, by the time I get home I’m just going off instinct.
A greeting when I first arrive at home of, “Can I have a cookie?” is often answered with a “yes,” not a follow-up question of “Have you had any cookies today already?” Hindsight doesn’t have a chance in that situation because I don’t consult it. If I had, then I would have learned getting my kids to settle down and do their homework is much easier without a sugar rush because their dad let them have three cookies half an hour before I got there, and then the two I gave them sent them into glucose meltdowns. I should never just agree to the instant snack without checking the facts first.
Then there’s the more personal application. Hindsight has taught me that a bowl of ice cream late at night is never a good idea. The effect on the scale, not to mention blood sugar levels and cholesterol is enough to have hindsight informing me it’s always a mistake to sit down with a pint of frozen goodness. I have no self-control to stop eating until the spoon is scraping the bottom of the carton so I shouldn’t even put myself into a situation to have to deal with the aftereffects of gluttony. Yet, after a long day, especially in the dead of summer, I can almost hear the voices of Ben and Jerry calling to me from the freezer. I’ve literally pulled the lid off the carton, scooped up a spoonful and as I let it hit my tongue fussed at myself for it. “You know this is a mistake. Remember how horrible you felt last time?” Then that voice was quickly hushed by me humming in contentment as the chocolate flavor melted in my mouth.
Am I the only one like this? Does learning through hindsight allow you to not repeat the same mistakes over and over? Have you learned to integrate past lessons into current opportunities? Or is your hindsight mechanism either blind after a short widow, like a week in the case of the late night ice cream example, or completely mute like when we decided to have more children?
Maybe it’s that’s I’ve gotten to that magic place of being old enough I no longer consider everything to be a new learning opportunity so I don’t take the time to consider every element of each decision; coupled with the fact I’m not quite old enough to have lost the self-evaluation reflex where I’m critical of my own lack of control or wisdom. In typing that sentence I may have discovered my answer. I’m only irritated with my behavior because after I’ve acted, I’ve immediately learned – through hindsight – that it was the wrong move and something else would have made more sense. Then I’m doubly angry because I already knew it was wrong, and I did it anyway.
Based on this self-realization I will begin to advocate for changing the old saying to be, “Hindsight’s twenty-twenty, but if it’s ignored, foresight’s complete blind.”
And if that doesn’t make me feel better, I’ve learned it’s possible to freeze that little voice in your head telling you that you’re making a mistake. It takes copious amounts of ice cream, but the ensuing sugar rush helps you to think fast enough on your feet that you’ll be able to convince yourself this isn’t the same situation it was last time. If hindsight doesn’t apply then the possibilities are endless.
I’m going to ponder this while searching for a spoon. Don’t judge – it’s the middle of the day, not late at night, so the two situations are completely different, right?
Happy Reading!
A recent example involves my youngest son David. He’s six now, and just finished kindergarten. Last summer when he finished Pre-K we realized quickly that he does better with structure and having him at home with Dad most every day was a recipe for a bored youngster and a stressed parent. As winter turned to Spring and we began to plan our summer we looked at day camps and suffered from the sticker shock of how much they cost, deciding the kids could once again spend their days at home with my husband until I got home from work. On day three of our master plan, my husband called to ask, “Do you remember how we realized David has to have specific activities to be involved in?”
“Sure,” I answered, “It keeps him out of trouble.”
“Why didn’t that come up when we decided to not register him for anything?” Do you remember that sticker shock I mentioned of registering kids for day camps? It’s nothing compared to how it feels when you're faced with late registration fees for the same camps.
At work I complain when I have back to back meetings for eight hours with no breaks between them at all. Yet, when the invitations come in, I accept every one of them, never checking myself to say, “Remember the last time your calendar was this full? It didn’t end well for your chocolate stash or your attitude.”
The fact that I have three children at all is probably the greatest piece of evidence that this expression is worthless. After months of sleep deprivation, the exhaustion of trying to juggle working full time with midnight feedings, I swore after each of my children was born that I wouldn’t go through that again – I couldn’t do it. However a few short years later, my hindsight was blind. “Do you think we should have another baby?” my husband asked innocently.
“Yes, that sounds wonderful!” I replied, picturing our family with a new member being lovingly held in my arms, apparently having learned nothing the last time.
Perhaps I’m being unfair to the idiom. Maybe hindsight is perfect, it’s just I have yet to learn how to apply what was learned to current my situation.
I consider myself to be a logical person; level headed, able to weigh facts and make well informed decisions. I do it all the time at the office. I ask for historic information, I look at trends and projections for the future, I give hindsight a chance to inform the process so that only the wisest option is considered to move forward. Yet, in my personal life, I don’t seem to give decisions the same level of consideration. Maybe it’s that the scope of what would happen as the result of a poor choice is very different, or that after concentrating on considering all the facts during the day, by the time I get home I’m just going off instinct.
A greeting when I first arrive at home of, “Can I have a cookie?” is often answered with a “yes,” not a follow-up question of “Have you had any cookies today already?” Hindsight doesn’t have a chance in that situation because I don’t consult it. If I had, then I would have learned getting my kids to settle down and do their homework is much easier without a sugar rush because their dad let them have three cookies half an hour before I got there, and then the two I gave them sent them into glucose meltdowns. I should never just agree to the instant snack without checking the facts first.
Then there’s the more personal application. Hindsight has taught me that a bowl of ice cream late at night is never a good idea. The effect on the scale, not to mention blood sugar levels and cholesterol is enough to have hindsight informing me it’s always a mistake to sit down with a pint of frozen goodness. I have no self-control to stop eating until the spoon is scraping the bottom of the carton so I shouldn’t even put myself into a situation to have to deal with the aftereffects of gluttony. Yet, after a long day, especially in the dead of summer, I can almost hear the voices of Ben and Jerry calling to me from the freezer. I’ve literally pulled the lid off the carton, scooped up a spoonful and as I let it hit my tongue fussed at myself for it. “You know this is a mistake. Remember how horrible you felt last time?” Then that voice was quickly hushed by me humming in contentment as the chocolate flavor melted in my mouth.
Am I the only one like this? Does learning through hindsight allow you to not repeat the same mistakes over and over? Have you learned to integrate past lessons into current opportunities? Or is your hindsight mechanism either blind after a short widow, like a week in the case of the late night ice cream example, or completely mute like when we decided to have more children?
Maybe it’s that’s I’ve gotten to that magic place of being old enough I no longer consider everything to be a new learning opportunity so I don’t take the time to consider every element of each decision; coupled with the fact I’m not quite old enough to have lost the self-evaluation reflex where I’m critical of my own lack of control or wisdom. In typing that sentence I may have discovered my answer. I’m only irritated with my behavior because after I’ve acted, I’ve immediately learned – through hindsight – that it was the wrong move and something else would have made more sense. Then I’m doubly angry because I already knew it was wrong, and I did it anyway.
Based on this self-realization I will begin to advocate for changing the old saying to be, “Hindsight’s twenty-twenty, but if it’s ignored, foresight’s complete blind.”
And if that doesn’t make me feel better, I’ve learned it’s possible to freeze that little voice in your head telling you that you’re making a mistake. It takes copious amounts of ice cream, but the ensuing sugar rush helps you to think fast enough on your feet that you’ll be able to convince yourself this isn’t the same situation it was last time. If hindsight doesn’t apply then the possibilities are endless.
I’m going to ponder this while searching for a spoon. Don’t judge – it’s the middle of the day, not late at night, so the two situations are completely different, right?
Happy Reading!
May 9, 2014
Complaint Department
A few weeks ago someone reached out to me to ask why most of my blogs were so positive. To quote her note, “we all know it’s not possible to have a perfect life, so it would be helpful if you could give us a glimpse of how you handle the imperfection too. What makes you mad?"
It’s not that I’m a perpetual optimist – trust me, I’ve never been called Miss Sunshine, but I tend to not like dwelling on the negative. I don’t like to dwell on it, but sometimes…sometimes it just smacks you between the eyes and you’re forced to acknowledge it. So brace yourself. This entry is going to be a litany of things that get under my skin. I’m not promising inspiration, but if you want reality, I’ll dish it in spades.
Recently I had the privilege of traveling to North Carolina to attend the National Smart Start Conference. On the plane ride down I had the unique joy of sitting in the middle seat sandwiched between two friends taking a vacation together. They were swapping phones so each one could listen to music the other had downloaded. For the most part I ignored them, trying to read some articles I’d printed out to prepare for the conference. But, I couldn’t ignore this comment, “I know he wrote the song, but he should have made it happier because the way it ends is such a downer.”
At first I thought, “Ah, how nice to be twenty and believe you know how to make everything better.” As I thought about it more though I realized it was more than that. The song in question was about a man’s personal experience in life. He couldn’t make it happier, because that instance in his life didn’t end with a smile and rainbow. Somehow, this girl believed herself to be an authority either on songwriting or personal experience. If she’d like to hear a happy song about divorce, then I suggest she write one herself. It irks me to no end when we assume to be authorities on subjects even without first-hand knowledge of them.
This brings me to my next beef…people who like to complain without a willingness to help fix the problem. In my role at work, I often have people come to me to make me aware of issues. My usual response is, “What can I do to be helpful?” If they have no suggestions and seem to be stuck in a complaint loop I like to turn it around and ask, “Great, then what can you do to be helpful?” More often than not, they leave very quickly after that second question. When people only want to be critical, they rarely want to play a role in fixing the problem. After all, if they fix it, then what will they have to complain about?
Oh…here’s another one. I don’t like it when I order a hot fudge sundae and there’s so much ice cream on it, they can’t add much fudge. For this treat to be satisfying it needs to have lots of gloopy chocolate so that it lasts through most of the cold creamy base. That’s not a world peace kind of problem, I admit, but I did warn you that for those who wanted to see behind the curtain in my head, this would be a completely honest look.
A total disregard for manners also brings out my claws. When I say, “Thank you,” I like to hear someone reply, “You’re welcome.” Likewise, when I hold the elevator for you to slowly meander to it, I’d like you to express some kind of gratitude. Not that I like to be praised, but because manners matter. When we lose these basic relation skills, then we lose part of our civilization. How hard is it to be grateful to someone who voluntarily lets you get in line in front of them in the grocery store because you’re only purchasing three things, and they have two weeks of food for five people? I didn’t have to save you all that time, so a smile or even a head nod would have been nice…I digress.
How about this? When you spend some time complaining about the things that bother you only to realize you’ve managed to talk in a complete circle. That’s right, each of things are examples where I’ve declared myself an authority on something: gentility, personnel management, songwriting, or dessert (I’m actually willing to call myself an expert on the last one, simply because of the vast experience I have in consuming said food group).
I think the reason I don’t like to write about the negative as a focus is because the thing I detest most of all is hypocritical behavior. I’ve critiqued a song without much experience in trying to truly craft emotion into music. I’ve elected to keep my conversation on my cell phone moving forward instead of taking it from my ear to say thank you to the person holding the door for me. And, I’ve no doubt put too much fudge on someone’s ice cream causing them to complain about the distorted ratio.
We all like to complain, and when it’s done as a private cathartic release, or to bring about helpful change, then I’m a big fan of it. When it becomes a way of life, I’m not so keen. I tried…honestly, I did. I wanted to give you a posting of my biggest gripes, but in the end, I feel like my neighbor on the plane – I just want this to end happily.
Happy Reading!
It’s not that I’m a perpetual optimist – trust me, I’ve never been called Miss Sunshine, but I tend to not like dwelling on the negative. I don’t like to dwell on it, but sometimes…sometimes it just smacks you between the eyes and you’re forced to acknowledge it. So brace yourself. This entry is going to be a litany of things that get under my skin. I’m not promising inspiration, but if you want reality, I’ll dish it in spades.
Recently I had the privilege of traveling to North Carolina to attend the National Smart Start Conference. On the plane ride down I had the unique joy of sitting in the middle seat sandwiched between two friends taking a vacation together. They were swapping phones so each one could listen to music the other had downloaded. For the most part I ignored them, trying to read some articles I’d printed out to prepare for the conference. But, I couldn’t ignore this comment, “I know he wrote the song, but he should have made it happier because the way it ends is such a downer.”
At first I thought, “Ah, how nice to be twenty and believe you know how to make everything better.” As I thought about it more though I realized it was more than that. The song in question was about a man’s personal experience in life. He couldn’t make it happier, because that instance in his life didn’t end with a smile and rainbow. Somehow, this girl believed herself to be an authority either on songwriting or personal experience. If she’d like to hear a happy song about divorce, then I suggest she write one herself. It irks me to no end when we assume to be authorities on subjects even without first-hand knowledge of them.
This brings me to my next beef…people who like to complain without a willingness to help fix the problem. In my role at work, I often have people come to me to make me aware of issues. My usual response is, “What can I do to be helpful?” If they have no suggestions and seem to be stuck in a complaint loop I like to turn it around and ask, “Great, then what can you do to be helpful?” More often than not, they leave very quickly after that second question. When people only want to be critical, they rarely want to play a role in fixing the problem. After all, if they fix it, then what will they have to complain about?
Oh…here’s another one. I don’t like it when I order a hot fudge sundae and there’s so much ice cream on it, they can’t add much fudge. For this treat to be satisfying it needs to have lots of gloopy chocolate so that it lasts through most of the cold creamy base. That’s not a world peace kind of problem, I admit, but I did warn you that for those who wanted to see behind the curtain in my head, this would be a completely honest look.
A total disregard for manners also brings out my claws. When I say, “Thank you,” I like to hear someone reply, “You’re welcome.” Likewise, when I hold the elevator for you to slowly meander to it, I’d like you to express some kind of gratitude. Not that I like to be praised, but because manners matter. When we lose these basic relation skills, then we lose part of our civilization. How hard is it to be grateful to someone who voluntarily lets you get in line in front of them in the grocery store because you’re only purchasing three things, and they have two weeks of food for five people? I didn’t have to save you all that time, so a smile or even a head nod would have been nice…I digress.
How about this? When you spend some time complaining about the things that bother you only to realize you’ve managed to talk in a complete circle. That’s right, each of things are examples where I’ve declared myself an authority on something: gentility, personnel management, songwriting, or dessert (I’m actually willing to call myself an expert on the last one, simply because of the vast experience I have in consuming said food group).
I think the reason I don’t like to write about the negative as a focus is because the thing I detest most of all is hypocritical behavior. I’ve critiqued a song without much experience in trying to truly craft emotion into music. I’ve elected to keep my conversation on my cell phone moving forward instead of taking it from my ear to say thank you to the person holding the door for me. And, I’ve no doubt put too much fudge on someone’s ice cream causing them to complain about the distorted ratio.
We all like to complain, and when it’s done as a private cathartic release, or to bring about helpful change, then I’m a big fan of it. When it becomes a way of life, I’m not so keen. I tried…honestly, I did. I wanted to give you a posting of my biggest gripes, but in the end, I feel like my neighbor on the plane – I just want this to end happily.
Happy Reading!
April 26, 2014
Tea Time
My husband has been in Ohio for a week. It was a last minute trip that happened to occur during school vacation week. This means I had the honor of keeping my three boys busy by myself for the last seven days. I’ve missed my husband more each day. Not because I had extra things to juggle, but because I had no one to share my tea with each afternoon.
That sounds strange when I read it aloud. Most days when I come home from work, Mark and I share a cup of tea. I read once that a cup of hot tea has the same restorative power as a 20 minute nap. Perhaps that’s true. But, I drink it because it warms my hands when I hold the cup and for the twenty minutes it takes to enjoy the beverage, we talk. Some days it’s robust as we share ideas, plans, discuss current events. Other days it’s quiet as we simply share the peaceful moments before the approaching dinner hour calls us each to other tasks.
Every so often I come home frustrated with the number of things I need to get done: the laundry is piling up, the floor is desperately in need of a mopping, the dog needs a haircut and a bath, and somebody has practice in a sport of some sort. Because I’m one of those people who enjoy marking things as done on my list, I’m tempted to say I don’t have time to sit around drinking tea in the afternoon. I’d rather jump in and start getting things done – I need to be productive.
It’s those days when my husband proves what a wonderful man he is. He insists on us sitting down. I’m usually grumpy, short with my answers, and distracted. My brain can’t stop running through the list of things currently not being done. Sip by sip, gentle phrase by quiet question, he draws me into a conversation and forces me to take a break out of my mental musings long enough to sit back, relax my shoulders, maybe even put my feet up on the ottoman. Before I know it, my cup is empty and I’m not so burdened by the list of things waiting on me. It probably goes without saying, but I consider my husband magic.
It’s not that he has super strength, although he is quite strong. It’s that he has the ability to know when I need to get out of my head and remember that sometimes making progress on a list isn’t the most important thing. The dog won’t mind another day’s growth in his coat. The floor won’t complain about a reprieve from the mop, and the kids won’t argue about having to eat muffins from a mix instead of made from scratch bread because I started cooking too late to allow the yeast to rise.
Thinking about this reminds me of the importance of balance. Mark keeps me balanced when I start to focus only on the chores or the tasks. He pulls me back and makes me take a break when I think I can least afford to take one.
At work it’s my job to keep things balanced: all journal entries have two sides and I spend a great deal of time ensuring they are equal. Liabilities can’t outweigh assets and job duties can’t exceed potential hours to be worked. On paper, I excel at keeping things in line – ordered.
Personally, I tend to forget the second half of the journal entry. That’s when Mark’s special abilities come into play. When I forget that there’s more to a home than the house, Mark steps up and reminds me. When I look in the garage and see another place that needs to be organized, Mark manages to look in there and see my old catcher’s mitt, insisting we play catch. When I see nothing but disorder in the pantry, Mark looks in and pulls out a bag of peanut butter chips and announces he has a sudden hankering for fudge.
Don’t get me wrong – Mark likes it when we’re on top of the chores at home too, but he loves me more than a perfectly ordered sock drawer. He sees the little signs I ignore when my shoulders start tensing up, I’m cracking my back, and flexing my hands involuntarily, and I’m just a little snippy (it’s possible I’m understating that last bit just a touch and I should have said I’m a cranky as all get out and even the dog refuses to be around me, but I hope you’ll allow the more poetic phrase instead.)
He’d rather hear me laugh than the sound of the vacuum cleaner. Some days he accomplishes that by staying after me until I take a break and have our tea. Other days he does it by taking the vacuum from me and using it himself so that I can move on to the next thing because he knows I won’t relax until I’ve at least marked a few things as complete.
This week, the boys and I have done well. I’ve had sitters with the kids most days so I could stay on top of the most pressing tasks at the office and then I’ve tried to have at least one fun thing planned every day. I even brought them to work one day and my very gracious co-workers pretended it wasn’t at all distracting to have three children running around their desks for a few hours. All in all, it was a good week. But, I miss my husband. I’ve brewed tea and sat with the kids in the afternoon to catch up and found that even though it was made the way it always is, it doesn’t have the same flavor.
Please don’t send me e-mails criticizing how dependent I may sound in this post. I think sometimes in our desire to seek independence we miss the balance that comes from not only caring for others, but that equally important part of allowing yourself from time to time to be cared for. Often, we learn by example and if we wish to truly show compassion, don’t we have to risk being vulnerable enough to receive it as well?
My husband should be back around 4:00 tomorrow afternoon. I’m sure when he arrives after driving for more than 17 hours over two days the boys will crowd around, eager to welcome him home. I’ll hang back to let the overwhelming nature of their joy come through. And then when he makes his way from our children to me, I’ll smile…and offer him a cup of tea.
Hzappy Reading!
That sounds strange when I read it aloud. Most days when I come home from work, Mark and I share a cup of tea. I read once that a cup of hot tea has the same restorative power as a 20 minute nap. Perhaps that’s true. But, I drink it because it warms my hands when I hold the cup and for the twenty minutes it takes to enjoy the beverage, we talk. Some days it’s robust as we share ideas, plans, discuss current events. Other days it’s quiet as we simply share the peaceful moments before the approaching dinner hour calls us each to other tasks.
Every so often I come home frustrated with the number of things I need to get done: the laundry is piling up, the floor is desperately in need of a mopping, the dog needs a haircut and a bath, and somebody has practice in a sport of some sort. Because I’m one of those people who enjoy marking things as done on my list, I’m tempted to say I don’t have time to sit around drinking tea in the afternoon. I’d rather jump in and start getting things done – I need to be productive.
It’s those days when my husband proves what a wonderful man he is. He insists on us sitting down. I’m usually grumpy, short with my answers, and distracted. My brain can’t stop running through the list of things currently not being done. Sip by sip, gentle phrase by quiet question, he draws me into a conversation and forces me to take a break out of my mental musings long enough to sit back, relax my shoulders, maybe even put my feet up on the ottoman. Before I know it, my cup is empty and I’m not so burdened by the list of things waiting on me. It probably goes without saying, but I consider my husband magic.
It’s not that he has super strength, although he is quite strong. It’s that he has the ability to know when I need to get out of my head and remember that sometimes making progress on a list isn’t the most important thing. The dog won’t mind another day’s growth in his coat. The floor won’t complain about a reprieve from the mop, and the kids won’t argue about having to eat muffins from a mix instead of made from scratch bread because I started cooking too late to allow the yeast to rise.
Thinking about this reminds me of the importance of balance. Mark keeps me balanced when I start to focus only on the chores or the tasks. He pulls me back and makes me take a break when I think I can least afford to take one.
At work it’s my job to keep things balanced: all journal entries have two sides and I spend a great deal of time ensuring they are equal. Liabilities can’t outweigh assets and job duties can’t exceed potential hours to be worked. On paper, I excel at keeping things in line – ordered.
Personally, I tend to forget the second half of the journal entry. That’s when Mark’s special abilities come into play. When I forget that there’s more to a home than the house, Mark steps up and reminds me. When I look in the garage and see another place that needs to be organized, Mark manages to look in there and see my old catcher’s mitt, insisting we play catch. When I see nothing but disorder in the pantry, Mark looks in and pulls out a bag of peanut butter chips and announces he has a sudden hankering for fudge.
Don’t get me wrong – Mark likes it when we’re on top of the chores at home too, but he loves me more than a perfectly ordered sock drawer. He sees the little signs I ignore when my shoulders start tensing up, I’m cracking my back, and flexing my hands involuntarily, and I’m just a little snippy (it’s possible I’m understating that last bit just a touch and I should have said I’m a cranky as all get out and even the dog refuses to be around me, but I hope you’ll allow the more poetic phrase instead.)
He’d rather hear me laugh than the sound of the vacuum cleaner. Some days he accomplishes that by staying after me until I take a break and have our tea. Other days he does it by taking the vacuum from me and using it himself so that I can move on to the next thing because he knows I won’t relax until I’ve at least marked a few things as complete.
This week, the boys and I have done well. I’ve had sitters with the kids most days so I could stay on top of the most pressing tasks at the office and then I’ve tried to have at least one fun thing planned every day. I even brought them to work one day and my very gracious co-workers pretended it wasn’t at all distracting to have three children running around their desks for a few hours. All in all, it was a good week. But, I miss my husband. I’ve brewed tea and sat with the kids in the afternoon to catch up and found that even though it was made the way it always is, it doesn’t have the same flavor.
Please don’t send me e-mails criticizing how dependent I may sound in this post. I think sometimes in our desire to seek independence we miss the balance that comes from not only caring for others, but that equally important part of allowing yourself from time to time to be cared for. Often, we learn by example and if we wish to truly show compassion, don’t we have to risk being vulnerable enough to receive it as well?
My husband should be back around 4:00 tomorrow afternoon. I’m sure when he arrives after driving for more than 17 hours over two days the boys will crowd around, eager to welcome him home. I’ll hang back to let the overwhelming nature of their joy come through. And then when he makes his way from our children to me, I’ll smile…and offer him a cup of tea.
Hzappy Reading!
April 1, 2014
Teenage Declarations
It finally happened. To be fair, it’s probably been happening for years now, I just didn’t notice.
I’m becoming my mother.
Most likely, every thirteen year old girl declares this, but I can vividly remember thinking that I would never be like my mom. Don’t get me wrong, she was a lovely woman: gracious, hospitable, hardworking, creative and smart. But she was old – practically in her mid-forties – and she made me help her clean the house, work in the garden, can our own vegetables…there seemed to be no limit to the tasks we had to do and I was convinced none of my friends had to do them, so I saw it as unfair.
“Why do we have to grow green beans?” I whined. “They sell them in the grocery store already cooked and canned.”
“Wait until you have to eat those, and then you’ll be growing your own vegetables, begging me to tell you how to store them,” she threatened. Right then and there, I promised myself I wouldn’t do that. I was going to grow up and go to college so I could get a good job in a big city and never have to work in a field again. This was a fine life for her, but I wanted “more.”
Fast forward twenty years – that’s when it slowly began. I’d done most of what I said I would. I went to college, got a good job and had a life in a big city. I also ate green beans from a can that had very little taste and were mushy. I decided that my food wasn’t as good as what I grew up with because I used dried herbs from the store, so I set up a little herb garden and grew fresh basil, rosemary, parsley, oregano and thyme. The green flora-of-flavor were in little containers along my back patio so they were as decorative as they were delicious.
Later, I decided my children needed to know that chocolate chip cookies weren’t supposed to be crunchy; they were supposed to be soft and melt in your mouth when you took a bite, so I quit buying them and only made them from scratch.
I started quilting so they’d have warm blankets that not only had cotton batting, but stitches of love to keep them warm. I knitted them blankets and scarves that were just their size, so they would be wrapped up in something created for them when they went out in the freezing temperatures.
I taught them rhymes and songs. I played with them in forts, and intentionally took them outside when it was raining so they could play regardless of what was falling from the sky, and be the first ones to see the rainbow. At the time I justified it as taking the best of my memories and passing them along, not a slow evolution to become my mother.
After a while I became dissatisfied with the produce I bought from the grocery so my planters of herbs moved to the side in order to dig up the back yard for a raised garden. Squash, corn, beans and tomatoes all went in. One day while we were in the garden pulling weeds my oldest son asked why we had to do this. I tried explaining how the weeds would grow faster than the beans and choke them out. We went back and forth a few more times, each of us getting more frustrated that it seemed we weren’t being heard. Finally, he interrupted me to say, “No, why do we have to grow our own food? They sell all this stuff in the grocery store.”
Before I could even stop myself, I blurted out, “Because I said so, that’s why!” That should have been my next big clue that I was morphing into my mother. That dreaded phrase, that I swore I’d never use. Not only did I say it, but I felt totally justified in cutting him off to end the conversation by pulling rank. I’m the mother – I’m in charge.
More and more of her idioms began to make their way into my regular vernacular without me even noticing it:
“The proof of the puddin’ is in the eating.” You say you won’t do something again, but we’ll see what happens the next time this situation comes up.
“If you’ve got time enough to lean, you’ve got time enough to clean.” Quit telling me you’re bored. If you don’t have anything to do, I’ll gladly give you some of the work that I have to tackle and then you’ll have something to do.
“You seem to think this is a democracy. Dinner isn’t something we vote on. I cook it, you eat it. On a good day, you should hope for a benevolent dictatorship.” When I’ve said this one, I know they have no idea what the beginning and ending words mean, but they walk away knowing Mom’s in a mood again and cooking something they hate, but complaining won’t change the dinner menu.
It’s funny how I consider myself to be reasonably intelligent, but none of the things above hit me over the head with the truth. It took something really simple to finally pull the wool from my eyes so I could understand what I’d become.
My son was recently sick and I was cuddling with him on the couch when he asked me to “sing that song.” Because he didn’t feel well, I didn’t go through the routine of claiming to not know what song he was referring to. The lullaby, “Hush Little Baby“ has soothed children for ages so I opened my mouth and began to sing it. However, instead of the traditional words, I sang it as my mother did, turning it into a rhyming exercise that is never the same twice.
“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, Mama’s gonna buy you a mocking bird. And if that mocking bird don’t sing Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring. And if that diamond ring don’t shine, Mama’s gonna buy you a porcupine. And if that porcupine don’t poke, Mama’s gonna buy you a cantaloupe…” You can see how it works from that embarrassing snippet.
After ten or so verses my son look up at me and said, “I like the way you sing that song.”
“Thank you,” I replied, running my fingers through his hair. “My mother used to sing it to me just like that.”
And then it hit me – I sing the same songs my mother sang, I cook the same foods she cooks. I use the same sayings she used. Heck, when she passed away a couple of years ago, I brought most of her jewelry and some of her clothes home with me so I even look like her in many ways. I’m becoming my mother!
Before my realization sidetracked me, my son brought me back to reality. “I loved Grandma.”
“I loved her too,” I admitted honestly, even though the words didn’t do it justice.
“You’re like Grandma,” he confirmed my own thought. “But you’re different too.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, desperate for a loophole to prove I’d held true to my teenage pledge.
“You do a lot of the stuff she did, but you do it different. You do it like you.”
I thought about that, letting the comfort of his warm body at my side and the repetition of my hand running through his hair calm us both. I do a lot of the stuff she did, but in my own way. So, I wasn’t becoming her so much as I was becoming me, but influenced by the things I most treasured about her. As he fell asleep, I found I could accept that.
There is a strange dynamic between mothers and daughters (and fathers and sons too, I guess) where we want our independence and seek to disassociate ourselves with anything that reminds us of our past. Then, time comes in as the great equalizer and we realize perhaps our parents knew a thing or two, and maybe accepting how we are similar will give us the strength to grow where we are different.
It’s also highly likely that I feel this way because my oldest is nearly a teenager and I fear the day he tells me he isn’t going to be like me. Hopefully I’ll have the grace to lovingly reply, “I hope not! I want you to be yourself,” and the patience to let him see that being himself means being a little like me too.
Happy Reading!
I’m becoming my mother.
Most likely, every thirteen year old girl declares this, but I can vividly remember thinking that I would never be like my mom. Don’t get me wrong, she was a lovely woman: gracious, hospitable, hardworking, creative and smart. But she was old – practically in her mid-forties – and she made me help her clean the house, work in the garden, can our own vegetables…there seemed to be no limit to the tasks we had to do and I was convinced none of my friends had to do them, so I saw it as unfair.
“Why do we have to grow green beans?” I whined. “They sell them in the grocery store already cooked and canned.”
“Wait until you have to eat those, and then you’ll be growing your own vegetables, begging me to tell you how to store them,” she threatened. Right then and there, I promised myself I wouldn’t do that. I was going to grow up and go to college so I could get a good job in a big city and never have to work in a field again. This was a fine life for her, but I wanted “more.”
Fast forward twenty years – that’s when it slowly began. I’d done most of what I said I would. I went to college, got a good job and had a life in a big city. I also ate green beans from a can that had very little taste and were mushy. I decided that my food wasn’t as good as what I grew up with because I used dried herbs from the store, so I set up a little herb garden and grew fresh basil, rosemary, parsley, oregano and thyme. The green flora-of-flavor were in little containers along my back patio so they were as decorative as they were delicious.
Later, I decided my children needed to know that chocolate chip cookies weren’t supposed to be crunchy; they were supposed to be soft and melt in your mouth when you took a bite, so I quit buying them and only made them from scratch.
I started quilting so they’d have warm blankets that not only had cotton batting, but stitches of love to keep them warm. I knitted them blankets and scarves that were just their size, so they would be wrapped up in something created for them when they went out in the freezing temperatures.
I taught them rhymes and songs. I played with them in forts, and intentionally took them outside when it was raining so they could play regardless of what was falling from the sky, and be the first ones to see the rainbow. At the time I justified it as taking the best of my memories and passing them along, not a slow evolution to become my mother.
After a while I became dissatisfied with the produce I bought from the grocery so my planters of herbs moved to the side in order to dig up the back yard for a raised garden. Squash, corn, beans and tomatoes all went in. One day while we were in the garden pulling weeds my oldest son asked why we had to do this. I tried explaining how the weeds would grow faster than the beans and choke them out. We went back and forth a few more times, each of us getting more frustrated that it seemed we weren’t being heard. Finally, he interrupted me to say, “No, why do we have to grow our own food? They sell all this stuff in the grocery store.”
Before I could even stop myself, I blurted out, “Because I said so, that’s why!” That should have been my next big clue that I was morphing into my mother. That dreaded phrase, that I swore I’d never use. Not only did I say it, but I felt totally justified in cutting him off to end the conversation by pulling rank. I’m the mother – I’m in charge.
More and more of her idioms began to make their way into my regular vernacular without me even noticing it:
“The proof of the puddin’ is in the eating.” You say you won’t do something again, but we’ll see what happens the next time this situation comes up.
“If you’ve got time enough to lean, you’ve got time enough to clean.” Quit telling me you’re bored. If you don’t have anything to do, I’ll gladly give you some of the work that I have to tackle and then you’ll have something to do.
“You seem to think this is a democracy. Dinner isn’t something we vote on. I cook it, you eat it. On a good day, you should hope for a benevolent dictatorship.” When I’ve said this one, I know they have no idea what the beginning and ending words mean, but they walk away knowing Mom’s in a mood again and cooking something they hate, but complaining won’t change the dinner menu.
It’s funny how I consider myself to be reasonably intelligent, but none of the things above hit me over the head with the truth. It took something really simple to finally pull the wool from my eyes so I could understand what I’d become.
My son was recently sick and I was cuddling with him on the couch when he asked me to “sing that song.” Because he didn’t feel well, I didn’t go through the routine of claiming to not know what song he was referring to. The lullaby, “Hush Little Baby“ has soothed children for ages so I opened my mouth and began to sing it. However, instead of the traditional words, I sang it as my mother did, turning it into a rhyming exercise that is never the same twice.
“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, Mama’s gonna buy you a mocking bird. And if that mocking bird don’t sing Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring. And if that diamond ring don’t shine, Mama’s gonna buy you a porcupine. And if that porcupine don’t poke, Mama’s gonna buy you a cantaloupe…” You can see how it works from that embarrassing snippet.
After ten or so verses my son look up at me and said, “I like the way you sing that song.”
“Thank you,” I replied, running my fingers through his hair. “My mother used to sing it to me just like that.”
And then it hit me – I sing the same songs my mother sang, I cook the same foods she cooks. I use the same sayings she used. Heck, when she passed away a couple of years ago, I brought most of her jewelry and some of her clothes home with me so I even look like her in many ways. I’m becoming my mother!
Before my realization sidetracked me, my son brought me back to reality. “I loved Grandma.”
“I loved her too,” I admitted honestly, even though the words didn’t do it justice.
“You’re like Grandma,” he confirmed my own thought. “But you’re different too.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, desperate for a loophole to prove I’d held true to my teenage pledge.
“You do a lot of the stuff she did, but you do it different. You do it like you.”
I thought about that, letting the comfort of his warm body at my side and the repetition of my hand running through his hair calm us both. I do a lot of the stuff she did, but in my own way. So, I wasn’t becoming her so much as I was becoming me, but influenced by the things I most treasured about her. As he fell asleep, I found I could accept that.
There is a strange dynamic between mothers and daughters (and fathers and sons too, I guess) where we want our independence and seek to disassociate ourselves with anything that reminds us of our past. Then, time comes in as the great equalizer and we realize perhaps our parents knew a thing or two, and maybe accepting how we are similar will give us the strength to grow where we are different.
It’s also highly likely that I feel this way because my oldest is nearly a teenager and I fear the day he tells me he isn’t going to be like me. Hopefully I’ll have the grace to lovingly reply, “I hope not! I want you to be yourself,” and the patience to let him see that being himself means being a little like me too.
Happy Reading!
February 28, 2014
Mourning
I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about mourning lately. The two year anniversary of my mother’s death was last week and the organization where I work has to say goodbye to several important people today which is probably why I’ve found myself wearing darker clothes of late.
When my mother passed away there were so many things to do: plan for my family to travel from Boston down to southeast North Carolina – no small feat for a family of family of five, make the arrangements for the visitation and funeral, assist my father with all the banking and legal issues that he had no experience dealing with, speak with the many people who stopped by my father’s home to pay their respects and…the list seemed never ending. I stayed so busy that it was hard to feel the loss of one of the single most important people in my life. It wasn’t until I was back home, into the thick of my routine and driving home from work that it finally hit me – my mother was gone.
For years I would call my mom on my commute from the office and we’d talk about any and everything while I drove home. It was the perfect way to unload about what was happening at work, or vent my concerns about upcoming things at home and share it with a person who I knew supported me unconditionally. Two weeks after her funeral, I’d had a rough day at work, and completely out of habit, I picked up the phone to dial her number only to have it hit me that I could dial, but she wouldn’t answer. Grief slammed into me like a ton of bricks as the loss of my biggest cheerleader became real.
Please don’t misunderstand, I could call my father too – but if I told him of problems at work, he’d want to give me advice – to help me “fix” it. Mom never told me what to do unless I specifically asked her. She just reminded me that I could figure it out and because she believed in me, I began to believe in me too.
At work I find myself in a situation where the person who greeted me at the door on my first day is leaving. We’ve worked side by side for several years, and most recently she was my direct supervisor. The entire organization is worried about what the office will be like after she departs. And I realized that it’s more than just an understandable resistance to change – it’s grief. But because we can still see her, she hasn’t died, she isn’t sick, she will still be around the city – we don’t know how to act. If anything it makes moving through the pending loss more difficult because it feels wrong to say we’re mourning, even though that’s exactly what we’re doing.
Because I have no experience in psychology, I’m not equipped to pull from the wisdom of research or brilliant thinking on how to maneuver these kinds of changes or emotions. So, I turn to the next best thing…my youngest son.
David is a very happy six year old. He is probably the fastest to laugh of anyone I know, and if I so much as look at him, his face will turn into a smile. However, that joy in great abundance does have a flip side – when he is sad, the neighbors can hear it as he wails.
Recently he came home from a playdate after school and was happily telling me everything they’d done while he was at his friend’s house, “…and we had two cookies, the kind with the chocolate chips that aren’t chocolate chips but the candy pieces instead, and we dipped them in milk, but her mom gave us chocolate milk instead of vanilla milk so I didn’t dip mine because I love the milk so much I had to drink it all up at once and then she gave me water, so I dipped my cookie in that, but it just made it wet instead of making it taste good, so I won’t do that again –“ and then he burst into tears. Big crocodile tears were streaming down his face and I was instantly checking him over for bodily harm because surely only a broken bone would cause such immense pain to be displayed.
“David, what’s the matter?”
The response was an increase in the volume of his crying.
“I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”
More sobbing and then he pulled himself together enough to answer, “You can’t fix it.”
“Are you in pain?”
“No.”
“Did something happen?”
“No.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“I didn’t finish my last cookie.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
He tried to calm down and did a quick wipe of his face, including his runny nose using his convenient long sleeve as a towel and then explained, “We were eating our cookies in the kitchen and when we were almost done her mom said we could play the Wii so we ran into the den to play, but I hadn’t finished the last bite of my cookie and now it’s gone.” Cue the tears!
There are times as a mother when my heart breaks for my children and I want to weep along with them. Then there are times when it’s hard to keep a straight face and not smile at what constitutes a catastrophe.
After having him confirm that he’d only eating one and a half cookies, I walked over to the pantry and grabbed the flour and sugar. When he noticed what I was doing the tears stopped.
“How about you help me make some cookies and after dinner you can two of them?” I offered.
“Can I have one now?” he countered, starting to smile a little.
“You can half of one now since you didn’t get half a cookie earlier,” I agreed already picturing myself finishing the rest of the treat for him.
Just that quickly, his tears were forgotten and he was back to his bubbly joyous self “helping” me cook by spilling flour everywhere. As we split the still warm cookie as promised, I asked him if he felt better now.
He nodded that he did and then he said something I’d said to him many times, “Sometimes you just have to get it out.”
We laughed at him quoting me, but the thought stuck and I find myself mulling it over even now. Sometimes to get over something you have to let all the emotions out first. Mourning isn’t a pretty process. It’s often done in messy stages of crying, yelling, bouts of temper and the occasional broken item. Despite that, I’m beginning to see the importance of allowing ourselves to do it however we need to because sometimes you just have to get it out.
And maybe, if we were better at letting ourselves grieve the big and the small, we’d be better at it so that we could more quickly switch back to joy. If not, perhaps we’d be fortunate enough to have a friend see our pain and offer to share a cookie with us.
Sugar won’t fix all our sorrows, but sharing it with a friend will make the burden feel lighter.
Happy Reading!
When my mother passed away there were so many things to do: plan for my family to travel from Boston down to southeast North Carolina – no small feat for a family of family of five, make the arrangements for the visitation and funeral, assist my father with all the banking and legal issues that he had no experience dealing with, speak with the many people who stopped by my father’s home to pay their respects and…the list seemed never ending. I stayed so busy that it was hard to feel the loss of one of the single most important people in my life. It wasn’t until I was back home, into the thick of my routine and driving home from work that it finally hit me – my mother was gone.
For years I would call my mom on my commute from the office and we’d talk about any and everything while I drove home. It was the perfect way to unload about what was happening at work, or vent my concerns about upcoming things at home and share it with a person who I knew supported me unconditionally. Two weeks after her funeral, I’d had a rough day at work, and completely out of habit, I picked up the phone to dial her number only to have it hit me that I could dial, but she wouldn’t answer. Grief slammed into me like a ton of bricks as the loss of my biggest cheerleader became real.
Please don’t misunderstand, I could call my father too – but if I told him of problems at work, he’d want to give me advice – to help me “fix” it. Mom never told me what to do unless I specifically asked her. She just reminded me that I could figure it out and because she believed in me, I began to believe in me too.
At work I find myself in a situation where the person who greeted me at the door on my first day is leaving. We’ve worked side by side for several years, and most recently she was my direct supervisor. The entire organization is worried about what the office will be like after she departs. And I realized that it’s more than just an understandable resistance to change – it’s grief. But because we can still see her, she hasn’t died, she isn’t sick, she will still be around the city – we don’t know how to act. If anything it makes moving through the pending loss more difficult because it feels wrong to say we’re mourning, even though that’s exactly what we’re doing.
Because I have no experience in psychology, I’m not equipped to pull from the wisdom of research or brilliant thinking on how to maneuver these kinds of changes or emotions. So, I turn to the next best thing…my youngest son.
David is a very happy six year old. He is probably the fastest to laugh of anyone I know, and if I so much as look at him, his face will turn into a smile. However, that joy in great abundance does have a flip side – when he is sad, the neighbors can hear it as he wails.
Recently he came home from a playdate after school and was happily telling me everything they’d done while he was at his friend’s house, “…and we had two cookies, the kind with the chocolate chips that aren’t chocolate chips but the candy pieces instead, and we dipped them in milk, but her mom gave us chocolate milk instead of vanilla milk so I didn’t dip mine because I love the milk so much I had to drink it all up at once and then she gave me water, so I dipped my cookie in that, but it just made it wet instead of making it taste good, so I won’t do that again –“ and then he burst into tears. Big crocodile tears were streaming down his face and I was instantly checking him over for bodily harm because surely only a broken bone would cause such immense pain to be displayed.
“David, what’s the matter?”
The response was an increase in the volume of his crying.
“I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”
More sobbing and then he pulled himself together enough to answer, “You can’t fix it.”
“Are you in pain?”
“No.”
“Did something happen?”
“No.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“I didn’t finish my last cookie.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
He tried to calm down and did a quick wipe of his face, including his runny nose using his convenient long sleeve as a towel and then explained, “We were eating our cookies in the kitchen and when we were almost done her mom said we could play the Wii so we ran into the den to play, but I hadn’t finished the last bite of my cookie and now it’s gone.” Cue the tears!
There are times as a mother when my heart breaks for my children and I want to weep along with them. Then there are times when it’s hard to keep a straight face and not smile at what constitutes a catastrophe.
After having him confirm that he’d only eating one and a half cookies, I walked over to the pantry and grabbed the flour and sugar. When he noticed what I was doing the tears stopped.
“How about you help me make some cookies and after dinner you can two of them?” I offered.
“Can I have one now?” he countered, starting to smile a little.
“You can half of one now since you didn’t get half a cookie earlier,” I agreed already picturing myself finishing the rest of the treat for him.
Just that quickly, his tears were forgotten and he was back to his bubbly joyous self “helping” me cook by spilling flour everywhere. As we split the still warm cookie as promised, I asked him if he felt better now.
He nodded that he did and then he said something I’d said to him many times, “Sometimes you just have to get it out.”
We laughed at him quoting me, but the thought stuck and I find myself mulling it over even now. Sometimes to get over something you have to let all the emotions out first. Mourning isn’t a pretty process. It’s often done in messy stages of crying, yelling, bouts of temper and the occasional broken item. Despite that, I’m beginning to see the importance of allowing ourselves to do it however we need to because sometimes you just have to get it out.
And maybe, if we were better at letting ourselves grieve the big and the small, we’d be better at it so that we could more quickly switch back to joy. If not, perhaps we’d be fortunate enough to have a friend see our pain and offer to share a cookie with us.
Sugar won’t fix all our sorrows, but sharing it with a friend will make the burden feel lighter.
Happy Reading!
February 15, 2014
Romance
How do you define Romance? When people hear the word they often picture flowers, odes and sonnets, or elegant nights of dancing in formal dresses at a ball. Webster’s defines it first as a love story, and then in its second clarification it says, “an extravagant story or affair that lacks basis in fact or reality.” So if I’m reading this right, being romantic isn’t possible unless you find a way to suspend reality. I guess in a certain sense, that’s true.
Two days before Valentine’s I conducted an informal and unscientific poll of the women who were in the line around me at the grocery store. According to them, their husbands were probably going to send flowers or give them chocolate and a card for the Hallmark created holiday to commemorate love. I asked if they thought it was romantic, and each one of them laughed. “No,” the youngest one explained. “It’s an obligation they do because they think they have to.”
That conversation, while entertaining, left me wondering if it was possible to have real romance anymore. I arrived home, tired form a long day and my children came rushing up to welcome me home, remind me their basketball uniform was dirty and they needed it in forty minutes, and to tell me they needed help with their math homework. After that initial blast of chores was given to me, my husband walked over, told the boys to “scram and give your mother a minute to at least take her coat off.” After pulling off my boots I looked up and he was standing there with a smile and two cups of hot tea. A tilt of his head was an invitation to follow him to the home office.
After we climbed the stairs he pointed to the more comfortable of the two chairs and indicated I should sit there before putting a cup of tea on the table next to it. We sat down and he asked, “How was your day?” Giving me the chance to unload the things that had happened at the office that were very stressful and weighing heavily on my mind.
As I go back and look over the details of this very typical day in my life I have to admit, romance isn’t impossible, nor is it dead, it’s just completely misunderstood.
My husband isn’t perfect. He has habits that drive me crazy. He rarely makes up the bed, he is incapable of watching the television if he isn’t the one controlling the remote, and there is a chair in the corner of our room that he seems to think is the correct place to throw clothes instead of hanging them in the closet three feet away. However, he also has a knack for knowing when I’m upset or when I just need to chatter. He listens patiently, even when I know that down deep, the world of finance or non-profit management must bore him silly. He doesn’t complain or try to change the subject. He sits there because he knows until I get it out of my system, I can’t relax and think about anything else. He buys dark chocolate even though he prefers milk chocolate, because it’s my favorite. And when we share a pint of Cookie Dough ice cream, he will eat the vanilla ice cream around the dough so that I can have more of the sugary balls that I adore.
When we’re out together, he rarely opens my car door for me, but he always defers to me to give my order first in a restaurant, even if the waiter was looking at him. I can’t remember the last time he bought me cut flowers, but every spring, he buys my favorite kinds of blooms so that we can plant them together in the garden because he knows I like watching them grow all summer.
According to Hollywood or Harlequin he’s mediocre at best in the romance department, but I’ve decided that they’re wrong. Why would I waste time wishing for something that by definition doesn’t exist? I prefer the reality of sharing my life with someone who intentionally does things just because he knows I will like them and doesn’t wait for the calendar to tell him it’s time to do something thoughtful.
When he proposed to me nineteen years ago, he got down on one knee and asked me to be his wife. After I said yes, he then kissed my hand and pledged, “If you marry me, I promise that you’ll never be bored.”
I remember sharing this with a friend who didn’t seem to know how to react. “It wasn’t very romantic,” she explained.
Maybe not to you, but I hate the idea of daily doses of routine, and I knew that in marrying him I was promising to spend my life with a man who would actively look for things we could do that we’d enjoy, small and large adventures that would add variety to our lives. I saw it as the sweetest promise he could have made and one he has absolutely kept.
Is a cup of tea and wing back chair romantic? I’ve decided it is to me. It was nice to receive a card with a touching verse written in fancy script for Valentine’s Day. But, when I look back over time and think of how I know I’m loved, my mind is flooded with the little things that have been done in abundance much more than the rare more socially acceptable gestures of romance.
Is having my car cleared of snow so that I don’t have to scrape it at six in the morning before work romantic? Is having windshield wiper fluid added because he knew the roads were salty and he wanted me to have what I needed for a safe drive a declaration of love? Admittedly, neither of these would work in the movies, but I don’t live on the silver screen. I live in a little house in a small town in New England. I live with a man who has flaws, but who loves me enough to remember me and think of things he can do to make my life easier. Not only that, but he recognizes when I buy red grapes instead of green that I’m thinking of him. He knows when I drag out the iron to press his dress shirts that he is loved. And, hopefully he will know that when he reads this blog I think he hangs the moon, even though I didn’t purchase him an expensive bauble for the 14th of February.
For my readers, I would wish you a life filled with romance. Not the way Disney princesses get it, but in the little ways that build a lifetime of devotion. And, I hope that whoever is providing you with this romance does so with the understanding that chocolate can be a gift at any time…you don’t have to wait until boxes have Cupid on them.
Happy Reading!
Two days before Valentine’s I conducted an informal and unscientific poll of the women who were in the line around me at the grocery store. According to them, their husbands were probably going to send flowers or give them chocolate and a card for the Hallmark created holiday to commemorate love. I asked if they thought it was romantic, and each one of them laughed. “No,” the youngest one explained. “It’s an obligation they do because they think they have to.”
That conversation, while entertaining, left me wondering if it was possible to have real romance anymore. I arrived home, tired form a long day and my children came rushing up to welcome me home, remind me their basketball uniform was dirty and they needed it in forty minutes, and to tell me they needed help with their math homework. After that initial blast of chores was given to me, my husband walked over, told the boys to “scram and give your mother a minute to at least take her coat off.” After pulling off my boots I looked up and he was standing there with a smile and two cups of hot tea. A tilt of his head was an invitation to follow him to the home office.
After we climbed the stairs he pointed to the more comfortable of the two chairs and indicated I should sit there before putting a cup of tea on the table next to it. We sat down and he asked, “How was your day?” Giving me the chance to unload the things that had happened at the office that were very stressful and weighing heavily on my mind.
As I go back and look over the details of this very typical day in my life I have to admit, romance isn’t impossible, nor is it dead, it’s just completely misunderstood.
My husband isn’t perfect. He has habits that drive me crazy. He rarely makes up the bed, he is incapable of watching the television if he isn’t the one controlling the remote, and there is a chair in the corner of our room that he seems to think is the correct place to throw clothes instead of hanging them in the closet three feet away. However, he also has a knack for knowing when I’m upset or when I just need to chatter. He listens patiently, even when I know that down deep, the world of finance or non-profit management must bore him silly. He doesn’t complain or try to change the subject. He sits there because he knows until I get it out of my system, I can’t relax and think about anything else. He buys dark chocolate even though he prefers milk chocolate, because it’s my favorite. And when we share a pint of Cookie Dough ice cream, he will eat the vanilla ice cream around the dough so that I can have more of the sugary balls that I adore.
When we’re out together, he rarely opens my car door for me, but he always defers to me to give my order first in a restaurant, even if the waiter was looking at him. I can’t remember the last time he bought me cut flowers, but every spring, he buys my favorite kinds of blooms so that we can plant them together in the garden because he knows I like watching them grow all summer.
According to Hollywood or Harlequin he’s mediocre at best in the romance department, but I’ve decided that they’re wrong. Why would I waste time wishing for something that by definition doesn’t exist? I prefer the reality of sharing my life with someone who intentionally does things just because he knows I will like them and doesn’t wait for the calendar to tell him it’s time to do something thoughtful.
When he proposed to me nineteen years ago, he got down on one knee and asked me to be his wife. After I said yes, he then kissed my hand and pledged, “If you marry me, I promise that you’ll never be bored.”
I remember sharing this with a friend who didn’t seem to know how to react. “It wasn’t very romantic,” she explained.
Maybe not to you, but I hate the idea of daily doses of routine, and I knew that in marrying him I was promising to spend my life with a man who would actively look for things we could do that we’d enjoy, small and large adventures that would add variety to our lives. I saw it as the sweetest promise he could have made and one he has absolutely kept.
Is a cup of tea and wing back chair romantic? I’ve decided it is to me. It was nice to receive a card with a touching verse written in fancy script for Valentine’s Day. But, when I look back over time and think of how I know I’m loved, my mind is flooded with the little things that have been done in abundance much more than the rare more socially acceptable gestures of romance.
Is having my car cleared of snow so that I don’t have to scrape it at six in the morning before work romantic? Is having windshield wiper fluid added because he knew the roads were salty and he wanted me to have what I needed for a safe drive a declaration of love? Admittedly, neither of these would work in the movies, but I don’t live on the silver screen. I live in a little house in a small town in New England. I live with a man who has flaws, but who loves me enough to remember me and think of things he can do to make my life easier. Not only that, but he recognizes when I buy red grapes instead of green that I’m thinking of him. He knows when I drag out the iron to press his dress shirts that he is loved. And, hopefully he will know that when he reads this blog I think he hangs the moon, even though I didn’t purchase him an expensive bauble for the 14th of February.
For my readers, I would wish you a life filled with romance. Not the way Disney princesses get it, but in the little ways that build a lifetime of devotion. And, I hope that whoever is providing you with this romance does so with the understanding that chocolate can be a gift at any time…you don’t have to wait until boxes have Cupid on them.
Happy Reading!
December 20, 2013
Simple Gifts
The company where I work loves to open meetings with ice breakers. This practice has allowed me to learn some unusual things about my fellow co-workers, but I do love seeing the side of people I spend so much time with that isn’t related to our daily tasks. Recently someone asked us to each share what the best gift we’d ever given might be.
Strangely, this was difficult for me to answer. Most of the people answering had exciting things to say: tickets to a world series, technology equipment, trips, etc. When it came my turn, I realized the gift that truly answered this question didn’t fit in with the items other people had answered.
Eighteen years ago, my husband and I were newlyweds. We were both in college, and money was tight, basically covering our expenses paycheck to paycheck. We didn’t have much left over for gifts to each other, so we agreed we wouldn’t buy each other presents. It was a difficult thing to agree to because I hated the idea of not giving him something. Knowing we’d have some time alone on Christmas morning before we joined our family at lunch, I decided to try and come up with something meaningful, but would still honor our pact to not spend money.
I sat down in front of my computer and typed out all the special moments we had shared over the past year. I didn’t try and describe them; I literally just made a paragraph style list of the things we’d done that held meaning. Some were obvious, like attending a concert, others were more precious to us like a sunset we watched over Lake Michigan, or watching shooting stars while we laid out on a blanket. My intention had been to make a short list, but by time my brain ran out of examples to share, I had filled three typed pages.
That Christmas I gave my husband no fancy presents, but I did give him my memory of all the special moments we’d shared…those things we experienced together that I treasured above all gifts I had ever received. He read the letter, and understood exactly what I meant. Later, he made it very clear that it was the best gift he’d ever received, and he wanted that same thing in his stocking each year no matter what the future might hold for us.
To date, he has seventeen letters, each written quickly with no advance thought. I literally just think back over what we’ve shared during the last twelve months and let the memories wash over me as I type. Then, with only a quick proofread, I print it out, sign it and seal it for a special delivery in his stocking. Some letters have spoken of joys so great it was hard to put into words: the birth of our children, respective college graduations, ideal jobs, etc. Others have included sorrows that were only borne because we had each other to lean on: difficult situations, the loss of a job, the death of a parent. It was tempting to leave out the sad memories, but I realized, with the wonderful gift of hindsight, that even through the painful moments we grew closer together, we learned about each other, we survived by leaning on each other, and despite that being hard, we could still celebrate the moment of knowing when we needed support most, there was someone there to provide it.
This Christmas there will be presents under the tree. Our kids want for little this time of year. However, I am most looking forward to the look on my husband’s face as he carefully pulls items out of his stocking, looking for the letter he knows will be there. He won’t open it during the craziness of the children tearing through their gifts. He’ll keep it in his lap, and then later, he will take it up to his office. At some point, late in the evening, he will open it up and read it by himself. Then, once he’s done remember everything I’ve recalled, he will come and find me and wish me a Merry Christmas.
It wasn’t a flashy gift, but of all the things I’ve given, it’s the one that we both seem to appreciate the most. It is as much a present to myself as it is to him, because it’s impossible for me to write without being overwhelmed at how lucky I am, and how blessed we’ve been over the past twelve months.
This Christmas, I hope you all receive a “best gift ever”. Not distinguished by its large price tag, but by the true value it holds.
Merry Christmas, and happy reading!
Strangely, this was difficult for me to answer. Most of the people answering had exciting things to say: tickets to a world series, technology equipment, trips, etc. When it came my turn, I realized the gift that truly answered this question didn’t fit in with the items other people had answered.
Eighteen years ago, my husband and I were newlyweds. We were both in college, and money was tight, basically covering our expenses paycheck to paycheck. We didn’t have much left over for gifts to each other, so we agreed we wouldn’t buy each other presents. It was a difficult thing to agree to because I hated the idea of not giving him something. Knowing we’d have some time alone on Christmas morning before we joined our family at lunch, I decided to try and come up with something meaningful, but would still honor our pact to not spend money.
I sat down in front of my computer and typed out all the special moments we had shared over the past year. I didn’t try and describe them; I literally just made a paragraph style list of the things we’d done that held meaning. Some were obvious, like attending a concert, others were more precious to us like a sunset we watched over Lake Michigan, or watching shooting stars while we laid out on a blanket. My intention had been to make a short list, but by time my brain ran out of examples to share, I had filled three typed pages.
That Christmas I gave my husband no fancy presents, but I did give him my memory of all the special moments we’d shared…those things we experienced together that I treasured above all gifts I had ever received. He read the letter, and understood exactly what I meant. Later, he made it very clear that it was the best gift he’d ever received, and he wanted that same thing in his stocking each year no matter what the future might hold for us.
To date, he has seventeen letters, each written quickly with no advance thought. I literally just think back over what we’ve shared during the last twelve months and let the memories wash over me as I type. Then, with only a quick proofread, I print it out, sign it and seal it for a special delivery in his stocking. Some letters have spoken of joys so great it was hard to put into words: the birth of our children, respective college graduations, ideal jobs, etc. Others have included sorrows that were only borne because we had each other to lean on: difficult situations, the loss of a job, the death of a parent. It was tempting to leave out the sad memories, but I realized, with the wonderful gift of hindsight, that even through the painful moments we grew closer together, we learned about each other, we survived by leaning on each other, and despite that being hard, we could still celebrate the moment of knowing when we needed support most, there was someone there to provide it.
This Christmas there will be presents under the tree. Our kids want for little this time of year. However, I am most looking forward to the look on my husband’s face as he carefully pulls items out of his stocking, looking for the letter he knows will be there. He won’t open it during the craziness of the children tearing through their gifts. He’ll keep it in his lap, and then later, he will take it up to his office. At some point, late in the evening, he will open it up and read it by himself. Then, once he’s done remember everything I’ve recalled, he will come and find me and wish me a Merry Christmas.
It wasn’t a flashy gift, but of all the things I’ve given, it’s the one that we both seem to appreciate the most. It is as much a present to myself as it is to him, because it’s impossible for me to write without being overwhelmed at how lucky I am, and how blessed we’ve been over the past twelve months.
This Christmas, I hope you all receive a “best gift ever”. Not distinguished by its large price tag, but by the true value it holds.
Merry Christmas, and happy reading!
December 16, 2013
Home
“Where are you from?” I get asked this question at least three times a week. Despite living in New England for the last seven years, I apparently retain enough of my native North Carolina accent to stand out to Bostonians. After explaining my native roots to someone in the office recently they followed up, “Don’t you miss home?”
I assured them I was perfectly happy up North, and walked away. However, I couldn’t get that final question out of my mind. “Don’t you miss home?” No, honestly, I don’t. I miss people. I miss foods and smells and occasions, but I’ve never defined home by geography.
Home is that place where all your cells sigh, “Ahhh,” and you feel safe and comfortable. Home for me is a big pile of pillows in front of a fireplace with my husband beside me. Where that fireplace is doesn’t play into the equation. A look, or a touch, or even the sound of his laugh is home for me.
Early in our marriage we had to move several times: our initial home together as husband and wife, a new town for his graduate studies, a first job, a second job…each brought us to a new place where we made new friends and carved out a life together. While we’ve had five homes in our eighteen years (so far) of marriage, I’ve never felt like my home was anywhere other than where we were together.
Before someone responds with a remark about how our happiness cannot be tied solely to the existence of another person, I do not look to my spouse for all my contentment.
As an example, I find home in the kitchen as well. The appliances or layout might be different, but every time I pull a fresh baked apple pie out of the oven, I feel at home. I get that same sensation when I’m eating sausage gravy over biscuits, or listening to my children laugh while trying to steal another cookie from the cooling rack while they think I’m too distracted to notice.
The fact that it’s nearly Christmas probably has a lot to do with my sentimental reflections. I love to shut off all the lights in the house except those on the Christmas tree, and sit in a comfortable chair with soft music playing in the background and just think. My mother and I used to indulge like that together when I was growing up, and we’d talk about everything from the mundane of our days to the more complicated of our hope and dreams. Because of those treasured memories, it’s hard for me to see the twinkle of Christmas lights without thinking of her and feeling the comforts of my childhood home.
I believe contentment is an often overlooked state. It doesn’t have the same flash as joy or even sorrow, but when we come home, how wonderful to think of it as a place where we can be ourselves, comfortable with who we are, and who we aren’t. Happy in a single moment without want for more or the demand for less.
I’m not a New York Times Bestselling Author. I’m not the host of a cooking show on the Food network. I’m not Martha Stewart. But when I’m home, surrounded by my family, I’m the woman who makes up funny stories, and person that puts comfort food on the table for a meal that is more about the conversations around the table than the calories we’re consuming. I’m the person who cleans and straightens, but not obsessively so. Recognizing that who I am seems to be what my family and friends appreciates makes it easier to relax and be comfortable not trying to be someone else.
If I had a Christmas wish for my readers, it would be that you too would find that place where you are content…perfectly happy with what you have and not troubled with desires for things that cannot be. I would wish for you to experience that fully relaxed moment of contentment and the recognition that no matter where you are in that instant…you are home.
Happy Reading!
I assured them I was perfectly happy up North, and walked away. However, I couldn’t get that final question out of my mind. “Don’t you miss home?” No, honestly, I don’t. I miss people. I miss foods and smells and occasions, but I’ve never defined home by geography.
Home is that place where all your cells sigh, “Ahhh,” and you feel safe and comfortable. Home for me is a big pile of pillows in front of a fireplace with my husband beside me. Where that fireplace is doesn’t play into the equation. A look, or a touch, or even the sound of his laugh is home for me.
Early in our marriage we had to move several times: our initial home together as husband and wife, a new town for his graduate studies, a first job, a second job…each brought us to a new place where we made new friends and carved out a life together. While we’ve had five homes in our eighteen years (so far) of marriage, I’ve never felt like my home was anywhere other than where we were together.
Before someone responds with a remark about how our happiness cannot be tied solely to the existence of another person, I do not look to my spouse for all my contentment.
As an example, I find home in the kitchen as well. The appliances or layout might be different, but every time I pull a fresh baked apple pie out of the oven, I feel at home. I get that same sensation when I’m eating sausage gravy over biscuits, or listening to my children laugh while trying to steal another cookie from the cooling rack while they think I’m too distracted to notice.
The fact that it’s nearly Christmas probably has a lot to do with my sentimental reflections. I love to shut off all the lights in the house except those on the Christmas tree, and sit in a comfortable chair with soft music playing in the background and just think. My mother and I used to indulge like that together when I was growing up, and we’d talk about everything from the mundane of our days to the more complicated of our hope and dreams. Because of those treasured memories, it’s hard for me to see the twinkle of Christmas lights without thinking of her and feeling the comforts of my childhood home.
I believe contentment is an often overlooked state. It doesn’t have the same flash as joy or even sorrow, but when we come home, how wonderful to think of it as a place where we can be ourselves, comfortable with who we are, and who we aren’t. Happy in a single moment without want for more or the demand for less.
I’m not a New York Times Bestselling Author. I’m not the host of a cooking show on the Food network. I’m not Martha Stewart. But when I’m home, surrounded by my family, I’m the woman who makes up funny stories, and person that puts comfort food on the table for a meal that is more about the conversations around the table than the calories we’re consuming. I’m the person who cleans and straightens, but not obsessively so. Recognizing that who I am seems to be what my family and friends appreciates makes it easier to relax and be comfortable not trying to be someone else.
If I had a Christmas wish for my readers, it would be that you too would find that place where you are content…perfectly happy with what you have and not troubled with desires for things that cannot be. I would wish for you to experience that fully relaxed moment of contentment and the recognition that no matter where you are in that instant…you are home.
Happy Reading!
December 3, 2013
Thanksgiving - 6 Year Old Style
Nobody understands gratitude like a six year old. My youngest son and I were playing a game while I was cooking for Thanksgiving where we were taking turns saying things we were thankful for. Very quickly we’d covered the usual bases: family, friends, pets, our home, our church, his school, my job. At this point I assumed he’d grow tired of the game, but I grossly underestimated how long his attention span is now that he’s in kindergarten. It was at this point that he said, “bee’s knees” and I realized in the absurdity of the comment that he’d been saying increasingly unusual items for his last few turns.
“Why are you thankful for bee’s knees?”
“You remember…” he prompted as though that were helpful. “Last week Miss Pam came by and brought us those cookies. You said she was the bee’s knees and then you let us have dessert before dinner.”
Believing I understood I responded, “So what you’re really grateful for was a good friend who brought you cookies.”
“No,” he quickly disagreed. “I’m thankful for all of it. For her bringing cookies and them being good, and you bending the rules to let us eat them without having to eat our veggies first. I liked it all.”
“I called Miss Pam the bee’s knees because it’s an expression for something that’s really wonderful,” I tried to explain.
“I know, but I asked Graham (his oldest brother) if bee’s had knees and he showed me a picture of how they have a bunch of knees with hair on them and when they go to visit the flowers the yellow stuff sticks to their knees and makes them look big and fat. He said you use that expression when something is bigger and better than you were expecting and I love it when things like that happen.”
I turned to stir the gravy and had to ponder what my son was teaching me. The lesson was two-fold: 1) English is hard because the unending list of idioms and expressions make it next to impossible to fully teach and 2) my son is better at being grateful than I am because he picks up on everything around him.
Realizing I could have very little impact on the English language I decided to tuck that little tidbit aside for another time and instead wondered how I could learn from my son’s way of seeing the world.
Deciding to give it a try I turned back to face him and said, “I’m thankful for Band-Aids.”
“That’s a good one,” he agreed. “I’m thankful for your late days.”
I work a very early day, arriving in my office around 6:30 AM and leaving at 3:00 PM. Once a month, I have to stay until 5:00 to accommodate meetings on the west coast with staff there. When he made that statement, I’ll admit that it hurt a little. Was he saying that he liked it when I wasn’t around for the afternoon with him?
Before I could get too lost in my own insecurities he explained his comment further. “Cause after you work late, the next day you come home early and then you pick me up from school and we do stuff together. I like those days best of all.”
“I’m grateful for when you teach me things,” I told him, honestly.
“I like it when you teach me things,” he mirrored my answer.
“What kinds of things do I teach you?” I wondered, not looking for a compliment (well…maybe a little) but genuinely curious what kinds of lessons he liked receiving from me.
“Piano,” he answered quickly enough that I believed him. “And cooking,” he added thoughtfully, “And stacking cards.”
In an attempt to keep him quiet in a concert held at our church a month ago, I’d pulled out a deck of cards and showed the boys how to build a house of cards. They spent forty minutes silently making various types of buildings out of playing cards and I was able to listen to the music without worrying about them talking too much.
“I’m thankful for you,” I blurted out, realizing I couldn’t compete with his beautiful mind.
“Me too,” he replied, making me smile.
“You’re thankful for me?” I knew I was fishing for praise, but I felt like we were on the verge of a very sweet moment.
“No, I meant I was thankful for me too,” he answered, not realizing he had taught me yet another lesson…humility. “Because I’m special,” he interrupted my musings to add.
“You certainly are,” I had to agree.
Our game ended when his brothers came downstairs and he abandoned me for an indoor game of football. It was easier to focus on the food I needed to prepare while I was alone, but I found myself missing his chatter.
If I had a wish for my readers, it would be that in the midst of the upcoming holiday madness, you would find a bee’s knees occurrence. One where something unexpected and simply wonderful happens and you would have the heart of a six year old to receive the moment with a grateful heart.
And…I hope you have an occasion to bend the rules, skip your veggies, and head straight for dessert.
Happy Reading!
“Why are you thankful for bee’s knees?”
“You remember…” he prompted as though that were helpful. “Last week Miss Pam came by and brought us those cookies. You said she was the bee’s knees and then you let us have dessert before dinner.”
Believing I understood I responded, “So what you’re really grateful for was a good friend who brought you cookies.”
“No,” he quickly disagreed. “I’m thankful for all of it. For her bringing cookies and them being good, and you bending the rules to let us eat them without having to eat our veggies first. I liked it all.”
“I called Miss Pam the bee’s knees because it’s an expression for something that’s really wonderful,” I tried to explain.
“I know, but I asked Graham (his oldest brother) if bee’s had knees and he showed me a picture of how they have a bunch of knees with hair on them and when they go to visit the flowers the yellow stuff sticks to their knees and makes them look big and fat. He said you use that expression when something is bigger and better than you were expecting and I love it when things like that happen.”
I turned to stir the gravy and had to ponder what my son was teaching me. The lesson was two-fold: 1) English is hard because the unending list of idioms and expressions make it next to impossible to fully teach and 2) my son is better at being grateful than I am because he picks up on everything around him.
Realizing I could have very little impact on the English language I decided to tuck that little tidbit aside for another time and instead wondered how I could learn from my son’s way of seeing the world.
Deciding to give it a try I turned back to face him and said, “I’m thankful for Band-Aids.”
“That’s a good one,” he agreed. “I’m thankful for your late days.”
I work a very early day, arriving in my office around 6:30 AM and leaving at 3:00 PM. Once a month, I have to stay until 5:00 to accommodate meetings on the west coast with staff there. When he made that statement, I’ll admit that it hurt a little. Was he saying that he liked it when I wasn’t around for the afternoon with him?
Before I could get too lost in my own insecurities he explained his comment further. “Cause after you work late, the next day you come home early and then you pick me up from school and we do stuff together. I like those days best of all.”
“I’m grateful for when you teach me things,” I told him, honestly.
“I like it when you teach me things,” he mirrored my answer.
“What kinds of things do I teach you?” I wondered, not looking for a compliment (well…maybe a little) but genuinely curious what kinds of lessons he liked receiving from me.
“Piano,” he answered quickly enough that I believed him. “And cooking,” he added thoughtfully, “And stacking cards.”
In an attempt to keep him quiet in a concert held at our church a month ago, I’d pulled out a deck of cards and showed the boys how to build a house of cards. They spent forty minutes silently making various types of buildings out of playing cards and I was able to listen to the music without worrying about them talking too much.
“I’m thankful for you,” I blurted out, realizing I couldn’t compete with his beautiful mind.
“Me too,” he replied, making me smile.
“You’re thankful for me?” I knew I was fishing for praise, but I felt like we were on the verge of a very sweet moment.
“No, I meant I was thankful for me too,” he answered, not realizing he had taught me yet another lesson…humility. “Because I’m special,” he interrupted my musings to add.
“You certainly are,” I had to agree.
Our game ended when his brothers came downstairs and he abandoned me for an indoor game of football. It was easier to focus on the food I needed to prepare while I was alone, but I found myself missing his chatter.
If I had a wish for my readers, it would be that in the midst of the upcoming holiday madness, you would find a bee’s knees occurrence. One where something unexpected and simply wonderful happens and you would have the heart of a six year old to receive the moment with a grateful heart.
And…I hope you have an occasion to bend the rules, skip your veggies, and head straight for dessert.
Happy Reading!
November 19, 2013
Sticks and Stones
I got a tricky question from a friend this week, “How do you handle negative reviews?” Honestly…I handle them much like my five year old does criticism of his handwriting.
“David, that’s wonderful, but look at your letter b, it’s pointing the wrong way so it looks like a d instead.”
“No it doesn’t,” he denied any wrong doing.
“Here, look,” I take the pencil and draw the letters the correct way. “See, that’s how it should look.”
“That’s what I did,” he continues to live in denial land. “You’re seeing it wrong.” (No, I’m not making that up, we literally had that exact exchange at which point I wondered how I’ll ever manage to keep a straight face as this kid grows up and says things that are wrong, but totally adorable all at the same time.)
Often when somebody gives me a review that my pacing was too slow, or the characters behaved in unbelievable ways, my first response is to deny it and explain exactly why they’re wrong and what I wrote was right. But, a couple of years ago, I started a folder in my e-mail to keep all the more critical reviews I receive. I go back to it every so often and review it. Darn it all if in many of the cases, I end up agreeing with the suggestions or critiques.
When I began writing I had no clue what I was doing. I was an accountant with no experience at all with weaving words, plots and characters. In listening to the people who were kind enough to read what I’d written, I have managed to learn all kinds of things. In addition to being blessed with an excellent and very patient editor, the comments from readers – the good, the bad and the ugly – have helped me grow. (Please be advised, that the writer would like to believe her ability to write has developed over the years, and would appreciate it if anyone who disagrees with this claim would keep that opinion to themselves.)
Of course this is assuming the negative review was written in a way that was helpful or at the very least polite in its critique. There are the very occasional flames…those messages that come across so filled with venom and negativity it’s hard to understand why they bothered to finish reading the story because of all the horrible things they have to say about it. Those are a little harder to stomach. One wants to believe there’s something in the message that might be relevant – that might provide an opportunity for learning or growth. However, the more the hate filled message is read, the harder it is to keep from getting angry in response. I guess I’m more like my children than I care to admit. Somebody hurls an insult my way and I get my feelings hurt and begin to respond back in kind – at least mentally (you know, where the voices of all my characters live. They have a heyday responding to flaming reviews).
In the end, I guess I respond to all my reviews the same way. If it’s possible, I respond to the person who took the time to write a message and I thank them for their feedback. I let them know how much I appreciate their words, and how much it means to hear back from people. If their comments were given in a kind way, I try very hard to respond in kind. Especially since I can now see how these kinds of notes have really helped me over the years.
And if they have elected to toss out insult after insult…
Dear Reader,
Thank you for taking the time to write such a colorful response to my story. It was very helpful to read something that had not been proofread ahead of time and was riddled with errors in punctuation and grammar so that I could learn what not to do when writing. Your challenges about the direction of the story were charming to read. As I created the very people you think are acting out of character, I can assure you they are behaving exactly as I intended them to. Should you wish to continue submitting reviews in this manner, please try to cut down on the profanities as my e-mail filter tends to block them out and it makes your writing seem disjointed and difficult to understand. I’m not entirely sure I could grasp everything you intended so I will have to assume you were thrilled with the story and loved everything about it.
If it were possible to spell the sound of a raspberry being blown, I’d probably use that as my closing salutation.
Hmmm, perhaps I’m a little more like my five year old than I care to admit.
Happy Reading!
“David, that’s wonderful, but look at your letter b, it’s pointing the wrong way so it looks like a d instead.”
“No it doesn’t,” he denied any wrong doing.
“Here, look,” I take the pencil and draw the letters the correct way. “See, that’s how it should look.”
“That’s what I did,” he continues to live in denial land. “You’re seeing it wrong.” (No, I’m not making that up, we literally had that exact exchange at which point I wondered how I’ll ever manage to keep a straight face as this kid grows up and says things that are wrong, but totally adorable all at the same time.)
Often when somebody gives me a review that my pacing was too slow, or the characters behaved in unbelievable ways, my first response is to deny it and explain exactly why they’re wrong and what I wrote was right. But, a couple of years ago, I started a folder in my e-mail to keep all the more critical reviews I receive. I go back to it every so often and review it. Darn it all if in many of the cases, I end up agreeing with the suggestions or critiques.
When I began writing I had no clue what I was doing. I was an accountant with no experience at all with weaving words, plots and characters. In listening to the people who were kind enough to read what I’d written, I have managed to learn all kinds of things. In addition to being blessed with an excellent and very patient editor, the comments from readers – the good, the bad and the ugly – have helped me grow. (Please be advised, that the writer would like to believe her ability to write has developed over the years, and would appreciate it if anyone who disagrees with this claim would keep that opinion to themselves.)
Of course this is assuming the negative review was written in a way that was helpful or at the very least polite in its critique. There are the very occasional flames…those messages that come across so filled with venom and negativity it’s hard to understand why they bothered to finish reading the story because of all the horrible things they have to say about it. Those are a little harder to stomach. One wants to believe there’s something in the message that might be relevant – that might provide an opportunity for learning or growth. However, the more the hate filled message is read, the harder it is to keep from getting angry in response. I guess I’m more like my children than I care to admit. Somebody hurls an insult my way and I get my feelings hurt and begin to respond back in kind – at least mentally (you know, where the voices of all my characters live. They have a heyday responding to flaming reviews).
In the end, I guess I respond to all my reviews the same way. If it’s possible, I respond to the person who took the time to write a message and I thank them for their feedback. I let them know how much I appreciate their words, and how much it means to hear back from people. If their comments were given in a kind way, I try very hard to respond in kind. Especially since I can now see how these kinds of notes have really helped me over the years.
And if they have elected to toss out insult after insult…
Dear Reader,
Thank you for taking the time to write such a colorful response to my story. It was very helpful to read something that had not been proofread ahead of time and was riddled with errors in punctuation and grammar so that I could learn what not to do when writing. Your challenges about the direction of the story were charming to read. As I created the very people you think are acting out of character, I can assure you they are behaving exactly as I intended them to. Should you wish to continue submitting reviews in this manner, please try to cut down on the profanities as my e-mail filter tends to block them out and it makes your writing seem disjointed and difficult to understand. I’m not entirely sure I could grasp everything you intended so I will have to assume you were thrilled with the story and loved everything about it.
If it were possible to spell the sound of a raspberry being blown, I’d probably use that as my closing salutation.
Hmmm, perhaps I’m a little more like my five year old than I care to admit.
Happy Reading!
