We Don't Always Get What We Want

At the risk of ruining my reputation as a dilettante, for purposes of this story, this story that has had me in tears all week, I have to confess that I have been using my Crock-Pot a lot lately. (It is a Crock-Pot because it is older than Kristen and that’s what slow cookers were called over a quarter of a century ago.) Cooking dinner when I’m tired at the end of the day? Blech. So, in the morning before I get all distracted reading blogs when I’m more energetic, I throw some chicken, vegetables, and spices depending upon my mood (lemon and garlic for Greek, curry for Indian, tomato and basil for Italian, etc.) into my Crock-Pot. In the evening, I rip open a bag of lettuce and toss it with some salad dressing. Voilà! Dinner is served.

Anywho.

Moving right along to what's had me in tears all week.

The Scholastic Book Fair was at Laura’s school last week, in the auditorium. On Monday, grandparents were specially invited. Cookies were served. On another day, dads were specially invited. Donuts were served. On still another day, moms were specially invited. Muffins were served. And so forth. All of these visits accompanied by treats were to promote sales and raise money for the school. Et cetera.

On Wednesday, Laura’s class was scheduled to visit during school hours. On Wednesday morning at drop off, I asked Laura if she needed a little money for the book fair visit with her class that day. She patted a little bulge in the pocket of her shorts and said that she’d brought her own money. I was pleasantly surprised, even a little proud that she did not ask us to buy her more books, and took responsibility to remember to bring her own money. I asked her how much she brought, and she patted her pocket again and said, “Twenty dollars.”

“Should you put your money in your backpack until it is time to go to the book fair? You know, so it doesn’t fall out of your pocket?”

“No, Mom, it’s fine in my pocket,” Laura replied.

Losing twenty dollars would be an expensive lesson. But it was her money, and she had taken responsibility for it. I released the outcome to the universe. I kissed her goodbye with the hope that her money would indeed be fine in her pocket.

That’s what I hoped for when I kissed her goodbye.

When I picked Laura up from school, she bounded out of the gate to greet me with a gigantic grin plastered across her face.

“Guess what I bought at the book fair?” she asked, wiggling with excitement.

“What?” I replied.

She reached into her backpack and pulled out a Crock-Pot recipe book. She held it out to me.



“Mommy, I just knew you’d really like this!” she said.

Her eyes were shining as bright as her smile.

My eyes were filled with tears.

“Laura, it is perfect. I love this. I really love this!” I told her.

The book cost $12.

“Honey, did you get anything for yourself?” I asked, choked up with emotion.

“Oh, yes! I bought myself a pencil to use at school. It’s in my desk!” she said happily.

“Where’s your change?” I asked.

Laura said, cheerfully, “B and C didn’t have money, so I gave B my five dollar bill and I gave C two dollars and change.”

Her eyes were shining as bright as her smile.

My eyes were filled with tears.

When I left Laura at school on Wednesday morning, I had hoped that she wouldn’t learn a lesson about money the hard way.

I got more, so much more, than I’d hoped for.

Homeopathic Remedies: Don't Try Them at Home

Did you ever have one of those days when your kid doesn't feel well, but wants to go to school just for math and then come home?

Probably not, right?

Did you ever pick up your child after math and give her a homeopathic remedy, and while you think she is watching television and playing with Polly dolls quietly in your bed, you even write a blog post about the math and the homeopathic remedy?

Still not?

So, then . . . I bet none of these scenarios would have happened to you either:


Scenario I

You looked up from your laptop and asked your child why she put your pillow on the floor.


Your child said, "That's where I spilled my glass of water." Then you said, "The entire glass?" And then she said, "Don't worry, the pillow will soak it up."


Scenario II

You looked up from your laptop and asked, "Why is there a rubbery black spider on my ceiling?" Then your child said, "I threw it up in the air and it stuck to the ceiling. Heehee."


So, you went to get the broom. Your child got all excited and said, "Let me do it! Let me get it down!" You replied, "No way. I don't want you making a black mark on the ceiling with the end of the broom." Your child said, "I'll be careful. I can do it." You replied, "Stand back."


Mindful of the black handle on the end of the broom, you whisked at the spider with the bristled end and melded the spider's rubbery black corpse into the ceiling.


So then you went for the ladder. Your child wanted to climb up the ladder to get the spider down because that would be fun. But watching television on the ladder was more fun. Also, it was pretty much impossible for your child to reach the rubbery spider.


So, you climbed up the ladder, pulled the spider down, and noticed a greasy stain with black rubbery spider residue exactly where you'd previously smashed the black rubbery spider into the ceiling with the broom.


Naturally, you moistened a soft cloth with warm water to wipe the greasy black rubbery spider stain with residue, and removed paint from your ceiling. The greasy stain with black rubbery spider residue is still there.



Scenario III

Later that night, you put away your laptop, climbed into bed, and something hard poked you in the butt (not that, gosh, your husband was still in the bathroom). You pulled back the comforter to find a popcorn cart between the sheets.


No? Not one of these scenarios has ever happened to you? Then if your child is not feeling well, clearly you pay attention to your child should try math followed by a homeopathic remedy.

No More Tangles

It's PROMPTuesday #47: The Triumvirate over at San Diego Momma. Here at Blog This Mom! it is PROMPTERTuesday, which means it is Monday. Deb's early post this week coincided nicely with Laura going to bed early tonight, enabling me to write unfettered by the typical weeknight distractions of raising a nine-year-old girl.

Deb's prompt: Use in a story/poem: a skein of red yarn, a comb and a bottle of water.


No More Tangles

Aunt Pat refilled the empty bottle of Johnson’s No More Tangles with tap water from the bathroom faucet. She sprayed some on Tay-yay’s hair and began to comb out the knots. Tay-yay did not complain when Aunt Pat pulled too hard. Aunt Pat chattered away and took notice of the overall condition of Tay-yay's hair, clothing, and general appearance. Aunt Pat’s indirect observations about Tay-yay’s mother were more critical than the concern she was feigning, even to an eight-year-old’s ears, but Tay-yay was tempted to join in the criticism just to have Aunt Pat’s approval and attention.

When Tay-yay’s hair had been combed, Aunt Pat let her put on the flannel nightgown that looked a lot like the one that Karen Dotrice wore in the Mary Poppins movie. Tay-yay really wanted to be Jane Banks, with a nanny and a mother who were happy women and co-conspirators, and who at once outsmarted and dearly loved Mr. Banks. Aunt Pat and Tay-yay moved from the bathroom into the living room. Seated on the floral print sofa, Aunt Pat pulled out her knitting bag and handed Tay-yay her pair of needles, which were stuck into a small skein of red yarn.

“Has your mother taught you how to cast on or off?” asked Aunt Pat. Tay-yay replied, “She taught me to knit and purl.” “Well, you need to be able to cast on and off, too,” said Aunt Pat. “I’m surprised you didn’t learn that first,” she added with knitted brow. “I just like the knitting and purling,” said Tay-yay. “Mommy will show me how to cast off if I ask her.” Aunt Pat clicked her tongue. “I’ll show you how to do it when you’re ready,” said Aunt Pat. Tay-yay bent her head down and looked intently at the red yarn.

“What are you knitting, anyway?” asked Aunt Pat. “A potholder for my mother,” answered Tay-yay. Aunt Pat’s brow knit again. “Huh. Does your mother cook very often? I didn’t think that she did.” Tay-yay looked up and replied, “My mother is a good cook.” Tay-yay expertly took in the look of displeasure on Aunt Pat’s face and added, “She doesn’t cook as well you do, Aunt Pat.” When Aunt Pat beamed, Tay-yay looked down again and felt a sharp stab of guilt. She tried to knit and purl with greater care so that the potholder would turn out especially nice.

You Just Have to Ask the Right Question

Laura: “Have you ever heard of a teacher giving someone a B+ on a paper when it would have gotten an A, except that the student used three-hole-punched paper? Why would a teacher lower the grade of an essay just because it wasn’t on the correct paper?”

Mom: “Maybe the teacher partly grades on the content of the paper, and partly on following instructions.”

Laura: “But the instructions didn’t say what type of paper to use.”

Mom: “Then how do you know the grade was lowered because of the kind of paper used?”

Laura: “The teacher said it was a B+ instead of an A because it was written on three-hole-punched paper.”

Mom: “If the instructions weren’t written on the assignment she handed out, did the teacher say to use a certain paper when she handed it out?”

Laura: “No.”

Mom: “Well, teachers usually have reasons for these things. Does the teacher have a particular type of paper that is typically used in class for writing assignments that isn’t three-hole punched?”

Laura: “No.”

Mom: “What kind of paper was supposed to be used?

Laura: “I don’t know.”

Mom: “Well, did you ask your teacher?”

Laura: “Mom, this didn’t happen with my teacher, it happened on iCarly.”

Mom: [*hangs head*]

Dear Rihanna

Today is San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #46: Humility.

Deb's prompt:

Write a story about when you last were humbled, felt humbled by the presence of something/someone in your life, or lay prostrate at the feet of the universe and said “I don’t know what the hell I am doing. I will now relinquish control and let you take over.”

Dear Rihanna,

Over twenty years ago, I sat in a police station. I was alone. I had no parents to call. No safe place to go. I had two small children I was supposed to protect. I was terrified.

I'd been in that police station before. The reason was darker now.

When all of the necessary questions had been answered, words had been put to paper, and the story had been laid bare, a young officer looked into my eyes. With a voice as direct and as gentle as were his eyes, he simply said, "Don't go back."

I looked back at him, and for a long moment that has stayed fresh in my mind for over twenty years, our eyes held.

I thought, "Why is he telling me not to go back. Of course, I won't go back."

Then I remembered that I had gone back before. Over and over again. I'd gone back.

So, I thought, "I went back before, but now I have children. Of course, I won't go back."

Then I remembered that my mother had three children, and she went back. Over and over again. She went back. She's still there, last I heard.

I told the officer that I wouldn't go back. He'd probably heard that before, but he didn't appear doubtful. I wondered later if he had been hopeful. I wondered if each time he said "Don't go back" to a woman he still had hope.

I didn't go back.

Over the next few years, I thought about that young officer. I remembered his name. I wondered if I should call him and tell him that his words had made an impact on me. I wondered. Over the next few years. From time to time.

Some more years went by. I graduated from law school and went to work for a downtown law firm. Another attorney at the firm became my friend. She'd graduated from the same law school that I had attended; I'd been in the full-time day program and she'd graduated one year ahead of me in the part-time evening program.

One day, I don't remember why now, she mentioned that a friend of hers had graduated number one in their law school class. She told me that while some went to law school part time and did not have day jobs (considered an advantage among evening students), this guy had worked days as a police officer, and still graduated number one in their class.

I'd never forgotten that officer's name, and, yes, he had graduated the year before I did from the same law school, number one in his class, while working full time.

I thought about the incredible odds that our paths had crossed again. Even if I hadn't know it when they were crossing, I found out that our paths had crossed again.

It seemed to me that was a sign that it was time to let him know that he had an impact on my life, and on my daughters' lives.

I tracked him down, and met with him in person. I told him that I did not go back. I told him all that he had communicated to me in that moment, and that I would remember it for the rest of my life.

I was given I gift. I thanked the man who gave it to me. Now I think it is time for me to pay it forward.

Rihanna, I understand why you went back. I did it too. I also know that if you don't leave, you'll be hurt again, no matter how sorry he seems to be now, no matter how much he seems to love you, and you him. Every woman who has been down that road knows this much is true. You are not alone. If you're one of the lucky ones, like I was once, you'll be able to leave again. And when you leave, don't go back.

Love, Cheri

Resources for Support

An Apple (of My Eye) a Day . . .

Laura isn't feeling very well, so I just picked her up from school. She insisted that I take her for the first hour because she didn't want to miss math.

I know.

I don't understand it either.

When we got home I was mixing a dropper of a homeopathic remedy into a glass of juice for her, and she caught me in the act.

Laura: "What is THAT?"

Me: "Don't worry, it's tasteless."

It disappeared as I stirred the light brown liquid into the unfiltered apple juice.

Laura: "It's seeless too."

Blog THIS Mom!

From time to time, bloggers blog about not blogging anymore. According to Technorati, 133 million blogs have been indexed since 2002 (not that I have the slightest clue what indexed means). However, only 1.5 million of those have posted in the last week. Letting go or taking breaks from blogging is obviously more common than not.

Thursday Yesterday This morning Sometimes I think about not blogging anymore, or making my blog private. I started it as a sort of journal, mostly to write up family stories and thoughts for my kids and extended family. So, then, why does anyone else need to read it? I almost made it private upon creation, but left it public because the only other blogger I knew had a public blog (Hi Sam!). In the beginning, my only readers were me, Sam, and Trish. But after I started discovering and regularly reading other blogs, some of those bloggers came over to read mine. It turns out that having readers and reading other blogs comes with unexpected fringe benefits. As if you didn’t know that.

Blogging provides a place to explore and practice our writing. You knew that too, huh? Well, how about this: It was the launching pad for my now well-developed tendency to overuse capital And and But, and annoy even myself with multiple exclamation points. I’ve also learned to spell, to wit: hawt, Gawd, and whatevah. I’ve learned some new vocabulary words, such as homance, and its counterpart, bromance. I’ve even learned that the spelling and use of these words is called “digitally hip.” The thing is, why resurrect trying to be hip from those days of yore in my youth? I wasn’t hip then either. That doesn’t mean, however, that I haven’t spelled and used these so-called digitally hip words myself. I find it amusing when someone else does, and have shown it in comments with a hearty Heh, LOL, or Bwahaha!

Another unexpected benefit of blogging has been the connections that I've made with other bloggers, locally and globally. Some I have even met in person. Speaking of people I know in person, reading the thoughts and experiences on the blogs of my close friends and family brings new depth to those relationships too. The bloggers I read remind me regularly in creative, talented, and topically varied ways of our shared human experience. Our shared human experience is beautiful, even when it gets messy.

Blogging connections are developed through shared communications. Bloggers post their thoughts, memories, experiences, feelings, and ideas. In the comment section, bloggers get and give each other feedback. The blogs I visit, and the bloggers who visit here, are typically very supportive of each other’s efforts. I can count on one hand the negative comments here. (I mean to distinguish a negative comment from one in which someone simply voices a differing viewpoint.) I suppose that is mainly because I don’t take on controversial topics very often, although I know someone who now looks the other way when I see her around town, fallout from my same-sex marriage posts. Oh well. Sometimes comments seen around the Blogosphere are downright mean-spirited, and often they come from an a-hole named Anonymous. Trish recently got one on a post she’d written two years ago. Anonymous said, “your a fucking retard 1 billion seconds ago it was 1959.” In addition to being a supreme a-hole for the retard remark alone, Anonymous has potty mouth, bad grammar, and poor math skills. By the way, Laura checked, and Trish’s math was correct.

On posts that provoke thought on social, political, and similar topics, discussions can be informative, healing, and/or passionate. Discussion is always a good thing, and if opinions differ, especially if they differ, it is an opportunity to learn from each other when ideas are shared respectfully. But sometimes, even with the best of intentions, posts or comments go awry. Tone and intent are two things that don’t always translate perfectly in comments. I’ve left comments accusing giveaway winners of cheating, never thinking anyone would take me seriously until someone did. I felt bad. I’m not a sore loser at all, and I’ve won lots of cool stuff myself. I could write a whole post about it.

On a blog that I have followed (back when follow was a verb rather than a widget) since day one of it, I read a recent post about poor (irresponsible? selfish?) financial decisions some guy made about the mortgage on his two-million-dollar house. The blogger asked readers to share their thoughts. I read the NY Times article she linked to hers that said the guy’s wife and daughter had since moved to Beirut, among other things related more to the substance of the article. I thought, “I guess his wife thought he made some bad financial decisions too.”

So I left a comment to that effect, only I have since realized that my comment wasn’t clear as to my intended meaning. My comment referenced Beirut specifically. Another commenter (whom I don’t know) said he didn’t like mine. The post author then said (in her comment section to that post) whether the guy moved to Beirut or Baltimore wasn’t pertinent. She was right about that, of course, but my comment was not intended in any way to have any sort of racist meaning. I would have thought the same thing and made the same comment if the guy’s wife bailed to Kauai or San Antonio or Manhattan. Following the post author’s comment, someone else (don’t know him either) said that my comment was “totally offensive and absurd.” I take responsibility for the effect of my words on someone else, whether the effect was intended or not. I offered an explanation and an apology. I told my friend that when I read her Beirut-Baltimore comment, I was particularly saddened because I thought she knew me better than that. She commented again saying that she wondered what I’d meant, and told me not to feel bad.

They say that if the heat is too hot, get out of the kitchen. Considering that advice and running with the metaphor, what is the source of heat in a kitchen? The stove and the oven, two sources of heat that provide nourishing and filling sustenance. Sometimes they provide delicious treats. Of course, there is the occasional cooking disaster too. I suppose that as long as we are mindful when handling what we’re dishing out, we ought not to get burned. When we aren’t mindful or find that the flame was higher than we’d realized, we can only hope to have a friend or three (Hi Kate, Jamie, and Trish!) standing by with cool water and maybe some ibuprofen.

So I’ve been thinking about not blogging or blogging less (although I only do it twice a week-ish as it is), and, if you’re still reading this God bless you. I haven’t been considering this just because the kitchen got too hot this week, but also because it might be time for me to stop thinking about what I want to do next in my life and start doing it, or make my peace that what I’m doing in my life now is enough, because it has been and it might be still. That’s a post for another day. Heh. In fact, as I was thinking about not blogging any more, I decided to blog about that. But before hitting “Publish” on this post, I went back and cleaned out the capital Ands, Buts, and multiple exclamation points. Well, most of them!!!

When Worlds Collide

My newly forming toenail got a hitch in its giddy up where hitch means pain and redness and pus (I mentioned the pus for Deb) and giddy up means why the frick can’t this toenail be normal already? So I was forced, yes, forced, to make an appointment with the hot foot doctor again. I know. And he had to remove another hunk or two of the newly forming toenail. (As a result of my superior bargaining skills, he left some of it behind this time.) I’m hoping the remainder hangs on for dear life, and that the rest grows back with no giddy-up hitches.

But enough about my toenail, you want to know more about the hot doctor. Am I right?

As I walked back to the torture chamber examination room with the hot doctor’s very nice assistant, she and I conversed.

Assistant: “Are you the one who wrote the article about your last visit?”

Me: "Huh?"

Assistant: "About when the doctor removed your toenail?"

And then it dawned on me what she was talking about.

Me [sheepishly]: “Oh. Um. Well. Uh. Yes, I did write something about that.”

Assistant: “It was really funny.”

Me: “Oh. Uh. Really? Oh. How did you, uh, find it?”

Assistant: “I don’t know. Someone printed it out. We all passed it around. Everyone thought it was funny.”

Me: “Oh. My. Well. Um. Okay. Uh. Thank you.”

So now I’m thinking, everyone? As in, did the hot doctor get a hold of it too? Frick.

Enter hot doctor. Crap. Way hotter than I first remembered. Way. And why is he smiling like that? Is he smiling like that? Or is it just me? Because hotter. Way.

I will spare you the medical details. Suffice it to say that the discussion (pedicures, Dexter, amputation), procedure (sharp metal instruments, syringes, iPhone), and gore (blood, pus hi Deb!, carnage) were pretty much the same as the last time, except that this time my legs were shaved. (I may or may not have also shaved those little hairs on my toes too. I'm not saying.)

All the while I was wondering whether the hot doctor had read that earlier post, you know, that someone had printed and passed around the office.

Then I was all bandaged up and ready to hop go home.

Hot Doctor: “Do you have any questions?”

Me: “No, no, I don’t think so.”

Hot Doctor: “Well, if you do, be sure to call me. I don’t know how to find your blog.”

And he was smiling that way.

Jesus, Jason & Kate

Throughout the Bible there are chapters, parables, and verses about strangers in need. In the Old Testament, stories unambiguously assert that we are to care for the poor and extend hospitality to strangers. In the New Testament, for example, we learn about the Good Samaritan who meets the needs of a wounded stranger on the road. Jesus tells us that what we do for the least of these, we do for him. I think the biblical message is clear that it is not up to us to question or judge, but to give freely, albeit responsibly, to each other. Determining what means “responsibly” to each of us is a worthy pursuit.

Recently Jason of The Jason Show asked his readers to do just that. Jason shared about an encounter that he had with a homeless woman outside of a restaurant. He asked for reactions, and it was interesting to read how others view and handle encounters with needy strangers. I was reminded of an encounter I had many years ago with a homeless woman outside of an L.A. grocery store during which she spat on my windshield and frightened my oldest daughter, who was eight or nine at that time. For a while after that encounter, I turned my head from anyone who begged for money. But somewhere down the road I realized that the woman who spat on my windshield was probably more in need of help than someone who would wait for me to get my child into the car and get out my wallet.

Last month, as my husband and I were leaving a restaurant after lunch on his birthday, a woman approached me and asked for money. I reached into my wallet and gave her the small amount of cash that I had. When we got into the car, Tom asked me to be careful in the future. He didn’t ask me to stop giving strangers money, but he said that he worried that I might be harmed or robbed if I pulled my wallet out for a stranger. I assured him that I always take my surroundings (day or night, secluded or public location, etc.) into consideration before pulling out my wallet, but that safety is my only consideration, not whether the person is scamming me or truly needy. I told Tom that I figure if a person asks for help, the person needs help.

So last week on my way to meet my wife for coffee, I stopped for gas. Kate and I had previously emailed back and forth about Jason’s post and our thoughts on giving to someone who asks for help. You see, my wife is one of the most trusting, loving, and beautiful spirits on Earth. So, while some people might call her manner of giving irresponsible, I think Jesus would totally dig on the woman with the superior ponytail who gives the homeless guy in her neighborhood $20 bills. As I finished filling my tank, imagine my surprise when a man exited a brand-new Jeep parked near the pumps, approached wearing a nice Adidas warm-up suit, and asked me for money. He apologized, pointed to the Jeep (still with a sticker on the window), and said, “Yes, that is my car. I’m having a hard time and I really need help today. Could you manage just a little money?” I reached into my wallet (it was broad daylight and at a busy gas station) and handed the guy five dollars. He thanked me profusely, said God bless you, and got back into that brand-new Jeep.

I drove across the street and there was my wife waiting in the parking lot outside of the coffee place. I told Kate what had just happened, and said that if ever my intention to give to people who ask without question as to motive or need was to be tested, today was it. She laughed, agreed, and then added, “I bet you only gave him money because you were hoping to get good Internet karma.” I laughed and said, “I only gave him money because I was pretty sure you were lurking with a hidden camera.”

I don't know what you all make of the guy in the brand-new Jeep. But as for me? If the recent lessons from Jason and Kate weren't on my mind, I might have been tempted to ignore the one from Jesus.