I Hate Eggnog

I hate eggnog. Fight me. But, I really don’t like it. Add it to my list of foods I don’t like that makes me a weirdo: wraps (or anything that involves a cold tortilla), fried chicken, and hash browns (not counting the ones from McDonalds, which I’m pretty sure are just fried in grease and unicorn tears. Those are delicious.) I digress.

I hate eggnog. I think it’s the consistency. It’s like it doesn’t quite know what it wants to be. Am I a liquid? Am I a solid? I don’t know.

But, you know who loves eggnog? My kids. They guzzle that stuff down like it’s… well, I’m not even sure how to complete that sentence.

So, you know, it’s approaching Christmas. And I had one of my Brilliant Mom Ideas. (Spoiler alert: these are ideas that seem great at the time but turn out to be truly terrible. Learn from my mistakes, people. That’s what I’m here for.) It was Thanksgiving Day and I said to myself, you know, the kids love eggnog. Why not make them some from scratch?

Going into this, you should know a few things about me. First, I’m no Martha Stewart. I’ve burned water before people, just ask my mom. Second, I’ve never before made egg nog.

Enter Google. Google leads me to a lovely (non-alcoholic) recipe for homemade eggnog. I decide to give it a whirl. How hard can it be? Famous last words.

Step one: I combine the eggs and the sugar into my stand mixer and let them go to town with the whole whipping them up thing.

Step two: I mix the cream and milk into a saucepan and start heating them to “just a simmer.”

Step three: I stand there waiting for the eggs & sugar to get all foamy and for the milk to simmer. It’s still not simmering. It’s still not foaming.

Step four: I start some laundry.

Step five: What’s that sound in the kitchen? Oh no! My milk is at a mad boil and has overflown and is now bubbling into the burner. Turn off the burner.

Step six: Slowly add spoonfuls of scalded milk mixture to the egg mixture. This is taking forever.

Step seven: Rinse out the lovely crystal punch bowl I’ve had on Marketplace for weeks now that no one is interested in. I’ve never used it. Why not today? It’s Thanksgiving. It’s a special treat for my kids. Why not?

Step eight: Pour the eggnog into the crystal punch bowl and set outside to cool. (Thank God for Alaska winter outdoor coolers, otherwise known as back porches.)

Step nine: Forget completely about the eggnog until dinner is almost over and I happen to catch a glimpse of it on the deck out of the corner of my eye.

Step ten: I offer it to my children, using the fancy ladle, and pouring it into the china we never use. (Side bar: the china also has a pretty metallic rim, which I forgot about and nearly started a kitchen fire when I went to reheat my coffee in the microwave.)

Step eleven: Forget completely about the eggnog for the next few days as it sits untouched by my family on the back porch after the kids took one sip and complained it was “lumpy” and they didn’t like it.

Step twelve: Just buy it next time.

When Did I Get So Boring?

Recently, I was asked what I do for fun. What do I look forward to? Seems like a simple enough question. That is, until I tried to answer it. I came up embarrassingly blank. I mean, I think I remember having fun. You know, when I was younger. I know I am capable of it. In the moment. But, if I had to manufacture it for myself. Um, yeah. I’m still drawing a blank.

This past weekend, I hosted a teenager retreat. There were 17 of us. In one cabin. Yes, I guess that does make me a little crazy. The thing is, I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time. Do you remember what it was like to be a teenager? You didn’t have to worry about what you were making for dinner that night or whether the bills were paid. I mean, yeah, there was that whole nagging, “What am I going to do with the rest of my life?” question that every adult seemed to be throwing at you as if you were some game of Life target practice. But, besides that and crushing homework and college applications, life was pretty breezy. Right? Okay, so yeah, looking back, I can recall the days when my left eye used to twitch involuntarily while I was stressing over finals and SATs. But, I do remember laughing. A lot.

I remember laughing so much as a teenager that my face hurt. I remember laughing so hard, I was pretty sure I was going to barf. What led to all that laughter? The willingness to do some pretty stupid stuff. Things like: trying to answer the seemingly very important questions of life like, “Can you poop while standing up?”, or “Can I chug this entire gallon of milk without throwing up?”, or “How many Drumsticks is too many Drumsticks?” Okay, again, looking back, these all seem to involve multiple visits to the bathroom. But, still. Laughter. Lots and lots of laughter. Oh, and not to leave you hanging: the answers to those all so important questions are: yes, no, and three. You’re welcome.

Maybe it’s because I’m about to turn 40 in less than a month. Okay, 28 days. But, who’s counting… Maybe it’s because this milestone of a birthday is lingering in the not-so-distant future, that I’m dwelling on my past. But, you know what? I want more of that carefree laughter. I want more ridiculous questions to answer instead of the ones that us nearly 40 year olds find ourselves Googling. You know. The ones like, “Is this mole cancer?” Or, “Does ovulation make you cranky?” These questions do not lead to uncontrollable bouts of laughter. No, they lead to scheduling appointments with a dermatologist and your OBGYN.

And speaking of doctors!!!! Why is the answer to everything at any appointment these days, “Well, you are of a certain age.” 39 is NOT a certain age! Am I an old heffer put out to pasture? Can’t lose weight like you used to? It’s because you’re almost 40. Cry at commercials now? It’s because you’re almost 40. Sun spots are suddenly staking claim to your skin? Yep. You guessed it. You’re almost 40. You forget the names for things – simple words like, “spoon.” Yeah, well, I forget where I was headed with that.

You know what happens when you’re almost 40? You start acting old. At that retreat I was telling you about with the teenagers… they asked me what games I had on my phone. None. I have no freaking games. I started to list off what I do have: Facebook (the mark of an old person, apparently), a banking app (yawn), a period tracking app (thrilling!), and the nail in the coffin… a blood pressure app. Hey kids, wanna play “How low is my diastolic?”

So, I guess what I’m saying here is, I think I forgot how to have fun. Just like how I forget what I’m doing when I’m cleaning my house, always ending back up in the kitchen with no clue as to why I’m there and then suddenly remembering I was doing laundry and about 10 other tasks that I started and forgot about. Hmm. Forgetfulness. I’m sensing a theme here. Or at least another Google search.

Well, you know what? I’m going to put a stop to this fun-time dry spell. Here’s what I want for my 40th birthday: 40 fun times. I want to go do 40 fun things over the next year that make me laugh. I want to laugh so hard I wet myself, which at my age and having given birth to three children might not actually be that hard. But, you know what I mean. I want to have fun again.

I’m reading this book right now. It talks about how we have to make our own futures. We can’t just sit around moaning about what a crap hand we’ve been dealt. (Quick side bar: I do NOT believe I have been dealt a crap hand. I have a wonderful husband, great kids who DO make me laugh – I mean, have you read my blog?? and some pretty amazing friends.) We have to make our own changes. We have to take control of what we can and take a stab at the future we want. Don’t actually stab anything though. I’m pretty sure the only future you’d land yourself is in a prison cell.

My future needs more laughter. And I need some help. Send me your silly ideas. What kinds of fun things can I get myself into this year? What will lead to outright laughter? What can I do to burrow out of boring? And please don’t suggest pooping standing up. Been there. Done that.

Is That Poop in my Pocket?

So, my dog is what one might call… incontinent. I mean, it’s with good reason. She’s 17 years old. In dog years, that’s like 119. If I live to be 119, I’m fairly certain I’ll have issues “holding it” too.

Tiggy – our incontinent doggy – was a pound puppy. The people at the pound’s best guess was that she is half rat terrier, half wire-haired poodle. 17 years later, she is still 100% spunky. For example, she thinks she’s the Alpha in the relationship with our full-sized poodle. If he even gets near the food bowl, Tiggy is right there to set him straight with a series of loud barks.

Over the last few months, Tiggy has started leaving nuggets around the house. On good day, she’ll hop up (or as much as one can “hop” at 119 years old) and head to the door, leaving a trail of nuggets behind her. Other days, she’ll wake up with nuggets in the doggy bed with her. And I kid you not, she looks appalled/outraged, like “What kind of sicko would do this in my bed?!”

In the last couple of weeks, she’s seemed to start having trouble holding other things, too. We’re often scrubbing little puddles out of the carpet. This morning was one of those days. I had just finished scrubbing a puddle of piddle. I told her it was time to go outside. (She prefers not to do that when it is rainy or snowy. Today is definitely snowy.) I picked her up from her bed and carried her towards the door. She was squirming in my arms, so I didn’t stop to get a coat. I was wearing my husband’s oversized hoodie, perfect for a quick step outside when the snow is falling. When I got outside, I set Tiggy down in the snow to do her business. I texted my husband, and then slipped my phone in my pocket. I’m standing there and I get this very strong whiff of poop. Now, this was kind of the point of our outside time. Not that I smelt it, but that she would have dealt it. I’m looking all around me in the fresh white snow for any evidence and I see nothing. I turn around and Tiggy is already headed to the porch to go back inside. But, I can for sure smell poop. And I can’t find it. (Parents, you’ve undoubtedly had this experience with a toddler at some point, so you know the fear beginning to rise in my chest.) I check around me: nope. I check the bottom of my shoes: no poop. And as I am preparing to give up on my poop-quest, I reach my hand in my hoodie pocket to grab my phone and instead of phone, I was greeted with a warm nugget. WHAT THE HECK?! Yes, indeed. There was poop in my pocket. I flung it out with some force and grabbed my phone out of there. There were some words said… use your imagination. And then I went inside to undress. That’s when I found it. Y’all, there was more poop in the pocket. A few nuggets, in fact. At this point, once your hand has already been tainted, you just start picking it up, dignity aside. I de-pooped my husband’s hoodie (sorry, baby!) and threw it directly in the wash. And then I wiped down my phone. (Can you boil your phone in Lysol? Is that ill-advised?)

You guys, I’ve said before that I think my dog is out to get me. But this? This is… a real stinker.

 

The Time I Microwaved My Placenta

Remember when you were pregnant and they had all these things you could do to prepare for the future? If you were like me, you were inundated with ads telling me to buy a life insurance policy for my baby, or start a college savings plan for them, or store their cord blood, or turn my placenta into pills to help me through menopause. That last one threw you? Yeah, okay, I hadn’t heard of it either until my last baby (that was almost 9 years ago!)

My first two kids were born in a hospital. Typical scene: plugged into the monitors, stuck in the bed. And then, with my third, we decided to go a different route. I went with a midwife and while I was too chicken to have my baby at home, I had him – all nine pounds of him – au naturel – at a birthing center. In the months prior to his birth, the midwives presented me with reading and topics I’d never thought about: hypnobirthing, birth stools, oils for your lady business, and what to do with your placenta.

At the hospital, it was a no-brainer. The placenta went in the trash. Or those bio-hazard bags and then to the trash. Whatever. But, at the midwifery, I decided to keep it. (Now, quick side bar: when I worked in TV news, there was a reporter who had a mole removed and he kept it in a jar in his desk. He. Kept. His. Mole. In. A. Jar. In. His. Desk. So, I was a tad apprehensive/skeeved out about keeping my placenta.) After I had my bundle of joy, they sent me home with this blue plastic bag containing my placenta. We weren’t really sure what to do with it. I mean, I’d researched dehydrating it and turning it into pills. But, I wasn’t sure exactly how one did that. Do you put it in like beef jerky? Turns out, there’s a lady who does it. There’s always somebody, y’all.

So… the placenta stayed in the freezer. Through one divorce and through two houses. I can’t tell you how many times I sent someone to the freezer to bring in meat for dinner and they’d come back with that bag and I was like, “NOOOOOOOO! Put it back! NOT THE BLUE BAG!”

Fast forward a few years and we decide to plant a cherry tree in the front yard of our new home. And I get a Brilliant Mom Idea: let’s plant it with the placenta! I’m not a total weirdo. This is a thing. Parenting.com has a story all about it. So we decide to plant the tree with the placenta at the bottom. The only problem? The blue bag is still in the freezer. What should we do? Not to be thwarted from my Brilliant Mom Idea, I threw it in the microwave under the “defrost” setting. You guys, looking back, this was probably a bad idea. Have you ever thawed – or even cooked – freezer burnt meat? It has, um, a smell to it. And that smell quickly permeated my entire house. Once it was “done,” (I’m not even sure how to tell if a placenta is properly thawed, ok? It’s not exactly in the microwave manual.) I took it out to the yard – blue bag and all – gagging all the way. Whatever you are imagining regarding the smell – make it ten times worse. Imagine whatever you are imagining and then have it roll in something rotting in the backyard for a while.

What I imagined as this beautiful thing – this “tree of life” planting moment –  turned into me rushing towards the hole as quickly as I could, unwrapping 3-year-old placenta and chucking it as fast as possible into a dirt pile and slamming the tree down on top. It was…. memorable.

Six years later, the tree… the one planted over my son’s stinky, microwaved placenta… is still there. Now, I’d like to say it’s grown into a massive and beautiful thing. But, not so much. It’s still standing, but it’s nothing majestic to behold. I guess the lesson here is…. don’t try to make a recipe with freezer burnt meat.

The Trouble with To Do Lists

Are you working from a to do list today? I am. And I know better. You see, the thing is, I have a lot of to do lists. In fact, from where I am sitting, I can see six. Yes, six. Six to do lists! (For some reason, I felt compelled to read that in my Count Dracula voice, circa Sesame Street of my younger years. “Six! Six to do lists! Ah. Ah. Ah!”)

 

One of my many to do lists.

I create these lists and it makes me feel better, for a lot of reasons. One, as my kids constantly point out, I am getting old and I forget stuff. So, writing it down takes it out of my brain and frees up brain cells for other important things. You know, like remembering every verse and chorus of the Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme song. Two, I get to cross stuff off! Oh yeah. That makes my inner gold-star girl smile. Heck, sometimes I just add stuff to my to do list that I have already done, just so I can cross it off. Yes, I’m a nerd. Get over it. Three, I get to look back at what I’ve accomplished and feel good about what I’ve done that day.

But… it turns out to do lists make me feel horrible, for a lot of reasons. One, I never, ever, ever get everything done. And that gold star girl? Yeah, she’s crying in her room right now. Two, just because I get stuff done doesn’t mean anyone else saw it and is going to congratulate me. “Look at you! You scrubbed the toilet AND vacuumed today?! Whoa! What are you? Some kind of rock star?!” Three, there will always be another list. (Refer to reason 1.)

A few months ago, I decided to make one master list. I have this app on my phone where my husband and I can share a shopping list. Well, it has this other nifty feature where you can also create a to do list. So, I did it. I took all my lists and put them into one mega list. I brain dumped everything there. All of it. No more lists written on the back of junk mail. No scribbled on post it notes. It was glorious. Until… I went to open the list in the app. And IT WAS GONE. The entire list was MIA. I had nothing. I mean, I threw those other lists away! And the good Lord knows I no longer had that information in my brain. I mean how can, “take meat out of freezer” compete with, “Nowwww, this is the story all about how my life got flipped-turned upside down. I’d like to take a minute, just sit right  there and I’ll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bel Air.” I was devastated. I was terrified. And that little gold-star girl? Yeah, she ran away from home.

But, you know what happened? Nothing. That’s right. The world didn’t come crashing down. Life as I know it did not implode. Sure, I probably didn’t do some stuff that I had intended to do. OH WELL! I think The Day of the Lost To Do List was an awakening. It was God saying, “GIVE IT UP! Get over yourself. You might have a list, but I have bigger plans for you.”  It was a moment of allowed release. I could just let it go. And nothing bad happened.

Now, I’d like to say that sparkling realization – that divine clarity – magically changed my life. But, as I said at the beginning of this rant, I can see six to do lists from where I sit. Actually, make that eight. I spotted two more while I was writing this.

Here’s the thing I DID take away from that experience: my to do list does not define me. Whether or not I crossed off everything on my list that day doesn’t make the day good or bad. It shouldn’t make that gold-star girl cry or rejoice. It’s just a list. Life isn’t mean to just check things off. Heck, “Thou Shall Get Things Done” isn’t even a commandment.

There will always be more things to do. More lists, more tasks that require our attention. And that’s okay. But do this one thing for me. Maybe it’ll help me remember to do this for myself. Don’t put your self-worth in a post-it. You are so much more than that. And if you just can’t stop yourself and you have to keep a list (Yeah, guilty here, too.) add one more thing: Get up and do something fun. Even if that gold-star girl gives you the stink eye.

To One Day Poop in Peace

There is a dream held by mothers out there. I’d say fathers, too, but I feel like this phenomenon mainly happens to moms. The dream is to one day poop in peace. I’ve heard murmurs, whispers among older parents, who speak in hushed voices about the days to come. Empty nesters who know what life is like to poop in peace.
Last night, not one, not two, but all three of the kids came a knocking at my bathroom door.
“MOM! (insert tattling on sibling here.)
“I’m in the bathroom.”
Then child two, “MOM, do you know that…. (insert factoid about something said child is interested in)”
“I’ll be out in a moment.”
“Mama, I want to read you something!” says child three.
“Please. I just want to go to the bathroom. By myself.”
“But mama, I want to talk to you privately.”
“I’m in the bathroom.”
“Okay, I’ll wait.” (Sound of the bed squeaking as he climbs on top to get comfortable in order to wait for me doing my business.)

One day, moms, our dreams will come true. We’ll poop in peace and, who knows, we might even be sad about it and miss all those interruptions. (But, probably not for long.)

*Editors note, I actually wrote this in 2015, but forgot to publish it! But, don’t you worry, I still have yet to poop in peace.

Pillow Fight

Not to dash any dreams, but this post is not about scantily clad teens jumping on their beds, smashing each other with pillows. Just wanted to make sure of our expectations before going any further.

We just had to have a family meeting over pillows. Freaking pillows, people. My kids began an epic battle at bedtime. A lot of fingers were pointed. There was some raising of voices. I think one of them might have even whispered a curse under their breath at another. Not an F bomb or swear word, mind you, an actual curse of the, “May you awake with a spotted pinky toe” variety.

It all began when my 12-year-old decided to make his bed. (This, in itself, could be a momentous post.) He has a boy scout getaway weekend and I told him he wouldn’t be going if he didn’t clean his room. It was, hmmm… out of control? Gross? Ridiculous? An episode of “Hoarders?” I’m not really sure what is the best way to describe it. It was not clean, in a way that a room can only become by having two boys under the age of 13 living in it. I digress. I came home and to my surprise, he’d actually cleaned his room. He pointed out, rather proudly, that he’d even made his bed with the new bedspread and sheets we’d bought him. (He’s apparently too old for Superman sheets and wanted a more “mature” look.) I was impressed. And, sadly, that feeling only lasted a couple of hours.

Just before bedtime, we began to hear a lot of shouting and righteous indignation coming from down the hall. Apparently, in the room cleaning, my youngest son had lost his pillow. And by “lost,” I mean his siblings stole it.  His pillow had been replaced with one of those oversized pillows people use to prop themselves up with on a day bed. After an interrogation fitting of “The Closer,” we finally got out some version of the truth. The two older siblings turned on each other, each eager to get the better deal from the D.A. or, in this case, the  D.A.D. The victim, meanwhile, hid it out in his room.

From what we discovered, it seems that while my older son was making his bed, he employed the help of his big sister. She pointed out that her brothers had multiple pillows and she had no pillow. (During her testimony, she repeatedly stated, “I’ve been sleeping on a cat!” (It’s a cat pillow and she’s never complained until now. She even had a  couple real pillows, but always rejected them for the cat.)) So, if what her brother says is to be believed, she took her youngest brother’s pillow and replaced it with the day bed pillow from her other brother’s bed.

I’m not sure if the older two thought no one would notice, or what, but our youngest most certainly did. We tried explaining the situation to them. You don’t take what’s not yours. If it were $1 instead of a pillow, you could more easily see the problem.

Gah! You all have pillows. Use the pillow. Sleep with the pillow. Don’t take your brother’s pillow. The end!

I can tell you with confidence, this scenario never, ever presented itself when I played house and imagined having kids when I was little.

The Outhouse Incident

My brother and his family are up visiting from Michigan. It’s been nice. He and his wife and five of their six kids snuggled into our cabin with the five of us and our mom. Lots of beds and zero working bathrooms. The outhouse has been busy.

My husband and I are constantly messing with visitors regarding the outhouse.

“Did you remember to flush?”

“Who clogged the toilet?!”

Things along those lines. In our outhouse, we have a slew of hand sanitizers, feminine products and toilet paper rolls, which we jokingly store on the handle of a plunger. We also have one more item, an item my brother discovered on the second day of his visit.

He had been outside with his daughter. She had complained it was kinda stinky in the outhouse. (Hey, you have 13 people using one outhouse for a few days, it’s bound to be a bit ripe.) So, my big brother thought he’d be helpful and spray some air freshener he saw on the shelf next to the hand sanitizer. (The can on the far left.)

He tried pushing the nozzle to spray it, but it wouldn’t budge. He tried again, pushing the handle even harder. This time, a safety clip came shooting off and the can began forcefully spraying all over the outhouse. About the moment the safety clip shot off was when my brother discovered his mistake. This was not air freshener.

It was – as you may have already guessed – bear spray. And it was everywhere. All over the walls. On the toilet seat. In his coffee cup he had been holding at the time. And, of course, in the air.

He came inside for help. After a long bout of laughter and our mother immediately posting the above photo on Facebook with a remark about how he grew up here and should know better, my brother and I proceeded to use a mix of paper towels, snow, wet wipes and some 409 to scrub the surfaces. And we coughed. And coughed some more. At no point in this scrub-down did either of us think to put on gloves or, perhaps, a face mask. Nope. We just scrubbed away. It took a while – and we had to work in shifts so neither of us would be overcome by the fumes – but we eventually cleaned it all up.

When we went inside, we did what you do after cleaning up a big mess. We washed our hands and faces. I cannot tell you how wrong wrong WRONG of a move this was. You see, what we didn’t know is that bear spray is made with an oil base that – for a lack of a better word – reignites the fire of the spray on every surface it touches. Our faces. Our hands. Every surface turned red. Angry red. Our faces looked like opposite Santas with skin of white and beards of red. And it burned. It burned. The teenagers began googling what to do. Advice number one – don’t try to wash it off with water. Oops. It said to wash with milk or oil and definitely don’t even think about putting lotion on. Oops again.

Imagine – if you will – slicing an onion. You tear up. Your eyes burn. You have to walk out of the room for a minute. Now imagine that happening. All over your eyes, your face, and your hands. And you can’t walk away. The sting follows you. Oh – and hey – even if washing it with water would help – we’re in a dry cabin so there’s no escape.

After the burning finally went away, we realized someone would have to make the inaugural run to the outhouse… post incident, that is. Remember that scene with the onions in your eyes? Now imagine your sensitive tush pressed against the toilet seat with remnants of pepper spray on it. Yeah. It was, um, a warming experience. Not to mention it wasn’t until a few hours later that we remembered we should probably change the toilet paper rolls…

We thought the pain had passed. Until the next day. Turns out, even if you soak in milk, the fire reignites with every wash. Even your hands sweating is enough to light the flesh flame. You know what else it doesn’t wash off of easily? My brother’s coffee cup. I was drinking from it the next day, trying to figure out why my throat was suddenly burning so much. Yeah… I got a new cup.

To bring this story to its close, I have to share one more fun fact. At the State Fair this fall, my mom bought my brother a gift we thought he’d like. She finally was able to give it to him yesterday. The timing was perfect.

I’m fairly certain my brother will not be forgetting this vacation any time soon. And surely, he’ll be the butt of all pepper spray jokes for some time to come.

Sir, You’re in my Splash Zone

Tonight was Back to School Night at the school where I teach and where my children have all gone to school.  It was all going well. That is, until I opened my mouth. If you know me or have read many of my blogs, you know I’m all too familiar with embarrassing moments. And believe you me, this was one of them.

To accommodate parents with more than one student, we offered two sessions. The first session went fine. We had a rather full class of parents eager to learn about what little Johnny or Jenny was doing in their school day. Sure, I stumbled over a word or two and accidentally admitted my dark secret that I have horrible handwriting (a subject I teach their children…) but overall the session went just fine. And then came the second session.

The second session had only two parents. Each parent sat at their child’s desk. Normally in a presentation, I would stand. However, since these folks were sitting at ridiculously small desks – knees to nipples – I thought it would be less domineering if I sat on a stool. And then there was incident number one.

As I went to sit upon the stool, careful to tuck my dress (let’s look professional now!) under my bottom, I inadvertently pushed the stool slightly off kilter. And I tried to sit. I think you see where this is headed. Too bad I didn’t. As I was stumbling/sitting/falling, I quickly pointed out, “Oh, wow! I thought I saw a black bear out there!” And pointed to the window where their children were playing outside. In my defense, I really, truly, no lie, thought I saw a black bear cub, which turned out to be one of my own students dressed in a black jacket, bent over and crawling on his hands and knees. My mistake. Oh, and no one said anything about my near fall. I wasn’t so lucky in the next incident.

Moments later – just long enough for my face to slightly pale from its bright red, I decided to up my own game and go for the gold. I spit on a parent. Yep. You read that right. He was sitting in the front row and as I was explaining what to do if your child was too sick to come to school and you still wanted us to send them schoolwork, I full on spit on this poor dad. You know, “Say it, don’t spray it” style. And the worst part was he totally saw it. I mean, he saw it coming. He watched this large glob of saliva leave my mouth, make its upward trajectory and then arch down to his arm which – THANK GOD – was covered by his jacket. We had just discussed gravity, so I guess this could have been another teaching moment. However, he started laughing. And then I started laughing and then talking, incessantly. I said something like, “Oh my. I just spit on you!” And then I tried to wipe it off him. And then I continued with my verbal diarrhea: “You are in my splash zone. It’s like a Gallagher show in here!” before continuing on, desperately grabbing my notes to get us back on track. Side note: know your audience. I don’t think any of these parents are even old enough to remember Gallagher. If you weren’t around for the 80s/early 90s, he’s the comedian who would smash watermelons on stage, drenching his audience in goo. You know, kinda like what I did to this guy tonight.

So, yeah. That was me introducing myself to my students’ parents. I’m sure they are walking away super confident in the lady teaching their class. Who knows, maybe they’ll have a good sense of humor and send their kids to school tomorrow with an umbrella, just in case there’s another shower.

Watching the Turkeys

My brother has a family of turkeys that live in the green belt behind his home. Every morning, they are in his lawn, seeking breakfast in the grass. Normally, they are already in the lawn when I get up. This morning, I had the pleasure of watching them arrive. At first, I saw a slight movement from the side of his lawn. And then, here came this little baby turkey. (Chick? Are turkey young called chicks? I don’t know, I’ll have to ask my best friend. She has a flock of them. Wait. Is it a flock of turkeys? It’s a murder of ravens. I know that one because it’s super weird. A menagerie? Whatever. I digress.) This little bitty turkey just waddles his/her way onto the lawn – eager to investigate. That one is followed by mama, who I can only describe as regal. She is a real beauty. And then, two more little chicks (yeah, I’m sticking with it now) follow her out onto the lawn. Mama gracefully struts through the grass, looking for unsuspecting bugs, calling for her babies when she finds something, and continues to forage across the lawn and into the neighbors property.

It’s been a while since I’ve stopped to watch the turkeys. It’s like this thing you know is happening – an everyday ritual – but it just happens in the background while you continue to stress about whatever the day’s given stress is. Or, sometimes it’s not even that day’s stress. Sometimes it’s something that happened weeks or months ago and you’re still going over it in your mind. Or maybe it’s your mental to do list and you’re planning your stress in advance. Whatever it is, there’s no time for turkey watching.

Last summer, I took a job as an elementary school teacher. When I started this blog, I had just left a job teaching high school journalism after our funding ran out when our grant expired. Every job I’ve ever had (journalist, teacher, advertising executive) has some with its own degree of stress. But nothing – NOTHING – stresses me more than being a mother. It’s not the same kind of stress as fearing that you’ve somehow screwed up an account for a client, or the stress  of not having a lead story for that night’s news, or the stress of not knowing if a student is truly grasping a concept you’ve been working on all quarter. No, motherhood is full of its own special stresses. Stresses like, “Are my kids growing up to be productive members of society?” “How do I get two of the three kids to point A and the third to point B at the exact same time, despite the fact they are 15 miles away from each other?” and (recently) “Will this lice infestation ever end?!”

Stress is something mamas (at the least the human ones) are good at. And if we can’t find something to stress about with our kids, we can just wait a moment because the next stress is right around the corner. But, the turkey mama – she doesn’t worry. She doesn’t stress. She just is. The fact that I got to watch her this morning with her three chicks is not lost on me. It’s the simple things – God showing me how to take a moment and relax. To smile.

I’ve been reading the same thing a lot recently in my morning devotionals – the same message but in different verses:

“Don’t worry about anything; instead pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank Him for all he has done.” Philippians 4:6

“So don’t worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries. Today’s trouble is enough for today.” Matthew 6:34

Or, especially fitting for today: “Look at the birds. They don’t plant or harvest or store food in barns, for your heavenly Father feeds them. And aren’t you far more valuable to Him than they are? Can all your worries add a single moment to your life?” Matthew 6:26-27

So, today, I’m watching the turkeys and I’m taking note. Worry less, watch more. Don’t stress over the small things. Except the lice. But that’s a different story for another day.