Mom isn't always the best example

When I was a kid, one way to instantly stoke my mother’s ire was to act up in church. My brother, Jerry, was a horrible instigator and always the one to push the limits of Mom’s patience. It was him who spent the most time torturing our little sister, Meredith, never innocent me.

I believe that, during those formative years, we assisted our mother in perfecting what we refer to as her “evil mom look.” This is the ice-cold glare that had the ability to immediately stop time and stun children, essentially paralyzing us in whatever inappropriate behavior we happened to be undertaking at that moment.

Once we were frozen in place, she silently mouthed commands to “cease and desist” our bad deeds while promising future punishment that would commence as soon as witnesses were not present.

The remainder of the service would be spent in quiet reflection and abject terror. It always seemed like the pastor suddenly refocused his sermon and attention directly at us as we tried to sink down low in the pew as if attempting to hide from him and God.

Now that I’m a parent, I have the pleasure of policing my own kids during our church’s Sunday services. They only have to sit still until the offering is completed, then they stampede upstairs for children’s church like a couple of wild buffalo.

With all my mom duties, I really could’ve used some parenting myself last Sunday.

It all started with someone else’s kids. They stayed the whole service which isn’t a bad thing. The children were of toddler age and did remarkably well. My own kids would never have behaved through the whole service.

During communion, the crackers were passed around when one of the toddlers erupted with an angry-sounding verbal outburst, so her mother quickly carried her out of the sanctuary.

My husband, Chris, leaned over and whispered in my ear, “They must not like crackers.”

This resulted in a good chuckle out of me. He started to say something else and I said, “SHHH,” to which he replied: “Your ‘SHHH’ was really loud. I think everyone heard it.”

I told him firmly, “Listen, if you don’t stop it, I’m going to take YOU out of here.”

He said, “Only if you carry me out.”

This was the straw that broke the camel’s back. My brain flashed an instant detailed mental picture of me carrying my husband on my hip, like I do with my daughter. In fact, he was limp like kids are when they don’t want to be carried and they just kind of hang there on your side.

So in this image, here was my husband, who outweighs me by about 20 pounds or so, hanging on my hip with this pouty look on his bearded face and, for some reason, he had a Dutch-boy haircut.

I was laughing so hard that I was jiggling, but I was trying to be quiet at the same time. Chris put his arm around me, began patting my shoulder, and saying, “It’s okay, honey. It’s okay,” like he was comforting me as if I was simply overcome with emotion. From behind, it probably did look like I was sobbing.

I suppose I’ll go a little easier on my kids in the future. If their own mom can’t hold herself together in church, how can I possibly expect them to?  Mom, if you’re reading, I’ll try my hardest to behave better next week. I promise.

It's never too late to change your future

Tonight, May 3, 2012, I did something for the third time in my life: walked across the stage of the South Florida Community College’s Theatre for the Performing Arts to accept a degree.

The first time was way back in 1991 when I graduated Avon Park High School. It was a bittersweet night because I hadn’t exactly prepared for a future beyond my diploma. I had no clue what I planned on doing the next day, much less the rest of my life.

Unfortunately, my grades back then reflected the interest I had in my future.

In my senior year, I was dual enrolled in two college classes for reasons I still do not comprehend. Because of my general apathetic attitude towards anything that resembled homework and my inability to foresee consequences for this behavior, my first two college-level grades still mar my overall grade point average (GPA).

It was 1995 before I enrolled at Brevard Community College where I was told to pursue my Associate in Arts degree. The advisor directed me to take several classes, which I did, and my grades began improving, mainly because I was paying for the portion of my tuition not covered by financial aid. When your education hits your own pocketbook, homework becomes very important.

Of the 13 classes I completed, I made 3 “B’s” and the rest were all “A’s.” Suddenly, I had a decent GPA and this club called “Phi Theta Kappa,” an honor society, wanted me to join. I was pretty sure it would look good on a resume, so I signed up.

My degree was still in-process when I decided to stop everything and move to Washington State. Life took some twists and turns and I found myself in different jobs where I got comfortable with my unfinished education and, besides, I had a family and too much going on to deal with school.

That’s why, in 2009, when I signed up at SFCC to complete my A.A. degree and see if I might be able to get into the nursing program, I thought I might be crazy. 

When I walked that stage in 2010 to accept my A.A. degree that had been 15 years in the making, it felt good.

Tonight felt better.

I am now the recipient of an Associate in Science degree for Nursing; one of the most challenging and coveted programs offered at SFCC.

Not only did I have to pass an exam and meet the academic criteria to be chosen as one of the 25 students privileged enough to be accepted into the program, but I also had to maintain at least a “B” average (I made “A’s”) in all of my classes. The schedule was grueling and the clinical rotations were excitingly terrifying.

It is hard to believe that I was a slacker student who wouldn’t do homework to save her life. Now I’m studying like crazy to learn how to save other people’s lives. The irony is almost too much.

So, if you are a concerned parent who has a kid like I was back in 1991, give them a little time to taste the real world. If you’re an adult who doesn’t think they can go back to school, look at me: I’m a mom, a wife, and quickly closing in on 40 years old and I did it.

Never give up on yourself because the worst thing you can ever do is to not try. Trust me on this.

If you can't beat it, accept it

It has been a couple of months since my husband, Chris, came home towing the boat I was not prepared to accept into our possession. Over the course of that time, I have developed what I have come to think of as a love/hate relationship for the vessel.

I tried to like the boat, but the boat doesn’t seem to like me. Case in point: once, when we went onto Lake Jackson, my seat broke, and I tipped over backwards in a way that cut and bruised the tops of my feet on the underside of the dash.

On another day, Chris had just bought a tube to pull behind the boat. After several trips with the kids, the choke began acting up. I got in the tube and the boat refused to start. The boat hates me.

Usually, I just scowl at it as I pull out of the driveway, but every now and then, I fantasize about taking our big Sharpie marker and scrawling “S.S. fill-in-the-blank-with-any-derogatory-term” on the sides, then blaming the neighborhood kids.

So when Chris asked if I wanted to go fishing with him, the kids, and his cousin, Phillip, this past Sunday, every fiber in my body was screaming “NO!,” but for some reason, my mouth said, “I guess so.”

My intentions were to bring a book and ignore everyone.

We launched at Lake Istokpoga’s public boat ramp and cut over into Arbuckle Creek. It was positively beautiful. There was no way I was going to read my book with all that scenery distracting me. Also, the boat was rocking quite a bit because no one wanted to sit still while they fished. No one wanted to be very quiet either.

It didn’t take long for me to declare that I too would be fishing, but I wasn’t going to waste my time with brim and blue gills. I would aim higher and set my sights on some large-mouth bass.

I had no clue if bass would be biting or not, but I felt like they would.

Phillip set up my hook and I began casting; something I had not done in about 25 years.

My son caught a nice sized blue gill and Chris caught a small brim followed by an even smaller brim that was about the size of a Pringles potato chip. Phillip caught what we believe was the same blue gill twice.

Sadly, I didn’t catch a single fish, but I did catch a huge stick. I reeled that baby in and it measured at least six feet. It felt good to clear it out of the way for future anglers. I also caught the anchor line and a tree.

When I told my sister, she explained that I don’t have a fishing license so it was a good thing I didn’t catch anything. I had totally forgotten this bit of information. Chris, Phillip, and my son are all licensed. Now that I think back on the day, Chris must have felt fairly confident that I wasn’t going to violate the law when he placed that rod in my hands.

I will make sure I’m legal next time. The fish will bite if they know I’m licensed, I’m just sure of it.

I think the important thing is that I am starting to like the boat. If things keep going like this, I might start smiling at it when I leave the house. We’ll just have to wait and see what happens.

The lost pieces of our lives

The junk drawer: the catch-all of every American household and a nightmare to clean. I cannot actually attest to cleaning the drawer, but I recently had to “tidy it up” because I was on the hunt for a set of keys.

Before I found those keys, I had to wade through an incredible menagerie of paraphernalia that had been accumulated by my family throughout our daily lives. There were standard tools that included tape, paper clips, screw drivers, batteries, and a calculator, but there were also items unique to my own personal use.

One of these was an electronic tire pressure gauge that my husband stuffed in my Christmas stocking a few years ago.  You see, I have a problem with tires wearing out faster than they should and, during a certain period of time a while back, I would lose pressure in one tire more than the others. He thought I would attend to my tire issue if I had a handy tool at my disposal, but that was not the case as evidenced by said tool’s placement in the drawer rather than the car.

A few other items related to my status as a nursing student, like the several dozen alcohol prep pads, a pocket-sized hand sanitizer, and a saline-filled 3 mL syringe used to flush intravenous sites.

There were 3 boxes of birthday candles and a pedometer which had one thing in common: all of them had been barely used. Also underutilized was a package of reinforcement labels. In case you are unaware as to how these are applied, they are the little, round, white rings that repair the torn holes of notebook paper that has been ripped out of a binder. I bought them for a binder-style text book three years ago and, out of the 544 labels available, I have used four. Now the mostly full pack floats around the junk drawer all year long.

We also store a tube of almost worthless vinyl adhesive. The last time we put this to good use was when my sister’s dog chewed on our 12 foot vinyl pool. Unfortunately, the abundance of canine teeth holes proved too much for the pool patch kits to handle.

I discovered a variety of needless cards too. Some were business cards, but a few of them actually held value at one time. A drink vendor promised riches with a scratch-off code that had to be checked online by December of 2010. I finally threw that one away.

We also own five Blockbuster Video reward cards which each entitle us to 2 movies, 2 Coca-Cola beverages, 2 theater candies, and popcorn. These would have been nice to redeem back when we had a Blockbuster in town, but I know for a fact that we didn’t have them in our possession until after the store closed. We keep them in case we travel to a city that has one still in business.

The keys are the real mess. I found the boat key which was hard to miss considering the fact that it has a huge, floatable keychain attached to it. What astounds me is that, out of the 34 keys in the junk drawer, I have no clue what 22 of them unlock or start up. Amazing.

For the time being, most of the drawer’s mysteries shall remain shrouded in secrecy. I have places to go and people to see and, goodness knows, I’ve got enough keys to take me there.

Not really the pits in Pittsburgh

Having an outspoken personality can sometimes gain a few perks for a person like me; for instance, my position as President of the Student Nurses’ Association and the current trip that has taken me to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania for the Annual Convention of the National Student Nurses Association.

To get here, I first had to ride on a plane which was something I hadn’t done in about two years. The airline was Delta and, due to some unexpected automobile delays, I was fortunate to arrive in time to actually board the aircraft. When you hear, “Last call for flight 1943. We will soon be shutting the hatch door. Any passengers who have not boarded please proceed directly to the gate,” you know you’ve cut it too close for comfort.

I was disappointed to find that the passengers who were packed together in the humid canister of misery were in no mood for my attempt at comic relief. I discovered this when I jokingly declared, “It’s okay, everyone, I’m here! We can leave now,” and no one cracked a smile. Tough crowd. In reality, the plane sat a while longer and, for the record, I did not check any bags so it wasn’t really me holding them up.

I will say that I was pleasantly surprised at the touch-screen technology offered for our flight entertainment. I played a trivia game under the pseudonym “Dmommy” against several other passengers, but the top secret code name was needless because my seat number appeared next to my name. It was really very easy to look around and see who all the smarty pants were.

My plane change was in Atlanta which is an incredibly large airport. Any layover I’ve ever had there always requires traveling to a different terminal which necessitates a train ride to another dimension. After this seemingly necessary inconvenience, I paid way too much for a crappy sandwich that ended up being my dinner and eventually boarded the plane that took me to Pittsburgh.

People were telling me not to expect much out of Pittsburgh, but when I got a good look at the city after a couple of days spent exploring between meetings, I fell in love.

So far, I’ve eaten a Primanti’s sandwich which was constructed of meat, cheese, French fries, coleslaw, and tomato on white bread. It was an interesting flavor combination for a fair price. Before anyone tries to call me out on the coleslaw ingredient because of my known inability to eat mayonnaise-based products, this slaw contained only vinegar, so my taste buds remained safe and mayo-free.

I’ve walked down to the Strip and bought some discounted souvenirs for my family consisting of T-shirts, post cards, and a Pittsburgh Penguins hockey Teddy bear. I’ve ridden three forms of public transportation: bus, light rail, and one of the famous inclines, the Monongahela, that took me up to the top of Mount Washington.

It hasn’t been all fun and games. There have also been meetings and networking to accomplish at the convention, but nothing pleases me more than meeting people so I can’t complain too much.

As I write this, I’m preparing to return home tomorrow. Pittsburgh has been a wonderful, welcoming city and I’d love to visit again someday when I have more time.

Right now, I miss my children and husband something fierce. To all you native Pennsylvanians: thank you! Your state is beautiful and “yinz” certainly do have some real nice people here!

Get ready to lock up your daughters!

My son has always been interested in girls. He likes boys when it comes to any type of activity involving physical combat and general tom foolery, but it has been the female mystique that has consistently been the focus of his attention.

When he was three, my husband and I took him to the Kennedy Space Center. We were standing in line and another mom was in front of us. She was one of those slim, young, pretty moms wearing a pair of shorts that were not indecent, but my little man must have had an unobstructed view of her rear-end because he was intently staring up her leg before he suddenly decided to investigate the situation with his hand! We were mortified!

It was that day we fully understood we were headed for trouble.

He’s actually claimed to have had a “girlfriend” every year since the first grade. I use the term loosely because, at 11-years old, we obviously have never allowed him to date. This year has been the first that he hasn’t kept a girlfriend throughout the entire school year and I have to say I’m not exactly disappointed over this news.

The thing is, he doesn’t remember being in pre-K and hopelessly head-over-heels for a girl who was a year older than him. I know this because, when he talked about her one day with a far-off, dreamy look in his eyes, he said, “Mom, she’s a girl Spiderman and I’m a boy Spiderman!” They were the perfect match.

I also found out that she beat up any other kid who picked on him. It must have been love.

When he was 9, his summer daycare took trips to the pool at Sebring High School. Once, when I picked him up, he began peppering me with questions about being honest. I inquired as to why he was asking and he said he had met a girl at the pool who liked him, but she was 12 so he told her he was older. I asked, “How old?”

He said, “Well, I said I was 11, but almost 12 instead of 9, but almost 10. She bought me a snow cone, Mom! I think she’s my girlfriend.”

What followed was a long discussion about honesty and enjoying being young while you can because, before you know it, you’ll be all grown up and wonder where it all went. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t paying attention because he followed that conversation with a request for money to buy her a snow cone the next day.

His latest “accomplishment” happened at his cousin’s Little Miss Hardee pageant. While everyone was waiting for the contestants to meet us after the competition, he was talking to a girl. I walked up and asked what they were doing. She was giving him her phone number, of course! She was fifteen!

I said, “Do you realize my son is eleven?” She replied, “Yes! He told me that. He’s just really funny.”

I thought to myself, “Well, at least he’s being honest this time.”

Somehow, I’ve found myself raising a Casanova. At five feet six inches, he is tall for his age and absolutely adorable.  At this point, I’m thinking about either breaking his spirit or buying him some cologne that smells like feces. In the meantime, please be so kind as to lock up your daughters between the ages of 10 to 22. Believe me; you’ll be doing us all a favor. Consider this a public service announcement.

Whose project is this anyway?

I was being interrogated last weekend by my mom and my brother, Adam. The subject was my son’s last school project and the line of questioning they persisted in asking me was how much I let him do on his own. They also wanted to know his expected level of participation in the solar system project we would be doing the next day.

Here is the thing about school projects: they can get expensive and I don’t have a ton of extra time that I can devote to destroying my living room with massive craft experiments on tri-fold poster boards. If something needs to be completed that will be graded, then I want it done right the first time with no extra trips to the store required.

After defending myself and getting a little frazzled about my control freakishness and inability to delegate even the most miniscule of tasks, my mom laughed and said, “Who do you think made that volcano for you in the 6^th grade? It certainly wasn’t you.”

I remember the chicken wire and plaster of Paris structure, but I don’t remember my involvement in helping with it outside of informing my mom the night before it was due.

The solar system project sounded fun until I read the requirements which were transcribed by my boy. I wanted to see printed instructions because I had a hard time trusting that he copied all the necessary information. For instance, did we need a tri-fold board or could we use a flat poster? Did we need a poster at all? Why couldn’t he answer my questions?

As far as he could tell, the requirements were that the size of the planets in relation to each other had to be represented and the Asteroid Belt, moon, sun, and orbits all had to be shown. Pluto was optional.

After stops at Walmart and Michaels, we were $50 into this project. I had to get creative with the planets because the boxed Styrofoam solar system set was not an accurate representation of planet size. In reality, you can line up about 11 Earths side-by-side to equal the diameter of Jupiter, but in the boxed set, it was more like 2.

Since I didn’t have the planet measurements with me at the store, I had to guess at the sizes of Styrofoam disks to purchase. When we got home, I looked up the information and used ratios, a handy nursing math tool, to determine the sizes to use. Saturn ended up being our only inaccurate planet, measuring too small by ¾ of an inch.

While I pasted and painted and chatted about Jupiter’s moons, my son walked around and generally stayed out of my way because I was obviously in the zone. Every now and then I would shout out questions about the solar system and he would answer them. He even corrected me on my insistence that Neptune rotated on its side. It is, in fact, Uranus that does this. That was a proud moment. I don’t mind being wrong if it means he has been studying.

When I finished, he was impressed. I asked if he thought I would get an “A” and he said I most definitely would.

The science fair is coming up, but like last year’s crayon melting project, I will not help with that. I have to draw the line somewhere. Of course, if he asks me for my assistance concerning artistic direction of the display, I may feel compelled to give him a few pointers.