Archive for the ‘Best Mom’ Category

I’m a Little Teapot…

My kids still like to remind me of the time that I told them to “shut up and read their tea bags.”

We were in the midst of moving into what would be our fourth home within five years.  With three kids, three dogs, two cats, two birds, a rabbit, and all the crap that goes along with each of them, our moving procedure had certainly become more streamlined since our first relocation adventure.  It was the physical exertion required to conduct the actual event that remained an unavoidable consequence.  I had two full days of sorting, last-minute packing, lifting, unpacking, and being asked a thousand times “Where do you want this? Where can I put this?” and “Mom, have you seen my (something that I have to have right now)?”

This was to be our first night in the house.  It was an early Sunday evening and the kids had school the next morning.  While Durwood was upstairs assembling beds, it seemed a suitable moment to locate the water kettle, rifle through my collection of dried herbs, and make a pot of “welcome home” tea for myself and the kids.

Ever since our children were little Beans, we have enjoyed exploring the magickal and medicinal properties of all the available leaves and flowering herbs that we either grew ourselves, received from friends, or purchased from various establishments.  Through lively consensus, we would choose the appropriate herb, flower, or any combination of these that we deemed eligible to reflect our specific intentions.  We would then brew a pot of our harmonious concoction to share, talk, and laugh with each other.

Now that the kids are grown, we find occasional moments to still share a pot of tea together, but not nearly as often as we did when they were younger.  It would seem that sharing a bottle of wine has become the brew of choice in recent years:)

On the evening that we were to spend our first night in our new home, I do not recall what the appropriate herbs were that I considered worthy to instill a sense of welcome.  I could not find them.  Opened and partially unpacked cardboard boxes were lined along most of the available counter space in the kitchen, so it felt like an accomplishment just to locate the kettle.

By the time that the water was boiling and the kids had seated themselves at the counter, I banged down three cups and saucers on the bar top, and pretty much threw some tea bags at each one of the young Bean’s heads.  I vaguely recall that I had found the tea bags in a random box labeled “pantry.”  Even beautifully wrapped tea bags that are printed with inspirational quotes are rendered fruitless when served by an irate mother.

As they engaged each other in lively conversation, I dismissed their banter with one terse remark.

“Shut up and read your tea bags.”

Although every good witch knows the subtle power of intention that can be weaved within the energy of a palatable brew, this is no way to serve tea.

With the energy of expanding consciousness all around us, the delightfully simple act of having a cup of tea with yourself, a friend, or even your kids remains a traditional method to enhance our human connection between nature’s bounty and our own creative Source.  The wisdom and healing power that comes from our earth in the form of plants and herbs has been explored by our foremothers (and some fathers!) since ancient times when magic and medicine were one in the same.

Now you can walk down the coffee and tea aisle in any grocery store and have an abundance of tea blends to choose from.  Specific herbal combinations that address a variety of physical conditions (from mood to a sore throat) have been carefully selected for us to eliminate the time consuming process of conducting our own research and experimentation.  Of notable value are the “Traditional Medicinal” blends that were developed by the godmother of herbalism, Rosemary Gladstar. (Thank you for that reminder, Candace)

With a trusted herbal blend, or even a simple black tea leaf that piques your senses, a well-brewed cup of tea that is steeped with focused intention can provide the perfect avenue between physical self and creative Source.  As the “tea preparer” you have the opportunity to direct the energy offered by any herb or plant provided by the planet you reside on.

Though you might want to make sure that your original intentions remain intact while serving…

Or your kids may never let you forget it:)

Weekend Warrior

I love the invention of weekends.  One 24 hour “break” from our normal routine is often not enough to rest and regroup our earthly selves.   Whether your weekend includes the standard Saturday and Sunday, or falls on two other consecutive days in a week, it has been my experience that a time period of at least 48 hours is required when seeking to regenerate your entire being.  We may not have the opportunity to take advantage of every weekend in this manner, but scheduling at least one “weekend” for yourself (every now and then) can work wonders.

It is often the “selfish” acts of a good witch that create a benefit to those that she lives, works, and meets with.  Most of us have heard this advice at least a million times before, but often fail to heed these brilliant words.

“It’s important to take care of yourself, first and foremost.”

It seemed that this wisdom was offered to me on a regular basis when my kids were younger.  I always thought that this statement was just a polite method of providing comfort to a young mother who appears to be physically and emotionally spent.  The wisdom was appreciated, but I never really knew what “taking care of myself” would entail.  I had some ideas, but they did not originate with me.  Even if I did have some inkling of what I would require in order to take care of myself, I sure the hell did not have the time for it.

In any case, you do not necessarily have to be a full-time parent to have heard this advice offered on occasion.  A timely message can be communicated through various means.  Perhaps the next time that you hear these words, you could regard it as a reminder from Higher Self to discover (and remember) the appropriate care that your entire being requires in order to expand.

The details of SELF care are determined by you.  For me, the process has produced a more lasting effect when I address all aspects of what I consider to comprise my ‘entire’ being.

There are several theories regarding the particular elements that comprise one’s entirety.   Most of these assessments suggest that our being includes the body, mind, and spirit.  Myself, I have always preferred the notion that there is a fourth aspect that includes the heart (or the core) of an individual.  Some would argue that this is what ’spirit’ is, while I prefer to recognize Spirit in more of a collective sense.

I think of Spirit as the Oneness that we all have a connection to, whereas the ‘heart’ defines my individual soul aspect and the personal nature of Spirit.  When I regard the ‘core’ being as a separate aspect, I find that I am able to wrap my brain around the comprehension of a certain space that resides within.  This space would be where free will, choice, and private emotion exist.  (This is most likely due to the fact that my big, fat, out-of-proportion mind likes to over-analyze everything, and therefore, finds satisfaction in creating a separate element to include for evaluation.)

HOWEVER you may perceive the aspects of your individual being, designating a 48 hour period to take care of yourself is most productive when you address each part of your SELF.  The body may need comfort, the mind may need stimulation (or QUIETING), the spirit may need nourishment in the form of appreciation, and the heart and soul may need the personal attention of your complete awareness.

The first day of your mini-vacation will most likely be comprised of the actual preparation necessary in order to allow yourself the time that you will need on the second day.  It seems that it is within this second 24-hour period that one can actually EXPERIENCE the personal process of effective self-care.  When my children were younger, I know that it was practically impossible for me to unwind and rejuvenate in one 24 hour period.  Being granted a “day off” seemed never enough time.

By the time that I figured out that shopping alone for an afternoon, or taking a bath without hearing someone call “mommy” for a few precious moments, were mere FRAGMENTS of the time that I really needed, it seemed as if my “day off” was over.  It took several years of trial and error to realize that the genuine benefit of “time to yourself” requires that an adequate portion of that time be used to adequately prepare!

When the budget is tight, or the babysitters are scarce, or the roommate won’t leave for two days, this is the time to be a creative weekend warrior.  Consciously project your intention to partake in some “solitary time” and often the opportunities to schedule a “selfish” weekend will appear.  It is often when you expect compliance, understanding, and compassion from any vested parties, that you will get it.  Roommates can mysteriously get invited to join someone on a weekend adventure, or husbands may suddenly feel a need to take the kids to visit Grandma for a few days.

In any event, once you are able to mark your “weekend” on the calendar, the prospect of what you will do with your time is personal.

Enjoy it.  It is your gift to you.

“Not I,” Said The Cat

Since when is suffering considered a hallowed virtue?  There is not a doubt that any well-bred Catholic would probably have the answer to that.  The esteemed qualities that are required for sainthood include forbearance, suffering, and ultimate sacrifice.  Individuals who exhibited these traits throughout their lifetime, and then demonstrated their “holiness” by dying for their faith, were to be held in the highest regard.

Most Catholics (or at least those of us that were raised in the 1960’s) were taught that suffering is “saintly.”  Any time that I was experiencing pain, or unpleasantness of any kind, there was usually a nun nearby to remind me that I should “offer it up as a sacrifice to Christ.”  I was not at all certain how that was going to help me, but I was taught that it was disrespectful to question a nun.  It may have been more clear had she told me to just shut-up and quit complaining.

Along with a hefty dose of guilt, being raised in a large Catholic family usually comes with a complimentary ration of martyrdom.  Any mother who raises her face to the heavens, closes her eyes, and covers her forehead with the back of her hand portrays a classic image.  Of course, my own dear mother was never that dramatic.  This exaggerated depiction comes to mind because at one time or another, all of us were told that we would be responsible for sending my mother to an early grave.  (Fortunately, she is now 83 years old and still alive and VERY well.)

Perhaps this early notion of ’suffering’ is the reason why I once found the tale of The Little Red Hen so appealing.  The intended lesson of the story is to demonstrate the virtue of “sharing in the work if one is to share in the rewards.”  Somehow, I managed to interpret the circumstances of this story to personify the task of parenting.

The Little Red Hen does it all.  The dog, the cat, the pig, and the turkey do not want anything to do with planting the grain, reaping the wheat, threshing the wheat, taking it to the mill to have it ground, baking the flour, and making the bread.  But they sure the hell want to help eat it.  This sounded familiar.

“I just spent all damn day cleaning that floor, and you just walk in here without even wiping your feet.”

“I just ironed that shirt!  You try it on, decide that you don’t want to wear it, and then throw it on your closet floor?!”

Scenarios like these could explain how an overworked, stressed-out, stay-at-home parent could sometimes feel like The Little Red Hen.  Every hen needs an outlet to decline the ancient appeal of martyrdom.

When you tend to your connection to All That Is, you are able to see yourself as Source sees you.  Divine Source knows that you do not have to suffer to be appreciated.

Routinely giving yourself those solitary moments that nourish the heart will serve to remind you of the grandness of your being, and ignite the appreciation of your true nature.  Appreciation is one of the most powerful vibrations that expands in brilliant fashion when directed from within.

Once self-appreciation is allowed to flow freely, people will notice a clean floor, and even turn around to wipe their feet, without you having to say a word.  Almost like magic:)

To Be Or Not To Be

Any well-founded witch can appreciate the teachings of the Buddha.  The Eightfold Path and other basic Buddhist teachings promote the practice of meditation to reconnect with the vital energy of self.  Relaxing the vigilant mind’s ego allows us the freedom to create our own happiness.  As we release our ego, we increase our awareness of truly “living in the moment.”  I honor and respect the practice of mindfulness as a way of life, but I wonder if the Buddha has had to change a diaper like my nephew had yesterday after eating prunes for breakfast.  When I am up to my elbows in poop, the concept of ‘living in the moment’ seems overrated.

The practice of ‘mindfulness’ offers the opportunity to balance the ego’s need “to do” with our innate capacity “to be.”  I appreciate the concept, but there are some moments in our day-to-day life when ‘being’ in the moment presents a challenge.

Anson’s ‘prune incident’ occurred in the midst of our beagle’s need to throw-up the contents of the bathroom waste basket that she had apparently ingested earlier.  Being that I was the only adult in attendance for the Bean Household Waste Elimination Festival, I questioned the intrinsic value of reveling in each moment.  I wonder if it is not more productive to view these not-so-pleasant moments as occasions to focus on what may be in the future, instead of what is occurring in the present?

In January, I ran a half-marathon with my Aunt Cindy.  Completing the thirteen miles turned out to be easier than I had originally anticipated, but there were moments when masquerading as a volunteer who stood on the sidelines seemed an attractive alternative.  Aunt Cindy is almost twenty years older than I am.  Due to the fact that she was maintaining a determined pace, my ego would not allow me to sneak off and pretend that I was a spectator, but I did entertain the notion somewhere around mile seven.

During mile eight is when I formulated my own compromise between the wisdom of ‘being in the moment’ and the desire to finish the damn race.  It is the language of self-talk that becomes most relevant when your knees are suffering, or you have poop all over the front of your shirt.

“I am content with myself, no matter what is happening right now”  has been changed to, “I am content with myself and will be EVEN HAPPIER when this is over.”

The process is never as significant as the outcome.

What Is That Smell?

Where are all of our empty clothes hangers?!  I’ll tell you where they are.  They have been carelessly kicked beneath our beds and dressers, strewn about on our bathroom floors, or they are tightly wedged and perched cattywampus between all the other occupied clothes hangers in our closets.  They are anywhere else in and around our home, except in the goddamn laundry room where I need them.  It is a source of irritation, indeed.

Ironing is perhaps an even greater source of irritation for me.  In an effort to use the iron as little as possible, I practice a preemptive laundry method.  This system includes plucking freshly laundered, semi-damp clothing straight from the dryer, immediately placing them on a hanger, and misting them with a wrinkle-reducing product.  Then I grasp the clothed hanger by its top hook while I furiously wave the article back and forth through the air, as if I am leading the laundry parade.  To finish, I hang the the article on the clothes line above the laundry tub and I hope for the best.  The worst thing that could happen is that one of our cats will slink around the rim of the tub to inspect the clothing, granting their official seal of approval in the form of an attractive swirled pattern of black fur along the shirt tails and sleeves.  This minor setback is remedied with a quick once-over with a lint roller…if I can find one.

This morning, while in the midst of my save-me-from-the-iron ritual, I ran out of available clothes hangers.  Sometimes they will magically appear when I yell from the laundry room door, “Somebody had better gather their extra hangers and bring them to me right now!”  This only works when there are other humans in the house.  Since no one else was around, I had no alternative but to abort my mission until I could secure an ample supply of hangers.  With a heavy sigh that no one was around to appreciate, I slammed the dryer door, reset the tumbling cycle, and headed out to hunt for empty clothes hangers.

I could not remember if I had been in Jim’s room since he returned to college almost two weeks ago.  I figured that I should start there.

Entering Jim’s room has always been a bit like an adventure.  I never know what I may have to try and not notice.  There could also be potential hazards lying in wait.  Practically invisible, a few discarded guitar strings could latch onto the hem of my jeans and whip themselves around my ankles at any given moment.  I might be forced to tap dance around in order to shake the metal threads loose.  Necessary dance steps could knock over a half-full can of coke that has been perched precariously on a nearby shelf for the past month.  I never know what to expect.  Any visit to Jim’s room over the past eighteen years has been an initiative.

As soon as I opened the door to his room, a familiar odor struck my nostrils.  There are not adequate words in the English language to describe the scent that a son leaves behind in his male den.  It smells like boy.  Boy cave.  That is the best representation of this particular smell that I can offer.

I made my way toward his closet in search of hangers.  I had safely crossed half the distance without incident before my bare right foot pressed down upon a sharp and very distinct rectangular object.  I immediately recognized the source of my pain.  It was a goddamn Lego brick.

Bare feet are no match for a ruthless plastic building block.  In my twenty-two years of motherhood, I have come to regard rogue Lego pieces as weapons.  Even with the minimal sole protection of a flip-flop, there is not an adult heel on the planet that can withstand the highly calculated strike from the sharp corner of a Lego brick.  When left unnoticed along a human foot’s path, one innocent-looking Lego piece has the potential to inflict excruciating pain to any unsuspecting victim.  Given the option, I would rather iron several dozen shirts before I would subject myself to the explosion of pain that one treacherous Lego land mine can deliver.

How this particular evil minion from the wicked Lego empire found its way onto Jim’s floor is a mystery.  I am almost certain that Jim has not ‘played’ with Lego sets since we moved into this house over four years ago.  That was when we poured all of the Lego pieces from a storage container into the drawer beneath his bed.

Jim had packed for his return to school at 2:30 am the night before his flight.  Perhaps while rummaging through his drawers to locate certain items, he unknowingly allowed this one stealthy escapee to attach itself inside some article just long enough to drop to the floor and plan its future ambush.  In any event, I was unpleasantly surprised and highly irritated to feel it embedded between my little toe and foot pad.

I plucked it from the bottom of my foot and called it dirty names.  Obviously, this approach is really effective.  I hobbled toward Jim’s bed to return the evil brick.  I’m sure that it wanted to brag among its fellow heinous friends in the drawer.

Somehow, just opening the drawer to see all the thousands of Lego pieces suddenly tempered my sour mood.  I recalled all the occasions when Jim would sit on the floor for hours on end, content to be lost in the construction of his Lego worlds.  I was smiling.  All past and recent encounters with Lego peril had vanished.  I remembered that it was during these moments, when Jim was completely absorbed in his play, that he was most receptive to heartfelt conversation.

Engaging the quiet attention of a boy who is occupied in some form of activity has always been the main avenue to effective communication between parent and son.  I find that this method holds true among boys who grow up to be men, as well.  Durwood not only listens more attentively when he is engaged in some form of physical activity, it seems that he offers his genuine thoughts to me (or the kids) more readily, too.  If one of us requests his undivided attention without any props to occupy him, we are less likely to succeed in obtaining any authentic responses.

This approach has its limits, of course.  Most of us know that it is pointless to attempt conversation with a boy who is watching any type of sporting event on television.  It is also more productive when we are mindful of personality, dispositions,  and current stress levels when venturing into the realm of boy conversation.

I recall one instance in particular when Durwood was on the back porch cooking hamburgers on the grill.  This had to be at least 15 years ago when we were living in our second home.  Freshly satiated from one of my counseling sessions with a gifted therapist, I was bursting with incite.  I was annoying.  I will never forget how Durwood turned away from me very slowly to lower the volume on the radio he had been listening to.  He turned back towards me, folded his arms across his chest, tilted his head to one side while ceremoniously raising his eyebrows, and executed a very long and dramatic exhaling sound from his nose.  I try to remember that reaction every time I have an inclination to talk to him when I suspect it might not be a good time.  Twenty-four years of marriage has its wisdom.

The Bean girls are seldom detached from human contact.  Katarina and Natalie rarely decline the opportunity to share their thoughts, and any consequential emotions that they may be experiencing.  Jim, on the other hand, has always required a different approach whenever I sensed his need for parental guidance.

When the girls come home from school (or work), they are more than eager to share their daily highs and lows without prompting.  Jim would usually retreat to his cave.  I had different tactics to employ if I ever wanted to offer Jim an opportunity to share his highs and lows with us.  Besides waiting until he was occupied with some form of activity (like playing with his Lego sets), there are a few other suggestions to engage the thoughts of a son.

Given ample time in their lion dens, boys (and husbands) will often emerge eventually.  I like to wait until they pose the question, “When will dinner be ready?”  This is a cue to respond with a short answer, followed by a simple observation on their current mood.  I will inform Jim that “Dinner is soon.”  Then I will add a short remark, such as, “You seem tired (energetic, upset, happy, content, busy, something…).”  This will usually produce a genuine reply.  Even a mumbled “yeah” is considered progress with a teenage boy.  A husband might surprise you with a genuine confirmation, and even be apt to offer more.

When interested in sparking genuine conversation with a son (or a husband!), another guideline to follow requires that you limit your statements to no more than five words or less.  This seems to be the magic number when initiating an exchange.  Anything more than that will fall upon deaf ears.  You will be able to increase the amount of words in your statements eventually, but not until you have successfully drawn their interest first with concise prompts.

Jim will be nineteen years old in a few months.  Between the occasional texts and email messaging, he actually talks with me over the phone for more than five or ten minutes at a time.  When he is home from school, he will spend extraordinary lengths of time chatting with me on the front porch.  (I am smiling again.)

Of course, if he reads this post, he will now be privy to some of my tricks.  In that case, I may have to come up with some new tactics.

I could always send a few Lego sets to him at school.  As long as he doesn’t step on one of those demon bricks, he might just sit on the floor of his dorm room one day and feel the need to call me.  Of course, he’ll have to pick up all of the empty clothes hangers that are spread all over his floor first.

Choice Words

Most of us are familiar with the phrase, “Choose your words wisely.”  This advice customarily pertains to a speaker who seeks to enlist confirmation, participation, or assistance from another person or a group.  Choosing words that are pleasing over ones that are adverse will create a favorable atmosphere and increase the likelihood that you will get what you want.  The same wisdom holds true when you are speaking to yourself, and ultimately presenting your requests to the Universe.

Now, we have all heard this at least a million times.  Most of us understand the concept that you “catch more flies with honey than vinegar,” particularly when the ‘flies’ are other people.  Using words that convey a sense of respectfulness sets a vibrational tone for cooperation, whether you are speaking to another adult or a child.  For me, it has always been easier to be more mindful of the words that are coming out of my mouth while speaking to others than it has been when ‘talking to myself.’

Choosing affirmative language is elemental when seeking to enlighten and expand your perspective.  Replacing habitual self-talk that perpetuates a mundane view of your own reality is a good place to start.

Almost ten years ago, I was given the most powerful set of words that I continue to use today.  I was in the midst of designing and constructing props and scenery for yet another one of our local middle school musical productions.  I had done this type of volunteer work for years.  I recall this particular production because this was when I developed a burgeoning aversion to gratuitous work.

I had only myself to blame.  Before I became a full-time stay-at-home mom, I had spent a few years designing and painting murals for residential clients.  By the time that our youngest child, Natalie, was born, motherhood and child care had taken precedence and I eventually eased out of the mural business completely.  Since our older children, Katarina and James, were involved in their school’s musical productions, it seemed natural and fitting that I would lend my artistic experience.

Being that I am a former member of the all-or-nothing crowd (coupled with the fact that I was a neurotic perfectionist when it came to my artwork), one season of painting a background set for Natalie’s kindergarten program escalated into five years of comprehensive set design for every full-length production from Cinderella to Peter Pan and beyond.  These were some kick-ass sets.  And I had become an overworked lunatic.

By the time that “Pajama Game” was in production, I knew that this would be my last season of volunteer madness.  For the first time in years, I was beginning to acclimate myself to a new perspective on imperfection.  It was just a middle school play.  There were no theatre critics in the audience who were going to offer me a job on Broadway.  Awe and admiration from teachers and kids were no longer compensating for my frazzled state.  Kat had moved on to high school already, and Jim was not even in the play.  I had to ask myself why in the hell I was subjecting myself to this thankless job.  My answer was that I had committed to lending my assistance to this production, so I would see the project through to its completion and learn how to say “No, thanks” the next time.

At this point, I just wanted to “get it over with.”  The feeling of  indifference to my artwork was foreign to me, but it seemed a welcome alternative to the standards of perfection that I held myself to in the past.  This is when I met Jean.

Jean’s eighth grade son had a role in “The Pajama Game” production.  She had kindly volunteered her time to help me finish painting the remaining windows on the background for the factory scene, as well as any other final work with the props and scenery.  Jean owned her own interior design firm and was well equipped to provide the experience necessary to hasten the process of project completion.

Perfectionism was not on our agenda.  I welcomed this new volunteer work ethic with more enthusiasm than I would care to admit back then.  Had Jean shown up prior to this particular time in my life, I know that I would not have been as receptive (and appreciative) of her attitude.  This was not a paying gig.  We both had plenty of experience in delivering client satisfaction on projects in which an artist is compensated for their time and attention to detail.  This project was not one of them.

As we worked side-by-side that afternoon, there were several occasions when one, or both of us, would step back to assess our progress.  This is when Jean gave me the infamous words that I still use today.  With a smile and a tone of certainty she would say, “It’s exactly what we needed.”

When we ran out of paint for one of the walls, mixed a new batch from what was available, and noticed that it did not quite match the original tone, she squinted her eyes, turned her head toward mine and said, “It is exactly what we needed.”  I had to smile.  When we realized that the shading we had just painted on one window pane did not quite match the light source on an adjacent window, we spent a brief moment glancing back and forth between them.  Knowing full well that it was not quite right, Jean proclaimed, “But it is exactly what we needed!”

This became our favorite expression for the rest of the day.  We finished the set.  It was not even close to my previous kick-ass standards, but it was far from shoddy.  The kids liked it, and it was definitely above-average for a middle school production.  More importantly to me, it was done.  It was exactly what we needed.

These powerful words have remained among my repertoire of productive self-talk ever since that day when I first heard them from Jean.  It is still amazing to me how this simple phrase can effectively shift my perspective regarding minor circumstances that occur throughout daily life.  Former tendencies to focus on inconvenient details only served to lead me away to a perpetual state of discontent.  Using the words, “this is exactly what I needed” has essentially allowed me the freedom to appreciate the perfection of imperfections.  Any notable inconveniences are insignificant to what is ultimately the ‘big picture’ of my life.  It is the overall big picture of my life that requires my full attention, and not so much the imperfect pieces that comprise it.

If you are a detail-oriented personality with perfectionist tendencies, I salute you.  You are forever honored as one of my ‘kind’.  If your skills are required as part of your job,  I hope that you are handsomely compensated.  You deserve it.

However, if you should find that these choice words serve to improve your perspective within the circumstances of your personal life, then you can thank Jean.

Mrs. Bean vs. Jelly Bean

Physical beings are magnificently designed to promote survival.  Among the amazing internal mechanisms within our physical make-up are the adrenal glands.  Adrenal glands are vital in performing several hormonal functions, but it is the adrenal medulla that receives the most notoriety for providing us with the ‘power rush’ needed to react to extreme physical and emotional stress.

There are numerous mind-boggling accounts of people who perform super-human feats in response to emergency situations.  My mom and her siblings still marvel over the time when my grandmother, weighing in at approximately 110 pounds, lifted a 1943 two-ton automobile in order to release my uncle who had become trapped underneath it.  Apparently the car had become dislodged from its temporary lift while my uncle was engaged in some sort of repair work underneath the vehicle.  Grandma dropped the basket of laundry that she was carrying to the clothesline and rushed to the scene that she had witnessed from across the yard.  Reacting to my uncle’s cries for help, she proceeded to lift the automobile high enough to reach under and pull her son to safety.  His injuries were serious, but it was presumed that they were not as critical as they could have been had Grandma been forced to await assistance from the nearest town (15 miles away) or even from the closest neighbor (over a mile down the country road they lived on).  Perhaps Grandma had decided that if she were to save her son, she could not afford to wait the decades that it would take until 9-1-1 emergency response systems were instituted.

Maternal instinct, combined with the body’s capacity to respond to a crisis situation, can obviously produce an amazingly productive adrenaline rush.  Any recounting of Grandma’s story might even imply that there were miraculous forces at work.

I am pretty sure that my own recent experience with an adrenalin surge could not be defined as a life-threatening situation; but after I successfully popped a tightly wedged jelly bean from the depths of Caroline’s nostril last week, it sure the hell ‘felt’ like a miracle to me.

Most likely, it was my aversion to the thought of having to spend a perfectly good afternoon in the emergency room that may have contributed to my seemingly miraculous feat.  Many years ago, one of my sisters had somehow managed to insert a plastic holly berry from a Christmas ornament deep enough into her nasal cavity that my parents were required to take her to the doctor’s office where a special instrument was used to retrieve it.  Although I was very young at the time, I remember that it did not appear to be much fun for those involved, particularly my poor sister.

In addition to the memory of the ‘holly berry incident’ that ran through my head, my mind was busy entertaining thoughts of the unfortunate conversation I was going to have to have with my sister Evie.  I was going to have to try and explain exactly what I was doing while her daughter, who was under my care,  was busy shoving a jelly bean up her nose.

My heart had been racing as fast as my mind, but I believe that it was the sound of Caroline’s crying that triggered the calm sensation that overcame me while I went to work on my niece.  I knelt down in front of Cara, placed my hands on the sides of her puffy little cheeks, and tilted her head back gently to glimpse the rounded bottom of a jelly bean that was just barely visible deep within her nostril.  I used the flat side of one thumb to ease the embedded jelly bean down and away from the corner of her eye, all the while thinking how desperately I wanted it to come toward me.  I think that both of us were more than pleasantly surprised when that snotty little bean suddenly rocketed down the tunnel with uncanny speed, slid over her quivering lip, and landed on her chin.

Of course, I still had to tell Evie what happened.  I felt a little less like an irresponsible aunt when Evie informed me that Caroline had recently been discovered conducting various nostril insertion experiments in her own home, as well.

Since I may have consumed a fair amount of jelly beans that afternoon myself, perhaps it had been a good old-fashioned sugar rush that contributed to the triumphant extraction.  Among my other possible excuses, the fact that Caroline is young and malleable may also account for the ease in which her nasal bone was so surprisingly manipulated.  In any case, it felt like a miracle to me.

No more jelly beans for Caroline.  At least not until we have more practice with putting them in our mouth:)

Not That, But This

When I was a child, my mom told me that I could be anything that I wanted to be when I grew up.  When I finally did grow up, I wondered why I doubted it.

I was never quite confident enough in my ability to ‘do anything that I wanted’ because of the foundation upon which my internal operating system was built.  Threads of self-doubt comprised a substantial portion of this underlying framework within which my brain operates.  My mother is not to be blamed.  It was her responsibility as my parent to keep me safe while I learned how to function, manage, and relate to life.  Along with many other adults who were vested in my upbringing, my parents did what they thought was best for me.

Most of us grew up under a similar protection plan.  This plan included inundating us with a continuous stream of information on how to avoid trouble.  “Don’t do this, don’t do that” were repeated reminders throughout our early childhood.  These directives were customarily reinforced with subsequent warnings, such as “you’ll break your neck” and “you’ll put your eye out.”  All the necessary rules that we needed to follow were given to us on a daily basis for the purpose of keeping us safe from harm.

Of course we should provide our children with instructions that will help them to avoid dangerous situations.  As a parent myself, I have first-hand experience with the instinctive nature to protect my children from pain.  While I naturally want to keep them from harm, I believe that the method  for teaching children how to avoid harmful situations requires an equal dose of how to attempt innocuous ones.

A constant barrage of prevention measures that do not include suggestions of what kids CAN do is the blueprint for a framework of avoidance.  Unbalanced patterns of avoidance promote the tendency toward self-doubt.   Any adult has the option to reconstruct a mental framework that was fashioned with more threads of doubt than confidence.  Remodeling an internal operating system can be done during any stage of life.  In my experience, this rebuilding process is well worth it, but often quite arduous.  Once I became a parent myself, I thought I might save the small Beans the trouble by providing them with a confident foundation to operate upon right from the start.

It is really just a simple matter of proportion.  For every directive that contained the words “you can’t,”  I would try to be mindful of offering another statement that contained the words “you can.”  My objective was to supply their developing mindset with at least an equal amount of ‘capability’ threads to balance all the threads of  ‘powerlessness’ that they had been accumulating.  Eventually supplying the young Beans with more “cans” than “can’ts” would be even better.

Initiating this practice was a real eye-opener for me.  It was startling just how often I used the word “can’t.”  My first attempts at offering counter-directives felt a bit clumsy, too.  I used some really stupid and far-fetched edicts, such as “you can’t touch the knobs on the stove because it’s dangerous, but you CAN hold this spoon.”  (What?! What the hell does that mean?!)

Eventually I recognized that the kids were not at all miffed by my awkward associations, and that they actually absorbed the underlying messages quite easily.  Their comprehension of danger was acknowledged with a furrowed brow and a frown.  This expression was immediately followed by bright eyes and a smile while holding the stupid spoon.  This felt like parenting magic at its best.

With time and practice I have improved my relative associations between the cans and cannots.  Some twenty years or so later, it is now automatic to tell my two-year-old niece that she CANNOT walk down the front porch steps by herself, but she CAN hold my hand and count with me while we walk down the steps together.  If I can help my sister Evie construct Caroline’s developing framework to promote more confidence than avoidance, we may save Caroline the trouble of having to undertake a complete remodeling project later in life.

Since it appears that the three Beans are now self-assured young adults who meet situations more often than they avoid them, I am certain that this is one indication that the cans are continuing to dominate the cannots within their mental framework.  Although it does seem rather peculiar that they still smile while holding a spoon:)

It Wasn’t Me

Even the most proficient witch cannot prevent the awkward social situation that arises when the young child she is responsible for ‘toots’ in public.  Ignorance is futile.  Reminding the little one to say “excuse me” (or saying it for them) while sharing a sheepish grin among the adjacent bystanders is the best option.  Instances that involve the natural occurrence of bodily functions are the greatest equalizer.  They can level any implied social hierarchy by reminding even the most rigid and pompous individual that everyone farts. (Sorry, Evie. I do not particularly care for the vulgar term, either, but it seemed the most appropriate choice when used in this context.)

The extent to which a child demonstrates politeness towards others depends largely on the personal standards of their parents and caregivers.  If you are not embarrassed to burp out loud or ‘break wind’ in the company of others, without at least offering an “excuse me” after the fact, your kids are sure to follow suit.  This is the reason why kids might often receive conflicting messages from mom and dad until one parent becomes sternly committed to the matter. (Mom usually wins this one, even if she knows that the “excuse me” habit may only be recalled when in her presence.  Boys, and sometimes even their sisters, are known to engage in competitions that showcase the amazing capabilities of  their bodily functions, but at least they wait until Mom has left the room.  Most of the time.)

Of course, cultural differences and social customs are relevant to what is considered ‘mannerly’ behavior, as well.  I was born and raised in the northern United States where it was Yankee custom to address all adults as “Mr.” and “Mrs.” (or “Miss” if unmarried) followed by their last name.  When Durwood and I moved to a southern state, I was horrified to be addressed as “Miss Jillian” instead of “Mrs. Bean.”

Even mentioning the first name of one of my parent’s friends would have drawn a stern look from my mother.  If I were anywhere within my mother’s immediate striking range, the ‘look’ would most likely have been impressed upon me further with a sharp smack on the head.  Using the first name of any adult (who was not an aunt or uncle) was considered highly disrespectful.  I still refer to my mother’s best friend as “Mrs. Kelly” out of some weird fear that I still hold in speaking the name “Betty” out loud.  My mother may be eighty-two years old, but still quite adept at physical correction should she ever feel the need to slap me in the back of the head.

After living in the southern region of the United States for several years, I no longer cringe when I hear my kids’ friends refer to me as “Miss Jillian.”  It would seem that ingrained teachings by which my concept of respectfulness was defined do persist.  I still find myself insisting that my own kids refer to our adult friends as “Mr. and Mrs. Last Name.”  When these adult friends are products of a proper southern upbringing, they override my introduction by welcoming my kids to address them as “Mr. and Miss First Name,” whereby the young Beans will then look to me as if seeking a nod of permission to do so (wondering, perhaps, if Grandma might be around to smack them in the head when they do).

One very impressive southern mannerism that never fails to amaze me is that the majority of children who were born and raised here reply with an automatic “yes, sir/yes, ma’am” and “no, sir/no, ma’am” whenever spoken to by an adult.  Where I grew up, you only responded as such if you were in military school.  In addition to repeating the traditional Yankee practice of “Mr. and Mrs. Last Name, ” I pretty much stuck to the basic “please, thank-you, and excuse me” phrases with the young Beans.  This would explain why all three of them now sound like Rainman when in the company of their southern-bred friends.

Last evening, Mr. Bean and I attended Natalie’s high school band concert.  We brought our niece Caroline with us.  Under normal circumstances, I would not condone bringing a two-year-old to a performance in which extended periods of silent attention from the audience is preferred.  Since Caroline’s mother is a professional musician, I am confident in her proper audience training.  Constant exposure since birth, combined with her mother’s insistence on what is expected, has provided Cara with a level of courtesy that often exceeds that of the behavior I have witnessed by some adults during a live performance.  Unless, of course, she has consumed a fair amount of beanie-weenie for dinner.

At first, Cara tried to contain her gaseous outbursts much like any adult might attempt to do when surrounded by an auditorium full of people.  Durwood told me later that he could feel Cara raise her tiny bottom and lean to one side in an effort to squeeze her little cheeks together while sitting on his lap.  Much to her dismay, Cara’s efforts became fruitless as eventually the beanie-weenie effects acquired the upper hand.  Apparently, her initial rumbles were quiet enough that Durwood reports having experienced an uncontrollable need to smile, simply because he thought her antics were quite “cute.”  When soon after it had become obvious to him that her low-key toots were accompanied by a most unpleasant odor, his amusement was replaced by a sudden panic.  He wondered if anyone else was smelling the same thing he was and worried that they might think that it was him.

By this time the rancid odor had wafted in my direction.  Naturally, my first instinct was to shoot Durwood an accusing glance, who in turn widened his eyes and tilted his head toward little Cara.  I was appalled that Durwood would even consider blaming our niece for his rude behavior.  Upon further consideration, it did seem a bit out of character for him.  My assumptions were confirmed when the real culprit, who had become weary of adhering to her mother’s courtesy standards, leaned over and held her arms out to me while at the same time ripping a highly audible wind-breaker of epic proportion.  Based on the number of turned heads around us, I would estimate that it had traveled at least three rows deep.

Uncle D beamed proudly (probably thankful, too, that everyone knew it wasn’t him) while all I could do was offer condolences to the smiling faces all around us.

“Ready to go sit in the lobby for awhile?” I asked Cara.

“Yes, Ma’am,” she replied.

Neither A Borrower Nor A Lender Be

Does anyone ever return a borrowed book?  Chances are that the only time most people fulfill an obligation to return a book is when they have borrowed it from the library; and even then, accountability is often viewed in a rather casual manner.  Unless you are a college student who cannot afford the escalating overdue fines, the majority of the population does not live in fear of due dates imposed by their local library.

Most of us are familiar with the phenomenon that occurs when books are shared between friends and acquaintances.  The traditional definition of the word “borrow” seldom applies to these exchanges.  Any time that I have allowed someone to “borrow” a book, I have resigned myself to the possibility that I may never see it again.  On the rare occasions that I have actually had someone return a book to me, it is always, without exception, from a friend who is a devout follower of the same book religion that I practice.

I am always willing to share a good read, particularly since I have abandoned the unrealistic notion that I will read a novel a second time.  If I already know how the story turns out, what is the point?  The only reason to keep a book that I will never read again is to add it to a shelf full of other books I have read, while still clinging to the illusion that my collection serves to impress others (and myself) with the number of books that I have read.  In any case, I have become more relaxed when offering to pass along a good book that I am certain I will never want to look through again.

On the other hand, I have plenty of other books that I would have some difficulty parting with.  These include books that are of sentimental value, classics that I do intend to read more than once, or several others that I continue to use for reference.  My books are important to me.  I grant requests to lend them if the borrower meets one of two requirements: either they are a trusted friend who understands that I reserve the right to conduct an annoying and relentless campaign to have the book returned to me when they are finished using it, or they agree to hand over their first-born child after signing their name to a contract written in their own blood.  This second requirement is no longer necessary since I have learned that it is much easier to just say “no.”

Perhaps it is old age, but I no longer feel compelled to justify my reasons for declining to share certain personal possessions that I simply choose not to.  Books are one thing.  I think that we all have personal items, tangible and otherwise, that we assign varying levels of value to.  These values may very well be as individual as we are.

My cousin Candace once reminded me that “you don’t have to respond to every single request and inquiry that is made of you.”  Candace is wise.  We are also not required to make excuses when we choose not to respond to certain requests, either.  Although I value the energy that generosity cultivates within my spirit, I do not feel the love in being expected to share certain things with others that I have not offered to give.

Writing the above statement has stirred faint murmurs within that whisper judgmental words that I have heard over time, like “greedy” and “selfish.”  If I am still sorting out these concepts as an adult, I can realize the challenge that parents and care-givers face when guiding young minds in the virtue of generosity, while emphasizing the value in preservation of self.  When we force our children to share everything that they have with their siblings and playmates, we are essentially removing their innate ability to experience the joy in giving.

When Kat was young, we participated in a playgroup that was sponsored through our local church.  The group met once a week.  Since the church was not equipped to meet the needs of the large group of mothers and children, we decided to take turns hosting the meetings in our own homes.  Like most of my experience in volunteer organizations, it ended up being the same four moms who would offer their homes to a group of at least a dozen other moms,  including at least twice as many kids.  If you can imagine  over twenty children under the age of five years descending upon one household, you can grasp the toy-sharing issues that inevitably ensued.

Being the church group that we were, the concept of sharing was encouraged.  Little tempers often flared and less assertive hosts stood by to watch their possessions used, strewn about, or worse, become ‘accidentally’ broken.  I am describing a scenario that seems more chaotic than it actually was, but my most vivid recollection is that of those ‘crushed’ expressions on little faces that were told that they had to share their prized possessions with others.  Maybe they did not want to have someone else scribble in their favorite coloring book, undress their doll, or take down the duplo tower they spent time building.

When it was our turn to host the playgroup, I spent the day before letting Kat decide what she wanted to share with her guests.  I let her know that it was okay to choose toys that she preferred not to share.  We put those items away in her brother’s room (a stack of books among them….where does she get that from?) and decided that it was acceptable to inform her guests that the baby’s room was off-limits.  When our guests arrived the next day, parents and kids were respectful of our decision to keep Jim’s room private.  There were some who appeared more than happy to enforce the new rule with others among us who exhibited nosy tendencies or assumed their own air of privilege.  Private rooms that contained items that children chose not to share became the standard practice after that.

Kat was thrilled to share her toys, her room, and her home because she had the power to decide what she offered to others.  She discovered that her magna-doodle was broken once everyone had left, and I remember how easily she accepted it as a consequence of the choice that she had made in deciding to share it.  It was a four-year-old “shit happens” shoulder shrug, just a minor glitch compared to the joy she experienced in sharing the parts of her world that she wanted to.

I can see when Caroline is becoming overwhelmed with her little brother.  As babies tend to do,  Anson gets close enough to start grabbing everything within Cara’s current space of the playroom.   I tell Cara to choose what she is willing to share with him, and I let her know that it is perfectly acceptable to put anything else out of his reach.  Anson is seven months old, so it makes absolutely no difference to him whether he is biting and drooling all over Ariel or Cinderella’s head.  It is Caroline who beams with joy as she watches Anson “borrow” the doll that SHE decided to offer him.

Of course, there remains that one friend you may know who helps themselves to everything in your home, bullying their way through your DVD collection, your make-up basket, or perhaps even your books (gasp!).  Whether you have offered these things or not is of no consequence to them, since they would welcome you to help yourself to any of their things that you don’t want.

You could resort to hiding the items that you are not ready to loan, but what a pain that is.  This is when it is okay to just say “no.”  Whether they think that you are being stingy, or not, is none of your business.  Then again, there’s always the option of offering them a contract signed with their own blood…