Can you master your attitude?

“You cannot control what happens to you, but you can

control your attitude toward what happens to you, and in

that, you will be mastering change rather than allowing it

to master you.”- -Brian Tracy

 

Wouldn’t it be great to tune it out? Really, who wants to hear the kids fight over who took the biggest piece of cake? Do I care about the one hundred reasons they didn’t clean their room? I don’t. I could do without the whining and the fighting and the endless bit about life not being fair. So, let’s turn the volume down, eh?

Be careful what you wish for. This week, one of my good mom friends had surgery to help her from going deaf. She’s had days when her equilibrium’s been so thrown that she felt like she’d been tossed on a wild carpet ride, minus the drugs. It’s hard to imagine a world without noise. Some days, we all wish for it. But when you are brought face to face with such reality, you think again.

My friend is brave. Braver than I. She’s tackled her loss with incredible grace and spirit. She can’t control what’s happened to her. But she’s certainly handled her attitude. Of course, she’s depressed. Sad. Angry. Who wouldn’t be? I’m sure Beethoven and Helen Keller felt the same way. But look what they did. We do have the ability to make lemonade, when life gives us lemons. Like my friend, maybe we should try.

 

Why bother with birthdays?

We don’t stop playing because we grow old; We grow old because we stop playing!

-George Bernard Shaw

My girlfriends and I caught the birthday badness bug today. We woke up a friend who turned fifty, at 5:50 a.m.. Why not 5:50 in the p.m. you ask? We’re all asking the same question.

It’s darn hard to be novel as we get older. We’ve had birthday bashes at bars, restaurants, and around a few barbecues. But waking up someone in bed when the sky won’t shine? Not been done.

Turning fifty is a milestone. At a half a century, we begin a slow decline. Or do we? Sure our skin shrivels and our bones snap a little louder, but who, besides Glamour magazine, says that’s so bad?

Call it denial, but I’d rather be nearing 50 than 12 almost any day. By fifty we know who we are, live with people we love, and eat Fruitloops with marshmallows when we feel like it. Who’d trade that for a future of acne medicine and driving classes?

By now I’ve seen people tackle age with downright defiance. Walking into Sephora’s is a bit like walking into M&M headquarters with a two-year-old. Racks of wrinkle cream and soothing serums line the walls. But we buy into the marketing mania anyway and rub gel on our faces and highlight our hair.

Sadly, some folks begin to settle into slow boredom as they age. They live out their days like Eeyore, when nothing goes quite right. However, there are a few lucky souls who live like little kids at a carnival around birthday time. Although purple princess balloons may be replaced with black, “you’re old as shit” posters, a birthday has the potential to let us laugh. And eat icing before the sun rises. The people who play, who embrace the higher double digits with grace and joy find the secret to maturity.

Why Keep Old Friends?

It’s no good trying to keep up old friendships. It’s painful for both sides. The fact is, one grows out of people, and the only thing is to face it.

–W. Somerset Maugham

When I first found this quote I almost spilled my coffee. What was Maugham thinking? Just because he had a horrible past with friends who stuck his hands in warm water to make him pee, doesn’t give him the right to tell us to ditch our friends of yesteryear.

Because my twenty-fifth high school reunion was held two weeks ago, I’ve been given particular pause to ponder. Reunions can be odd. Thrown face to face with the bitches and belles, the bullies and bad guys can make people a little crazy. Before gathering to reminisce, folks shop for the perfect outfit while others stock up on Tums. If men still have hair, they dye it peculiar shades of blond. Lots of people drink, and others stalk old girlfriends. So why do it to ourselves? Why bother?

Weeks before our latest reunion a friend refused to attend, or ever attend any future reunion. Too overwhelming. News of her dissent circulated at our reunion and created a small uproar. “Who does she think she is to never talk to us again? What was so horrible? People change! There are no cliques anymore. We’re too old for that.” While these sentiments may or may not be true, I was surprised at the wave of displeasure her words generated. Why indeed, keep contact with old friends? Like Maugham said, new friends can replace the old.

Although I could not afford to fly to Ohio for this recent reunion, I have kept contact with former friends. Lots of them. I argue with a few, laugh with a few, and even cry with the best of them. They take me to my roots and remind me of both the person I was and of the person I have become. “Old” friends show me the path I’ve chosen and help explain the journey I’ve taken.

While I may laugh at the guy with hair plugs or roll my eyes at the beauty queen who continues to work the room, I relish in the company of old. No one knows you quite like an old friend. They keep us.

Can You Ask For Help?

Wherever a man turns he can find someone who needs him.  ~Albert Schweitzer

We’ve all been there. Lost. On an open road with a husband who refuses to stop and ask for directions.

Asking for help makes us feel vulnerable. It messes with our pride and derails our rugged individuality. Like two-year-olds, we insist on doing it ourselves. Even if that means staying lost in the desert.

After hearing the buzz about Obama’s speech for students, I decided to listen firsthand.  I watched the speech live with my son’s fourth grade classroom. When the teacher asked the students what they heard the President say, a hand went up. Mario said, “Ask for help! He said he even does it. And he’s the President!”

Relieved Mario hadn’t recited the Communist Manifesto, I listened harder to what the kids had to say. The teacher asked how they might need help. Some said they needed help with homework. Another wanted spelling suggestions. One little girl said she needed help remembering her glasses. “And where can we find help?” Ms. Brendyl asked.  The students responded with the usual: a parent, a teacher, the principal, a friend.

President Obama urged students to find someone who can help them succeed. While many adults shuddered at the thought of President Obama speaking to our nation’s children, I wondered, why? What made people so opposed and so afraid? Are tags like staying in school and working hard terrible values? Is asking for help a socialist ideal?

Then I remember the husbands stranded in the desert. Maybe asking for help frightens people. However, for many of the kids who receive free school meals, or kids with only one parent at home, or others with a language barrier, hearing the President say that it’s okay to ask for help was nothing short of  miraculous.

One of the guiding principles of all major religions is to offer help, and yet somehow people have forgotten what that means. Helping your neighbor means all neighbors. Even the ones we don’t like. Or the ones across the border. And like all values, help must begin with our own selves. In order to succeed, rather than getting lost in the woods, we could take the President’s advice and ask for help. Building community means celebrating our greatest gifts and sharing them with others, while also recognizing our greatest weaknesses and asking for support.

On that note, I’m finding someone to help with the laundry.

Respect or Run? What are Your Teaching your Kids?

“I’m not concerned with your liking or disliking me… All I ask is

that you respect me as a human being.”- Jackie Robinson

For awhile now, I’ve wondered if respect is a lost art. After the ridiculous hoopla over the President’s speech, I’m sure of it. Often my blogs find humor in life’s daily strife. Not this time.

I’m shocked, appalled, and disgusted with my fellow Americans who refuse to let their children listen to our President. Our PRESIDENT. Of the UNITED STATES of AMERICA. I agree with Jackie Robinson, it’s not about like and dislike. It’s about respect. The President of the free world deserves to be honored and respected. If you disagree, then disagree. That’s fine with me. In fact, that’s what makes this country so great. But don’t let your children suffer because you’re too terrified to listen.

We should be teaching our children to debate, to think, and to make objections. How can kids find their voice or even understand what they believe in, if they’re kept at home? Does hiding help?

And then, we circle back to respect. Throughout history, both conservative and liberal presidents have spoken to our children. And we listened. We honored the position with respect. In years past the population did not run and hide. What exactly are parents, who refuse to listen to President Obama, teaching their children? Are they the same parents who allow their kids walk off the football field because they don’t like the coach? Do their children walk out of math class because the teacher gave a tough test?  Elders, teachers, coaches, parents, and presidents deserve respect. Dislike and disagree. But listen with respect.

Loving Neighbors: Even on Vacation?

For all the law is fulfilled in one word, even in this: Thou shall love thy neighbor as thyself.” –Galatians 5:14

Do I have to love my neighbor on vacation? Technically, she/he’s not my real neighbor.

Taking vacation on a small lake in Michigan means cottages close together. Thin cottages. Or rather, walls that are thin. The kind of thin that allows you to hear sweet sounds of summer as you fall asleep. Birds chirping and water lapping upon the shore. What’s not poetic? The chainsaw. At 8:00 a.m..

Now, I ask, is that neighborly? Construction work before the sun has warmed the dock? And what about barking dogs? Or screaming kids splashing in the lake? Oh right, those are mine.

It does take an extra stretch to be kind sometimes. Like when tourists drive backwards down the “off” ramp. Or when a wave runner comes deathly close to your swimming 7-year-old. Love may be hard to muster when you wait in line for an hour at Dairy Queen. Then again, it’s not so hard. Just watch your kids trying to decide between a double chocolate-coated cone with sprinkles or a Butterfinger Blizzard. Big choices. Big love.

I guess I can tolerate the chain saw. Maybe it’s my guilt. The fireworks we brought were a little loud. Vacation is all that. It’s ice-cream and laughter. Swimming and s’mores. It can even be a hammer next door.

Speak or Silence?

When we speak, we are afraid our words will not be heard. But when we are silent, we are still afraid. So it is better to speak.  –Audre Lorde

According to Audre Lorde, I guess I should be pleased my kids aren’t afraid to be heard. They just speak and speak and speak and speak. All the time.

The youngest found her voice recently. I use to worry she was quiet, hiding her rambling thoughts inside her head. Be careful what you wish for. Now her mouth runs like the energizer bunny.

The oldest found her teenage voice recently too. Enough said.

As a middleman, my son’s never had a problem NOT speaking. He wakes us singing opera. Or with nonstop verbiage such as: “ Yo, you man what you talkn’ about? Hey no way. That’s mine. Wait, I want that one. Why can’t I have the last blueberry muffin? But why does she get it? That’s totally not fair. Fine then. I’m eating all the cream cheese…” and on it goes. Perhaps his long discourses will train him well in a political profession.

By the end of the day my ears don’t just ring. They whirl and twirl with noise. But now, in this very minute there is silence. The joy of camp. For moms.

Funny thing is, after a minute I miss it (well, okay, maybe an hour). I miss the chaos of voices. I miss the complaining and the arguing and the life that my kids give to my space. I miss the speak. And the speaking and speaking and speaking.  

Call Me a Weed.

The Difference between a Flower and a Weed is a judgment. –unknown

So today, I’m a weed. My flower didn’t bloom, thinking about last night’s movie. This is a judgmental blog. Go ahead, call me a weed. I can take it. What I can’t take is a screaming baby at a movie that I’ve paid big bucks to see.

What are new parents thinking? Can they not let their baby go? For two hours? Don’t they have at least one friend to watch their precious? Or do they really think Harry Potter will stimulate their kid into the wizardry world? Really. Do they think that at a movie, no one will care that they’ve strapped their 4-month-old to their chest and brought him along?

I mind. My kids mind. The entire *%^@% theater minds. Especially when precious starts to wail. And who doesn’t scream, at least once, during Harry Potter? Is it fair to the poor baby to be listening to charms and spells at hi-def? Does the baby understand the movie? Genius Baby.

Baby’s parents are too cheap or too lazy to find a sitter, and obviously don’t care about the rest of the world. Instead, they subject baby to a crowd of coughers, hackers, and music so loud the room shakes. Nice.

Summer movies are a wonderful respite to the heat, to the doldrums of long July days, or to the pounding rain. But, not when babies share the theater. I think there should be a baby ban at movie theaters. That or a ban on idiot parents.

See? I’m a weed.

Awareness in the Air

Expect this to be a day of Healing, Awareness, Harmony, and Gentle Order.

-Naomi Rose

Not this day. Where’s the Healing? Awareness? Harmony? Ha! Definitely no Gentle Order on this travel day.

It began with no running water and yes, I had to fly. On an airplane. Although believe me, I would have preferred to fly on the wings of some magical dragon.

Travel days start early in the great white north. Two things are necessary at 4:30 a.m., a shower and a cup of coffee. I got neither.

Instead, I put a baseball cap on my fine looking hair, piled three kids into the car, and drove. Not so far. Within fifteen miles, my youngest threw-up. We arrived at the airport, changed clothes, and found coffee. Until someone ran into me and spilled it all over my jacket. At least coffee smells better than throw-up. Maybe that was my healing harmony.

Maybe not. My husband said good-bye at security check, and my two-year-old performed a stellar tantrum. She cried so hard that snot slid down her nose and onto my shoulder. It didn’t help that I had to send her doll through an x-ray machine. Ever try to remove a screaming toddler’s shoes in front of a hundred strangers ready to call you a bad mom if you raise your voice? So okay, maybe my day did have some awareness.

By now, we were late, so we ran. I hauled three kids, two pink backpacks, and a suitcase of my own down the corridor as fast as I could. You know that feeling you get when you wonder, gee, will I see someone I know travelling? I prayed NOT to have that happen. Apparently, it was not a day for prayers. A voice from aisle ten said, “Hi Carrie”. It was hard to find a good response with coffee, vomit, and sweat settling on my skin. I bit my tongue and said hi with as much gentle order as I could muster.

I won’t bore you with the details on the plane. If you have kids, you know what flying’s like and if you don’t, you’ve probably had to sit near kids. You know too. Fun, fun.

We arrived in Detroit, and no one at baggage claim came with a cart and a hand out. Too bad. I would have paid big bucks for help. How do moms travel with strollers, car seats, suitcases and exhausted kids? I don’t remember.

After waiting in a long line with whiney kids, we smashed into a compact rental car and headed for McDonalds. Nothing like a McShake to improve the day, until of course, a truck swerves into another truck. Brakes slammed, and I skidded off the road. Safely, thankfully. However, the backpacks behind my kids’ heads slid onto their heads and caused them to spill all the milkshakes and food down their fronts. More tears.

We arrived an hour later at our friend’s house. We did not give them hugs. Instead, I asked for a bar of soap, four towels, and marched us directly into the shower. Fortunately, there was running water at their house.

And, there it was. I finally found healing, awareness, harmony, and gentle order. In the shower. Thank the good Lord my kids are older. I don’t think I need to find any more awareness in the air.

Happy summer travels!

Don’t Blame Erica Jong

You take your life in your own hands, and what happens? A terrible thing: no one to blame. –Erica Jong

Could someone please explain this to my children? Seriously, what would they do without Mom to blame?

At our house, you can hear someone ask, “Where’s my blue shirt with the butterfly on it?” “Who moved my homework?” “Where are my ski gloves?” or “Who took my snack?” at any given time on any given day.

My answer, of course is Poltergeist. The Borrowers. Mysterious fairies live in our house and eat my kids’ homework. But do my kids think so? No sirreee. Mom did it.

Just exactly when do we grow up and learn not to blame? Can we, as adults, embrace personal responsibility and stop blaming the driver in front of us? The weather? The teacher? Okay, so maybe I won’t stop blaming the parent who screams at kids on the soccer field, but he’s an idiot.

Waking up to the realization that we are in control of our actions and reactions to life is not an easy task. We can’t control snow in the spring, but we can fix a pina colada and crank the heat and pretend. In fact, I’m headed to the bar right now.

When we blame others, or the weather, or circumstance we find discontent. Once we own up to what is, we can begin to truly let go and live.

First, I have to go find my car keys. My husband stole them.