Home Sweet Home

According to the tenant living in my house in Georgia, I have squirrels in my attic.  When I learned of this, my mind quickly starting singing "Squirrels in my Pants," a fun little ditty sung by Candace, Phineas and Ferb's distrusting big sister, that always makes Braden laugh.  (This, sadly, is one of the hazards of motherhood.  Confused by this reference?  Read this blog for clarification)  After that, I excitedly decided that the squirrels were a sign that a trip to Georgia was in order.  (Not that I wasn't already planning a trip to Georgia, but the squirrels provided an excuse that seemed less selfish than "I need a best friend fix.")

So David Tatum, squirrel catcher extraordinaire, and I went to my house yesterday to assess the situation.  Either my attic is home to Georgia's cleanest squirrels or the scampering steps heard by my tenant truly come from the roof because David saw no sign of the squirrels up there.  He set a trap just to be safe, but I am optimistic that no critters will be captured.  And should the tenant call again with reports of squirrels, I may decide to hire a trained professional rather than go back to the house myself because there is little I've experienced of late that is more unnerving than seeing my home filled with someone else's possessions.

I purchased my house in Georgia five years ago.  A three bedroom, two bath Cape Cod with wrap-around porch, it symbolized my true immersion into adulthood and a home where my son and I could build our future.  After viewing nearly twenty homes, I knew immediately that this was the one.  The selling points:  fenced-in back yard, garden tub, and beautiful accent wall complete with fireplace in the living room (to name a few).  When I bought it, I never imagined Braden wouldn't spend his teenage years there.  Yet here I am, five years and 750 miles later, no longer able to call it home sweet home.

From the outside, it looked the same as when it receded from my rear view mirror in June.  (Okay, that's not entirely true given that my hydrangeas were in full bloom when I left, but dramatic license seems necessary here.)  But when I crossed the threshold into the living room, the romance faded.  Gone were the piano and overstuffed couches; gone were the kitchen table and chairs I found for a steal on Craig's List; gone were the pictures that lined the stairway wall from floor to ceiling; gone was the laughter of my son.

Even though the belongings that fill the duplex I currently rent in Missouri are the very same ones from my home in Georgia, the building itself doesn't feel like home.  The laughter and the music are the same, but my heart is not yet connected.  I know that it will take time to feel at home again in the state of my youth, and I am optimistic that this emotionality will eventually blossom, but coming back to my home in Georgia pulled at my heartstrings more than I expected.

And so, I return to Missouri today nostalgic for a home sweet home to call my own and cognisant that, as long as I continue to make decisions with my son's future at heart, we will be home wherever I hear his laughter.

When I grow up, part two

I knew with certainty at a very young age that I wanted, possibly even needed, to be a mom someday.  In my girlish fantasy, my home echoed with laughter and fighting of a child and his siblings--four youngsters in total--while my husband and I prepared dinner and alleviated the worries of our children with a smile and a hug.

Oh, the naivete' of childhood.

I have been a single mom since the beginning of my pregnancy; yet even after 8 years, I find myself continually surprised by the closed-minded, often judgmental responses people give when learning this.  First, they assume I am divorced.  When they discover that I've never been married, they presume the worst about my moral fortitude.  (No one has ever done this verbally, but such assumption is easily read on one's face.)  When learning that my son's father and I conscientiously and maturely decided that marriage was not the solution to our parenting situation, the conversation becomes slightly uncomfortable.  When I announce that my son's father, step-mom, and I get along quite well given our unique parenting roles, brows raise in perplexed confusion.  And when I explain my views about single motherhood being a part of God's plan for my life, they run for the holy water.

Those who know me well know that I believe in God, but that my faith is in many ways cumulus--both well-defined and fuzzy, much like the clouds of the same nature.  This is not to say I am a fair-weather fan, a believer only when it works for me; instead, my faith is mine--a private matter for the most part--that I do not feel comfortable discussing at great length with most people, mainly because my views on God's role in our lives is often controversial to Christians more devout than I.

I inherently believe that being a single mother is part of my path, destiny (or whatever you choose to call it) that God set out for me.  If I had waited for society's definition of the ideal family structure--living happily-ever-after with the Prince Charming from my childhood vision--to become a mom, I would still be waiting for that glass slipper.  Of course, I understand the science behind my son's creation (and give that science its due for its role), but I also know that His blessing came sublimely into my life, giving me hope and faith in something more.  His plan for me, as His plans always do, tempered mine, quieting my longing for a family of my own.  His plan for me, as His plans always do, brought me the endless joy (and frequent headaches) of motherhood.  His plan for me made me me.

And so, when I grow up, I want to be a mother.  My home will echo with the laughter of a son and I will alleviate his worries with a smile and a hug.  I will relish in the naivete' of childhood, knowing that when I grow up, I will be whole.

When I grow up, part one

Pro skateboarder (or X gamer) like Tony Hawk.  A pianist like Billy Joel and Ben Folds.  A base and electric guitarist.  A teacher.  An Olympic swimmer better than Michael Phelps.  A magician.  A special agent for NCIS (but a real one, not an actor like Michael Weatherly).  A soldier in the Navy.  President of the United States.  An inventor like Phineas and Ferb.  A singer, dancer, and song writer like Michael Jackson and Justin Timberlake.

Aside from magician, this list of things Braden wants to be when he grows-up are consistent with his talents and interests.  With the exception of a newly discovered love of skateboarding, Braden has long voiced his interest in these careers.  (Yes, he's only 8, but he's wanted to be President of the United States since he was 4.)  The shows we watch on television, the books we read, and the vacations we take are often influenced by these pursuits.  As his mom, I don't see these announcements for his future as fleeting fancies and eagerly await his future, grown-up job.

But his varied interests prompted me to reflect on my childhood aspirations for "when I grow-up".  As far back as my memory serves, I have wanted to be two things:  a teacher and a mom.  No bold decrees about my future as a fighter pilot or aerospace engineer; instead, my desires to teach and mother stood simple, solid, and resolute.  Aside from a shift from early childhood education to secondary English education and a current longing to get my doctorate and move from high school teacher to college professor, my vision has remained steadfast.

However, Braden's battery of options and hopes and talents made me question myself.  What does it say about me that I've only had two career aspirations during my life, even during my childhood days when my imagination could have encouraged anything?  In search of the answer to this question, I did what every self-respecting 35 year-old woman does--I called my mom.  My mom, like moms are supposed to, alleviated my worry:

"Knowing so certainly what you wanted is a gift," she said.  "Many people spend years finding their niche.  You were fortunate to know and to heed it.  I always wanted to teach, too, but people told me I was too smart, that I should be a lawyer or a doctor or something else.  And believing that, that I was too smart to be a teacher, led me down the wrong path for many years.  Smart people can be teachers, should be teachers--people like you and Travis [my brother] and me.  And for the really good teachers, the ones who do it right, it's the hardest job a person can have.  It's perfectly okay that it's all you ever wanted."

And so, when I grow-up, I want to be a teacher, just like my mom and my brother and both of my dads and Stephanie Tatum and my Chaucerians (and a long list of other smart people I know who are teachers).

Trivial tidbits, week eight

Mr. Jones.  Rain King.  Round Here.  A Murder of One.

These hits propelled The Counting Crows from relative obscurity to top twenty ranking on multiple Billboard charts in 1993 and 1994.  August and Everything After, one of the few albums I can listen to from start to finish without tapping the fast-forward button on my iPhone, spoke to my poetic, optimistically melancholy spirit.  Song after song, lyric after lyric, I devoured every allusion, every minor chord, every whimsical statement and in the process blossomed my love affair with The Counting Crows.  And Adam Duritz.

Adam Duritz.  This is no accidental love.  Adam Duritz fashions language in a manner that makes this wannabe writer envious.  The populace knows the lyrics to the hits above and A Long December, but Duritz's true magic unfolds in lesser known songs.  Sullivan Street.  St. Robinson in His Cadillac Dream.  Holiday in Spain.  We're Only Love.  Color Blind.  Within these ballads (primarily), Duritz illuminates love and lust and longing and loss with hues of blue and gray and yellow as reflected in lighted mirrors and billowing clouds in a style reminiscent of F. Scott Fitzgerald.  But the most beautiful song in the entire Counting Crows' library:  Anna Begins.

I cannot divulge much about why I adore Anna Begins without ruining today's trivial tidbit, but in my opinion, Anna Begins embodies unconditional love better than any song.  The speaker struggles to accept the love before him, for fear of giving up too much, for uncertainty of reciprocation, for all the reasons we all hesitate to love.  But then his love does something simple, a slight gesture, a common behavior, and he knows that this is love.  So what is it?  What does she do to solidify his love?




Braden, maybe 6 months old, with my other great love



The winner of today's trivia gets 99 cents to download Anna Begins from iTunes.  Good luck!

Please come again

Several years ago Braden and I started a tradition fondly titled Doughnut Friday.  Doughnut Friday was born in celebration of Braden's first green week during Kindergarten.  (For those of you not immersed in elementary school behavioral strategies, students are monitored like a traffic signal in steps of green, yellow, and red.  Braden, who is a chatty, know-it-all, busy-body--traits that obviously don't come from his mother's DNA--lives on yellow.  In hopes of positively reinforcing green week behavior, we established Doughnut Friday.  As he has gotten older, Doughnut Friday has transitioned from a celebration dependent upon school behavior--primarily because Doughnut Friday would have been short-lived if based solely upon being green--to a mommy and son custom.)

When we lived in Georgia, we got our doughnuts at Publix.  Braden's order:  two doughnuts, usually covered in chocolate icing, occasionally with sprinkles, and a chocolate milk; mine: a Starbuck's mocha frappuccino (bottled).  Here in Missouri, the doughnut selection at Mosher's is not as appetizing so Doughnut Friday became McDonald's Friday.  (Yep, McDonald's trumped Mosher's doughnuts.  However, this week we discovered the doughnuts at Casey's General Store; Doughnut Friday returns in all of its splendor.)

Three weeks ago, when we drove through McDonald's for breakfast, we pulled to the window to learn that the credit card machine was down.  Upon learning that I had no cash--I never carry cash--the manager allowed us to leave with our breakfast, requesting that I return at a later date to settle the $14.00 tab.  (Yep, you read that correctly--$14.00.  Braden eats two sausage McGriddle meals by himself.  Food purchases are the only thing that make me long for a daughter.  Feeding a growing boy is expensive.)

Today I returned to McDonald's to take care of my much delinquent bill.  When I explained my situation to the manager, not the manager on duty that morning, she kindly and discretely slid my card back across the counter to me.  "Thank you for your honesty, but there's no need to worry about the bill.  Have a fabulous weekend."  I must have looked painfully perplexed for she nodded me toward the door with another, "Really.  You can leave."

Indeed I plan to have a fabulous weekend.  I hope you do, too.

Dear Mrs. (Bad) Manners:

At my previous school, teachers were assigned parking spots based primarily on seniority.  During my final year there, the administrative staff decided to assign teachers slots in a lot behind the building in hopes of keeping teacher automobiles safe from student vandalism and theft.  While I sincerely had no issue with these assignments, many of my colleagues felt gravely injusticed by this action, a complaint I understood even though I did not support it.  From this minor issue grew a grave rift between teachers and administrators.

At my current school, teachers park where they wish on a first-come, first-served basis.  This flex parking does raise the blood pressure a bit on days when one is running late for work, but it also assures that you never have to contact the office in complaint of someone violating parking assignments.  I can select my parking based on weather and attire, moving closer to the building on days when my feet hurt or further away on days that I need to beat the traffic out of the lot.  All-in-all, it's a positive situation.  My sole complaint with the free-for-all parking philosophy is directed at one teacher--Mrs. Blue Minivan.

Mrs. Blue Minivan parks on the left-hand curb each day.  Instead of pulling all the way forward, leaving room for Ms. Red Fusion and Mr. Brown VW Van to pull up behind her on the curb, Mrs. Minivan parks in the back slot of the curb space that should be able to hold three vehicles.  Most days, Mrs. Blue Minivan's rudeness is followed by that of Ms. Silver CRV who follows Minivan's lack of parking etiquette by pulling up to the curb two car lengths in front of the minivan.  These mirroring acts of selfishness leave one open spot against the curb--a spot sandwiched between them that requires left-hand parallel parking finesse, a skill that most drivers cannot perfect when rushed by a 7:30 contract start time and a line of parents in the student drop-off lane.

I do not understand why my colleagues lack the modicum of common sense and respect it takes to best utilize the parking for all teachers.  By simply pulling forward 10 feet, two other cars could enjoy the prime location afforded on this left-hand curb.  We have complete control over this situation; yet some never fail to ruin it for others with simple thoughtlessness.

So far, current ranting blog entry aside, I have been quite calm about this situation.  However, I'm starting to wonder if it would be rude to leave a note on Mrs. Blue Minivan's windshield? 

Sincerely,

Mildly Irritated Saucy Wench

Trivial tidbits, week seven

Addiction.  Groups all over the globe devote themselves to aiding people through addiction.  Those who abuse alcohol, narcotics, crystal meth, and even sex can join 12-step programs dedicated to recovery.  And did you know that there is a special group dedicated to Pagans in recovery?  Yep, there's program for nearly every addiction you can name...except for penguins.

When I was a young girl, I went through a phase during which I was obsessed with penguins.  But given that it lasted for over a year (more like ten years to be exact), phase doesn't accurately describe my penguin love.  Thus:  addiction.  My room was adorned from floor to ceiling with the waddling wonders.  Penguin ornaments.  Penguin towels.  Penguin posters.  Penguin figurines.  Stuffed penguins.  Mechanical penguins.  Helium balloon penguins (deflated and preserved in a frame).  Sticker penguins.  Eraser penguins.  I wore penguins on my shirts, socks, and hair ribbons (and even a pair of penguin footy pajamas).  I visited penguins at both the St. Louis Zoo and a zoo in Germany.  One year for my birthday, I even had a penguin cake.

I don't exactly recall when the penguin love dwindled.  Mostly likely it had something to do with the painful realization that high school was horrible enough without the added pressure of being a penguin freak.  Whatever the catalyst, the penguins eventually lost their thrones of adoration in my room.  But my love for penguins still remains in my heart.  I can't help it.  I find them cute and cuddly, just like the catch phrase spouted by Skipper during the title sequence of The Penguins of Madagascar.

One of my least favorite things about being a mom:  kid television.  I take an active role in what Braden can and can't watch on television which means I am way too familiar with the line-ups of Nickelodeon and Disney.  Most of what he is allowed to watch is just sheer annoying, but not questionably inappropriate for kids his age, thus he can watch.  It shames me to admit, however, that I anticipate new episodes of a few of the shows--some of which have been topics of trivial tidbits in previous weeks--just as much as he.

In The Penguins of Madagascar, my second-favorite kid show, I can laugh along as four adorable penguins muddle their way through the episode's conflict (which usually involves stupid lemur King Jullian) under the guise of being skilled spies.  It's just enough penguin to satisfy my craving without sending me off the wagon.  In effort to share a little penguin love with you, I bring you today's trivial tidbit:

What are the names of the four penguins who star in The Penguins of Madagascar?

The winner of today's question will get to see a picture of me taken during the awkward penguin phase, penguin sweatshirt and all!

Good luck! 




p.s.  I do not actually believe I had an addiction to penguins.  I understand that addictions are serious.  This blog is intended for entertainment purposes only.