I could never be a helicopter

Today, on my way home I was listening to my favorite afternoon, take-my-mind-off-the-ever-loving-idiotic drivers all around me in the rush-to-get-somewhere-more-important-than-where-you’re-going traffic radio talk show.  (That has got to be the most descriptive, most run on over use of adjectives ever in a sentence.  This is a close second.)

Anyhoo, on my way home the radio host asked his listeners a question he genuinely wanted the answer to.  He is 45, on his 2^nd marriage and has a 5 year old daughter who is the most beautiful little girl in the entire world.  She is his entire world. (Wonder what his wife has to say about that.)  He’s obsessed with her (His words not mine).  He went on to explain that he is utterly terrified to let this precious most beautiful little girl of his out into their fenced back yard to play by herself.  There are 150 children abducted by strangers every year, and he is convinced that she is one of those 150.  That anyone who laid eyes on her would want to snatch her away.  He admitted to going so far as to sit in the back yard with her, watching her play, eating his dinner, with his firearm on his side, hand almost on the gun.

His question?  Am I a freak to be this concerned and over protective?

Uh, dude, I don’t know that freak is the right word.  Over protective is an understatement at best.  I mean who sits out there with their child fully armed, afraid that someone is going to jump your 5 foot fence?  Or just open the gate and take their kid?  You are not just a helicopter parent; you haven’t yet cut the umbilical cord.

One of the callers actually agreed with him, and went so far as to say her daughter could not go to her friends’ houses if the parents allowed the children to play outside in their fenced yard without being out there with them the entire time.

I get that we grew up in a different time.  We were blissfully unaware of the dangers around us.  We were allowed a childhood free of worry and evil.  We were out the door right after breakfast, caught lunch where/when we could, and were back home for dinner and back out the door until it was dark.

And no one ever took us.

We learned how to solve problems, we learned how to get out of a jam, we caused trouble, were up to no good, and solved our own trouble praying that our parents never found out what we had been up to that day.  We learned how to settle arguments, we learned how to appreciate difference of opinions, we learned how to forgive and forget. We learned how to be responsible for ourselves, and to ourselves.   We learned the fine art of negotiation and trade agreements.  We learned how to live in the world around us without fear.

Kids today have been taught to fear everyone they see.  They’ve been taught every stranger is dangerous; everyone is out to hurt them or take them.  They have lost their imagination because they aren’t allowed to exercise it or even use it.  Out of fear that rules this world we live in, our children are missing out on some very important life lessons that only they could learn on their own. Lessons that would serve them well in their adult life.

I was never a helicopter parent.  I can tell you that at every single family gathering the second the car doors were open the kids were off and gone if they could walk, if not there was always someone willing to pick them up and take them around.  There were times I wouldn’t see them again until it was time to eat.  They were off playing with cousins, learning the same lessons I learned.

Even at a family gathering at a city park, the kids ran free and nobody took them.  Even now, the girls are allowed to ride their bikes to the city park or the library by themselves without me hovering.  They go almost every day and they come home every time they go.

I guess what I’m asking is, who’s the ‘freak’ here.  Is he the freak for hovering over his daughter and watching her every minute of every day, or am I the freak for not hovering, and allowing my children to ride to town without me there every minute of every day?

It's a numbers game

In a week I will put another year between me and 40.  My birthdays don’t bother me so much.  Can’t stop them from coming.  It’s just another year I’ve survived.

I was 4 years old when I finally figured out when my mother’s birthday was.  I was proud as punch that I knew that “Today is my mom’s birthday”.  I told everyone in church that day that it was her birthday.  Of course, just because I knew what day it was, I had no idea how old she was.  So, when someone asked me that inevitable question “How old is she?”, instead of admitting I didn’t know, I just sort of guessed.  To me, at 5, everyone lived to be 100.  Nice even round number.  In the scheme of things, and in relation to 100…. well…uh, 40 wasn’t that old or that big of a number.  I proudly told everyone who asked, “She’s 40 years old!”  (sorry Mom)

She was 24.  She wouldn’t be 40 until I was 21.

Oops.

My mom married young and had us kids young.  Growing up I wanted to be just like her.  Until i got closer to the age she was when she married my dad.  As I approached that age, I realized there was no way I was ready to get married and have a child.  I was too young.  I would be 4 years older before I got married, and two years beyond that when I had my son.  Even then, I was pretty sure I was too young.

I remember my 13th birthday, how excited I was to finally be an official teenager.  I couldn’t wait for my birthday that year.  Until my cousin took the wind out of my sails by telling me my birthday that year was no big deal, it was just another day, like any other day.  I would be the same, look the same, feel the same, I would just be one year older.   I was mad at him for taking the shine off my 13th birthday, but he was right.  It was just another day, like any other day. It was only special to me, but I looked the same, sounded the same, felt the same, was the same, except I was another year older.

From that year on, my birthdays never really bothered me.  The number of years celebrated was just that, a number.  My younger brother’s birthday’s didn’t bother me either.  Besides, I don’t care what his number is, he never ages in my mind.  My (baby) sister’s birthdays make me feel older than my own.

I was always convinced no matter how many years had passed from the day I was born, I would never be “too old” to wear blue jeans and tees.  The day I got ‘too old’ for jeans would be the day I was just too old.   So, come next Saturday, as the country gears up to celebrate our nation’s birthday, I will be celebrating yet another year survived, another year put between me and 40.

And I will be celebrating in blue jeans and a tee shirt.

Summer repeats of a different nature

I guess if I was pressed to come up with a good thing to come from losing my entire blog history last week it would have to be that I can recycle ideas and posts and nobody (well, mostly nobody) will know. Ok, and I guess if I had to come up with another good thing to come of losing my history, it would be that while I’m recycling post ideas, I get the opportunity to rewrite some posts, and hopefully write it better this time.

Kristine over at Random and Odd wrote a letter to her 20 year old self from her no longer 20 year old self.   So, I’m stealing it, tweaking it, and making it my own.

Dear Me,

I know they tell you don’t talk to anyone from a different time, because you’ll jack up the time space continuum ala Back to the Future.  I say, whatever.  My life has been pretty jacked up with or without the time space continuum thingy, so I’ll take my chances.

When you’re 13, you will stand in front of a mirror and throw a temper tantrum (which includes throwing a brush) because your hair won’t lay the right way.  Nobody, least of all your family, will understand the degree of anger and frustration you are feeling at that moment.  Don’t worry, you are not a freak, it’s the first sign of BPD but nobody will know that for years.  Just make a note of it.

The guy you meet in 9th grade.. the one who kissed you the night he met you?  Yes, your best friend’s boyfriend.  You will fall head over heels in what you think is love with him.  You will make him the end all and be all of your world for far more than he deserves to be.  Remember that first kiss?  When his heart supposedly belonged to someone else?  Remember that.  He will break your heart over and over again.  Oh, go ahead and marry him, he will be the father of your amazing utterly cool beyond worlds son.  But never forget that he was cheating the night he kissed you.

Somewhere along the way, your self esteem gets trampled on and lost.  Maybe it was the starting a new school freshman year.  Going into high school where you don’t know a soul, especially when you need a bestfriend the most, is difficult.  You will spend far too long looking for it in other people, wanting, believing you need their approval when in fact, all you need is you.

In college will meet a guy who wants to marry you.  Lucky for him, you want to marry him too.  By senior year, he will realize that he has to live his life for him and if you want to live that life with him, you had better keep up.  To you it will look and feel like he just up and left you behind.  You had made taking care of him your life and you were prepared to continue to do that for the rest of your life.  He isn’t prepared to take care of you.  He needs you to be his partner, his equal partner.  Don’t worry about him, he comes back around later.

When you pick up his camera, pay close attention to how comfortable it feels in your hands, and exactly what you see through the view finder.  Don’t be in such a rush to put it down and walk away.  You have a talent, and it is unfair to you and those around you to keep it locked away for years until you happen to stumble over it quite by accident.

Just because a guy asks you to marry him doesn’t mean you have to say yes.  Just because he is the father of your baby doesn’t mean he’s marriage material.  Listen to your heart.  When your standing there having doubts, listen.  Who cares what everyone else thinks and says. It’s your life. Listen.

And that hold true years later when you meet a man on line and your brain tells you it is unlikely and impossible.  Listen to your heart.  The road will not be easy and your head will scream GIVE UP! WALK AWAY! and your heart will whisper “Stay”.  Listen to your heart.   He loves you.  Trust that voice.  Trust him.

Learn to believe in yourself.  You sell yourself short all the time and that makes your life harder than it has to be.  Believe in yourself.  I know it’s hard for you, but he believes in you.  Listen to him, he’s right.  A lot.

You are a great mom.  You do an amazing job.  Don’t let the ex husbands try and convince you otherwise.  They will do all in their power to undermine you, discredit you, make you doubt yourself and steal your children away from you. Don’t let them.  You are a wonderful mom and your children deserve to be raised by you.  Even your son. Especially your son.  Don’t give up on him, and don’t let him give up on you.

If I had to give you one piece of advice it would be listen to your heart and shut out the world around you.  Who cares what everyone says or thinks.  Live your life by your own rules.  Don’t let anyone steal your thunder.  Believe in you.

You’re so worth it.

Having the last word

The girls play a word game in the car on their way to their dad’s and home every other weekend.  We like to call it RAILROAD.

The first girl spells railroad R-A-I-L-R-O-A-D.

The other spells a word that starts with the letter ‘D’.

Then the first spells a word that starts with the last letter of her word and so on and so on.

Last night, Tate (13) had given Newt (10) a ‘O’ word.  So Newt spells OK.   “Sister, you have a ‘K’ word”

Tate begged to differ.  “OK is not spelled OK, it’s spelled O-K-A-Y.”

“No, it’s spelled O-K”

“A-Y” argued Tate.

And back and forth they went laughing until they were crying, tears running down their cheeks.

Newt finally got the last word in by saying  “No, sister, I’m pretty sure O-K spells OK.”

Pretty hard to argue with that.

I need a lost and found for my life except that I'd probably lose that too.

It has been one of those weeks.  I don’t even know where to begin.  I guess I can start with the obvious.  For those of you who have been here before you will find that things look a little different now.  There is significantly less content here because a plugin update ate my entire blog and devoured my entire history.

I only wish I was kidding.  So, as far as this blog is concerned, nothing happened before today.  I have lost the past 18 months of my  life here.  The themes were intact.  The pluggins were intact (including that #@*&$^ one that ate all my posts!)  But everything I’ve ever written here is gone. POOF!

It shouldn’t surprise me.  This was just one more thing on a list of things I had lost this week.    Let’s go back to the beginning shall we?  I mean, it’s not far to go. Look! We’re already here.

Let’s start off with a few basic facts.

1. The economy sucks. Really sucks.  Like a lot.
2. I was not included in any of the multi billion dollar bail outs.  Not even a dime.
3. I have an ex husband who hasn’t paid me any child support since August 20, 2008.

There’s no good place to start this.  I mean, the economy sucks, and money is tight, and well, it’s been a struggle for me.  I’ve cut out everything but necessities trying to make ends meet.  I’ve robbed Peter to pay Paul.  I’ve gone without lunch so the girls can have dinner.  BLah blah blah… and yet, it was never enough.   In fact Monday I asked Brian if I could drive his car (because it had gas in it and mine didn’t and I had $10 to payday.. Tuesday).

In the struggle I got behind on my car payment.  My new (preowned) car that I’ve had for 15 months.  I paid the rent, paid the electric, bought food, and gas and did what I had to to get by but the car payments suffered.  Monday they came to work to repo the car.  (Thank god it was at Brian’s).  I cashed in all my unused vacation and used that money to make the payment that I thought/hoped would save the car.  I was wrong.  They took the money, no problem, but they took my car too.  Hell if I had known that I wouldn’t have cashed in all my vacation to make that payment.  So, now I’ve lost my car.  Lost all of my paid vacation until June 2011.  And lost the money I got from cashing in my vacation.  Lost. Lost. Lost.

In the midst of all of this or because of all of this Brian and I have been struggling this week.  It has not been pretty at all.  I stopped wearing makeup to work because I figured what’s the point? I’m just going to cry it all off by noon anyway.

The kicker of this is… that child support I mentioned before?  Yeah, you know that child support I’m not getting paid.  The child support the state doesn’t seem to concerned with getting from him?  It was just enough to make the car payment.  It would have covered the car payment for me.  So, yes, while I struggled and juggled and stretched and sacrificed to make ends meet, I still lay a good portion of the blame for this mess squarely at his irresponsible dead beat feet.

And then just when I figured I had given it all up as lost and there was precious little left to lose, I was proven wrong yet again this morning.  Earlier this week I had gone in to automatically update my plugins.  I’ve done this countless of times before without problems.  Not this time.  I updated one pluggin and *poof* my entire dashboard for my blog ceased to exist.  In the process of trying to find it and restore it, my entire blog history was erased.  The construction (themes/pluggins) was intact, but the content?  Gone.  It’s like I haven’t blogged here for the past 2 years.  This is initially my very first blog post on this blog, even though I know that’s not true.

But the absolute utter worst part of this whole entire fiasco?  Along with my car, along with my vacation, along with my blog content, I’ve managed to lose my appetite too.  Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.  That worst is, that I’ve lost all these other things, including my appetite and my desire to eat anything, and I haven’t been able to lose a single pound of fat.