tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86638175333892861342024-03-14T04:44:13.930-07:00The difference between stupidity and ignorance...This is my favorite family saying: "What is the difference between stupidity and ignorance...one is correctable". In this blog, I discuss the random thoughts about me, my life, my children and my various passions. Sometimes it is deep and meaningful, sometimes it is me rambling. You decide!Konamomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021900078757883605noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8663817533389286134.post-63815068980009503342013-03-08T11:04:00.003-08:002013-03-08T11:04:31.919-08:00What did you do?Yesterday when my young middle school son got in the car, he was a basket of tears. He was so upset he couldn't even get the words out in any order that made sense in the English language. My older son and I sat in the car trying to calm him down enough to figure out what made him so upset and after a good ten minutes, we got the drama filled story: a kid who had been his friend suddenly announced that he was only pretending to be his friend. This boy also colored his announcement with obscenities and when my son went pressing for more answers, this kid started kicking and hitting him.<div>
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We had heard my son talk about this young boy, and he had always compared him to Loki from his favorite Thor comics - the jokester who loved to be the center of attention by creating chaos. My son has always had an appreciation for humor (as a baby, he used to tip over laughing at his brother), so I can see how this kid was an instant draw for my son. This reversal in friendship seemed so sudden, so I knew there had to be more to the story. </div>
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And, as my kids know, being a teacher for as many years as I was, I can't pass up a teachable moment. </div>
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I know from learning classroom management, that there is ALWAYS two sides of the story, and the truth usually lies in a homogenization of the two stories. I also learned years ago to ask the one question no one wants to answer "What did you do to create this situation?".</div>
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WHAT? This kid was picking on my poor son! He kicked him, called him names, punched him in the arm and I am asking what MY SON DID? Am I such an uncaring mother that I BLAME my son???</div>
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No, not at all. It isn't about blame, though that is what our society is good at teaching us. There is always someone to blame, but rarely is it ourselves. We are being taught to victimize ourselves. What we have been missing in our societal teachings is the art of personal responsibility. </div>
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Years ago, I was hired to run a private school with an enrollment of 120 kids and 8 full-time teachers and 2 part-time teachers. It was one of a several sucessful schools owned by the same man. It was first time running a school, and I was book-learned, but not expereince-learned. I was also in my mid-twenties, working with teachers that had been teaching longer than I had been alive. It was very daunting. </div>
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I jumped in with both feet though, and was doing well for the first few weeks until I had a major conflict that occured between two teachers spilled over into my office and as I tried to mediate between the two women, the one teacher turned on me and got in my face. She was yelling and screaming at me and I was so taken aback, I didn't know how to handle it. I tried to defuse it, but it escallated to the point that I had to fire her on the spot. </div>
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I had never fired anyone before. I was so upset. It blew my confidence out of the water. I started second guessing all the decisions I was making, questioning whether I even belonged in the job at all. I felt like I was some kid trying to do a grown-ups job. </div>
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Shortly there after, things began to unravel at my school.This is never a good thing. It wasn't long before the owner knocked on my office door. I had never met him before, but I had heard about this Danish man who was often seen, but not heard. He would float in and out of his schools, without warning, observing but rarely talking. The other school heads were afraid of him because you never knew what he was looking for. When he actually did talk with you, it rarely was positive. When I saw him outside my office door, I knew trouble was in store for me. </div>
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My boss came in and sat down next to my desk and just stared at me for a moment. I was so flustered, I remember that I just started rambling on about the two teachers and how unprofessional they had been, and how they their actions had caused such a divide among my other teachers and how that had trickled down to the parents and the kids were now reacting badly, and ...and ...and....</div>
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The man said one sentence that made me stop talking instantly.</div>
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<b>"And what did you do to create this situation?"</b></div>
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What? Me? I didn't do this, the two teachers did this? Why are you blaming me? </div>
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I was stunned. I was going to take the blame for the other two teachers actions. I know I was supposed to be their boss, but still, I hadn't been the one who started this. I was so mad, but all I could do was look down at my hands and not say anything. I was so afraid that anything I said was going to hammer the last nails into my coffin. </div>
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When I didn't answer, he explained his question. He said that one of the gifts that we are given is free will. While there are things that as humans we do out of instinct, the fact that we are blessed with higher reasoning skills than many of our mammal counterparts gives us the ability to make choices based on several options at any given time. Based on that gift, he said it is our responsibility to then own those choices. </div>
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I interjected immediatly reminding him that the teacher I fired didn't give me a choice. Her actions were in direct violation of the code of conduct that she signed and I was forced me to fire her. There wasn't a choice here!</div>
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<b>"So, you are a victim here?"</b></div>
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I couldn't believe that is what he was asking me! No, wait, I am not a victim, I protested. I just followed the rules...I just did my job... what else was I supposed to do? Not fire her? But what she did was totally wrong and if I hadn't have fired her, wouldn't I have been fired? This was going to come back on me, and I wasn't the one who did something wrong! I didn't have a...choice....oh crap...I am sounding like a poor-me!</div>
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I was so flustered. I felt like I was in the rock-and-a-hard-place scenerio. I was getting in trouble for what I did do, but I would have been in trouble if I hadn't done something! </div>
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Calmly, my boss explained that the moment we don't take responsibilty for our choices, good or bad, we are allowing ourselves to become victims. Once you do that, you become powerless. He then added that no one can let someone take thier power - we give it away. </div>
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Now I am not only frustrated, but I am utterly confused and on the border of losing my cool. I lay out this scenerio in my attempt to prove him wrong:</div>
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"So I am driving down the street on my way to work, and some guy runs a red light and slams into my car. How did I do something to create that situation? He ran the red light, not me!"</div>
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His answer was simple: I <b>CHOSE </b>to go that way to work. I <b>CHOSE</b> to leave my house at a certain time, and <b>CHOSE</b> to drive a certain speed that made it so I was in that place, at that time when the man ran the red light and hit me. I could have <b>CHOOSEN</b> to stay home that day, or to have gone 5 miles an hour faster or to have made a left turn down a side road. The choices I made brought me to that place at that time and I own those choices.</div>
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My head was swimming. So he is saying that I am responsible for this man hitting my car?</div>
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No, but the moment you accept YOUR side of the equation, then you don't lose your power to the other person. If you walk around all the time saying that this person did that TO ME and that person did that TO ME, then suddenly, it becomes that you have no control over your life at all. You are just a series of random events, which is simply not true. So in this situation with your teachers, what did you do to create this situation?</div>
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I had to sit back and think about this one for a moment. What did I do? Did I create the situation? No, the two arguing teachers did. Well, but, I called them into my office and tried to mediate. That was the right thing to do though. Okay, and I got involved in the arguement and then I allowed the teacher to brate me. And then I made the choice to fire her. </div>
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I explained my reasoning to the man, and he nodded his head, then said that I had forgotten something. He added that I need to take it to the simplest thing first, the simplest thing I did to create the outcome. </div>
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I was puzzled because I thought I had. Isn't brining the teachers into my office to talk about it what started the whole thing? I could have waited until after school, but I didn't think that it could wait that long. </div>
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No, even further back than that, he prompted me. He said you created this situation when you made the choice to take this job. The moment you were offered the position, you had two choices: to say yes or to say no. You CHOSE to say yes. So in that choice, you created the situation that you are the boss and sometimes, you will have to make hard decisions like this. And the moment you forget that, you have lost your power and will no longer be able to do this job effectively because you will always see yourself as the victim of other people's choices. </div>
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It took me weeks to let this sink in, and even years and years afterwards, I have to rethink this. I have never been a good math student, and to me, this goes back to taking a number to it's least common denominator. In practice, it is a very good lesson though. Learning to take personal responsibility, good or bad, gives you the ability to feel like you have control even when you think you don't. It helps you wrap your brain around the tough choices we sometimes have to make and gives us strength when we feel we have had our choices taken away. Never are we in a situation where we don't have some responsibility we can take in a situation. And knowing that, being able to break it down make us strong. It doesn't mean the other person is without blame, it doesn't mean that there aren't consequences that need to occur, but realizing that we are governed by our ability to make choices means we can stop giving our power to others. </div>
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For my son, who, by the way, knew this talk was coming, he was able to break it down to take responsibility in this situation with this bully. He said that he made the choice to engage in verbal insults with the boy. He also made the choice to not tell a teacher when things started to get out of hand. Going even further back, he had made the choice to be friends with this boy. While this last thing seems like a good thing, that is one of the keys to this process. Instead of looking for what the "good" or "bad" choices are, it is just taking an inventory of all the choices made that helps remove the feeling of powerlessness in a situation. Chosing to become someone's friend is not a bad choice per se, but the fact that HE made that CHOICE then led into a personal relationship that for whatever reason went south. It isn't good or bad - it just is. And my son owns it. While none of us are okay with what the end result is, he is okay with and takes responsibility for any choices he made. </div>
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And while he is still mad and hurt at this child's actions, he is no longer walking around like he is the victim of this child's bullying. It is not about taking blame, but for accepting responsibility. He has the power to deal with it and hopefully end it with the help of his teachers. And his teachers aren't looking at him as a victim either, as the first thing he said when he spoke to his teacher was </div>
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<b>"I understand what my responsibility in this situation was. Now, let's make it stop."</b></div>
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Konamomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021900078757883605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8663817533389286134.post-51226817079510547262013-03-07T15:12:00.000-08:002013-03-08T07:32:01.305-08:00Been a while...<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's been a bit since I last posted something here. Not much has changed, except maybe my motivation. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ugh, motivation. What I am seriously lacking as of late. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Dictionary.com defines motivation as "</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">the act or an instance of motivating, or providing with a reason to act in a certain way" and "the state or condition of being motivated". As of late, my motivation seems to come in fits and starts, with one day I am motivated to do something and push myself to do it, while the next day, I just want to curl up in bed and sleep. It is a constant battle to motivate myself and not let the exhaustion overwhelm me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Some people may look at me and think, "What are you whining about? You're a stay-at-home Mom. You're just lazy! You have all the time in the world when your kids are at school to get things done, you just <b>choose</b> not to." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Actually, the sheer aggravation I have at not getting things done should be enough to push that motivation into the red zone, but those feelings are in direct competition with the overwhelm of knowing how much I have to do and how much time I need to catch up with myself. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This is what happens when life gets out of control. People who work outside the home know the scenerio quite well - your boss comes and gives you an project and a deadline to get it done. You have co-workers that you have helped with their projects before, but when you ask them for help, they remind you that they have their own work to do, and if you couldn't have handled the job, you shouldn't have accepted it. So now you know that this you're going to do 99% of the work. But you also have other jobs that need to get done. So, you try to get both things done at once. Then, your boss's boss comes and asks you to do another favor, because your reputation of being a reliable person is known around the office. So now, you have your original job, plus your boss's project, then this new project. Sure, you can do it! You are a go-getter! You like to do things for people to make them happy. Not a problem at all. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then, your car breaks down. You don't plan for this. You've done everything you thought you were supposed to to make sure your car was in working order - you had the oil changed, you have the brakes done, you even make sure you keep on top of those tire rotations. But suddenly - poof - no car. And no way of getting to work. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You call and ask some of the people you work with to give you a lift, but they can't because you don't really live on their way into work and they have so much to do, they can't be late themselves. Oh, and the mechanic tells you that it will be several days before the part comes in and so sorry for the inconvenience. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You think that you will be okay, since you've been doing okay until then, juggling all the balls in the air so perfectly. But it just takes that one dropped ball to set the whole thing off balance. Now you are dropping balls left and right. You go chasing after the balls, but every time you go to pick one up, it just ends up bouncing off your foot. They are slippery, bouncy little buggers. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You finally get them all picked up, and you realize that you have forgotten how to juggle. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You get back to work, and realize that no matter what you do, you can't seem to catch up. Deadlines approach, people get angry, and you know you are working so hard, but it just isn't hard enough. You throw the balls up in the air, hoping magically, you remember how to juggle, but all that happens in the balls come smashing down on your head. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, you just stop.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You don't move. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You just stop doing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The work doesn't stop coming, but you just stop doing it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There isn't enough motivation anymore for you to keep getting bashed on the head.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This is what happened to me. Though it wasn't my car, but my own body. It decided to stop working the way it was supposed to. Although I was diagnosed almost 14 years ago, last year, the autoimmune disease I battle with, Hashimoto's Thyroiditis (simply described as the body seeing the thyroid gland as an invading entity that needs to be destroyed), decided to get the make juggling all the balls impossible for me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I can't say that I have had great treatment for my Hashi's </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(as it is nicknamed) </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">all these years, but it was at least somewhat managed. I could function. I could get out of bed in the morning and get things done. At one time, I was told I was actually a gifted educator. But then little things I should have seen as warning signs I didn't see, like my hair become more brittle again, my weight increasing even though my diet and exercise hadn't changed, my thoughts getting harder to formulate and my sleep becoming less and less restful. These were subtle things that I didn't notice until one day, my heart rate went through the roof and I landed in the ER. From then on, it's been one battle after another to get things regulated. And my "car" has spent more time with doctors than I have since I was pregnant.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Why now? I have my theories, but in reality, no one ever knows with things like this. With Hashi's, you can swing from a hypo to a hyper state, back and forth without warning. There can be dietary causes, environmental causes, drug interactions, and the list goes on and on and on. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I think a lot had to do with a surgery on one of my hands to deal with a near amputation I suffered in my teens from a freak accident. For what ever reason, the surgery sent my body into a tail spin. The medication I take to help regulate my Hashi's stopped working correctly, and the stress on my body to heal from such an extensive surgery only compounded things. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, here I am, almost 10 months after the surgery, and I can't seem to get the figurative car out of park. I look around me and I see half-finished projects, partially folded baskets of laundry, dishes piled in the sink, floors that need to be mopped, papers that need to be shredded, children that need my attention and a husband who longs to have a conversation that I don't fall asleep during. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I have a new MD, one who looks at the whole person versus just one blood test (there are SEVERAL that need to be done, but this is something I have learned recently in my desperate need to find something to change the current status quo). I am on better medication to help my body to figure out what it needs to be doing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And I look at all of these things like I am looking outside myself. I want to yell and scream at that person who just stands there, grasping at some level of motivation but not finding any. I tell myself all the time that I am not letting this malfunction in my body's programming to take away who I am, but right now, I am waving the white flag. I know it's a process, that there are no quick fixes, no band-aids (despite what uneducated people try to spew) and even when my body starts doing what it is supposed to, there is going to be a lot of changes that need to happen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Which comes back to the whole thing that started this blog post: motivation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So even when things get back in balance, where do I find the ability to juggle those balls again? I know I need to start small, with just one or two, but even that seems hard to imagine right now. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If you have read this, then you realize that I at least found motivation to do one thing:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>I wrote a new post. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For more information on Hashimoto's, visit Hypothyroid Mom at <a href="http://hypothyroidmom.com/">http://hypothyroidmom.com/</a></span><span style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> and About.com Thyroid Site at <a href="http://thyroid.about.com/">http://thyroid.about.com/ </a></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>Konamomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021900078757883605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8663817533389286134.post-79190810630879299202011-10-18T20:22:00.000-07:002011-10-18T20:22:32.834-07:00Being GROWLYGrowly: <i>def</i>; being irritated at every little thing, like a bear growling at everything.<br />
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Yes, this is a term in my house, used to refer to individuals with a bad case of "gumpyitous". Lately, that has been me. I am irritated at every little thing.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">Why? </div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Oh, pick a thing! </div><br />
Life is sometimes smooth sailing, and sometimes choppy, but other times, it isn't as bad as we think it is. I think this is one of those times for me. I had a rough patch a few weeks ago where it really felt like a lot was closing in around me and I am still having a hard time shaking the feeling of the angry two-year-old stomping her feet. <br />
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My internal toddler is quite the lip-pouting, grudge-holding, feet-stomping, taking-my-ball-and-going-home type. We all have them, but they are as unique as the individual. I know some people who have the sad, broken hearted internal toddler, while others have the overly excited toddler. They appear when the most primal of our emotions get stirred, whether deep sadness, hurt or happiness. The strong emotion causes a facet of you to appear on the surface, a coping mechanism that helps process the situation.<br />
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For me, anger usually brings out that terrible toddler, the one who has to have everything her way or she won't play with you anymore. Happiness brings out the carefree college girl, silly and fun-loving. And sadness brings out the hurt little grade-school girl who just wants to sit alone and cry.<br />
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We all have multiple personality disorder to some extent - the different stages in our lives imprint the most primitive of emotions and those are the ones that come out when the emotions get strong. It is important to understand and embrace them, as they are all a part of the complex person I am. I don't always like them, for the sad school girl often rejects the one thing she needs (comfort), while the tantruming toddler often says things she doesn't mean or can seek vindication.<br />
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I can step back and see when one of these parts of me has come to the surface. I have examine what I did to create the situation I was in, whether lack of sleep, hormones, or the weather. It doesn't excuse the behavior, but it allows me to take possession of what I did wrong in the situation and try to repair any damage that I might have caused.<br />
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It isn't always bad though. That toddler can often say things that my normal frame of mind would never dare say, while the college girl enjoys just being carefree. I have had times when I have said or done things while in this mode that have been brilliant or empowering. I look back later and shake my head at what possessed me at that moment and chuckle.<br />
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So if you take the time to break down your own self, which part of you comes out when? Is this a good thing for you? Share with me - I'd love to hear!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKTsbqSs7qcseLmT8021x6RT3uMtc7FEUcyMGeE2WoBVR4Uma3w62gu2oPY148Zeaf52L2STzXnR6uovmOmT-8tS7sfD9D6JcyezMOipoQxx6Zdf7O_o_AAkhMVVwA1FDtZZvA44FtI5U/s1600/MP900448663+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKTsbqSs7qcseLmT8021x6RT3uMtc7FEUcyMGeE2WoBVR4Uma3w62gu2oPY148Zeaf52L2STzXnR6uovmOmT-8tS7sfD9D6JcyezMOipoQxx6Zdf7O_o_AAkhMVVwA1FDtZZvA44FtI5U/s320/MP900448663+%25282%2529.JPG" width="212" /></a></div>Right now, it is time for the grumpy toddler to go to bed though - she gets REALLY grumpy when she doesn't get enough sleep!Konamomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021900078757883605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8663817533389286134.post-81431933700590837542011-10-08T09:36:00.000-07:002011-10-08T09:36:54.652-07:00Saturday MorningsThinking about Saturday mornings at my Grandparent's house when I was little still makes me smile. Their bedroom was never closed to us, and when I was little, I would sneak in to bed with them early in the morning. It was a special time, when I got snuggles from my Grandmother, soaking in the warmth of her bed and the safety that her embrace gave. I remember feeling like the world was good, that nothing could touch me.<br />
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I remember helping my Grandmother make applesauce pancakes and smelling the rich aroma of peculating coffee. There was a special stool I got to stand on to help, a white one with steps that folded underneath the seat. I remember it being so heavy that my Grandfather always carried it for me. My job was to stir the batter to get the flour all mixed in. Grandma always added her fresh applesauce, made from the apples picked from the backyard trees. It wasn't like the applesauce you got in the grocery stores - it was slightly tart with huge chunk of apple pieces throughout.<br />
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She always cooked on an iron skillet, with had a unique smell to it. She used butter on the skillet, not oil, and when the batter was pour onto the hot surface, I remember that it made a loud sizzling noise and Grandma always hugged me so I didn't get splattered. She would let me turn them, using her special pancake turner that had the wooden handle her father had made years ago. It had a huge surface, so it easily flipped even the biggest pancake. As it cooked, the smell would fill the small galley kitchen with potent fragrance. <br />
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We all would sit at the table and eat, never rushing. It was a time that we talked about anything and everything. We watching the squirrels and blue jays through the huge front window in the dining room, joking about their antics and yelling at them when they buried acorns on the lawn. We would pass around the comics, which always came on Saturday with our newspaper. My Grandfather would lament about his favorite sports teams, how the managers need a wake-up call and how the players are overpaid. Grandmother would always look in the section with the recipes, hoping to find something new to try. She also looked a the community section, commenting about how her friend Minnie or Bambi (yes, these were their actual names) were doing such and such in the community or were seen with so-and-so at some event. She liked the local gossip, and always seemed surprised at marriages and babies born in the area.<br />
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There was never anything deep discussed at Breakfast - Grandma insisted it that way. She said it was bad on your digestion to start the day talking about "bad" things. She was funny that way. We would talk about what we were going to do in the garden, who was going to visit that day, or when was the right time to take the boat up to the lake. We would talk about places we wanted to visit or people we wanted to see. We would talk about so and so's new hair color (and how it really looked pink, not the red she claimed it was) and the new song the choir director was trying to get them to master even though it was in German.<br />
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We talked, and laughed.<br />
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When ever I smell pancakes cooking today, I get the same feeling of warmth and comfort - it was what I call a comfort smell now. Many times I have longed for those days again, the simplicity of it all. I have even tried to duplicate it at home, but found it to just not be the same. With one teenager, one pre-teen, and a husband with a demanding job, we are always rushing to get somewhere on Saturday, our precious "day off". Whether it is work, sports, scouts, or what, it is a rare occasion when we can stop and eat a breakfast together. And when that rare occasion does occur, it seems like we have nothing to talk about. Someone is reading the paper, while someone has their nose in a book. Someone else is looking at their cell phone waiting for a call, while another is texting someone back. We are together at the table, but really we are alone. <br />
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I will still keep trying. Maybe when I have grandkids of my own, then they will look forward to apple pancake Saturdays too.Konamomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021900078757883605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8663817533389286134.post-27825753099819263532011-10-06T22:58:00.000-07:002011-10-06T22:58:29.740-07:00Being a teacherBack when I was younger, I didn't want to be a teacher. I couldn't stand the thought of spending day after day in a classroom with rowdy, bratty kids. I viewed it as going to college just to be a baby-sitter. Even when I got my first teaching job in 1989, I still was in the same mind-set. That was until I worked a day with my teaching mentor, Esther.<br />
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Esther was a quiet, sweet tempered woman. At the time, she told me she had been teaching for 16 years, and I was floored. I couldn't imagine doing this for 6 months, let alone a decade and a half! We were required to shadow the teachers for 12 weeks to complete the program and I thought this was going to be such a disaster. How could this woman ever control a classroom?<br />
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It didn't take long for me to see that this woman was amazing. Her style of teaching was as equally gentle as her manner. The kids loved her, and best yet, they respected her. She showed them respect in return, actually, she showed them respect first. A lot of the kids she was working with were from tough situations - single moms, teen moms, nasty divorces, unemployment, poverty. You name it, and there was at least one kid in the room that fit the bill.<br />
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It didn't matter to Esther though. She saw where these kids were from and she understood it, but she told me that it didn't define who they are. She also told me that this was precisely what affected these children most: being defined by what their circumstances were, not who they are.<br />
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It was so amazing to me. At this point in my young adult life, I didn't even make that distinction in myself, let alone seeing that distinction in these young children. I always had equated the who with the what when it came to people. I thought no matter how fast you ran, the past always catches you. I realized at that moment that even with the book learning I had about being a teacher, I had so much more to learn and Esther was just the one to teach me.<br />
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Needless to say, by the time I finished the 12 week program, I signed on to finish the rest of the year. Every day I worked in her classroom, I learned a little more. I learned how to open myself up, to find the child that was inside me (though buried very deep). I learned to hug (a skill I did not have - honest....ask my Aunt Jan) and be okay with getting giant hugs in return (you would be amazed at how big of a hug you can get from a 2 year old!), I also learned that it was okay to be silly, and to sing, and to dance. Young children don't judge like adults do - they live each moment to it's fullest. We as adults have so much filling our heads that often we can't even get out of our own way, but young children live on pure spontaneity. I couldn't remember being like this as a child, but I was slowly learning how to do it as an adult.<br />
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Looking back, I realize if it weren't for Esther, I would have never spent 21 years as a teacher. I don't know what I would have done, but it wouldn't have been that. Because of this amazing woman, a teacher was born.<br />
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I realize now that even though I don't teach at a school anymore, I am still a teacher. I can't help it. When I see teachable moments, I slip into that teaching skin faster than I can put on a pair of socks. It is like an automatic gear I shift into. I realize that like those kids, I am not defined by my circumstances, but by who I am.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">I am a teacher. </div>Konamomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021900078757883605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8663817533389286134.post-55331181889909296942011-09-27T11:15:00.000-07:002011-09-27T11:15:51.401-07:00Angel kissesWhile in church Sunday, a reference about a proverb about a dog came up in the sermon. Curious, I started reading through the Proverbs - though I didn't realize there was so many!! I never did find one about a dog, but instead I found one that caught my eye:<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #f9fdff; color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #f9fdff; color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">The glory of the young is their strength; the gray hair of experience is the splendor of the old. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #f9fdff; color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Proverb 20:29 NLT</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #f9fdff; color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">This made me think of a discussion I had with my children the other day. My overly observant 10 year old son was standing next me while I was making dinner, and he suddenly says;</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">"Oh look Mom, a grey hair".</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Quick thinking, I quickly say "No, those are Angel kisses. It means I am blessed."</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">My 12 (almost 13) year old chimed in at this point and adds "No Mom, you are just old."</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Gee, thanks! In all honestly, having passed the "check if you are 40+" birthday a couple of years back, I understand that to my children, I am old. While I may not like it, I realize it. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">The irony of this is that I don't see myself as old. I see my own parents as older, and my Grandfather as old. But when I look in the mirror, I don't see old. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">So we ever see ourselves that way? I look at pictures taken 20 years ago, and I still see me in them. I might see someone who was (a lot) thinner, but it is still me. Self-perception is a funny thing. While I might see a lot of flaws like a double chin, thick waist and auburn instead of copper hair, I don't see someone who is 40-something. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">The popular saying "You are only as old as you think you are" comes to mind. If I think I am younger, than I see someone looking back at me in the mirror who is younger. I don't see the teen acne and the thick glasses, but I also don't see the difference between me and someone who is 20 years younger. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Of course, when they are standing right next to you, then it can become like a slap in the face. I remember one wedding I went to a few years ago, and all the Bridesmaids were in their VERY yearly 20's or younger. They were all strikingly beautiful girls. When I went into the ladies room to touch up my lipstick, several were standing next to me fixing their hair. Their reflections were right next to mine, and I was horror struck at how old I suddenly looked. Before I had entered the bathroom, age hadn't even entered my mind, but with the comparison glaring back at me in that brightly lit room, I saw how looser my skin was, how my eyes had deep lines around them, how my makeup looked like make-up versus the younger girls glowing skin. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">My husband commented later that he didn't remember when I had drank so much so quickly.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">So how does this all go back to the Proverb in the begining of this blog. Well, what I have found is that no matter what we believe about our age, each passing year cannot be escaped. The reality that we are all born and we all die is inescapable. Yet their are gifts that come with age. Gifts that the young cannot have, no matter how book learned they are.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">It is the gift of wisdom. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">With each gray hair I get, it is a sign that I have earned by wisdom the hard way - through life experience. I have listened and I have learned and now, it is my turn to teach. I am old enough that I have learned much from life's ups and down's, but young enough to know that I still have a lot to learn. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">The gray hairs remind me that time is moving on, whether I like it or not. The remind me that someday, my youngest son won't need a stool to stand next to me and help me cook - he will be cooking on his own. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">The gray hair remind me that someday, I will be sitting on the couch with my grandchildren while my sons and their wives cook for me. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">The gray hair reminds me that someday, my house will be quiet except for the occasional phone calls when my sons want to update me about their jobs. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">The gray hair also reminds me that I have made it this far, with many more blessings in my life than I thought possible. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBIzoBB-5iiknVzeBvhHbABOCgEuyEBHjmX9GDV3MznvD1i8RqEdrVbGKx9y1KWiDAVyAydVDlNcWbit4bDyggdL_N5Uylq38xXBfEWU9dJPSsgbu01aUgvtHS_fRoBxnG3YwbxqrLxg8/s1600/Me+in+2nd+grade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBIzoBB-5iiknVzeBvhHbABOCgEuyEBHjmX9GDV3MznvD1i8RqEdrVbGKx9y1KWiDAVyAydVDlNcWbit4bDyggdL_N5Uylq38xXBfEWU9dJPSsgbu01aUgvtHS_fRoBxnG3YwbxqrLxg8/s1600/Me+in+2nd+grade.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">And there are so many more to come. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Blessings I meant, not gray hairs!</span></span></div>Konamomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021900078757883605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8663817533389286134.post-29341211911648800642011-09-24T08:15:00.000-07:002013-03-08T11:10:32.133-08:00Walking my cats<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKil9bov42QaDm6lISjoODjsF2AVG9Ay0OKFVbNAsbVyBG0smQv5ilYIs5pIo9Ea-uL1BDIfthko-kQWUyTv6-Rab_hAqRml1NXBuAUHhotyM3d0EGMYGTtKzWeZnYcn91rt2dAOOP04k/s1600/DSCN0285.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKil9bov42QaDm6lISjoODjsF2AVG9Ay0OKFVbNAsbVyBG0smQv5ilYIs5pIo9Ea-uL1BDIfthko-kQWUyTv6-Rab_hAqRml1NXBuAUHhotyM3d0EGMYGTtKzWeZnYcn91rt2dAOOP04k/s320/DSCN0285.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Yes, I did say cats, not dogs. </div><div style="text-align: center;">I am a certified dog trainer, but I own cats. </div><div style="text-align: center;">5 of them actually. </div><div style="text-align: center;">I didn't set out to be the crazy cat lady with 5 cats - it just seem to happen.</div><br />
They are all rescues with sad stories, and I am a sucker for sad stories. Mace, the 4 year old with the crooked tail, showed up in our driveway in the late winter of '08, starving, his leg broken and his skin hanging from his bones. He had a microchip - but the Humane Society (who had originally placed him) said that the house was empty and looked like it had been that way for a while. They also said Mace was only 9 months old. Okay, he melted our hearts with his high energy, toddler-like antics, his handsome tuxedo coat and his piercing golden eyes.<br />
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Then last year, after the tragic passing of both my beloved 16-year old cat Tad and my son's 15 year-old cat Lily, we added Domino (pictured above) also known as Dom, and his "sister" Spring. They were found together with two other kittens in a dumpster downtown, only 3-4 weeks old. They were so matted with stuff that they had to be shaved after 4 baths didn't get everything off. The vet and people in the cat show world we know have told us that Dom is part Maine Coon, given his 20 lbs body and his 40 inch length. He also has the classic long tail, "snow shoe" paw pads and high pitched squeak of a meow. Unfortunately, God only felt that good looks was all Dom needed - he is by far the dumbest cat I have ever owned.<br />
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His "sister" Spring is this tiny 5 pound cat with Cleopatra eyes. She is my baby, and won't let anyone else touch her but me. She had to climb on my chest and make biscuits (knead) and sit behind me in what ever chair I am in (including the toilet - I gave up on privacy with my first cat!). She loves to play fetch with me, bringing her toy mice to me, dropping them on my lap and waiting for me to throw them (see, I don't REALLY need a dog!).<br />
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Then there is the brother and sister, Taffy and Tuffy. They are 13 year old Tonkinese cats, a breed that is a cross between Burmese and Siamese. Yes, in case you are wondering, they are LOUD. They were originally owned by a gentleman at the church I attend. He got them as kitten from a breeder to complement to two Burmese he had, Bogie and Bacall. When the man became overwhelmed by his cancer, I was asked to come in and take care of the cats (along with his other 4!). It was only a few weeks before cancer won the battle, and my task then became to find homes for all the cats. All the cats BUT these two find home quickly, but no one wanted to take two elderly cats, especially with the fact that the female, Taffy, is completely deaf. I found a wonderful rescue group to foster them, but that quickly went south when both cats developed pneumonia.<br />
So, needing a place to foster them while on antibiotics, they came to my house.<br />
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And this is how I got 5 cats.<br />
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Now that you have that info, you might want to know about the title - walking my cats. Yes, I do walk my cats. We live in a beautiful neighborhood surrounded by the Sierras - which are populated by coyotes. People that live around here refer to free roaming cats as "Coyote Bait". It is sad to drive through our area and see all the "Cat Missing" posters. I choose not to have to put one of those up for any of mine, so I let them out for supervised strolls in my backyard.<br />
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Three out of the five cats could care less about leaving my backyard - it is just Spring and Mace that are the fence hoppers. So, every morning I put on my shoes, open the back door and out they go! It is usually around 6am that I do this - not by choice, mind you. I would rather it be 7:30 or so.<br />
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Dom and Tuffy have different ideas. They start howling like the coyotes themselves and in an act of self preservation, I usher them outside so everyone else can sleep. I know they plan this - they flip a piece of cat kibble to decide who is going to climb on my face and meow the loudest.<br />
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I've tried to ignore them, but then they wake up everyone else, and I am the one that has to suffer with the grumpy-growly guys all day, not the cats. So, I trudge bleary eyed outside, with 5 sets of feet following behind me. We usually only spend about 30-45 minutes out there, enough time to chase a few birds, ambush a few crickets, and roll in the dirt.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">Not a bad way to greet the morning. </div>Konamomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021900078757883605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8663817533389286134.post-47761639311166510672011-09-23T12:38:00.000-07:002011-09-23T12:38:25.933-07:00I love my kids...honest I do!I love being a parent. Having been born with von Willebrand disease, I was told I could never have children. So, the fact that I have two healthy boys is an immense blessing. I know my life would be incomplete with out them. <div><br />
</div><div>With that being said...sometimes I want to dig up the receipt and trade them in for a refund!!!! </div><div><br />
</div><div>In my last post, I vented about homework. Well, this is sort of related. Yesterday, when the one child was struggling to get his pounds of homework done, the other son, who is way into Nerf guns, decides that the way to "help" his brother study was to open fire on him with not one, but two Nerf guns (on in each hand - he is very skilled!). Before I could blink, the homework-laden son is chasing his brother through the house, screaming at the top of his lungs, threatening great bodily harm. The Nerf-toting son is laughing hysterically, keeping just out of the reach of his little brother. I hear slamming of doors, followed by banging of doors. More yelling, more laughing, followed by the proverbial "Stop it". Then I hear a crash, then more laughing and more yelling, but this time, the roles are reversed. Now I hear "You are so dead", followed by another crashing noise, followed by the howling of the cats as the duck and cover. </div><div><br />
</div><div>What I am doing, you might ask? Well, I am yelling at the both of them to stop, but they are 10x louder and can't hear me. Realizing that the testosterone is flowing to thick to allow their hearing to work properly, I decide I am going to stand in their way down the stairs like a brick wall to get their attention. Okay, well, I needed to hire a union brick-layer I guess, because the two of them flew through me like tissue paper!</div><div><br />
</div><div>Now they are outside, with the older one in full pursuit of the younger one, threatening to remove his sibling from existence, yet again. He seems to have forgotten that he started it all. At this point, I yell at the top of my lungs that they have until the count of 5 to get back here or the Nerf guns, the Wii and the coveted baseball card collection was all going on Ebay and I was using the money for a pedicure. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Hmmmm....interestingly enough, I didn't even get to 3 before they were back in the house. By the time I got to 5, the younger one was back in his homework cave and the older one was taking out the trash with out me even asking. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Guess I will have to fund my pedicure some other way. </div>Konamomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021900078757883605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8663817533389286134.post-61683318522336855802011-09-22T19:15:00.000-07:002013-03-08T11:11:06.922-08:00Why I hate homework<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU6zdZu7g2N5-NGEIEHay09o1X7wgr9uiB12iLWw2_tCaGtE5PEhri-ppcXRtRxaoXyjgR7lznGeRd_hNGJYnOV4KXTEDAW7xd7xAPs3zQFwykEEGsV3L7GpOX1vITfFNTd4vY0Xlab90/s1600/DSCN0283.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU6zdZu7g2N5-NGEIEHay09o1X7wgr9uiB12iLWw2_tCaGtE5PEhri-ppcXRtRxaoXyjgR7lznGeRd_hNGJYnOV4KXTEDAW7xd7xAPs3zQFwykEEGsV3L7GpOX1vITfFNTd4vY0Xlab90/s320/DSCN0283.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Okay - so now that we are in the 4th week of school, I can officially say - I HATE HOMEWORK!<br />
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What exactly is the purpose of the children spending 6-7 hours in school, then spending another 2-3 hours pouring over homework? I am not talking about high schoolers - no, this is the average for some elementary school kids! And it isn't the teachers struggling with the homework issue - often it is either a credit or a non-credit score; either the child brings it in completed or they don't.<br />
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Parents, on the other hand, get to deal with the daily battles of a tired child who wants to decompress from school and run around in the fresh outdoors (since most schools see recess as unnecessary and don't have PE because it is "un-testable" - translation: it isn't important) who is instead having to regurgitate the days' lesson with busy work.<br />
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I personally have incountered many times where my children are doing homework on concepts that haven't even been covered, or covered poorly, so then I become the teacher. Granted, I have a degree in education, yet I think about how many parents come home from a long day at their jobs to have to become a teacher. Instead of having some time to reconnect with their children in a meaningful fashion, then end up having to argue and fight with them, sometimes late into the night. I was talking to a parent of a 9 year old the other night that came home from her son having football practice to work until 11 pm helping him with his homework! Another mom of a 2nd grader tells me her 7 year old has up to 2 hours of homework NIGHTLY! That is just madness!!!<br />
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A few schools in our area have gone "homework free". One school actually had a teacher who assigned no homework to her students for a whole year, then compared her students' test results with the students in the other grade level classes. Her result - there was no significant difference in the test scores. She felt that it was her job to cover what they needed in class, not the parents.<br />
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While the idea appeals to me, I am not 100% sold on the idea. I worry how these kids are going to go from no homework to the truckload that appears in middle school. I have seen some middle-schoolers breaking their backs with the homework books they are carrying home in their backpacks. One poor girl last year went through two good backpacks because the weight of the books ripped the shoulder straps.<br />
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I think there is a middle ground. I have heard that the standard rule of thumb is 10 minutes of homework per grade level. So that 2nd grader should have only 30 minutes of homework per night, versus my 7th grader having 80 minutes. That, to me, does seem reasonable.<br />
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And, if it hasn't been covered in class, don't send it home.<br />
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So as my 10 year old is crying that he doesn't understand how to do a square-root number array, I really trying to keep my blood pressure down enough to help him. Oh goody - he just told me this is only page 1 of 4 of his math homework. Oh, and he had a report due on Monday, and he needs to type it on the computer...and bring it to school on a flash drive.<br />
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There goes any hope of a relaxing weekend...Konamomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021900078757883605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8663817533389286134.post-38873275170318682532011-09-22T10:20:00.000-07:002011-09-22T18:48:32.609-07:00Reflections about coffee<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs1r0J4giGdQkgwj5n77b3FAzTlfoeN2evHSg_pPCh5-fYQQlSb10TpjCDiieJ1fuwKOkmAqjVjEyrKNnVfY9VFonBIvYNUK142PmYhP9shtoITOy6UcWPj9o00giROtJv3D7BLvOMRwg/s1600/DSCN0277.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs1r0J4giGdQkgwj5n77b3FAzTlfoeN2evHSg_pPCh5-fYQQlSb10TpjCDiieJ1fuwKOkmAqjVjEyrKNnVfY9VFonBIvYNUK142PmYhP9shtoITOy6UcWPj9o00giROtJv3D7BLvOMRwg/s320/DSCN0277.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>The other day on Facebook, I posted about how oddly better coffee tasted when it was poured from my plastic travel mug into my Grandmother's old Irish ceramic mug. It is a strange phenomenon I have noticed before. Coffee isn't really meant to go in plastic mugs. Coffee is meant to be in a ceramic mug, one that feels heavy in your hand, that dribbles over the side as you walk, and that emits flavorful steamy smells that fill your nose.<br />
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Have you ever noticed this difference? When I thought about it, I started thinking about how this small change has so many implications about our lifestyle. When you have your coffee in a travel mug, in implies that you are going somewhere, often in a hurry, so much so that you can't have time to finish your coffee first. Another implication is that you are putting it in a "sippy cup", just like what gave to our toddler children, indicating that you are in such a rush that you anticipate spilling. Hence, the lid on the cup. You are also putting in a plastic cup because it is lighter, so you don't have to balance a heavy coffee mug with your various work bags and laptop cases you are carrying with you. And lastly, you know this cup will fit in your cup holder, once again indicating that you are in a hurry and will be finish that cup while driving.<br />
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All of this points to one thing. We need to slow down. Coffee used to be a luxury, a warm beverage to sip while reading the morning paper or sitting out back on a crisp morning. It is meant to be served hot, as it forces you to slow down to drink it. While you are drinking it slowly, the steam vapors carry the fragrance into your nose, making you inhale deeper, relaxing you further. Because the mug is wide rimmed and sans a lid, you must slow down with each sip, or else endure the wrath of burning coffee on parts of the body that should never endure such pain.<br />
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So to answer the original question of why the coffee taste better in Grandma's old mug is because I am actually taking the time to enjoy this brief moment of liquid heaven.<br />
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Well it helps that it is Grandma's mug too, but that is for a different post.....Konamomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021900078757883605noreply@blogger.com1