To my mother,

 I  was looking through my pictures trying to find just the right one to post with my Mother's Day wishes.  I noticed that I really don't have a lot of pictures of you. I have tons of pictures of Chris and the kids and I have bunches of older photos I scanned of CT and I and Grams.  All of those photos you were taking of us because we were the center of your world.

I  thought that when the kids got a little bigger, my job would be a little easier.  Yes, being a mom isn't as physically exhausting as when they were small.  Now I find that the emotional toll of worrying about them as they become adults is so much more difficult than I ever imagined it would be.  You should know that there have been times recently that you have been my best role model in helping  decide how to handle things.  It is a strange place I am in, where I find that I empathize with my mother and my daughter  at the same moment.

Every day I see you in my mirror, and I see myself in Jessie.  How can the three of us be so different and so alike at the same time?  You, Jessie, Gram, Babe, Theresa and Tina... all of you amazing women. I hate it that it takes us all so long to figure out what we are really worth.  I love you so much, and learn more from you than you will ever know.

Barrel of laughs...

Every morning since school let out, I get my tushie up at about 6:30, slam down a coffee, strap my phone to my arm and head outside for my walk.  I can't believe that I stuck to it this long, but it is awesome, and I think I could actually turn into a morning person!  Well, lately, I have noticed that the walking is not really taking much effort anymore.  I walk about four miles, and I get a little sweaty but it has stopped feeling like work. I have talked to friends about starting a running/ jogging program, and I have been given some good advice and some apps to start out.

So this morning, I thought what the heck, I can walk, and do some jogging  in between just to get my heart rate up.

That is when the fun began.

Here's the deal.  I got me a  ghetto booty.  When I walk, I can feel some rockin' and rollin'  going on back there. Whatever, you don't like it don't look at it. I don't think about it too much any more.  However this morning when I started to run,  I could feel that thing, and I was sure that at some point it might try to separate from my body.  Are you kidding me!?  I got nice walking pants that hold things pretty well, but I'm telling you, my hiney has a mind of its own!  To add to my posterior predicament, the sun was at my back but to the side a bit, throwing a long distorted shadow in front of me.  I am pretty sure my ass was taunting me, because I  think I saw it waving at me in the shadow!   Think that is going to make an awesome cartoon later! (Chris' suggestion!)

I really had to stop jogging then.  I was torn between distress at people seeing my butt doing its own Macarena, and amusement at at my shadow's, um, liveliness!  That got me to giggle instead of jiggle, and then I wondered what people driving by thought of my walking along laughing.  I mean, people aren't supposed to look happy when they work out, right?  That made it worse.  I just couldn't help it, I had a fit of giggles. That is not good for keeping up a good calorie burning pace!   I started to wonder as I walked, what I could wear that would cover some of that bounce.  And being in the ridiculous mood I am in this morning, the first  thing that popped into my head was a box, or maybe a barrel, you know the ones with the suspenders?  I am pretty sure the barrel idea is out, since that  barrel would bounce too and likely smack me in the face.  It might also leave some splinters, since wood is not really meant for exercise comfort.   Not to mention if I trip and fall (hey, I did that on the treadmill remember)  then I might end up rolling around  helplessly, which would  probably be more embarrassing than a  a little  wiggle!  Oh yeah, think I burned more calories laughing than I did from the walk.

I did my google search on running with an ass like Beyonce  (yeah, I wish,but it has potential!) and my options are grim.  I could wear spandex two sizes too small, in which case my ass would simmer down, but  the paramedics would probably frown on having to bring me oxygen every morning.  I'd have to check out the medics first, it might be worth it!  The other option was a running skirt, which I guess i could do, but the legs might become an issue.  Maybe I could pull off the leggings with the skirt look? Its not really my cup of tea, but  probably an improvement over the barrel idea!!

Until then, my adventures with jogging may take place on the treadmill gathering dust in the basement!

I hope everyone has a super fantabulous day full of your own giggle moments!

Neverland

Summer is finally here and I'd like to think I am trying to make the most of it.  I miss my work and my friends desperately, since 90 percent of my social interaction occurs at school..  I am so busy there that summer vacation is like driving a  Mustang 100 mph and  coming to a full stop in 1 second.   My kids, on the other hand, seem to relish the chance to do absolutely nothing!

  Well, Friday my little one Joshua seemed to be a bit bored. Finally,  he asked me if I wanted to go and see the creek he and his buddies went to not far from the house.   I didn't even hesitate.  I remember going on such excursions with my own  friends when I was a girl, and those are some of the sweetest summer memories.  I remember picking blackberries right off  the  trees, digging up worms, finding salamanders. I couldn't wait to go with Josh.  When he came home from his trek a couple weeks ago, he told me, "Mom, it's just beautiful!"  I could just imagine lifting rocks to find some crawfish, maybe spotting a turtle or a frog, or listening to a woodpecker pound on some  long dead tree trunk.

Josh and I donned our blue jeans and old  sneakers.  I had told him, you can't go in the woods without long pants.  Poison ivy,  old branches, mosquitoes and ticks can do a number on bare legs.  Properly attired, we set off across the neighbor's yard, and began the walk along the cornfield that  led us to the wooded area we would need to go through.

As we approached the woods. the first thing Josh told me was that we could take the short way or the long way. It was hot and humid, and  I was already wondering if  shorts might have been worth the pain.  He brought me to the entrance of the "Short Way".  After two feet of  brush and poison ivy, we came to an old rusty fence.  The boys climb that thing easily, I am sure of it.  The fence was really not much more than rusty yet sturdy chicken wire.  What  80 to 100 pound boys thought nothing of climbing brought me to a dead halt.  "I can't climb that Josh."  My adult mind imagined my much more than 100 pound body trying to climb this four foot fence.  It wasn't meant to support my weight, and  the only thought  that was blaring in my ming was "TETANUS!!"  

Josh, with a disappointed look,  took me another hundred feet or so to the "Long Way". Let me be frank, I was looking for the beaten path, where hundreds of little feet had worn away a clear line through the dense wooded  area.  I can't even say that there WAS a path.  "Josh, are you sure this is the way??"  He just gave me a look  and told me that he THOUGHT this was the way, but that his friend David was their navigator.  Yes, my ten year old did use that word.

Josh took the lead, and I marveled at how easily his five foot frame managed to duck  so many low hanging   thin tree branches.  Sometimes he would push through them,  unaware of the sting they left for mom as they rebounded from his touch and onto his staggering follower. . At some point I became irritated, feeling like there were hundreds of  switches left simply to punish me for all wrongs, past, present and future.

Finally we reached a clearing.  It was a small field, and I could tell that it was used for farming.  I  looked around and the whole field was surrounded by trees. I  thought there might be some area where a farmers tractor might have left an easy escape route out of this misguided adventure, but there was none.  Are you kidding me??   That plow has to get in here somewhere!!   We crossed the clearing  to reach yet another line of  "Woods".  

Josh hesitated for a while, not sure of where the path to the creek was.  We  walked along the edge between field and trees until I spotted what looked like an opening and at least some  cleared area.  "Isn't there a path??", I asked my boy again.  "Sort of", he replied.  We entered, he adventurously, I nervously.

"This is it!", he exclaimed, with excitement.  I could  see a worn area on the ground that resembled a trail, but there were low branches everywhere.  Clearly no adult had passed through here.  Josh ducked and  dodged all of the tree limbs like a running back dodges line backers.  What branches I couldn't duck I trudged through,  feeling each tiny scratch.  I broke every dead limb I could find, desperate to  follow my son,  not wanting to turn back.  The whole time we were stomping  through what seemed to be acres of poison ivy and creeping myrtle, and I couldn't help but think, repeatedly, of  how many snakes could be hiding there, or how I could twist my ankle, or how I could slip in the mud.

"There it is!!!", Josh cried, exultant over leading his aged mother to the goal of his finest adventure. He couldn't wait for me to break out my Iphone and take pictures  of his secret  sanctuary. My grown up mind froze for a minute.  Is this it??  In my mind's eye, I had imagined a bubbling stream, abundant wild life, and every memory re-lived from my youth.

What I  saw was a trickle, a stream that was in dire need  of a good rainfall.  I could see just where that stream would be with an inch or two of precipitation. I walked along muddy stones to get some pictures, wondering when I would slip and fall into the mud.  There wouldn't no salamanders,  no blackberries or earthworms.

In the midst of poisoned petals and imagined dangers, I turned, and in a fleeting moment, I caught sight of a beautiful tree that looked like something from the Lord of the Rings.   I looked at the trickle of a stream that so enchanted my ten year old boy,  and imagined the rushing of water that only he could see. Almost as if a voice had spoken, I thought, "YOU DON'T BELONG HERE!"  There are some things that are just not meant for us.  Friday, that  creek was one of those days for me.  Joshua was Peter Pan,  and I was a grown up in  Never-land.

I have never felt more like an interloper.  There was just enough magic to understand why this place was special to Josh, but the grown up in me couldn't look past the danger and just feel what only a child can feel.
My heart hurts and longs to be the little girl who would see everything that Josh could see.   I am no longer Wendy, and there are some places that aren't meant for me. The little glimpse of magic there was just enough  to shut up my adult self, so that when my Josh wants to go again, I will let him.

 There is a Neverland, and only the young can find it. I hope that my Joshua enjoys every minute, and when he is old enough that the magic is gone, I hope that  the memories of it are as sweet as mine.

Watch Me!

    I was up really early this morning to drop my baby girl off for another band function.  I stopped and got some money for her and some coffee for me. That pretty much guaranteed that I would not go back to sleep  and I might get a little bit of work accomplished before Chris gets home tonight.  I put on my wind symphony music and got to work.  It's funny how my brain operates sometimes, because while I cleaned and the music resonated  through the whole lower level of the house, I found my mind wandering as it will, until finally I had to turn off the music, put down the duster, pour my fifth cup of coffee and come on here to pound it out on the keyboard.

     I do not like to ask people for help. If  I am capable, I am going to do it myself rather than ask someone to do it. On the other hand, if a person asks  for help, I am going to bend over backwards, and if I cannot, I will find someone who can.  Most of the time people don't ask, I just see that I can help them and  do it.  I am not looking for brownie points,  I don't expect anything from them, and I certainly am not going to get a bonus.  I actually like it better if very few even know what I did.  Helping other people is a very selfish , because it genuinely makes me happy.  I don't  like when people make excuses for not doing what needs done.

     On the stubborn side, I absolutely cannot tolerate people telling me what I can and cannot do. Call it my inner toddler, but my gut reaction is to do the opposite.  If someone were to say, Marcy, don't  do that, my first thought would be, "WATCH ME."   Really, I am surprised that attitude  hasn't gotten me into trouble more.  Maybe I shouldn't even admit to that flaw, lol!  I can see some of my friends now, deviously plotting different  ways they can manipulate me for their entertainment!!  A warning to my friends though, my oppositional defiance comes with a whopping side order of bitch.  Just sayin'

     Getting to the point, when it comes to other people, I am willing to go the extra mile,  to go out of my way to make things better, to make people happier,  to give my time and energy without excuses. In helping other people, my attitude is always "Watch me!"   Why is it that I cannot seem to do that with my own wants and needs?

      I  talk  too much, but you would be surprised at  how  much of myself  I keep hidden. I walk around with my head up, acting like I own the whole place,  shoulders back like I am  strong and fearless, and yet it is just a shield of  protection.  Fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear of looking foolish, has kept me from developing deeper friendships, trying new things, expressing myself in a more honest way.
What I want  now is for that defiant inner child to kick in, so that when I tell myself I can't do something, she will put her hands on her hips, stick out her chin and say "WATCH ME!"

I can't lose the weigh, its too hard ...WATCH ME
I can't give up the beer, I need it to relax... WATCH ME
I can't work on my art, its not good enough, I dont have the time... WATCH ME
I can't learn to play an instrument, Im too old.... WATCH ME
I can't run in a marathon, people will laugh at me... WATCH ME
I can't show people all of myself, they  will reject me... WATCH ME

     It's funny that as a  person who has so little tolerance for excuses, I have let fear become my greatest  excuse for not becoming  the person I would like to be.  I wore a Ray Ban tee shirt to school on Friday that read "Never Hide".   It seems so hypocritical to wear it, but I love that shirt, the motto is like a goal.  As a helpful hypocrite, I tried to convince one of my friends of their own worth, that even when taking care of  the things they were responsible for,  they should pursue  things that make them happy too.

     Well,  I want to stop hiding, to stop being afraid, to stop making excuses for not doing the things that I want to.  Each time I catch myself  thinking that I can't,  I'm going to practice, "WATCH ME!"


 

                      Whats in a Name : Pineapple

     My family already knows why I sometimes use the nickname Pineapple, even if it is not something I am called.  When I started the blog a couple years ago I had no idea what to call it so I fell back on the old standby.

     When I was in high school,  I was pretty much a loner, with just a few close friends.  I didn't participate in many activities like sports or band.  My extracurricular thing was French Club, and I did that just because I had a crush on a couple guy friends.  I wasn't outspoken, and if you asked people from my graduating class if they remembered Marcy, I am pretty sure that most of them wouldn't, even if you showed them picture.  I mastered the art of invisibility, and for someone as awkward as I was, invisibility was a comfort!

However, if you asked some if they remember Pineapple, I am betting at least a few would.

     In my senior year we were required to take P.E.  Many of the girls in class refused to participate because they didn't want to get sweaty, and they definitely didn't want to use the showers.  I  really liked PE though, and  I put in a lot of effort, whether it was basketball, volleyball or flag football. I did manage to piss off a few boys in flag football because they just didn't pay me any mind until I yanked their flag. (Ahem, behave.) The only thing I wasn't crazy about was running the mile. However, in good Marcy fashion, I did try my hardest.

      One of those mile runs was the reason I got the nickname I  would keep for the rest of  the school year.  To say that I didn't have much of a style sense would be like saying  Jay Leno has kind of a big chin.  My choices for gym clothes weren't  the best, and I just grabbed something from the drawer and threw it in the bag.  Today kids get gym clothes, and how much less entertaining that year would have been if I had worn  athletic shorts.  In the eighties, you could  get away with wearing anything.  And on this day, I went to PE wearing thin cotton shorts and matching shirt that had fruit all over them.  You  read that right.  Think cherries, apples, bananas grapes, oh and yeah, pineapples. 

These are not my shorts, but close enough to gag.

     The class began normally.  I started in the back, because that's just what I do.  The athletic types were up front and  as we were running, many of the girls just  walked, so they fell behind.  I  am stubborn, so even if I had to jog  slowly,  I was going to do that mile. I wasn't really that heavy back then, but I was sturdy and strong and bigger than a lot of the little southern belles I shared that class with.  More than halfway through the mile, embarrassingly, the athletics had just about lapped me.  

     As three or four boys approached my lonely self from behind,   I suddenly became the center of attention.  When a girl  with some badonka-donk runs the mile, there is action back there. And if you wear thin cotton shorts, its pretty hard to hide the action.  What happened was that  the fruit on my shorts was moving right along with the rest of me, and that caught the boys attention. I could have stopped and let them pass me, but oh I am a stubborn one, and that was NOT going to happen!  As much as I  tried to be invisible,  I was not going to let this keep me from finishing.   I kept hearing the boys calling out the different fruit on my ass.  I can tell you one thing, as red as my face felt, I think I am glad that they could only see the back side of me!  And as for the pineapple, well, it was the fruit that was right in the middle of my butt.  It could have been worse.  As  I finished the race, a different boy who had already completed the mile cheered me on to the finish with a , "Way to go Butterball!"   That nickname would have sucked.  

     After that day the same boys, when they would see me in the hall, or when I would walk into class, would call me "Pineapple"  dragging out the first syllable. It stopped being embarrassing  after a couple weeks. I had an English teacher who turned the tables on one boy when I was absent from class.  She asked him why they called me that, and after he explained my fruity shorts,  she commented on his checking out my butt.  This was a football player, so that shut him up!  I had one friend in that class and  she couldn't wait to call me and share how red faced HE was!

   So that is how I got the nickname Pineapple.  For me it was probably one of the few memorable moments in high school,  and even though no one called me that after I graduated, I used the small  image pineapple as a signature on my artwork. 
    

Not a midlife crisis.....

   

     This week I will turn forty four years old.  Really, that’s not a milestone.  It’s not a number that is going to get the mailbox decorated with black balloons or over the hill birthday cards.    And I pretty much feel and look better than I did when I was thirty four, when I was carrying an extra forty pounds, plus or minus twenty,  and looked as tired as any mom with a one, six and 11 year  old.   I have a few more wrinkles, but they don’t bother me.  You see them mostly when I smile, and if you made me smile, I don’t mind if you notice them.   I will be proud to show more of them off if you do me the favor of making me laugh! 

     It  has thrown me for a loop, then,  that I seem to be experiencing some age-related transitional problems.  I refuse to call it a mid-life crisis, because crisis sounds far too dramatic and negative, and I don’t have the sudden urge to go out and buy a sports car.   Going from a minivan to a bad ass black F150 was just me boasting that I no longer needed room for three car seats.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

 

     While I won’t be celebrating a milestone birthday, all three of my children did last year.  My oldest son turned twenty one, my daughter was sweet sixteen and my baby turned ten years old.  Part of me has been waiting for this moment for a long time, the day when I would find that not only do all of my children have some degree of independence from me, but I have some independence from them as well.   Heck I even went on a few dates with my husband and came home late enough to make my oldest text us to see if we were ok.

But for all these years, my primary purpose and function was to take care of my family.   I kissed boo boos and wiped runny noses.  I made Play-Doh cookies and Lego castles.  I tossed footballs and painted fingernails, made snowmen and helped with homework.  I watched every Disney movie multiple times, and still know most of the songs by heart.  I made costumes, and carved the coolest pumpkins.   In all the time I was a stay at home mom, my main focus was my kids. I didn’t go out, I didn’t make many friends, I didn’t worry about what  I looked like  I tried to master the art of taking care of three kids and a husband. My primary hobbies were reading, working on genealogy, and   keeping up with the news online after everyone was in bed.  I didn’t mind that time at all, I loved it really.  I was shy and staying home appealed to that part of me.  

     Sometime in the very recent past, the looks I get from my kids are less “Mum you are awesome!” to “Mum you don’t have a clue!” And folks, that really cuts deep.   My kids are intelligent, spectacular and sweet.  They would never hurt me on purpose.  They are acting completely in an age appropriate way.   I know that most every mother goes through this, and I know my mom went from my hero, to a lady who didn’t have a clue, back to my hero.  I know I am not alone.  Why doesn’t that make it just a little easier??   Why does my honey get to act like a goof and yet he still can be the cool guy? Why does the song, “You’re gonna miss this?”  make me cry every time?

      Now that my kids don’t need that type of mom anymore, I am really starting to struggle. I am so glad that I started working at the primary school, because it has allowed me to retain the best parts of that time and of me.  I get to care for hundreds of little ones.  It helps me when  my goofy side comes out and my own kids  would give me a look like I’m a doofus, my school kids will  still look at me like I am the BOMB.  

     The unexpected and wonderful side effect of my job is being surrounded by so many wonderful and supportive people, many of them going through their own series of struggles with life and its never-ending series of changes. I am trying to figure out how to appreciate that I am pretty OK outside of my role of “mum”.   I am confused by my feelings that vary from day to day, from feeling the beauty and awesomeness that growing older allows me to be to, the terrified woman who doesn’t have a clue as to what she is supposed to be, hopefully, for the next forty four years of her life.  

     Like the women before me, I’ll get through this, hopefully without leaving as many scars as most life changes mark us with.  And don’t be surprised if I show up with a new tattoo or a crazy new hair-do.  At least that’s a mark I have a choice in!

Embarrassing moments and moments in time ....

      My very small, but humorous embarrassing moment this afternoon made me glad that I haven’t had too many deeply embarrassing moments in my life.   On the few occasions that I have, there were good people who made the moments more bearable, and their acts of kindness make those memories better ones.  I always hope that I am a person who can help, who can make someone feel better.  That doesn’t come automatically to us; it comes from people who teach us the right way to act. It also brought to mind one  a story from when I was a girl.

     I remember one person, and one incident in particular, who made a big impact on me and was one of many who have helped shape the kind of person I have become.

      When I was a young girl, my best friend Frannie lived across the street.   She and my brother and I did everything together.  Her father, Mr. Fichter, was an older gentleman, a father of eight children, the youngest of whom was Fran.  Mr. Fichter, from all I can recall, was a very laid back, kind, hardworking man.  I can see him in my mind’s eye as if he were right in front of me.   He was older, shorter in stature, thin gray hair, and gentle face that sported small round specatacles.  Most times when I saw him he still had on his blue work uniform, Carrier I think, the heating company.  Every memory I have of him is good, whether he was fooling around on New Years Eve, having a sing along in their family dining room around the piano, spending time sharing the special Christmas train display he built each year, showing us old silent movies on a pull down screen with his old 8mm projector.

     There was a time when Mr. Fichter would take Frannie, my brother and I on the city bus on Sunday mornings into downtown Pittsburgh.  I remember exiting the bus, the smell of fresh cold winter air, the bus exhaust, and McDonald’s near the bus stop.   It is a combination of smells that many suburbanites might find offensive, but that I love, instantly transporting me like a time machine that even HG Wells would envy.   Each of us has our own smell, or sound, and that strange city medley is one of mine.

     Some mornings Mr. Fichter would treat us to a Danish or a cup of hot cocoa.  I can’t remember if it was before or after, but he would take us to a big Catholic Cathedral in town, where we were part of the children’s choir.  It was special, and we got to sing from high up in the balcony.  I don’t even think the Mass was heavily attended, but it was something wonderful, in a place we might not ever have visited otherwise.

     It was on one bus trip, whether it was departing or returning, I can’t recall, that Mr. Fichter gave me a very special gift, a lesson really, on what it means to walk the walk, what it means to be truly kind.  Back then, lots of people rode the city bus, and on a Sunday morning, there was every sort of person using the public transit to get to Church, visit friends and family, travel downtown.  As the bus slowed to a stop, an elderly woman got up and made her way towards the front.  My friend and I looked at the woman and we began to giggle.   From behind, we saw that the hem of the elderly woman’s skirt or dress and her slip had become trapped in her undergarment.  Half of her underthings were showing, exposing her little legs and stockings.  Now, in meager defense, we were just squirts, and any children our age would have giggled as well.  

     No one approached the older woman.  Mr. Fichter , who was, simply put, a man of a different time, gave us a look that locked the giggles in our throats.  It wasn't an angry or scowling face, which most kids become practically immune to; it was a very sad and disappointed look that he gave us.  And with that, he quickly approached the woman, whispered something quietly, and returned to us.  I don’t remember anything about how she reacted.  I only remember his look, and then his action. I think he may have spoken to us afterwards about how it would have been better, less embarrassing for the woman if one of us or any other lady on the bus had done the simple act of kindness that he performed. Maybe that is the older me understanding what that look and act imprinted on my memory.

      I am sure that over the many years I have fallen far short of the example Mr. Fichter lived out in his every day life.  I do know that at that moment, I never wanted to witness the look on a face I considered so inherently good.  I tell my kids all the time, don’t do anything you wouldn't want Jesus or your grandma to know, and in my case Mr. Fichter .  Sometimes that can mean saying  nothing, or it can be doing something that is embarrassing.  Having  kids, and working with kids, it’s especially  important for me to do the right thing when I see the opportunity, knowing that little eyes are watching.  I want the imprint I leave on their memories to be  a good one.