Grumpy is the New Accountable

There has always been a group of Moms at school whom the staff and even fellow parents referred to as sour pusses, grumpy grumpersons. They would constantly have a scowl on their face, stomp around, and even when you'd smile and greet them, they'd mumble back a sorry excuse for a response and just seemed dismal and eternally dissatisfied. I always tried to give these people the benefit of the doubt and chalk up their behavior to a bad day. But how many bad days can one person have?

I’ve realized that I’m becoming this person and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I don’t know if it’s just the people at my kid’s school or the world at large, but I feel constantly disappointed and let down by mankind. Are my standards too high? Or are we all really going to Hell in a hand basket?

Last week, a couple of teachers started a Bible study for girls before school. I was so excited by this opportunity and was equally excited when my daughter showed interest in it and signed up. I’ve prayed for the teachers and their leadership and also for the girls and that their hearts and minds will be fully open to receive and comprehend everything that God speaks to them during this time.

It is supposed to be before school on Thursdays, from 7:00-7:30. Today, I had volunteered to bring breakfast for the group, at the risk of taking on too much. I set the alarm early this morning. By 5:30, there were muffins in the ovens and I was counting out and packing up the right number of cups for OJ and little plastic spoons for fresh fruit and plates. The kitchen was alive and I danced around like an orchestra director:  stir this, stick a toothpick in that, take those out and put these in.

In the meantime, I got dinner going in a crockpot, threw some clothes in the dryer, made sure Little Bit was awake on time, cuddled with her for a minute, and made lunch. I gave the five-minute-until-we-walk-out warning and went to brush my hair and teeth. Then I realized the pets weren’t staring at me because of unconditional love as much as their bowls were empty and they were ready for breakfast. My daughter came out and needed help which took my remaining hair and teeth brushing time but it’s a small price to pay and I’m glad to do it. We dashed out the door going over study points one last time for a test today and with me looking like a pack mule. As I quizzed her on state capitals, I went over my mental checklist.

We arrived at school with two minutes to spare. Plenty of time to park illegally in the drive, run the goods in, throw them out on a table, give my girl her morning hug and blessing and inquire as to the spelling of “Annapolis” one last time as I walked away. Instead of being greeted by a smiling (and maybe just a teeny bit appreciative) teacher, we were met with a dark hallway and the distant hum of a custodian and her vacuum. We turned the corner for the designated Bible study classroom and found it locked and dark. It was now 7:00 on the dot, the time when this activity was supposed to start.

For the next 10 minutes, we stood out in the hall, greeting passing teachers, arriving Bible study group members, and holding our basket of breakfast goodies. At 7:10, one of the Bible study leaders arrived, but she was not the one who had the key to the classroom. Knowing I was risking incurring the wrath of the traffic nazis out front, I unceremoniously dumped my breakfast spread on the floor outside of the still-locked classroom, and bid farewell to the group of eight or 10 girls now assembled for this activity which was not yet started and a third of the way over.

I left feeling betrayed. I held up my end of the bargain. Look at me. My hair’s not brushed, I have flour on me, and there are fresh muffins, for goodness sakes. Yes, I could have grabbed some at the grocery but I made fresh ones. I got here on time. I did my part. I’m mad. And I’m hurt. It may sound a bit dramatic, but we all have a part to play. I played mine and am often left feeling like others don’t take theirs as seriously.

Yes, I know things happen. Life happens. Cars don’t start and alarms don’t go off when you thought you set them. Kids get sick. Traffic. I get that. But it just seems like more and more, we, as humans, are slacking on punctuality. I guess it’s going the way of other social etiquette:  hand-written thank you notes and responding in a timely manner to party invitations. There’s a small part of me that thinks, “well, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” But I know deep down I don’t want to join them. I couldn’t if I tried. I want to make them want the same thing I do: for us to all play our part. To show up. On time.

As I left the building, the principal was walking in. I’ve never seen the man without a smile on his face and he greets everyone he sees with a smile and by name. Bless him. But as he called out “Good morning!” to me, all I could think was, “what’s so good about it?” and all I could muster was a faint “hmm, hey there.” As I stomped to my car, that’s when it hit me. Every time that man sees me, I’m mad about something or someone. I’m disappointed in the human race and someone’s behavior. But I don’t want to be inducted into the grumpy grumperson’s club. I can’t be responsible for every, single person’s bad behavior nor take it personally. So, starting today, I’m going to make a concerted effort - give it my best shot - to beat them without joining them. But I’ll go to my grave chanting this mantra:

Early is on time. On time is late. Late is not acceptable.

Stayin' Alive

“Papa Collins would have been 112 today,” Mom said one year when I was an insolent and (self-proclaimed) omniscient 13-year-old. “Yeah? And Methuselah would be a million,” I replied. (Best educated guess, in 1987, Methuselah would have been 5,206.) Okay, so I wasn’t actually omniscient.

I didn’t understand, at least as a teenager, why one would play this seemingly futile and borderline macabre game of marking someone’s birthday as if they were still here. 

Papa was very tall. Pictures attested to that fact, but I’d also heard how his wife, Mary Ellen (or Mama Collins), a bit more vertically challenged, would stand under his stretched out arm with plenty of clearance. He loved the Lord and knew the Bible intimately, but he didn’t like to go to church. With an insatiable thirst for knowledge and a love of the written word, he always had a stack of books by his armchair. As a profession, he was a carpenter, a handyman, and made a living for several years digging storm shelters for people, right here in middle Tennessee.  Rarely was he seen without his trusty pipe. He had seven children, four of whom lived passed birth, and one of them was my Mom’s Mom, my maternal grandmother. Papa Collins was Mom’s maternal grandfather.

Every year, we’d play this game. “So and so would have been ____ tomorrow.” It, like many of the things my mother did, drove me insane. It seemed pointless. Oh, but she got the last laugh. Several times over. Because, now that she’s gone, you better believe I play that game on her birthday. Why? Maybe it’s wishful thinking. Maybe it’s a way of keeping a memory alive and passing down genealogical information to the next generation.

Papa (John Calvin Collins) died in 1951, so I never knew him. Yet, in part because of stories kept alive and passed down, I feel like I did. So, yes, I will open time capsules of memories and stories and share them. And I can only hope, one day, someone will keep my memory alive.

I awoke yesterday morning, October 5, 2014, and you know what my first thought was? It's my Mema's birthday. Hmm. She would have been 102.

Collins Family, (c) 1947
(L-R) Myrtle Collins, Bessie Collins, Anna Bell Collins Bennett (my Mema), Felix Bennett (my Papa), Mary Evelyn McGowan Collins (John's wife), Gene Collins (the only boy), and John Calvin (Papa) Collins. A cousin is peeking from the back. And the little girl in the front? That's my Mom, Patricia Ann Bennett Eagan.

Bigger is Better in Boyland

" A great man is always willing to be little."                                                                      -Ralph Waldo Emerson

In Boyland (population:  all dudes), everyone knows bigger is better. Bigger homes, bigger cars with bigger engines, bigger peckers (and, really, all forms of backyard wildlife)...small just won't do here.

Case in point:  when my favorite resident of Boyland, my sunshine, my husband, makes a sandwich, he seeks out this knife to spread his mayo on the bread

even though it's not dishwasher-safe and despite the fact that we have a whole drawer full of these,

which are happy to run through the magic clean dish box.

So, that's why I laughed to myself and commiserated while reading this article about an NBC reporter who recently had to make an ER visit after a failed attempt to open a bottle of wine.

What was he using to remove the foil wrapper over the cork?

Well, this, of course:

"All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his."                                                                                                       -Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

Generation More

Last night, as my daughter's cheerleading practice wrapped up, I overheard the coach yelling, "now girls, you have two things to do this week..." My immediate thought was, "oh, great, more work - for both of us." Then I chuckled to myself thinking "two things? Try two hundred things." And it's mostly my own doing. It wasn't my sweet daughter who came to me and said, "Mommy, I'd like to be well-rounded. Will you sign me up for any and everything you hear about?"

The sad thing is that, when compared to some of her peers, she has a pretty light schedule.

MONDAY:  tennis lessons
TUESDAY:  cheerleading practice
WEDNESDAY:  piano lessons
SATURDAY:  cheerleading, basketball
SUNDAY:  basketball practice

OK, so in writing, that doesn't look too bad. But let's throw in some homework. Here's an average week:

MONDAY:  tennis lessons, 30 mins of homework, read for 20 mins, practice piano
TUESDAY:  cheerleading practice, 30 mins of homework, read for 20 mins, review spelling words for test on Friday, review vocabulary words for test on Thursday
WEDNESDAY:  piano lessons, 30 mins of homework, read for 20 mins, review spelling words for test on Friday, review vocabulary words for test tomorrow
THURSDAY: 30 mins of homework, read for 20 mins, review spelling words for test tomorrow
SATURDAY:  cheerleading, basketball
SUNDAY:  basketball practice, practice piano

Then, you gotta have some chores at home, right?

MONDAY:  tennis lessons, 30 mins of homework, read for 20 mins, practice piano
TUESDAY:  cheerleading practice, 30 mins of homework, read for 20 mins, review spelling words for test on Friday, review vocabulary words for test on Thursday, help with pets
WEDNESDAY:  piano lessons, 30 mins of homework, read for 20 mins, review spelling words for test on Friday, review vocabulary words for test tomorrow, help with pets
THURSDAY: 30 mins of homework, read for 20 mins, review spelling words for test tomorrow
SATURDAY:  cheerleading, basketball, help with laundry
SUNDAY:  basketball practice, practice piano, clean hamster's cage, tidy room, help with dinner

Not to mention, Church on Sunday, friends' birthday parties, play dates, brushing your teeth and washing your face twice a day, reading the Bible, and getting exercise.

The kid sleeps an average of 9.5 hours each night, so that whittles the number of waking hours she has to just a little over 100 hours each week. Yes, there are times I get frustrated. Have you practiced piano? Have you cleaned the hamster's cage? I  didn't want a rat. I  didn't promise I'd clean that cage every week if I could get a hamster. No, m'am. That was you. But then I remember that she's just a kid. And she's learning. Learning to juggle, which, sadly, is a life skill. The times I wonder if we've overloaded her, all I have to do is look at my own weekly schedule to realize for what she's being trained -- being an adult one day. An adult in a hectic, fast-paced, go get 'em world.

That reminds me...I've gotta run.

Not Forgetting to Remember

So this happened last night. I found myself at a monthly meeting of a group for which I hold a place on their board. There were 16 of us in attendance last night. It's just once per month and I do care about the organization or else I wouldn't be there in the first place. However, it's one of those things you dread, you can make excuses why not to go, you watch the clock and think, at times, this is never going to end. It's mostly women, and women have a way of talking too much. It's just a gender flaw, I believe.

So, I'm in this meeting last night, anxiously watching the clock and taking some assurance and relief in that it seems to be winding down. The speaker wraps up, thanks everyone for coming and people start getting up to a symphony of jingling keys and chairs being pushed back across a linoleum floor. The exit is in clear site and I'm already in the car in my mind. Then the leader of the group asks everyone to stop and gather in a circle before we leave. "Nooooo! I was so close," I thought.

We assembled fairly quickly, then she said with a full heart and cracking voice, "I thought maybe we could all just take a moment to remember this day and maybe we can all go around and share what this day means to us." Lord, help me.

She kicked it off. She was not in NYC that day, 13 years ago, she didn't know anyone directly or indirectly affected by the tragedy. She just felt like she wanted to commemorate the day so she prattled on about how she'd visited New York some 30 years ago and managed to bring that nearly unrelated story back around to her current day angst and anxiety.

9/11 Memorial

As the rest of those of us gathered shared our stories, my heart softened and I listened, truly listened, to what people were saying. One woman was working and living in Manhattan that day. She was blocks away and wondered if she was next. Another had a relative who was a flight attendant and they were not able to verify this person's whereabouts or safety for more than a day. A younger member shared how she was in high school and provided a glimpse into what our youth experienced and felt. An older member equated it to Pearl Harbor, though she wasn't around for that first attack on U.S. soil. Unfortunately, one woman over-shared and told how she and her husband did the only thing they knew to do and, yadda yadda, "our third child was born nine months later." Several people made the comment that this is our (this generation's) version of "where were you when JFK was assassinated?" I even shared my own story, which isn't great or particularly touching, but goes like this:

I went to work that day. Just like it was a normal day. And when I went home at the end of the day, I stopped and did something fairly pedestrian and normal. I got gas. The closest station to my home still provided the option of "full service." For all of you young people, gas stations used to only be "full service." You'd pull up and an attendant would pump your gas, check your oil, wash your windows and maybe even check your tire pressure. Then, stations started offering the option for you to skip this service and do it yourself. Thus, you had the option of "full service" or "self service." Full service eventually faded into a memory, but this particular station held onto it. A little too tightly, if you ask me. I've never been much of a women's libber, but for whatever reason I took offense when they would see me and dash out, trying to wrestle the gas pump from me. I'd wave them off and deliver a quick, curt "I've got it...thank you!" to try to head them off. But on 9/11/01, I stopped to get gas. I got out and began unscrewing my gas cap. An employee started walking out of the building towards me. As he arrived, I mumbled, "I'm fine" and, as he took the pump from my hand and proceeded to fill my car, we both just stood there. The sky was a beautiful, bright blue, hardly a cloud to be seen. And it was silent. I've never given much mind to airplanes flying overhead, but I'll always remember the stillness of that day. He finished, I thanked him, and he said, "no problem...it beats standing in there staring at the TV." And we hugged. Total, complete strangers. It was our way of saying "we're gonna be OK" days before people started shouting"U.S.A! U.S.A!" and a good while before we were remotely sure.

I Can Believe It's Not Butter

I grew up in a nice, Southern home that would make Paula Deen proud. We used butter. A lot. In the kitchen, food was prepared under the mantra "if a tablespoon is good, then 2 sticks must be great!" One of my all-time favorite "snacks" to this day is a good, hot piece of cornbread with a fresh, cold pat of butter pushed inside its warm center so it melts into all the cracks and crevices. I can taste it now.

Our preferred brand was Land O' Lakes. Something about that nice, Native American lady on the package just intimated quality.

When eating out in restaurants, back in the day, you'd often receive a perfect little pat of butter wedged between a slightly larger square of cardboard and a little square of waxed paper. Then we went to tiny little plastic tubs with a foil lid:

And now you get a rectangle of butter in a wrapper:

But even in my day, butter substitutes crept onto the tables of America, claiming to be a healthier alternative to plain, old butter. I never liked the taste of margarine and, if push came to shove, I'd go without anything rather than trying to use it as a substitute for my beloved butter. It doesn't melt the same and it definitely doesn't taste the same. I stumbled upon this article today about the history of margarine and it got me thinking...thinking about our natural ability to sniff (or taste) out danger. And also thinking about a pan of cornbread. Excuse me.


"Pass The Butter ... Please"

Margarine was originally manufactured to fatten turkeys. When it killed the turkeys, the people who had put all the money into the research wanted a payback so they put their heads together to figure out what to do with this product to get their money back.

It was a white substance with no food appeal so they added the yellow coloring and sold it to people to use in place of butter. How do you like it? They have come out with some clever new flavorings....

DO YOU KNOW the difference between margarine and butter?

Both have the same amount of calories. Butter is slightly higher in saturated fats at 8 grams; compared to 5 grams for margarine.

Eating margarine can increase heart disease in women by 53% over eating the same amount of butter, according to a recent Harvard Medical Study.

Eating butter increases the absorption of many other nutrients in other foods.Butter has many nutritional benefits where margarine has a few and only because they are added!

Butter tastes much better than margarine and it can enhance the flavors of other foods.

Butter has been around for centuries where margarine has been around for less than 100 years .

And now, for Margarine..

Very high in trans fatty acids.

Triples risk of coronary heart disease.

Increases total cholesterol and LDL (this is the bad cholesterol) and lowers HDL cholesterol (the good cholesterol).

Increases the risk of cancers up to five times.

Lowers quality of breast milk

Decreases immune response.

Decreases insulin response.

And here's the most disturbing fact...

Margarine is but ONE MOLECULE away from being PLASTIC... and shares 27 ingredients with PAINT.

These facts alone were enough to have me avoiding margarine for life and anything else that is hydrogenated (this means hydrogen is added, changing the molecular structure of the substance).

Open a tub of margarine and leave it open in your garage or shaded area. Within a couple of days you will notice a couple of things:

* no flies, not even those pesky fruit flies will go near it (that should tell you something)

* it does not rot or smell differently because it has no nutritional value; nothing will grow on it. Even those teeny weeny microorganisms will not a find a home to grow.

Why? Because it is nearly plastic . Would you melt your Tupperware and spread that on your toast?

"For as churning cream produces butter, and as twisting the nose produces blood, so stirring up anger produces strife."

--Proverbs 30:33

Safety Net

At my child’s school, except for the very youngest children, all of the students have iPads. They leave them at school through fourth grade. In fifth grade, they begin carrying their iPad with them to classes and home and back. Once this begins, it is literally and figuratively in their hands. If they drop it or lose it, they (or their parents) are responsible for repairing or replacing it. They’re also responsible for remembering to save their work frequently and to keep the device charged.

I was speaking with a friend the other day, the mother of a fifth grade student, and I asked how things were going. She replied that the night before, she was heading to bed and looked over and realized her child had not plugged in their iPad to charge. Feeling conflicted about what to do, she wavered between plugging it in and letting her child see that green bar and “100%” battery status in the morning, or doing something that is just gut-wrenching and incredibly hard – allowing her child to fail.

I won’t leave you hanging here. She confided in me that she peeked at the battery status and saw that it was 80%. “Had it been close to running out,” she said, “I probably would have plugged it in and let it charge and then told her this morning what I’d done and remind her that she needs to be careful about that.” Instead, my friend walked away. It was still near 80% in the morning, and, when the child realized she’d forgotten to charge it, she was horrified.

As my friend regaled me with this story, I thought to myself, “how would I have handled this situation?” It’s true. We want our kids to not just survive, but thrive. We want them to not just succeed, but to exceed. We push, push, push. We teach what we think the teacher hasn’t taught. We coach from the sidelines.

There’s a fine line there between supporting them  to excel and pushing them forcibly to succeed.  I hope, as I’m given opportunities, that I’m supportive. No more. No less.