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Billboard Baby
“Yard sale! Yard sale! Come check out the yard sale!”
Forget the PennySaver. Who needs the classifieds in the newspaper?
Why even bother to advertise on Craig’s List when you can have this??
That’s right, for the price of a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich on a croissant, this willing and able 10-year old will happily take your idea, event or function on the road! She comes complete with borrowed wings, a friend’s home-made shield, soccer shoes, red knee-high soccer socks, a Tinkerbell birthday hat and her very own pink-wheeled scooter!
Let this Billboard Baby loose in your neighborhood and customers will be clambering at your door, yard sale or lemonade stand. Satisfaction guaranteed!
But wait! Don’t just let these pictures alone convince you…. here is an actual client testimonial:
“No one came to our yard sale for HOURS. Finally, we agreed to give Hannah’s approach a try. It was amazing! A miracle! She literally stopped traffic! As soon as Hannah hit the pavement, customers started coming out of the woodwork (or at least their homes, to see what all the commotion was) and over to our yard sale. I’ll never have another yard sale — without her!” ~ Karen Szczuka Teich
Okay, so while everything at my Everything Must Go yard sale eventually went, unfortunately, most of it went to the Goodwill. Not exactly the money-maker I had hoped it would be, despite the literally months of planning and preparation. Who knew the biggest flea market venue in the county was holding their annual “public” yard sale the same day I was having my little “private” one? Apparently everyone. Except me of course.
Oh well, I guess we never would have discovered Hannah’s new knack for advertising if our sale was such a success in the first place, right? It’s all in the way you choose to look at things and honestly, watching Hannah scooter through the neighborhood while hollering her heart out about our “sale” was worth every idle hour!
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again (mostly to remind myself),
It’s not what happens but what you do– how you deal with — what happens, that really matters.
It may not have been a profitable day but it was a great day, nonetheless.
Photo credits: © Karen Szczuka Teich.
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Message in the Attic
Somehow I let myself slip into the delusion that life would get easier as I got older. Maybe older, is meant for the over 60 crowd, in which case, I still have a little while to go. As for this mid-forties mom and for reasons I can’t begin to fathom, life just seems to be extraordinarily difficult right now and I find myself in the position of having to “let go”… of a lot.
Coincidentally, while recently rummaging around in my attic again (looking for more things to sell) I stumbled upon an old, yellowed-out piece of paper at the bottom of a box labeled “Childhood”. I’ve no idea where it came from or how I got it but of this I am certain, it’s mine and it feels like an appropriate time to share it.
Without credit of an author and in an old, bold, script type face, this is what was written on it:
Let go……..
to “let go” does not mean to stop caring, it means I can’t do it for someone else.
to “let go” is not to cut myself off, it’s the realization I can’t control another.
to “let go” is not to enable, but to allow learning from natural consequences.
to “let go” is to admit powerlessness, which means the outcome is not in my hands.
to “let go” is not to try to change or blame another, it’s to make the most of myself.
to “let go” is not to care for, but to care about.
to “let go” is not to fix but to be supportive.
to “let go” is not to judge, but to allow another to be a human being.
to “let go” is not to be in the middle arranging all the outcomes but to allow others to affect their destinies.
to “let go” is not to be protective, it’s to permit another to face reality.
to “let go” is not to deny, but to accept.
to “let go” is not to nag, scold or argue, but instead to search out my own shortcomings and correct them.
to “let go” is not to adjust everything to my desires but to take each day as it comes, and cherish myself in it.
to “let go” is not to criticize and regulate anybody but to try to become what I dream I can be.
to “let go” is not to regret the past, but to grow and live for the future.
to “let go” is to fear less, and love more.
Sometimes I can get so bogged down by the details of “the issue at hand” that I just can’t see the obvious. Lucky for me, I believe in receiving signs, messages and answers from the universe (or whatever higher power has it’s hand in our fates) and I believe they can come in many forms and places. This time, it was in the quiet of a warm, stuffy attic and it was clear; certain circumstances are just out of my control and I need to let go.
Photo Credits #1 & #2: Google Images
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A Wet Haven
Think back to when you were a kid in grammar school. What would it have been like for you, if you were able to throw a bucket of water over your “favorite” teacher’s head without fear of retribution? What if, once a year, you were allowed, encouraged even to get the principal or head of school soaken wet?
My girl soaks her math/science/this is how you build a rocket, teacher!
And what if, even after you left that school, you were still allowed to come back at the end of the year and take part in a wild and wet, water-splash-out of students vs. teachers and parents?
My boy gets to come back and relive this thrill even after being gone for two years!
Six years ago, I began working at the small progressive school my kids attended so I could be near them and see firsthand, what it was all about and why my kids barely got any homework. Coming from a catholic grammar school and an all girl catholic high school, I was a little skeptical of the progressive education that I’d signed on to for them. I ended up getting an education for myself, on what it means for a child to be in an environment that nurtures their curiosity and fosters the development of a life-long love of learning. For eight years my son went to the Randolph School. He left after 5th grade. My daughter is finishing up 4th grade. Next year will be her last. I’m already feeling sad.
The curriculum at Randolph School is project based. Several months are devoted to one study at a time, such as birds, Native Americans and human flight. Math, English, Social Studies and Science all get incorporated into the study using a hands on learning approach. These kids are out and about, seeing, doing, building and loving what they’re learning. They’ve done some pretty awesome things too, like making paper and cooking an annual ThanksGiving meal with 
vegetables they planted and harvested themselves. They’ve tapped maple trees, collected sap and boiled it down to make their own syrup for a pancake lunch. They’ve been schooled on tracking people and animals, building shelters in the wilderness and trebuchets in the back field. They know how to use the resources they have to solve a problem. Each child builds a rocket and launches it every year and each year ends with an adventure day which usually involves a hike along the Hudson river or in this year’s case, a walk across the Hudson River on the newly opened, Walkway Over the Hudson. After the adventure there’s an all-school barbecue. After the barbecue, the older kids, students in kindergarten through 5th grade, get to camp-out behind the school with parents and teachers. Tents are pitched at the bottom of the same hill the kids and teachers, sled down during the winter. A bon fire is made, songs are sung, stories are told, s’mores are eaten.
Somewhere in-between the end of the adventure and the beginning of the barbecue, a twenty-plus-year-old tradition lives on. It began when two teachers who overheard a plot being hatched by two students to bring water guns to the camp-out, staged a surprise counter-attack, fully equipped with their own loaded water-guns and behold, a no holds back, teacher-parent-student water splash-out filled with 100% pure fun was born!
A wet haven for kids of all ages! Splash-Out June 2011
It’s tough being a kid. Society is drenched with all kinds of peer pressures and technological enticements. Finding a place in early childhood where children are free to be themselves, free of some of these stresses just long enough to give them a solid footing is a blessing.
So much of parenting is like playing pin the tail on the donkey. Without foresight, you point yourself in what you hope is the right direction and move forward, praying that you hit the target. Sometimes, you get lucky and hit it dead center. Other times, you veer way off to the left or the right and have to go back and try again.
Sending my children to a school that encourages kids to be kids was a “hitting the target dead center” move — a blessing.
The result, is that they love to learn, they always will and I am very grateful.
What do you love about your child’s school?
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Let Freedom Reign
I’m a first generation American. My parents emigrated from Europe. At times, it was a little screwy growing up in our house. My parents were strict and unfamiliar with the school systems and how they worked. We never watched football or baseball although we often went to see Pele play soccer in his hay-day. They didn’t abide by American traditions. Santa came to our house after dinner, on the eve of December 24th. Hamburgers were made with large chunks of onion incorporated into the meat and the finished product was always draped in a homemade mustard sauce. There was no bun and ketchup just wasn’t allowed. Saurkraut was always a side dish.We went to more Oktober-fests than we did street fairs and instead of hot pants, my sister, brother and I had our very own pair of lederhosen. My parents came to this country to make a better life for themselves and they did.
It’s befitting then, that their son should grow up to serve in our Armed Forces. My brother spent over ten years in the Air Force. He lived in Germany, was deployed to Saudi Arabia and Bahrain and served in the Gulf War. I will always be proud of his service to our country. To serve in the military is probably one of the most honorable professions any American could have for any amount of time and it is right that we should pay our respects in some way, to the millions of men and women who gave the ultimate sacrifice for our freedoms, even if it’s just a private thought in between barbecues, picnics and reunions this Memorial Day.
The will of the people is the only legitimate foundation of any government, and to protect its free expression should be our first object. ~ Thomas Jefferson
Freedom is such a big word. Used in just about any context, it packs a lot of weight and thought behind it. Whether it’s from a bad habit, an unfulfilling job or a relationship that has become too constrictive, people will seek liberation. The desire is innate. For America, defending it’s freedoms is paramount, it’s people will go to any lengths to preserve them. And although we may not all agree on how to protect our precious freedoms, there’s no doubt, regardless of our politics, that our right to choose, to vote and to express ourselves are critical to the core of the foundation this nation was built upon. Our freedom is the most important attribute of this country, making it equally important I believe, to honor and thank the millions of men and women who actively continue to put themselves in harms way and devote their time to the cause of safe guarding the freedoms we enjoy. For me, it’s important that my children appreciate them as well. I try to be an example to that end. Whenever I see a person in uniform, I try to find an opportunity to say,
Thank you for your service.
It’s not much but it’s genuine and it’s a start. I’ve never been met with anything but a smile or a respectful nod when I’ve said that and I’ve never been sorry I’ve said it either. So, if it moves you, speak up and thank a service person the next time you see one.
Be safe and enjoy your Memorial Day!
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The Power of Three
To me, there’s no sweeter sound than that of a child’s laughter. It’s comfort food to my ears and fills my heart with a strong sense that something is “right” in this world. When it’s a giggling girl, it’s a little piece of heaven, add two BFFs and it’s an all-out party. That’s what it seemed like anyway when my 10-year old daughter had her two gal pals over for a play date this week. Ten is such a joyous age. It’s the pre, pre-tween-age of self-discovery, where everything is new again and funny.
After a brief stint of one-on-one-on-one basketball, there was the discovery of a blue bird’s egg on the front lawn and the nest that was knocked from a bush. They huddled around it with great concern trying to figure out what happened and what they could do to save it. They played on the over-sized swing-set that dominates a good chunk of our backyard and seems to get less and less attention as the years go by. I was happy to hear the boards creak again as they ran across the wooden bridge linking one tower to the other. Then they did what girls often do and tried on clothes for the next hour. My girl is a bit taller than the other two and has grown two sizes this year alone. One by one, they came out of their giggles to model their outfits. I was checking my Facebook on the kitchen computer as they cat-walked the runway for me.
A friend had posted the now infamous pictures of President Obama and his national security team as they were briefed about the demise of Bin Laden. I wondered what (if anything) three girls in the fourth grade would think about the removal of prominent government officials, who just happen to be women, from a government issued photograph in two news articles that recently circulated in Brooklyn, New York.
Without going into the detail behind the original photograph, I asked them to look at both pictures and tell me what they thought of them.
They immediately recognized that they were the same picture but that the two women who were in the first photo, were missing from the second and they wanted to know, why? In very simple terms I explained that it was a cultural decision.
“But it’s not true. They were there!”
10-year old girls believe in the truth.
“Isn’t that what they call sex…um, sex-ist?”
10-year old girls are smart and a force to be reckoned with.
“I don’t agree with it and I do find it very offensive but it’s their culture.”
10-year old girls are tolerant.
“That’s just wrong. I’m a Jew and that’s not my kind of Jew. I don’t like it.
Let’s go play.”
10-year old girls speak their mind and really do just want to have fun.
And they should.
I take great comfort in their play and all that it encompassed in just one afternoon. From their savvy athletic skills in basketball, their great display of compassion for the unborn bird and it’s home and their fantastic, imaginative adventure on the play structure, to their sophisticated sense of fashion on the runway of my kitchen, the promise of strength in these little women is evident. And while one may be able to “faux-toshop” them out of a picture someday, I don’t think for one second, they will ever be out of the game.
They are powerful indeed and in a tough spot, this power of three. It’s the end of the school year and they are very much aware that one of the points that keeps this triangle in flow, will not be coming back next year. With a class size of ten, losing one makes a big difference, especially when they’ve been together since they’re two. It’s difficult for them and I’ve been thinking a lot about how to help them honor their growth, celebrate their friendship of eight years and acknowledge their parting of the ways as a natural part of life, albeit a sad one.
Sometimes we need to say, “goodbye” to the people we love in order to become all that we can be.
Life after-all is a series of “hellos” and “goodbyes“, some lasting longer than others, some merely preparation for when we meet again.
So, if it’s up to me, for now, I think I’ll just let them play as much as they can or want to, together.
Photo Credit # 1 & #2: ©Karen Szczuka Teich & http://www.takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
Photo Credit #3 & #4: Yahoo! News The Cutline
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Better Late Than Never
I was slightly preoccupied last week, what with having to break into my house and all. 
I didn’t get a chance to really acknowledge Mother’s Day or the millions of moms out there that make their children feel as special as my mom still makes me feel, even at 46-years of age. Maybe it’s because she used to tell me that all the time when I was growing up.
“You’re special you know.”
I believed her too, ’cause well, she’s my mom and everything your mom tells you is true. It wasn’t until well into my adulthood that I learned she used to tell my brother and sister the same thing. I wasn’t upset. I was glad they grew up feeling the same way; special.
When I had my son twelve years ago, I was ill prepared. After all, what did I know about how to take care of a baby, let alone a boy? Enter, Nana. My mom only lives 20-minutes away but after Noah’s birth, she slept at my house for two weeks anyway. When she left, I cried, even though I knew I was going to see her the very next day. She had just retired from the bank. How lucky, for me! For the next two-and-a-half years, we went from Fishkill to Redhook and everywhere in-between, in search of the best places for lunch and the best playgrounds for my boy to explore in. Precious, happy times.
When Hannah was born, my mom was in the delivery room. They share a unique, unbreakable bond and have been partners in crime ever since. Nana is the first person Hannah calls when she’s sick.
“Can you come and watch me today?”
“Of course, love.”
is the reply, 99.9% of the time, no matter what she has planned that day.
Selfless. She never makes you feel like it’s a bother or an imposition. She operates from the purest point of unconditional love. A gift she gives freely, a quality I strive to emulate.
She’s an awesome babysitter for sure but truth be told, day or evening, the chances of you coming home to find her asleep and your child wide-awake, “shh-shing” you as you come through the door, are more than high.
“”How long has Nana been asleep for?”
is usually my first question.
Nana is famous for accidentally, “letting the cat out of the bag”, realizing it in the moment and immediately trying to take it back. For example, she once left a message on my answering machine that went something like this…..
“Hi love, I guess you’re not home. Okay, well, I’ll see you at the surprise party on Saturday. (pause) Oh, wait! I didn’t mean that! (pause) I don’t know what I’m talking about, there is no party. I don’t know when I’ll see you again. Bye. It’s mom.”
One of my favorite things about Nana is how much she loves to laugh. Seriously, my kids and I purposefully try to make her laugh because once you get her going, it’s very contagious and really hard for her to stop. If you take her to a funny movie, be prepared for all eyes to be on you, when she literally doubles over in laughter. Take her to any other kind of movie and chances are, all eyes will still be on you when she starts snoring after she’s fallen asleep.
For a time, mom had a German Shepard named Schatzie who was abandoned on a highway, 
picked up by my brother and left at mom’s house for an extended “weekend”, that lasted several years. People often joked about how she must have given birth to Schatzie because she treated her like she was her fourth child. People also joked about how Schatzie used to “walk” my mom, rather than vice-versa. Schatzie was huge, carefully eye-ing anyone who approached my mom or came too close to her; often trapping me in my car while barking ferociously, when I’d come to visit.
They loved each other dearly.
Nana’s 74 now and while she’s adamant about NOT having a face book page, she does read my “block” faithfully, when she can get to it, that is. Even though she subscribes to it, for some reason, she can never “open” it from her computer. I finally told her,
“Mom, just google my name and it will come up.”
So, the other day she went to Google and typed in: “google Karen Szczuka…” Guess what? It came up.
I was able to visit my mom for a while on Mother’s Day and it occurred to me, as it often does, just what a blessing it is to have her around. I don’t take her for granted. I’m grateful. I love that my kids love her and I love that she loves them as much as she loves me. She makes them feel just as special. I know this to be true and I guess that’s because she’s so special.
She’s kind and thoughtful and she’s my mom.
She’s been a wonderful power of example in so many ways, I suppose it’s better late than never that I say,
“Thanks for being my mom, Mom! I love you.”
I hope you and the millions of moms out there who make their kids feel special, had a very Happy Mother’s Day!
Please, tell me something special about your mom.
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The Mother of All Ironies
There’s no doubt life is hard and riddled with uncertainty and while I really do try to “take the world on with a smile”, sometimes it takes everything I’ve got.
I live at the beginning of a cul-de-sac, the first of nine homes that make a horseshoe. A few weeks ago my neighbor who lives two houses down on the left came to our door and asked me to step outside for a private conversation. She recently discovered that someone had been trying to break into her house — again. She also informed me that the alarm went off in the home of the family that lives directly across from her the same week. The police responded but found nothing.
Honestly, I can’t say I was surprised. I’ve had a feeling for a while now that something was weird in the neighborhood–again.
My neighbor was visibly upset when delivering this news. Who wouldn’t be? It’s unsettling to say the least, especially, if it’s happened before. If you’ve read my posts: My Edward, Life’s Terms – Not Mine or Everything Must Go, Including Me!, you know that my home was burglarized a year ago this past winter at least eight times that we know of.
She too was repeatedly burglarized during that time and sandwiched in-between our two homes, lives the 21-year old perpetrator.
Similar to the over $10,500 worth of items taken from my house, nearly $13,000 worth of jewelry and cash went missing from her house. Unfortunately, the two detectives assigned to her case were unable to connect the dots to my case and closed hers. Interestingly enough, these are the same two detectives that were convinced my then newly turned 11-year old son was the culprit.
I at least, receive monthly restitution checks from this bad boy living next door. And, in addition to the 6-month house arrest sentence he served (silly really) there is also an order of protection against him for each member of my family, for 5 years. Not that this is remotely comforting, the boy violates this order every day, simply by living next door. Indeed, we share grass.
The story of our burglaries from start to capture and arrest is undoubtedly a fascinating one that I hope to put on paper one day but for now, I’m simply mind–boggled by the twisted sense of humor the universe seems to have and its reluctance to let me, let this craziness go!
Tell me, what do you think the universe is trying to say when I come home with my children after a late dinner out, only to find that my house key, when inserted into the front door lock, goes round and round in an endless loop, prohibiting our entry? This being the new lock we had installed just over a year ago, after break-in number five and the first sign of a violent act in our home.
Seriously, how many times has your dead-bolt failed and what are the chances of something like this, happening to us?
Unfortunately, it was 10:00 pm on a Saturday night and although the locksmith has a 24-hour emergency number, that “mailbox” was full.
The good news is that for the most part, our house is now like Fort Knox. The bad news is that after an hour of brainstorming, trying a variety of things including the unsuccessful removal of a window air-conditioner and a desperate plea from my 10-year old daughter……
“Mom, please, it’s cold out, can’t we knock on their door and ask BBQ to help us?”
…we were literally forced to use one of the same methods my neighbor used, to break into our house.
BBQ is the pet name my kids and I have affectionately given the convicted felon living next door. The first B stands for BAD the second B is the first letter of his first name and the Q is the first letter of his last name, hence, B-B-Q. It’s an attempt to interject levity into an otherwise somber situation. It’s similar to our use of the endearing term we have for the police, which is “po- po“, as in,
“Hannah, the “po-po” are here to see you again.”
(See 1-9-1-4 for clarification of that reference.)
Anyway, I’ve purposefully tried to defuse the fear my kids have had of BBQ with humor and emphasize instead, just how pathetic he was to steal such things as tooth-fairy, birthday and Halloween money from children. It’s a coping skill. My kids get it. I’m sorry that they have to.
Clearly by the way, BBQ had to have heard us (through his open windows) last Saturday night, walking around our house in the dark, trying to break-in.
Is this not bizarre? Truly, for me, this was the mother of all ironies.
We broke in, by cutting the screen door to the porch with the house key that was no longer of use to us. We slipped a few fingers through the tear and unhinged the latch. Once inside the porch, we removed a screen to an unlocked window. I was elected and with the help of my two kids, climbed through.
It’s befitting that on Mother’s Day I would express how proud I am of the way my kids handled themselves; without panicking and working together to come up with a solution. They’re thinkers and have learned how to appreciate the power of humor in a tight spot. My daughter giggled her way through taking pictures, while my son took great delight in pushing my leg through the window.
For us, the situation was surreal. We laughed our hearts out.
Don’t get me wrong, even though we laughed, smiling about this really is difficult and it’s taking everything I’ve got, NOT to rationalize why I’d like to see the boy next door receive a good old fashioned “butt-kick’n”.
But I won’t go there, here.
Back to the universe. Within a three-week time period, we received news of new robbery attempts, our new dead-bolt went, non-functional and we were forced to break-into our own home.
For me, the message is clear: It’s time to leave.
And to that end, the wheels (and there are many of them) are all in motion. Slow motion perhaps but in motion none the less. In the meantime, I am grateful for how resilient my children continue to be while the universe continues to play with uncertainty.
To all the other grateful and proud moms out there, Happy Mother’s Day!
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Beyond the Fence
“As a single footstep will not make a path on the earth, so a single thought will not make a pathway in the mind. To make a deep physical path, we walk again and again. To make a deep mental path, we must think over and over the kind of thoughts we wish to dominate our lives.” Henry David Thoreau
There are so many beautiful places in the Hudson Valley. Our scenic landscape is plentiful with lovely day-trip opportunities chock-filled with hidden alcoves and woodsy trails that run along the majestic Hudson River.
A few years ago, another mom and I began a weekly walk in the woods at just such a lovely place. This mom and I meet during school hours at the same location and time, every Thursday. We spend an hour following one of a few hiking trails that lead down to the Hudson River. The terrain offers great exercise, which was the initial motivation for this weekly excursion. Rarely, do we miss a week during the school year, switching days if we have to, in order to keep our walking ritual. We’re committed. In the winter, my walking partner even brings snowshoes for us to wear.
Over the years however, our weekly jaunt has become so much more to me than just another walk in the woods. Aside from being one of the fastest passing hours of my week, it is by far, one of the most meaningful and treasured hours of my week and it is spent with another mom who has become a cherished friend.
From the moment we meet in the parking lot a conversation begins. We never really know what direction it’s going to take and we often cover many topics. By the short time it takes us to get down to the entrance of the trails, we are in our walking groove; me on the right, her on the left, always.
There is a large fence with a small opening that you need to pass through to gain access to the where the trails begin.
Beyond the fence, magic happens. Every time.
Instantly I begin to feel all that is heavy on my heart and mind lift and dissipate. Everything about my life comes to a soft, grinding halt. I can breathe again and I do, deeply. The tempo of the woods is slow. The environment is serene. I am safe to say whatever I need to, knowing, that what is said in the woods, stays in the woods. There are no judgments there, only trust. It’s where peace lives and friendship grows.
Sometimes, we sit on a wooden bench over-looking the train tracks that run along side the river and take-in the beauty that surrounds us. It’s so easy to lose track of where we are in the forest, although we never get lost. And while time seems to suspend itself, I hardly ever check my watch and we always end up back at the fence in just about an hour’s time.
Inevitably, we leave much behind to rustle among the leaves and rest upon the limbs of the trees we pass each week. A collection of thoughts, hopes, fears, tears and an abundance of laughter mark our path. And Undoubtedly, I always leave, taking more with me; more clarity, more gratitude, more courage and more hope.
Spring Break and an amazing trip abroad with her family has kept us from our weekly ritual for the past three Thursdays. I am missing the secret keeping woods that magically remove me for one hour, once a week, from life’s daily stresses. I’m missing my friend, my confidant.
I’ve never taken our woods, walks or words for granted. I treasure them all, more and more, each week.
And I’m not going to “out” my friend or the location of this special place as much as I did my Book Club.
I’ve only taken four people beyond the fence.
Sometimes something that special needs to stay that way. Special.
What I am going to do, is say:
“Thank you, for taking me beyond the fence, dear friend.
I look forward to seeing you again, next week.”
Tell me, do you have a special place, ritual or friend that you cherish?
Photo Credits: me
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Spring Break: Blizzards, Blossoms And A Belly-Busting Belch!
Sometimes, life has a way of throwing you a curve ball (or snow ball) when you least expect it.
I left a mini-blizzard behind in 
Buffalo, NY after visiting for a few days, right before heading out to meet my children in Washington, D.C. to see the blossoms for Spring Break last Monday. Yes, that would be April 18th and yes, I said blizzard, as in snow. A good friend of mine who lives in Buffalo text-ed me while I waited for my plane to be de-iced, and I quote:
“Even the locals are dumbfounded!”
It felt like winter was literally smacking me in the rear as I flew from it.
Luckily, I was sitting in the first row and had no checked baggage. We arrived in Boston 12-minutes before my connecting flight to D.C. was due to take off. I was the first one standing behind the stewardess when she lifted the plane door to the gateway. I was off!
Think O.J. Simpson, running through the airport years ago wearing a three-piece suit and carrying a brief case while hawking Hertz rental cars. That was me, strategically racing through the airport looking ahead, planning my next maneuver so as not to knock into or over, anyone. Only I’m a 5-foot tall, Caucasian female who was wearing 3-inch heeled boots and instead of a brief case, I had my computer in my backpack and a rolling carry-on to deal with. I sailed through just as they were shutting the cabin door. I was out of breath for the next 20-minutes, but I made it!
I’ve always wanted to see the Cherry Blossoms in Washington D.C. and I have a penchant for all things political. My kids are old enough to appreciate both. It seemed like a good fit and it was. Our country’s capitol has much to offer, for free! Although if you plan on having lunch in any of the free museums, be prepared to spend nearly $20 per person. Air and Space, Native American and American History were our top three. I was particularly impressed with the African American exhibit and the First Lady exhibit in the American History Museum. An over-all favorite find, was stumbling upon Carmine’s Restaurant in downtown D.C, which is related to the two Carmines in NYC that I love so dearly. Other than soft rigatoni, the food was delicious!
We drove back to New York but I’m not a night driver so when the lights begin to blare and I can’t see the horizon, we need to pull over and get a hotel room.
“The restaurant closes at 9pm.” the hotel clerk said upon check-in. It was 8:20. We dashed up to our room, dropped off our bags and arrived back down at the entrance to the eatery by 8:30. With no one there to greet us, the bar tender glanced our way and said, “Go ahead, sit anywhere, she’ll be right with you.” Only two other tables were occupied so we pretty much had the pick of the place. We hadn’t eaten since 2pm and that was three states ago so I chose a far-enough-away-from-the-other-patrons table to make sure we gave them their space. My 10 and 12-year old kids were hungry and punchy. If you’re a parent, you know how that can go. After realizing we’d been sitting at our table for nearly 15-minutes with no sign of service, I asked my daughter to go find us menus in an effort to be prepared for when the waitress finally did get to our table. Hannah came back with one menu.
“That’s all there was, mom,” she said.
Pork Chops and Penne alla Vodka were their dinner choices. But having worked as a waitress all through college, and knowing how fickle each kitchen’s cook can be around closing-time, I knew enough to advise them to pick something from the sandwich menu too. Plan B. We were becoming impatient and just as I uttered the words, “Jeez, Sistah needs to put the move on it”, under my breath, “Sistah” came out of the kitchen and it was clear why it was taking her so long in the first place. With no disrespect intended here, Sistah, was probably 75-years old and while she seemed surprised to see us, she was pleasant and not in any rush at all. After several minutes, she took our drink order and found us another menu to share. Then she vanished again. At five to nine, she took our food order and at 9:05 she came back to say, the cook wouldn’t do it.
“You’re too late.” she informed us. “He stops making dinners at 8:30. Snack foods only.”
(Um, okay, it would have been helpful to know that ten minutes ago.) We revised Plan B and ordered a few appetizers although when it came to Hannah’s turn, before she could speak, the waitress said,
“You can have chicken fingers.”
After writing, repeating and re-writing our order, she once again disappeared behind the swinging kitchen doors. There are two ways you can handle a situation like this. We chose to take the humorous route and laughed at our silly circumstances. Still no drinks. One calamity seemed to follow the other from that point on, interspersed by short, uncontrollable fits of laughter. Several times, Sistah came out of the kitchen looked around and went back in. A couple of times she walked over to the other two tables to check on them and finally at around 9:15 she brought us our drinks. From the moment Hannah got her diet-coke she kept complaining that it just didn’t taste right. We all took a sip and agreed there was something off about it. We concluded a mix-up of sorts, possibly root-beer and coke combined. Another ten minutes passed before Sistah re-appeared with our food. The loaded nachos were loaded indeed, with processed Cheese Whiz and remained for the most part, un-eaten. Our mozzarella sticks never showed up. We all shared Hannah’s chicken fingers.
For dessert our waitress said we could have ice-cream only — even though we saw a variety of cakes listed on the menu. We settled on one chocolate, the rest vanilla. Fifteen minutes later Sistah emerged with one very large bowl of chocolate ice-cream hidden under a mound of whipped cream and topped with a cherry for Noah. She turned to Hannah and said, “Sorry, no vanilla but we have cake,” and proceeded to list the cake options we saw earlier on the menu. After that bizarre exchange and before Sistah came back with Hannah’s carrot cake and the remaining ice-cream, Hannah took another sip from her soda. I watched her as she set her glass down and began to open her mouth, I thought to complain again, but this time something completely unexpected happened.
A small explosion seemed to occur within her little body.
Similar to that of a volcanic eruption, a loud, growling BELCH blasted from her throat filling the room, startling everyone in the restaurant, including herself.
Honestly, it was a monster burp of epic proportions. 
Even the bartender and the three men who came in to watch the hockey game, all turned in our direction. The elderly couple in the booth looked affronted. The middle-aged man dining by himself simply gaped at us with his mouth hung open in disbelief at what came from my sweet little 10-year old daughter’s body. Under ordinary circumstances, I would be mortified. I would admonish her for burping at the table but I can’t even be certain that was a burp! Clearly it was not something she could control and neither was the laughter that ensued. There was no reprimand, instead we nearly fell to the floor doubled-over in bellyaching hysterics. Really the timing was impeccable. It was truly a price-less moment.
After dessert (and regaining our composure) came the bill.
“I took $4 off because you had to wait so long at the beginning,” said Sistah.
Upon further scrutiny, I saw that she also gave us $4 in coupons for our next meal and we were not charged for the mozzarella sticks that never came.We were also not charged for our drinks. Nor were we charged for the ice-creams and carrot cake. Our bill came to $21 and change. It was 10pm.
I can’t remember the last time we laughed so much together as a family. I left a $15 tip. Thank you, Sistah!
Tell me, what curve balls has life thrown you lately?
Photo Credit #1: Jet Photos
Photo Credit #2 & #3: Me
Photo Credit #4: Google Images
Photo Credit #5: Brian Gray -Monster Burp
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Ode To A Friend – It’s Not My Fault!
Do you know who Nellie Olsen is? She was the mean, bossy, rich girl with blond hair and big ringlets that hung on the side of her face who tormented poor little Laura Ingalls on Little House On the Prairie in the mid-seventies. (Yes, I know I just dated myself but it does say “middle-aged mom” above!) Well, it’s not my fault that my sister cut my best friend’s hair and made her look just like Nellie when we were in the 4th grade. Really. She could have said no. And it wasn’t that bad!
“It will grow out.” I reassured her.
It wasn’t my fault either that the bike we were on sped recklessly out of control while we flew down hill at what felt like 55 miles an hour that same summer. Yes, it was me that lost control of the two-wheeler but it was because she was sitting on the handle-bars and I couldn’t see! I’ll admit, that more than a few bruises were had that day and lots of blood marked the occasion, but we survived. And come to think of it, I am not going to take the blame for having to stop short at the entrance-way from the street to the parking lot at the Mamaroneck Diner. There were cars coming in for crying out loud! Surely, she could see them? But no, instead she continued on, ramming her bike into the back of my mine causing me to fall and smack my head against the concrete. I was left in a semi-conscious state, only coherent enough to tell her to “get help” after she knelt down beside me and asked,
“Are you okay? What should I do?”
It would be 34-years (and another story later) before I found myself riding in the back of a “cop” car again. We left our bikes at the diner to be retrieved that evening by my dad and his Volks-Wagon bus while a police officer drove us to the emergency room to get checked out.
It is also not my fault, that we both ended up, tied up, while babysitting her crazy boy cousins in Yonkers one New Year’s Eve.
Come, on! She didn’t know they were wild and out-of-control? Puh-leeze!
And, well, I don’t think it’s my fault either that when we went back to retrieve the pink box of treasures we buried some 25-years earlier, it was gone. Hopefully, someone who loves Wacky-Packages is enjoying them now as much as we did then.
I suppose it’s neither of our faults or both of our faults, depending on how you choose to look at it, that after cutting ourselves and mixing our blood to become blood-sisters, we both ended up being RH-Negative as adults. RH-Negative is the blood type that can create all kinds of problems when you’re pregnant by producing antibodies that can attack the blood of your fetus. It requires shots as soon as you know you are pregnant and necessitates that you carry an ID Card stating your type. Not that I had any clue what my blood type was before becoming blood sisters with her at age 11 but somehow I doubt it was RH-Negative and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we both ended up being this type.
None of this is my fault. That really is true and it’s not hers either. No one is at fault here. Fate will take responsibility for the predicaments that paired us. And even though we’ve been physically separated by miles and states across the country, fate has sealed a friendship that’s lasted over 35 years. And it’s fate I thank, when I think back to all the silly and serious things we did together, the happiness, tears and secrets that we’ve shared and kept over these years. So, thank you, fate, for my forever friend.
Tell me, has fate found friendship for you?
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Everything Must Go – Including Me!
“The only thing constant in life is change.”
François de la Roche Foucauld
This June, I will have lived at the same address for 19 years. It’s where my kids were born, learned to swim, catch a ball and ride a bike. It’s where I greeted trick-or-treaters and decorated for the holidays, where I chose to put my career aside to become a stay-at-home mom; planning day trips, hosting play-dates, pool parties and birthdays. There are no regrets. I wouldn’t have had it any other way for my kids and while many things have changed over the past 19 years, my address remained a constant.
Now, that’s about to change.
In preparation for this event, my daughter and I are having a MEGA lawn sale. For weeks we’ve been gathering items to be sold and we’re selling, EVERYTHING! From the attic to the basement, she and I have been cleaning house. We’ve gone through every closet, including the ones we used to hide in, from Nana, when she’d come to visit during the toddler years. We went through boxes, like those filled with plastic play-food my kids served in the restaurants they’d “open” on a weekly basis. We emptied drawers that housed costumes, like the one this “craft-challenged” mom fashioned out of a black pillow case by cutting holes in it for arms and eyes and then just putting it over my two-year old son’s head. (Who makes a ghost costume out of a black pillowcase??) He LOVED it and wore it all-year-long.
We cleared shelves full of games we played so often, so long ago. The ones they are too big for now. We even found the Spy-Alarm my son put on his bedroom door a few years back. Meant to be a deterrent, to keep his little sister out, a blaring alarm would sound if anyone (usually me) tried to enter his room without knowing the code. Of course, she figured out the code, every single time. He finally gave up and took it off. We’ve washed, sorted, bagged and tagged everything from Cinderella, Belle and Snow White dress up outfits, to books, baskets, Barbies and blankets. It’s been a wonderful opportunity to say “hello” again to so many treasures that have been resting in the dark for such a long time.
A heartwarming experience on several levels, working with my daughter has been a real treat. She’s been a driving force behind this endeavor and has been pretty amazing about giving up much of what she’s amassed over the past 10-years, even willing to say “good-bye” to Pooh.
“I don’t really play with him anymore. Maybe some other kid will. You know mom?”
I’m taking as little as possible with me. I don’t want to bring things from this house into my new home. Much of the sentimental value attached to a lot of our stuff was robbed a year ago, along with the over $10,500 worth of cash, jewelry and small electronics that walked out the door or should I say, climbed out the window, that winter. That whole occurrence plays a large role in why this house doesn’t really feel like a home anymore — to me anyway. And it’s not really what was taken, as much as what was left behind, that brought me, to this point of needing to go.
It was the constant discovery of yet another missing something that left behind feelings of anxiousness and wonder. It was the months of worry leaving behind so many sleepless nights. It was knowing that a “stranger” was watching our “comings and goings”, mine in particular and taking advantage of the “goings” by taking his time to root through our precious closets, boxes, drawers and shelves, our bedrooms and private things and taking our things, that left behind feelings of anger, fear and helplessness. It was the repeated invasion of privacy, more than eight times in four months, that ultimately left no love-loss between this house and me. Much as I tried, I just couldn’t continue to make it a home anymore. After a while, I didn’t want to.
In her little heart of hearts, I believe my daughter is as eager to leave as I am. She gets it. She always has.
A home should be a sanctuary, a haven, a warm peaceful retreat from life’s daily stresses. Honestly, it could be in a cardboard box, as long as it’s a happy place to be. A home should be and feel safe. When it doesn’t, it’s time to go.
I’m ready to go and to let go, eager to get on with this next adventure and continue life’s journey. And although I may not be taking many things with me, I will be taking all of those treasured memories that resurfaced while going from the attic to the basement. Those, I will keep forever in my heart.
Everything else, must go! Including me.
(And Edward of course. He goes where-ever I go.)
Tell me, where are life’s changes taking you?
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I’m Out-ing My Book Club
Maybe I shouldn’t do this but I’m about to OUT my Book Club.
Like most other Book Clubs (I suppose) we meet once a month. We just read Just Kids by Patti Smith. It was an inspirational book about an artist’s quest to be true to herself.
This month there were six of us. There could be anywhere from two to twelve of us. Sometimes our lives don’t afford the leisure time needed to read a whole book in one month, so it’s okay when one of us doesn’t have the mindset for whatever reason, to have finished the book. We are still invited to come and we often do. We meet at one of our houses and everyone brings something really good to eat.
We are a diverse group of women ranging in age from our early thirties to our mid forties. We have a lot going on in our lives and while we do discuss each book, inevitably, one of us strays “off topic” and we find ourselves talking about other things. Last Monday, it started with our pets; the dog that licked the furry inside of a pair of UGG moccasins, the chickens that come up to the porch every day and “call” for their food, the cat that carries the toy kitty in its mouth like a baby all through the house.
I’m sure every Club has its unique qualities, ours however, is very special. Okay, here is where I start the OUT-ing.
One of the six of us recently plunged back into “commute-mode”, making the hour-and-a-half train trek that it takes to get into the City, each day. She just took an editor’s position at a well known comic book company. She talked about how her family life is being affected by this new venture, how she gets home late and has less time to spend with her kids now.
We do what we have to do, yes. Some of us do it better than others. She, is showing us how to “do it” with grace.
Another one of us took on the daunting task of home-schooling her two children this year. She spoke of the struggles and triumphs she experiences while teaching her children, herself. She inspires awe. She is also the same wise, young mom who reminded me a few years ago that you need to set a good example for your “daughters” by showing them that as a woman, being a mom is awesome but that doesn’t mean you have to give up being an individual who pursues her own interests, hobbies and friendships. The travel writer in our group is on her way to Ghana this week. She has been collecting money for toilets to be built at a school there that doesn’t have any. She is a giving soul whose generous nature and fearless spirit is an example to us all.
Our musician has gone back to school for nursing. She is kind and caring and seems to be able to juggle her music, her part-time job, being a mom and being a student, all while her musician husband is away on tour in Europe, with mind-blowing ease. There is now the adventurer who came for the first time this month. She bought but didn’t read the book. She actually went to Spain and saw Patti Smith perform last month. She shared that fantastic experience with us, along with the tale of riding an airport bus the day after the concert with the cellist who was hired to play for Patti. This woman is unwavering in her dedication as an educator and her commitment to learning for all children. And then there was the one of us whose life is not where she expected it to be right now. She is exploring all of her new, scary, exciting options and drawing strength from each of these women who reassure her efforts and gently point her in directions they think will help her secure the independence she’s seeking.
This month, Book Club began with Patti Smith’s incredible life adventure. From there we went to pets, to jobs, then math, travels, astrological charts and finally, to one of our daughter’s who’s recently been bullied at school. This topic in particular infuriated all of us as we offered empathy and suggestions to our friend.
Hell hath no fury like a mom whose kid is being “messed” with — let alone six of us.
Book Club met this past Monday. It was a round table of support, advice, laughter, good food and good friends.
And although it’s our love for books that brought us together, it’s the encouragement that we continue to receive from each other as we journey on our own quests, to be true to ourselves and the love that we have for one another, that keeps us coming back, month after month, whether we’ve read the book or not.
There. It’s done. We’re OUT-ed.
Tell me, are you in a Book Club and do you love yours as much as I love mine?
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I’m A “Bet-Nee” Wanna-Bee
A friend of mine is writing a book. It is a labor of love that she has been mulling over in her head now for the better part of 10-years. It also happens to be a fascinating story that is very near and dear to our hearts. She’s finally at a point in her life, where she has the time to focus and can sit down and write. A couple of weeks ago she asked me to go to Pearl River with her to interview a woman I know for her book.
At just over four feet tall and weighing in at about 105 lbs. Betty, is an absolute powerhouse. Her hair is short and a soft golden, auburn color. Her eyes are a sparkling blue. Her smile is slight but constant. At lunch, Betty is all go; non-stop chatter, breaking her beat only long enough to take a sip of her Pinot Grigio with ice. It takes her one-hour to drink one glass of wine and you can count on her drinking at least two, probably three. At 82, Betty is single. She likes her coffee “dark like her men” and is looking for “a rich man, with a bad cough and one foot in the grave.” I sat across from Betty, studying her, marveling at her quick wit and sharp memory.
She talked about her childhood and the various jobs she held at the Industrial Home (orphanage) that she grew up in, during the 1930s, in Ireland. Catholic nuns ran these homes with little love and no money and while thousands of girls, ages five and older were accepted into them, Betty’s case was unique. She was the only infant to be admitted into her “home”.
“I was the pet you know. They (the nuns) called me “Bet-Nee.” She told us proudly. “The other girls knew I was the pet so when they wanted something, like to wear long socks or play in the field, they would send me up to ask for it.”
After 3 1/2 hours of being mesmerized by Betty, I finally asked for the check. Upon its arrival and without hesitation, Betty grabbed it from the waiter. Slightly shocked, I watched in awe as my friend, who was sitting next to Betty, tried to wrestle the paper out of the tiny woman’s, tiny hand, unsuccessfully. (“She’s really strong!” my friend later told me.) Betty did not give up the check. My friend and I are a bit old school, and there is no way we would let an 82-year old woman pay for lunch so before she could get to her wallet, I handed the waiter my credit card along with a “look” that required no verbal explanation. He was off and Betty was pissed.
She admonished me, profusely.
I have no desire to upset an 82-year-old woman, so when she insisted we come back to her house for a minute before heading home, there was no back talk. We obliged. Once inside, she took us into a spare room and showed us a beautiful portrait of her parents that she has hanging on the wall. Her mother died shortly after she was born. Her father was too poor to care for her and with the help of his sister, brought Betty and her sister to the Industrial Home. After a few minutes of chatting, Betty disappeared into the hallway. A moment later she popped back into the bedroom carrying a short, pale blue, wool, winter coat.
“Here.” she said gently and handed me the coat, “I never wear it. It should fit you.”
I was stunned. I didn’t know what to do. Puzzled, I looked deep into Betty’s sparkling blue eyes for clarity and in that instant, she gave me, a “look” that required no verbal explanation. I was humbled.
I took the coat from Betty and thanked her, profusely.
My lesson was learned. Old school or not, I would not disrespect this gesture. I would not say “no” to Betty twice in one day or perhaps, ever again.
In short, Betty’s story about growing up in the Industrial Home was indeed a heartbreaking one to hear but she is not broken and there is no bitterness in her words. “We did the best we could with what we had.” she said. Her attitude is remarkable and so is she. And I can only hope and pray to be like her, one day.
So yeah, I’m a “Bet-Nee“ Wanna-Bee.
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Hello, Mother Ship? Please, Come Back! Pick Up Your Alien Child And Return My Son!
I have a boy. He’s twelve. I don’t write about him much or post too many pics of him because a) he does not want me to and b) I suspect the boy living in my house right now, is not really my son. My angel boy I believe, was abducted by the Mother Ship and an alien child has been left here in his place.
It became apparent about a year ago when I began to notice this strange being emerge from my little boy’s body. Not quite the butterfly blossoming from the cocoon process, more like it’s reversal. The first real hint I had that something was amiss was when I started to detect a rather foul odor coming from my son’s room.
What in God’s name could that be? I thought.
Not even dirty, sweaty socks could smell that bad and that smell, certainly couldn’t be coming from a human child! The next thing I knew, I was buying Axe’s Phoenix scent deodorant for an 11-year old! Who knew they put cologne in deodorant these days? OUT, is your basic Speed Stick. Then came the request for “boxers”. Boxers!? What was wrong with the super-hero briefs he’d been wearing all these years? Shortly after that, came the hair and I’m not talking about the hair on his head either. Honestly! I don’t think there is a single part of this alien child’s body that doesn’t have hair on it!
Excuse me, but I would like my baby’s smooth, silky, velvet-like skin back! Clearly, this hair ball sleeping in my boy’s bed is an impostor!
The alien child also comes with an attitude and has a frog stuck in his throat! He barely speaks English and when he does, it’s the same two words mumbled over and over again, “I dunno – I dunno”, regardless of the question being asked. Otherwise, I’m lucky if I get a grunt or a nod.
And another thing, I liked it quite better when my boy looked up to me. Literally. Not vice-versa. In the past 12-months this imposter has shot up nearly eight inches and grew a hearty set of abs! In clothing, he went from a size 14 boys to a men’s small! How is that possible? He’s twelve! Perhaps it has something to do with the amount of food he consumes. Six tacos in one sitting! Enough said.
“Hello, Mother Ship? Please, come back!
Pick up your alien child and return my angel boy!”
Sigh. Nothing has prepared me for this shocking occurrence. I thought that when it happened, it would be a gradual, peaceful thing. I thought I’d have more time to adjust and accept. I don’t even think there is a course I could take that could teach me what I need to know right now. I suppose there are books but quite frankly, after reading Alfie Kohen’s Unconditional Parenting, a few years ago, I was left rather traumatized. EVERYTHING he said NOT to do, I had been doing for 10 years. Let’s face it, there’s no undoing that kind of damage!
My Angel Boy
Thankfully, the eternal optimist in me has hope that one day I will see my angel boy again or at least an older variation of the one I miss so much. I have faith that the foundation he was reared upon will help him find his way back, when he’s ready, in-tact and unharmed from this awkward growth period. In the meantime, I realize that even the alien child sleeping in my son’s bed now, needs a mom to care for him, too. So, I will do my best to be patient with his sometimes odd and infuriating ways. And I will try to love him even when I feel like, well, strangling him, in the hopes that somewhere out there, there’s an alien mom on a Mother Ship doing the same for my angel boy.
Tell me, has your angel boy also been abducted by the Mother Ship?
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Sticks And Stones May Break My Bones But Names…Can Break My Heart!
“You know Mom, he’s lucky I didn’t squish him like a bug!”
That’s what my 9-year-old daughter came home saying the other day after spending an afternoon at a birthday party. The “he” who is lucky “she”, didn’t, squish him like a bug, is a 10-year old classmate who was also at the party. “He” is her pal, her chum, her friend. He is her partner at school when pairing needs to be done. He is also the boy who tried to hold her hand when the lights went out in a Star Lab dome, but that’s not why she wants to pummel him.
There are some things you just never forget: getting an award, your first sleep-over, punching a fella in the mouth for asking you to marry him (in first grade!), the soft, warm lips of a shy boy’s sweet and gentle kiss during a game of spin-the-bottle and of course, the first time someone embarrasses you in front of a group of friends by calling you a “name“. For me, it was buoy. And in 4th grade, I didn’t have a clue. So in a naive and unsuspecting way, I asked the boy who had just referred to me as a “buoy”, what that was. “You know,” he said, “it’s that round thing that bounces up and down, bobbing in the water, a buoy!” That was followed by what seemed to me, to be a roar of group laughter. Painful. I forced a smile and walked away. I’m sure I could have flattened him but my heart had sunk to my knees and I was too hurt to react. Sadly, I never forgot that feeling.
Like her mom, my girl is made of hardy stock. She is strong, confident and independent. She’s out-going and adventurous. She loves to laugh. Also like her mom however, she happens to be very sensitive.
“He called me fat in front of all my friends at the party” she said. “He embarrassed me. We were laughing about who would make the best Pińata and he said, ‘Hannah would, cause she’s fat!’
My heart immediately sank and broke, for her.
“He’s lucky I didn’t squish him like a bug! And you know I could.” were the next words out of her mouth.
She’s right. She could.
“Well then,” I said, “maybe next time, you should.”
Okay, maybe that was wrong.
Sticks and stones may break my bones but names…..
Honestly, I would have preferred he threw the stone. That wound heals faster.
We spent a long time that evening discussing potential reasons why her friend might have said that about her. Insecurity. Bravado. Maybe he was trying to look “cool” in front of the other boys. Perhaps he didn’t mean it and it was just a poor choice of words. Most likely, he like, likes her. No matter how much we dissected it though, the result was always the same. She could get past the word. She knows she’s bigger and taller than the other kids in her class. She accepts that her body is changing, maturing. It’s the betrayal she is having a hard time reconciling with. He’s her friend.
It was after midnight when she came into my bedroom and crawled into bed with me that night. She snuggled up close and whispered, “Mommy, why did he do that? I thought he was my friend?” Cue the breaking heart again. She slept with me for the first time in years. And it was a big wake-up call to me as a parent and an adult, just how omnipotent words can be. Life is hard enough without us hurting each other with the things we say. And I’m reminded of how critical it is for me to set the example, practice kindness, show compassion and be forgiving.
Words may not be able to break a bone but they sure can break a heart. The flip-side of that is to know that words also have the great power to fill a heart! So in the end, my advice to Hannah was to have, an open heart.
We are after all, only human. We all make mistakes and good friendships are worth keeping. So, when the boy came to school the next day and said, “Hey, I was only kidding. I didn’t mean it that way. I can’t believe you thought I was serious!” That was all she needed to hear to buddy-up again and put it behind her.
Besides, she told him that if he EVER does that to her again, she is going to “SQUISH him– like a bug!”
Photo credit: Squashed Bug, Broken Heart
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Striving to live life on life's terms while taking the world on with a smile.
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Taking The World On With A Smile! 