Hardee Har Har

We all know that saying, "If you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans."

When I was a junior in college, I found myself treading through a low point in my life and was feeling pretty darn sorry for myself and the choices I had made. I remember feeling stuck and stagnant and like everything and everyone was moving forward too fast and without me. Then one day this epiphany washed over me.

I would join the Peace Corps.

I fell in love with idea of being able to run far, far away from my life and my troubles and to be able to do it in the name of a good cause - something noble. I would run to someplace like Micronesia or Vanuatu and help build schools, plant gardens, or teach children how to sew. In my spare time I would write long letters home to my mother telling her about my exciting adventures and asking her to send me paperback books and construction paper. It was a two year commitment, but I planned to spend a lifetime away from everything that was familiar. I had a plan.

Then, from somewhere deep inside, I heard a giggle.

That Christmas I met the man that changed my life. He was kind and patient and good. He allowed me to just be me and even though I told him I wasn't sticking around, that I would be gone for good within two years, he stayed. I ranted and raved and painted our kitchen the deep blue of ripe blueberries, and he still stayed. When I yelled and accused him of crazy things and set his beloved Jeep on fire, he got upset, but he still stayed.

And when I finally graduated from college, he asked me to marry him. And you know what? I said yes and I stayed. And I am so glad I did.

My husband and I worked hard at building a nice little life. We moved to a small town and spent the next ten years building our family, rejoicing in new friendships, and finding our careers. My husband and I would sit in the evenings with our coffee and speculate on which of the Webber boys our daughter would marry, the neighborhood yards Dalton would mow the summer he turned 10, the rise and fall of the river that ran through town, and when construction on the main road would ever end.

It was a simple life, but it was oh so sweet in it's simplicity. I knew that this would be the place where we would grow old. We would sit on our front porch and watch the ebb and flow of our little town, knowing that we were deeply rooted. And I was happy with that - I wanted to stay.

Then, one night in July, from somewhere deep inside, I heard another giggle. Only this time it was more like a chuckle. Or maybe it was a guffaw.

When my husband was offered the promotion that would move us from Texas to Massachusetts, my immediate reaction was, we can't do that - it's not in the plan! But here we are, a little over a year after our move, and we are so happy. It's true that we miss our friends and family. And it's true that this is a whole new way of life for us. But all in all, we love it here. We have been blessed with wonderful new friends and here lately the house has been full with visits from our family. We have come to appreciate the change in the seasons and the traditions that go along with those changes (Apple picking in the Fall! Sledding in the Winter snow! Gardening in the Spring! The beach in the Summer!). I am glad we came here.

But as life goes on and the seasons change, the body gets older. Last month I went to see my doctor because I was fairly certain that the great change of life was around the corner. I had the classic symptoms of perimenopause. Although facing my age was difficult, I knew that we were done with having children (Dalton is 9 and Sabrina is 7), and this was a new stage of life I would just need to accept. After long discussions with my husband and with my doctor, we came up with a plan. We would try birth control for two years and then re-evaluate. All I needed to do was wait for that magical time of the month to visit so that I could start on the medication.

It wasn't perfect, but it was a plan.

So I waited. And waited. And waited some more. And late at night, while the rest of the house was sleeping, I started hearing that now familiar laughter.

Last week when I went back to the doctor, I wasn't too surprised when she gave me the news - I'm pregnant! At 38, I am venturing once again into the world of diapers and binkies and spit up (as well as slobbery baby kisses, total adoration, and that sweet earthy smell of a new child). We are thrilled that we have been so abundantly blessed and I am thankful that my husband can see the humor in it all.

If God had a Facebook, I am pretty sure his status would be "LOL!!!!"

But isn't that the beauty of life? The unexpected - the crazy stuff we never see coming? Isn't it the the detour from the main road that makes the trip something to write about? Isn't it the surprise that makes this adventure so worth the price?

Je Suis un Inadapté

I want to go home.


There I've said it.


I've made something of an idiot of myself and I want to go home.



Friday night was Sabrina's end of season soccer party and one of the other soccer moms offered up her house for the party. I was really looking forward to the get together because I hadn't really had a chance to visit with the other moms, plus after days and days of cold rainy weather, Friday afternoon turned into a beautiful day with actual SUNSHINE.


And the party went great. But here is where I screwed up.


When we were leaving the party, I looked around at this nice woman's expertly decorated house and saw that there were beer bottles, wine glasses, plastic cups, bowls, napkins, and other party paraphernalia everywhere. And all the guests were making a beeline for the door. So I told the hostess that if she would like, I would be happy to help her clean up - I just needed to run my husband and kids home and then I would be back in a jiffy to help her. Of course, she protested and said, "No, no. I don't need any help." I said, "Really - I don't mind at all." And she said, "Well, OK, if you want to come back that would be great."


So I left her house thinking, "Cool! Maybe we'll get to gossip about all the other moms while we load the dishwasher! Find out who does her hair while we wipe down counter tops! I'll get the scoop on her vegetarian chili recipe while we wrap up leftovers! Three cheers for female bonding!!!"


But when I got back to her house a mere 20 minutes later, I was greeted with, "Oh. I didn't think you would actually come back."


"Well, of course I came back! What can I help you with?"


"Nothing. I don't need you to help with the cleaning up!"


"No really, I came to help."


"No really. I don't want you to help."


Which left me just kind of standing there thinking, "Well, this is awkward." I mean it's not like I showed up at her door with a bottle of Windex and roll of paper towels, but I don't know these people well enough to just pop in for a social call. Standing there in the doorway, I could feel the blood rush to my face as I tried to figure out how I misread the signals. Was I supposed to come back over, or not? If I say, "Oh - OK" and turn around and leave, will that be rude? If I walk in and put my purse down and start picking up beer bottles, is that rude?


At this point her husband tried to come to the rescue by offering me a drink. (Warning: This is the part of the story where I REALLY make an idiot of myself.) I told the husband thanks for the offer, but I brought my own. And then I pulled a Mike's Hard Cranberry Lemonade out of my purse and twisted off the top with my shirt hem.





I know. Real. Classy.


Maybe I could blame it on a sudden onset of nervousness, but see, at the party earlier everyone was drinking wine and some weird kind of beer and I can't drink wine (migraines) and I am kind of particular about my beer (as in I only like Coors Light), so when I dropped my husband and kids off at home, I ran inside and grabbed a Mike's just in case there was still drinking going on.


So anyway, I ended up sitting in their formal living room drinking spiked lemonade out of the bottle (until the husband discreetly took it from me and poured it into a wine glass) and having polite conversation for about an hour. Of course, by this point I had worked myself into a nervous wreck and was just feeling completely inappropriate (do you know what I mean? where everything you say and do feels exaggerated and too loud and too, I don't know, too MUCH?). Like when they asked me if I had a job, I am pretty sure I said in a high pitched, self-righteous kind of way, "blogging is my passion, but I also do some human resources consulting on the side." Somehow I finally managed to say something about how the time flies and how I really needed to get home. I could practically hear them rolling their eyes and laughing at me as I got in my car.


As I made the short drive home, I realized the experience left me feeling kind of cheap, and kind of desperate. Like I had misread the signals and showed too much enthusiasm by coming back over, even though I could have sworn I had been invited.

I felt like I had let a boy go too far on a first date. Do you know what I mean?


Back at home, I found my husband waiting up for me in the dining room. "Did you make a new friend?" he asked.


"I don't think so. And, by the way, I want to go home."

Piano Problems

This post is pure venting for me, because, see, I am in something of a dilemma. I am one of those people that absolutely hates to be the bad guy. And last night, I had to be the bad guy. I had to let Dalton’s piano teacher know that after the end of this month, we would not be continuing lessons with her. Ugh. It was terrible.

The Christmas night when Dalton was 4, he told me through deep, heavy sobs that Santa did not bring him the one thing he really wanted more than anything, more than chocolate, and more than a new bike – he had asked Santa for a piano. This was certainly news to me, and it sure would have been nice if Santa had shared Dalton’s secret wish with me – so that, you know, we could make room for something like a piano. I should say right here and now that I am not anywhere close to being musically inclined. In all my fantasies about who and what my children would grow up to be, a pianist was never in there. Rocket scientist – yes. Peace Corps volunteer – you betcha. Soap opera star – why not? But musical genius – nope, had not occurred to me.

Well, as luck would have it, my father had a piano gathering dust at his house and he gave it to us. The only string attached was that we put Dalton in lessons – the piano was not to be used as a toy. We quickly found out that it can be difficult to find a teacher willing to give lessons to a four year old. But finally, finally, finally we found an absolute angel of a teacher. She was kind, encouraging, compassionate, flexible, and perfect in every way. She told my son that his music was his special gift from God, and he believed her with every ounce of his being. It was a really wonderful three year relationship.

Here is Dalton at his recital last year (age 7). I realize he completely chokes towards the end. He told me later that he all the sudden remembered where he was and he got freaked out.

But then. We moved. To Massachusetts. In September. And there was this mad dash to find a school, find a piano teacher, find the grocery store, find my sanity (this one is still on the “to-do” list - maybe it’s packed in that small purple box that I shoved into the back corner of the attic). As soon as we got here, I typed in “Piano Framingham” into Google and started making phone calls.

Well, the teacher we ended up with seems sincere and dedicated to her craft. She has lots of experience. But after that first lesson? I walked into the studio and Dalton’s cheeks were flushed the color of ripe strawberries. His eyes were just on the brink of dripping. I stood there and listened while the teacher told me how terrible he was! That there was soooo much work to do. His finger position was lazy. The staccato notes needed more sharpness. He is too used to playing from memory instead of reading the music. On and on. I could tell that Dalton felt that his special gift from God had somehow abandoned him. He was devastated and in the car ride home, he quietly said he wanted to quit. But I talked him into giving it more time.

And so we have given it more time. And it did get better. The teacher started commenting on how much improvement she has seen in such a short time. But guys. He has gone from practicing every chance he finds, to practicing maybe two nights a week. And that is only with the promise of 10 M&Ms for every 30 minutes.

So last night, I told the teacher we had made the decision to retreat. My plan is to find music he enjoys playing (think Taylor Swift, the Eagles) and try to teach him here at home as best I can until we find another teacher. I just can’t stand watching his love for music fade away. But did I do the right thing? Should I make him tough it out? Should learning the form and function of music count more than the passion for it? I am so afraid that what I do here will be inadequate or just wrong. The teacher made her opinion clear – that I am doing the absolute wrong thing by pulling him out. And she is the professional – right?

It feels as though our family mantra has gone from “Live, Laugh, Love” to “Change is Hard” and there is something so defeating in that for me.

Um, hi.

Okay. So. Here I am approximately 1,987 miles from where I was born and raised (the great state of Texas). The hubby's job moved us across the country and life has become suddenly much more funny. So funny, in fact, that I decided to blog about it.

Some background - aside from my super wonderful husband, I share my life with two beautiful and brilliant children (you'll hear LOTS about them I am sure), and a small, but sturdy, dog. Life was great in Texas, but I am keeping an open mind on our new adventures here in the northeast.

Back in August, when it became apparent that my husband would accept the job offer and we would have approximately 20 days to find a house, pack our crap, register for school, etc..., I started prepping my kids (ages 6 and 8) on some of the lingual differences between Massachusetts and Texas. We all made a conscious effort to eliminate "fixin' to" from our vocabulary (as in, "I'm fixin' to make supper"), we really worked hard on enunciating the "g" at the ends of our words (we are working, not workin'; cooking, not cookin'),and started to substitute "ya'll" with "you guys." So instead of yelling, "I'm fixin' to start spankin' butts if ya'll don't start cleanin' this room quicker than a dog chews dropped meatloaf." I practiced saying, "Children. Clean this mess up. NOW." See, shortly into our practicing our more refined language skills, I found that really I did much better if I just kept my normal ranting and raving down to short, succinct commands.

And then of course, I prepared my children for the northeastern phenomenon of misplacing the letter "r" in most words. You know, the whole "pahk the cah" (park the car) and whatnot. We watched Good Will Hunting (a most excellent movie) and paused it whenever there was a demonstration of this type of thing. My kids, being so so brilliant, caught on in the first five minutes and finally told me to stop pausing the movie already.

SO. We did the big move and it was a pain, but manageable. I somehow managed to get the kids into a really neat school and boxes unpacked in record time. By week three I was able to find the school, the grocery store, the gas station, and the Old Navy without the assistance of my GPS system. Fast forward five weeks and it is time for the first "parent/teacher conference" with my daughter's first grade teacher. After going though all the reading and math assessment results (all glowing), we started talking about how my sweet little girl was getting along with her new friends. The teacher gave a little chuckle and states that my sweetie was making friends just fine, but there was a teasing incident because of some speech differences. Darn! I thought we had the "ya'll" thing dealt with!! But surprise, it wasn't the "ya'll" that was causing the teasing. It was the word "the." Apparently during read-out-loud time, my child said "the" (as in rhymes with "we") and the kids laughed! The teacher informed me that here in Massachusetts, the word is pronounced "the" (as in rhymes with "duh"). Somehow in all of our preparation, we missed the word "the." The teacher said she had a talk with the class about how people say words differently in different parts of the country and she would not hold it against my daughter. Go figure! After that I figured that our family, ok, really just me, should accept the fact that we are different from those around us and people are going to laugh and maybe even tease us right in front of our faces. But that is okay because we can laugh back at the silly things they do here (like oh my gosh there are Dunkin Donuts and pizza places EVERYWHERE!!! ).

In fact, I find that when I am in a prolonged conversation with anyone (and this includes the grocery checker guy), it makes things more interesting if I really play up the southern accent. I think it is kind of funny to watch the expressions on their faces when I say something like, "My God, it's colder here than a dog's balls in belly-high snow!"