So, this past school year a dad got up and waved at his son's school bus every morning. In costume...
Click Here
I vote fabulous.
Jun 6, 2011
Jun 4, 2011
Unlikely Friends II...
Unlikely Friends I
Well, to be honest I kept my distance for a while. This new friend-of-my-friend was a strong personality and I wasn't quite sure how to take her.
But then an interesting thing happened. I got to the point where I decided that in order to keep doing my occasional nerd-work from home, I was going to need to get some childcare during work times. Juggling kids and house was just too much to pile in with work requiring peace & quiet, and I had a month or so left on the project I was working at the time.
And not a week later I was hanging at Ms. Diva's house, and the Friend-of-my-Friend happened to be there also and--having decided that she needed a way to make some cash--said, "Do you know anyone who needs childcare?" To which I replied, "As a matter of fact, I need about 10 hours per week of childcare for the next month or so." And then my one month of work turned into three, and before we knew it, the Friend-of-my-Friend became Ms. Sitter Extraordinaire.
I was nervous at first. With the Littler One's many intense feelings, I was nervous about leaving him for 10 hours per week. And not knowing Ms. Sitter all that well, I was nervous (hopeful?) that she (and her two boys) would be a good match for my boys. She assured me that they all would have a great time swimming in the kid-pool and jumping on the trampoline, and I snuck out and went home to my first session of peaceful work-work in a very long time.
Within an hour Ms. Sitter texted me a photo of the Littler One up to his eyeballs in water and dirt, with a huge grin across his face. I relaxed. Within a few weeks, anytime we saw Ms. Sitter at church or out & about, the Littler One squirmed his way out of my arms so he could go give her a hug. And about a month into things, Ms Sitter suggested that, instead of sneaking out like normal, I give the Littler One a kiss good-bye and leave openly. And Voila--no more sneaking out.
Also, as the Littler One made friends with Ms Sitter, I noticed him becoming a little calmer with other folks as well. Not everyone, and not all the time, but still a noticeable improvement from before, when he would scream anytime I left him with pretty much anyone, the Cat Daddy included.
His Highness has always been pretty easygoing, so the fact that he blended right into the mix was no surprise to me. The brilliant part, though, was the way Ms Sitter had of explaining social norms to both her boys and my own. I think we have fairly similar discipline styles to begin with, but Ms. Sitter has a way of explaining things that is logical, reasonable, not too sugary, and of course funny and sarcastic when needed. I like to be a fly on the wall when she is breaking up fights and whatnot because she gives me fresh words to use that make me sound like a parenting genius.
So all in all, we had a successful match as far as childcare was concerned. It didn't stop there though...
Well, to be honest I kept my distance for a while. This new friend-of-my-friend was a strong personality and I wasn't quite sure how to take her.
But then an interesting thing happened. I got to the point where I decided that in order to keep doing my occasional nerd-work from home, I was going to need to get some childcare during work times. Juggling kids and house was just too much to pile in with work requiring peace & quiet, and I had a month or so left on the project I was working at the time.
And not a week later I was hanging at Ms. Diva's house, and the Friend-of-my-Friend happened to be there also and--having decided that she needed a way to make some cash--said, "Do you know anyone who needs childcare?" To which I replied, "As a matter of fact, I need about 10 hours per week of childcare for the next month or so." And then my one month of work turned into three, and before we knew it, the Friend-of-my-Friend became Ms. Sitter Extraordinaire.
I was nervous at first. With the Littler One's many intense feelings, I was nervous about leaving him for 10 hours per week. And not knowing Ms. Sitter all that well, I was nervous (hopeful?) that she (and her two boys) would be a good match for my boys. She assured me that they all would have a great time swimming in the kid-pool and jumping on the trampoline, and I snuck out and went home to my first session of peaceful work-work in a very long time.
Within an hour Ms. Sitter texted me a photo of the Littler One up to his eyeballs in water and dirt, with a huge grin across his face. I relaxed. Within a few weeks, anytime we saw Ms. Sitter at church or out & about, the Littler One squirmed his way out of my arms so he could go give her a hug. And about a month into things, Ms Sitter suggested that, instead of sneaking out like normal, I give the Littler One a kiss good-bye and leave openly. And Voila--no more sneaking out.
Also, as the Littler One made friends with Ms Sitter, I noticed him becoming a little calmer with other folks as well. Not everyone, and not all the time, but still a noticeable improvement from before, when he would scream anytime I left him with pretty much anyone, the Cat Daddy included.
His Highness has always been pretty easygoing, so the fact that he blended right into the mix was no surprise to me. The brilliant part, though, was the way Ms Sitter had of explaining social norms to both her boys and my own. I think we have fairly similar discipline styles to begin with, but Ms. Sitter has a way of explaining things that is logical, reasonable, not too sugary, and of course funny and sarcastic when needed. I like to be a fly on the wall when she is breaking up fights and whatnot because she gives me fresh words to use that make me sound like a parenting genius.
So all in all, we had a successful match as far as childcare was concerned. It didn't stop there though...
May 8, 2011
Unlikely Friends I...
This one starts a couple years ago, actually. So maybe it will become my next bloggy-saga. Or not; who knows.
So we go back to what turned out to be the end of our year-long church hunting journey. We joined the current church, having been sucked in by the extreme kindness and friendship of those who are now our current FOCUS group (fancy name for "cell" group, or "small" group, or whatever). At the time they were going through a sort of transformation, exploring the idea of reaching out to those in everyday life--neighbors, co-workers, or whomever they came across on a daily basis. And then taking it a step further, & showing them God's love with no strings attached, but also being available if they want to know more about this God and his love. I'm a big fan of this approach, and you'd think this would be a common & desirable thing among Christians and their communities, but sadly it is rare in my experience. I think a lot of us Christians have a bit of a superiority complex when it comes to reaching out to others, and somehow those nasty strings manage to work their way in, so when so-and-so doesn't automatically want to convert, we have a hard time being OK with that. With all that in mind, I was especially proud of this group of folks who were daring to take on such a great experiment & see what God did with it.
As a group we explored ways we might reach out to folks in our everyday lives. The Cat Daddy and I talked about opening up our yard sale to our neighbors, turning it into a sort of neighborhood yard sale. Other folks had great, normal ideas.
My awesomely awesome diva-friend's oldest son was starting preschool, so she talked about making friends with some of the other preschool moms. As it turned out, her opportunity came quickly at drop-off one day, when she had to hand off her then-youngest to a random stranger so that she could deal with her oldest's puking, or tantrum, or some other preschool-type emergency requiring two hands.
Well, you can guess what happened next. The two moms got to talking and struck up a friendship. The random stranger turned out to be a single mom with a colorful life--past, present and everywhere in between. On the surface she was a tough-talking, awesomely inappropriate welfare-mom with two boys, both bright and brilliant, and each with their own quirks and challenges. Down a little deeper was a lady who loved God (or was pretty sure she did, anyway) and wanted good things for her sons, but also came from generations of pain, abuse, poor choices, and just plain bad luck (yes, I know "luck" is probably not theologically sound, but it's the best word for the time being).
Over time the two became better & better friends. Their boys went to preschool together, and soon they started having play dates. While they are both strong personalities, they are just about as opposite as you can find in two people, so the dynamic was (and still is), um, interesting at times.
And where do I fit into the mix? Stay tuned to find out...
So we go back to what turned out to be the end of our year-long church hunting journey. We joined the current church, having been sucked in by the extreme kindness and friendship of those who are now our current FOCUS group (fancy name for "cell" group, or "small" group, or whatever). At the time they were going through a sort of transformation, exploring the idea of reaching out to those in everyday life--neighbors, co-workers, or whomever they came across on a daily basis. And then taking it a step further, & showing them God's love with no strings attached, but also being available if they want to know more about this God and his love. I'm a big fan of this approach, and you'd think this would be a common & desirable thing among Christians and their communities, but sadly it is rare in my experience. I think a lot of us Christians have a bit of a superiority complex when it comes to reaching out to others, and somehow those nasty strings manage to work their way in, so when so-and-so doesn't automatically want to convert, we have a hard time being OK with that. With all that in mind, I was especially proud of this group of folks who were daring to take on such a great experiment & see what God did with it.
As a group we explored ways we might reach out to folks in our everyday lives. The Cat Daddy and I talked about opening up our yard sale to our neighbors, turning it into a sort of neighborhood yard sale. Other folks had great, normal ideas.
My awesomely awesome diva-friend's oldest son was starting preschool, so she talked about making friends with some of the other preschool moms. As it turned out, her opportunity came quickly at drop-off one day, when she had to hand off her then-youngest to a random stranger so that she could deal with her oldest's puking, or tantrum, or some other preschool-type emergency requiring two hands.
Well, you can guess what happened next. The two moms got to talking and struck up a friendship. The random stranger turned out to be a single mom with a colorful life--past, present and everywhere in between. On the surface she was a tough-talking, awesomely inappropriate welfare-mom with two boys, both bright and brilliant, and each with their own quirks and challenges. Down a little deeper was a lady who loved God (or was pretty sure she did, anyway) and wanted good things for her sons, but also came from generations of pain, abuse, poor choices, and just plain bad luck (yes, I know "luck" is probably not theologically sound, but it's the best word for the time being).
Over time the two became better & better friends. Their boys went to preschool together, and soon they started having play dates. While they are both strong personalities, they are just about as opposite as you can find in two people, so the dynamic was (and still is), um, interesting at times.
And where do I fit into the mix? Stay tuned to find out...
Apr 24, 2011
So Long Coke??
I've been contemplating nutrition a lot lately; specifically, my need to be more deliberate about it in my own diet. I'm not going all-organic or anything, but I definitely need to dial down my sugar intake.
I'm pretty sure I've blogged about this before. Sugar is my vice. Granted as far as vices go, it is relatively benign, but I do notice the effect it has on my life. Energy, feelings of depression, endurance...all are improved when I lay off the sugar. And also the other refined carbs, but mostly the sugar since it has the biggest pull on me.
Most recently I've been contemplating Coke. Currently I allow myself one per day. If I'm at home that means one bottle of Mexican Coke, usually during afternoon naptime. If I'm at a restaurant, it means a fountain Coke with lunch. Within these guidelines I am somewhat disciplined: I drink a liter of water before lunchtime most days, and sometimes I even drink a cupful of water before the Coke in the case of restaurants. I also don't drink Coke after 5pm, lest the caffeine keep me up too late.
I want to cut back the Coke to be healthier, but when it comes down to it I really like the Coke. And I've just gone the last two days without any Coke, which is proof to me that it can be done.
You may be thinking "Well duh, Skerrib, why not just have one every other day, or only on weekends (or weekdays), or some other sort of middle ground?" The problem is that, when it comes to the sugar I generally don't do well with arbitrary middle ground. I'll make a rule, and sooner or later start breaking it occasionally, and then overtime ramp it back up until I'm running around like my kids, groping into corners for every bit of junk I can consume. Even with the Coke I was starting to break my one-per-day rule in the restaurants more than occasionally, before I caught myself and dialed it back down.
Sadly, I've had the best success with all-out bans. Realistically, my best chance is to just say "no Coke, period." During the height of my health kick several years ago I limited myself to one dessert per week. Per week! It was really tough to stick to, but at the same time it was the easiest way to build in a cheat without going crazy and losing all discipline. And when I'm limited to one dessert per week, I very rarely (never?) choose soda over, say, ice cream.
So this is a dilemma I'm currently mulling over. I haven't decided what I'm going to do about it. Or rather, I haven't yet reached the place where I'm ready to do what I need to do and give up the Coke. I mean, if I give up Coke and start feeling even better, who knows what will be next--I could even go organic (or at least partially so)...
I'm pretty sure I've blogged about this before. Sugar is my vice. Granted as far as vices go, it is relatively benign, but I do notice the effect it has on my life. Energy, feelings of depression, endurance...all are improved when I lay off the sugar. And also the other refined carbs, but mostly the sugar since it has the biggest pull on me.
Most recently I've been contemplating Coke. Currently I allow myself one per day. If I'm at home that means one bottle of Mexican Coke, usually during afternoon naptime. If I'm at a restaurant, it means a fountain Coke with lunch. Within these guidelines I am somewhat disciplined: I drink a liter of water before lunchtime most days, and sometimes I even drink a cupful of water before the Coke in the case of restaurants. I also don't drink Coke after 5pm, lest the caffeine keep me up too late.
I want to cut back the Coke to be healthier, but when it comes down to it I really like the Coke. And I've just gone the last two days without any Coke, which is proof to me that it can be done.
You may be thinking "Well duh, Skerrib, why not just have one every other day, or only on weekends (or weekdays), or some other sort of middle ground?" The problem is that, when it comes to the sugar I generally don't do well with arbitrary middle ground. I'll make a rule, and sooner or later start breaking it occasionally, and then overtime ramp it back up until I'm running around like my kids, groping into corners for every bit of junk I can consume. Even with the Coke I was starting to break my one-per-day rule in the restaurants more than occasionally, before I caught myself and dialed it back down.
Sadly, I've had the best success with all-out bans. Realistically, my best chance is to just say "no Coke, period." During the height of my health kick several years ago I limited myself to one dessert per week. Per week! It was really tough to stick to, but at the same time it was the easiest way to build in a cheat without going crazy and losing all discipline. And when I'm limited to one dessert per week, I very rarely (never?) choose soda over, say, ice cream.
So this is a dilemma I'm currently mulling over. I haven't decided what I'm going to do about it. Or rather, I haven't yet reached the place where I'm ready to do what I need to do and give up the Coke. I mean, if I give up Coke and start feeling even better, who knows what will be next--I could even go organic (or at least partially so)...
Apr 19, 2011
Frosted...
Growing up we ate cold cereal for breakfast most mornings. At school I would hear about kids having things like waffles or eggs and I would think, "Wow, on a school day?" In our house hot breakfasts were strictly for weekends and/or holidays. Part of me was a little resentful about this for a time. I mean gosh, couldn't my mom put in some effort to give us kids a hot breakfast and fuel our brains for a day of tough mental exertion? But then I realized I really didn't care, so no need to resent something I didn't really care about, right? Right. Plus, my night-owl mom had enough pressure on her hands getting up at the crack of dawn to get us to school and herself to her full-time job, so I don't blame her one bit. And now that I'm the mom, I think my parents were pretty smart to keep hot breakfasts a special thing.
We were the lucky kids who got to eat sugar cereals, and we were well-acquainted with nearly all of them. As the mom now I'm horrified at the stuff we were allowed to eat for breakfast, but at the time of course it seemed perfectly reasonable to eat a pile of teeny not-quite-cookies, or fake-fruity corn paste extruded into various shapes, or little rice puffs with "Super" and "Sugar" in their name. It actually made me sad when I found I didn't like Cocoa Puffs or Golden Grahams. Every so often I would try again, hoping I somehow had acquired a taste for them, but then they would sit in the pantry for weeks, until my dad took pity and finished the box for us.
Along the way there was one cereal I always wanted to try, but somehow my mom never bought it: Frosted Krispies. I don't know if I never asked or what, but we always had regular or Cocoa Krispies, or even Rice Krispies Treats cereal; but never the frosted ones. And somehow, in my mind, they had an intangible, or even magical taste quality about them. Like little snowy mountains would taste if you were suddenly transported to the land of arctic cereals with Snap, Crackle, & Pop themselves. Eventually though, Frosted Krispies were discontinued, so I had that little bit of mourning for the fact that I had never gotten to try Frosted Krispies.
Then I grew up and got married, and the Cat Daddy joined the Air Force and we started moving around the country every few years, and the Cat Daddy's dreams came true when we came upon his childhood grief cereals: Count Chocula, Boo-Berry, and Frankenberry. We showed great adult restraint and did not buy them all at once, but over time we did buy them, and the Cat Daddy consumed them with wild abandon, and was very pleased indeed. And my little pocket of grief was triggered by the fact that, while the Cat Daddy's cereals were very cool and hip, they were not Frosted Krispies, and Frosted Krispies were still discontinued, and I was likely doomed to live life with this unrealized, sugary dream.
Well, somehow and somewhere along the line, Frosted Krispies showed up on the shelves of our tiny little commissary here in Cheyenne WY. And I showed great adult restraint and didn't buy them for a long time. But last week I was standing there, thinking, "Skerrib, if you really, really want to try Frosted Krispies you had better take advantage while you can. You don't know how long they are here." I had already chosen some Frosted Flakes for the rest of the family, so I grabbed a box of Frosted Krispies as well.
Now I don't know if it's just me, or if this happens to other people, but I had a moment of foreshadowing where I thought, "Skerrib, all 'frosted' means is 'sugared.' They are just going to taste like Rice Krispies with sugar on them, which is what your parents did for you as a kid anyway. This whole time, you weren't missing anything. Just so you know." But I then thought that, even if that were true, at least I would know for sure. Plus I also reasoned that even though Frosted Flakes are corn flakes with sugar on them, somehow they are better than just putting sugar on corn flakes, so maybe that would be the case with Frosted Krispies as well. Somehow I knew that was a bunch of crap though--I knew that my wiser, inner self was right. But still I had to find out for sure.
And guess what? Now I know for sure that I really wasn't missing anything. Frosted Krispies taste exactly how I imagined in that little moment of foreshadowed clarity in the store. They taste like Rice Krispies with sugar on them. Sadly, I would even rank them over with the Cocoa Puffs and Golden Grahams. Maybe, like one notch better than those, but not much at all.
Of course since I'm the parent, now it's my job to finish the box, much like my dad did several years ago. It is the burden I now bear...
We were the lucky kids who got to eat sugar cereals, and we were well-acquainted with nearly all of them. As the mom now I'm horrified at the stuff we were allowed to eat for breakfast, but at the time of course it seemed perfectly reasonable to eat a pile of teeny not-quite-cookies, or fake-fruity corn paste extruded into various shapes, or little rice puffs with "Super" and "Sugar" in their name. It actually made me sad when I found I didn't like Cocoa Puffs or Golden Grahams. Every so often I would try again, hoping I somehow had acquired a taste for them, but then they would sit in the pantry for weeks, until my dad took pity and finished the box for us.
Along the way there was one cereal I always wanted to try, but somehow my mom never bought it: Frosted Krispies. I don't know if I never asked or what, but we always had regular or Cocoa Krispies, or even Rice Krispies Treats cereal; but never the frosted ones. And somehow, in my mind, they had an intangible, or even magical taste quality about them. Like little snowy mountains would taste if you were suddenly transported to the land of arctic cereals with Snap, Crackle, & Pop themselves. Eventually though, Frosted Krispies were discontinued, so I had that little bit of mourning for the fact that I had never gotten to try Frosted Krispies.
Then I grew up and got married, and the Cat Daddy joined the Air Force and we started moving around the country every few years, and the Cat Daddy's dreams came true when we came upon his childhood grief cereals: Count Chocula, Boo-Berry, and Frankenberry. We showed great adult restraint and did not buy them all at once, but over time we did buy them, and the Cat Daddy consumed them with wild abandon, and was very pleased indeed. And my little pocket of grief was triggered by the fact that, while the Cat Daddy's cereals were very cool and hip, they were not Frosted Krispies, and Frosted Krispies were still discontinued, and I was likely doomed to live life with this unrealized, sugary dream.
Well, somehow and somewhere along the line, Frosted Krispies showed up on the shelves of our tiny little commissary here in Cheyenne WY. And I showed great adult restraint and didn't buy them for a long time. But last week I was standing there, thinking, "Skerrib, if you really, really want to try Frosted Krispies you had better take advantage while you can. You don't know how long they are here." I had already chosen some Frosted Flakes for the rest of the family, so I grabbed a box of Frosted Krispies as well.
Now I don't know if it's just me, or if this happens to other people, but I had a moment of foreshadowing where I thought, "Skerrib, all 'frosted' means is 'sugared.' They are just going to taste like Rice Krispies with sugar on them, which is what your parents did for you as a kid anyway. This whole time, you weren't missing anything. Just so you know." But I then thought that, even if that were true, at least I would know for sure. Plus I also reasoned that even though Frosted Flakes are corn flakes with sugar on them, somehow they are better than just putting sugar on corn flakes, so maybe that would be the case with Frosted Krispies as well. Somehow I knew that was a bunch of crap though--I knew that my wiser, inner self was right. But still I had to find out for sure.
And guess what? Now I know for sure that I really wasn't missing anything. Frosted Krispies taste exactly how I imagined in that little moment of foreshadowed clarity in the store. They taste like Rice Krispies with sugar on them. Sadly, I would even rank them over with the Cocoa Puffs and Golden Grahams. Maybe, like one notch better than those, but not much at all.
Of course since I'm the parent, now it's my job to finish the box, much like my dad did several years ago. It is the burden I now bear...
Apr 12, 2011
Connecting Folks Since 1977 (or so)...
So, I'm the introspective type. Much of the time I think this is a strength. I like to process, and be as healthy--and as awesomely-awesome--as I can be, and all that. Sometimes of course, I over-think, which triggers my neuroses and contributes to panic, and probably makes me a little narcissistic. But whatever.
For me, what it comes down to is figuring out who I am and where I fit into the mix. I like to belong, and I like to know what I'm good at, and more importantly, I like to be aware of the things we should never, ever, put Skerrib in charge of (so far this list includes scrapbooking conventions, spa nights, telephone parties, and the knitting of garments).
Growing up as a church-kid, one of the things I got into was spiritual gift assessments. You know, the quizzes where you try desperately not to come up with the spiritual gift of service, because then you'll be stuck doing dishes and emptying trash & stuff, when you really want to be up front giving the entire congregation what-for, and foretelling churchwide plagues, and whatnot. Or maybe that's just me. The thing about spiritual gifts (or any) assessments is that they can get stupid quickly. I constantly over-thought the quizzes and came up with such varied results that, depending on the test, I had pretty much every gift (except mercy--that is one I will never be accused of having).
Well, after several years I stopped taking the assessments, and starting telling people I had the spiritual gift of "hanging out." Which sounds like a cop-out, but when it comes down to it, that's what I'm good at. I'm not huge into entertaining, per se, but I do enjoy having people over for informal meals and just talking, playing games, or whatever. Some of my favorite times with friends have been days spent running errands together. I enjoy being someone around whom people can feel free to be themselves (and I have since discovered that I'm probably some combination of teacher-pastor-administrator, but I'm still fairly adamant about the whole hanging-out thing).
Adding to this conundrum is the fact that God seems to have determined that I am someone who--for the time being anyway--moves every few years. So I am in & out of communities. I enjoy forming deep relationships but don't have the benefit of lots of time to form them. So I jump in where I can, and do what I can while I can before it's on to the next place. Which is a bummer in that I start over a lot, and therefore feel like I'm repeating myself all the time and going "Have I told you this before?"
Well, recently I read The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell. The Tipping Point describes the spot where mere fads become phenomena. Like how the entire nation becomes obsessed with a particular purse brand, or how suddenly everyone is taking swing dancing lessons, or entire school districts suddenly have to make a policy to regulate Pokemon cards.
As it turns out, the secret is less about the fads themselves and more about the people promoting them. Gladwell describes three main people who help spread fads: Mavens, Salespeople, and Connectors. Salespeople are fairly self-explanatory, and I forget what Mavens are, but Connectors are what caught my eye. Connectors have a foot in lots of different worlds, and have a way of, well, connecting people who wouldn't otherwise go together.
And it so happens that I am a connector. As far as skills and such go, I'm much more of a generalist than a specialist. I've tried about a zillion different things in my life, but have "stuck" with very few. I like knowing a little bit about a lot of things. Even in recent years as I have had to narrow my scope, I still keep a toe in several regions, if not worlds. And few things make me happier than seeing others make connections. So it totally makes sense that I am one to use my experiences in different places and with (fairly-vastly) different things to bring people together who might not meet otherwise. In other words, I like using my powers for good.
I'm not saying this is my entire identity or anything, but it helps complete the picture for me, and that makes me happy. Now, go get coffee with a friend, or meet someone new and surprising, or something. Tell 'em Skerrib sent you...
For me, what it comes down to is figuring out who I am and where I fit into the mix. I like to belong, and I like to know what I'm good at, and more importantly, I like to be aware of the things we should never, ever, put Skerrib in charge of (so far this list includes scrapbooking conventions, spa nights, telephone parties, and the knitting of garments).
Growing up as a church-kid, one of the things I got into was spiritual gift assessments. You know, the quizzes where you try desperately not to come up with the spiritual gift of service, because then you'll be stuck doing dishes and emptying trash & stuff, when you really want to be up front giving the entire congregation what-for, and foretelling churchwide plagues, and whatnot. Or maybe that's just me. The thing about spiritual gifts (or any) assessments is that they can get stupid quickly. I constantly over-thought the quizzes and came up with such varied results that, depending on the test, I had pretty much every gift (except mercy--that is one I will never be accused of having).
Well, after several years I stopped taking the assessments, and starting telling people I had the spiritual gift of "hanging out." Which sounds like a cop-out, but when it comes down to it, that's what I'm good at. I'm not huge into entertaining, per se, but I do enjoy having people over for informal meals and just talking, playing games, or whatever. Some of my favorite times with friends have been days spent running errands together. I enjoy being someone around whom people can feel free to be themselves (and I have since discovered that I'm probably some combination of teacher-pastor-administrator, but I'm still fairly adamant about the whole hanging-out thing).
Adding to this conundrum is the fact that God seems to have determined that I am someone who--for the time being anyway--moves every few years. So I am in & out of communities. I enjoy forming deep relationships but don't have the benefit of lots of time to form them. So I jump in where I can, and do what I can while I can before it's on to the next place. Which is a bummer in that I start over a lot, and therefore feel like I'm repeating myself all the time and going "Have I told you this before?"
Well, recently I read The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell. The Tipping Point describes the spot where mere fads become phenomena. Like how the entire nation becomes obsessed with a particular purse brand, or how suddenly everyone is taking swing dancing lessons, or entire school districts suddenly have to make a policy to regulate Pokemon cards.
As it turns out, the secret is less about the fads themselves and more about the people promoting them. Gladwell describes three main people who help spread fads: Mavens, Salespeople, and Connectors. Salespeople are fairly self-explanatory, and I forget what Mavens are, but Connectors are what caught my eye. Connectors have a foot in lots of different worlds, and have a way of, well, connecting people who wouldn't otherwise go together.
And it so happens that I am a connector. As far as skills and such go, I'm much more of a generalist than a specialist. I've tried about a zillion different things in my life, but have "stuck" with very few. I like knowing a little bit about a lot of things. Even in recent years as I have had to narrow my scope, I still keep a toe in several regions, if not worlds. And few things make me happier than seeing others make connections. So it totally makes sense that I am one to use my experiences in different places and with (fairly-vastly) different things to bring people together who might not meet otherwise. In other words, I like using my powers for good.
I'm not saying this is my entire identity or anything, but it helps complete the picture for me, and that makes me happy. Now, go get coffee with a friend, or meet someone new and surprising, or something. Tell 'em Skerrib sent you...
Mar 25, 2011
Hyperbole and a Half...
Oh. My. Goodness. You must click on the following link:
Hyperbole and a Half
Based on the post at the link, it is possible the author has been secretly stalking me and stealing my life stories so she could make awesomely-awesome comics to go with them. More likely I have simply found a friend of sorts who shares parts of my humor and neurosis. If by "friend" you mean someone I've never met, but I did post a comment on her "About" page. In online terms, we're practically BFF.
If you do click above (which you should since I told you to do it), be aware that there's a little profanity. Not a lot, but just to make you aware in case you have sensitive eyes/ears--it's there.
You could tell her Skerrib sent you, but she'll have no idea what you're talking about, so just enjoy...
Hyperbole and a Half
Based on the post at the link, it is possible the author has been secretly stalking me and stealing my life stories so she could make awesomely-awesome comics to go with them. More likely I have simply found a friend of sorts who shares parts of my humor and neurosis. If by "friend" you mean someone I've never met, but I did post a comment on her "About" page. In online terms, we're practically BFF.
If you do click above (which you should since I told you to do it), be aware that there's a little profanity. Not a lot, but just to make you aware in case you have sensitive eyes/ears--it's there.
You could tell her Skerrib sent you, but she'll have no idea what you're talking about, so just enjoy...
Mar 20, 2011
On Culture and Protocol...
Last week I wrote about all sorts of things, among them my then-upcoming luncheon with the general's wife. Knowing well the stereotypes associated with officers' wives, and particularly those in the higher ranks, I spoke of my contingency plans should my fears of snobbery and pretense prove true. It would make a great story if I had the opportunity to storm out in an indignant huff, or got to give some arrogant woman a verbal dressing-down.
The simple truth, however, is that we had a lovely time. Not like an "Oh-my-goodness-that-was-the-most-exhilarating-ever" time, but more like a "Yum-this-is-delicious-and-it's-nice-to-meet-you-all" time. Many of the houses on the base here are huge and historic, so Mrs. General told us the historic points about their 10,000 square foot abode. It has a little balcony on the second floor that faces out over the parade field. The story goes that one time Teddy Roosevelt was there and was all, "Hey, you could use some trees out front," so they put in two rows of now-gigantic evergreen trees (about 20 total), which frame the view from the balcony quite nicely. Thank you, Teddy Roosevelt.
There are several perks that come with the higher ranks. The luncheon was arranged by the base protocol office, and the food was prepared & served by Air Force chefs. The entire day was planned out for the generals' wives, and there were folks to drive them around to all their activities. And since they were out & about on a schedule, a rep from the protocol office was on hand back at the house to let us luncheon guests in, and to make sure everything proceeded as scheduled. In short, with great responsibilities come staff to help you juggle them all.
Thankfully, I had my own personal protocol staff in the form of my friend the Chaplain's Wife, whom I mentioned before is from the South and knows things about manners and stuff. She had also been to enough official shindigs (pastors & chaplains, and by extension their spouses, get invited to a lot of these) that she knew about hostess gifts, and had the forethought to check with the protocol office to see if hostess gifts were appropriate in this case, to which they replied that they certainly weren't necessary, but from a protocol standpoint it would be a nice gesture.
Which means, in a nutshell, that all the cool people are doing it.
And because she is awesome, the Chaplain's Wife gave me a heads-up, so I had enough time to stop on the way over. I chose a festive bottle of Bailey's, which I figured was appropriate given the St. Patrick's Day season. Either that, or the general and his wife are teetotalers and were totally offended that I would suggest they kick back a few from a bead-adorned bottle. Hostess gift: check.
And herein lies my dilemma. All this etiquette and protocol stuff is readily available to me via the Officers' Spouses Handbook, but I have thus far kept a longstanding vow to never purchase said handbook. I leafed through it once in the military clothing store for the sole purpose of scoffing at it. In my first round of therapy, the counselor--a retired major--told me to buy the book to help with my transition to military life, and I flat-out told him no (which was hugely bold of me at the time). I did not, and still do not, understand why the how-to's of writing thank-you notes, and which length of dress & how many petticoats to wear to which function, are what the Air Force deems essential for helping mil-wives navigate an entire sub-culture. The Spouses' Handbook should be subtitled something like "Everything you need to know to avoid making a fool of yourself at official functions; but for the rest you're on your own."
Here's the thing about the protocol. I get it; I understand the purpose of it. I've heard it said that etiquette is more than anything about showing people you care about them; that you are not taking them for granted and/or mistaking them for a portion of the floor or furniture, or something. I'm all about showing the love. The problem with taking something as warm and fuzzy as showing love, and boiling it down to a formulaic list of customs and courtesies, is that instead of focusing on showing love & being yourself, you are overly afraid you're going to mess up something on the list. The problem with protocol is that in our fear we miss out on the best of each other.
What were we talking about again?
Right, the luncheon. There were ten of us, I believe. The two generals' wives, two colonels' wives, both the incoming and outgoing presidents of the Warren Spouses Club, and the finalists from the 2010 Spouse of the Year (I was in the latter category). We all found things we had in common. Mostly we talked about dogs and kids and, keeping true to form, I got to briefly break from the appropriate and pleasant, and share how Pim was eaten by coyotes when we were living in California. The visiting general's wife asked us to each tell a little bit about ourselves and, true to form again, I babbled a little bit when it came to my turn. In my mind I was a red-faced nervous goofball, but history tells me it probably didn't show too much.
Both generals' wives were totally cool. If we were all sitting at my table drinking a Coke, I think we'd have made each other laugh hysterically. Because of the formalities, even though we had a good time, I think we didn't get to know each other quite as well as we could have. But maybe that's a necessary evil. I mean, you (I) can't be BFF with everyone, and you (I) certainly can't expect a luncheon to be a regular gateway to such relationships.
So maybe my unease with protocol is that, as a relational person, it simply doesn't match well with how I best like to spend my time. Some folks enjoy shindigs as a rule. I don't mind them sometimes, but if my entire life was formal and official, with no letting down and burping out loud in front of each other, I would poke my eyeballs out. I have small children--poop is such a major theme in my life that I must be permitted to talk about it. Often. But if I were a general's wife, and I went along with my husband to visit another base, would I want to talk with random other spouses and hear their poop stories? Maybe at first, but I bet it would get old.
So anyway, we ate our pot-pies and salads and dessert. We held our cloth napkins in our laps and only started eating after the guest of honor did. I caught myself at one point trying to pry the crust from my bowl with my fingers, and switched to a fork instead. But I heard later that one of the colonel's wives was doing the same thing, and it made me happy to hear that she enjoys the crust as much as I do. We talked. We toured. We took turns standing on the balcony and looking out through Teddy Roosevelt's evergreens onto the parade field. I waved at the escort staff below and said, "Hello! This is my official wave!" and they waved back. I am a big dork. But a happy dork.
We got word that the generals were running ahead of schedule (miracle of miracles), and the ladies were whisked off to join them for the next event on their itinerary. And then it was time to go. Three of us walked out together, commenting that our 15 minutes of base-wide semi-fame were up, and we had to get back to our glamorous lives of laundry and grocery runs.
I think I do OK if I remember the place of protocol. When I show good manners, it shows simply that I know how to show good manners. It speaks very little about who I am, and it certainly doesn't diminish my awesomeness if I am unaware or forgetful of a particular bit of protocol. So my recommendation to you, if you are ever invited to a luncheon with the general's wife, is to go and enjoy.
And don't forget to wave from the balcony...
The simple truth, however, is that we had a lovely time. Not like an "Oh-my-goodness-that-was-the-most-exhilarating-ever" time, but more like a "Yum-this-is-delicious-and-it's-nice-to-meet-you-all" time. Many of the houses on the base here are huge and historic, so Mrs. General told us the historic points about their 10,000 square foot abode. It has a little balcony on the second floor that faces out over the parade field. The story goes that one time Teddy Roosevelt was there and was all, "Hey, you could use some trees out front," so they put in two rows of now-gigantic evergreen trees (about 20 total), which frame the view from the balcony quite nicely. Thank you, Teddy Roosevelt.
There are several perks that come with the higher ranks. The luncheon was arranged by the base protocol office, and the food was prepared & served by Air Force chefs. The entire day was planned out for the generals' wives, and there were folks to drive them around to all their activities. And since they were out & about on a schedule, a rep from the protocol office was on hand back at the house to let us luncheon guests in, and to make sure everything proceeded as scheduled. In short, with great responsibilities come staff to help you juggle them all.
Thankfully, I had my own personal protocol staff in the form of my friend the Chaplain's Wife, whom I mentioned before is from the South and knows things about manners and stuff. She had also been to enough official shindigs (pastors & chaplains, and by extension their spouses, get invited to a lot of these) that she knew about hostess gifts, and had the forethought to check with the protocol office to see if hostess gifts were appropriate in this case, to which they replied that they certainly weren't necessary, but from a protocol standpoint it would be a nice gesture.
Which means, in a nutshell, that all the cool people are doing it.
And because she is awesome, the Chaplain's Wife gave me a heads-up, so I had enough time to stop on the way over. I chose a festive bottle of Bailey's, which I figured was appropriate given the St. Patrick's Day season. Either that, or the general and his wife are teetotalers and were totally offended that I would suggest they kick back a few from a bead-adorned bottle. Hostess gift: check.
And herein lies my dilemma. All this etiquette and protocol stuff is readily available to me via the Officers' Spouses Handbook, but I have thus far kept a longstanding vow to never purchase said handbook. I leafed through it once in the military clothing store for the sole purpose of scoffing at it. In my first round of therapy, the counselor--a retired major--told me to buy the book to help with my transition to military life, and I flat-out told him no (which was hugely bold of me at the time). I did not, and still do not, understand why the how-to's of writing thank-you notes, and which length of dress & how many petticoats to wear to which function, are what the Air Force deems essential for helping mil-wives navigate an entire sub-culture. The Spouses' Handbook should be subtitled something like "Everything you need to know to avoid making a fool of yourself at official functions; but for the rest you're on your own."
Here's the thing about the protocol. I get it; I understand the purpose of it. I've heard it said that etiquette is more than anything about showing people you care about them; that you are not taking them for granted and/or mistaking them for a portion of the floor or furniture, or something. I'm all about showing the love. The problem with taking something as warm and fuzzy as showing love, and boiling it down to a formulaic list of customs and courtesies, is that instead of focusing on showing love & being yourself, you are overly afraid you're going to mess up something on the list. The problem with protocol is that in our fear we miss out on the best of each other.
What were we talking about again?
Right, the luncheon. There were ten of us, I believe. The two generals' wives, two colonels' wives, both the incoming and outgoing presidents of the Warren Spouses Club, and the finalists from the 2010 Spouse of the Year (I was in the latter category). We all found things we had in common. Mostly we talked about dogs and kids and, keeping true to form, I got to briefly break from the appropriate and pleasant, and share how Pim was eaten by coyotes when we were living in California. The visiting general's wife asked us to each tell a little bit about ourselves and, true to form again, I babbled a little bit when it came to my turn. In my mind I was a red-faced nervous goofball, but history tells me it probably didn't show too much.
Both generals' wives were totally cool. If we were all sitting at my table drinking a Coke, I think we'd have made each other laugh hysterically. Because of the formalities, even though we had a good time, I think we didn't get to know each other quite as well as we could have. But maybe that's a necessary evil. I mean, you (I) can't be BFF with everyone, and you (I) certainly can't expect a luncheon to be a regular gateway to such relationships.
So maybe my unease with protocol is that, as a relational person, it simply doesn't match well with how I best like to spend my time. Some folks enjoy shindigs as a rule. I don't mind them sometimes, but if my entire life was formal and official, with no letting down and burping out loud in front of each other, I would poke my eyeballs out. I have small children--poop is such a major theme in my life that I must be permitted to talk about it. Often. But if I were a general's wife, and I went along with my husband to visit another base, would I want to talk with random other spouses and hear their poop stories? Maybe at first, but I bet it would get old.
So anyway, we ate our pot-pies and salads and dessert. We held our cloth napkins in our laps and only started eating after the guest of honor did. I caught myself at one point trying to pry the crust from my bowl with my fingers, and switched to a fork instead. But I heard later that one of the colonel's wives was doing the same thing, and it made me happy to hear that she enjoys the crust as much as I do. We talked. We toured. We took turns standing on the balcony and looking out through Teddy Roosevelt's evergreens onto the parade field. I waved at the escort staff below and said, "Hello! This is my official wave!" and they waved back. I am a big dork. But a happy dork.
We got word that the generals were running ahead of schedule (miracle of miracles), and the ladies were whisked off to join them for the next event on their itinerary. And then it was time to go. Three of us walked out together, commenting that our 15 minutes of base-wide semi-fame were up, and we had to get back to our glamorous lives of laundry and grocery runs.
I think I do OK if I remember the place of protocol. When I show good manners, it shows simply that I know how to show good manners. It speaks very little about who I am, and it certainly doesn't diminish my awesomeness if I am unaware or forgetful of a particular bit of protocol. So my recommendation to you, if you are ever invited to a luncheon with the general's wife, is to go and enjoy.
And don't forget to wave from the balcony...
Mar 14, 2011
Weeks 9-11--Mrs. Fancy Pants...
I love pretty much everything about this photo. Not that the photo itself is anything to write home about (Hipstamatic iPhone app, Jimmy lens, Ina's 1969 film, no flash), but I remember the moment and it makes me laugh. We were in Ft. Collins this past Saturday for their annual St. Patrick's Day parade, which I highly recommend, especially when it's in the 50's and partly sunny. We went down with our neighbor and her son, who is friends with the boyz. Another lady from my moms' group caravanned down with us as well, but due to traffic and detours and such she ended up another block up on the route and decided to stay put. I can't say I blame her either, since she was right near the coolest toy store in town. I hope she took advantage of the situation and ducked in after the parade. Just saying.
Anyway, so this nattily-dressed dude rolled by in this fantastic vintage car labeled "Dollar Discount," and I said, "Hey, it's the Pope!" And about 2 seconds later I thought to myself, "Um, Skerrib, I think that's St. Patrick, being a St Patty's parade and all." Which the CatDaddy also generously explained. I looked apologetically at our neighbor, who happens to be Catholic. She didn't bat an eye though; she has been very patient with my protestant ignorance about Lent & such. It's not that I'm unaware, it's just that since I don't practice it I don't think about things like not eating meat on Fridays, and how not every pious guy in a robe & tall hat is necessarily the pope, and whatnot.
Either way, we all enjoyed some Smashburger after the parade, followed by a quick trip thru Toys R Us before all the boys signaled their nap-readiness by falling apart to varying degrees. So we headed home and that was that.
Early-eary Sunday was spent in a flurry of sheet-changing, as His Highness woke (in our bed) with a yucky, pukey tummy-bug. We got the spares put on, and I brought in a big bowl just in case, and all of us back to sleep...and then he did it again. Obviously to a lesser degree, as there wasn't much left in his stomach this time around, but unfortunately we did not get the bowl under him in time. So we stripped the bed again, and I dug out the really old spares, and dozed off again for a short time before I began to feel sick as well. So my early-morning was spent in a massive body purge through several available orifices (luckily I have quick reflexes and made it to the bathroom with both time and fluid-receptacles to spare). And the Littler One woke up looking mildly distressed, saying "pooooo-peeeee" with a diaper that I best not describe. So my sum total was one puker, one pooper, and yours truly with both.
The Cat Daddy was on the worship team at church and feeling fine, but needless to say the rest of us did not make it to church that morning. Once we were more or less awake for the day we trekked downstairs and turned on NicJr, which is His Highness's current favorite channel. They say they're like Preschool on TV. I say they're like watching preschool on TV, and TV stations should be careful about going around and making such claims because watching preschool on TV doesn't even come close to playing with friends and making art & stuff at His Highness's actual Awesome Preschool...but I do like NicJr as far as kid-TV goes. While the nastiest parts of the sickness were done by breakfast-time, we spent the entire day languishing about the house, and I was mildly concerned that I would never again feel better. This happens nearly every time I get a stomach bug, and is one of the reasons I despise stomach bugs.
Today I kept His Highness home from Awesome Preschool and we rested for most of the day. We were mostly back to normal, but I didn't want to do that thing where you wake up feeling pretty good, and then you go out & tackle life, only to feel like poop by mid-afternoon. So we were mellow, and ate light, and walked to the park in the afternoon, and I think by tomorrow it'll be time to tackle life again.
Now, Wednesday. Wednesday it so happens that I am attending a luncheon on base, hosted by a general's wife. I'm not sure whether it's a general or the general. I think it's the general, because I think we only have one general on base, but I'm not positive. Regardless, another general's wife is visiting from another state, so our general's wife is throwing her a shindig, I guess, and invited all the spouses of the quarters from last year (Of which I am one. Oh yes I am). Or something.
I am anxious to see what it is like. When the Cat Daddy first joined the Air Force my mom informed me about having to dress up, and attend teas, and whatnot. And I scoffed at her and threatened to dye my hair blue (which, unfortunately, would not complement my warm palette, so I never did it). So here I am, 10 years later, attending a luncheon, and what is a luncheon but a tea with some chicken caesar salad instead of finger sandwiches? The dressing up is an interesting point, because the scheduled attire is "business casual." As it's been a while since I've done any actual business, I will need to do some digging, but I think I can find something that is not a hoodie, and maybe--just maybe--I will wear pants of the non-denim variety. But maybe not; depends on my anxiety level on the actual day. And the weather.
So my neurotic side is gearing up for dealing with all levels of snootiness and pretense. I'm planning how I will make a gracious yet poignant exit if anyone makes a snide remark about my possible choice of jeans or starts berating nerds, or something. My realistic side is telling me to get a grip. After all, my neurotic side is making a plan based on stereotypes rather than actual experience. Good gracious, Skerrib!
On the other hand, should the event turn out to be perfectly lovely, I am quite skilled at ditching the neurotic contingency and just hanging out & having fun. So maybe I'm just covering my bases. Besides, my friend the Chaplain's Wife will be there too (we are quality individuals with our quarterly awards, you know), and she always makes things fun. Plus she is Southern and knows manners & stuff, and is very kind about helping me out when I get a little clueless. I will just watch to see which fork she uses, and try to refrain from talking about my poop/puke weekend.
So here's to the common people. I will report back soon with tales of refinement and culture. Wish me luck...
Anyway, so this nattily-dressed dude rolled by in this fantastic vintage car labeled "Dollar Discount," and I said, "Hey, it's the Pope!" And about 2 seconds later I thought to myself, "Um, Skerrib, I think that's St. Patrick, being a St Patty's parade and all." Which the CatDaddy also generously explained. I looked apologetically at our neighbor, who happens to be Catholic. She didn't bat an eye though; she has been very patient with my protestant ignorance about Lent & such. It's not that I'm unaware, it's just that since I don't practice it I don't think about things like not eating meat on Fridays, and how not every pious guy in a robe & tall hat is necessarily the pope, and whatnot.
Either way, we all enjoyed some Smashburger after the parade, followed by a quick trip thru Toys R Us before all the boys signaled their nap-readiness by falling apart to varying degrees. So we headed home and that was that.
Early-eary Sunday was spent in a flurry of sheet-changing, as His Highness woke (in our bed) with a yucky, pukey tummy-bug. We got the spares put on, and I brought in a big bowl just in case, and all of us back to sleep...and then he did it again. Obviously to a lesser degree, as there wasn't much left in his stomach this time around, but unfortunately we did not get the bowl under him in time. So we stripped the bed again, and I dug out the really old spares, and dozed off again for a short time before I began to feel sick as well. So my early-morning was spent in a massive body purge through several available orifices (luckily I have quick reflexes and made it to the bathroom with both time and fluid-receptacles to spare). And the Littler One woke up looking mildly distressed, saying "pooooo-peeeee" with a diaper that I best not describe. So my sum total was one puker, one pooper, and yours truly with both.
The Cat Daddy was on the worship team at church and feeling fine, but needless to say the rest of us did not make it to church that morning. Once we were more or less awake for the day we trekked downstairs and turned on NicJr, which is His Highness's current favorite channel. They say they're like Preschool on TV. I say they're like watching preschool on TV, and TV stations should be careful about going around and making such claims because watching preschool on TV doesn't even come close to playing with friends and making art & stuff at His Highness's actual Awesome Preschool...but I do like NicJr as far as kid-TV goes. While the nastiest parts of the sickness were done by breakfast-time, we spent the entire day languishing about the house, and I was mildly concerned that I would never again feel better. This happens nearly every time I get a stomach bug, and is one of the reasons I despise stomach bugs.
Today I kept His Highness home from Awesome Preschool and we rested for most of the day. We were mostly back to normal, but I didn't want to do that thing where you wake up feeling pretty good, and then you go out & tackle life, only to feel like poop by mid-afternoon. So we were mellow, and ate light, and walked to the park in the afternoon, and I think by tomorrow it'll be time to tackle life again.
Now, Wednesday. Wednesday it so happens that I am attending a luncheon on base, hosted by a general's wife. I'm not sure whether it's a general or the general. I think it's the general, because I think we only have one general on base, but I'm not positive. Regardless, another general's wife is visiting from another state, so our general's wife is throwing her a shindig, I guess, and invited all the spouses of the quarters from last year (Of which I am one. Oh yes I am). Or something.
I am anxious to see what it is like. When the Cat Daddy first joined the Air Force my mom informed me about having to dress up, and attend teas, and whatnot. And I scoffed at her and threatened to dye my hair blue (which, unfortunately, would not complement my warm palette, so I never did it). So here I am, 10 years later, attending a luncheon, and what is a luncheon but a tea with some chicken caesar salad instead of finger sandwiches? The dressing up is an interesting point, because the scheduled attire is "business casual." As it's been a while since I've done any actual business, I will need to do some digging, but I think I can find something that is not a hoodie, and maybe--just maybe--I will wear pants of the non-denim variety. But maybe not; depends on my anxiety level on the actual day. And the weather.
So my neurotic side is gearing up for dealing with all levels of snootiness and pretense. I'm planning how I will make a gracious yet poignant exit if anyone makes a snide remark about my possible choice of jeans or starts berating nerds, or something. My realistic side is telling me to get a grip. After all, my neurotic side is making a plan based on stereotypes rather than actual experience. Good gracious, Skerrib!
On the other hand, should the event turn out to be perfectly lovely, I am quite skilled at ditching the neurotic contingency and just hanging out & having fun. So maybe I'm just covering my bases. Besides, my friend the Chaplain's Wife will be there too (we are quality individuals with our quarterly awards, you know), and she always makes things fun. Plus she is Southern and knows manners & stuff, and is very kind about helping me out when I get a little clueless. I will just watch to see which fork she uses, and try to refrain from talking about my poop/puke weekend.
So here's to the common people. I will report back soon with tales of refinement and culture. Wish me luck...
Feb 28, 2011
Emerging Sanity & Other Thoughts...
I keep learning more & more about myself through various cycles of neurosis. The past few months have been one for the record books in terms of familial sickness--of the mild, everyday sort, thank God--as well as regular old hecticness. Hecticity. Hectonomy. The state of being hectic.
It's been a little hectic.
At the same time I've been battling a sort of controlled neurosis. As I swing back toward confidence I'm not sure the exact relationship between the hectic and the neurotic; I just know a relationship exists and I'm trying to keep track of hints & tips I'm picking up along the way...
To-do lists are my friend. Lately I take 10 minutes on Sunday night and plan my week. I look at my monthly calendar, my ongoing to-do list, and my upcoming weekly calendar, inserting tasks where I can fit them. It has helped immensely with being realistic about how much I can get done, and what can be put off & for how long...
Simplifying my life can mean lots of different things. I resisted getting a steam mop for a long time cuz I was afraid of adding another gadget to the pile. But guess what? In purchasing one fabulous steam mop I was able to get rid of the broom, mop, & Swiffer (OK I gave the swiffer to the kids), and I reduced the job in question from 2-3 hours to less than one. With no added chemicals. Much simpler...
Sleep is probably the second most important factor in my productivity, after the to-do lists. Some folks can stay up later to get more done after the kids are in bed. When I try this more than very rarely, I end up pretty much useless in the daytime. I kept beating myself up for falling asleep while putting the Littler One to bed (our version of sleep training involves lying next to him while he falls asleep in his own bed, but that's another post), but eventually I said to myself, "Skerrib, if you're falling asleep you're obviously tired. Just admit that you're not going to do anything after the kids' bedtime." So I stopped planning tasks for the evening (other than, like, AWANA), and on the occasions where I manage to stay awake I have used the time for "me" stuff such as reading and flossing and whatnot. Badda-bing, badda-boom. It's not as though everything is suddenly on a tight schedule and I'm swimming in spare time, but stuff is getting done more often and my house is a little less of a disaster a little more of the time...
**Side story--one night a few weeks ago we held FOCUS group (church small group) at our house. One of the ladies said, "Skerrib, I know something's different from the last time but I'm not sure what. Tell me what you did." And I replied, "I cleaned. I'm not even kidding." And it was the truth--I couldn't think of a single thing that was different, other than the fact that I had had more time than usual to tidy & vacuum before the group came over. I think she might've felt bad, but I hope not 'cuz I thought it was hilarious. End side story**
Right after Christmas I went through the toys and took out a bunch to toss/give away/donate. Last week I took another portion and set them out of reach. The rate of disaster in the basement is markedly less since then. I'm seriously tempted to have another go-round at weeding out.
On top of that, the Littler One is not getting any toys for his second birthday. We've asked the grandparents to give to his college fund, and we are getting him a couple books, and that's it. IF we have a friend-party I'm going to ask people to bring PJ's and books to donate to the Pajama Program in place of gifts. I'm brazenly swiping this idea from a friend who did it for her daughter's 2nd birthday (it worked swimmingly for them). Now, whether or not the grandmas will be able to adhere to our request is another question; they are certain the boys spend hours sitting in the basement with absolutely nothing to play with, and therefore need more stuff!! But the intent is there, so that's a start...
I had some conflict to work out recently, and I found it less tiring than the hecticnicity. For me, this is progress. By no means was it easy or fun, but I told myself "Skerrib, you are a grown-up and you can do this, and you have to do it if you want to feel healthy and sane." I think there's a lot to be said about regular, healthy challenges. For example, I hate talking on the phone. I generally try to avoid it, but if I am too successful at avoiding it, I tend to sink into fear over it, and then things get messy. By contrast, I had a couple telecons for work over several weeks, and by the last one I was feeling pretty decent about talking with my work peeps.
Kind of like when I am tired and feeling like poop. If I stay home and lie around I will generally feel more & more sluggish, but if I take a jog--no matter how slow--I will feel at least a little better every time...
...Speaking of which, I tried out my fancy new racing flats today, for about 10 minutes of highly-successful zero-drop running after a short-ish jog around town (including the library, 'cuz the Littler One and I are awesome). It's right in there with the healthy challenge thing. It's something a little new & different, but not too crazy or strenuous, and it makes me love running even more. The whole thing just makes me happy...
The Cat Daddy started putting the Littler One down to sleep yesterday. This also makes me incredibly happy, since the Littler One goes down much, much easier for the Cat Daddy, and it also lets us drop another nursing session from the routine. By now you all know I am a huge advocate of breastfeeding, and I firmly believe in each mom/baby deciding for themselves when to wean (instead of an arbitrarily-prescribed age with little consideration to the mom or baby's individual needs)...and I can say confidently that it is time for the Littler One to be on this weaning path, no matter how gradual.
There was some talk of mutiny on the Cat Daddy's part, however. I think he finds it tiring to put the Littler One to sleep. I plan to, um, talk it out with him so we can figure out a solution, which I really hope doesn't involve reinstating the bedtime nursing session. 'Cuz that would suck. On several levels...
It's been a little hectic.
At the same time I've been battling a sort of controlled neurosis. As I swing back toward confidence I'm not sure the exact relationship between the hectic and the neurotic; I just know a relationship exists and I'm trying to keep track of hints & tips I'm picking up along the way...
To-do lists are my friend. Lately I take 10 minutes on Sunday night and plan my week. I look at my monthly calendar, my ongoing to-do list, and my upcoming weekly calendar, inserting tasks where I can fit them. It has helped immensely with being realistic about how much I can get done, and what can be put off & for how long...
Simplifying my life can mean lots of different things. I resisted getting a steam mop for a long time cuz I was afraid of adding another gadget to the pile. But guess what? In purchasing one fabulous steam mop I was able to get rid of the broom, mop, & Swiffer (OK I gave the swiffer to the kids), and I reduced the job in question from 2-3 hours to less than one. With no added chemicals. Much simpler...
Sleep is probably the second most important factor in my productivity, after the to-do lists. Some folks can stay up later to get more done after the kids are in bed. When I try this more than very rarely, I end up pretty much useless in the daytime. I kept beating myself up for falling asleep while putting the Littler One to bed (our version of sleep training involves lying next to him while he falls asleep in his own bed, but that's another post), but eventually I said to myself, "Skerrib, if you're falling asleep you're obviously tired. Just admit that you're not going to do anything after the kids' bedtime." So I stopped planning tasks for the evening (other than, like, AWANA), and on the occasions where I manage to stay awake I have used the time for "me" stuff such as reading and flossing and whatnot. Badda-bing, badda-boom. It's not as though everything is suddenly on a tight schedule and I'm swimming in spare time, but stuff is getting done more often and my house is a little less of a disaster a little more of the time...
**Side story--one night a few weeks ago we held FOCUS group (church small group) at our house. One of the ladies said, "Skerrib, I know something's different from the last time but I'm not sure what. Tell me what you did." And I replied, "I cleaned. I'm not even kidding." And it was the truth--I couldn't think of a single thing that was different, other than the fact that I had had more time than usual to tidy & vacuum before the group came over. I think she might've felt bad, but I hope not 'cuz I thought it was hilarious. End side story**
Right after Christmas I went through the toys and took out a bunch to toss/give away/donate. Last week I took another portion and set them out of reach. The rate of disaster in the basement is markedly less since then. I'm seriously tempted to have another go-round at weeding out.
On top of that, the Littler One is not getting any toys for his second birthday. We've asked the grandparents to give to his college fund, and we are getting him a couple books, and that's it. IF we have a friend-party I'm going to ask people to bring PJ's and books to donate to the Pajama Program in place of gifts. I'm brazenly swiping this idea from a friend who did it for her daughter's 2nd birthday (it worked swimmingly for them). Now, whether or not the grandmas will be able to adhere to our request is another question; they are certain the boys spend hours sitting in the basement with absolutely nothing to play with, and therefore need more stuff!! But the intent is there, so that's a start...
I had some conflict to work out recently, and I found it less tiring than the hecticnicity. For me, this is progress. By no means was it easy or fun, but I told myself "Skerrib, you are a grown-up and you can do this, and you have to do it if you want to feel healthy and sane." I think there's a lot to be said about regular, healthy challenges. For example, I hate talking on the phone. I generally try to avoid it, but if I am too successful at avoiding it, I tend to sink into fear over it, and then things get messy. By contrast, I had a couple telecons for work over several weeks, and by the last one I was feeling pretty decent about talking with my work peeps.
Kind of like when I am tired and feeling like poop. If I stay home and lie around I will generally feel more & more sluggish, but if I take a jog--no matter how slow--I will feel at least a little better every time...
...Speaking of which, I tried out my fancy new racing flats today, for about 10 minutes of highly-successful zero-drop running after a short-ish jog around town (including the library, 'cuz the Littler One and I are awesome). It's right in there with the healthy challenge thing. It's something a little new & different, but not too crazy or strenuous, and it makes me love running even more. The whole thing just makes me happy...
The Cat Daddy started putting the Littler One down to sleep yesterday. This also makes me incredibly happy, since the Littler One goes down much, much easier for the Cat Daddy, and it also lets us drop another nursing session from the routine. By now you all know I am a huge advocate of breastfeeding, and I firmly believe in each mom/baby deciding for themselves when to wean (instead of an arbitrarily-prescribed age with little consideration to the mom or baby's individual needs)...and I can say confidently that it is time for the Littler One to be on this weaning path, no matter how gradual.
There was some talk of mutiny on the Cat Daddy's part, however. I think he finds it tiring to put the Littler One to sleep. I plan to, um, talk it out with him so we can figure out a solution, which I really hope doesn't involve reinstating the bedtime nursing session. 'Cuz that would suck. On several levels...
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