Happy New School Year!

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t look forward to buying school supplies.  As a kid I would wait anxiously for the “back-to-school” signs to popup in the stores and spend hours picking out the right colored folders and perfect pencils.  I couldn’t wait to get my hands on a new box of crayons or a smooth, flawless pink eraser and I would spend countless hours organizing my new school loot in preparation for the first day of school. With my school days long gone, I still find great joy in the school supply shopping excursion.  I love watching my children make their selections and rush home to put every piece carefully in their new backpacks.  Suddenly the excitement of summer is replaced by the anticipation of a new school year.

Although my kids may not feel new notebooks and highlighters are anything more than school supplies, to me they symbolize a new beginning—a chance to start with a clean slate so to speak.  For a brief moment I have forgotten all about the endless nights of arguing over homework, the fights with friends and the seven pairs of gloves lost during winter recess football games.  I find myself longing for filling lunch boxes with nutritious goodies and spending afternoons playing chauffeur to kids with ball practices and band programs.  “This is my year,” I say to myself in the mirror.  “This is my year to go from overwhelmed mother to school-mom extraordinaire.”

But, before long, the school year begins and the fresh, clean notebooks are soon tattered and torn.  The schedule gets hectic, the homework gets hard and my kids and I find ourselves longing for lazy weekend afternoons.  I guess that’s why I cherish those back-to-school shopping moments so much—they give me that rare opportunity to be able to fix all that is broken or achieve all that is hard by simply buying my child a Chicago Bears lunchbox or a Hollister backpack.  Nothing seems impossible with a good, sharpened pencil and a fresh pad of paper.

This school year we are embarking on a lot of new “firsts” for our family.  My daughter is spending her 8th grade year in a new middle school and is now joined by her brother who is starting 6th grade.  And, my youngest son is stepping into first grade without the comfort of his big brother and his fifth grade entourage.   As we sifted through folders and picked out backpacks I couldn't help but relish in the thought that this could truly be "our year." 

Better With Age?

It is one of those unbelievable cool July days—the kind where you begin thinking football and crackling leaves and find yourself surprised that you still have swim towels drying on the patio chairs.  I have decided to skip impending work projects and laundry folding and make my way to the sunlit patio to begin leafing through the plethora of magazines that have spent many a week lying on my family room floor.

“I wonder if I know anyone that has been to a ‘Botox Party’?”  I innocently ask out loud as I begin reading an article on the subject.

“What’s that?” Nate replies as he walks over to the patio and pulls up a chair.

“It’s a party where women go to have Botox injections.”  Nate’s expressionless face quickly tells me that my answer means absolutely nothing to his 11-year-old mind.  “They stick a needle in your wrinkles to make them smooth,” I add.

“Yuck, who would want to do that?”

“People who want to look younger.”

“Why would you ever want to be younger than you are?”  

Isn’t looking at the world through an 11-year-old’s eyes wonderful?  At 11, you can’t imagine anyone wanting to be younger—after all, with age comes great opportunities such as being able to ride your bike one more street over in the neighborhood or going to the movies with just your friends.  We mark our calendar for those age milestones such as turning 13, 16, 21—eagerly anticipating all the great things that the new age will let us do and the great person we will be able to become.  

Something happens to us—I’m guessing somewhere in our thirties—where age stops being something we look forward to and starts becoming something we dread.  We begin to see how precious time really is and how quickly it flies when we are preoccupied with kids, work and life in general.  And then, when we hit a major milestone (for me it was 40), we find ourselves frozen in fear—fearful that we may have nothing else to accomplish or to become.  This, we think, may be as good as it gets.

I reply, “Some people believe that getting older means they aren’t as good as they used to be, so they try to keep themselves looking young.”

“Are you as good as you used to be?”  

What is with this kid today?  I wasn’t prepared for such deep, introspective questioning from the boy whose conversations usually include some type of sports’ reference or sixth-grade boy humor.   

“Well, Nate, probably not,” I reply.  “But, I’m not really sad about it—at least I’m not sad enough to have a needle put into my forehead.”

“So, you don’t wish you were younger?”

“Not really, I kind of like life right where it is—not wishing it would move forward too fast or even move backwards.”  I stop for a moment and realize that I should probably take advantage of this rare serious discussion with Nate.  “You know what, Nate?  You should like life right where it is as well—not always wanting to be a few years older just so you can ride your bike to Dairy Queen with your friends.”

“Yeah, I’ll think about doing that as I watch the other guys come back with their ice cream cones,” he replies.  “Hey, what’s under there?”

“Under where?”

Nate laughs as he runs to the front yard yelling, “I just made you say ‘underwear.’”  

It’s nice to see this serious side of Nate is no match for the funny side.  I kind of like him with a little dirt on his face, spitting sunflower seeds through a baseball dugout fence and sharing jokes with his friends about bodily functions and words deemed ‘inappropriate’ for casual conversations such as ‘underwear’ and ‘sports cups’.  

But, it’s always nice to see there is a little more to Nate than meets the eye—and with age, he will undoubtedly become better.  Don’t we all?

Going Home--Again

The moment our car drives over the line into Terre Haute, Indiana, my stomach becomes tense.  I always have mixed emotions about visiting my hometown—excited to see family and friends, but not quite prepared for the onslaught of guilt I have for leaving.  I wanted to leave the moment I was old enough to realize there was a world outside of the city limits of this semi-small Indiana town, but every time I return I secretly resent the fact that life has gone on without me. 

After college, I returned to Terre Haute—had a wonderful job, got married and even had two of my three children in the very same hospital where I was born.  I really tried to get comfortable with the idea that I might never leave, but something kept pulling me in a different direction.  Then I came across the straw that broke the camel’s back.  In the middle of a presentation to a prospective client, the VP of the company (who also happened to be a childhood friend) raised his hand and asked, “Hey, what was the name of that boy that sat in front of you in Chemistry?”  It was this question that made me realize there would always be some people in this town who would refuse to see me as an adult—they would only see me as their high school friend or the daughter of Cecil and Nancy.

We left several months after that presentation and have been gone for almost 12 years.  However, every time we return, I come face to face with the reality that it isn’t this town that refused to let me grow up, it was me.  I am the one that still sees everything—and everybody—through the eyes of an 18 year-old girl and my heart breaks just a little more each time when I realize that life has truly moved on without me.   

A few weeks ago I spent a rainy Saturday morning sitting in a Terre Haute Starbucks enjoying the anonymity that comes with visiting places outside of your regular ‘hood.  Every single person that walked through the door knew someone inside this busy little coffee shop—from the people behind the counter to the older man who sat in the back corner quietly reading the local paper.  It was truly one of those Cheers moments where “everyone knows your name.”  Except for me—I sat by the window watching the rain as I emotionally moved myself from a place of comfort to agitation.  It was as if I was sitting at a party where I wasn’t really invited.

Even the people that looked vaguely familiar to me looked right past me—not even stopping to think that perhaps we had once been friends (OK, not great friends, but in a smaller town your friend circles do tend to overlap).  There they stood with their spouses and children—obviously having moved way past the days of high school football games and parties.  They had accomplished what I had failed to do—become a real life adult in a town that holds every single piece of my childhood. 

How fun it must be to raise your kids in the same town where you grew up—attending the same schools, shopping at the same stores, knowing the same people.  My kids and I will never have this type of shared experience—which is why, when we make our trips to Terre Haute, I spend countless hours taking them down unmarked roads and past homes that no longer house the families I once knew.  And just when I think the cause is lost….

“Mom, can we get ice cream from Green Acres and go see the ‘Spooky Tree’?’” my son asks from the backseat. 

“Of course,” I reply with a smile—happy to know that there will always be a little Indiana in all of us.

 

Who Needs Downtime? I Do!

“I can’t believe how busy I am,” I overheard a woman say as I sat perusing magazines at a local bookstore.  “Between getting four kids to camp, my part-time job at the doctor’s office and evening baseball games and dance rehearsals, I barely have time to volunteer at church and workout every other day.  I wish I had just a little more time so I could finally take that cooking class I’ve been wanting to take.”

Wow.  While this woman was busy trying to get in a cooking class, I was using my one free weekday evening to buy as many magazines as possible so I could sit in my pajamas and catch up with everything that has been going on in the lives of Brad and Angelina, Jon and Kate and of course—most recently—the Jackson family. 

I am always impressed with the endless amount of energy and motivation that some women seem to possess, but truth be known, I enjoy my downtime—matter of fact, I need downtime in order to function on a day to day basis.   And this summer—with all of its activities and events—I am craving downtime more than ever.  So much so, that every spare moment between camps, baseball games, family visits and work projects has been spent trying to find a life with a little less action (and a lot more magazine reading—oh, and a nice glass of wine).   

Unfortunately, my blog has suffered from the “Great Search for Downtime of 2009” and I have not been updating it on a regular basis.  I know you are all just sitting on the edge of your seat waiting for the next great Minglin Family Adventure and I wanted to let you know that you will once again be treated to weekly updates of our crazy, yet joyful (OK, maybe ‘joyful’ is a little strong) suburban life. 

Thank you for being patient—I so enjoy sharing my stories with all of you and absolutely love your feedback and comments.  Hope you are all enjoying a summer of mingling on your own patios—can’t wait to bring “Patio Mingling” back to you!

A Real 'Working' Job

Being a work-from-home mom is not always the best of gigs.  I am constantly juggling life on both sides of the working fence--not quite a stay-at-home mom and not quite a corporate ladder climber.  I try to keep my work tasks scheduled during normal school hours, but there is often a glitch in the routine:  an unexpected day off, a child who comes home sick or a West Coast phone meeting that can only happen when everyone is home at the end of the day.

I have managed to extend my work hours today by letting the boys walk home from school on their own.  I can only imagine the “walking path” chatter as other moms innocently ask, “Where’s your Mom today?  She must be so busy with work—we never see her.”  Somewhere between the decision to not go to an office and the decision to sometimes let the boys walk home on their own after school, I have seemingly been shunned by some of the other moms in our school community.  They roll their eyes whenever I turn down a volunteer request by citing “work conflicts” and though I can’t prove it, I’m pretty sure when my number pops up on their caller ID they don’t answer for fear that I am about to ask them to pick up or take to a sports’ practice or change dates for bringing the game snacks. 

“Shhhhhh,” Nate says as they walk in the front door. “Mom’s still working.” 

“Working on what?”  Jack asks.

“Work—you know, writing stuff.”

“Work?  Mommy doesn’t have a real job—she just writes stuff.  That’s not a real job like William’s mom—she’s a police officer.  Ooohh, or an army guy, or the person that brings our pizzas—those are cool jobs.  Mommy needs a real job, you know a real 'working job'.”

I realize it is hard for Jack to wrap his head around the idea that his mom actually has a job, after all—I’m always home.  When Jack was asked what his mom did all day while he was at school he simply stated:  “she plays on her computer.”  True—and while that is a perfectly good answer coming from an elementary student, it is probably the same answer some of my neighbors would give if asked the very same question (of course, they would spice it up with additional commentary such as “Well, she’s certainly not doing her laundry—did you see what Nate was wearing yesterday?”).

“Mom!” Jack yells as he comes up the stairs and into my office.  “See, Nate—I told you she wasn’t working.  She’s just on her computer.”

“Hi, Jack,” I answer.  “How was school?”

“Good—I painted today.  Do you want to see?” 

“Of course.”  As Jack digs through his backpack to find today’s art project I dig through my desk drawer for a thumbtack—knowing he will want this painting, like all others before it, displayed nicely on my bulletin board.

“Wow, Jack—that’s awesome.  Looks like you really worked hard today.”

“What did you do you today?”  He asks.

“Well, I worked on my book, talked to a few people on the phone about a story and wrote some things for my clients.” 

 “Oh,” he sighs as he starts to walk out the door.  “You should really do something that can be put up on a bulletin board.”

“I’ll work on that, Jack.  Thanks.”  

The Cool Factor

Here I am—sitting in the car outside of the orthodontist office helping my daughter blot away her tears before her appointment.  I had scheduled Hanna’s appointment to immediately follow soccer tryouts—completely forgetting they would be posting the results which turned out to be a devastating blow to her middle school ego. 

“It’s not fair,” she said.  “The girls that were on the team last year got to help pick the new girls.  They picked a lot of their friends—not necessarily the ones that were really good.”  I really stopped myself from saying the old parent stand-by “life’s not fair” and instead opted for something a little more supportive and empathetic. 

“I know your feelings are hurt and you have every right to be disappointed,” I started.  “When you work hard for something and then you don’t get it…well, it sucks.”  I think Hanna was both shocked and impressed that I had thrown out such a “never-say-around-parents” word and I thought we just might be turning the corner with our emotions.

“It does suck,” she said.  "I'm never trying out for a team again."

“You don’t really mean that.  It’s just hard for you to see through your disappointment.”  By the look on Hanna’s face that final statement caused us to come to a complete standstill on the emotional corner we were in the process of turning.

“What do you know?” Hanna questioned.  “You don’t know those girls.  You don’t know the coach.  You don’t know anything.” 

Ah, there it is.  The phrase I love the most as a Mom:  “You don’t know anything.”  As my children have gotten older I am beginning to hear that phrase a bit more often.  Sometimes I feel as if my children are looking at me in wonder thinking, “She is a complete moron.  How did she ever become a functioning adult with a job and a family.”

“You’re right, Hanna,” I begin.  “I don’t know the girls or the coach, but I definitely know how you feel.  When I was in the eighth grade I tried out for cheerleader and made it all the way to the very end.  There were only 10 girls left and I was so certain I would make the cut—I had practiced so hard.  Well, I didn’t make it and I was crushed."

Hanna is now staring at me through her tears as if my story of cheerleading woe has absolutely nothing to do with her situation or feelings.  “Nice story, Mom. 

“All I’m saying is that not being an eighth grade cheerleader had very little affect on my future success in school—or in life overall—and this little blip in your middle school career will seem like nothing one day.”

“I know, I know, I know,” Hanna says as she begins to dry her eyes.  “You’re right.  Life will go on.”  Then she adds with a laugh, “And even though I didn’t make seventh grade soccer, I could still become prom queen.”  

I realize she is referencing my only real high school claim to fame and although I detect the sarcasm in her voice there is a part of me that thinks the prom queen status just might make me cool in the eyes of my daughter.

“You can do anything you set your mind to, Hanna.  You know what I loved—student government.  Maybe you could be class president.  I always wanted to be class president.” 

“Mom, you’re a geek.”  So much for the cool factor.

Strategies of Distraction

Jack is sitting in the dugout picking at the bottom of his cleats.  He appears to be mesmerized by the amount of dirt and grass stuck between the spikes and just when I think he has gotten bored with the task, he screams out onto the playing field, “Hey, look what’s on the bottom of my foot.”  I look over to see the remains of a very long and gooey worm.  The poor dear met his unfortunate fate by being in the wrong place at the wrong time in the outfield.  Jack is ecstatic—as is every other kindergarten boy on and off the field. 

“So cool, Jack,” his friend Mark exclaims.  “Is it still moving?”

“No, only when I wiggle it with my fingers.  The other part is missing—it must still be in the grass,” Jack says.

“Let’s try to find it.”  Replies Mark as he yells to the other team who is now positioned in the field, “Hey, look for a worm part in the grass—Jack has the other part on his shoe.”

Obviously, the worm has become a distraction as Jack and his teammates (and even some of those on the opposing team) are busy trying to determine if the stuck worm is a whole or a part. Just then, Nate—who is already dressed for his late evening baseball game—gets up off the ground and walks over to the dugout.  He snatches the worm from Jack’s shoe and says, “There, it’s gone.  There’s no need to find the other part.  Watch the game.”

Nate has no patience for such shenanigans and would rather these young boys spend their dugout time cheering on their teammates or spitting sunflower seeds through the fence.  In his short 11 years of life, Nate’s sport experience has gone from frivolous fun to serious strategy and while he was once a reluctant baseball player (his real passion is football and wrestling), he has developed an admiration and respect for the game—something he is trying to instill in his young brother.  

“Nate!” Jack screams from the dugout.  “Why did you do that?”

“It’s a worm.  A dead worm.  I’ll find you a new ‘alive’ worm while you finish the game.”  Nate screams back.  Nate and I both know he has no intention of digging for worms during this game, but his reply seems to be just enough to appease the young boys on the team.

“Don’t you think Jack will be disappointed when he doesn’t have a new worm at the end of this game?”  I ask. 

“I don’t need to find a worm,” says Nate.  “I just saw the Mom with the snacks and she brought blue Gatorades and Rice Krispie treats.  They won’t even remember the worm in Jack’s shoe when they see that.  Hey, can we bring blue Gatorades when it’s our snack day for my team?”

“We don’t have snack days for your team, Nate.  You’re too old.” 

“Oh,” he says as he begins kicking the dirt with his cleat.  “Hey, look what’s on the bottom of my foot?”

I look down to see the missing part of Jack’s worm dangling oh so carefully from Nate’s shoe.  “I’ll just give him this part.  He won’t know it’s dead until he gets home.”

“The worm is not going in my car—dead or not,” I state.  

“Well, you better hope he likes the blue Gatorade,” laughs Nate. 

It’s nice to see the serious sport strategies that Nate is learning include how to distract his young brother.  Perhaps I should be taking notes.