Posts Tagged ‘family’

An internet meme, suggests Christmas shopping with one’s husband is like hunting with a game warden.  Shopping with The Beloved Soul Mate is more akin to hunting with a P.E.T.A activist. Bringing  our different perspectives to the task, reminds me of how those committed to saving animals have trouble understanding those who enjoy eating them.

Different perspectives…I saw an example this weekend, when a child’s wish-list item was reinterpreted by a grown-up.  The child had his heart set on something, but the grown-up was sure he knew better.  In his attempt to buy the child something “better”, he forgot it wasn’t what the child wanted. A well-meaning parent certainly knows what is good for a child, but if Christmas were about what is good for us, there would be no spiked ‘nog or cookies.

We all know someone who would benefit from a smack to the side of the head, and  while the delivery of this, might for an instance allow the smacking party to experience the joy of giving, it is hardly in keeping with the spirit of the season.  If Christmas were about giving people what they needed, shopping would be easy–underwear all around!  Still,  some can’t resist the temptation to give others things they like or want the recipient to like. Read the rest of this entry »

It’s probably only a matter of time before someone authors “Everything I Ever Needed to Know I Learned  from my Girlfriends” if they haven’t already. The lessons we learn from the women in our lives, pick up where Mother’s lessons left off. Often they are lessons we wished we’d learned sooner.

For several years, I have enjoyed rereading the words on the framed poster in my grooming area. Posters, like tattoos, are often outgrown after a few years, but I’ve yet to outgrow this one.   Most of us are not fans of aging, but the years have a way of making us realize how much we don’t know and help us appreciate having been around long enough to have learned  a few life lessons. Perhaps one day, I’ll grow tired of the poster, but for now, it serves to remind me that youth & beauty are replaced by a something more substantial–a sense of self.

Though they are not mine, I share the words  here.

Every woman should
know how to use a stick shift;
a plunger;
understand the difference between
don’t tell and soul and
don’t tell a soul i mean it;
know her mind; change it;
have protection handy;
but not too handy;
use special china;
and special underwear
for no special reason;
over commit; come through;
refuse to do it again; do it again;
be able to discuss first and ten;
have better things to do;
set boundaries; go camping;
grow something; dance crazy all alone;
stare at a phone;
get dressed in five minutes;
be a princess; get over it;
believe in the perfect man;
get over it; read; walk; flirt;
shock; listen; sing; thank God;
be single and like it; a lot;
raise a child; or not;
see a wrinkle and be reminded
of her youth; not her age.

I’ve love the lines about keeping confidences.  Any woman worth her latte, knows how and when to keep secrets.

I can relate to the line about knowing how to use a plunger or drive a stick shift.  Whether it’s unclogging  a drain or jump-starting your car, it’s good to know what to do when you wish there was a man around. Even though men love to be needed, they aren’t that crazy about needy women.  When a man knows what it means to be needed by a woman who doesn’t need him, he knows what it means to be loved.

I’ve also been amused to ponder exactly what “protection” meant. Contraception?  Pepper spray or something high caliber at the bottom of the purse? I would venture “protection” means something different to an Arizona girl like myself, than it might to others, but no matter, the message is clear. It’s always good to look out for yourself.

Within the lines above, there are things you can probably relate to, but between the lines is the idea of accepting and appreciating who you are. You can put your life on hold while you wait for a fantasy, or you can learn to love yourself and get on with your life.

Marriage is great, but a woman isn’t incomplete without a man.  It is okay to be single. It is okay to be childless.  If you find yourself in a difficult marriage, you alone will know whether the decision to stay married or to divorce is the right one for you. You alone will know whether or not life was better or worse because of having been a mother, or choosing not to be one.

You were meant to be who you are. The decisions that determine the course of your life, are yours alone to make, because at the end of your days, you alone will know whether you lived an worthwhile and authentic life.

To view or purchase, click here:    EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW poster by Portal Press

Go back to bed America, your government is in control –Comedian Bill Hicks

Men are often responsible for “putting groceries on the table”, but it is usually women who shop for and prepare food for the family.  Unless you are one of those lucky women whose husband does the cooking, you are probably the resident food expert in your house. As such, it is assumed you are qualified to figure out how (and what) to feed your family.

Our meals reflect our cultural roots, our values and our lifestyles. What we eat is a vital part of who we are. In America, we have been fortunate to enjoy readily available, wholesome and affordable food, as well as an abundance of  choices. We choose the foods we think best suited for our families, that’s why I get concerned when outsiders want to step in and control our choices–like the meddlesome do-gooder who made a preschooler buy a school lunch of chicken nuggets, after declaring the turkey & cheese sandwich her mother packed unhealthy.

Say what?  That doesn’t make any sense, but increasingly there are many things going one with our food supply that are equally puzzling. For years we’ve been told to avoid foods with too much fat, sugar, or sodium. The government has urged us to refrain from eating processed foods, but now it seems our  government agencies don’t want us eating natural foods either.

The First Lady, has made it her mission to try to lower obesity in our children. It’s a noble goal, but public policy rarely changes private behavior. Prohibition didn’t stop drinking, speed limits haven’t stopped speeding, and “Just Say No” hasn’t stopped kids from trying drugs.  Likewise, there is no amount of government cheerleading or education likely to make those of us who enjoy eating, switch to rice cakes and water.

But, for the sake of argument, if I were to suddenly be motivated to follow Michele Obama’s lead, I’d probably start by eating the healthiest fruits and vegetables available. That would mean locally grown, organic produce farmed with sustainable methods, dairy products from grass pastured cattle, and meat from animals that hadn’t been pumped full of hormones. One would think that would earn me some points with the president who promised us the “greenest” administration, but it is just as likely I’d earn an FBI file for associating with food-producing felons.

Over the last few years increasing numbers of farmers, ranchers and other food producers have found themselves on the wrong side of the law, for doing what Americans have done legally for more than 200 years–producing food.  Take the very peculiar story of raw milk supplier James Stewart.  His Venice, CA business, Rawesome Foods, was raided by armed gunmen in something akin to a S.W.A.T. action.  Approximately 500 gallons of raw milk were destroyed.  Stewart alleges he wasn’t shown a warrant or read his rights, yet he was shackled, arrested, and held without bond for a bail higher than Jerry Sandusky’s.  Stewart also alleges he was tortured while incarcerated.

The raid was conducted under the guise of food safety, but those who drink raw milk, do so because they believe it has health benefits, not found in pasteurized milk.  Raw milk is occasionally contaminated by E. coli, and other dangerous pathogens, like those occaisionally found in the foods inspected by federal regulatory agencies. It is known that raw milk,  like other farm products can cause illnesses, but unless there is more to this story, it doesn’t make sense.  At least the customers of Rawesome Foods were required to sign waivers, stating they were aware of dangers associated with raw milk, before they were allowed to purchase it.

Then there was the case of the Food-to-Fork dinner party held at Quail Hollow Farms.  Guests paid to attend what should have been and exquisite harvest feast, but shortly before dinner was to be served, the atmosphere of the dinner party turned to that of a drug raid.  Ignoring those pesky laws prohibiting unlawful search and seizure, the food prepared for the occasion, was dumped into garbage cans and doused with bleach.  Once again the justification for the raid was public health and safety, though the food destroyed was arguably of a higher quality than what most of us regularly eat.  What happened at Quail Hollow doesn’t make sense.

This past month, legislation in Michigan required some hog farmers to destroy their livestock. The Michigan Department of Natural Resources called for the destruction of a certain natural resource,  known as heritage pigs.  These naturally occurring breeds were neither diseased, nor defective, but they threatened the business interests of larger pork producers who raise and sell genetically modified pigs.   With nothing more than a vague set of criteria, pigs that didn’t look like those bred by big pork producers were to be destroyed, or their owners would face felony charges.  Curly tails, floppy ears and colors other than pink, are enough to get those pigs the death sentence. In Michigan it is not permissible to eat natural pork, but it is perfectly acceptable for big business to eat small farmers.

Across the nation, there are attacks on American agriculture.  Water is withheld from farmers causing the loss of jobs and livelihoods.  Ranch and farmlands are seized to protect species nobody cares about, with little regard for the species of homo-sapiens, who will become endangered without food.  Activist groups, like PETA and Humane Society of The United States, won’t rest until America becomes a third-world country like India–starving while surrounded by environmental sacred cows. The latest assault on farmers, is the Labor Department’s attempt to overturn an American tradition, by making it illegal for kids to do chores on family farms.

Though most would would agree saving the planet, food safety and child labor laws are good, when things done in the “public interest” are detrimental to ordinary Americans, one has to wonder whose interests are being served. Campaigning in 2007, Obama vowed his administration would not cater to the special interests of agribusiness giants like Con-Agra, but despite his pledge, he was quick to appoint several individuals linked to agri-chemical manufacturers, like Dupont, Danforth Science, and Monsanto, to important government positions.

Baby boomers may remember Monsanto as the company who first gave us a glimpse of the future at Disneyland, but their  Tomorrowland exhibits failed to warn us of the environmental hazards they’d cause or the harmful products they’d create. Neither did their exhibits offer explanations of how they would repeatedly falsify data and bullly our government into approving the use of  products with known dangers.  Monsanto, whose exhibits promised a better future through chemistry, can now proudly claim among it’s contributions to America, the legacy of Agent Orange, PCB’s, dioxin pollutions, bovine growth hormones and bee colony collapse.

Monsanto has been charged with things ranging from polluting to violations of anti-trust regulations. They have have sued or threatened farmers, as well as those (like The State of Vermont)who call for laws requiring  labeling of genetically modified or engineered foods.  It isn’t surprising that Monsanto seeks to stifle critics and eliminate their competitors, as they seek control of an ever-larger share of the global agribusiness market, but it is shocking that they do it with the complicit support of our government.

If the government is so committed to food safety or the environment, why do they readily turn a blind eye to the corporate evils of companies like Monsanto? Why does the same government intent on protecting us from the dangers of raw milk and farm-fresh foods, condone the actions of a company with a long history of polluting the environment, endangering the public and tampering with our food?

The government would have us believe they are acting in our best interests, but a government that hampers the ability of a nation to produce its own food or allows a corporation to control the nation’s food supply is not acting in our best interests. Allowing the  farming, business and industry, which were once the backbone of our country, to be broken by high costs and endless regulations, doesn’t make any sense, unless our government is working against our interests.

Deb’s Note: Though this post addresses recent events, Monsanto’s foothold in our government precedes the politics of the current presidential administration.

India’s caste system–for most in the Western world, it’s incomprehensible to imagine our life’s destiny being determined before our birth,  and reprehensible that the caste system assigns value to individuals regardless of character.  I was surprised to learn, the idea behind the caste system is reminiscent of the Bible passage which states every person has a function, like the organs of the body.   The function of the eye is not like that of the heart, but each is vital.  The caste system is intended to help the function of society, but to me it is dehumanizing, detestable and primitive.

Yet, in our own society, we often employ, or are subject to, systems of social ranking. Just as in India, where castes are determined by birth, our destiny can be the result of where we were born or who we were born to.  Our skin, our body, or our economic disadvantage can become a damaging label, out of our control.  It is ridiculous to allow education, fame, career, appearance or economics determine status.  Nevertheless, being being born in the wrong place or not being able to afford the same things as others, can leave one stranded on a lower rung of the social ladder.

It’s a caste system–unsophisticated and ugly.

I was thinking about this, because of something that happened to someone close to me.

There was a woman who was highly-esteemed by all who knew her.  A beautiful and gracious socialite, active in her church and community, she was always invited by the ladies who do lunch and A-listed for cocktail soirees. Her company was always in demand.

Then, the phone stopped ringing.

There were no more engraved invitations.

The church ladies avoided eye contact.
Carpool moms made excuses for why they couldn’t drive her children.
Old friends became former friends.
People who knew her crossed the street, to avoid interacting.
She was out-caste.

It wasn’t anything she said or did. Everybody who knows her, would attest she’s the same beautiful, kind and generous person, she was before her social demotion.  She was kicked out the inner circle of the beautiful people, when someone in her family was charged with a crime.   She was punished for the actions of someone else.

It happens.  Whether it be our children, siblings, or spouse; there are times when people near us do things which cause us to suffer emotionally, and sometimes socially.  When a teen gets arrested for drugs, a spouse is charged with DUI, or a relative is implicated in a scandal, one may find  themselves being treated as an accessory and punished as such.

It is unfortunate, but there may come a time, when like a modern-day Jesus, you find yourself paying for the deeds of someone else; being punished or judged wrongly because of things you didn’t do.  No man is an island.  It is natural to feel embarrassed when loved ones behave badly, but it is also important to remember who you are.  You cannot be  responsible for all the actions of everyone around you.

Just as importantly, we need to remember friends in these kinds of situations, need to know they have not become untouchable to their friends.  We are individuals, we are not the people who surround us.

The genius behind de blog sends text for me to approve.  It’s a short bio she’s put together for some promotional purpose.  It tells a little about me and describes me as a wife & mother.  It sounds good enough, but the labels “wife” & “mother” make me bristle a bit.

I am fortunate and happy to be both, but the labels are too small.  In my head, I’m thinking whoever reads this  description, will assume de blog is another site offering cookie recipes, crafts ideas or cleaning tips from the world of domestic utopia.  Snooze-o-rama!

The truth is I could probably write a darn fine blog about that stuff, because it’s a big part of my world, but it isn’t who I am.  Being labeled “Wife“ is okay, but I am so much more than just Beloved Soul Mate’s counterpart.  The label “Mom” is the most prestigious title I’ve ever held, but it is only a description of a role I fill.

That isn’t to diminish the scale or importance of either role.  Getting married was totally life changing, in a very good way.  It was the most monumental change I’d experienced since graduating out of my A-cup, but it was nothing in comparison to starting a family.  Whereas marriage had provided a sense of security, motherhood gave me a new sense of vulnerability.   Wife & mother were both life-changing modifications to my identity.

Life changes often come with labels…divorced, widowed, newly hired, recently fired, lottery winner, senior citizen or cancer victim.  I am fortunate to only have to contend with a few very desirable labels, yet I have a problem with them.  Sometimes we allow the roles we fill, to overshadow who we are.  When our roles or labels change, they may change what we do, but they shouldn’t change who we are.  Changing roles can force us to reassess who we are, but we often wait until we are reminded nothing is forever, to finally do the things we’ve always wanted to do.

If you are a married, you are a wife because someone cast you as their romantic lead.  You were chosen, because someone thought you’d be perfect for the part.  Your YOU-ness was the single factor which beat out the competition.  That’s absolutely fabulous, unless the show flops or your leading man bows out prematurely.  Maybe he has a heart attack, or maybe just a change of heart.  Maybe he decides to recast his family, and open a revival production of “Marriage” with a new leading lady.  At least motherhood is forever… sorta.

Motherhood is planned obsolescence at it’s best.  If you are lucky, you’ll raise children who will grow up and go away; to create the wonderful lives you dreamed for them.  Isn’t that what you wanted?  You’ll still feel like a mother, and you’ll still be acting the role of mother, but while you were backstage, your role was changed from star to supporting actress.  You scramble for a new part, if you can muster a great deal of poise and grace, you’ll land the role of  adored grandparent, instead of the part of the meddlesome mother-in-law.

End Act One.

After a divorce, an empty nest, an illness, or tragedy; we are forced to make peace with who we are.  For many, this is the catalyst to make changes they hadn’t planned.  They may be spurred to do things they never thought they would, or could do.  This can provide the launching point of a new start or a completely different outlook.  What a shame, we wait until we are forced, to explore our capabilities.

Wives and mothers often put their own lives on hold, believing their sacrifices are in the best interest of their family, but there is a tendency to parent as if we are an extension of our childrens’ lives.  The reality is they are an extension of ours.  Though taking care of others, can and should be rewarding, if we live only for those around us, we risk losing our sense of worth.  Living with regard for everyone’s needs but your own, will cause you to not only to lose your identity, but also to become more-or-less invisible to those around you.  For this reason, those who give the most are often the least appreciated, as their generosity is taken for granted.

If there were ever a case for selfishness, this is it.  Being completely selfless can be detrimental to your well- being and that of those around you.  Not only will you cultivate a family who fails to show appreciation and gratitude, but you will likely become resentful as you suppress your own feelings and desires.  This isn’t a suggestion that women should abandon their families or other responsibilities to go pleasure-seeking, but without interests and passions you will become very poor company.

When you are inspired to try new things, take risks,pursue your dreams, or explore your passions, you will inspire your offspring to do the same.  When you become exuberant, because you are feeding your own spirit, your family will enjoy the company of someone who is dynamic and exciting.  When you have interests, your significant-other will find you as interesting, as you were when he chose you.

For many women, the later phases of life are when all the good stuff happens,  but Act Two needn’t be better than Act One.  Your  children will not love you more, because you never missed a PTA meeting or always produced the whitest whites.  You husband will not find you more intriguing because you never forget to fetch the dry cleaning.  Martyrdom is so NOT sexy.

It’s your life and your script to write.  Don‘t wait until after intermission to make it worthwhile.

The turkey is awaiting final preparation as the holiday season has officially begun.  The sights, the sounds and the smells of the fall & winter holidays are alive with tradition.  Whether the gathering of loved ones, sentimental rituals, or the taste of a a favorite family recipe, the romance of the season is in our memories of those past, and our hopes for those to come.

Traditions are merely memories.  Memories we attempt to relive.  Whether the smell of turkey in the oven, the magic of holiday lights, or the suspenseful wait for Christmas morning;  our holiday celebrations attempt to recapture the best we can remember, and grab hold of the best we can imagine.

I love honoring old traditions, but believe each holiday is an opportunity to birth new ones.  That is why, I was disappointed to realize that in my frantic preparations for this year’s new Thanksgiving tradition, I had forgotten the tradition I started a few years ago with my family.  Each year on the eve of Thanksgiving, I prepare a very special meal.

Gratitude is a virtue worthy of celebration and practice. Ironically, my sense of gratitude causes me to have less enthusiasm for the holiday of Thanksgiving, than the act of giving thanks.   We gather at tables set with plump birds and rich gravy.  There will be stuffing made from bread and hot rolls with butter.  There will be two kinds of potatoes, numerous side dishes and probably two kinds of pie.  Thanksgiving is a feast of excess, in which we barely pause to consider all that we have.  Many are the years, I’ve sat at tables listening to those assembled, list things for which they were thankful.  If we truly took the time to acknowledge all the things for which we should be grateful, there would be no time to carve the turkey or cut those pies.

It is because of this, I started the tradition of serving my family a very special meal.  It is a meal which might be served in any country on earth–a special dish which truly puts me in the proper mindset for the rest of the holiday season.  I look forward to this meal each year, but not nearly as much as others who might eat this same meal today.  This meal prepares me for a happy holiday season, by reminding of things taken for granted.

Our very special meal is rice.  Not ordinary white rice like what might accompany Moo Goo Gai Pan, nor is it the fragrant Byrani basmati of Indian cuisine.  It isn’t the creamy risotto from a trendy bistro, nor a tasty pilaf hiding flavorful treasures.

It is rice, simply rice.  Barely substantial, no special preparation.  Just rice.
The first time I served it my children were barely old enough to understand it.
The second year, they had already forgotten the previous year, and anxiously looked to see what would accompany the rice.
By the third year, they were beginning to better understand the meal.  I am very thankful their understanding is the abstract type–not the kind had by those, for whom this bowl of rice would be a luxury.

In our country tomorrow, our garbage cans will be overflowing with food scraps–remnants of a feast, tossed, when those who ate it, had too much.   We will try to figure out what to do with the leftovers, never considering the many in the world who live for weeks on less than what we discard.  Alas, tomorrow, across our planet others will search garbage dumps to find food enough to stave off hunger.

Whether it be food we mindlessly waste, clothes we cast off for charity, or money we squander on unnecessary things, we hardly consider all that we have.  We are more than fortunate, we are blessed beyond what those in many countries could even imagine.

Today as we sit down at our tables, I wish for you the kind of gratitude that is appropriate for the bounty on our tables, but also for all that we have in America.

On that first visit they tell you what you probably already know.

“You’re pregnant”.

Hopefully this is good news. Once this is established, you will have most of nine months during which you hope only for more good news.  The second bit of news you will get, is something you aren’t likely to accurately guess–when to expect the baby. Hopefully this is good news. Some dates are better than others.
I wouldn’t want to be told that the baby was due on April 15th or December 24th.  Those dates would be particularly inconvenient.  As would any date in the height of hurricane season, tornado season or blizzard season.  was two months under the belt when the  OB/GYN announced my due date of May the 9th. May is a nice-enough months. Lots of flowers blooming, not yet hot. The date seemed inconsequential. I was joyful and  ready to be the mother of two.

Unfortunately, no matter how many times you’re pregnant, you never really know what to expect.  The second pregnancy drug by slowly.  Maybe it was the weariness of tending an active 3 1/2 year old, or maybe it was all the eager desire to see and hold the little being sequestered inside me.

May the ninth, was the second Sunday of the month . .  Mother’s Day!

I’m not very picky about celebrations–and generally don’t care for much fuss, but as the day grew nearer, the hospital seemed a-less-than-perfect place to spend Mother’s Day. I didn’t want to be in stirrups while all the other moms I knew would be opening cards at champagne brunch.  No matter.  The first baby had been early, I was sure that this one would follow the example of his big brother, insuring I would be the mother at brunch with the beautiful newborn in my arms.

On Mother’s Day, my doctor was out of town–he probably went to visit his mother.  Not that it mattered, I was still pregnant. This wasn’t what I’d planned–but that’s  one of the inherent problems with pregnancy, most planning is theoretical.

May 9th came and went. I was still pregnant–one hundred and sixty-six pounds of more-than-ready. Like a fast-food meal deal, I’d been super-sized–and that was before brunch.  As much as I had dreaded being in labor or the hospital on Mother’s Day, still being pregnant the Monday after seemed worse. I was tired of being pregnant. I was tired of waiting.  I was tired of sporadic periods of contractions that came but never lasted long enough to get me to the hospital.

May 10th was a beautiful day. Perfect. As I was enjoying my coffee, I went out to the garden to admire the vibrant colors of the geraniums and irises.  The irises were 4 feet high that year–much taller than my almost-four year old. Decided to putter in the garden a bit before seeing Beloved Soul-Mate off to  work.

“Okay, Darling, have a good day.  Wait . . don’t leave yet.”

It seemed it was finally time, but after so many teasing contractions, I was skeptical. I’m a restless sort–I wasn’t going to the hospital until I was sure–didn’t want to be held hostage for an in-depth study of ceiling tiles any longer than necessary.

Called my bestie girlfriend. Asked her if she could keep my son for the afternoon.  Told her I’d be over in a couple hours.

Except that wasn’t what happened. Within about 45 minutes, I knew the birth was imminent.
We started off for my girlfriend’s house.  As soon as we were in the car, I suggested The Beloved Soul Mate, drop me off first.

I wonder what it would be like to have a doctor deliver a baby. Never had that luxury, in fact I was lucky to have a nurse.  The doctor didn’t arrive in time to see the birth, but Beloved Soul Mate was there in time for the big reveal.
It was only a matter of minutes before I was handed a swollen-faced, puffy-bodied boy.   He didn’t have a name yet, but it was clear that Lauren Solange was not a perfect fit.  As I held him to my breast, I studied him and wondered who he was.

For most first-time parents, to hold a newly born son or daughter is to discover a previously unknown kind of romance.  The moment I saw my first baby, I was in love.  I’d never seen a more beautiful child.  His features were delicate.  His full  head of silky smooth hair was perfect. Holding his miniature fingers, I couldn’t imagine a more perfect baby–in fact as I felt sorry for the new mother in the bed next to me; her baby was homely by comparison.

That is why, as I looked at his new brother in my arms, I wondered if I could ever love this boy the same.  His eyes were puffy, his skin was speckled.  He was so large.  It was just one more day of my continuing education as a mother.

I like to joke my first was born with looks, the second with personality.
There was no way to know how such a peculiar looking little being would bring such beauty to our lives.

Within a few days, the baby was cooing and giggling. I adored my firstborn, but the second-born was every bit the divinely-crafted gift his brother had been. With each day he added more joy and levity to our house.  His lightness of spirit was a balm that made me a better person and a better mother.  He never sapped my energy, he renewed it.  He was a continually unfolding source of delight–an old soul with a uncanny sense  of humor and wisdom.  I am  convinced if every baby were as easy to enjoy, the world would readily be overpopulated.

Not only that, but he was born on Mother’s Day–not the moveable American Mother’s Day but the fixed date of Mexican mother’s day.  Over the years, I’ve received many very nice gifts in pretty paper, but there has never been a better Mother’s Day gift than the one I received that year.  The Best Mother’s Day Gift Ever continues to enrich my life.

Deb’s Note: Every good and perfect gift is from above. I have two! The  firstborn has already exceeded my highest expectations.  He is a wonderful brother and son.  I adore my second-born too.  He was one a mother would keep in diapers forever, if she didn’t realize each day is better than the day before.

Like every other mother, I have watched them grow and change, wondering where the time went.  I would start the clock all over again to relive every jubilant (or difficult) moment, but there is so much ahead to look forward to.  Both of my sons are as miraculous to me as they were the first moment I held them. They encourage me, they stretch me, they teach me, they make me look forward to the future.

Today, I wish the fondest Happy Birthday to The Best Mother’s Day Gift Ever.  If not for his insight, I would have never thought to  find out how it feels to hit a sweet-spot smacker.

Teenagers don’t know it, but they’ve become obsolete.
From their perspective, those from whose loins they’ve sprung, are the outdated ones.  The older models don’t use the right operating system, don’t have enough memory and are way too slow.
Despite the fact the older models created them and built the world they live in, it carries no weight because they predate myspace, unlimited text & iTunes.

It’s going to be a hard conversation to have, but it’s time.
I have to tell my teen we don’t need him anymore.

We might have needed him if it hadn’t been for Google.  Google knows everything, making teenagers outdated relics of another age–when parents needed to be reminded they knew nothing.

Maybe Google doesn’t know everything, but most days it can answer my questions without sarcasm, exasperated sighs or eye-rolling.  That’s why I love Google.   Goog & I have a “thing”.  My niece tells me the relationship is doomed.  She says Google isn’t good for me and that I need to move on, because Google is only using me.  Niecie tells me that Google can’t be trusted, she says Google will learn everything about me and eventually use it for bad purposes.  Google is stalking me.

She just doesn’t understand.  Google gives me what I need and I don’t have to beg.  Google rarely keeps me waiting, it’s always there for me.

She set me up on a blind date with Bing,  hoping I‘d leave Google.  Bing & I didn’t have the same chemistry.  It wasn’t the same because I know Google, and apparently Google knows me.  I know it’s a cop-out, but I went back to Google  because it was more comfortable and familiar.  I’m used to Goog, I didn’t want to have to get used to Bing.

Should I be frightened that Goog knows what sites I visit, where I shop, and how many hours of the day I spend on Facebook?  Maybe–if I hadn‘t already surrendered my privacy to retailers.  The local grocers know I have a weakness for Asiago.  They also know how many many bottles of Chardonnay I require to compliment the cheese.  They know how much I spend on flowers for myself.  They know I haven’t outgrown an occasional Hostess Ding Dong or Sno-Ball.

Neither Google, nor my teenager knows those things.  (Though, I suspect the teenager may be wise to the snack-cake thing.)

I would consider getting rid of my teen, at least until all the bugs are worked out of his operating system, but I’ve grown rather fond of him.  He’s a bit like my outdated laptop–not perfect, but we’ve been together a long time and I can‘t bear the thought of letting go.

There are times when he’s insufferable–mostly during NBA games, when he becomes the world’s most talkative play-by-play guy and/or a trash-talker.  Even then he’s great company–even when his Nuggets are beating my Lakers.  In fact, it’s VERY rare that his company isn’t enjoyable.

Good company, 24/7–that’s a “killer app.”  Move over Google, I’m keeping the teen.