Facing our kids' weaknesses

I'm a realist when it comes to parenting. I don't expect my son to be good at everything or like to do what every other kid likes to do.

I expect him to be unique, have an opinion (and, oh boy, does he!), and be open to new experiences. I also expect him not to quit something he's committed to unless he has a damned good reason.

He's got a lot of strengths: he's an amazing reader and has the vocabulary to prove it, he's great at math, he's pretty darn good at soccer, and he can put a mid-sized Lego set together in no time (and will do it all in one sitting, by himself). He's got the mind of an engineer. He's linear, a bit obsessive about the order of his favorite things (everything else, of course, can just end up in a haphazard pile under his bed), and sees things as black and white when it comes to justice.

Yes, he's got an impressive little list of talents. But...he's got plenty of weaknesses to balance it out. He's a sore loser, listens like he's completely deaf, and can struggle in social situations. And, as it turns out, he's pretty uncoordinated.

As parents, we accept these things. We know our kids won't be good at everything, and even if we, are highly competitive ourselves, we know we can't push them to excel in all areas. Do their best, yes...but not excel. In fact, it's to everyone's benefit to find our kids' talents and interests and let them flourish in those areas, focusing so they get good (after all, isn't that what we do as adults with our careers?). Of course, we have to try a lot of things and watch our kids fail miserably at some to find out what they really are gifted at. And that can be hard for some of us.

Recently, my son asked to go to a swimming birthday party. I reminded him that he still couldn't really swim, so he'd have to wait to do things like that until he finished out his swimming lessons. He tried to convince me that he could swim just fine (I, of course, know better...he can stand on his tippy toes and flap his arms around like a duck...he cannot really swim).

We did the parent/child lessons a couple of years back, and last summer he took level 1 and 2 on his own. He did relatively well, though he did plenty of screwing around and could have learned more than he did if he'd just paid more attention (my son always seems to be the kid who's busy doing jumping jacks underwater while all the other kids are patiently sitting on the edge of the pool waiting for instructions). Focusing isn't one of his inborn skills.

Regardless of his inattentive behavior, he passed level 2. So this year, I signed right up for level 3. On the day of the first lesson, he followed three other children and his instructor along the side of the pool. I found a spot on the bleachers and prepared to read or waste time on my phone for the 30 minutes his lesson would take.

Instead, I ended up not being able to take my eyes off my son.

I was amazed at his glaring inadequacy. Oh, I know...I could be more positive about it. I could say, "Well, maybe he's just forgotten what he learned...he'll come around." Or, "The instructor is just going to have spend more time with him; I'm paying for lessons and it's their job to teach him." Or even, "They're the ones who passed him out of level 2...what were they thinking?!!!"

But, as a teacher myself, I'm fully aware that the deficiency was with my son's ability, and both of us were going to have to own it and deal with it. He was simply not prepared for level 3. The other kids in the class were leaps and bounds ahead of him, already swimming fully on their own. The instructor spent a majority of her time holding my son up and pulling him along. Bless her, she tried. And it was painful to watch. I wanted to run right up and interrupt the lesson and take him out of the pool. Not necessarily for his sake, but for mine. I looked around. I knew those other kids' parents were in the stands, too...watching their own children be neglected for the sake of my son, who literally looked like he'd never been in a pool before. Yes, I'll admit it...I was embarrassed. For myself and for him, though thankfully he doesn't have the sense to worry about what others think of him yet. I wish I were more like him in that regard.

As hard as it can be to watch our kids fail, we have to see those failures in the light of reality. I could have left him in level 3. I could've used the "wait and see" approach. But, that wouldn't have been fair to those other kids, or the instructor, or...most of all...my son.

Before the lesson was even over, I was making my way to the front desk to find out if it was too late to move him back to level 2 for a second go. I had to admit to myself that it had been too long, and he'd likely forgotten all they'd taught him. When the manager approached me, I told her, "My son is in that level 3 class out there, but I'm watching him seriously flailing. He's just plain not ready for it." She responded so sweetly, "Maybe he's just a bit behind. Sometimes if we have a whole class that is a bit behind, they catch up quickly together." I countered, "He's not just a little behind. He's so far behind those other kids he's just going to hold them back, and that's not good for them or him." She gave me a look that said "you're worried about nothing, smiled, and said she'd run out and talk to the instructor, to see what she thought. When she returned, she smiled again, more painfully this time, as if she were giving me some terrible news, "Yeah...she totally agrees."

They were happy to accommodate the change, and even allowed him to stay for the next lesson. It meant a full hour in the pool, but I figured we'd talk about it and he'd be okay with it. When he came splashing, bare-footed, over to the stands, I threw the towel around his shoulders. I pulled him over by me and told him that I'd moved him to a different class. He looked disappointed. But, I assured him that he'd be happier and more confident in level two and that we'd sign him up for level three again just as soon as he passed it. But his face was still sad. "I don't want to stay for the next lesson...I want to go home." "What's the matter?" "I can't swim." "I know...that's why we're here, silly. And if you take level two, you'll be swimming in no time." He looked at me skeptically and nodded reluctantly. "Okay."

I knew he'd be happier, and that his confidence would build quickly if he were more appropriately placed. Leaving him in level 3, where his frustration and disappointment were likely to make him simply give up, or hate swimming, would have been wrong. I know parents who would have chosen that course of action. The "suck it up...and don't let those other kids beat you...I won't accept defeat" kinds of parents. Don't get me wrong, I push my kid when he's just giving up without trying. I don't let him walk out on commitments to his team (or himself) or stop doing things just because they're "hard". But this wasn't one of those times. He really had no idea what he was doing, and no amount of pushing or encouragement was going to suddenly make him succeed.

After his level 2 lesson, he walked back to the bleachers. I wrapped him in the towel and asked him what he thought. "Was that better?" He smiled slowly, "Yes." "Was it more fun?" Again, he said, "Yes."

Now three days later, he actually swam, all by himself...about 10 feet. He still messed around and struggled to pay attention. He spent more time playing with the goggles than he did swimming, but he did it! And when he came to retrieve his towel and clothes to head off to the locker room and change, he was smiling. "You swam today! All by yourself!" He blushed a little and grinned wide enough for me to see the gap left by his two missing teeth. "I know, mom." "You'll totally be ready for level 3 after next week!"

Sometimes, our kids just don't learn things as quickly as others...or at all. Sometimes, they need to practice something 43 times before the light bulb turns on. That's sort of how my son learns. He tries, and fails, tries, and fails, tries, and finally gets it...really gets it. What's important is that he doesn't give up. And that he still has his dignity. I'm coming to terms with the fact that he's not "athletically" gifted in most areas. He's not the fastest runner, he's not likely to be a basketball star, it took him weeks to start riding a bike without training wheels, and quite obviously he's going to be slow to pick up swimming. But, he can't be good at everything. Oh, sure...his grandparents think he's the best at everything. But, me...I'm a realist. And I know what he's good at.

We all fail at things. None of us are good at everything. But we sometimes have a tendency to treat our kids as if they should be. All through school, we expect good grades. We hope they "get involved". We hope they'll play sports. But the reality is that they might just be "adequate" in school (or maybe even struggle), terrible at sports, and brilliant with interpersonal relationships. Or some other combination of gifted and not-so-gifted. The fact is, there are many things I can't do and don't want to try. So why would I expect any different from my kid? Swimming, unfortunately, isn't a choice for him. It's a safety issue and he has to learn. But, do I expect him to be a competitive swimmer? Nope. I simply expect him not to drown. And by that measure, he's well on his way to success.

Shifting perspective and nurturing reality

This week's literary fortune comes from Patti Digh's Life is a Verb.

There are certain books that draw us in to an ongoing and interactive relationship. Books that we cannot let go and that we go back to time and again. For me, Patti Digh's Life is a Verb is one of those. It's a beautiful book. for one; but it's also a reminder for me, every summer, to be a participant in my life rather than a spectator, which can happen, especially when I become tired and grow discontented. When I look around at the messy yard that needs a fence and a good landscape artist which I can't afford, the floor that incessantly needs swept, the unmade beds, and the sink full of dishes, it's easy to dream of a different life.

For me, it's always good to take stock and find a more positive perspective. That messy yard is surrounded by towering cedars and smells of wind and earth. The floor that cries out to be vacuumed is covered in fur from pets that bring me joy, feet that belong to the people I love, and dirt from the path that leads into a home that contains laughter and happiness. The unmade beds are comfortable, inviting places where dreams are had and books are read. And the sink full of dishes exists because we are not hungry.

A good "perspective shifting" exercise is listing all the things that make us nuts, all the things we wish we could change, and then re-writing them as positives (as evidenced above). It's a powerful way to intentionally accept our lives as they are, in spite of (maybe even because of) the imperfections. This is something I call "nurturing reality". Often, we are told to nurture our dreams, but in doing so, we run the risk of being disappointed with what we already have. Nurturing reality is a way to take care of what already exists and embrace our dreams through that lens.

I think it's okay to be unsatisfied sometimes. It pushes us to improve. But it's always good to remember that we are what we are, we live where we live, and there is happiness to be cultivated there, no matter where "there" is. It's the old "bloom where you're planted" adage. Whether one believes in destiny or fate, or prescribes to the idea that we are the captains of our own ships, there is no denying that today has offered us a certain existence. We can choose to be disappointed with it or see it for what it is...a gift.

Yesterday, we went on a walk...the whole family. My son, who does not prescribe to the "walk forward with purpose and a destination in mind" way of life, lagged behind as usual, skipping and meandering at a snail's pace. At one point, I turned around to encourage him to catch up. He ran toward me, dragging the dirt-encrusted roots of a fistful of wild daisies. He handed them to me with a grin; he knows they are my favorite. So I carried them, dirt and all, back to the house, cut the ends, and stuck them in a jar. They are the perfect reminder that life, in all it simple imperfection, must be savored.

Sometimes we place too much importance on productivity

Okay, maybe I'm being dramatic. Being productive is a good thing, right? I mean, it's such a positive word. We like being called productive. We like feeling productive. And for fanatical planners like myself, we like dreaming about and pre-scheduling all the productiveness we can. 

I don't know about you, but I plan to the point of obsessiveness, and I become irrational about completing things and checking them off my list. My calendar and my "To Do" list often rule my life. And...I'm pretty damned productive...most of the time. Until I'm not. Until I've scheduled, planned, and "produced" myself right into a corner where I rock myself back and forth and mumble under my breath.

Some people are naturally high-strung or easily stressed out. I'm going to assume (maybe wrongly) that more women fall under this category than men, because many of us truly try to "do it all". I think that may be why I only feel "normal" during the summer, when I'm not "working" (I put that in quotes, because any stay-at-home mom knows their job is just as tough as going elsewhere to work). Suddenly, I'm not doing it all. I don't even have to try. I can have a clean house and still have time to write, or sit on the couch and read, or do something fun with my son. 

At 3:05 last Friday, my life changed. My students, bless them, boisterously ran out the door, yelling, chasing each other; some were hugging and crying (even though they will see each other in a few days or text each other ten minutes after they part), because, let's face it, middle school is the land of self-initiated drama. 

I'm still a lot like them. Maybe that's why I stay there. Because, even though they don't make a darn bit of sense to a lot of people, they do to me (most of the time). 

This isn't so helpful for the people around me who are not daily mired in the beautiful insanity of "tweendom". They don't get it. And I'm afraid, that means, sometimes they don't get me.

But, in the summer, when I'm away from it all, I change. I'm not driven by the needs of 90 young people. I only have one. I'm not planning, and copying, and meeting parents, and phone-calling, emailing, grading, counseling, poster-making, website-building, tidying, going to meetings and workshops, trying to fit in a work out, a dog walk, homework help, house-cleaning, raising a child, yard work, running errands, keeping a budget, and trying desperately to find some time just to sit and relax, without 42 things that need to be done running through my brain.

Summer is when I reclaim my balance and my mental health. And for better or worse, it's when I reclaim my place in my family. 

It's common that we dislike doing at home what we have already had to do all day. Housekeepers might have a messy house. Mechanics might drive a nearly broken down car. Landscapers may have an overgrown lawn. Me...I've been "needed" all day. I've answered questions and mentored and discussed and demonstrated from one end of the day to the next. By 5:00, I'm tapped out. 

The problem is...I don't have the luxury of tapping out...so, I keep going - somehow. And I make up for what I couldn't get done during the week on the weekend. It leads to nine and a half months of constantly feeling overworked and knowing I'll never get it all done. Not good for the psyche.

On Friday, I did something very unlike me. I walked out of my classroom and left several things "undone". Yes, I'm likely to pay for it when I return, but, it felt good just walking away. My "To Do" list isn't going anywhere. All the filing and tidying will still be there in August.

And my summer "To Do" list? Normally, by this time, it would already be a mile long. I'll admit...I have planned to get the house in order this first week, one room at a time, cleaning things out and taking several trips to Goodwill, cleaning carpets and dusting places that haven't seen a cleaning rag since last summer. And I have signed my son up for swimming lessons and several day camps (both for his benefit and my sanity). But, otherwise, I'm really just going to work on not caring that my yard isn't perfect and that the dishes aren't done. I'm going to focus on doing things I like to do. It already feels weird. And I'm not at all positive how successful my plans will be. Because, while I'm a pretty darn good planner, but I will admit that rarely does plan A work out. I'm more of a plan B or C or F sort of person. 

It works sort of like this:

Idea + Implementation = Success (this is the ultimate goal)

Idea + Attempted Implementation + Moving on to Idea 2.0 + (Blood + Sweat + Tears) + Attempted Implementation = Good Enough (though possibly quite far from what I had initially expected)

And this can be done quite quickly. In the classroom, I can go from Plan A to Plan F in the course of about 30 minutes, depending on how the planets are aligned, how many announcements come across the loudspeaker, who's broken up with whom, changes in the schedule, snow falling, power outages...you name it.  I've learned over the years how to "let go" of things. I make plans, sure...every teacher does. But I make them knowing full well they'll be changed by lunchtime. I do all my planning in pencil and have a collection of large erasers. I'm flexible, and I've learned to re-plan on a whim. At home, I'm more resistant to changing my plans, and I can doggedly hold on to them until I've nearly driven myself mad. Maybe it's a product of having to give up so much control at school. I'm sort of a control freak...and I've got to have at least one outlet for my neurosis. Or do I?

I'm working on learning to walk away from things when they don't work out the way I want them to. Take some time away. Re-evaluate. Come back later and try again...or not. I'm working on living at home the way I do at work. Plan in pencil and deal with it gracefully when those plans fall through, accept that several living things call this place home and it cannot look the way I expect it to, and embrace the fact that the mess means this house is well lived in and activity abounds. Their idea of clean is not the same as mine...but, it's good enough.

I've declared today "opposite day"!

"It's opposite day!" Or so my son informs me on occasion, when a response of mine doesn't meet his expectations. For example, "No, you may not watch cartoons right now." "Well, it's opposite day, mommy, so that means your telling me I can watch cartoons." Nice try, kiddo. Creative, and I admire your ingenuity but...no.

I'm stealing his idea, though.

Here's how it works. There's dust on just about every surface in my house. Clutter abounds (I think it's mating and multiplying as I type). There's dog slobber shining on my couch, and I'm watching my cat obsessively like her navel (do cats have navels? hmmmm....must look that up later...did I mention my adult ADD?).

Amidst all of this, I have my feet up and I'm drinking a beer, watching my son and our pup run back and forth across the screen that is my living room window. I'm not moving. I'm pleasantly typing away, considering a scrapbook project, enjoying the silence...before the Pokemon cartoons begin and my husband gets home and the chores begin. Of course, I suppose I have an excuse. I ran (slowly but diligently) a half marathon yesterday. So, right now, I feel as if I wrestled an angry polar bear, and lost. I can hardly bend over, and getting up out of my chair is not really something I'm looking forward to.

So what does all this have to do with "opposite day"? Well, what I'm doing is completely against my nature. See, I'm like a rabid terrier when it comes to being productive. I walk through the front door after a long day at work, take one glance at the state of the house, and begin tidying, vacuuming, doing dishes, washing clothes. I basically ruin my own night before I even have a chance to salvage it.

Right now, it's taking every bit of my inner strength to stay seated, enjoy an adult beverage, and watch the young ones chase each other in the front yard. In fact, I think I might even be shaking a bit, trying to keep my brain on lovely, relaxing things that have nothing to do with that dirty word "chores".

So as of today, I am deeming Monday "opposite day". It's a day I'm not particularly fond of anyway, so it can use all the help it can get. A make-over like this might just be what it needs. From this day forward, when I walk through the front door on Monday, I'm going to do exactly the opposite of what I would normally do. I'm going to leave my work bag by the door, unpacked. I'm going to settle myself on the couch or in my craft room and do what I want. I'm going to resist the very real, and compulsive urge to clean or organize something. And I'm going to notice the world around me, and appreciate it.

Period.

Happy Monday, people.  And happy "opposite day"!

For good measure...it's also Monday "literary fortune" day (hey, they say it takes 2 weeks to create a habit, and since I'm only doing this on Monday...that means it's likely to take me 14 Mondays to get this down).

I did my usual...walked into the "library" (which is also our family office, my craft room, and the place where everyone in the family, including the pets, drops "everything"....so it's basically always a mess), grabbed the first book that approached my hand (I think they call to me, but it could just be the stress talking), and let the book fall open. Today it's Richard Jones' poem "Moving Day" from his collection The Blessing. It's one of my favorite collections...a "go to" for me. The poem was interesting, though...especially as a "fortune". I'd post the entire text of the poem, but as I don't want to violate copyright laws...I will simply share the end (guess you'll have to buy the book to get the full meal deal).

It's an interesting one to interpret. As I'm not moving anytime soon, I might see within these lines a bit of advice...to seize the space we have - the parts of it that matter, the people and the simple beauty - and avoid the "as it always could have been" that we only see in retrospect. 

Ahhh...the wisdom of poetry. Never ceases to amaze me. It fills in the spaces that normal conversation cannot. It is the pause in the music, the unexpected breeze on a hot day. It sustains our souls and lingers like a broken heart. 

And with that...I say good night. 

The beauty of independent, introverted children

I have a very independent little boy.

He's smart, stubborn, determined, and less affectionate, in some regards, than a lot of kids his age. Sometimes that's hard to swallow. In the drop-off zone in front of his school each morning, he might return my "I love you" if I say it with the request for the reply built in...my tone, drawing low like an admonition. But at other times, the words roll off his tongue like butter, smooth and unexpected.

With a child like mine, whose moments of affection are sporadic and sometimes rare, they remain a constant and sweet surprise. I almost prefer it to a steady stream of kisses and hugs, because his "moments" seem to come out of nowhere, at just the right time. And they seem to mean so much more because of it.

Once, on a stressful morning where nothing seemed to be going right, I rolled up to the school just as the bell was ringing for kids to go into the building. I was agitated, felt rushed, and certainly wasn't focusing on my relationship with my son. He grabbed his things, and slipped out of the backseat onto the sidewalk, an apple in one hand, his hair still disheveled by sleep, his shoe laces dragging, as usual. At a dead run, he turned, stopped ever so briefly, and blew me a kiss.

I was so taken aback, so surprised, that it didn't even occur to me to blow one back. I wouldn't have had time, anyway, as he'd already turned back around to disappear behind the chain link fence and enter the school.

As a toddler, he wasn't the child who constantly asked to be picked up and carried. No, he wanted his freedom as soon as he was mobile. I'm not sure if it was due to the rather unconventional and harried experience of his birth, but he seems to have been born this way.

From day one, he slept through the night. He didn't cling to me, he didn't look back and cry every time I left him at daycare (maybe for the first week, but that was more about his unwillingness to accept the "new" or to handle transitions with aplomb).

Last year, when I took him to the North Olympic Kids' Marathon, I came ready to run along with him. That sea of children, many with accompanying parents, lined up at the starting gate. I looked down at him and asked if he wanted me to run with him (because of his nature, I never assume he'll want me or need me to do things with him and I don't press myself on him). He looked up at me, smiled (happy I was there to support him), and said, "I got this, mommy. I don't need you to run with me."

So I let him run, and I waited, camera poised, to get a picture as soon as he came into view on the return lap. As soon as he saw me waving, he waved back, smiled, and yelled, "I did it! All by myself!"

So, yes, I guess I could be sad that my child doesn't "need" me all the time. But, since I don't base my identity on him, that sadness is also sweet. He's not an extension of me. He's his own little person. We are separate beings held forever close by blood. He's a lot like me. Introverted, and inwardly affectionate. He loves me. He loves his family. He loves his pets. He cares for his friends. But, he keeps his circle small, and he reserves his reservoir of affection. He comes by it honestly, as do I. A long line of "you know I love you...you know I'm proud of you..." folks who show what they feel in their eyes rather than saying it.

It's not optimal. I know I should be more verbal about my feelings for others (it drives my husband crazy, as he's a much more openly affectionate person than I am), and I try show my affection through words and actions as often as I can. Encouraging him to offer a more outward show of his love for others. But, in the long run, he is who he is.

And that's okay with me.

The River (considering risk, procrastination, and stagnation)

Today, in class, we listened to "The River" by Garth Brooks. It's one of my simile/metaphor/theme lessons I do pretty much every year...but it's a good one. We listen to the song, make note of the literary devices and rhyme pattern, discuss the metaphors, and establish a list of possible themes, searching for textual support for our ideas.

Every year, though, it seems, the lesson comes on a day when I especially need the reminders that it brings.

You know a dream is like a river
Ever changin' as it flows
And a dreamer's just a vessel
That must follow where it goes
Trying to learn from what's behind you
And never knowing what's in store
Makes each day a constant battle
Just to stay between the shores...and

I will sail my vessel
'Til the river runs dry
Like a bird upon the wind
These waters are my sky
I'll never reach my destination
If I never try
So I will sail my vessel
'Til the river runs dry

Too many times we stand aside
And let the waters slip away
'Til what we put off 'til tomorrow
Has now become today
So don't you sit upon the shoreline
And say you're satisfied
Choose to chance the rapids
And dare to dance the tide...yes

I will sail my vessel
'Til the river runs dry
Like a bird upon the wind
These waters are my sky
I'll never reach my destination
If I never try
So I will sail my vessel
'Til the river runs dry

There's bound to be rough waters
And I know I'll take some falls
But with the good Lord as my captain
I can make it through them all...yes

I will sail my vessel
'Til the river runs dry
Like a bird upon the wind
These waters are my sky
I'll never reach my destination
If I never try
So I will sail my vessel
'Til the river runs dry

Yes, I will sail my vessel
'Til the river runs dry
'Til the river runs dry

___________

"Trying to learn from what's behind you
And never knowing what's in store
Makes each day a constant battle
Just to stay between the shores..."

Indeed. I am not a lover of the unexpected, nor am I very spontaneous. Quite the opposite really, I'm a neurotic over-planner, sometime spending way more time planning for things than actually doing them. In an odd way, I often find the planning more fun than the doing. I know...I'm weird. Not knowing stresses me out, so in way, it is sort of a battle to keep my mental equilibrium amidst all the shifts and hiccups of daily existence.

"Too many times we stand aside
And let the waters slip away
'Til what we put off 'til tomorrow
Has now become today..."

This sentiment is all too characteristic of my life. I spend a lot of time watching the water rather than diving in, always more worried about being careful than experiencing things that sometimes frighten me. And "procrastination" is one of my less wonderful, yet abundant qualities. I've put so many things off that no number of tomorrow's would be enough to accomplish them. 

"So don't you sit upon the shoreline
And say you're satisfied
Choose to chance the rapids
And dare to dance the tide..."

Guilty as charged. To the point that I'm almost ashamed. How many times have I talked myself out of doing something because there are a million excuses or it'd be easier to just "not?" I trick myself into believing I'm satisfied with a lot of things because it's just less complicated to accept life as it is than trying to change it. So much less to lose, or so it seems. In all actuality, there's a lot more to lose by being stagnant and dissatisfied, even if it's only subconsciously. But, risk is also a tough prospect when it might affect others...say, a family. So, risk for a wife and a mother (or husband and father) is more of a luxury than it is for people with only their own needs to consider. It doesn't take it off the table, however. Having other people's needs to consider doesn't make risk less necessary; it just makes it more complicated, and sometime harder to justify.

"There's bound to be rough waters
And I know I'll take some falls..."

No kidding.

So there's that. A lesson for all of us, I suppose. Nothing particularly deep. But, noteworthy, nonetheless.

And since we're on the topic of Garth Brooks...here's a second that really pushes me to consider my daily life....

Making myself (being a working mom who works out)

Quite honestly, I hate exercise. I can admit I like the after effect some days, but often, when I work out at the end of the day, it just makes me feel more exhausted, rather than energized and ready to face the rest of my evening.

But...

That's it, really...there's always a lingering, finger-wagging "But". The alpha conjunction, ever vigilant of the possibilities and ever-ready to point out the other side of the argument.

I'm painfully aware that as I age, it's becoming harder and harder to stay in shape. It's so easy to say I have housework or errands, or papers to grade. The excuses are plentiful. And even when I do all the things I must to motivate myself (pay for a membership to guilt myself, financially, into working out so I'm not wasting my investment...sign myself up for marathons...schedule out my weekly workout in my planner...) I still talk myself out of it.

For now, it's really a day-by-day thing. A daily goal to do "something"...anything really. Walk the dog, run, walk, go to the gym and do weights, yoga...whatever.

And I know I'm not the only one. This whole, working full-time, being a mom, being a wife, and trying to have all my sh** together everyday seriously makes a girl feel inadequate on the best of days. I can usually do ONE thing well in a day. My house can be spotless, but I'm still in my pajamas and my son's played video games all day. I've spent time with my kid, but the house is a mess and there's a giant stack of essays that didn't get graded. My husband is happily satisfied (more on that later in another post, promise), but the kiddo had to go to grandma's and the laundry is piled ceiling-high. I've just run 3 miles and have worked up an admirable sweat and an adrenaline-caused glow, but I'll be going to bed at 8:00 leaving all the housework for another day.

So, yes, I know I'm in good company. In fact, I don't even have it as hard as some moms (especially single, working moms or moms of multiples). And I can admit, that during the summer, when it's just me and the boy, and I have no work-related constraints, I find it just as difficult to motivate myself to work out.

I have this good friend from junior high who's running the Boston Marathon today. I'll be tracking her progress via text today (using a really cool "follow your favorite athlete" app). It's ladies like her that make me feel hard-pressed to complain. She's a teacher, too...so she works really hard, multi-tasking like a fiend all day and fulfilling the demands and needs of hundreds of people (mostly young and rather attention-greedy). She teaches athletic classes after work. She has two kids. She runs at 4 in the morning to fit it in. She goes to church. She doesn't drink. And though I've never been there, I suspect she has a nearly immaculate house.

She's my hero and my nemesis all in one.  And what it comes down to is...every woman has her hurdles to jump, her mountains to climb, her obstacles to overcome. Mine is often self-motivation. I stress easily, criticize myself on a whim, and then find myself tired and irritable, cleaning the house and telling everyone around me to "wait"...including myself.

Life is short. And it's easily to lose one's priorities amidst the ocean of readily available obligations. Some of us have better compasses. Others of us, just have to fight through it on a daily basis, reminding ourselves to be kind to ourselves and just keep going.

So, today (don't know about tomorrow - I'm not setting myself up for failure on this), I'm going to focus on what matters. My family, my friends, my animals, my students, and myself. The living things that care if I forget them, not the inanimate objects and responsibilities that only have a demanding voice because I let them.

P.M. update...

So, I did NOT workout. I came sooooo close, but I caved to my husband's bad mood (I'm terribly easily drawn off course in that way), and instead found myself tidying up the house, nursing a child with a headache, making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner, and drinking a beer while taking care of the bills (which are almost late). 

And even though I could really get down on myself, I'm trying hard to be forgiving and less critical of everyone, including myself. I got a lot done today...I graded a whole set of 90 papers in between classes and after school, I cleaned off my desk at school, I took care of about 20 student needs (I won't go into specifics), I ran an errand (yes, a WHOLE errand), and picked up my son from after school club. I did a dozen house chores, and now here I am, actually writing.

So I wouldn't call today a total failure. Just not a monumental success.

There's always tomorrow. 

Okay, actually there's no promise of that...today is all that matters and all that I am sure to have. So, if there IS a tomorrow, I'll try again. If not, today could have been worse. So, I guess I'm okay with that. We have our health, we have each other, and that's enough. 

Holding my tongue

There are many times when what has come out of my mouth should never have been allowed to enter the air. I'll admit I have a temper with a hair pin trigger, and I can be pretty snarky and sarcastic. I say things before I think, and then hours later, after considering all the facts (even if I don't have them all), I wonder if maybe I went too far. Maybe I didn't give the other person a chance to really explain, and so I took away a truth that really didn't exist for anyone but my "jump the gun" self.

I work with pre-teens. And they can most certainly be ornery with their interactions with adults. In fact, they can be just plain mean. It's hard to remember, as some of them are actually bigger than me, that they are really just "little kids" in "big bodies". And while some of them have been raised right, learning appropriate and increasingly mature ways to deal with their emotions (namely anger and frustration and hurt, since those tend to elicit the most outwardly negative reactions), others have not. In fact, a growing handful of them have only seen models of poor emotional control from the adults in their life.

I'm thinking of one young man in particular. I'll leave out the specifics of course, but suffice it to say, he's a child of a broken home. He spends time at dad's house for a week...and then mom's and new stepdad's for a week...and so on. Mom and step-dad are newly married and both have new jobs that keep them busy for large portions of time. Dad is admittedly learning to balance things at home. But between them is this angry young man with pent up emotions. Add hormones and you have a recipe for a very dangerous weapon of mass destruction: a pissed off, out-of-control teenager with no outlet.

The outcome is this...every time the boy is faced with any sort of frustration (a bad grade, being asked to stop a behavior, other kids in class) he blows. And the blow ups are increasing in frequency and severity.

Now, add that to a class room with a teacher (me) who keeps things pretty controlled and has quite particular expectations (basically, there just isn't room for any B.S. in my presence). I mean, obviously, I like kids...or I wouldn't be there. And I'm pretty understanding of their drama. I get it. But, I lose it with kids like this, because I'm at an absolute loss. I'm not a counselor, but it's apparent that this child needs help...he's in crisis. And he's chosen every adult in his presence as a target.

Enter the second problem: I don't make a good target.

Recently, after an altercation with another adult in the building, he made a run for it...out the side door and off campus. That led to a 911 call and the police were dispatched to find him. He tried to take them on with a stick he found on the ground.

When I heard this, my first reaction was to laugh out loud. Really? A stick? What were you thinking, son?

But, then I began to really consider things. A child with this much anger (whom I really don't think is mentally ill) has got to have a reason for it. What on earth is going on in this young man's life to cause these violent outbursts?

In my experience, violence begets violence. An angry child comes from an angry parent. A violent child (without mental health issues) is acting on fear. So what is this boy afraid of?

So, let's circle back. I've got a temper. And yes, my dad does, too. I had a great model for that. But, he's also a pretty loving parent and always has been, so it balances out...I think. I look at my own son and wonder, what does he think when he see me not dealing with my anger in a constructive manner? And how will this manifest later in his life? I don't see him running off campus, taking on the police with whatever he can find on the ground...but I do wonder if he'll direct his anger appropriately.

And it definitely gives me pause. What can I do to help myself hold my tongue? If for not one else but him...and might I be able to smooth over some situations with other children if I laid on a bit of sugar with my biting wit? I mean, they need boundaries and expectations, and even more than that, they need someone to hold them to it. I'm pretty good at that. But, my military upbringing doesn't always have to manifest itself in "drill sergeant" communication styles.

I blossomed out of sheer determination as a child. My brow furrowed, my lips pursed, my breath audible. I took my "coaching" as a challenge. Sure I got mad. I stomped. I huffed. And I showed them...by doing exactly what they expected.

These tactics don't work on all kids. In fact, with teens, it can actually do the exact opposite...especially if they don't feel loved or connected. See, I had that. Even though I was pissed off and felt misunderstood, I knew that no matter what my parents were behind me. Both of them. So many kids today don't have that. They just have the tired, worn out, angry parent who teaches them there is not alternative and that there is nothing good to look forward to.

A tongue must speak words of encouragement and love to balance out the words of criticism and anger. I'm not saying we should all be dripping compliments and "I love you's" at ever turn. Kids (and adults) need both. And I really don't think kids should never see us angry. After all, that's how they learn that we struggle with it, too. Take for example a child who sees his parents argue...but then hours later they are smiling and happy with each other. He learns that arguments can be solved and that relationships should be strong enough to weather them.

So while, I do need to find ways to control my temper (especially its outward display), I'm not sure it would be in anyone's interest to completely control the emotions that lead to that temper.

Embracing a messy life

They leave little messes all over the house. They're there when I get home from work; they're there when I wake up in the morning. I notice them with a growl and a sigh as I step over them to get to the coffee maker, or move things on the couch so I can sit down and enjoy my first cup. When I walk into my son's dark bedroom to wake him up, I trip over them. They pile on my office floor. And strewn across the dining room table at any given time, there they sit, making me crazy. Those little clutter piles, shoes, books, drawings, bags, stacks of mail, all the contents of my husband's pockets...they annoy me to no end. But try as I might, pushing my family to the level of order that I require just doesn't work.

Oh, they try. Sometimes. But, they forget. Not because they don't value a clean home (they appreciate that more than they know) and not because they take for granted that mom will take care of it because she's a neat-freak like that (although I do think they assume that occasionally). No. They just don't need it to be as tidy as I do. When their stuff is in a pile by the door, it's easily accessible and won't need to be found in the morning when they need it. That pile of odds and ends and change from my husband's pockets? We'll it's going right back in, so why would he put it away?

I'm not saying no one should clean up their stuff. I couldn't breathe if everyone just gave up putting their things in the proper places. And I'm pretty sure they'd all be concerned if I up and stopped the record player that is my litany of requests to "put it where it belongs....and if you can't find a home for it, you'll have to get rid of it." My son has become a genius at finding "homes" for things. For, in his little mind, nothing is meant to be thrown away. Every little scrap of paper, tiny plastic toy, and t-shirt that no longer fits is dear to his heart. And he comes by his "packrat" mentality honestly. My husband is nearly as bad.

And then there's me. I'd just as soon put it in a bag and drag it to the thrift store as put it away -- one. more. time.

That's not to say that I don't create my own clutter. Because I surely do. I think they annoyance comes, though, from knowing that I'm the only one who's is really bothered by it...and therefore, I'll be the one left to pick it up...or request that it be picked up by someone else. There is actually a chore in our house called "clutter patrol"...and it has to happen on a regular basis. Mostly because the little messes drive me crazy and make it seem as if the house is actually dirty, which it isn't.

Oh sure...I could really become a Nazi about the whole thing. I could rant and rave and groan and buy bins and label them and neurotically require everyone to put everything away in it's properly marked spot. But I know that will be an impressive failure. Why? Because even now, the dirty socks sit right beside the laundry bin...on the floor. The back pack is 3 feet from the hook where it should be hanging. The "properly marked spots" already exist. It's just that no body seems to care about them. Maybe if I made it a game and gave away prizes...or if I added a monetary incentive...or if I threatened someone with an early death...I could get them to put their stuff away...every time.

That got me thinking...why do I try so hard to keep it all together? What exactly is the point? Especially when, no matter what I do, even if I can control my own messy life and keep some semblance of outward order, I most certainly can't control anyone else's.

It's not that I'm planning to stop asking everyone to put their things away. Someone has to do it, after all. But, I can let the little messes stop bothering me so much. I can look away sometimes. Even better, I could learn to embrace them.

After all, every little mess is a reminder that someone I love lives here. Really lives here. They leave their mark all over this house, and in all honesty, if those little messes weren't here, my house would lack personality. The clutter in our house is evidence that we are here, inhabiting this space, making it our own. I'd much rather have their little messes than not have them and instead have a home that looks like the airbrushed perfection on the cover of Better Homes & Gardens.

That isn't my life anyway. My life is a blissful, glorious little mess, full of love, and laughter,a nd activity...and we have the clutter to prove it.