Picking Battles

I decided to break my almost-two-month silence here with a guest post from Ted. After reading this you'll be laughing too hard to be mad at me for my ridiculously long hiatus. When you're finished, leave a comment letting us know if you are or aren't one. I can tell you right now, I'm a card carrying member of this club, right along with Ted's wife. 

Shortly after graduating from college, my friends and I were nursing our hangovers in the front yard of my parents’ house. While we were busily recounting the antics of the previous evening, my father pulled up in his freshly washed and vacuumed Mercury Marquis and immediately asked me in front of my friends:  “What happened to the lawn?”

 “I mowed it.” I replied. “Doesn’t it look good?” Even if I didn’t have wet-brain, I should have known that there was 0% chance my father would have answered in the affirmative.  

No, he did not think the lawn looked good. Perhaps that was because one of the wheels on the mower was apparently at a different setting than the other three while I mowed the entire lawn. As a result, each strip of the lawn was cut at an ever-so-slight angle that only the most obsessive of obsessive lawn owners would ever notice. Unfortunately for me, my father just happens to be one of these individuals. Not believing him initially, my father then requested that I join him on all fours so that we could both gain a better view of my horticultural faux pas. Please keep in mind that my friends were present for this entire exchange. Luckily, my recently-earned undergraduate degree was in neither landscape architecture or pride.

I do not bring up this story just so I can poke fun at my father’s anal-retentive lawn care tendencies. (But if that were indeed my intention, I would inevitably use that as the lead-in to the story of my father standing on the roof of our two-story house using the electric leaf blower to rid the roof of all debris. I am pretty sure he must have had to plug two extension cords together to be able to gingerly operate the equipment that far removed from anything resembling an electrical outlet.) Rather, I bring up this anecdote to illustrate how some people have an amazing ability to see things that most other (read: normal) people are completely oblivious to. With that, I resort to the analogy section of the SAT’s to drive home my main point:  

Lawn imperfections are to my father as pimples are to my wife.  

Just as I would most likely not have noticed if my father’s lawn mower’s blade was temporarily replaced with two plastic knives lifted from Dairy Queen, I am not someone who really pays attention to pimples, either mine or those of others. Yes, I will pop my own pimples; I consider it to be good hygiene, just like making sure I don’t have any stray nose hairs or kale stuck in my teeth. However, I don’t get enjoyment out of any of these acts. They are just things I do if I want to have people willingly interact with me.  

This is all very different for my wife. (Let’s call her Pam, which seems pretty appropriate considering that is indeed her name) For Pam, the act of picking satisfies a burning need that one usually only sees when watching a tweeker light up on an episode of “Intervention.” And without the aide of rehab or twelve step programs, Pam has learned how to effectively manage most of her impulses to pick. Impressive, eh?

Pam is not alone in this obsession; by my unofficial count, approximately half of all Americans are “pickers.” My non-scientific studies have further concluded that there is absolutely no grey area between the two camps; either you’re a picker or you aren’t. That’s it. Just as you either love the show “Glee” or you despise it. (I am in the latter camp. So for those of you keeping track, that makes me a “Glee”-hating-non-picker.) And my doctoral thesis in the psychology of picking concluded that although it is satisfying for a picker to pick something on their own body, it is that much more satisfying to pick something on someone else’s body. And whose body is better to pick (and more socially appropriate) than your spouse’s.  

If Pam were actually a junkie and in need of a fix, I would do what all good enabling spouses do, which is pawn the baby’s crib and score her some dope. Done and done. If only my life were that easy. Unfortunately for me, my wife is not hooked on crack or meth; her vice is white-heads. And on those occasions where she gives in to her temptations, I can’t just go out and score Pam something to pick; rather, I have to organically grow something that will satisfy her burning need. And considering that I am six foot six, there is a pretty good potential at any given moment that there is something somewhere on my body that is in need of picking. (I now question if she married me because I am truly her soul-mate or because I provide more surface area than all of her other prospective suitors.)

But here’s the kicker: I am not a fan of her picking my pimples. I enjoy her picking at my skin about as much as I enjoy her picking on my character flaws. After twelve years of marriage, Pam is now usually able to overlook most of my numerous shortcomings as a husband. However, she has a more difficult time attempting to overlook the tiniest of pimples growing on my forehead. And I know the moment when she spots something new on my skin. She tries to be really discreet about it. But I know her all too well. And I know what I am in for when I see her gaze shift ever-so-slightly from my piercing hazel eyes to my forehead. That is when my own version of homeland-security-against-unwanted-picking escalates to the dreaded “code red” level. 

“Stop it.”

“What???”

“You know what you’re doing. Stop it.”

“But I’m not doing anything.”

Both Pam and I know to what I am referring, and we both know that she is trying not to be obvious in her quest to pinpoint the black head she just spotted on my skin. She is like a four year old with her mouth covered in chocolate desperately trying to convince me that she didn’t sneak a piece of left-over Halloween candy. But she will eventually confess to seeing something. And then I can see her having an internal debate as to whether or not she should proceed by asking if she can pick away.  

She inevitably has a far more difficult time gaining my permission to pick when the pimple is on my back. Mainly because it’s on my back, and I know that nobody is ever going to see it. Hell, Pam doesn’t even see my back. And if she knows that there is something on my back to pick, that means that she discovered it when we were enjoying a little “adult time” together. What usually happens is she will be gingerly stroking my back, and then she will pause ever so slightly. And I know that that means that she felt something. “Pam, stop it!” And once again, she knows exactly what I’m talking about. 

At times, Pam will ask me to pop something for her, and that is only because she is not able to reach said offender. I then attempt to muster up a modicum of enthusiasm for the task. This amount is equivalent to how much I would have if someone asked me to be a groomsman in their Star-Trek themed wedding party. I fumble around for a minute, pretending like I’m doing something substantial. But I’m not. And she knows it. She eventually walks away with her original not-popped pimple, and although she won’t admit, I know that she is judging me. Harshly. Judging me the way she did (rightfully so) when I flailed my arms and screeched like a little girl when the vacuum that I was using caught on fire.  

There was actually one time when I went at one of her pimples with genuine vigor and vim. I knew this would be my chance to prove to her that I was a man of honor, and not just a man who was incapable of thinking on my own to unplug a smoking vacuum. I discovered the pimple in the middle of the night. I rolled over, put my hand on Pam’s back, and felt something. Something big. Something big enough that it woke me from my sleep. So I poked and prodded over and over, trying to fully wrap my mind around this crazy growth on her back. And then Pam, herself half asleep, barked:  “Ow!  What are you doing to my nipple???”

Dear Santa (2010) Part I:

Finally, a Santa after my own heart. 

Must be the mediocre version.

I know it’s a little late to be writing you, but I figure with all your magic you won’t have any problem getting this by December 24^th—your busiest workday of the year (unlike my life, which is hectic everyday). I want you to know that I do love you, in all your happy splendor, even if we do have a slightly contentious relationship.

Honestly, Santa, I’m a little annoyed with you. Every year my children sit down to write their Christmas wish list, with their biggest, most expensive request going to you. Why is this? Because you are Santa and you have no budget constraints since your indentured servants elves make all your toys (and electronic gadgets) there in your toasty sweatshop workshop. 

This is a problem for me fat man, because my husband and I don’t get to take credit for scrimping and saving for the “big gifts.” After ripping open their American Girl Dolls, or Nintendo Game Systems, or POOL TABLES for heaven’s sake, our children are shouting, “Thanks Santa!” into the air, (like you can even hear them) while we take credit for the underwear, socks, and functionally warm Christmas sweatshirts. It’s like thanking a Unicorn for knocking out the mortgage. I’m getting tired of letting you take all the credit for my husband’s paycheck and my shopping efforts. Thankfully, you don’t wrap your presents (at least at our house) so I don’t have to do that for you too. (Because finding a wrapping paper that only you have, is getting to be a little difficult too.)

But worse than that Santa, I find myself doing all kinds of things to keep my children believing in you and the magic of the season. How’s that for crazy? I want my children to believe the impossibility that all things are possible. That anything can happen. Paper gingerbread men really can turn into REAL gingerbread cookies on Christmas morning, simply because you willed it. That you can always find us, even if we travel on Christmas Eve, lock all the doors and window tight, or have a fire raging in the fireplace. I perpetuate the myths of the season because seeing that sparkle of hope in my children’s eyes is worth not getting credit for having to take a second mortgage out on the house to pay for “your” gifts. Because Santa…

I lost two believers this year. I know my son knows because now he always refers to you in “air quotes” when others aren’t around. My middle daughter knows too, but she hasn’t come right out and admitted it. We dance around the topic with our usual lies; she’s waiting for me to slip and out you as a farce. But I won’t do it. I won’t say those words until she asks me point blank, and even then I’ll give her another chance by asking, “Are you sure you really want to know?” Of course by that time, they already do know. It’s a little sad for me to know my kids are getting older and skeptical now; a step away from the jaded adults we all become when we know how Christmas really works. 

The good news is that I still have one believer left in the house…my three-year-old daughter who barely understands your story and shtick. We’re all starting to fill her in now on how you work, and I can see the excitement budding in her eyes. So when I asked her what she wanted you to bring her, do you know what she said?

“Coloring books. The big kind.”

Yes. Isn’t that beautiful!? She hasn’t figured out to ask for a TV or a cell phone or a convertible Volkswagen Bug yet (the newly designed 2012 version), taking cues from her big brother and sister. She asked for floor-sized coloring books. And do you know what you are bringing her? Well, of course you do. You’re Santa. I’m betting you’re going to throw in a pack of her own mini markers too, because you are good like that and think of everything.

So I’m focusing on that this year Santa. That my youngest believer-in-you still wants the little things, and is happy with big white pages with dark black lines that she can color. I’m happy to let you take credit for this one. I didn’t have to get a holiday paper route to pay for this gift.

What do my son and daughter want for Christmas, you ask? Or me or my husband? Well, it’s not a very long list Santa, but the items are pricey. I’ll be getting back to you with those items in the next day or two. Right now I have to work on writing more website copy so I can invoice my client and have money to make the higher payments on my credit card. Until you get my next installment letter, continue enjoying your steaming lattes and packing on the pounds while Mrs. Clause waits on you hand and foot. One of these days I'm going to have to write her a letter too...

Sincerely,

Rachel G.

Making the Grade. Or Not.

Some of you have mentioned that I left you hanging about my son’s grade status and the consequences my husband and I imposed after he brought home his report card. I apologize. Some info I write here, some info I post on Facebook, and some info I’ve written for Good Enough Mother. I don’t want to go around being redundant (I do that enough here in my mediocre mother life), but I also don’t want to leave my readers in a lurch. The bigger message in all this of course, is that all of you should be following me in all venues of my writing, wherever the hell it happens to appear. Yeah yeah, I know, you all have day jobs. (Most of you anyway.) But I bet you take bathroom breaks don’t you? Well put on a pair of Depends and read me during that precious time. It’ll be worth it. And those Depends really can hold a vast amount of liquid I’m told.

But the long and short of it is, yes, my son had one C on his report card. And yes, in the interest of following through on promised consequences, he lost all TV, video games, and recreational computer for four and a half weeks.

Quit feeling sorry for him. It’s not as if the boy was locked in his room this whole time, and trust me, he got plenty of TV watching in by default. He’s been hungrier these past few weeks than I’ve ever seen him, as he eats snacks at the table where he happens to be able to watch the TV while it’s on in the living room. He has been the best big brother to our youngest, and loves to snuggle with her and keep her company while she is watching movies on her little video player. He has been super cold lately and has needed to stand in front of the fire in the morning before school while I’m simultaneously viewing Morning Express with Robin Meade. He’s found very creative ways to endure his consequences.

It hasn’t been easy for any of us, let me tell you. It’s exhausting trying to enforce consequences of this nature, especially when the long and short of it is—he’s a great kid.

He’s not into drugs. He doesn’t ditch school. He is respectful to authority and does what we ask (occasionally with a complaint, but he does it). In the scope of life and what is important, he is on the right track and we are proud of him.

So, how are his grades now, you ask? Has all this time that’s opened up for him to complete his homework and focus on his studies paved the way to better grades and improved school performance?

Umm, no.

On his last report card the boy brought home, (1A), (3 B-‘s), and (1C+). As of this morning, he has (1 A) and (4Cs).

Sigh.

This is despite OUR working on his homework with him for over two hours every night. I say our, because I am grading and double checking everything he does, putting it into a pile for his backpack, and making sure he has all components of ANY rubric on ALL projects. His teachers say he is focused in class and not goofing around or off-task. This was the year I was supposed to sit in the backseat and let him drive his educational bus for once. What the hell is happening?

Is this typical boy growing/learning pains? Is it an organizational issue? I’m honestly out of answers. Is his life so meaningless without technology that he is doing worse in school instead of better? Should we just leave well enough alone, since he performed better during the first grading period when he was in charge and played video games? Should I just shut he hell up and see what happens, instead of getting all freaky about grades, which we all know are arbitrary?

Yes. I said that. Grades are arbitrary. I can make that statement because I used to be a teacher. And even though I understand that, it’s still important to me (and my husband) that our kids always strive to do their personal best.

And in the last few weeks, I really feel like our oldest IS doing his personal best, even though his grades continue to tank.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not blaming anyone here. But I honestly can’t figure out the disconnect. I have my suspicions as to why we are in this place currently, but it’s only a hunch. I’m trying to be proactive and have open communication with the teachers, without becoming THAT parent who emails and complains constantly. (Because I’ve had my share of those when I taught as well and it’s no fun.) I must say that his teachers have been uber-prompt at responding to my inquiries and extremely helpful in suggesting solutions. I know it’s a thankless, difficult job, which is why I don’t do it anymore. They have enough to handle with oversized classes, relatively little prep time, and more and more “requirements” and pressure coming from our educational system. I get it.

And my son? What’s his take on all this? He’s frustrated, but surprisingly upbeat. His biggest concern of course, is what happens when he gets his progress report and he still has C’s. Will he still lose TV, video games, and computer over the Christmas break? Would we do that to him just to prove a point? Even I know that would be pushing the enforcement too far. I mean, we’re definitely mediocre, but we’re not downright mean. We’ve always said it was about effort, not the printed letters on school issued paper. Since he’s been giving his best effort (and his teachers confirm this), that’s all we ask. After all, it’s effort, attitude, and fortitude that get you places in life, not necessarily grades.

But I’m open to suggestions. If you have older boys, I’d love to hear if you’ve gone through any of this and how you handled it. If you say you just drank your way through middle school and high school, I’ve got that covered. Just so you know. 

And The Winner Is....

Yes! I picked a winner this morning using the random number generator at Random.org. The chances of winning this thing were pretty good, seeing as how I only had 12 people enter! Awesome for you all! I didn't break my goal of 22 (and that was a pretty mediocre goal if you ask me) but I did get to meet some new people here on Musings, and for that I'm grateful.

So the winner was Jen McCarthy! If you live here on the East Coast, beware of a blonde woman with caffeine in her eyes on Black Friday morning. This is the same woman who husband signed her up to bring napkins to her son's Halloween party. You know what lengths she went to finding the PERFECT napkins, so I'm sure she's downright hell-on-wheels when shopping for Christmas. Congratulations Jen!

And thanks to all of you who decided to follow me. I hope you don't "unfollow" me now that you haven't won. I'll post a longer blog later, but until then, read my latest recap of last year's Thanksgiving travels on Good Enough Mother. If you've ever driven a four ton minivan loaded with three children and crap for any length of time, I know you'll be able to relate.

My First Give Away!

Yeah I know. I don't do give aways at all really. They're just not my thing. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE reading blogs that give away cool stuff, or let you know about cool stuff, like my most favorite one Fun Finds For Mom. That really is a great website to read about fun stuff to do with your kids, or the latest and greatest in non-plastic-non-toxic-earth-friendly-lunch containers (among many other things of course).

And while I don't do this very often, I figured right before Thanksgiving would be a great time to give away a $25.00 gift card to Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts (you pick) so that come Black Friday you will be sufficiently caffeinated-up to stand in line at 3:30 a.m. to purchase toys you won't even get to take credit for. I hate Santa for that. But I digress.

What do you have to do to enter this fabulous drawing? Well, dear readers, you must subscribe to me. You know that silly little half rainbow looking thing over there in the right-hand sidebar? The one that says, "Never Miss a Post?" Yeah, that one. Click on that and subscribe to my blog, which means you will become: A Follower. Not in a creepy,  Jonestown or Branch Dividian kind of way, but a follower of my mediocre musings. Right now I only have 13 of them. But I would like to give a shout out to the bold people that they are for being ahead of the curve and being a fan before there was even a prize!! However, they're getting lonely and need friends. Hell, I need friends. And honestly, I need a little motivation to blog more frequently than I have been. You subscribe to my blog which allows you to laugh till you pee, and I get to count my followers in the sidebar. It's win-win.

So, bring it on! You have until Sunday the 21st at midnight to subscribe to my blog. Then, please leave a comment below with your name and email. I'll pick a winner (from an online randomization tool) Monday morning and ship off the gift card just in time for the Black Friday Morning!

Tell your friends! All are welcome! Let's see if I can crack 20 followers! No, make it 22!

Life Lesson Cont’d

This past weekend was one of the few weekends in November (or December) that didn’t have tiny writing in the calendar boxes, meaning my husband and I had two full days to do what we damn well pleased. You know, yard work, chores, laundry, and grocery shopping were able to be completed totally unencumbered by sports games, karate, sleepovers, or birthday parties. Which turned out to be a really good thing since the vast amount of our energy, patience, and emotions were sucked dry simply by trying to deal with our son, who has officially morphed into a sad-morose-glass-always-empty-pre-teen.

Since his birth we knew it was coming.

For those who need to catch up a little bit, I guest blogged on the website Good Enough Mother yesterday, about our son’s impending report card status and what is going to happen when he brings home any grade below a “B.” Which I’m praying will happen because if he manages to eeeekkkk his way into all “Bs” it means one thing: that he’ll never change. He’ll think he can half-ass his way right into college with the same amount of effort he gives to picking up his room and folding his clothes into tight, neat piles. I’m sure you can imagine what that looks like.

Last week he mistakenly thought report cards would come home on Friday, but no, it’s actually Monday. Which meant of course, he had one more weekend of video games, TV, and computer, or to be more precise, three more days to breathe easily before he started flopping around, gasping for air like a fish out of water because he has lost technology. Which he tried to work to his advantage.

Every request this past weekend started with: “Since I’m going to lose video games next week, can I…” or “This is the last weekend I have to watch TV, so can I…” which we went ahead and let him do. We’re not as cruel as he makes us sound. We’re happy to give the kid on death-row a few tasty meals of his choosing. He stayed up late Friday night watching a movie. He spent the night at a friend’s house on Saturday, his last tribute to Halo and bonding with his buddy. Sunday morning came, and he was a tired, moody, mess, and angry I called him home from his sleep over so he could attend Sunday morning mass. Apparently the I-need-to-be-thankful-perspective is a few years off.

Sunday was choppy for us all, and I asked him, “Do you have any homework you need to complete today?” He wasn’t sure. He thought he might have a little.

“Don’t you have quite a few tests coming up this week?” I ask. Maybe he does. He thinks so. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the study guides he needs to study effectively. Besides, he tells me, he can always study Monday night.

At which point I send him off to his room to bring me his backpack and folder, while I walked to the nearest wall and banged my head against it a couple times in a repetitive why me motion. Dealing with my son and his homework habits is a little like picking up a drunk relative from the police station after being arrested for a DUI, only to have that relative ask you to stop at the liquor store on the way home so he can buy more beer. And I’m thinking in alcoholic metaphors these days because dealing with a pre-teen has increased my desire to throw a few back. At the end of this year there’s a good chance I’ll have sclerosis of the liver.

My son brings me his backpack, and I proceed to rifle through it just to make sure he was indeed telling me the truth. That he had no homework. That he was all caught up, almost. That the life lesson he was currently swimming through had pushed his little head out of the water long enough for him to gain perspective of the shore. Surely, SURELY, someone who was going to lose four and a half weeks of technology (anything with a cord for heaven’s sake) would MAKE SURE their assignments were completed, wouldn’t they? Faced with the thought of being holed up in our house with only his books and model rockets to keep him company, wouldn’t that encourage him to make SURE he started the new grading period off with completed assignments and good grades?

Do you see where this is going?

I found the weekly letter in his backpack. The one I’m supposed to read on Thursday when it comes home and not on Sunday, three days later. But I’m mediocre and didn’t ask him for his folder on Thursday—or all weekend for that matter—because I decided to be selfish and organize my daughter’s closet and wash the outside of the windows with the 10-foot stepladder.

In this little note home, I discover that my son has a one and a half page essay due on Monday. That he has a graphic organizer “to help with the assignment” and to “please ask your child about this.” So, per teacher’s instructions I say, “Son? What is this about an essay due tomorrow?”

“A what?” he asks. “An essay?”

“Yes,” I reply. “An essay. And you have some type of graphic organizer to help you? Where is that?”

“An essay?” he keeps repeating, like I’m suddenly speaking in tongues and he can’t quite make out what I mean, but maybe if he looks all confused and mopey it will buy him some time to come up with another feeble excuse. He rifles through his backpack and drags out a piece of crumpled paper, a notebook with about seven sentences written down, and he says to me, “You mean, my personal narrative?”

At which point I grabbed the edges of my stained couch and prayed, Lord, please help me not kill my son who is deciding to take this moment to dicker with me over the semantics of his assignment. Is he seriously getting into a pissing contest with me over lexicon? Jesus, hold me back.

“Yes.” I reply, sociopathically. “Your personal narrative. When is it due?”

“I don’t know,” he tells me.

“It says here it is due tomorrow. How much do you have written?”

He holds up his notebook and shows me his 1/8 of a page of chicken scratch and I reply, “Well. Looks like you have a busy day.”

The best part of this emotion-suck-lesson however, was when our son’s best friends pulled into the driveway in their van, hoping to take our son back to their house to hang out and have dinner. His rant suddenly stopped, his smile returned, and he looked at me with hopeful, doe-y eyes. Surely, not even I would say no to this outing! There they were in our driveway, just waiting for him, and it would be rude to say no! But I declined on behalf of my son, thanked them for being salt in his wound, and sent them on their way. Our boy needed to finish his essay. And while it would have been so much easier to let him go play—while the thought of not having to deal with his passive-aggressive harumpfs and deep sighs would have made my day easier, I thought about that cold beer in the fridge, and I held my ground.

He managed to finish writing his assignment, and his father and I forced him to type it up, even though he swore up and down that only the rough draft was due Monday and not the final draft. He was worried he’d get in trouble by completing so much of it ahead of time. I assured him, I would be happy to write a note apologizing to his teacher that he went above and beyond and that his father and I forced him to do it. Blame us for having expectations for our son’s behavior, we can take it. He’s just our minion.

Incredibly, he eeeekkkkked out his assignment at the eleventh hour once again. It took about that long too. There was a lot of crying and nose blowing and used tissue on the floor. And although he told me he was “finished” about five times (each time asking if he could now go be with his friends),we kindly pointed out the other things he needed to complete: picking up his room, studying for his test, working on his math, and doing a final proofing and edit of his essay. Excuse me, personal narrative.

He’s my first child, my only son, and I had no brother’s growing up. I get that I’m new to this adolescent game, especially when it comes to dealing with boys. I naively thought the report card status would be enough to change his behavior in one swift motion. Looks like it’s going to be more of a year-long process. Me, my husband, and my bottle of Merlot are ready for the challenge.

Blast from the Past

I’m not sure why I’m feeling so nostalgic this evening—what exactly is motivating me to be writing this at 11:24 p.m. instead of being in bed, beneath my feather tic, listening to the rain drum on my cheap ass single pane windows. I watched my three favorite shows tonight; my old Sunday night ritual. The first time I’ve watched them all since their premiers this fall. Seems like every Sunday night the past two months has been filled with something.

I can’t blame it on my birthday, having been almost a month ago, or the fact that my 20^th high school reunion was on Halloween weekend. I didn’t attend, instead figuring I’d start saving for the many plane tickets we may have to purchase in the next year to bury loved ones. Hopefully not. But you never know.

I can’t even say that it’s the rain, although rain has always made me pensive—made me want to light candles and sip hot beverages in thick mugs while ensconced in my warm fuzzy robe and slipper socks. I lead quite the exciting life. Maybe it was the other night, celebrating with my neighbors over red wine and Chinese take out. That relationship where I can be me and funny and relaxed and family and a guest all at the same time when I’m in their house. Maybe I’m just tired. Or going to start my period.

Maybe it's the fact that my son is 11 and he’s edging his way into his first big life lesson which will officially hit sometime in the next week or so, rendering the next four and a half weeks of my life a living nightmare. And though I’m lamenting the nightmare, I’m mourning the gradual loss of my baby boy and my influence over him while at the same time being so excited he’s finally going to learn to fly. Well, at least he’s taking the leap. This first drop is going to be a doosie. But in all actually it just feels high from where I'm sitting. It's a new perch for me too.

I’ve been known to get sappy at times like these. Late at night when I’m tired. I’d probably write an effing amazing novel if I could channel my words to explode between the hours of 11 p.m. and 3 in the morning. That’s probably one of the reasons I’ve yet to write this novel (to be honest, I’m 1,300 words in but it  hasn’t really progressed past the ovulation stage…my novel that is) because I’m sleeping away my creative genius hours.

But these came to me tonight so I thought I’d make a blog post about them. Things I miss about being a kid. Being young. now that I'm waxing nostalgic, I may have actually posted a blog like this before. It feels a little familiar, though I can't truly remember. Oh, there are plenty of things I adore about being OLD, don’t get me wrong. But that’s another blog post. I have to eek out my ideas when I get them. You know as well as I, these essays have seen more prolific seasons. (What am I averaging these days…two posts a month?) Crap.

Anyway. Here’s my list. In no particular order. I miss:

• Being able to eat a fast food hamburger, fries, and a coke without indigestion and gas.
• My memory.
• My metabolism.
• Sleeping through the night without having to get up to pee four times. I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night.
• Sitting down to a table full of food I didn’t have to cook. Every single evening.
• Being able to stay up until 2 a.m. and still be not only functional the next day, but downright chipper.
• Believing in Santa.
• Being able to pick something off the floor without bending my knees.
• Being able to sit on the floor at all without pain.
• Not having migraines.
• Waking up on December 26^th to a Christmas tree surrounded by wrapped presents; not being the one who put (and wrapped) them there.
• Thinking my grandparents would live forever.
• The simplicity that comes before knowledge.
• My size four arse. Only occasionally though.
• Being a self-assured, confident, loud, ignorant teenager. And I wish I could have bottled that chutzpah and sold it, becoming a millionaire.
• Designing new outfits to wear each day. More than that, the time I had to devote to such creative endeavors.
• Journaling by hand with a medium point blue ball tip pen.
• Reading all the V.C. Andrews books thinking those were the worst things that could ever befall humans. How little I knew!
• Listening to my father play the piano in the evening while I was in bed.
• Talking to my mother while she sat at the end of my bed every night flossing her teeth.

There are so many more. But age has caught up with me once again. It’s after midnight and my eyes are closing, even if my mind is still racing. I miss that too. I miss being able to sleep when I go to bed, instead of lying awake thinking about to-do lists, paying bills, marketing myself, or finishing projects. And there is a three year old waiting for me in that bed, who’s been up the past four nights coughing and generally being miserable.

So I’m going to go to bed now and snuggle with that hacking child, just so I don’t end up writing about missing moments with my children. You know, when I’m old and looking back on being younger.

Weigh in here. Tell me I'm not alone. What things do you miss from your younger days?