A Beautiful Dream

For the past couple of weeks, I've been having the same recurring dream every night.  It has even popped up the couple of times I've gotten the chance at a daytime nap.  I've never really been someone who spent much time analyzing my dreams, preferring instead to enjoy them in whatever manner they present themselves.  On the few occasions I've had recurring dreams in the past, they would come once or twice and then retreat into memories.  Most of them I cannot even remember now.  This time, however, the dream is visiting me night after night, and I awaken with it fresh in my mind every morning.

Nearly 3 weeks into this repetitive dream cycle now, the dream remains so much in the forefront of my mind that I relive it even in my waking dreams (daydreams) in snippets throughout the day.

Although I typically don't read deep meanings into my dreams, I do believe that they are one of the tools our minds use to heal themselves.  In your dreaming world, you can do things that you can not—or would not—do in your real life.  You can have new experiences, attempt difficult tasks, and get closure for past relationships.

In my dream, I'm in a hospital waiting room.  I do not know why I'm there, or if I'm a patient or visitor.  So far, that seems to be irrelevant in my dream.  I'm usually sad, but not overwhelmingly.  As I sit in this room, people keep coming to meet up with me, to sit with me for a while.  So far, each of these people has been someone from my past with whom I do not still have a positive relationship (or, in some cases, any relationship at all).  In each case, the visitor and I talk about our happy memories and our past hurts.  Each of these conversations ends with us in tears, ready to let go of the pain of the past and part on good terms.

Keeping My Word

At some point, we all discover that we have agreed to something without really knowing beforehand exactly what we were getting ourselves into.  I currently find myself in that very position, bearing the bulk of the responsibility for a student club at school that is limping along on a virtual life support system of parent enthusiasm when it should have been allowed to die long ago because of a near-complete lack of student interest.  Translation: this club now exists to keep parents happy, not because the students actually care.

Back in February, I was asked to pitch in and lend a hand with this club, at the time just to be a spare pair of hands for the teacher in charge.  But since that teacher's "unexpected" resignation, I have been placed at the masthead of this organization and have since gotten enough of an in-depth look at this group to see that the time has long passed for this club to be put out of its misery.

Let it never be said, though, that I did not carry through with my promise to carry this club to the end of the school year.  So, I will report to every meeting with a smile pasted onto my face.  I will organize every event with the dedication to detail that I would show to any other part of my job.  I will end the school year and will leave this organization poised to be taken over by the next person, with gears well-oiled and everything running smoothly.

While I have not always been able to make such a claim, I can proudly say that, these days, I am a woman of my word.

Privilege, Entitlement, & Pushy Parents

Today three intelligent, strong women (myself included) were defeated by one of "those" moms.  We had been resolved to a decision we had all but made final, and this one pushy mom managed to shove her way in and override us all.  You know the type: pushy, stuck up, and used to getting their way.....the kind who believe that everyone they meet is there purely to meet their needs and fulfill their every desire.  They're the types of moms who raise children who think they're better than everyone else.  They're the types of moms who believe that their children, though no virtue of their own, are better than everyone else's kids and deserve to be catered to.  They're the moms who want what they want, expect everyone to give it to them, and don't particularly care what sorts of hardships they create for the people who must cater to their whims.

I absolutely loathe moms (and dads) like this, and while I can paste on a smile and force myself to be civil toward them, they will never never never earn any genuine respect or admiration from me.

Working in a public middle school, it is extraordinarily easy to spot the glaring disparities between the haves, the have-nots, and the have-nothings among our student body.

The haves are usually the children of these pushy, privileged parents who raise their children to be sniveling, pampered, stuck-up brats.  They have name brand clothes, perfect acne-free faces (courtesy of high-priced dermatologists), and they win every form of popularity contest—prom queen, homecoming queen, student body president, etc.  These kids rule the school, lording over their peers with jewelry-clad fists and holding court in the hallways, bathrooms, and cafeteria where they are attended to by those on the outer fringes of their kind....the almost-haves.  The haves may not be the best or the brightest at anything, but their high-priced tutors and delusional parents ensure that their kids receive unwarranted recognition for even the most mundane and average accomplishments.

A Servant's Heart....?

I've been hearing—more accurately, reading—more and more people lately labeling themselves as having a "servant's heart," and it got me thinking about what that really means.  In the days before internet, such a curiosity could have meant days of research in a library.  Now, however, Google and I can team up to find answers to many of my queries in only minutes....or at least to find some validations for thoughts I might already be having.

Two nights ago, I stumbled across a post that echoed many of the things I had been feeling but had not yet been able to verbalize.  Because I could think of no words better to sum up my thoughts than those already written by the author of that blog, I decided to ask that author for permission to republish her post for my own readers.

So, posted below is the July 30, 2009 post written by Laurinda Bellinger [about] over at Laurinda on Leadership.  Text in yellow is where I have injected some thoughts of my own.  Those thoughts do not necessarily reflect the thoughts of the original post's author, Laurinda Bellinger.

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Do you have a Servant's Heart or a Slave's Mentality?

July 30, 2009

In Corporate America servant leadership has become popular form of leadership. I believe it's only true leadership form. I see people struggle with the term servant, especially those of us in the black community. Servant and slave are terms that don't sit well with us. Although we will sit in church on Sundays and hear how we are to servants and slaves of Christ. Many of us will serve in church, but it stops there. One reason is because having a servant's mentality, which I equate to a slave's mentality, is different than having a servant's heart.

A Rather Sad Day.

At 8:00p.m. last night, I arrived home.  Work had been fairly awful, and Kaleb and I had gone to spend some time with good friends to try and salvage a positive end for the day.  For the first time in many months, I was simply not in the mood to write.  My spirit is slightly damaged, and I needed to head to bed to escape into a dream that has become a constant welcome addition to my nightly slumber.

I believe that my Facebook status update fairly well summed things up, so I will leave you with that for today:

"Today at work I learned that people sometimes drop a lot of garbage as they walk the path toward their happiness. Sometimes, I have been guilty of this. And other times, I have the arduous task of being put onto the chain gang responsible for cleaning up others' garbage and restoring things to the way they ought to be. It has been a disheartening day, to say the least, and I am glad it is finally over. I pray that the clean up will go quickly, before these shackles cut to the bone."

Review: Crayola Color Bath Dropz

On Sunday, Kaleb received a basket filled with new toys and other fun things (and a very little bit of candy).  One of the items the "Easter Bunny" included in his basket this year was a jar of Crayola Color Bath Dropz.  I was a little worried that they would leave some permanent color on our tub or towels—or the kid—but after 2 nights of use, I'm happy to report that they seem to have no negative effects!

Our Color Bath Dropz came with three colors of tablets: RED, YELLOW, & BLUE.  Here's what Crayola has to say about their product:

"The Crayola Bath product line brings the color, fun, creativity and imagination of the Crayola brand to bath time. Crayola Bath Dropz are fizzing water color tablets that turn ordinary bath water into colorful, fizzy water. This jar makes up to 30 baths! Mix and match the tints to create all the colors of the rainbow."

Sunday night, Kaleb wanted a RED bath.  We used one red tablet under the running faucet, and within minutes, the tub looked as if a gruesome homicide had taken place there.  But when bath time was finished and we drained all the water from the tub, there appeared to be no color left on anything.  Kaleb, the tub, and all his bath toys were unaffected by the color, as was his bath towel once we had him all dried off.

Tonight, we tested out mixing our primary colors.  We mixed one YELLOW tablet and one BLUE tablet and the result was a bath tub full of very GREEN water.  Kaleb played with his toy boats for at least a half hour before it was time to get out and head to bed.  Once again, when the water had been drained, there was none of the color left anyplace.

Overall, I'd say these are a simple and affordable way to add some fun to your kids' bath!

P52, Somewhat: Week 15, "Tradition"

I grew up in a family with traditions.  We knew, more or less, what to expect at every major holiday, and it was nice to know what was coming.  Now that I'm a parent myself, I want Kaleb to benefit from these same types of traditions.  But the pressures of wanting him to have the perfect Rockwellian holidays, as I remember having in my own childhood.

What I have discovered is this: I probably actually never had a holiday that went perfectly according to my parents' plans.  My family holidays with Kaleb will probably never go perfectly either.  And that's ok.  Just as I never had any sense of things going wrong as a kid, Kaleb probably won't either.  In fact, the most important tradition is to simply spend time with Kaleb and do things to make his holidays special and memorable, just as my parents did for my brother and me when we were kids.

This year, for the first time, Kaleb and I dyed eggs.  Assuming I already had all the supplies we'd need, I didn't bother to read the directions of the egg dying kid my dad had given us.  I bought some eggs, and hard boiled 20 of them.  18 of them survived the boiling without cracking, and they were set aside to be colored.  On the day we were to dye the eggs, however, I realized we had no vinegar to add to the dye water to help the color adhere to the egg shells.  A quick glance around Google hinted that I might be able to use lemon juice instead, and I decided it would just have to work.  Kaleb and I spent some time dying the eggs, six at a time in three rounds.  They came out with plenty of imperfections, not at all what I had hoped for my first attempt at sharing this activity with Kaleb.  But you know what?  He didn't notice those imperfections at all!  He was overjoyed to be able to help, to get to participate in something new and fun.  When it was all finished, I couldn't pry Kaleb out of the kitchen.  He actually wanted to stand atop his stool and watch the eggs drying on the counter.

My Boys

It's not at all unusual for me to see a few raised eyebrows when I make reference to "my sons" or "my boys."  Most people know that I'm a single mom with a little boy, but those plural nouns often throw people for a loop.  However, even when I was pregnant with Kaleb, I already had one fuzzy child—my big orange cat, Morris.

In 2002, I was married and living in PPV military housing in a little town in Northern San Diego County called Ramona, California.  One day while I was home alone, there was an unexpected knock at the door.  I opened the door, and there stood a sleep-deprived Navy wife with a Radio Flyer wagon containing a basket of mewling orange furballs and several dozen cans of kitten formula.  She told me that her cat had had these kittens and had taken off and not returned.  She had been trying to take care of all 6 kittens herself, but was finding it impossible to keep up with them and her own children.  She was looking for families to adopt the kittens.  I had always wanted an orange cat—it seemed a redheaded woman should have one—so I agreed to take one.  We already had 3 cats, and I knew my then-husband would be none too happy when he came home....but he was rarely very happy anyway.

What'll I Tell My Son About Tattoos?

I've lost count of how many times people, upon learning that I am a single mother, have asked me "how on earth" I'm going to explain tattoos to my son.  Frankly, I don't see what the big deal is.  Granted, I'm usually asked this by someone who remembers the way-back-whens when tattoos were only something worn by sailors and hookers (or, more recently, by bikers and hippies), but seriously....it's 2012, people!

I realize that single moms are far more common these days than they were just a couple of generations ago.  Divorce rates have grown exponentially and the rate of children born to unwed mothers—like myself—has risen as well.  But let's face it: even back in the "good old days," parenting has never been an easy undertaking.  Throughout history, parents have always been faced with the decision of how to raise their children, what lessons to teach, and what morals to instill into their offspring.  My case is no different.

Yes, I have tattoos.  They are visible.  And Kaleb knows that I have them.  However, until very recently, I only had tattoos that had been on my body longer than I had been a mother.  Now, however, I have fresh ink at a time when Kaleb is old enough to be aware of it and curious about them.  The one on my forearm, especially, has gotten a lot of attention.

Today, Kaleb asked me if he could have a tattoo, too, "like Mommy's tattoo."  We had a talk about tattoos—yes, my 3-year-old and I—and how they become a part of you forever.  I explained to him that real tattoos are something only for grown-ups, because they are an important decision and because you have to be old enough to take good care of them.  [For the record, I have this exact same opinion on piercings.]

Ink.

Photo: 3-19-2008

On March 19, 2008, I began my second tattoo.  On that day, I met with my preferred tattoo artist and had the outlines inked for a tattoo that would take several follow-up sessions of coloring to complete.  I was very happy that night with the results, and couldn't wait for it to heal enough that I could go back and get more work done.

I called back a few days later to schedule an appointment a few weeks ahead for my first coloring session.  The original design for this tattoo was very intricate and would have lots of detail and shading and bold colors.  The healing process went well, and I was on track to color within a month.

Then, as it often does, life got in the way.  Three days before my appointment, I found out that I was pregnant.  Of course, there are several reasons you can't be tattooed while pregnant, so we decided that it would just have to wait.

4-6-2012 — Before

A week ago, I found out that I would have the opportunity to finally go back and have the color added today, after only 4 years of walking around with a half-finished artwork upon my back.  I pulled out the file with the original plans for the tattoo and started thinking about what details to have added this session.  But the more I looked at the plans, the more I realized that my desires had become much simpler since the birth of my little boy.  So, I loaded the file into my photo editing software and set to work reworking the old plans to suit my current desires.

The outlines, obviously, were already set and had healed beautifully.  All that needed to be decided was what would be put into them.  In the original plans, the entire design would be filled with color, inside the lines and also in between the rings.  It was bold and color-heavy and very complicated.  It would take hours upon hours of coloring and shading and blending, and I knew there wasn't much chance I could get it all done today....and I sure didn't want to wait potentially 4 more years to have the chance to have more work done.  Once I had simplified the design, I was much happier and got even more excited.

Simplify

Sometimes, we all have those days where everything is ridiculously complicated.  Wednesday, my life was one of those days.  So, rather than compose a long, ironically-complicated post on simplicity, I'll leave you with this simple thought:

As you simplify your life,

the laws of the universe will be simpler;

solitude will not be solitude,

poverty will not be poverty,

nor weakness weakness.

~Henry David Thoreau

An Open Letter to the Author of "Nerd Girls"

Dear Mr. S.,

My main purpose in writing this letter is to share with you my thoughts and feelings during and following the assembly you recently led at our school.

Of course, I do not presume to speak for the other members of our school's faculty and staff. Even though I have had several conversations with various of my co-workers in the days since your visit to our school, and found some of them to share my opinions on your presentation, I'll leave it to them to share with you, or not, their thoughts and feelings as they choose. Every opinion shared in this letter will be entirely my own.

On Monday, March 26, our entire middle school began a “read aloud” of your book, Nerd Girls. At the start of each class period, every class in the school would be read the prescribed number of pages by their teacher before beginning the normal classwork routine. The premise of the book sounded like one with which many of our students would be able to connect. Sadly, before the end of page 1, you had drawn me into the protagonist's story and then alienated me again just as quickly. On page 17, I realized that this book was going to be one filled with filth and inappropriate words for no reason other than to add shock value to the text. My realization came after reading this bit: “He was the king of the practical joke. From covering the toilet seat with Saran Wrap when I was being potty trained so that the pee-pee leaked all over my leg, to turning my alarm clock forward a few hours every now and then so that some mornings I was up and ready for school by three thirty a.m., to putting spicy vapor rub in my training bra so that my nipples felt like they were going to burn off when I first started preparing for 'womanhood'...” (You know, you could have accomplished the same effect with itching powder in her socks or dog poo in her shoes.) I continued to participate in reading the book to my students, dreading your visit more and more with every turned page.

On the morning of Wednesday, March 28, 2012 (one week ago today), you made a visit to the middle school where I work in Pensacola, FL. To be honest, I had never heard of you until our literacy coach began to tell us that we were going to begin another school-wide “read aloud” and that the author of that book would be coming to make an appearance at our school. But with as many authors as there are in the world, this fact is nothing particularly notable. It sounded like a great opportunity for our students, many of whom are not afforded such special opportunities very often.

Incredible Imagination Meets Developing Motor Skills

In case I haven't said it often enough over the past week or so, let me tell you now: my kid is really, really amazing.  Sure, I know most parents say that about their children.  But you know what?  We're actually all correct!

Children are the most amazing little people, always changing and developing and gaining new skills.  It's one of the most fascinating things in the world, especially with young children who are changing with every blink of the eye.

Last night, while I was preparing our supper, Kaleb called out to me to "Come look, Mommy!"  I walked into the living room, and Kaleb was standing there, beaming from ear to ear, holding the Lego creation shown in the picture to the left.  Only half paying attention—I know, it's terrible, but we're all guilty of this from time to time—I said "Oh, neat," and turned to go back to the kitchen to continue working on our supper.

Kaleb, however, was completely dissatisfied with my response (and, honestly, he was totally justified to feel that way).  He said, "Wait, Mommy!  Take my picture!  Take a picture of my Legos!"

Now, I should say here that I fully believe that there must be some little bit of human DNA—yet unidentified, of course—that passes down the outgoing nature of a parent to their child.  My brother and I got it from our parents, along with the "performance" gene, and Kaleb has apparently gotten it from me.  He wants to be noticed when he has done something worthy of note, and he will not give up until he has the recognition he feels he has earned.

P52, Somewhat: Week 14, "Toys"

The photo topic this week is "Toys," and toys are definitely something I know plenty about.  Why?  Because I'm a parent, and my son has a particular talent for making an absolute mess.

A few days ago, I blogged about my son's new Jobs Chart, mentioning that one of his jobs is to clean up all his toys every weekend.  When I was this topic coming up, I knew in advance what the photo would have to be this week.  So, when we woke up yesterday morning, I snapped a pic of our living room floor before all the toys got cleaned up.

And, rather than writing a lot this week, I have decided to let the photo speak for itself.

Recapturing a Piece of My Childhood

One of the best things about becoming a parent is that you have a valid excuse for having toys around the house.  I mean, sure, some of us have held onto some childhood toys even though we were not yet parents, but it might still have been a nit awkward to have a friend pop by for a visit and find us having a teddy bear tea party in our adult dining rooms while we were yet single or childless.

Now that I'm a parent, I get the added bonus of having a legitimate reason to play like a kid: it's good for my son!  Yes, that's right....not only do I get to have fun with his toys, but it also benefits his development for me to get down on the floor and play toys with him.  What an amazingly wonderful concept!

When I was a child, two of my favorite activities were coloring with my crayons and building with Legos.  And these are still activities I'll readily admit that I enjoy as an adult.  At this age, Kaleb has the larger Duplo-style Legos, and I am so excited for the time when he gets old enough to have bucketfuls of the standard-sized Lego bricks.  Right now, our favorite activity to do together is to color.  I have a large set of Crayola crayons, and Kaleb has a box of larger preschool-sized Crayolas of his very own.  We each also have our own coloring books—his Mickey Mouse & friends, mine Strawberry Shortcake—so that we can lie side-by-side on the floor and color together.  He may not have the motor skills for fine art yet, but he's improving at the same time he is learning by watching me.

Being a parent may have its ups and downs, but getting to play with an adorable little boy whenever I want is definitely one of the ups!