tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77491818464041362642024-03-04T22:06:27.191-06:00Knitting and Mayhem"Women are angels. And when someone breaks our wings . . . We simply continue to fly . . . on a broomstick. We are flexible like that." White WitchJedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.comBlogger163125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-46322031701469494292014-01-02T15:26:00.000-06:002014-01-02T15:26:31.993-06:00Never Far Today is the 25th anniversary of my father's passing from this life into the next. Today is also the first time in many years that I have not had an idea for a blog post about my Dad and what he meant to me and how very much I miss him. There are no thoughts of Bing Crosby songs that he used to sing, no poems, no thinking back to good times we had. I'm drawing a complete blank today. And that bothers me. A lot. <br />
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I reminded myself that never a day goes by when I don't think of my Dad: when a co-worker tells a funny story about his Dad; when I see an older gentlemen in bib overalls at a hardware store; when I hear an old country song; when I remember something about my Dad that is so sweet and sentimental, and it will make me smile. My father may have been gone for 25 years now, but he is never far from my thoughts. <br />
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I don't share stories about my Dad at my new job. For some reason, I've started wanting to keep these things to myself. <br />
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What I do know for sure is that love is the one thing that transcends time. We can still feel it even when the person we love is gone. And I hope that it is the one thing that we can take with us into the next life. <br />
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And I like to think that somewhere my Dad is thinking about a little girl with pigtails who used to write him notes and draw him pictures and leave them on his desk. A little girl who was always "a day late and a dollar short" much to his chagrin. A little girl who he said always made him proud, and who, I hope, is never far from his thoughts. <br />
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Here's a video of a song that always reminds me of my parents and my wonderful childhood. <br />
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<br />Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-79567641396863416962013-11-03T12:01:00.000-06:002013-11-03T12:01:14.485-06:00ReliefAbout a week ago, I parked in the local high school parking lot and walked out to the football field to pick up my son who was wrapping up an evening of football practice. <br />
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As I walked that warm, early-fall evening, I felt a sense of relief. My son's football season was a wonderful experience. I saw and chatted with a couple other "Football Moms" who have been very nice and welcoming and great sources of information on the area. <br />
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I thought about my new job and how much I love being back at work and interacting with other adults all day. The job, so far, has been nothing but positive. No "type A" people. The school is located out on a beautiful prairie. And I love being around kids. <br />
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I thought about my new house. Sometimes, I have a tiny bit of buyer's remorse. Maybe we should've tried to find a larger house. Maybe we should've found one with a bigger back yard. Maybe we should've gone further into the country. But mostly I'm still in love with this house and all the possibilities it provides me to "make it my own" in the days, weeks, months and years to come. <br />
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And that night I recognized a feeling that had been gone for a very, very long time. Contentment. The kids are making friends and doing well in school and activities. My husband is happy in his work - though he travels overseas an awful lot. And I have stopped having to worry about everything and can look forward to life once again. <br />
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The walk out to the football field isn't that far, but that evening it was the place where I came to an awesome realization that took me light years from where I had been not all that long ago. <br />
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I will be okay. <br />
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<br />Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-30202381783500639142013-10-02T11:32:00.001-05:002013-10-02T11:36:20.928-05:00The Five-Year-Old Sweater I have been knitting a sweater since 2008. It isn't a very fancy sweater because it is the first one I've ever attempted to knit. I love the simplicity of the pattern - a top-down raglan with simple finishes all knit in one piece, so there will be no sewing involved. <br />
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The sweater is knit in a cheap acrylic that I used to be fond of in 2008. It is silky and soft - a good thing in a sweater; however, not such a good thing to knit with. <br />
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A couple of days ago, I discovered that I had made a mistake in decreasing for the ribbed wristband. I then (as I always do when confronted with a mistake) proceeded to take my needles out of my knitting and ripped away to the point where the mistake was made. Fearless. Self-assurred. Stupid. The silky yarn caused some of the stitches to unravel further down than others. I stared in disbelief. <br />
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Two hours later, I had succeeded in painstakingly getting all the stitches fixed and situated correctly on the needle. And then I made the same mistake in decreasing. I modified the next row to get the right number of stitches, and then I left it. I made a note of what I did so as to make the next sleeve the same way. <br />
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I've accepted that sometimes I can't do what I always did with what I have now. I try, I modify, I slip up and learn to live with the consequences, making the best of the situation. And I wonder, is it that I'm no longer in charge of what I'm doing? Have my skills abandoned me over the years? Is "done" now better than "perfect"? And I realized that sometimes it's the journey that is the most fulfilling part of reaching a destination. Another life lesson from the art of knitting. <br />
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My knitting has gotten me through every difficult passage over the last ten years. It has always been my therapy of choice. The act of pulling yarn through stitches repeatedly has been a type of meditation, and it has been there for me whenever I've needed it. And now I'm finding that my knitting is something that changes from year to year, from project to project, and I love it even more. No matter how much it changes, it is always there for me. It is the one constant in my world. Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-67419018563470327202013-07-01T08:36:00.000-05:002013-07-01T08:36:07.219-05:00Past, Present, Future <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My bedroom walls are now three colors. Dark, medium, light. Brown, beige, cream. The strange thing about these particular walls is that the light from the southern exposure makes the colors morph throughout the day. At times, the brown appears to be a pewter grey. At times, the beige and cream appear to be the same color. It is like being in a kaleidoscope room with the colors ever changing. It adds to my constant feeling of confusion lately. <br />
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Since the move, I live in a world where past, present and future commingle. The way things were done in the past is no longer possible in all situations. I keep trying to find my way around the present day which is a constant exercise in trial and error. The future needs to be planned for - registering for school, assimilating into our new surroundings, trying to rebuild our family life. <br />
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The past keeps nagging at me, lurking in the back of my mind at all times. Going to the grocery store, I have to ask myself, "Where was this located in my old store?" in the hopes that it will be located in that same area in the new store. This has never worked. It is always in a different place, and my quick trips for groceries end up lasting two hours. <br />
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The present is a constant adventure. Meeting new people is my favorite part. The neighbors here are very friendly people. After working in a recruiting office for almost a decade, I am adept at reading people. And I can tell that the woman next door had been best friends with the woman who used to live in my house. I saw from her facial expressions that I didn't quite measure up to her expectations when we first met. The guy across the street is a comedian. The other guy across the street is very friendly and helpful, and my sense of humor seemed to surprise him. The guy who lives behind us might just be a bit pervy - he said he'd really like it if I could come over and meet his dog(?) And he said to come over any time. Okay, then . . .<br />
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The future is a constant worry. When will the kids make friends? Will they like school? Will I find a job? Am I ever going to figure out an easy way to get all the laundry from upstairs down into the laundry room? And how am I ever going to make this new pantry work? <br />
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I look forward to the day when everything is relaxed again. Everything is second nature. Everything will work. A day when I can look at the colors on my bedroom walls and know that the wall is brown, not grey because it will be locked in my subconscious mind. The day when certainty returns. Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-21741050679129646842013-01-02T09:25:00.003-06:002013-01-02T09:25:45.877-06:00Permanence Twenty-four years ago today, my father passed away at 9:02 a.m. I was 24 years old at the time, so he has been gone from my life for as long as he was in it which seems really weird. Time passes so quickly. Yet there are times when he is right here with me while I go about my everyday tasks. A memory will come to mind. A saying of his will make its way through my thoughts. And it is like a part of him never really left me. He was a person worthy of remembering. A father whom I loved so very much. <br />
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Love heals our hearts. Love transcends the things that bring us down and lifts us up. Love, it appears, is permanent. It is as stable and constant as my father was in life. And it is what I feel today as I look out at the snowflakes gently falling from Heaven and swirling around like an embrace. One from a loving father who is with me today as he was 24 years ago and he will be 24 years from now. And I wonder how the love I'm sending back to him looks from where he is in Heaven. <br />
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<br />Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-50398836532970703862012-10-06T21:06:00.001-05:002012-10-06T21:06:57.389-05:00The Long GoodbyeI will be moving on very soon. After 14 months of unemployment, worry, calling, applying, interviewing, disappointment, stress and many sleepless nights, my husband has gotten a wonderful job offer from a very good company near Madison, Wisconsin. <br />
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More than 15 years ago, after my husband graduated from the University of Wisconsin - Madison, it was our dream to settle down around Madison, begin careers and start a family. That dream wasn't meant to be at that time. My husband found work here in the Twin Cities, and we built a life here along the beautiful St. Croix River in a sweet (if a bit small) little house. Like anything else in life, there has been good and bad and in between, but mostly good. <br />
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And now we get a second chance at that dream of living in Madison. Only this time we have two children to uproot from the only home they have ever known. I am so conflicted. There are days when tears are very near the surface and I can barely seem to manage the simplest of household chores. There are other days when I keep thinking of getting a new (and bigger) house, and I can't help but get excited about it. <br />
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But there are a few memories of my house that I hold dear, and I can't help but replay them over and over in my head as I prepare to move on from the home I've had for 15 years. I used to hold my tiny babies and dance with them in the wee morning hours in my living room. During the holidays, I used to turn off all the lights and have only the Christmas tree lights on in that very same room. I used to wake up at 5 am to shovel snow after a blizzard, and I would gaze in wonder at the snow covered trees around my house. It is these quiet, beautiful moments that I will always keep close to my heart. <br />
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I don't know anyone who hates goodbyes as much as I do. Lately, with every football game and apple orchard outing, I've been looking around trying to commit as much of it to memory as I can. It hurts to know how very much I will miss my life here. But what hurts even more is knowing that I will move on and forget much of the little things that made up the fabric of my days here in Hudson. After awhile I won't remember them all. I will pick up new threads and create a new life. And while that is what I need to do now, it still makes me sad. <br />
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This last year has been a long journey. But I am confident that the future holds good things for us. Our heads and eyes are up, and we are moving forward. Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-54391861206102701912012-03-03T21:16:00.006-06:002012-09-10T18:03:30.225-05:00Judgment Day<i>"When I tell them that I'm doing fine</i><br />
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<i>Watching shadows on the wall</i></div>
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<i>Don't you miss the big time, boy?</i></div>
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<i>You're no longer on the ball." </i><br />
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Lyrics from "Watching the Wheels" by John Lennon </div>
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A couple of weeks ago I found myself in a job interview for the first time in 14 years. I had been sending out resumes for six months. I was finally contacted by a local placement firm. They had an open position for a Project Manager at a local company. The recruiter asked all the pertinent questions, and then she asked why I thought I could do the job after having not "worked" for the last four years. My inner Bitch Switch was instantly flipped. <i>("Hey, YOU contacted me" was the first thought in my head.) </i>I gave her a standard line of BS about how I would be perfect for the job, and how she had to look no further than two of my past positions where I had worked for ten years and nine years to see that I was an excellent employee. She asked me to come to her office for another interview. </div>
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I went out and bought an interview suit. I polished my interview skills with my husband. I was ready. When I walked into the recruiter's office, I was a bit taken aback. It was in a very dumpy office building. Cardboard boxes lay on the floor. I glanced around mentally noting the numerous changes I would make if I worked there. </div>
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The recruiter was very young. She laughed inappropriately and constantly. Her radio was on during the entire interview, and she even turned it up at one point and explained, "I just love Billy Joel, don't you?" I resisted the urge to stand up and walk out. She seemed satisfied with my answers to a few very lame questions, and she scheduled me for an interview with her client company a couple days later.</div>
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I put the interview suit on again and made my way to the hiring company. After a short wait, a young man who is an Engineer at the company took me into a conference room. He was very young, and he looked just like the actor who plays Jasper in the "Twilight" movies, except he had shorter hair. He went into a detailed explanation about his position in the company, and I kept thinking "You look just like Jasper the vampire." He asked me about my work ethic, my computer experience, how quickly I catch on to new things, etc. Throughout the whole process, he looked entirely unimpressed with me, and to be honest, I was a bit surprised at his lack of interpersonal skills. </div>
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I was trying to figure out what he thought of my answers. I had the feeling the entire time that I was trying to get back on a bike that I hadn't ridden in a very long time, and I couldn't quite get my balance. I used to rock interviews. I knew what people wanted to hear, and I delivered. But during this interview, I kept wanting to jump out of my skin. I would hear myself answer a question, and it was almost as if I were listening to someone who wasn't me. I was on auto pilot. </div>
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A second Engineer joined us half way through the interview. He was friendly and a bit loud. He put his hands behind his head and leaned back in the chair all the while complaining about his 16-hour days. He really didn't look at me at first. He was much nicer and asked questions about my previous jobs. He would smile and nod, and we had a good exchange of information. </div>
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At the end of the interview, I asked them if they had any other questions for me, and the Second Engineer leaned back, put his hands behind his head and said, <i>"So, what have you been doing for the past four years? I see you haven't been working." </i>I was ready for the question. I explained how I had some personal essays published; I had tutored second graders in reading; I was on my Neighborhood Association Board, and that it was the right decision for my family to stay home, but now I'm ready to return to work. The Vampire Engineer narrowed his eyes a bit. The Second Engineer looked down at the table and leaned back further in his chair. He pressed his lips together, raised his eyebrows and dismissed my answer with something to the effect of "Well, okay then. I guess we're all done here" and they showed me out. The Vampire never looked back or said goodbye. The Second Engineer showed me to the door and walked away quickly. </div>
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As I expected, I got the phone call three days later that they would not be hiring me. When I asked the recruiter what the reason was, she said it was because I had not "worked" for the last four years. I let it go. </div>
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So, since I am in the habit of using this blog as an outlet for my emotional catharses, here goes:</div>
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In my role as a stay-at-home mother, I have supported two young children and a husband every single day. They always have clean clothes, prepared food, and just about anything else they could ever want or need. </div>
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I have held my children when they were screaming from vaccinations. I have held a small boy who was getting the open gash in his knee stitched by a doctor. I have slept upright in a chair while holding two sick, feverish kids the entire night. </div>
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I make sure the homework is done, the permission slips have been signed, the activity fees are paid, and the library books are returned. I have helped with every school project, chaperoned many a school outing, worked to put together and hold holiday classroom celebrations. I have baked for bake sales. I have signed-up and accompanied my children to a myriad of sports and extracurricular activities. I am the Mom on the sidelines that cheers her kids on loudly. </div>
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I have helped children learn to read when they were way behind their classmates because they transferred to our school from some crappy inner city school where they fell through the cracks. I have gotten into the face of a little girl with a tremendous chip on her shoulder and made her realize that she is too smart not to be able to read. I celebrated every little milestone with the kids I tutored. And I felt a "happy sad" when they no longer needed my help. I cried out of frustration when one little girl who was making a great deal of progress got taken from her home and sent to Iowa (after her mother was arrested for prostitution and dealing drugs from her apartment) and I knew I would never get to see or tutor her again. I pray every night that she has kept on reading and has found someone who would care about her and would teach her well. </div>
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I do mountains of laundry and dishes each week because I love my family, and I love being a wife and mother. So, if someone feels that the last four years of my life have been some sort of "Mom Vacation", they can kiss my a$$. I can only hope that I will have the opportunity to interview with and work for more enlightened people in the future.</div>
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<i>"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." </i>Eleanor Roosevelt </div>
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Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-91304762410438156222012-01-02T00:21:00.002-06:002012-01-02T00:24:46.506-06:00There Once Was . . .There once was a Daddy<div><br /><div>Who had a daughter<div><br /></div><div>He tossed her</div><div><br /></div><div>And caught her</div><div><br /></div><div>Sang to her</div><div><br /></div><div>And swung her</div></div><div><br /></div><div>He chased her</div><div><br /></div><div>And hugged her</div><div><br /></div><div>He taught her</div><div><br /></div><div>He loved her</div><div><br /></div><div>What a wonderful life he made for her</div><div><br /></div><div>And though he is gone, he has never, ever left her</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'll love you forever, Daddy."</div><div><br /></div><div>From that daughter.</div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div>(In loving memory of my father who passed away 23 years ago today.)</div><div><br /></div>Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-69038293281838326312011-12-25T08:57:00.003-06:002011-12-25T09:54:48.041-06:00I'll be Home for Christmas and in a Mental Hospital by New YearsWelcome to my messed up holiday season. Seriously. There has never been a Christmas that I can recall where everything has gone so terribly wrong.<br /><br />It started out like every other year. Right after Halloween, I started buying gifts and making preparations. Then, suddenly, I was caught up in a tornado of orchestra concerts, choir concerts, classroom parties, my son's birthday party, etc., and found myself with two weeks until Christmas. Even then, I couldn't get my act together enough to completely decorate the house.<br /><br />I knitted a lot of presents this year which was wonderful but very time consuming. I let the kids decorate the tree and my ornament box got completely messed up. There are very few things in life that I am completely obsessive about, and my ornament boxes are those very few things. Several ornaments went missing, and so did the rest of my holiday and my sanity.<br /><br />In the middle of this winter of my discontent, I am mindful of the real reason for the season. I hold my loved ones close. I cherish the Christmas cards from my friends and family. I understand that it is not how many times we fall down in life, but how many times we get back up. Life goes on.<br /><br />Perhaps the reason I go through periods like this is to make me appreciate the wonderful life I lead. And while I'll soon put away the Christmas gifts and decorations and regret that I didn't have my picture perfect holiday this year, I know that (God willing) I'll have another chance at it next year. Life goes on.<br /><br />Until then, there will be so many things to look forward to: birthday celebrations, the other yearly holidays, a summer filled with baseball and softball, planting flowers, kids moving on to the next grade in school, football season, and all the ups and downs on that rollercoaster ride that is my life.<br /><br />But in my basement, there will be boxes of ornaments just waiting . . .<br /><br />Merry Christmas everyone.Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-61446899071956455752011-09-12T20:16:00.005-05:002011-09-12T20:56:30.067-05:00Be Careful What You Wish For (For 37 Years)I may have mentioned that I have a "bucket list", and I've had one before they were popular or even referred to as "bucket lists". I accomplished one of the things on my bucket list today. <div><br /></div><div>My list is very prosaic compared to one of my friend's lists. She wants to do things like live in another country. I want to do things like learn to swim (which I tried - unsuccessfully - in my 20s); learn to skate backward (which I tried last year but have not quite perfected); learn to play piano; learn a foreign language; and I've always wanted to learn to ride a horse. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I was a young girl, there was a neighbor girl who had been riding her horse (a beautiful white horse named Wendy) when a crop dusting plane spooked the horse and dragged and killed her. That incident gave my parents all the ammunition they needed to shoot down my requests for riding lessons. </div><div><br /></div><div>Flash forward 37 years. I had mentioned to my husband that I had always wanted riding lessons. So, my darling husband bought the kids and I two lessons each at a local horse stable. I made the appointment for the first lessons, and the kids and I arrived at the horse arena this afternoon. I was so excited, I was almost giddy. I watched the lessons before us, and I was beside myself with excitement when it came our turn for lessons. </div><div><br /></div><div>The kids had very gentle smaller young ponies. I had Nick. The trainer had pulled Nick into the arena just for me. He was not happy. He kept jerking his head back and forth. He refused the trainer's peppermint treats. He had a wild look in his eyes. By the grace of God, I was able to get him saddled and get on him just fine. The problem was that Nick refused to move when I would cluck and nudge him gently in his sides. He wanted to put his head down and make a "whinny" sound. I got him to walk around the arena. I worked on my posture, my place in the hunt saddle, the position of my feet and where I was looking. Nick did nothing but fight me the entire way. I tried to get him to trot. He trotted up to a mirror on the side of the arena and stopped and looked at himself. The second time I got him up to a trot, he started to take off, and I lurched forward before remembering that I had to sit back to keep my balance. I hated Nick. He kept trying to bend his head down to the ground, and I pulled back on the reins. That made him walk backward. I was so frustrated. I couldn't even get this horse to walk around the area without having problems. </div><div><br /></div><div>At long last, the class was over, and I was able to get off Nick without any problems. The trainer helped my kids take their horses out of the arena, and I was supposed to stand in the arena with Nick. The minute the trainer was out of sight, Nick nudged me with his head. I tried to pet his head, and he almost knocked me over. I started to walk away from him, and he reached over and bit my shirt and pulled on it. I hated Nick even more. </div><div><br /></div><div>Finally, my daughter came back in the arena and led Nick away. He followed her gently glancing back at me every once in awhile to give me a dirty look. Nick hated me right back. </div><div><br /></div><div>We have one more lesson at the horse farm. I'm hoping to get any other horse but Nick. He should have been named Satan. I have to admire the intelligence of this horse though. He was able to see right through me and show me who has the upper hand. He stands way taller than me, and he weighs over 1,200 pounds. No doubt about it, he has the upper hand. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, the moral of this story is not really "be careful what you wish for", but rather "try not to anticipate things so much". It's too easy to get disappointed. The other moral is that no one can make you feel inferior without your consent. Yet another moral is that there is almost always some SOB ready to stand between you and your dreams, and you have to learn to deal with them. I guess I got more out of these lessons than how to make a horse walk, stop and trot. </div><div><br /></div><div>I know I have to get back in that arena and get back on that horse. I'm just hoping it's a different horse next time. If not, I'll be prepared this time. </div>Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-7903602783015693542011-06-24T19:49:00.010-05:002011-06-28T13:24:37.924-05:00Just Another Wednesday - a Tale of Rabid Raccoons and CheetosThere is just no controlling the course of a typical day in the summer around our house. Most of the time, I feel like a cartoon that I once saw of a woman who was hanging onto something for dear life, and she was going so fast that the rest of her body was waving in the air like a flag. You just have to hang on and go with the flow around here. <div><br /></div><div>Late in the afternoon last Wednesday, my son came in the house and announced that our neighbors across the street had a raccoon in their garage. Their teenage girls were getting it out of the garage with a baseball bat. I told my son not to go near the raccoon, and I didn't think anything else of it. About ten minutes later, I heard a commotion in my front yard. I opened the front door to see kids from all over the neighborhood all looking at a raccoon in my driveway. </div><div><br /></div><div>In a great moment of insanity, the neighborhood kids (mine included) decided that the raccoon looked like he needed something to eat. Someone had strewn Cheetos all over my driveway, and there in the middle of the onlookers, surrounded by Cheetos was Mr. Raccoon. </div><div><br /></div><div>I noticed something odd immediately. The raccoon was off balance when he would try walking. He would walk toward the kids, who would immediately run away. He sat and looked at me, and white foam was dripping from his jaw. I told the kids to immediately get away and stop feeding it and that it was rabid. The kids just stood there transfixed and not moving. I got the phone and dialed the non-emergency police number for our city. I explained the situation to the dispatcher and was told that I would receive a call back and to stay put. About four minutes later, an officer called. Again, I explained that I was staring at what I believed to be a rabid raccoon who had now sat himself down right in front of the door to my van in my driveway and was staring at the Cheetos. The officer explained that if he came by, the raccoon would likely run away. He couldn't shoot it in the residential neighborhood. And he asked me if my husband had traps or a bow and arrow. I inquired about animal control, and was told that we had no one in charge of animal control, only a small humane society. I explained that I wasn't looking for anyone to adopt the rabid raccoon in large part because it was a danger to a great many children in the area. He laughed. </div><div><br /></div><div>Seriously. </div><div><br /></div><div>This was annoying. The small town I grew up in in Central Wisconsin had animal control. Men would come with poles that had nooses on the ends and they would dispose of unwanted critters in cages. No one was ever hurt to my knowledge. You called them and they did their job. </div><div><br /></div><div>I reiterated to the officer that I was standing in my driveway surrounded by children and across the street from a city park with even more children, and we were in close proximity to a rabid raccoon. I thought surely that would prompt him to get his rear over here and deal with this problem. </div><div><br /></div><div>He proceeded to tell me how I could buy a trap at Fleet Farm. Then I got annoyed. Through gritted teeth, I explained how I would not be buying a trap. We did not have a bow and arrow. We live in a city, and there is a rabid raccoon in my driveway. The guy was cavalier. He was joking. I hung up on him. </div><div><br /></div><div>The neighbor across the street came home, got out of his car and assessed the situation. I was standing there with the phone, the kids were standing around with sticks, and there was the raccoon still surrounded by Cheetos. I saw the neighbor blink. He said, "Hey you kids, you should get away from that raccoon." I looked at him and said, "It's foaming at the mouth. It's rabid." He walked in his house. I stayed, surrounded by kids who weren't listening, and no one on the way. </div><div><br /></div><div>My husband was home. We were getting ready for our son's baseball game. We arranged to have the neighbor across the street take our son along with his own son to the game while we dealt with the raccoon. </div><div><br /></div><div>What happened next is the stuff that great slapstick comedy is made of. Our daughter became upset and was crying and screaming about the raccoon. The other kids left because it ceased being fun when the raccoon wouldn't eat the Cheetos, I guess. We had to get the raccoon out of our yard. My husband made noise and it would waddle around and try and walk toward him. I was in the yard, and it tried to walk toward me. My hub managed to get in my van and honk the horn, and the raccoon went around to the back of our house. It waddled around while I picked up all the Cheetos that were left in the driveway. I went inside our house and accidentally locked my husband outside with the rabid raccoon. He didn't appreciate that. </div><div><br /></div><div>I decided I had to contact the neighbors. The next-door neighbors weren't home, so I called and left them a message to keep their kids inside. I called the neighbor in the back, and he got his grandsons in his house. Our other neighbor drove up, and my husband explained the situation. We went to leave for the baseball game, and the raccoon was lying in the middle of the road in front of the park. I told some mothers with small children about it. Then I left for the game. I looked, and I saw Mr. Raccoon heading through my back yard into another neighbor's yard, and then he was gone. </div><div><br /></div><div>For a split second, I thought about trying to run it over with my van. With my luck, no city workers would come to clean up what would surely be a horrible mess, and I really didn't know if I could kill this poor creature - rabid or not. </div><div><br /></div><div>The raccoon was the topic of conversation at the ball game that night. The next day, the neighbor in back called and explained how the police had finally come by and shot it twice. Goodnight Mr. Raccoon. My neighbors had received my phone messages about the rabid raccoon and confessed to me that they thought I must have been drinking. Funny stuff. </div><div><br /></div><div>I feel that I brought this excitement on myself. I believe that you find what you are looking for in the universe. Just that morning, I had been wandering around the grocery store, in the meat department, listening to The Commodores over the store's music system. And suddenly, I felt so blue. It seems like I am always wandering around the grocery store listening to a Commodores song. Aimless and blue. So, I wished for some excitement. Stupid me. </div><div><br /></div><div>And just as the saying goes, "There's an app for that". There is a Beatles' song for this situation. I'll leave you now with the song "Rocky Raccoon" performed by Jack Johnson. Jack Johnson's music is very soothing which must be why I love him so much. </div><div><br /></div><div>And, Mr. Raccoon, I'm sorry that your last days were so rotten. Rabies doesn't look like fun. At least you don't have to put up with those kids anymore. And wherever you are now, I hope the food is better than Cheetos. Peace. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><iframe width="640" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/XzWRkBQeer4" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-20295355984933249942011-06-21T14:37:00.003-05:002011-06-21T14:38:44.934-05:00Summers Past<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI4M3zlQNRQZeQ2GaRxnrkk7_kq3056GjAJmLe0Cbqw6QE7NpC84vzsp3eF_sOEt32Gk3MmfIO2OLSdyuilKkCltNqcTFC7iREz5nl8lhSf7PWFqO0mMseM1c0dapi_Vz2umfUb5xklt0/s1600/Pic044_2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 317px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI4M3zlQNRQZeQ2GaRxnrkk7_kq3056GjAJmLe0Cbqw6QE7NpC84vzsp3eF_sOEt32Gk3MmfIO2OLSdyuilKkCltNqcTFC7iREz5nl8lhSf7PWFqO0mMseM1c0dapi_Vz2umfUb5xklt0/s400/Pic044_2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620759637477277970" /></a><br />Oh how I miss these days.Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-78011057738448665842011-06-06T10:42:00.006-05:002011-06-06T11:41:04.591-05:00PerspectiveSummer is almost upon us. There will be no smooth transition this year. I've been sick for the last week with a sore throat, coughing and wheezing. This week is going to be frenzied. Record high heat and humidity. Class field trips. Dance dress rehearsals and recital. And a fifth grade farewell. <div><br /></div><div>My daughter is entering adolescence and is taking us all along with her on that roller coaster ride. Tears one minute and laughing the next. She is quite emotional about leaving her elementary school. She's had the good fortune to attend the same school for the last six years. Leaving is going to be hard for her but also for me. </div><div><br /></div><div>She was given the assignment of writing a memoir about her years at school. Her memoir was so good, that she (and two other students) were asked to read them on the morning announcements. I've heard from four people about what a wonderful memoir Kate wrote. So, I asked her to read it to me. She wrote about being scared on the first day of Kindergarten and then about all of the wonderful things she has gotten to do and the wonderful teachers that she has had over the years. And then, the last paragraph was a little something about each teacher that she had: how her kindergarten teacher's smile, her first grade teacher's laugh, her second grade teacher's hugs, her third grade teacher's soft voice, her fourth grade teacher's encouragement and her fifth grade teacher's strength would all be things that she would lock away in her heart forever so that they would always be with her wherever she went. Memories are pictures that we take with our heart. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am so proud of that memoir. I know that this will be an emotional week, and I'm dreading it. </div><div><br /></div><div>As sorry as I am feeling for myself this week, there is one thing that I think about to give myself some perspective. I remember a ten-year-old boy who lived in our town and had an incurable form of cancer which started to take a turn for the worse in the spring of 2007. I followed his Caring Bridge website and read the journal entries of his parents while they were fighting a courageous battle with cancer. They had pulled him out of school at the beginning of 2007 because of seizures. On the very last day of the 2006-2007 school year, the boy wanted to ride the school bus to school and participate in an awards day. His mother rode with him on the bus that morning and she wrote about it in the journal entry for that day. She wrote about the joy on his face and the energy of all the kids on the last day of school. And she wrote about all the conflicting emotions she had and how she knew that this would be the very last time her son would be riding a school bus. Her son continued saying good bye to all the things he loved in this world - he would watch the farm equipment on his family's farm, and he tried to play baseball with his little brother in the outfield right beside him. All of the normal, everyday things that fill our time and that we sometimes complain about were the things that he loved so much. </div><div><br /></div><div>This journey that I'm on this week with all the craziness and all the transitions are nothing compared to what that boy's mother has gone through. I often think about that little boy. At the local community park there is a climbing ladder that bears his name and is called the "ladder of hope and courage." I sit at the park and watch the little ones climb all over it, enjoying a normal, ordinary day at that park. </div><div><br /></div><div>I read that the boy's classmates sang the song "Go the Distance" from the movie Hercules at his funeral. There was farm equipment in his funeral procession. And I've never forgotten that family and the journal that documented the strength they had on their journey. </div><div><br /></div><div>Instead of being tearful and sad this week, I'm going to try my best to celebrate and enjoy this journey and hold on tight to the pictures in my heart. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>"But I won't lose hope till I go the distance and my journey is complete. But to look beyond the glory is the hardest part. For a hero's strength is measured by his heart."</i> Lyrics from "Go the Distance" from the Disney movie "Hercules" </div>Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-73728092032562451512011-04-02T18:27:00.004-05:002011-04-07T10:27:49.294-05:00Drill Sergeant JillLast month, I joined a health club. This particular club is a wonderful place that I love. It is a women-only place, small but beautifully painted and clean. I have met so many nice women there. Everyone is friendly and happy and there to seriously work out at our own pace. <div><br /></div><div>I had completed a month on a beginning program of lifting weights, cardio and toning exercises. At this particular club, you are monitored quite often. There are usually two or three trainers on the floor at all times checking your progress and form. At the end of four weeks on a program, your progress is checked, and you are taught a new program for the next month. I arrived bright and early last Thursday to go through my new program. I wasn't aware that my trainer would be Drill Sergeant Jill. </div><div><br /></div><div>No one really calls her "Drill Sergeant". But she sure does resemble one. Jill is a no-nonsense kind of gal. I have never seen her smile. She is cordial, but she stops just short of pleasant. She will ask you a question, and when you give her the answer, she sets her jaw, narrows her eyes and changes the subject leaving you to believe that the question itself was rhetorical, and she really didn't want you to answer it at all. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, last Thursday I arrived ready for a new program. I tried my best to follow all instructions, tried to memorize where to put my hands and the proper form for each machine. The program ends with floor work. I made the mistake of complaining about a particular exercise involving a large inflated ball. Jill walked around to stand directly in front of me. Her dark brown eyes looked like little bits of flint were shooting off of them.<br /><br />"You don't like the exercises on the ball?" she asked.<br /><br />"Yeah, is there an alternate because I'm going to have a hard time with it." I said and smiled.<br /><br />"You just bought yourself another exercise on the ball." Jill said matter-of-factly.<br /><br />There was an awkward minute where I was thinking "Did she really just say that?" She walked around me and started to demonstrate another exercise on the ball that the Flying Wallendas at the height of their career would have had a hard time doing. I started biting the skin on the inside of my lower lip. I thought about the Maya Angelou quote, "The first time someone shows you who they are, believe them."<br /><br />"Is there a problem?" Jill asked. I shut up and kept my poker face on because I have met my match in this woman. She's tiny but in phenomenal shape, and she could kick my a$$. So, I said nothing more and did the exercises as instructed.<br /><br />Two days later, I returned to work out and was going through my program. There was a different trainer there who is a very sweet and nice person. It crossed my mind to ask about alternative exercises to the ball, but I decided to stick it out. When I was on my second set of exercises, Jill arrived at the gym. She and the other trainer came over to where I was exercising. Jill asked the other trainer, "So, has she asked for different exercises because these are too hard?" Jill was impressed when the other trainer confirmed that I had not complained at all. Jill laughed because she had left a big post-it note for the other trainer warning her that my program was not to be changed. Guess I showed her that I'm not the princess she thought I was.<br /><br />Jill was a little nicer to me the last time I was there. She correct my form on a machine. I know she's always watching - even when she isn't there. Toward the end of my workout, I saw her take issue with another woman who was there and was talking on her cell phone as she was exercising. Jill asked the woman, "What motivates you? You need to want to be here." And then Jill took her into the office for what I can only assume was a real "Come to Jesus" meeting about her attitude.<br /><br />And I thought about those words "what motivates you?" I am surrounded by motivation at that gym. I see women of every shape and size working hard. I see the very fit women that I always envied because they make looking good appear to be effortless. And I see them working out with personal trainers at 6:30 am. Turns out they work hard to look like they do. I see tiny little old ladies who have never lifted a weight in their lives, and they are working hard to get back some flexibility. I see a couple young teen girls who are working to be better at competitive swimming or gymnastics. Each and every woman is an inspiration.<br /><br />So, this video is for all the ladies. I saw it when I was on the treadmill at the gym, and it inspired me to run faster - who wouldn't want to run toward the guys from Duran Duran? They still look and sound great after all these years. Enjoy. <br /><br /><br /></div><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/VvqnJ8AGhFg" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" width="640"></iframe>Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-28189349654452658472011-03-14T10:41:00.004-05:002011-03-14T10:58:16.222-05:00Let it BeWhen I find myself in times of trouble, the Beatles come to me. Speaking words of wisdom - "Let it be." <div><br /></div><div>What a horrible few weeks it has been. Such hatred in Wisconsin right now. Hatred in the comments made on online news articles. Hatred on the television. Hatred in the streets of my city. </div><div><br /></div><div>And now the images from Japan. My heart feels like lead. </div><div><br /></div><div>This morning, I volunteered as a reading tutor at my kids' school. My two little students are making such wonderful progress. They are so smart. My first little girl wanted to help me make the word flash cards, so I let her. She told me she wanted to be a teacher one day. My second little girl was talking about how she got a puppy over spring break. I asked her if she wanted to be a veterinarian when she grows up, and she smiled and tipped her head to the side and said, "I want to be a teacher . . . or a helper, just like you." I smiled and got her busy reading aloud to me, and then I put my hand to my face so she couldn't see me crying silent tears. </div><div><br /></div><div>God bless these little ones on their way. How could I ever keep hatred in my heart when I look at their hopeful faces. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>"And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me. Shine until tomorrow. Let it be." </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="640" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/ytu3yEE9ACE" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-15140459799290464402011-03-11T10:11:00.003-06:002011-03-11T10:29:13.054-06:00Hallelujah<iframe title="YouTube video player" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/cNQu9rP7xwI" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>This is a good day to say a prayer if that is something your tradition and beliefs deem suitable. </div>Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-58191268340815628462011-03-07T21:54:00.004-06:002011-03-07T22:25:21.185-06:00They Shoot Fat Women, Don't They?<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>I've become fat. I never used to be fat, but even when I wasn't fat, I thought I was fat, so I never enjoyed being thin. This struggle goes back as far as I can remember - probably first grade or so. I was in fifth grade when my teacher asked me to deliver something to a teacher in the upper grade hallway. I was a bit chunky in those days, and I wore smock tops which were a staple in the '70s. An obnoxious boy a few years older got in my face and said, "What are you doing here fatty?" I pretended that I didn't see him and went back to my classroom. I sat at my desk trying to concentrate on my phonics assignment and trying to hold back hot, stinging tears. <div><br /></div><div>That summer, I went on an 800 calorie a day diet using these little calorie counters that were sold in the supermarket check out lanes. I lost 15 pounds that summer. A little weight crept back on the next two years, and then I lost another 10 pounds the summer between seventh and eighth grade. I was neither fat nor thin during my high school years. I do remember buying diet pills and using them to keep from getting hungry in high school.</div><div><br /></div><div>Being thin was always a struggle for me. I weighed myself every day. I would join health clubs from time to time and get in shape. I would join weight loss programs and lose quite a bit of weight. After I got married and moved away from my friends and a job I loved, I started to put on a bit of weight. Two pregnancies, an underactive thyroid and a miserable job later, I found myself overweight. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>It is amazing how I can live in total denial. I do not have a full-length mirror in this house. I did not weigh myself in over three years. A few years ago, my daughter had a little friend whose father was very rude to me. He would shoot me dirty looks and be very curt despite my attempt at friendly conversation. Kate picked up on it, and I just offhandedly mentioned that I thought he probably didn't like me very much. She asked if that bothered me, and I said no because I thought he was just a person who wasn't very happy. About a month later, Kate stayed over at that friend's house, and when she came home, she said, "Mom, Anna's father said something very nice about you. And YOU thought he didn't like you." I asked what he had said, and she said, "He said you look like you had been very pretty at one time." I almost fell over. It didn't surprise me. I let on to Kate like it was a compliment because, well, from this guy it was probably the closest thing to a compliment that I was ever going to get. Kate never stayed at their house again. I ignore him when I see him which isn't often thank goodness.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>A couple of weeks ago, my hair stylist asked to cut my hair shorter because, "It will make you look so much younger." I got home and asked my husband how he liked it and that my stylist said it made me look younger. He looked at me and said, "Well, it's a good cut, but I wouldn't say it makes you look younger." The final straw was when I found my second grade school photo and showed it to a friend. My friend mentioned how much Kate and I look alike. Kate, bless her, said, "I don't want to look like you." I know she didn't mean it the way it sounded. She apologized, and, of course, I would never hold anything against my ten-year-old daughter like that. But, it spurred something inside me. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>So, last week, I joined a wonderful women-only health club. I am lifting weights, doing lots of cardio, and I feel fantastic. I've lost four pounds in the first week. And I'm not really trying, just exercising and eating healthier. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>And I would like to take this opportunity to tell the boy from grade school, the manufacturers of diet pills, and my daughter's friend's a**hole father to kiss my fat a**. </div><div><br /></div><div>This little fat girl has a big fat attitude. And I'm pretty freaking perfect just the way I am. And I'm getting better every day.</div><div><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5IzjwMuwb0cXecJrYzGD95rjdeT49fZC84fmVA8ydtF3VcYFNLau14gvPa6gZcp_1q_rKnTIIcAJ0_ykGxPiQmzVy_JQo_Oy4AOu-3i_srg4-V5qQRf1YXyQ6QndAs3-eCPjx3e6STB0/s400/DSC_0173.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581559189058804258" /></div><div><br /></div><div>Check it out - I'm thinner than the apple! Yea me! </div>Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-32416704593418097282011-03-02T15:39:00.004-06:002011-03-02T15:46:11.556-06:00We Are WisconsinI am at Ground Zero here in Wisconsin. Billions of dollars were given to corporations, and now my children's education is on the line. Watch carefully. It could happen where you live. <div><br /></div><div><br /></div><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="640" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/S5YehR_fYVU" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-74476251600326964122011-02-22T20:51:00.003-06:002011-02-22T21:01:57.239-06:00The Healing Power of KnittingI'm back after five days of having a broken keyboard. One of my darling children spilled something on it, and I was unable to space, use parentheses or the letter "p". Needless to say, my emails during that five days read like haikus since I had to put a period between each word because I couldn't space. Strange days indeed. <div><br /></div><div>I ran across this video by American Idol runner-up Crystal Bowersox. I have always been a fan of hers, and now that I saw her video for "Farmer's Daughter", well, she is a woman after my own heart. I had no idea she was a knitter. </div><div><br /></div><div>The video is very emotional. It is heartbreaking how she "unravels" herself from her mother throughout the song. But the ending is beautiful. She has knit together her own life as a very caring mother. </div><div><br /></div><div>Knitting definitely is a form of meditation for me. If you've never tried it, you should. </div><div><br /></div><div>Enjoy the video. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="640" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/3NR8tH9tDGQ" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-7294545592977780372011-02-03T10:07:00.005-06:002011-02-03T10:15:02.664-06:00Linky Loos<a href="http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/10/god-of-cake.html">This</a> is the funniest thing I've read in a long time. <div><br /></div><div>And this must've been written about me. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="640" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/M6ZjMWLqJvM" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div>Keep warm wherever you are! </div>Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-81147538769635650832011-01-27T15:34:00.003-06:002011-01-27T16:47:48.428-06:00The Fine Art of Aging Gracefully and Attracting PsychosToday I made that trip we all dread every eight years. I renewed my driver's license and had my photo taken. I remember this day eight years ago. I had a two-month-old baby boy and my daughter was two. Don't ask me how, but on that day eight years ago, I took the hottest photo I've ever taken in my entire life. For eight years I've enjoyed having that photo on my driver's license. I once showed it to a guy for ID when I got some take-out from a Chinese restaurant in the Minneapolis skyway for lunch. The young guy looked at the photo then looked at me, then looked at the photo and back at me. Finally, he said, "This isn't you." I assured him that it was me. He looked at the photo again and said, "Wow, this is a really hot picture of you." By that time, I was getting rather annoyed at him, and I asked him if he would like to take the photo in the back room of the restaurant for say, five or ten minutes. He had no clue what I was alluding to. I have a very vicious sense of humor when I'm angry. <div><br /></div><div>So, today I took about an hour doing my hair and makeup, getting everything "just so" and hoping in vain that lighting would strike twice and I'd manage to take another great photo. I drove out to the DMV and noticed by the signage that it now shared space with the Department of Corrections Probation and Parole Offices. People were herded like cattle inside. I couldn't tell where I should be for a license renewal, so I went to a counter and took my documents out of my purse and looked around for some clue as to where I should be. Finally, I went to the end of a long line of people and tried to figure out what was going on. </div><div><br /></div><div>I had been in line less than a minute when the guy in front of me turned around and said, "You look lost." He was exceptionally good looking. I smiled and said, "Well, that's the look I was going for." He smiled back and we moved forward in line. He turned around again. I looked down at the paperwork in my hand. We moved forward in line. He turned around. I looked up and noticed him staring at my chest. He caught me looking right at him, grinned and turned forward again. This guy was starting to give me a very creepy feeling. Uggghhhh . . . all the driver's license facilities in the state of Wisconsin, and I get this one at this particular time with this guy. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then he was at the head of the line and went to the counter. He was explaining something about needing to get a Wisconsin driver's license, but he had no ID. They were doing a search for his social security number, and they had him waiting at the counter. I went to the counter next and explained why I was there. The woman congratulated me on being the first person all day to have all their paperwork completed correctly. I smiled and mentioned that I have to get on my kids all the time to have their stuff in order, and how I'm a stickler for being prepared. She told me to stand for the photo. There was no mirror. There was no time to take off my winter coat. She must've seen me tense up because she kept saying, "I'm going to take the photo on the count of three." I smiled. Click. She told me to wait until my number was called. I asked her what number - and she motioned to the piece of paper in my hand that she had given to me a minute earlier. I was having a senior moment. </div><div><br /></div><div>I sat down in a row of chairs against the wall across from an elderly couple. I was looking around taking in all that was going on in that DMV office - driver's ed written tests, parents there with their 16-year-olds for their "behind the wheel" test, people with paperwork and people looking as lost as I had been when I walked in. As I was observing everything going on, I hear this voice say, "How many?" I turned to my right, and in the chair right next to me was the creepy guy from the line. "Excuse me? How many what?" I said. "How many kids do you have?" I just stared at him. "I heard you at the counter talking about your kids." Just at that time, the elderly lady across from me said, "Excuse me, dear, do you have a mirror?" I dug my compact mirror out of my purse and gave it to her. And then they called the creepy guy up to the counter. The lady handed my mirror back and asked, "Do you know him?" I whispered, "No" and she pressed her lips together in a straight line and gave me a concerned look. It wasn't my imagination, the guy was officially creepy. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was called to the counter next to take the vision test (I was admonished for having my hair in my face - flashback to grade school). The woman looked at me and asked, "Is everything in the description accurate . . . enough?" I imagine she was looking at me and the weight I refused to change to accurate reflect what I currently weigh. I was told to take a seat again. And I got to keep the old driver's license with the hot photo on it. Sweet. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I sat down, I saw two men come in and start to talk to the creepy guy at the counter. Something was wrong with his documentation or lack thereof. Another minute of waiting, and they called me back to get the license and proof it for any mistakes. I took out my pink leopard print reading glasses and made sure everything was accurate. </div><div><br /></div><div>And that was when I saw it. The photo. Somehow, it was an older woman that stared back at me from the photo. Her hair and makeup looked good, but you could see crow's feet around her eyes. Her face is a little heavier, but she has a familiar smile. I stared at the photo for a minute. No one will be telling me that this is a hot photo. I sighed. I've taken worse. Overall I'm pleased with it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I put the license in my wallet and my reading glasses in my purse and walked out to my van. There is a Michael Buble CD in the stereo that used to play mainly Van Halen. I sighed again and drove off. I hope I don't have to go back there for another eight years. At that time, I'll have an 18-year-old daughter and a 16-year-old son. I wonder what the photo will look like then. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here's a clip about driver's license photos from Ellen Degeneres's old sitcom. It is hilarious. I once took a Sam's Club photo that was so bad, when I showed it to a cashier, she looked at me then got a confused look on her face and said, "You don't have a gap in your teeth, but it looks like you do in this photo!" So, I can relate to Ellen in this clip. Enjoy. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><iframe title="YouTube video player" class="youtube-player" type="text/html" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/pXdBVUj-Meg" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-34637198391715803902011-01-18T13:07:00.006-06:002011-01-18T13:29:16.276-06:00America's TeamGrowing up in the heart of Wisconsin, it is a given that I am a Green Bay Packer fan through and through. I bleed green and gold. I have seen Lambeau Field and the Packer Hall of Fame. I've had my photo taken with a cheesy (pardon the pun) cardboard cut-out of Brett Favre (that was awhile ago). I've walked through the same tunnel as the players. I've crossed over the hallowed bits of concrete from the old tunnel where Vince Lombardi and his Packers walked. I've seen Ray Nitschke's helmet and Vince Lombardi's bronzed baby shoes. I've seen their three Super Bowl trophies. I've teared up only once - at Reggie White's Packer Hall of Fame display - I love the Minister of Defense. But this video put tears in my eyes. The music is from the movie "The Last of the Mohicans" and it is beautiful. <div><br /></div><div>Beyond their history, there are many reasons that I love the Green Bay Packers. They are owned by their fans - the true America's Team. They share their touchdowns with their fans when they do the Lambeau Leap. And every summer when they have a practice, they greet kids outside the stadium and ride their bikes to the practice field with the kids running alongside them carrying their helmets. It is tradition. </div><div><br /></div><div>I admire these athletes. So much hard work goes into being a professional football player. I've watched them practice, and they make a sound like Clydesdales going down the field. It gives me goosebumps to watch them. </div><div><br /></div><div>If you're not from here, it might be hard to understand why Packers fans love their team so much. Maybe this video with its outstanding photography that gives such clear insight into the strength and beauty of this team can explain it better than I can. Enjoy. </div><div><br /></div><div>Go Packers!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/elBDGvx-Lco?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/elBDGvx-Lco?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-22422111842861205862011-01-02T00:01:00.006-06:002011-01-02T09:24:25.387-06:00Zuzu's Petals<div>My Dad left us 22 years ago today. </div><div><br /></div><div>Looking back, the one thing I know for sure is that for 24 years I had the incredible gift of, quite simply, the most wonderful father ever.</div><div><br /></div><div>I must confess that I have written and rewritten this blog post half a dozen times over the last few days. There are so many things I want the world to know about my father. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wrote and rewrote stories from my past. Tales of memories that I have of him that I think of as "standout moments" in time. Moments when my father's true character came shining through bright as the sun. Simple, everyday minutes that carried important messages. Stories of times when it was apparent that my father had lived a hard life when he was young. Things that I know of his brave military service in World War II. Stories of my father's generous soul. How my father took every opportunity to help others. If the Lord loves a cheerful giver, then he loved my father very much.</div><div><br /></div><div>I typed each story out and then deleted them. There were just too many. </div><div><br /></div><div>I think the times I miss most are the ordinary moments we spent together. Watching cartoons and laughing. Taking his pickup truck to the local dump and singing along to a Marty Robins eight-track tape all the way there and all the way back. Picking out gifts for my mother. For any occasion, he always bought her the largest Hallmark card he could find. I guess the larger the card was, the more love it could hold. </div><div><br /></div><div>My father was a common man. He never amassed great wealth. He was not famous. He had a hard childhood with an abusive father. He fought in a war and saw terrible things. He was human and imperfect. But he was a man of steadfast faith. A man who did everything that was asked of him if it was possible. A man who worked hard and chose to live in a positive way. A man who taught me to help others and to do everything the very best way that I could. </div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I still have gifts that my father gave me - a Hummel music box, a tiny pin that is shaped like a fighting lion, among other things. They are my "Zuzu's petals". They hold memories of a different time - my former life when my father was alive. For me, these things are symbols of what is really important in life - what really matters. My father's success was not in accomplishing great things, but in the people whom he impacted. Loving and cherishing the little things are what mattered. And his success was simply that he impacted others for good. </div><div><br /></div><div>His memory is with me always. And on this day and every day of every year to come, I will miss the man whose laugh I can still hear and who never leaves my heart.</div><div><br /></div><div><div><i>"Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?" </i>Clarence the angel to George Bailey in "It's a Wonderful Life".</div></div><div><br /></div>Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-81703050501550310192010-12-24T14:23:00.003-06:002010-12-24T14:27:29.797-06:00Merry, Merry, Happy, Happy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtWmdHKpP1RFGm6hZcr_ziRR_PrBtczTNyRrYfLxHCrl1XY3dAYf9r1QWFz0xxnQ3RDBIMqi-VFg_O0Wnz1Zc5awgFBgulH13QDZ4zh5jQ8u3Gsyr-2tv62uesrw4eL26RQP0A1zVBy98/s1600/DSC_0165.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtWmdHKpP1RFGm6hZcr_ziRR_PrBtczTNyRrYfLxHCrl1XY3dAYf9r1QWFz0xxnQ3RDBIMqi-VFg_O0Wnz1Zc5awgFBgulH13QDZ4zh5jQ8u3Gsyr-2tv62uesrw4eL26RQP0A1zVBy98/s400/DSC_0165.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554347615898210738" /></a><br /><div><i>"The best of all gifts around any Christmas tree is the presence of a happy family all wrapped up in each other." </i>Burton Hills </div><div><br /></div><div>Wishing you love, joy and peace at Christmas and always. </div>Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7749181846404136264.post-90562140139613781422010-12-16T12:07:00.010-06:002010-12-17T15:21:11.717-06:00Gift for a BallerinaThis week was the last week of ballet class for my daughter before the Christmas break. Every year, we give a small gift to her dance teacher and send candy for the other students. This year, my daughter mentioned that no one in the class wanted to give their ballet teacher a gift. "She's too mean" was the explanation. <div><br /></div><div>I had been observing this ballet class since it started in September. The teacher is a young woman who is a professional dancer with a ballet company on the west side of the Twin Cities. She avoids eye contact with parents, she is sharp and direct with the students, and there is a brittleness about her. Whenever I've spoken to her, she looks as if she is about to break. She never looks happy. </div><div><br /></div><div>She is an excellent dancer. Whenever I watch her perform a combination for the students, my heart literally aches with the desire to be back in a ballet class (after 28 years). But even her perfect technique can't mask the unhappiness I see when I look at this young woman. She reminds me of an ensiform leaf on an iris: tall and graceful, but also resembling a blade with sharp edges and a pointed tip. </div><div><br /></div><div>She is a stickler for rules. The students' hair must be in a bun, and the bun must be secure. If a student makes a mistake, she will draw attention to it. She once told my daughter that she should know her right from her left by now - something my daughter still gets confused about. I blame her lefthandedness for it. One brave girl once asked her why she was so fussy. I must confess I had wondered this myself. The teacher explained, "When you walk into my studio, you are dancers. You will conduct yourselves as such." No one has asked her another question since. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, when the subject of a gift for this teacher came up in a conversation with my daughter, she confessed that no one wanted to get her a gift. I asked her what she thought would be the right thing to do. She asked me to get the teacher something - but something small. :)</div><div><br /></div><div>We went shopping and found a silver necklace chain with little circular charms that go onto the necklace. You can pick different charms, and they are all engraved with a word. We picked four charms for the dance teacher: inspire, spirit, achieve and harmony. I wrapped the necklace, and my daughter made a card for the dance teacher. It had pictures of a Christmas tree, ballet shoes, presents, and a poem: "Roses are red, violets are blue. You are a great teacher, and you rock too." She also included a snowflake ornament that she made out of shiny pipe cleaners and pony beads and ribbon. </div><div><br /></div><div>After ballet class, my daughter came out of the studio wearing her new dance costume for the spring recital. She was so excited. The dance is Sleeping Beauty, and the costumes are a dreamy confection of all different shades of blue with a long tutu and a sequined top. Beautiful. After she showed me the costume, she remembered that she had forgotten to give the teacher her gift. We walked back to the studio, and the teacher was there alone. Kate gave her the gift bag and smiled. The teacher looked shocked. Then her eyes filled with tears, and she started to sob before she put her hand to her face and turned away from us. She managed to choke out the words "thank you". Kate looked at me, and I told the teacher to have a Merry Christmas, then I took Kate by the arm, and we went back to the lobby. </div><div><br /></div><div>We were taking Kate's costume off and packing it up, and another dance class came in and was getting ready for class. The dance teacher came out to get the next class, and she was wearing the necklace. And she was smiling. </div><div><br /></div><div>When we got out to our car to go home, Kate told me, "I'm really glad I gave her a present." Me too. </div><div><br /></div><div>This holiday season, please be kind to others. You never know what unhappiness is in someone's heart. A smile or a nice gesture from you could make all the difference in the world to another person. And we are all worthy of love and understanding. </div><div><br /></div><div>Happy holidays. </div><div><br /></div><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/A9inigMCmJ4?fs=1&hl=en_US&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/A9inigMCmJ4?fs=1&hl=en_US&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object>Jedimommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16408515112526793336noreply@blogger.com3