In the Spirit of Santa

Like all good parents, I have worked hard to teach my children how to lead upstanding lives. Teach them the difference between right and wrong, good and bad, do unto others, etc etc. Although sometimes it seems that the Christmas season puts a bit more emphasis on these principals, I do my best to enforce them all year round.

My children have been raised believing in Santa Claus. However, I have never once used Santa as a reason to behave. "Be good or Santa won't bring you any presents," are words that have never left my lips. I want my children to behave for ME, not for Santa. So yes, Santa is real in our house, but my kids know that Mama always trumps Santa. Doesn't matter what you ask Santa for, if Mama says no, you're not getting it. Santa may be watching, but you have to deal with the immediate consequences of Mama if she sees you doing something wrong.

I know it's a part of parenthood to occasionally, and for good reasons, tell little white lies to your children. "No, I don't have any cash on me right now," "You can't have a lollipop because there aren't any left," "Sorry, we don't have any AA batteries right now for your [very annoying] toy." I have said these, and similar, things. But even these, I try not to say too often. I do my best to be up front and honest with my kids as often as possible, so the thought of perpetuating the story of a man who travels around the world in one night does not really sit well with me. So, I twist the story just a little so I don't have to outright lie. My focus is not on Santa as a person, but Santa as a spirit, a feeling, an action.

This year, we hand made quite a few gifts, and I have to admit that I am very impressed with the creations that my children and I came up with. It started with ornaments. We filled a plastic bowl part way with water and drizzled various nail polish on the water. Then we dipped in plain silver glass ornaments. The nail polish floats on the water and sticks to the ornaments, making what could possibly be the easiest hand made gift ever. Next we moved to dipping the stems of wine glasses. Then we expanded our horizons a bit, and with the help from various blogs and Pintrest, we created a coaster, a tea wreath, mason jar cocoa and brownie mixes, planters, picture frames, a painted vase, and few others. I love creating, and I was having a blast making these things. This is what the spirit of Christmas is about. Yes, I bought my fair share of gifts as well, but it felt so great to help my kids get excited about making gifts by hand.

As we were decorating our tree this year, my 10-year-old daughter and 8-year-old son decided they wanted to each leave a gift for Santa. My daughter chose one of the glass ornaments we dipped in nail polish, and my son found a paper elf he had made in school a year or two ago that he thought would be perfect for Santa. They each wrapped up their gift and put a tag on that said, "To Santa, with love." My daughter insisted we get carrots for the reindeer, and after some deliberation, the snack of choice was to be my homemade fudge and a cup of coffee.

Come Christmas Eve, and the kids very carefully set up Santa's little table with our traditional Christmas plate and cup that we put out every year, My daughter placed two pieces of chocolate, two pieces of mint, and two pieces of peanut butter fudge neatly on the plate. The bag of carrots also went on the table, along with a note explaining that the carrots were for the reindeer and Santa is welcome to help himself to the Keurig coffee in the kitchen. The two small gifts were also placed neatly beside the plate, to be sure he didn't accidentally miss them.

Santa wrote a note back to them, and it reads like this:
"My dear children,

I thank you very kindly for the delicious fudge. Since I thought you shouldn't fight over the last Junior Mint cocoa, I chose that to drink. It's nice to have a warm beverage for this jolly old belly on a cold night.

It is very thoughtful of you to leave old St. Nick gifts of your own. That is excellent Christmas Spirit! Giving to others is what the season is all about. And handmade gifts are even better than store-bought ones! You all make wonderful Santa helpers. I hope you will continue to be good to others all year, every year!

Rudolph and the other reindeer also enjoyed the carrots you left for them. Thank you for thinking of them as well.

Enjoy your gifts. May the love and generosity you show to others always come back to you ten-fold!

Merry Christmas! Your friend, Santa"

At 8- and 10-years-old, it's not going to be much longer until the secret gets out, if it hasn't already. My oldest admitted to me tonight that he was about 4 when he figured it all out. But he never asked questions, and his dad and I just kept playing along. Maybe my kids are playing me and big brother, who knows! As long as they are happy in making gifts, giving what we can to others, and not whining about the newest and greatest thing they didn't get, I'm fine with it. I'll play the game as long as they want to. And when they are done playing, we'll continue to spread the Christmas spirit to others in any way we can. This is what Santa Claus really means to me.

Doing well

It has become second nature when I see someone I know to say, "Hi, how are you?" And it has also become second nature for me to answer, "I'm doing well, thanks" when I hear that question asked of me, even if I know it was asked in a passive moment with no meaningful conversation coming behind it.

Truth is, lately, I don't feel like I'm "doing well." Seems like I don't really know what the hell I'm doing in any aspect of my life. 

When I was a kid growing up, my dad worked for IBM and my mom was a stay at home mom. She was responsible for dinner each night, my dad cleaned up and took out the trash. He mowed the lawn while she did laundry. My parents, my sister and I ate dinner together almost every night. We had a certain "Leave it to Beaver" quality about us. There were practices and rehearsals and after school things to go to, and my parents took a few nights a month to do their own activities (I remember they used to go square dancing together), but my life as a teen seemed to have been much more cut and dry than the current lives of my children. My kids don't have any aspect of similarity to that memory of mine. My oldest might remember family dinners with his dad, if he tries really hard, but the other two have basically lived life from a split family. We do have family dinners at my house, but it's usually quite a bit more chaotic than what I recall. The kids have more chores and responsibilities than I used to (which is very possibly a good thing), and I've always worked outside of the home, leaving the three of them to bounce around after school and during the summer between their dad's and grandmother's houses. The past few years, my oldest has been in charge as the three of them stay at home by themselves. My memories are not bad or wrong, and neither are my kids'. They are just entirely different scenarios.

For the second time in my adult life, I find myself without a job. Which scares me. And I do my absolute damnedest not to portray that fear to my kids. I reassure them (and myself) that something will come up, we'll be ok and everything is just fine. This is something that was intrinsically known during my childhood, because my dad had a steady job at IBM for over 30 years, not something that had to be reiterated to me and my sister by my parents. Of course everything is fine. My dad works and my mom takes care of the house. Why would anyone have anything different than that?

I get that the world is a much different place now than it was 30 or 40 years ago. Of my children's friends, I can count on one hand those whose parents are not divorced. And nowadays both parents working (or the single parent, whatever the case may be) is, I think, a bit more common. Kids are picked at up bus stops directly in front of their house, with the bus stopping multiple times on one street, instead of a mass of school-goers being picked up on the corner around the block. My kids have no idea who the Cleaver family is or what their perfect little TV life was like. And I get that, and all that is ok.

I guess the part that frightens me is how my kids will remember their childhood, and me. They've seen me cry out of anger, sadness and despair. They've watched me fight with their dad, occasionally on an escalated scale. They've seen me belittled and know that someone else doesn't like me or wasn't somehow satisfied with me or something I did. My parents were not perfect, and I don't expect my kids to have this glowing image in their head that I'm the end all be all of human perfection. That would be terrifying because it is so not true. I don't remember my parents ever struggling. Maybe they did and were just able to hide it from me. I hope my kids remember that I worked hard and love them no matter what and am resilient. I hope that they forget the battles and demons that they've seen me struggle with.

My son recently made a comment to me about why I ask everyone how they are doing when we pass on the street. I said something along the lines of it's the polite thing to do, social graces, it's just a nice gesture. But he got me thinking. I'm certainly not going to bore every person who asks how I am with my day to day problems. But maybe I don't need to pretend that everything is rainbows and butterflies either. Overall, yeah, I'm fine, good, well, ok ... whatever mediocre positive word you want to fill into that blank, that probably sums me up in a nutshell on my bad days. To the average passing Joe, maybe "doing well" is an acceptable answer. I mean, the people who need to know are the ones who do know the more intimate details of how I'm feeling at that particular moment. "Doing well" is a very relative term, whose meaning could dramatically change in an instant. I guess when someone asks how you're doing while passing on the street they probably don't really want the whole story anyway. Generally, they are probably just being polite. To get the real answer to how someone is doing, call them up and ask them to have a beer with you. That's where the true discussions are. 

The Alternative

I'm a bit of a nostalgic person. Ok, "a bit" may be a bit of an understatement. I've been known to admit repeatedly that I would go back in time and relive my college years again, in a second. I sometimes whine about my babies growing up, and I long for the times that I could hold them and rock them. I miss days gone by. Generally speaking, I enjoy my life and I'm happy where I am now, but there are moments when I wish I could turn back the hands of time.

When I was a kid, 19 was, for some reason, a magical age to me. My friend would come over, and we would inevitably end up playing either school or house, because that's just what we did. Our mothers were (still are) good friends, and we were sort of forced into friendship with one another. Our mothers liked to get together quite often, so we ended up being play pals quite often as well. We were maybe 8 or 10, and during our games of school or house, she was almost always the teacher or mother. And I wanted to be 19. I don't remember what we did specifically or how our pretend stories played themselves out, but I can remember wanting to be 19. Why, I have no idea. 

For some reason, most of us seem to want to grow up quickly. We want to do things on our own, be independent, be away from the parents, etc. But somewhere along the way, in the midst of our trying to grow up so fast, we realize that maybe we've missed a few things along the way. "Wait...wait a minute, I want to go back. I don't want this much responsibility, I don't want to take care of things, I want to go back to being a kid!" As much as I can't stand the song, Stressed Out by Twenty One Pilots perfectly describes how lots of people feel: "Wish I could turn back time... To the good ol' days, when the mama sang us to sleep, but now we're stressed out." (You're welcome for the earworm. I sang it the entire time I wrote this post!) 

College truly was a golden time for me. Just starting to grow up and learn about the world on my own. Discovering my independence, but not straying too far out of the reach of help from Mom and Dad. I made a ton of friends, many of which I'm still very good friends with today. I bent the rules and broke a few, but didn't get into too much trouble and was always very careful to keep myself out of situations I might not be able to get out of. My friends and I took care of each other. I love them, and they love me back. I was part of something, I made a difference to others. I didn't have a bad time in high school (still friends with many of those people, too), but college was different. I honestly would go back and do college all over again.

That being said, I love and adore my kids with every fiber of my being. There are the "what if" games I play with various situations that took place during college, but if changing anything in college meant losing my children, then all bets are off. Of course, I like to relive my young mother days in my head, too. I miss the days when I could nap on the couch with my knees bent and a baby nestled on my thighs. I miss rocking them, holding them, smelling their wonderful baby skin, listening to their infectious laughs. I love babies, and with every milestone each of mine have surpassed, it sends a bittersweet shock through my system. I'm happy and proud that they are learning and growing, but I want so much to hold on to their baby-hood. My oldest is now 15, a freshman in high school. We've started talking about driving and going to college and what he sees himself doing in the future. And during these necessary conversations of future discovery, in my head, I'm rocking him to sleep or listening to his awesome little baby giggle. And in the back of my head a part of me is crying. Bittersweet shock.

Years ago, my now-ex-husband and I were having a discussion with some friends. I have no idea what the context was or what we were talking about, but I believe my ex was complaining or voicing his dislike of something. Our friend responded with, "At least you're around to bitch about it." That phrase has stuck with me, and there have been plenty of times when I've reminded myself of that. I need to remember, and I think sometimes a lot of us need to ocassionally be reminded to enjoy the here and now. It's good to remember the past and enjoy it. Reminiscing is healthy. But re-living over and over again what has already transpired is not the opposite of being present today. The alternative of not being around at all, is. 

So, when I start to whine about how I don't want my babies to grow up, I stop myself. Be careful what you wish for. Milestones are still bittersweet, for sure, as any parent will tell you. However the thought of them not being here to fulfill their growing up duties scares me beyond anything. I do miss them as babies. But I celebrate and cherish them at every age. I am proud of them every day and I love and adore them more than I ever imagined possible. How could I wish that away?

No matter what is going on in our lives, or how much we long for something already passed, be satisfied that you're still here. And make it a priority to keep yourself here. We won't always be happy with everything that happens, and we as a human race will always reminisce and play "what if." Just remember, "At least you're around to bitch about it." It's better than the alternative.

Stressed Out

Let's just put this right out there... Stress sucks. It's also a part of life, albeit not a very enjoyable part. We all handle stress differently, and there are decent ways to deal with it and less than decent ways. It's said that one can assess what kind of person someone is by looking at how that person deals with stressful situations. I think this is fairly accurate, however I do believe that sometimes even the most even-keeled, most pleasant people can get pushed over the line.

Everyone has a breaking point. For some, it takes quite a lot to get there. I have a handful of friends whom I have never seen angry. I've seen them upset, but not to the point of "get away from me or I'll kill you" angry. It has taken me a long number of years to learn to calm myself down and to extend my breaking point. I used to be one of those "get away from me or I'll kill you" kind of people quite easily. I've never taken meditation or anger management or anything of that nature, but I believe becoming a parent helped a lot in forcing me to step back and reassess the importance of a stressful situation. I didn't want to pass my bad habits on to my kids, so I had to look very carefully at what they were/are seeing in me. Unfortunately, simply being a parent doesn't always solve the issue of how one deals with stress. I'm certainly no expert, but I like to think that along the way, I may have picked up a few good tips.

1. Breathe. Funny how the most obvious answer seems to escape the majority of the population when it comes to stressing out. We seem to want to jump in and immediately react. Human nature, I suppose. But if we take a few moments to breathe - remember the old "count to 10" rule? - we can better focus on what exactly the issue is and how to resolve it. 

2. Choose carefully.

It's sometimes difficult to truly understand this, but every thing we do is a choice. Do we get ourselves to work on time? Do we feed our families healthy food or junk? How do we behave toward that person we really don't like? Should we dress in jeans or shorts or dress slacks? Sometimes choosing one thing or one thought over another is easy. Sometimes it's habit or subconscious. And sometimes it takes a LOT of effort to choose wisely. Stress is simply caused by us losing control. Choosing the appropriate thoughts to overcome that loss of control definitely takes practice, but is possible to do. 

3. Smile.

This may seem counterintuitive, but I believe one of the best weapons we have against any adversity is to just smile (and breathe, they kind of go hand in hand). I can barely remember what I was doing yesterday, let alone what I was stressing out about a year ago. And that's a good thing! Stress comes, but it also goes away. Most of the time the things that we lose control over, the things that have us super hyper focused for that moment, don't matter for too long. Most of the time, a day, a week, a year, even a few hours after we got all stressed out, the worry has subsided, if not disappeared. Perhaps the situation was resolved. Perhaps it really wasn't such a big deal. Perhaps we just moved on with our life and found something else to think about and focus on. Smile, breathe, do what needs to be done, and continue moving forward. 

4. Focus on the now. What can be done? What steps can we take to help move the issue towards resolution? If it's not our direct problem, how can we comfort someone who is being affected? Giving advice may be helpful, but sometimes just being there for someone is more important. I admire one Very Dear Friend of mine very much, because (for one of many reasons) no matter what I rant to him about, he doesn't ask for details. He simply says, "I'm here for you," provides what suggestions he can, and asks me what he can do. Many people, me included, want to know the intricacies of what someone else's problem is. Getting all the juicy details doesn't always make a difference. Figuring out how we can react and what can be done to help the situation is much more progressive. 

5. Don't give up.

If you wake up in the morning, you've made it to another day. Whatever it was that felt like it was going to kill you yesterday, didn't. That means we can move ahead, consider how to deal with whatever we will face today, and continue to plow forward. I do believe whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger. 

Think. Breathe. Smile. Focus. And no matter what keep moving forward. Stress is just a bump in the road. We can't let it stop us. 

The best/worst year

I collect quotes. Actually, when it comes to finding inspirational quotes, I'm more like a hoarder. I look for them, seek them out, record them, memorize them, and bring them out when appropriate. Quotes have helped me learn about myself and have helped me face difficult times. 

Recently, I had this particular quote pop up in the "On this day" feature on Facebook, reminding me that it was posted as my status on May 10, 2010. "Give thanks for what you are now, and keep fighting for what you want to be tomorrow." 

2010 was the absolute worst and simultaneously one of the best years of my life. It was the year I got divorced. It was the year my life was shaken around and everything that I thought I had wrapped up in a neat bundle secured with a pretty little bow was torn apart and thrown out the window. It was the year I essentially had to start over, and rediscovered who I was, and who I wanted to be. 

"Give thanks for what you are now..."

At times during that year it was difficult to see exactly why I should be thankful. I had thought our marriage was going along pretty well. During our 11 years of marriage, my husband and I barely fought. I don't ever recall having a screaming match with him, or slamming doors in each other's faces, or anything of that sort. I had been thankful and proud of that, until I came to realize that actually contributed to our demise as a couple. After searching for the reason to "Why am I not good enough for him," I slowly began to understand that being good enough for him wasn't the issue; I had to start with being good enough for me. 

Being void of my husband stripped away a piece of my identity. Generally, I didn't like doing things or going places by myself. He was the more outgoing of the two of us; I was the more reserved and shy. Always chit chatting with whomever he happened to be around, running into someone he knew almost everywhere we went, it seemed like he was constantly making friends and talking with people. When it came to conversations, he was the main event, I was just a sideline act. Once that main act went missing, I had to fend for myself. I had no one to depend on to start up conversations or introduce me to others. At first, I wasn't thankful for that, because I was scared. Eventually, I learned to love that independence. I became thankful for the things I picked up on while watching him talk with others. And I became thankful that I am more extroverted than I thought. 

I had learned to need my husband, and I wasn't used to going very far out of my comfort zone. Why should I know how to snowblow the driveway or mow the lawn? He did those things. Even when I wanted to help with certain things, he wouldn't let me, so I gave up trying to learn. When I was faced with these new tasks on my own, I wasn't thankful because I was afraid I'd mess up. Afraid that I would fail. Afraid to learn new things. Eventually, I learned to embrace the new tasks and became thankful for the opportunities to learn and grow.

Suddenly being a single mom was scary, too. My 3 kids, aged 9, 4 and 2 at that time, were looking for answers, and at first I couldn't give them any. When they asked the typical question of "Why isn't Daddy staying at our house anymore?" I wanted to snap, "This is your father's idea, go ask him!" And I wasn't thankful for that, because I was angry and resentful. Eventually, I learned to love that independence, too. I grew as a mother, I learned on my own, and I'm teaching my kids the best way I know how. I'm not perfect, but I'm thankful that my kids see me as a strong woman. 

"...and keep fighting for what you want to be tomorrow."

My shortcomings were not specifically what led to my divorce, however I have come to realize that there are always opportunities to improve upon one's self. Even on our best days, we can better ourselves. Life is ever-changing, and we must be too. In 2010, I discovered - or should I say remembered - many many reasons to be thankful. I learned what I didn't want to be, and decided that no matter what, I needed to be happy. So that's what I decided to fight for. After throwing an epic pity party for myself that lasted a better part of the year, I managed to pull myself together, redefine who I was and build myself up to be better than I had ever been. 

Although it's been 5 and a half or so years since my post-divorce epiphany, my work on myself is not finished, nor should it ever be. We, as humans, cannot survive as static creatures. Every day we are learning, changing, evolving ever so slightly. This knowledge in and of itself has made it easier for me to fight for what I want to be. 

2010 made me see how rich and fortunate I truly am. Although a part of me wishes that some events had unfolded differently that year, I am thankful for all that I learned, and for the blessings that I'm surrounded by. We can always fight to better ourselves, there is always a reason to be thankful, and always something to be thankful for.

It takes a village

When I was in high school, I practically lived at my best friend's house. I got yelled at if I rang the doorbell rather than just walking in. I had my own bottle of regular Coke in their fridge, because they only drank diet, but I didn't. I knew where their silverware and plates were kept and helped myself to the snacks in their cupboard. I think I may have even had my own toothbrush at her house. I called her mom "Mama D," and if I was leaving my house, chances were pretty high that I'd end up at hers. 

My group of friends was fairly small, but very tight-knit. My parents knew the parents of my friends, and, more importantly, how to get in touch with them. We didn't have these fancy cell phones, so the threat of my mother calling my friend's mother was quite real, and there was nothing I could do to intervene that. I knew there'd be consequences if they found out that I wasn't where I said I would be. My friends and I were pretty predictable. We had our routines. Friday night after the football game, we'd go to Friendly's down the road from the high school. Saturday I'd probably hang out with one or two of my girlfriends. Saturday night, a friend that was a boy might pop over to my house unexpectedly, and I'd sneak out the back door after I thought my parents were asleep, to sit in the back yard and look at the stars while chatting with him. Sunday I'd talk on the phone all day with my best friend, or I would go to her house again. As much of a pain in the ass as I was (and I'm sure my parents won't disagree with that), I was kind of a goody-two-shoes. Afraid to bend the rules too far, for fear that I might break them. I was kind of boring. Didn't look too far for adventure, didn't wander too far off the beaten path. My parents (almost) always knew where I was.

Looking back, I can now appreciate how important that was, having my parents know where I was and who I was with. And now as the mother of a high school teenager, I see that importance ten-fold. 

I don't think parents connect as much as perhaps they used to. I think it's more commonplace to leave the plan-making up to the kids, saying things like, "Find out what his plans are," rather than saying, "Let me call her mother to find out," like my parents did. I'm not a big fan of helicopter parenting, and I want my kids to be able to do things for themselves. But I also understand the need to know where my child is and with whom. 

Much like I did, my son, who is a freshman in high school, has a fairly small, tight-knit group of music kids as friends. He spends quite a decent amount of time with one particular family, playing video games with his friend after school, attempting to study, staying for dinner and probably eating most of whatever is in their snack cupboards. I'm good friends with his parents, and they've told me numerous times that my son is welcome over any time. It was reported to me that one day when the mother returned home from work, my son greeted her with "Hi Mom!" It makes me very happy to know that he has a second home, as I did, and he feels as comfortable with that family as he does. 

Not too long ago, my son was having a very difficult time in school, and disappeared briefly. He got very upset, and just walked out after lunch. No one knew where he went. I was at work, and wouldn't have had any idea what was going on for hours, except his friend called me. He was very concerned. Attempting to stave off the panic mode, I called my ex-husband, explained the situation as calmly as I could, and immediately headed for home. My ex called the friend's father, and we all set out in a different direction searching for him. As I was aimlessly driving around, tears streaming down my face, trying to put myself in his head, it hit me that he doesn't have a "secret" hiding spot to sneak off to. There isn't a particular place that he likes to go to cool down. He doesn't have a favorite spot to chill out. Except his friend's house. If he's not there, where else would he be?

After 4 hours of being MIA from the school, he called me, heartbroken and tearful, with his tail tucked between his legs. He had walked about 10 miles south and was just outside a neighboring village. He said he just needed to think and calm down. I listed off a half dozen places much closer to home that he could have gone to escape, and reminded him that his best friend's family is one of the most caring, open families we know. "You could tell them anything under the sun and they're not going to judge you!" I exclaimed at him. "Plus," I added selfishly, "they'd let me know you were safe. Go there and hide next time."

In numerous ways throughout the years it has been proven to me that it does indeed take a village to raise a child. I'm glad that my children have others who help care for them, and I'm glad to be there for my friends' kids as well. In honor of Mother's Day, I say thank you, not only to my biological mom for putting up with all my teenage angst crap and helping me whenever I need it, but also to my best friend's mom for taking me in as your own, my ex-mother-in-law who helps me with the kids and has kept a very strong relationship with me, my aunt who treats me like a daughter and bestows lots of gift cards on me, my friends who act as mothers to my kids, and my friends who act as mothers to me when I really need it. We are all tied to one another and we're in this together. I love my village.

44

In late 1993, 5 friends gathered around a small kitchen table in an apartment in Oswego, NY, deliberating what organization would be best for their music department members to be a part of. As hard working, music loving college students, we were looking for some way to unite our beloved department. There seemed to be no flow, no continuity, nothing to tie music students together. For whatever reason, we, as a group, felt the department needed something more, and we were determined to find it. 

We reached out to Mu Beta Psi National Honorary Musical Fraternity, whose main focus is to share and help promote music within the respective universities and communities. It was honorary, which meant that academics were measured in the eligibility of brotherhood; it was national, which meant it had a history and strong support system; it was co-ed, which meant both men and women could join; and although a music major was not a requirement of brotherhood, each member had to be actively involved in the music department, which was the target audience we were looking for. Papers were signed, rules were explained, the ball started rolling, and before we knew it, in January 1994, there was a class of 26 people who were the Mu Beta Psi Nu Chapter Founding Fathers. 

I do not consider myself to be an activist of any kind. Given a choice, I generally prefer to be among the wallflowers rather than in the spotlight. However, that meeting in 1993 led to the biggest change of my life, and was catalyst for so many things yet to come. I was one of the 5 at the kitchen table. I helped make the whole thing happen.

For two solid years, Mu Beta Psi was pretty much my life. I was Service Coordinator the first semester that we were pledges, then Vice President for the 4 semesters following. By nature, I am (or at least I used to be) a fairly shy person, not looking for ways to interject myself into a new group of people. I was thrown into a leadership position, and had no idea the impact that it would have on me, or for that matter the impact that I would eventually have on others. At first, I grumbled (ok, bitched is more accurate) about having to wear a pledge pin, carry a pledge book and follow the rules to a T. Despite my quiet little hissy fits, I somehow knew I needed to stay a part of the group, so I did what was asked of me. Some of the professors within the department didn't believe in us. Quite a few, I think, actually. We had to work very hard to prove our worthiness, and even then, they were skeptical. Having females as President and Vice President for the first two years didn't really settle too well with the chairman of the department at that time. He much preferred to relay messages to us via the male members, whom he favored. The other Greek organizations didn't accept us as equal. We were considered the "music geeks" and that was not a good thing to most other people. We wanted to bring the members of the music department closer together, but we had to battle a lot of opposition to do so. 

In May 1996, the majority of the founding class was to graduate. A few of the Founders had already graduated and moved on, making a large, albeit brief impact on the newly formed fraternity. Being only 5 pledge classes old, leaving one sole Founding Father as the senior member of the group, and still facing many acceptance obstacles, the founding class was convinced that Nu chapter would wither up and die within the next few years. This was not a wish we had, but somehow the odds looked ominously against us. 

After my graduation that spring, I moved away, leaving behind my well-known college town, my beloved fraternity friends and my family, pursuing other life adventures out of state. I returned to NY in 1998, and ended up back in Oswego a year or two later, when my then-husband decided to take classes again at our alma mater. My hiatus from the fraternity ended the semester that he pledged. I jumped back in, and was as active as ever, despite the fact that we now had a newborn baby. My husband, my son, and I were all integral members for the next few years, with both of us serving as Assistant Pledge Master and Pledge Master at different times. New friends were born, new memories made. I was happy that after 6 years, our prediction of failure had been wrong. Our seedling had grown, and was starting to become more accepted by others. 

Life continued to move forward, and I had other more "adult" things to focus on, such as work and my family. Over the years, my involvement with the group waned, and diminished down to nothing. I kept in touch with some members, and occasionally heard through the grapevine what class they were on, or how many pledges they'd had that semester, but the fraternity as a whole faded off into the distance for me.

Fast forward to May 2016. My connection to Mu Beta Psi remains in the friendships that I made between 1994 and 2002. My knowledge of the current status or state of the fraternity is next to nil. A very dear friend who is still involved with the music department convinced me to attend the end of year formal banquet. He has kept tabs on the newer classes and has met a number of recent brothers. The fraternity went through a tumultuous period a few years ago, and the fear of failure came back to life. However my friend assures me that these are "a good bunch of kids" and that they have been working tirelessly to bring back the reputation that the Founders so badly fought for. So I agree to attend the banquet.

As soon as I entered the room, people knew who I was. My friend introduced me to numerous brothers, saying, "This is MY big, she's a founder." The response was, "Oh my god, I know! So happy to meet you!" I got the fan-girl treatment and felt briefly like a celebrity. I liked everyone I met and felt very comfortable with these much younger strangers. In speaking with a few of them, I could feel the passion, the dedication they had for this group. They were all very energetic, very happy to be with one another, and enthusiastic in talking about what they'd done or hope to do for the fraternity. 

Then it dawned on me. They just initiated the Alpha Upsilon class. Each pledge class is assigned a Greek letter, and AU means that our chapter has gone through the entire Greek alphabet once, and almost all the way through a second time. Nu Chapter has been alive for 22 years, and has initiated 44 pledge classes. FORTY-FOUR! That was unfathomable in 1996. Completely blown away by this newfound knowledge, I addressed the Brotherhood. I wish I could tell you what I said, but the adrenaline seering through my body was doing the talking. I think I told them that I am proud of the current Brothers for the energy and enthusiasm that they've shown, and the work that they've put into the group to make it not only survive, but thrive again. Some of the best and most dear friends I've ever made were born of this fraternity, and if each Brother can find the same kind of relationships that I've found, then the purpose of this fraternity has been fulfilled. 

To my Brothers from 1994-1996: 44 classes! We started that. It's because of our actions that this fraternity is changing people's lives, as it did ours. To the current Brotherhood: Keep the great energy flowing! Stay positive and strong. Know there are always Brothers around you willing to lend a hand in any way they can. To all Nu Chapter Brothers and Alumni: Thank you. Thank you for following what you believed in, even during the times that it may have seemed impossible. We have all been an extremely important piece in this chapter's history, and I am forever grateful to each of you. 

In Brotherhood and with Love,

Kate "Cat" DeForest

Founding Father, SP'96

Current Nu Chapter Brotherhood, 2016

Mu Beta Psi Nu Chapter 20 year reunion, 2014

Nu Chapter, Founders - Delta class, spring 1996

Promises

I recently started binge watching the Netflix series, "The Flash," which is the story behind a young man named Barry Allen, who becomes the superhero speedster in the red suit. Without going into too many details or giving away too much of the show, a scientist named Dr. Harrison Wells and his team built a particle accelerator. When they turned it on, it became unstable and exploded, causing all kinds of havoc in the city, and creating "meta humans," people who took on superhuman powers, including Barry Allen. The majority of the show takes place after the explosion, and we learn the backstory of many of the characters through flashback scenes. Obviously, Barry is the main character and the show focuses mainly on his story, both past and present, but there also numerous secondary characters whose stories tie closely into Barry's, making the storyline flow very easily from one episode to the next. There are lots of plot twists and turns along the way, creating the urgency of "I have to see what comes next!", which is why I like it.

One thing that I have noticed about this series, is people promise a lot of things to other people. "We'll find him and bring him home, I promise." "I promise you, I'm gonna make things right." "We can fix him, I promise." "I promise, I won't leave you." 

I don't like promises. They make me cringe. I don't promise things to anyone, and I don't accept it when someone makes a promise to me. Promises are usually made with the best intentions, but it becomes too easy for a promise to be broken. Once a promise is made and broken, all trust is wiped out. In 1999 I exchanged vows with a man, to love and keep each other, 'til death do us part. We're both still very much alive, but despite my efforts to keep it, that promise was broken 11 years after it was made. Needless to say, it's difficult for me to fully believe anything he says he'll do. 

Promises are nothing more than spoken words, but there is a weight attached to them. The assumption that whoever makes a promise will carry it through. Don't promise something unless you are absolutely 100,000,000% sure that you can keep it. I don't care how big or small the promise may seem, if there's even the slightest chance you can't keep it, don't promise it.

The old saying "Actions speak louder than words" holds very true to me. I would much rather see someone do something than hear them promise it. Prove to me what you say is true, don't just mumble meaningless words. It saddens me that so many people throw this word around haplessly, be it politicians, celebrities, ex's (thankfully, my ex doesn't promise me things. I wouldn't believe him if he did. I've heard of too many people who hear it from an ex-husband/wife), friends, or whoever. On a small, localized scale, there would be less heartache, anger and arguments if people kept their promises or didn't even make them in the first place. On a much larger, global scale, voting for politicians would probably be a hell of a lot easier if we thought that we could actually trust one or two of them. It's easier to gain the respect of others when you're a man or woman of your word. 

In my own life, I'm relieved that I don't hear too many people make empty promises. In fact, I can't recall the last time I heard "I promise." Which is fine with me. My kids are learning that breaking promises is just as bad as outright lying, and that I don't approve of either. We all need to hold ourselves accountable for the things we say.

To Mr. Barry Allen, aka the Flash, I like you, and I'm cheering you on in your quest to figure out your past while using your superhuman powers to do good in the world. But, please, for the sake of all that is holy, stop making promises. To my friends, and anyone else who will listen, please, I beg of you, check your words, and let your actions speak louder.

Ready for This

I am an emotional sap. My oldest will be 15 in one month, not even all the way through his Freshman year of high school, and any time I think about graduation for more than 15 seconds, I tear up. No kidding. June 20-whatever of 2019 is going to be an extremely tough day for me.

I know there are lots of moms who are overprotective, neurotic and emotional. There are dads, too, but I think these traits show up more in women. I won't speak for all moms, but you can agree with me if you'd like. I think part of why I get so emotional and neurotic is because I want affirmation that I'm doing this parenting thing well. That is not a phishing strategy to see how many compliments I can get. That is simply an admission that I hope I'm making the best choices, and adequately preparing my children for the beautiful mess of a world we live in. In fact, the only people who can truly affirm to me that I haven't completely screwed up, are my children.

As they grow older, they learn, they expand their world, they become a little more independent. This forces me, their overprotective, do-everything-for-everyone mother to have to let go just a little bit. With each new thing they learn and accomplish, I'm needed just a tiny bit less. Children always need their mom, to that there is no doubt. But I don't need to be with them every moment, help them with every thing, watch them every second. I have to let go. And each time I'm forced to step back and watch my kids do something on their own, I can't help but think, "Oh god, I hope they are ready for this."

These "letting go" moments can come gradually. I walked my two younger kids to school a day or two ago. A portion of the sidewalk was covered in a crunchy snowbank, forcing us to go into the street. My adventurous and rebellious son ignored my request to go around, and stomped right over the bank to the other side, then ran down the sidewalk toward the crossing guard. My daughter and I opted for the street, and as we stepped off the curb, I instinctively held out my hand to take hers. My outstretched hand hung in the air, empty, for 10 seconds or so before I looked at her and said, "Have you outgrown hand-holding? Is that what's happening here?" She smiled. But her hands stayed by her side. I had to let go. Didn't see that coming. I mean, I did - she just turned 10 - but maybe I just don't want to admit that it came.

The situations forcing us to let go can also be not-so-subtle, more blatant and obvious. The other day, I had barely gotten my entire body through the front door after coming home from work, and my oldest came bounding down the stairs toward me, exclaiming excitedly, "Mama, Mama, Mama... Guess what??"
"What?"
"I'm gonna get my working papers!"
"Oh, good fo... wait, what??"
Among the swirl of emotion that suddenly popped into my head, I found myself thinking things like, "Well, there goes my after-school sitter. Working papers, eh? Maybe he won't ask for money so much. This means I have to take him out to find a job." And finally, it really hit. "Wait, he's going to start working? No... is he really that old already?" Yep, that cord wasn't just cut, it was snapped right in half. He'll be 15 in a month, so again, it's not like I didn't know it was coming. He's not a baby. He's been pretty independent for a while now, taking on the responsibility of watching his siblings after school, taking it upon himself to get his homework done so as not to get "the lecture," making sure that the chores I leave for the three of them get done before I come home from work. By all definitions, he is a young man, not a baby, not a toddler, barely even a kid anymore.

But I'm constantly thinking, "I hope they are ready for this." This statement can take many forms, such as "Did they listen to what I've told them? Will they remember to look the person in the eye and speak clearly? Will they say something embarrassing or rude? Oh, I hope they're not rude!" I have to have faith in my children that they really have been listening and will practice at least a little of what I preach.

Maybe I should really be asking, "Am I ready for this?" Every day is uncharted territory. Yes, we have our routines and our habits and our things we do every day. At the same time, the kids are growing and learning and exploring bit by bit each day. Which means that I have to continually release my grasp over their lives.

I am extremely proud of my children. I want them to continue growing and to be strong, mindful, active, healthy citizens of whatever communities they end up in. So why do I turn into a sobbing, sappy mess when I try to picture them in the future? Will I ever be ready to completely let go? I'm not sure that any parent ever truly is. Maybe it makes it a little easier that we are forced to slowly and gradually release our children out into the world, rather than holding an 8-hour course, then saying goodbye.

I can remember having a conversation with a very dear friend, years ago, after being upset with someone. I was crying my eyes out, asking rhetorically why I was letting this person get to me so much. My friend answered me, "Because you give a rat's ass." That kind of explains a lot, actually, when I really think about it. I get emotional because I care. End of story. I worry for my kids, I think about them, I care what happens to them and what others think of them. So I get emotional.

No one can ever be fully prepared for what the world is going to throw at them in life. I never imagined I would be divorced, yet here I am. I have one younger sister, which means that my parents, who raised two girls, could never really help me be ready to be a mother to two sons and one daughter. My sister has two step-sons. Could she have learned how to deal with that from our home growing up? Most likely not. What we can learn are the transferable skills that allow us to think outside our usual box, and reason with that which sometimes seems unreasonable. We, as adults, are growing and learning every day. If we're not, then we are depriving ourselves of fantastic opportunities.

Every day I reflect some on how my kids have grown, and what they were like when they were babies, and I project a little about who they'll be in the future. And every day it gets a little easier to accept that they are no longer babies, that I have to continue to step back and watch them live life instead of living it for them, my way.  I let go, little by little. Each day, as I watch them live their life and develop who they are, they affirm to me that I have done a fine job raising them. And through their actions and words, my children reassure me that they will take the lessons they've learned and apply them appropriately. I reflect on how much I've grown over the past few years, and how much more there is to learn. I can settle myself, knowing that we are all faring quite well in this crazy journey.

I will continue be an emotional, sappy mess at times, It's kind of what I do. I'm ok with that though, because that tells me that I'm somehow doing something right. And I'm definitely going to need a lot of tissues come 2019.

The Weight of My Household

I've come to the very huge and humbling realization that I am, despite my efforts to deny it, a control freak. Which really shouldn't be a surprise at all, considering that I am a lifelong, card-carrying member of the "If-it's-gonna-be-done-right-I-gotta-do-it" club. I don't like to ask for help, and certain things need to be done a certain way (mine), therefore I end up taking on much more responsibility than I probably need to. Household chores are a prime example of both my need for control and the minor case of OCD that I possess. 

My life is like that book, "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie." In the book, the mouse asks a boy for a cookie, which leads to asking for milk, and a straw, then a napkin, then a mirror so the mouse can check for a milk mustache, and he realizes he needs to get his hair cut... and on and on. I think you get the idea. I don't like to ask for help. In essence, I'm playing out the Give a Mouse a Cookie book, except I'm the only character. I'm asking and responding to myself. Here's a typical evening for me: I try to start dinner, except there are too many dishes in the way, so I empty the dishwasher and put away those dishes so I can put the dirty ones in. I get dinner in/on the oven/stove, but first, I have to wipe down all the counters and stovetop because there's water/crumbs/juice stains. As I'm making dinner, I splatter something on my shirt, so I change and get a basket of dirty laundry and bring it to the basement to put it in the washing machine. If there's clothes in the dryer, I bring them upstairs, check dinner on my way through the kitchen, then fold what laundry I can before feeding my family. And I usually do all this in a span of about 30-45 minutes! Mind you, I live with 4 other people. But I do it all, because I don't like to ask for help, and I feel better if it's done my way. 

Unfortunately, my demand for control enables and allows the other members of my household to be a little lazy. I'm pretty sure they all full-well know that if an object sits out of its place long enough, Mom will take care of it. Put away my clothes? Nah, Mama will do it when she gets tired of looking at them on the chair. Bring my toys to my room? Nah, Mama will think they're in the way and move them for me. I haven't yet decided if these types of thoughts are completely intentional by my family, but subconsciously, I'm teaching this to them. 

My youngest is 7, and he is, always has been and always will be the definition of Tenacious. And Independent. He is another "Gotta do it myself" kind of person. Which is great, unless you're the parent of a tenacious, independent child, who also happens to possess many of the same qualities. I am forced, on a daily basis, to move out of the way and let him do things the way he wants to do them. Which is difficult for me. But what's the alternative? Teach my child that he can't do anything correctly and that his mother is a crazy psychotic Nazi of a control freak? No thank you. I'll bite my lip as hard as I need to, and supervise him while he's figuring things out for himself. Even if that means sending my OCD into a tailspin. I can ignore the mental screams of "OH MY GOD, HE'S NOT DOING IT MY WAY!!!" when I need to.

For the past 3 years, I was a salesperson, which meant that I spent the majority of each day, 5 days a week, talking to people. And I like talking to people. My daughter is in Girl Scouts, and therefore year after year she sells Girl Scout cookies. (Anyone see where this is going?) My daughter is 9, so she can't exactly hoof it around the neighborhood after school by herself, soliciting to a bunch of strangers. I'm happy to bring her to where she wants to go- to see family members, neighbors, friends, businesses, etc., and supervise the progress of her sales efforts. This year, especially, I've been getting the stink eye a little more often, and have to constantly remind myself to shut up, and that I am not the one selling cookies. I tell her over and over that she has to be the one to talk, then when we walk in, guess who speaks first? Outgoing, friendly, chatty Mama. She has a goal to make, and I like for her to make said goal, so I do what I can to "help." Except sometimes my way of helping doesn't actually help. I have to, again, bite my lip and step back, while I let my shy but eager child take the spotlight. I'll admit, this is not always easy for me. But, just like with her younger brother, I want her to learn that she has the capability to do things on her own and do things correctly in her own way. 

The weight of the world does not need to be taken upon my shoulders. Neither does the weight of my household. My family is capable of doing chores, regardless of how much they enjoy them or not. I may need to point out the obvious to them, like "How about instead of smushing the garbage further down into the can, you empty it out?" Or, "Oh, you ran out of underwear? How about you bring your laundry downstairs to me so I can wash it?" Small price to pay in the grand scheme of teaching my kids how to think and do for themselves, and in teaching me how to let them. Control is a tricky demon, making us believe that we need to keep it close for things to go right. Once we can learn to loosen our grip, it becomes easier to let others grab the reigns. It even feels good sometimes to throw our hands up in the air, completely free of responsibility and worry. And it feels downright wonderful to watch as my children take the lead, and complete tasks in an acceptable and productive manner. It feels wonderful knowing that I helped them get there. All I had to do was let go.

The Art of Listening

Listening is an intense skill that I would venture to say not very many people possess. I like to think that I'm a pretty good listener. I've been told so by numerous people throughout the course of my life, so I'm inclined to believe it. I'm not a perfect listener, however. Each of us hears something and interprets it based on our own life experiences, thoughts, preconceived notions, circumstances, etc. Plus, we as humans, are intrinsically self centered. We like to focus on how we're going to benefit from whatever situation we are in. Add these two facts together, and most people will hear what someone else is saying, but they won't really listen to what is being said. 

It has forever astounded me how two people can see the exact same situation and interpret it totally differently, sometimes in completely opposite ways. This difference, I think, is intensified when put into a intimate relationship. I have girl friends and guy friends whom I have never fought with, never seriously disagreed with, never thought, "Wow are they out of this universe wrong about that." Yet I have a difficult time reading and understanding the feelings of the person with whom I've shared my life with for 5 years. He says something, I take it the wrong way, get defensive, say something snotty back to him, he gets defensive, and away we go... 0 to 60 in three seconds flat. Over what? Most of the time over stupid misinterpretations of what was meant in the first place. Conversations with my ex-husband are even worse, but I attribute that to the fact that most of our exchanges take place via text. Wanna pick a fight? Text an ambiguous message to someone who rarely sees things the way you do. I'll bet that 99.9999999999% of the time the recipient will interpret the message in a manner that was not all intended by the sender. Boom. Fight. 

Ok, so that is a separate topic of discussion, and it's own entity, really. Back to the monologue at hand, how do we really listen to someone else and fully understand what they mean? I wish I had that answer. We're always told for one reason or another, "walk in the other person's shoes." Put yourself in their position and do your best to understand how they perceive something. Why is that so difficult to do? Most kids learn empathy, sympathy and understanding others, so how come it's not more ingrained in us to really consider how the other person feels? 

We've all done it- the blank "uh-huh" murmured at the appropriate times while someone else is speaking in our direction. Perhaps we are distracted, or our minds are fixated on another matter that we feel is more important at that moment. It is a conscious effort by each and every one of us to choose what we listen to and what we don't. There is nothing more sustaining to human life than interaction with each other. In today's day and age, with electronics surrounding us 24/7 and information available at our fingertips in mere seconds, I think it's extremely imperative that we make that effort to direct all of our focus and attention to another live person, at least once a day. If I'm speaking to you, I like to think that you'll pause what you're doing to listen to me. And when someone else is speaking to me, I know damn well that I won't pay attention if there is a TV or iPad in front of me. I do my best to focus on whomever I'm with. To look them in the eye, absorb their words, and digest their perspective. My kids have learned that they sometimes need to wait their turn to allow me to finish typing an email or finish talking with someone else. But they have also learned that when they talk to me, I'm looking at them, focusing on them and truly listening.

Perhaps that is the first step in fully understanding someone else - focusing on them and the conversation at hand. This doesn't necessarily mean that the two participants must be sitting in a silent room, doing nothing but looking at one another. Life is busy, and dinner needs to be made, kids need to be bathed, laundry needs to be folded, and all that. Conversations happen while we are on the move. We must choose how much attention gets put into our conversations and how much gets thrown to the chores/other responsibilities. It is possible to do something else while still having a meaningful conversation.

That being said, I also think one of the nicest things two people can do is to sit in a (semi) quiet room, doing nothing but looking at each other while conversing. This is how bonds are made. I can't tell you what I ate for dinner last night or what books my kids read for bedtime this past week, but I can clearly recall sitting face to face with certain people. I may not be able to recite the exact conversation, but how I felt while I was sitting with that person is clear as day. 

I don't have the answer as to how to completely understand someone else, and I'm pretty sure I'll never solve the world's most prominent social grace issues. However, it is my heartfelt belief that being fully present goes an extremely long way towards helping us see eye to eye with another person. I also believe the result is well worth the effort. Give it a try and see what a difference it can make for you.

New Year, New Chapter

I read somewhere recently that a new year is a blank slate. An opportunity to "start over," develop new habits, make new choices, do things a little differently in our lives. Many times these are conscious choices that we make and put forth the effort to stick with. Sometimes new opportunities find us. I was recently fortunate enough to have such an opportunity present itself to me, and in a few days I'll be starting a new chapter with new employment.

For 3 years I've been an advertising rep with a local newspaper. Like any job, it's had it's ups and downs. There have been times when I wanted to cry, walk out and never look back. There have also been plenty of times that I've laughed with my coworkers and clients. I've met a lot of people and learned a lot of things with this job, and in some ways I'm sad to say goodbye. But I'm excited for the opportunity to grow and expand my skills, push myself and step that much further outside of my comfort zone. 

This afternoon I spent 4 hours absorbing information pertaining to my new position, learning an overview of what responsibilities I'm expected to handle. 4 hours is a long time to absorb information and this position has a much wider scope than my current position. A few separate times during my training, I found myself wondering if I'd be able to fill the shoes that were being left behind, if I'd be able to live up to the expectations, and keep up with the job. During my drive home, as the information was swirling around inside my head, and the doubts started to get louder, I stopped myself. I decided that instead of thinking "I hope I can do it," I need to tell myself "I am going to do it." I have the capability of handling the duties, I just need to learn the ropes and gather the confidence in myself that I will succeed. 

These are powerful words to me. You can't slide through life with positive thinking and nothing else, but a positive outlook will pull you further than negativity. When I was young and I didn't want to go somewhere with my family (which was quite often), my father would say to me, "Well, if you think you're not going to have fun, you certainly won't!" It took me a lot of years to fully understand this. Now I tell my kids, "You can choose whether to be happy or not. Whether you'll have fun or not." Although my perception has shifted since my teenage days, I do still have to remind myself that my attitude towards anything has a big effect on the outcome of the situation. 

It's going to take some time to get acclimated to my new position, and there's going to be a big learning curve, but these things are not insurmountable. It is possible, it is doable, and I can and will succeed. That's all there is to it. 

Cleaning Up

I'm a little bit of a neat freak. Although you wouldn't always know it to look at my house, because I also don't like cleaning very much. Kind of an oxymoron. Place an object in a room where it doesn't belong, and chances are my family and I will maneuver around it long enough until said object just blends in with it's surroundings, like it is supposed to be there. But eventually my OCD kicks in and I turn into the ultimate binge cleaning machine. Everything must have a place, and I become determined to find or make such a spot for as many mislaid items as I can. 

This past weekend I decided to buy myself a few new shirts, which lead to emptying out my closet. Which lead to emptying out the armoir. Every single shirt, sweater and pair of pants I own ended up on the bed, scrutinized for their wearability during the upcoming year. After trying them all on, determining which ones I haven't worn in the past year and therefore which ones I most likely will not wear in the next year, I put the winners back in their spot in the closet or armoir, and the losers got packed into a garbage bag. Their exact future is yet to be determined, but it will involve being donated in some manner. When I was in high school, my mother had a shirt that I thought was god-awful ugly. One day, I found a photo of her and 2-year-old me, and she was wearing that same shirt, making it 15 years old! (Needless to say, I was mortified that she would still be wearing the same clothing she wore 15 years ago.) I fear that I'm getting close to that point with my own closet. I won't lie, it felt good to replace the old with the new. 

Another factor that kicks up my motivation to clean is having guests. I love the announced surprise - "Hey, what are you doing? I'll be over in half an hour." This means I have at least 20 minutes to binge clean as much as possible. Sweep the floors, wipe down the counters, throw the toys in a closet, straighten up the shoes. Yep, I've mastered the technique of immediate cleaning. I got this kind of call recently, when a couple of college friends were passing through town. I was extremely happy to hear from them, and immediately went to work straightening up. I haven't seen one of these friends in a year or two, and the other I hadn't seen in probably 5 years. Think they cared about the state of my living room? Probably not. Yet I clean. I feel a sense of accomplishment and love looking at a neat house, although I've come to accept that my living quarters will never be "white glove" perfect. Far from it! But that's ok.

These walls that surround us have seen a fair share of disagreements and fights. One wall has a patched up spot where I kicked it in after a particularly heated fight. The paint is peeling off many of the bedroom doors and door frames, and with the correct momentum, one can practically pull paint off the entire length of the door in one strip. The ceiling paint in both bathrooms is split and cracking due to the day after day moisture from 5 people bathing multiple times over the course of a week. The couch feels to me like it sucks you in when you sit on it, and it's got a few pen marks and dark spots where something was spilled then cleaned up. The mirrors are covered in fingerprints and smudges. The carpeting on the stairs is old, matted and stained. There is almost always a laundry basket or two hanging around the living room that contains folded clothes, waiting to be put away. The hardwood floors are scuffed and have a few stains in the most traveled areas. The should-be white linoleum floor in the kitchen is scratched, and is more like a dingy ivory color. I've managed to control the large amounts of clutter to occupy only a few select areas including the hutch by the front door, the file cabinet and hutch in the dining room, and my bedroom dresser. When the clutter in these areas hits maximum coverage, I click into binge cleaning mode and relocate as many of the objects to their proper room as possible. 

These walls that surround us have also seen many days and nights filled with laughter. Homemade works of art are proudly displayed, hung on the wall prominently for all to admire. The cracked paint in the bathrooms means that my kids are bathed and the toothpaste on the sink means they've brushed their teeth. The couch has been jumped on with excitement while we play video games and it's held all 5 of us together while we watch our weekly TV show or a movie. The mirror on the front closet door has spots on it from where it's been struck with Nerf suction cup darts, as the kids try to outshoot one another. The carpeting on the first two or three stairs is matted, in part from serving as our sitting place to put on or take off shoes. Folded clothes means clean clothes, and the fact that they are waiting to be put away means there are more clothes in the closet that can be worn. The hardwood floors are well traveled, and on good days with clean socks the kids can get a running start from the dining room, then slide from one side of the living room to the other. Dirt is tracked through the kitchen as the kids go running in and out, showing me the mudpies they've made or trying to escape the Nerf bullets of their siblings. I've tracked my own dirt into the kitchen after spending hours in the garden or taking out the trash. Clutter means we have more than we need and the kids can never run out of things to play with. 

My house, clean or not as it may be, has been home to 8 people, 1 cat, 2 dogs, and numerous fish. If these walls could talk, I like to think the majority of the tales would be happy ones, echoing the laughter that we have shared in each room over the years. Cleaning up feels good, keeps me calm and makes me happy. And it reminds me how fortunate we are and how much we truly have. For that, I am grateful.