We're all adults here: Week Ten

Over the past several months, and even years, since our firstborn went to college, we have seen the gradual shift in our relationships. It took longer with the oldest, probably because we had never done it before, so it took us more time to concede that indeed she was an adult.

Today, our visits and conversations are about adult issues. It really hit home when we found ourselves encouraging our younger daughter to go to a frat party. All the years we spent discouraging her participation in any party that would involve underage consumption of alcohol flipped. Having raised a responsible young woman, we knew that at least by attending a party, she would see what she was missing.

The next morning, she gleefully called us hangover-free to tell us how much fun she had playing beer-pong, but with water shots.

Their lives are moving at an adult speed. Our oldest is at an out of town conference and messaged us that she has an interview with a well-known company, She drove her own car there across another state. She has taken several long road trips, solo, back and forth to internships, grad expos, and now this conference. The younger one is enjoying living in a city, taking the train to different parts of town, all without having to check in with her parents or abide by a curfew. She is going to the store to pick up her favorite snacks all by herself and even considering staying on campus for summer classes.

Our conversations are now on equal footing. We still are helping out with the bills, but more often than not, they are managing their day to day finances, their schedules and their lives. Which means when we communicate, it reflects their complete independence. Not to say there aren't times they call and ask for advice or encouragement. And we've spent the World Series texting back and forth throughout the game. You know, like a couple of buddies would do. We spent many years reminding ourselves that "We are your parents, not your friends", and now we can finally say, "Hey, let's be friends, too!"

I reflected back on that critical shift with my own parents, when I became an adult in their eyes. For me, it was probably when I got my first apartment and was living off campus. Suddenly, I had a place I could entertain my folks. I could have them over for lunch or dinner. I still had a lot of growing up to do, but I knew that I was managing life on my own terms.

It's funny today, but because dreams are such a jumble of our subconscious, whenever I have a dream about an adult sort of decision, the location is still in my first apartment. I can still mentally walk through that space with photographic memory accuracy. As I remember the pride I felt the first time my parents treated me like an adult, I wish the same joy for my children.

Because now, they are adults. I really am glad they are also my friends. 

They Miss You, Too! Week Nine

I am halfway through my 18 week journey. Part of this live blogging strategy is that I intend to blog each week until the end of the year and then take those instant, week-by-week, reactions and turn them into logical chapters in a book. Capturing each week as it unfolds lends a sense of timely authenticity.

This past weekend was Parent's Weekend at my younger daughter's school. She attends school 400 miles away (versus 8 miles for daughter #1). We haven't seen her since August 13th. For those of you counting, that was 63 days/nine weeks. It was longer than when her sister went overseas for a summer study abroad.

With my older daughter spending the weekend dog-sitting for us, we headed west.

We didn't really care about the family picnics or the mixers, we just wanted to see our child. We left at the crack of dawn on Saturday and drove 6 hours until we arrived on her campus. She told us she had to work until 1:00 in the afternoon and so with accounting for the time difference, we had time to stop for lunch. An interesting side note is that the owner of our now favorite burger joint remembered us from both orientation and then move-in weekend. Made us feel practically local!

With full bellies and a care package in the trunk, we parked on campus to wait. Nervously pacing the last 15 minutes, anxiously awaiting the chance to see our girl, finally she spotted us from across the street and sprinted to us. Straight out of a movie, the hugs and joy and tears were obvious. She looks great and so so happy.

The rest of the day, we tagged along with her as she fulfilled some obligations. She was volunteering at a St. Baldrick's fundraiser and we met person after person that she has become friends with.

My mind raced backwards to all the reasons I was happy to leave high school behind. My daughter has blossomed into "the happiest person ever" (as the clerk who checks her into her dorm calls her). She found a perfect fit for her future. Yet, amidst all that newfound joy? She still loves the not so distant past pieces of home. She was delighted that we brought flowers from my garden and pints from the local ice cream store. She misses our park and our dog. In other words, home has not been abandoned.

What I realized this past week is that while your children are growing and moving forward, that we have to remember how much of home they still carry with them.

On our drive home, we touched base with our older child to see how everything had gone. Because she lives on campus so close to home, she asked, "Do you mind if I just stay here again tonight?" I practically yelled, "OF COURSE NOT! MIND??? This is your home!" She gently reminded us that as a college senior, she is making that transition to full independence and she recognizes that while this is our home, she is now a guest.

I thought about it and of course, yes, we no longer stock the refrigerator with their favorite foods if it's not something we eat. We don't have their activities on our calendar, and honestly, I'm considering alternative uses for their bedrooms. Life is in flux and we are moving forward as much as they are.

I remember one Christmas when I was in college, I picked up a kitschy little country-decor picture of a house and it had some cliche' saying in calligraphy writing about loving home. But I added my own words to the bottom of the picture. I wrote, "I'll never stop coming home." Now I understand on the other end of it.

No, I didn't, and neither will they.

Sleep, Glorious Sleep: Week Eight

In 1995, I gave up on the idea that I would ever have a decent night's sleep again. From pregnancy-bladder wake-up calls, to a newborn needing to nurse, to a toddler having a nightmare, the pattern for sleeplessness was set early in my motherhood career.

After the children were sleeping through the night, I began to value my late nights as "me time". Previously, I had never been a night owl yet I found myself staying up until midnight or even later, just so I could have time when someone wasn't asking me to do something for them. I would call other late night friends or chat on the computer or even just watch videos, just to carve out solo time.

I became friends with another neighborhood mom and the minute our kids were in bed, we would alternate houses and meet for a glass of wine, toasting another successful day of mothering. It was our way of pretending we could still go out like we did before we were mothers. We found ourselves substituting wine for sleep, which isn't exactly the healthiest decision.

The sleep deprivation did not end when my children reached high school. In fact, their own late night activities, be it school or social related, kept me up, waiting to make sure they arrived home safely -- only to turn around and wake up first thing in the morning to do it all over again.

For 21 years, sleep had become so rare to me that a good night's sleep was cause for jubilant celebration. The first time it happened in the past eight weeks, that was exactly my reaction, jubilation. I had come to expect a poor night's sleep as the norm. The gradual acceptance that I did not have to spring out of bed to get the day going, nor did I have to stay up half the night to make sure I had some solo time has been a delightful side effect of the empty nest.

After our trip last week, I came home not only jet-lagged, but also with a terrible cold and fever. So I babied myself. I slept and napped, I went to bed early, and stayed in bed late. I didn't have to soldier through being sick as I had in the past. Also, did you ever notice that your colds would linger for weeks upon weeks? This time, I succumbed to feeling sick and have really rested.

It feels so luxurious to give myself time to feel better, something I had not allowed myself to do in over two decades. Oh how mothers are masters of dispensing advice we don't follow! I always made my children rest when they were sick, but never did the same for myself. I used to let my kids sleep in late knowing how critical sleep was, but somehow thought myself immune from that need.

The lesson for week eight has been a valuable one. I've been getting plenty of Vitamin B-E-D. I still have someone to mother and that is myself.

Change the Scenery: Week Seven

photo by: Kim Urig 2016

For as much as I had to write in week five, I didn't post at all last week, primarily because we were on a vacation. Which leads me to what I recommend from a firsthand experience. Plan a trip. Get out of Dodge. See something new.

For the first time in however many years, you don't have to worry about who is going to watch the kids or what you would actually miss if you went away. Your children are going forward with their lives and it's your turn also. They aren't the only ones who are now independent.

If you are worried how in the world to juggle tuition payments as well as a trip, it doesn't have to be an exotic trip, but it needs to be a change of scenery. I found myself watching all the fall school activities my friends were posting about and swirling deeper and deeper into a sense of longing and loss.

Walking away from everything that had kept my life so busy a year ago and filling it with something so different than my regular grind was exactly what the empty nest ordered. In our case, we took a river cruise in France along the Seine River. This isn't meant to be a vacation showcase article, but rather a suggestion why getting away was such a mental health break.

My husband and I had been planning a big trip for our 25th wedding anniversary, which was last year. We delayed it a year because it was our daughter's senior year. While our trip was rather grand, the bigger takeaway is that the change of scenery was really what helped reset my emotional state.  We had limited internet access, we were in a different place, and were interacting with different people.

On our trip we met several other couples, many of them retirees, who upon finding out our last child had just gone to college were practically high-fiving us and saying "empty nest is best!" It certainly wasn't what we thought we'd hear, but truthfully, it helped us get some perspective. All last week, we socialized with new friends in different stages of life and remembered that this is only one of several more stages to explore as we age.

Here are some ideas for a trip regardless of what your budget may be:

• Explore local hiking or biking trails. Getting the adrenaline pumping out in the fresh air is an incredible rush and you'll slow down and see things from a much different view than the typical mom taxi view. 
• Plan a weekend at a bed and breakfast or look into weekend specials at state park lodges. Go somewhere that you won't get news from home unless you really work at it. 
• Visit a friend you have been meaning to catch up with for ages but couldn't make time.
• Go camping. Fall rates are very reasonable and the weather is still temperate. You can find nice cabins if you'd rather not completely rough it, but getting outdoors and unplugging from reminders is incredibly soothing.
• If budget isn't a consideration, consider planning a trip to somewhere you've never gone. Don't go back to a family vacation destination, which will only make you nostalgic, but instead, visit a new place, plan a dream trip. Start planning it while your child is still home so when that one month itch is really getting to you, you already have the time away planned. 

Over the last week, my husband and I hiked and biked across the French countryside, we drifted along the Seine River, reverently explored the D-Day shores of Normandy, and made new friends. I returned, jet-lagged, but with a completely new outlook and energy.

Letting it all hang out: Last installment for Week Five

Yesterday I had, to borrow from the children's book, a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. I was at my wit's end with a wave of emotion that had been building for two days. I couldn't snap out of my mood and just kept crying. 

I thought about my idea for live blogging and wrote out everything I was feeling. By openly discussing what I am feeling when I'm feeling it, the framework for the book becomes more honest and organic. This is how I felt, with no apologies. 

The mood passed and if I can offer any advice to people experiencing these moods, reach out to people. Talk about it, write about it, ask for help. I did and wow, I sure received it! So many notes of friendship and encouragement. I'm incredibly blessed with fantastic people in my world.

Without further ado, I present my emotional breakdown. 

I’m so tired. I just am not sure I can do this. I don’t know what to do with my days when someone else hasn’t planned them for me. And that down time is horrible. I spin my wheels trying to find new ways to fill my time.

I’m lonely. I wish I had a job. I thought I missed the kids when they went to school all day, and I did. But this is different. I have nothing that makes me get up in the morning. I have no reason other than to cook a meal, iron a shirt, or vacuum a floor that matters.

Nobody needs me for anything. I don’t know how to ask for help. Children grow up all the time. I’m embarrassed that I am so lost. I spent a month frantically filling my time and that became more work than working. It doesn’t come naturally and curling up alone feels natural, but way too quiet.

I feel so unproductive. I invent things to keep myself busy. I tidy and fix stuff. I box things. I sell things. I make food. I do laundry. I walk and count steps, I exercise. It’s empty. Nobody is asking me to do a thing and so I feel useless. I hate not having a schedule. It ruins my brain and motivation.

My daughter turned 21 yesterday. For 21 years I’ve defined myself as a mom. I took care of people. I barely know how to take care of myself. I’m not even sure I was a good influence on my kids. I actually think that they grew up determined to be as much the opposite of me as they could. I don’t know if I really did anything well raising them. I tried, I wanted to do well. I just wonder if my demons took over too often.

I am in a tailspin. I’ve disappointed my family repeatedly and sometimes cannot even face them. I am not even sure I know how to really make friends. I cry most of the days and quickly put on a happy face before my husband gets home so he doesn’t know how lost I am.

Because he hates his job. He doesn’t know how to get up and keep going and I wish I had a reason to get up and keep going. I envy his obligations. I do. I suspect he envies my shiftlessness. That’s what I feel my days are filled with. Nothing. Time killers. I want to tell him that I would give anything to have a reason to get up and out the door every day. An expectation, an obligation. A reason.

After processing that mood with words, it slowly began to dissipate instead of build. If you don't name it, you cannot defeat it. A sad mood is okay, but you shouldn't wallow. Work through it and get someone to talk to. Seek professional help if you need to. Don't let the mood linger and keep you in a dark place. I learned that your friends are going to be valuable resources and they will reach out to you, but also you ought to reach out to them. Don't sit in silence. Call the people you want to see and make a plan to do something.

I want to thank everyone who helped me through a rough day. You're all the best, truly. I appreciate your encouragement to share these thoughts in my book. I cannot wait for it to finish coming together!

Love,
Kim

The Roller Coaster of Emotion: Week Five continued

On the tail of finishing my list of things I don't miss, I made myself chuckle a few times and then a wave of emotion washed over me like a tsunami. I became overwhelmed with unexpected sadness and grief.

I've spent five weeks chronicling all the things I was doing and feeling so I could be as real time as possible. I debated if I should share such a raw emotional state. It seems so dramatic and self pitying. I am as embarrassed as I could be that I couldn't hold it together. A few emergency calls to close friends and writing it out really helped me process my pain.

What I learned yesterday is that it won't always be simple and straightforward. If you're like me, a lot of things are going to be happening simultaneously in your world, besides the empty nest. In my case, it is menopause, a milestone birthday, the loss of a parent all within the past few months.

This sort of thing is to be expected around our stage in life so there is a lot going on mentally and emotionally, besides the empty nest. I found myself walloped with a mood I couldn't climb out of... so I didn't. Instead, as I promised, I wrote it all out and I hope that you see how very normal and natural these sort of feelings can be. It's not uncommon, I discovered. I would like to not just share my words, but the wisdom so many friends offered up.

I feel so much less alone after sharing my thoughts and now want to put them out there for anyone who may read this. I have such wonderfully wise friends in my world.

Lori, who is a booster mom friend from band, choir, and drama, had this to say:

Milestones, good or bad, are designed to get us to the next phase of our lives. In [your daughter's] 21st birthday and her "official" entrance to adulthood, you've forgotten that kids need us in a totally different way as they get older. You may not be schlepping them from place to place, but your advice, life experience and just being their mom keeps you close, although some days it doesn't feel that way. Who told you that you had to productively (society's term) spend your days doing what society deems acceptable passages of time? Who cares if you spend all day writing in your pajamas, reading or doing whatever makes you happy? Cleaning, fixing, selling are all things people expect a newly emptied nested mom to do but if they don't make you happy then why do them. I'm close to empty nest hood, have begun the adjustment phase and it isn't easy. Take the time to come to grips with the new dynamic of your family. The right answers will come to you in time, I'm sure of it. Maybe for all of us parents making this adjustment, I pray it is. You've got a grip on this- it just hasn't revealed itself.

To which I told Lori that I had a lot of really silly ways I had been killing time. This is the quite embarrassing way and I even realized why it has been such a crutch for me. I've been binge watching an old television show on Hulu. As long as I'm keeping it real, I will also admit that I have truly terrible taste in television. I don't do culture or thinking shows. I personify the term vegging-out when I turn on the television. The last time in my life that I didn't have children, there was a show I watched every week religiously. My husband worked nights so I would come home and flip on this show with a bowl of popcorn. I even watched it when I was waiting to give birth to Daughter #2. Watching the adventures of Dylan, Brenda, and the rest of the gang from Beverly Hills 90210 has kept me company for several weeks. It really is as bad as I remembered, but I don't care. It entertains me. I've watched so many episodes that Dylan & Brenda aren't even on the show anymore. I'll let you know how it turns out. I never saw the end of the series, because I had children and stopped watching TV near that time. My friend Jackie recommends Gilmore Girls when I'm done with 90210. I think I'll do that.

Thoughts from my friend Denise who vacationed with me as a teenager:

[My husband] and I go on a retreat every year. We learn, in a group setting, that a woman's bond with her husband often gets lost raising children. At the same time, a man gets caught up in furthering his career at the expense of quality family time.
Reconnect with [your husband]. Rediscover why you married him in the first place. Marriage constantly needs attention at all stages of life. ...include him in making your decisions about your future. You just may be happier as a result. 

Denise really helped me understand that this is a team project and decision. I need my husband to know what is happening and to rekindle what we let slip away. Maybe he just needs to see more boobs. Err, eggs.

Kathleen, who was a fellow band mom with me had this to say:

This is the start of my 3rd year without my girl--and although I always wanted her to fly-soar even, I miss her and I wonder if I spent enough time with her? Every time I see [our marching band] or hear certain songs, I tear up. It does get better -but it is a strange feeling. I love the freedom and I love that [we] can be "free-wheeling"-but there are still times I think of that little girl I had and my eyes fill. You are so busy-and enrich so many lives-be patient with yourself. Cry, reminisce, and take your time to get to wherever your next step will be.

Kathy helped me realize that we don't have to "get over" anything. It will be there and that's okay.

From Liz, my former co-worker, whose daughter is the same age as mine had these words:

It's like losing a job- our biggest job that we're the most proud of-being a mom. Every time [my daughter] brings up that she's not going to move back home after graduation in April, I cringe. I look forward to when she's home - there's more for me to do. All this in spite of the fact I work a very demanding full time job. I know how you feel. We're used to being the overachieving parents of our overachieving kids.

Liz and I worked side by side for several years. We found ourselves sharing notes through our children's high school years and discovering how very much we had in common besides a common employer. So I know she understands how very much this does feel like a job loss.

With a final reminder from my friend Ellen, who I became friends with right after I graduated from high school, wrote this about her own experience:

I was a whole person before I had children. I was a woman, I was sexy, I was beautiful, I had words, I was a someday novelist, I had intelligence, I was a singer, an artist, I had my voice, I loved deeply. I had goals and wants unrelated to motherhood. I was a force. I was an individual. I planned meals, I went to the store and bought things. I sifted the cat box. I drove a car across the country. I loved. I watched others die. I had a lot of great sex, completely unrelated to procreation, before I was a mother.
I was a whole person before motherhood.
I love being a mother. But it is just one part of me.
They deserve a lot.
But not every single second of my time.
Not my every resource.
Not my every thought or consideration.
Love doesn't mean the destruction of self, or it shouldn't.
I was me, before them, and that's not a bad thing.
I was a whole person before I was a mother. 

Ellen, we still are whole people. Thank you for the eloquent reminder.

What exactly did I write to get such an outpouring of wisdom? That will be my next post.  Week Five is a big one!

Five Things I Won't Miss: Week Five

Today's post coincides with my firstborn child's 21st birthday. She is a full-fledged adult person and, barring anything beyond reasonable control, on a good path for the rest of her life. It's only natural that today I find myself reflecting upon her past birthdays and discovering one glaring thing that I Do. Not. Miss. In. The. Least.

Making birthday party treat bags. How I loathed filling bags of junk to give to kids as some sort of birthday trade-off. That is something that became a phenomenon for my generation of parents. The ubiquitous treat bag that our kids brought home after attending parties that rivaled some weddings. (Speaking of another thing I don't miss? The escalation of a child's annual birthday to some sort of major rite of passage - complete with DJs, photobooths, smoke machines, and limo rides). It doesn't leave much to look forward to as an adult, in my opinion.

I do miss planning the party but we always had them at home. They were "do-it-yourself" events, that my children had as much input into as I did. They picked a theme of based on one of their interests and we brainstormed theme-appropriate activities. One year, we had a backyard camp out. We borrowed a huge tent from an Eagle Scout friend I knew, made s'mores, went on a scavenger hunt, decorated flashlights, and painted magnets that looked like campfires. Another year we had a "diva party", where all the guests were invited to prepare a karaoke song and we had neon hair extensions and singing all night long.

But as if attending a fun evening with friends eating cake and drinking punch wasn't enough? We were expected to come up with a gift to send all the kids on their way. I do not miss that in the least. It bothered me up until the day my kids outgrew birthday parties. (Incidentally, I also loathed receiving bags of junk for attending a party as well).

I've always had the opinion that a birthday is the only day all year that is a "selfish" day. The stress of trying to make it a special day about every single guest as well grated on me. But that's just one of the things I won't miss, and I think it's healthy to remind myself that parenthood isn't always one big happy-fluffy-rainbow-sparkled journey. After the #1 thing I won't miss, I will round out my list.

2. I will not miss everyone getting a trophy, and I wish I knew what to do with all the trophies that everyone did get throughout the years. (actually upon pondering this, I did a search and found a GREAT idea,  a trophy recycling company, that will re-purpose all your old trophies. (and even donate them to 501c3s). They can be like fruitcakes, and eventually, there will only be 100 trophies in the world that just keep getting regifted!

3. I will not miss clothing that becomes dorky and therefore completely unwearable before it's even been washed the first time. It winds up languishing in a closet until the pronouncement that my child had nothing to wear and would seemingly prefer to go naked rather than wear that hideous apparel that they chose only a month ago.

4. I will not miss finding out about a school project the night before and being asked to run to the all night printing store to do the last minute touches or a 24 hour superstore to pick up one last supply. I despised projects. What ever happened to just writing a report or taking a quiz? Why does replicating an entire village inside the lid of a pizza box check if you read the book? The only people who like projects are the people who own posterboard companies.

5. I will not miss the need to buy a t-shirt at every event and performance, as some sort of souvenir, because that trophy (see #2) wasn't enough.

I am going to keep this list handy for those days I feel really lost. I think it's healthy to reflect on both the good and the bad. To be clear, I loved hosting the parties, I just hated the treat bags. I loved the activities that my kids got to do, I hated the unending parade of trophies. I loved shopping for their clothing, but hated when fickle fashion taste ruled over practicality. I loved seeing them excel in school, but I hated projects that were more a test of how much you could spend at the craft store. And I love their diverse interests, but I hate the pile of tacky t-shirts.

Tonight, we forward to celebrating the dawning of adulthood with our elder child. I also look forward to the simple, tasteful gift we're giving to our young adult and an elegant dinner, without any food that smiles at us or has neon-colored frosting. It's a good trade-off.

Time to start dating: Week Four continued

Yeah buddy! We are going to town with this post. The nest is empty and we can get back out there. Or in there. Or just there. Watch out world, I am dating again!!!

I am dating a really great guy. He is the sort of guy you marry. So much that sort of guy that I did, in 1990. But I haven't dated him since the early 90s. The day we had kids, we changed. We shifted our focus to our future and the kids we brought into the world and how we were going to make sure that we gave them the best life we could imagine.

We had been married about 4 years and thought at the beginning of 1995 that my genes and his would make a pretty incredible child. I became pregnant 20 seconds, possibly 21, after that conversation and on September 20, 1995, our lives as a couple ceased. We were joined by a beautiful child who quickly became the center of our universe and topic of all conversations we had going forward.

Thus began the motherhood journey. My life changed forever. I stretched my maternity leave out as long as possible under the guise of taking time to decide what would work, but the truth is, I wasn't going back to my job. I look back now and wonder. Maybe I could have, but at the time, it just seemed more trouble than it was worth.

Our lives had many many ups and downs over the past 20+ years of parenting. It's not necessary for me to recount all the times he and I didn't see eye to eye. But we stuck it out because we had a family to raise. You see, whether you are single or married, since our children were born, we suppressed our "romantic" (euphemism for sexy) sides the entire time we had children in the home. I realized this the other day because I didn't need to cover up "in case the kids walked in". Quite the opposite, in fact.

Egg or boob? You decide. 

I was getting ready to make breakfast and had a dozen duck eggs. (Acquired during a catch-up-with-friends road trip). I showed my husband the eggs after I cracked them in a cup to point out the difference in both color and size. His reaction was typically male. He said very matter of factly, "They look like boobs."

What? My mind reeled. Had it been that long since he saw boobs that he confused them with duck eggs? There was only one logical solution. He needed to see boobs quickly to remedy his confusion. I quickly undressed and continued to make breakfast topless.

As silly as it sounds, the duck egg incident marked a playful moment in our rediscovering each other. I didn't worry that the kids would walk in and see me topless. In fact, I actually am imagining the horror they are likely to express and the embarrassment experienced that their mother was topless. Not only was I topless, I told the world about it. Or at least as many people as will read this post. (have fun with me... make a comment if you go this far so we can keep a running tally of how many folks know I cooked breakfast without a shirt). 

My husband and I are dating and wooing each other again. It's pretty fabulous.

Pacing Yourself: Week Four

By now, I've had an empty nest for nearly a month and WHEW!  I am exhausted. There is a certain irony to the fact that now my time is my own and I have attempted to do everything I meant to do for the past 21 years in one month.

How I envisioned my free time

Here is a short list of activities I've started:

• Cleaning out all the toys and closets
• Losing that weight that slowly crept onto my frame
• Joining a gym
• Writing the book I always wanted to write
• Making a business plan to market and sell that book
• Finishing up the plans for our vacation of a lifetime
• Catching up with all my friends I haven't seen
• Committing to new volunteer opportunities
• Looking for a job and sending out over 20 cover letters and revamped resumes
• Updating my blogs
• Making doctor appointments for my milestone year of 50
• Canning and freezing seasonal food
• Substitute teaching

The reality, minus the cat and baby

Those are the new undertakings, not to mention that there still are the daily jobs that must be done to keep a household running, such as paying bills, cleaning, cooking, yard work and laundry. And frankly, I'd neglected a number of those as evidenced by (shhh, please don't tell my spouse) an overdue bill notice. Yikes!

I actually decided one day to mow our lawn completely by hand so I could combine my exercise with yard work. As I was mowing, I got to thinking, maybe that could be my job, killing three birds with one stone. A job, exercise and yard work. My brain was drawing up a business plan how to get lawn mowing clients as if I were a teenage kid, not a 50 year old empty nest mom. Scratch that moment of entrepreneurial spirit, especially when I nearly collapsed after I was done with the lawn.

Nobody can accuse me of wasting my free time, but I am completely inundated by a monster of my own doing. Years of a hectic schedule, juggling multiple commitments for a houseful of people has me thinking that is the best way to feel busy.

Instead, I feel overwhelmed and less productive. A 2014 study by the University of Sussex indicates a link between multitasking and lower grey matter density in the brain.

What I have realized is that I don't have to cram in everything I still want to do. I can do every single one of those items on my list, but not simultaneously.

I need to pace myself and focus on one mission at a time. Quality, not quantity is what will help me fill my time and feel purposeful. Reminding myself that every runner knows the best way to finish the race it to pace yourself instead of sprinting full speed ahead.

You Can't Go Back: Week Three

When my children were in school, my nights and weekends were spent at cross country meets, band and choir performances, speech tournaments, and theater rehearsals. My free time was defined by how I could support the activities that my children were doing. I would step up anytime I was asked and felt it was my duty because as a stay-at-home mom, I realized how much more flexible my calendar was.

In addition to helping my children, these same activities became my social life and entertainment. I knew I'd see the same folks and we'd have the same stories to share. What I didn't realize was how much of my own identity was lost in the process. I was "so and so's Mom", and my clothing choices indicated as much, with my different booster shirts emblazoned with "MOM" on it. Many of us veteran moms still have to introduce ourselves by whose parent we are.

As they move onto new horizons, their identity is no longer tied to mine, at least in reference to my socializing. I helped out a friend of mine who still has children in school chaperone a recent band event. She was short a parent and offered to help out.

I thoroughly enjoyed my evening, but found myself explaining to several puzzled people why I was there and that I didn't have anyone performing. I wasn't there with my ever-present camera or watching for anyone specific in the show. I just was enjoying the music. It was quite a different dynamic.

Later that week, out of habit, I picked up the local weekly newspaper and realized I didn't have to scan it for school lunch menus or school start times. I wasn't looking for any articles to save for the time capsule of my child's high school years.  I just read it for local news happenings and learned about other community events.

What I realized this third week is that even when I am doing the same things, there is a different lens for how I see it and what my involvement will be. It's a nice place to visit, but it's not somewhere to stay forever.

Think ahead and start to cultivate your own interests with a different group of friends. Find something that defines you independently. If you cannot find a group to join, start one. You'll be surprised how many other women you can find that share your passion and you'll feel much less rudderless.

I started a book club in January this year, by soliciting friends on Facebook for interest. We rotate from house to house each month, taking turns selecting the book and making refreshments.

We're all in different stages of our lives, some of us have children, some of us do not. Some are working, some are retired, some are married, some are single. I've expanded my social circle one book and one strong woman at a time. The friendships are built around mutual respect for each other, not how involved we are able to be with our kid's lives.

I'm reminded that we have many titles and mom is only one of them. Go forward and thrive, because as the saying goes, you can't go back.

Redefining priorities: Week Two

I feel much like the Winter Warlock from the
1970 Rankin-Bass Christmas movie,
Santa Claus is Comin' to Town.

It is now a full week of an empty nest under my belt. After a day or two of over-the-top pity partying (yes, I confess, I really overdid it), I took a deep breath and started moving forward.

A strategic plan was needed. When I last blogged, I recounted many of my past accomplishments and activities. Things that somehow were shelved for the past 20+ years. I revisited those dreams and thought about whether those were still goals I had.

It turns out, while I still have the same values that motivate my choices, I really don't care to go to Washington DC and lobby our government about anything. My youthful idealism has been replaced with healthy skepticism. I feel like a lot of my ability to affect change will be better realized locally, not nationally.

It's also important to say that many of the issues that sparked my interest when I was in my 20s are much different now that I'm in my very early 50s. I care deeply about education and children. Much more so than the 20-something who still took much of my upbringing and zest for learning for granted.

This has me narrowing my priorities moving forward. Though this is specific to my own experience, I think the bigger takeaway is that the first step is to remember what you always enjoyed and the next step is to determine if that is still something you would enjoy.

It's okay to realize that your goals change with time. It's easy to think like Terry Malloy from 1954s On the Waterfront, and think "I coulda been a contender" , but it's not healthy to think about things you cannot change.

I could have been a lot of things, but I chose to be a parent. I've got a lot of time left to figure out all the other things I still can be.

The spark of inspiration is that the nest isn't so much empty as the tree has many branches.

Now is Your Time: Week One continued

"This is your time," they said, "now you can finally do all the things you wanted to do!"

What those platitudes never took into account is that I did want to do what I was doing. I was raising two incredible children. I loved every single minute of watching them grow and become young adults. I love seeing their faces and bodies change, I love hearing their newly formed opinions and thoughts on the world, I love meeting the people they surround themselves with and I bask in their accomplishments with pride. I had a front row seat to their transition through every phase of life and it was fascinating. I cannot imagine anything else I would have wanted to do.

Additionally, after years of putting the needs of other's first, I am not even positive what my own needs are. I'm no martyr, but I'd become a bit of an accessory to my kids' lives. Think about it. I was a band mom, a drama mama, a choir chaperone. I have a well worn shirt that says CollegeU Mom, and a corresponding mug from my second child's college.

Our generation of children may have had the most over-educated moms in the history of parenting. By over-educated, I mean in the art of parenting. We devoured books like they were pickles and late night ice cream runs. I can say the word Ferber and I am certain everyone of my peers remembers that technique. I can say What to Expect when You're Expecting and expect a bevy of dog-eared books and several people who also bought the accompanying sequels for the first year and subsequent toddler years. We all had an opinion about James Dobson's Focus on the Family books, and probably giggled a time or two, but owned a copy of Everybody Poops to help our little ones learn to use a toilet. If not a book, a VHS tape with the potty song.

If there was a PhD in parenting, we'd all qualify for it. Not so much with our parents and theirs before them. We were parented by instinct and discipline. Our mothers began to enter the workforce in record numbers, to the point that it was never a question of whether or not I would have a career, but rather what it would be and for how long. Then the question of whether to stay home when we had children.

With each choice, we became more determined to justify it with reams of studies and education. We educated ourselves as perhaps a way to defend our decision to "go backwards". I know that my personal sparks of feminism were really challenged when I went the traditional route. I felt like I had proven my elders right and only went to college to get my M.R.S. degree and have babies. Rather than diminish the education I wanted so badly, I wanted to prove that parenting could be an academic pursuit as well.

Now 21 years into a career which I prepared myself relentlessly for, that job has been outsourced to my children themselves. The things I wanted to do before I became a mother loom as an utterly unachievable pursuit. There was a time I wanted to become a lobbyist and use my communication and political science degree to work in Washington D.C. I wanted to make the world a better place for all people.

I am the same woman who marched on a picket line when I was eight months pregnant, carrying a sign that said, 26,000 AND ONE reasons to shop union. I am the same person who won a class action suit for our employees and who worked for pay raises as well as benefits during the contract negotiations. I am the same person who chased shoplifters out of our store. I have gotten countless volunteer awards in community organizations. I need to remind myself of all the things I know how to do that didn't require me to give birth to two children 21 and 18 years ago.

Now is the time to revisit that line of thinking and start to ask, "Why not?"

*this is an opinion piece, not intended to speak for all women, but rather to reflect on my own experience* 

The Nest has Emptied: Week One

After nearly 21 years of stay at home parenting, the second child has gone to college. When we said goodbye to her in Chicago, the excitement and pride was so strong that there was no time to be maudlin. But now it's not just the quiet, it's the anticipation of unending quiet.

It's the understanding that there will be no more back to school photos. And that all the things that kept my days and nights busy will still go on, but not with my participation or my child's. I thought I was ready for this. I knew it was coming and I had several plans in motion to manage the quiet. Though I've never cared to be asked if I was going back to work (mostly because I don't feel like I ever was not working), I planned to begin working full time again.

An opportunity had come to me a year ago and I tried to juggle work and the last year of active parenting, but ultimately wound up resigning for several reasons, though one of the unspoken ones was that I just couldn't miss any more of those last moments. The luxury of staying home with my children was something I never took for granted and I enjoyed every day of it. Well, almost every day. There were times in any parent's job that could be trying, but I was lucky that my children never gave me grief or worries. Being their mom is the best thing I could have ever done with my past 21 years.

Now, while I'm not fired, my worst fear seems realized. I don't feel needed. I know my kids will always need their mom, but not in a necessarily useful, ongoing, daily way. I talked to a friend of mine last night who doesn't have children and she helped remind me that people get married to have a life partner and that I still have that, even if we are no longer raising children. It made sense and has lifted some of my overly indulgent feelings.

I am very proud of the young adults we raised. I don't want them to need me for their every move, but I just don't know what *I* am supposed to do. Those instructions didn't come with the What to Expect When You're Expecting book. Which I devoured and could have memorized, but honestly, I've about forgotten what it felt like to have a swollen tummy because a baby was inside, not because I gained weight in my 40s. In the absence of that, I suppose I'm substituting my swollen eyes or something equally silly.

We chatted with my daughter the other night and she mentioned her leaky window (which I noticed the first day). I asked if she had talked to maintenance about it and she said, yeah, but they won't do anything. I started to talk about sending caulk, or weather stripping, a million and one solutions, but the fact was, I was creating a problem to solve mostly so I could feel like I had something to do. I realized the absurdity of it when my daughter kept insisting, "Mom, it's OKAY", not to worry about it, etc. I think it was more my way of finding something useful to do.

Yesterday, I started to take photos and post things for sale online. That should keep me busy for a while. It will pay for some textbooks and it will help keep those long forgotten items moving along and finding a new well-loved home. The trumpet is gone, the hand-painted play table & chairs is on its way. Those items will bring joy to new families.

I don't recall the last generation making such a big deal out of the "empty nest". My parents took me to college and were happy I was somewhere I loved. I certainly don't recall any grief, but maybe that was also an era where we weren't encouraged to spill and talk about our every last thought and emotion. Feels rather self-absorbed the more I go on.

I'm writing this because that's how I process my world. That's how I communicate best. I'm an outgoing person, but I still feel like I organize my thoughts better in writing than speaking. I also figure if I put this out there, I will find some kindred souls who understand or can also tell me how silly I'm being. I do feel silly, to be honest. I know that I did my job and now am seeing the rewards of that job first hand. But for now, I'm going to mourn and beg indulgence as I work through all this.

I am going to post as I traverse these new waters, with the hope that in a few months I have a really solid guide to perhaps publish as a book. I am inspired by a friend of mine who turned her own journal into a book, Diary of a Future Ex-Wife: Yeah, I'm Pissed.

Save on Graduation Announcements: UPDATED

SAVE!!!

Fresh Daily Bread has an affiliate agreement with Tiny Prints.
If you use this link to make a purchase, we will receive a small percentage for a referral commission.
fine print:
Offer expires 04/26/2016 (11:59 P.M. PT). Save 30% off graduation card orders using the code AFF30GRAD at checkout. There is no minimum purchase required for this promotion. Offer applies exclusively to graduation announcements and graduation invitations and is not applicable to previously placed orders, shipping, taxes, rush processing charges, gift certificates, and personalized postage stamps. This promotion code cannot be combined with other offers. Offer is only valid on Tinyprints.com and is not applicable on third party or partner websites. To prevent fraud or abuse, we reserve the right to discontinue or modify this offer or cancel any order.

Bass Amp Shoppers Guide: Know What You Need

Buying an instrument or an amplifier can be really exciting, and a lot of people save up money for years to get the exact model that they want. Others though, like working musicians and people who are just learning to play bass may have different requirements for an amplifier.

Whether you’re a beginner or you’re a seasoned pro, there are some basic tips that can guide you. Use this primer to make sure you get everything you need when you go shopping for bass amps.

Are You a Beginner?

There’s nothing wrong with being a beginner. In fact, you should be commended for picking up an instrument and learning to play! However, you probably don’t need the best bass amp in the world if you’re just starting out.

Unlike bass guitars, amps that aren’t top-notch won’t really slow your development as a player. Focus on something that is small, sounds good and allows you to practice with headphones, especially if you live in an apartment.

You can always sell an inexpensive amplifier to recoup some of your money and buy a better one when you advance as a player.

Practice Amp?

Even skilled musicians practice at home in many cases, often setting aside at least an hour a day to work on their skills. If you live in an apartment or have neighbors close by though, chances are you can’t do that with a big stack!

Look for a practice amp with a single speaker and in a relatively contained package. Having a practice amp with a headphone output can be beneficial too, but don’t pay extra for that if it’s not a feature you’re going to use.

Studio Use

Recording musicians often need different amps for studio use and live use. In the studio, it’s all about the best tone, not about how loud you can be. Sometimes being too loud is actually detrimental, especially in home studios or in places where isolation is a concern.

If you’re recording, look for a low amperage bass amp that sounds good even at a low volume.

Live Music

If you’re buying an amp for live use, sometimes volume really is what matters. Make sure you can get enough out of any amp you buy or add a cabinet down the road. Otherwise you’ll be stuck with a heavy paperweight or a very expensive practice amp which will not serve your purpose.

Maddy performing "Being Mrs. Banks"

As a blogger, I don't often shamelessly self promote. I think it's more important to stay neutral, but on this video, I cannot.

This is my daughter and her talent makes me shudder. She was Winifred Banks in her HS production of Mary Poppins.

It's my blog so I can share it. 

I hope you enjoy. 

 

The day I turned 49

I had been given notice.

Your life will never be the same.

That's what my new boss said. Those words. Your life will never be the same.

I tried to nonchalantly nod and act like it was cool, but the fact was, he was right. I'm not sure he knew all the reasons, but that's not important. He knew, traveling would change my life.

I've always had a restless soul. I fancied myself a bon vivant, melding into places around the world and absorbing the culture like a sponge. Yet, while 48 years of life had taken me many places, all of them were familiar. I'd moved around a number of times, attended three high schools, and seen a lot of places. I never had to experience a different language or currency. Small changes, but I wasn't familiar.

I've spent a lifetime processing my world with words. I've imagined the places I could go and the people I wanted to meet. I felt it.

The morning of my 49th birthday, I woke up along the Danube River in Austria. Our port was a little town of less than 900 residents. We had two hours there, but I had hoped to jump on a bicycle and ride 32 km to the next port. Alas, that trip was canceled, so instead I hopped on the ship, imagining my legs instead of the ship were carrying me to the next destination.

When I walked into the small town of Durnstein, I wandered the cobblestone streets and peeked in yards. I talked to people pushing wheelbarrows up their path to work in their yard and admired their handiwork. I pretended I was one of them. I got separated from my group and took a few moments to reflect. I walked along the shore and picked up a few polished river stones. I wrote the date in the sand along the bank.

I've never tried to obsess over numbers. But as my nest shrunk and my baby birds flew from the nest, I felt the sinking weight of age settling over my soul. I wondered what was next and couldn't imagine.

I wrote my soul on the screen, spilled my heart to the electronic world. I tried to make sense of a world one letter at a time. I used all 26 as often as possible. And somehow, it was noticed. I never stopped trying to find ways to work or use my talent for words. It was noticed. I was offered a job as content creator and social media manager for a travel group. Part of my compensation is travel.

I spent a week waking up in strange cities, with strange customs and unfamiliar languages. I paid attention and asked questions and made friends. I learned about my surroundings and did my best not to be an ugly tourist. I decided as I left the cruise to look up the way to say "Thank you for taking such good care of us" in the native language of all of the staff helped make our trip wonderful. My Romanian and Hungarian friends were delighted. I just told them they did so much to help me feel comfortable in my language, the least I could do was thank them in theirs.

The world isn't as big as it felt. I cannot wait to see more.

It's pretty cool. No, it's very cool. My boss was right. My life will never be the same.

Summer of the gypsies

The summer I would turn 14 my father made me change my tank top before I went to the county fair. I thought Dad was being overprotective and nerdy. He mumbled something about those carnies, on the carnival side of the fairgrounds. Cigarettes dangled freely from their lips, glowing hot embers complimenting the neon lights of their rides and games. Our farmer's side of the fair had old men with cheeks full of chewing tobacco, but no cigarettes around all the hay and sawdust bedding. An errant ash could set everything aflame. I see myself then, a skinny tomboy, with tiny rosebud breasts that didn't even need a bra. I talked with the kids about chickens that didn't lay. Some of the older brothers would laugh, elbowing each other knowingly. It made no sense to me.

Growing up on a farm, the pinnacle of our summer was the county fair. It was always the first week of August and we’d spend the prior two months preparing our livestock for show, our baking for judging, and our sewing for modeling. The Future Farmers of America brought in samples of their hay and crops, and the really cool guys were allowed to bring their tractor to the fair. It was wholesome and idyllic.

Ours' was a different universe, the farmer’s side of the fair, where we ate at church sponsored cafeterias or out of picnic baskets we brought ourselves. We rarely ate the carnival food. Someone would occasionally bring back a cup of fair fries, manna soaked in vinegar and ketchup. We’d circle like buzzards. The fortune tellers and games of chance tantalized us. The invisible fence wasn't electrified, but that didn't mean it was easy to cross. I rebelliously yearned to wear my tank top and walk down the midway, just to see what would happen. The carnies’ trucker chain wallets jangled with a hypnotic cacophony. Their greasy hands and sinewy muscles were a stark contrast to overalls and manure-caked boots. We camped on cots in the barn playing cards next to livestock pens while they huddled around their trailers comparing tattoos.

Every summer, my friends and I would take one day and explore the carnival side of the fairgrounds. We rode the creaky rides, ate the greasy food, and slipped inside the gypsy tent with a few dollars to hear our fortune. We wanted to hear that we would win a blue ribbon for our project. The gypsies were never that specific, but winning the blue ribbon meant the gypsies were right. The last night of the fair was the livestock auction where we would parade our blue ribbon animals before the crowd hoping for a high bid that would help grow our savings accounts. Our animals were carted away after the fair closed, destined to be a future dinner for the lucky bidder.

Livestock animals are raised for the sole purpose of one day gracing a dinner table. Fictionalized accounts of Charlotte the spider telling us that Wilbur was “Some Pig”, or that and Mary had a “little lamb”, were cute stories, but far removed from the reality of farming. We weren't encouraged to name the animals. Named or unnamed, they eventually disappeared in the still of the night, or more accurately, as the sun rose. We knew that it was best not to ask or be told where they went.

Very few farmers do their own butchering. We seized a bit of the frontier spirit on occasion, mainly with chickens. I witnessed firsthand how precise the expression “running around like a chicken with its head cut off” was. Those chickens for certain never lay again. When the spastic chicken’s muscles wearied, we would pluck the feathers, and then burn the remaining down off with a small blowtorch. The novelty wore thin, and we would crate the chickens and take them to the Amish farm down the road. They would kill and dress the poultry for 50 cents a bird, much more efficient and feather free.

One year, we hired some gypsies to butcher our pig. A huge family arrived, at least four adults and several children, probably ten people, total. The exotic dark haired children played hide and seek and flashlight tag with my brothers and me. It was patently clear that my parents didn't trust the gypsies. Our folks had told us ahead of time not to let anyone into the house, that if anyone needed to use the bathroom, to show them the outhouse. I was much more interested in watching everything than playing with the children, so I lingered near the barn. My father had a hunting rifle and shot the pig between the eyes. I only heard and felt the reverberation, but I didn't see it. The men tied and hung the pig in the air, from the front end loader tractor, and slit its throat so the blood would drain out. I watched with detached fascination.

The gypsy men carved the carcass with efficient expertise. They salvaged every part of the pig we didn't want, to dine on later. The gypsy women sang songs in an unfamiliar language while they caught the draining blood in buckets. They tucked the ears into plastic bags, and saved the intestines to stuff with their ethnic sausages. They claimed the hooves. They had ways to use what we discarded. Dusk came and the carcass was sliced into manageable pieces, wrapped in paper, and labeled. The mercury light cast a glow on our offering to the gods of the full larder. The gypsy men leaned on the side of their truck, casually smoking their cigarettes, while the women rounded the children into the back of the truck.

We carried baskets of wrapped meat to the freezer in the basement, stacking it neatly on a shelf. I don’t know why the gypsy butchers never returned. It makes me wonder how we found them in the first place. Were they mingling at the livestock auctions, offering their services? After that one time, we simply did what we did with all the other animals. We loaded them in the trailer and took them to the slaughter house. A few days later, we picked up our orderly packages of wrapped sustenance.

When I got older, I decided that I wanted to be a vegetarian. Maybe I had named one too many animals. Maybe I knew them too intimately to eat them. That was the same summer Sam died. For years, I had ignored the advice of my elders and I named my animals. Sam was one of my 4H lambs. He got an infection from an open wound. I tied him outside under a cherry tree and laid clean sheets on the grass for him to sleep on, so his infection wouldn't get worse from the less than sterile barn. I slept in a sleeping bag under the tree with Sam. In the morning, I woke up and Sam didn't. I remember being disappointed that I would only have two lambs to sell at the auction and closed the ledger book on Sam. I focused my attention on my remaining two lambs and that year I won the showmanship trophy.

Today, I buy frozen meat from the supermarket, in Styrofoam trays with sticky UPC labels, heeding the warning to cook to the right temperature to prevent disease and never ever thaw at room temperature. I wear tank tops when I wish and do not avoid the gaze of anyone. I hum to myself as I choose my meat. The song is an old one and a sense of déjà vu washes over me. The gypsies still intrigue me; I wonder what they dine on and their music echoes in my soul.

Life is sterile and tidy, but somewhere, away from my inquisitive eyes, the animals are still slaughtered and I wonder who catches their blood.

To learn more about the gypsy culture in the United States: The Gypsy Lore Society is an outstanding resource. 

Lisa or Lakeysha: What's in a name?

In the aftermath of the hate-filled shooting at the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, SC, my heart began to hurt terribly. I consider myself relatively un-bigoted and open-minded. I have several black friends who I love dearly, but admittedly, I cannot begin to wrap my head around their experience or their despair. I will never truly understand what it's like to be black in America. I've started some discussions on social media and I've tried to ask questions. I've tried to listen and understand.

I wanted to write today's blog because unlike a social media discussion, this will not go away. This will be a permanent opportunity to think and question the different ways all of us may grow.

I pondered the times I have exercised subtle racism, some of which I've written about. One thing I believe strongly is that if I am unwilling to do some self-examination and try to consider where even on a micro-level I've been guilty, I need to expunge it and ask for forgiveness. I need to vow to do better and I need to encourage the same of others. It's the only way the needle moves.

One of the more subtle ways I'm guilty of racism is when I read a person's name. We all know what a "black" name is when we see it. The embarrassing thing is, I have to admit to mentally mocking those strange spellings and wondering how in the world to pronounce that name. Turns out, I'm not the only one who does that. According to a study from the Poverty Action Lab,  "Resumes with white-sounding names received 50 percent more callbacks than those with black names." (full report: Are Emily and Greg More Employable Than Lakisha and Jamal? A Field Experiment on Labor Market Discrimination).

I've never done that for Giuseppi or Gianna, Raj or Raaka, Kieran or Siobhan, or Amtullah or Yahya. I've never wondered why their parents didn't give them an easier to spell or pronounce name. I've never been a big enough fool to actually ask someone why they didn't pick an easier name for their child. (Yes, I did that and my friend said, "How well do you think a Heather would survive in my world? She'd get mocked and teased daily for having such a white name.) I've never asked my friends why they'd choose Huxley or Hazel (names that are in the top growing elite baby names). This leads me to believe if I am so presumptuous to question what someone names their child, maybe I need to rethink myself.

This doesn't mean wipe away all my opinions. I still have a lot of opinions on names, and that's typical, it's why name lists exist and people spend nine months trying to think of a name for their baby. Why I should think any less of another parent's choice for their child's name? If that child is black and I have a hard time pronouncing that name, it is MY problem, not the parents.

Where the problem comes in and where racism is at play is when I glance at a class roster and make assumptions about what sort of day it will be based on the names I see. Maybe a little chuckle as I navigate the apostrophes in places that I don't understand and letter combinations that I never would think to make. Little Keshaun and K'iana should proudly wear the first gifts their parents gave them. Maybe if we start to accept their right to have a name that speaks to their life and experience, we can begin to grow as a society.

It starts with a drop of acceptance hitting the water like a pebble.

Here are the names of the victims:
Rest in Peace
Rev. Clementa Pinckney, 41
Cynthia Hurd, 54
Sharonda Coleman-Singleton, 45
Tywanza Sanders, 26
Myra Thompson, 59
Susie Jackson, 87
Ethel Lee Lance, 70
Daniel L. Simmons, 74
Depayne Middleton Doctor, 49

My essay Trouble Maker was about a young black boy. I didn't want to label him black in my story because I thought it would bring an unnecessary piece to the story. When I wrote it, I wanted it to be a color-blind story. I've realized if my young trouble maker was a white boy, he never would have faced the same scrutiny. He may have been considered "high-spirited" or a little "rascal" instead of a "thug". We can do better. 

[Giveaway] Microsoft Surface 3 Giveaway Contest