Those three little words...

When people talk about those, "Three little words," most people assume it is, "I love you."  Those are powerful words.  For some, they may be difficult to ever say.  Some may let those words drip from their lips as effortlessly as water.  Everyone wants to hear it.  Everyone wants to say it.  You are a big, fat liar if you say you don't.  Tell others whatever you want, but you cannot deny, at least to yourself, that it is a desire and a need we all have.  But, those are not the only three little words that should count.  Maybe there are those that think nothing else matters, but I disagree.  You can give and have all the love in the world and still feel like something is missing.  So, I have comprised a list of phrases that I find to be just as important to hear as, "I love you."  Here we go:

• "You, sit down."
• "I got this."
• "Like your haircut."
• "You losing weight?"
• "You're not ___ (enter your age)."
• "You are strong."
• "You are important."
• "You are amazing."
• "You are mine."
• "I need you."
• "I want you."
• "You're my friend."

"Love" is a lot of things:  an emotion, a state of mind, a noun, a verb, but it is used as a blanket-term to cover everything.  "I love Shinedown," is not the same as, "I love my daughters," or, "I love Tom Selleck (which I do sooooo much)."  We use the word to express the strongest feeling we have for a particular person or object...the same word we use to tell those closest to us how important they are.   Does this devalue the word love?  Maybe not, maybe so.  Just do not assume that when you tell someone, "I love you," that they know it means you think they are an amazing, important, strong friend that you want and need and think looks great for their age and has nice hair.  Tell people what you love about them, why you love them, and how much they mean to you.  Try to do it without using the, "L," word. 

The second time around isn't always easier

A few weeks ago, I blogged about my first daughter turning ten years old ("10 years down, the rest of her life to go" from September 18, 2013).  Today is daughter #2's birthday.  She is eight years old today, going on 25.  When I learned I was having a second daughter, I was thrilled.  I already had a ton of baby girl clothes from my first pregnancy.  We had the infant car seat, the crib, a pediatrician, and the infant-stage was still fresh in my mind.  There was no doubt that all the lessons learned from daughter #1 would make #2 a breeze.  What started as a breeze turned into a whirlwind.

From the moment my doctor gave me the look...the look that told me the delivery of my baby was not going to happen as planned, I knew she was going to be different.  I had to have an unscheduled C-section under general anesthesia after a full-face presentation and two failed epidurals.  They put the mask on me, I sucked in the gas, and fell asleep.  While floating around in the silent, painless void of happy gas, I heard a voice calling my name.  My eyes slowly started opening, and just like when someone awakens from sleep in a movie, the blurry light started to brighten and my vision began to focus.  "Amy, I've got your baby!"  The shape of my doctor became more and more clear.  She was still wearing the surgical mask over her mouth, but her eyes were smiling at me.  Next to her face was my new baby girl.  She was wrapped up in a blanket and her long hair was hanging out from the edges of her newborn hat.  I asked, "Is she alright?"  My doc said, "She's fine!"  I said, "Good," and fell back to sleep.  Not exactly how I was going to greet my daughter into the world, but there was nothing I could do about it.  My next meeting with her was in the post-operative recovery area.  I had no idea how much time had passed because I was still cruising through Happy Gas-town.  There was this baby fussing - not really crying, just fussing.  Then I realized that was my baby fussing.  I halfway open my eyes.  Sitting next to my bed was my husband holding our baby girl.  He was smiling and rocking her.  She was yapping at him.  "If she's hungry, give her a bottle," was the first thing out of my mouth.  There were so many narcotics pumping through me I could barely talk, but I still knew what my girl needed.  She drank two infant bottles before we were even moved to my postpartum room.  The girl could eat!  And, she still can.  I've often said that my Riley has not changed her eating habits since she was born:  she still needs to eat every two to four hours or she gets cranky.

What I learned over the next few weeks and months and years is there were lots of things easier about girl #2.  This baby was sleeping through the night by three weeks old.  There was never that volcano of formula getting spit up all over a brand new outfit.  She did not drool even when she was teething.  She did not put weird things in her mouth or nose or ears.  Potty training was done by four years of age (that includes waking up dry).  Everything happened easier and faster and I thought I was really getting the hang of motherhood.  I have never seen a child this smart and funny.  The level she operates on is higher than most kids her age.  She is not perfect:  she whines, fights with her sister, and hates to wake up in the morning.  But, I can say with confidence that this girl is going to be a force to be reckoned with one day.

I love my daughters the same amount, but I have learned to love them in different ways.  What is a reward to one is not very important to the other.  As I have discovered their differences, they have shown me how to parent.  There are basic rules that apply to everyone, but there are times when individual circumstances have to be evaluated and handled accordingly.  Daughter #2 is not as snuggly, she is a total daddy's girl, and I am often the butt of her jokes.  I am pretty sure she never cried when getting dropped off at daycare or school.  She has told me she wants to go to a bording schol and just come home on holidays.  I don't love her more.  I just love her different.  I give her more space.  I know when something is really important or really difficult or really hurting her because she will ask me for help.  She is an amazing kid that in some ways is already a little adult.

"I call him Mini-Me."  Happy birthday, Roo.

Homecoming, class reunions, and beer

Last week, I went to the Homecoming game at my high school.  I graduated from a small, Catholic high school in Indianapolis 24 years ago.  I have not been back for a football game in 23 years.  My class' big 25th reunion is next year, so me and some friends decided we would take part in this year's activities.  My close friends and I can go anywhere and have a great time.  Watching a football game in the crisp September air under the lights, running into old classmates and teachers, going to a bar afterwards for some beers; this was all I expected, and that was fine.  That was fine because that was exactly what I got.

Sitting in the stands at the game was a bit surreal.  It was the first time I sat in those bleachers as a real adult.  I watched the young kids, from grade school to high school age, cheering for the home team, walking around and laughing with their faces painted, and seeing who could wear the most wacky outfit to the game for attention (it's usually some guy who is a sophomore or junior).  I remembered that feeling of independence and safety walking around the high school football game:  your parents let you walk around without them (independence), but you were constantly surrounded by other students, teachers, and parents you knew (safety).  It was great to see this tradition continue, and I hope it is still there when my daughters are older.

While sitting in those bleachers, I saw my old French teacher.  I could not believe how great it was to run into her.  She was always one of my favorites.  I had no problem recognizing her because I swear she has not changed a bit.  Amazingly, she remembered me, too.  We hugged and laughed and I told her how she is an awesome teacher, and I hope she is still there when my daughters are older.

After the game each year, a local bar sets up a tent in the parking lot.  It is the official, "old peoples' homecoming."  There is a band, beer, and the largest group of alums I have seen.  A lot of people have no desire to go back in time.  They do not want to keep in touch with classmates.  They have no desire to go to class reunions.  They think, "If I did not talk to those people in high school, why would I want to talk to them now?"  Why?  I'll tell you why.  People change.  Maybe not all people, but most people.  I am not denying that there feels like there is a, "class system," in place in high school.   But, we all grow and learn about ourselves, and there comes a time when we let others see more of who we are.  We then find that the parts we never saw are the ones that make us alike.  The shy kids are more confident.  The confident kids are more humble.  Remember the star basketball player? He has a son who cannot throw a free throw. The really smart girl in class?  Has a child with severe learning disabilities.   The nerd that no one really paid much attention to?  She is running a successful business, married a pilot, and has a daughter that is president of her class.  The playing field is leveled and now you do not know which class people belong to.  I like that.

Time has an amazing ability to chisel away parts of people.  Sometimes the parts are there to protect that fragile girl that has not built up her own self esteem.  Sometimes the parts are huge, attention getting accolades that the star athlete earns.  There are the nerds, the sluts, the punks and goths, the class clowns, the brains, and the numerous kids that can float between the groups.  The chisel reveals, after 20 or so years (time works slowly), that we are not all that different.  The, "us," in high school was a scared, less confident, and usually insecure teenager.  We find our niche, our safety zones, and we stay close to that comfortable feeling of friends we have a lot in common with.  Those with children, especially teenagers, of their own probably see this more clearly.  You are happy that your child gets decent grades, has some good friends, and gets involved with extracurricular activities.  We only see our kids with the ones they spend their free time with.  I think it is important to make sure they know that they do not have to be best friends with everyone, but they need to be kind and respectful to everyone.  They will not be able to fathom the thought that 20 years will go by and when the chisel drops to the ground, what will others see?  If they promote kindness, humor, fairness, and friendship, they will have someone come up to them one day and say, "I always liked sitting by you in biology class," or, "You always seemed confident in yourself.  I admired that about you."  People are not all that different from each other.

Oh, and beer can help a lot.  There is no denying that it lowers the inhibitions and raises your confidence.  I shared a beer with quite a diverse group on homecoming night:  head bangers, football stars, cheerleaders, basketball players, band members, sluts, and nerds.  What I discovered is that we all have become the adults that can float between the groups.  That is a good thing.

10 years down, the rest of her life to go

After you've done something for ten years, you would like to feel like you are doing it right.  In most professional fields, a decade of experience is a time frame that elicits confidence and admiration from other people.  A surgeon tells you, "I have been performing that procedure for ten years."  Sounds good, doc, cut me open.  A broker says, "I have been investing peoples' money since 2003."  Awesome, Mr. Moneybags, where do I sign?  We equate the length of time a person has done something with how good they are at it.  Usually, this is a fair indicator of the results we can expect.  There is no substitute for experience.  However, what do you do when after ten years of doing something everyday, you still are not sure if you are doing it all right?

Today is my daughter's birthday.  From the title of this blog post, you can probably guess that she turned ten years old.  I was lying in bed last night remembering what I was doing in 2003:  I was waiting for my cervix to dilate.  It was taking its time because I was at the hospital nearly 24 hours before I delivered my baby girl.  She was beautiful, perfect, and they handed her to me like I was supposed to know what to do.  Luckily, between my years working at an OB/GYN office with amazing nurses, doctors, and moms, my skimming through What to Expect When You're Expecting, and that natural maternal instinct, I took her home and managed to raise her.  Every day, I kissed her.  Every day, I told her I loved her.  Every day, I told her how important she is to this world.  I still do every one of these things every day.  I also ask myself every day, "After ten years, am I doing this right?"

There is no way to describe parenting.  Probably because it is not an experience, it is a life.  Like life, we have to take it day by day.  It doesn't matter that those whom have more experience than us try to guide, shelter, and show us the way.  We usually do not listen to all the advice we are given, for we all feel our lives ultimately must be shaped by ourselves.  We have to say it to hear it. We have to do it to feel it.  We have to lose it to appreciate it.  When it comes to parenting a daughter (or two, in my case), all I can hope for is a baby that grows into a smart girl that changes into a confident adolescent that moves into a goal-driven teenager and ends up an accomplished woman.  Too much to ask?  Yes, it is.  I have come to terms with the fact that I am going to make mistakes.  It does not matter how hard I try to make her perfect, she is going to need to say it, do it, and lose things on her own to make her life hers.  I will always be there to support her. 

Happy birthday, baby girl.  Live your life...as long as I am always in it.

Only Family Gets the Food!

This week, we sadly laid to rest my great-aunt.  She was 97 years old, born in Scotland, and was sharp as a pin until the end.  She could talk about politics, sports, and movies, and she possessed a cosmopolitan energy that made you feel inspired.  My favorite question was when she asked me, "Amy, do you watch, 'The Sopranos'?"  Most people would be surprised to hear my Aunt Minnie, at the age of 83 when the series began, was following a show on HBO about a mafia crime family.  How many times per show did they drop the F-bomb or shoot someone in the head?  If you knew Aunt Minnie, it was not a shock.  ("Ooooo, I love that Tony Soprano!  He's so bad!")  My daughters referred to her as, "that little grandma lady who isn't actually our grandma."  She was a strong, feisty woman that will be missed by her family and loved ones. 

Family provides security, a support system, laughter and tears, and a sense of belonging.  Those of us lucky enough to be raised in my immediate and extended family know we give each other every one of these things.  We have also provided each other with not only aunts, uncles, and cousins, but also friends, role models, and partners-in-crime.  We should always be there to build each other up, to give constructive criticism, and to help when we can.  Our family wants only the best for each other, so if a comment or suggestion seems hurtful, we need to realize that maybe they are trying to show us something we do not want to see.  Harmful words and grudges have no place in our family tree.  Our roots are planted in love and our branches reach to Heaven.  Every time I am in the same room as my kin, I want to lock the doors and keep everyone close.  Part of me is six years old, remembering my siblings and cousins (eight of us, in all) playing in the spare bedroom at our grandparents' house.  Were we really all little enough to fit in that room at one time?  There were no expensive toys to play with, and we had the best time together that all I remember is the laughter.

Being, "family," does have its privileges, too. We get to joke with each other about things that an outsider would get punched in the face for bringing up in conversation.  There is a protective bond that holds us tight to each other.  Constructive criticism is at times given too freely because we think the underlying love will convey the underlying message of concern.  Regardless of the delivery, if the intent is positive and well intended, it will show...eventually.  Family - you can't live with 'em and you can't live without 'em.  If you piss 'em off, you're out of the will!

AND, according to my daughters, I learned of another, "privilege," that comes from being family:

A few months ago, my best friend lost her grandmother.  My daughters and I had been at the funeral home for about twenty minutes.  My nine year old came up to me and said, "Mom, there is food here!  Can we eat?"  I replied, "No, sweetie.  That food is for the family."  This week, I informed the girls that Aunt Minnie had passed away.  They were sad and said they would miss her very much.  The following day, my girls asked, "So, Aunt Minnie was family, right?"  Thinking they wanted a mini-geneology lesson, I explained how they were related to Aunt Minnie.  Their faces lit up and they said, "So, if there is food there, we get to eat it?!?!"  All I could do was laugh and say, "Yes, girls, you can because we are family."

God bless Aunt Minnie. May she be reunited with her dear husband, my sweet Uncle Harry.

State Fair time!!!!!!

My husband and I took our daughters to the Indiana State Fair last week.  We try to go every year.  I guess it has become a tradition of sort for us to ride the rides, view the livestock, and consume 4,000 calories each in one afternoon.  This year's fair trip was especially nice because it was not 103 degrees with 85% humidity (which is not uncommon for Indiana in August).  It was cloudy for most of the day, but we had no more than a few raindrops before the skies started to clear.  And, since the public and township schools had already started back, the crowds did not show up until nearly 5:00 p.m.  Comfortable weather, little waiting in lines, and food on a stick...could it get any better?  The answer was, "Yes."  It was also,"$2 day," so admission was just $2 each and the fair was full of food specials for only $2 each.  Great day for all.

For those of you who may not live in Indiana, we do not all own a pig or live on a farm.  I am aware that Indiana is viewed by most as a corn-growing, cow-milking, tractor-driving kind of place.  If you want to grow corn, milk a cow, or drive a tractor, that can easily be accommodated.  But, I do not know the first thing about being a farmer.  I am happy that I have picked four tomatoes out of my garden this year.  When I walk through the fair, especially the livestock barns, I am jealous of those that do live that stereotypical, "Indiana life."

My daughters love animals, and I admit that I, too, adore the animals at the fair.  Every barn we walked through, my daughters could be heard gasping then saying, "It's sooooo cute!"  It could have been a cow, a goat, a donkey, anything with fur, feathers, or wool.  Looking at the sheep and goats, I got to thinking, "How hard would it be to own a goat?  That one over there is no bigger than my dog!"  It could walk around my back yard, eat the grass so we wouldn't have to mow it, and I could learn how to make goat's milk cheese.  If not a goat, maybe I could raise some chicken.  We could convert the mini-barn into a chicken coop.  Fresh eggs every day and fried chicken when they quit laying.  I can just see myself churning butter, plucking chicken carcasses, scooping goat poop off my shoes....maybe not.  The lifestyle of a farmer is hard.  Those of us who are really only exposed to it at the fair cannot grasp the real blood, sweat, and tears these people give to live this, "simple life."  Raising cows and pigs is not a hobby.  I have been known to tell a bird to, "Shut up!" because it was outside chirping before my alarm had gone off.  I do appreciate the people at the fair that answer the silly questions we ask and let my daughters pet their animals.  The sight that always shows me the commitment these people have to their lifestyle is when you see a person sleeping in a stall meant for an animal.  Early mornings, long days, cold nights, sore muscles, and manure.  I'm not embarassed to say I could not hack it.

If you have not visited the fair, try to get out there before it is gone.  After you take a ride on the ferris wheel, eat a deep fried Oreo, and try to win a goldfish, show your kids how the other half lives.  Teach them to appreciate and respect the people that still live the, "easy life."

I still want a goat.

A different side to vacation

My husband, myself, and our two daughters are wrapping up our summer vacation.  We took a trip to North Carolina to visit relatives on my husband's side of the family, then we drove another few hours to the coast.  We spent three nights in Ocean Isle Beach, North Carolina.  This small, coastal town only has about 450 permanent residents. There are no chain restaurants, no amusement parks, and we learned on our first evening there that mini-golf is THE most popular nighttime activity on the island (and there is only one mini-golf course, so it is one of the only nighttime activities on the island).  I would recommend this place to anyone who is looking for a nice place to take their family on vacation.....unless you get bored easily.  If you and/or your family need a lot of activities to fill each minute of the day, go some place else.  I, however, can fill a week with time sitting on the beach, watching the waves and pelicans diving into them looking for fish, reading a book in a hammock, and drinking frozen concoctions that help me hang on (Jimmy Buffet reference).  What I have discovered is that the less I do on vacation with my body, the more my mind wanders.  As my butt sits close to the sand, my brain is doing the equivalent of an Ironman competition.  To the other tourists on the beach, I appear to be dozing off in my chair, but my mind is a flurry of ideas so frantic for fruition that I still cannot calm them when it is time to sleep at night.  While I lazily lie in that hammock and try to read a book, I am asking myself questions about every aspect of my life:  Why don't we move to a state closer to the ocean?  I wonder if my dad would have enjoyed the beach?  What are my daughters going to be like in 10 years?  How did I gain back 20 of the 30 pounds I lost last year?  What do people see when they look at me sitting on the beach?  Am I ever going to finish one of the books I have been trying to write for the past five years?  Should I stop dying my hair and let it go gray?

You would think a vacation would put you at ease.  Do not get me wrong; this has been a much needed get-a-way for all of us.  We have all had a great time, and the beach does melt away stress better than any method I know.  But, how do I get my mind to be able to take a vacation?  How do I get that beachy feel to permeate the layers of hair, scalp, and skull to allow the subconscious to feel at peace?  I tried pouring sand in my ears, but all that did was cause a nasty infection.  I tried snorting sea water, but that just made me cough and choke and sneeze out salty boogers.  I even allowed a sea gull to make a nest in my hair...lets just say that did not give the desired results.  When we say a person has their toes in the sand, we instantly imagine they are relaxed.  When we say a person has their head in the sand, we see them as hiding from reality.  All I want is to be relaxed in my reality, so what do I bury to get that?

Peace does not happen when everything just fixes itself.  Peace is not a result of having everything you want.  To achieve peace, a lot of time there first is a war.  An objective must be made, and peace comes in the accomplishments in reaching that goal.  Instead of asking all the questions, maybe the time has come when I start answering them.  Maybe we all need to take one of the questions that keep us up at night and make it our goal to answer it.  Put it to rest.  Mark it off the list.  Maybe all the answered questions will start to build like grains of sand in your mind.  Maybe the goals that are reached will form an oceanside hammock that swings in the breeze.  And, maybe the accomplishments we make will blow across our skin and make us smile and smell the air.  Just maybe.

Which is worse: syphilis or Bieber fever?

My home town was recently graced with the presence of one of today's most famous, pop music performers - Justin Bieber.  Although we were spared any public displays of his rebellious nature (like his controversial pissing in a mop bucket at a show in another state), there were numerous Facebook posts about his performance, his arriving on stage late while suspended by wires and wearing angel wings, and countless opinions of how people feel about him.  Our local news station's Facebook page was full of comments from parents, grandparents, and youths who attended the show and thought it was great.  However numerous these type of posts were, the anti-Bieber following definitely tipped the scales in their favor.  I admit when I saw the picture of him in the angel-wing costume, I felt the need, and fulfilled the need, to express my opinion on the hottest thing to come out of Canada since Wayne Gretzky and Alex Trebek.  I simply typed, "Douche bag."  As I scrolled down to read some of the other comments, I started feeling bad for the little guy.  People were seriously slamming his music (which I do not care for), his look (which I find manufactured and pretentious), his attitude (which reminds me of any cocky, nineteen year old boy), and their disappointment in the parents that allow their children to listen to his music (which my daughters do not care for).  Then, it hit me......we sound like all the parents before us that hated their children's music.  I started laughing at myself realizing I was criticizing something I do not understand or appreciate because I will never understand or appreciate the appeal of Justin Bieber.  It does not matter because I never expected my parents to understand or appreciate the music I loved when I was living under their roof. 

Let's play a game!  I am going to post a few pictures.  I think it will help me get my point across.  Here is the nineteen year old that thousands of girls are going crazy for:

My guardian Bieber

When I was seventeen years old, here is the group of thirty-something men me and my friends were going crazy for:

Whitesnake circa 1988

 

When my older sister was seventeen years old, here is the band my mother let her drive to another state to see:

The Police

 







When my younger sister was seventeen years old, here were the performers she was going crazy for:

Featuring classics such as, "Gangsta Gangsta," "Fuck the Police," and, "Dope Man."

 

If you look at these pictures, I hope you see my point.  Bieber is a harmless, young, naive Canadian with a lot of money, good hair, and a limited time in the spotlight.  If the kids want to buy his CD's, download his music, and go to his concerts, let them.  He will eventually fall from grace, need his money for rehab and court costs, and in twenty years, VH1 will do, "Justin Bieber:  Behind the Music," and he will do a comeback album that even his fans do not really like.  It is the circle of life, so just let it run its course.  Who would you trust your daughter with?  The 100 pound Bieber, or five members of Whitesnake?

 

When you think back at the stupid, crazy things you did when you were nineteen, you can probably think of a few shenanigans that were worse than using a bucket as a urinal.  I will divulge no names and claim no responsibility for these antics, but I know people who have peed in a Burger King cup because they could not get to a bathroom, had intercourse in a row boat, flashed their boobs to an entire campgrounds, stolen street signs and a flag from a Dunkin Donuts, and outran the cops after drag racing through a neighborhood.  Give Bieber a break.  If you do not like him or his music, then do not listen to it or contribute to his wealth.

 

One last point:  the world changes, and we must change with it.  Just like we won't like our kids' music, they do not like ours anymore than our parents did.  Your grandparents probably hated your mom's music....especially those four, rebellious, long-haired British guys:

The most hated, dangerous twenty year-olds in 1964



The List Made For Us

We make lists to remind us of what we need to buy and things we need to do.  Some days, the list just does not get completed.  We run out of time or get distracted; sometimes we set unrealistic goals for ourselves and expect too much out of the time we are given.  We have a few choices in these cases.  We can pick that list up tomorrow and finish it.  We can prioritize to make sure the most important things are done.  Or, we can get frustrated, crumble that list up in a ball, and curse at it while we throw it away.  My experience with lists have at one time or another taken each of these routes.  My favorite list is my grocery list.  I am completely food motivated, so I enjoy writing out all the items and checking them off when they reach my shopping cart.  Not all lists are this easy to complete, and the hardest are the lists we do no write for ourselves.

I believe in God.  A higher power that while allowing us to have free will to make our own decisions still has total control over what is going to happen every minute of our lives.  This Presence brings me peace and reminds me that we each have a list that is written for us.  Everyone has a list of things they are to accomplish while they are here.  When their list is complete, God does not crumple them up and toss them away.  He smiles and says, "Awesome!  I finished another one!"  Some people have very long lists that may take 99 years to finish.  Others, although not as lengthy, have important things to do in the short amount of time they are here.  We are so used to making our own lists and figuring out how long it will take to complete all our tasks.  What we forget is that the list made for us is a secret:  we do not always know what is on it or how long we have to complete it.

It may seem unfair to think we have a, "secret list," to do.  How can we know how to complete it when we do not even know what is on it?  That is when it is important to prioritize.  The list made for us is written by God, so it is not that hard to figure out what might be on our, "To Do," list:

1. Love and respect your parents
2. Make your siblings your friends
3. Teach your children #1 and #2
4. Forgive others
5. Be kind to people and make them smile
6. Bring people together in the name of love, family, prayer, and laughter

Most of the time, we make lists of the things we have not yet accomplished in our lives.  Maybe you want to make sure you climb a mountain, run a marathon, or skydive before your time is up.  The goals on the list made for us may not seem as exciting.  They may not bring prestige or place a medal around our neck.  But, what good are those types of accomplishments if there is no one cheering for you?  Prioritize the things that are truly important because those are the ones that God is checking off your list. 

This week, two people I know passed away.  I do not know if they could have been any more different.  One was a 99 year-old woman whom had played the role of wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, nurse, and matriarch to an amazing family.  She was respected and loved, and I have no doubt her loved ones will make sure her memory lives on.  The second was a 45 year-old man whom had played the role of husband, father, brother, son, friend, and free spirit.  He had the most amazing smile (which he got from his mom) and that little devilish glimmer in his eye (which came from his dad).  Both of these people, although so different, had finished their lists.  God was so happy to be able to mark off their lists knowing they had accomplished what they were supposed to do.  Each had loved, laughed, taught their children the importance of family, and with their passing, will once again bring others together in the name of love, family, prayer, and laughter.  Do not feel sad about the things they did not get to accomplish.  Be joyous in knowing they did all they were supposed to do.



Dedicated to Agnes Reese and Jim Mandabach.  May you meet in heaven and smile upon those whom still love you.

Racism - it's not just for breakfast anymore (Rated R for language and adult situations)

It takes a lot to shock me.  I've been around the block many, many times, but the human race seems to find a way to occasionally make me say, "What the Fuck?"  I was reading my morning cyber news while drinking a cup of coffee and eating my egg and cheese breakfast sandwich.  There is a story about a new television advertisement for Cheerios.  Cheerios is a part of nearly every one's childhood.  It was one of the most popular snacks for my children when the were toddlers.  Put some of those crunchy O's in a snack cup, and you have a happy toddler for any two-hour car ride.  I ate Cheerios for breakfast when I was a kid.  My mom even put them in her homemade Chex Party Mix (as I still do today).  What could anyone have against Cheerios?  Even the name sounds happy.  Well, as I said at the beginning of this post, here came my, "What the Fuck," moment.  Watch this commercial:

 

 

Are you wondering what all the fuss is about?  This commercial got so many hateful, racial posts on YouTube that they had to disable the comments area for this this clip.  Really?  Really?!  There is an adorable, articulate child in a lovely home with both her parents discussing healthy nutrition, and this beautiful example of a loving family was turned into a platform to rant about the evils of interracial relationships.  Well, now I am turning it into my platform to rant about acceptance and tolerance and love.

 

I applaud the General Mills company (who makes those tasty O's) because they have no intention of pulling the commercial from their advertising rotation.  I hope they push the envelope and have a little boy talking to his, "two moms," over a bowl of Cheerios.  Maybe they will have a black man and a white man feeding Cheerios to their adopted Chinese daughter.   I hope more companies take a broader look at examples of, "normal family life."  People need to remember that just because it's not your normal doesn't make it wrong.  I know their are people out there that are already quoting Bible verses to make their point.  I know Catholics usually do not quote Scripture, but here is Matthew 22:35-40:



• ³⁵ One of them, an expert in the law, tested him with this question: ³⁶ “Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?”
  ³⁷ Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’^{[a] 38} This is the first and greatest commandment. ³⁹ And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’^{[b] 40} All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.”

Time is sometimes the only tool that can teach tolerance.  The unfortunate side to that is that it does not happen quickly.  It is a terribly slow procedure that usually takes generations to learn.  How can you speed up the process?  Start with yourself.  Allow your heart to accept differences in others, and the next generation will do the same at a much faster pace.  Be aware of what your are against, and make sure you are disagreeing with someone for the correct reason.  My example of this goes back over 20 years ago.  Back when we were much younger, a friend of mine, who I had known since kindergarten, started dating guys of a different race.  Her parents were totally against it, and she expressed to me how much this upset her.  I told her I did not care whom she dated, but I was not going to support her dating anyone who treated her like shit.  She was choosing guys with no jobs, no cars, and no respect for her.  Who cared what color their skin was??  She was being used and hurt.  I had friends who dated guys the same ethnicity as them, and when those guys were acting like douche bags, they got the same advice from me:  If that man has no future, no respect, and no responsibility for his actions, he does not deserve a place in your life. 

There are all sorts of different Cheerios:  original, honey nut, peanut butter, apple cinnamon, banana nut, frosted, fruity, and yogurt covered.  General Mills knows that even though they are all different on the outside, on the inside they are all the same...just like people.

I think the next Cheerios commercial should show someone pouring the plain Cheerios and the chocolate Cheerios in the same bowl....scandalous.

Excuse me, could you point me to the nearest leper colony?

Several days ago, I left my home and purposely forged into enemy territory.  On the outside, I appeared confident and unshakable.  Inside, my heart was accelerating, nausea was twisting my stomach in knots, and there were nearly tears.  I entered the doors to the building, walked up to a woman with a name tag, and asked, "Where is the dreaded swimsuit department?"  She looked at me, smiled, and pointed down an aisle.  "What we have is right over there."  The way she worded the sentence made me think that maybe there were not many suits to choose from.  Perhaps swimsuits had gone out of fashion and were being replaced by loose fitting, yet some how flattering, smocks?  The swimwear of the early 1900's was making a comeback!  A time in history when it was not unusual for women's swimsuits to have sleeves.  God was smiling on me......

My friends and I at the beach.

 

 

As I happily approached the area the sales associated had pointed towards, I was reminded that God has a sense of humor.  The racks were full of brightly colored Lycra, floral and striped, one-piece, two-piece, and teeny weeny bikinis.  Something for everyone!!!!  I kept looking for the retro swim romper or the newest aqua frock from Paris, but I was disappointed to find exactly what I find every year.  Lots and lots of choices that fall into one of three categories:  "Doesn't fit," "Ugly," and "That'll Do."  I have never had a bikini figure.  I have never won a, "Hot Bod," contest.  But, I am comfortable enough with myself that I will put on a swimsuit and enjoy the pool or beach with my kids.  I like to get tan lines in the summer ("Tan fat looks better than pale fat.").   Fruity, frozen drinks while sitting on a pontoon with friends and family are some good times.  To my advantage, my best "assets" are out of the water while I'm standing in the shallow end of the pool.  My plan is to get to the cookout early, make sure the bosom looks awesome, and keep the lower half of my body underwater until everyone is intoxicated.  After enough drinks, no one will care how I look in my suit.  It may be my tipsy friends whom do not care; it may be tipsy me whom no longer cares how I look in my suit.  I believe swimsuits should come with a gift card to the nearest liquor store to make the event less painful (and more likely to be blacked out of your memory) for everyone.  I picked a suit from the, "That'll Do," pile, and I pray that I do not have to go through this process for at least a year.

The most comfortable I have ever been in swimwear was both times I was pregnant with my daughters.  It may seem strange to confess that at the two times when my body was its largest, roundest, most bulbous and swollen, those were the most content I ever felt in a swimsuit.  Why?  Because when you have a baby in your belly, no one expects you to suck in that gut.  There was a reason Sports Illustrated did not call you for the swimsuit edition that year:  you were swimming for two.  I loved floating around like a big ole whale gestating her calf in the water.  It was liberating to just bob up and down with the waves, and when I would get 'beached' on the steps of the pool, some concerned friend would roll me back into the water.  Ahhh, memories.

 

Shopping for a swimsuit, for me, is like purposely vacationing at a leper colony.  Why do I put myself in that uncomfortable place?  I guess I am the Father Damien of Swimwear.  I am sure that shopping for swimwear is a lot of fun when the size you buy is the same as your shoe size.  If that were my case, I would be arriving at my sister's Memorial Day party wearing clown shoes. 





A Love Letter

Dear Mom,

Happy Mother's Day!  I thought I should write you a letter to make sure all these words are on paper.  That way, if I am ever at a loss to tell you how I feel about you, I can refer back to my notes.  You are an amazing person; not just an amazing mother, but you are amazing to your core.  This fact is confirmed by the hundreds of people who get a smile on their face simply by the sound of your name.  You raised four children that all have children of their own.  Your grandchildren have been blessed that their parents had the most wonderful example to learn from.  The love and tenderness you brought to our childhood, the laughter and smiles you freely gave to all of us, and the love of singing any song regardless of knowing the correct lyrics or not were my favorite parts of growing up.  You were the soft hand to Dad's iron fist. You were (literally) always the, "good cop," to his,"bad cop."  You allowed yourself to be the clown when the situation needed a comedic hero.  When it comes to being a mom, I had the best instructor there is.

Even if a person goes to the best schools and has the best instructors, it does not mean they are going to be perfect at what they do.  I am the iron fist in my children's lives.  The role of, "bad cop," is usually played by me.  Ironically, I am the clown even though real clowns annoy the crap out of me.  Statistically, I am not the daughter that grew up to be just like you.  However, one day you gave me the best compliment.  As different as we can be, you told me once that I was the kind of person you had always wanted to be.  I voice my opinion.  I stand up for the underdog.  When I was in fifth grade, I slapped a girl in the face because she said my friend was ugly.  I am fearless.  I keep my friends and family close, and I send toxic people on their way.  The best thing you ever said is that I am nothing like you, but that I am what you strive to be.  How ridiculous is that?  It is amazingly, lovingly, and honorably ridiculous.

Happy Mother's Day to my mother.  You are the beautiful, smart, funny woman that I want to be when I grow up.

Sincerely,

Amy (your favorite)

ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE!!!!!!!! Wait...it's just allergy season.

I live in Indiana.  The Crossroads of America.  The Hoosier State.  Heart of the Midwest.  Home of the Indianapolis 500 - The Greatest Spectacle in Racing.  AND, the worst f@$&ing place to be if you have seasonal allergies.  About 15 years ago, I started developing, "hay fever."  A little sneezing, watery eyes, no big deal.  As the years have progressed, so have the allergy symptoms.  My allergist explained to me at one appointment that parts of the country gets a lot of tree pollen.  Some parts of the country get grass and weed pollens.  Lucky us get to enjoy both here in Indiana.  This week has been the worst for me so far this season.  Every day, when I walk out of the house to my SUV, there is a fine layer of yellow pollen covering my vehicle.  The temperatures have been warm and breezy, but I have every window closed and the A/C blowing.  If I try to do some yard work, I have to keep tissues in my pocket and remember not to rub my itchy eyes.

Most of allergy season, I can find relief with over-the-counter allergy medication and allergy eye drops.  Unfortunately, there are a few weeks a year that my normal regimen does not quite cut it.  A few days ago, I decided that more is better when it comes to antihistamines.  Instead of one allergy pill for the 24-hour period (as prescribed), I took two pills about 12 hours apart. I still sneezed and snotted all day.  My eyes were so extremely itchy, I rubbed them until they were swollen, red, and watering.  Then, I was reminded that I had put lotion on my hands prior to clawing my eyes because then the skin all around my eyeballs started to burn.  More allergy eye drops squirted into the irritated orbs, so then gooey liquid was dripping down my face.  I still could not get to sleep, so I took a Benadryl at bedtime.  I finally fell asleep.  That must have been when the zombies showed up.

I woke up very reluctantly the next morning.  I slowly staggered into the bathroom, turned on the light, and saw myself in the mirror.  Holy Christ, it looked as if I could have eaten someones brain for breakfast.  My eyes were gross, hollow-looking, dark circles on my face.  The combination of eye goo from the pollen, allergy eye drops, and irritating hand lotion had dried into a creepy scaly pattern around my eyes.  The sheer amount of antihistamines in my system were still giving me a contact high.  I actually was sooooo zoinked out that I stared at my reflection like the un-dead had commandeered my body.  "You look like me.....but you aren't exactly me...."  I brushed my teeth in slow motion.  When I walked down the hallway to wake up my daughters, I thought I was going to start dragging one leg and holding both arms straight out in front of me.  I was relieved to hear the words, "Girls, it is time to wake up," come out of my mouth instead of, "AAARRR!!!!!  BRAINS!!!!"  As the day went on, I slowly came out of my fog and felt slightly more like myself again.

So, next time you watch a zombie movie, look at those poor creatures.  Are they really after your flesh?  Did they really want to eat brains?  Maybe they just need a Zyrtec and a box of Kleenex.

"Excuse me...could you tell us where we could find the aisle with the allergy medications?  Thanks."

Details, details, details

I am very good a couple things.  Things I am good at would be cooking, knitting, science, and making people laugh.  To balance out my perfection, I am very bad at a couple things, too.  Things I am bad at include counted cross-stitch, anything athletic, and feeling as if I need to know all the answers.  I am not saying I know everything, but I like to think I know everything about me. 

I can be a bit over analytical.  Maybe some people would say I am just doing research, but when there is an, "unknown," in my life, I will obsessively look up as much information on it so I feel like there will be no surprises.  I do not like being caught off guard, so I find comfort in looking at every angle of the situation.  That way I can at least know what my options may be.  For ten years, I worked in medical offices.  When obtaining a patient's medical history, I would constantly get vague answers to specific questions:

     Me:  "Do you have any heart problems?"
     Patient:  "Yes, I have had a heart defect since birth."
     Me:  "What type of defect?"
     Patient:  "I don't know."

Even more frequently than not knowing what type of health concerns they possess, patients had no idea what medications they were ingesting:

    Me:  "What medication do you take for this heart problem?"
     Patient:  "That white one."

How could you not know the name of the medication that you take for the heart defect you do not know the name of?  That would drive me bonkers.  Do some research, look it up on-line, commit to memory the medication used to treat it, any risk factors that could make the condition worse, and whether or not you could expect to drop dead from it in the next 40-50 years.  This is the shit I need to know, and I often forget that not everyone worries about those things like I do.  What is it like to let your brain retain a minimal amount of information and let the rest leak out like a sieve, only allowing the big pieces to remain?  I am sure a lot of people find comfort in the big chunks, but I worry about the tiny pieces that float away because it's those little details that can make all the difference.

I had a doctor's appointment this past week.  Unfortunately, some of the health problems I had last year are not quite done with me.  Once again, I have been told that I am, "an interesting case," that does not seem to, "follow the normal treatment protocols."  I have always been a bit of a rebel, but I did not think my liver was going to be a hell-raiser.  I can tell you all sorts of details about liver adenomas.  They are a rare tumor, benign in nature, and usually are asymptomatic.  They can cause problems and need attention if they start multiplying or growing larger than 5 centimeters.  They can rupture and in rare cases turn malignant.  I have done my research.  What is driving me crazy this weekend is that I do not know what to look into anymore.  My doctor had me consult with another specialist to see if we can figure out why I am becoming the thing medical papers are written about.  After an hour talking about me and nine tubes of blood later, the new doc said he would call me on Monday to let me know what he thinks is going on.  Really?  Monday?  I tried to get him to at least give me some guesses on a disorder or disease or deficiency.  If not, what the hell was I going to, "Google," this weekend?  How am I going to self-diagnose without a place to start?  Guess I will just have to wait impatiently.

This one is for my best friend.....

We have all had something happen in our lives that, at the moment, devastated us.  A moment that changes our lives and ourselves forever.  An event that may have been anticipated or perhaps a complete surprise, but either way, an event that changes us in a way that can never be erased.  When I was 19 years old, my father died.  That was the thing that ripped me from my life, turned me around, and dropped me from a very high place flat on my face.  I could not, and did not, feel the full effect of this loss until I was much older.  It would take me decades to be able to see how my father's passing changed me.  It was much easier for me to see how his passing changed others in my life.  My friends looked at their parents differently.  My younger sister seemed to lose the innocent look in her eyes.  My mom was no longer the quiet, naive, sweet woman we all knew; she was turning into a smarter, tougher, scarred version of herself out of necessity.  This made my mother some how even more loved (everything my mother does makes her more lovable).  The point is, it made me who I am today, and I survived.

Last year, my best friend, "Cee," had her moment.  At the age of 41, she became a widowed mother of two young children.  A tragic, unforeseen medical condition took her husband away from her.  Ripped her up, turned her around, SPLAT on her face.  We were all in shock at her loss.  She has kept her world spinning at a dangerously fast pace for the last twelve months.  She has moved back from out of state, sold a house, bought a house, started both children in new schools, and got a new dog.  She drops the kids off at school, does the shopping for the household, transports her children to kickball games, Girl Scouts, karate lessons, and tee ball season just began.  Sleepovers, lunches, dinner plans, doctor's appointments, dentist appointments, vacations, holidays, road trips, and movies....all normal activities for a family to do, but in the past year, she has had to learn how to do them without her husband.  Her precious children have had to learn to do them without their dad.  Her in-laws have had to learn that the visits with their grandchildren now do not include seeing their son.  What is the point of her, her son, her daughter, or any of us whom knew and loved her husband to have to deal with this loss?  I have seen how the last year has changed her.  I see a different look in her daughter's face.  I see a pain in the eyes of Cee's father as if he still thinks he can fix her pain.  He has always been there for Cee, but she has suffered a loss he cannot repair.  Although all these changes are obvious to me, I know it will be years, perhaps decades, before Cee will see them.  The point is, it will make her who she is in the future, and she will survive.

"Everything happens for a reason."  We all know that old saying, and I think it is true.  Sometimes that reason is so easy to understand, but there are times we search forever to find it.  The conclusion I have come to is that sometimes the, "reason," is not our reason.  I believe that there are definitely times when the reason that life-changing thing ocurrs in our life is to change someone else's destiny.  As painful and senseless it is for Cee to have lost her husband and her kids to have lost their dad, there was a reason.  Cee learned that a 10 year-old girl received her husband's liver.  A yound girl's life was saved by that organ transplant.  Her husband saved someone's life.  Does it take away Cee's grief?  No.  Did it take away the tortorous, day-to-day waiting of the family of the girl?  Did it ease the pain a parent feels when they do not know how long their child is going to live?  Yes, yes it did.  The point is, it will make that young girl, her parents, and her sisters the family they were afraid they would never be, and she survived.

We miss you, Dave.  You brought my best friend happiness and companionship.  You made  two amazing children together.  You saved the live of a child you never even met.  Thank you.  We will never forget you.

                                                                                                               
                                     

My dog

I have written about my friends, my children, and my favorite things.  Today, I blog about my big, doofy dog.  About two years ago, I had to convince my husband to let me get a dog.  I begged and pleaded until he finally agreed that our home and family were canine ready.  I had people say, "Just go get a dog.  Once it is there he cannot tell you to take it back."  You do not just mistakenly come home with a dog.  It would have been easier for me to accidentally have gotten pregnant than to have accidentally gotten a dog (but there would have been just as much explaining to do since my husband was "fixed" years ago).  I was not going to purposely bring a puppy home unless I knew everyone in the family was going to accept it.  So, once the husband said o.k., I started the search. 

Finding a new dog can take several different routes.  There are those who find a stray dog in a parking lot, take it home, and they instantly have a new family member.  There are those who are pure-breed specific.  They know what breed they want, the specific breed standards, and they have their pet's family tree on paper.  We kind of looked for a dog the way we looked for a car:  it could be used, but the newer the better, low miles, not too big, not a compact, it didn't have to have all the latest options, but short hair and no drooling was a bonus.  I looked at websites for rescue groups, the Humane Society, and on Petfinder.  Every night, I would pull up dog pictures.  Pictures of puppies and pooches that needed homes.  Some had skinny bodies, others looked plump and wiggly.  There were sad eyes, droopy eyes, black noses, pink noses, and even spotted noses.  I would find several candidates, sit next to my husband every night after our daughters went to sleep, and get his opinion.  He would look at each picture, read the description given, and then say what he thought.  I must have shown him 100 dogs, so I do not know what caused him to look at picture #101 and say, "That one looks good."  I asked, "Really?  Can I contact the rescue group?"  He agreed, and I was thrilled.  I emailed the contact person.  I filled out my application and faxed it over.  I had a phone interview and my veterinarian was contacted for a reference.  There was an adoption event at a local PetSmart.  The plan was that I could meet the pup I had seen on-line (my first and only experience with meeting a male on-line), and if I wanted, I could adopt him. 

I went to the store that Saturday afternoon.  I walked towards the back where wire kennels were set up.  There had to have been at least 20 dogs looking for homes.  Nineteen dogs were watching me, barking, wagging their tails, some shaking nervously, others spinning in circles, and one dog was asleep in his crate.  One dog was snoozing through all the commotion and all the doggie excitement.  I quickly glanced at all the dogs and realized the guy I had come to meet was the one whom was sleeping.  I knelt down and stroked his head through the bars of his cage.  After a few pats, he opened his eyes, lifted his chin so he could see who was touching him, and his long tail started to thump.  I met the woman who ran the rescue group.  We had spoken over the phone just a few days before.  She opened his kennel door, put a leash on him, and asked if I wanted to walk him around a bit.  This new puppy and I had just met, and we were already on our first test drive.  We cruised around the store, walking up and down the aisles.  His little pink and black nose sniffed every bag of dog food we passed.  He did not seem to really notice me at all; he was glad to stretch his legs and sniff some dog butts.  I walked him back to the adoption table.  I told the woman he seemed like a good dog, and I would like to take him home.  After the papers were signed and the check was written, my new dog and me got in the car and drove home.  He was a three-month-old mutt that was found in a barn with two litter mates.  The DNA test done on the pups showed five different breeds:  boxer, staffordshire terrier (pit bull), shar pei, akita, and beagle.  I was not sure if a DNA test could be more vague!  If his mother dog was on, "Maury," she would have had a lot of boy dogs to test for paternity.  The day I brought him home, he weighed 22 pounds.  It was kind of a blind guess at how big he was going to get, but the boy did have big feet.  I would not say he really looked much like the breeds listed on his test sheet, but I would say he looked like at least five dogs pieced together.  We would just have to see what he turned into as time went by.

Two years later, I can tell you what we ended up with.  "Dalton" (named after Patrick Swayze's character in "Road House") is about 80 pounds of love.  He is a sweet, cuddly, couch potato most of the time.  He does like to run, and he loves to play with doggy toys.  He is a bit skittish around new people (especially men), but once he knows you, he will share his side of the sofa with you.  Dalton can perform commands like sit, lay down, and he jumps up on his back legs when you wave your hands in the air.  He was house broken in about a month, and (I am not lying) he even throws-up outside when his belly is bothering him.  When I had my surgery last year, he would lie in bed with me all day.  He would bring me a dog toy so we could play tug-o-war and fetch from my bed.  Both my daughters adore him, and he has never bitten or seriously growled at a soul.  I never worry about him when other children come to play for he is used to hugs around his neck, kisses on his nose, and little girls squishing up his face because, "He's just soooo cute, Mommy!" He is never going to win an award for, "Watchdog of the Year," and I do not know if he would alert us if someone was trapped in a well or an old mineshaft.  That is alright.  When we adopted a dog, we were not looking for an employee; we were looking for a faithful companion.  That is what we got.

Oh, and even though my husband was resistant to get a dog, guess who plays hide-and-seek with Dalton every evening?  Yep.  Mr. "We-don't-really-need-a-dog" loves that mutt so much.  The first night Dalton stayed at our home, we were trying to decide where he would sleep.  My husband said, "Well, he is lying in his dog bed, so why don't we put it in our room?"  That dog bed has been on the floor next to our bed (on my husband's side) for two years.  Sometimes Dalton sleeps downstairs on the couch, but most nights he is snoozing there by his master's side.  I walked into our bedroom one evening to find my husband lying on the floor, his head on the dog's head, giving only what I would describe as, "doggie lovin's," to Dalton.  They both looked up at me when I walked in and witnessed the man/dog affection.  I pointed at my husband and yelled, "Dog Lover!!!!"  He could not deny it.  He loves Dalton as much as the rest of us.

If you do not have a dog, you need to ask why not.  You do need to make sure you have the time and space for a dog.  They are very much like having a baby:  very cute and a lot of work at the beginning, but as soon as they learn where to pee, everything else gets easier.  There are so many dogs (and cats, do not forget about the kitties) that need good homes.  If you truly believe your heart and  home have room for a pooch, go find your new best friend.

My next goal is to convince my husband to let us get a second dog.  His arguement is, "Then you'll want a third dog, then a fourth dog."  My rebuttal is, "I only made you give me two kids!"  I'll wait a little longer, but I think think Dalton needs a brother.


 

What is the best gift you ever received?

There are so many occasions where we receive gifts.  We give and get gifts on our birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, and to celebrate an accomplishment.  Gifts are a special way to show someone you love them or to apologize when you do something stupid.  If you had to think of the best gift you ever received, what would your answer be?  A puppy?  A piece of jewelry?  How about if I asked you what was the best gift you ever gave to someone?  Well, I have a story for you.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl.  She was born into a home full of love.  Her parents would have given her anything to make her happy and healthy, but unfortunately, she had a liver condition called biliary atresia.  A condition that would deteriorate her liver and body and quality of life to the point where she was nearly broken.  What could her parents do?  What could anyone do but pray and hope that things would get better?

Last year, a woman dealing with a tragic turn of events was asking God why she was being faced with a decision she was not ready to make.  Her husband had been brought to the hospital with a headache and nausea.  Two days later her was pronounced brain dead from a cerebral hemorrhage.  Why?  How was she ever going to explain this to her children?  How would they understand it?  Would they ever know the kind of father they had only had for eight and four years?  She only wished there was a way for her tragic loss to have a reason.  Her head was spinning with the medical terminology being used in conversation by the doctors.  Her heart was breaking at the thought of explaining to her children that they had to say good-bye to their dad.  Her stomach was sick at the thought that she was going to be a widow at 41 years of age.  Of all the nurses, doctors, friends and family at the hospital, she was also asked to give her attention to the organ donation staff.  Would she be willing to let her husband's organs be evaluated to see if any were suitable for transplant?  She did not have to think long about her answer.  If there was anything they could harvest, she gave them permission to do so.

That girl received a new liver nearly a year ago.  She is a smiling young lady that is the healthiest she has ever been.  She gets to buy cute clothes again because she is living a normal life for an eleven year-old girl.   Her parents must be so excited to feel that they are going to be able to experience something that could have been taken away from them.  They are going to see her grow up. 

Amid all the stress, emotions, devistation, and despair, that woman cleared her mind long enough to know that the only way something good could come from her heartbreak was to allow the organ procurement team to do their jobs.  The precious gift of life that her husband possessed could become a gift of life to someone else.  Someone received his spleen, his corneas, and his liver.

April 19th, 2013 is Blue and Green Day.  It is about supporting organ, eye, and tissue donation.  Make sure your family and friends know if you want your organs donated.  If something tragic puts them in the position to have to make that decision, make it easier by telling them before it happens.  If for some reason you feel organ donation is, "weird," or, "creepy," consider how you would feel if you (or your daughter) needed a new liver, or a heart, or a kidney, or a spleen, or a lung... 

The best gift you can give is the one someone else cannot live without.  How often do we get that opportunity?  Be an organ donor.  Make sure people know you want to be an organ donor.  If you have to make that decision for someone you love, I think it is always best to err on the side of life-giving generosity.

(Dedicated to Dave, jr.)

The Right to Bear Arms

One of the biggest topics of conversation lately, other than the NCAA basketball brackets, is the subject of gun control.  Like all political issues, there are groups on each side of this topic that are passionate in their beliefs.  There is a large group of the public that is floating in the middle of the pool.  They have thoughts that cause them to float to one side of the debate but then the waves can take them to the opposite side.  There seems to be a belief that you have to be ultra pro-gun or mega pro-control.  I am one of those floating somewhere in the middle.  So, here goes my first politically based blog post.

I believe, as a United States citizen, I should be able to own and carry a gun if I qualify for one.  I am required to pass a test and obey certain laws to have and keep a drivers license.  If I want to legally catch a fish, I have to fill out a form and get a fishing license.  I show my identification when I purchase alcohol, and I have had a criminal background check done prior to volunteering at my children's school.  When I adopted my dog from a rescue group, I filled out a four or five page application, had to give three references, and list the name and number of my veterinarian to make sure I would be a responsible pet owner.  I follow all these guidelines to show that whatever it is that I am pursuing, I am willing to show the powers that be that I meet the requirements listed for the desired task.  If I am found not to possess the basic skills needed to safely drive a car, or own a dog, or hook a blue gill, that privilege is taken away from me.  If I decide to continue these activities regardless, then if I am caught I can be punished on varying levels of severity.

My father was a police officer for 20 years and an avid hunter.  I would estimate that the number of rifles and handguns in our home for most of my childhood probably numbered around ten.  My siblings and I knew where they were.  The rifles were not kept loaded, but we knew where the ammunition was.  The handguns were loaded, no trigger locks, and kept out of reach, but all it would have taken was a kitchen chair pushed into to the bedroom closet to get them.  My father carried a gun every time he left our property line.  He not only wore a gun to work, but he carried a gun to church, the grocery store, to our cousin's house for birthday parties, and even to grandma's house for Thanksgiving dinner.  He usually would take it off when we got to our relative's home and put it on top of the refrigerator.  When it was time to go, the gun was placed back on this hip.  However, you would never have known he was ever, "packing heat."  His small, off duty gun was always covered by his shirt.  My dad never tucked in his shirts because they concealed his weapon.  If my dad's badge was hidden in his wallet, then his gun was hidden under his shirt.  The only time my dad's revolver was obviously displayed was when he was in uniform and his badge was as well.  Out of uniform, he did not want people to know he was carrying a gun.  It was there in case he needed it, not to let people know he had the right to carry it.  We were taught about how guns worked, how to clean them (I can smell the gun oil in my mind), and how to respect them.  They were not toys, they were not to represent status, and they could not only protect but also kill.  When your father is a cop, you want him to carry a gun to work with him, and you want to make sure his bullet-proof vest (which he wore every night) is just an uncomfortable wardrobe accessory.

I do not think gun control should mean that people can no longer own guns.  I know that any type of gun regulation is not going to prevent criminals from being able to get firearms that they will use in violent crimes.  I do think there should be guidelines as to what kind of weapons should be available for private ownership.  Prescription drugs are regulated and require a doctor to issue them.  Many prescription drugs have become the most popular street drugs, so obviously the wrong people are getting access to them.  But, what would it be like if Oxycontin was available to buy like aspirin?  People can get their hands on it if they want, but if they are caught with it, there are legal repercussions. 

When it comes to gun control, I want my law enforcement and military officers to have access to better weapons than the public.  I do not want the asshole who sells crack out of his kitchen to be able to buy an assault rifle that holds 30+ rounds.  During a recent demonstration against gun control, a supporter was holding a sign that said, "Criminals don't register their guns."  This is true.  Responsible gun owners register their weapons.  Responsible gun owners educate their children on how to respect firearms.  However, responsible gun owners cannot deny the fact that not everyone can be trusted with the responsibility of a gun.  Do not start quoting the Second Amendment without thinking of the responsibility that comes with it.  We have driver's education and learner's permits before we allow a person to drive a car.  They have a written test, a driving test, and a vision test to pass before they can legally operate the vehicle.  Responsible drivers abide traffic laws, have auto insurance, do not drive while impaired, and keep their vehicles maintained.  Irresponsible drivers do none of these and are commonly the ones that are the cause of fatal accidents.  Imagine if the irresponsible drivers had access to an Indy car.  Even more damage could be done with a vehicle that goes 200 mph.  I know that people will read this and say these examples are not comparable to the issues of gun control.  I think they are.

If guns are legal to buy and own, make the purchaser prove they are qualified for the responsibility.  They should have a clean criminal background check.  They should be able to show they can load, operate, and unload the firearms.  They should be given materials and resources on gun safety for homes with children.  There should be categories of weapons that are not accessible to people outside of law enforcement or military personnel.  If you need an Uzi to defend your home, you probably are involved in something illegal or you are a Cuban immigrant being played by Al Pacino.  I believe most pro-gun activists are responsible gun owners.  What they need to see is that there need to be regulations since not everyone can be a responsible gun owner.  I also do not want the government to reduce my options and privileges, but I do not oppose proving that I am able to be trusted in my choices.  If someone were to illegally enter my home, they would hear the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being cocked. If that sound alone does not make them wet their pants and leave, then I am glad I have that tool at my disposal to protect my family, my home, and myself from an uninvited intruder. 

We live in a different world than when our Bill of Rights was written.  A world where people walk into movie theaters and shoot random people for no reason.  Children are shot in their schools.  People make illegal drugs in their garage out of the medicines most of us take for sinus congestion.  Weirdos kidnap children and hold them in backyard bunkers for years.  I think there must be a way to find some middle ground that still gives people the, "Right to Bear Arms," while making sure they can do it with accountability.