Working Together - A Labor of Love

Working Together

(Sadly,  since I wrote this a year or two ago,  we lost Grandma)

As a child growing up in rural Vermont, there were some chores I hated doing,

and, yet, for some reason I have this strange compulsion to drag my kids through

the same motions I so despised in my childhood. Why? Because now I see these

experiences as valuable.

This past weekend, while my husband and daughter were out on a father-daughter

trip, I spent the afternoon with my boys, ages 7 and 9, stacking wood for my

parents. There have been times when the kids have balked at the idea of manual

labor, but on this particular day they were amenable to participating. It was a

beautiful sunny, but chilly, day and perfect for such an activity. We went with

Grandpa to fix the tractor , but as daylight waned we decided to use more old

fashioned methods instead. The boys cooperated (a rare sight between

brothers in our household) to fill a dolly with wood and transport it across the

dirt road. My youngest, in little brother fashion, tried to one-up his big brother in

strength, but had to accept the fact that his brother had two years on him which

was not going to be ignored.

For a while, my 7 year old helped stack wood in the basement. He made a game

of it and started trying to see how many logs he could throw in before I grabbed the

next one to stack. Later, while I collected wheelbarrows full to add to the pile, he

showed me a marvelous stack that impressed me, and him. He was so proud of his

work, celebrating the sense of mastery he felt over a job well done. He didn't even

need praise from me, although I acknowledged the size of the stack he had built.

I left him to finish his work and went to look for his brother who was shirking in the

kitchen. After a bit of coaxing, my older son came with me to add to the stacks in

the woodshed. While he worked, he talked about the exercise we were getting

from all this work and mused: “Ya know, we don't do this to get rewarded, we do

this to help out the family; to be out on this nice day and so Grandma and Grandpa

will be warm”. All of this came not from me, but from the act of putting in some

good honest work. Sometimes, as a busy parent,  I forget how these experiences

provide, all by themselves, a sense of accomplishment, mastery and strength. Had

I paid the kids or even tried to sell the activity as a “good deed,” the point that didn't

need to be made would not, in fact, have been made at all.

As I worked, I thought to myself how thankful I am to have such an experience

to share with my children. As I breathed the fresh, crisp air that was infused with

woodsmoke and looked at the setting sun over the mountain, I thought about how

valuable this whole experience was and on how it was right on so many levels. It

would be a challenge to conjure up an activity that could rival this one for teaching

self-esteem, healthy exercise, the value of hard work and giving to others. And

the best thing of all is that it was free. Plus, when it was too dark to work, we

went inside and had endless cups of tea and chocolate-covered tea biscuits with

Grandma and Grandpa.

Parental Sacrifice - or not

Please excuse the lack of punctuation (run-ons  and double spacing - sorry but I am old and I just can't help it)...
The private,  inner,  underside that lurks in the mind of a mother... Thoughts  that shouldn't be thought much less uttered aloud... or on paper... or in cyberspace for that matter... either because they are very bad or just a pure waste of time.

There is a reason why I am willing to let my kids eat something that has recently expired or might be a little off rather than throwing myself on the sword, so to speak and eating it first.  Behind most seemingly illogical and scatterbrained maneuvers on my part (which are many) there are several carefully speculated calculations (although my husband doesn't believe this to be true).   I digress...     The reason is this:  First of all,  the probability of the food actually harming someone is a fraction of 1% and the kids don't know that  the food is expired and so they will eat it happily and not get the willies like I would even though I know intellectually that it won't hurt me. Probably.  Second,  if they get cheated by statistics and get some awful food poisoning and are in bed puking for a day at least they will have a healthy parent available to nurture them,  whereas if I am the one afflicted then the whole shebang shuts down, even though a part of me would welcome the bedrest (albeit preferably not that kind of bedrest).   Third,  my mother used to just cut or scoop the mold off something and hand it to us,  ignoring our cries of "it's moldy,  we're going to die" as if we had taken leave of our senses.   I assume most people don't way over think things like I do, and I am certain my mother did not either.

At any rate, this morning I did take the first bite of  the pink pancake that was made (without my knowledge) with the frozen raspberries that I have a vague memory of buying several years ago in an attempt to get more fruit into my toddlers by making some delicious concoction probably topped with whipped cream and the open container of maple syrup that someone took out of the back of their fridge and gave to me when they were moving last July  and that a kid  had rescued from the back of our fridge this morning  to put on the pancakes and so I know not the origin or age of the product - not out of motherly sacrifice,  but because my blood sugar rendered me desperate for sustenance.

Going to the Gym (or anywhere) ADHD style

A long post about nothing...
I know that "going to the gym" might be simple to some people, but this is how someone with ADHD (minus the H) "goes to the gym": If I had the H I wouldn't need to go to the gym...

You look up from your book and decide that yes, today will be a day you go to the gym and that you have just enough time to go if you stop reading now and get out the door. So you read a few more pages and finish your coffee and say that if you hurry you can get there before your blood sugar renders you completely useless.
First you search for your (barely effective) sports bra that you must have bought ten years ago and then you try to locate two socks - color is of no consequence since finding two of anything is considered a miracle. Then you look and look and turn the house upside down for your sweat shorts that you bought specifically for the gym. You mutter and then graduate to panicky whining while you dig around in the pile of laundry on the couch but the things are gone. Just gone. So after interrogating everyone in the house you find your Khaki shorts and whine to yourself "I can't wear KHAKI's to the the GYM!!! so you give up for a while hoping that if you stop looking the other shorts will turn up and you go looking for a shirt. You find a perfect one a few layers down in your hamper and though it is wrinkled you put it on saying that who cares, you are only going to the gym. Then you look in the mirror and say to your reflection "so you won't wear khaki's to the gym but you are willing to wear something -unashamedly - that totally looks like you grabbed it out of the hamper???" So you look for the spray bottle that you bought to spray on wrinkles because you never, EVER iron anything and never intend to either and when you can't find it you accuse your boys of destroying yet ANOTHER spray bottle and demand an explanation as to why a spray bottle never lasts more than five minutes in your house. You of course are standing in your undies in a wrinkled shirt having a hissy fit so you remember that "oh, yeah, I was looking for my shorts" so you go upstairs and look under a few piles of clothing and finally locate them. You find some headphones that work after rejecting three pairs of broken ones and find that your phone has just enough battery after you snatch it out of your boy's grubby little hands. Actually, you don't snatch it, you wait tapping your foot while he finishes the game and all the while you go on and on about how you have told him a million times before not to use up the phone battery and can't you just have ONE thing that is yours and that other people don't have to take from you..... then your blood sugar plummets and you realize that you waited too long and so you grab a handful of cashews which make you thirsty which reminds you that you forgot to get a water bottle and where are all the parts to the bottle that you just bought the other day so you finally get it assembled and run out the door and get into your car but you forgot the keys so you go back in and when you do you grab some more cashews but forget the keys so you get back in the car and swear and get out and go after the keys and when you get in the house you see the bag which holds your sneakers and you are so glad because last time you forgot them and had to come ALL the way back and you were pissed. So now you are ready to go and the whole way you calculate how you are going to fit your whole workout into half the time you had planned and you wonder if you should just say to hell with it all and go out to breakfast instead... Oh - a yard sale!

Another post about going to the gym

A long post about nothing... I know that "going to the gym" might be simple to some people, but this is how someone with ADHD (minus the H) "goes to the gym": If I had the H I wouldn't need to go to the gym... You look up from your book and decide that yes, today will be a day you go to the gym and that you have just enough time to go if you stop reading now and get out the door. So you read a few more pages and finish your coffee and say that if you hurry you can get there before your blood sugar renders you completely useless. First you search for your (barely effective) sports bra that you must have bought ten years ago and then you try to locate two socks - color is of no consequence since finding two of anything is considered a miracle. Then you look and look and turn the house upside down for your sweat shorts that you bought specifically for the gym. You mutter and then graduate to panicky whining while you dig around in the pile of laundry on the couch but the things are gone. Just gone. So after interrogating everyone in the house you find your Khaki shorts and whine to yourself "I can't wear KHAKI's to the the GYM!!! so you give up for a while hoping that if you stop looking the other shorts will turn up and you go looking for a shirt. You find a perfect one a few layers down in your hamper and though it is wrinkled you put it on saying that who cares, you are only going to the gym. Then you look in the mirror and say to your reflection "so you won't wear khaki's to the gym but you are willing to wear something -unashamedly - that totally looks like you grabbed it out of the hamper???" So you look for the spray bottle that you bought to spray on wrinkles because you never, EVER iron anything and never intend to either and when you can't find it you accuse your boys of destroying yet ANOTHER spray bottle and demand an explanation as to why a spray bottle never lasts more than five minutes in your house. You of course are standing in your undies in a wrinkled shirt having a hissy fit so you remember that "oh, yeah, I was looking for my shorts" so you go upstairs and look under a few piles of clothing and finally locate them. You find some headphones that work after rejecting three pairs of broken ones and find that your phone has just enough battery after you snatch it out of your boy's grubby little hands. Actually, you don't snatch it, you wait tapping your foot while he finishes the game and all the while you go on and on about how you have told him a million times before not to use up the phone battery and can't you just have ONE thing that is yours and that other people don't have to take from you..... then your blood sugar plummets and you realize that you waited too long and so you grab a handful of cashews which make you thirsty which reminds you that you forgot to get a water bottle and where are all the parts to the bottle that you just bought the other day so you finally get it assembled and run out the door and get into your car but you forgot the keys so you go back in and when you do you grab some more cashews but forget the keys so you get back in the car and swear and get out and go after the keys and when you get in the house you see the bag which holds your sneakers and you are so glad because last time you forgot them and had to come ALL the way back and you were pissed. So now you are ready to go and the whole way you calculate how you are going to fit your whole workout into half the time you had planned and you wonder if you should just say to hell with it all and go out to breakfast instead... Oh - a yard sale!

Summertime in Vermont

This was written at least six years ago after an elderly friend of the family visited for two days and told me with much disdain that: "children thrive on routine, you know." It is supposed to be in some form of poem fashion (I don't usually even read poetry much less write it) but when it appears on the blog it's all smushed together. Forgive me. * * * I re-read this with sadness, as the bowling alley closed this summer, the drive-in is probably on its way out since the new Walmart went up directly across the street with all the lights and traffic. The grandparents are still there, rattling around in their old farm house but the cows are gone and the hayfields are growing over with weeds. Time is fleeting and family is precious. * * * * * * * * * * SUMMER TIME IN VERMONT by Gillian Ireland ******************* Summertime is a time of beauty; a time when chaos reigns,  routine is banished and bedtimes are  ignored, and when dirt and sweat intermingle. Adventure becomes the word of the day. Kids are brought home, tired and happy from the folk festival or campfire and put to bed with dirty feet from dancing in the mud,  or smelling of wood smoke. That's okay, they'll jump in the swimming hole tomorrow. Or maybe they'll flood the sandbox again.  I'll wash the sheets  before the summer's out. Six kids overpower the car radio by chanting "Beach! Beach!" when the driver comments on the impending rain.  But she mentions bowling under her breath and the chants change to "Bow-ling!  Bow-ling!"  - Kids are so fickle. I should wash the kitchen floor instead. Nah, not on a rainy day. It would be covered in mud in an hour. Lazy days spent in the hammock with a book or hours spent in the sandbox. Gotta tell the middle child to get off the computer and go outside while I hide near the new air conditioner and clean the living room. Summertime is a bad time for frogs.  They are caught several times over, stuffed in a jar and stared at by  the not-so-innocent eyes of their young captors. Not to mention run over on  rainy nights. I always think of the frog families on those nights.  Do they pace (hop) and worry when Freddy hasn't made it home yet? When I query the kids about this, they just say "OH MOM!" Summer means haying old-time style.  Romantic memories quickly turn to hard, sweaty work and longing for the end-of-the-day plunge in the swimming hole – if there's time. The vicarious joy (and slight fear) of the kids riding atop the wagon can't be manufactured by any company, by any means. Cousins arrive from the west coast. The attic and woodshed are pillaged. Small fingers comb piles of artifacts – a bear trap; an old horseshoe - and there is talk of making money at the Antiques Road Show. Every tree is climbed, feet are muddied in the pond, and flashlight tag competes with the fireflies. Everyone's too tired for a bonfire. Maybe tomorrow night. The kids are corralled by Grandma  to help pick gooseberries, which are miserable to pick and not tasty, except in jam, which the kids don't always like. I hope to goodness that my kids are too polite to refuse. They'd rather play in the attic with the treasures, no matter how hot it gets. Dinner at the farm brings stories of the war, when Grandpa had to dive behind the couch when the bombs came and the next day the school windows were blown out.  The audience's eyes are wide.  Grandma tells the story about when mommy was chased by the bull. Later Grandma enlists volunteers to march with her peace group in the parade.  Hands go up. I wonder if we'll make it to the drive-in this year Summer is too short

Bad Example

MOM: A PRIME EXAMPLE OF A BAD EXAMPLE (written 5 or 6 years ago).

“There goes Mom, being a bad example again...” I heard this from my daughter a year ago or so. I try to be a good example for my kids, although anyone who has been to counseling school or watched Dr. Phil (which is cheaper) knows that to “try” is just not good enough. However, I do try; sometimes it is the best that I can offer.

My friend, let's call her Yvette, who is childless and fancy-free, has decided after about seven years that it is safe to come out of hiding and begin to visit her friends with kids again. One day she popped in to make my re-acquaintance. I was delighted. We got to talking and forgot about the treasure hunt in the woods which had been prepared for us earlier by my husband and son. We were reminded about it after supper. It was a snowy night, yet Yvette and I decided at about 8:00 pm that there was no time like the present and that we should go on the treasure hunt “now or never.” My daughter was ecstatic. We grabbed our just-opened beers and we were off to the deep woods with the treasure map and a head lamp.

“Mom”
“Yes honey?”
“You're not supposed to have alcohol up here.”
“So?”
“It says on the sign, 'no alcoholic beverages,' and beer is alcohol.”
“Well, I'm just having one.”
“You're not supposed to have any.”
“Um, well ... don't worry, it's dark. No one is going to see us...”

At this point my rational mind kicked in and told me what I was doing. I knew that this was the kind of rationalization I might have to pay for later in the teen age years. Horrible guilt-inducing words like “role-model” and “parental modeling” swam through my mind before any alcohol had time to take effect. I knew that this was a “teachable moment” and the lesson was all wrong. I had to take a swig of beer just to silence the voices. I took another gulp and secretly hoped that this conversation would never come up at school of all places. I finally came up with some mumbo-jumbo to tell my daughter about how I had just opened my beer when we decided to take a walk, and I didn't want to waste it, and when they say “no alcoholic beverages” they are really referring to teenagers lighting fires and drinking underage and leaving beer cans all over the mountain ... not a mother having ONE BEER while taking her daughter on a hike past her bed time in the woods at night ...
“it says 90 paces north ... which way is north?”
“Mom.”
“Yes honey?”
“What about the rabid raccoons?”
“Oh. I forgot about that.... well... uh, oh for goodness sake, live
a little. Here's a stick!”

Kids these days are so informed. There are so many things to be conscious about, such as the environment, world hunger, SAFETY. Having kids is like having your superego in overdrive all the time, following you around like a computer looking for breaches in security.

“Alert, alert, rule #457 broken in aisle 5, alert, ALERT...”
“Roger... tasers locked in and on standby...”

It's a good thing that kids are conscious and concerned about things. However having a little fun riding a shopping cart to the car, to me, is not that much of a breech of anything really, except of course it's setting a bad example. I have always told my kids never to ride a shopping cart unless it is carrying more than their weight in groceries. One day I was happily riding a cart loaded with groceries down an ever-so-slight incline. My daughter was mortified at the idea of anyone over 40 doing such a thing. So rather than slowing her pace and having a chance at passing me off as someone else's mother, she started chasing me and hitting me with a shopping flier and yelling hysterically: “why don't you put that in your bad mother book?!!” So much for a pleasant mother-daughter shopping trip. That girl has got to learn the art of fading into the woodwork like I learned to do so well as a child.

Another time, I found myself doing errands with a couple of extra kids. I don't know how many there were, but I remember a lot of limbs protruding from the shopping cart. It was one of those “car” carts which are impossible to steer and sound like a steam train rolling down the cement. I thought it was a good idea to keep everyone in the unwieldy Hannafords cart to nip into the dollarstore, thereby minimizing the transition and keeping my toddler out of the shelves. My daughter,as usual, was mortified. Eventually I had to park the cart, which was not to be navigated successfully in the aisles, and run down to the end of the store. I thought that anyone trying to kidnap this crew would have a struggle on their hands, so I didn't worry too much. Then I heard my daughter's unmistakably loud voice announcing to a line of customers: “This woman isn't my mother. She's my crazy aunt 300 times removed on my Dad's side!” Talk about calling attention to oneself! I made my purchase and slunk out of the store, as much as it was possible to slink under the circumstances, and barreled along to return the cart to Hannafords. As expected, I got a tongue-lashing from my alter ego for speeding.

ZUMBA- What's all the fuss about?

JUST TO SEE WHAT ALL THE FUSS IS ABOUT

Having grown up on a farm, I always tended to “poo poo” going to the gym and actually paying for exercise. I always thought that being outdoors doing hard work was the natural way to stay healthy; that exercise should fit inextricably in with a busy active life. Since I have been off the farm for 38 years now, that is the number of years of denial this way of thinking has afforded me.

I'm not opposed to staying fit, I have just kept thinking that tomorrow I'll take a nice long walk, which I was doing with some regularity until I twisted my knee two winters ago. It's so easy to get out of the habit. So after seeing post after post from friends on facebook who are Zumba fans – no, Zumba maniacs – I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. It seemed that all the people who mentioned Zumba on facebook were also saying things like “isn't life beautiful” and “what a fresh morning”.

This morning I was determined to take the plunge after seeing a poster which for all intents and purposes could have been labeled “old lady Zumba”. I called the gym to inquire about just that, and found that my first class would be free. Great.

I would say the single biggest barrier (besides my butt) to going to the gym has been my lack of appropriate gym wear. Shorts require leg-shaving, and spandex is absolutely out of the question. That leaves me with sweat pants or pajamas. I almost aborted the mission this morning because I could not for the life of me find my sweats and my pajamas were too loud and Christmassy to wear in public. Finally, donned in sweatpants that I bought in college, a camp shirt from 1995 and sneakers that are at least as old as my children and whose insoles were eaten by the dog last year, I was ready to step out into Zumba world.

It was a small class, and I noticed that only 50% of the class was older than me, which makes me think that I was incorrect about the old lady part, or worse, I was in fact right on. I was horrified to see a huge mirror before me, but succeeded in keeping my eyes only on the instructor in it. If I stayed in the back I could be as uncoordinated as I liked until the whole class turned around putting me in the front. Fortunately that was not often.

So if my facebook posts start to be uplifting and airy and full of quotes about the beauty and wonders of life rather than how beaten down and old I feel, you can assume that I'm on the Zumba train.