Tagged!

So, my friend Cindy says she misses me blogging on a regular basis. She’s not the only one! I miss it, too.

Cindy tagged me in a post, so I would HAVE to blog, and so here we go…

Given a plane ticket to anywhere in the world, where would you go?
I think I would go to Maine. I really want to go to Disneyworld in Florida, but if I’m only getting a plane ticket and not an all-expenses-paid trip in this little fictional exercise, then I would go to Maine. Why Maine? Because one of my all time fictional heroes, Jessica Fletcher, was/is from Maine.

I remember watching Murder She Wrote with my mom all those years and thinking how Maine would be such a nice (albeit murderous) place to visit.

Second (or third, if we’re still counting Florida) would be a nice, cozy cabin in Vermont in the dead of winter. If you know me at all, you know I hate summer weather, so a winter vacation in a snowy state would be right up my alley.

Who is your most admired woman, living or dead, and why?
Well, that’s easy. My mother, of course. I’ve extolled Mom’s many virtues in several other posts. All other places would go to my grandmother, mother-in-law, sister, and several of my wonderful sisters-in-law, nieces, aunts and cousins.

If I don’t include family, I guess I’d have to say Dr. Rosalie de Rosset, one of my professors at Moody. She was the first person to communicate clearly how much God loves women. Up until I met Dr. de Rosset, I thought God loved me less, because I was a woman.

It was Dr. de Rosset who challenged my perception and shoved me into the bright light that was God’s love for ME, as a person AND as a woman. I liked her style, her refusal to pacify male chauvinists, and her take-no-prisoners approach to teaching. Keep up or get out.

She loved the Lord, but everyone else better pay attention and work hard to get noticed. I sure did, and I was extremely pleased when my end-of-class essay was one of only two she chose to read out loud on the last day of class. I’ve done a lot of writing in my life, but that stands out as one of my proudest moments.

(Besides the Bible, of course) What is your favorite book, and why?
My favorite book is The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Boom. I’ve written about it numerous times. It never fails to move me. I am continually reminded to remember the over six million people who died in civilization’s greatest tragedy. Corrie’s book shows God’s love in such overwhelming circumstances from a vantage point that is uniquely heartbreaking.

Do you re-read favorite books? (If so, care to name which ones?)
Absolutely! My policy is to never buy a book unless I am sure I will re-read it. I mean, otherwise, there’s always the library, right?

I love to re-read Stones from the River (Ursula Hegi), Bad Luck and Trouble (Lee Child), Chocolate Malts and Nickel Sodas (Margaret Johnson – it’s now out of print, sadly), and Body Politic (by Paul Johnston).

What is the biggest difference (other than gender!) between you and your husband?
Wowsa. Loaded question. Does “everything” count as an answer? I mean, seriously, we are polar opposites. He’s mostly a pessimist (unless it comes to people); I’m an optimist (unless it comes to people). I’m ambitious; he’s laid back. I’m neat; he’s a pack rat. I’m a planner; he’s spontaneous. I could go on, but seriously, pick something, and I can almost guarantee we’ll be on opposite sides of it!

What is your favorite soup?
The Baked Potato Soup at The Olympic Tavern. Hands down, the best (potato or any other kind of) soup, I’ve ever had.

If calories, weight gain or health were no object, what food would you eat all you wanted of?
Yeah, like I’d let that stop me anyway. Okay, if you know me, if you read my blog, you already guessed this…bagels and cream cheese!

Untitled (because I’m literally that empty headed)

Words, stories of any kind have just deserted me of late. I want to want to write, but I feel like a dry well. Once good for something, but now just creaky, parched, and kind of an eyesore someone should raze out of its misery.

I sat down to write a blog post, and ended up writing something pretty foreign to me – a poem. I like it, though, and I think it perfectly expresses how I feel.

Untitled

Maybe I’m not supposed to have the words

Maybe it’s the price I paid

For the baby in my womb

Frustrated, silent and unsaturated

Familiar friends, my verbs and nouns

They skirt the room, eluding me

I wish my urge to chase was stronger

But toys and books and children’s clutter

Calls to me with siren song

Oh housewife of yore

That twit you swore you’d never be

Looks back at you in shock

I can’t relent

I wouldn’t take it back

For all the pictures words would paint

My child’s cry is more

My Birthday with The Other Guys

Yesterday Angie took me to the movies, ostensibly for my birthday. The truth is Angie and I will use any reason we can think of to go to the movies, including a solar eclipse, religious holidays, and the end of the world.

We pull the "birthday" ruse, so our husbands will think of how "nice" we're being to each other and be less likely to figure out that we are each having about six birthdays a year. (I kid, I kid.)

Anyway, a big thank you to Tim (Angie's husband) and Brett for taking the parental reigns solo and letting the two of us hit the town for dinner and couple $5 movies.

I had only planned on seeing one movie. When Angie and I had talked over the phone, I said I wanted to see The Other Guys (namely, because of the magnificent Mr. Wahlberg). I noticed, however, Ms. Actionista kept trying to persuade me that The Expendables would also be an excellent choice.

I didn't particularly want to see The Expendables, even if every action star ever born was in it, since the script was written by a solid piece of wood known as Sylvester Stallone. Said piece of wood was also the director of this plotless wonder.

But when Angie picked me up from work, she said, "I know you have to work tomorrow, but we could still see at least two movies."

She said it in such as way as to imply that if I didn't want to see two movies, I was a gutless, spiny old person. Washed up at (almost) 32.

I understand, though. Angie and I are true Movie Mavens. Back when Kerasotes had the $5 Club, we'd take a Friday, start in the afternoon, and see up to four movies. Our personal record was five movies in one day! We started at noon (I had taken the day off) and went until 2 a.m.

It was crazy, but it is also a great story to share and glory moment to relive. People are always like, "Five movies in one day! Are you nuts?!"

And we love to admit that we are a little nuts. But you knew that.

Anyway, I accepted Angie's challenge. We went to Panera for a delicious dinner (albeit extremely small portions for the exorbitant price). And then we had to stop at Wal-Mart, because Angie thought she might be cold in the theater. One of the hottest summers on record, and she thinks the theater might be over air-conditioned. Whereas, I, on the other hand, would be willing to sit in the front row hugging the AC vent for dear life.

Ah, well. It is our differences that make us friends.

Angie bought her sweatshirt (a man's Ultimate Fighting something or another – Angie loves the whole UFC thing, and because I listen to her, I actually noticed the logo, and pointed the sweatshirt out to her, despite my distaste for sports and sweaty men. If that isn't friendship, I don't know what is.). Then we headed to the movies.

We did stop along the way to take a photo of a dog driving a car in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Angie used her smart phone to snap the photo and upload it to Facebook while I cooed at the adorable mobile mutt.

At the theater, Angie pulled a surprise by announcing she had even budgeted for popcorn! This is quite a sacrifice, as popcorn at the AMC Theatres is now gone up to $100 per bag. Well, okay, not that much, but it was still a jump. At Kerasotes, we used to get the "Mega Combo" – two large drinks and a tub of popcorn for $13. At AMC, they will only give you a large bag (no tubs!) and two large drinks for a whopping $18! Holy cow!

Anyway, Angie said she had previously decided to offer the popcorn option ONLY if I agreed to two movies (since with two movies she felt like she'd be getting her money's worth of popcorn). So, I was very grateful, because we've been boycotting popcorn ever since the theater switch, even though we both stare longingly at the concession counter every time we see a movie.

So, we settled in with our (not-as-good-as-Kerasotes') popcorn to watch The Expendables. We had to sit through not one but TWO previews for movies about the devil – in one, a bunch of people are stuck in an elevator with the devil (but you don't know who it is), and a second one about an exorcism. No thank you.

Although, I admit I smiled slightly when I leaned over to Angie and whispered, "Why all the movies about the devil?" and she replied, "The end times." And continued to calmly eat her popcorn while I covered my eyes. I can't watch scary movies – or even scary movie previews – they give me nightmares for weeks!

The Expendables had a predictable plot and a horrible script (expected, as it was written by an oak tree), but the acting was decent, and it sure was something to see all those action stars in one movie. Bruce Willis and Arnold Schwarzenegger showed up for some corny one-liners (but got cheers from our fellow moviegoers). Mickey Rourke continued to prove himself as an actor with some range in that messed up face.

My favorite was Jet Li who had some great dialogue and terrific martial arts action for an oldster. And, of course, Jason Statham was clearly in his element surrounded by his predecessors. It was actually a very cool torch-passing movie.

I could have done without Stallone or Lundgren and all the UFC fighters, wrestlers, Little Leaguers or whatever they were. But Angie thought they lent some real street cred to the movie, so whatever. It was a fun, popcorn movie and that's all we really wanted or expected.

The Other Guys was WAY funnier than I expected. Will Ferrell was pitch-perfect, and Mark was flawless (and funny) as usual. My favorite line in the whole movie is "You learned to dance, sarcastically?!" It's in the midst of a hilarious scene, but Will Ferrell delivered it so perfectly, I felt like I was saying it. I love it when the movie draws you in so well that you can chose a character and can easily follow his mindset.

The movie got a little bogged down in the middle, and there was some smut that could have easily been left out (the movie is poorer for it, actually), but the end came roaring back. Michael Keaton is excellent as the hardened police captain with a side job at Bed, Bath and Beyond. Eve Mendes does a passable job (high praise coming from me). The Rock and Samuel L. Jackson steal the first part of the movie with some jokes and a surprise twist that bump the whole movie up a couple of notches.

Overall, I was really impressed, and Angie and I were both relieved we ended on that movie. It's always better to end on a more lighthearted movie before heading back into the real world.

The late-night car ride home was filled with rich conversation that might just keep me satisfied until our next movie night – which will undoubtedly be next month. When we celebrate Angie's birthday. Again.

That Guy on Facebook Who Just Won’t Friend Me

Well, my previous blog post lamenting my own selfishness and poor parenting skills brought many moms out of the boardrooms, playrooms and kitchens to commiserate with me. I thank you all – I really do – for the wonderfully supportive e-mails, blog comments, and Facebook "inboxes" (as my mother calls them).

(Side note: Mom thinks the Inbox on Facebook is a verb. So whenever she wants to send someone a private message, she tells me she is going to "inbox" them. Which of course makes me think of Mom walking up to someone and smacking them upside the head with a gigantic mail box. Which always makes me want to laugh, but I never do, partly because I want her to keep saying it.)

Seriously, I'm so touched by the many moms who told me my feelings were completely normal and that I don't qualify for the loony bin quite yet. I really wish people would talk about these things at church or in everyday conversations.

I wish more people would say, "Man, I have cereal loops in my hair." "Why is Jim-Joe being such a little crankpot today?" or "Has your kid ever tried to ride the vacuum?"

I think I'm going to start saying these things, just so someone is.

What my woe-is-me-just-because-I-got-everything-I-asked-for post DID do was unclog my brain just the tiniest bit, and so I thought I'd try to blog about the topic that is currently driving me nuts.

That Facebook guy who just won't friend me.

If you've read my blog for any length of time, then you know about The Bully Chronicles (see links at right for the full story). You know my experience at my tiny, legalistic "Christian" school left me physically battered and bruised as well as doing quite a number on my psyche.

I promise I'm not going to rehash those posts. They were painful enough to write the first time. I'm just using them as a springboard for some background.

While I dealt with bullies and bystanders, there were always people who were just on the sidelines. People who didn't sway one way or the other.

The neutrals.

My high school bullies were (mostly) in the class one grade higher than mine, my cousin Charity's class (and while Charity and I had our problems back then, she surely didn't bully me. I'm afraid I gave as good as I got on that particular score. But that's what family is for, right?).

My one-year-younger cousin Colleen's class was a sickeningly sweet swarm of do-gooders with plastic smiles, a penchant for antiquated rules, and a devotion to the dreaded culottes (I may be generalizing here a bit).

The REAL truth is the kids in Colleen's class were sincerely nice people, and not one of them ever treated me poorly, no matter how much I weighed or how sarcastic I was bent on being. Which is saying a lot. Because I was EXTREMELY sarcastic. (was?)

To be fair to Charity's class, the other two girls in her class are still two of my dearest friends (as is Charity, once our truce was negotiated).

Anyway, for the most part, the kids in Colleen's class were pretty neutral. I liked almost all of them, and have maintained a point of contact with several of the girls since high school (mostly through our mothers or shared friend Colleen).

But there is this one guy.

I saw him post a comment on our old science teacher's wife's Facebook status. I thought, "Oh, old Frank-n-Beans is on Facebook. I'll see if he wants to be friends."

I sent off my merry little friend request, and seeing as we already have 20 friends in common, I thought it would be a no-brainer. From a tiny school like Holy Rollers, knowing the same 20 people is akin to practically being family.

I didn't hear from good, ol' Frank for a while, and I chalked it up to his not being a regular Facebooker, like yours truly.

But then his comments started popping up on all my friends' statuses. So, I curiously visited his page to see the "Add as Friend" button grayed up in all its glory.

So, he'd ignored me. That little gray button seemed to taunt me as I began to wonder what was so wrong with me that Mr. Dudley-Do-Right, Mr. Frank-n-Beans would ignore me!

I lurked his page to discover he was married with kids. He looked relatively the same (as do I), and seemed to have a happy little life.

I gave myself the pep talk you give when you feel self-conscious. You know the one, where you say, "If someone doesn't want to be friends with you, then you don't want to be friends with them! It's their loss, so there!"

But it just gets under my skin that he doesn't want to be my friend.

I didn't DO anything mean to him. I was nice as pie. He wasn't exactly Mr. Popularity, but at 300 pounds I was hardly being crowned as Miss Typical Teenager, myself.

When I posted my insecurity on Facebook, I expected a blast of people telling me it didn't matter. Instead, I got sympathetic comments from friends who had felt the same way.

Other friends said they had former Sunday School teachers hit the Ignore button when it came to their friend request. Still other related horror stories about people removing them at a whim and even notifying them that they hadn't made the latest "friend" cut.

Ouch!

So, I suppose it could be worse.

I just wish there was a way to find out why he doesn't want to be my friend.

I think Facebook should invent a way for someone who ignores you to send you a message telling you why - a completely honest message - like, "Hey, I never really liked you." "I have a problem with fatties." "I have no interest in any part of your life, not even the tiniest bit. Not even if you write a blog post about me and how much I don't want anything to do with you."

Or, you know, something like that.

I Miss Me

Caveat: This is not an upbeat post. I'm dealing with some life issues, and as always, you're invited to come along. It's not a laugh-a-minute post, just how I've been feeling lately.

Life is busier than I ever remember it being.

I love my job. I do. I love it, and we need it to keep us financially afloat. God has used it to graciously provide for us to live, and I am so grateful.

But with the "new" (sorta) job comes more hours and definitely more work. Part of my being overwhelmed comes from rushing home to spend time with Sam and trying to squeeze in conversation and dinner with Brett (still eaten in shifts– as one of us entertains Sam, and the other eats).

I am going to be completely honest here. I resent the loss of my time.

There, I said it. MY time is gone – whoosh, poof, vanished!

Now, I wake up and rush to work. I rush home. I rush to sleep. I rush to wake up. Rinse, lather, repeat.

I get inexplicably mad at my husband for wanting me to come home after work.

I envision a stop at Wal-Mart as a time for me to unwind, wander, and refresh my mind as I buy baby food we can barely afford. Instead, Brett calls me almost every day right at quitting time. He wants to know when I'll be home. He doesn't push. He's not panicked. He understands my new job requires more working hours, but he still misses me.

Thankfully, he's not overwhelmed with Sam. He's a great stay-at-home dad. But, he gets cabin fever. With only one car, he and Sam have only Brett's legs to carry them wherever they wish to go. And with heat indexes pushing 100, air-conditioned, toddler-friendly spaces within walking distance are few and far between.

So, he calls me.

"When are you coming home?"

I tell him. Then I casually mention my stopover at Wal-Mart on the way. "Pick us up first," he suggests. "We'll go with you. It'll be fun."

I know, I KNOW I should be thrilled to spend time with husband and especially my (nine-years-prayed-for) baby, but all I really want is TIME BY MYSELF.

It irks me. It irritates me. And what could be a pleasant family trip to Wal-Mart ends up being a huge hassle. All because all I really wanted was a MOMENT for MYSELF.

Now, look I get it. I was thinking how selfish it was for me to be this way. I pray nine years for a baby and when I get one, I can't get away fast enough? But that's not entirely the case. The truth is I love, love, love being with Sam, and I'm with him a lot of the time.

It's just…

It's just I need a break. A breather. A few moments peace while I make the transition from work to home, from professional to mommy, from provider to homemaker, from the person I used to be to this new, harried self.

I miss being me. I miss Ann-Marie. I miss the girl who got lost somewhere along the line. I liked her. I liked spending time with her. Now, all I get is a glimpse in the mirror in the two minutes I get by myself in the bathroom. (And I hear those moments disappear as kids get older and figure how to open doors.)

I was berating myself, self-flagellating verbally to my friend Carleen about this the other day. As I was very nearly in tears explaining my horrible parenting, she stopped me.

"Ann-Marie, I don't think it's being completely selfish. I think it's that there are two kinds of people in this world. People who like being by themselves, and people who hate it. I hate to be by myself. I get lonely. I feel alone. So, I had three kids. I'm never lonely, and I'm definitely never by myself."

At this point I was nodding. I understand never being alone. And I happen to be married to a person just like the one she was describing. Brett hates being alone. He always wants to be with me. He always wants to be with Sam. He misses us desperately if one of us is gone.

She went on. "Now, you're a lot like my sister. You both like being by yourselves. You like spending time with just you. You don't feel lonely; you feel refreshed and recharged, just as you would if spending time with a good friend. So, with the loss of all your 'me' time, you're essentially grieving the death of a dear friendship. There's nothing wrong with your parenting. You love your son, and you love your husband. You just need some time with your friend – yourself."

Her words made me feel 100% better, as I realized she was right. I tried explaining this to Brett, but he kept thinking I was saying I didn't want to be with him.

I said, "No. I want to be with you. I just don't want to be with you ALL THE TIME. I want to be with me, just me, for a little while." Still, he was hurt and insulted. We talked for a while, so I could explain how I needed to recharge.

I told him I understood he was home with the baby all day, but that didn't mean I had to go "on call" for all the baby duty as soon as I walked in the door. I needed the transition time. I also needed a weeknight away. I offered the same for him.

At first, he was reluctant, but when I explained it would mean a free night for him to go to his favorite place, the bookstore, once a week, unaccompanied by a squealing little person, his ears did perk up.

Alone time isn't nearly as important to him, but some quiet time sounded pretty darn good.

I am still struggling with the loss of my friend, the loss of my own identity. The truth is that I think there is some selfishness mixed in there.

I didn't think I would have to lose myself to become a working mother, but I think I have. A part of me is just gone forever, and I'm not happy about it.

Being Conservative

I have become, like many of you, a Facebook addict.

I don’t obsess over it. However, I do feel something akin to loss and slight instability if I don’t check it at least once a day. Or twice a day. Or anytime I have a free hour.

It has become a burden to me, on many levels, and yet not one I’m willing to give up. (Never fear, at the end of this post, I will not be swearing off Facebook.)

Things I didn’t care about in the least, things I didn’t even know, are now common, even necessary, knowledge to my everyday life.

There are so many rants that have been done about Facebook, and I have to say all the best ones are already out there – people who join groups, people who join stupid groups, people who post things to provoke controversy, people who use hearts and smiley faces (guilty!), needy people who post co-dependent statuses, etc.

But that said, I have to put my own unique spin on what cracks me up.

Ready?

Here it is – people who “like” the group – Being Conservative.

Really? I mean, really? You “like” Being Conservative?

Okay, okay, well let me pare down why that makes me laugh every. single. time.

Thanks to my IFB-screwed-up background, every time I hear the word “conservative”, I picture zealous diatribes about female modesty, denim jumpers, and the ever-dreaded culottes.

So every time I see someone “like” Being Conservative, I picture them wearing culottes. And some of them, most of them, look pretty ridiculous. With men, it’s especially funny.

Me, I don’t “like” Being Conservative.

Being Conservative sounds boring and staid.

I mean, I’d like Being Passionate, Being Exciting, Being Fun, Being Joyful, etc. But, Being Conservative? Snore.

Being Conservative sounds like a root canal is about to take place.

So, I’m just saying - if you "like" Being Conservative, just realize - somewhere out there, someone is going to be visualizing you wearing culottes, and you are going to be looking pretty ludicrous.

And that’s something I can imagine Being Passionate about.

Back in the Saddle Again

I’ve been so neglectful of my dear, sweet blog.

I can’t believe Sam is going to be a year old in July, and the last time I blogged was in January! I knew working and caring for a baby was going to take a lot of time, but I honestly can’t say it’s been just a time issue. I also stopped writing, because I was mentally exhausted. I still managed to find time to watch 2.5 hours of TV at night or spend an hour on Facebook. Recreational writing just seemed to come to a standstill.

Part of it is the increase of work at work. Before, I had slow times or down times, and now it’s a consistent flow with about the same velocity, as say, oh, Niagara Falls. I’m not complaining, since I know I am fortunate to be employed, and even better, to be employed at a job I sincerely, truly enjoy. But working more, both hours and projects, sends me home with a lot less energy than I used to posses.

The other, weird thing is that I seem to have “dried up” creatively. At first, I thought it was sleep deprivation, then I thought it was lack of time, and then I realized that I was now looking at the world differently. In the old days, I would come home practically panting to blog. I wanted to share my day, my realizations, my frustrations, and hopefully something funny. Now, I just come home, play with the baby, eat dinner, watch TV, check Facebook, read, and go to bed.

It’s not that nothing happens in my day – a lot happens. It’s just I don’t have the urge or the energy to put it all into carefully crafted words. I thought for a time that I’d lost my sense of humor, but my co-workers still laugh at my jokes, and since they’re not pity-laughers, I figure I’ve still got it.

There is so much people can’t tell you about parenting. What Brett and I are learning is that every. single. parenting. situation. is different and tailored specifically to your family.

I was explaining it to Mom yesterday. I told her the things that would drive her nuts if she were married to Brett are not necessarily the things that drive me nuts. And vice versa. You get used to some things when you’ve been married to someone for nearly ten years.

Some things still surprise you, and that can be both a bad and a good thing. Do I like that my husband cooks dinner every couple of days? Absolutely wonderful surprise. Do I like that Brett’s temper in traffic hasn’t tapered off in spite of having an impressionable nearly-one year old in the back seat. No, and not all that much of a surprise.

But you have to take your situation and (with apologies to Hannah Montana) make the best of both worlds.

One of the best things about Brett’s stint as a stay-at-home dad has been the mornings.

I am not, thankfully, forced to run around like a chicken with my head cut off. Sam wakes up (I use him in place of an alarm clock), and that’s my cue. I make the bottle, and Brett brings Sam into our room. I snuggle with him while he eats, and then let him and dad go back to napping, while I take my time making breakfast and getting ready for work.

Then it’s back in the bedroom for goodbye kisses and snuggles, and I’m off to make a living.

I like the balance of our a.m. routine. Sam loves the extra sleep in the morning, and it gives me time to get stuff done without feeling like my baby is being neglected.

There is so much more I could tell you about how Sam is raising us, but I’m thinking I’m going to let it come in drips and drops, instead of flooding you with my dissertation on parenting.

Because, let’s face it, I could be wrong. Sam’s only 11 months, so I am not about to get cocky.

The Unique Journey

I love my cousin, Candice.

I mean, I’d love her anyway, because she’s family.

But I also love her because she’s honest with me when I wear something stupid and ask her opinion. She also keeps up with what’s trendy and what’s not and manages to look great without looking like she’s trying to look great.

I love knowing I can call her if a.) my husband locks himself out of our house, and I can’t leave work to let him in and b.) I just want to watch cable TV and eat cupcakes. She is always there for me, low-key and beautiful in all the right ways.

I love her for walking me through pregnancy and childbirth with a laid-back attitude. My first day home from the hospital after Sam’s birth was a nightmare. I was stressed, sleep-deprived, and a raw bundle of hormones and jacked-up nerves. I practically cried with relief when she showed up on my doorstep, Brielle in hand, and held the baby while I finally got to rest.

I think what I love best about Candice is that she assures me I can BE a mother. I don’t have to be Super Mom to be a super mom.

Growing up, my mother could not cook. I mean, she made “turkey burgers” that were actually gray and looked, smelled, and (I’m guessing) tasted like rotting, decaying flesh. Disgusting.

Dad and I used to joke about Mom’s cooking. We ate a LOT of TV dinners. Mom kept trying, and we kept tasting. Heaven knows I didn’t starve (quite the opposite, actually), but I never “filled up” on Mom’s cooking.

A couple of years ago, Mom and I were talking, and she mentioned her lack of cooking skills. I said the first thing that came to mind, “You didn’t have to be a good cook to be a good mom.”

I realized right after I said it how much I meant it. I mean, I’ve met some great cooks who were not great parents.

I thank God for the unique talents of my parents.

My dad was not a sports nut. He watched sports and would cheer for the Bears and the Bulls, but he wasn’t a fanatic. Instead, we bonded over reading books about World War II and watching sci-fi TV shows like the X-Files and Star Trek: The Next Generation.

My mom and I loved to go shopping and spend hours talking about anything and everything. Mom did crafts, but I wasn’t a fan, so I’d just talk to her as she cross-stitched sweatshirt after sweatshirt. We’d hole up on couches in the living room, and she’d read Dick Francis and Victoria Holt while I sped through my Calvin and Hobbes collection.

Getting back to Candice, and what prompted me to write this post in the first place, she sent me a birthday invitation the other day. Brielle, my beautiful not-niece, will turn 2 on Monday. I was so excited to have Sam’s (or “my Sammies” as Brielle calls him) first birthday party invitation!

I was even more excited to see it was a plain card with an adorable little monkey on the front (Small Paul, for those of you who know who he is). Candice had written in the information in plain black ink with a pen.

That’s it.

No personalized frou-frou handmade card with scalloped edges, no seed packet with re-planting instructions, no “please send a donation to Happy Little Helpers in Brielle’s name.”

Nope.

Just a “come out and party at the playground!” in black and white.

Now, I’m not saying fancy pants invitations are bad. I’m just saying for crying out loud, I sure don’t have the time or patience to mess with it when it’s my kid’s turn.

So, getting Brielle’s invitation once again reassured me I don’t have to completely reform my personality and turn into a pre-jail Martha Stewart happy little homemaker to be a quality parent.

I don’t have to do crafts.
I don’t have to breastfeed.
I don’t have to homeschool.
I don’t have to use cloth diapers.
I don’t have to teach my kid sign language.
I don’t have to feed my son only organic food.

I can be a good parent in so many ways. Ways that have nothing to do with any of those things.

Again, I’m not saying those are bad things. I’m just saying they are not me.

It is so freeing to look forward to being myself with Sam. I can’t wait to introduce him to the joys of reading. I can’t wait to make up special stories just for him. I can’t wait to see what HE wants to do.

My parents always encouraged me to find my passion. I played the drums in high school. I learned tennis with a bunch of public school kids through the Park District. I met other kids through the Whiz Kids writing class I took in middle school. And despite my deep and abiding loathing for the out-of-doors, I flourished alongside other thespians at Camp Joy’s Drama Camp.

I emerged from my parent’s home feeling like I really lived! And that’s the same experience I want for Sam. My parents didn’t change who they were in order to be good parents. They encouraged me to try new things and were excited when I found things I loved (tennis, no – writing, yes). They used our shared joys (reading, shopping) for bonding experiences. For the other things, they introduced me to mentors who loved the same things I did!

I’m hope I’m not discouraging the crafty, do-it-all moms out there with the time and talent who truly do it all, and do it all well. It’s just that I know my limitations. And I’m just so relieved they won’t stop me from mothering well.

In the end, I know we all want what’s best for our kids. We want them to be well-adjusted, accepting, loving, caring, and happy.

Every journey is different, and I plan to celebrate the uniqueness of ours.

Even if Sam loves sports and camping. I mean, of course, he can do those things.

With his dad.