I have been trying for about an hour to write my blog. I usually have no trouble whipping out my words. The time consuming part is cleaning up the word sludge that doesn't fit in. But tonight I am having more trouble than usual because my 10 year old daughter has been at my side since I got home from work on Friday night. She has spend the last 52 hours sharing with me every thought that has gone through her head.
I live to have her near me. I often crave her smile or her silly ways. She likes to watch Mork & Mindy and to strut her stuff to Just Dance 3. I love this girl! But she is my hurdle tonight.
Friday night began with a whirlwind when I came home to Husband preparing a donation box for Daughter to use while making balloon monkeys and swords at the music pre-fest for the Race City Festival. I know that seems like a lot of information in one sentence but it will explain itself soon. Then we loaded up the car with the donation box, about 100 uninflated balloons, a handheld balloon pump, an easel for displaying, and the family to head to down town for the pre-fest Fest. D set up shop and we were set. She made a few monkeys and swords and handed them out to whet the appetites of the smaller music fans. Business picked up and about 3 hours later, with fingers bright red, she was ready to go home. She counted her money. Over $42 in donations. With pride and exhaustion, we all fell asleep.
About 2 am D comes to me with a stomach ache. We use a scale in our house to gauge illness...10 is flying and 1 is dying. D was a 6 and described herself as feeling 'a little barfy.' I climbed into bed with her and next thing I knew it was 5:30 and no one barfed or continued complaining. I slithered back to my own bed grateful that my window faces north and I might get a few more hours of sleep. By 9am we were back in the car heading to Race City Fest. D had a new location (her karate studio) and the promise of more balloon-loving kids with parents who want to make big donations. We quickly learned that many vendors were giving out free things...including the guy across the street from our karate studio promoting HIS karate studio by giving out balloon swords! This was almost too much to bear but D began her pro bono balloon sculpting and donations began to line her box. At the end of the day, thanks in part to a generous donation from her karate sensei, D had collected another $60. She came home, added up the money from her 2 lemonade stands this spring, and tallied $120.78.
My little girl, who spend this whole Sunday glued to my side from the minute my feet hit the floor, tailing to me about whatever, and I mean whatever, crossed her mind, dancing with me to Just Dance 3, accompanying me to my new job training (ok--she benefitted here because she played with my coworker's daughter), helping me make dinner, keeps interrupting me because she needs to know how to spell words like Neuroblastoma and hospital for the Keynote she is creating to show her classmates what she did this weekend. There is nothing more natural than for me to start my blog all over again to tell you how proud I am of what D did for the families who benefit from the Harrison Nichols Foundation.
As she finished showing me the presentation a few minutes ago, I noticed that her final line said, "I raised $120. I am so happy!" I asked her why she was happy. "Because I helped people," she stated plainly like everyone feels this way. I had her write that on her slide.
"I am so happy because I helped people." I am happy too, D, because you remind me that every minute with you is a pleasure even if it sometimes keeps me from the things I feel compelled to do or I lose sleep overnight while your tummy gurgles. Nothing is more natural than spending time with you, helping you grow to become who you want to be, and soothing your ills.
Natural mothering is nurturing the spirit within. To my daughter there is nothing more natural than giving of herself. I hope that can rub off on me.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Occupational Hobo
Hobo often has such a negative connotation. Vagrant. Directionless. Homeless. Well, I am an occupational hobo. To me the word hobo brings up warm memories of a man named Jake.
My grandfather used to tell me a story of how when he was a little boy growing up on a farm in Marion, Pa. in the 1920s, a man used to come to his house and offer his services. In exchange for a meal or small change, this man would do odd jobs around the farm. My great grandmother would indulge him. I can't remember now what kinds of chores he would do, but I know that my grandfather would follow him around some. This man was named was Jake. It is no coincidence at all that my first pet was a stray cat that wandered into my grandparents' back yard (and their hearts) who they named Jake. When we played pretend, my grandfather always chose the name Jake for his character.
Remembering sitting on my grandparents' screened porch listening to stories about a hobo harkens up fond memories for me today. I get a warm feeling when I hear the word hobo. It is too bad that I don't get those same warm feelings when I think about my lack of career direction. I have worked in retail, the food service industry and education. I have been a cashier at a retail card establishment, a pretzel broker at a mall, a sandwich creator working with a woman who incessantly talked to herself, a special education aide and data processor for Dept. of Defense Dependents' Schools, a research assistant for a very demanding professor, a teaching assistant, a college instructor many times at many institutions and a high school teacher. I have probably had other occupations but have forgotten them by now. There have been aspects of all of these jobs that I have liked...and others that I have loathed. But all of these jobs have one thing in common, I have left them all.
When I leave one job for another, I fret. Just ask anyone in my family. I have a Master's degree in worrying and fretting. I feel like a failure because I didn't like the job. Maybe people depended on me and now I am letting them down. I am a people-pleaser by nature so I want people to like me. I work hard but tend to not stay in a job longer than a few years.
It is only within the last few weeks that I have decided to call myself an occupational hobo rather than an indecisive flit. Much like Jake, I move from job to job. My grandfather never said that Jake was desperate when he arrived on the farm or sad when he moved on. He just moved along. That is what he did. That is what I will do. I will stop worrying about how moving on or how occupational gaps will look on my resume. I'm an occupational hobo. I move along.
My grandfather used to tell me a story of how when he was a little boy growing up on a farm in Marion, Pa. in the 1920s, a man used to come to his house and offer his services. In exchange for a meal or small change, this man would do odd jobs around the farm. My great grandmother would indulge him. I can't remember now what kinds of chores he would do, but I know that my grandfather would follow him around some. This man was named was Jake. It is no coincidence at all that my first pet was a stray cat that wandered into my grandparents' back yard (and their hearts) who they named Jake. When we played pretend, my grandfather always chose the name Jake for his character.
Remembering sitting on my grandparents' screened porch listening to stories about a hobo harkens up fond memories for me today. I get a warm feeling when I hear the word hobo. It is too bad that I don't get those same warm feelings when I think about my lack of career direction. I have worked in retail, the food service industry and education. I have been a cashier at a retail card establishment, a pretzel broker at a mall, a sandwich creator working with a woman who incessantly talked to herself, a special education aide and data processor for Dept. of Defense Dependents' Schools, a research assistant for a very demanding professor, a teaching assistant, a college instructor many times at many institutions and a high school teacher. I have probably had other occupations but have forgotten them by now. There have been aspects of all of these jobs that I have liked...and others that I have loathed. But all of these jobs have one thing in common, I have left them all.
When I leave one job for another, I fret. Just ask anyone in my family. I have a Master's degree in worrying and fretting. I feel like a failure because I didn't like the job. Maybe people depended on me and now I am letting them down. I am a people-pleaser by nature so I want people to like me. I work hard but tend to not stay in a job longer than a few years.
It is only within the last few weeks that I have decided to call myself an occupational hobo rather than an indecisive flit. Much like Jake, I move from job to job. My grandfather never said that Jake was desperate when he arrived on the farm or sad when he moved on. He just moved along. That is what he did. That is what I will do. I will stop worrying about how moving on or how occupational gaps will look on my resume. I'm an occupational hobo. I move along.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
So, you have seen it before. The first posting of a blog. Someone said, "If you like to write, you should start a blog." Brilliant, because there aren't enough blogs, right? 'So, what should I write about?' is the logical first question, but I realize now, not the best question. The question should be 'What do I call the blog?'
When I settled on blogger over wordpress (no easy decision there by the way since I don't read blogs), I was forced to title my blog and create my blog address. This is a commitment. I don't like commitment. I probably would have started blogging years ago, before it was passé, but I had to commit to a title. I sat at the keyboard this evening thinking and typing in possible blog addresses that weren't already snapped up by my blog-savvy predecessors. I came back to that same question, what am I writing about. I probably want to write about nutritional issues in having a vegetarian/vegan family. Ok, but nutritionalmama.blogface is already taken. What about nutritionalmom.blogsplat? Am I crazy? If one form of maternity is taken, I can be sure they are all taken.
Then I start to worry about what this blog will evolve into when I am no longer a mom. Well, I suppose I will always be a mom. Nutritionalmommy.blog will look kind of strange when my kids are 35. Plus where is the credibility from a woman who calls herself 'mommy' to adults? Geesh, this shouldn't be so difficult. I'm into natural things and I think the all-time funny thing is a food product that touts itself as 'all-natural.' I even rant in my classroom (more about that later) about how everything could be called 'natural'. My stapler is natural. So is my desk. "Please bring your papers to my all-natural desk," I tell my 10th graders. Because it is natural it has to be good, right? So, there is my blog address...ncnaturalmom.blogthingamajig. I live in North Carolina. I am natural. I am a mom. It is that simple. Or is it?
No, it isn't that simple. The bigger question here is not what I am writing about, it is how do I identify myself? 'Mom' sounds like I am hanging onto my kids for my identity. Will I try to listen to their music and talk like their friends for the next 18 years? What if I say I'm a Wife? I might sound like a subservient wife who wears skirts and doesn't mind a sister-wife or two. If I say I'm a Woman I sound kind of butch. Forget female. While I am one, I see that reserved for the box on a medical form. Girl? You will expect my blog to be texty and clever, which it probably won't be. I could have been NC Natural Friend, but that might seem Quaker or desperate to be someone's friend. While I might be all of these names...mom, wife, woman, female, girl, friend...in some way or another, mom is the one I chose because that is the one with which I am trying hardest to reconcile within my identity.
Women have it tough when it comes to identity. I tend to over-think things like this. Hey, maybe I should have chosen NC Natural Over Thinker.
When I settled on blogger over wordpress (no easy decision there by the way since I don't read blogs), I was forced to title my blog and create my blog address. This is a commitment. I don't like commitment. I probably would have started blogging years ago, before it was passé, but I had to commit to a title. I sat at the keyboard this evening thinking and typing in possible blog addresses that weren't already snapped up by my blog-savvy predecessors. I came back to that same question, what am I writing about. I probably want to write about nutritional issues in having a vegetarian/vegan family. Ok, but nutritionalmama.blogface is already taken. What about nutritionalmom.blogsplat? Am I crazy? If one form of maternity is taken, I can be sure they are all taken.
Then I start to worry about what this blog will evolve into when I am no longer a mom. Well, I suppose I will always be a mom. Nutritionalmommy.blog will look kind of strange when my kids are 35. Plus where is the credibility from a woman who calls herself 'mommy' to adults? Geesh, this shouldn't be so difficult. I'm into natural things and I think the all-time funny thing is a food product that touts itself as 'all-natural.' I even rant in my classroom (more about that later) about how everything could be called 'natural'. My stapler is natural. So is my desk. "Please bring your papers to my all-natural desk," I tell my 10th graders. Because it is natural it has to be good, right? So, there is my blog address...ncnaturalmom.blogthingamajig. I live in North Carolina. I am natural. I am a mom. It is that simple. Or is it?
No, it isn't that simple. The bigger question here is not what I am writing about, it is how do I identify myself? 'Mom' sounds like I am hanging onto my kids for my identity. Will I try to listen to their music and talk like their friends for the next 18 years? What if I say I'm a Wife? I might sound like a subservient wife who wears skirts and doesn't mind a sister-wife or two. If I say I'm a Woman I sound kind of butch. Forget female. While I am one, I see that reserved for the box on a medical form. Girl? You will expect my blog to be texty and clever, which it probably won't be. I could have been NC Natural Friend, but that might seem Quaker or desperate to be someone's friend. While I might be all of these names...mom, wife, woman, female, girl, friend...in some way or another, mom is the one I chose because that is the one with which I am trying hardest to reconcile within my identity.
Women have it tough when it comes to identity. I tend to over-think things like this. Hey, maybe I should have chosen NC Natural Over Thinker.
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