Cheaterblog - 99 Things

 Once in a while you've just got to take the easy route. A blog I follow had the following list, and invited others to post it and share the fun. Don't know who first came up with it, or how they decided what things to put on or leave off the list. There are a few things I would add, for sure!

Anyway - the things that are in bold are the ones I've done. My grand total was 47 - respectable, but not quite half. Someday I'd love to visit all the exotic locales listed!

I'd sure love to hear about your adventures. Feel free to email or comment if you want me to expand on any of these.  If you copy and re-post, send me your blog address so I can see 99 things about you too!

1. Started your own blog (obviously)

2. Slept under the stars (just last week!)

3. Played in a band

4. Gone to Hawaii

5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more than you can afford to charity
7. Been to Disneyland
8. Climbed a mountain (Took a 30 min. walk on a part of a mountain, but I'm counting it.)
9. Held a praying mantis (just last week also!)
10. Sang a solo
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched a thunder and lightning storm (no better place to watch then from my upstairs living room because of the eight-foot-tall windows)
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch
15. Adopted a child
16. Had food poisoning
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty
18. Grown your own vegetables (and canned them too!)
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. Slept on an overnight train

21. Had a pillow fight
22. Hitch hiked
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill (not since I was in college - FYI)
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb (and bottle fed it)
26. Gone skinny dipping (no comment...)

27. Run a Marathon
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice

29. Seen a total eclipse
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset
31. Hit a home run
32. Been on a cruise.

33. Seen Niagara Falls in person.
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors (another cheater one, since my living relatives still live in the area)
35. Seen an Amish community. (I live the Amish dream, baby!)
36. Taught yourself a new language

37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person
39. Gone rock climbing
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David
41. Sung karaoke.
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant
44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight (not NEARLY as often as I'd like, though!!)
46. Been transported in an ambulance
47. Had your portrait painted
48. Gone deep sea fishing
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in theater

55. Been in a movie

56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business (not really, but I was an independent contractor and had to pay my own Soc. Sec. taxes. Does that count?)

58. Taken a martial arts class 

59. Visited Russia
60. Served at a soup kitchen
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies

62. Gone whale watching
63. Got flowers for no reason
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma
65. Gone sky diving
66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp
67. Bounced a check
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy (my doggie blanket. It's ragged and stained, but it's mine.)

70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial
71. Eaten caviar (ew. My husband's family eats it with cream cheese and Ruffles potato chips. Not terrible that way.)
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in Times Square
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London
77. Broken a bone
78. Been a passenger on a motorcycle -

79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person
80. Published a book (kinda. I was published in a book... Does that count?)
81. Visited the Vatican
82. Bought a brand new car (only to have it hit a deer and be puked in by all 3 children within 2 months of owning it.)
83. Walked in Jerusalem 

84. Had your picture in the newspaper (internationally, even)
85. Kissed a stranger at midnight on New Year’s Eve
86. Visited the White House
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating (one of my particular favorites)
88. had chickenpox
89. Saved someone's life
90. Sat on a jury
91. Met someone famous

92. Joined a book club
93. Got a tattoo
94. Had a baby (three times. 100% natural. I'm particularly proud of this one)
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake
97. Been involved in a law suit
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee

Applied Mathematics

Well, I got sidetracked again. Go figure. I was 3/4 of the way through a rather inane post when I got a touch of writer's block. Thinking that a bit of inspiration might do me some good and get the juices flowing again, I checked in on some of the blogs I follow. Guess it worked. Not only are the words and inspiration coming fast now, but prayers and a few tears are as well. I continue to be blown away - time and time again - by how much need there is in the world, and how relatively easy it is for ordinary people to meet those needs, if they're just willing.

In less time than it takes to watch a TV sitcom, I read about a couple who rescued a child from a life of certain poverty and neglect, and are bringing her up in a home filled with love, joy, and goodness. I read about missionaries in Haiti who struggle with feelings of guilt as they enjoy a wholesome, but modest, meal. Despite the fact that they are dedicating their lives to helping those around them, and making a tremendous difference every day, it still pains them to know there are thousands in their city who are malnourished and starving. I also read about a young midwestern girl who put her fears and sheltered upbringing behind her in order to touch the lives of desperately-poor Mexican villagers. In just thirty minutes, from the comfort of my own couch, I read about movers and shakers. Life changers and life savers. People who are passionate, and committed, and live life with an open throttle and no regrets. And, they are all.just.people - just.like.me.

Yep - not a superman or wonderwoman among them. They have fears and doubts. Misgivings, weaknesses, imperfections. They have them all. But, somehow they don't let that stop them from rushing headlong in the direction of their hearts. It makes me wonder what more I can give. What more I can do. What more I can be. Yet, that's not how these people think of themselves - as ones who give, and do, and live abundantly. No, the overriding theme from these men and women who have profoundly challenging lives and who have witnessed unspeakable things, is gratitude. More than that - it is gratitude about what they have received, even beyond the gratitude at what they've been able to give. And, I'm not talking about false-modesty gratitude, where someone flashes an insincere grin and quips about how they're, "...just happy to be able to help..." These people have bone-deep gratefulness for their daily blessings - no matter how meager they may seem to someone like me. They are overcome and overwhelmed by how honest-to-goodness wonderful their lives are. It gets me to thinkin' - perhaps they're on to something.

So, now what? I'm on fire more than ever with a realization of how much need there is, but I'm also equally ablaze with the fact that little-ol'-me really can make a difference in the world. The big question is - how? Should I emulate their awesome examples by rushing out and adopting a child? Planning a mission trip? Moving to a third-world country? Maybe. Or, maybe not. Perhaps it is not the actions of these everyday heroes that most need to be duplicated, but the attitude. What if - just go with me on this for a second - there was an outbreak of gratitude in our hearts and homes? Would that, alone, be enough to make the world a better place?

I think so. In fact, it all seems like a rather simple issue of arithmetic, if you ask me. Let me explain: I often find myself saying, when I'm feeling particularly happy with how my life is going, or see something in the news about how hard someone else's life is, "I have so much." And, while that's true, it is also a rather loaded statement. Most often, these four little words are a superficial and glib way of excusing myself from having to think too hard about either my own blessings, or the sufferings of others. Like a rote and disconnected prayer, I say it to absolve myself from responsbility, hoping the phrase itself will invoke someone else to provide the solution to a problem I don't want to acknowledge.

Mathematically, however, the statement takes on new meaning. "I have so much" is not the dismissive solution we may think it is. Instead, it is a problem in and of itself - a problem that begs to be solved. Think about it - how much is 'so'? Substitute a variable for that crucial little word, and it's easy to see that this common phrase is not a matter of economics, or morality, or theology. It is basic algebra, and by solving for 'x' we might just be solving some pretty big problems.

See, it is only once you know what you have, that you truly start to become rich. When we can honestly take stock of our blessings - and choose to be grateful for each and every one - we are able to quantify the goodness of our own lives. That 'so' from the glib phrase abov,e that slips out so easily, is not an unknowable variable, but a distinct and unique quantity for each and every one of us. Once we know it, it both compels and empowers to us to act. Like I said - simple math: The difference between our quantity and what we see in the lives of others equals how much need there is. It also shows us just how much we really do have to give, which is often much more than what we would have imagined.

So, I say, if we want to change the world, what we first need is an epidemic of gratefulness. May the act of acknowledging all the good things in our lives spur us to also see the need we don't want to admit exists, as well as our abundant ability to fill it. Looks like those folks really were on to something after all - the humble act of being grateful can lead you to the most wonderful of blessings...

But giving thanks is a sacrifice that truly honors me. If you keep to my path, I will reveal to you the salvation of God. - Psalm 50:23

 

The Pajama Conundrum

I have *finally* finished the last two (of many) loads of laundry today. Hooray! Every week I marvel at how five people can wear so many clothes - and we're not even layering yet! As I watch the stacks grow ever higher, it never ceases to amaze me that the pajama pile is usually the highest for each of us. Granted, that's partly because PJ's are kind of the standard uniform for home schoolers. However, it got me to wondering - how many sets of clothing does a person need exclusively for drooling and dreaming in? Come to think of it - how many clothes does a person need at all?

This is kind of a dangerous train of thought for me, and I often get myself into trouble when I start to ask such questions. You may recall that I have blogged in the past about my struggle with 'stuff'. I used to have a real problem with it. ("Hi. My name is Andrea. I'm a stuff-a-holic.") Like most recovering addicts, I have becoming something of a zealot, much to the chagrin of those around me. I don't try to be preachy, but sometimes I can't help it.

Over the last two years our little nuclear family has been through a lot - much of it spiritual, and perhaps a tad cerebral as well. The long and short of it is that we have been searching for who we are, and what we're supposed to be doing in life. In that process, we've seriously considered everything from building on to our home in order to have more space available, to packing up and moving to a tiny island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. (I'm still praying earnestly for that last one to come true, by the way. Just a heads up.) Anyway, in the process of examining every possibility, God has asked us to lay everything at His feet, and hold nothing sacred but Him. This is why I'm wondering how many nightgowns we really need.

I have never felt more rich in my life than I do right now - when I have the least amount of items that I've ever owned. I gotta tell you - it's a good feeling. My home is less cluttered. My schedule is less cluttered. My heart and mind are less cluttered. And, my relationships (including with God) are less cluttered than they ever have been before. The open space that was created when I got rid of so much junk has since been filled with wonderful things. It's enough to make me want to rent a dumpster, open wide the doors and windows, and chuck all of the rest out, in order that I might be emptied to be even more filled with God's goodness.

But, that's the problem. I honestly don't know where to stop. I wasn't being rhetorical in asking how many jammies a person needs. I think that, as a modern, middle-class American, I am not well equipped to make a decision like that. Here's just one reason why: according to an article by MP Dunleavy of MSN, one in ten households in this country rent storage space - almost double what it was 15 years ago. Considering that houses now have, on average, 60% more square footage than they did just a generation or so ago, and the number of people living in those houses has gone down 20%, you have to wonder what they're all squirreling away. I bet at least some of it is PJs.

Want another reason why I'm ill-equipped to make decisions about physical possessions? I recently came across a blogpost about a beautiful and challenging book by photographer James Mollison, entitled Where Children Sleep. In it, there is no spin. No storytelling. No statistics or guilt trips about modern American life. Instead, there are only pictures. On one side of each page is a photo of a child from somewhere around the world. On the other side, a picture of where that child sleeps. What stunned me was the near-absence of personal belongings in most other countries, and the overwhelming glut of it in pictures from the United States. Even (or - more accurately - especially) in images of  children in the U.S. who are living in abject poverty, there is still stuff everywhere. It is clear that most modern Americans are well 'equipped' for life, but are we better off for it?

So, what's a gal to do? I suppose, in trying to decide how much stuff our family really needs, I could follow Madison Avenue's suggestion and buy even more clothing, in even more luxuriant styles, and with even bigger price tags attached. But, I'm pretty sure that ship has sailed for us. On the other hand, we could divest ourselves of all of our worldly goods, though the winters in Iowa do get a bit cold to be without any pajamas at all. Plus, a decision like that would only further my reputation as a zealous ex-addict.

Instead, I'm trying to take a more balanced approach. We clean out rooms and closets frequently - considering the difference between 'need' and 'want' as we do so. We weigh the pros and cons of each item we own or buy, including how much time and energy it will take to properly care for it. We remind each other (and ourselves) that we don't have any responsibility to our inanimate possessions, and that we only want to surround ourselves with things that truly bless and enrich our lives. We pray. We ponder. And, I blog - in hopes that you (my faithful readers) will know exactly how many sets of PJs (or anything else, for that matter) each of us really needs. I do sincerely want to hear your opinions and thoughts. And, if you could get back to me before the next laundry day, I'd appreciate it even more.

Happily Ever After

Once upon a time there was a girl who was scandalously young, and a boy who was terribly new to the adult world. They met at a birthday party, fell madly in love, went through a tumultuous serious of dating breakups and get-togethers, got married, and have been facing the challenges of the world side-by-side for the past sixteen years. Doesn't exactly sound like a typical fairytale romance, does it?

Today marks the sixteenth anniversary of when my husband and I first met. I was 15 3/4 years old. He was 18. At the time, we thought we had the world by the tail. Now, I cannot believe what absolute infants we were, a fact made all the more frightening since our oldest daughter is only four years away from being the same age I was way back then. Wow. According to statistics and every predictor imaginable, we should not have survived as a couple. There have been several times when even we didn't think we were going to make it. Yet, here we are. Still together. Still in love. How can such a non-fairytale beginning have led to a happy, successful marriage? I'll tell you how - fairytales are lies.

In the fairy tale, the hero rides in and saves the damsel in distress, sweeps her into his arms, and they ride off into the sunset.You'll notice, the author never follows them and shows what life is like five, ten or sixteen years later. There are a couple of very good reasons why. First off, damsels in distress (who are unable to rescue themselves, or put themselves in stupid situations to begin with) rarely make good wives. While it's true that wives will often find themselves facing daunting challenges, married life requires them to be able to slay many of their own dragons, fight many of their own daily battles, and still have supper on the table by 6:00. A helpless wife = a hungry hubby, which is not a pretty picture.

Secondly, husbands in real life are no less the hero to their fair ladies than the men in fairy tales are, though their respective defining qualities couldn't be more very different. Heroes in fairy tales expect to fight one epic battle, and be adored as the strong, silent type for the rest of their lives. In the real world, it is their dogged pursuit of the daily grind, and a willingness (no matter how difficult) to open up and communicate those messy little things called 'feelings' that makes a man appealing. A one-hit-wonder, wordless hubby = a wrathful wife. Also, not a pretty picture.

Don't get me wrong, I know couples who have had the fairytale romance. Their every 'first' was magical. Their every look was adoring. Their every role and duty, perfectly fulfilled. From the outside, their life was enviable and beautiful. However, very few of these couples have marriages and homes that are still intact. Turns out, riding off into the sunset as a storybook hero and damsel can really burn you in the end.

But, don't be discouraged. Fairytales are not the only books on the shelf, and there is hope when it comes to love. Just look at us! You see, I come from a long line of romantic rebels. They are the pirates and pioneers, discoverers and dreamers, ruffians and rogues of the soulmate story. One set of grandparents met on a blind date, where my grandmother rode 30 miles on the running board of a car - holding on for dear life - to have supper with the towering hunk she would marry a short time later. (A wedding that took place, by the way, just one day after her 18th birthday and graduation from high school.) They lived on the ragged edge of poverty - gambling their last quarter in a pool hall for a couple loaves of bread and some meat for the stew pot - before becoming the ordinary, solid, ho-hum progenitors I know them as today.

My other set of grandparents only dated for three months, and went to a burlesque show on their honeymoon. My mom and dad were high school sweethearts who married way too young and still hold hands when they take strolls together. Other notoriously-mismatched couples with inauspicious beginnings that are near and dear to my heart include a woman who broke off an engagement in order to pursue a man she had just met, a couple who corresponded for months and ended up getting married after having only seen each other once, and a fifteen year old who never believed in love at first sight until it happened to her. That last one, by the way, was me.

I can't say that I recommend the path that we have traveled. I know it's extremely unlikely for us to still be going strong. I don't advocate for very young couples, very short engagements, or correspondence courtships. Then again, I don't advocate against them, either -at least in some cases - since love can grow from very strange beginnings, and not even the time-honored fairytale romance has the formula exactly right.

For us, things have worked because we are stubborn against the troubles of the world, and yielding to each other. We are uncompromising in our commitment to our marriage, and spend a lot of time compromising on everything else. We are fierce fighters, and frequent forgivers. We pray together and play together. We say, "I love you" often, and "I'm sorry" even more so.  And, we try to enjoy every moment that we get in each others' company, just like we did sixteen years ago. Here's to my real hero husband and a life-long romance that is nothing like a fairytale.

Movement

I've missed you!!! Have you missed me? I don't know how it happened that this blog dropped off the face of the universe for four months. (17 weeks, give or take. Seriously, what was I thinking?) Worse yet, anyone unlucky enough to have actually chanced a visit or two in that duration was greeted with my last post, which was about my daughter getting sick.

So, there you have it. In my irresponsibility I have gone and left my Musings covered in puke for the past one hundred and twenty-three days. (That, by the way, is why we can't have nice things around here.) I understand if you're upset. But, before you boycott the blog entirely and nickname your neighbor's messy, lazy dog "Andrea", the least you can do is listen to my excuse. Here goes:

I, like many people my age, have been struggling to find myself. Or, reinvent myself. Or, get in touch with myself. Or, whatever new-fangled thing people call it these days. I don't think it's a mid-life crisis per se, but our family has definitely been in the process of trying to figure out who we are, who we're supposed to be, and how to cover the distance between. One thing my husband and I have discovered - we're not kids anymore, no matter how much we may feel like it inside. I have waxed eloquent [whined] in the past about what a shock it is to discover that you have become (much to your consternation and bewilderment) a full-fledged grown up. On the best of days, it can feel like swimming in jello from the moment your feet hit the floor in the morning until you fall into bed in an exhausted heap at night. More often, though - when the going gets really tough - adulthood is downright immobilizing.

Let's face it - isn't movement one of the things we're most concerned with, after all? Am I making progress? Am I getting anywhere? Did I take the gifts and talents I was given and use them to inch closer to my goals today? Did I move my little bundle of self and the unique treasure I contain a little bit further down the road?   Really, they're all terribly important questions, but also terribly hard to  answer. My problem, all too often, is allowing myself to believe that associating  with the 'right' movement will move me in the right direction. Sound like double talk? Allow me to give you a couple of examples.

I've always wanted to be a part of The Urban Homestead Movement. According to an article from the 'Edible East Bay' e-zine, it's a movement that's come of age. How exciting! Sounds perfect for someone like me, who is also coming of age, so to speak. What draws me to this movement is their advocacy for local sustainability, wise use of the land, back-to-basics lifestyle choices, reinvention of traditional community values, and a dress code the typically includes bib overalls and floppy hats. These are people who are speaking my language - let's keep things simple! I did a bit of research and was almost convinced to sell everything I own except my canning jars and garden tools, and move to an old abandoned warehouse in downtown Chicago, when I smelled a rat.

You see, Urban Homesteading is becoming more and more popular. So popular, in fact, that people are now arguing (threatening lawsuits, if you can imagine) over who started the thing in the first place. And, since the two main contenders in this 'which came first' battle have slightly different approaches and ideals, their followers passionately and emphatically choose camps just as readily as they do. There are "Blumian" Urban Homesteaders, and "Dervaes" Urban Homesteaders, among many others. Seriously? How would I choose? What if I found myself (just like in a scene from Westside Story) facing down a gang of known Blumies, ready to steal my garden gloves and spill my seeds, just for being a Dervee? I mean, just think of the possible ramifications of wandering into the aquaculture building of a rival homesteader on accident on your way to a farmer's market. Do I really want to throw my lot in with people who think they can trademark and capitalize on back-to-basics and bib overalls? Hmmm....

Ok, so the Urban Homestead Movement is out, at least in its entirety. I can still follow the Organic Movement, the Slow Food Movement, the Homeschool Movement, the Unschool Movement, the Attachment Parenting Movement, or a million others that have tangents that interest me. Better yet, I can go to Wikipedia and get a list of over 100 other recognized social movements. Surely one of them will be the perfect fit - right?

Can you see why I haven't had time to blog? It seems that the act of seeking of the right and perfect movement to follow will ultimately leave you spinning your wheels. Now, I'm not saying there aren't good things to be found in each of these pursuits. And, I'm certainly not mocking the dedicated, sincere individuals who keep such important goals, traditions, and lifestyles alive. In fact, it is within these many movements that we can most often find the encouragement, support, fellowship, and inspiration to move our own lives further down the road each day. Plus, I will be eternally in debt to the Urban Homestead Movement (whoever may have started it) for making floppy hats fashionable again. Thank you.

Ultimately - and, here's the important part - the problem with joining any movement is that my path is not your path. And, I'm becoming more and more convinced that there ain't no way that we're all meant to herd together and roam around in packs our whole lives. We may have the opportunity to walk together for a while, or have a similar route or destination, but just as each of us has a unique and special treasure within, we also have a unique and special road to follow.

That, my friends, is really what our family has spent the past four months pondering. Thanks for your patience during that time. I don't know that I have answers to give or any real light to shed on the subject. All I can tell you is this - I appreciate the role each of you has played in our journey this far, and we'll keep you posted step-by-step as we learn more. I sure hope you'll do the same for us.

Deep Thoughts

My daughter threw up last night. As a mother, I wanted to rush to her, take her in my arms, and tell her everything would be alright. I wanted to make her feel better. As the person who mops the floor, however, I just had to take a moment to step back and marvel. I must say, when my kid does something, she does it big. The fallout  was spread three feet wide, five feet long, and (I kid you not) produced a splatter zone that was up to eighteen inches high in some places. Floor, mopboard, cabinet, and door - nothing was spared. At least it was on hard flooring. I shudder to think of what would have happened if it would have been on the carpet. I think that would have been cause to just torch the place and start anew. At the very least, FEMA and the National Guard would have had to have been called in.

But, there were no reinforcements coming, so it was up to me to handle the situation. I honestly did have to stand there for a moment and just try to assess how on earth I was even going to deal with it. There weren't enough paper towels in the western hemisphere to tackle this mess, and all of the rags I considered using were trapped in the bathroom, on the other side of Lake Lost-It. So, I headed outside, filled a bucket with water at the spigot, and grabbed the mop. Thirty-five minutes and three bucket-dumps later I had made a path wide enough to get in to where the rags where stored, so I could start on the woodwork. Needless to say, there are more diverting ways to spend an hour, but none more worthwhile.

What is it about being a parent that makes us able to handle such situations? There are no classes that teach you how to clean up puke. And, it's a task that most people would avoid at any cost. Yet, there I was, at 10:00 at night, mopping away with a smile on my face. What is that intangible element that makes us willing to deal with boogers, and puke, and poop so willingly - even joyfully? You can't bottle it. You can't buy it. It can't be concocted or forced, or even pretended. That's right, ladies and gentlemen - it is love, pure and simple, and it wells up from a spot somewhere deep, deep within us when we need it most.

Which, I guess, is a good thing. I've always believed in fighting fire with fire, so to speak, and the only way you can deal with something that literally comes from deep, deep within (like my daughter produced all over my bathroom floor) is with something that figuratively comes from deep, deep within. I'm just glad that expressing that deep, maternal love doesn't leave a splatter zone, and can be safely done with carpeting and soft furnishings around. 

Wedded Bliss

Today is my best friend's anniversary. She and her husband have been married for nine years. That's really saying something, especially since they were both  younger than average when they tied the knot - a factor that often predicts marital failure. Despite that, and other challenges they faced, they've crossed a pretty important threshold today. According to the census bureau, most first marriages that end in divorce do so before or during eighth year.Wow. Congratulations guys - you've beat the odds. I always knew you would.

I have been thinking a lot about marriage lately, not only because of their anniversary, but also because there are some weddings marked on my calendar this summer that I'm looking forward to attending. In just a few weeks I will watch a young couple who is madly in love with each other - positively aglow with excitement - exchange vows. Their exuberance is contagious, and I can't help but smile when I think about them. They are beautiful. They are filled with hope and possibility. They are ready to take on the world, and they have no idea what they're getting in to.

None of us do, really. I was only nineteen when I got married, and I have never - not even for a moment - regretted that decision. However, marriage is not always what I expected it to be. There is something more permanent and powerful about the forging of two lives and souls than anyone can anticipate. I sometimes think, 'gee, it would have been nice if someone would have sat me down before my wedding and told me what it's like to be a wife.' Of course, there's no way to express how wonderful and challenging it really is, is there? I'm now in the position to do exactly that for a young person just ready to embark on the adventure of a lifetime, but I'm not sure what to say.

Should I tell her that she will not be the same person several years from now that she is today? How do you tell someone that the individual they're madly in love with will not be the same one they celebrate their tenth anniversary with? Moreover, how do you convince someone that those changes are ok? That, with all the challenges you will face together, you're not going to want this man to be the one standing next to you in the delivery room, or the emergency room, or the hospice room of your dying parent? But the person he will turn into will be exactly who you need him to be? How do you tell someone that you will literally watch parts of your new spouse - aspects of him or her that you dearly love - disappear with each passing day, only to be replaced by new characteristics, traits, and habits? How do you tell a giddy young bride-to-be that the defining elements of who her fiancee really and fundamentally is, will be all that remain as the years pass, and those elements might not be the ones she thinks they are? 

Should I tell her that there will be times (moments, hours, even days) when it won't be fun to be around her husband? When she might not really like how he's acting, or think that she doesn't even really like him? And, worse than that, there will be times when it won't be fun for her husband to be around her. How do you tell someone that only fairytales end with the effortless 'happily ever after?' In the real world, relationships require constant attention, work, and compromise - especially those the are happy forever after. In fact, as near as I can tell, that is one of the defining elements of what makes a marriage successful: the commitment to the marriage itself (and all the effort that entails) as well as the commitment to the person you are married to.

Should I tell her she'll sacrifice more than she realized she could? Should I tell her that sometimes she'll carry burdens that are bigger than she deserves? Should I tell her that sometimes she will be a bigger burden to her husband than he deserves? Should I tell her of the immensity of emotion - both in the depth of pain and the height of joy - that she will endure? The worry she will feel? How much of a comfort she will be to him, and what comfort he will provide to her? The pride at being joined with such a wonderful human being? The feelings of being inadequate for the tasks required? The enormity of what it means to be everything her husband needs her to be, in every area of their shared lives, for now and each day to follow? Should I?

I think, instead, I will sum all of that up into two little sentences, and tell her every truth about this important endeavor that I know by simply stating (as others did for me on my wedding day), "Congratulations! God really knew what He was doing when He created the blessing of marriage." Yes, I think that is exactly what I will tell her, and I will sincerely mean every word of it.

Stats and Facts

Wow! I just discovered a feature of Blogspot.com that I had never noticed before. While I was wasting time fiddling with the tabs entitled 'comments,' 'settings', and 'design,' I completely overlooked the best one of all - 'stats.' That's right, this tab allows me to see statistics and information about this blog that I never could have even imagined were available. Through the wonder of modern technology and a bit of mysterious digital magic people call the internet, I can lie in bed at 11:00 at night and check in on who's checking me out. Cooooool.

First off, I must thank you (my faithful reader). Without your pageviews, the 'stats' tab would be a very boring place, indeed. But, because you've been willing to read my brain droppings and check in every once in a while to see what new adventure I've been having, I can share with you some fantastic statistics. For example:

•People have come to find this blog in a variety of ways. Most are linked from Facebook, but some did a Google search to get here.

•Some of the people who did a search for the blog used the predictable search words of 'andreafarrier' or 'andreafarrierblog'. However, four people managed to find their way here (apparently) by searching for 'winter cartoons.' And, a whopping 18 visits to this page came about because someone searched for 'scared deer.' Who knew?

•The top five posts (by sheer number of views) were: Getting My Hopes Up (52), Corrupting the Youth (55), O! The Humanity (61), Moving On (78), and Rondo Meets Bambi (207). (What on earth made that one so popular!?)

•Apparently my readers mostly use Internet Explorer (47%), but Firefox is gaining popularity (34%). Someone out there, however, is using a browser called Flock, and has viewed my blog five times from it. Who are you, oh mystery Flock user?

•You are clearly a PC crowd - with 86% of the pageviews coming from Windows, and only 8% from Mac. There have also been 25 views from IPhone users, and 6 from my Blackberry contingency. I'm so proud to have such a diverse, tech savvy following.

•And, finally - the part that made me actually giggle aloud in bed - I'm thrilled to announce that, while the vast majority of my pageviews come from the U.S., I have been read in ten different countries, including 50 views from South Korea, 21 from India, and 12 from Iran. We're like a giant, online family from all over the globe. Makes me smile every time I think of it!

So, what does all this mean? Well, first off, I can see that I'm going to have a new, time-consuming hobby in checking the 'stats' tab at least a dozen times per day. You can be assured that there will be much rejoicing at my house when new search terms or countries pop up.

Secondly, I might start trying to be more “professional” in my posts in light of the much wider audience than I previously knew. Nahhh… probably not. The only change this new information is likely to bring is an increased sense of gratitude that people really do want to read what I have to write. I am humbled and overjoyed beyond words. Thank you!

This Just In...

I am a news junkie. Whether it's the outbreak of World War III or a mild rainstorm headed our way - if it's being covered, I'll follow it. I try to limit myself to local newspapers. And, thankfully, we do not have cable (or the cable news networks), so I am saved from being tethered to the television 23.8 hours per day. However, I still check headlines on the internet, watch my evening news (on at both 9:00 AND 10:00) and even make my husband pause in his channel surfing so I can watch the 30-second teaser that they put on during commercial breaks.

I am fascinated by the news, and everything it entails. Do the wardrobe people not see that red is not flattering for Tiffany? Is the mic purposely turned up higher on the sports report, or is John just that much louder than everyone else? Just how do you gracefully make the transition from a story about five people dying in a grisly car accident to a feel-good piece featuring fuzzy puppies and babies? Why is it ok to decorate at Christmas time, but the set remains unchanged the other 11 months of the year? How come they make the the poor weather intern stand in the cold to give his report? I mean, what good does it do us to watch him give a detailed explanation of the situation when we could just stick our head out the back door instead? Hmmm.... Kind of makes you wonder, doesn't it?

Of course, the most interesting thing to me is how a station decides what does and does not make the evening news. Since I live in a rural area, there isn't a whole lot going on. We get about two murders a year, and a handful of break-ins. Our news reports are heavy on the 'human interest' stories, and I think that's great. Andy Warhol is attributed with quipping that someday everyone will have their 15 minutes of fame. For those of us who live in the sticks it's more like 15 hours. I've been on TV and in the local newspaper more times than I care to recall, and not even one of those was the police report. My husband's been the news, as have all three of our children. It's not that we've done amazingly notable things, you see, just that we've done things others might be slightly interested in, and we're willing to talk about it publicly. In rural Iowa, that's all it takes, and that suites me just fine.

So, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to go weed the garden. Perhaps I'll discover a buried treasure or a new variety of insect. It's possible that my tomatoes will be the biggest in the county this year, or that I'll end up with a cucumber with the face of Jesus on it. If nothing else, I can always take my extra produce to the local farmer's market and get a few bucks for it.  No matter what the outcome of my work this afternoon, there's a chance you'll hear about it in our local news at either 9:00 or 10:00, or in next week's paper. Just a few more moments to add to my 15 hours of fame.

All In a Day's Work

Last night before I tucked her into bed, I asked my four-year-old daughter what she wanted to be when she grew up. She smiled, cocked her head, and said, "A superhero." Given the recent devotion to classic DC comic book heroes and their related action films and cartoons at our house, I didn't give much thought to her answer at the time. However, this morning, as I made breakfast, I happened to glance out the window and notice that my Amish neighbor was plowing for all he was worth in the glorious May sunshine. With each furrow of rich, black, Iowa soil that he turned over, I think I better understood what my youngest child was saying.

You see, I'm sure that my neighbor doesn't consider himself a superhero, even though he literally feeds the world by his humble, daily chores. Neither, for that matter, do most people as they plod through life. Work - even with the most rewarding tasks and the most convivial environments - is generally associated with stress, headaches, ungrateful bosses, difficult coworkers, deadlines, paperwork, micromanagement - the list goes on and on. How does this happen? How do the imaginary games and grand dreams of our early childhood, and our idealistic and passionate striving of early adulthood lead to everyone simply having a job they can barely tolerate and doing work that is uninspiring and wearing? Surely something's wrong here.

I vividly recall being four years old and swaggering around town with a sense of distinct pride because my daddy was a plumber. That meant that he knew all sorts of magic about such important things as pipes and wrenches - substantial, heavy, necessary things. The kinds of things that remain a complete mystery to most people, hence the need for such a capable, vital, professional man as my dad. But, more than that - beyond just knowing things that were unknown and unknowable to other people - he also had a job that made a difference in the world. There's not much more welcome sight than a plumbing van when your toilet is clogged or a pipe is endlessly spraying water all over your carpeting. I think I totally had it right at four years old, as does my daughter today - my dad was (and still is) a superhero, and we all can be as well.

That's it then. In order to become a superhero we should quit our jobs and become plumbers, right? Not exactly. My mom worked in Human Resources and saved jobs, marriages, and families by her encouraging words, willingness to listen, and genuine care for people. (The candy on her desk didn't hurt things, either.) My sister is a pharmacist, and her careful work (as tedious as it can sometimes be) literally saves lives and prolongs health and vitality. My husband works at a waste water plant. And - even as inglorious of a position as people generally think that to be - what he does ensures that we will have safe, sanitary living conditions today, and clean rivers and streams for generations to come. Every person I know - from my grandmother who proofreads the local paper, to a former student who bags groceries at the mom-and-pop store in town - goes to work with a cape under their uniform, though whether they ever use their powers is truly up to each individual, each and every day.

You see, you don't have to pull people from burning buildings or dive from the top of a skyscraper in order to be a superhero. All it takes to unfurl your cape and unleash your good deeds upon a populace in desperate need of being saved is for you to recognize your own ability to make the world a better place right where you are. There is not a single job on the face of the planet without merit or the opportunity to make a positive impact in someone's life. For, as Martin Luther King, Jr. said, "All labor that uplifts humanity has dignity and importance, and should be undertaken with painstaking excellence."

So, if you'll excuse me, I've got some villianous dust bunnies to slay and a date with destiny at the dishwasher. It's not an easy job, mind you, but somebody's got to protect the slumbering citizens of this household. As you can see, I'm choosing to embrace my inner superhero as I head off to do the tasks at hand, and I hope you'll do the same.

Sincerely, We The People!

Dear Elected Official -

I am writing to you with a very personal plea, but one which I think, if answered with real honesty and courage, will serve the people of this nation, and yourself, very well. I have heard the uproar. Been to the rallies. Seen the news stories. Cast my vote. I, like so many others, have moved from ignorance, to apathy, to anger, to action. I believe that very path is what has brought me to who I am today - an engaged citizen, fully awake, and unwilling to slip again into the dangerous stupor of believing that being taken care of is more important than being vigilant. I know my role in this process - understand what, "We, The People" is all about. Because of my new-found realization of  my responsibilities in this Republic, I'd like to better help you understand yours.

You are a leader, but not because of who you are, or what you do, or any special skill which you might possess. You lead because people have chosen to put you at the front line of the battle to fight for a government that does nothing more or less than serve the basic needs of this great nation. It doesn't do us any good if you succumb and are unable to fight. It does not do us any good if, paralyzed by fear or the enormity of your task, you roll over and relinquish your duty. It does not do us any good if you jump trenches and work for the enemy. The only way that you are benefiting the people who sent you is if you stand alert - day in, and day out - ready to fight on their behalf. Any other action you may choose to take is cause for a dishonorable discharge, and we will not hesitate to call you back home.

Please let me be clear - the metaphor of battle is not meant to justify demonizing an opposing party or allowing passion to ignite to violence. You are not there to fight with arms, or even words - for a witty fool is still a fool, nonetheless. Instead, the tools you will use in your fight are noble ideas, exemplary character, and practical solutions. The enemy is not, and never has been, a political opponent or colleague from the other side of the aisle. The tireless enemies that you must fight each and every day are the very same ignorance, apathy, and anger that all the rest of us struggle against as well. I'll say it again - you are not a leader because of special skills or because you are a special person, but because you have said you are willing and have been chosen by your peers to be a representative of our shared civic strife. You do not bear the burden alone, nor is your battle any harder than ours, only more public.

That's right - your election has brought you into the public eye. I admonish you to remember that every gleeful, triumphant thought you have about the place in the sun you have attained only robs you of the opportunity to be mindful that being seen also means being watched. Though you may feel liberated from old bonds and a million miles from your humble beginnings, we are paying attention, and require a level of uprightness from our leaders that is only surpassed by the level we require from ourselves. No, we do not expect you to attain perfection, though you should be racing toward it each and every moment, just as we are back home. It is not always in what place that you finish, but how you run the race that matters, and your job is to ensure that every photo flash and video segment catches you striving toward noble ends and righteous acts. If you pause to pose, you will surely stumble.

Be courageous, then, and thoughtful, on our behalf, and we will remain loyal and grateful for your service. Just as you would not want us to forget how much you give of yourself to represent us, do not forget that the resources with which you are entrusted have come from our sacrifice and toil. They do not belong to you. You did not earn them. You are not entitled to them. You may not spend them as you wish, but only as it serves this nation well. Be sure that you are more concerned with who has your heart and mind, than simply who has your ear, when making decisions. Remember that you have been chosen to speak and act on our behalf, so knowing when and how to be silent and full of grace is equally as important as knowing when and how to speak boldly and move decisively. I pray that you may have the wisdom to know the difference and the strength to act rightly in each moment.

And, finally, do not ever forget that we would much rather welcome back a weary and wounded hero than one who could not discharge his duties faithfully, or refused to come home at all. For, as disappointing as it may seem to lose a hard-fought political race, it is infinitely worse to lose your sense of self, your honor, or your soul. We do not desire that your service on our behalf be such a burden for you that you regret your decision to lead. Just be sure to act in such a way that your service on our behalf does not become such a burden for us that we regret choosing you, either.

Sincerely,
We The People

Family

We all grow up with the weight of history on us.  Our ancestors dwell in the attics of our brains as they do in the spiraling chains of knowledge hidden in every cell of our bodies.  ~Shirley Abbott 

This week I went to the funeral of my first-cousin-once-removed. I didn't really know him well, and yet he was as familiar to me as my childhood blankie and the sound of my mother singing a lullaby -a constant in life that is both distant and ever-present at the same time. I guess you can say that family is like that. At least, it has been for me.

I grieve for today's generation, which doesn't know the comfortable embrace of extended relatives and relationships. My parents recently moved back to the small town where they grew up, fell in love, got married, and started a family. Though they had left the town before I was born, we visited at least half a dozen times per year throughout my childhood, often for a week or two each summer. Both of my grandmothers still live there, as do my parents' classmates, aunts, childhood friends, cousins, et cetera, ad infinitum, amen. I cannot tell you the name of the street that the school is on, where people go to hang out, or which neighborhood is the most affluent, but this place is in my blood - figuratively and literally. I know and am known in a way that is profound and eternal. In the Ollie Ollie Oxen Free of modern life, most people don't have a home base to go to in order to be safe. I'm glad I do.

So, there I was - surrounded by my family. In the laughter and noses and smiles of those around me I saw my grandfather, who has been dead for ten years. I heard the voice of my deceased great-uncle, whose legendary kindness and gentility were proven to be solid and true and factual by their very presence in his own children. I stood in the center of the room and the center of the generations and witnessed the past and the present and the future all sharing coleslaw and memories and genetics together. My children. My parents. My grandparents. The whispering voices of those long-departed relatives whose faces smiled up at me from the photo albums, whose life stories were being vigorously reported, sorted, and distorted. We were all there. I wanted to stand on the table, wave my hands in the air, and yell, "Hey! Everyone! Don't you get it? This is important. What we're doing here - what we are - it matters! It is everything!"

But, of course, I didn't. Partly, I didn't do so because every family needs a black sheep, and I am not anxious to move to the front of the line for that job. However, I also didn't do so because, while it's true that family is important and it matters and it's everything, it's also not true at all. Those same cousins and aunts and nephews have already gone back to their jobs and their lives, and nothing has changed. The fact that I am my grandfather's granddaughter doesn't mean a thing now that I have driven back to the home and job and town where no one knew him or all the wonder that his life encompassed. Even those who live together in that little community will cease, once again, to be family in any practical sense of the word, instead resuming their civic, societal, financial, and emotional relationships with one another.

So, there you have it. Family is at once everything and nothing, all rolled into one. I suppose that our genetic heritage and all of the other elements that make up who we are in a more philosophical / spiritual / emotional sense have similar roles. You cannot see your DNA, and probably don't often stop to think about it, but it defines you nonetheless. You are most aware of how much of it you share with others when you are in the presence of those with whom you share it most, and it makes you proud. I am forever my grandfather's granddaughter, and know that it is something special to be able to say that, even if no one else around me does. So, here's to family - including all the love handles, rogues, receding hairlines, dearly departed, and coleslaw that we share. Lowell - you will be missed, but your heritage, humor, love, gentility, et cetera, ad infinitum carry on, nonetheless. Amen.

Painting...

It's after 1:00 a.m., and I'm still up. In most cases, people who are up at this hour are either:

• Just getting back from a night of partying
• Sick
• Sick from a night of partying
• Addicted to Spider Solitaire

 Thankfully, I am not sick, and I gave up Spider Solitaire a few months ago when it started interfering with my Fecebook time. However, I am also not up late because I've been boozing, carousing, and painting the town red. I'm up late because I have been painting my bathroom.

Painting holds a strange fascination for me. It is Home Improvement 101 - a task easily doable by anyone with opposable thumbs and a tolerance for fumes. It is cheap, fast, and effective. (Those are the same qualities that I look for in diet plans, small kitchen appliances, and laxatives, by the way.) Anyway, I never cease to be amazed at what a profound difference a coat of paint can make in a room, though I must clarify that I mean that in both its best and worst possible ways.

I am not good with color. I once decided to paint my daughters' room a nice, cheerful yellow. So, I went to the paint section of my local hardware store. After staring at 14,768 different colors of yellow, I pulled the last one that was visible before temporary blindness set in. (Apparently, staring at a wall full of different shades of yellow has the same effect as starting at the sun. That, or my brain did its best to protect me from the sensory overload I was experience by tuning out my vision for a moment so I could escape. Either way - I wouldn't recommend this as a way to fill your Saturday afternoon.)

Once I got home, I immediately set in covering the deep blue walls of their room (which had been my dreadful attempt at creating an 'under sea' feeling) with the cheerful yellow. Big mistake. The blue had at least been sleep inducing, as it was depressing and dark. I swear to you, my daughters didn't sleep more than 20 minutes at a stretch for the first three months after the yellow went up. I don't know if it was the incandescent brightness of the paint, or the hum it seemed to emit that caused the problem. I had never before really understood what people meant when they said some colors are, "loud" until I put what can only be described as Screaming Yellow paint on the wall. Paint - 2. Annie - 0.

My problem, I guess, is that I don't get color. I have a friend who can go on for several full minutes about a particular shade (or hue, or tone - or whatever color people refer to color as) that she saw months ago on the sole of a homeless man's shoe. I always hear people talk about things like, "a slightly lighter shade of green, with a touch of mauve" or "a deep orange, only without so much brown." What!? Look - I learned everything I need to know about color (and much else) in Kindergarten. Green is a combination of blue and yellow. Orange is a combination of red and yellow. Unless my teacher was lying to me, there ain't no mauve or brown in either of them, right? This is almost assuredly why I almost failed art in high school.

So, this time I'm determined to make my painting transformation a dramatic positive experience, in an attempt at both improving my bathroom and redeeming myself from the last go around. (Heaven only knows what health problems a bad color could make when applied to a bathroom, after all!)  So, after much deliberation, I went with white. I even called my friend to let her know that I had made a sensible, fool-proof decision. Her only reply was - and I'm still pondering this in my every spare moment - "what color white?" Seriously?

I'm glad to say that, despite having had to stay up til the wee hours of the morning, I'm pleased with the results. The white made the room look bigger, neater, cleaner, fresher, brighter - everything a person wants out of a new coat of paint. (Paint - 2. Annie - 1. Take THAT, Screaming Yellow!!)

As I was wearily rinsing out my brush and tidying up a few minutes ago, I wondered if I had made the right choice in staying in and doing home improvement projects instead of going out and partying. In the end - I think I chose wisely. I bet my can of paint was cheaper than a round of drinks. Plus, I actually burned calories this evening, instead of consuming them. And, most importantly, I'm not sure I can be trusted to paint the town red anymore. After all - I might pick the wrong shade...

Oh, The Humanity!

I took my girls to the pool to go swimming last week. That, my friends, is a very loaded statement. Lurking within those 38 innocent little letters you'll find such thorny challenges as unflattering swimsuits, pre-teen hormonal power struggles, and the endless quest to convince everyone that we're something we're not. Just think - all that on a Thursday afternoon!

I have a love/hate relationship with swimming. It's one of the few 'exercises' that I truly enjoy. I love the feeling of being weightless and the muffled silence that washes over me when I'm floating on my back. I love the fact that I can be just as competent and capable in the pool as a skinny little fitness trainer, and that my children are impressed with my aquatic prowess. I love the smell. I love the sounds. I even love the biting taste of Chlorine. What I don't love, however, is the uniform.

I admit it - I hate going out in a swimsuit. My body and I, surprisingly, get along well. It's done a lot for me - more than I deserve, actually, especially in light of how I sometimes treat it. When we're at home together, watching TV and eating popcorn, I get along famously with my body. We're happy together working outside, relaxing on a lazy Saturday afternoon, and even dressing up and going out for a nice dinner.  However, despite how much it deserves my respect and admiration, I still have a hard time taking it out and showing it off.

Usually, I find myself in the locker room of the pool staring in the mirror at glaringly white legs, save for the scattered bruises and stubborn hairs that refused to relent to the onslaught of the razor. My suit (like most of the rest of my clothing) was purchased several years ago at a Goodwill store. It is a marvel of engineering, and contains more spandex than most whole aerobics classes. However, even with all of its wrapping and cupping and contouring, I still take the long walk to the water's edge painfully aware of the incongruity between how I look and how I am "supposed to" look.

Funny thing, that - "supposed to". As I helped my children into their swimming gear, I noted with a wince how quickly they were growing up. My oldest is getting leggy - not quite graceful and full-grown yet, but her awkwardness has its own sense of purpose, and therefore sense of beauty as well. The same is true for my six-year-old, who possesses the sturdy and utilitarian frame that goes along with the constant growth and activity of children her age. And, my baby! She is still young enough to have the delightful rounded belly and dimpled knees of toddlerhood, though they are now coupled with slender legs and graceful fingers. As she finishes her transition from baby to child, she appears to be all spare parts and mismatched pieces, but the overall effect is glorious. It is all with all of them, really.

As I hurriedly walked the few yards from the locker room to the pool (never running, mind you!) with my face down and eyes averted, I almost ran smack-dab into another middle-aged mom with the same posture. In our passing glance we shared a story as old as time itself. There we were - enormously blessed with healthy children and the time and energy to be able to spend with them, and all we could think about was our own perceived failings. But - and here's the key - our floppy arms and stretch marks are every bit as indicative of the wonder and power of our bodies at this stage of our lives as the characteristics I marveled at in my children are at their stages of life.

I took the opportunity during the rest of our pool visit to glance around. (Furtively, of course, with the adage, "stare not lest ye be stared at" in the forefront of my mind.) What I found was not rolls and wrinkles, sags and cellulite. Instead, I discovered humanity - those distinct qualities that mark our very humanness . We are all incredibly and wonderfully flawed, and that is what unites us - from the chubbiest newborn baby to the frailest senior citizen. There isn't a single body in the world just like mine. It had its own separate destiny and need to be unique from the very first second it was created, and still tells my story in its every curve and nuance.

I wouldn't wish away a single moment of any of my pregnancies, despite the battle scars they left me with. I may regret, for the sake of my waistline, that I indulged in a shared dessert last time my husband I went out on a date, but I'm glad I did it nonetheless. Does this mean I will trade my downcast, shamed shuffle for a swinging strut next time I'm at the pool? Probably not. But, perhaps I'll take the step of at least looking up when I walk from the locker room to the water's edge in order to see, acknowledge, and appreciate the humanity showcased in each and every shape and size of body around me. Who knows - someday I might even come to do the same for my own.

(Painting entitled 'Hesitant Swimmers' by Shanti Marie.)

An Open Letter to My Parents

Dear Mom and Dad:

This apology letter is long overdue, but I didn't realize it until now. You see, having been a parent for almost eleven years, I think I've finally come to realize that there are some things I need to say to you.

1. I'm sorry I hung on you. As a kid I used to wonder how much difference it could possibly make when I 'rested my hand' on your purse or in your pocket while we were shopping. Apparently the hand of a six year old really can weigh upwards of 100 pounds. Who knew? Must have something to do with increased gravity at malls and grocery stores. I get it now. Sorry. 
2. Please forgive me for kicking the back of your seat while on long car trips. Ditto for putting my feet under your seat. Ditto for anything else in any way associated with your seat. I used to think you had magic powers because you could tell when I was pushing my toes into the springs in the bottom of your seat. Now I know that it doesn't take magical powers to detect such a major annoyance, just to keep from slapping the person causing it. I get it now. Sorry.
3. I offer my deepest apologies for having let well-intentioned, but undermining, guest speakers at school make me doubt your parenting skills. I don't know why I thought that a dental technician student or a burned out ex-Cop would care more about my oral hygiene and overall health than you would, but I guess sometimes I did. Thanks for being sure that we always had access to quality toothpaste and never had access to meth while we were growing up. Above all, thanks for not being the kind of parents that cause the schools to have to bring in those guest speakers. I get it now. Sorry. 
4. Wow - what was I thinking when I wore some of those outfits? Though I swore I would never, ever say this at the time - you were right. They looked ridiculous. Yes, they looked like everyone else's clothes, but that makes it even more sad. So, I'd like to offer my apologies to not only you, but also to all of my friends' parents as well. I'm sorry for the attitude we gave and the shameless begging we engaged in just so that we could look like total idiots. I get it now. Sorry.
5. If I could, I would go back in time and un-say the words, "When are we having dinner" about ten thousand times. I don't know why I couldn't keep straight in my head that dinner time always came sometime between when the after school cartoons ended and it was time to go to bed, but apparently I couldn't. Despite the fact that you never failed to feed me once, I tested you every single night of my young life with that annoying and pointless question - often multiple times in one evening. Wow. I get it now. So sorry.
6. Words cannot express how badly I feel about having dropped clothes into the hamper that were not really dirty just because I didn't want to take the time to fold them and put them away. Sometimes I feel guilty when I hear that we are on the verge of a world-wide water shortage, since I know it's my fault in large part because of all the extra laundry I created. Worse yet - the problem I started is only going to get bigger because of my three children. Just fair warning. I get it now. Sorry world. I advise you to enjoy the cool, refreshing taste of drinking water while you still can.
7. Sorry for breaking stuff. I know that you know that I didn't mean to do it. But, I also now understand how heartbreaking it is to come in and see a beloved family heirloom scattered in a hundred pieces all over the floor. Or, have to pay to repair or replace an appliance due to gross misconduct on the part of the young user. (That goes double for the time I ruined the VCR by over zealous application of Pledge while dusting.) I get it now. Sorry.
8. I'm sorry for being surly. Seriously. I don't know what else to say except that sometimes it is your patient example - and ONLY your patient example - that is keeping me from sending my own pre-teen to go live in the yard. I get it now. Sorry.
9. I should never, ever have begged for toys. I had more toys than I needed - certainly more than I deserved, especially in light of the fact that I usually left them out where they would get broken, lost, or stepped on late at night by a weary parent just stumbling to bed to get a few hours of sleep before the chaos erupted again. I am so sorry for begging for new toys, for crying over broken toys, and especially for not picking up my toys. I sooooo get it now. Sorry.
10. Finally, let me apologize right here and now for all the tiny things I did to strip away the dignity you worked so hard to build when you were an adolescent and young adult. For loudly blaming that farting sound my little bare legs made on the wooden pew at church on you, Dad. For falsely claiming that Uncle Mark was pulling in the driveway as you hurtled across the living room, clad only in a towel and a deeply worried expression, Mom. For interrupting every kiss and romantic overture with a hearty, "Ewwwww..." For all of the compromising photographs I took, the embarrassing things I inadvertently said in public, and for requiring you to be at my beck and call for bottom wiping for all those years. I get it now. Sorry, and thank you.

Above all, Mom and Dad - thank you for allowing me to live to adulthood.

I only hope that these apologies (and the future apology letters I know I will end up writing - especially once my children reach the teenage years) will somehow make your golden years a bit easier. I'm sorry I haven't said sorry earlier, or more often.

I want you to know that you have my full support if you choose to fall asleep at family events, nap in the middle of the day, and insist that you be home and in bed by 8:30 every evening. After all, there is not enough time to make up for all the sleep I caused you to lose, even if you do live to 120. (Which, of course, you won't, since all that sleep deprivation took a toll on your health.) Sorry.

Rest assured, I can promise you this - I will gladly let you embarrass me in front of my friends, wear whatever clothing you think looks best (even once your eyesight goes and you're pulling items randomly from the closet), turn the TV up as loud as you want, take up tedious hobbies, wear ridiculous glasses and forget to put in your teeth, and even spend all of my inheritance on ceramic knick-knacks and commemorative plates with obscure politicians on them.


The only thing I ask is that you please, please, please don't ever tell my children how much like them I was at their age...