Mrs. Christmas...

For as long as I can remember I’ve loved the lights, and the music, and the hype, and the hustle of December.  Shopping doesn’t stress me out.  I don’t stear clear of the mall for an entire page of the calendar.  I don’t even mind wrapping football shaped presents that were never meant to be covered in paper, let alone sport a bow.  I’m the granddaughter of Mrs. Christmas and I consider my love of all the things associated with this month a welcome benefit of being loved by such an amazing woman.

I can’t remember a time she wasn’t wrapping something in shiny foil paper that became her trademark or making peanut butter fudge to give to friends.  She wrote cards by the dozens and always managed to have a little something for everyone she encountered during the Christmas season.  

While I think about her every day, there’s never a time she’s with me more than at Christmas and this year is certainly no exception. She’s everywhere in my memories this month. Is it just me?  Am I just paying more attention to every flocked tree and blue ornament?  Every “Lite Brite” ceramic tree and carol?  Every silver and gold decoration?  Don’t even get me started on the blue lights...

To me Christmas is time to reflect on the amazing gift God gave us in the form of his Son.  It’s a story of unconditional love to a power of infinitiy so I guess it’s only natural that when I think of that, I think of her.  Her love for me came with no strings, no prerequisites, and no performance reviews.

My grandma didn’t know me at the end of her life, recognizing me only for an instant here and there when it seemed the moon and stars aligned, but I knew her with my whole heart, that very same place her memory often grows so large I have to stop and catch my breath.

RockStar Fashion...

It's easy to forget that my unspoken communication can sometimes send a message I don't intend.  A sigh, an eye roll, an ill-timed huff…  I'm guilty of them all.  I’m just not usually guilty of them all at once!  Except for this morning, when the kiddo appeared from the depths of his closet ready for school.  I have no idea what I did (because I didn’t say a thing) but clearly it was wrong. Way wrong.

In my defense, it’s been an interesting fall in the world of Buehlerland fashion.  The kiddo has always been what I would call a Dapper Dan.  In fact, just this time last year I remember joking that it looked like Ralph Lauren and the Brooks Brothers were having an illicit affair in my laundry room.  The kiddo knows how to sport a suit and when he needs to step it up, he does so in custom tailored, cufflink clad, matching tie and pocket square style.  It’s a look a mom can easily get used to in a hurry.

But dressing down has changed for the kiddo this year and while my savings account isn’t complaining, the new look has taken some getting used to.  Gone are the matching outfits (he would die if he heard me call them that) and put together style my kiddo used to labor over.  In their place is a much more casual look which I can only describe on a given day with words such as “oh,” and “huh,” or the occasional “really,” which I try to toss in every so often for variety.  When I asked the kiddo about the change, he rattled off something about GQ and rock stars and trends and I have to admit, I laid off at that point rather than stepping fully into the conversation. If living with a world-class debater has taught me anything it’s this--knowing when to step out of a conversation you aren’t fully prepared to have is a very useful thing.  He was clearly disappointed with my reaction and we didn't leave it in a good place.

 

I’d like to think I’m enlightened enough to catch myself rolling my eyes or sighing a bit too loudly, but the truth is I’m not always there and this morning I got called out on it.  I could play the mom card here because frankly, I’m entitled to my opinion and my eye roll was a mere one of tens as opposed to the thousands I’ve endured over nearly eighteen years of parenting.  Or I could let it go and see it for what it really is—a one on the scale of things that matter and things that don’t.  Honestly, I really don't care what he wears most days.

Chances are he's already forgotten about this morning.  But I haven’t.  Which is why I think the best thing I can do is own this mistake and show the kiddo that I’m not above stepping up to correct my error.  #BuehlerLife

Why I Rap (like a boss)...

To hear the kiddo tell it, I’ve got more rules and procedures in place in our lives than an eighties communist dictator.  But he’ll also be the first to tell you that I’m present and engaged and I care about what’s going on in his life.  I try hard not to spout off opinions like I know it all because the truth is; today’s kids aren’t growing up in a world anything like the one I enjoyed.  While I try hard to pull relevance from my experiences and salt and pepper the truths of my upbringing into my kiddo’s life, connecting the parallels where I can, I don’t discount the differences.

I know genetics. I know how life within these four walls operates. But the truth of the matter is my kiddo is out of these four walls now more than he’s here so it’s my job to expose myself to some of what he’s exposed to. I want to understand what his environment outside of home base is lavishing on him.  My latest attempt at tuning in and trying to better understand this phase of my son’s life has me downloading a lot of the music he’s currently listening to and forming my own opinions.

I was raised on country, gospel, and bluegrass music with a bit of the Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, James Taylor, and Bob Seeger tossed in for good measure.  As an 80’s teen, I hit my own stride in mainstream pop (Culture Club, Cyndi Lauper, the Eurhythmics’, the Thompson Twins, Duran Duran, the Artist…). And as a mom in 2018, I now find myself listening to hip-hop and rap.

We tell our kids that anything is on the table and there’s nothing they can’t talk to us about but then we’re quick to scoff when they fall into something we don’t like. Don’t misunderstand, we’re allowed not to like everything they like with good reason. But if we want them to talk to us about things like sex, drugs, depression, and love… Shouldn’t we be able to handle listening to a few of their favorite songs? 

I made a pact with the kiddo and as such, I’ve spent the last few weeks intentionally listening to a lot of rap and hip-hop.  Whether I like it or not is immaterial.  It was the anthem of our summer.  You know that one that will be the last one when my son still felt like a kiddo to me? As a musician, the kiddo is always studying new things in an effort to learn all he can and there’s something catchy about these genres to him so when I noticed they survived August and have stayed somewhere in the background of his playlist, I decided to pay a bit closer attention.  While I tend to get stuck in predictable ruts, the kiddo hops around music genres like I change channels during basketball season.  So now I find myself purposefully listening to the music that he and I drove through Ohio and West Virginia to this summer while his dad snored in the backseat. The stuff we sang to, our own version of dash cam, him singing every word and me picking up on harmony and melody and spoofing most of it for fun, while we laughed away the miles.  

Do you remember that song that felt like it was written just for you?  The one that was an anthem of some long ago summer?  Can you still hear a few bars of a specific tune and be transported right back to the lake?  The prom? Do you remember the one you used to sing along to the way you thought it went because you didn’t grow up with Google so you couldn’t go run check the lyrics?  Yeah, that’s where I am with this stuff.  I rap my words and I haven’t checked Google yet because I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know what they’re really saying. 

It’s been an education to learn what the lyrics and various slang terms and phrases mean in some of this stuff.  Did you know one of the artists in these genres has a Pulitzer to his credit for writing lyrics? It’s been enlightening to engage my son in-depth about why a beat is structured like it is and why tempo and timing changes work in a given piece or why they fail.  Why a slap beat bests a hi-hat in one case but not another.  Why certain words have to be repeated so many times.  And it’s been a chance for me to remember that I’m never too old to learn something new and to see that my kiddo is a good teacher.

I don’t love these genres but I adore my son and since he’s shared this part of his life with me so willingly, you can bet I’m in going to listen up. 

A Little Help from my Friends...

If you’ve been following along for a bit, you may recall that every November I participate in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month-- https://nanowrimo.org).  While I like the catchy name, I’ve always thought it a bit of a misnomer.  NaNo is far less about writing the great American novel and much more about staying in the discipline of writing every day. 1,666 words a day to be exact (think four typed pages in 12 pt,. font) if you want to win the 50,000 words in 30 day challenge.  

This year the challenge was incredibly hard for me and there were days when the goal of 1,666 words felt more like 1,666,000.  I seriously thought about quitting twice and two more times I stopped working on story lines I know like the back of my hand and started new stories because I couldn’t quiet all the voices competing for attention on the page.  In the end my 50k was comprised of the completion of one story, the addition of plot and character development to two other works in progress, and the start of yet another brand new piece.   

I have little doubt I would have taken my toys and decided to play another day if it weren’t for the tenacity of a certain soul I’ve come to love like a sister.  Denisea Kampe is the most amazing writing partner on the planet. She’s the calm to my crazy and although she does this supernatural telepathy thing all year long, she was particularly on point last month, reading my mind at every turn.  A day failed to pass that she wasn’t checking on me—“How’s it going over there?”  Or reminding me to take care of myself—“Cheese Puffs aren’t an acceptable three squares.”  Breathing wisdom through the cracks—“Just walk away for an hour and leave some ink in the well.” Making me laugh—“Look what my crazy characters just did.” Listening to me complain about whatever was going wrong that day—“Is the back door done yet?” 

Denisea kicked NaNo butt this year nearly two weeks ahead of me and then she did the most amazing thing… She doubled back and loved on me just enough to drag me over the finish line as well.  Here’s to us, soul sister.  And to our amazing book boys.

Here We Go...

And just like that the kiddo is gone, out the door for the first day of senior year, and I find myself downsized in a job I’ve loved for nearly 18 years.  

I have no idea if he had breakfast.  I have no idea if he packed a lunch.  But I can attest that he’s clean and that he smells good and that his clothes are spotless.  I know that for sure because he took over doing his own laundry this summer and my washer ran a marathon yesterday! 

So yeah, there have been moments over these first weeks of summer (amidst the application prepping, transcript requesting, letter of recommendation gathering, scholarship paperwork completing, score sending, and day dreaming about the future that's become the hum of our days) when I felt like a good cry would make it all better. But I've held tough. Until today.  

It's hard to believe the great college tour of July 2017 is history, yet there's something about seeing it in print, the memories filed neatly amongst the pages that chronicle the kiddos' life this past year, that makes the reality of it all impossible to push away.  

We have a few more visits to make this summer and while I'm looking forward to our next road trip, and to making new memories, I've also decided it's time to stock up on Kleenex. #WHSSen19rs

Frontloaded...

Seniors--Morse, June 2018

When the kiddo came to us with his junior schedule, the hubster and I weren’t a hundred percent on board with the workload he planned to tackle. When he added a couple of online classes to that load the last trimester of the school year, the hubster and I had a full conversation in glances and raised eyebrows. And while I never doubted the kiddo, I did question the load. Truth is, given what I know about my son, I guess I should’ve known better. 

“It was all part of the plan,” he offered from his perch in the bow of our boat this past weekend, flashing me that thousand watt smile while I stared back at myself in his mirrored sunglasses. “I frontloaded summer.” And that he did. Junior year is in the books and I'll always look back on the growth he gained and the achievements he earned with a grin.  It was an amazing ride.

So here we are... We have no real schedule to keep this summer other than a few planned excursions. We have no deadlines to note, no testing center hours to memorize, and no study guides to label, which means that for the first time in my life I’m not running a daily checklist where he’s concerned. And it means he has a chance to breathe for a moment, a chance to stare at the stars a bit if he chooses, and a chance to be a kiddo for just a while longer. 

29 Days...

It's been a month of crushing loss. A month of not enough words to express sorrow. A month of juggling schedules to keep the bases covered while praying for time to simultaneously stop and fast forward itself. We've lost a precious cousin we were really just getting to know again after years of losing touch. Paul was the master of corny jokes and had a huge heart. He was our friend and we miss him. We lost my Uncle Bill, a gentle, patient man we all adored. He was like a father to my dad given their age difference and I physically felt my heart crack when my dad looked at me through tear stained eyes and said that he understood what it felt like to be an orphan now. "I'm the last one left," he sighed. And today we buried my Aunt Linda, a sweet soul who turned the title of being a sister-in-law to my mom into a best friendship. 

The past twenty nine days have come with a steep learning curve and they've reminded me that family reunions are best when held in parks near the barbecue versus the inside of solemn chapels. These days have also highlighted a few things it dawns on me we're often quick to say but slow to do. Take the risk. Mend the fence. Have the hard conversation. Spend the time. Pray for those that come against you. Take the first step. Make the call. And please, if you do nothing else, tell someone you love them. #LoveWins

One Little Word...

Instead of resolutions, I decided to focus on a single word this year.  While I sat with simplify and discipline for a bit, in the end the word that resonated most strongly with me was Embrace.

One of the things I've decided to Embrace this year is my weight loss journey.  While there's a 'before' pic, there's not going to be a definitive 'after' pic.  I'm focusing on where I'm at and how I'm doing and Embracing right now versus worrying about an 'after.' As such, I'm choosing to call these pics 'before' and 'first third.' #24.2  

And The Award Goes To...

Since our duo became a trio almost seventeen years ago, we’ve had a running joke around here about the Mother of the Year award.  Thing is, I’m prone to pulling some doozies as my mom would say, which is how the notion of the award came about.  While I don’t remember now what I did that caused us to coin the phrase all those years ago, I’m sure it was either shockingly impressive or completely ridiculous.  Brilliance or incompetence.  There’s rarely anything in between with me. 

The kiddo received his first speeding ticket today, which is to say he’s grounded and his truck is parked indefinitely, which means I’m headed back to the carpool line…

It’s also how I found myself sitting on the side of the road shouting “Let me tell you something, mister.  I don’t offer fifteen million chances.  I’m not Jesus!” at the top of my lungs at 415pm on an otherwise quiet Tuesday afternoon.  #MOTY2018

Thoughts on a security alert...

When I received the message through our school notification system that something had hit the airwaves causing "school administrators and local police authorities to not only be aware but diligent in investigating any and all safety situations,” needless to say, it got my attention.  But you know what it didn’t do?  It didn’t make me want tougher gun laws.

So how can I say such a thing, right?  How cold and insensitive of me?  Stay with me for a minute (or go ahead and unfriend me-it’s your call) and I’ll walk you through my thought process in regard to the facts and the truth (as I see it)…  

Fact:  Until you get a safety related message from a place where your child spends eight hour a day, you have no idea how you might respond so if you haven’t been there, do the rest of us a favor and stop pretending like you have.  It's NOT funny.

Fact:  There was no mention of the real issue in the email I received, only vaguely worded mention that some safety issue was being investigated.  Yet it didn’t take my mind more than an instant to focus on recent events.

Truth:  There’s another broken person in our midst.

Truth:  People that are hurting hurt others.

Truth:  If mental illness were visible there would be a line of people waiting for help wrapped around the earth twice over. 

Truth:  When I received that email this afternoon, thoughts about tougher gun laws didn’t cross my mind because I’m smart enough to know that broken people will find a way around whatever the obstacle be it a wall or a fine or a law. I went the direct opposite and my first thought was that I need to rally an Army to protect my kid, and his friends, and kids I remember buttoning coats and tying shoes for when I taught kindergarten, and my friends’ kids, and the wonderful teachers and staff in our district that have become like family over the years.

Truth:  What we need is better access to mental health care, and early intervention, and more accessible social work, and we also need more involved parents…  Sadly those buzz words don’t win elections.

We guard our money, and our artwork, and our airports.  The local mall has armed security in place for the designer handbags.  There are more security measures in place at a rock concert than a school.  Fact is, there are more security measures in place in the DVD section at Barnes and Noble than we afford our kids. 

The events of today strengthen my resolve that our schools should be the SAFEST PLACES ON EARTH for our children and I honestly don't believe waiting for some overreaching power to develop a plan to rescue our kids when trouble comes is getting the job done. Instead, I think it’s time that the resolve of reasonable people swing the other way.  Rather than sitting around waiting for something bad to happen, shouldn’t we be taking the fight to the threat?  Shouldn’t we be going to any length to put the right tools in the hands of the right people to help protect our kids?

Who Will Hold My Cards?

Instead of New Years resolutions, I pick a word to focus on each year.  If you’d have asked me over Christmas break, I would have told you Simplify and Discipline where frontrunners for 2018.  Then EMBRACE found me and with it came the understanding that I need to foster new attitudes and a willingness to wrap my arms around certain things I’ve been able to push aside heretofore.  A simple example is cooking.  If you know me well, you know the boys and I used to eat out 5 nights a week.  Eating out is fun and easy and social and I take the task of finding new restaurants as a welcome challenge.  Short and sweet--eating out pushes all the good buttons for me.  But that’s not the case for my boys.  The hubster and the kiddo grew so sick of eating out last year that dinner became a source of contention for us.  As such, one of the areas in my life I’m embracing this year is cooking dinner.  The new rule in Buehlerland is that we’ll eat at home Monday through Saturday (when possible to do so).  Whew!  Talk about in for a penny, in for a pound, huh?

I’m nineteen days into embracing dinner (that’s seventeen home cooked meals if you’re counting) and one of the things I’ve grown to love most about my time in the kitchen is pulling out old recipes and seeing the handwriting of friends as well as that of my mom, my mother-in-law, and my grandma.  These cards are precious to me and they make me wonder--who will hold my cards one day?  My daughter-in-law?  My grandchildren?  And then it dawned on me that unless I start writing down my recipes, all I’ll be able to share with the next generation is a flash drive and my Pinterest password.

It took me ten minutes and twelve dollars to create my recipe cards and you can bet I’ll be filling them out as the boys and I decide on our ‘keepers' in the coming year.