Life and What-Not

“The problem with adulthood,” I began my conversation with Victoria, “is that by the time you realize what you want to do, what you are good at, it’s often too late to go back for a do-over. Take this quantitative management class I’m in right now. I love it. It’s just straightforward mathematical statistics for the purpose of solving business problems, and it energizes me. I really like this stuff.” (Eye roll from the daughter.)

“I knew this, of course, back when I was in college, but I didn’t pursue the field. I met with one tiny obstacle and – meh – I moved on to an easier path. I was young and dumb and though I don’t have many regrets about my past – other than superficially wishing I could go back in time and give the young Lori a few Gibbs’ head-slaps – I regret not pushing through for the degree I wanted and a career that might have provided more material resources. Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do now and I don’t believe material resources would serve me any better than the spiritual resources I have access to, but I often find myself wondering what it would be like if I had been ‘adult-enough’ to insist on more effort from myself at a younger age.

“And so that is what kicks me in the head as an adult – knowing that we cannot change the past, we can only direct the future. We can change what we do today for the benefit of tomorrow, and no more. But when you’re over the proverbial hill, and you see it all this clearly, and you know – absolutely know in your heart – that you could have done better, or more, or whatever with your energy and resources…all you really can do is let your children know the pitfalls. You want to make sure that your kids understand what mistakes not to make, what obstacles to push through.

“And that brings me to the fallacy of youth, in that when I was young and dumb – as so you shall be, too – I was not interested in older people’s advice of the pitfalls. I had my whole life ahead of me, and that’s all that I saw. My future was a blank page, and I was selecting the pen with which to write it. Don’t dare tell me what pen I should use; that’s my decision! And so, when we are young we make the easy choices, the fun choices, the choices that bring us pleasure, even if it is fleeting. It’s only when we are older that we think, what if??? What if I had chased that dream? What if I had studied harder? What if I had actually attended that Business Law class instead of deciding that Dominic might be hanging out in the student center and surely I HAD to be there too? But Business Law, while a really interesting class, at the time paled in comparison to the interest I held for my social life and your father’s whereabouts. (Cue head-slap). Surely I could have pursued your father after my work was done??? But, as I said, I can’t change the past. Our choices, our actions, make us who we are and I do love this life. What I can do now is hand you the information and hope that you choose to make good decisions. That’s the goal of every parent…to make sure our kids don’t have any regrets.”

Victoria seems to consider this for a moment, then says, “I watched this movie last night where this guy walked outside and got struck by lightning. For no reason at all! He just walked out, got struck by lightning, and died right there on the spot.”

Nobody listens to me.

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Six Short Years

Tags

empty nest, middle school, siblings

I leave my children chatting in the hallway outside their bedroom doors.  As I crawl into bed, my sixth grader and my eighth grader verbally rib each other in a way that only siblings can. They get loud for a brief moment.  The high-pitched giggle, the playfully exasperated growl.  I imagine that their antics will rouse Dom and bring out the Daddy-growl, but he breathes steadily beside me.  I won’t be reminding him tonight that someday we will miss this revelry.  The quiet we often long for will cover our home like a blanket soon enough.  These two noise-makers will grow up and leave our chipper little nest.

Tonight their chatter reassures me.  Before I am aware that the banter has stopped I hear his door close.  The hallway dims with the flip of her switch.

Silence.

I stare into wordless darkness for a few minutes before I bury my face in the pillow.  I pray that I will remember to appreciate the noise in our house, as it will only last for the next

six

short

years.

Poca Voglia

Tags

home names, little wishes

I’ve always wanted to name my house – ever since the days of my childhood when I would watch Dallas and marvel at the majesty of Southfork.  Of course, I knew I would not likely have anything as vast as a Southfork of my own, but the thought of a place with a name – a distinct identity – was intriguing.

Our old house was warm and friendly, but never quite name-worthy.  The name would come some day when I fulfilled the dream of building my own house.

That day is now.

Any appropriate name would need to be Italian (duh), and so I spent weeks in my “spare” time google-translating phrases that were personal, yet meaningful.  Stately, yet modest.

Weeks, I tell ya.  Weeks.

(By the way, this is exactly why I don’t have a tattoo.  Such a permanent item would need to be, in my estimation, an all-encompassing graphic rendition of my personality, beliefs and ideals.  Its meaning and message would need to stand the test of time.  I mean, really…how would I ever decide on one?)

I also had standards for not only what the name would mean, but for how it sounded when spoken.  It couldn’t be cumbersome.  It needed to sound lyrical.  It needed to roll. Google Translate and that little Italian voice inside my phone had their work cut out for them.

I won’t bore you with all the details of the names I tried and cast aside.  In the end, one name won out because of its meaning and its melody.  Poca Voglia (pronounced POKE-a VOHL-e-yah) means “little wish.”   This house began as a little wish twenty years ago when Dom and I sat in the student center at our university and he drew me an abstract picture on a napkin of the home we would someday build together.It’s probably hard to see on this scanned and faded napkin, but that’s the house in the foreground with a pond in the back.  And a dog.  No house is a home without a dog.  😉

I am full of little wishes.  But I am also full of gratitude and contentment.  Poca Voglia.  Welcome home.

Duck

Tags

1993, high school band, memories of friends, suicide, Super Bowl

This post lived in “the vault” for probably a decade.  As I reflected on today’s date, I edited the last paragraph and decided to finally share it.

I was a band geek.  I have to admit that I loved it.  Being a part of the band was like belonging to a high school fraternity.  We hazed each other, we were initiated into the fold, and we were family.  Years later I would laugh until I hurt when the movie American Pie coined a geek’s phrase, “This one time, at band camp…”  I have band camp stories, (clean stories, mind you…)  but I dare not share them after that movie came out!

The summer before my junior year I had the privilege of meeting and growing to love a crowd of rowdy freshmen boys, all ready for high school, toting their instruments to – yes – band camp.  There was Keith with his blond hair and freckles whose feistiness overshadowed his size, and Taco, a fun-loving guy whose name was actually Jeff…Taco fit better, and so it stuck.  Larry sort of hung back a little, but he was friendly and liked to joke around.  Chris was tall and dark-haired and seemed to have girls swooning over him at random.  David was new to our area, and despite having just moved here from Los Angeles, fit in with the guys quite nicely.  And Aaron…sweet Aaron, who was pixie-ish with dark hair and a sheepish smile.  Stacey and I nicknamed him “A.O.” for Awesome One.  AO in turn nicknamed me and Stacey each “Gorgeous.”  If we were having a rotten day, AO could make us feel better with one greeting.

And then there was Duck.  Jonathan Wayne Duck.  (I howled when he told me his name was Jon Wayne.  I got The Look and the retort, “I fail to see what is so dang funny.”)  Everyone called him Jon, but Pretty in Pink was one of my favorite movies, so I instantly took to calling him “Duck.”  Duck stole my heart in the way only a good buddy can.  We would talk every day at school and then we’d be on the phone in the evening together.  There was never anything romantic between us…I just really liked being in his company.  He was a great jokester. He could take a joke, too.  If my parents answered the phone when he called, they would quack to let me know it was him.  I’d pick up the line to hear Duck sarcastically saying, “Uhhh, yeahh, Lori, your folks are quite the comedians tonight.”  And then he would launch into a National Geographic lecture on the sensitive egos of water fowl.

Larry and Duck and I would often find each other during the school day to chat.  And at the end of every school day, Duck would walk me to my car. For two years we followed the same routine.  We would meet in the band room, chat about our day, and walk outside where mom would be waiting to pick me up, or as was the case during my senior year, where my own car would be waiting for me.

We were closest in my junior year, and I feel in retrospect that I took his friendship for granted during my senior year. I had such “huge” things to think about…Prom, Homecoming, Graduation.  We still chatted on the phone in the evenings, and he was always a source of comic relief at football games and band competitions. As a majorette, I wore the equivalent to a swimsuit at all band performances.  And with a football team in the playoffs, those last games of the season were pretty cold.  Duck would find his way to me before halftime, change his voice to that of a “roving reporter” and make comments like, “Um, you know, Lori, if you would wear more clothes to these winter events, you wouldn’t be freezing your ass off!”  Sometimes he’d sneak up on me with questions like, “Does your mother know you’re dressed like that?!”  He would always make me laugh.  I smile every time I think about those sideline conversations.

Duck hated to be in pictures.  I have only two pictures of him: one of him and Larry together, and one of Duck at my surprise 18^th birthday party.  He was always so casual about everything, but could not stand to be in front of the camera.  I feel the same way, so I really shouldn’t complain.  But I wish I had more photos of him.

Larry and Duck, 1989

I graduated and went on to college, though not too far.  Stacey and Jill and I ventured just across the river for higher education.  I kept in touch with Duck still, and a couple of times I stopped by the high school to visit with him.  I do remember Duck coming to my mom’s house one day and visiting with me for a good part of the afternoon.  I told him what all was going on in college, and I remember him saying he didn’t know where he was going to enroll.

I probably didn’t talk with Duck much during his senior year or after he graduated.  I thought about him a lot, but I didn’t take the time to call him up and see how everything was going.  By then, I was full-swing into Dominic and, honestly, I didn’t make time for much of anything else.  Dominic was going to be at the fraternity house for the ‘93 Super Bowl, and by God, I was going to be there too.  If I remember correctly, I dragged Stacey with me, neither of us interested in the least in football.  But we watched the game for the commercials while Dom played cards most of the night.  It was the first year of a streak where the Cowboys had finally made it to the Super Bowl.  They actually won, a feat few thought possible after their many losing seasons.

I remember that Dom’s fraternity brothers had borrowed and set up a big screen TV for the event, and I know we were at the house on Robinson.  But other details of the early evening are sketchy in my mind.  What I do remember vividly is that I was house-sitting for Mr. Wilson while he was out of town that weekend of January 31.  I had finally arrived at his house, exhausted, and was taking my makeup off when the phone rang.  It was Stacey and she said she had some bad news.  I immediately thought something had happened to Dominic and, cursing myself for not sticking around to drive him home, demanded she tell me that he was okay.  She said Dom was fine, but that Duck had shot himself that evening.  Her words stunned me and I lost my breath.  As Stacey relayed the few details she knew, I stumbled to the foot of the bed and sat down on the floor and cried.  I kept asking if she was sure.  Was he okay?  Could it be a mistake?  How does news like that make it across the river and into my world within a matter of hours???  It had to be a cruel joke.  But Stacey would never joke like that.  This was all wrong.

I knew I had to call Larry.  He seemed to be my closest link to Duck, and I doubted he knew yet.  It was well after midnight when I woke up Larry’s uncle, who asked me if I knew what time it was.  I sobbed that yes, I knew it was late, but I really had to talk to him.  Somehow, Larry was immediately on the phone and told his uncle that he would take the call.  I don’t even know how I told him the news.  I was in shock, and Larry and I stayed on the phone for the better part of an hour consoling each other and praying that it was all a mistake.

Duck had left us for reasons I still can’t comprehend.  At his graveside I saw many of the faces that I loved, shielded by dark sunglasses.  I knew nothing would ever be the same.  One song from that era seemed to bond itself to the moment, and from then on I could never listen to Garth Brooks’ The Dance without thinking of Duck and the boys in the band.  He probably had no idea that his friendship was one of my most treasured gifts. Or that his memory would fill me with sadness for a number of years before my thoughts of him, finally peaceful again, found joy and gratitude for who he was while I knew him.

It’s been twenty years today since Duck chose to go where we could not follow, but I can’t relive a single high school memory without thinking of him, simultaneously saying a prayer for him and thanking him for the dance.

Time Stamps

I knew this was going to be a tough morning.  After the morning I had yesterday and the realization that I was anxious about today, I knew it would be a rough ride to school.

To middle school.

Aaron, our first-born, walked into 6^th Grade today alongside about 1,000 other kids.  No lie.  He handled the experience with extreme class and calm.

I, however, did not.

You knew I wouldn’t.

—

I took his picture this morning in order to text my mom with his “look” for today so that she can spot him in afternoon carpool.  Her reply text caught me off-guard, as she commented how grown-up he looked, and how proud she is.  Then she quoted Aaron’s baby phrase and wrote, “’But I crying’ tears of joy.”

Let me just say that This. Completely. Did. Me. In.

Thanks, Mom.  😉

So there I was, at a red light just a block off the interstate stifling sobs over what little I read of the pop-up on my phone, and we still had several blocks to go.  I tried to calm my voice and casually comment that I hoped Aaron had a great day at school.

“I will.”

“Oh, I know you will, sweetie.  Just know that I will be [sniff] thinking of [sniff, sniff] you [sniff] all day [sniff, sniff].

“I know.”

He knows so much.  But does he know that when I think of him, I still see this?

And this…

And this…

Those are my timestamps.  My mental slide-show of his life so far.   My slideshow that now includes this…

As we caravanned into the carpool drop-off line at the school, I shoved eight bucks at him “just in case” and told him that I love him.  He said he loved me too.  All I could see as he opened the door was the back of his little head over that huge backpack, stuffed to the gills with 2” binders in assorted colors.  I asked if he had his lunchbox.

“Yes.  Bye.”  And with that, he disappeared into a swarming sea of middle school children.  No longer could I see my baby boy walk into the school building and know that he was safe.  I couldn’t even see his head bobbing through the crowd.  Just a steadily-changing stream of  kids I’d never seen before.

I pulled through the rest of the carpool line, made the turn and cried like a baby.  And this played in my head:

A co-worker who saw her youngest of six ride off to high school today profoundly stated that it’s not the firsts that do her in anymore.  It’s the lasts.

I cannot even go there yet.

Observations of Youth – 20 years later…

This is the weekend of my high school reunion. Twenty years have flown by and now we are all adults with jobs, mortgages, and actual responsibilities. And if we had only known then what we know now…

Dom and I went to the Viking Homecoming football game. Aaron went with us. Neither of my men had ever had the experience of a high school football game on a balmy Friday night, so I was thrilled to share with them what was such a prominent part of my teenage experience.

Various scenes throughout the evening made me smile with complete satisfaction that high school is still a bubble all to itself. And other scenes reminded me of the ups and downs inside that bubble. Here is what I observed:

High school football does not discriminate your age at the gate. You will pay full price whether you are 8 or 80. $21 later, we were granted entrance. (I have never before in my life paid for entrance into a game – one of the perks of being in the band!)

I had buried deep in my memory the smell of the stadium at night. There is excitement under the stadium lights, just as the sun is dropping into the horizon. And the announcer’s voice has the ability to alter time – at least for me.

We saw my nephew, Jacob, now a Freshman at Airline. He was four months old at our wedding, which you know was juuuuuust yesterday. I was struck by how much he fit in with the crowd – handsome and carefree – and I marveled at how he had grown. Then I realized Aaron will be a Freshman in four short years, and I had to wipe my eyes.

Confession: I used to not like kids. Yeah, I know it sounds like a stupid thing to say, but bear with me. I really didn’t like kids – until I had kids of my own. And then, I noticed that my tolerance of kids grew with their age-progression. I liked all children younger than mine – consistently. I have never cared for teenagers that I didn’t know personally. I think, in my Peter Pan way of refusing to admit that I’m getting older, I still felt too “close” in age to them. (Seriously, until very recently I still felt 25.) But for the first time this weekend, I began to see teenagers as a mother sees them rather than as a peer sees them. As I observed the students in the stands Friday night, I could imagine Aaron and Victoria in their places, and I know that will be my reality all too soon.

I observed that high school girls can still be cruel. And high school boys can still be perfect gentlemen.

We hadn’t really thought about it before last night, but it occurred to us as we watched hoards of students texting and snapping iPhone pics, that even our parents didn’t have cell phones when we were in high school. I swear, at the moment of that realization I felt another hair turn gray.

As we left the game shortly after half-time (Aaron was dog-tired) I looked into the empty end-zone near the exit. For a brief moment, I saw myself standing just past that end-zone with my friends where the lights don’t shine as bright, waiting in preparation for the half-time show. I remembered the nervousness I would feel each half-time, the bounce of the grass, the sound of the drums, and the faces that surrounded me – some I will never see again. That end-zone didn’t look as large and overwhelming as it once did, but it still looked like home – the home of my nerdy, naïve teenage past. That quiet, proud little dark-haired girl I used to be probably still roams the halls and haunts the practice field with a thousand other ghosts, reveling in what proves for most to be the last bastion of innocence and the premier experience of loyalty.

Twenty years…

Go Vikes!

Ya Know, Some Days Ya Just Gotta Laugh

Elaine and I have a saying: We can’t make this stuff up! Case in point: my home voice-mail message today, from a fellow mom whom I have never met. She is organizing a back-to-school party for one of my children’s classes. She sounded sweet when she introduced herself to my answering machine, stated her purpose for calling, and then offered that I could call her back to let her know if I wanted to bring brownies or coke or something. Nevermind that she didn’t state when the party will be. But the really fun part was at the end, when she thought she had hung up the phone and continued talking, but in a much less sweet, more sarcastic voice, “…or let me know if you’re just gonna friggin’ show up!”

Doesn’t that just make me wanna bake all night and go party down with that crew!!!! Hmmm. I think we’re busy that day.

In Search of Truth (The fight is on with the FDA!)

I haven’t blogged in a while, but I haven’t been far away. In fact, the last two weeks have found me inundated in internet research on – of all things – additives, preservatives and artificial colors.

It all started the second day of our staycation, when we met with the school counselor to discuss Victoria’s standardized test scores (which were fine, BTW) and learned that they (the counselor and teachers) feel that Vic displays ADHD tendencies.

You can imagine my state of mind once that was brought to my attention!

I suppressed my truest thoughts and attitudes for the limited duration of the meeting, not wanting to be in denial if a problem truly existed, but utterly convinced that nothing good had come of this entire year in Second Grade, and now we had wrapped it all up nicely and tied it with a big black bow. Let me assure you, suppressing my words and thoughts did me no good in the end. I was in my doctor’s office within the week convinced I was relapsing with shingles. I should have just let it all out in the counselor’s office.

Those who know me best will vouch for the fact that I am pretty much anti-medication. Unless I understand that a condition will WORSEN without meds, I can summon the strength to do without them. So I was intrigued by the school counselor’s mention of changes in diet that can sometimes subdue these ADHD symptoms.

I must say at this point, denial or not, that I am not in the least little bit convinced that my child has ADHD. I have researched it to the point of going blind! However, I have known her to demonstrate some behaviors that stress teachers out if they don’t have a handle on who the adult is in the classroom, and I have since learned that these behaviors are indeed attributable in many cases to our foods.

My mom says I went overboard. If that’s true, then I’m still in the water. Instantly upon my research quest, I stumbled upon the dangers of preservatives and certified artificial colors. Did you know that the “certified artificial colors” in our foods (like Yellow 6, Blue 1, Red 40 and so on) can trigger hyperactivity much more so than sugar? And look at the reputation we’ve given poor defenseless sugar over the years. In fact, Victoria even informed me several times this year, “Mommy, I shouldn’t eat that dessert because sugar makes me hyper!” to which I would casually respond, “That’s a load of bull,” and serve her the cake. All joking aside, any hyperactivity she displayed was more likely the result of the certified artificial colors in snack foods. The neon Goldfish crackers, the strawberry-flavored milk, the fruit roll-ups. They are everywhere! And not only will they increase the hyperactivity, but they are made from petroleum, and often contain amounts of lead, mercury and arsenic that can alter our DNA. Of course, you say, consumption would have to be pretty significant, right? When you consider that these colors are in about 90% of kid-friendly snack foods, just based on what was in my pantry, then I’d have to say the consumption factor is more than met. If you do the research, these “colors” make High Fructose Corn Syrup look like an angel. As it turns out, HFCS is just hyped-up sugar, and will just make us fat faster. Duhhh.

Did you further know that Australia, Canada and the UK insist on higher quality ingredients in their foods? McDonald’s strawberry sundae syrup, for instance, gets its color from Red 40 in the United States. In the UK, McD’s makes the syrup with real strawberries – NO Red 40 – all because the country insists on it. I feel incredibly duped as an American, and I attribute this disappointment to the FDA. Makes me want even more to join Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution!!!

It took under an hour to rid my pantry of every food with suspect ingredients. We can now, for the first time in probably 8 years, see 75% of the back wall of our pantry – that’s how much food I evicted. The top shelf is practically empty. And I am in serious need of a trip to the grocery store.

Which is what leads me to my “highest level of pissed-ivity” against the FDA. I noticed in my reading that the FDA’s stance is always that “there are no studies which concretely confirm” all the harm that these ingredients can cause us. Nothing to substantiate, eh? I suppose it wouldn’t do any good to substantiate the claims against these products when it would take a fortune to turn our consumerism around, to make the foods with higher quality (and more costly) ingredients, or to – at the very least – RESEARCH the long-term effects of this crap. So basically, if you never test it, then you can’t be held accountable for the damage it has caused? Is that not a noticeable trend in our society? Pardon me, but I’m of the mindset that if it MIGHT hurt me, then it probably WILL, so why go there?!! It’s the same reason I don’t consume anything with saccharin. “Causes cancer in laboratory animals.” And you want to put it in my food?!!!

But then again, people still smoke despite the warning on the package. I get it. I understand the “it’s too big for me to fight by myself” attitude. I have felt that way too at times during the past two weeks. It feels monstrously overwhelming. Until I look at my kids – these little humans that are my responsibility for the next decade. I can’t feed them that stuff anymore. Not knowing what I know now. I have not gotten much support from other moms in my crusade against these ingredients. I’ve heard everything from, “Well, something’s going to kill us, we might as well eat and be happy,” to “Maybe I’m a bad mom, but I just don’t care what’s in the food.” O……M……G…… Does it have to be only at the suggestion of a medical malfunction that we will admit the benefit of determined change? Isn’t it then too late??

And then…

Getting ready to go to the grocery store, I decided to do further research last night on the naughty-list preservatives, since my research had been so focused on the food colorings. But lo and behold, when I started my search on BHT I was directed to preservatives in cosmetics. WHAAAAA????????!!!!!! Turns out, all the crap I’m trying to avoid in our food is in my makeup, my shampoo, body lotions, sunscreens, and on and on and on… Not only are there preservatives to worry about, but parabens, known carcinogens and chemicals known to cause reproductive problems and hormonal imbalances lurk in literally every kind of product we use. I wash my hair every day with a shampoo containing carcinogenic ingredients. I’ve used this shampoo for five years. My daily facial regimen is even under attack, as my beloved Mary Kay products contain these awful ingredients.

I have to wonder…. Since you can’t go two degrees of separation without finding someone affected by cancer, since the miscarriage rate is so high, since so many of our friends have had fertility issues, since kids are popping up everywhere with ADD and ADHD…can you do any of this research and not see a connection? We comment all the time that our ancestors didn’t have all the ailments we have today. Are our products and our dependency on them killing us, killing our dreams??

There is hope. And help. I found three beneficial information sites and I am grateful they exist: The Center for Science in the Public Interest, Paraben-Free Princess, and Skin Deep, the Cosmetics Safety Database.

No, I can’t possibly undertake the job of stripping my entire home of these harmful chemical ingredients…not all at once. Food is my first step. After that I can focus on one beauty product at a time, finding a suitable replacement until I have eliminated to the best of my ability the ingredients that I deem unsafe for my family and our future. And maybe I’ll have the beauty products under control by the time Vic starts wearing makeup.

If you have travelled this road already, let me know.  If you have information that disputes the ideas I have shared here, let me know that too.  I am on a quest for truth…

…for all of us.

It’s Tuesday….Er, Make That Wednesday…

This week has flown! We have had something going on every day or night since Saturday, and it is starting to wear me down. I think today may be my breaking point. And here’s why.

Tomorrow is the last day of school. Yay, right? Except today is Honors Assembly for Aaron and Splash Day for Victoria. I thought I was going to miss half of my work day, which I would do for my kids, but as it turns out, nothing went as I planned.

First, I was absolutely convinced that the Honors Assembly would begin at 9:00 a.m. today. I found out at 8:15 that it was to start at 8:30. Having forgotten my camera at home and backtracking to fetch it, I managed to swing into the school parking lot at 8:35. I walked into the auditorium right as Aaron was being called to the stage for his AB Honor Roll award. No time to get the camera out, and I missed the opportunity to revel in his success! Feeling like a complete failure in the presence of the stay-at-home moms who create daily magic on the school campus and have musical and academic prodigies for children, I decided to stay through Victoria’s honors assembly, even though I knew she wouldn’t be called for any awards. She was pleased that I was there, and that Mimi and Papa were on hand to take pictures with her. So that made me happy. But then I get a note from the counselor that we need to meet to discuss her standardized test scores next week…during my vacation…on the morning of my anniversary…at 8:00 a.m.! Ick.

Victoria has had a rough year, and it has been equally hard on me and Dom as we tried to help her navigate the unnecessarily rough terrain of Second Grade. So when the school secretary called me at 11:00 to say Victoria needed her towel for Splash Day at 12:00, I was just beside myself. My dear friend Mickey offered to run home and grab a towel to save me the drive all the way to my own house, since the school is just 6 minutes from my office. Dear, sweet Mickey! So I am off to the school, for the third time today. And I truly feel that this is just a rough day, and that we love our school and our teachers very much, because they care enough to meet with us on their vacation too to make sure we are prepared for the next first day of school.

Happy Summer.

Victoria: Like it or lump it!

You always know where you stand with Victoria. She is honest to a fault, and readily admits her shortcomings. And she is not one to butter you up just to get something she wants. Relationships with Victoria have to be honest or she is not interested in them. She has begun to have a rough time with her teacher lately. We have heard Vic complain that her teacher does not smile, and always seems unhappy. Trying to give the teacher the benefit of the doubt, my mother suggested that Victoria make the teacher smile each day by greeting her with, “Good morning, Mrs. __! I hope you have a great day today!”

Victoria eyed my mother for a short time, and then dryly said, “I just don’t think I can do that.”