Want to know WHY I love lists? Read Ten Reasons to Write Lists on my new blog The Psychologist Next Door. Then, tell me how lists make your life better.
This post inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat "5.) On a piece of paper write down something that makes you happy...take a photo of your paper and wa la...there's your post" and by my constant need to control the chaos!
How do I love thee, Pokemon? Let me count the ways.
Pokemon image by Bob Villalobos (flickr)
You’ve captured Little Man’s interest and made him feel like a big kid. He trades cards with neighbors, huddled quietly around binders and bins at the park. He listens and learns from bigger boys. They treat him like an insider, not caring that he makes his own rules. My mom-heart is full.
No longer do I fret about bribes for good behavior. The hidden deck of Pokemon in my desk drawer ensures our toy room will be clean all summer long. And doling out cards is better than nagging, more effective than threats. You, Pokemon, are a secret weapon in my mom arsenal.
You take up little space in my cluttered, child-centered home. I don’t need enormous plastic tubs or an ambitious shelving system to display Little Man’s cards. He carries a small binder of precious Pokemon. They go to the park, in the car, upstairs and down. All day and all night they are with him.
When I step on a Pokemon card, it sticks, begging me to pick it up, to love it a little more. It does not slice my foot like the stabilizers of a die-cast jet airplane or imprint my skin like a lego. Bad words do not fly from my mouth when I step on a card. Even under foot, Pokemon are friendly.
Someday in the future Little Man will move on to other hobbies, other collections. Then, fine Pokemon, I will love you more. Because you, unlike any other toy he’s loved, are 100% recyclable. Our affair will not go public at a yard sale or thrift shop, laid bare for the neighbors to see. Our love will not end on Craigslist. It will end quietly, like it began. In secret.
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This post inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat (3. Do you love it or hate it? An open letter to your child's latest obsession) and by Little Man's love of Pokemon.
I never got in really big trouble as a kid, but that doesn't mean I didn't deserve it.
When I was 16, my dad bought me a 1969 VW Beetle with a baja kit. Basically, it was a VW bug that looked like a dune buggy, with an exposed engine in back and cut out fiberglass fenders over the wheels.
Mine was similar to this picture, but without the lights on top or the stripes. It was beige and white: the fiberglass was never painted, so the body was beige and the hood and fenders were white.
I loved that little car. I lived in that little car. It was a whole lot of fun.
It had a heater to-die-for, and a gas gauge that didn't work. I kept track of the miles travelled to know when it was time to fill 'er up.
Because the car LOOKED like a dune buggy, my not-s0-stuck-in-the-mud friends wanted me to drive it off-road. I wasn't that daring. But I wanted their social approval badly enough that I let one of them (a 16-year-old guy who is now a fine, upstanding member of society) drive it off-road in a field not far from our house. He bumped it hard and fast over the curb and into the dirt and weeds. Round the field a couple of times, then back on the road.
Some days later, my dad confronted me about the car.
"Did you hit a curb with it?" he asked.
"No," I lied. Forthright I was not.
"I know you did," he said. "Stand here in front of the car. What do you notice?"
I looked at the car. I looked at my dad. I didn't notice anything, really. But I knew the game was up. My dad notices every little detail on a car. And he knows how they work. Or why they don't. He's a mechanical guru.
"The front wheels are completely out of alignment," he explained. "They don't go straight anymore. You hit something big and hard and knocked the wheels sideways," he said.
I can't recall now how long it took me to come clean.
What I do know is that I eventually fessed up. But I wasn't forthright about parking tickets, either.
At some point dad found a cache of parking tickets in the glove compartment of my car. He asked if I thought they'd just go away if I didn't mention them.
I don't know what I thought. Probably I didn't think much of anything. I certainly didn't imagine that they'd send copies through the mail to my dad, who was the registered owner of my car!
I should have been in big Trouble (with a capital T). But my dad went easy on me.
What did *you* do to deserve Big Trouble?
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This post inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat 1.) Write about a time you got in BIG trouble as a kid and by Jenny Matlock's Alphabe-Thursday meme (write about the letter F -- forthrightness and fessing up).
Grandparents get a short shrift in our society. Maybe it's because they move slowly. Maybe it's because we're too future-focused. Maybe it's because they aren't on Twitter (unless your grandma is Betty White).
I am fortunate that my maternal grandparents are still in my life. I live far away and I don't call or write as often as I'd like, but my grandparents are near and dear to my heart. And so, in response to Mama Kat's prompt, "10 Things about One of My Favorite People," I give you 10 Things about My Grandpa.
1. Grandpa McKinney is one of 13 children. His parents and siblings called him "Little Boy." He grew up in Smith County, Tennessee.
2. My Grandpa McKinney never had a hobby besides work. Even now, his favorite way to spend a day is puttering around the ranch, caring for the cattle. When he doesn't get to go, his eyes don't sparkle like they should.
3. My Grandpa McKinney goes to town in his beat-up bib overalls to shop for cars. He looks every bit a country bumpkin. The car salesmen don't see him coming. When he's negotiated a good price, he pays cash and drives home.
4. Grandpa McKinney has a killer sweet tooth. I've never seen him pass up dessert. When we were kids, we made him homemade, hand-dipped chocolates for Christmas each year. Making "Grandpa's candy" is one of my favorite traditions. I'm sharing it with my own kids.
5. Grandpa McKinney shells walnuts to keep busy. This year, he had thirteen 5-gallon buckets of walnuts to crack. My son spent an entire afternoon cracking walnuts with Great Grandpa McKinney. He smashed his finger with the hammer, just like Grandpa warned, but he kept cracking. I bake up lots of love with Grandpa's walnuts.
6. In April, Grandpa McKinney turned 97 years old. This Tuesday, he passed the State of California's behind-the-wheel driver's test. Again.
7. Grandpa McKinney can speak volumes without saying a word. And he can talk a blue streak, too. I could listen to him all afternoon.
8. My Grandpa and Grandma eloped to Carson City, Nevada. They raised three children. They have been married for 77 years. Their lifelong partnership inspired Little Man's first name.
9. He never went to college, but my Grandpa can engineer a bridge or a building with skill. When he advised the county work crew that the culvert they were building wouldn't hold water, they ignored him. Probably thought he was some foolish old man. Later that year, it washed out.
10. The best gift I've ever given Grandpa is time with my children. He smiles from ear to ear as he watches my kids play on the living room floor, chasing battery-operated trains under the coffee table. He shows them old-time tractors in his big picture book, and lets them down when their attention wanders. He grins when they eat with their chubby hands and stuff their mouths way too full. Grandpa McKinney finds joy in the little things.
I'm fortunate to have many good role models in life, and Grandpa McKinney is one of them. He taught me it's okay to love my work. He taught me to be loyal and to remember where I came from.
He taught me book learning isn't everything. He taught me to be independent and keep myself busy.
He taught me that people listen better when I say less.
And, he taught me to eat dessert. Take a nap after lunch, and watch my kids play.
My dear,
I fear I cannot love thee as I did.
In days past, I spent late nights in dark places. With strangers. And loud, pounding music.
We shared stories. We made memories. Our time was rich with experience.
I chased the unknown.
Unpredictable moments whispered sweet nothings in my ear. I delighted in delicious opportunities.
Spontaneity was the bad boy down the street, begging me to sneak out my window and meet him in the park. He offered excitement. I accepted it greedily, always wanting more.
Not so now.
I found another, truer love.
Routine is my boy next door. I’ve known him forever. He makes me feel safe.
I am comforted by his embrace.
I am energized by his steadfast presence.
He makes me feel alive. Creative. Ready for anything.
I love who I am when I’m with him.
My just-washed hair and casual clothes aren’t night-club material. They’re perfect for play.
It’s just me and my family and our routine. We move together in a familiar dance. My body knows every move by heart.
6 a.m. coffee
7 a.m. breakfast
8 a.m. blog post
9 a.m. preschool drop off
Time to write. The baby naps. I read. And write some more.
2 p.m. preschool pick up
Playing outside. Sorting the mail. Dinner on the stove. Baths and pajamas. Tooth-brushing, book reading, the final episode of Last Cake Standing. And then it is bedtime.
The baby rustles in her crib as the four-year-old burrows in next to me for the night. His dad is away on business. I promised he’d sleep in my mom bed. My head rests peacefully on the Pillow Pet he shared so generously. Her name, he says, is Fluffy.
I am in love with mundane, everyday details now. Spontaneity messes with my mojo. The confines of my usual routine are not confining. They’re thrilling.
And so for now, I bid you leave, my love. Find a young, fickle friend to entice.
I’ve got all the excitement I need right here.
At home.
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This post inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat's World Famous Writer's Workshop, by two long weeks of vacation and too much rum punch.
LOVE LETTER CLOSE-UP
© Gianna Stadelmyer | Dreamstime.com
The weight of motherhood isn’t measured in pounds and pants sizes. It’s measured in responsibility. And it hit me almost immediately with both of my children.
As a Leading Mama, I speak up for my children when they cannot speak up for themselves. Since my kids are small, that is much of the time.
Here’s how I speak up for them:
1) I ask the doctor about speech delays, hip dysplasia, and the 3rd percentile for weight. I share my kids’ stories. I advocate for treatment or against treatment. I wait and watch and re-evaluate. I ask more questions. I speak up to protect their health.
2) I recognize their traits, talents, and preferences. Little Man loves to move. He’s a sociable guy. He’s inquisitive and talkative. I look for opportunities to develop those talents. I sign him up when I think a program “fits” and say “no, thanks” to those that don’t. I ask the teacher to work on weaknesses or to expand their learning in new directions. I speak up to nurture their potential.
3) I understand that more isn’t always better, even if it tastes or feels good at the moment. I make or break the rules. I say “no” to sugary snacks and staying up too late to watch another TV show. I say “yes” to thirteen colors of play doh – even if they’re mixed together – and “yes” to playing at the playground as the sun sets, even though we need to cook dinner. I speak up to teach values.
4) I read the hurt or happiness on my kids' faces. I hear joy in Little Mama’s squeaks and squeals. I hear the hurt or hunger in her cry. I see frustration in Little Man’s pout. I read anger in his stomps and scowls. I give their feelings a voice, translating into words what they know with their hearts but can’t yet describe. I speak up to capture their feelings.
5) I live in the world with an eye toward tomorrow. I see failures in our education system. I worry about our American obsession with reality-show role models. I seek out role models who set an example by acting with kindness, compassion and persistence. I support causes that will make the world better for my kids today and, more importantly, for their kids tomorrow. I sign petitions. I vote. I speak up for their future.
That’s what leading parents do.
How do you speak up for your kids?
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This post inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat who asked me to "Describe a time you spoke up for someone who couldn't speak up for themselves."
Image © Ken Hurst | Dreamstime.com
As a long-time educator and an assessment expert, I'm risking my reputation by saying this, but I think students need to hear it. We teachers need to grapple with it, too.
The most important skills students build in school are not what's measured by tests, grades, or graduation.
And you can't learn them from a textbook. Or 10.
Maybe students already know this. Or think they do.
I'm sure many of my failing students wanted this to be true. Maybe they muttered it behind my back, or on the way out of my office after reviewing their errors on the midterm exam.
It's rare to hear an educator say it. Out loud. I know that. Let me say it again.
The most important skills students build in school are not what's measured by tests, grades, or graduation.
Straight-A students may suspect it's true, but I'm not sure they want to hear it. When you are working hard to earn high marks; when college entry and job interview offers hang in the balance; and when you think you've cracked the code on how to "succeed," the last thing you want to know is that the teacher doesn't believe tests, grades or graduation are what matters.
In Leading Mama's opinion, the top 5 skills students need to succeed are:
1) The courage to ask difficult questions, and to pursue the answers to those questions, even if they aren't obvious, easy or comfortable
2) A willingness to embrace uncertainty and to sit with it long enough to learn from it
3) Keen self-awareness, including understanding your personality traits, talents, and preferences. What do you have to contribute? How do you recognize or (even better) create opportunities for your contribution?
4) The self-confidence to express your ideas to others -- including teammates, colleagues and authority figures -- and the social finesse to do so without alienating them
5) A deep commitment to a set of personal values that clarifies choices, guides decision making and makes life meaningful despite inevitable ups and downs
In school, students with these skills may be dismissed or even penalized. Standardized testing isn't set up to recognize or reward them. It is challenging to design assessments of these skills, especially "objective" ones. And busy instructors don't always look kindly on students who ask too many difficult questions. Questions that lead the class off on tangents. Questions the instructor can't answer.
But business and civic leaders know these skills make for success. And they are handsomly rewarded in real life. Students should know that.
This post inspired by a post from Mama Kat, by 20 years in higher education, and by the scholarship applicants whose essays I read last night.
Image credit: BOOKS
© Stanko Mravljak | Dreamstime.com
It’s hard to imagine my kids all grown up. Right now, they need constant intervention (read: food, laundry, and diaper changes). But before I know it, they’ll be adults. And gainfully employed. I hope.
Based on their personalities, here’s how they might turn out.
Little Man might be a lawyer. Or a politician.
His cardinal trait is defensive argumentativeness.
Little Man loves to argue, even when he knows he is wrong.
He defends his opinions like an attorney defends a client who is sits in court – covered in blood spatter and gun-shot residue – holding a smoking gun.
He defends his playroom turf and toys like a southern senator protects pork-barrel project funding for a bridge to nowhere.
If he has to lie to protect his position, he will. If Little Man gets caught, he covers up the first lie with another lie. Or he blames someone else. Usually his dad.
When he gets caught hoarding candy in his play room drawers or eating sweets after I've already called "no more sugar" for the day, he turns in his supplier without batting an eyelash. "Daddy give it to me," he says, pointing not just his finger but his whole arm at the guilty party. "It was Daddy."
Little Man knows the rules. He just doesn’t like following them. He “climbs up the slides” in Chutes and Ladders. He looks for loopholes. If he can’t find one, he makes up new rules and announces them as if he’s the king of the world. “It’s the rule,” he says in a sing-song voice. And he expects me to follow it.
Bottom line: I’d vote for him. He’s my kid.
Little Mama might be a stock trader.
Her cardinal trait is optimistic risk-taking.
She is attracted to risk like a bear is attracted to honey. She ignores signs of danger. Where others see risk, Little Mama sees opportunity.
Take the toilet for instance. I see risk (bacteria, drowning, general oogieness). Little Mama sees a pool of possibilities. She throws in little slips of paper like traders throw buy/sell slips on the floor of the stock exchange. She sees her reflection. She wants to splash in.
As she fills the bowl with more and more paper, she bounces up and down on her knees, gesturing wildly with delight. She squeals with excitement. She can hardly contain herself. She’s a pint-sized adrenaline junkie. Her stocks are up and so is her mood.
When things don’t go her way (read: the bathroom door is locked or she’s whisked away by a risk-averse adult), she’s happy-go-lucky. She’s already crawling toward the next big risk. Like the bookcases in the living room. There’s gold in those hills, Little Mama says. Before I know it, she’s climbing without a belay line. That’s how she rolls.
Bottom Line: I’d invest with her. She’s got to earn better returns than .00001% we’re earning on our savings accounts, right?
And if she ends up on trial for orchestrating some very-clever but highly immoral Ponzi scheme, her brother can defend her in court. Maybe then they'll appreciate each other. Maybe.
This post inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat and my two favorite personalities, Little Man and Little Mama.
Credits:
TOY GAVEL
© Hauntedtoys | Dreamstime.com
RISKY BUSINESS
© Meg380 | Dreamstime.com
When my parents split up in the early 80s, I was 11 years old. Their break up was surreal. Maybe that's how all kids feel. I don't know.
I don't remember my parents fighting. Ever. To be honest, I don't remember a time when my parents were together. My memories of childhood are sketchy at best. It's as if the video surveillance tapes in my mind were written over by later events.
I think most of what I "remember" is really what my mom has told me about pictures we have and events that took place. I don't have many of what I'd call first-hand memories.
I do have memories of the year my parents split up.
I remember waking up in the bedroom of my best friend, Jill, the morning after they told me. We'd had a sleepover, and (as usual) I woke up very early and she did not. I laid on the floor reading a book by the light from the window. Her room was sunny and yellow and (I thought) very chic. Which is to say, it seemed way more grown up than my room.
When Jill woke up, I told her my parents were getting divorced. And I cried.
I don't ever remember telling anyone else. I'm sure I did. It was an awkward year to begin with. 7th grade. Ugh.
Jill and I met in the summer before 5th grade. We were fast friends.
I remember swimming laps in her backyard pool wearing our blue with white striped suits for the swim club.
I remember rollerskating around the driveway to Xanadu soundtrack and, later, to the Scorpions' "Blackout." At least we seem to have upped the cool quotient over the years.
I remember playing mermaids in the pool.
I remember sleeping in a covered wagon at summer camp together.
I learned to play blackjack and backgammon from Jill's dad, who taught us to wager Oreo cookies.
Jill's mom had a whole room of the house for sewing. I can remember dashing in there off of the kitchen to ask for Ding Dongs (which Jill's mom kept on hand) and Tab or Pepsi Light (in 16 ounce glass bottles, of course). Aahhh, that was a long time ago.
Jill's brother Brett was younger and pesty. He drove his mom's car into the front wall of their garage when he was too little to see over the dashboard.
I remember putting on singing shows for her mom to the Grease soundtrack. She'd enter the master bedroom from her father's closet and I'd make an entrance from her mother's closet. It was all tightly choreographed. (wink, wink)
We were in marching band in seventh grade. We wore beige cords with gold wide-collared shirts and burgundy sweaters over the top. Not the coolest clique, but I remember having a lot of fun on the trips. And making out with a boy. But that's another post.
I don't know what Jill said to me the morning I told her about my parents' divorce. Or if she said anything at all. What I do know is that her friendship made a tough time bearable. Just her presence eased my sadness.
After junior high, we drifted in different directions. But we will always be friends. I flew cross-country to her wedding in California. She visited me in Colorado and later in Virginia. We seem to go 3 or 4 years between visits. But we keep up on Facebook.
Today, Jill is a super mom, roller derby goddess, foodie, reader of books, music festival junkie, runner of marathons, and all-around interesting person. If I could, I'd stop by her house on a Sunday for tater-tot tachos and beer. I'd bring DingDongs for dessert.
I'd give Jill a hug and say "Thanks for making the tough times bearable. I'm so glad you're my friend."
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This post inspired by a prompt from MamaKat and my childhood best friend, Jill. Thirty years goes by fast, friend. I wanted to include a photo but couldn't find the right box. Sigh.
