Blog

As many have attested to, having a teenage daughter is, well, an adventure. Some days you’re patting yourself on the back for the great job you’ve done raising her so far. Other days you’re scratching your head and wondering where it all went wrong. But sometimes … sometimes there are days where you can’t quite decide how you feel about her actions.

I experienced the latter on a recent vacation my family and I took to the Oregon Coast. We spent five blissful days at the beach, RV’ing with three other families – all with daughters roughly the same age as my eldest, Kiersten. During the trip there was a lot of teenage chatter. This boy’s cute. That boy’s not. There was also shopping, resulting in all the girls buying matching white Crocs and most buying crazy socks to accentuate their newfound shoes. Kiersten chose knee-high Tapatío socks. She has a matching sweatshirt at home she couldn’t wait to try them out with.

Whether shopping, eating, or playing at the beach, the teenage girls never stopped talking. A common theme resonated amongst their chatter: finding a cute boy and getting his number; or giving him theirs. Apparently, there was a valid candidate while they shopped for socks – the one that got away, I suppose. There was another contender only a few campsites down. The girls somehow found out his name. But getting his number was not to be.

On our final night at the beach, our large camping party met at a restaurant for dinner. Party of seventeen – insane and fun (hats off to our fabulous, patient waitress). Our kids, mostly teens, all gathered at one end of the table. From the more reserved adults’ end of the table, we could overhear bits of plotting and hoots of laughter from the other end. The plotting grew louder until we finally clued in on what was going on. The five days of boy-talk and dares boiled down to one thing: Kiersten’s friends dared her twenty dollars to give her number to a “cute” boy seated across the restaurant with his family. Never one to back down from a dare (within reason), she agreed.

Don’t get me wrong, she didn’t pop up and do it right away. Lots of coaxing and planning were involved. Once our entire table was aware what was going on, kids and adults alike egged her on, offering up advice on how to execute the dare.

“Ask him for his number, then if he refuses, offer yours if he changes his mind,” one suggested.

“Just introduce yourself, then slip him your number,” another said. A classic approach.

It was a riot hearing some of the suggestions. Some were clever. Some I thought, oh, my, I hope you’ve never personally tried that one.

Kiersten listened to the suggestions until she settled on one approach: Her name and number scrawled on a scrap of paper, and the old “I think you dropped this coming in,” trick.

I found myself conflicted as I watched my daughter half-saunter, half-slink over to the unsuspecting boy’s table, repeat her pickup line, and drop her number. Crowded restaurant, a captivated audience of at least two tables (ours and the table where the boy and his family were seated), and all the while she was sporting Crocs and knee-high Tapatío socks. I remember thinking it was both the dorkiest and cutest I’d ever seen her.

Mission accomplished, she came back, red-faced and giggling. Our table of seventeen was cracking up. Honestly, so was the family at the table she dropped her number at. Kiersten took her seat, laughing so hard she had tears rolling down her cheeks. We applauded and one of her friends handed her a twenty-dollar bill for her troubles. I watched her face light up at the praise from the others.

Watching her complete the dare, and how happy she was from the accolades she received, I felt two conflicting emotions. Pride, for one. She’d put herself out there; marched over to that table with purpose, Tapatío socks and all. On the other hand, I worried what sort of precedence I was setting – allowing her to give her number to a random stranger. It went completely against my old-fashioned upbringing. My mom always taught me, you let the boys come to you. Upon reflection, I didn’t get asked out on many dates…

In the end, my feelings of pride won out. As we left the restaurant, Kiersten told me how proud she was that she had the courage to go through with it, even though she almost turned around halfway to his table. Seeing her glowing with excitement, I told her I was proud too. I did suggest, gently, that in the future she should hold out until the boy asks for her number (or at least shows some interest). I figured it was a meet-in-the-middle sort of approach. That’s what raising teenagers is all about, I suppose. Compromise. If I would have been thinking on my feet, my meet-in-the-middle approach could have involved taking half the twenty. Maybe next time.

On a side-note, now the constant chatter is about whether or not the boy will call and what Kiersten will say if he does. I imagine, if he does call, that will be an entirely different blog.

I love a good mystery – and today I had one of my own. But to fully share it, first I’ll need to provide a little backstory.

About this time last year, both my family and my little brother’s family drove up to Lewiston, Idaho to salvage some wood from an old family home that was in the process of being torn down. My Grandma is friends with a lovely couple who live on about fifteen acres of farmland on the outskirts of Lewiston. The man, a middle-aged gentleman, built his current home with his own two hands and was now ready to tear down the old family homestead – the one that had housed four generations of his family, including himself. So, roughly one year ago, we made a day of it. Kids in tow, and armed with hammers, crowbars, and metal detectors (to keep the kids occupied), we set out to demolish one of the main side walls of the home. It took ALL DAY – but several back-breaking hours, three bowls of chili a piece, and one damaged tailgate later, we had a trailer of reclaimed wood to use for various projects.

Last weekend we decided (well, my brother decided – but I went along with it), that it was time to return to the farm and demolish the remainder of the house. He needed more wood. I needed just enough for a mini library in the front yard – but that’s another story. So, once again, we headed to Lewiston with our families, picked up Grandma, and made our way to the farm. Luckily, it had been raining and the wet wood came down much easier than the dried-out wood from the year prior. We were done in much less time – giving my brother and his wife time to explore the basement of the old family dwelling. In doing so, they found a simple, handmade wooden table. The legs were in bad shape, but the tabletop was an excellent piece of wood.

Trailer loaded with wood, and bellies full once again with chili and cornbread (now a “tradition”), we headed back to Washington. Fast-forward to today, my baby brother texted to see if we’d bring the trailer of wood to his house. He was going to use most of the wood, after all, and it had been sitting in my driveway for the past week. After lunch, my hubby and I drove the truck to his house and began to offload the wood.

After we’d emptied out the front of the trailer, we lugged out the old table and set it tabletop-side down. In doing so, my brother pointed out a piece of wood beneath the table that appeared to conceal a hidden compartment. Using the claw-end of the hammer, he pried the wooden piece loose – revealing a rusted tin can hidden beneath. When he removed it from its hiding place, we all gasped (okay, maybe it wasn’t quite that dramatic – but it was still pretty exciting).

The tin can hadn’t been opened yet, but I was already wrestling with my conscience. My brother hadn’t indicated how heavy the can was, so possibilities of its contents were endless. What would I do if there was money or other valuables inside it? Would we all split the loot? The right thing to do would be to turn it over to the family, obviously. But would we? I wanted to believe I’d make the right choice, but I couldn’t be sure.

My brother set the rusty can on a sturdy worksurface. With his bare hands, he brushed away the cobwebs and mouse poop. I held my breath, both with anticipation and the burning desire to avoid contracting the Hantavirus. My heart pounded in my chest as my brother worked to peel off the lid of the old tin can. When he popped the top, inside was a small, rolled up piece of paper. Okay, so obviously it wasn’t cash or gold coins. But perhaps it held dark secrets. Or, better yet, a treasure map. I leaned in closer as my brother freed the slip of paper from the can. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as my brother unrolled the sheet. He laid it flat on the worksurface, smoothing the brittle paper. I glanced down at it in excitement.

Numbers. Math. Three numbers were scrawled across the scrap of paper, followed by a single line, then a total beneath.

We all looked at each other and laughed. At first, I felt disappointed. Then, relief washed over me, cleansing my guilt from moments prior when I feared I may not do the right thing. My conscience wouldn’t need tested today. The only mystery that remained … was the math correct?

We’ve all experienced that moment of panic when you find out a friend or family member will be stopping by and you know your house is in no condition to receive visitors. Body temperature rises. Adrenaline spikes. But no worries – I have five easy steps you can follow to make yourself look like an organized person within minutes.

Step 1: Close doors to unsightly rooms. Don’t waste your time picking up every room. If the room is not crucial to the visit, close it off. Guests will typically respect the closed door (and if they don’t – what the heck, reward their bravery and let them have a peek). Now don’t go trying to close off the guest bathroom or the kitchen. Sorry my friend, those are crucial rooms. And no, closing off doors doesn’t mean you can barricade the front door to ward off your surprise guest altogether. Just follow steps 2 – 5 for the remainder of the house and you’ll be alright.

Step 2: Hide that laundry. If your family is anything like mine, every family member is ready, willing and able to run clothes through the washer and dryer, but that’s where the laundry support ends. Not one of us “knows” how to fold and put it away until every basket is overflowing. This of course is unsightly and a dead giveaway that all is not organized in paradise. My solution is simple (and no, it isn’t to fold the laundry and put it away; let’s not get crazy). Instead, shove it way down in the baskets so it doesn’t pour out the top, cram as much clean laundry into the dryer as you can; even stuff it in the closet if you still need room. You will enjoy the appearance of being caught up, without actually being caught up. The warning with this is that the clean clothes will get balled up and you may need to iron more later. And when I say “iron,” I mean throw the clothes back into the dryer with a wet towel and steam those wrinkles out.

Step 3: Closet space is your friend. Take a page out of your childhood playbook when your parents asked you to clean your room and you shoved those unsightly toys under your bed and in any available nook and cranny. Now, if you’re going to use a closet, you should probably choose the one you haven’t already shoved full of clean laundry. But other closets and deep drawers can be utilized to the fullest. Games, blankets, papers, toys; even dirty laundry if desperation calls. Just make sure you don’t put any items in the coat closet the guests will be using. Your secret will be discovered far too soon.

Step 4: Empty the kitchen sink and throw out the three R’s – Rhyme, Reason, and Rinsing. You don’t have time for scrubbing, organizing, and neatly stacking those dishes into the dishwasher. Just shove, shove, shove. You may want to run the dishwasher as well. One time my secret was revealed when one of my guests tried to put her dirty glass into the dishwasher. I witnessed her look of horror at the mounds of crusted dishes piled every which-way in my dishwasher. If the dishwasher is running, no one will bother with it. You can always run a second wash cycle later.

Step 5: Use lighting to your advantage. You can dim the lighting in the more cluttered, unsightly rooms and turn on lights to brighten and spotlight the cleanlier rooms. When it comes to dust and unvacuumed carpets, dim lighting is an ally. Your room looks better. Even you and your guest will look better. It’s a win-win.

That’s it. Simple, right? As long as your guests avoid the closets, the running dishwasher, and don’t randomly flip on a light switch, the secret of your disorganized, chaotic life will be kept safe. Now, if you do have time to prep the house for guests, and want to do it in an over-the-top, neurotic way, check out my previous blog of My Top Five Impractical, Nonsensical, Yet Hard-Fast Rules of Hosting. Happy Monday everybody, and welcome to another week of chaos!

With Christmas behind me, and another hosting event in the books, I wanted to share with you my rules of preparing my home for hosting. These are self-imposed, absurd rules I make for myself when preparing to host an event of any size. My top five goes beyond the crucial task of cleaning the house from top to bottom. To me, that’s a given (though some would argue you shouldn’t deep clean before people come over, because they will only mess things up. I disagree on this point. Why give yourself a break? You can always clean twice). No, these five rules of sheer madness pick up where most people leave off. After reading this, you too can apply these ludicrous rules to your own events to ensure you put as much pressure on yourself as humanly possible. You will love spending hours on these steps and being rewarded with minimal impact to your party’s success.

#5: A clean sink is a happy sink.

I got this one from my mother. I fail to institute it on a day-to-day basis, but magically adopt it when I know people are coming over. Before my guests arrive, even if I’m still prepping the food, I unload and load the dishwasher so the sink is tidy. Then I wipe the countertops and pretend my kitchen always looks that way. No, I always put things away and wash pans out as I cook. Doesn’t everybody? I round this out by quickly re-sweeping and re-mopping the very floor my guests will be trampling over any minute. Hey, at least that first guest through the door will notice the way my floors sparkle.

#4: Smelling is believing.

Before people come over, I make a mad dash around the house to swap out the wax scents in the warmers. I figure people associate a fresh smelling house with a clean house. I allow at least twenty minutes for the new wax to melt. I recommend avoiding scents that are too powerful (strong florals or cinnamons should be kept to a minimum). I try for subtle scents – a buttered toffee in the kitchen to give off that fresh-baked aroma; perhaps a vanilla-lavender in the bathrooms (no food smells in the bathroom; no one wants to think about eating while sitting on the throne … at least I don’t think they do). If you’d like to throw in some visual stimulation, you can also turn on all the fake candles and perhaps light one or two real ones. Let’s face it, we all look better by candlelight.

#3: All closets and cupboards must be organized.

This makes sense, right? I mean who hasn’t gone to someone’s house and snooped in a drawer or two? Nothing brings a smile of satisfaction to my face like knowing if and when a wayward guest opens the drawers in the bathroom, the toothpaste and other toiletries will be perfectly aligned. And imagine how impressed and relieved my guests will be that the spice rack is organized according to size with all labels facing outward and not a spec of salt or pepper spilled on the shelf. This prep takes hours, so it’s not for the faint of heart.

#2: It’s all about the bathrooms.

Ever used the bathroom at someone’s house and thought, “Wow, they didn’t care at all that I was coming.” No, just me? Whether I’m hosting a small get-together or an all-out event, the bathroom prep is important to me. Now keep in mind the house has already been cleaned a day or two prior, in anticipation of my guests, but you must realize my hubby and kiddos didn’t see the importance of using the neighbor’s facilities since that time so things could be kept fresh for the guests; so this is where I must intervene. This goes beyond the standard wiping down of the sinks and toilet seats (but yes, please do this). I also ensure the toilet paper is fully stocked, garbage cans are emptied out, air freshener is strategically placed beneath the sinks, soap dispensers are full, and, MOST IMPORTANTLY, the hand towels are clean and perfectly straightened. I’m not much of a germaphobe, but I abhor the thought of someone washing their hands at my house, only to discover the hand towel is crusty, overly damp, and/or has a strange smell. Tip: If you have someone coming over, and only have time for one thing, switch out those hand towels. Your guests will thank you for it (well, not out loud; that would be weird – but I’m sure they’re thanking you on the inside).

And … the number one rule you’ve all been waiting for …

#1: Napkin folding is key.

I have the empty bottles of starch and the iron burn on my arm to prove I’m serious about this one. I like to scour YouTube for the best napkin folding ideas. I experiment with several folds, then post them on my family’s Facebook page so the fam can weigh in. I like to tally the votes, then ignore the results and choose whatever fold strikes my fancy. I’ve done Christmas trees, pyramids, leaves, roses, and, on one overzealous occasion, even made my own napkin rings. Your friends and family will love that guilty feeling of messing up your perfect design when eating; not to mention the pleasant sensation when running that over-starched napkin across their tender lips.

That’s about it. Your guests will enjoy those fresh hand-towels and starch-scraped lips whilst they admire your organized closets and sparkly floors amidst the false aroma of baked goods. Hopefully you’ve enjoyed these useless tips. Feel free to comment with other preposterous rules I may have missed. Happy hosting!

(Buckle in. It’s going to be a long one.)

I spent the past weekend at my Grandma’s house to help her out while she recovered from a heart attack. The heart attack came as a shock to all of us, most of all my Grandmother. Even as she was being wheeled out of the hospital (an emergency operation and two stents later), she insisted the doctors were wrong. According to her, what she’d had was indigestion; she didn’t have heart attacks.

It was strange taking care of Grandma instead of her taking care of me (though, let me be clear – she didn’t need much help. The woman is pretty amazing). I’m not much of a cook, so I was glad to see others had stepped up in that department. Her fridge was stocked with homecooked meals her friends prepared. She has a lot of good friends. I warmed up meals, made freshly squeezed orange juice (first time in my life), and kept her company while she attempted to relax on her coach. We watched Dr. Phil and kept cozy next to the fireplace with our matching throw blankets.

A side-story about the orange juice: The first night I was there, Grandma put a glass contraption on the counter. I’d seen it before and recognized it as something to “help” make freshly-squeezed orange juice, though I wasn’t sure what to do with it. Grandma pointed to the oranges on the counter and mentioned how good freshly squeezed orange juice was. I smiled and told her I’d make her some for breakfast the next morning. Next morning, me in the kitchen and Grandma getting herself ready in the bathroom, I made a simple breakfast and tried my hand at making the juice she’d been raving about.

I squared my shoulders as I stared at the juicing thingamajig on the counter. I could do this. I sliced the first orange in half, pressed the juicy insides down atop the glass gadget, and turned. Sure enough, the juice seeped out of the orange and down the sides of the contraption until it found its resting place in the bottom of the bowl. One orange in, what I saw looked like orange juice, but it was such a small amount of juice. I figured there must be more to it than that.

I sliced open the second orange and repeated the process of pressing, squeezing, and rotating it over the apparatus. The bowl looked a bit fuller now, so I poured its contents into a glass. The amount of juice was unimpressive. I started to doubt myself. Perhaps you add water? So (confession time), I googled it: How to make freshly squeezed orange juice. Turns out, you squeeze the juices out of the orange. It just takes at least four oranges. Luckily Grandma was fixing her hair and didn’t come in until breakfast and the less-than-full glass of orange juice was set out for her.

My Grandma and I did a lot of visiting. When my sister arrived on Saturday, she joined in. We discussed antiques, decorating, and family history. When relatives or friends called, or stopped by to visit, many stories were repeated. Some even embellished, perhaps; but I didn’t mind.

We also talked past relationships. Hers of course. When I recalled one particular boyfriend of hers, I mentioned, “I really liked him, but I know you thought he was too old for you.”

To this, Grandma responded, “He was too old. He fed the birds.” She said this as if it was the only factual evidence needed for determining a person’s old age.

My sister asked how Grandma met her current boyfriend. We’ll call him “Fred.” They met at the community organization she loves, of course. Fred was standing next to a stool when Grandma walked into the lodge. She noticed him gawking but acted like she didn’t see him. “I was busy shaking hands and kissing babies and all that kind of stuff,” she laughed. She stood next to him to watch the dancing, still pretending not to take notice. When he introduced himself, she told him her name was “Ella.” Note: this is NOT her name. She danced with him a couple times. I heard about his good rhythm about four times. “He was hitting on me,” she claimed. She also claimed to only drink water. I keep teasing her the “real truth” is coming out when I write a book about her someday. She ordered a bottled water and said, “Put it on his tab,” pointing to Fred.

She noted Fred was smitten from that point on and told her as much. “You wanna run me off, keep talking that way,” she told him.

Despite Grandma’s less than friendly introduction, her and Fred saw a lot of each other over the next several months (of which most of the time he was still convinced my Grandma’s name was Ella). Fred was from out of town, so he would have to get a motel room for each visit. Finally, my aunt told Grandma that it was terrible Fred came all that way to see her and my Grandma didn’t invite him to stay at her house. My aunt noted that he was nice enough that Grandma could let him stay. Grandma agreed with her. What she didn’t say, was she was going to make him stay outside.

“It was probably July. Might have been August. I don’t know, it was pretty hot,” she told my sister and me. She blew up the air mattress and gave him a thick sleeping back (he claimed, according to her, was made for Siberia), went back inside, locked herself in, and went to bed. “It was so hot, so he kept kicking the sleeping bag off. When he did, the mosquitos were all over him, so he flopped the sleeping bag back on.” She said he told her the most miserable night he had in his life was in her backyard. “Everybody knows you blow up the air mattress tight, then when you lay on it, you let out the air until you get it right. [Fred] had never slept on an air mattress, so he didn’t relieve the valve and he laid there all night like he had rigor mortis.” According to Grandma, he claimed the mosquitos were three inches long. “We did go out for breakfast the next morning,” she said, as if this somehow made it all better. They’re still together, so I guess it did.

Grandma has a quick wit and a dry sense of humor you don’t always catch if you’re not paying attention. She masks it behind the pretense of misinterpretation (aka “blonde moments”). For instance, on Sunday morning I came upstairs to where she was sitting at the breakfast table. “Could you hear me singing in the shower?” I asked.

“Oh, is that what that was?” she asked wide-eyed. She didn’t smile, but the twinkle in her eye gave her away that she was giving me a hard time as opposed to being confused.

With her humor comes what I’d like to call Grandma-isms. Some of my favorites were:

“I like everything old but me.”

“I don’t belong with people my age.”

“They can’t even do the flip-dip-mop-and-drop.” I think she was very serious about this one. Apparently, it’s a collection of dance moves she believes any good dance should master. She has a shirt for it and everything.

Speaking of dancing… The organization she belongs to was to have a “float” in the local parade (a truck decorated to advertise the organization and an upcoming dance). Each year Grandma helps decorate the float and (of course) rides on it. After being released from the hospital, several of her friends from the organization stepped up to decorate the truck and to be in the parade. Grandma was excited, but she was also bummed she wouldn’t be able to see it. She talked about it off and on Saturday. She also made a few phone calls to ensure the lights were being strung correctly, etc., etc. That evening, about the time the parade would be ending, Grandma received a text. After reading it, she scurried into the living room and changed the T.V. channel to the evening news. “My friend texted and said they’re going to be on soon,” she said excitedly.

We focused on the news, but the local news was over, and the national news was on instead. “Are you sure, Grandma?” I asked.

She read back the text: Look for us soon.

While reading the first text, another text came in. Grandma read it to herself. “What is ETA?” she asked.

“Estimated Time of Arrival,” my sister told her.

“Okay, they said ETA 10 minutes. The must be on the news in 10 minutes.”

That didn’t sound right. I had Grandma re-read the text message. “No, Grandma,” I told her. “They’re bringing the parade float to you.”

She was so excited. She jumped up (unadvised after her recent heart attack and subsequent surgery), brushed her teeth, threw on her coat and waited. In about 15 minutes time, the decorated truck pulled up – music blaring. Now my Grandma is not a crier. She lost her dad, two brothers, and a daughter in less than five years’ time, and I never saw her cry. She was broken up of course, but in times of trouble, the woman feels the need to be strong for everybody else. But here on the street corner, surrounded by her friends (most of them my age because, again, she’s not meant to be with people her own age), seeing this outpouring of support they offered solely for her – she cried. I cried. If it would have been light outside, I’m certain I would have discovered there wasn’t a dry eye amongst the crowd. She invited them inside to get warm. The ladies came in while the menfolk found private bushes to pee in. Cowboys. They were a fun crowd. The whole ordeal meant the world to Grandma.

A treasured moment was sharing my writing. My sister brought Grandma my second novel. I signed it. She stayed up late to read part of it and informed me the next morning, “My blood pressure is higher than usual this morning.” Oops. The book may NOT be what the doctor ordered. We did have a good time taking some pics of her reading it, though (as you can see from the main pic on this blog).

We shared food and more food. We both like to eat. A classic Grandma-ism was when she announced, “I’m going to teach you how to cook.” I humored her. We made an awesome meatloaf together. Then she introduced me to her favorite snack – a big spoonful of peanut butter rolled in chocolate chips. I knew I should have told her, “No,” (I’m guessing peanut butter isn’t the best snack after a heart attack) – but hey, you try telling this strong lady “no.”

Grandma and I also shared music. I think she’s finally coming around to the idea that Ed Sheeran is indeed adorable – mop of red hair, freckles, and all. This was no small victory – I’ve tried to convince Grandma of Ed’s greatness in the past. She also pulled out a banjo I wasn’t aware she used to play. Turns out there are many things I never knew about Grandma.

But that wasn’t my biggest take-away from the weekend. What was it, then (you might ask)? The thought that kept surfacing was to “take time to appreciate the time.” I’m always on the go. So is Grandma. But over that weekend we were able to slow things down and enjoy the time we had. I heard a lot of great stories – some for the first time; some for the hundredth. Even the stories I had heard many times before, this was the first time I took the time to really listen. It was a pretty amazing weekend. I’d write more about it, but I think I’ll save it for the book. Or books. I have a feeling the woman is going to need a full series.

 

This blog concept has been in the works for a while – not developing on paper; rather, bouncing around in my head. Like many of my blog entries, the topic is personal, but written with the hope it will help others in some way. Struggle is, I don’t want it to sound pontifical (love that a word meaning pompous actually sounds pompous when it rolls off the tongue … enjoy the humor). The solution: pretend you’re reading a diary entry I wrote, then glean what you’d like. How’s that? Sort of exciting and deliciously voyeuristic, right?

So… Dear Diary…

The premise rattling around in my mind is this: You are the only qualified appraiser of your worth. Stop undervaluing it. Think about your experience on Zillow. People believe the home value as presented. Why? Because Zillow is the accepted expert. Now turn that logic to yourself. You are the only expert on you. Nobody else is competent in this area. Therefore, you determine your value. You control the market. And guess what, the market just went up. Why? Because you said it did.

Ever study the flyer of a house for sale? The realtor highlights the spacious living room, tiled entryway, and remodeled master bath. What isn’t advertised is the outdated carpet in the hallway or the diseased tree in the backyard. Whomever chooses to love that home accepts the full package deal. The good and the bad. What you present to people, they will accept. Talk negatively about yourself, others will believe it. Avoid the urge to point out all your flaws – let your strengths and talents shine. Tim McGraw sings for us to “Be Humble and Kind.” If you look up the definition of humble, it can range in meaning. Modest, respectful, and free from vanity – sure, sing it Tim. But a low estimate of one’s own importance? No! Self-deprecating humor aside, it’s important to present the full value of you. There’s no need to offer a discount – you’re worth every penny. Don’t let people walk all over you. Teach them to be respectful of your time while you’re respectful of theirs. Let’s be honest, some days you don’t feel like much. Those are the days you might have to fake it. Treat YOURSELF how you want to be treated.

It’s human nature to hear the word value and think in monetary terms. Set that term aside. I participated in a panel at work the other day where junior staff could ask us old-timers for career advice. Someone asked me how I measure success. I limited my response to my career. I answered that, at the end of the work day, success is knowing I helped someone, made an impact, and remained kind. Success is building a reputation of being both reliable and approachable. Notice the almighty dollar didn’t come into play. What I didn’t say, is some days success is getting through the day without closing my office door and curling up in a ball under the desk to avoid the stress. I also didn’t reveal that public speaking terrifies me, despite it being a big part of my job, and at that moment, success for me would be getting through the darn panel. I imagine either one of those responses would have raised a few eyebrows.

Back at home, I thought about that same question from a different perspective: In my life, how do I measure success? How would I rate my success on a scale of 1 – 10? What factors define that scale, and how do I present that rating to others?

If I was being honest, much of what I was measuring myself against were other people’s ideals and opinions. As a wife and mother, I often compared myself to the PTA moms who host bake sales and volunteer in the classroom every week. My work schedule makes volunteering at the school limited. My kids have hot lunch daily, cookies are store bought, and dinners are often crockpot-style. Or UberEats. Or drive-thru. Lots of breakfast-for-dinner. As an author, I measured myself against other authors and felt deflated by low book sales or not reaching the “recommended” daily word count on my work-in-progress.

Measuring against the opinion of others is a no-win situation that brought me to an important realization: If you feel like you’re not measuring up, maybe it’s time to find a different measuring stick. Stop comparing yourself to others. Stop obsessing over the number of likes or followers on social media (this concept is harder to swallow relative to my author platforms as opposed to my personal ones); and instead concentrate on the things that matter. Throw the old measuring stick away. Success isn’t the amount on the paycheck or the monthly royalty deposit. It’s certainly not how many people visited my website over the past week. New measuring stick: As a wife and mother, success is having a close relationship with my family. My kiddos can talk to me about anything (sometimes to my chagrin). Oh, the stories they’ve shared – but I wouldn’t change a thing. My hubby and I can honestly say we’re great friends who enjoy each other’s company. Sadly, not every relationship can claim that victory. As an author, my new measure of success is hearing someone say they enjoyed something I wrote. Or how about just being content that I completed a book? Two, actually. That’s a success in of itself to celebrate. Think quality, not quantity (I originally typed that backwards; I need to stop trying to multi-task). Substance over abundance.

Going forward, find a new way to measure success. Accept your greatness, then project that greatness to others. Take down the Price Reduced sign. Consider that the price was set too low in the first place. Go out there and be you like nobody else can. Sappy enough for you? Blame the Hallmark Christmas movie playing in the background. Good night all.

Friday night, family off at a football game, and me in a funk, I tried to distract myself from my boredom by tidying up the house – starting with the kitchen. The fingerprints scattered across the face of the microwave were a telltale sign the kiddos had heated up leftovers. I cringed, fearing the mess I might find inside the microwave. I was right to be concerned. One of the kiddos had reheated the prior night’s taco soup and failed to cover the container. The inside of the microwave was a disaster with the splatter of tomato sauce and food particles.

My first reaction was anger, bordering on pure rage. A speech of microwave etiquette ran through my brain as I began to scrub the bits of beans off the rotating plate. Then I paused and tried to think of two positive things to counteract what I was feeling (a little trick I’ve been trying lately to curb my negative reactions to things that pop up in my day-to-day). My first thought: I’m thankful for my wonderful (clearly, independent) children. And the second: I’m thankful my children liked the dinner I made well enough to eat it a second time.

Okay, done. With these two thoughts, I felt less annoyed. I also started to think about the pieces (other than food particles) people in my life have left behind. I don’t mean the fond memories of the things they’ve said or how they’ve made me feel. Instead, as I continued to tidy up the house, I took inventory of the tangible items I cherish because they represent an event, a memory, an act of kindness, or even a loved one’s personality quirk.

While making my youngest daughter’s bed, for instance, I couldn’t help but smile at the soft, gray blanket pulled tight over the fitted sheet. Why does she need it? Because even though we went to three different stores so she could feel every bedsheet on inventory before picking out what she felt were the most comfortable sheets – she still finds the sheets “scratchy” and can’t sleep on them.

The bed in my eldest daughter’s room was perfectly made. This also made me smile but not for the reason you might think. She didn’t wake up that morning and responsibly decide to make it. Her bed is ALWAYS made because she and her little sister are two peas in a pod and sleep together in my youngest’s room (soft blanket and all). My eldest daughter’s bed serves as a table for clean laundry and school papers.

As I roamed through the house that evening, I thought about how every room embodies a labor of love from family and friends. The macadamia-colored walls represent hours of painting donated by my dad, two brothers, my sister-in-law, and a few close friends. On that same painting theme, in the guest bathroom hangs a floral plaque that holds a towel hook. My high school friend, Melissa, hand-painted it just for me (and it matches my bathroom perfectly).

Let’s continue with our tour.

Enter the master bedroom. In the corner of the room is a set of the coolest decorative shutters refurbished by my friend, Red. She gave the set to me as a housewarming gift. She’s always thoughtful like that. The master closet is sprinkled with shoes and clothing my friends and family have handed down to me or purchased as a gift for my birthday. Those who know me know I detest clothing shopping. Luckily those who love me pick up the slack and fill in the wardrobe gaps. My mother is the biggest contributor to my wardrobe. She’s taken to sniffing out sales, shopping online for me, and having the items sent directly to my house (she just tells me the damages, and I pay her back). The shelf in this same closet holds a digital camera with a zoom lens – one of my favorite presents from my hubby. He recognized I enjoy taking pictures and took the time to shop around and buy me a gift he knew I’d love. The drawers of the master bath are lined with Mary Kay products because my darling sister is a great salesperson and does her best to keep my skin hydrated and pretty despite my laziness and lack of give-a-dern.

In the living room you’ll find a ridiculously sized television above the fireplace. This is what happens when the Seahawks make the Super Bowl and you let your tech-savvy older brother accompany your hubby T.V. shopping before the main event (same tech-savvy brother who helped pick out the 3D-capable T.V. in the family room when 3D movies/channels were going to be “all the rage” about a decade ago). The room also holds an ancient leather recliner my hubby clings to (and that my dad on more than one occasion has tried to touch up with spray paint because it’s such an old relic). It is, however, a comfy spot for my husband to relax after a hard day’s work; so, while it’s not a beautiful “piece,” it is an important one (a necessary evil some might say).

Onward to the kitchen. In my kitchen cabinet are several coffee mugs purchased by dear friends who know of my love for these cups (funny sayings, sweet quotes, cool designs). I cherish these mugs so much that when I broke one during a moment of clumsiness, I burst into tears (I preferred it in one piece). Another kitchen cabinet is stocked full of beautiful, white plates and bowls – a gift from my fabulous mother-in-law because I’d mentioned I liked them. One of my kitchen cabinets has a glass front and this is where I display, in addition to the fancier cookware, a couple of the art projects the girls made me.

In the playroom is… Okay, too many pieces, we’ll just shut that door. The room is a MESS. But I know it’s a place where my girls are creating lasting memories.

Let’s go outside, shall we?

The garage is stuffed with plastic bins holding art projects, greeting cards, and school papers – all cherished memories. It also contains a bin of tattered t-shirts I can’t convince my hubby to get rid of, but those are pieces he holds dear and I have to respect that (even if I don’t understand it … I mean, these shirts are OLD – even older than the recliner). On the back patio is a beautiful rug given to me by my baby brother. He surprised me by laying it out next to my patio furniture while I was at work. It’s bright, pretty, and the focal point of my favorite hangout area.

I love all the pieces – even the ones that bring clutter or disorder. I adore the pieces that seem out-of-place, but yet somehow are the best fit. I’m thankful for the joy these pieces bring. That being said, to my kiddos, if you fail to cover your food in the microwave again, you’re losing cellphone privileges for at least a week.

Last night I decided to bring back family dinner. You know what I’m talking about. Family of four gathered around the dinner table, eating a homecooked meal and talking about our day. No eating in front of the television or wolfing down food in the car on the way to an event. Admittedly, the idea came to me because dinner was already prepared by the time I arrived home – made possible by my wonderful mother-in-law who took it upon herself to make it for my family and slip it into the fridge while Joe and I were at work and the kiddos were at school. She should be recommended for sainthood or knighted by the Queen.

When I arrived home and spotted the already-made dinner and realized I’d only need to pop it in the oven to warm it up, I put on my apron and got to work heating the food and setting the table. Usually I would shed my business attire and slip into PJs, but I was wearing a new dress and shoes I wanted to show off to Joe. In my head I looked amazing fussing around the kitchen in my peekaboo shoulder dress, spikey heels, and neatly pressed (because it’s never used and looks brand new) apron. Side-note: I took a selfie in said apron and dress clothes and it turns out I wasn’t looking as cute as I’d pictured in my head. I envisioned a sort of Audrey Hepburn meets June Cleaver look. What I saw in my selfie was …. well, something entirely different.

But, I digress…

So I set the table with matching plates, silverware, and even cloth napkins folded into quaint pyramids. Full disclosure – the napkins were still folded from a previous family gathering and had gone unused. Joe arrived home from work just as the dinner was coming out of the oven. Kiddos washed their hands and we all took our seats.

Kiki immediately launched into telling us about her day. “Oh, an then it was so embarrassing when…” This was about the third tale of something embarrassing that happened to her at school.

“Not everything is embarrassing,” Joe teased her. Clearly the man doesn’t understand teenage girls. EVERYTHING is embarrassing at that age.

The chattering went on and on without ceasing. “So, then in Leadership class…,” Kiki continued.

At this moment Bella yelled out, “Kiki, you don’t have to tell us every single part of your day.” Bella rolled her eyes, then smirked in our direction.

Kiki continued with her story, unphased. Joe discreetly pulled out his phone and set a timer as she prattled on.

Her latest story finally through, Joe let Bella know it was her turn to talk. “Kiki’s last story took 2 minutes 11 seconds, so let’s keep it to two minutes per story.”

To this, Bella responded, “Okay, I’ve got twenty stories.”

At this point, I was groaning inside. It was painful – but also, super funny.

Luckily, Bella only had two or three stories. They were short. Confusing. But short.

The food was fabulous. The stories were … precious? And you could tell the kids loved Joe’s and my undivided attention as they told us every part of their day (for Kiki, it was told in GREAT DETAIL). By the time dinner was over, Joe and I were exhausted – but it was a heart-warming, comical experience. If you looked for us shortly after, we were nodding off in front of the television.

Bringing back family dinners. A great experience, but not for the faint of heart. A double-shot espresso is highly recommended prior to commencing.

I think most parents can relate – kids are fun. Kids are challenging. Kids will SURPRISE YOU. Before we have kids (and even when our kids are babies), we have a picture of what our kids will be. Our good (often misguided) intentions run ramped.

I have two daughters. I imagined we’d take piano lessons and voice lessons together and become talented musicians. Why? Because I didn’t have the discipline to take piano lessons as a child and regretted it in my adulthood. I was also always super-jealous of my talented dad’s and brothers’ singing voices. So, naturally, I assumed my kids would love the opportunity to expand their talents and overcome MY shortcomings.

WRONG. They love to sing – but have no interest in music lessons of any kind. None.

My daughters, the non-piano players.

MY OLDEST

Instead of music, at six Kiki expressed interest in taking ballet lessons. I was super stoked imagining how cute she’d look in a tutu and ballet slippers.

Meet my oldest daughter, the ballerina.

NOPE.

We watched the cute little ballerinas for about five minutes, she decided it was boring, and we moved on. She wanted to do something with a little more action. We drove about ten minutes down the road and invaded a martial arts studio so we could watch the students throw kicks and hand chops. She fell in love with it.

My daughter, the Taekwondo master.

Kiki LOVED Taekwondo. Loved it. We went three times a week. She sparred with adults and at one point got a black eye she was super proud of. Gold belt, orange belt, blue belt …. All the way up to brown belt. But once she reached brown belt, her passion for it sort of fizzled. She took a break from extracurricular activities. Instead, she loved leisure time with the family. Movie-and-junk-food nights were a hit.

My daughter, the ex-Taekwondo master.

In fifth grade we asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up. She said she planned to marry a doctor with a British accent. Very specific. When prompted for a “backup plan” in case she didn’t end up with this magnificent stranger she imagined for her future, she proudly stated that he didn’t have to have a British accent.

My daughter, the future wife of a doctor with a British accent.

By sixth grade, Kiki embraced softball (her latest passion). She has zero fear of the ball and LOVES to be in the action (making shortstop her favorite position). The girl is coordinated (something I’m pleased to see since her mama has zero coordination).

My daughter, the softball player.

MY YOUNGEST

Bella has taken a different route. We encouraged sports, but so far she is not interested. “What about soccer?” I suggested at one point; to which she let me know that soccer would not be possible because the socks looked uncomfortable. To her, it’s all about comfort.

Meet my youngest daughter, the non-sports person.

She tried her hand at acting. This option seemed perfect (she is a drama-queen after all). I put her in an acting class. This lasted exactly one lesson. Too structured (her thoughts). Apparently, she wants to make up her own script. In hindsight, I should have seen this coming.

My daughter, the retired actress.

She has found a passion for swimming. She swims like a fish and would spend all day in the water if you’d let her. She seems to enjoy activities that she can do on her own rather than as part of a team, so swimming fits her.

My daughter, the solo swimmer.

Like her big sister, Bella thinks about what she wants to do when she grows up. In second grade she stressed about whether to become a dentist or an art teacher. She decided on both. Monday and Tuesday she would be teacher and Wednesday through Friday she would be a dentist. Problem solved.

My daughter, the dentist “slash” art teacher.

Bella’s latest interest is gymnastics. We go once a week. She loves to do cartwheels and practice on the balance beam. At home she regularly performs what she’s learned in class. So far, we’ve found something that’s stuck.

My daughter, the gymnast.

CURRENT DAY

Kiki has decided that, while she will still marry that doctor with the fabulous British accent should he come along, she is going to be a doctor herself. An anesthesiologist to be specific.

Bella wants to be an artist. She loves to draw and paint and just be creative. She spends hours in her room drawing on her white board or doing other artistic projects.

My daughters, the future artist and future anesthesiologist (I get the feeling one may have to support the other if this holds true).

I love that my daughters don’t consider limitations. I love that they dream big and change their minds on a whim. They refuse to be defined by a singular thing.

Meet my daughters. They’re perfect in their own way and can be whatever they want to be. They’re not what I expected. They’re so much more.

A little over three months back, I took a two-day Reflections course (I know I’ve blogged a bit about it). At the end of the class, we were each tasked with writing a letter to ourselves, addressing the envelope, and handing it over to our instructors. The instructors committed to mailing the letter back to us in three months’ time.

As you might imagine, hot off the newfound perspective (and emotional highs and lows) from such an experience, I incorporated some lofty goals into my letter. It was a challenge to myself to “beat the mail,” so-to-speak. Goals written. Letter coming in late July. Better make it happen.

Well, here it is early August; I knew the letter was in my mailbox, but I also knew I hadn’t accomplished all the goals I set out for myself. My answer to this was simple – ignore the mail. But yesterday I met with a dear friend of mine who took the class with me. He was talking about his letter and was energized by all that he was doing to make a change in his life. No, he hadn’t accomplished everything either. But what an impressive start.

This inspired me to go home and open the mail. I read my letter to myself, waiting for the waves of guilt and self-loathing I’d feel at not meeting my goals. Instead, I found inspiration in the words. I was pleased to see I’ve taken more strides than I’d realized towards accomplishing my goals. I also read words back to myself that I don’t recall writing.

I trust by now you’ve found a better way to organize your priorities and your time, but to forgive yourself when things don’t work out as planned (no one is perfect).

I’d underlined the word forgive. Clearly it was important to let future-me know to loosen up and accept the things I cannot change. I got to the end of the letter and felt nothing but inspiration and new hope.

May you love and appreciate this version of yourself – the one that projects your best self – someone who lives in the moment, has learned to be present and not stress about the things that cannot be changed. Love you for you. Be thankful and joyful in what you have.

Old me was pretty nice to future me. Old me realized just what future me would need to read, even if I didn’t accomplish everything I wanted to the letter. So my message to everyone is the same as the one to myself. Set goals. But live in the moment and forgive yourself if you don’t accomplish those goals. Reset. Adjust. Move forward. Find happiness in the small things and the things that enrich your lives.

That is all. Have a wonderful day. I know I plan to.