The (not so) Special Mother

Generally speaking, I’m not a big fan of kids playing organized sports, and in a minute I’ll tell you why.  First, though, let me tell you why I let my son participate in little league soccer.  There are a couple major reasons:

• exercise
• to learn teamwork and sportsmanship
• to be around some other kids since he’s with me so much

There are also some minor reasons:

• It gets us out of the house a couple of days a week, and….
• …it gives me a chance to have an actual conversation with actual adults.

We live in an area where soccer isn’t all that big.  We aren’t quite as serious about football here as they are in the deep South, but it’s close.  Our local citizens fight to keep open substandard high schools just so they can keep their football teams.  I’m not making that up.  But I digress.  My point is that, for the most part, our team is pretty easy-going.

When the kids are very small–Ian started playing in first grade–it’s very informal.  When he was that age, the biggest concern on his mind was whether or not they could have pizza and/or ice cream after the game.  They didn’t keep score, and everyone got a trophy at the end of the season.  The parents sat around and chatted and ate nachos and cheered for everyone if the ball came within ten feet of the goal.  We knew the kids and parents on both teams.  In short, it wasn’t a big deal.

All that changes as the kids get older.

Now here’s the part about sports that turns me off:  at some point it becomes about the parents.  I suspect some of the kids wouldn’t even be involved in sports if they weren’t pushed into it by their parents.  Also, parents–around here, at least–seem to be more concerned about sports than, say, education.  Kids play games farther and farther away from home, they play late games on school nights and practice five days a week.

And of course, winning suddenly becomes very important.

My son is twelve now, and his soccer games are a little more serious.  But we still sit and chat, and, for the most part, it’s still fun.  Confession: I was playing Words With Friends Sunday during the game.  Not the whole time, but still.

My son is the king of laid back.  He likes to win, and he tries hard, but he doesn’t get too wrapped up in it.  There’s usually one parent who is hounding his kid the whole time, but for the most part it’s fairly relaxed.  I have been to football games and other soccer games where there are parents who are red-faced and shrieking, and heaven help us if their kid makes a mistake!  They throw up their hands and shake their heads and stomp around.  I’ve seen dads jerk their hats off and basically act as though some crucial life opportunity was just missed by their preteen child.  I think maybe they forgot that it’s the kids who are playing, and not them.  I think they forgot that it was supposed to be fun.

Sunday we played a team that was pretty good.  They are from a neighboring county which has a much bigger program than us.  They started off right away in the process of whipping our butts.  They were fast and talented.

They were also aggressive.

There were times when I wasn’t sure if we were watching soccer or tackle football.  There was shoving and tripping and full body contact.  I should add that the referees were just kids themselves.  The other team’s coach was also aggressive, shouting at his players and frowning mightily at everyone.  Even though his team was running over the top of ours, he seemed to get angrier and angrier, and the players got more and more physical.

The climax came when one of smallest players got slammed as he ran with the ball.  He literally flew up and turned in midair before thumping onto the ground.  I am not exaggerating.  He was hurt badly enough to not get up, and he was crying, which is a big deal for boys his age.  Our coach started to go out onto the field to get him and the other coach yelled, “Get off the field!” So the injured player’s mother marched out to get her son, and our coach called an end to the game.  He called the players over to him and, in short, we left.  That was it.  Game over.

At first I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.  You don’t want to teach your kids that when things get rough, you quit.  But after thinking about it, I realized that our coach is responsible for those kids, and things were getting out of hand.  No one was going to do anything about the way the other team was playing, and so he did what he thought was best.  He took the kids aside and told them it wasn’t their fault, and that he was sorry he waited so long to do something.

The more I thought about it, the more disappointed I was.  Those kids were taught to play that way.  Period.  More than that–they were encouraged to play that way.  The refs were too intimidated by the other coach to make any calls.  And all the while, the parents cheered them on.

Afterwards, my son and I had a long, long talk about it.  I think he was sort of in shock.  He said, “Why would you purposely try to hurt someone just to get a ball?”  The innocence of that statement both makes me sad and fills my heart with joy.  It also tells me our days of organized sports are coming to an end.  I intend to put my energy into his education–that’s my obsession.

And if you think those sports parents are crazy, just try to take a book away from my son.

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bad coaches, crazy parents, little league, sports

Even though I’m a big fan of both Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson, I don’t have a bucket list.

This phrase pops up frequently in our modern society, and when I heard it the other day, it made me think.  For those of you who don’t know, a bucket list is a list of all of the things you hope to do before you die, and usually it’s a pretty grandiose list.  You know, stuff like skydiving and climbing Everest and getting an actual live person on your first try when you call customer service.

Anyway, like I said, this got me thinking.  I don’t have a bucket list.  Now, I have goals and dreams like anyone.  I want to build a house, and I have more dreams for my kids than I care to put down here in writing.  But those aren’t really “bucket list” things.  In fact, about the only thing that qualifies is my long-time desire to have Anthony Hopkins read a Robert Frost poem to me. (Don’t ask.)

We can spend so much of our time wishing for things that may or may not ever happen to us.  What if, instead of thinking of the things we haven’t done, we check off a list of the wonderful things we have done?  Here’s what I have so far:

• I stood in the spot where Abraham Lincoln gave the Gettysburg Address, and walked the path of Pickett’s Charge.
• I watched twilight settle over New York City from the top of the Empire State Building.
• I have seen and been inside the Statue of Liberty.
• I have watched the sun rise over the rim of a dormant volcano……
• …….and also watched it fall back into the Pacific.
• I have stood on the deck of a boat in awe as whale song echoed over the audio system from underwater microphones.
• I watched a humpback whale rise out of the water just a few yards from where I stood.
• I watched as a country was torn apart by a terrible act of terrorism, and then watched as it pulled itself back together and united, stronger even than before.
• I stood with the man of my dreams at the front of the church and started a wonderful journey that I hope never ends.
• I lay on a ratty old second-hand couch in my living room and felt a baby–a baby!–move inside my body, where only a few short months ago there had been nothing.
• Then,  I was there when two whole new people breathed the very first breaths of their lives.  (This was, of course, followed by the first spit up of their lives and the first poops of their lives.  But that’s okay.)
• I have watched as these two new lives grew and learned and changed, and I will see them grow–too quickly–into adults.

It occurs to me that I could make this list go on forever.  There have been hard times in my life, but I can honestly say I can look back over an abundance of joyful experiences, and most of them have happened since I got married and had kids.  I don’t need a bucket list.  My life is busy, and hectic, and sometimes quite stressful, but it’s also a full life, and I am so glad to have it.  All of the items I can dream of for a bucket list are already crossed off.

Well, except for that Anthony Hopkins thing.

What about you?  Have you already lived your bucket list?

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a full life, Anthony Hopkins, bucket list, Robert Frost

In keeping with my current theme about misconceptions, I thought I would offer a little clarity to those of you out in Readerland who think you know what a “hillbilly” or “redneck” is.

I was born, raised, and still live in the greatest of all hillbilly states–West Virginia.  In the course of my life I have heard every stereotype, generalization, and outright prejudice you can imagine.  True story: when I worked at a state park which is just a few miles down the road from me, a couple was checking in to stay at one the cabins, and they asked me–I swear I am not making this up–if I had dirt floors at my house.  Another true story: when I had my daughter in Minnesota at the Mayo Clinic, one of the office staff did not know that West Virginia was a separate state from Virginia.  I can’t make this stuff up, folks.

If I’m going to be honest, I have to tell you that we have our share of problems in this state.  Here’s the thing–every state, region, or population has their own set of problems.  It’s always easier to point out other people’s trouble than face your own, I guess, but crime, drugs, and general immorality are ubiquitous.  I’ve seen white trash in every state I’ve ever been.

So in the spirit of education, allow me to present you with some facts that may help you adjust your thinking about the Mountain State.

• Yes, we mine coal.  It’s dirty and dangerous and doesn’t usually require a college education.  But guess what–those lights you are sitting under in your office?  They probably come from a power plant which makes power by burning…..coal.  It’s the backbone of our whole economy and culture.  Every day they are trying to find ways to get coal out of the ground in more environmentally friendly ways.  You may love the environment, but I bet you love your electricity, too.  Also, it’s hard for me to take anyone seriously who is complaining about mountain top removal from the front seat of their giant, gas-guzzling SUV.
• You may think our accents make us sound dumb.  That’s okay.  We think your accent makes you sound like an asshole.  Bygones.
• The media perpetuates the whole “white trash” thing.  They really do always find the white trashiest person to interview on TV.  Guess what?  They do it to you, too.  We get a big kick out of the crack ‘ho giving an interview about a robbery in her neighborhood.
• We like trucks.  Guess what?  It snows here.  Sometimes, a lot.  And we can actually drive in the snow.  Also, we just like trucks.  We can haul stuff and move stuff, and let’s face it–you never know when you might need to get through a really big mud hole.

• We don’t have dirt floors.  We don’t all live in mobile homes, although if someone does, so what?
• West Virginia is a whole other state.  To clarify, we considered changing our motto to: “West Virginia–NOT Part of Virignia.” Somehow, it just didn’t stick.
• It is quieter here, and some of us live in the middle of nowhere.  We have to drive forty minutes to go to the grocery store.  We’re okay with that.  If you don’t like it, that’s okay, too.  That’s why we live here and you live there.  We don’t want to live in the city any more than you want to live in the country.
• Speaking from experience, we are more polite than people in other areas, which I won’t name, but I will tell you they rhyme with Few Cork and Lew Kersey.  We hold doors for people and say excuse me.  Yes, there are rude people here–I won’t kid myself into thinking there aren’t, but like I said, I’m generalizing.  This is my blog, so I’m allowed to do that.
• We don’t get some sort of weird satisfaction out of pointlessly blowing our car horn.  We might not be as smart as you, but we have at least figured out that blowing the horn won’t make the traffic jam magically disappear.
• We don’t marry our cousins.  I would go so far as to say a lot of us don’t even like our cousins.
• We wear jeans and tee-shirts, and to us, a lot of those fashions trends that are so popular in big cities just look silly.  The guys wear hats, but they take them off to pray, and to listen to the national anthem (at WVU football games and NASCAR races, for example.)
• There are some who feud with their neighbors, but for the most part, we help our neighbors out, and they help us.  You look out for their houses when they are on vacation, and maybe even feed their dog or their chickens.  We take food to families when they have lost a loved one.  In short, when times are tough, we pull together.
• We wave at people.  I don’t know why.  When we pass people on the road or standing on their lawn, we nod or throw up a hand.  It’s just a thing we do.

So forget your stereotypical opinions of West Virginia.  It’s a beautiful state (mostly located outdoors) with lots of amazing things to see and do.  While you’re here, take your time and enjoy the scenery.  We know how to make a guest feel at home.

And if it makes you feel better, we’ll even honk our horn at you.

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hillbilly, stereotype, West Virginia, white trash

Well, it happened again.  I watched the news.

This morning I had the great joy of hearing that some Democratic strategist has criticized Ann Romney for being a stay at home mom.  The strategist, Hilary Rosen, said that Ann could be of no use on economic issues because she had “never worked a day in her life.”

Now Rosen is trying to backtrack.  Apparently thousands of stay at home moms have tracked her down and left their children with her.

No, seriously, Rosen is backtracking because even the president stepped up to defend Ann Romney by saying that being a “housewife” (my word, not his) is a tough job.  Now Rosen is saying that she only meant that Ann Romney was a wealthy woman who had nannies and such and so never had to deal with the real economic and social concerns of the typical American woman.

Too little, too late, bitch.

The truth is, she’s trying to cover her own ass now because she is getting such a backlash, even from the president of the United States.  I feel quite sure, as a working woman herself, Rosen absolutely believed what she said.  She thinks that because a stay at home moms like myself don’t contribute to the economy, we don’t know anything about it.

This is a very sensitive subject to me.  With the modern economy, it’s very hard for a lot of families to make it on just one income.  I realize that.  We were in that situation a long time ago–before we had kids.  Once I found out I was pregnant, I decided that being the primary caretaker for my own children was more important to me than maintaining our lifestyle.  We downgraded our vehicle and tightened our belts (which were already pretty tight.) I haven’t been back to work since.  I always thought that when the kids were older I might go back to work, but then the reality of Evelyn’s life came up, and then I started caring full-time for my sister, and there you go.

But this isn’t about the fact that I have to stay home now.  It’s about the fact that I wanted to stay home to raise my kids.

I think lots of people actually believe stay at home moms are less than their working counterparts.  They think we don’t have a real life, and that we don’t contribute to society.  I wonder how many people still have the notion of the old-fashioned “housewife?”  Since I love lists so much, allow me to demystify the life of the modern stay at home mom in list form.

• I am the money manager in this house.  I have a great grip on the economy, although I apparently don’t contribute to it.  I buy the groceries, make the payments, and balance the checkbook.  Even though my husband earned the money, we both still take care of it. (See the next point.)
• My husband and I don’t have “our own” money.  If we couldn’t trust each other with money, then we had no business getting married.
• I have never had to worry about what my kids were being exposed to and who was taking care of them.  I’ve never paid for child care.  Here’s another little myth imploded for all you working folks out there: my kids are not so attached to me that they can’t be separated from me.  They have never slept with me.  My son had zero anxiety about going to school, because I raised him with self-confidence.  He has never been afraid to spend the night with a friend.  So there.
• My husband and I are partners. I don’t serve him because he brings home the paychecks.  He has always been an active parent–he changes diapers and bathes and feeds.  Yes, I do most of the housework.  Know why?  Because I want it done a certain way, and the best way to ensure that is to do it myself.  Also, I do happen to think that because I’m the one who is here all day, it’s my fair share to do it.  It doesn’t hurt me.
• I don’t get to sit and watch soap operas all day.  In fact, I don’t sit much at all during the day.  I do most of my sitting at night, after everyone is in bed.  I would imagine that’s when “working” moms get to sit down, too.
• I do get stressed, and sometimes I feel isolated, but I’m not sure going to work every day would alleviate either of those problems.  I would go out on a limb and say that it might even make them worse.

I could rant all day long about this, but I won’t (you’re welcome.) The short version is this: forget about June Cleaver, and forget about the housewife laying on the couch, watching “General Hospital” and eating bonbons.  Also, I’m not going to make rude generalizations about working mothers, although I certainly could.

I have a great job.  I get to care for the people who mean the most to me.  Maybe I don’t get to dress up every day and go out and “contribute” to the world.  Instead, I contribute to my family.

I think that’s okay, don’t you?

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Ann Romney, Hilary Rosen, stay at home mom, working moms

Sometimes I think our lives consist of one misconception after another.  This is mostly true with things people don’t have personal experience with.  For example, I have the misconception that all politicians are crooked liars who would knock their own mothers off a chair if they thought she was sitting on a dollar.  Of course, this misconception happens to be true, but still.

Nowhere is the misconception problem more prevalent than in the world of special needs.  I am always fascinated by how people view individuals with special needs.  As both a mother and a sister to people with severe disabilities, I feel I can speak with a reasonable amount of knowledge on this subject.  (Disclaimer: I have no doubt that there will be someone who will tell me that every single point I am getting ready to make is wrong, and that their experience is the exact opposite of what I am saying, and that the person they care for is an angel.  Allow me to say, in advance, good for you.  Get your own blog.)

Usually I talk about my daughter, but this post is about someone else: my sister Mindy.

That’s her, several years ago.  She has spastic Cerebral Palsy.  She was born extremely premature–today they are called “super-preemies,” but when she was born there was no such term.  She had a twin sister who lived for almost eight months in the hospital.

Everywhere we go, I run into someone who knows Mindy (and a thousand curses to all of those who ask if I am her mother.)  She also attends church, and has for most of her life, so that adds another demographic to the “people who know Mindy” population.  Everyone person who knows her loves her, and they think she is God’s angel right here on Earth, a blessing and an example of how to live a humble, accepting life.  They pet her and use words like “poor little thing.” Worse, they talk about how wonderful I am for taking care of her, how patient I am, and someone even told me there would be a jewel in my crown.

Crown?  I think I must have misplaced it.  Probably it fell off when I was banging my head against the wall.

Mindy can be a truly remarkable person.  For most of her life, she was a very calm, mild-mannered, unassuming person who smiled most of the time.  But things have changed as the years have gone by.  She’s having trouble with depression.  She takes medication for mood stabilization and to help her sleep.  She has poor impulse control and some OCD stuff.

In other words, she’s just a human being.

To assume that she has super abilities to be patient and accepting is to dehumanize her.  No one can be perfectly patient and perfectly accepting all the time.  Add into it that she has more reason than most people I know to be depressed or angry, and you see the problem.

Mindy’s body is her enemy.  Her mind is actually quite good.  I won’t say that she has the same cognitive ability as a so-called normal person, but certainly she has more than, say, members of Congress.  Anyway, her mind is pretty much okay, but her body is her prison.  It won’t move like she wants it to.  She can’t do anything for herself.  Anything that requires muscles (including eyes) is compromised.  But I’m not telling you this to get you to feel sorry for her.  There are some things I think everyone should consider, not just about Mindy, but about any special needs person you may know.

• Mindy wanted all the same things we all did–a job, marriage, kids–just an independent life.  She is 32 years old now, and she has to cope with the fact that she can’t have those things.
• It’s not her job to be a  blessing or set an example for you.  If she does, fine, but if she doesn’t, that’s fine too.
• She is just like everyone else.  She has mood swings and tantrums.  She has good days and not-so-good days.  Again, I think that just means she’s human.
• The relationship I have with Mindy is a lot less special than you probably think it is.  We are sisters.  If you have a sister, I doubt if you need any explanation.  We argue about something every single day.  She calls me some not-so-nice names very frequently.  I, having only slightly more self-control, don’t call her names, although they certainly cross my mind.  Once, when we were teenagers, we were arguing over a television program.  She turned in her power wheelchair and charged me.  She rammed my rocking chair with the force of a rampaging bull.  Shouting and tears followed.
• She doesn’t like it when people talk to her like she is two years old, which is often.  They pet her head and get right in her face to talk.  Would you like it if I did that to you? It would be ridiculous if I did to you, wouldn’t it?  You’d think I had lost my mind.  Yet it’s okay for someone to talk to my sister that way.  Remember, she is 32-year-old woman.
• She understands everything you are saying.   It might take her a long time to respond because it’s hard for her to get her mouth working the right way.  People will ask her a question and then keep going without waiting for the answer.  They assume she can’t talk.  In short, they overlook her.  She’s almost an inanimate object to them.
• Lay off her wheelchair.  That chair is a part of her body.  She is in it all day, every day.  When you touch it or lean on it, it’s the same as if you were touching her person.  It’s a part of her personal space.  Yes, I lean on it and hang my purse from it, but I’m allowed.  (Maybe that’s why she calls me the bad names.  Hmmm…..)
• Just because she is sitting down doesn’t mean she is less than you.  She’s in this world the same as the rest of us.  She deserves the same rights and considerations as all of you ambulatory folks.

I think what it boils down to is respect.  Respect her, and others, as people.  They are not saints, or angels.  Some of them might be super-sweet people who never have a bad word to say, but some of them might be short-tempered and irritable (like me.)  In short, they are varied,  because they are people, and no two people are just alike.  They want what you want–to be treated with respect and understanding.

And to watch their program on TV.  If not, they might just knock you out of your chair.

Head on over to Yeah Write and check out all the fantastic reads!

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angels, saints, sisterhood, special needs, tantrums

I love writing.  I especially love writing this blog, because it’s a form of therapy for me.  However, this annoying little thing keeps interfering with my blogging.

Life.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not one to complain about my various responsibilities.  I have always had the feeling that if I complained too much about my life, then God might decide to show me what a hard life is really like.  (I am in no way suggesting here that God is a sadist.  I am merely saying that, as a species, humans tend to require drastic measures to be shown a point. If I was God, I would be smiting people left and right. But I digress.)

Anyway, back to my original point, which was……um……wait a minute…….0h, right, my point was that life can be very hectic.  Life can really keep you from doing the things that you want to be doing.  To illustrate this, allow me to share with you a completely (not so) fictional tale about a young woman, her grandmother, and the long, long, curtain.

One day, a young(ish) woman and her grandmother were Spring cleaning.  The young woman had taken down the long, long curtain and put it in the washing machine.  The curtain was a very long (duh!), scarf type curtain which is used to make a smarmy little swag on the window.  The long, long curtain was finished in the washer, and The Grandmother–um, I mean the grandmother–got it out to take it through the house.  The long, long curtain was still damp, because we hang it up damp so it doesn’t wrinkle (I bet you didn’t know I was going to be giving home cleaning pointers here, did you?) As the grandmother walked through the kitchen with the long, long curtain, part of it became tangled in her feet, and she stumbled and fell.

Now, the young woman was up on a stool cleaning the window where the long, long curtain lives. From that vantage point, the crash resulting from the grandmother’s fall was tremendous.  The young woman jumped from the stool (also resulting in a tremendous crash) and ran to the kitchen to find the grandmother sitting against the dishwasher.  The long, long curtain lay benignly on the floor.  The grandmother summed up her plight with two words: “My knee.”

Yes, readers, the grandmother is, in fact, The Grandmother, and the young(ish) woman is me.  Shocking, I know.

So, long story short, The Grandmother broke her kneecap.  Shattered it, would be a more accurate description.  She had surgery Tuesday to wire it back together so it will heal.

The Grandmother is a very active, busy woman, and this sitting around thing isn’t working out so well for us.  She is also fiercely independent, and hates asking anyone for help for anything, so my job is to predict what she wants and give it to her before she has to ask.  She’s trying to be patient, and I’m trying to avoid direct eye contact with her.

With my preexisting duties for my regular people, things have certainly got a little busy around here.  When I do have a few minutes to look at the computer or write, I just don’t have the want-to.

I didn’t tell you this story to get pity, I told you so that would know I am still alive, and I still intend to blog, but it will be sporadic at best.  Even my Facebooking is suffering. If I’m not commenting on blogs I usually read, I swear I will someday return.  Most likely in six to eight weeks. Then hopefully things will get back to normal around here.  Well, as normal as they ever are.

In the meantime, spare me a thought as you go about your day.  And if I turn up missing, check the curtain.  That thing is vicious.

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nurse Ratchet, savage curtain, wounded knee

I’m becoming quite popular.

Well, actually, I basically begged to be a guest poster.  Dave Barry says that writers trying to promote their work are “like hookers, only with less dignity.”  This time, though, I was already Aiming Low.

So I invite you, my devoted readers, to head on over to one of the most fun sites I’ve found in a long time.  Over there, being mediocre isn’t just tolerated–it’s celebrated.  So go.  Now.

Why are you still reading this?  Go!

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aiming low, guest post

Sorry for the hiatus.  I took another vacation to the big city, and I’m just now getting back into the rut…..I mean routine…..of my life.

One of the biggest topics on the news in the past few days is the story about the unarmed teenager who was shot in Florida by a neighborhood watch captain.  Trayvon Martin was walking home from getting candy–yes, really, candy–and apparently wandered into the local neighborhood DMZ.

The neighborhood watch captain, George Zimmerman, thought the boy had drugs.  He called emergency services, then followed the teenager.  No one knows exactly what happened, but the presumption is there was some sort of confrontation.  One thing that everyone does know is how the story ended: Zimmerman shot Trayvon Martin and killed him.

To say the shit is hitting the fan would be one of the most fantastic understatements in the history of the universe.  For starters, the local police in that neighborhood didn’t exactly handle the situation the way everyone thinks they should have.  They sent a narcotics detective instead of a homicide detective, for example.  I won’t go into everything else.  All of this is just filler.  What this post is really about is my opinion of this situation (as if you didn’t know that already.)

My opinion is that the whole thing stinks.  Big time.

I have never, ever, ever had much appreciation for the whole neighborhood watch concept.  The basic purpose of it is that if you see something suspicious, you call emergency services to notify the police and then they come and handle it. Cause that’s, you know, their job.  Instead, what happens is that you get some puffed up power-tripping law enforcement wanna-be with a gun trotting around your neighborhood.  I don’t know about you, but that personally doesn’t make me feel any safer.  In fact, it makes me feel afraid to even take out my dog for a pee in the evening.

Zimmerman said when he called 911 that he thought the teen had drugs.  (As an aside, the 911 dispatcher told Zimmerman NOT to follow the teenager.)  He was carrying a bag of some sort.  Well, I guess that’s the standard drug carrying satchel–a 7-11 bag.  It’s the go-to accessory for the modern heroine addict.

Also, the teen was wearing a hoodie.

Oh, did I mention Trayvon was black?

I guess Mr. Zimmerman had little choice, right?  I mean, a black teenager wearing a hoodie and carrying a convenience store bag through a neighborhood he didn’t live in?

On the other hand, it was raining, so I guess Trayvon wanted to keep his head dry.  Also, he didn’t have drugs in his bag.  He had candy, and he was carrying a bottle of tea.  He was alone and walking through that neighborhood because that was the way for him to get back home.  He wasn’t even loitering.  He was walking and talking on his cell phone.  Zimmerman, who has probably had a hard-on to bust someone since he started his “job,” saw a perfect opportunity.  I have no doubt that Trayvon may have even mouthed off to Zimmerman when he confronted him, as would many teenagers, I’m sure.  Is running your mouth grounds for shooting?  If so, you’d better enjoy this post, because I doubt I’ll last the week.

By far the most disturbing fact is that George Zimmerman is still a free man.  I’m sorry–I don’t care how decorated a neighborhood watchman he is, George Zimmerman needs to be held accountable for this crime.

Around here, we don’t have neighborhood watch, because, well, we don’t have neighborhoods.  And yes, we all have guns.  I’ve written about it before.  I’ve even hinted as to what would happen if someone broke into my home.  However, I don’t feel compelled to arm myself and patrol the neighborhood.  I have been around people like Zimmerman, though.  We have them here, too.  Oh yes.  It’s almost always a guy, and usually the one who was picked on in school for being a “wimp.”  They actually wear a pistol on their hip everywhere they go.  Really.

What is that point of that?  To prove what a big, macho man you are, I guess.  Look at me–I’m not a wimp, I’m a badass!  And if you walk through my neighborhood with candy and tea, I’m going to shoot you! Especially if you’re black!

So I, along with the rest of the country, await the next phase of this story.  I hope our justice system has the courage to do the right thing.  In all seriousness, there is a family who had to bury their son, not because he did something wrong, but because he wanted some candy and some tea, and because he wanted to keep his head dry.  Somebody has to answer for it.

Period.

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George Zimmerman, neighborhood watch, power trip, Trayvon Martin, wimp

*In honor of my one year blog-a-versary, I decided to share some vintage (not so) Special material.  This was my first official post of the blog.  Maybe my new readers will enjoy it, as they surely haven’t gone back this far into the archives.  And if you’ve already read it, maybe it can make you smile again!  Thanks to all my faithful readers!

The Grandmother occasionally reads little tidbits out of the newspaper to me.  The other day is was a piece about some woman who had been arrested for doing some ghastly thing to her own child. The Grandmother made the comment, “People should have to take a test to make sure they’re qualified to be a parent!”

A few days after that, upon hearing that I was homeschooling, the comment was made to me, “Oh, I don’t know if I’m qualified to teach my own child.”

That got me thinking…….

Qualified. Webster defines this as “fit; competent.” That got me thinking even more–am I qualified to be a parent? Consider these following points about yours truly.

• I once searched for almost forty minutes for my cell phone. My son, upon realizing what I was looking for, told me to call it and listen for the ring. I did, and I heard it ringing……..from inside my pocket.
• I have served, as the main course of a meal other than breakfast, Lucky Charms.
• I have told my children to shut up.
• I have lied to my children because a) I wanted them to do something they didn’t want to do, b) I didn’t want them to do something they wanted to do, or c) simply to get them to be quiet and leave me alone for a few minutes.
• I have let the television babysit my children.
• I have a drill sergeant’s philosophy about shouting–I never shout, I just speak in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

I will not even get into the background stuff before my children were born. This is a blog after all, not a confessional.

Anyway, would I qualify? Let’s just say it’s a good thing there isn’t a test. The stuff back there is just the tip of the iceberg. I have a list of faults a mile long. Yet, somehow, I have been entrusted with not one, but two little people to raise into functioning adults. Better still–one of them is a special needs child who is dependent on me for everything.  Needless to say, it makes me nervous.

It doesn’t help when I am confronted with the uber-mommy. You know the ones I’m talking about. Where do these women come from? They always have their hair fixed and their make-up on, and they are always dressed in cute little outfits that have those sweaters with no sleeves or whatever.  They craft and scrapbook and they fix three nutritious meals for their families every day. I expect they churn their own butter.

Meanwhile, I’m home pouring Lucky Charms into a bowl and yelling at my kids. It doesn’t seem fair, does it? And yet…..my kids seem pretty happy and well-adjusted.  We’re a pretty close family, and there really isn’t a whole lot of drama here.  I don’t seem to embarrass them too much yet.  I think the key might be love. More than that, I think the key might be loving your children more than you love yourself.  That is where a lot of people fall short.

I’m almost absolutely certain that I wouldn’t officially be called fit or competent to raise another human from birth into adulthood, but I’m struggling along every day and doing the best I can. It’s worked out okay for me so far.  I’d love to share with you some of my success stories, but right now I can’t. I’ve got to go look for my cell phone.

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parenthood, parenting mistakes, qualified to be a parent