I’ve always stood in awe before the power of words.

With words, simple words, we can delve into the past and the future, and all the various time blends that scientists must use big words to explain, but which writers can explain simply by using one or two of the helping verbs Ol’ Miz Roberts made us memorize back in seventh grade.

Time machines in stories show the blending of times with numerals and fast-motion whipping past the window of the machine, or by numbers going backwards or forwards on a dial.

Writers just use a helping verb or two.

Scientists discuss the concept of time, past time, present time, future time, using diagrams and equations and big, big words.

Writers just stick a “have” or “had” or a “will” in front of a plain old verb to show the same thing.

Past and future are the easiest to measure. They are also the easiest to understand, or comprehend.
“Already happened” and “not happened yet” are no biggie.

It’s the present that’s the most difficult to comprehend and measure, because even with all of our scientific knowledge, inventions, devices, equations, whatever, the present is too fleeting to measure. The actual ‘present’ is so fleeting, we can’t even realize it ourselves. By the time we do, it’s already gone. Blink, and it’s past. Breathe, and it’s past. Sit still; each beat of your heart is in the past, because by the time you are aware,  it’s too late; it’s gone.

Look at your children. They’re in the present, sure, if you want to call it that. Watch them sleeping. Each rise and fall of the covers is already part of the past. History. It’s already happened.

And it will never happen again. Not that particular breathe. Not that particular heartbeat. Watch them play; they run, except, they ran.  They sing, except, they sang.  While they are running and singing, part of it has already happened.  They climb on you and you hug them.  Except, they climbed on you and you hugged them, because those moments are already gone, too.  Even if you are still together there on the chair, more and more of what you think is “this moment” is already past.  The moments are history. They’re gone before you gently ease your children off your lap and put them to bed, both of which are already history, too.  These moments are gone and will never come again.

So often we say that we can’t WAIT for a particular phase or week or school year, etc, to be over with. Be careful what you wish, my dears. . . . When it’s gone, it’s gone.  Try not to wish your lives away just because a little piece of it isn’t to your liking at a certain moment – which is already gone before you’re even aware.

The actual present can’t be measured, not by us, not yet. Use it carefully, for once you’re aware of it, it’s already part of your history.  And your history, and mine, are, of course, part of the history of mankind.

Ah, the power of words, that we can so clearly express the elements of time with just a few simple helping verbs.

I wondered about it. (simple past: one-shot deal, it’s over.)

For many years, I have wondered about it. (present perfect: I was wondering in the past and I’m STILL wondering. Two times are represented here, one in the past and one in the present.)

I had wondered about it before I said something. (past perfect: both actions are in the past, but one is more recent than the other. Two times are represented; both past.)

I have always enjoyed teaching this concept  (in the past and now!) and with adult students, it’s even more awesome. I’ve had students weep, during this lesson.

Words are powerful. A pen in the hand is power. Use words carefully, and properly. Choose them wisely.
Remember, there’s a big difference between a wise man and a wise guy. And which would you prefer: a day off or an off day?

“The difference between the right word and almost the right word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug.”  — Mark Twain

Let me put it this way:

Remember that anecdote about the young bride whose husband asked her why she cut the beef roast in half before she put it in the pan?

She told him she did it that way because her mother always did it that way.

So the young husband asked his mother-in-law why she had always cut the beef roast in half before she put it in the pan. Her reply? She did it that way because HER mother had always done it that way.

At the next family dinner, the husband asked his wife’s grandmother why she had always cut the beef roast in half before putting it in the pan. Her reply? Because her mother had always done it that way.

His wife’s great-grandmother was still alive, so he went to the nursing home and asked her why she always cut the beef roast in half before putting it in the pan. Her reply?

“I only had the one small pan, and the only way a roast would fit in it was if it was first cut into two pieces.”

When my children visit, I often think of this story. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but it might as well be, because so many of the things we do make no sense except in the context of the past.

Both of my children love grilled cheese sandwiches. I mean, who doesn’t? Secondly, neither of my children will touch a grilled cheese sandwich unless it is made with Velveeta.

Thirdly, and most importantly, I can grant these wishes because A. I won’t eat a grilled cheese sandwich unless it was made with Velveeta, either, and B. Velveeta is a name brand food I can actually AFFORD!

When my son visits, he often requests grilled cheese sandwiches the minute he enters the house.  When he was a little boy, the only way he could eat a grilled cheese sandwich was if I mashed it down flat with the spatula after the Velveeta had melted. THEN his little mouth could close around it, and he could eat the sandwich “like a man.”

He’s an adult now, but he still wants his grilled cheese sandwiches flattened with the spatula. Why?  Because that’s how his mother always made them.

When he gets married, I can’t wait to hear his wife’s reaction when he asks her to mash a perfectly good sandwich flat. Will she question it, or just do it?

Sometimes, family traditions have serious beginnings and funny middles. As for the endings, there aren’t any, not really.

(Rerun.  You’re not crazy.  At least, not on this account.)

Mom and Dad interacted with us, just enough to make it special.

I do NOT, however, recall my parents being at my beck and call. I knew kids whose parents were at their beck and call, and we made fun of them – both kids and parents.  Even when we were really little, we knew such a relationship just wasn’t, well, RIGHT.

When my parents got down and played with me, it was a big deal, partly because it was such super extra fun, and partly because it was rare enough to be a genuine treat.

Mom was busy. I remember her ironing in front of the tv while the kids played all around her. Was she playing with them? No, she was busy. But it was all right, because we knew where she was and what she was doing, and we knew if we needed her she would drop everything and come.

We played outside in the yard. Our house was on a VERY busy corner, and the wide street was dangerous. We did not go near it because we had been told not to. Period. We played with each other and with the neighbor kids. If a parent had tried to play with us, we would have been frightened and we would have gone into the house. I mean, jeepers. All the parents in the neighborhood, however, watched over us and never hesitated to tattle if there was something they thought another parent would want to know.

I did not expect my parents to play with me constantly; why should they? The world is not supposed to be a 100% blend of adult-child things; there is an adult world and there is a child’s world. Frequently, they interact; mostly, they do not.

Nowadays, however, I guess I should phrase that last: mostly, they SHOULD not. Because in many households today, the children are in charge.

“Play wif me, watch Barney wif me, sit wif me, stack blocks wif me. . . .” And the parent drops everything and lets the child be the person in charge of the household, because to deny a child immediate pleasure is to be a bad, bad parent.

Children do NOT need a parent to play with them every minute of the day. Children need to be forced to acquire the inner resources to entertain themselves. Most kids own enough toys to stock a store; put the kid in there and tell him he’s on his own because you’ve got grown-up things you simply must do. Be sure you can keep a close eye on him, if he’s tiny, but make him do some exploring on his own, for crying out loud. And speaking of crying out loud, don’t fall for THAT one, either.

A child who doesn’t have the inner resources to entertain himself becomes an adult who requires outside stimulation (shut up) at all times because they don’t have what it takes to sit quietly and dream, or think, or draw, or read, or open the damn toy box and find something to play with. Requiring your children to learn to entertain themselves encourages them to become imaginative and creative. Being at your child’s beck and call discourages these things.

Far too many parents give up and turn on the tv for hours, every day.   That creates yet another generation of adults who can’t entertain themselves; it has to come from OUTSIDE themselves. How many adults do you know who MUST keep the tv on pretty much 24/7 because they CAN’T function without some sitcom or show on, always? I know several. Listening to background music isn’t the same thing at all, because there is no picture – often not child-friendly – for a kid to be captivated by.

Do not become your child’s on-call playmate. Make your child entertain himself. Whenever you can, sit down and play with him, but honestly? Your kid does not need a grownup play buddy. Your child needs to learn how to figure out how to play by himself.

Is your child more important than housework or yard work or home office work, etc? Absolutely. But your child also needs to learn that Mommy or Daddy is NOT at their beck and call, 24/7.

“Playpen” is a dirty word for many parents, but the fact is, with a playpen, you can put your tiny tiny toddler in there with some toys and get some work done. “But he cries when I put him in there!” So what? Let him cry a while, and eventually he’ll see he’s getting nowhere and he’ll start to play, by himself. This isn’t a sad pitiful thing, poor lonely child, etc; it’s a step towards independence and a step towards becoming a person who has what it takes to keep himself occupied and entertain himself, and become resourceful, so he won’t grow up to become a person so in need of outside stimulation and affirmation and so “entitled” to attention in all aspects of life that he talks out loud in the theater, bellows in a restaurant, talks on his cell phone in public, is at a loss if he finishes a test early and is told to just sit there and read for ten minutes, doesn’t have any homework and can’t handle the free time in study hall, etc.

Play with your kids whenever you can. But don’t let your kids rule your home, and don’t deny yourselves your share of the “adult” world you are so very much entitled to by reason of your ever-advancing age. And yes, those ARE grey hairs and yes, they appeared AFTER you had kids.

Seriously? There is something sad and creepy about a parent so involved with her kids and their activities that her feelings are hurt when the kids don’t invite her to play, too. It’s almost as creepy as the kids who have no conception of figuring anything out themselves because a parent is ALWAYS there to explain every. single. little.thing.

The children’s novel “Understood Betsy,” which is one of my favorites, has this to say:

“. . . Elizabeth Ann had always before thought it an essential part of railway journeys to be much kissed at the end and asked a great many times how you had ‘stood the trip.’

She st very still on the high lumber seat, feeling very forlorn and neglected. Her feet dangled high above the floor of the wagon. She felt herself to be in the most dangerous place she had ever dreamed of in her worst dreams. Oh, why wasn’t Aunt Frances there to take care of her! It was just like one of her bad dreams – yes, it was horrible! She would fall, she would roll under the wheels and be crushed to. . . She looked up at Uncle Henry with the wild eyes of nervous terror which always brought Aunt Frances to her in a rush to ‘hear all about it,’ to sympathize, to reassure.

Uncle Henry looked down at her soberly, his hard, weather-beaten old face unmoved. “Here, you drive, will you, for a piece?” he said briefly, putting the reins into her hands, hooking his spectacles over his ears, and drawing out a stubby pencil and a bit of paper. “I’ve got some figgering to do. You pull on the left-hand rein to make ‘em go to the left and t’other way for ‘other way, though ’tain’t likely we’ll meet any teams.”

Elizabeth Ann had been so near one of her wild screams of terror that now, in spite of her instant absorbed interest in the reins, she gave a queer little yelp. She was all ready with the explanations, her conversations with Aunt Frances having made her very fluent in explanations of her own emotions. She would tell Uncle Henry about how scared she had been, and how she had just been about to scream and couldn’t keep back that one little. . . But Uncle Henry seemed not to have heard her little howl, or, if he had, didn’t think it worth conversation, for he. . . oh, the horses were CERTAINLY going to one side! She hastily decided which was her right hand (she had never been forced to know it so quickly before) and pulled on that rein. The horses turned their hanging heads a little, and, miraculously, there they were in the middle of the road again.

Elizabeth Ann drew a long breath of relief and pride, and looked to Uncle Henry for praise. But he was busily setting down figures as though he were getting his ‘rithmetic lesson tor the next day and had not noticed. . . OH, there were were going to the left again! This time, in her flurry, she made a mistake about which hand was which and pulled wildly on the left line! The horses docilely walked off the road into a shallow ditch, the wagon tilted. . . help! Why didn’t Uncle Henry help! Uncle Henry continued intently figuring on the back of his envelope.

Elizabeth Ann, the perspiration starting out on her forehead, pulled on the other line. The horses turned back up the little slope, the wheel grated sickeningly against the wagon-box – she was SURE they would tip over! But there! Somehow there they were in the road, safe and sound, with Uncle Henry adding up a column of figures. If he only knew, thought the little girl, if he only KNEW the danger he had been in, and how he had been saved. . . ! But she must think of some way to remember, for sure, which her right hand was, and avoid that hideous mistake again.

And then suddenly something inside Elizabeth Ann’s head stirred and moved. It came to her, like a clap, that she needn’t know which was right or left. If she just pulled the way she wanted them to go – the horses would never know whether it was the right or the left rein!

It is possible that what stirred inside her head at that moment was her brain, waking up. She was nine years old, and she was in the third A grade at school, but that was the first time she had ever had a whole thought of her very own. At home, Aunt Frances had always known exactly what she was doing, and had helped her over the hard places before she even knew they were there; and at school her teachers had been carefully trained to think faster than the scholars. Somebody had always been explaining things to Elizabeth Ann so carefully that she had never found out a single thing for herself before. This was a very small discovery, but it was her own. Elizabeth Ann was as excited about it as a mother-bird over the first egg she hatches.

She forgot how afraid she was of Uncle Henry, and poured out to him her discovery. “It’s not right or left that matters! she ended triumphantly; “it’s which way you want to go!” Uncle Henry looked at her attentively as she talked, eyeing her sidewise over the top of one spectacle-glass. When she finished – “Well, now, that’s so,” he admitted, and returned to his arithmetic.

It was a short remark, shorter than any Elizabeth Ann had ever heard before. Aunt Frances and her teachers had always explained matters at length. But it had a weighty, satisfying ring to it. The little girl felt the importance of having her statement recognized. She turned back to her driving.”

If you’re not familiar with Understood Betsy, by Dorothy Canfield, run out and get it immediately! It’s a charming story, full of delight.

Parents, you also don’t need to tiptoe around the house and speak in whispers when the baby naps. Let the baby learn to sleep through the natural noises of a busy household, and you’ll save yourselves and everyone who lives with you YEARS of tip-toeing and whispering. You’ll also end up with a child who has learned not to wake up every time a feather falls to the floor.

I remember when Mom was teaching my brother to stay in his own bed all night. That first night, his crying broke all of our hearts, and it lasted pretty much all night, too. The next night, he went right to sleep and stayed in his bed all night.  Today, he is a highly successful university professor.  I see no signs of own-bed-trauma in his life.

They test us. They test us constantly. As they get older, the tests get harder. During the first years, they cry a lot to try and break us. As they get older, we cry a lot because sometimes, they do. But we can’t let it show, or we’ve lost.

Oh, and that curse all mothers put on their kids, the one that goes “I hope, when you grow up and get married and have kids, that you have a kid who is JUST LIKE YOU.”

That curse works.

By the way, the biggest problem with childrearing advice is that the best advice often comes from someone who has learned these things the hard way and wants to spare young parents from the same battles. The second biggest problem with the best childrearing advice is that young parents don’t know what these old people could possibly know about raising children.

Times change. Babies don’t.

Unless, by “change,” you are referring to diapers, in which case, starting saving your money now. Oh, and if you’ve got a sensitivity to bad smells, buck up and get over it.

My point? Do I have to have one?

You are not obligated to play with your children every waking minute. You are an adult and you have things to do, too. Kids will learn if you give them no choice. Make sure they know you’re nearby and can hear them, but require them to learn to develop inner resources for themselves. We’ve already got more than enough adults who don’t have what it takes to keep themselves internally entertained; we certainly don’t need any more.

One of them usually sits by me on a plane.

P.S. I’m not talking about newborns here; heck, I used to wear my newborns,  although I also used to put them in the playpen to keep the cat off them when I went downstairs to do laundry.  I was glad to have that playpen when the big snake got into the house, I’m tellin’ ya.

(Rerun.  Yes.)

Mamacita says:

Happy Easter, everyone.

What? Oh, oops. . . . .

Here. This is more like it. I do love those vintage Easter postcards. I hated growing up and finding out that those baby kittens were probably going to eat those baby chicks. I would also hate to have to tell you all how old I was before I realized that the bunnies weren’t really responsible for all those eggs.

But ultimately, this is Easter to me.

And isn’t it wonderful that so many of us, with so many different beliefs, can hang out here in the Blogosphere and get along great and love each other without having to constantly proselytize and try to sway each other to our own beliefs?

Oh, sure, those people are online too, but I don’t pay much attention to them.  Not here; not anywhere.

It’s the people whose beliefs are quietly lived every day, the people who show me by example what their values are, who get my attention.

And who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor? If you don’t believe me, just look around for a minute or two. Think of your family.

And if you’re alone, look in the mirror.

See?

Happy Easter, dear internet people. Eat chocolate. Get together with family.  Smile. Have some eggs. Rejoice over something.

It’s a good day for rejoicing. . . .

(Originally posted on Easter, 2005, but nothing’s changed since then.)

Oh, about that Easter Island head?  It and its clone guard the entrance to the local city park.  We carve limestone here.

Are you going to eat that Reese’s Egg?

When the first space shuttle blasted off, my students didn’t get to see it. I don’t think my school even owned a TV at that point.  However, when that same shuttle landed, about eighty kids were packed into a classroom, eyes glued to that smallish screen, watching entranced as history was made: the shuttle landed safely, and before those very straining eyes, too.

I’m thinking that it was this event that inspired some schools to invest in some better “audio-visual” equipment than the ancient shared 16mm projector and portable, folding, grainy screen.  History was being made and the resources were now available for schools to allow their students to see it.  Well, some of it, anyway, and some schools are still waiting for the resources AND the equipment.  And the permission to use it.

A few years later, my school wasn’t much more advanced, technology-wise, and we rented a big-screen TV to watch the Challenger launch.

For the next few years, shuttle launches and landings were almost commonplace; there was another horrendous tragedy in the sky (Columbia) but for the most part,  NASA has done outstandingly well.  I am a huge fan of the shuttle program and it’s heartbreaking to know that it’s about to end.  Bad decision.  I’d far rather my tax dollars be used to explore the universe than to have them squandered on certain other projects which I shall not mention here lest I start a brouhaha from which I shall not back down and from which others won’t back down from their stance, either.  Therefore, silence is golden.  Snort.

I will be posting more about NASA’s programs soon, as it is my pet project, for want of a better phraseology.

The sky’s not the limit any more, and this thrills me to the core.

Hey, I made a little rhyme!  Yes, I do that all the time.  Channeling Fezzik, wherever you are. . . .

In the meantime, why not send your face to space?

Hah, did it again.

Fair warning: I have no sense of taste when it comes to clothing. My daughter and my sisters and even my son can attest to that. I have a horror of going out in public wearing old-lady clothing, but I don’t always know when I do it. My tastes somehow never graduated from Spencer Gifts and little boutiques and shops that carry only sizes so small they really should be selling Pampers alongside the hemp; you remember – well, some of you remember – those shops that sold the kind of dresses we could wad up in one hand and still have room for a cheeseburger. I can’t wear the clothes I still gravitate towards: for one thing, it would be ridiculous, and for another thing, they only come in size negative-ten. They’re still the clothes my mind likes best, though. In my day, we couldn’t wait to grow out of the “girls” sizes and into the junior sizes. Girls today brag that they “have” to shop at Baby Gap. Size zero, with Victoria’s Secret underneath.   A rag, a bone, and a hank of hair, indeed.

Me, I love hippie clothing; broomstick skirts and long low-necked tops, but fat women don’t look good in broomstick skirts; I think you have to be shaped like a broomstick to look good in a broomstick.

Hush now; I like broomstick skirts.

I am happiest in jeans and old t-shirts, but the t-shirts I like best – my Broadway shirts and a few select sarcastic comments about other people’s mentality – I can’t wear out in public. Why can’t I? Because I think people over a certain age really can’t wear “See me, feel me, touch me, heal me” Tommy shirts without people wondering who would want to do that in the first place. If you’re 80 years old * and wearing a “Truckers do it in the road” shirt ** at Marsh, people will laugh. Well, I do. I have a drawer full of favorite t-shirts that I can only wear around the house for fear of my own critique. Fortunately for my fashion sense, and for the feng shui of the universe, I spend a lot of time around the house.

* Note:  I am not 80 years old.  But some day, I hope to be.

** Neither would I EVER own or wear a “Truckers do it in the road” shirt.  But I’ve seen my share of grandmotherly types wearing it. Out in public.  Without shame.  This scares me.

My children have promised to kill me and bury me in the back yard if I EVER become one of THOSE women.

I’m also way too large to wear what I like best in “dressy” mode. I used to wear dresses and skirts almost daily when I taught; now, I usually wear black slacks and, I dunno, some kind of top that looks teacherish.

That’s why I let Kohls guide my fashion sense much of the time. Heaven knows I need a guide.

I had a favorite dress once. It was green, pale-ish green, and was made of some soft fabric that was, at the time, quite unique. It might possibly have been a forerunner of those microfibers, but a little more silky and less like a blanket. It had three-quarter sleeves – still my sleeve of choice – and a rather low, narrow v-neck with those massive curvy 70′s “woman” lapels. I recognized the lapels as monstrosities even at the time, but as they were a part of this dress I embraced them, too.

The dress hit me between knee and ankle, and had a wide sash that tied in the back. I felt so good in this dress. That dress emphasized my small waist and hid my skinny chicken legs. It showed just enough cleavage that I could wear it to school and still feel sexy. I bought it with my first teacher paycheck and I wore it at least once a week.

I have no pictures of me in this dress, and I’m actually glad, because that frees me to picture myself looking so fine, feeling the dress swish around my legs as I walked around the shared teachers’ office space, knowing everybody else in there was well over forty while I was 23, and I am not even embarrassed to tell you all that when I wore this dress, I would occasionally spin around so I could feel the skirt breathe with me. . . . yes, my dress and I liked to twirl.

When I remember this dress, I can’t really picture the entire thing. I remember parts of it, but not the parts fitting together in any logical way. Possibly that’s because my brain is protecting me from seeing the dress as it really was: a 70′s horror, complete with extra-long attached sash and lapels that would make me gasp and back away if I saw them today, made of slightly ribbed light-weight blanket fabric and the color of green goth Big Lots nail polish.

That dress and I were both a size 5. I bought it at the Diana Shoppe, which burned down shortly thereafter, possibly sparing the world from similar dresses which I probably would have bought and worn and twirled in as well.

Perhaps some disasters were meant to save us from other disasters.

I do own a dress now but I can’t for the life of me remember what color it is.

Maybe I need to start getting out more.

The title? Gilda said it.

No picture of the dress, but I found a picture of 70′s lapels.  Be afraid.  Be very afraid.  The hip-hugging bell-bottoms came back; it’s only a matter of time before you’ll be wearing big rounded lapels, too.

Most of you are watching the Oscars as I type.  Keep your eyes open for lapels, if you can take your eyes off the rear cleavage that, this year, is rivaling the front cleavage.

My home ec teacher would have given most of these high-priced designer-name monstrosities a D+ at best.  Some of them look like the rec room busy-work from down at the nursing home.

Then again, what do I know?  I used to twirl, at work, in a green dress that was probably made by the Keebler elves out of leftover tablecloth fabric.

Mamacita says:  All my life I have loathed the expression, “Act your age.” Even as a child I wondered how a person could ‘act’ an age; the best I could ever do was to ‘be’ an age. “Act” always connoted phoniness to me.

I totally agree with the little girl in this joke. How can a child know how a certain age is supposed to act, when the child has never BEEN that age before? We need to be guided into each age, not tossed.

Remember in the movie “Hook” when Robin Williams turns on his young son in anger and tells him to stop acting like a kid? And the child’s response was, ‘But Dad, I AM a kid!”

Often in schools, teachers mark students down for being “immature.” This is indeed a deficiency after a certain point, say, sixth grade or so. But to mark down a small child for being ‘immature?’ If a child is not allowed to be immature when he’s seven years old, just when IS he allowed to be immature? Aren’t all small children immature? Doesn’t that go with the territory? Why do we expect small children to behave maturely, yet smile when grown men and women behave like small children? Why is one cute and endearing, and the other annoying? And which did you find annoying, may I ask?

BEING one’s age is something we should all strive to do. ACTING it won’t fool anybody.

And with the BEING comes the responsibility. Proper behavior should not be limited to certain ages; after only a few years, children know what’s proper and what’s not, unless they’ve been living in a vacuum, or unless they’ve been allowed to run the household. And none of us know anyone who lets THAT happen, right?

So. As parents and citizens of the universe, we owe it to our children and to each other and to ourselves to lighten up on some things AND tighten the screws on others, both at once, so our children will truly grow up, not just get bigger with the same poor impulse control and with the feeling that the galaxy revolves around them. And how do we do this? With whatever it takes, my friends. Some children evolve naturally into delightful mature adults, and others must be wrestled to the ground with every new concept.

Do not allow your child to walk out your door and become the neighborhood monster, the school bully, the local knock-up artist, and an incorrigible bum. At least, not without some serious battles and opposition on your part. (some things we just can’t control, not even with the best parental intentions, dedication, and arsenal known to mankind, sigh.) And if teachers, neighbors, friends, and total strangers try to tell you that your child’s behavior is in need of serious control, believe them. Don’t make excuses, because there ARE no excuses. Seek help and seek it till you get it. No matter what the problem might be, a person with no self control is a danger to the other people in this world, and that person must be stopped and forced to change, and if change is not possible, then that person must be corralled, lest innocent others be hurt if they get in the way of his baby tantrums ‘anger management problems’ and childish selfishness ‘poor impulse control problems.’ I’m sorry as I can be, but the safety and well-being of the majority should count for something, too.

So. Let your children BE their age. And make bloody sure they know what’s expected of them at that age, and give them time and opportunity to DO what’s expected of them, and make the expectations bigger and more complicated as their age increases. Make sure the consequences for NOT BEING their age are severe and memorable. Very memorable. Allowing a child to remain a child forever, with no responsibilities and with excuses for tantrums and selfishness and laziness and with no manners and no understanding of public behavior, is as much ‘abuse’ as is beating him with a stick. Maybe worse, because others will suffer because of this parental laziness as well.

As a teacher, I called CPS more times than I could ever count. But not as many times as I WISH I could have. Whiny spoiled lazy hormonal monsters with helpless babyish doting excuse-making parents are a bane to the existence of us all.

BEING one’s age often means behaving as a child behaves. BEING one’s age also means behaving as polite society requires all persons in public to behave. There are times and places for childish shouts and spontaneous delight, and there are times and places for silence and respect. People of all ages need to know which is which.

I feel ranty today.

And no, I am not referring to special needs people.

<——Not good, no.

During my annual re-reading of A Lantern in Her Hand and A White Bird Flying (two of my very favorites and I highly recommend them to all of you) I was again struck and reduced to tears by the simple message etched on the stones in the garden path at the home of J. Sterling Morton (who gave Arbor Day to the nation) and his bride:  Hours fly, Flowers die. New days, New ways, Pass by. Love stays.

Love stays.

And in the book, Laura Deal is more touched and moved by the sight of one simple little china dish, a little china hen spreading her china wings, that Mrs. Morton brought to Nebraska with her so she would always have something of her old home in her new home, than by the grandeur of the governor’s eventual home. I am that way, too, for it is the small things that make a home, not any grand exterior or grounds. I love these two books beyond any ability to tell you how much.

Mrs. Morton’s little china dish makes me remember Ma Ingalls and her little china shepherdess.  Most pioneer women had at least one cherished, impractical, often fragile item they brought with them from their old home in the East, to remind them of that home, and to help them remember that there is more to life than dirt, sweat, and hard work.  Sometimes, we need a reminder, however small, that life also promises great beauty, music, hope, and a better life for our children than we can hope for, for ourselves.

Molly Ivins was one of my idols, and this motto of hers  is the motto I have adopted for my very own.

“… keep fightin’ for freedom and justice, beloveds, but don’t you forget to have fun doin’ it. Lord, let your laughter ring forth. Be outrageous, ridicule the fraidy-cats, rejoice in all the oddities that freedom can produce. And when you get through kickin’ ass and celebratin’ the sheer joy of a good fight, be sure to tell those who come after how much fun it was.”

I have never been much of a fighter, but maybe it’s time to start swinging.

No, not THAT kind of swinging. Scheisse, I love the blogosophere.

I hope everyone’s day is full of love and Hershey’s Kisses. They’re called ‘kisses’ because of the sound the machine makes when it lays one down on the belt. How would you like to work there? “Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss. . . .” all day long. By the time those people get home, their hormones must be raw and ready to be salved. If you know what I mean.

We went out for deep-dish pizza last night, to beat the Valentine’s Day restaurant rush. We had a lot more fun in the booth at Grecco’s than most people will have in their overpriced candlelit crowded reservations-only Valentine’s Day elegant ambiance-filled restaurant tonight. Then again, I am very, very low-maintenance, and proud of it.

“. . . all the oddities that freedom can produce. . . .” Why would we ever want anything else?

I miss you, Molly. But, love stays.

When our mothers are young, we don’t consider them ‘friends.’ We don’t consider them young, either, because when we’re very young, all adults are old.  Our 22-year-old teacher and Grandma: one and the same, age-wise.  No, to a child, most adults are old; they’re not sweet young things.  They never were; it’s not possible. They’re just Mommy, when we’re young, and when they’re young. We don’t even know they were young till we look at old pictures. And then we’re blown away because, “Oh my gosh, look how YOUNG she was there!”

But as we get older, our mothers seem to stay the same, and somehow the years between us don’t matter as much as they used to.

They stay the same, that is, until we take a good long look at them and it hits us that they look old. Not just mom-old, but OLD. Wrinkly. And you know there’s white underneath the Miss Clairol. And they aren’t as sure-footed as they used to be.

This is shocking, but it’s okay, as long as the MOM is still there inside the stranger-every-day body. You know, MOM. The lady who can make magic with a word or a touch? Her? That’s the one.

Good thing WE’LL never get old like that, huh.

I’ve read that when we are in our twenties, the fifty-year-old mother is somehow at her peak of Mom-ness and Friend-ness. Our fifty-year-old mother is an expert in so many things.

What we don’t realize is that our fifty-year-old mother is still missing HER fifty-year-old mother.

And what very few of you know yet, is that your fifty-year-old mother is still as insecure and wondering as she was when she was in her twenties. Your fifty-year-old mother is beating herself to death over mistakes she made when you were three.

How do I know this? I’d rather not say.

The seventy-year-old mother is still cool. Still Mom. It’s just that the fragility is starting to show, and the mortality thing comes to mind more than we’d like.

The fifty-year-old Mom is the epitome of Momitude. She KNOWS things. We should listen more to our fifty-year-old Mom.

Unless she’s a meddling idiot with outdated stupid ideas and a lot of unwanted advice, of course. You don’t have to listen then.

Chances are, however, that if your fifty-year-old Mom is mean and judgmental and delights in hurting people’s feelings, she was exactly the same when she was in her twenties. Bodies change a lot**. Personalities seldom do.

The following has been making the internet rounds for a long time now, and most of you have no doubt seen it before. However, I’m posting it anyway, because for some reason, it means more to me with each passing year.

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The Images of Mother

4 YEARS OF AGE ~ My Mommy can do anything!

8 YEARS OF AGE ~ My Mom knows a lot! A whole lot!

12 YEARS OF AGE ~ My Mother doesn’t really know quite everything.

14 YEARS OF AGE ~ Naturally, Mother doesn’t know that, either.

16 YEARS OF AGE ~ Mother? She’s hopelessly old-fashioned.

18 YEARS OF AGE ~ That old woman? She’s way out of date!

25 YEARS OF AGE ~ Well, she might know a little bit about it.

35 YEARS OF AGE ~ Before we decide, let’s get Mom’s opinion.

45 YEARS OF AGE ~ Wonder what Mom would have thought about it?

65 YEARS OF AGE ~ Wish I could talk it over with Mom.

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Let’s talk things over with Mom while we have the chance.

If your own mommy doesn’t appreciate you, come right on over here. I’m not saying exactly how old this Mommy is, but she’s in her peak and prime of Momitude.

I have a lot of advice, but I’ll wait till you ask me for it***.

*If I knew the author and the name of the article, I’d have mentioned it up above, silly.
**Unless you’re Jamie Lee Curtis.
***Most of the time.

There are, of course Twelve Actual Rules of Christmas, according to the law, and in case you don’t know what they are and have intentions of storming the school or business that’s maliciously ignoring your rights as a Christian/Jew/Catholic/Protestant/Wiccan/Pagan/Atheist/Order of Elfland/Kisser of Mother Earth’s Backside, etc, perhaps y’all should take a glance at the law concerning such matters.

. . . interrupting my Christmas Eve blues (it’s almost here, which means it’s almost over!), my wallowing in Love Actually, my longing for visits from family, my worry about family members who are ill, my total digging (hippie language) of the White Christmas Blizzard happening outside as I type, and my dread of taking down all my holiday decorations in a week or so, with another version of the  Twelve Rules of Christmas, just for you:

1.  Christmas is always better than you thought it would be, even if it’s not.

2.  Christmas brings people together, even if it’s by contrast and not comparison.

3.  Christmas gifts made by childish hands are the best.  Christmas gifts FOR a child are even better.

4.  Christmas dinner is always great, even if it’s frozen pizza.  Because it’s Christmas.

5.  No one is alone on Christmas unless he/she chooses to be alone.  There are just too many places to go or to volunteer, to stay at home or in one’s room and whine.  Feeling left out?  Put on your coat and drive to the soup kitchen/homeless shelter, etc.  If being needed and appreciated is what you’re after – and who isn’t? – head for places where you’re definitely needed and genuinely appreciated.  It’s your own fault if you’re alone and sad at Christmas, or any other time, actually.

6.  Every Christmas tree is beautiful.

7.  Every wrapped package under the tree is beautiful, especially the ones wrapped by inept fingers.

8.  Christmas M&M’s taste better than ordinary M&M’s.  Ditto Christmas Snickers and Christmas Reese’s Trees.

9.  Christmas fruitcakes make great footballs, doorstops, and stories for next year, unless you actually like to eat fruitcake, in which case, bon appetit.  Watch your teeth.  And what exactly are those green slimy things?

10.  Christmas trees often bring the outdoors inside for our pets, ifyouknowwhatImean.

11.  Christmas season begins too soon and ends too quickly.

12.  The proper and polite response to “Merry Christmas” is “Thank you,” even if you do not believe in it.  Rudeness is always a choice, and it’s never appropriate to throw someone’s well-wishes back into his/her face.  If you’re insulted by someone’s wishing you well, keep it to yourself.  Charming Fairylit Woodland Seasonal Solstice Nothingness Greetings to you, too.  (Thank you.)

I’ve watched Love Actually three times this Christmas week, and I might have to give it another couple of viewings to get the sentiment and emotion out of my system.  Otherwise, I might be like Rebecca Randall’s Aunt Jane, so soft and sentimental it’s a wonder I don’t leak out the doorsill.*  It’s been suggested before.

Just to hear the music. . . . That soundtrack – it’s blazingly fantastic.  Fantastic, and, well, lovely.  Just lovely.

Excuse me.  I have to go mop myself up off the floor before all of me oozes under the door and out onto the yard.

If you haven’t ever seen Love Actually, what the bloody hell is WRONG with you!!! oh dear Lord, watch it now.  Be aware, however, that it’s not exactly family friendly in a few scenes.  Watch it late at night, with someone you love.  Or all by yourself in your kitchen whilst making homemade bread and fudge and trying not to weep copious tears into the dough.

P.S.  #13.  Christmas is a time for family and friends, and it’s so magically wondrous when they come to visit!  I can believe in God when I’m with family.  Without them, it can be difficult.

*Bonus points if you understand the reference.