Emotional Rescue

Wasn't that the title of some sappy, semi-sexy bad 70's song? I've been feeling lately that I need someone to come to my emotional rescue. Someone other than Eli Lilly and his wonder drug, Prozac.

The big news this week is that I made it to my 37th year! When I was a child, I always dreamed that I would die when I was 36. I know, it's more than a little bit morbid and neurotic, but I really believed that 36 was as good as it was going to get for me. I believed it so much that in the last few days before my 37th birthday, I avoided any unnecessary trips in the car believing that a Mack truck was waiting for me in the wings. It's good to be 37. I feel a bit relieved of the burden of impending doom. Went out for dinner with my girlfriends, engaged in nasty and inappropriate talk, drank too much plum wine, and had a great time.

Work has been all but doing me in lately. I don't want this blog to be about my career, but in my position, I deal with a lot of interesting personalities. The most interesting one that I'm dealing with currently is a classic case of narcissism. This woman truly is a piece of work. It's difficult for me to wrap my arms around the notion that someone can really believe the universe revolves around him/her, but this individual indeed believes that. She cannot be thanked enough, cannot be coddled enough, cannot throw enough people under the bus enough to make herself look better. She is a study in human psychology... and she often brings me to my knees. For those of you that know me well, you understand that I don't deal well with conflict. In fact, I avoid it at all costs. This woman can smile at you while she's turning the knife in your back. My outlook on life is, "can't we all just get along?" She's teaching me a lot of lessons.

I received a birthday card from my dad inviting me to dinner. Again, those of you who know me well know what kind of relationship (or lack thereof) that I have with my biological father. This invitation has "conflict" written all over it. It makes me queasy even thinking about it. Nevertheless, my dad, my sister, and I are meeting on April Fool's Day to hash out the last 37 years of frustration, neglect, anger, and resentment. THAT should make for an interesting follow-up blog!

God and Thank You Notes

I feel as if I'm failing my children in two significant areas of life. First and foremost, I feel they are missing out on the gift of a religious upbringing--something that both Chris and I were blessed with. It's not that I don't have a strong belief in God myself, it's just that Chris and I can't seem to find a place where we both feel comfortable. And we can't seem to drag our asses out of bed on a Sunday morning, either. The combination is proving morally lethal for our kids. When George first began preschool at the local Methodist church, his teacher asked each of the children what they would give Jesus as a birthday present. The other religiously well-fed children said things such as "a lamb, a warm blanket, a winter coat." George, however, informed his teacher that the perfect gift for Jesus would be a "Bowling For Soup" CD. Why wouldn't he enjoy hearing "1985?" We sang it all the time. Heck, we even went to the "Bowling For Soup" concert at the House of Blues when we were in Myrtle Beach. Apparently, George didn't want Jesus to miss out on some serious rocking.

So, my first concern is that my kids don't really know much about God, Jesus, the Bible, and all things associated. We're good people at heart; we live (as much as possible) by the Golden Rule, but my kids couldn't tell you what the Golden Rule is. I am a firm believer in the Ten Commandments, but my kids think that the Ten Commandments begin with "Thou Shalt Brush Thy Teeth Twice Every Day." One of the greatest gifts my Mom gave me as a child was a Catholic school education. Growing up without a father wasn't easy, but growing up without God would have been much harder. I talk to my kids about God, but I know they don't quite "get it." He's right there with Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. Maybe a few steps ahead of the St. Patrick's Day leprechaun that also passes for the Lucky Charms mascot. I definitely need to step up to the plate. Father, forgive me, for I have sinned. It's been over a year since I took my kids to church on a Sunday other than Easter or Christmas. Four Hail Mary's isn't going to save them now.

My other misgiving is in my inability to teach my kids the proper thank-you note writing etiquette. When I was growing up, not writing a timely and thoughtful thank-you note was akin to committing a mortal sin. (See the previous paragraphs for the Catholic school reference.) I used to LOVE writing thank you notes. I could schmooze with the best of them, and I adored describing in full detail how perfect my Easy Bake Oven really was. Once I had four kids in five years, I couldn't even remember how to spell "thank you." I was so sleep-deprived and reeking constantly of spit-up that a trip to the Hallmark Store for a box of notecards was as elusive as an all-expense paid trip to Hawaii. So, I gradually stopped being grateful on paper, and my kids have never learned the art of thank-you writing themselves. Now that they're older and can bathe and wipe themselves (well, at least most of them can), I've realized with horror that this essential lifeskill is an unknown entity to my kids. I'm sure my mom is ashamed. I know my aunts and uncles are appalled. No one is as embarrassed as I am, though.

We're going to sit down as a family tomorrow and pray to God to help us learn to write a proper thank you.

Spring Fever

It's 60 degrees in Indiana today. I've been cleaning out closets, washing winter coats, and looking at new cars. It will probably snow tomorrow and bring me back to reality, but for now, I'm enjoying the spring teaser that March always brings!

We attended the Flower and Patio Show today--all six of us. I always have this idyllic view of what a great family bonding experience it will be. Ha. That lasted all of three minutes. Then Gus was STARVING, Mary Claire's feet hurt, and George was all but backstroking in the hot tub displays. They're playing outside at home now and are much happier.

Yesterday, George had the Mother of All Tantrums. He had pajama day at school (which he was very excited about), and I picked him up early to go visit Stacy, Jody, Ethan, and Jackson. When we got to Stacy's house, he decided he wanted to go home and change his clothes first. I told him that wasn't an option, but that I was sure Stacy would loan him an outfit of Ethan's to wear. That sent him into a complete and total breakdown. He sat in the back of the Suburban we were test-driving for the night and screamed like a banshee. I left him in the car, took the keys, and told him to come into Stacy's when he was done throwing his fit. Jody, however, was very concerned about him being in the car by himself. (Not necessarily for George's safety, but for the well-being of the $50,000 vehicle that we didn't yet own.) She went out to persuade him to come in and ended up forcefully removing him from the car.

Now, let me explain that George isn't a small 4-year-old. He outweighs his 6-year-old sister and is as solid as a brick. Jody, on the other hand, is a wiry little redhead who was clearly overpowered by my demonic, screaming son. Stacy and I stood at the window with glasses of wine and laughed as she dragged him inside to continue his tantrum in the safety of Stacy's office. If I hadn't laughed, I'm sure I would have spanked the daylights out of him. It was not one of his (or my) better moments.

Aaaahh, Spring.