Kids Today. . . Rock!

I am a user of social media.  Twitter is my first source for breaking news and weather alerts,  Facebook keeps me connected to family and friends, and Instagram (when I remember) shows me fun and often beautiful moments from my daughter's life.  I am intrigued by the way the world is becoming connected and instantly updated; more than that-- I am amazed.

At first, I resisted.  "Facebook? No thanks."  However, once my children became members of the digital society,  I felt the need to join, connect, and put myself, well, out there.  For a few years, I was an avid user, and I still go through spurts.  But more often than not, I'm now more of a scroller.  

While I still love the technology, I've become a bit disenchanted with the overwhelming number of posts about (and I am most definitely paraphrasing) "We Are Raising Entitled Kids" and "Growing Up In the 80's (50s, 60s, 70s) was So Much Better!"    We brag, we boast, we compare, we criticize.  Kids today!  Stop being bored, kids.  Go drink out of a garden hose and ride your bikes until the street lights turn on. Work.  Get a job.  Make your bed.  Fly a kite.  When I was your age, I carried a four-pound WalkMan and listened to an Air Supply mix tape on gym-shoe roller skates.  (That's true; I did.)  Does it really prove anything at all?  To be clear, I can see my daughter right now, from here, wearing a super cool outfit.  Her tiny earbuds are tossed on the table and she is NOT wearing skates of any kind.  I think she wins this particular battle of "Then vs. Now."

Do my children feel entitled?  I hope not.  Or spoiled, mean, rotten, evil, nasty, cranky, selfish or any number of things that I wouldn't want them to feel.  Sick, angry, hurt, scared, hopeless, hungry, sad, bullied or worried.

Kids today.  Geez. 

It's entirely possible that, at some point, I may have shared a post like the ones I am arguing against.   I can't remember if I have or haven't.  And if I have,  I am hereby disenchanted with myself.  It's not that I necessarily disagree with all of the articles, or with the clever captions on the cute stock photos about parenting--they often make me laugh out loud!  

But I wonder, do the kids laugh when they read the the posts about kids?

These kids are our children.  They grew up in a digital world, one that provides instant updates and one-day shipping,  iPhone notifications and friend requests.  The fact that we, the adults, continue to post about the entitled, spoiled, bored kids of the world feels entirely unjust.

The truth is, they're probably not reading the posts.  They've likely moved on to the next big thing, and we are already one step behind.  But just in case, it would be nice to post with kindness in reference to our own children.

And I know that we ALL do.  I see the birthday messages, the sports photos, the messages of good news and the beautiful vacation pictures.  I've seen magic happen with prayer requests and stories shared.  The possibility for good is seemingly endless!

The digital world is allowing us a connectedness that is both instant and far-reaching.  It makes this big world feel smaller every day, as we branch out and share our stories and our lives.  I'd rather learn from these crazy "kids today" about what this new digital world has to offer, than try to convince them to live in the world where I grew up thirty (ahem) years ago.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a pair of royal blue Adidas skates to find. . .  but at least I have a playlist on my iPhone.

The Sample Lady

I wish everything was served on a toothpick.  I'm the best guest at an appetizer party--hot, cold, passed, served.  If it's small and bite sized, I'll give it a whirl.  And I'm increasingly amazed at what people can stab onto a small stick and serve at a party.  I remain duly impressed.

When my children were small, I wasn't very good at fighting the food wars, and chose instead to pretend that my kitchen was Sam's Club, and that I was the sample lady.  "Cheese cube?" I would ask.  I presented the orange cubes on an Elmo plate with a small heap of pretzel sticks.  Not only was it a great game (stick the cube on the pretzel) but it was a perfect snack, and a cute appetizer.  Toothpick, pretzel-- it's all the same to me.   For years, I served chunks of pears, peaches, veggies, and bananas all with tiny pretzel toothpicks.  It was a party on the highchair tray at every meal.  (Note:  Cheerios and pretzels is like ring-toss, and it's super-duper fun!)

Yesterday, I noticed that a large box of frozen chicken sandwiches was still in the freezer, untouched. I had purchased them thinking they would serve the purpose of a good, quick snack between summer camp, theater, and baseball games, but since they were unfamiliar, no one had tried them.  *GASP! NEW FOOD ITEM! THE CHILDREN ARE INCREDIBLY FRIGHTENED*  So, as I was cleaning the kitchen and doing the laundry, I heated up two sandwiches, cut them into sixteen small wedges, and grabbed my trusty toothpicks.   I put the "appetizer" onto a white plate on the counter, and ignored it.

"What is this?"  my youngest is intrigued.

"Nothing,"  I said, turning away and boiling water for pasta.

The sandwiches had been in the freezer for weeks, taking up space.  I had actually offered them up a few times, and was shot down on the basis of "never having had them before."  That's right.  You will live the rest of your life eating only things you have had before.  Enjoy your long life filled with waffles, pasta, pizza, Gatorade and cereal.

 "I just thought you guys might like a snack," I said, "but dinner will be ready soon."  My mom-voice implies: WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT EAT THOSE BEAUTIFUL MINI SANDWICHES.

I would not look my children directly in the eye.  I would not ask them to try a bite.  From the pantry, though,  I could see them walking past, grabbing the bites of sandwich.  Like their mother, they cannot resist a tiny taste on a fancy plate.

"Those are pretty good, Mom," said my oldest.

"I'm so glad," I answer.  "Don't ruin your dinner."

My daughter grabbed another on her way through the kitchen.  "Not too many!" I call.  In a few days I will tell them that they can have a whole sandwich anytime they like.  But not yet.  I am wielding a private sense of power with my secret chicken hors d'oeuvres.

I wonder what else we might try if it was offered in fancy packaging and in the least overwhelming serving?

It reminds me of when my girlfriends took me skiing for the first time.  I was convinced mostly by my fancy new skis (toothpicks?) and the idea that it was only a six-week course (appetizer?)

And as I grab a mini-chicken sandwich wedge (obviously) I promise myself to be open to the samples that are being handed to me on platters every single day.  It just can't hurt to try.

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There Was a Turtle. . . .

     I read today about a woman in Quebec who faces a maximum sentence of life in prison for causing two deaths.  She stopped her car in traffic on the highway in order to rescue a small bunch of ducklings.  A motorcyclist and his daughter, traveling behind her, were killed when they ran into the back of her van, unexpectedly stopped in the fast lane.  

     She was trying to herd the ducklings out of traffic and into her car.  She has said in court that if she had it to do all over, she would not have stopped. Of course not.  In the moment, I’m sure she was trying to do the right thing; perhaps, the only thing that seemed normal.  It would feel so wrong run over a group of ducklings on the road.  I’m certain she never considered that two people would die while she was trying to save the birds.  I’m sure she wasn’t thinking.  It doesn’t make what happened right; not at all.  It makes it all the more heartbreaking.  

     She would never make the same decision again.

     Two days ago, I stopped with my friend Lisa and my son Sam, to watch a turtle cross the road.  We pulled into a driveway on Rt. 303 and at first considered going to rescue him (her?) as he stopped right in the middle of the busy road.  It became clear that we could never really get to him, and he really was quite large.  Like a tortoise.  (As we discovered later, he was a snapping turtle.)  In the end, we watched and worried as he journeyed across.  We were not blocking traffic, but people were noticing us, and I wonder, were we causing a distraction?  For a while, the turtle was right on the center yellow line, seemingly stretching his head to look both ways.  The dried mud on his shell made him appear less like a giant turtle and quite like a tiny stegasaurus.  We saw drivers veer around the turtle.  We even witnessed one car speed around another, to avoid hitting a car which had slowed for the turtle’s crossing.  

     Semi trucks roared by, both ways.  Every time, we screamed.  “Go turtle!”  or “Don’t hit the turtle!”  We covered our eyes.  It was touch-and-go.

     It was actually surprising how fast (relatively) that the turtle crossed the road, once he had a safe window in which to do so.  Surprising, too, that he seemed to understand the surroundings and the traffic patterns.  Eventually, all we could see was the rustling of the tall grass and brush by the side of the road, into which our giant (relatively speaking) friend had finally escaped, safe for now.  Then, nothing at all.  Adventure, over.

     We retreated into the car.  I supposed we really couldn’t have rescued him.  And if we had tried,  we may have done more harm than good--to him, to us, to another driver.  It’s a moment that makes me pause and question:  how many moments of grace have I been given?  How many times have I NOT had to think, “I would have done it differently?”  Every hour?  Every minute?  Quite possibly, constantly.  My life goes on as usual, filled with millions of tiny choices and decisions.  Grace. 

     I could have herded ducklings.  I could have saved a turtle or made a wrong turn or veered off the path or chosen the wrong crowd.  But I’ll never know, because I only know what IS.  A life made up of moments of grace.

     The wife of the motorcyclist who died said that she did not blame the driver, and that it was time to move forward.  She had no ill will toward anyone.  

     So why did that turtle cross the road?  We may never know, but I wish him a life well lived, and safe passage for the next time.   And for all of those whom I am thinking of while writing, I wish for you a life filled with moments of grace and safe crossings as well. 

~There, but for the grace of God, go I.~

Fallling

 

 

      I am in a constant state of recovery from injuries sustained during falls.  I fall down stairs,  I slip on icy driveways, I fall out of bed, and I trip over uneven sidewalks.  I also fall UP the stairs, I trip over nothing at all, and I slip on perfectly sunny days.  I walk into walls,  I bump my head, I bang my shins, and I stub my toes.  While this is not exactly falling, I often fall because of the bumping, banging, or stubbing.

     I spill things, I break things, and I drop things.  Things literally fall away from me.  Yesterday, I opened the trunk of my SUV, and a jar of spaghetti sauce rolled out of a grocery bag, and smashed onto the garage floor, splattering the cement and the surrounding snow with tomato sauce and shards of glass.  I very, very carefully cleaned the mess (which, incidentally, looked like a murder scene but smelled like an Italian restaurant) using gloves and a broom, but still managed to cut my finger on an invisible piece of glass.  After I had retrieved the remaining groceries, I closed my own trunk on my own thumb.

     Last winter, I was getting into my best friend Lisa's car, parked behind the bookstore, precariously near a pile of snow.  I tried to balance on a small strip of clear pavement while pulling the passenger door open, but my hand slipped, and I was sent careening into the nearby snowbank.  From my new, very cold, vantage point, I could see Lisa, laughing.  I know she would have helped me if she hadn't been warm and laughing so hard.    I forgive her; she has caught me often, pulling me from far more difficult situations than a snow pile.

     It's just the way in which I live.  I am forever bruised, both physically and on the inside, where I house my dignity.

     But there are other ways to fall.

     I fall in love.  With my husband, truly and madly, whom I married 22 years ago today, and with my children, the very second they were born.  I fall to the right, I fall for movie stars, and I fall for nearly any prank thrown in my direction.  I fall into a good book, and I more often than not, I fall for the twist at the end.   I have been known to fall to my knees.

     My favorite season?  You don't even have to ask.  It is, and always has been, winter.  Did you fall for that?  I'm kidding of course.  It's fall.

     And while "things" tend to fall away from my person, I think perhaps the universe has made up for this by the amount of wondrous love that clings to me.  Children that snuggle me, even in their teenage years.  A husband who wants to hang out with me a lot.  A twelve-year old boy who wants to be so close to me on the couch that I can't move my legs.  A best friend who knows so much about my schedule that she can remind me of my own appointments, drive me if necessary, and bring me a cardigan because I might forget.  Group texts with special friends which act like a touchpoint in my day.  Parents, friends, family, in-laws--all who are connected with me on a daily basis.  I may drop the pasta sauce, but I'm a magnet for the things that truly matter.

    I couldn't fall if I tried.

     If you are a faller, like me, take heart.  The next time you trip, remember your open heart, full of ways in which you fall for the world around you, and remember those who have been placed there to catch you.  When you drop something, remember everything that sticks to you like a heart-shaped Post-it note.

     Fall for falling.  It's not so bad.  Bruises are badges of living your life out loud.  Oh, that's another thing--I'm really loud.  But that's another story...

Notes from the Journey

Dear Friends,

     I hope you are staying safe and warm during these winter days :)  As I was keeping myself connected with my friends from the comfort of my family room (thank you Facebook and Twitter!) I decided to look back to the very beginning of my blogging journey.

     Since "Notes from the Journey. . ." took it's first steps on a different site, I've provided that link for you below.     Some of the most recent posts are duplicates, but please scroll through the original site, or find archived blogs which are listed as well.   Maybe you will be reminded of something that was meaningful to you then, as I continue my journey on this beautiful new site.  As always, please let me know what may have resonated within you.  I love to hear from you.

Happy February!

~Christy

Notes from the Journey. . .


"Above all, love each other deeply because love covers a multitude of sins." 
1 Peter 4.8

Six Word Memoir (.com)

It is cold outside and the vegetable soup that I ate for lunch was warm, but uninspired.  That's a bit how I feel today.  Warm, but uninspired to complete the list of tasks and goals that I wrote last night.  I am a list maker, and now I have spawned three additional three list makers, but that's another story for another time.  (Note to self:  blog post about lists.)

Also, there is a Secret deodorant on the kitchen counter, which begs all kinds of questions, not the least of which is, "why is this distracting me?"  Not the second-least of which is "why have I left it there all day, as if it's going to NOT be on the counter at some point?"

I fear I am growing accustomed to temperatures preceded by a minus sign, because I'm starting to feel pretty good outside when it's around 13 degrees.  I'm trying to keep Peter's Russian temperatures in mind, really, I am.  My addiction to the weather app on my phone is frightening, as is the frequency of notifications I receive because of my settings.  But again, I digress.

Digression has been the theme of this day.  No, procrastination.  Or, perhaps, distraction.

My list of "things to do" today included both "write book ending" and "edit draft." Those two items have been staring at me from my list since December, so after I procrastinated even more by switching the laundry and checking the freezer for tonight's dinner options,  I wandered toward my desk.  Wandered, yes, like I had nowhere to go.  Aimlessly walking through my house thinking, "well, if I happen to see my computer, I guess I'll sit down and type."

Drat.  There it was.  I knew that the fifty-thousandish words that I had written in November were waiting for me somewhere in the cloud to mold them into something readable.

Like any prepared writer should, I opened up my laptop, and perused eight different websites about writing.   I read about writing for a good, long time.  Good job, me.  One of the websites I stumbled upon was sixwordmemoir.com. If you haven't ever tried to write a six-word memoir, please try.  Whether or not you decide to post it on the site or not, it is interesting and fun.  But mostly, it is more challenging than you might imagine.

The blank space was open before me.  Six words.  Six words.  I had no words.  In November, I wrote over fifty-thousand words as part of a novel writing challenge.  Apparently, I have none left.  I used them all.  Every. Single. Word.  I could not, for the life of me, find six.  Until I did.  And then I couldn't stop . . .


I had no words left inside.
Deodorant on the counter. Why?
Snow is good.  Sand is better.
Writing a novel is super easy.
Six word sarcasm is super funny.
I think I am still procrastinating.

Anyway, try it out.  It's fun, and it's enlightening to see what others are writing and posting.  While some are funny and clever, there are many six word posts that are powerful, a few words that express more than pages and pages ever could.

My mind felt very closed to the rough draft that was waiting for me today.  I could not have been less inspired to pull out that theoretical red pen to edit myself.  However, in the end, it was writing the uber-edited six-word story that opened the creative door.

What are your six words today?

As I prepare to tackle the rough draft that awaits me (in six-word chunks?) I look forward to adding "write memoir" on my to-do list tomorrow.   Can I change the story of my life every day with a six-word edit?  Count me in and pass the red pen.

COUNT ME IN PASS RED PEN (6)