tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25710588705120175702024-03-14T09:01:44.883-04:00Traci's TestimonialsTraci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-69635367402913839022023-11-03T07:00:00.001-04:002023-11-03T19:17:33.584-04:00It's Nice to be Back....Thanks<p>It's been a few days -- 775 to be exact. </p><p>It's been a wild 775 days! So many wonderful things have come about: revelations and vacations, acquisitions and transitions, graduations, new relations, and baby creations.</p><p>My granddaughter, Sweetpea, might as well be a meme. I will have a whole new generation of posts reminiscent of her mother, aunties, and uncle Buddies dedicated solely to her. The kid is two and already has impeccable comedic timing....unlike her predecessors who were unintentionally entertaining. </p><p>My grandbuddies entered the world (albeit prematurely) with a big "PSYCH!" Having been told one would likely have an intellectual disability and the other's viability was questionable, we prepared for the worst. The "worst" turned out to be 3 kidneys between the 2 of them. So, we took to calling GrandBuddy #1 Spare Parts. </p><p>Hubby and I had THE (with a long E as grammatically incorrect as that is given the next word begins with a consonant) best summer. Having secured a gorgeous lake side trailer site entirely devoid of cell signal or Wi-Fi, we got to do old-fashioned-y stuff like playing cards, watching DVDs, and talking to each other! </p><p>Second-born and Smallest girl (who is noticeably taller than me now) both graduated highschool and moved on to their next chosen life stages. You may remember Second-born from the Parenting Penguins post...she hasn't changed. Smallest girl was featured in Minding my q's and p's and The Devil is in the Details...she has. In both cases, I couldn't be more pleased.</p><p>The Buddies are 17. Neither have gotten into any serious trouble. </p><p>I achieved a goal almost 30 years in the making. Next week, I will receive my college diploma. It was a piece of cake! Well, a few pieces actually; along with convenience meals, enormous amounts of caffeine, insanely sparse sleep, and zero physical activity (unless 4 semesters of typing class counts, I have very well-toned fingers now).</p><p>Not everything has been wonderful. </p><p>First, and most importantly, I haven't had time to blog! </p><p>Also, and more seriously, those whom are most precious to me have suffered. Greatly. </p><p>Traumas I never imagined needing the wherewithal to endure have both crept up to and slammed into us.</p><p>I have always accepted the realness of mental health issues and promoted the diagnosis of disorders, advocated to remove stigma and endorsed treatment. I can't imagine what life would have been like for key people these past 775 days had I felt any differently. </p><p>One of my loves got up close and personal with the Canadian justice system from the perspective of the victim of an incomprehensible heinous crime. </p><p>A tragic incident left a family member facing a seemingly impossible recovery.</p><p>Cancer diagnoses in two dear-to-my-heart people, resulting in the loss of one. </p><p>At the end of these 775 days, all of these things -- wonderful and tragic -- have prevented me from remaining as present and available as I would have liked; and, not surprisingly, as some others would have liked. </p><p>I have finally reached the point where I have emerged from the chaos! However, I have found fewer people waiting for me in the calm. </p><p>That's ok. </p><p>I just want to paraphrase what an understanding, grace-filled friend shared with her circle in case anyone needs it like I did.</p><p>(Women) are struggling to keep their heads above water every minute of every day. We need to quit dismissing people as unworthy of friendship because they seem distant or disconnected. The idea that we can't be friends because she "doesn't check in enough" or "doesn't initiate like I do" is ridiculous. My friendship is expectation-free. I will meet you where you're at. If it means I wait a month for a reply to a message I initiated, so be it. If it means rescheduling coffee for a year, I'm down. I will always greet you with joy when you're ready. You will always have my love and support. </p><p><br /></p><p>XO</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-24667608914749817082021-09-19T08:00:00.152-04:002021-09-20T18:42:05.685-04:00Fictions and Facts<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">Six months ago today,
it was just a runny nose....</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">I have never been a
super-well person. I pick up most viruses and infections if exposed. Stomach
bugs have always been my specialty though. If whatever was going around
involved vomiting, my body sought it out like a brand new Air B&B owner looking for their first guest; inviting it to take up residence for however long it needed to
make me feel like death.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">Colds and sinus
infections are tied for second place. I have been severely congested so often that
I actually had to retrain myself to breathe through my nose. I literally forgot
I could do that. Christmas 1996, the first year I had my own apartment, my mom
brought out a huge gift bag for me. My excitement was short lived. I removed
the tissue paper and saw a bulk package of Kleenex boxes. Twenty-five years
later, she hasn’t missed a Christmas. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">I am no stranger to sickness;
neither are my children. They inherited an impressive number of my genes. From the
common cold to Norwalk, they’ve had it all. I've cleaned up every possible bodily
fluid from every possible body in every possible corner of my house. Kids are
gross. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">In January 2020, my
husband and I were marveling at how long it had been since I had been sick. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">By March, COVID had hit
one of the programs in my district. I worked as a Direct Support Professional
for many years, but in 2018, I began my career on the other side of support notes. Trading in my med cupboard keys for a laptop
keyboard, I got an office job.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-align: right;">March 15</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">An outbreak was declared,
and I was redeployed. I was eager to help. I felt well-prepared and unconcerned.
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmKit37MQDqyZw7i9ZKrsNu5QRSp8WJJknUkUoHULqeJ2khBHMBn4CeVmvb4fdKbwsUO3Qa66HBmi30VBv7rtK20XRv5qdNPwp-6Ehz8ji4g1ONQxzQxOLjxQ-sMO1LG_B60pwKd1DPGg/s436/Capture+5.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="436" data-original-width="193" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmKit37MQDqyZw7i9ZKrsNu5QRSp8WJJknUkUoHULqeJ2khBHMBn4CeVmvb4fdKbwsUO3Qa66HBmi30VBv7rtK20XRv5qdNPwp-6Ehz8ji4g1ONQxzQxOLjxQ-sMO1LG_B60pwKd1DPGg/s320/Capture+5.PNG" width="142" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-align: right;">March 18</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I set up a testing
appointment for a few days later. Not because I was worried, not because I was
sick. I had just been exposed. I was wearing all of my PPE and washing the skin
off my hands, but I just felt it was the next thing to do.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-align: right;"> </span><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-align: right;">March 19</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I sniffled.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-align: center;">V</span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-align: center;">ery few people have
heard the story I’m about to tell. I don’t like talking about it. I don’t like
thinking about it, reliving it.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p><i> </i></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><i>I don’t like the
feeling that I am being questioned, judged, scrutinized, compared, or diminished.
<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p><i> </i></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><i>I equally don’t like
the feeling that I am being exemplified, heroized, or pitied. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p><i> </i></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><i>I shy away from
sharing my experience because any little bit that I have shared has been
interpreted with bias, in a plethora of ways, rarely in the way I intended.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p><i> </i></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I will not share an
opinion on COVID, vaccines, or politics. One's opinion rarely sways </span><span style="font-size: 18px;">another's</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">. </span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I will only share my story. </span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><i>Take from
it what you will. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">You will anyway.</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">On March 19, as I
reached for that first Christmas Kleenex, I was convinced it was psychological.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">Then this. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYK8dAq67Qq_6rGjef6jfkcc9NVpD6Ljk0Lo0CbfQP0aZVhmG9nfkLV_JTk4EWld2sNOeTF2C8UVlGc25hAPD2Bj4Q2t9lu7AsFu9sZGEB0d_LQsEassxZw29BKHP0g9QsIK1poqRbHCg/s838/Capture+6.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="838" height="103" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYK8dAq67Qq_6rGjef6jfkcc9NVpD6Ljk0Lo0CbfQP0aZVhmG9nfkLV_JTk4EWld2sNOeTF2C8UVlGc25hAPD2Bj4Q2t9lu7AsFu9sZGEB0d_LQsEassxZw29BKHP0g9QsIK1poqRbHCg/s320/Capture+6.PNG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">And again, and again. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">By the end of the week, I had to reveal to 5 of the 6 other people living in my
house that they had COVID. My husband, my pregnant daughter, and the 3 younger
children had all tested positive for a COVID-19 variant. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">I was slightly more concerned.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">As the days wore on,
we started to feel worse. I could describe the litany of physical symptoms we endured,
but honestly, they have become sounding brass and tinkling cymbal. People have heard
the list time and time again. We went through them all in varying degrees. I CAN
tell you that at different intervals, 4 of us thought we would die…. or wanted
to. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><i>I am no stranger to
sickness, but this sickness was strange. </i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">As difficult as the
physical symptoms were, the rarely discussed psychological symptoms are
the kicker. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">This is where my battle
lies. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">I have lasting
physical effects I’m not sure will ever heal. The ice in my chest remains to
this day. Singing is reserved for Sundays only because my breath only supports
4 songs max. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">However, it was the
affect it had on my mind that bothered me most. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">I couldn’t form full
sentences. I would sit with my phone in my hand trying to remember how to answer
the question, “How are you?” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">While I was fighting
to breathe, I kept thinking “Do we own a gun? Even if we do,
does it have bullets?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I watched my oldest daughter
struggling to stand due to excruciating muscle pain, fever, and extra pounds of
baby weight. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18px;">I helped my incapacitated, asthmatic husband perform personal hygiene. Eventually, I called 911 and watched him being loaded into the ambulance on oxygen. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">My youngest daughter
couldn’t walk by my bedroom; not because the sounds of wheezing and coughing bothered
her, but because when we finally fell asleep their absence made her think we
were dead. She couldn’t look.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18px;">I received word that my father-in-law was admitted to hospital for a minimum of 2 weeks. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">I was struck with the
overwhelming thought that </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><b><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>I had done this to them</b>. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">Their suffering was my fault. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">The guilt crushed me.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">In the aftermath,
when I was able to walk, string together coherent thoughts, and remember
passwords, I logged in to my various socials. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">Flashes of my personal
situation being discussed danced before my eyes. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Conversations swirled around me;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Debating my PPE proficiency.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Deciphering what Public
Health’s recommendations to my family actually were and how </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">they were probably most definitely
wrong,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Was it really that bad anyway or just my contribution to the proliferation
of a hoax?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">For these reasons, I
have stayed silent:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><span> </span>unwillingness to endure unsolicited comments that could be hurtful, </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><span> </span>unwillingness to be used as proof of survival rate, </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><span> </span>unwillingness to be heralded a spokesperson for the evils
of the virus or the virtues of a </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">vaccine.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Mostly because -- regardless on which side of the debate one stands -- </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><b>people can be mean</b></span><b><span>.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">Here is what I am
willing to contribute:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I was sick.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">It was bad.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Be
kind always.</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-41579387748891274332017-03-27T12:33:00.001-04:002017-03-27T15:50:19.407-04:00Bombshell I am about to drop a bomb.<br />
<br />
It's something that no one would expect to hear from me...then again, maybe one would...or hope to. I am really not sure. Because the one thing I always thought was clear about people I know is that they are either Supporters or Opponents. But the funny thing is, I've learned that's not true. There are Supporters and Opponents but there are also Questioners and Indifferents.<br />
<br />
Also, sometimes Supporters and Opponents switch roles depending on circumstances.<br />
<br />
Questioners can be a type to themselves (just enjoying watching people fumble to answer pointed inquiries while having no vested interest) or they can be a sub-type under Supporter (gaining more info to share in your joy/understand your hurt) or Opponent (thinks you could not have possibly thought of all the things they have because you are so very, very wrong). <br />
<br />
All four of these types and sub-types of people are important, necessary even! They help shape and define a person. They encourage, exhort, refine, and mold.<br />
<br />
How would I ever have courage to try new things without my Supporters?<br />
<br />
How would I learn to defend my point of view without being challenged by my Opponents?<br />
<br />
Would I be motivated to learn all the information without my Questioners?<br />
<br />
Indifferents.....you're there, that's great, whatever.<br />
<br />
<br />
Here's my news.<br />
<br />
<em>I'm sending a kid to school.</em><br />
<br />
Supporters, thank you.<br />
Opponents, chances are I already know you disagree.<br />
Former Supporters turned Opponents, it's already done so save it.<br />
Former Opponents turned Supporters...it's just one kid. I'm still a homeschooler. So there.<br />
<br />
Questioners, here's your conundrum. See, one thing I have always struggled with in my life is being an "explainer". I have always felt an incessant need to describe and explain any and every decision I make to whomever asks. Whether it affects them or not. I am not good at deciphering the honestly interested from the sneaky subversive. Not to mention, it drives Hubby crazy! So I'm not really going to answer your questions very much at all.<br />
<br />
Indifferents, why are you still reading this?<br />
<br />
Here is what I will offer Supporters, Opponents, and Questioners of any sort. I will tell you what it is NOT.<br />
<br />
This is not because I am tired of homeschooling. I still love it. I am still keeping four kids home.<br />
<br />
This is not because of challenging behaviour. I enjoy spending time with this child and I am going to miss her during the day. We have a lot of fun together!<br />
<br />
This is not because of a lack of motivation or direction. This child is more focused and goal driven than most adults I know.<br />
<br />
This is not because of floundering academics. In fact, the school has placed her in the academic program due to her current overall average.<br />
<br />
This is not because of convenience. Nothing convenient about it.<br />
<br />
This is not because our beliefs, values, or opinions have changed in any way. <br />
<br />
Most importantly, this is not about you. And that's really all you have to know.<br />
<br />
Indifferents, it's<i> really</i> not about you.<br />
<br />
So before you come at me with all those interrogative sentences and horror stories, realize you'll get nowhere. I have asked and answered all the questions already. There is nothing you can come up with that I haven't thought of over the past decade-plus of homeschooling. For every dramatic homeschool or public school epilogue of some kid gone wrong, I have an equal and opposite example.<br />
<br />
We have covered all the bases. Crossed the t's and dotted the i's. Gotten our ducks in a row.<br />
<br />
We have prayed.<br />
<br />
We are happy, excited, and sure.<br />
<br />
So, Supporters, thank you.<br />
Opponents, it's okay to disagree. I love you anyway.<br />
Former Supporters, I hope we can still be friends.<br />
Former Opponents, there's still plenty to argue about.<br />
Indifferents, I'm starting to think you actually care.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-35634676007139527132015-12-03T19:52:00.001-05:002015-12-03T19:52:03.539-05:00Bedtime Stories<span style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">Every night my boys ask for a story. Sometimes I read to them and sometimes I prefer to make up my own stories. Most of the time I want my stories to have some sort of moral significance. Last night as I walked into their bedroom, wading through the toys, clothing, and linens to their beds I had a lot of time to think of one. Here it is:</span><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">Once upon a time there was a mom. She was a great mom. She was loving and kind a patient. She doted on her boys as if it were her only pleasure. She cooked fabulous meals, cleaned the house from top to bottom, and her laundry looked as though it had come from the dry cleaner. She read stories, made beautiful crafts, and baked as if it were the year 1820. </div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">The boys ever had to worry about cleaning up after themselves or remembering where they had put something or even making their own lunch from time to time. She did it all. She was truly the perfect mother. </div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">One day, both boys found themselves beautiful and sweet women to marry. They had grown to be loving, kind, and gentle men. Their wives were smitten with them. Their first years of marriage were glorious! Soon enough they were blessed with children. But one day these women seemed to change. They weren't perfect like the boys' mother. They expected the boys to do things. Things like cooking, cleaning, laundry, and helping with the children. The boys could not understand what was wrong with their wives. <span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">These women were certainly not perfect like their mother.</span> They told them so. The next day their wives left them. </div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">The end. </div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">The Buddies looked at me with blank stares. So I asked them this question; </div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">"Do you want to be happily married one day?"</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">They did. </div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">"Then I suppose you're glad I am not the perfect mother. Clean your room." </div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">The end.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div>Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-8448111519761895252015-09-16T00:29:00.001-04:002015-09-16T09:52:44.552-04:00U.S.AnonymousI hesitated to write this post. I was ashamed to admit the truth. But then I thought, maybe I could help someone with the same problem! Maybe I could be an inspiration of some sort! Maybe I could...<br>
<br>
Wait. Let me begin properly...<br>
<br>
Hi. My name is Traci...and I am an Unschooler. <br>
<br>
Well, I was. Some may think that Unschooling can never be cured without 12 step programs and such, that anyone who Unschools is just in a constant state of recovery. But I am happy to say that's not true! Let me explain.<br>
<br>
It all started two years ago when Hubby got hurt. At first, I could handle the pressure. I mean, I could shower my spouse and teach my kids math at the same time, no problem. However, after he had been off work for several months and the bank account started dwindling the pressure mounted. I took my first step toward the problem. I applied for work. Thankfully, I wasn't hired until early Spring so most of our lessons were already complete. I managed. <br>
<br>
In August, Hubby had recovered and I had worked all summer. I was ready to begin school. Excited even! Then, our house flooded, majorly. Like, "<em>you will have to live in a trailer in your driveway while we rip out half of your main living space" </em> majorly. After moving the majority of our belongings into our dining room which also served as our classroom, filling out mountains of paperwork, spending hours on the phone with insurance adjusters, having to make Home Depot runs for contractors in the middle of the day, and still having to work to build back up our finances, I cracked. I took the final leap into the abyss that is Unschooling. <br>
<br>
Having succumbed to the lifestyle, my behaviour became unseemly. I started doing shocking things like checking out library books that appealed to my child's interest only without superfluous information that he would forget later anyway. I turned to Youtube and Netflix for frivolous things such as documentaries and worse, TedTalks. What kind of mother exposes her highschooler to realities like Hitler and Nazi Germany?! Unschoolers do. Shocked? Keep reading.<br>
<br>
I started taking the kids out in public to inappropriate places like the grocery store only to reinforce unusable skills like math, budgeting, and the completely unacceptable past-time, frugality! We were frequent visitors to the local science center and museums. These places of ill repute only support the habit. All of the children were allowed to consort with undesirables, notably the sort close to their own ages, taking part in questionable rituals like league hockey. I also stooped to taking music lessons. Not just me either, all of the kids too. I forced them to practice. By the end they knew about clefs, notes, timing, rhythm, and even diction. No shame! I. had. no. shame. <br>
<br>
Not only was my conduct affected by this horrible habitude, I saw a change in the children. My oldest started *choke* working. Yes, she started getting up at ungodly hours...like, 8:00 a.m. just to learn an inconsequential industry; farming. She wasted so much time caring for reprobate animals like alpacas and baby chicks. She fritted away hours collecting eggs, driving tractors, and herding sheep. She learned how to work hard and be <em>responsible</em>. I feel sick just thinking about it. What's worse, she actually got paid to do it and her employers were so hideously impressed with her work ethic that they left the entire farm in her charge while they were out of the country! The child is only 14!!! I hope she can find it in her heart to forgive me one day. <br>
<br>
If that weren't sad enough, my second oldest fell into the same trap. She started babysitting. Saddled with two little ruffians who expected her to participate unbecoming activities like make-overs and playing with Saint Bernard puppies. She was miserable, I could tell. It didn't help that the entire time she was assisting a neighbour in need. Do you see what Unschooling can lead to? Compassion, that's what. <br>
<br>
As I recall my decent into Unschooling it is hard to hold back the tears that so violently threaten to burst from my eyes. Difficult to swallow the sobs that want so desperately to push past the enormous lump in my throat. But I must continue my confession. The truth shall set me free.<br>
<br>
My three youngest children were not immune to my failure as a mother. My youngest girl has struggled her whole life with dyslexia. I completely neglected to give her phonics drills and make her read curriculum-required material. You know, I read that the best way to teach dyslexics is through games and the best time to do it is during school breaks when there is little pressure to perform. But these <em>quacks</em> who put out this propaganda are only educational therapists. What do they know?! Just because it worked and she can read now proves nothing!<br>
<br>
The Buddies were forced to grow up way too fast. Only being nine, I made them clean up after themselves and even others! They were expected to do yard work and make their own sandwiches. They learned how to use measuring cups and spoons, how to load a dishwasher and washing machine and I actually asked them to put soap in and start them. None of the kids were exempt from doing their own laundry or helping with meals. Can you understand my guilt?! <br>
<br>
I hit rock bottom in April. Having dealt with my <em>problem</em> for nearly 8 months I tried to run away from it, pretend I hadn't squandered my children's education for two-thirds of a year. I decided we needed to take a vacation. I made my husband and children drive from North Eastern Ontario all the way to Central Florida. They had never been out of the bush and I should have kept it that way. This world can be a horrible influence. I wish I had sheltered them from the cruel exposure. They saw awful things like green grass BEFORE May. They were forced to speak to contemptible people like border security guards and Americans. They were coerced to scrounge for food in back-alley establishments like Cracker Barrel. The only semi-educational things we did were learning how to read maps, familiarizing ourselves with the local ecosystem, exploring the coastline and sea life, and taking one insignificant field trip to a citrus grove. So, basically nothing. The straw that broke the camel's back, what made me realize I needed help was when one of my children became so enamoured with a particular stop on the trip that she declared she wanted to live there when she grew up. We were in Buffalo. <br>
<br>
My wonderful, patient, kind husband was so supportive of me during my departure from sanity. He would always lovingly and gently remind me that one day I would return to the Speed Drilling Science Nerd Grammar Nazi my family knew and hated. I didn't believe him but you know what? I have been delivered. Hallelujah, I am a Homeschooler once again! We started with a full curriculum and 8 hour days exactly in time with the public school system. I have given 3 geography quizzes, 2 spelling tests, and 4 science assignments already. I have CD ROMs and spreadsheets for grading. <br>
<br>
I just hope that one day my children can block their one year of Unschooling from their memories and live full and happy lives quoting multiplication tables and correcting other peoples' grammar. <br>
<br>
<br>
<br>Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-5509188505486508042015-07-06T08:25:00.001-04:002015-07-06T08:25:15.859-04:00The Devil's in the DetailsThis past week I found myself having a conversation I've never had before. After I had the conversation I thought it odd that I had never had it before. Then I was thankful I had never had it before because it was exhausting. Then I thought I should write it down so if I had to have it again I wouldn't have to. Make sense? No? Let me explain. <br />
<br />
Since I discovered my youngest girl has dyslexia (you can read about that <a href="http://tracistestimonials.blogspot.ca/2012/11/minding-my-qs-and-ps.html" target="_blank">here</a>) I've been fighting a bit of a battle. A battle not only teaching her to read but also a battle with those who haven't been completely convinced that dyslexia is a real thing. I'll admit, my struggle has been light. Most of those who surround me are very supportive and understanding and for that I am thankful. <br />
<br />
Last year I read a book that allowed me to see inside the mind of a person with dyslexia. <a href="http://www.dyslexia.com/library/gift-chapter-one.htm" target="_blank">The Gift of Dyslexia</a> gave me a clear picture of what, or rather how my girl thinks. I read it aloud to her and she told me certainly and firmly that the man who wrote the book (a dyslexic himself) knew her struggle. I have done much research and spent many hours figuring out the method of teaching that works for her. I am happy to say, she can read. Not quickly, not perfectly, but she is officially literate. <br />
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So, it was asked of me this past week what it was like to teach her to read. I had never been asked that before so when I launched into the explanation I didn't fully realize how long it would take. I know for sure and certain that not all who are affected by dyslexia are not the same so my account may not match everyone's experience but for those who are interested, this is it:<br />
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My girl only ever thought in pictures, not words. Letters were arbitrary and not connected to anything she recognized. As I mentioned in my earlier post, at 5 years old she had trouble singing the alphabet song so that was the first thing we worked on mastering. It. Took. Forever. But she finally got it! <br />
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Then I had to introduce the concept that the little song had a string of shapes to go along with it and they were called letters. We laid our alphabet strip out on the floor and sang the song over and over while we pointed at each corresponding picture. It took a while and I thought she had it until I laid the cards down disordered and asked her to find the letters as she sang. It only resulted in tears. <br />
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After what seemed a long while, she finally got it. Then I had to teach her that all those shapes were only the capital letters, that each of those shapes had a corresponding lowercase "partner". When she somewhat understood that concept I now had to teach her that each of those not only had names and two different shapes, they also had sounds and not necessarily just one sound. I became very familiar with the "blank stare". <br />
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After we got through this part I then had to explain that when different groups of this shapes were put together they could make different sounds and not necessarily the sounds that she had already learned. We weaved through the maze of consonant blends and diagraphs, vowel rules, and rule breakers, soft and hard sounds, and the most confusing of all: the silent letters. Amongst all this she had to learn to write all of these crazy things down. b's and d's, p's and q's, balls and sticks, sticks and balls, to her, a jumbled blur. <br />
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For most reading this, it seems unremarkable. One may not have thought of learning to read in such detail but would think, "Of course, that's how everyone learns to read. Everyone must decipher exactly the same codes." But the detail IS the difference. A dyslexic must think of it in that much detail because it takes that much concentration and effort to learn to read....and time. Many will accomplish all of these tasks almost simultaneously with ease by the age of 5 or 6. My girl will be 11 in September. <br />
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When I began teaching I asked my mother what it was like when I learned to read. I was in public school at that time so she said she honestly didn't know but it was like I went to school one day and could read the next, like it took very little effort. She recounted the same experience for herself. As I described to her what I just described in this post, she was overwhelmed at the detail. In her words, "I know all of that, but I've never had to THINK about it." She hit the proverbial nail on the head. <br />
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All of this can be distressing and daunting for both the student and teacher but not uncommon. In all my reading and research I have found so many encouraging and uplifting stories. One of a U.S. Supreme Court Judge who graduated from law school and passed the Bar by having her husband help her read and write her school assignments. An accomplished dyslexic author who started writing with the help of his mother before the "talk to text" computer feature came out in our blessed generation and so many more!<br />
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I would encourage those who still have a difficult time understanding dyslexia or even questioning if it is a real thing to watch this short video explaining it. Understanding makes all the difference. <br />
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<a href="http://dyslexic-kids.tumblr.com/post/123362144362/neuromorphogenesis-what-is-dyslexia-was-that">http://dyslexic-kids.tumblr.com/post/123362144362/neuromorphogenesis-what-is-dyslexia-was-that</a>Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-90147057418921509842015-06-16T17:26:00.000-04:002015-06-19T06:02:56.846-04:00It Is Not My FaultMy Darling Child,<br>
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I love you. I love you more than I could ever express in words...or emoticons. 😘😍❤️ I see so much of me in you as every parent does of their own child. Sometimes I see the good but, if I am to be honest, most often the bad is what glares at me from your temperamental pubescent eyes.<br>
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Oh, I am well aware of my short comings, faults, and inconsistencies as a parent. I will have been aware of them a long time before you decide to point them out to me during an act of defiance or anger. Don't forget I am as new at being a parent of a child your age as you are at being a child your age. I am learning, trying, and growing at the same rate you are. <br>
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But I am far more educated than you at being your age. I was there already. I haven't forgotten what it's like. You see, each year on my birthday, instead of making a wish as I blew out my candles, I made myself a promise instead. I promised myself I would not forget what it was like to be the age I was that year. Each time I suffered an "injustice" from my parents or another authoritarian, each time a friend wronged me or a crush broke my heart I renewed my promise to myself to not forget exactly what it felt like. Why? So I could help you when I saw you experience the same thing. <br>
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In your short life I have already recalled my promise more times than you know. More times than I care to admit. I have advocated for you both overtly and silently through whispered prayers and closed-door conversations. I can do that. I can help you. But that is all I can do. I cannot make your choices for you. <br>
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I have watched you try to navigate this new stage of your life. You're not doing that bad of a job, really. Sometimes I have been pretty impressed with the maturity of your decisions. Sometimes I shake my head and wonder how many of them I could blame on your father's genes. <br>
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I have watched you end friendships on your own because of the poor influence you instinctively knew they were having on you. I have also seen you put forth twice as much effort to avoid an unpleasant situation than it would have taken just to deal with it head-on. I have witnessed you bravely standing for what is right then turn right around and try to hide truth to avoid trouble. <br>
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When you were small, you were asked if you excited for the Easter Bunny or Santa or the tooth fairy to come. Because you were sweet and because we taught you to be polite, you would quietly nod and smile rather than making that person feel uncomfortable for asking even though you never believed in any of them. Now that you've grown, you sometimes buy into the lie that kindness is mistaken for weakness. Kindness, my Dear, is strength, especially in the face of adversity. People who would have you believe differently are just lazy. Honey, don't be lazy.<br>
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While I was growing up I listened, a lot. I was sly, playing the part of the kid who never shut up so adults wouldn't realize I was hanging on their conversations, retaining almost every word being said. I was figuring out who I admired, who I wanted to be like, what was normal, how I should act, think, feel. One habit I formed from listening to some of these conversations was judging people's parenting based on how their older teenage or adult children turned out. Then I realized that is a filthy, disgusting habit. Don't ever do that. Picking your nose would be preferable--but don't do that either. <br>
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In my adulthood I have continued my sly behaviour of quietly observing everything everyone who I may eventually decide to admire does. You know what I've noticed? Two, three, four children all raised in the same home with identical values, beliefs, and rules turn out differently. Why? Choice. <br>
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You see, I can guide you. I can teach you. I could even try to force you to submit to my will. But even God doesn't do that to His children (and He totally could). You have a will. You have a choice. <br>
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Listen to me. Choose wisely. For every decision you make, for better or for worse, will be your own. Only you can be congratulated or blamed.<br>
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.......and possibly paternity.Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-86485039722790878912014-08-01T15:12:00.002-04:002014-08-01T15:13:31.880-04:00The Buggy-Do's<br />
I am about to send my oldest daughter half a world away. Just the thought fills me with equal amounts of excitement and terror. This girl has always been very independent. As soon as she learned to talk she's been adamant about doing things for herself. We affectionately called her "Buggy" from birth which is what she assumed was her name and so, in order to assert her little 2 year-old independence, she would constantly run around shouting, "Buggy do!!" From pouring her own "mornin' soup" (cereal) to putting on her own "baby soup" to go in the "swimmin' cool" she insisted that, "Buggy-do!" So, now, when any of the kids decides to assert their perceived self-sufficiency Hubby and I look at each other, smile and say, "Another case of the Buggy-Do's."<br />
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While her autonomy was encouraging to her pregnant mother it was also a wee bit scary since she has always been...well, easily distracted. Like the time she insisted on walking through WalMart's parking lot unassisted during an airshow. After multiple warnings about paying attention to her surroundings she did just that. She watched the sky very carefully while she walked directly in front of a car. <br />
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My girl has had a burden for foreign missions for quite some time. Two years ago she came home from summer camp and announced her intention to one day travel to and possibly live and minister in Rio Muni (the Continental Region of Equatorial Guinea). Hubby has had great fun teasing her about eating bugs and asking if there's room in Rooney Mooney for our tent trailer when we come to visit (which translates to, "I don't think I can let my baby go.") But none of his ribbing deters her from her plans. <br />
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So as I pondered what to tell her as she embarks on this first semi-solo (she's traveling with family friends) adventure, having the ultimate case of the Buggy-Do's, I sought to impart some invaluable motherly wisdom on my first born. <br />
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I thought first to tell her to be humble. I realized, however, that would be unnecessary. Humbleness will come naturally. She will be serving in a foreign country of which she's only read about, surrounded by a language she doesn't know under seasoned missionaries. No, there would be no wisdom in that directive, only redundancy.<br />
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I thought next to tell her to be a servant. But that too is irrelevant. She is a natural born servant. This particular child has never shirked any duty. Opting to take on others' responsibilities to make things easier rather than only handle her own. Constant requests have always met with, "Yes, Mom!" No, servitude is not a weak point that needs to be addressed.<br />
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Then I thought to tell her to be flexible. However, growing up in this family has left her with little option. After surprise siblings, job strikes, a few moves, some family turmoil and loss, sicknesses and surgeries, she's had to adapt to new situations again and again. No, flexibility is nothing new. <br />
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I could think of only one thing to tell her. The one with every person in the world has trouble with at one point or another. One thing she has ultimate control over: be teachable. <br />
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Accept correction knowing that you will make mistakes. It's not an insult, its a learning experience. Be teachable.<br />
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Don't roll your eyes or sigh thinking you know what you are doing. You don't. Be teachable.<br />
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Don't shy away from asking questions but expect answers you weren't necessarily prepared to hear. Seek knowledge, gain wisdom. Be teachable. <br />
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Realize that those who have been there and done that want you to be there and do that without making the same errors they did. They desire your success. Be teachable. <br />
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So, my independent, humble, serving, flexible daughter. Be teachable...and don't drink the water. Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-40713988727731212172014-05-05T15:10:00.000-04:002014-05-05T15:10:19.159-04:00Puppy Prayers<span lang="">I didn't want another dog. My husband and I have had dogs ever since we were married, many, many dogs. Our first was a black Lab named Ani. Hubby had equal amounts of love and hate for her. She was clumsy and dumb and annoying and completely lovable. She died the same day as my oldest was born. Mid-contraction we received a phone call informing us that Ani was hit by the school bus. It was devastating. Usually bringing a baby home for the first time makes your house seem fuller, ours did not. As happy as we were, there was something glaringly missing. Mix the loss of a pet with post-pregnancy hormones....let's just say my husband is a kind, kind man. <br />
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While pregnant with my second born, my uncle asked us to take in his American Staffordshire Terrier (a member of the "pit bull" family). We were apprehensive to take Malibu in because of the stereotype. He turned out to be a 65 pound slobbering, stinky, wimpy, completely lovable pup...with separation anxiety. When we went out one night he climbed up on a dresser and jumped out a screened window. <br />
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After Malibu passed we decided we were done with dogs until the neighbors' little mutt decided he liked our house better than his own. Nicky showed up on our front porch one morning when it was 40 below 0. had gone AWOL on his owners during their morning walk and they couldn't get him home before they had to leave for work. I let Nicky in and he slept in my warm kitchen until his "family" returned. When we brought him home they asked if we would just like to keep him. We politely declined. That summer we noticed him constantly sitting at the fence between our properties staring longingly at the children as they played in the backyard. He dug a hole under that fence and let himself right in one day. We brought him back and had a chuckle. The next day he did it again and we returned him..again. This went on for about a week. The last day Hubby tried to return him he had to pick him up and carry the dog like a baby. I had been a work and was driving home when I got a phone call that started with, "I know you don't want a dog but....." <br />
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In December our little Nicky was so sick we had to make the difficult decision to put him down and again we made the declaration we were done being "dog people." In fact, Hubby and I would talk so much about how we enjoyed being dogless it became as if we were just trying to convince ourselves.<br />
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I would scan the free classifieds every so often and my eyes would just fall to the "free to good home" section. I would look away and reprimand myself for being so silly. <br />
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"I have enough on my plate! I don't need an added responsibility...they're so much trouble." And so would go my internal dialogue.<br />
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I have been taught since I was little that nothing it too silly to pray about. So, I prayed, basically giving God a list of my preferences and saying if HE wanted me to have a dog He would have to fulfill them. I didn't want a puppy because I have no time for training. It had to be a smaller dog because our house is pretty crowded already. I absolutely did not want to PAY for one because I'm cheap. It had to be fixed already and have its shots because...I'm cheap. I did not want to acquire a dog whose previous owners and history were unknown to me. Finally, it would have to be "dropped in my lap".<br />
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Yesterday, as I was about to leave for work, I noticed my boss standing in my driveway talking to Hubby. (We're neighbors, it's nothing creepy). I met them there and Hubby greeted me with, "Want a dog?" I looked down and saw the cutest full-grown but small, house trained, neutered, vaccinated, FREE, friend-owned Pomeranian IN MY DRIVEWAY. <br />
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Folks, God does answer prayer. Quite specifically sometimes. <br />
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I told her I'd take the dog (at least for a trial run) but I was going to be late for work if I didn't leave right then. She told me, ""Oh, you better move it or else!" <br />
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I should have asked her, "Or else what? You'll dock me a dog?"</span>Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-16554051325076286292014-04-15T08:02:00.000-04:002014-04-15T18:19:01.719-04:00Nurses and Patients..... and PatienceBuddy #2's surgery was finally scheduled. He went in trepidaciously but willing nonetheless. I knew he was nervous because the child never shut up! As we pulled in the parking lot, I muttered a quick prayer for each nurse who would encounter my little chatterbox. <br>
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We entered the registration area and the nurse asked the routine questons. I had the routine answers prepared but my little guy had answers of his own!<br>
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"Any allergies?" She asked.<br>
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He said without hesitation, "Yep! Ranch dressing." <br>
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"None known," I mouthed from behind him shaking my head.<br>
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"Father's name?" She continued unruffled.<br>
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"You should know him! He just had knee surgery TWICE!" He spouted.<br>
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While we waited for the paperwork to print out she asked for his right arm to attach the bracelet, he offered his left. Then we were sent to the next area to sit and wait. I had just managed to busy him with a book to calm his mind when my cell phone rang. My eldest was calling to inform me that an argument had broken out over the music she and the rest of her siblings were supposed to be practicing. Just as I was about to give my "mom speech" about getting along the nurse called us into the prep room and I hung up on my exasperated child. As she took his vitals and asked me more questions, my phone vibrated angrily. The 13 year-old and the 11 year-old were calling simultaniously from different phones to plead their case. Thankfully, Buddy #2 had the nurse engaged in conversation about how healthy his teeth were and the fact that he had gas that I was able to tap out a quick text. In my meek and mild nature I wrote, "STOP CALLING ME! I'M TALKING TO THE NURSE!" <br>
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I think my darling understood the "all caps" message because she texted back, "Yes, mom. We stopped fighting. Everything is good." <br>
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After many failed attempts to communicate with the nurse about the Buddy's personal information because of his incessant interrupting, I asked, in (what I thought was) a playful way, if the ENT would mind taking out his overactive tongue while she was in there. The nurse thought my question was exponentially less funny than I did. <br>
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She handed us off the to next nurse who offered my son his hospital gown. It was pink. He was not happy. <br>
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"I don't do pink." He stated matter-of-factly, "I'm a blue person."<br>
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She explained that only pink was his size and he reluctantly agreed to put it on but was incensed at the idea that I would be accompanying him in the dressing room. I assured him I would give him his privacy while he disrobed and just help doing up the ties. After he had changed he looked down at his new outfit and exclaimed, "Not only is it pink, it's a dress!!!" <br>
Like every other compassionate and loving mother I gently patted his hand, led him to the nearest chair, and ignored his outburst. <br>
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We didn't wait long when we were summond to meet with the surgeon. The exam room we were seated in was noticably colder than the 'patient corral' we were in previously. The nice nurse offered my trembling, chattering, lightly dressed buddy a heated blanket which he refused. After the nurse left I questioned his refusal, "Why on earth wouldn't you accept a warm blanket? You're freezing!" <br>
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"It's simple, Mom. Heat-seeking missles can't find you when you're cold." <br>
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I have learned that, with my boys, somethings you just don't question. Asking for clarification is like opening pandora's box. I let it go. <br>
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Our wonderful ENT met us in the room to personally escort Buddy #2 to the OR but just outside the door my son stopped dead in his tracks. When she noticed he wasn't following she turned around and looked quizzically at him. He said, "The yellow line...it says 'Authorized Personnel Only'. I'm not authorized." The nurse dubbed him authorized and he let her lead the way.<br>
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It seemed minutes later I was called to the recovery area. When I went back to the ward my friend (who happens to be the day surgery charge nurse) met me with a hug. "He's the cutest thing." She greeted. As I rounded the corner, I saw three other recovering children, their parents sitting quietly at their bedsides, and my son. He was sitting up in bed surrounded by a few nurses and an orderly with a popscicle in one hand and a hockey puck in the other regaling his audience with stories of his hockey season which ended with an award for best defenceman. <br>
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They laughed with him for a few more minutes then excused themselves to return to work. When we were alone I asked how it went. <br>
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"Well, they tried to make me a deal. The doctor wanted me to hold the mask on my face. I said no thank you. I didn't want to take any deals. But they held me down and put the mask on me anyway. It was MUTINY! I screamed."<br>
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"You screamed?!" I asked getting a bit frazzled.<br>
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"Yeah, 'GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!'"<br>
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"But you promised me you'd be good!"<br>
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"I WAS good...just as soon as I fell asleep."<br>
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I saw no way to argue with that....let it go. His new nurse came by to check his vitals and ask if he needed anything. He responded by saying, "Yes, I would like a popscicle and this IV out of my hand now please." She explained that it had to stay in until he was discharged incase he needed medicine. <br>
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"Oh, I won't be needing any medicine," he assured her. "I'm a Christian! My Lord is helping me." <br>
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I agreed but gently reminded him that tylenol and gravol are pretty helpful too. But all he was interested in were those free popscicles he was promised. After the next three times the nurses passed, asked how he was doing, and were met with the same, "Great, except for this IV in my hand!" response, they stopped asking. <br>
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Three hours, 17 popscicles, a tearful phone call to his twin whom he was missing terribly, and a new friend named Noah later he was ready to go home. The very patient nurse came over to tell him he was being sprung. She asked him is he liked Cars stickers. "Oh, I like Cars! But I'm more of a toy man....got any Cars toys?" I held my breath and questioned my parenting as I listened to the exchange. She chuckled and told him he'd have to settle for stickers. Then asked him if he would like a popscicle to take home. He thought for a moment.... "No, what I would really like are my clothes and some privacy please." <br>
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He got his clothes, his privacy, and a popscicle to boot. <br>
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At least he said "Thank you." <br>
<br>Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-1053357496204867702014-03-27T09:09:00.000-04:002014-03-27T09:09:00.266-04:00Snakes and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails...and Whoopee CushionsMy whole life I have listen to my mother say, "I never wanted boys! I'm so glad I had girls." She grew up with 5 brothers and has seen first-hand what little boys are capable of. She knew (due to her severe lack of a sense of humour) that she would never be able to handle boys of her own. Honestly, the roughhousing my dad participated in with his girls was even too much for her. I remember one trip to Disney World. We were getting a little restless after the daily 8 hour drives to Florida so after checking into a Days Inn somewhere between Ohio and Tennessee a wrestling match broke out, just for fun. Mom sat on one of the double beds and transitioned rapidly between uttering silent prayers not to get kicked out and yelling, "John! You're going to hurt one of them and then I have to listen to them crying, Knock it off!!!!" The match was terminated when I got wedged between the second double bed and the wall and Dad had to pry me out. There was none of the crying that Mom predicted though. <br />
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My husband likes to wrestle with the Buddies. There is rarely a day when there isn't a full event worthy of a ring and television cameras. The Buddies get such a kick out of tag-teaming Dad and "takin' 'im dooowwn!!!!" I ususally sit on the couch and transition between silent prayers for a truce and yelling, "One day they're going to be bigger than you and then you'll be sorry!!!" Yes, I am painfully aware that I occasionally turn into my mother. To put it lightly, it drives me up the wall. The yelling, the screaming, the cries for help...then I pull the Buddies off and calm the big baby down.<br />
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It doesn't stop at wrestling. They love practical jokes too. The meaner the better. I, personally, hate practical jokes so it only makes sense that I married a master. Hubby is discerning most of the time. He plays his tricks on only those who would appreciate them, namely, the Buddies. They're learning from the best and taking it all in. About a month ago I bought a fresh role of hockey tape. While Canadian Tire and the rest of the world see this clear adhesive as hockey tape, Hubby views it as waxing strips. The package wasn't open 5 minutes when Buddy #2 was laying flat on is stomach making "laughing" noises that only a mother can recognize as panic. Hubby tore off a long strip and applied it to the small of my baby's back then ripped it violently off! Buddy #2 stood up after the attack and proclaimed that it didn't "actually" hurt that bad. So, of course, Buddy #1 wanted a go. Hubby picked him up and laid him on his stomach. But when he ripped the strip off Buddy #1 let out a howl! "What are you talking about?! That really hurt!" He angrily accused his brother. Buddy #2, logical as ever, replied, "Well, you are 2 minutes older. Obviously, you have more hair."<br />
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Unfortunately, the Buddies don't have the same discernment as Hubby. Buddy #1 was very excited to come shopping with me this week as Hubby had given him a little bit of money to spend on "whatever he wanted." Not surprisingly he decided he wanted a whoopee cushion. I hate whoopee cushions too. But I brought him into the dollar store to find the coveted item. I could almost see the little dream bubble above his head swimming with the imaginations of all the fun he could have with it...disgusting. He picked it up off the shelf and followed me to the cash register. When I turned to lead the way, I missed seeing the dream bubble that showed WHO he was going to have fun with. From behind me I heard the unmistakable sound that comes from a rubber, air-filled bag when it is compressed. So did everyone else in the store. They also heard my child practically yell, "Aw, MOM!!" while fanning his hand in front of his nose. Mortified, I grabbed the whoopee cushion and (more loudly than he had spoken) I threatened to put it back. He apologized, out loud, and silently I vowed to make Hubby do all the dollar store trips from now on. <br />
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Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-78139143783020647822014-03-13T15:29:00.003-04:002014-03-13T15:31:08.212-04:00Brotherly LoveWhen Hubby and I got married we discussed, as most people do, the children we would like to have. At first we decided we would have two boys five years apart. Yes, we were actually dumb enough to believe that we might have some control over the gender of these hypothetical children. Our plans were nullified when our first was born a beautiful, wonderful, everything we didn't know we wanted girl. But after a dreadful pregnancy and terrible labour and delivery we changed our minds about having two and decided one was enough. Yes, we were actually dumb enough to believe we had some control over this without surgical intervention. Five kids in five years later........... <br />
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We have always stressed to our children the importance of, well, each other. We have taught them they are each other's first best friends. We have encouraged them to be kind, sweet, and gentle. Apologize and forgive. I assure you there's more apologizing and forgiving going on than kindess, sweetness, and gentleness. But they really have become each other's best friends. None of them really enjoy being apart for longer than a day. <br />
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This week we decided to send the 13 year-old for a visit to Gramma and Papa's house for a visit. She has had a lot of responsibility placed on her recently because of Hubby's injury. There have been quite a few doctor's appointments and hospital visits over the past six months for which she's had to babysit. She's also helped with the cleaning, cooking, laundry, and really anything thing else I've asked her to do. She has maintained a mostly sweet attitude and set a very good example for her younger syblings. She needed a break, not that she asked for one, I just knew she needed one. We discussed how long she would go for and when we mentioned two weeks, tears formed in her eyes. We decided on one week much to her relief. She later confided in me that while she was very excited for her little "vacation" she didn't think she could handle two whole weeks away from her family.<br />
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The Buddies and I drove her the two hours to my parents' house and dropped her off. after a bit of supper and a cup of tea I told the boys it was time to go. I'm not sure that it really sunk in that their sister would be gone for a while because in true Buddy Fashion they ran to the truck without a second thought, leaving their sister standing at the door with open arms awaiting hugs she wouldn't receive. I hugged her three times as long to make up for the rejection then headed home. That night Buddy #2 seemed a little sullen. He said he missed "Bugga" (The Buddies' knickname for their oldest sister since they've learned to speak). Me, being quite proud of my mothering skills, said, "That's good!" <br />
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It wasn't good. Yes, he loves his sister. That IS good. What was about to happen...not so much. At bed time Buddy #2 spent the first part of the night without his "Bugga" hunched over the toilet with a sick stomach. He spent the second part of the night in bed with a bucket. He said he was worried something might happen to her while he wasn't around to help her. We talked about worry, why it's silly, and Who is really in control. We quoted Scripture, prayed and he finally slept. <br />
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The next day I got the bright idea to ask my daughter to call home each night before bed to say good-night to her Buddy. Sheer genius, right?! Nope. Buddy #2 hadn't mentioned the missing link to our family all day. He was sitting quietly enjoying "Mars Needs Moms". A cute movie, lots of funny parts. Bugga called, said her goodnights, and hung up. I thought it went quite well. I gave myself a mental pat on the back and settled in for a peacful night. Then the movie took a slight turn. According to the film makers' imagination, female Martians aren't all that nice. Long story short, the earth mom almost dies to save her son. It was just enough to set Buddy #2 off. He jumped off the couch (trying very valiantly to keep his emotions in check), grabbed his puke bucket, and declared he was going to bed before anyone could see him cry. <br />
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He lasted less than five minutes in his bed. He came upstairs with his bucket in hand crying and hyperventilating ever so slightly. I reminded him that he had just spoken to Bugga and she was just fine! He calmed, but not enough to go to sleep. I offered him a picture of his sister to keep by the bed. (I was grasping at straws, people). He thought it might help but when I handed it to him, great sobs errupted from his very bowels. "WHY DID YOU GIVE ME THIS?!" he cried, "YOU'RE KILLIN' ME!" <br />
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I pulled out the only option I could think of. "Want to call your sister back?" Now, I'm no imbecile.I DID consider that it may make her feel guilty, but for that moment, she was Gramma's problem. My problem was crying, nauseated, and keeping me up. I dialed the phone. Buddy #2 took the receiver. <br />
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"Bugga, I'm just calling to tell you, pack your bags. Mom will be there in the morning." <br />
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Funny...I don't think it was guilt that she felt at that moment. It was more like annoyance at her imbecilic mother. Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-25858418268744947702014-02-16T21:52:00.001-05:002014-02-16T21:52:38.818-05:00So Happy TogetherBefore I had the Buddies I was slightly intrigued by the stories I would hear about secret languages and shared phenomena but never paid any real attention. After I had the Buddies I was constantly questioned about secret languages and shared phenomena but still never paid any real attention. <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBY17WnjeAvC33kQquZxAamDmVAJaQUKf4poqKPzWC8PqY82wGBFnOMUJQbiB0oc0xxhtaBy-HtFzDDNkYaMdGMvPLryuQs-JvQDWXAJaNB9z1lcnsWzeH0exuVJ-1UdMYZmP-GhS8ths/s640/blogger-image-588274697.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBY17WnjeAvC33kQquZxAamDmVAJaQUKf4poqKPzWC8PqY82wGBFnOMUJQbiB0oc0xxhtaBy-HtFzDDNkYaMdGMvPLryuQs-JvQDWXAJaNB9z1lcnsWzeH0exuVJ-1UdMYZmP-GhS8ths/s640/blogger-image-588274697.jpg"></a></div><br><div><br></div><div>Until the first day I decided to take them outside by myself. They were just about 16 months old and the weather was beautiful. I got the idea that they needed fresh air in our unfenced yard. I carried them to the lawn and set them down. They felt the grass on their toes, looked at each other, I swear they grinned, then immediately took off in separate directions. That evening when Hubby got home from work I went to Walmart and officially became the mother of "leash kids". I feel no shame.<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnRy__2Sqgdf23z9wtRH5ZIrhp980VaFhIwMGuourUkx6cY6tS5ycW3ygb2e-T53lW50n3U-eXVl6zBEhQWxNT74eWW1cRr_GfKFn458qBVv382YBDD8SsoNGOOow91OR5kdEkwg6fVU4/s640/blogger-image--1030221866.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnRy__2Sqgdf23z9wtRH5ZIrhp980VaFhIwMGuourUkx6cY6tS5ycW3ygb2e-T53lW50n3U-eXVl6zBEhQWxNT74eWW1cRr_GfKFn458qBVv382YBDD8SsoNGOOow91OR5kdEkwg6fVU4/s640/blogger-image--1030221866.jpg"></a></div><br><div><br></div><div>Now, I can't say it was any sort of "telepathy"...more like "turdepathy". But the one thing I know for sure for sure was that the were inseparable. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTK5DeyynRtay8zmO_8lB2WiUwlSbzPDykT656b5yitkCzxYbBErCwbDhIopGpeS0e1j_-nL6T1UFCtnkZ1GUinc0gfdmfkrLbMxzdH-oCQZYDy8K61cB9UnHK30B2u7YuXwuHjwXkWts/s640/blogger-image-571174666.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTK5DeyynRtay8zmO_8lB2WiUwlSbzPDykT656b5yitkCzxYbBErCwbDhIopGpeS0e1j_-nL6T1UFCtnkZ1GUinc0gfdmfkrLbMxzdH-oCQZYDy8K61cB9UnHK30B2u7YuXwuHjwXkWts/s640/blogger-image-571174666.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>They still are. They have little to no interest in doing anything solo. We have tried to have one-on-one time with each of them. They are simply not interested. The last time I tried to take Buddy #2 on a lone shopping trip he asked when we were turning around to get his "best bud" so we don't bother trying any more.</div></div><div><br></div><div>A few months ago, Buddy #2 showed me a black toenail. A few weeks ago, he showed me it wasn't black any more because it was missing...or almost anyway. It was actually hanging by a thread. I really would have rather not seen it. Just the same, we decided not to try to shove his tender tootsies into his ever-shrinking hockey skates for practice and informed Buddy #1 that he would be Buddiless for the next hour. He wasn't overly comfortable being on the ice without his partner in crime but we assured him that his bro would watch him from the stands.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUn5FsTpwIu3Yz2JwjlnfsZIjotmHuVGipbnflA6gTXE3MVwVYZ7S9nkX3GgYD3FP3hpqTc8MCgkK1wGSHDhR9pYhQp8l_Oe9DOX__YoLbpLFPziOr4W9MFDxfdO9tplrqoquKXozlwIw/s640/blogger-image--269589607.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUn5FsTpwIu3Yz2JwjlnfsZIjotmHuVGipbnflA6gTXE3MVwVYZ7S9nkX3GgYD3FP3hpqTc8MCgkK1wGSHDhR9pYhQp8l_Oe9DOX__YoLbpLFPziOr4W9MFDxfdO9tplrqoquKXozlwIw/s640/blogger-image--269589607.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div>The first half of the practice was spent with Buddy #1 skating back and forth at the boards while Buddy #2 "raced" him on foot in the stands. The second half of the practice was spent driving home because Buddy #1 decided hockey was NO FUN without Buddy #2. </div><div><br></div><div>Last week the boys were invited to their first sleep-over party. It was even better because 2 of the 3 girls were invited to stay over as well to keep the birthday boy's sister company. Then our oldest daughter asked if she could spend the night at her friend's house. Hubby and I were almost giddy at the thought of having the house to ourselves for the evening! We borrowed a movie from the library, bought some mini pizzas we wouldn't have to share, and settled in for a glorious night of silence. </div><div><br></div><div>I think we were about 20 minutes in when the phone rang. The 10 year-old was calling to inform us that Buddy #2 was not feeling so great and wanted to be picked up...immediately. As I was putting on my boots she called back to say he was officially sick since he puked all over the neighbor's floor. When I got to the neighbor's door, however, it was Buddy #1 that stood waiting with his coat on. </div><div><br></div><div>"What are you doing, Buddy? I thought it was your brother who was sick.." I asked.</div><div><br></div><div>"He puked, that means I'm next and I'm not doing it here!" He stated emphatically. </div><div><br></div><div>So the three of us climbed in the truck and drove home. Buddy #2 eventually admitted he got sick over worrying about me. Because Daddy is in a cast, if a bad guy were to break in overnight I would need another man to protect me. He is so sweet...neurotic, but sweet. </div><div><br></div><div>Because their sleepover was ruined, Hubby and I agreed to let them play their video games in bed. A real treat because we allow it so rarely. In all honesty it was less a treat for them and more of a strategy for us to be able to finish watching our movie without interruption. </div><div><br></div><div>I don't think 10 minutes went by when Buddy #1 came up the stairs sobbing and heartbroken. Through massive tears and halting voice he told us how he was playing his favourite game and had accidentally deleted his user profile that took him THREE WHOLE DAYS to build! I stifled a chuckle and tried to comfort him by saying he could have fun all over again rebuilding it.</div><div><br></div><div>"But there's more..." He continued. "Out of rage...I kind of deleted my buddy's too." At this admission he dissolved into a mess of sobs and regret. The sincerity of his remorse was endearing and quite adorable. But we told him that he would have to go and confess what he had done to his brother and ask forgiveness. We never heard from them for the rest of the evening so we assumed everything worked out. </div><div><br></div><div>The next morning Hubby wanted to make sure the offender had taken care of his responsibility and asked Buddy #2 if his brother had confessed his fault the night before. </div><div><br></div><div>"Oh, yeah." He said matter-of-factly. "It was an accident, I already forgave him."</div><div><br></div><div>At that Buddy #2 corrected him with much less compunction then he had the night before. "It wasn't an accident! I did it out of rage."</div><div><br></div><div>My youngest son was incensed! "WHAT?!?!" </div><div><br></div><div>Something tells me Buddy #2 thinks his brother took "togetherness" a little too far. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div></div></div>Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-55936620770370324032014-02-08T11:02:00.000-05:002014-02-08T21:53:34.800-05:00Small, Simple, Crazy ThingsOne thing I have always been able to do is see the humour in almost every situation. Not necessarily right away but eventually the hilarity dawns on me. Today, I even chuckle at the time Hubby and I found poo on the living room ceiling. I wasn't really laughing then but I do now. Every day there is something to laugh about; small, simple, crazy things to laugh about. It makes me feel better. God said it would.<br>
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<i><b>A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.... Proverbs 17:22a</b></i><br>
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When I was a child I was the same. I always found something to laugh about. Especially when I was bored. When I was bored my creativity flourished. Like the time I was riding in the backseat of my mother's car on a long drive. We had stopped at a fast food place for milkshakes and Mom was listening to elevator music on the radio as usual. I attached the straws to the arms of my glasses and told Mom I was picking up HBO. If we had gotten into an accident that day it would have totally been my fault. She laughed so hard it's a wonder we made it home.<br>
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When I was a teenager and stressed about exams, my friend and I were told to leave the library because we caused a ruckus. We had made up a story about the fate of the Polka Dot Door characters; how Bear and Marigold went insane because of having to repeat everything for their hard-of-hearing hosts. By the time we were done crafting our wickedly humourous narrative both my friend and I had completely forgotten about exams and the fact that the library is supposed to be a quiet place. The librarian reminded us.<br>
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When Hubby fell and injured his knee the first time, we were all laughing. Mostly because he kept saying really funny things. We could see so much good coming from his injury... the time spent at home and the kindness our friends and neighbors were showing. The second time Hubby hurt his knee, he lay helpless in the snowy, icy driveway next door. I had no idea how to get him home. He couldn't stand up on his own and being that he weighs double what I do and is almost a full foot taller we had to be very creative. I helped him roll onto his belly on one of the girls' sleds and pushed him home. Just the sight of it sent me (and the neighbors) in to fits of giggles. I was thankful there was snow on the ground. I laughed at the candy cane cast the jokesters in the ACU put on him. It was good that it happened around Christmas.<br>
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<b><i>In everything give thanks.. I Thessalonians 5:18</i></b><br>
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But lately, I haven't been laughing much. Lately, a lot of <i>not funny</i> things have happened. It wasn't funny when the surgeon decided Hubby needed an extra 2 weeks in the cast this time. I didn't laugh when he pushed it to 3 because he was unavailable on the scheduled date to remove it. It wasn't funny when my truck started making a grinding noise on right turns and Hubby pronounced it offically parked due to a repair that would cost $600. I didn't laugh when my 10 year-old interrupted my shower to tell me I had to go help Hubby tow his ATV home from the park when it broke down. What good would come from my 9 year-old's guinea pig having a seizure and dying in her arms? I didn't laugh when the same child decided to wear roller blades in the house and pull the bathroom sink out of the wall. It wasn't funny when Hubby tried to fix it, hit the water valve, and sprayed the freshly painted walls and ceiling...ok, that was a little funny. I couldn't see the good in having to wait 2 months for an interview to get back to work and it wasn't funny when I had the interview and the HR lady shook my hand and told me I'd probably hear from them in a couple of weeks. I didn't laugh when our cell service got cut off due to the inability to pay for it or when our bank called with some not-so-great news. I felt broken.<br>
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<b><i>...but a broken spirit drieth the bones. Proverbs 17:22b</i></b><br>
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I didn't understand. What good would come of any of this?<br>
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<b><i>All things work together for good... Romans 8:28a</i></b><br>
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I ran into a friend while grocery shopping. We made small talk. After I walked away I reviewed our conversation in my mind and realized the only thing I talked about were all the bad things that were happening. It hurt me to think I had given him the impression I was a negative person. I needed to make a change. I started thinking, playing a game with myself. The "Look for the Good" game.<br>
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I believe the Bible. the Bible says all things work together for good. What's the good? I have always looked for the good in a bad situation that way I can be thankful for it. So what can I be thankful for?
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I came up with nothing.<br>
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Then it dawned on me. God didn't say "look for the good so you can be thankful". He said "give thanks". He did promise good would come of everything. He didn't promise we would be able to see it...at least not right away. While looking for the good in every situation is...well, good, it is not a prerequisite to giving thanks. <div><br></div><div>I decided to be thankful.</div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I don't see the good. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Not yet. I'm not even looking for it. I'm waiting for it instead. </span></div><div><br></div><div> Now, I can laugh again. Because things are funny; small, simple, crazy things.
</div>Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-86385880892442883012014-01-28T16:06:00.001-05:002014-01-28T20:00:55.794-05:00Parental GuidanceWhy is it that what doctors do is called a "practice" but the same luxury is not afforded to parents? Most logical people understand that some ailments arise that particular doctor doesn't have experience with so consultations are made, research is done, and trials (and many times errors) happen. We trust our physicians to do their best for us. It's in the hypocratic oath! But for some reason we don't allow the same leeway to parents.<div><br></div><div>There are bad parents out there, no question! But many are just trying to establish their "practice". I cannot begin to number the times I have heard clicking tongues and expasperated sighs directed at people with children by parenting critics. The mall is a fantastic place to observe the observers. Attacks can range from dirty looks to tongue-in-cheek comments to overt insults hurled at surprised and usually frazzled parents. And quite often such is done with little to no context. </div><div><br></div><div>One might say, "I can't believe that mother spoke to her son that way!" Without hearing the plenteous "please stops" from the same, formerly calm mother in the minutes before. </div><div><br></div><div>Another might scoff, "I can't believe she didn't say anything to her daughter! Does she not care what that child is doing?" Without hearing the phone call that stole that mother's focus as she rushes out to deal with an emergency. </div><div><br></div><div>Depending on perspective anything said or done...or not said or not done could be "wrong" in another's eyes. I was speaking to a fellow mom one afternoon about her daughter's meltdown in the local WalMart. During the span of this one tantrum two "ladies of age" decided to weigh in with their personal opinions in the midst of the fray. The first sidled up to her and let my friend know if "that" were her daughter she'd have trouble sitting down after a good paddling. Only a few minutes later, and nearing the end of her patience, my friend pulled out the universal "or else" clause. About that time she noticed she was being watched rather closely by the second lady. Returning her gaze, the second lady challenged, "I'm just waiting to see what your 'or else' means because if you spank that child I'll be calling the police."</div><div><br></div><div>Dumbfounded and feeling defeated, she picked up her red-faced, hyperventilating, inconsolable daughter and walked out of the store. The ultimate example of Can't Win. </div><div><br></div><div>Problems with perspective are doubly applied when dealing with grandparents. My mother will be the first to say I don't do anything right (usually in good humour). She is appalled at the fact that I have given my kids the occasional pop, yet I seem to remember an endless supply of Tang in our house as a child. One time I allowed my preteen to bake cookies.....with the oven! I thought Gramma was going to have a heart attack. Don't worry, they both survived. Even simple differences of opinion between parents and grandparents can cause family feuds (that don't involve overly affectionate hosts). </div><div><br></div><div>"What do you mean your 6 month old can't have eggs? I gave you eggs and you're not dead."</div><div><br></div><div>"You can't take a 4 day-old out of the house! I waited until you were 6 weeks!</div><div><br></div><div>"Twelve is too young to bake cookies!" </div><div><br></div><div>You know, things like that.</div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">While I tease, I do appreciate and seek advice from the generation before me. I don't claim to be the perfect parent, quite the opposite! I'm still practicing. I make mistakes all the time. Like the time my oldest daughter and I were talking about drugs. At the time I felt that all the talking in the world wouldn't prepare her for the atrocities that would befall her if she flirted with poison. Some parents would leave pamphlets strategically placed around the house. Some might show an educational show on addiction. Me? I forced her to listen to the entire rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody. While she did promise to never touch drugs...ever with wide, horrified eyes. I'll probably try a different tactic with the others. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div>While we're all practicing <font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">at parenthood I am so thankful that, as a Christian, my kids come with an instruction book. A book written by the perfect parent. A book full of perfect opinions with no need for context or perspective. While some little things may still confound me, the big things are covered. </font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><i>Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.</i></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><i>Proverbs 22:6</i></font></div><div><br></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-85061970932169626312014-01-24T21:15:00.001-05:002014-01-25T13:02:18.442-05:00Something's FishyI have known for a long while that my youngest son has suffered from enlarged adenoids. In 7 years I have never seen him breathe with his mouth closed and he could beat his father in a snoring contest hands down (not an easy task, I assure you). I was putting off making an ENT appointment because he doesn't have the strongest constitution. To put it mildly, he FREAKS OUT. <div><br></div><div>One time he was walking through the kitchen holding a steak knife blade out. I reprimanded him telling him he should be more careful because he could've "accidentally stabbed me." The look that passed over his face was utter panic. I could see that his little brain was visualizing his beloved mother bloody, writhing in pain, and ultimately perishing all because of his negligence. He covered his ears, looked at the floor, shook his head as if to banish the thought. He begged me never to speak of such awful things ever again. He learned to hold a knife correctly and I learned to be extraordinarily careful what language I use with him to get my point across. The word "stab" or any if it's derivatives is overkill...I mean...excessive. </div><div><br></div><div>We had discussed surgery. Hubby had great fun telling him all about the "hooked forks" the doctor would use to "rip 'em out". I had no fun trying to convince him Daddy was just kidding. But he had seen his sister go through the same thing a few years ago, and he said he was ready to breathe properly. So I caved and made the appointment for a consultation. The morning of his appointment rolled around and I woke him early to get ready. I explained that he wasn't having surgery, just meeting the doctor. I don't think I did a good job communicating because right after the conversation he promptly threw up. </div><div><br></div><div>After calming his fears Hubby and I managed to get out the door and to the appointment on time. We were the first ones in the waiting room but it wasn't long before we were joined by a little boy about one year old and his mom. Buddy #2 tried to befriend the little guy but the baby's shyness overpowered his obvious interest in the toys and he remained steadfastly in his mother's lap. I believe the mom felt bad that her son wouldn't respond to the invitation so she struck up a conversation with Buddy #2.</div><div><br></div><div>"So, what grade are you in?"</div><div><br></div><div>"Three."</div><div><br></div><div>"Wow! Grade three? You look young to be in grade three! (She looked at me quizzically so I told her we homeschool). You must be working really hard."</div><div><br></div><div>"Nope, not really."</div><div><br></div><div><i>Why do they always do that?!</i></div><div><br></div><div>I felt compelled to hurriedly explain that he completed kindergarten and grade one in one year and we had some time off due to his father's injury. She had seen Hubby on the way in. He was banished to the hallway due to not being able to remove his outdoor shoes. She nodded and chuckled. We enjoyed some lovely conversation before my buddy was beckoned. </div><div><br></div><div>He took a seat in the dentist style chair inside and looked around at some intimidating equipment. I thought for sure he was going to try to bolt so I quickly pointed out the scariest looking thing in the room. Attached to the wall was a tube full of "goo" and resting inside of it was a long scope. I explained that it was the very piece of equipment this doctor had used to diagnose my vocal nodules. His interest was piqued! I told him there was a tiny camera on the end and the doctor had put the long flexible part up my nose and down my throat and asked me to hum. </div><div><br></div><div>"Did it hurt?" He wanted to know.</div><div><br></div><div>"Not really, it was just uncomfortable. But you don't need to have that done anyway." I assured him.</div><div><br></div><div>I had distracted him just long enough. By the time I finished speaking the doctor walked in the room. A tiny, stylish and friendly Italian lady gave my son a very warm greeting. She called him by his full name which is actually comprised of three last names and quite a mouthful. She asked him what he planned to be when he grew up since he has such a distinguished name to attach to his profession. He was smitten. I could see the apprehension melt away. She asked if he had seen any other doctors and he was excited to say, "Oh, yes! Dr. Z is my doctor and he is AMAZING."</div><div><br></div><div> She gave a slight smile, agreed he is pretty good, and said she hoped to measure up. Then she sat back in her chair and very casually said, "Well, sir. Tell me your story."</div><div><br></div><div>He followed suit, sat back in the examining chair and in his maturest, most business-like voice said, "It all started way back when I was 4." </div><div><br></div><div>I just listened as he recounted all of his adenoidial woes. The inability to close his mouth for an extended period of time. His brother and roommate's constant complaints about his excessive nighttime noise making. The malnutrition he experiences due to not being able to swallow "stringy" food. (Somehow cooked carrots fall into this category).</div><div><br></div><div>The doctor listened patiently then took a look at the offending lymphatic tissue. She agreed that they were pretty huge and said he was an excellent candidate for surgery. He was ok with this line of conversation until she mentioned the hospital and putting him to sleep. </div><div><br></div><div>"Oh, you don't need to go to all that trouble!" He offered anxiously. "I'll just come back to this room! You can shut off all the lights and close to door. I'll go right to sleep all on my own, I promise!"</div><div><br></div><div>With incredible composure she explained it was a little more complicated than that. That she needed to make sure he stayed asleep. Then she described how they use and electrical pulse to remove the adenoids. He was still unsure but fascinated at the same time. </div><div><br></div><div>After she was finished putting his mind at ease the doctor asked if her new patient thought she measured up to Dr. Z. He leaned in close and said, "You're even BETTER!." They agreed to keep that just between the two of them. </div><div><br></div><div>We went back out to Hubby still seated in the hallway "naughty chair". Buddy #2 couldn't wait to tell him everything he learned. After recounting the information about electrical pulses (NOT hooked forks) that familiar glimmer showed up in my jokster-husband's eyes...."So, she told you all about the eels?"</div><div><br></div><div>"Eels?" He asked trepidaiously. </div><div><br></div><div>"Yeah, the miniature medical electric eels the put up your nose. Where do you think they get the electric pulses from?"</div><div><br></div><div>My son looked up at me with eyes full of distress.....Next time Hubby stays home. </div>Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-63464152193579351022013-10-17T00:46:00.001-04:002013-10-17T11:07:57.405-04:00T.H.I.N.K.I have talkative children. Out of five, I could safely say only one is quiet. Even then, once you get to know her...or better said, once she gets to know you, the silence is shattered by endless chatter. I like having communicative kids. My mom always said it was the quiet ones you had to worry about which is why she never worried about me. It wasn't supposed to be a compliment so much as a tongue-in-cheek statement but it gives me great comfort today. So far, I have no secretive children. Their lives are open audio books with no pause, stop, or removable batteries. <div><br></div><div>The Buddies have been especially blessed with the gabby gene. For the past 7 years, they have been vocalizing every thought and feeling that has passed through their little brains as it happens. When Buddy #2 was asked to hurry up in Gramma's bathroom, he couldn't understand why the sister wouldn't just use the other one. When Gramma explained they only had one washroom he innocently but irritatedly asked, "Why did you even buy this house?!" </div><div><br></div><div>Now, I believe that we should allow children to be who they are and all that, but I also think all children need to learn a level of propriety and self control. Blurting out the first thing that comes to mind is not always acceptable in civilized society and after one reaches a certain age, it's no longer "cute". Nobody who has watched Anne of Green Gables has ever described Rachel Lynde's propensity to "speak her mind" with no care for consequence as precious or enviable. Tact is key.</div><div><br></div><div>I have been in the process of trying to cure my sons of their reoccurring cases of verbal diarrhea. I have not yet been successful. I don't want them to be silent I just want them the think before they speak. </div><div><br></div><div>This morning I took Buddy #2 (my youngest and arguably sweetest child) to Costco. On the way in he asked me the definition of "mediocre". I explained that it meant 'nothing special' or 'not particularily good' then asked where he heard the word....Who says Spongebob isn't educational? After paying for the few items we needed, I offered him the receipt. He loves holding the receipt out at the door and seeing what artistic creation the attendant has drawn on the back for his viewing pleasure. The last few times he didn't mention it and ended up with a boring, blank, "mediocre" receipt. Today, he wasn't going to miss the opportunity. "Smiley face, please." .....he said please. As we walked to the truck I told him I was glad he said please but it would be much more polite to attach a "may I have..." to the beginning of that question. In his usual, easy-going manner he said, "ok, Mom." and went about his idle chatter. </div><div><br></div><div>When we got home, we had a few hours until hockey practice so I decided to teach the kids a song to sing in church on Sunday. I don't know the song particularily well, but I plunked out the melody audibly enough. After the third or fourth attempt the kids were following along quite nicely!</div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div>Now, I <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">would not call myself a Jack of All Trades or even of some. I'm pretty good at a few things but definitely a master of none. I dabble. My boys especially have never shied</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> away from letting me know what they think, good or bad. After hockey practice Buddy #2 felt he needed to tell me something. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">"Mom, you are a mediocre pianist. You know, nothin' special...and you do make a lot of mistakes." </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">My first thought was, "How rude! Has this kid not learned anything?! His mouth moves before his brain can stop it!" But, in an effort not to display the behaviour I was trying to correct in my child, I pondered what he said before I replied. I came up with something I hoped would make him start to think before speaking.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">"You're right, Buddy. I am a mediocre piano player. I'm nothing special and I do make a lot of mistakes.... And you're a mediocre hockey player."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">"Wait..what?!" He started to pout, but I quickly responded.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">"You're not that special. There are better players on your team. And you make a lot of mistakes."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">"I can pass...."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">"I can read music."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">He thought about this comparison and let it sink in for a moment. He had no retort.</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">"I am a mediocre hockey player and you are a mediocre pianist." He replied resignedly.</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">"So, we have a consensus then?" I asked.</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">"We do." He offered. ".....What's a consensus?"</font></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVx5DV8lXNNdVZL4NM3JB-h4N1f-yncC0sKlKaTbdQSiF8ghTYmrsVn-bwJ2JzJP743XcrbZzd-jp_jDqgS3EHcCiTSDOK7dO_8HxE5yKR41Z7fUHCTyTireAcCCi5J8uBfixfNZ9eEgM/s640/blogger-image-1119715166.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVx5DV8lXNNdVZL4NM3JB-h4N1f-yncC0sKlKaTbdQSiF8ghTYmrsVn-bwJ2JzJP743XcrbZzd-jp_jDqgS3EHcCiTSDOK7dO_8HxE5yKR41Z7fUHCTyTireAcCCi5J8uBfixfNZ9eEgM/s640/blogger-image-1119715166.jpg"></a></div>Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-16893843996246797512013-08-30T19:54:00.000-04:002014-08-14T23:12:36.398-04:00Hello Mudda.... Oh, Brudda!This past month my children have had the amazing privilege of going to the camp I attended in my youth. I was fortunate enough to attend a Christian school and youth group throughout the year but Camp Y.E.S. was the highlight of my summers. My children look doubly forward to it being that we live a fair distance from other church youth and they don't get to see them on a regular basis.<br>
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This year, Hubby and I decided the kids shouldn't get to have all the fun. We wanted to go too! The 7-9 week "just happened" to fall on the last week of Hubby's holidays so we filled out our volunteer registration forms and prepared to be counsellors to our 3 youngest campers and a myriad of their new friends. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJIXsVHO-OC8gr9VzcPyiByk7VaLlZsDpg3RcEFAlwEX6mAKV-bXeqdN_c2POisASJUDlqLHT__V7592S-AaR-TbdVy_K4tBtDWwps3dlAawA81XMlrR-c6LeJIe0acP5A37Ed-PB3KSc/s640/blogger-image--532555007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJIXsVHO-OC8gr9VzcPyiByk7VaLlZsDpg3RcEFAlwEX6mAKV-bXeqdN_c2POisASJUDlqLHT__V7592S-AaR-TbdVy_K4tBtDWwps3dlAawA81XMlrR-c6LeJIe0acP5A37Ed-PB3KSc/s640/blogger-image--532555007.jpg"></a></div><br></div>
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The week began on a bit of a bumpy note. As my girl and I sat in the main meeting place, aptly named "The Dome" for its spherically shaped roof, I noticed a look in her eyes. </div><div><img src="webkit-fake-url://C1486B10-FE9E-4898-A61A-35780E1C6CC5/imagejpeg"></div><div><br></div><div>It wasn't "fear" necessarily but uncertainty. She caught my quizzical stare and before I could ask if she was homesick she guessed my question and offered a slight nod with one correction, "I'm sister-sick." Just as the tears began to pool in the corner of her eyes our Camp Director, the same man who has directed our camp since the first year I was a camper back in......ninetee....the day, called us to attention.<br>
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We were instructed to grab our gear and head to our dorm. We would be divided into cabins there. The girls' beds were in the basement of the dining hall. One long room at the back was sectioned off by tape that had been run along the floor to designated the different "cabins". The common room also had 3 sets of bunks, along with ping pong, pool, and air hockey tables. This was my cabin.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Hubby and the Buddies got to stay in the newly constructed (but as yet poorly insulated) bunkies. At first I had a slight twinge of jealously that Hubby and his charges got their own four walls but after the thermometer dipped to 10*C overnight and Hubby came to Counsellor's devotions with chattering teeth... it faded.</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXB8tfAtyFuWMyD9AQmTIhThngkExvvJHdkJLqyf3xXh4-mhGlb7cjWcNG6-D2QNznvcCJMZXLdp5N6jPnFSwfKnXOaeWYGB9vNdvJ75BpLTdydeh1S7wNNu2JO880K85_0pRlzSXcdFo/s640/blogger-image-590236656.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXB8tfAtyFuWMyD9AQmTIhThngkExvvJHdkJLqyf3xXh4-mhGlb7cjWcNG6-D2QNznvcCJMZXLdp5N6jPnFSwfKnXOaeWYGB9vNdvJ75BpLTdydeh1S7wNNu2JO880K85_0pRlzSXcdFo/s640/blogger-image-590236656.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Being that I was a former camper and felt as though I had a certain reputation to uphold (or squelch depending on perspective) I began drilling my kids on behaviour weeks before camp started. I spent many an evening on my knees praying that they wouldn't get into any trouble. What I didn't consider was I didn't necessarily have to hope my children would be uncharacteristically good but that there would be worse behaved children than my own. Alas, they each had a turn proving that I am still a student of Parenting 101. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf2SlAwrnoCGrClRiJa6e5fj7D184oXf_YCfErN-Kb22fYfEHcLd9HPPC4x9aNtczxphS1vuzDmUb2lMZGmDnAWsya-FKeLzRBvHQ3dhkVJ56WaCZO1I_3jTaJX6wTikn0KbOeHGo1zE0/s640/blogger-image--1796566705.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf2SlAwrnoCGrClRiJa6e5fj7D184oXf_YCfErN-Kb22fYfEHcLd9HPPC4x9aNtczxphS1vuzDmUb2lMZGmDnAWsya-FKeLzRBvHQ3dhkVJ56WaCZO1I_3jTaJX6wTikn0KbOeHGo1zE0/s640/blogger-image--1796566705.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></div><div><br></div><div>One of the most exciting things about camp for my little sugar bugs was Tuck. I don't generally buy junk food so I gave them (what I felt) was generous amount of money to last the week. On day two, Hubby and I stopped to chat with Pastor Mac (Camp Director Extrodinaire). As we approached he held out 4 packs of Skittles. </div><div> "These belong to one of yours....I'm not sure which one. He asked me to hold on to them while he did something and never came back."</div><div>I took one pack from him but he still held out the other 3.</div><div>"No, no. All of them. They're all his." </div><div>Suffice it to say, Buddy #1 was out of tuck money by Wednesday. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDekECFIt49uAZN0vn9I2XGyEyxX2Qm-ejr4CfLvIM6yzT6IxyKcn1tgP5dPeOpIp3_2_zMfjxo6n62qA5MuwH5a71f4-wCbb15dk73sWHc0w2xJCLwkGsINHYhmTV3zWy5-Rf0BemPe4/s640/blogger-image-1964029987.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDekECFIt49uAZN0vn9I2XGyEyxX2Qm-ejr4CfLvIM6yzT6IxyKcn1tgP5dPeOpIp3_2_zMfjxo6n62qA5MuwH5a71f4-wCbb15dk73sWHc0w2xJCLwkGsINHYhmTV3zWy5-Rf0BemPe4/s640/blogger-image-1964029987.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Buddy #2 is considerably better with his money....takes after his mom. When he buys something he makes it last. He decided on one pack of gummies. He ate a few and because of his generous nature offered a few to friends then declared he would be saving the rest for later and put them in a secure spot in his bunkie. That evening a fellow counsellor and Ontario Provincial Police Officer informed my husband that Buddy #2 had consulted him on a crime. </div><div>"You're a police officer right?"</div><div>"Yes..."</div><div>"Well, someone stole my candy! Can you help me? We'll cordon off the grounds, find witnesses, and interrogate any suspects!"</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>I swear I have never let that kid watch a crime drama...I have no idea where he got that from. The next day as he and Hubby walked to The Dome together, Buddy #2 spotted a colourful stone on the path which turned out to be the same type of candy that had been "stolen" from him. When he bent to pick it up, Hubby chided him, "Don't eat that! It's been on the ground!"</div><div>"Are you kidding?!" He asked incredulously. "I'm not going to eat this!! It's EVIDENCE!" And he unceremoniously stuffed in his pocket. </div><div><br></div><div>We made it to Friday without much more drama. The schedule tends to be a bit more relaxed on the last full day and during the activity time, Pastor Mac allowed the kids to choose between horseback riding or a game of Big Ball. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSWtjYawtnrKaMNn1JmaXljU51BibFKdWytvYCfIEwEEkoYU8Vg2_zGVmjjbIXWvfL9A2FOuGhIgxAQ3Hs2oDZDyIwOnDSqCRKZiO7Q4smIdC7gswLz4D1nzcfh-ITlk0Y1EAr0qaG60Y/s640/blogger-image--1904902621.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSWtjYawtnrKaMNn1JmaXljU51BibFKdWytvYCfIEwEEkoYU8Vg2_zGVmjjbIXWvfL9A2FOuGhIgxAQ3Hs2oDZDyIwOnDSqCRKZiO7Q4smIdC7gswLz4D1nzcfh-ITlk0Y1EAr0qaG60Y/s640/blogger-image--1904902621.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>My girls decided on horses so I escorted them there and Hubby ended up at the Big Ball field. I was in the middle of a lovely chat when another counsellor came running toward me. </div><div>"Mrs. T! Mr. T's down and he's not getting up!"</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0rl94J-sx41gSZzjZIS-oC42SrUhmsJHKQa8CP-WykI3Jh-xHcvgTut3U_soxjGlMIjiK1ADvg3G3IDSbuBDlCFAVxan0FS9YNKszSKETWxC0nd6UWe__EX-9aylRBpZhKDT3dwE91_4/s640/blogger-image--2141405896.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0rl94J-sx41gSZzjZIS-oC42SrUhmsJHKQa8CP-WykI3Jh-xHcvgTut3U_soxjGlMIjiK1ADvg3G3IDSbuBDlCFAVxan0FS9YNKszSKETWxC0nd6UWe__EX-9aylRBpZhKDT3dwE91_4/s640/blogger-image--2141405896.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>I ran over to the field to find my husband accepted a challenge he shouldn't have and ended up injuring his knee enough to require surgery and 4 to 6 months rehabilitation. Each one of the kids came to see dad while we waited on the ambulance. My girl asked him if he was ok, Buddy #2 wanted to know if Daddy would be back at camp that evening. Buddy #1 said, "I just have one question about while you're at the hospital." </div><div>"What's that my buddy?" Hubby asked, thinking he was worried about what the doctors would do to him or something of the like...</div><div>"Can I," deep breath, "use some of your tuck money?"</div><div>"Oh. Sure. I guess you can get one......"</div><div>Buddy #1 was already running so I'm quite sure he didn't hear his dad say "ring pop."</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_1lxzyPv0-aVbCe1Wo-dbWTVdTWfYu_95oi3YLxf9JgSeyt2TwPeEblNu7jhvUq9iL0pTFfsScRBSWEp27zPypdiYm392JqlhY_XoDOhu4g1tC82lNUK9_8HuEYouu0bnXMZb5rv2H88/s640/blogger-image--257159615.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_1lxzyPv0-aVbCe1Wo-dbWTVdTWfYu_95oi3YLxf9JgSeyt2TwPeEblNu7jhvUq9iL0pTFfsScRBSWEp27zPypdiYm392JqlhY_XoDOhu4g1tC82lNUK9_8HuEYouu0bnXMZb5rv2H88/s640/blogger-image--257159615.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>While the ambulance attendants were loading the patient Buddy #1 was at the Tuck Shop ordering one....of everything. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>
Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-58548940755545253642013-06-17T19:27:00.000-04:002013-06-17T23:44:49.522-04:00Tornado PartyYesterday, while I was in the process of baking Hubby's favorite shortbread cookies, the Weather Network warned of a possible tornado in our area. Where we live, tornados are not unheard of but they're not exactly commonplace. We're no Kansas. Nonetheless, I covered my petunias to protect them from any hail that may find its way into their beds (wouldn't want to waste that $10 I spent on them!) and called the kids inside just in case. I explained the weather situation in what I felt was a very apathetic tone of voice but when I said, "There's a remote possibility of a tornado. Better safe then sorry." My 8 year-old's brain heard, "IMPENDING DOOM! DUCK AND COVER!" She's a slightly excitable child. I went back to rolling my cookies. She started panicking. Every horrid image that could possibly be related to the destruction a tornado can bring immediately flooded the poor girl's mind. She started rambling about the roof been torn off, the Buddies being sucked up, the dog being lost, and horror of horrors....the school books being rendered unusable! <div><br></div><div>We hid our smiles and gently suggested that she might feel better if she were to sit in the "safe room". Our basement bathroom is constructed of three cement walls, no windows, and is quite literally the size of a large closet. We have declared this our Tornado Haven. Being a family of seven, it would be tight quarters should we have need of it but we like to hug so it's all good. My girl was all too agreeable to the idea and hightailed it down the stairs. </div><div><br></div><div>I was paying more attention to my baking than I was the goings on of the household but I did manage to snap a picture of an angry sky approaching.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhglMOQXjECPEKp9QTM87f9GnR0nfSUjSyofO-mDC0NsRnLp_fiCq9aheNXiOfl2N6FUDyLpW0gfCIGK2HXaH4_RYIFy4Kpt1J9vOYm8FIbgbb-K4Q-0IHcuUsmZr_ZKZdNHikvUMcJu1k/s640/blogger-image-980223978.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhglMOQXjECPEKp9QTM87f9GnR0nfSUjSyofO-mDC0NsRnLp_fiCq9aheNXiOfl2N6FUDyLpW0gfCIGK2HXaH4_RYIFy4Kpt1J9vOYm8FIbgbb-K4Q-0IHcuUsmZr_ZKZdNHikvUMcJu1k/s640/blogger-image-980223978.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>I shut the door tightly behind me and turned around to see a little hand snatch a small bunch of bananas from the kitchen counter before the body attached to it scurried back toward the basement. It wasn't long before she reappeared. This time to grab her guinea pig and implore one Buddy to fight for life by taking refuge with her. </div><div><br></div><div>By this time Hubby could no longer control his innate desire to tease. He started humming the Wicked Witch of the West's theme from the Wizard of Oz each time she'd pass. She grew annoyed. He asked Buddy #1 if he would like to seek shelter with his big sis. "Nuh, uh! She's goin'crazy!" was his delicate response. </div><div><br></div><div> "Fine!" she cried. "Just stay up here and die!"</div><div><br></div><div>Hubby couldn't hold back. "See you in heaven, Sweetie."</div><div><br></div><div> "Oh, no you won't. I won't be there!" She took flight down the stairs and into her fortress. </div><div><br></div><div>After 15 minutes the dark clouds passed and the rain let up. Not a single tornado had developed. I thought I should go and inform the survivors. But when I opened the bathroom I realized they weren't really interested in being rescued. And I was inclined to join them.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVbakzM36hOLxE5wtxEq7VgI43vG69zwJ2ruPpWrYXPQEt9PXL7QsJl0BClR3ZuDzkm1-64-OoWuPnWoI8s-PJ9U9wFPgFOEuSKmZYQ59cWgFB_6HiwPS-rB0LU_snvOgnUUqznvHMJJs/s640/blogger-image--1401089039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVbakzM36hOLxE5wtxEq7VgI43vG69zwJ2ruPpWrYXPQEt9PXL7QsJl0BClR3ZuDzkm1-64-OoWuPnWoI8s-PJ9U9wFPgFOEuSKmZYQ59cWgFB_6HiwPS-rB0LU_snvOgnUUqznvHMJJs/s640/blogger-image--1401089039.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><br></div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><br></div><br></div><br></div>Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-13155167561148311832013-06-08T22:54:00.001-04:002013-06-08T22:57:01.460-04:00SometimesSometimes there are weeks that don't want to end. My faith is tested, my patience tried, my character called into question. Sometimes a quick trip to the store turns into hours of time seemingly wasted. My mind retreats to home where dishes remain unwashed, laundry still wet, and floors not swept. Sometimes I worry. Bills need to be paid, family needs to be fed, relationships need to be maintained. Sometimes I get caught up in adult concerns. <div><br></div><div>But I have five non-adults in my care. Five still-dreaming, still-wishing, still-whimsical non-adults. Sometimes I get a glimpse of what my five non-adults think of my grown-up issues. Like when I've been forced to say, "Not today, I don't have the money," and been countered with, "Just go to the bank and buy some!" Or when I've foolishly admitted I can't do something to little ones who have heard Philippians 4:13 quoted incessantly to their own admissions of defeat. (The true meaning of "judge not lest thee be judged".) </div><div><br></div><div>Sometimes one of those non-adults hear me complain about my mature problems. Sometimes they almost get it. Sometimes they surprise me. Sometimes one of these little ones ask me if they can watch a movie like Batman and I have to say, "No. That movie has some mature things I don't think you're ready for." Meaning violence and perhaps offensive language.... Sometimes that non-adult comes back with, "It's okay Mom, he only does a little bit of shopping and laundry."</div>Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-40310778455184397782013-04-11T14:49:00.000-04:002013-05-13T11:26:28.774-04:00An Answer for EverythingMy youngest son is a jewel. He is sweet, considerate, and gentle. He is also very soft spoken which makes him completely unlike the rest of the family. When I need a quiet cuddle to calm my nerves after a hectic day he's my go-to guy. One thing that has consistently separated his personality from his twin's is his thoughtfulness. Buddy #1 tends to rush headlong into whatever suits his fancy whereas #2 (although two whole minutes #1's junior) seems to be the wiser brother. When Buddy #1 was hurling himself down the basement steps in a toy barrel reminiscent of Bobby Leach taking the plunge over Niagara Falls, Buddy #2 stood watching at the top of the steps then promptly tattled. Buddy #2 is content to always let Buddy #1 test the waters before he even dips in a toe. Like this spring when Buddy #1 thought it would be fun to walk on the ice in the neighbour's pool. Buddy #2 apparently watched for a minute or two to see if his buddy would sink. When he didn't, #2 thought it was a great idea...until they got caught. <br />
"It's all HIS fault, Mom! he TEMPTED me!"<br />
See, that's one hazard of being a twin. When one kid comes up with a stupid idea that he thinks might be a good idea, he may hesitate a bit before following through. But when that kid has a twin that thinks the stupid idea is a good idea it's immediate confirmation to go ahead a give it a try.<br />
<br />
Before these little guys were even three, Buddy #1 started getting a bit...shall we say...lippy? One evening he was being his usual rambunctious self and jumping in and out of his seat like popcorn on hot coals. I led him back to his chair, waved my matronly finger in his little face, and said (with loving sternness), "You get back in your seat!" With all the tenacity his 2 year old demeanour could muster he pointed his chubby little finger right back at me and said, "You get back in your kitchen." Buddy #2 stared, dumbfounded, at his brother. Sheer horror washed the colour right out of his cheeks at the imagination of what possible punishment his best buddy might receive being the Son in the Hands of an Angry Mom. Bed without dinner is as bed as it gets for a 2 year old boy with my husband's blood. But for some reason, the memory of this incident did not remain long enough in #2's mind to keep him from spouting some of his own lip. One evening after a a community youth meeting at a local church I was particularly tired. A few minutes after the kids walked through the door I announced it was time for baths and bedtime stories. Buddy #2 thought I was a little premature in my pronouncement and before thinking he blurted, "I just got home, Woman!" Yes, my precious, sweet, quiet little angel had just made the enormous mistake if calling his mother "Woman." Immediately, it was as if we were taken back five years. I watched all the colour drain from his already milky complexion at the realization he had just made a major faux pas. He has never called me "Woman" again. <br />
<br />
Each time one of my kids does something that is worthy of correction I try do follow it up with Biblical principle. I am not (unless necessary in extenuating circumstances) a "Because I Told You So" parent. If I have to discipline my child I also disciple them. I believe children need to know why they are being corrected. Buddy #2, being the thinker that he is has picked up all too cleverly on this fact. Last night the family turned in early. Hubby and I set our "Day Shift" alarm begrudgingly for 3:40 a.m. and bid our flock good-night. At 10:15 p.m. I awoke with at start to the sound of canned laughter emanating from the Buddies' room. As I swung the door open, Buddy #2 threw a Nintendo 3DS under the covers and sheepishly, with saucer-like eyes squeaked out, "Yes, Mama?"<br />
<br />
"You know the rules, young man. You are grounded from any and all electronics all day tomorrow!" <br />
<br />
In the morning #2 ascended the stairs with a ready apology. We hugged and I prepared breakfast.<br />
<br />
"Am I still grounded, Mama?"<br />
<br />
"Of course, son."<br />
<br />
"But I said I was sorry," he said, knowing I have always taught that we must forgive when forgiveness is asked just like Jesus does for us.<br />
<br />
"And I forgive you but you still need to accept the consequences for you actions or you will never learn your lesson."<br />
<br />
He mulled the new information for no longer than a second and then inquired, "Do you have a verse for that?"<br />
<br />
So, before school, I spent some time thinking. Then we spent some time with David and Bathsheba in 2 Samuel. He is learning his lesson and I learned mine...have an answer for everything with that kid.<br />
Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-2035943899199815862013-04-05T07:56:00.001-04:002013-04-06T07:32:04.184-04:00Cleaning ConundrumAs my children's teacher I called a sick day today. A sick day as in, "I am sick and tired of the mess in this house!" At Winter's end I always get a bit frantic about cleaning. As the sun begins to remember the North and the snow slinks away from its rays, its absence reveals the junk my yard kept hidden from me all season. I'm not sure why my driveway fancies juice boxes and broken plastic but it always has a nice stash come spring. Inside is even worse. Almost six months of cold, snow, and shut windows seems to make even inanimate objects scream to be set free. <br />
<br />
I like a clean house...no, I love a clean house, just ask my family. I was challenged about 4 years or 5 years ago to give my kids a quiz about what they think of me and write down their answers honestly. it had simple questions like, "What's your mom's favourite thing to do?" and "What does your mom do when she's bored?" Out of about thirty questions, more than half were answered with one word, "clean". Except for the question that asked the how old they thought I was. I think they said "52" or somewhere in that ballpark. <br />
<br />
I do clean a lot. The kids have learned to get out of my path when I become manic. My poor husband has even had to ask me at times to just sit and spend some time with him before he dies of old age. (If I looked 52 four or five years ago, you can just imagine how close to his golden years he looks...) The funny thing is, if you walked into my house you would never guess that. It seems to be an a constant state of disarray! School books, paper, and pencils cover the tables during the day. There are always preparations or remnants of meals in the kitchen. Little boots and shoes line the entrance asymmetrically. Dust blankets at least 3/4 of our living space at any time. To make matters worse, we live in a renovation. When we bought our house almost 8 years ago, we knew it would be a huge undertaking. It had a rough past and had been badly abused. We're still working through it's issues.<br />
<br />
When we're having people over for dinner my compulsion kicks into overdrive! I scurry about the house looking for imperfections I'm sure they will judge me on. My internal dialogue shouts, "If they have to use the bathroom they might see the little glob of toothpaste the Buddy left in the sink!" or "If they drop their keys and the keys fall under the couch and they have to get on their hands and knees to find them they might see what's under the couch so I better make sure the kids didn't kick anything under there and I better vacuum the rug and wash the floor since their face with be close to those....." Sometimes I feel like Anne Shirley when she said, "I know I chatter on far too much...but if you only knew how many things I want to say and don't. Give me some credit!"<br />
<br />
My insanity in not reserved for adult company either! I know we're homeschoolers and we're not supposed to know how to socialize (blah, blah, blah) but my children do have friends. In fact, during the summer months especially, I have a revolving front door. There is a constant influx of neighbourhood children here and I worry. I don't know why. I have never heard my children come home from visiting a friend and say, "Mom, there was a little spider web in the corner of Jack's ceiling, it was DISGUSTING!" Or "Their Legos weren't colour co-ordinated. I can't play there anymore." Or even, "Their house was of average cleanliness and order, it was quite pleasant!" But for some reason I have convinced myself that my kids' friends will have a full report concerning my housekeeping skills typed and duplicated for their parents.<br />
<br />
When springtime approaches and I make spring cleaning a family affair my children groan (outwardly) and beg to be allowed to do their schoolwork. I tell them that cleaning can be fun and that housekeeping skills are just as essential as learning how to properly diagram sentences! They respectfully disagree. I tell them that Happy Mommy can be fun and keeping Mommy happy is just as essential as learning how to properly cheer Mommy up after having shattered her heart. They got right to work. <br />
<br />
The little ones were doing a great job cleaning their rooms until Buddy #1 came upstairs an announced he found a much better thing to do.<br />
<br />
"Mom, I know the perfect job for me to help you out!"<br />
<br />
"Oh, what is that, Buddy?" I asked somewhat intrigued.<br />
<br />
"It's called 'Staying Out of Your Way.'" <br />
<br />
I almost fell for it. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-38499086012538672502013-03-17T14:47:00.001-04:002013-03-26T20:30:11.372-04:00Parenting PenguinsAt the end of this month we celebrate my second born's tenth birthday. It's amazing that we even have a second born. Partially because my first pregnancy was so horrible that I swore I would never have another child and partially because I'm amazed I haven't killed her or sold her to gypsies yet. You know when your parents offhandedly say, "I hope you have a child just like you when you grow up..."? Mine said that but I'm pretty sure there was nothing offhanded about it. God listened. On March 30, 2003, I was blessed with an absolutely perfect *looking* child, She had hair so blonde it almost sparkled in the sunlight, a complexion so flawless she could've been mistaken for a porcelain doll. She had big round eyes as blue as the Caribbean Sea and colic. One night, three weeks into her little life, I was so sleep deprived I put her to rocking in her swing and drifted off. When she woke crying (probably not an hour later) I jumped up in sheer panic! I couldn't remember where I had put her down!!! I checked her crib, she wasn't there. I ran to my bedroom, no baby. I could hear her crying so I knew she had to be in the house. I stopped for a moment and leaned against the door frame to let the fog clear from my mind and regain a small portion of my composure. Then I realized she was in the same room I had originally run out of like my hair was on fire.<br />
<br />
When I spoke about it with my mother I was not comforted with sympathy...more like satisfaction.<br />
<br />
"Oh, I know what it's like. You had colic, remember?"<br />
<br />
Whether she she was asking if I actually remembered having the colic or the obscene amount of times she told me the stories of me having colic I'm not sure. Nevertheless, I have no doubt there was a little smirk on her face at the other end of that phone line. <br />
<br />
The colic was just the beginning of the bumpy road I started down with my little cherub. She also inherited my amazing propensity to almost kill myself yet have no resulting injury. When I was about five, I made the totally harmless decision to slide down the banister rather than walk down the stairs from my bedroom to watch Saturday morning cartoons. I cannot begin to fathom how, but my hands grasped the half wall that hovered about 15 feet above the main floor rather than the railing I was aiming for. Instead of enjoying a quick slide to the landing I was going to fall to my death..or at least two broken legs. I started calling for Mom but I didn't want to panic her so I called in a tempered voice making it seem as though I needed help with the cereal box instead of dangling from a precipice. She came staggering out of her room rubbing the sleep from her eyes ready to give me the "Let Mom Sleep on Saturday" lecture when she saw her "baby" ready to plummet. With superhuman strength known only to a Mama whose child is about to die she yanked me back over the rail. Too exhausted from trauma to speak, Mom let the look on her face do the talking for her. I was never to slide down the banister again. I didn't...ever. When my little one was 2 she bypassed the banister in favour of taking a "ride-on" toy for a ride down the slate stair case. She stopped at the third step but the toy made it all the way to the bottom. Amazingly enough at the moment she did this I just happened on the phone with Mom. I called her back after checking and rechecking for injuries. <br />
<br />
"Remember the banister incident?"<br />
<br />
That's what I got.<br />
<br />
Two other things this child was blessed enough to inherit from me were my sarcastic disposition and lack of brain-mouth filter. I've known from a very young age that I was a bit of a mouth piece. My parents had bars of soap reserved just for me. But, because of my keen sense of comedic timing and cynicism, I got away with a lot more than I should have. It's not very effective to discipline a child when you're laughing. When she answers the question: How many people live in China? in her Social Studies lesson with "a lot", how can you get upset? It's the truth! One night at dinner Hubby and I had been discussing the features that each of our babies had been born with. We told our oldest that she had a wee bit of a cone head and chuckled. Then we spoke about the strikingly blonde locks on my mini-me to which the oldest began to snicker. Big Sister learned very quickly not to refer to her younger sister as "Blondie" when Mini-Me retorted, "At least you'll always be able to find a job in construction as a PYLON!" If Hubby and I hadn't been cracking up we may have chided the both of them. <br />
<br />
She is also wise beyond her years. On the way to church a few weeks ago we were conversing about the documentary March of the Penguins and how interesting and perhaps a little odd it was that the male penguins take care of the eggs while the females go out to do the fishing. <br />
<br />
"It's not weird at all!" she interjected. "The moms get sick and tired of listening to the dads go on and on to each other about getting a good boat and the right gear so they just say, 'Never mind! I'll do it myself!'"<br />
<br />
Yes, I do believe she got all my best parts. <br />
<br />
<br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgovErlB-XHWQGJBkBF_5JlPUqBCJdaYm4H802pYkV6T0P11mVhb5NiYXs7fbzzZR1z_DhgJsr3CHvdpgu9Mx8lkdp32I73ywjUMDL30_j_oN8xwvRYF-k82DJlvfRR5TE1kyUGm5MAv18/s640/blogger-image--1301360935.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgovErlB-XHWQGJBkBF_5JlPUqBCJdaYm4H802pYkV6T0P11mVhb5NiYXs7fbzzZR1z_DhgJsr3CHvdpgu9Mx8lkdp32I73ywjUMDL30_j_oN8xwvRYF-k82DJlvfRR5TE1kyUGm5MAv18/s640/blogger-image--1301360935.jpg" /></a></div>Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-73053918785941227682012-11-27T15:55:00.000-05:002012-11-27T16:01:01.507-05:00Potty HumourI try to discourage irrational fears in my children. Each one has a few, but don't we all? One won't blow his/her nose for fear that it may end up in his/her mouth rather than the tissue. Another refuses to sing when asked for fear of "messing up", but ask this child not to and have fun trying to stop her! Then there are the normal childhood phobias; monsters under the bed, not going downstairs alone in the dark, finding mushrooms in the spaghetti sauce...stuff like that. But my youngest Buddy has developed the strangest fear I have ever heard of. <br />
<br />
Since I started by having three girls, I didn't really have to worry about "potty messes". To put it delicately, girls sit down. Enough said. When I found out I was having my boys, the first thing everyone felt the need to warn me about was every male child's innate inability to aim. I shrugged it off thinking, <em>if that's the worst thing I have to deal with...I own a mop.</em> Potty training the Buddies actually proved itself quite easy. I even ended up with one sitter! I was patting myself on the back and chuckling internally at all the naysayers. <br />
<br />
About a year or so ago, Buddy #2 decided he wasn't going to be a sitter...at all. I walked in on him a few times unsteadily hovering over the bowl. Rather than question and embarrass this particularly private boy I just made up reasons for myself. I assumed the seat was cold or I had walked in just as he was getting ready to leave. But after the fourth or fifth time my curiosity got the better of me. I broke down and finally asked why he poised so precariously over the potty. <br />
<br />
"Spiders, Mama. A spider may bite my bum."<br />
<br />
I assured him that spiders <em>definitely</em> do NOT live in toilets.<br />
<br />
Seven years ago we bought a 60 year old house that was rather questionably constructed. We had started to lovingly renovate it until we realized that putting all the paint and light fixtures on the existing house were the equivalent of trying to use string and white glue to put together a T-Rex skeleton before displaying it in a museum. I will admit, there are holes big enough that a dinosaur could slip right in undetected. So spiders have been a bit of a problem. But in the toilet??<br />
<br />
I hoped that my motherly consolation would be enough to rid him of his phobia, but a few weeks ago I happened by a partially opened bathroom door. It was apparent my acrobatic little boy had not yet been relieved of his anxiety. I tenderly took him aside later that day and asked him if he knew where this fear came from. Surely there had to be a source! He admitted it had been a nightmare he never quite recovered from. This revelation was made the week my family and I had contracted a flu bug so my poor little Buddy's legs were quite achy from repeatedly trying to support his weight while in a half sitting position. As we commiserating on the couch with the "T" part of the B.R.A.T. diet, I reminded him that dreams are not real and that a spider would rather die than take up residence in a yucky toilet. He was convinced and happy that he didn't have to hover anymore.<br />
<br />
When the next wave of the flu's nastiness hit, I helped my little man to the washroom and was happy to see the "issue" had been resolved. I closed the door and a wave of nausea swept over me. I knew better than to wait for the upstairs facilities to become unoccupied so I ran to the basement bathroom, knelt on the floor, and came face to face with what may as well have been a tarantula spinning a web...in the toilet. <br />
<br />
Obviously, it was the spider who was crazy because I KNOW spiders do not live in toilets. He was probably an old spider with dementia. I put him out of his misery and gave him a burial at septic and my son remains fearless....until he finds out Mama has a blog. <br />
<br />Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571058870512017570.post-38077639098015310732012-11-08T08:26:00.002-05:002013-05-11T14:57:41.700-04:00Minding My "q's and p's"I think the single thing I love the most about homeschooling is the flexibility it affords. Doctors appointments and little trips are never a problem to schedule. Snow days are non-existent but Too Nice To Stay Inside days abound. Field trips to our local science centre usually result in one-on-one time with the staff since we are often the only ones there. We recognize our flexibility as a luxury we are thankful for. <br />
<br />
I am not, by nature, a flexible person. I like routines. I like structure. I like things to be done my way, at my pace, in my time. I am self-centered and stubborn....but at least I'm honest! I taught my two older daughters exactly the same way. While they each excelled in different areas, they both learned. I was happy to say I had "normal" children. Not brilliant, not gifted, but wonderfully, happily, beautifully average. The eldest loved math but was not particularly keen on learning how to diagram a sentence. The younger loved science but couldn't care less about place values. My confidence in my teaching abilities was beginning to grow as I became more and more comfortable in my routine of homeschooling. Then it was time to begin teaching my third daughter. <br />
<br />
Girl #3 was a joy to parent from the beginning. A sweet and calm baby who was always a good sleeper. She gave us quite a scare at 9 days old when she was hospitalized for 4 days with a high fever but came through the event seemingly unscathed. She grew into a robust and happy toddler. We never noticed any issues except the fact that she didn't seem to talk until a bit later than her sisters. We assumed that it was due to the fact that her sisters adored her and helped to meet her needs before she had an opportunity to ask. She was doted on, plain and simple. As she matured and did begin talking, she mispronounced many words. I remember asking Hubby, "When do you think she'll start speaking like a big girl?" I'll admit, I was growing weary of correcting "psgetti" and "aminal". I furrowed my brow every time she asked questions like "What we going to do else?" But she was bright and inquisitive and excited to start school! When she did begin K4, my (tried and tested) method of teaching failed. Miserably. Nothing seemed to click. We decided she just wasn't quite ready and put it off until the next year. When she was five, I resumed MY way of teaching her. It still didn't work. I was becoming concerned. In my self-centered way I assumed it was ME...<em>I</em> am doing something wrong...<em>I </em>am to blame for this. So in my stubborn way, I kept doing more of the same..teaching her the same way but louder and longer. I was praying that one day it would just "break through". <br />
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As time went on she did learn. It was very much a two-steps-forward-one-step-back experience for both of us. She would finally understand a new concept after much review so I would move on to the next just in time for her to forget the first. I just could not understand how a 5 year-old couldn't remember the Alphabet Song! After all, she had been hearing it since before birth. As soon as she could sing the song we moved on to letter recognition. I watched her face as her mind tried to decipher between "p" and "q" or "b" and "d". It was almost painful. I could see her eyes cloud over with unfamiliarity and then show a glimmer of determination. When she still couldn't conjure the name, her determination gave way to panic and her efforts erupted into a flurry of frustration. Every. Day. <br />
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By the time she turned 6 and <em>still </em>wasn't reading the way I felt she should be able to, I became <strong>very</strong> concerned, partially for her but I can admit (with a certain amount of shame) a little for (self-centered) me too. I would be lying if I didn't say I was worried what <em>people</em> would think/say since <em>I </em>had not been able to teach my daughter how to read by the age of 6! As a home-teacher, one always feels a certain level of scrutiny. The need to prove one's self is ever present in the mind (not that disapproval from outside sources would ever discourage me from my convictions). So that school year began the same way, MY (stubborn) way.<br />
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On New Year's Eve the year she turned 6, the precious child that had frustrated and confounded me so suffered a severe seizure in my arms. You can read about that <a href="http://tracistestimonials.blogspot.ca/2011_01_01_archive.html" target="_blank">here</a>. She was diagnosed with a seizure disorder and put on a regimen of medication. This is when my thinking started to change. My view of her (and me) started to soften. Perhaps her learning deficits weren't my (self-centered) fault. I still taught her my way, but in a wee bit gentler tone. She made progress, slow, slow progress. There were still tears, but she was finally remembering the sound "e" made. I was encouraged.<br />
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Then came time for the Buddies to begin their foray into the world of education. This presented an entirely new challenge. It did not take long for the boys to catch up to and surpass my struggling girl. When Buddy #1 began to read (aloud) pages in 2 minutes that took her 10, her already delicate confidence took another blow. But rather than cry and fold, she determined that her little brother would NOT show her up. So, she began reading...fast...and didn't get a single word right. When I called her out, she tried another approach. She asked for the same bedtime story every night. Memorized it. Then one night proclaimed she could read and recite it she did! I then decided that she may benefit from sharing classes with the Buddies. After all, I can only imagine the pressure she must have felt to get all the right answers and having no one to bounce ideas off of being the only student in her class. So, I worked through Grade 1 with the Buddies in 5 months. I had all three of them begin Grade 2 this September with a promise to my girl that I would research different ways of teaching her. <br />
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Last month, Hubby's cousin had posted a video with a short description that enticed me to watch. As the lady began her monologue, I stared open-mouthed at the computer screen. She was talking about my girl. Talking late...."psgetti"...."aminal".....mixing up "b" and "d".....can't tell right from left...can't tie her shoes....As the information flowed from the computer, my mind shouted, "That's my girl! That's my girl! My sweet, inquisitive, bright, empathetic girl has dyslexia." I called her into the room and let her watch the video with me. She burst into tears. "That's ME, Mama! The lady is talking about ME!" <br />
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That afternoon, I asked her forgiveness. I asked her to forgive me for my frustration and stubbornness, for my lack of understanding. We made a decision to enjoy the TRUE flexibility of homeschooling and do away with grade-level labeling. I promised to let go of <em>some of </em>my routine and structure and she promised to not compare herself to anybody else. School is so much more enjoyable now that I've learned to mind my P's and Q's...or should I say, my "q's and p's"? Traci T.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13077792643325220351noreply@blogger.com6