Protected: Court Moments to Remember #3

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Protected: Court Moments to Remember #2

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Protected: To Medicate or Not to Medicate, That is the Question

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Little People, Big Lessons

Sometimes I learn the best lessons from my kids. I try really hard to be the one to teach them the best lessons, and I think I do a pretty good job most days. But some days…

I get humbled.

A couple of weeks ago, I was having a particularly bad day with Freddy. Although he’s only eight, he likes to think he’s at least 20. He knows just about everything there is to know about everything and he’s the first to argue if he believes you have been mistaken about something.

He’s also a very sensitive kiddo and if he perceives that you are upset with him over some injustice, it hurts him to the core of his being. I don’t recall the specifics of the exchange, to be honest with you, but I know that I reprimanded him for something.

He argued.

I argued back.

He raised his voice.

I raised my voice.

He raised his voice a little more.

I raised my voice a little more…

And then I told him, with my voice raised a little more, that was ENOUGH.

I sent him to his room until he could get a grip on his anger and hurt.

It wasn’t long before I heard his footsteps on the stairs. I saw his little, tear-streaked face peek around the corner at me and I softly said, “Come here.”

He came. I pulled him onto my lap and held him for a moment. He sighed a deep, shuddering, post-crying sigh and wrapped his little arms around my neck.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into my neck. “But you really hurt my feelings when you yelled at me.”

“I’m sorry, too,” I replied. “But you really hurt my feelings when you yelled at me.”

“Well…” he whispered…

“Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

I learn a little more every day. Thank you, Lord, for the lessons you send my way. Thank you more for the opportunity to get it right next time.

Protected: Court Moments to Remember #1

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The Lip-Synching Mariachi Thrift Store Cowboy

I had the afternoon off this Saturday.

And I don’t mean just from work. It’s been a LONG time since I had an afternoon to myself… one that did not entail driving to the ends of the earth for swimming, therapy, basketball games, allergy shots, birthday parties, or anything else… one that did not feature me dropping onto the couch in an exhausted heap after living in the car from 7:30am to 2:30pm… one that did not single-handedly drive up the price of gas from the sheer volume of our consumption.

I was excited.

In my former life, I spent hours and hours on my weekend afternoons doing what my friend Heather calls “junkin’”. I must admit, I am a thrift store addict. Along the same lines as my addiction to Garage Sale bargain hunting, I find thrift stores almost irresistible, and I haven’t been to a single one since Memorial Day weekend!

There’s a required method to this thrift store shopping excursion, too. I used to try to sneak in an hour here and there. My Hubby used to come with me, but he would grow bored after the hour I had promised turned into two to three, and be unable to hang while I sifted and sorted through every rack in the place. He didn’t understand that I had a *need* to examine every single item on every single rack so that I could avoid missing out on that ONE bargain that might be whispering my name.

The kids? Same thing. I really need an uninterrupted four-hour block of time, so I have learned that I have to go ONLY when I can go alone, or with a similarly unencumbered girlfriend who has the thrift-store sickness, too.

So, I was alone. All set for hours and hours of delightful digging, hoping to find the bargain to end all bargains… or at least a cheap pair of jeans. I drove to the thrift store that’s close to our house. It’s not my favorite, but I can usually find some good stuff there. It was a Saturday, 50% off day, so the parking lot was packed, full of folks doing the same thing I was. Keep in mind that went with a specific goal in mind–to find the bargains of the century.

What I did not bargain for was that I would also get the laugh of a lifetime. If you’re familiar with thrift stores, you know that most are not high-end department stores. They’re a little grungy, tend to smell pervasively like mothballs, and they leave funky gray marks on your fingers from the hangers. While I love them with a passion, I always feel like I need to wash my hands afterwards. So you wouldn’t really expect that they would hire entertainment, like the piano guy at Nordstrom. Oh, but entertainment they HAD, right out in front.

I walked towards the entrance, the sound of Mariachi music thumping in my ears. I know that sounds funny, like maybe it should have been rap or something, but it was so loud that it was actually thumping. As I turned the corner to head inside, I saw the oldest, most sun-ripened gentleman, in a cowboy hat, tight jeans and boots, that I have ever seen playing Mariachi music. Come to think of it, I’ve never actually seen a guy like this playing Mariachi music. Most of the time, the Mariachi players have a suit with lots of sequins, and a big sombrero on. And there’s not usually just one of them.

So I paused, just for a moment, to take note of the big urn he had set conspicuously in front of him. Again, I know “urn” is an interesting choice of words. It wasn’t a Tip Jar, or a goldfish bowl, or an oversized vase. It wasn’t a basket, or a paper bag with the word “Tips” written in Sharpie on the side, or even a rusted coffee can. It didn’t fit any other kind of tip jar I’d ever seen. It was an urn… like the kind you put ashes in after someone has been cremated. And it was spray-painted gold… with little flecks missing here and there.

O… K…

So I turned a little bit more, right before I headed in the door, just because I thought his voice was really quite good. He turned towards me and smiled… and stopped singing… just for a second… while the voice of the Mariachi guy continued. It took my brain a second to process, but then I noticed that after he started singing again, the amplifier was pointed the other direction and the Mariachi guy’s voice was coming out of that. Even though this guy’s lips were still moving…

The sound was coming straight from the amplifier.

Surely it could not be. I had just come for an afternoon of cheap retail therapy and I got a whole show. A lip-synching old cowboy; lip-synching to Mariachi music in tight jeans, boots and a cowboy hat; with a funeral urn for a tip jar; in front of the neighborhood Thrift Store.

It was the biggest bargain of all. Cheap entertainment, a good laugh, and quite a few great new-to-me clothing items for less than $50. It was the best four hours I’ve spent in a long time. I felt light when I left. And the lip-synching, cowboy-boot wearing, Mariachi-music playing, funeral-urn tip-jar having guy was still going strong.

As I headed for my car, bags in hand, I dropped a couple of bucks in his urn and gave him a smile…

Just for making me laugh.

A Very Small Bridge

Velma came downstairs this morning wearing a Halloween shirt.

While My Hubby was busy putting away his Halloween decorations, she had purposefully gone upstairs and put ON a Halloween shirt to wear to school. Ever conscious of the horrid nature of children between the ages of eight and eighteen in a school setting, and knowing how painful teasing can be, I suggested that she might change into something else, given that it is already November 8!

She shook her head and we had the following exchange:

Velma: “I WANT to wear this to school.”

Me: “But it’s past Halloween. It’s almost Thanksgiving.”

Velma: “But lots of other kids are wearing Halloween stuff still.”

Me: (With all of the wisdom I have gained from my mother over the years reflected in my voice) “If lots of other kids were jumping off of a bridge, would you do it?”

Silently, I’m patting myself on the back for imparting this little bit of wisdom to her at a moment like this. I have a few seconds to ponder this, while she’s thinking deeply about how to respond. I’m feeling good. She definitely gets it.

Maybe she’ll think about this particular phrase when she gets offered drugs, or alcohol, or when some boy is trying to convince her that she should give up the goods. Maybe she’ll go against the flow when she knows the flow is wrong, just because we’ve had this moment. Maybe she’ll remember this with such clarity that she’ll share it with her own kids one day. Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to work?

Ahhh, passing the torch. That’s what happening here.

Suddenly she comes out of her reverie and says…

“I might… If it was a very small bridge.”

Aaaaallllllllrrrrrrighty, then.