Dear Children: Being A Stick-In-The-Mud,

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Call it a fuddy duddy. Stick-in-the-mud (which by the way sounds better than being mud, doesn’t it?). A party pooper.

These are all society’s acceptable names that seem to be okay to call someone who does not give into peer pressure.

Guess what?

Your mommy is proud to have been called all of them.

Because sometimes, well sometimes, it’s important to stand up for something you believe in.

And people are going to feel threatened that you might not agree with their actions.

By you refusing to do an action with them, it calls into question their own morality.

People don’t like that.

But you should “stick to your guns anyway.”

This will probably lead them to result to name calling. Those words will hurt. Don’t think they won’t. But not as much as your soul will hurt if you go against it. The names they will call you may cut deeper than a “stick in the mud.” And as hard as this will be, you must ignore them.

When I was a child there was a nonsense little saying that went like this:

“Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words will never hurt me.”

That saying is ridiculous. Words are the most powerful thing in the world.

You might also notice that in Mommy’s time people were kind of obsessed with sticks.

I can’t explain this.

There must have been more trees back then.

This probably explains the many leaf idioms, as well.

But even back then, people fought the word, “no.”

Maybe they never learned differently. Maybe they just want to make their own choices. And that is okay. As long as you get to, too.

Because you should respect the use of someone else using that word, too.

Otherwise, we might as well all be made of sticks and leaves. And even stones.

Being human is more than that.

At least, it should be.

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If your friends or adversaries still will not understand your decision to not conform to their decision, well, I guess they “got the short end of the stick.”
Maybe you could, “Help them turn over a new leaf.”
If not, have more confidence than one can “shake a stick at.”

In today’s terms:

IOW, JTLYK, YOLO.

YKWYCD?

JSN!

ILY,

Mommy

Dear Children: Entitlement

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First, let’s start with the definition from Google. Entitlement: “The fact of having a right to something.”

The FACT of having a right to something.

Oftentimes, we confuse opinion with fact.

There are going to be moments in your life, Dear Children, when you are going to feel entitled to have something. And that is okay. That is human. To feel like we are sometimes owed something, even if we are not. I, myself, struggle with this all of the time. You, yourselves, struggle with this. Remember when we go to the movies and the feeling you get when I sometimes refuse to visit the concession stand? That is the feeling I speak of. Or when your teacher decides that there will be a pop quiz and you feel that you should have been allotted more time? That, too, is an example of what I write of today.

I often feel entitled to a cookie after vacuuming the house. That cookie is my reward. I earned it. I singlehandedly fought the floor for its hold on dandruff, dirt, crumbs, and flakes. And I won. I schooled that carpet. It owed me.

But do you see how ridiculous that sounds?

I mean does a carpet really owe me anything? Or do I owe the carpet a right to be clean? Or dirty, if it wills. Is the carpet entitled to be as dirty as it would like to be? Is the vacuum entitled to refuse to clean it?

And so you see, children, how very, very tricky the word “entitlement” can be.

Now, imagine we are not talking about one human being and two inanimate objects, but rather three human beings instead. Can you imagine what the world would be like?

I imagine it would be a constant shriek and rumble of these three sentences:

“It’s mine!”

“I earned it!”

“I got it first!”

I recently went somewhere and I was appalled by the behavior of persons that would call themselves adults. And I was appalled by my own behavior. Because I sat there for a time and agreed with those people.

Yes, you are right. We do deserve this. I found myself nodding in agreement. I was entitled to be mad. I was entitled to feel that somebody owed me. I became a wretched human being. I heard, This is what we were promised.

And Everyone knows you can’t break a promise.

I went into the situation feeling very entitled. And I left feeling disgusted. And confused.

Because didn’t I have a right to feel this way? Wasn’t I entitled to it?

I decided to break it down to avoid confusion. For both myself and for you.

Here is what you are entitled to:

A lawyer if you are arrested (and an inconsolable mother if that is the case).

An opinion. As long as you recognize it is not a fact.

An item if you purchased it.

The air you breathe if the Earth allows it.

Your feelings.

A refund if it states so on the receipt.

Your Constitutional Rights as provided and dictated by the law.

To be compensated for the work that you do. Except for volunteer work.

To make your own decisions when you turn eighteen.

Your body.

That about sums it up.

Doesn’t it seem like there should be so much more?

Unfortunately, there is not.

And that is what leads to the chaos that is that word.

Because everyone thinks they have more rights than they do. They are entitled to more.

The world is full of entitled people. Who are raising entitled children. Who will grow up to be entitled adults. Each of them, kings and queens of their domains. Each of them entitling each other to be the best. Have the best. Fight for the best. Because it’s their right.

Who am I to think any differently?

Shouldn’t my needs come before his/hers?

Because I earned it. I got here first. It’s mine!

And around we all go on this ferris wheel of words. The unfortunate repeats of the “I’s” and the “M’s.”

Until the whole world explodes with the Me’s. The Mine’s. The I’s.

It is not a coincidence you can find all three of those words in the word, “entitlement,” itself.

It is corrupted.

Corruptible.

Corrupting.

Other words that can be found in “entitlement”:

Lie

Need

Intent

Mitten

Just wanted to see if you were paying attention with that last one.

I will have many more opportunities to redeem myself with that tricky word. And more probabilities of failure. And you will, too.

It seems as though us humans are wired to feel this way.

Much like the vacuum cleaner that was wired to clean the floor.

I will try harder in the future to fight my programming.

Too often when I feel I have the right to something, it turns out that I am entirely wrong.

Even the word “entitled” feels entitled.

Entitled often insists it is the twin of Deserved.

It is up to you to be able to spot the differences. They do, too often, get confused with each other. I will give you a few clues.

Deserved is the one without an “I” in it. And it is usually standing next to Earned.

Standing next to.

Not hiding behind.

May you make the right choice and not demand the choice as your right.

Love,

Mommy

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* My children read my blog. Which is sweet. Very sweet. But I also want to know that they are learning something from me besides simple recipes and pretty clothing. These letters are real letters to my children. From their mother. You might not agree with my message, but please respect my sentiment.

Dear Children: Halfway

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Today you have to go back to school after your long winter break. I just want to wring my hands and cry. I am not ready for you to go back. I have enjoyed every single moment of you being at home with me. Please don’t tell anyone this. I am afraid they will kick me out of Lazy-Mothers-R-Us. Although I was always too lazy to go to those meetings anyway (Do they even have meetings? Does the imaginary club I invented in my head carry on secret meetings? Must find this out…someday).

Halfway.

How is this school year halfway over?

The other night we spoke of homeschooling. Not seriously. I am not equipped to take on such a task. First, my knowledge is not up to par with today’s standards. Second, because I fear that we would have one hour of studying and seven hours of recess. Because that is what I am good at. This is perhaps why both of you were so gung-ho with the idea.

I asked you both what subject I would be capable of teaching and you both replied, “cooking.”

Awwww… Yes. Who needs math or english or science?

Let’s just all major in mashed potatoes.

Do they give scholarships for that?

Is it paid in potatoes or butter?

Halfway.

We are halfway through. But it means so much more than that. It means that in six months I will officially have no children in elementary school. Both of your schools will have the word “high” in them. I cannot see why, as it makes me feel so low.

And old.

Halfway.

It means that in six months, you, my daughter, will only have three years left at home with us. Three years! How am I ever going to manage this? It makes me want to hide in bed and never leave. And on some days I do just that. The idea of you leaving me is as foreign as the languages I will never homeschool you in.

Last night we gathered together backpacks and binders. Old lunches were found buried in the bottom of bags. A pleasant reminder as to why I joined Lazy-Mothers-R-Us in the first place. Inventory was taken and it seems that of the 2,587,463 pencils I purchased you at the beginning of the year, we have two left. Two! It also seems that both of your folders have been gnawed on and chewed then spit back out and mauled again. How else to explain the full lunches in both of your bags and the decrepit state of your folders? Maybe I’m not qualified to teach you cooking after all.

Halfway.

That is the status of my heart right now. Frozen between breaking in your absence and rejoicing in your return. It is in a stasis period. It seems to be the only thing not moving. For Time certainly has not stopped.

June. I try not to curse on this blog, but there never was such a bad four letter word as that one. The end of the school year. I always think of it as the end of yet another year that you will be with us. But maybe I am viewing this all wrong. It is, basically, the very beginning of a whole summer spent at home with me.

Maybe June isn’t such a bad word. In fact, maybe halfway isn’t either. Maybe this school year is halfway full instead of halfway empty. Oh, never mind, that analogy is useless with anything other than a glass.

Halfway.

Well, we are here whichever it may be. And, I, for one, am not even halfway ready for it.

Is it too late to stay home and make mashed potatoes?

I heard they taste better than binders.

And tears.

Dear Children: Back To School

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You are now back in school. The days have begun anew, filled with the terrible curse of a schedule. Early mornings. Nights that we try so hard to stretch. The darkness covering our outstretched arms like a blanket. Our efforts futile in their weakness.

Do you know that your Great Grandmother called the first day of school “Mother’s Day”? And as much as I miss you, there is some truth to that. You would be amazed at how clean the house is without two tornadoes attacking it.

The house is so still. Your mother is a person who does best in the calm. Alone. I rest my head on a chair and try to picture what your day is like. I imagine, you, my son, scowling in the direction of a disobedient child. Or your hand rubbing your chin, your eyes staring intently ahead, as you sit and ponder a lesson. And, you, my daughter, I imagine your bright smile. I know you do not skip to class. But this is my imagination. And so you do, all the while laughing. Causing others that walk by you to smile in return…

My eyes dart to the clock to make sure I am not late to bring you home. The day passes quickly in the silence.

Ahhhh. Yes. A schedule. It is here again. Nightly homework being trudged through like a spoon through molasses. And all of the “extras” being shoved into the hours with the hurry of a chipmunk to his cheeks with an elusive nut.

We all go to bed tired.

Our days are full. Our bodies have adjusted to this rhythm. Our souls long for summer.

I sit watching the clock. I know it will come all too soon. Time rushes by me in the stillness. Growing your bodies. Growing your minds. Growing my sorrow.

The school year has begun. Another year is proceeding to make its mark. Cutting its way through our future. I wonder and worry about what the year will bring. Only Time will tell. And he is a master at keeping secrets.

I hope you will do well, my children. Study hard. Enjoy the weekends. This schedule that we are on will keep us going. Racing to the finish line in June. Time is smiling cunningly at the end. Let us still try to beat him. Shall we? I’ll give you a head start.

And so, my children, I wish you good luck in the coming school year. I will be behind you, rooting for you all the way! Know I am here, catching your shadows in my fingertips. We will get to that finish line! One step at a time.

Love,

Mommy

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* I have recently learned my children are googling my blog. Which is sweet. Very sweet. But I also want to know that they are learning something from me besides simple recipes and pretty clothing. These letters are real letters to my children. From their mother. You might not agree with my message, but please respect my sentiment.