A Happy List

I found this note yesterday. It was tucked inside of a publicly shared magazine. I hope nobody wants it back. It was just sitting there, its yellow skin flashing me a mischievous grin as it poked out of a page.

I couldn’t help myself.

I took it.

I don’t know if this makes me a thief or an official hoarder.

Probably both.

I believe it was written by a bored child waiting for a parent to finish an appointment. I also imagine it was written around Christmas time. It is a list. A list of presents for children. For boys and for “grils.” It was as if the child decided to ponder for one day what it must be like to be Santa Claus.

Right now my mind is full of lists. The bills I need to pay. The chores I need to do. The groceries I need to buy. The packages I have to send. The returns I need to make. The posts I need to edit. It can be overwhelming.

For all of those things… for all of those lists… this list that I found made me happy. It reminded me to breathe. All lists are not bad. Or naughty, as it were. The hope or imagination of a child is irresistible to me. An innocent handwritten list of toys made me smile. And I hope the simplicity of it makes you smile today, too. Because maybe our lists aren’t so simple. And maybe we can’t be Santa. But we can imagine what that must feel like. Or put ourselves in someone else’s shoes for one day, whether those shoes meet up with a red suit or not is up to you:

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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.