Tag Archives: reality

“Why Me” (A Thanksgiving Reminder)

“Sometimes I lie awake at night and I ask, “Why me?”, then a voice answers “Nothing personal, your name just happened to come up.”
Charlie Brown

We all get overwhelmed. We go to places that make us wonder what we’ve done to bring such challenges to our lives and question how in the world we’re supposed to cope when so many things are going wrong. The voice that tells you “Nothing personal…” is only slightly satisfying. I really believe you, and me, and everyone else, needs to look at the things in our lives that ARE working and that are, in fact, going better than we could ever have hoped for. When those things come to mind, we need to be just as diligent and ask:

“Why Me?”

When we are facing a challenge and friends rush to our sides to assist us:

“Why Me?”

When we suffer a serious accident, and somehow survive:

“Why Me?”

When we have a child who is struggling with school, and we have teachers who join with us to assist in moving them to success:

“Why Me?”

If we focus solely on the things that are challenges, we just don’t realize how each day brings positives we will miss when our head is down and shaking in dismay. We miss our opportunities to be thankful for today. I am not a Pollyanna, I have suffered many hardships in my life. As I’ve grown through them I’ve come to realize they were a gift that brought focus to the good times in my life. They provided clarity to my thoughts about “the routine” and sharp edges to what is really hard and what is just nonsense. They’ve helped me put into perspective how fleeting time really is.

Now when my sons, rush off the bus, jackets flying and backpacks bumping up and down; when they rush up the driveway in a full out race, laughing and fussing about cheating and head starts; all the time with their eyes smiling. I’ve come to understand that I am witness to the morning of their lives. That’s when I ask:

“Why Me?”

and that’s when I say thank you for all the moments that have shaped me and brought me to this place.


How Come?

Things I don’t understand:

      Why egg pans are round and egg turners are square.

       Why there are signs on entrances that say:

               “Seeing eye dogs allowed.”

       Who is that for?
       Why they say “sleep like a baby” when anyone who has ever had one knows what a joke THAT is.
       Why people that have plastic bags pulled over their heads on television dramas don’t just pop an air hole at their mouths and then turn around and knee their attacker.
       Where the HELL that shoe comes from that I see in the middle of the road.  WHOSE shoe is that and what happened when they got home.  Did they open the door of the car, go to get out and say:
                         “OH – WHOA—Man, I lost my shoe!”

I don’t understand:
       Why the inside of my washing machine AND the inside of my dishwasher BOTH get dirty.  Don’t they get cleaned every stinking time I run the machine?

       Why my husband thinks that just because he helps more than his dad did that he

                       “Helps out a lot around here.”

        Why a clean diaper is like pulling into a gas station and saying to the attendant:

                            “Fill ‘er up!”
I don’t get why:

        Me being PTO President and spending hundreds of hours at my son’s school didn’t impact my youngest son’s teacher’s decision, ONE FREAKIN’ IOTA,  when it came time to send him to see the assistant principal after only 13 days of the new school year.  Can’t I get a TINY, LITTLE, BREAK HERE? JUST A LITTLE ONE?

        I can give my boys  a hot cooked meal every night yet when the teacher asks them what they eat for dinner they say chicken nuggets and french fries.

 How come:

       My kids act like they’ve just gotten struck from behind by a shovel when I tell them to take a shower. 

       A second baby is not just twice the work.  That little baby seems to take 100 times the effort he/she ought to.

       I felt guilty when the nurses took my first baby from me in the hospital and by the fourth I was buzzing the nurse to come:

                  “Because Danny misses the other kids”.

I can’t figure out why:

       Women that stay home feel guilty they aren’t working and women that are working feel guilty they aren’t staying home.

       Why I’m supposed to understand and handle puberty when they cannot understand and handle PMS.

       Why sleeping men HARDLY EVER hear the babies cry. 

       Why sleeping men HARDLY EVER hear kids throwing up, or breathing with colic, or women going into labor. 

       Why my husband ALWAYS heard me moan when I was nine months pregnant with a 10 pound baby saying the next morning:

                             “You kept me up all night.”

And how come:

         I never used to cry when I listened to the news.

         I never used to donate to the Children’s Hospital or appreciate the work of Marlo Thomas and her dad.

         I didn’t ever see all those pregnant ladies that are ALL over the place.

         I didn’t pat a mom having a hard day on the back and tell her to hang in.  I just passed judgment that:

                               “She wasn’t ready for kids.”

         I get pissed that they’ve labeled her the “Octomom.”  Yes, I think she’s going to be in terrible trouble, has incredible issues, and is perhaps in need of psychological help, but must we create an image that rivals a “Spiderman” Movie in order to humiliate her. 

         I never noticed that the wind in a babies face makes them smile, even if they don’t want to.

I don’t know why: 

         I never realized how brilliant my husband’s blue eyes were until I saw them in my boys.

         I never fell to my knees thanking GOD for what He’s given us, before I had children.

         I never used to offer my help to a mom in line with a fussy child.  I do it all the time now, but never even thought of it before my boys.

         I never understood how my mom could forgive my brother AGAIN, AND AGAIN, AND AGAIN.

       I realize now:

          That regardless of what I’ve accomplished personally, the GREATEST way I will impact the next generation is through my children.

How come:
          I get this now and not 12 years ago?  There are really only four reasons I can think of.

Thank You Gentlemen:  for making everything so much clearer.

Parenting Tip of the Day: 

Don’t listen to people who tell you that holding your baby will spoil them.  You hold them every second you want to.  You’ll know if they’re getting spoiled.  It is certainly NOT going to be because you love them too much.  When you turn that love into giving them too much, then you need to step back.  Too many hugs never hurt anyone.


I hate pantyhose.  I went to my High School reunion last weekend so I had to buy a pair of hose for the first time in years (my kids have never seen me in a dress).  I did a little research and apparently pantyhose are the invention of a butcher in England some 150 years ago.  He was filling sausage casings when he had a flash of male inspiration:

 “By George,” he thought, “I’ll bet my wife’s legs would look positively smashing in this stuff.”

The whole pantyhose process disturbs me.  To begin with the little stair-step, sizing chart on the back of the package is confusing.  I compared my height and weight to my age, hair color, and zodiac sign and I realized I no longer fit into “Queen” size hose. Some four babies later I had morphed into a size best described as “Queen Mother”.  After the shock of that revelation settled in, I headed home with my egg shaped container only to pull out a pair of hose that looked more like leggings for the new                 “Trophy Wife Barbie”. 

After a glass of wine I’d built up all my feminine courage and started the slow process of massaging and stretching the see-through mesh and then used my thumbs to expand and coax the material up my legs.

“Please don’t let them twist” I prayed as I worked through the process.

*Note to whatever male readers I have left:  Twisted hose are somewhat akin to having God put your skin on wrong.  You stand there, you know something doesn’t feel or look right but the idea of starting over is simply mind blowing.  So you pinch at the material that is now one with your skin, rotating it as best you can and acting like you’ve fixed it:  even though you can clearly see the pantyhose tag aligned with your belly button. 

Despite a lifetime doing this; I believed I could complete the process in my bedroom like some Victoria’s Secret model.  As usual I ended up bent over and hobbling into the bathroom with one leg in the hose and one leg out; searching for the ten year old bottle of clear nail polish I bought the last time I wore pantyhose. 

Having found only the bright purple, glimmer stuff I used last Halloween when I dressed up as Ursula from “The Little Mermaid”, I painted some on my leg where my first “runner” had begun.  After I hopped around on one foot for three minutes blowing on the polish, I finished pulling up the hose and began the deep knee bends required to expand the length of the legs, and with the cry of a Samurai, pulled the crotch up the last six inches.   

Eventually, and I’ll admit it, I opted to wear pants and Spanx.  I could have worn the hose, but the idea of repeating this ritual every time I went to the bathroom was just too much.  Besides, I wouldn’t see these guys for another ten years and my push up bra was enough drama for the evening.

 You’ve got to love hearing people say “You haven’t changed a bit”.

Parenting Tip of the Day:  As soon as they voice the desire to do so, let your children pick out their clothes.  They won’t match, they’ll be too hot, but they’ll learn that they have a voice.  Picking out clothes is the first way children learn to express themselves.    Every teacher and every mom understands and will forgive the blues matched with the oranges.  Of course never let them suffer, but a child that refuses to wear a warm coat  and who shivers at the bus stop, sure does appreciate mom pulling a warm jacket out of nowhere.