Random Reflections On: Working in Education

-When people ask me if I watch "The Walking Dead", my response to them is always the same. Absolutely. It's what those of us who work in education call by its alternate title, "Monday Morning".

-I would like to thank our third grade teachers for their stroke of genius in planning a field trip on Halloween (which I get to go on with one of my students) that concludes right when the Halloween parties start. If you have never tried to get through a day with kiddos leading up to a holiday event, imagine trying to keep a squirrel in a box for six hours, and you've pretty much got it. Halloween on the 4th Saturday in October as a federal law, y'all. Parents and teachers, feel free to write my name in on the presidential ballot.

-Due to my stupor over the Chiefs now being in 1st place in the AFC West and staying up way past my bedtime to watch this occur, I *almost* left the bathroom without putting on any make up this morning. Now before you maybe say something sweet like, I don't need any make up or whatevs, let's take a hard look at the numbers. I am (well) over 40, I work in a 62 year old building with only fluorescent lighting, and it contains 65 kindergartners, who have not yet grown a filter. This would have ended poorly.

-Walkie going off all day asking for assists in classrooms, revolving door in the office, at one point I'm trying to coax a student down the hallway back to class while a different one blows by me in one direction in a huff and another pulling a "Home Alone" style Kevin freak out runs by in another. Welcome to school life a week before Christmas. And we in the SMSD get to do it all again for 2.5 days next week. 😁 If you have yet to purchase your kid's teacher a holiday gift, please do so. And be generous, y'all. Goodness knows they've earned the love. xo

-As someone who works closely with teachers, I already have mad levels of respect for them. As someone who had to cover kindergarten car duty at dismissal today, it has grown even deeper. You think the school car line sucks from a parent perspective? Try bringing out thirty 5 & 6 year olds and getting them matched to their respective vehicles at breakneck speed to keep the line moving. I would liken it to taking a bunch of drunk monkeys to catch the "L". Teachers rock.

-I have subbed probably ten times in the past few days to cover classroom teachers for SpEd meetings, and it seeks to reminds me every time of a few things:
1. Teachers and senators need to swap salaries.
2. Children are no longer taught to write cursive in school, yet still somehow manage form a line in it.
3. When a sub enters a room, 22 bladders simultaneously reach capacity.
4. Paras and aides are amazing at a variety of things, including not laughing aloud when teachers say the IEP meeting "should take less than an hour". (We love them for their optimism though. And for a whole lot of other reasons.😘)
5. Working in education is absolutely the best job on the planet. Yes, we are tired, grossly underpaid (especially those aforementioned aides and paras) and underfunded, but we go home every day with a full heart and knowing that what we do every day changes lives for the better. I am blessed.

-Students always seem confused as to why we refrain from sharing much personal info with them. Given the fact that they LOOOOVE to chat with us about things like: "Mommy got a speeding ticket from the D.A.R.E. officer yesterday", "Daddy said the F word when he was playing X Box", "Mommy's boyfriend had a sleepover at our house last night!" and "Daddy has androids, and it hurts when he poops", you as parents can undoubtedly understand our reluctance.

-You might work in an elementary school if, without even thinking, you yell "Walking feet, please!" at two random kids running down the hallway at the community center. Oops.

-Did not sleep at all well last night and am headed out on a field trip today with about 50 sixth graders. To Power Play. A coffee delivery by anyone the area would be fab. Also, did you know that an entire bottle of wine fits perfectly in a Starbucks trenta cup? I'm not suggesting anything here. Just an interesting fact and stuff. Happy Friday, y'all!

-Working with a small group today, and one student asked what today is. Another said, "It's Taco Tuesday, right, Mrs. Rushing?". My work for the school year is complete. Peace out.

-Summer break brings to educators more joys than I can enumerate. Two of the biggest are peeing and eating whenever we want. If you're not sure what it's like trying to consume ANYTHING in front of students, eat a steak in front of a dog, and you've nailed it. Clearly summer is about really reconnecting with your food. So far today I've had early breakfast, late breakfast, a pre-lunch snack, and it's currently only 10:30. On top of my game over here, y'all. Believe.

My Thoughts On: Swimsuit Shopping Over 40

It sucks.

The End

Okay, I won't leave it at that because it's just stating the obvious.  I'll also be honest and say that, until my mid-40s, swimsuit shopping had never been a challenge.  In my teens and twenties, I had a stick thin figure through no fault or effort of my own.  Then the bebas came in my thirties, which means I had to start making a concerted effort to exercise a few times a week and hit the sweets a few times less than that.  Sure, okay, I got this.  Then the big 4-0.

Now don't get me wrong, I looooove the changes this decade has brought to my mind and my spirit.  My body?  Girl, bye.  But dang, I'm fighting it.  Six days a week at the gym, hitting the pavement and working the yoga mat.  Not to mention being mindful of everything I put in my mouth.  The result is a chick who's stronger and healthier than she's ever been, and I'm super proud of her.  But then there's this bitch I can't get around named Gravity.

Gravity wants to hang out with everybody, honey.  Your boobs, your butt, your stomach, even your KNEES, for cryin' out loud.  Doesn't matter to her that no one wants her around.  She's like that friend that's always inviting you to her hostess parties (now there's a blog post for another time), and no matter how many times you decline, she keeps popping up in your Facebook events like a chin hair.  Gah!  So it's no surprise that Gravity is right there with you when it's time to look for a swimsuit.  She's a pushy personal shopper, your mother and every body issue you've had since thirteen all rolled into one.

Now I'm going to stop bashing Gravity for a second and turn my wrath to another entity for a moment.  The swimsuit manufacturers.  People. Please.  Consider the fact that you currently have a grand total of TWO lines on the market.  The first is called "I'm Nineteen", and the second is called "I've Given Up".  Neither applies here.  We. Need. More. Options.  And of course Ima gonna give some advice on those on behalf of my sistas who got Gravity tagging along, but still otherwise got it goin' on.  First let's talk about The Girls.

The Girls have been residing in the middle of our chest for about thirty years or so, and they tired, chile.  They've fed babies, they've entertained a gentleman caller or two, and they've been horribly mistreated by people with surgical gloves and cold metal plates. (Important stuff though. Get your boobies checked.)  Since The Girls can't pack up and move, they'd just like to explore other territory, preferably one they can hide out in.  The navel looks good, as do the armpits.  The bottom line is that The Girls are all over the dang place in this phase of life.  They need support and room to rest.  But they are, at their bosom (see what I did there?), vain creatures and would like a behind-the-scenes infrastructure to allow them to stand at attention and relive their glory days.

Now on to the Baby Keeper.  She has been even more abused than The Girls.  All the core work in the world can't keep Gravity from going after her, the poor thing, and she is ready to become a nun and take the veil.  In the form of fringe, draping, mesh or netting in a variety of colors and patterns, please.

The rest of the advice for the industry is just a series of "nos".  Strapless?  No.  White?  No. Hook closures?  No.  Shelf bras?  No.  Thong or Rio bottoms?  Stand real still while I shove my spanx over your head.  Swimsuits over $50?  Uhh, I'm a public school employee whose monthly salary is on par with the car allowance of the superintendent.  Y'all got layaway?

The bottom line is that Gravity ain't going anywhere.  And she's ultimately going to win.  But maybe swimsuit manufacturers can throw a lot more options to the retailers so that the over 40 she-warriors can at least better arm ourselves for the fight.  It may be a losing battle, but it doesn't mean we can't bring our A game and look our best along the way.  Well within our rights, and most fitting for the fabulous women that we have earned our way into being.

Sparkly Kisses,

D

My Thoughts On: OCD

Let me preface this blog post by saying that I totally get that for some people, OCD is a crippling disorder that, if not successfully treated, can keep them from living a full life.  I am in no way making light of or discounting what they walk through.  The purpose of this post is to acknowledge my own (self-diagnosed) OCD, and of course, liberally poke fun at myself.  Anyway...

If you aren't the slightest bit OCD, we probably are not/will never be close friends.  I'm going to drive you completely nuts at my house with the fact that, as soon as you get up to leave, I'm fluffing and putting back in proper order the throw pillows on the couch you were sitting on. And say, I'm at your house, you ask me to get a spoon from a drawer for you, and I see 428 kitchen utensils jumbled all hodge podge together. I'm going to self-soothe by counting backward from 1000 by twos so that I don't start visibly twitching.

Now please, do not translate my desire for order and symmetry in life into my having a spotless house.  I live with three other people who forced me long ago to choose between having floors clean enough to eat off of and having a mind rational enough to tie my own shoes.  I picked the latter.  BUT, I still need to operate within the parameters of The System.

There are way too many levels and components of The System to go into right now.  If I do, I will alienate those who have no OCD traits.  And those who do have them might feel compelled to try and make suggestions to me on how I can improve The System, and then I will have to create a Power Point on why MY System is the best, and in order to do that, I will have to get my teenager to show me how to make a Power Point, which I have never permitted myself to do.  For the same reasons I am not allowed to have a label maker, a Bedazzler or a police scanner.  The most important component of OCD self-regulation is knowing your triggers and just not going down a dark path to Satan's doorstep.

Instead of detailing The System, I will give you some highlights.  There are probably at least twenty in each room, but I limited it to two or three.

THE KITCHEN
-Spices are to be alphabetized. (Well, duh.)
-All dishes, cups and silverware must be rotated when they come out of the dishwasher and go into the cabinet/drawer, with the just washed items going to the back/bottom.  (Totally makes sense.  Why would you not want even use of your household items?  Ridick.)
-On the stove, the salt has to go on the right and the pepper on the left. (This throws back to my days as a restaurant server, and has something to do with blind people, and hey, I don't mess with tradition.)

THE BATHROOM
-The shower curtain is never to be left even slightly open.  (Mold causes us OCD folks to start keening and become irrationally convinced that we have instantly contracted tuberculosis.)
-Hand and bath towels are to be folded after laundering with the tag facing in and rotated per the same routine as for dishes.  (Again, even use. Again, duh.)

THE BEDROOM
-Everything in the closet shall be grouped by garment type and then organized by color code.  (Logic of the highest order.  Let's say you want to borrow a grey cardigan sweater.  I can tell you to go to the right side of my closet, lower rack, last grouping on the right, five garments from the end.  After you have taken off your shoes to walk on my new bedroom carpeting of course.)
-Don't ever attempt to make the bed unless you have passed your Proper Pillowcasing, Hospital Corners and Five Steps to Pillow Alignment courses.  (Seriously, an unmade bed is better than one that is improperly made.  Momma Boots would disagree with me on this one.)

MISCELLANEOUS
-Odors: Okay, I am weird about all funky smells.  But fried food smell freaks me out.  Like seriously, freaks me the freak out.  Can't stand it in my hair, on my clothes, GAH!  So when the Hubs makes breakfast for dinner (his specialty), I have to open the windows (even if it's twenty degrees outside) close my bedroom door AND the bathroom door, and the second the dishes are done, I shower, wash my hair, and voluntarily go into solitary confinement in my room for the rest of the night. (I say that like it's a punishment, but most moms would give up one of their kidneys to spend an evening alone in their bedroom. But I digress.) Yes, the fried food thing is strange.  I GET IT.  Don't care.  There are just three other people in the world that this has any bearing on, and they've accepted it. Probably make fun of me behind my back, but meh.  I am completely secure with my oddball status.
-Grocery Bagging: There are a lot of reasons I shop at Aldi.  Read my past blog post for the deets.  One of the biggies is that I get to bag my own groceries. Yeah, baby! This is a recreational sport for me.  Kind of like Jenga mashed up with speed stacking.  How can order and logic work together to dominate space saving, efficiency, and ease of transport?  YES! Okay, it's also strange.  I GET IT.  Still don't care.  When cashiers compliment me on my work, it *may* ping the same area of the brain that is affected when the effects of heroin hit an addict's brain, but meh.  I will never in my life win a Nobel Prize, the lottery or a prize drawing. (Seriously, only giveaway I have ever won in my life was a at a garden center for answering a trivia question.  I won a plant.  I was ten.  Um, yeah.)  So LET ME HAVE THIS.

I could totally write my master's thesis on this whole topic, but in order to not lose the six people who have made it all the way through this, I'll bring it in.  The bottom line is that when you are OCD but cohabitate with other humans (and work in an elementary school to boot), you need the comforts of The System and its rules and rituals in order to cope with life.  For me, you also gotta throw a big helpin' of Jesus in there.  And a lil bit of wine.  And maybe some cake.  Just sayin.

If all of this has left you convinced that I am completely cray cray, s'alright.  Like I said, I own and embrace my OCD lifestyle, and everyone who is important to me either shares some of my traits or just tolerates them.  And hey, be happy that I'm not trying to create a System for YOUR life.  I am too tired and too over 40 to try and convert the unwashed, honey.  Just keep the salt on the right and the pepper on the left, and we can peacefully coexist together forever and ever, amen.

Sparkly Kisses,

D

My Thoughts On: Groundhog Day

Knowing how I feel about winter, I had a couple of folks ask me yesterday what I thought of the groundhog's prediction for six more weeks of it.  My response was that I have as much confidence in the decision making abilities of a rodent as I do in those of intoxicated people, overtired children and Gov. Brownback. (I work in public education and have two children in KS public schools.  Enough said.)

First of all, the entire concept is @$$ backward.  The sun is shining, it sees its shadow, then there is MORE winter?  The weather is dreary, it doesn't see its shadow, early spring?  Balderdash.  Second, people are donning tuxedos and top hats to tromp into the woods and retrieve a rodent from its hole that then "talks" to one of the them and gives his weather predictions?  Mmmkay.  This sounds more like a story involving group of groomsmen who were frat brothers and an open bar at a wedding reception.  Lastly, we all know that spring's arrival is wildly unpredictable anyway, and here in Kansas, that season has pretty much replaced summer.  We generally have winter until early May, three months of warm spring weather, then one month of hot summer weather that commences precisely when school resumes in mid-August, then straight to fall.

The bottom line for me is that Groundhog Day is as pointless of a "holiday" to put on the calendar as Arbor Day.  (Really? Can you even tell me what month it's in or who founded it?  That's what I thought.)  The weather has nothing to do with the whims of a rodent.  Everybody KNOWS that it is controlled by the federal government (HAARP, anyone?) and its attempt to govern our thoughts and emotions.  I just haven't figured out how having me walk around looking like Grumpy Cat for four months benefits their military operations in any way.

So save your questions regarding my opinion on the fate of Mulligatawny Phil's shadow.  I'm too busy searching online for an electric blanket that gets so hot that it could bake brownies under my covers.  Now that there is an idea.  You wouldn't even have to get out of your warm bed to get a late night snack.  Brilliant!  And it has all the makings of a great late night infomercial.  Now to just come up with a product name...

Sparkly Kisses,

D

"Norman Rockwell" Family Moments While Keepin' it "Rushing Real"

There are a lot of reasons why I remain an UnPinterested Mom.  Mainly because the whole idea of trying to keep up with the over-achieving, overly-competitive nature that I imagine is intrinsic in being a devoutly Pinterested Mom just makes me more tired than I already am.  (Disclaimer: my exposure to devoutly Pinterested Moms has mainly been limited to school room parties, so please forgive me my jaded attitude.)  Having said that, I do like to create special memories for my kids whenever I can.  BUT, this does not include spending hours planning/researching/constructing/staging anything or robbing their 529s to make it happen.

So I came up with this fun idea to ease the pain for all of us of summer break coming to an end by doing something special as a family every evening the entire week leading up to the first day of school.  I tried giving it a clever title, like, "Summer Break-ing Up is Hard to Do" or "Final Fling of Fun", but they all kind of sounded like direct-to-DVD movies, so I skipped the name and just told the fam the general idea.  The only rules were that each night it would be a surprise (to them), we all had to do it, electronics were verboten and whatever we did had to be free or cost less than ten bucks.  Everyone was on board.  Mr. Rockwell, pick up your brush and get ready to paint a portrait.


Night 1: "Ghost in the Graveyard"
Let me splain why playing this simple game would be a real excitement generator for the Boy Child and Girl Child and even my Handsome Husband.  I am the most boring person in the world after 7:00pm.  Now I'm no Charo prior to that hour either, but my animation level blows a serious leak about the time I finish cooking dinner and depletes at an alarming rate in the hours following.  And if you didn't get the Charo reference, Google her.  I am too old and too disinterested to keep up with who the Charo of the current generation is, if anyone is actually capable of filling her fringed stiletto boots.  Suffice it to say, she is high energy 24/7.  I am high energy 10/5.  Ish.

So the idea that Mommy was going to be outside after dark in her clothes (as opposed to the PJs I would normally be in at that time, people) while shrieking and running about the yard with no concern for what the neighbors might be thinking (okay, I texted a few of them to give them a heads up, lest they think I have finally and officially cracked) was enough to send the kids maniacally sprinting from window to window at dusk to see if it was as dark as Daddy said it needed to be to start the game.

Once they got the go ahead and we went outside, things rapidly went downhill.  From the time I had returned from my run an hour before, the dew point had gone up by ten degrees and was at a very balmy 74.  Even my contacts were fogging up.  Then when it was the Boy Child's turn to be the Ghost, he got pissed when he didn't catch anyone, quit the game and spent the remainder of the time telling the rest of us (loudly) how stupid being the Ghost, playing the game, family time, bugs, humidity and his life all are.  Brush down, Mr. Rockwell.

Night 2: "Family Movie Night"
Again, you may be wondering why this would be of intense interest to my kids since most families do this all the time.  We are not most families.  Trying to find a movie that appeals to all of us is the main challenge.  Case in point; my HH came into the bedroom the other night with the hope that we could watch something together.  I told him I was already watching a movie and that he was welcome to join me.  He asked what it was, and I told him it was a documentary on the life and times of Mark Twain.  He blinked a couple of times and turned heel without another word.  Given the fact that he can quote the full dialogue from any Will Farrell or Adam Sandler movie, while I have never even seen a film starring either one, you can sense the issue there.

However, I managed to find a family film I thought we would all enjoy ("Heaven is for Real", in case you're interested), and we all settled in.  Everyone was instructed to place their electronics on the coffee table and that no one was to touch them until the movie was over.  We snuggled on the couch in a tangle of arms and legs, and I hit play.  Brush in hand, Mr. Rockwell.

Now if you actually want to hear any of a movie's dialogue, do not combine a film that is an examination of spiritual beliefs vs. disbelief with two children who, God bless them, like to ask a LOT of questions about everything all the time anyway.  Ten minutes in, I had patiently paused the movie so many times for a Q&A session that I had forgotten what we were watching, and my HH was on the verge of totally losing it and retreating to the bedroom to watch baseball.  Not to mention the fact that every time someone's device beeped that they had a text or a game notification, they tensed up like I had said we were following up Movie Night with Closet Clean Outs, and I had to apply leg and/or arm pressure to keep them from picking up said device.  Brush down.

Night 3: "Trouble" at Krispy Kreme
Now there's a good title.  Kind of gives you the impression that the fun activity of the evening is to bust up into Krispy Kreme, hop behind the counter and start throwing Hot N Ready doughnuts at each other from off the conveyor as we are chowing down on them.  (I *might* have been involved in a similar incident once back in college.)  That wasn't the kind of "trouble" I was planning though.

The actual idea was to go to Krispy Kreme (a novelty both for us to go in to the place and to eat doughnuts in the evening) and play the game Trouble while the fam was enjoying inner tube-shaped morsels of fried crap.  In the spirit of keepin' it real, no, there was no way my clean eating self was having any.  Not that I don't have a sugary treat from time to time, but as a reformed Krispy Kreme addict, eating one just isn't going to happen.  It's either a box of Hot N Readys with a tall glass of milk or nada.  These days, nada.  But I digress.  Ready for a Norman Rockwell picture of doughnuts being gleefully consumed while the family plays a few friendly rounds of Trouble together!

We never even got to Krispy Kreme.  Fluffy (one of my kids' bunnies) had some reproductive surgery that day (thanks again so much to the breeder for the Epic Fail of not giving us the two female bunnies we asked for), and I had to hurry and get his (the bunny's not the breeder's) Rx filled before the pharmacy closed.  (By the way, try asking a pharmacist in a major metropolitan suburb if they dispense pain meds for rabbits and see what kind of look you get.)  Then my HH started wonking about a trip to KK interfering with the Chiefs game (dude, it's pre-season), which caused round #148 of the ongoing spousal argument over "Why Hubby Cannot DVR a Live Sporting Event".  A truce was negotiated by my bringing the doughnuts home, starting Trouble at halftime and limiting play to thirty minutes so that only approximately fifteen minutes of the Chiefs game had to be DVRed.  Marriage is all about compromise, right?  *sigh*

So in the tradition of typical Rushing Family Game Play, over the course of the thirty minutes, my HH continuously trash talked to the kids (which is the equivalent at our house of poking a poorly tempered dog with a stick), the Boy Child quit three times and the Girl Child gave us an ongoing monologue full of tween angst on why she would not win, she never wins, no one wants her to win, everyone else always gets the number she needs to win....and then she won.  Which caused the Boy Child to declare that Trouble is stupid, family time is stupid, going to bed is stupid and not being able to have your own apartment when you're nine is stupid.  At this point, if he were still alive, Mr. Rockwell would have packed up his paints and told me to text him when and if we could ever get this familial bliss staging right so he could complete our portrait.

Night 4: "Fun with Aunt Laurie!"
My sister happened to be in town this week and planned to spend the evening with us.  Our town was having an art street fair, and the weather was beautiful.  Why not combine family time with sister time and throw in a little culture at the same time?  Surely Mr. Rockwell would approve?  Except HH and the Boy Child opted out as soon as the word "art" left my mouth, and the Girl Child agreed to come along only if she could bring a friend.  Sooooo, we take a night off from the week o' family fun then?  We'll call tonight the halftime show and get our game back on tomorrow night.  Break!

Night 5: "After Hours Private Pool Party"
I can't take credit for this one.  A friend of mine won this party at our municipal pool at a charity auction last spring and was kind enough to include us on the guest list.  When I floated the idea of attending past the HH, I was shocked when he agreed to go.  First of all, it involved a public pool.  (See my blog entry about adolescent power trips for more insight into that one.)  Second, it involved being social with friends of mine that he doesn't know all that well.  (Hey, no judgments from me.  If you read my blog entry on pit sweating, you know interactions with people I don't know that well are a social phobia of mine too.  My phobia also extends to interacting with some of the people I do know well, but again, I digress...)

So the four of us packed up and headed to the par-tay.  Now the one thing that sold the Girl Child on attending a gathering that involved elementary kids, most of whom would be five years or so younger than she, was the fact that one of her friends who is only a year younger was supposed to be in attendance.  This friend is acceptable to hang out with because, although she is not in middle school like the Girl Child, they have been friends for years, and she would likely engage in what tweens do at the pool.  I don't understand all of the protocol, but it seems to consist mainly of sitting on a chaise with a towel over your heads so you both can see your iPod better.  However, Tween Friend did not show for the party.  Ugh.  Strike One.

I was happily chatting and catching up with friends but kept noticing that the HH was sitting off to himself, talking to no one, and playing on his phone the entire time.  This started to amp up my anxiety because I knew it meant he was checking baseball scores and wishing he were at home kicked back on the couch with the remote in hand.  Even though he did agree to come, in his defense, he didn't actually agree to have a good time.  I was no longer paying much attention to what anyone was saying because I knew he wanted to leave. Strike two.

If you are personally acquainted with my kids, you know that they have about 5% body fat, and that's if you put both of theirs together.  So given the fact that the evening had turned cool for early August, after an hour of being at the pool, they both looked like they needed to wrap up in space blankets instead of beach towels.  Strike three, and we are out of there.  On the bright side, we still had two more nights to get this picture painted.

Night Six: "To the Thea-tah"
We had long-standing evening plans for a Parents' Night Out with the Boy Child's baseball team, so we moved Family Fun Night to the afternoon.  It was a rainy day, so the plan was to head to the movies.  Again, the recurring issue of cinematic common ground reared its ugly head.  The Girl Child wanted to see "Step Up: All In", a tween/teen dance movie that looked to have a pointless script and bad acting.  The Boy Child wanted to see "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" with Megan Fox, which assured there would be an even worse script and terrible acting.  I prefer dance moves over karate moves, and I knew the HH would appreciate a lil eye candy in the form of Ms. Fox, so divide and conquer it was.

So hey, we didn't exactly do something all together, but at the end of the afternoon, both kiddos were happy, the HH had a slightly glazed look in his eyes, and I had only a teensy headache from the massive eye rolling I did over the movie's dialogue.  Example: "I dance because one move can set a generation free!"  (Tell me you didn't just roll your eyes.)  Maybe tomorrow, Mr. Rockwell.

Night Seven: "The Final Chapter"
This was it.  The last chance to get the portrait of perfect familial bliss right.  I should have pulled out all the stops.  But given the fact that it also happened to be my first day back to work at school, the only thing I wanted to pull out was the plug on the day and go to bed.  (If you work in education, you get this phenomenon knows as "First Day Fatigue".  If you don't, just know that you should save the apples for your kid's teacher on the first day and hook her up with some Red Bull and Twizzlers instead.  She will be most grateful.)

I did manage to come up with a plan.  We would hit the Russell Stover's store for dinner, and the kids could pick out any crap they wanted (budget of $2.50/ea) to eat.  This went over like the Beatles on "Ed Sullivan".  Or if you're under thirty, like The Jonas Brothers on "Ellen".  (Who am I kidding?  No one under thirty is reading this blog.)  So they happily chowed down, and I managed to keep from laying my head down on the table and napping while they noshed.  Maybe not the look I was going for, but I am calling this a win.


So what all of this showed me is that, while we fail dismally at creating traditional Rockwell Family Moments, the Rushing Family Moments form our own traditions, and they work for us.  Our kids are happy and secure, and they are living out a childhood many of their less fortunate peers would love to have.  Anything that we do together as a family, my kiddos adore.  Even if they are simple things, we are creating memories that they will reminisce about when they are grown and wish they could relive.

In short, we are imperfect and all over the place at times, and sometimes we totally miss the mark, but every step and misstep we take together is a blessing.  And I think all of those things blended together to create our own beautiful picture.  In the end, I guess I realized that we didn't even need Mr. Rockwell in the first place.  Each one of us added our own essential element to our custom canvas.  So here's to the Handsome Husband, the Girl Child, the Boy Child, myself, and our family for always keepin' it "Rushing Real".

Sparkly Kisses,

D

My Thoughts on: What You Should Know About Turning 40

This is another blog post directed mainly at the ladies.  Guys, you can read on, but the same caveat in my Girly Parts Exam posting applies here.  I am known for telling it like it is, so be forewarned.

Let me start out by saying that at forty-one and eleven-twelfths, I have very much embraced the decade I am in.  There are a lot of benefits.  You feel no shame in saying that your favorite place to be at 10pm on a Saturday night is dozing off in bed to "House Hunters".  Folks finally dial down the pressure on you to have yet another kid because they do the math and realize you can join AARP at the same time the baby is rushing a fraternity.  You can buy spray paint and not get carded.  The list is just endless.

However, there are many things for which I was not prepared.  You know that friend who takes you aside in junior high and gives you the lowdown on what really happens when you get your period and have sex and all of the other mysteries of the developing years that you know the basics of but not the nitty gritty? Well, there is no such person for giving you some of the harsh facts of turning forty.  So allow me to be your tour guide.  And unlike your tween pal back in the day who got all of her information from a purloined copy of "Our Bodies, Ourselves" and her cousin's best friend's sister's account of her "first time", I deal only in proven facts.  So grab a glass of wine, and keep the bottle handy for refills.  Here we go.

Proven Fact #1: You will grow a goatee.
Don't worry, this won't happen overnight, and the actual full-on goatee can be prevented.  You can go one of two routes; the tweezers or electrolysis.  I am a cheapskate, therefore I pluck.  Without going into further details, let's just say that the errant hairs are not always confined to your face.  I recommend doing a full body scan once a month for rogue sprouts.  If you have dark hair like I do, best make it twice a month.  You'll be surprised at what you may find.

Proven Fact #2: Whenever you lean over to the side and see your face in the mirror, you will appear to be having a stroke.
One word: gravity.  Unless you want to go the extreme route of having a face lift, the only way to avoid this one completely is to swear off any activity requiring bending or leaning from the waist.  (At this point, 90% of the readers of this post will be tempted to pause here and go look in a mirror while doing a side bend.  Word of advice: polish off the wine in your glass before you do.)

Proven Fact #3: Your boobs are done.
Chances are, if you've given birth and nursed at all, they threw up the white flag years ago.  Again, unless you opt for surgery, gravity ain't gonna do you any favors in this area either.  And even if you do drop five gees to the Boob Fairy, time will continue to march across your perky new mams until they become road weary and eventually give up the fight for the second time.  Consolation: most men like ALL breasts, whether they look like they have been applied with a toilet plunger or like tube socks with tennis balls in them.  Buy good bras, learn how to undress and redress in under twenty seconds, and never do so in front of a mirror.

Proven Fact #4: People are not messing with the font size on your computer/Kindle/phone.  
Get readers.  Yes, every time you put them on, people will think you're about to read a Dickens novel aloud to them.  Embrace this new seemingly intellectual side of yourself and be kind to your aging peepers.

Proven Fact #5: You have two new best friends.  Their names are Darkness & Distance.
Nothing will send a woman over forty scurrying like a cockroach faster than someone coming at them with a camera in a well-lit room.  Please, a little understanding here.  If you can see the color of her eyes in your lens, zoom out.  If it's bright enough to discern whether she is wearing a light or a dark color, no flash is really necessary.  Now, if you're a professional photographer and proficient in the art of image editing, the aforementioned advice is retracted.  Honey, you are the third BFF of the Woman Over Forty.  Snap away! (I am not a proponent of narcotics, but if everyone could see us all the time through the same dreamy, soft-focus filter that peyote users view the world, THAT would be a ideal for WOF.  Just sayin'.)

Proven Fact #6: I can't remember what it was.
Again, if you're a mom, you are probably already into the forgetfulness thing.  Turning forty is not going to help this.  The good news is that this is a phenomenon that eventually transcends gender, so your hubby is probably going through it as well.  No judgments will be forthcoming from him.  He's too busy trying to remember where he put his readers.

Proven Fact #7: You will be tempted to start lying to your ob/gyn about fake problems with your uterus so (s)he will remove it.
You're done having babies, you've been through approximately 300 shark weeks in your life, and you're just over the whole thing.  Menopause is still many years away, and the whole idea of another decade or so of a shark week every month is tiring.  Maybe I'm in the minority on this one, I don't know.  Some of my friends have been shocked when I tell them that since I've shuttered the Baby Factory for good, I'd like it torn down and hauled off.  They say they want to keep theirs in case their daughter or DIL can't carry a baby, and then they can carry their own grandchild.  *crickets*  Huh?  Yeah, not happening over here.  Demo can start anytime, Doc.

Proven Fact #8: Speaking of grandbabies, some of you will have them before you turn 50.
If you haven't polished off that wine yet, this idea might send you to the bottom of the bottle.  According to the latest statistics, 40% of people today between the ages of 40 and 49 will become grandparents before they hit 50.  Four out of ten of us.  I'm choosing to exempt myself from being part of that four since I had my kids in my 30s, and they will still be teenagers when I turn 50.  Before you start throwing teen pregnancy stats back at me, this is MY blog, and I declare here that I shan't be a grandparent when my kids are teens. I'm going to ask you to just be nice and humor me on that one.  Which may be challenging if you have personal knowledge of the Boy Child.  But I digress.

Proven Fact #9: You WILL start seeing your mother in the mirror.
This could be worse.  I look nothing like my mom and am the spitting image of my dad.  Count your lucky stars your reflection doesn't resemble a seventy-six year old man, and carry on.

Proven Fact #10: Despite all the ways your forties can be frightening, they are also completely spectacular.
They say your twenties are your "me" decade.  I disagree.  In your forties, it really is about you and your journey of self-discovery.  You gain wisdom and enlightenment in ways you could have never imagined.  Your life on this earth is half gone, so it takes on a precious and delicate quality it never had before.  The material takes a back seat, and the people and beliefs you hold dear stand at the forefront.  Every day you are given is a blessing.  At least that's how it is for me.

The physical body getting older does stink, there are no two ways about it.  But since we are powerless to stop it, just don't let it overshadow all the amazing things getting older does for your mind and spirit.  In the words of Betty Friedan, "Aging is not lost youth but a new stage of opportunity and strength".  I couldn't agree more. So raise that wine glass to yourself, to me, and to all of the other fabulous forty-somethings who are not just doing life, but who try and find the beauty and blessing in living it well each and every day.

Sparkly Kisses,

D

My Thoughts On: The Annual Girly Parts Inspection

If you're a guy, and you value the mysteries of women in the slightest, this is your jumping off point. Seriously, I'm generally known for telling it like it is, and in this case, it's not how the Madison Ave boys have spent 150 years trying to convince you fellas that it is over here in Woman World.  Still convinced you want to read on?  Okay, don't say I didn't warn you...

So for the ladies and the three guys that are still reading this blog post, today's topic is your annual girly parts inspection, a/k/a, your pap smear and breast exam.  Unless you are the type who charts your bowel movements and knows by heart what your baby's Doppler heartbeat was at every check up for all of your pregnancies, you greet this appointment with all the enthusiasm that you would a six a.m. alarm clock after you have been up all night with a vomiting child.  I'm in the latter group.

Let's start with booking the experience.  (Do you like how I kinda made it sound like a cruise or a trip to Disney?  Yeah, right.)  I don't know about your ob/gyn office, but to see most of the doctors at mine, you have to book next year's appointment at THIS year's appointment.  For crying out loud.  Yes, I'm a planner, but do I know whether Tuesday at 2:00 or Friday at 9:00 is going to work better for me a YEAR from now?  Um, and how about the fact that you can't even get a pap smear if it is Shark Week.  (Read between the lines on that reference.)  My cycles are regular, but if I need a calendar, a piece of paper and five full minutes to come up with the date for the nurse when she asks me when my last last Shark Week began, I'm going to be standing at the check out desk until every pregnant woman in the waiting room has gone into labor trying to predict when it's going to hit a year ahead of time.

I've had my babies, so it really doesn't matter to me who I see anymore.  Just let me call the office and schedule me with someone within a couple of weeks at a date and time that works with my schedule.  The examiner having gone to medical school is not even essential to me.  If someone would come up with some sort of home exam kit, I could easily talk my husband into performing most of the procedures in the comfort of our bedroom.  We could send the sample off to the lab, they email me the results, and I've scored some Wife Points in the process.  Everybody wins!

Until that day comes, I'm stuck going into the office.  Let's start with the Waiting Room.  It's all right there in the name.  It's not called the "Expediting Room", or the "In-and-Out of Here Room".  It's the Waaaaaaaiting Room.  I'm not the most patient or the most impatient person in the world.  Somewhere in between.  I can easily amuse myself during life's inevitable little delays.  But there is something about someone forcing me to cool my jets on my dime that really chaps my hide.  Yes, I have medical insurance, so BCBS is picking up most of the tab, but that and my co-pay make me a paying customer.  This creates an expectation of Good Customer Service in my book.

Making me wait more than ten minutes is not GCS.  Booking another patient for my doctor at the same time as me is not GCS.  Being pissy with me the moment I walk in the door and approach the desk is not GCS. Seriously, what is up with putting people who are perpetually in a bad mood up front to greet people?  You bark at me in monosyllables, thrust 24 pages of paperwork at me, and give me a pen with a cheery flower attached to it so I don't rip it off?  Not feeling any GCS at all here.  This office staff crankiness anomaly seems to be pervasive in the medical industry.  Doctor's offices, hospitals, vision centers, labs, and so on.  If you are a receptionist in the medical field and you're perky and welcoming, first, I apologize.  Secondly, if you're in the KC area, please message me your medical group's info so I can patronize your practice.

So we're waiting.  And waiting.  And. Waiting.  After thirty minutes, I approach the Keeper of the Poppy Pens behind the desk to inquire if the doctor is running on time.  "Pretty much" is the reply I get.  Pretty much?  What does that mean?  I'm going to need some clarification here, ma'am.  In my book, if she were "pretty much" running on time, I'd have my feet in some stirrups by now.  I think we passed "pretty much" about fifteen minutes ago.  Is she here?  Across the street at the hospital doing an emergency c-section?  What's the haps?  After being told in an exasperated tone that "it should only be a few more minutes", I give in and go to the restroom.

I've needed to pee ever since I got there, but I'm afraid if I hit the ladies room, they will call my name back in the Waaaaaiting Room.  If I'm not there, you KNOW they are going to shrug their shoulders, scratch my name off the list and go on to the next one.  I'm looking at another year before I can get back to the top of that list again.  So I take my chances and go to the restroom but tell everyone in the Waaaaiting Room and that I encounter in the hall along the way, "I'm Deborah Rushing, and I'm going to the restroom".  This annoys the office staff and puzzles the other patients, but hey, one of them may hear my name get called and have the kindness to shout out, "She's in the restroom!" and save me from being bumped off the list.  Not my first rodeo, kids.  And I'd do it for them too.

After fifty(!) minutes, I get called back to the exam room.  I know better than to see any proverbial light at the end of the tunnel at this point.  We're just changing venues here.  The doctor has not taken the stage.  I'm not even sure she's even in the wings or in her dressing room, er, office.  The nurse does the scale thing and the blood pressure thing and the inevitable question about last month's Shark Week, then points at a piece of material that is manufactured for use both as an exam gown and for someone who is eating crab legs and tells me to completely undress and put it on.  She hands me a table napkin and tells me to cover my lap with it, gives me permission to leave my socks on, and leaves.  I comply but leave my hat on too just as a passive-aggressive silent protest.  And I wait some more.

Time that is spent waiting while (mostly) naked is comparable to time spent waiting while clothed as dog years are to people years.  One minute of clothed waiting is like seven minutes of (mostly) naked waiting.  So in (Mostly) Naked Waiting time, I cool my heels (not literally since I still have my fuzzy socks on and my feet are the only part of me that are not freezing) for another two hours and ten minutes.  Then Dr. Luminous comes in.  That's not her real name.  I'm just calling her that to respect her privacy and because she really is luminous.  Her countenance and her spirit just shine.  She is quite literally one of the kindest, most positive and most infectious people I have ever met.  Yes, I have a (non-sexual) girl crush on my ob/gyn.

Because of said crush, all of the time I spent waiting, the rudeness of Elphaba and the rest of the Poppy Coven out front and my hypothermia are quickly forgotten.  Dr. Luminous shines her light on me, and she catches up on my health and my sweet babies that she delivered.  Then we move on to exam time.  Here's where it gets awkward.  When I'm staring at the ceiling, my legs are akimbo, and the exam is happening, it's a little harder to bask in the light.  The doctor continues chatting on, but her words take on the effect of Charlie Brown's teacher, and I can't follow.  It doesn't matter that I've been in this position every year for over twenty years or that I've given birth in it twice.  Unless I am married to the person who kindly asks me to assume it, it's just awkward.  Enough said.

As Dr. Luminous is chatting away, I sense we are nearing the end of the exam and start to fight the mental fog to dial back into what she is saying.  I snap completely back when I hear the words "after forty, we conclude with a quick rectal exam"  HOLD IT.  Say what???  Before I can find my vocal cords and object, she is in and out and done.  Huh?  Wait.  What just happened?  Why was this not presented in the 24 pages of paperwork I was given?  Surely some sort of release needs to be signed beforehand?  At the very least I should have been given a bottle of wine an hour ago and some chocolate immediately after she was finished.  What the heck?

The doctor congratulates me on my excellent health and leaves the room.  The light is gone, and all I'm left with is a crumpled bib and a serious desire to take a shower.  I get dressed and leave, irrationally feeling that everyone there knows exactly what went down in that room and will not make eye contact with me as a result.  Not that I'm looking to make it with anyone myself, mind you.  As I quickly move past the check out desk, they ask me if I want to go ahead and make next year's appointment.  Um, thanks, I'll pass.  I need some time and some distance and the all too distinct memory of this year's overall experience to fade quite a bit first.  Don't call me, I'll call you.

In the meantime, I remember to be grateful that my Girly Parts are healthy and that I took the time to make sure of that.  Even if it's two hours of my life that I'll never get back, that piece of mind makes it time well spent.  If you haven't done it recently, get yours checked too.  You owe it to yourself and your family.  And when you're staring at the ceiling, just remember that there is a sisterhood out there who knows exactly how you feel, my friend.  ;-)

Sparkly Kisses,

D