Category Archives: Family/Parenting

How NOT to Pet-Sit

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My neighbor was going out of town over the weekend and asked if I would let her Chihuahua outside to potty the first day.

Her daughter would tend the dog afterward, but wouldn’t be available until dinnertime.

Enter me.

‘He won’t be any trouble,’ she assured me. ‘The backyard is fenced. Just open the door, shoo him out, watch to see he does what he’s supposed to do, then let him back in.’

Easy squeezy.

Now I’ve seen her walking this dog, but I’ve never “played” with him. I’ve been in the entryway of her house, but never really inside. So I was a bit apprehensive.

‘He knows you,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t afraid he couldn’t hold it all day.’

Well, okay.

After my lunch, I bundled up and walked to her house, letting myself in as she’d shown me.

It’s kind of creepy going into somebody’s house when they’re not there (I don’t know how burglars do it!). She’d left the TV on to keep the dog company and set out a covered plate with a note asking me to give it to him.

Perfect — if I could catch him.

The little stinker started yapping as soon as he heard the door open. And he didn’t stop.

My Sheltie is “vocal,” so you’d think I’d be used to barking.

But this dog’s complaints really got on my nerves, fast. Probably because I was in a strange house and feeling the burden of responsibility.

I called to him in the “sweet” voice I use for my Sheltie.

Nothing. In fact, he raced out of the kitchen and into the living room, promptly setting up camp on the back of the sofa.

Taking the plate of food to lure him to a non-carpeted area, I called him again.

Nothing. This time, he charged toward the back of the house, barking like a lost soul.

What to do?

I tried calling him again. I begged, I promised I’d go outside with him, I told him his food looked yummy.

He wasn’t buying it.

Fearing he might take my leg off if I ventured into the recesses of his house, I set the food down, penned a note for the daughter describing what happened, and left.

Ah, failure. What a dismal feeling.

Looking back, we probably should have properly “introduced” me to the dog, on his own turf, before this fiasco. What do you think?

Mom and the Cleaning Lady

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Mom had to fire her cleaning lady two days ago.

To understand how traumatic this was for her, you have to know Mom didn’t work outside of the house when we kids were young. Once we were off to school and adulthood, she still didn’t. She let Daddy handle the “unpleasant” situations — dealing with workers, balancing the checkbook, etc.

I guess it was typical for the times in which they lived.

But it wasn’t practical.

After she and Daddy got up in age, I often cautioned them not to rely on a stereotypical division of chores. If something happens to one of you, I said, the other is going to be left helpless and dependent.

They didn’t listen.

So Mom, with zero hiring and firing experience, employed a lady to clean house. “A” was supposed to arrive by 8:00 o’clock and leave by 11:00, every other Friday. During her interview, “A” told Mom how much she’d charge, and Mom agreed.

The first few times “A” came, she did a fabulous job. She was thorough and fast, didn’t spend a lot of time chit-chatting or drinking coffee, and arrived and left on time.

Mom was thrilled.

But over time, “A” started to slack off. She’d get to Mom’s at 8:30, run a rag over the counters, wipe out sinks and bathtubs, mop the floor and vacuum the rugs. There were entire rooms she never even touched!

And then she’d present her bill and leave by 10:00 a.m.

Did she reduce the amount charged because she was working fewer hours? Nope.

Did Mom feel incensed at paying the same amount and getting less stuff cleaned? You bet.

Now Mom earlier talked to a bunch of women who clued her in to how much cleaning ladies typically charge. She knew “A” was charging quite a bit more; however, she was willing to pay, considering all “A” was doing.

No more.

Mom called “A” and told her she was letting her go. She hemmed and hawed about the reasons, but what she should have told “A” was this:

Clean means different things to different people. What “A” considers clean is something Mom calls “a lick and a promise.” What Mom considers clean is way more than “A” ever bargained for. Mom wants the house to not only look clean and smell clean; she wants it to sparkle and be sanitized, too.

Merely wiping out a bathroom sink doesn’t cut it.

I hope Mom learned a lesson. Next time, maybe she’ll spell out exactly what she expects of a cleaning lady before finding herself having to fire another one.

Anybody have any tips I can pass along to help Mom in her next hiring and firing situation?

That Helpless Feeling

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My Favorite Domer (AKA College Guy) called the other night to tell me he’s been sick with some kind of upper respiratory bug.

The kind that makes your nose run. And your eyes water. And your throat tickle.

The kind that makes you want to crawl into bed and sleep, not pore over textbooks, take notes, and study for tests.

This might be one of the hardest things to endure as a parent — a kid who’s sick and miles away from home.

No, it’s not a major catastrophe (thank heaven!).

Yes, many of his friends are also sick. The changing weather — hot and windy one day, cold and rainy the next — certainly plays a part. And it doesn’t help that he’s had too many nights without sufficient sleep of late.

I know these “bugs” have to run their course, generally a week to 10 days.

But the mom in me wants to feed him chicken noodle soup and Jello. Why? Because my mom fed that to me, and it seemed to help.

I want to strip the sheets off his bed and put on fresh ones. To tuck him in with some Vicks VapoRub and a humidifior belching warm steam.

I want to draw the blinds and close his door, letting him sleep until he feels better.

I want to set aside his homework and books and projects. Just for a little while.

Just until his brain isn’t so foggy and he’s able to concentrate again.

But I can’t. I’m too far away, and he’s too grown up for mom to hit the highway and hover over him.

So I fight that helpless feeling, knowing there’s an Infirmary on campus if he starts feeling really awful.

And I pray for healing. And I count the days until he’s well and back to being himself.

What tricks have you found that make sick kids feel better?

Safe in the Storm

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My Favorite Domer (AKA College Guy) called me around 9:30 Saturday evening to inform me their first football game had finally ended.

I already knew that, of course, because I was watching as much as I could. What I didn’t know was whether he was safe, so his call served to relieve my fears. Let me explain.

The skies over South Bend were wild and wooly, beginning Saturday afternoon as the Irish hosted South Florida.

Temperatures were in the mid-90s. It was sultry. Steamy. Still.

I don’t know how football players are expected to perform their best when conditions are that unbearable.

Maybe they’re used to that in South Florida — yeah, they probably are! — but not in northern Indiana.

Anyway, the Irish came into Saturday’s game sporting a #16 national ranking. To say they appeared full of themselves might be an understatement. To say the first half proved a comeuppance for them couldn’t be truer.

The Irish fumbled. Their passes were intercepted. They racked up as many personal fouls as a team of junkyard dogs.

South Florida led going into halftime 16-0.

As the Irish Band prepared to take the field, the weather began changing — rapidly.

The wind picked up. Dark clouds rolled in from the west.

The announcer told the Band to stay off the field and instructed fans to clear the stadium. A severe storm cell was approaching, with potentially dangerous cloud-to-ground lightning and heavy rain.

(College Guy told me it looked like a hurricane outside.)

Just over two hours later, the game resumed. The heat had broken; fans returned.

Finally the Irish were able to put some points on the board.

But in the fourth quarter, another severe storm approached, halting the game again. The TV station covering the action broke away to other programming; I scrambled to ESPN, where I was at least able to watch the scrolling scores.

And I worried. When your kid is away from home in bad weather, that’s what moms do.

I couldn’t do anything about it, but I worried.

All in all, it was a l-o-n-g game, six hours total. And the outcome was dismal, an Irish loss 23-20.

But when I heard my son’s voice on the other end of the line, I rejoiced. He was safe and so were the other attendees.

And that’s really the best news of all.

Advice for Parents of Incoming Freshmen

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My son (AKA College Guy) and I have now survived three years of moving into and two years of moving out of a dorm. Thus, I feel qualified to offer some tips for parents whose sons or daughters are just beginning their university experience. Without further ado, here goes:

  1. Expect delays. Universities have been holding freshman move-in days forever, yet invariably there are glitches. Go figure. Somebody important doesn’t show up with the keys; the dorm room (or bathroom) isn’t cleaned; paperwork has been delayed. Keep cool; this too shall pass. And why, when they had months of favorable weather before, city and state road crews choose August for their major construction projects, I’ll never know!
  2. Be open to the experience. Maybe you went to college; maybe not. If you did, you don’t need to tell everybody every detail of it; if you didn’t, you don’t need to apologize. You’re there to help your new freshman physically move their “stuff” into the dorm, not to wax eloquent on your past. If the college offers parents’ orientation, go; you’ll learn a lot and meet other parents.
  3. Dust off your sense of humor. It can be quite funny to watch other parents and kids pull mound after mound of things from their vehicles, then try to wrestle it upstairs, down hallways, and into rooms. Don’t get into a snide-remark, snippy-attitude, screaming match with your kid while doing this. You don’t want their first semester away from home clouded by ill feelings.
  4. Leave them a bit of home. Homemade cookies are good. So are a book of stamps and stationery and a prepaid cell phone — you can’t expect them to pay to stay in touch! And if you don’t already know how, learn to text, video chat, and e-mail — at least.
  5. Congratulate yourself — To yourself. Hey, you done good! You’ve succeeded in rearing a son or daughter that a university wants and believes will succeed. This is one of their first steps toward real independence, toward adulthood. All your sacrifices and life lessons and nurturing haven’t been for naught!
  6. Expect to miss them. Even if this isn’t your first time moving an incoming freshman, you’re going to be surprised at how much you miss this child. You’ll remember little things — the way they square their shoulders as you leave, the tears they choke back when they hug you, the catch in your throat. You’ll see the little girl who didn’t want you to leave her at preschool, the little boy who skinned his knee sliding into second base. You’ll compare this to First Day of School. And it will be similar. Only this time, they might not turn to you for help and comfort; they’ll bravely try to handle it alone. Remind them you’re there, but don’t hover.
  7. Repeat — Don’t hover. Your child is no longer a baby. He/she is a young adult. Back off on micromanaging their life. Let them choose their room decor’; let them choose their course of study. If asked, you can certainly offer advice, but remember it’s their choice.
  8. Expect changes. For many young people, Thanksgiving is the first time they’ll be back home for a few days after the semester starts. They’ll have adjusted to a different schedule than the one they had while at home. The boy who refused to eat veggies might have become a vegetarian; the girl who sprang from bed for an early morning jog might not arise until noon. They’ve got to “try on” their new persona and as long as it’s not unhealthy or too disruptive, let them.
  9. Pray. Face it, there are plenty of things you can’t control. Put your youngster in God’s Hands and trust Him to care for them with tenderness and love.
  10. Fill your days with something meaningful. You’ll have more time on your hands, now that your child is in college. You don’t have to play taxi; you won’t have as much laundry or meal-preparation or noise. That can be lonely, unless you fill the hours with things you want to do — take up a new hobby or exercise class, finish college yourself or start a business, volunteer or concentrate on your own career.

Unpacking…Repacking

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My Favorite Domer (AKA College Guy) has decided to unpack — just a week before he re-packs for his return to South Bend.

What’s up with that?

When he came home nearly three months ago, he’d hoped to find a job, particularly in his major OR doing anything at a “name” business (things that would look good on his budding resume and give him some valuable experience).

It wasn’t to be.

Try as he might, there was nothing available.

So he toyed with the idea of going back and taking summer classes — not a particularly desirable option, as he’d spent last summer doing just that.

Eventually, he decided to stay home — “independent study,” he called it. He ordered a stack of books recommended by his professors and proceeded to read through them, soaking up a wealth of information that will help him along the way (without having to worry about time or grades!).

You’d have thought that somewhere along the line, he’d want to unpack. I thought he would. But no.

Whenever he needed something that was still in a suitcase or box or container, he dug in, fished it out, and left the rest of the stuff neatly packed.

I asked him about it, and he told me he didn’t want to inadvertently leave something important behind when he headed off for Fall Term.

Sounds logical.

It also hastened the time it took to go through his stuff and make a list of what he needed to replenish.

Still, the mom in me can’t help but wonder — despite how much he loves being on campus — if maybe, just maybe, a part of him will miss being at home.

Yeah, that’s gotta be it.

Even then, he won’t miss home as much as we’ll miss him!

Preserving our Memories

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Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.  ~From the television show The Wonder Years

Today I finished the Memory Book I was compiling for My Favorite Domer (aka my son or College Guy), and I must admit it looks great!

Now don’t bother reminding me I’m not supposed to be “laboring” on the Sabbath. I know that!

However, no way do I consider scrapbooking “labor.”

Nope, unless you call it a labor of love, which it surely was!

I have countless friends who are into the hobby of scrapbooking. They spend lots of time — and money — browsing craft stores for just the right binder, colorful inside pages, cutesy decorations, stickers, fancy scissors, bric-a-brac, etc. Then they spend equal amounts of time cutting things out, gluing them down, measuring and re-measuring until the finished product is a work of perfection.

They love scrapbooking and wouldn’t consider giving it up.

I never thought I’d join them — not until my son’s senior year in high school, when one of his teachers had all her classes do a Memory Book.

On a regular basis throughout the year the kids had to compose an essay on a certain topic (My Favorite Vacation, A Person I Wish I Could See Again, My Early School Years, Middle School, My Family Tree, My Special Gifts and Talents, My Future Plans, and so on). These essays were to be grouped (with photos, ticket stubs, and other treasures) into a Memory Book.

It had to look nice because it was for a grade.

Wise teacher, huh? She probably knew kids that age wouldn’t bother unless there was something in it for them!

Anyway, because much of the information to be included was stuff my son didn’t know, I had to help.

What started out as a labor became a labor of love and a really good bonding tool. We spent countless hours poring over photos, reminiscing over his early years, and enjoying each other’s company. I still get misty-eyed over some of his essays, particularly the one he wrote about his grandpa (my dad, who passed away in 2008).

When my son became a College Guy, I instructed him to save everything. Ticket stubs, pictures, programs, honors, awards, everything.

He’s a bit of a pack-rat, so that was no problem; however, he drew the line at writing more essays or cutting or gluing or organizing.

Those jobs (minus the essays!) fell to me.

He now has three Memory Books, one for each of the last three years. He says he’s glad I’m doing them, but I know he’ll be even more glad several years into the future. Time has a way of erasing things that photos, songs, and stories help us recall.

What are you doing to preserve the past so you can relive it in the future?

I’m Finally Fishing!

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“Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.” — Chinese proverb

My Favorite Domer finally got tired of my inane questions yesterday and told me he was going to teach me how to fish.

This all started about a month ago, when I purchased a new MP3 to replace one that was barely limping along.

The new one didn’t come with a manual. Everything I needed to know — or so its advertisement claimed — was available inside the player itself.

Cool?

Not particularly.

I’m more of a visual learner. I rather like wading through instruction manuals, testing out the features for myself and learning which buttons control which functions.

Not my son.

Give him a gadget, any gadget, and he’ll immediately start punching buttons, trashing “folders and stuff you don’t need,” hooking up accessories for immediate use!

So during the past month, any time I’ve had a question about Mr. MP3, I’ve wailed for my son: “What does this button do?” “How can I make it….?” “Why won’t it shut off?” Etc.

Yesterday he was on his computer when I had to beg for more help.

“Okay, mom, I’m going to teach you how to fish,” he said.

He sat at my computer, moved music from one folder to another, copied it to Mr. MP3, and said, “There you go — all done!”

And he left.

Realizing that he’d done the same thing for a month — and I wasn’t one bit wiser — I pulled out some CDs, ripped them to my computer, copied them to Mr. MP3, and organized them into category folders.

All. By. Myself!

Feeling all techy and smart by then, I told him that if you’re going to teach a man to fish, you need to know what his learning style is. Some of us can’t simply watch while our mentor puts a worm on a hook, tosses a line into the water, and reels in the catch-of-the-day.

We’ve gotta do it ourselves!

Another Bittersweet Father’s Day

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Sunday marks my third Father’s Day without my dad, and I’m here to tell you it doesn’t get any easier. Time doesn’t heal all wounds.

My dad passed quietly on the very last day of the year in 2008 after a three-year battle with cancer.

His doctor said he smoked too much, though he’d quit decades before; drank too much, though he’d quit that, too, years before his diagnosis and the start of chemo and radiation.

Other “experts” would say Daddy didn’t eat right (he had a sweet tooth, okay, but nobody should have to die for that!), and he didn’t exercise enough (though he practically lived on the tennis courts when we kids were growing up).

But yes, he passed too soon.

He never got the opportunity to see his last grandchild (my son) graduate from high school; never got to see his other grand-kids graduate from college; never got to see his wife re-learn to drive or handle the finances; never got to see the new landscaping around the house.

Daddy and Mama on their Wedding Day

He left before I could soak up his knowledge of running a business and apply it to my own. Before I could ask him to beta-read my novel and see if it’s publication-worthy. Before I could ask his advice about so many things.

I won’t be picking out a Father’s Day card for him this year nor will I plan a special outing. I won’t be grilling or fishing or playing board games or a thousand and one other things Daddy would have enjoyed doing.

But neither will I sit around mourning. Daddy wouldn’t have wanted it.

He loved to laugh and tell jokes and stories; he loved to see his family happy and healthy and active.

He didn’t particularly like tears, especially on the faces of his wife and daughters.

So while a big part of me weeps, the greater part of me rejoices. Daddy no longer lives here; he’s been “promoted” to a new and better place.

A place where there’s no more sadness. No more tears. No more pain. No more heartache.

I’m confident I’ll see him again, too. And this time, I won’t roll my eyes and say I’ve “heard that story before.” I’ll listen to his soft Southern drawl, savoring every word, every moment, and I’ll look into his blue eyes and remind him how proud I am of him and how very much I love him.

Love you and miss you, Daddy.

Project Graduation

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My neighbor’s daughter graduated from high school last night, and that took me back two years to when My Favorite Domer did the same thing.

Grads in our town are lucky — they have what’s fondly called “Project Graduation” to ease them through the transition from high school to the real world.

Project Graduation is an all-night, chemical-free party put on for the grads by their parents. And before you yawn or start dissing the idea, you’ve got to know it’s a blast!

Following the tradition of many years past, senior parents work to secure donations from businesses throughout the community. The donations are used to shower the grads with goodies before they embark on life, whether they’re continuing their education, going into the military, or beginning work.

Some of the gifts in the past have included spa baskets, cash, tickets to events, gift cards, outdoor grills, makeovers, computers, and other prizes. The big prize, of course, is a drawing for a new car (or cash equivalent), sponsored by one of our auto dealers and open to the entire community.

Graduating seniors sign up to attend the event, promising to adhere to the rules — no drugs or alcohol, no tag-along friends who aren’t part of the senior class, no leaving once they’re inside the venue. Into the wee hours of the morning, they play a variety of games, including beanbag toss, balloon pop, blackjack, etc. and receive tickets for their win; these they drop into a hat and wait, hoping their name is called for a prize.

Free food and sodas, entertainment, and music are also part of the event, which is chaperoned by senior parents (who run the games). Teachers usually don’t show up, nor do administrators. This is for the kids and their parents.

Some of My Favorite Domer’s classmates were going into the military; some had just received new tattoos; some were looking forward to being on their own at college. They snapped lots of pictures of each other, shared memories of their school years, and behaved themselves respectfully to us parents.

I couldn’t help but be impressed at their new-found maturity.

Or amazed that so many of them tired before us parents!

My Favorite Domer did his level best to avoid my gaming table that night. Who wants to cling to Mom when your friends are around?

Yet, it was reassuring to know where he was, what he was doing, and that he was safe.

And it made for an incredible bonding experience, realizing that we’d endured no sleep for an entire night. But, oh, how good that bed felt after I got back home, and how grand it was sleeping until noon!