When helping people hurts everyone.

Imagine this scene:

Two mothers have their toddler sons at a park.  The boys are still quite young, no more than four years old.  One of the boys, we'll call him Sam, has a shiny new toy that he recently got for his birthday.  It's obvious that he loves this toy.  He doesn't want to let it out of his sight.  Unfortunately, the other boy comes over and takes it right out of his hands.  Sam turns to his mother, distressed.  She encourages him to share the toy with the other boy, who simply doesn't treasure it like Sam does.  Within minutes the other boy has dismantled the toy and scattered the pieces, then stands eyeing Sam's backpack to see what other toys he has.  Sam is heartbroken over the destruction of his favorite toy.  Sadly, his mother only gently reminds him that it is 'just a toy' and that it's more important that he learn to share like a good boy.  The other boy once again approaches and tries to take a toy but this time Sam yanks his bag away and holds it tightly against his chest.  His mother scolds him for not sharing, somewhat embarrassed by his behavior.  But Sam knows what happened last time and won't risk it again, so when the boy tries to take another one of Sam's toys, Sam wallops him.  His mother descends on him like a hawk, yanks the backpack away from him and hands it to the other boy who immediately starts sifting through it just as carelessly as he had with the first toy.  Meanwhile, Sam is getting scolded for not sharing AND for hitting. 

Who is the bully in this situation?  Who is getting taken advantage of?

I watched a scene almost exactly like this when I was first pregnant with Jett.  I was very idealistic at that time and had thought often about how I would raise my children to be respectful, generous, caring adults.  Of course I had all the answers.  Ha.  But when I watched this scene unfold, a flicker of rage grew within me.  Sam's mother was just doing what she felt societal pressure to do in that instance.  For one thing, no one wants to be the mother of the kid who won't share and who resorts to hitting.  But even if she had seen that he was simply defending himself, it wasn't her place to address the other child's behavior even though his own mother certainly wasn't paying attention.  Regardless of all the factors out of her control, I was upset with Sam's mother for caving to outward pressure when she should have been protecting her son.  Perhaps the scene would have unfolded like this:

Sam plays with his shiny new toy with great glee.  The other boy, let's call him Tim, comes over and tries to take the coveted toy out of Sam's hands but Sam's mother stops Tim gently.  "This sure looks like a fun toy, doesn't it?  It belongs to Sam here.  He got it for his birthday.  What did you get for your birthday?"  Tim looks up at Sam's mother and says something that sounds like "truck".  She continues, "Oh, a truck?  Did you bring it?"  Meanwhile, Sam stops playing with his toy and watches the exchange. Tim shakes his head.  He didn't bring any toys with him to the park.  He again eyes Sam's toy.  Sam's mother turns to Sam and says "Sam, would you like to share your toy?".  Sam is wary and clutching his toy closely.  Then he tentatively shakes his head no.  He's not ready to give up his prized possession just yet.  "Is there one in your backpack you'd be willing to share with him?"  Sam opens up his backpack and pulls out a different toy.  It's smaller and well-used, but Tim accepts it gratefully nonetheless.  Both boys smile timidly at each other and then play side-by-side for a while, Sam with his favorite toy and Tim with his newfound borrowed toy.  They are both content for the moment.  After a while, Sam's mother pulls him aside and quietly asks him again if he would be willing to share his new toy with Tim.  Sam mulls it over carefully, turning to watch the other boy play with his other toy.  Then he spontaneously nods his approval.  "But Mom, he can't break it.  And I want it back in just a little bit."  Sam's mother smiles at his directives and tells him that it is his toy, so he gets to make the rules about how and when it is played with.  Sam runs over and hands his toy to Tim, who lights up upon receiving it.  The boys play together for a while longer and then it's time to leave.  Tim gives the toy back to Sam and sings "Thank youuu!" as he walks back to his mother.  Sam's mother thanks him for sharing his toy and tells him that it was very generous of him to do so since he wasn't required to.  Sam beams with pride.

How would society view THIS exchange?  Would this mother be viewed as a deadbeat for not making her child share?  I have thought about this for over four years since watching those boys play together that one day.  Ultimately my husband and I have decided that we will teach our children that their things belong to them.  Gifts that they receive alone belong to them alone.  We do not require them to share their own toys if they don't want to.  We encourage them to share, but if their answer is no then that is the final word.  Eventually they seem to want to share their beloved toy, but they are not chastised if they never choose to. 

This is not to be confused with 'taking turns'.  Just because we don't force them to share their own things doesn't mean they don't have to share community property or wait in line.  If they receive a gift together, they must take turns and learn to share it.  If they are playing with a toy that belongs to a friend of theirs, they are required to take care of it or they lose the privilege of playing with it, and they are only allowed to play with it with the other child's permission and blessing, NOT just the permission of the child's mother. 

There are several lessons I hope they will learn from this practice:

1.  I have ownership of certain things.  I have control over how those things are treated by others.

2.  I do not expect to have control over things that do NOT belong to me.

3.  I will take care of the things I use whether they are mine or not.

4.  I appreciate when someone shares with me but I do not expect it or demand it.

5.  My toy, my rules.

I hesitate to share this only because I know how misconstrued this could be.  People might think this is a terrible practice, that I'll raise my children to be bossy and domineering and greedy.  But I do not think it is better to teach my children that they must share no matter what, even with children who do not take care of their things, nor do I care to teach them that if something they love is taken from them and destroyed that they should just lay back and get over it.  Because if I teach my children that this is how life is, I risk inadvertently teaching them to treat other children that same way.  They might yank a toy away from another child and say "You have to give this to me.  My mommy says we have to share." or they might break another child's toy and assume there will be no consequences and that the other child will simply have to 'get over it'.  I want to treat my children the way I want them to treat others.  I think it would be vastly contradictory to try to teach them to respect another person's property in one breath but then insinuate that their own things are not worthy of respect in another breath by telling them it's 'just a toy' when someone else breaks it.  If I will ever teach my children to respect other people and their property, I must first show respect for my child and his or her property. 

This really isn't a parenting lesson.  In fact, I'm going to shift gears entirely.  A few years ago, a coworker of mine had the terrible misfortune of a house fire that destroyed the home she and her fiance were going to share after their wedding the next week.  They lost the home completely as well as all the contents, including many of the things they had prepared for their wedding, gifts they had received early, and things they had brought together from their respective homes to put in the home they would share.  It was truly a tragic event.  A fund was set up for her and many people made donations to try to help.  Those of us who worked directly with her were just heartsick for her and the things that were lost.  We saw her struggle with the loss of many emotionally valuable things that simply couldn't be replaced.  We would have done anything to undo the situation if we could have.  But ultimately the donations and sympathy and good intentions were not what saved them financially.  It was the fact that they had insurance.  In fact, the donations they received were barely a drop in the bucket compared to what they received from the insurance company, without which they would've truly lost everything.  I hope that doesn't sound cold because it is merely the reality of their situation. 

I have floundered politically for a few years.  I hesitate to share my views with others not because they're so polarizing but because  I don't have all the answers and I'm learning new things all the time.  I used to be a bit more vocal, but I have learned a lot since then and have chosen to keep things to myself for the  most part.  This is not going to be a political essay in the sense that I'll identify with any one party.  This is merely my humble opinion on a few things that I feel I have learned.  I like to think that I've become quite open-minded in the past few years and because I have not affiliated with any one party, my pride has not precluded me from changing my mind on various issues.

Political disclaimer aside, we have arrived at the whole point of this essay.  Think about Sam in the first example.  He was forced to share what was rightfully his.  Tim took what didn't belong to him and treated it with no care, thereby breaking it.  He went for the backpack, expecting yet another toy.  And Sam's mother all along ordered him to share and to not value his things over the other child's enjoyment.  We could maybe all agree that it wasn't even the other child's enjoyment she was so worried about as the societal pressure to make her child share.  Finally, when Sam tried to defend his property from being swiped again, his mother again came down on him harshly, this time for refusing to share and also for hitting.  Sam simply could not win. 

Does this sound familiar?  Many, many people can identify with Sam.  They work for the money they earn to buy the things that they want.  Imagine how hard it would be to have the authority figure in your life (in this case the government) tell you that you have to share, no matter what.  So you do it, not necessarily cheerfully or out of good will; it is only because you are required to.  Then you watch as the very thing you worked so hard for, the thing you prize, is treated with no respect.  Your handout is taken, wasted, and then you are expected to give again.  This would make any rational person lash out in helplessness and anger, just as Sam did. 

But what if you were told that your things are yours?  That you don't have to give them away if you don't want to?  That you could do it as a loan, or you could place conditions on it, or that you could even assess first if someone would treat it with respect before sharing?  Would this make you greedy and bossy and domineering?  Or might it lead you to share out of goodwill like Sam in the second example because you have control over what is shared and the terms under which it is shared?  That's a hypothetical question I truly don't claim to know the answer to.  It's certainly something I have mulled over a lot. 

For every Sam (who responds negatively to being forced to share) there is another kind of person who doesn't mind it.  They see the need, turn a blind eye to the wastefulness when it happens, and share what they have because they believe it to be good and helpful, the right thing to do, the only conscionable thing to do.  But think again to my coworker and the house fire.  We desperately wanted to help her.  It wasn't FAIR!  She was down on her luck, she didn't deserve it, and everyone rallied around them to try to help.  But it wasn't what saved them.  It couldn't be.  We didn't have the resources regardless of how terrible we felt for them.  What if the city government stepped in and ordered everyone to chip in a certain percentage of their income because of this horribly unfair thing that happened that must be rectified?  Think of the outcry.  Because that was just one house fire out of numerous fires that summer alone.  What if we had a fire tax? No one should have to bear the burden of something so unfair alone, right?  Especially when it isn't their fault.  But then people who have a fire clause in their homeowner's insurance would strike that out.  No need to pay for it if the city will just tax the citizens to come up with the money instead.  People will see no reason to bear the burden of their own fire insurance if they are going to be expected to pay a portion of the costs of every fire that happens in the city.  As fewer people have fire insurance, more people will be completely reliant on the city to continue with the fire tax.  Each citizen will come to expect this treatment.  Soon it would be so prevalent that it could never be undone.  What started as an act of humanitarianism for people down on their luck has become an expectation by the people that they will receive the same treatment in a similar circumstance.  In fact, people who voluntarily paid for their own fire insurance while continuing to pay the tax on everyone else's fires would likely be viewed as a bit of a schmuck for paying for something unnecessarily when the government is giving it for free.  The people who initially cried out against the fire tax would soon give up and just go along with it.  If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. 

In other words, if you treat the people like Sam and force them to share, you will soon have a population of Tims who expect a handout.

There are a LOT of unfair things that happen in this world.  I'm not even going to touch on the things that happen in other countries because I've read lots of horror stories but I don't have a true understanding of what worldwide humanitarian efforts would cost us.  If we stick to America alone, there are lots of ways people find themselves down on their luck.  They are laid off, injured in a car accident, robbed, scammed, starving, drowning in medical debt, or yes.. they lose everything they own in a fire.  Terrible things happen to good people every day.  I die inside when I read about starving people, homeless people, unemployed or injured or mistreated people.. so much so that my human inclination is to bury my head in the sand and try not to think about it because it's so very painful to imagine their suffering.  These are legitimate causes.  There are so very many people who desperately need help that they may or may not be able to get for themselves.  It's cynical to think that everyone in desperate situations got there only because of the decisions they have made.  But it's naive and arrogant to think that we as a nation can help all of them.  It's hard to be pragmatic in the face of a sympathetic crowd, isn't it?  Almost impossible, actually.  Because the sympathetic person can so easily villify the pragmatic person and make them out to be cold and heartless money grubbers.  I know this because that's ingrained in me.  I give food and money to people who stand with a sign asking for it.  I make donations to humanitarian causes.  I weep when I see images of terrible suffering and I would give anything to help.  But I have learned that it's impossible to rectify all of the unfairness that people of this country and world face.  It's impossible.  To acknowledge that does not make us monsters.  To deny help should not make us villains. 

There are a lot of visualizations that attempt to demonstrate how futile it is for us to try to help everyone who needs help.  It would be difficult to describe them here.  But powerful as those visualizations are at showing the futility of helping people in their need, they don't even touch on the exponential effect of human motivation.  We as humans love freebies.  We love samples.  We love incentives.  We love gifts.  We love tax refunds.  And why not?  We'd be fools not to!  Who doesn't love free money? 

Exactly.

There is no way to accurately depict how much human motivation causes humanitarian efforts to fail.  I repeat, if people are forced to share their things or money with people who are getting it for free, those people who previously knew the value of working hard for their things will see that it's a lot easier  to not work for things and get them for free.  It's human nature.  If your favorite sandwich shop had two locations and you learned that the one you don't normally go to started selling their sandwiches at a quarter of the price the other place charged because it was in a neighborhood with a lower average income, how long would you hold out before going there to get your sandwich?  And once word got around, how long before the franchise with the more expensive sandwiches has to close their doors because they've lost their customer base?  Of course at first they would try to be competitive, but it would only be possible by laying off half their staff and skimping on ingredients.  The half of their staff that remains employed is expected to work longer hours at less pay.  The ones who are laid off get in line for unemployment compensation.  Now imagine this is happening throughout the whole country.  (Not too hard to imagine, is it?)  Unemployment skyrockets and the ones still working are being overworked even while their wages are being frozen.  The government tries to step in and help all these poor unemployed people who aren't as lucky as the ones still working (tongue in cheek), but there are just so many people who need the assistance that there is a public outcry that the government help by expanding unemployment benefits.  Remember Sam's mother?  She forced Sam to share because she felt pressure to do so.  We the people have the power to apply the very same pressure to our government.  So the government does intervene and forces everyone to share whether it's fair or not.  The employed people get frustrated because they have worked hard for the very things that the unemployed are getting for free.  And since not all of them value the help received because they didn't have to work for it or earn it, some waste it and then expect more help.  The government steps in and orders more 'sharing'.  The ones who are being forced to share are growing more angry and resentful toward the ones they are helping.  But the government has essentially told them that the things they have worked for are not really theirs so they see that only a fool would continue to work in conditions where he is expected to work longer hours and cover more duties for less money when his now unemployed former coworkers are getting payment for doing nothing. 

I feel like I'm just talking in circles at this point and I'm going to assume that my point has been made as well as I'm going to make it.  But ultimately this isn't me crying out against humanitarian efforts or taxes or socialism or anything that clearly defined.  What this is to me is the general realization that just like with parenting, where you will never teach your child to respect you or anyone else by taking away their rights and belongings and making them feel powerless, the government cannot make the citizens of a country respect said government or each other without first making those citizens feel that they have certain rights that will not be violated; that they can have possessions and ownership rights; and that they can earn money and give it away only to whom they see fit if they so choose.  In scenario 1, would you rather be Sam or Tim?  Sam had his things taken away and destroyed and he was rebuked for being angry about it.  Tim got to play with toys that weren't his for free and he was not rebuked for destroying them or for expecting more.  But in scenario 2, it was Sam who had the better toy.  He didn't have to let Tim play with it at all, but once he trusted Tim to be careful with it, he allowed him the opportunity.  There's nothing wrong with Tim in either scenario.  He's not the bad guy, just opportunistic.  But try to tell Sam that.  When forcing him to share, you have pitted him against the other boy and made him defensive and aggressive.  But grant him his rights and treat him with respect, and he's a different boy altogether.  Simply put, if the government makes it preferable to be Tim, that's what many people will choose to do.  But if the government instead empowers Sam, it will show every Tim that it's profitable to work for what you want because you can't have it for free.  I know there are at least a thousand shades of gray I couldn't touch on here, but I feel that this simplistic notion is at the very heart of our economic crisis in America today.

Thank you.

They say that a hard experience will show you who your true friends are. I had no reason to doubt this a week ago when I went in for a minor surgery. The surgery itself was not a big deal. Just a same day office visit kind of surgery. A partial uvulectomy. I expected to feel just fine in a couple days tops. Much to my annoyance, it has been a long and tearful recovery. And a terribly lonely one.

Today I (under the influence of a narcotic I must add) moped to a very good friend of mine that no one in our circle seemed to care how I was doing. Bear in mind that this drug tended to make me weepy and I was overly prone to feeling sorry for myself at that point. But I was genuinely concerned at the time that I must not even be likeable to fall off everyone's radar like that. She recognized that I was dosed at the time, so she gently steered the conversation to lighter things and had me laughing in two minutes flat. This friend is easily one of the busiest people I know, yet she has checked in with me every day.

She made me realize something though. I was being terribly self-centered. I was so focused on me that I failed to realize that the people who have checked in with me haven't done so because I'M so great. They've done it because THEY are. These are people who are consistently thoughtful to everyone around them. They've made thoughtfulness a habit.

As far as the friends who didn't check in, this is not intended to make anyone feel chagrined or chastised. I assume they're just a lot like me: sometimes forgetful or too busy or preoccupied with other things.

But I want to be able to say that's the old me. Hard experiences show you who your true friends are? No. Hard experiences show you how a true friend is. And what they do. Not because of who you are, but because of who they are. So thank you to those of you who have been a friend to me. In so doing, you have been teaching me so much about how to be a better friend myself.

Grade school is tough, man.

I was up this morning very early to feed Ember. I went back to bed around 5 or so, but I couldn't fall asleep. The strangest memory had come to me. In sixth grade our art teacher had assigned us a project to draw 20 different faces for 20 different emotions. He wanted us to focus on how emotions change our eyes and mouths, etc. We moaned and groaned about our horrible plight, so he told us about a girl over at a different school who had, of her own volition, done 412 drawings! I turned to the guy next to me, Cody, and I bragged that I could easily break that record. (WHYYYY) He had $5 that said I couldn't. Game on. Worst weekend of my life ensued. But somehow, I think with Scott's help, I cranked out 413 different emotions. I had run out of emotions of course, so I was using descriptors like "Just got poked by a cactus" and "Got burned by a hot seatbelt" toward the end. If you're wondering, both of those instances result in the exact same facial expression. Anyway, I got my kudos and $5 from Cody. I also permanently solidified my existence as being that of a total nerd.

So after that odd memory came to me, it was a total onslaught. I couldn't fall asleep for the life of me. There were so many grade school memories that flooded my mind. I wanted to document them just so I could fall back asleep, but a part of me was afraid to. I realized that even as I tried to flesh them out with more detail, they crumbled right before my eyes as though they were made out of spun sugar. How ironic that I would need to avoid writing about them in order to preserve them in my mind. There are, however, a few very vivid memories that I'd like to share. Maybe some life lessons tucked in there somewhere too.

No names have been changed to protect any innocents. You're all going down with me.

I remember walking back from gym class with Chris. I think we were in second grade. I liked Chris a lot but we hadn't talked much. When we did I always thought he was really funny. He had a dry sense of humor, that one. So as we were walking back from gym, I remember trying to make him laugh. I couldn't tell you what point I was trying to make, but I made a reference to a "fat, bald, cross-eyed, pigeon-toed guy." and I laughed uproariously. To my dismay, he wasn't even smiling. He looked at me very seriously and said, "I'm cross-eyed." I died a thousand deaths in that moment. I had had no idea and I certainly never wanted to make fun of him. I'm pretty sure I blew past his comment and acted like it was no big deal, but the rest of the walk back was pretty quiet.

Life lessons learned: don't make fun of people. Period. Present or not, imaginary or not. It's ugly. Second, apologize even when it's awkward. If you don't, you just might regret it 25 years later.

Same school year. I was never the girl who got love letters from the boys. I knew this was because I was hideous, of course. Even in second grade I had a sense of unease about being the center of attention. When people ask now how school was for me, my response is often a very long pause and then the admission that I very much felt like a sore thumb in school. And it started early. It was already in full swing by the time this particular day rolled around. I got my first love letter from Matt Nitschke. Now I was one of the tallest girls in my class. This was horrible and caused me to curse my very existence, you see. Matt had the opposite problem as one of the shortest boys. A few of the other kids noticed that he gave me a note and I was humiliated. I felt it drew attention to me being so tall and I was afraid people would make fun of me. I put it in my bag as discreetly as possible and decided to wait until I got home to read it. Don't get me wrong, I was flying high to have gotten a love note! But I didn't like being teased about it. I brought it home and ran to my room and spread it out on the floor. There were lots of pages. I don't remember one thing he had written, although I'm sure it was very poetic and sweet. Our neighbor lady was over chatting with my mom in the kitchen, and as I walked out I realized that my mom was telling her that I had gotten a love note. I had no idea how she knew but I was mortified that she was telling Adele! Adele would tease me ruthlessly for something like that! My ears burned and I held it against Matt that I was so embarrassed about all this. He gave me notes for several days but I never let on that I liked receiving them. Kids in our class picked up on this and teased both of us. Lots of tales of us sitting in a tree or some such nonsense. By Friday, I had had it. Matt brought over another note and handed it to me as a bunch of us were standing in the back of the room. I took it from him, turned up my nose, and dropped it in the garbage. To my dismay and horror, it hit the bottom of the empty four foot tall garbage can and went CLANK. It.... clanked. He had given me something. I wanted to dive in there and fetch it out and give it back to him if nothing else. The look he gave me was one I'll ever forget. It was the single most cruel, heartless thing I had ever done. Matt looked at the garbage can longingly, but he had too much pride to tip it over and try to retrieve the note. I desperately wanted to apologize and felt like crying, but I couldn't get over my own pride either. It was the last note I ever got from him, or anyone, not surprisingly. I have been haunted by that incident ever since. I bet it's at least once a month on average that I think of Matt and wonder if he remembers what I did. I'd love to just tell him sorry.

Life lesson learned: don't ever let your pride supercede your desire to make something right.

Just a few random memories: I remember stealing chalk and an eraser from Mrs. Hutton in first grade. We had a chalkboard at home that I loved playing with, but we didn't have any chalk. I could have asked Mom and Dad for some I suppose, but it seemed much easier just to take some from the classroom. It was early in the morning and the teacher was in the back of the class greeting kids. I had come in and put my bag down and then I casually stood at the front of the classroom and inched backwards toward the chalkboard (if one can do such a thing casually). Once my back hit the chalkboard, I felt around until I found a piece of chalk and an eraser, then I held them behind my back and ran back to my desk. Life lesson learned: be more inconspicuous when stealing stuff. Hah. I felt tremendously guilty, actually. I brought it back the next day. I'm sure Mrs. Hutton knew what I had done.

I remember the first day of first grade. Mrs. Hutton had handed out a piece of paper and we were supposed to do something with it.. I don't remember what offhand. But as soon as I got mine, I promptly sneezed all over it. The page was literally soaked. We were supposed to raise our hand when we were done with it, so she was surprised that I had raised my hand so quickly. When she realized that it was because mine was covered with snot rather than answers, she made a face and recoiled a bit. She went and got me a new one and then folded mine up snot-side-in and threw it away. Life lesson? Nah. It was as unemotional as a business transaction.

Kindergarten. I literally remember nothing about kindergarten other than Tony Barnes standing at the front of the room with a glorious flat-top haircut, holding the flag as we all recited the Pledge of Allegiance. I had never been so in love in all of my five years.

Third grade. Cody Champagne broke my heart. He chased me around the playground for a couple of days and I dutifully played hard-to-get (i.e. I asked Brooke to punch him in the nose and she cheerfully obliged). Then one day I got to school and he called me a fat cow in the hallway! I was crushed! After that he was always the one who "got away".

Last day of fifth grade. I was horribly sick. I think I had strep throat, because I had to take these awful antibiotics that tasted like banana dirt. I wanted to go to school so badly because it was Awards Day and I hated to miss it! I was devastated. Fast forward a year to the last day of sixth grade. I was at the top of my game. I was going to be called up to get an award at least six times, so I felt like a big deal. My older sister Kristi had even come to watch and she had brought some of her friends. I literally could not have felt cooler. ...until she tripped me one of the times I walked up to get my award. I was mad at her all summer.

Sixth grade. Allison Suko was SO lucky. She had her birthday the day before Veteran's Day, so no matter what, she could always have a sleep over because we never had school the next day. She did it lots of times, but sixth grade was particularly rowdy. We played Truth or Dare, and someone dared her to lick the toilet seat. I could not believe it.. she did it! But she insists that she had just cleaned it prior to everyone coming over. Doubt it.

Mortifying moment of fifth grade: we had to read aloud in class and I pronounced orangutan "orinJOOtin". The class busted out laughing. I was so embarrassed. I was surprised they all knew what it was! I had never heard of such a thing.

Sixth grade was the year I decided I was a runner. Hah. At the beginning of the year we had to do our fitness tests, and I think I ran the 600 in 3:26. In case you're wondering, that is HORRIBLE. That whole year I became determined to get good at running. By the end of the year when we retested, I ran the 600 in 1:57. Tied Cody, mind you. I think Steph Pederson beat us by just a couple seconds but I could live with that. I felt pretty awesome.

Speaking of Steph, she and Nicky McCann and I were in a dance trio for gym class. We had to come up with a dance and perform it in front of several classes. Basically my worst nightmare. Steph choreographed the whole thing. I think we took second place! I'm pretty sure Sarah Bergman's team won first. She was the queen of dance. I think I could still do the first part of that dance... but not for any less than a million dollars.

I'm getting snapped back to reality here. Ember is just waking up from her nap. Pardon the complete lack of structure. Call this an exercise in free-writing. Mrs. Moser would be so proud.

Small Change for 2011

2011. I can already tell that I hate saying it. "Twenty-Eleven". Really? Five whole syllables to state the date? As if everyone isn't already aware of what year it is anyway. I miss 2010 already. 2012 won't be so bad, but then it's downhill from there through 2017.. and then 2027 will be especially brutal. It'll take so much time to state the date that we won't get anything done!

My first new year's resolution is to drop the preceding "twenty" when I state the date. From now on, it's just "Eleven".

My second new year's resolution is to buy more soapboxes, as I seem to be running out. Or perhaps my older sister just keeps confiscating them. She seems to think she can submit my app to Hoarders because I have so many.

What is it about a new year that gets people so excited? I don't ask that question as though I don't get excited myself; just curious about the reasoning behind it. I conducted a scientific sampling of facebook posts this morning, and it seemed that nearly every single person who commented on the new year seemed to think it would be 'happy'. I decided to investigate further.

Turns out that people like new, fresh beginnings. We revel in the notion that our past insufficiencies, short-comings, indiscretions, vices, and failures can be a thing of the past. Forgotten. Undone, forgiven, overcome.

Every new year rings in the possibility that we will finally be the person we WANT to be, no longer just the person we are.

This post can take one of two directions. I think I'm veering a little toward the cynical route. Put down the credit card- don't pay up front for a year-long gym membership just yet! Think carefully about what you are doing. Statistics prove, prove that you've, statistically, got a very small chance of actually carrying out your New Year's resolutions. Ask people who regularly go to a gym when they can finally breathe a sigh of relief that the noobs aren't coming to the gym anymore. They'll tell you late February, early March. Most people eventually lose steam. Do you even remember your resolution from last year? It's a difficult task to keep that resolution or those resolutions at the forefront of your mind for a whole year.

I have a little book called "Small Change" that I pick up every now and then. Anyone who has read my blogs in their entirety knows by now that I am (and recognize that I am) all-or-nothing. If I set out to do something, one failure can completely derail me for good. New Year's resolutions for me are more of a temporary recognition of what I'm doing wrong and what needs to change, than an effective way of actually making me change. I make jokes about my resolutions, even make light of resolutions in general, but that's because my true list of resolutions is so cliched that I don't like to share it. And, by saying that, I've essentially shared what they are. Eat right, exercise more, blah blah..

Here's the basic root problem with having a list of resolutions: they're a list.

This book, "Small Change", is all about training a person to get used to the concept of change, making changing a state of being. Here's the basic premise of the book: feel free to make a list of things you want to change about yourself. As long a list as you want. But only commit to changing one thing at a time. It takes an average of 21 times to make something a habit. If you want to create a new daily habit, you, in theory, would have it down in 21 days. However, if you want to exercise 3 times a week, it will take you seven weeks to solidify that habit. If you want to quit drinking a pop when you eat out, you'll have to commit to getting that water the next 21 times you go out. You get it.

So how does this work? Rank the items on your list in order of importance to you. Then, and this is the most difficult part for me, do them ONE AT A TIME. Some of them might come in conjunction with the first one you work on, but the key is to not focus on the others just yet. If you try to do all of them at once, you WILL fail. It is extremely tempting to try to do more than one at a time, but just remember that the best approach is one at a time.

Once you have established one habit, start on the next one while maintaining the first. It won't feel that difficult, though, because the first one will already be a habit. Once you feel that the second one has become a habit, begin working on the third. There. You have begun a lifestyle in which change is a constant. Exciting, isn't it? And much easier to maintain than starting off the year with 12 resolutions and forgetting all of them.

One other downfall I have is that my resolutions are usually specific, yes, but also quite daunting. For example: "Quit sugar". Well. It's more specific than, say, "Eat better", but it's probably not doable from the get-go. So here's my second piece of advice: when making your list of resolutions, make graduated steps for as many of them as you can. Let's use exercising for an example. Your goal may be to get to the point that you exercise 6-7 days a week for an hour, but if you expect to start out that way, you're doomed to angry muscles and epsom salt soaks and failure. So apply the rule of habitual change. Step one: walk for at least 30 minutes twice a week. According to the rule of 21, you would have to do this for at least ten weeks before you can consider it a true habit, but if you feel like walking a third time in the week starting at around week 3, there's no reason that you can't. The important thing is that you have to stick with your original goal, walking twice a week, until it isn't something you really have to remember to do because it's a habit. Then at that time you can re-evaluate. Maybe during the time that you established the walking habit, you found that you were able to go four times a week easily, but now you would really like to spend more of that time jogging. Maybe you want to jog instead of walk at least one day a week. These are just examples, I'm not saying this is the actual approach you should take. But I think you get my point: make sure that if you have resolutions that are not doable in one step, you have them broken down into mini-goals that are within reach. This eliminates the frustration and feeling of failure that comes with not accomplishing something on the first try.

One other point to remember: the rule of 21 is just a guideline. The true way to tell if something is a habit is when you do it without thinking because it's just part of your routine. If you are still struggling with one of your changes and finding that you're forgetting to do it as often as you originally intended, now is not the time to move on to the next step. Stick with your original doable goal until you feel satisfied that you have changed.

Finally, a warning. It takes around 21 times to establish a good habit, but only an average of 3 times to establish a bad one. If you miss three workouts in a row, for example, you have lost the momentum you started out with and you're going to have to really struggle to find it again. You go on vacation and eat horribly for 5 days in a row, it might take a full 21 days before you feel as though you have control over your diet again.

Keep this all in mind, and you WILL cross everything off your list! Good luck to each and every one of you! I wish you the best for 2011. Err.. for '11, I mean.

*Guess I should add that "Small Change" is written by Larry and Susan Terkel. Thanks, Wendy.

Rumble strips.

Scritch, scritch, scritchscritchscritchscritch. The flimsy little pretend credit card I found in my purse is doing little to put a dent in the frost on the window. I had lucked out. When we drew names for who sat where, I got my first pick: way in the back on the right side by the window. It was my favorite spot in the whole big van; a safely enclosed little corner of my world, where I was content to stare out the window and daydream, speculate, ponder. Things flew into my mind with seemingly no trigger whatsoever. What did they do with all that water while they tried to build a dam? Who first figured that broccoli was actually a food and not just a fuzzy cactus?

I press my fist against the window and let the frost melt, warmth sapped from my clenched hand. I can see out the window for just a moment, just a glimpse of sparkling snow in the fading late afternoon haze, and then frost rapidly reforms in a new pattern, this one more like crystals. Why does frost form again? Weird that they haven't invented windows that wouldn't frost.

The heat didn't always reach the back of the van very well. It was a huge van. I could stand up in it without hunching my shoulders at all. I had a big red crate at my feet with stacks of books, mostly Archie comics, but a couple of Incognito Mosquito books that I had checked out from the library too. I don't feel like reading right now. I'm content to let my mind wander.

Up at the front of the van, Mom says something to tease Dad. I don't hear it over the loud vents, but I know Mom must have said something sassy because Dad pokes at Mom's ribs in return as she laughs and swats his hand away. I smile and look back out the window. I realize how lucky I am to have parents so happy and content in their marriage. I start to make a mental list of all the qualities that are required in my future mate.

BDDDRRD. BDDRRRDD.

"What WAS that?" I holler from my spot in the back. With two rows of captain seats in front of me, I can't see the road at all. I feel a growing sense of alarm as the van comes to a stop. Dad lifts up his head in his signature way that he does when he wants us to hear what he's saying without having to take his eyes off the road. I'm leaning way forward, straining to hear. Dad glances to his left, and the van slowly makes a right turn as he turns the heat down so we can hear. "Just rumble strips!" he says, and then turns the defroster back on to max. We can hardly turn it off for a second before the windows are too frosty to see through again, even up front.

I sit back in my chair, satisfied only that there isn't something wrong with the van. Rumble strips. I don't know what they are. It bugs me that I can't figure it out. I try to go back to thinking about the perfect mate, but my mind is stuck on rumble strips. We're almost to the little town where Dad sometimes pulls over to get us each a can of pop from the vending machine. Not very often though. I plan to ask what rumble strips are when we get there. I resume staring out into the now complete darkness.

Many long minutes later, the van slows again as we start to make the familiar left turn. I can't remember the name of the town, and that bugs me too. I know it starts with a C, but it isn't Cooperstown and that's the only C town stuck in my mind.

"Dad! What's this town again?"

He turns the fan all the way down. "Courtnay."

"Oh yeah."

Dad lifts his head up again, kinda like the way he does when he's about to say something loud so we can hear, but this time he sorta turns his head to the right a little so it seems like he's just trying to make sure I'm done talking before he turns the fan back up. So I ask, "So... what are rumble strips exactly?".

Dad laughs a little. Just a small laugh. He was chewing on something. Probably sunseeds. I can see that spot near his temple that moves when he chews. After a few seconds he swallows and then explains, "Rumble strips tell a car that a stop sign is coming up so you can slow down. They kind of stand up a little bit from the road."

He looks up at the rear view mirror again, kind of like he's looking to make sure I understand what he's saying. A chill seeps in without the heat on full blast, so I simply say "Oh." I sit back in my chair, and after a few seconds, Dad turns the heat back up to high and resumes looking straight out the front window. Mom says something to him and he glances at her and then furrows his brow a little like he's thinking and then shakes his head. Then he looks back out at the road. I guess it's popcorn he's eating. I watch as he tosses another small handful into his mouth, and then his temple starts to move in and out while he chews.

I look at my older sister Kristi. She's reading a book. Her reading lamp is on, and that's what's casting the yellow glow throughout the whole van so that I can see. I like it when someone else reads. I like to sit in the dark, but I like having a little warm glow elsewhere in the van. Kristi seems to get what rumble strips are, which doesn't surprise me. She always seems to understand what the grown ups are talking about. Plus when I search her face, I don't find any of the same confusion I feel. Her brow is furrowed only because of the shadows being cast on the page every time we hit a bump.

I look at Scott and Brooke and Marcy. They don't seem to care what rumble strips are. I guess I'm the only one. I stare back out the window. Using the tip of my finger, I put five little dots over the top of my fistprint from earlier. It looks exactly like a baby's foot. I use my other fist to "walk" little baby footprints up the window. It looks real.

I wonder if they can somehow sense that a car is there and it triggers something to reach up and scrape the bottom of the van. I know the bottom of the van got scraped, of that I am sure. I felt it. I suppose it could work.. a car hits a little line on the road and then up pops a rumble strip to scrape the bottom of the car and let you know that a stop sign is coming up. Sort of like Pop Goes the Weasel. But that doesn't quite feel right. Roads aren't mechanical. That would be really expensive to make, wouldn't it? If they could make something like that, surely they could fix all the bumps in the road, no problem. And what if a motorcycle went over a rumble strip? That could be dangerous to shoot one up at the bottom of a motorcycle. They don't mess around with motorcycles. My uncle Craig was in a bad motorcycle accident, not because of rumble strips I don't think, but he was in a coma for a long time. But when he woke up out of his coma, he knew it was Sunday. My future mate will NEVER ride a motorcycle. Ever.

But if Dad said that's what rumble strips do, then I guess that's what they do.

I just can't quite figure it out.

Vanity plates. Ughh.

Wow, over two months since my last post. I've been a lazy pile! Well, I don't think it's that so much as I just have nothing interesting to share, and today is no exception.

Have you ever noticed that every single VW Beetle has vanity plates that have something to do with the car itself? You've seen them. "SLUGBUG", "MY BUG", "BUGGIE", "LIMABUG", "BETLJUS", "IBBUGN"..
I swear that the VW Beetle is the only car whose collective owners are under the false impression that they must have a vanity plate as a condition of owning that particular car. Amirite??!?

And honestly, it's really just a glorified form of snobbery. You've seen the Bugs that don't have vanity plates. They slink around town all sheepish, knowing that their vanity-plate-donned peers are looking down on them in disdain, that normally obnoxiously cheerful front fender twisted into a pompous sneer..

I gotta quit watching Cars.

Growing up I used to daydream of the best vanity plates. I had settled on buying a monster truck and putting FRAGILE on the plates. Now I'm just annoyed by vanity plates. Not that I care if people have special plates, I'm just annoyed by the ones I can't figure out. It eats at me, because I don't have the luxury of popping on over to the neighbor car on interstate to chat them up about what their stupid license plate means! But you gotta love the snobbish sort that purposely get an obscure message put on their plates, but then get irritated when they are repeatedly asked, even by strangers, what it means. You asked for it, buddy! That's what you get for putting something stupid like "MIYY4U" on your plates, you dolt! (Am I too wise for you) I call that karma: you demonstrate your intellectual superiority by coming up with some plate that's so clever that these dunces you have nothing but contempt for flock to you to ask what it means. muhaha. BAHAHAA. Keep spending 14 hours a week trying to come up with a genius license plate, you wise aleck!

Not sure where all that pent-up angst came from. Yikes.

The new posts are old posts.

The three posts below are actually old ones I wrote long ago and posted on Facebook. I just wanted to keep all my musings together in one page. Off to eat some more spaghetti.