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Archive for » June, 2004 «
29
Jun 2004
Last week my mom mentioned the Morey family reunion. Would I be going?
And I hadn’t planned on going because the reunion is a four hour drive and starts at noon on Sunday. I normally go to the races on Saturday night and often don’t get home until 2 a.m. Then after the reunion, it’s another four hour drive home. Eight hours in a car with four kids and a hubby on very little sleep doesn’t add up to a rip-roaring time, right?
That’s my excuse and I’m sticking with it.
But my mom made an offer and I traded four kids for one eight-month old parrot named Ernie. They left Saturday morning and they still aren’t home yet this morning.
Steve and I went out to breakfast on Saturday and Sunday morning. We went trail riding Saturday. On Sunday we went for a 200 mile motorcycle ride. All of the dirty dishes fit in the dish washer. The house stayed clean. And when I went to sleep, I slept. Monday came and I went to work without having to make elaborate plans. But when I came home Monday, I was ready to see my kids.
I miss my kids.
They were supposed to be home yesterday, but my mom takes trips just like she and my dad did when I was a kid. There’s no itinerary. You get where you’re going when you get there and the pace is slow and leisurely. You stop. You visit. And if you’re with my mom, you have to get your nose out of a book frequently to look at whatever out the window and make appropriate “uh-huh” noises.
Or maybe that was just me. Throughout the trip, the kids have kept me up to date using Grandma’s cell phone. A 5-year-old doesn’t understand signal strength, or the lack thereof, by the way.
Anyway, the reunion was on Sunday. After the reunion they went swimming in the lake. They’d be home Monday. But not until they go to Brooklyn and visit Brian and Dez and Keith and Irene. They’d probably leave around 2 p.m.
But my mom took the kids by my cousin’s house that I mentioned recently. You know, the haunted one? Well, the cousin was home and she has horses. She invited them to come back later for a ride. So they went to Brooklyn for their visit, then to the cemetery to see my grandparents graves and then to ride the horses. And then they’d be coming home.
Only they called again. Turns out they stopped in Jackson to visit Uncle Ed and Aunt Fran. But they’re on their way now, but first they have to get dinner.
An hour passes and another phone call. Dinner’s done. They’re hitting the road. By now it’s about 8 p.m. Monday. If they get tired they may get a hotel.
They got a hotel. The kids were very excited. My mom said she couldn’t have asked for better kids. They had stopped at Beck’s in St. Johns.
All of the kids got on the phone and said goodnight to their dad and I. Then Grandma got back on the phone and I made it clear, she must bring home my children today. 
Apparently my kids have been keeping relatives entertained. Performing songs and cheers and all sorts of things for them.
For the record, my children aren’t shy. Amanda acted shy at one time, but when she’s around family, she’s very outgoing. They like to talk. I mean talk and talk and talk. Lots of talking. And asking questions.
My house is very quiet right now. Ernie (the bird) hasn’t even been talking.
Now, where’s my kids?
Category: Parenting
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25
Jun 2004
This column appeared in several area newspapers on Father’s Day or just before. So I waited to put it here.
After someone dies there is the inevitable year of firsts those left behind must go through. This weekend will be my first Father’s Day since my father died. I feel like I should do something special. I should find a way to pay a special tribute, possibly by writing something poignant and meaningful.
But how do I find the words to describe a lifelong relationship with my father, a man who constantly challenged my understanding of the world and my role in it?
My dad wasn’t perfect. I could recite his every fault, and believe me, he knew all of mine as well. Some of my worst traits, I learned from him, and some of my best too.
I’m the youngest of five children, but more than a decade separates me from my older siblings and I grew up more like an only child. My siblings grew up with a dad in the military who spent as much as a year at a time away from home. I grew up with a stay-at-home mom and a retired dad with the freedom to take off for impromptu road trips. As my older sister would say, I was spoiled rotten.
I grew up with a disabled dad who wasn’t so sure he’d be around to see my high school graduation. As a result, he made the most of the time we had, making sure we created memories worth keeping.
We had wonderful discussions about a variety of topics including friendships, education, the future and politics. He always knew just what I needed to hear. When I complained about my math class, he’d sympathize saying it was to be expected from a girl. He’d thrown the gauntlet and I would study harder, proving him wrong by improving my math grades, which was what he’d expected me to do.
He taught me to read a road map and trust myself enough to go against peer pressure. He shared with me a love for reading and travel. But it wasn’t all heart wrenching memories. I clearly remember roof-raising arguments during my teen-age years. Or the stubbornness that kept him from talking to his sister for more than five years.
My dad taught me to pay attention to the world around me and to learn the lessons to be found there. He taught me the importance of giving just the right gift for a person you care about. He taught me to rely on your own words, no matter how clumsy, rather than the eloquence of Hallmark if you want to show someone how much you care.
My parents taught me to blush because they would brag to anyone willing to listen about my latest accomplishment, no matter how small. I would feel obliged to tell the poor listener that these were the same people who rejoiced when I was potty-trained.
My dad challenged me and loved me and believed in me. How do you find the words to express how much your father means to you? He was right. No store bought card could ever express it. It’s hard enough to find my own words.
24
Jun 2004
I’ve made fun of my mom before because if she goes to bed with dirty dishes in her sink, she won’t be able to sleep. Instead, she’ll toss and turn for a bit and then she’ll get up and do the dishes.
Silly Mom, I used to think. Losing sleep over dishes? Not me!
And last night I went to bed at about 10 p.m. with dirty dishes in my sink. Dirty laundry piling up. A long to-do list for work and the dinner stuff all over the kitchen counter. And I went to sleep.
For five hours anyway. I woke up at 3 a.m. and considered getting out of bed, but didn’t. I tossed and turned for a while thinking of all the things on my list that I needed to get done and that I wanted to get done.
Finally, just before 4 a.m., I gave up and got out of bed. I did some laundry. I did some dishes. I turned on the computer and began doing work.
Then I needed more laundry, but the dirty clothes were in my bedroom with my sleeping hubby and in the other bedroom with sleeping children and a dog prone to barking. I decided to creep back into my bedroom and grab the laundry.
“What are you doing?” my husband growled, punching his pillow.
“Sorry,” I said, picking my way in the dark to get the hamper.
“Right,” he replied. “Like everyone does laundry at 4 a.m. Thanks.”
OK, why in the world did I get up at 4 a.m. and do not only dishes (by hand!), but laundry too?
I think it’s a Thursday thing. Thursday tends to be a long work day and I’m away from home and not able to do all of the things I normally do. And it seems by the time Friday rolls around, my house needs lots of work despite being occupied by a dad and four kids unsupervised for just a few hours.
But here it is almost 7 a.m. and I’ve done laundry, dishes, blogging, cleaning and writing. Uninterupted. And the best part? When I cleaned something, it stayed that way for more than 5 minutes. And I saw the bottom of not one, but two clothes hampers!
Category: Family
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21
Jun 2004
I just finished reading “Maggie By The Book” by Kasey Michaels. I must say it was a great read. This is a sequel to “Maggie Needs an Alibi,” which had a very unique premise in my mind.
It’s about a fiction writer. The latest installment takes place at a writer’s conference for romance writers. Lots of info most of us could relate to and enjoy.
Shelley, you know those radio interviews you do? Those are called “phoners.” At least according to this book. And unpublished writers are never called unpublished or wannabes. “Prepub” is the politically correct phrase of choice.
I can’t wait for the next book in the series, which will be out in August.
