It’s My Parents’ Fault

 

Write. Share. Give.This morning I woke up to find five text messages from my mom.  Panic quickly bubbled inside me.

What happened?

Is everyone okay?

What did I do?

My panic quickly ebbed away when I actually took a breath and read the message:

I was reading a lot of your Slices…you are truly gifted expressing yourself in words.  The one about Lake Geneva is just beautiful and  had me tearing up.  I am so proud of you. I am so proud of you. I am so proud of you. 

After I finished giggling about that fact that my mom’s phone must of stuck since I received the same message three times…I was in awe.  I mean, I know I had shared a few Slices with my mom via Facebook because they were about our family, but I never thought she would be going through my old ones and reading them.  Even at my age, when my mom tells me she is proud of me, I beam and blush and tear up a bit.  I love that my mother is proud of my writing, but I hope she knows that her and my father should be proud of themselves.  I mean it’s basically their fault.

It’s all their fault for reading to me religiously, and fostering my imagination. Taking me to the library as often as possible and buying me books, so that I could experience the way authors share their stories and ideas.

It’s all their fault for inspiring me to write stories for the Young Author’s Contest, and then taking me to Bloomington when I won, so that I could know what it felt like to actually be an author and share my story with others.

It’s all their fault for being my editors throughout my school and college career.  Reading and rereading my papers that were due.  Helping me choose the write wording or correct mistakes, so that I could really showcase my writing skills and intelligence.

It’s all their fault for always encouraging me to live my dream to be a teacher.  Supporting me from 1st grade until now, no matter how stressful it got for all of us.  Listening to my fears and applauding my achievements, all of which lead me to where I am now.  So, that now I can foster my students’ writing goals and help them be the best authors they can be.

I may be the one who puts the words and ideas and stories on the paper, but it is my parents’ fault for instilling in me the courage, imagination, and creativity to share my ideas and feelings with this wonderful writing community.

A Lot Crazy

 

Write. Share. Give.Everyone is  a little odd and different and interesting and strange.

But I’m A LOT crazy!  I have idiosyncrasies like you wouldn’t believe!

It all started when I was little.  I wouldn’t go to the local Ace Hardware store with my parents because there was a clown statue by the In/Out doors.  If by some miracle, or trick, they got me to go, I would close my eyes as my parents dragged  me past the nightmarish clown.  My fear of scary things never really subsided though.  I still refuse to go into ANY haunted house, no matter what!  Not even the local one that is so horribly fake, you the can see the Air Jordans of the teenagers peeking out of  their costumes.

But I mean, that isn’t too abnormal, many people are fearful of clowns and haunted houses.  When I was little, I had an odd fear of death and sickness.  Like many families, we had our nightly routines; bedtime stories, goodnight kisses, ‘I love yous,’ and tucking ins.  But in my house, all of that was followed by the same two, really morbid questions:

“Am I going to be sick tonight?”

“Will I wake up?”

I know, so weird!  I have no idea how or why it started, and I still feel bad for my parents for having to answer those questions every…single…night.

My poor husband doesn’t have to deal with questions like that, but he does have to deal with my behavior when watching a TV show or movie.  If I know something bad or scary or sad is about to happen on the television, I don’t want to witness it.  So, I’ll casually get up and say, nonchalantly, “I have to use the washroom. Don’t worry, you don’t have to pause it. I’m sure I’m not missing anything.” To which my husband then sighs, shakes his head, and says, “Okay.”  I use the ‘bathroom,’ which is really me washing my hands so I can’t hear anything, return to the room, ask my husband to tell me what happened, and then continue the show or movie until I have to get up again.

There are several more crazy things I do, but that’s for another time.  For now, I’ll enjoy my crazy, I mean, who would I be without it?

That One Time at Work…

 

Write. Share. Give.During high school, I had a job at Chuck E. Cheese.  It was never a dull day, but some days were a little more eventful than others.  And some stories are just too ridiculous not to share, but proceed with caution, this gets a bit gross.

One night, when we were just about to close up, a little boy came running out of the bathroom tattling to his parents about something that was occurring in the restroom.  The little boy claimed that a man was ‘drawing’ on the bathroom wall.  Of course, his parents did not believe him, so neither did the employees.

So we thought nothing else of it, locked up the doors, and began our closing, cleaning routines.  Not five minutes into wiping down the salad bar, my boyfriend, who also worked with me, comes running out of the bathroom laughing.

“You’ve got to see what’s in the guy’s bathroom!” he gasped in between chuckles.

“No thank you, I’ve cleaned that bathroom plenty.  Not a big fan of what I’ve seen in the past.”

“No seriously, please come in and see this!”

So, I did.  And part of me wishes I would have stuck to my guns and said no, but the other part of me is glad I went in; if only so that I could write this story now.

We probably should have listened to the little boy because he was definitely not lying.  A man did indeed draw on the bathroom wall.  His art piece of choice: one of those Jesus fish that you might sometimes see on a bumper sticker.  What he choose to work with?  Well I will let you use your imagination for that.  Let’s just say, this world is filled with interesting people.

Decisions, Decisions

 

Write. Share. Give.When you’re young you’re so eager to grow up.  All you care about is that freedom you’ll have.  No one to tell you where to go or what to do or when to be home or even what to eat. No one around to make those decisions for you.  But those decisions are what make being an adult the hardest thing possible. When you’re an adult, you don’t have anyone to make those decisions for you.  All that pressure lines on your shoulders.

First the decisions are easy.

What classes should I take?

What am I going to do tonight?

Where should we spend spring break?

Then the decisions tend to get a bit harder.

Where should I apply for a career?

Can I afford this place’s rent?

What’s more important, new clothes or gas?

And then a bit harder.

Is he the one?

Am I ready for what comes with marriage?

How will we afford this wedding?

Then there are those questions that the toughest.

Where do we want our forever home to be?

Are we ready for kids?

Is this career what I want for the rest of my life?

Being an adult means freedom, but it also means making the hard decisions.

 

Sneaky, Angry, Surprise

Write. Share. Give.One of my mom’s favorite sayings is, “I hope you have five girls, just like you.”  I can’t really blame her.  I wasn’t an awful teenager, but I was far from perfect.

Like the one time, when I was 19, and I decided to get my belly button pierced specifically knowing my mother was not going to be happy about it.

A friend from work was having a Tattoo Party (basically a Mary Kay party, but you get tatted while there).  I had no intention of actually getting a tattoo, but I did want to get my belly button pierced, and the guy doing the tattooing also did piercing.  (I realize now how absolutely ridiculous this all sounds, and would probably kill my own daughter if she did it the way I did).

Once it was done, I figured I would have no trouble keeping it a secret.  All I had to do was make sure my stomach was covered at all times.  (Looking back now, not sure why I really even wanted one…it wasn’t like I walked around in crop tops).  I did a pretty decent job of keeping it hidden, eight whole months.  Then one day I made mistake.

One day I chose to wear a turtleneck that was a bit too tight.  My mom noticed and ‘gently’ ripped up my shirt to reveal my belly jewelry.  Needless to say, she was not very happy, which was made evident by her famous line, “What until your father gets home.”  Now I was terrified, if I upset my dad, then I was in real trouble.

I paced the floor waiting for my dad’s truck to pull into the driveway.  When I heard it, I hid in my room waiting for the angry voice of my dad calling me down.  Instead, he calmly called me into the dining room, and simply said, “Next time you want to do something that bad, can you at least talk to me first, so that I could possibly prep your mother?”

Needless to say, we were all a bit surprised that day.

I Missed Yesterday

 

SOLSC ButtonYesterday I didn’t Slice.

Instead I chose to sleep in until 8:15 because I really miss sleep during the week, and can only really ‘catch up’ on the weekends.

I chose to work my part time job even though people think that I am crazy.  I love the people I work with and the people I help out.  I like helping them pick out items for their house and solving problems that they may come across.

I chose to use the 30 minutes between getting home from work and my dinner date with my husband to look at a list of potential homes.  My husband and I are beginning our journey into the house buying world, and I very much enjoy flipping through the photos of possible properties.

I chose to go to on a date with my husband to one of our favorite restaurants.  We ate a delicious meal and we talked about our future.  We shared our excitement about buying a new home and eventually starting our own family.

I chose to meet out a few friends to celebrate a recent birthday.  We laughed about old times and we discussed future plans.  We traded some jabs and even ran into people we haven’t seen in awhile.

I chose to go see a band that my husband and I love.  Our friend is one of the singers and we consider ourselves to be ‘groupies.’  We chair danced and sang off key and enjoyed being together.

I chose to go home late and fall asleep quick.  So, I chose not to Slice. I can only blame myself.

We Were

 

Write. Share. Give.

It was 6th grade,

I was

The shy,

Nerdy girl

with glasses, and

You were

The new girl

Behind me

With the coolest Lion King pencil box.

I was Backstreet Boys

And

You were N’Sync,

But we worked.

We were

Trampoline and pool parties,

Sleepovers,

N’Sync dance parties in my backyard,

Beanie Baby toys,

A New Year’s Eve party without electricity,

Boy gossip,

Inseparable,

Best Friends.

And then we weren’t.

Not because of any fights,

Or feuds,

Or dramatic parting of the ways.

But

Because we were teenagers

And

We were Junior High

And

Things change.

We discovered

New friends,

New obsessions.

We are who we are,

Partly because of all the memories

We shared with each other.

Me, the shy,

Nerdy girl with glasses,

And

You, the new girl

Behind me

With the coolest Lion King pencil box.