What Summer Vacation?

“What are you doing on your summer vacation Dawn?” is a question I get asked by many people every summer. Many ask in a wondering way, but others ask in a sort of “Oh you teachers lounge around all summer while the rest of us work our butts off” kind of way.  I always have to bite my tongue in those circumstances because although it may seem like teaching is a cushy job, by the time summer rolls around I truly am in need of a long vacation, but that’s what it rarely turns out to be. If you want to get technical, it’s really a mandatory unpaid work stoppage and no, teachers don’t get paid “for the summer.” Last summer The Mackinaw Center for Public Policy spent a large amount of money sending out double-sided, full-color glossy postcards to teachers so that they could help us quit the union if we wanted. The postcard invited us to picnics where they would give us food and provide computers for revoking our memberships. On the backside of the postcard I noticed that it had a checklist that said,

Go to the Ballpark ‘check’

Drive to the Lake ‘check’

Really? Frankly, most of the teachers I know have separate summer jobs. The ones who don’t are the parents of young kids who spend their time away from the classroom being the stay-at-home parents they don’t get to be during the school year. If you are a full time stay-at-home parent, you know that it’s far from a “vacation.” When my boys were young I always felt fortunate that I could spend my summer months focusing on them. Few careers allow a mom (or dad) the same breaks as their children so that real vacations (a.k.a. trips) can be planned with less hassle. Many teachers take graduate classes during the summer to keep their certifications current. I spent more than a few summers doing nothing but Master’s coursework. In case you’re wondering, currently, my summer break was spent first,  teaching teachers at a reading and writing workshop during the last part of June, which gave me about a week off to regroup and get ready for that. After that I spent the month of July with about ½ of my co-workers teaching summer school. When August rolls around I usually give myself 2 weeks of true R&R before I head back in and start getting my classroom, curriculum, and materials ready for fall. The week before school starts has meetings and professional development days scheduled in. So really, summer vacation isn’t as duty-free as you might have thought and I’m pretty sure I can speak for my fellow colleagues. I guess the point of all of this is that if you’re ever tempted to ask a teacher what he or she is doing for summer vacation, you probably aren’t going to hear an enthusiastic “I’ll be at the lake!”

Adventures with Backyard Chickens

When people toss around the phrase “Empty Nest Syndrome” never in a million years did I think I would be filling that nest with actual birds…chickens to be exact.

I have looked at the cute little chicks in the local farm stores for a couple of years now and wondered about bringing them home so I could raise my own farm-fresh eggs. I even bought a book called “Backyard Chickens” by Martha Wyse, which I didn’t actually read until I was on the airplane during spring break. My husband Tom read it too and what we discovered was that there is a lot involved in raising chickens and that it is not something to be taken lightly. This book describes the good, bad, and ugly in regards to raising chickens (Pasty butt condition anyone?)  So after reading the book we decided that maybe chicken farming wasn’t for us. Then Tom talked to a guy at work who said “It’s easy! Just build a coop and let ‘em go!” And we were off. Now we have this really excellent coop and Tom has made a big feeder and watering tower.

We are learning as we go along. First of all we learned that if the coop box says “5-7 chickens” what it really means is “3-4 chickens” because while 7 chicks fit nicely in our coop, when they got to be what we call “teenagers” it became quite crowded and we had to adopt-out 3 of our girls. http://www.backyardchickens.com/ is a good one. I learned that you can sprinkle a neat mix of herbs in their roosts to keep the bugs away while old-fashioned fly paper is a necessary evil for the ones who continue to come around. I also planted mint and lavender around the coop, which should help too. And did you know that you can train chickens to come when called? You can! You use chicken treats (a.k.a. birdseed and dried meal worms). However, if you are going to feed the girls treats you need to remember that they have to have grit to digest it. This revelation resulted in a panic-stricken run to Gruler’s to get a bag of grit. Also, chickens, like children, get bored and peck at each other if not kept entertained.

Second, chickens smell and they attract flies…lots of flies. Fortunately there are hundreds of blogs that literally answer any chicken-related question you might have.

Probably the most surprising thing we learned was that we wouldn’t bring home the chicks and wa-la! We’d have eggs. Nope, they apparently don’t start laying for about 6 months. I’m still not sure what pullets, brooders, or bantams are, but I’m learning. We are enjoying our new adventure with Gerrie, Betty, Lola, and The Brown One. Even though they haven’t filled our empty nest with eggs yet, they are helping to ease the transition into sending our boys into the world with a new adventure.

When did I Stop Taking Pictures?

Order senior pictures-check.

Reserve township hall-check.

Order invitations and mail-check.

Finish party menu and order food-check.

Make a memory book and posters of embarrassing pictures-wait…almost a check?

Sammy will be graduating on May 31^st and I am doing the usual Mom stuff of party planning and decorating. I have made a special memory book as a graduation gift for both of my boys with various pictures of them growing up. Sammy was looking through his book and said, “Why are there only pictures of me until I’m like, 12 years old?” Um. Well? That’s a good question.

            “Because that’s when we stopped taking pictures of you.” There. I said it. I actually didn’t stop taking pictures of him, or Robby for that matter. I just stopped using a camera. The invention of the camera phone has taken the place of my scrap booking hobby and the picture-taking of each and every moment along with it. I used to take pictures just because I had a great idea for a “layout.”

            “Oh! Let’s go to the playground! I have some really cute paper and stickers to go along with the pictures!”  Now I wonder if it’s really worth using up the phone memory before I capture that precious memory.

From the time I got a camera phone and shortly after that, a Facebook account, I have really taken a minimal amount of pictures other than the “Oh isn’t the cat cute?” random ones. At sporting events I have let the moms with the good cameras take the action shots that I pulled off of Facebook every now and then. I have a few pictures of our trip to Florida in 2012…on my phone, pictures of Robby’s graduation…on my phone, and things I’ve crocheted or, again, cute pictures of my cats, (also on my phone). When it was time to get pictures of Sammy pulled together for this album, there really weren’t many from the past 4 years. I don’t even print pictures anymore unless I absolutely need to. I email, Facebook, and text pictures if I want people to see them. Facebook is my new scrapbook. Look at pictures of my life and then scroll down and look at pictures of other people’s lives…and their dinners.

I remember when I got really heavy into my scrapbooking phase I panicked thinking that I would have to do it for the rest of my life, because I couldn’t just have these fabulous scrapbooks and then go back to the old fashioned pocket albums! I thought I had really gotten myself locked into something that would simply never end. Little did I know that with the invention of that wonderful thing called a camera phone, that my inventory of stickers, stamps, ribbons, and beautiful paper would collect dust in the basement. So get used to it boys. If you want to see anymore pictures of yourselves you’ll have to check my Facebook account under “Pictures of You.”

The Epic Battle of the Furnace

Every year around this time Tom and I go head-to-head in a battle of sorts.

It isn’t a battle about the children, pets or vehicles. It isn’t even a battle about the toilet paper roll (a battle going on for the past 20 years, it will not end soon and it will not end well). The battle I am talking about is the battle of the furnace.

Shortly after we returned from spring break, “click” off went the furnace. It was a beautiful Easter morning with snow gently falling while my teeth chattered. What is going on? Wait. Let me guess. I went over to investigate and sure enough, the furnace was off. So, I quietly turned it back on … and up.

My husband, Tom, is a hopeless optimist, especially when it comes to spring. He simply cannot wait to ride his motorcycle or grill stuff on his super-deluxe grill. As soon as the Easter snow melted, the winter coats were boxed up and the doors propped open.

“It’s 40 degrees out!” I protested.

“It’s spring!” he grinned. “Boys! We’re getting the deck furniture out of the shed!”

Then it snowed again. I considered posting an apology on Facebook since it was our premature placement of deck furniture that caused a round of flurries. Once again, I found myself wearing fleece pants, double thick Christmas socks and bootie slippers. Once again, I checked the furnace. “Doggone it!”

And “click” I turned the furnace back on.

This past weekend it was relatively warm, but not the 70 degrees they promised us.

I unloaded and loaded the dishwasher Saturday morning and thought to myself, “I should be warm, but for some reason I’m not … well, whatdaya know?”

You guessed it. The furnace was off again. This time it was a little more understandable. It had been a really warm week, but we have such a well insulated house it can be pretty warm outside. But, it will be nose-cold inside.

Since Tom was working in the garage I took the opportunity to check the furnace, find it turned off, and turn it back on again. When he came back in and heard it running I said, “Don’t you turn the furnace off, it’s freezing in here!”

Later I went into town and came back to find Tom out on a ride. Gosh, my feet just wouldn’t warm up even after I put on my super warm socks and a sweatshirt.

The furnace was on … or was it? Nope. Off again. So I did what I always do and turned it back on.

Our little battle is usually a friendly one and fortunately, like many other things, reminds me winter is on its way out along with my fleece pants, double-thick Christmas socks and bootie slippers.

Being a "Wrestling Mom"

As I sat in the stands at the MHSAA Individual wrestling finals waiting for my son Sammy to receive his medal, I looked over to see the parent of another wrestler wearing a sweatshirt that read "I can't Keep Calm, I'm a Wrestler's Mom." That really hit the nail on the head for me. I've seen a lot of shirts and bumper stickers over the past 12 years that attempt to describe what it's like to be the mom of a wrestler, such as:
"Wrestling Mom" This one sounds like the mom actually wrestles her son or maybe other moms. That's definitely not me, although I've seen some who look like they could.

"The only thing tougher than a wrestler is his mom" I certainly don't feel tough, as I sit in the stands with my heart pounding out of my chest and my palms so sweaty I have to wipe them on my jeans.

"I can handle anything. I've watched my kid wrestle" I actually own this T-shirt, but every time I take it out to wear it I fold it up and put it back, because watching my son wrestle has not really ever made me feel like I can now handle "anything."

The truth of the matter is that wrestling is an extremely difficult, stressful, nerve-wracking sport to watch, especially at the high school level. Watching my little first, second, third grade son wrestle other cute little guys was fun. But when he's facing off in what they call the blood round, wanting more than anything to advance to the next level, and I can do nothing but hope and pray that he does it, the feeling of helplessness is incredibly stressful. That's my son on the mat, alone, with no teammates there to jump in and assist in what seems like the battle of his life, for those six minutes. I even have to admit that I've sat through many matches with my eyes closed because it was just too hard to watch.

Yet I love the sport of wrestling. It is a sport unlike any other. It builds, strength, stamina, endurance, determination, focus, and perseverance. I've been watching it since I was in high school and I'm sad that this chapter in my life is over. I want nothing more than to someday sit in The Palace again and watch my grandchildren compete in the state meet, wiping the sweat off of my palms and yelling stuff like, "Run it!" And "Settle back!" (Wrestling lingo for "Pin that kid already, will ya!"). I'll have the familiar knot in my stomach and will most likely be wearing a sweatshirt that says "I can't Keep Calm. I'm a wrestler's Grandma"

The One About the Yarn

I'll be the first to admit that I have a problem. In fact, if you are a regular reader of this column you'll recall that I admitted to my Chapstick dependence without hesitation. Actually this is one of those problems that I've been able to keep somewhat under control because of limited space and my cats. The problem I'm talking about is my yarn collection. It starts innocently enough. I find a cute pattern on Pinterest or see something that I think I can make. So I walk the aisles looking for just the right yarn. I will find what I'm looking for but wait, what's this? A new soft multi-colored, self-striping yarn that would make the cutest infinity scarf! Before I know it I have an armload of yarn and a head full of ideas. Like I said earlier, my problem with buying all of that yarn I want is a lack of places to put it all that's out of reach of my cats, who love nothing more than to destroy a full skein and leave it all over the living room. So I have my yarn carefully tucked away here and there throughout the house. I also have a problem with good intentions. Thinking that yarn I just bought would make something cute and actually making that cute item are two completely different things. If you were to come and ask me about my inventory of yarn I would be able to tell you exactly what I plan to make with it "someday." And yet the yarn keeps coming. My friend recently posted on Facebook that she had acquired a large quantity of yarn and was looking to get rid of it. "I'll be right over!" I messaged within minutes of seeing the post. By the time I had gotten there, she had taken out what she wanted and had given some away but still had enough leftover to make blankets for the entire population of the U.P. Now that's what I call a problem! I, of course, had to help her out by taking two large bags of yarn off her hands. I honestly come by this naturally. My Aunt Bonnie has a bonus room filled wall to wall, floor to ceiling with fabric. My mom has an entire walk-in closet devoted to her fabric collection. So really, if you put it into perspective, all I have is one Tupperware box, a small cardboard box and three large bags of yarn which comparatively, is almost no yarn at all. And I currently only have 3 unfinished projects going. So as I said, I'll be the first one to admit that I have a problem and if that problem develops, I'll let you know.