If You Don't Do It Right the First Time, Do You Have Time To Go Back and Do It Again??

This morning was an espresso kind of morning... and not just a small espresso but a large espresso. Last night our 7 week old puppy, Annabelle, just couldn't get comfortable in our bed. She would flop from one area to another panting at first and then switching to sighing. We bought her a crate and watched the DVD's on how to crate train her. The problem is when we got our Beagle several years ago the way we potty trained him was to keep him on our bed at night where he couldn't jump off the bed (he was a mini Beagle and when full grown he was a mere 12lbs). Potty training him that way worked wonderfully—and I like to go with familiar and what I know works. But Annabelle would have none of it and decided she doesn't like sleeping on our bed. Go figure. About midnight I gave up on trying to satisfy her every whim in allowing her to get comfortable. Out of desperation I put her in her crate. Surprisingly, she loved it and I didn't hear from her again until 6:15 am when it was time for Tim to head to the gym.

Annabelle's antics reminded me of potty training my girls. Our eldest daughter seemed to be a nightmare to potty train. Looking back it was more like I was the one trained to make sure she went every few hours rather than her being trained to tell me when she needed to go. Once our 2^nd daughter came along, I dug my heels in and refused to start the potty training process. I just couldn't bear to think of being imprisoned by the restrictions that go along with potty training. There's far too many things to remember—an extra set of clothing—possibly two, locating bathrooms along your route, giving yourself and your child pep talks along the way, just to name a few. The funny thing is our youngest didn't wait for me to potty train her she decided she wanted to be trained and pretty much did all the work herself. Two kids and two different methods of training. Two dogs and two different modes of training.

The one thing I know that holds true no matter whether you are training children or training a puppy—you either put the time to train now or you put the time in later—and it will take twice as much time and energy later. All training, whether it's children, puppies, athletic training, or spiritual disciplines, takes energy and effort. We have to make a decision to put the time in now so we won't have to later. Like the old saying goes, “If you don't do it right the first time do you have time to go back and do it right the second time?” I know I don't want to do twice. What about you?

I've Moved!

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Do It Yourself First Aid

I wonder if some families attempt 'do it yourself' first aid because they desire to save the money or the truly hate doctors. I can think of two times when my parents decided to try their hand at, what was at the time, a procedure done by medical professionals, but ended up at the doctor anyway.

The first was when I got my ears pierced in first grade. Back in the day there wasn't a place to get piercings in every wing of every mall. One had two simple choices - you either did the piercings yourself—ouch! or you had a nurse do it at the doctor's office. My aunt Winnie was a cosmetologist. She had pierced ears before and was therefore going to come over and pierce my ears. It was a reward for straight A's. My mom placed ice on either sides of my ear lobes and we waited. Once my ears were nearly frost bitten we were all ready to go, except for one small problem. My aunt had not shown up. No problem, my mom just took matters into her own hands. I can still remember the burning sensation of the thread as she pulled it briskly back and forth in an attempt to stretch the skin so the earring would fit through the microscopic hole the needle made. My ear thawed pretty quickly and the screaming commenced immediately there after. My parents decided to forgo the 'lets save a buck' plan and eventually took me to the nurse to have it professionally done.

Our second try was not too long afterward. It involved the riding of a Big Wheel. The lot several down from our house had recently been covered with white decorative rock. Some of the rock had spilled over onto the sidewalk. This created the perfect environment toget going fast, pull my skid brake, and slide. I guess I was a drifter even before I watched Fast and Furious Tokyo Drift, but I digress. Unfortunately I couldn't have foreseen tipping over and having my elbow dragging along the ground. Creating not only road rash, but a rock lodging itself in my elbow. I ran home crying. My dad set me up on the counter and proceeded to dig and try to get the rock out of my elbow. I wasn't really too hip on that idea, so they resorted to tempting me with the distraction of a new reel for my fishing rod. My mom grabbed the box while my dad explained how cool it was. My mom tried to sneak a peak at my elbow, but I wasn't hearing any of it. I simply was not going to cooperate. So off to the doctor's office we went. I remember them numbing up my elbow so they could dig out the jelly belly sized rock that left a scar that is on my elbow to this day.

I suppose there is a time and a place for 'do it yourself' first aid. Life requires a balancing act and each occasion must be measured on the scale of common sense and wisdom. Maybe we should ask ourselves if saving a few bucks is worth the potential emotional scars that occur from the fix it yourself approach. We do the best we can as parents with the information we have at the moment. My parents did the best they could with what they knew at the moment. I hope and pray that when I'm faced with these crazy situations with my girls that I'll stop and ask God for wisdom and a little common sense to make the right choice.

Family Outings

My dad worked 2 jobs much of his life to provide things for our family. The sad thing is in reality all we really wanted was him. Tim recently asked me if my dad had ever taken me to breakfast. I can't remember him ever doing so. As an adult we would meet for lunch about once a month, but as a child our family outings were just that, family outings. We went to dinner every Friday night as a family. We swam together in the summer on Saturdays as a family. We went to church on Sundays as a family. And occasionally, we went to the lake as a family with my dad's extended family.

My Uncle Jim had a houseboat on Saguaro lake. It was the perfect boat to climb aboard on Saturday morning, pack a picnic lunch, get respite from the sun in the afternoon and then watch the sunset in the evening. The cousins had a blast jumping off the side of the boat into the cool murky water. When we lived in Illinois we would go to Lake Springfield some Saturdays in the summer but the water was so cold we would spend more time on the beach than in the water. There was a deck about 20 yards out from the shore and I was so young I needed an inner tube to swim with to make it out to the 'coveted' island where the big kids converged. The best part of those lake trips was the snack bar trips. I was allowed to get one thing—I usually got BBQ potato chips or a Slim Jim jerky stick. The snack of champions.

Sometimes on those Saturday lake trips my dad would take me fishing. Sometimes we would fish off the docks because my cousins were usually jumping around and being noisy on the boat. Other times we would go ashore in a cove while the others stayed on the boat making a ruckus. My dad, from the get go, made me put the worm on the hook—no daughter of his was going to be afraid of a little worm. (Funny thing - when I was 3 or 4 and at my grandmother's house, I found a worm; my brother told me it was spaghetti so I ate it) I'm not sure I ever really was afraid of worms, it was more the stabbing them through their bodies with a sharp hook and watching their guts ooze out that got to me. Nevertheless, by the time I was 8 I was a champ at getting my line ready to catch some fish.

So, although my dad never took just me to breakfast, I do remember those sweet moments we had together as a family and the special moments where the two of us were able to have one on one time building memories. Whether it was helping him with his sunscreen on the boat so his back wouldn't get fried, or fishing for those few minutes at the lake, or even joining him in the backyard while he watered his lawn my dad was always accessible to me if I ever needed him. If he was working he was just a phone call away—but I still wish he would have known we wanted him more than the things he wanted to provide for us.

Accident Prone: The Rest of the Story

Have you ever known someone who was accident prone? It seems no matter what they do, they are always in the wrong place at the wrong time? Well, that was my little brother Nathan. It seemed no matter how careful my parents were (as far as allowing him to go certain places or participate in certain activities) Nathan had a huge target on his back that said to tragedy, “pick me.” My mom reminded me that after we enjoyed the lovely dinner referenced in yesterday's blog, tragedy came a knocking and guess who answered the door.

Growing up, our house had what was called an Arizona room. It was previously a covered back patio, but we enclosed it with three Arcadia doors, painted the concrete floor and added its own window air conditioning unit. The room was our family game room. I had a bumper pool table, one of those large family style booths you find at IHOP, an arcade game my uncle had given us and on this particular day, our AFX track was set up in the corner on the floor. Nate and I had been racing our cars when his water goblet from dinner, which actually held ice tea, was knocked over and the stem of the glass broke. The stem of the goblet broke at an exact angle that created a weapon of sorts that looked like an icicle. Not wanting this inconvenient mishap to interrupt our race we grabbed one of the cloth dinner napkins, mopped up the tea, and then carefully wrapped the broken glass in the napkin shoving it aside to clean up later. Shortly thereafter my bladder was feeling the affects of all the ice tea I'd drank and I ran off to the bathroom.

I hadn't even flushed the toilet when I heard howling coming from the game room. Not a happy howling but an intense painful howling. Nathan had somehow managed to back up over that chard of glass wrapped in the towel with his left leg and sliced his tendon right in half. Our family fun filled night came to a screeching halt—words flew about whose fault it was and how stupid it was to leave the broken goblet on the floor. But we were just kids and all that didn't matter much anymore with Nathan writhing in pain. What really needed to happen was for my parents to get Nathan to the emergency room.

This wasn't the first time Nate had found trouble in the form of an accident. I the first time, he was almost four and was skipping backwards across the street. He never saw the car. It would certainly not be the last time—I'm not even sure I can count the amount of times that boy was in the E.R. Ultimately, I believe all the times he was on narcotic pain medication instigated his drug addiction which led to his death so early in life. It will be thirteen years this June since Nathan left this world and was completely healed of this drug addiction—and his propensity to being accident prone. What I wouldn't give to have him here; knowing that the phone could ring at any moment with my mom's voice on the other end stating Nate has had an accident and they're en route to the hospital. But, Nathan wouldn't want that—and once we're all given a little taste of heaven, where he is now, we'll all understand why our loved ones who have gone before us wouldn't trade places for anything.

Our Own Little Resturaunt

This morning my daughter, Shoshanah, left bright and early for a culinary competition in the Valley. Both my brother, Nathan, and I loved to cook when we were younger. Nathan even went on to be a sou chef at the Old Town Tortilla Factory until his death in 1999. While looking through some of my papers in the attic I found an old menu Nathan and I had made one afternoon when we were preparing dinner for my parents. I'd forgotten about our adventurous afternoon attempt at being culinary savvy.

We must have decided to make my parents dinner based what was already on the menu for the evening because our menu doesn't give many options. The menu lists our main dish simply as: Roast Beef. Side orders included baked carrots, baked potato and corn. 'Desert'-not to be confused with dessert was cherry Jello. The beverages are listed as wine, lemon-aide, tea with lemon or sugar, water, milk or coffee. I find it interesting now that we added a beverage list because growing up my dad always told us only ducks drink with their meals. Apparently we liked to keep plenty of salad dressing on hand because the list of dressing possibilities is the longest on the menu.

I remember my mom being so excited when she got home from work that we had cooked for her. Thinking back I probably had to call my dad and ask him how to actually cook the roast because I'm pretty sure I'd never done it before. Every Sunday my dad cooked a roast and I'd watched him put it in the electric skillet with water and seasonings but what the temperature was set on, I had no idea. Nathan and I set the table with my great grandmother's dishes that were stored in a cabinet high above the refrigerator because we never used them. I think I was able to round up a few candles for atmosphere and a table cloth that was fairly free of stains. Whether or not I got around to ironing the thing I have no idea.

Now my daughters make Tim and I dinner-though they've never gotten out the card stock and markers and made a menu for us. They are, however, keen on setting the table just right and making sure the candles are ready to allow for atmosphere. It kind of makes me wonder if our children are like us because of genetics (nature) or they're like us because you are like the people you hang out with most (nurture)? Whichever it is—perhaps even a little bit of both—I'm so grateful to have my girls; and and I am grateful, that like Nathan and I had, they have each other.

Is There Anything Positive About Being a Latch Key Kid?

Today was the first day of my new job. I got kind of sappy thinking about Zoe coming home to an empty house. Well, at least she'll have Annabelle, Napoleon, and Solomon (the later, much to her chagrin). I suppose my mom worked when I was Zoe's age and it all turned out okay. One thing being home alone after school taught me was that if I needed something done right away I was going to have to figure out how to do it by myself.

By the time I was driving there were several things I needed to learn to do by myself. One of them was changing the oil in my car. My brother Matthew was ordered to show me how to change the oil in my car. Matt didn't really want the responsibility so as he stomped out onto the driveway with his tools in tow he sternly advised, “I'm going to show you how to do this once. So, watch carefully because I'm not going to show you again.”

The same held true for changing out my car stereo. He showed me once which wires went where and explained how you didn't want to cross this color with that color. Although I had listened to the oil change lecture, I didn't really pay very good attention to the stereo lecture. So, when I sold my car and wanted my new expensive stereo removed and the old stereo put back in the car before the new buyer got there I was at a stand still. I begged Matt to help. He simply stated, “No. That's too bad you don't remember” as he went off on his merry way. Well, that was no good for me and I only had thirty minutest to figure it out before the new owner arrived. Not wanting to be out smarted by a few measly wires, I set myself to task removing the new stereo. No problem. So far, so good. Now, to replace the large gaping hole in the dash with the previous stereo and see if it would actually work. Surprisingly, it did. I was so proud of myself and finished the job with minutes to spare. I don't know how long the stereo worked for. All I know is it was working when I collected the cash and signed off the title.

Being home alone a few hours a day as a kid afforded me the opportunity to gain confidence when having to try things I would normally rely on adults in my life to do for me. I was also given the opportunity to make decisions, wise or unwise, the choice and responsibility was mine alone to make. Zoe is a smart girl. I'm grateful she has common sense. I'm looking forward to coming home at 5:00 p.m. each day and hearing about the opportunities she was given that day; and the choices she subsequently made regarding them, whether wise or unwise.

Okay, I have to admit, Zoe won't be home every day along after school – Wednesday is horse riding, Thursday is jazz band, and I am home on Fridays.

Day 25-The Gift I've Always Longed For

When I was younger I sang in the choir at St. Theresa School. There were several of us included in the group, but it was Beth McWeeney who always stood out. She had a voice like an angel coming down from heaven above. I would listen to Beth and pray, Lord, if you let me sing like Beth, I will be perfectly happy. Apparently God said no because I sound more like a frog than an angel.

I'm not sure why Mrs. Rhodes kept me in the choir. Perhaps she felt sorry for me. Eventually I learned to play the guitar and she allowed me to play on Sundays with our little trio. Beth's singing still outshone my simple strumming and I still longed and prayed for God to miraculously change my voice so I would sound like an angel. God continued to say no.

Mrs. Rhodes got pregnant and eventually quit being our choir teacher. I think it was about that time I either graduated or the choir program dissolved. Either way, I was no longer going to choir practice. But because Beth and I were best friends, I still got to hear her sing on a regular basis and still longed and prayed God would change my froggy voice. God, again, said no.

Now that I'm older there are times I still wish I could sing like an angel. Even my cousin's daughter, Daisy Mallory, was able to make a career out of singing. So, if the genetic DNA is there why did God say no to me? I had to quit asking myself why God was saying no to a melodic voice and asking what did He give me that He didn't give others? Well, my artistic creative ability is something others continue to compliment. So, rather than focus on what God hasn't gifted me in I've started to thank Him for the things He has gifted me in. This has also allowed me to get better in the areas I am gifted in. I spend time fine tuning those talents...even if it's fine tuning with a froggy kind of melodic voice. What can you thank God for today that He has gifted in you?

(the picture is a glass window I bought for $2, added quilt scraps, paint and little creativity to for a great addition to our guest bedroom.)

Day 24-Mrs. McNeil

There aren't too many things in life that have scarred me. My grandfather's spittoon bucket would be one of those things. Was more that fact he was allowed to use it in the house that freaked me out the most? Another was a mortuary. When we lived in Illinois there was a parking lot adjacent to our backyard which housed parking for a mortuary. I met a girl who lived there one time and she asked if I wanted to go down the elevator in the mortuary and see where they kept the dead bodies. Definitely on my top ten of freakishly scary things in life. But one of the scariest things was one I should have never had to endure if adults in my life would have used common sense. That would be the funeral of my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. McNeil.

Mrs. McNeil was one of those quirky teachers that was a little on the round side with a few more than her share of wrinkles. She gave out Jolly Rancher candy as a reward to students who answered questions correctly in science and got 100% on their spelling tests. Great for the students and even better for the family dentist. I'm not sure the story behind the life of Mrs. McNeil. We moved to Arizona when I started fourth grade and she died before I ever really got to hear much about her life. I think the funeral took place by the time I was in 6^th grade.

The funeral was held at St. Theresa and the entire school was in attendance. Now, a funeral per se is not the world's worst event for children to attend. Even having the entire school attend including the kindergarten class was not really a problem in my book. My questioning of good judgment began when they decided to have an open casket service...with giddy students who don't know how to be reverent or polite in the presence of a dead body. Mrs. McNeil didn't look real great when she was alive let alone filled with formaldehyde and gaudy makeup. The hair was a whole other story.

When students lined up to pay their respects and walk past the casket I didn't know whether to be terrified that Mrs. McNeil might jump up out of the casket and grab me by the neck or sickened that many of the boys in line in front of me had all spontaneously developed a case of gigglebugitis. Surely God was going to smite them and send them straight to hell for not only laughing in church but God forbid, laughing when old Mrs. McNeil lay there looking like she'd just visited Hell.

Don't get me wrong-there is a time and a place for children to attend funeral services. But one must agree that parents should be in tow with said children? And certainly a celebration of life with punch and cookies along with lovely pictures of the deceased in the school gymnasium would perhaps be a better way to show honor. I will survive having gone through the experience. I may even be a little more sensitive now to taking my own children to funerals because of the whole ordeal. And having an extra scar or two in my life has made me the person I am today...even if it meant I had to have a grandfather that had a spittoon bucket and a neighbor girl that lived at the mortuary.

Day Twenty-Three of Lent-A Place for Everything and Everything in its Place

I've always been a person of order. There's a place for everything and everything has it's place. If you ask me where something is in my house, I can tell you exactly where it is (unless someone else has moved it in the last day or two and I haven't discovered it's out of place). Okay, I admit it. I'm obsessed with having things in life orderly. When I am too busy to get the house cleaned during the week and the whole family joins in on Saturday, I almost go into meltdown mode if we don't do things in 'order'. Start at the ceilings and work your way to the floors. Isn't that how everyone cleans?

When I was younger the kitchen in our house was one of the places that kept me most perplexed. I wasn't the only one who had to empty the dishwasher so dishes weren't always returned to their 'correct' home. Every so often I would take all the dishes out of the cabinets, wipe them out and then put them into their proper homes with great thought and care. The only problem is not everyone thought the cups should be stacked a certain way or the plates and bowls be arranged in a certain order—so within weeks the whole kitchen would be in disarray again. Nothing drove me more crazy.

When I got married I would use label maker and label the shelves in our cabinets so that Tim would know exactly where things went when he helped empty the dishwasher. Tim was used to the motto of a place for everything and everything in its place so this quirky obsession of mine didn't bother him much. When friends would come over and see this, um, trait of mine, many would find all sorts of one liners and jokes to needle me. Many of them never got invited back again. *wink

When I had children, the teaching (or indoctrination) continued with our girls and an extra motto was added to my mantra, don't put it down, put it away. (thank you Donna Otto!) If their rooms were a disaster and they couldn't find something, I simply stated if they'd put things back where they belonged they wouldn't be lost. To which one might reply, “I didn't lose it, I just can't find it.” Honestly, is there a difference? Amazingly, their rooms are pretty well organized as teenagers and for the most part clean. I thank Tim for encouraging me not to nag them about keeping it what we call 'mom clean'. He was right. When they didn't clean it and couldn't find things they remembered our admonition and viola, cleaned their rooms!

Now that I am older I try very, very, very hard not to stress about keeping things in order. IF there is a little bit of dust in the house it's okay--it's protection for the furniture, right? IF the family wants to help me clean the house on Saturday – its still clean even if they did it wrong, right? However, when it comes to my kitchen, I'm still a stickler for keeping things where they belong (although I have done away with the label maker). By now, everyone in the family knows where the items go! I guess that is part of being flexible in life. I know I need to be a little more flexible in this area but for now I will work on stretching a bit further each day and try not to tense up when things don't go my way.

Day 23-Life isn't Fair, but You Can Be.

Have you ever gotten in trouble for something you didn't do? I'm not talking about a photo radar ticket that someone else earned while driving your car. I'm talking about really, truly getting in deep water for actions you were accused of doing but weren't the guilty party?

When I was in first grade at Blessed Sacrament School I was the victim of such a horrific offense. It all started when I asked to go to the bathroom the same time my friend Bridget went. Looking back, it wasn't the smartest idea I'd ever had but what is one to do with you have to go potty? And like a typical 7 year old, I waited until the last minute. Well, about an hour later Sr. Mary Ann came marching into our classroom and dragged me out by my earlobe. As we were standing in the hall she asked me if I was the one who had wrote the nasty writing on the bathroom wall—one word of which was the 'f'-bomb. I'm not even sure I knew what that word was at my age. I kept telling her I didn't do it through my sobs. As a last resort she picked me up by my neck and held me against that cold brick wall. I didn't like what she was doing to me but I was so stubborn that I wasn't going to admit to doing something I hadn't done.

Well, Sr. Mary Ann was convinced I'd done the writing on the wall even though I'd clearly explained Bridget had been in that newly built bathroom with all the brand new stalls the same time I was. She wouldn't hear any of it and called my mom. I can still remember laying down in the back seat of my mom's green Buick Electra 225 attempting to eat my bologna sandwich with mustard on white bread between sobs while my mom finished up duty as a crossing guard. I was mortified. The whole school had seen and heard what had happened. Little Sam was a bad girl.

I think I still played with Bridget even after she threw me under the bus. (thump, thump) I was an awkward child and didn't have a lot of friends to begin with. After my premiere event in the hallway with our principle, I was pretty sure no one else would want to be my friend now anyway. Perhaps this is where my hardened criminal life began? If everyone thought I was a bad girl then I might as well prove them right and be one, right? If I was going to get the blame for doing what I had not done, maybe I should just do bad things so I'd at least get punished justly.

But life isn't fair. Things don't always turn out the way you want, plan or even deserve. If everyone who was unjustly blamed for doing something wrong decided to make a hay day of it and do wrong in spite of it all, what would our world look like? Life isn't fair, for sure. But, the great news is, you can be.

Day Twenty-Two of Lent-Angry Birds

This morning I woke up and ran into the kitchen exclaiming to Shoshanah, “Hey, I need your help this is REALLY important!” Shoshanah has a knack for spacial recognition and did really well at Geometry because of it. She's one of those people who can look at a space and tell you if the couch, chair and ottoman will fit without getting a tape measure out. So, I thought surely she can help me with trajectory, right? As a sophomore she'd completed all 4 math credits needed for college and is currently taking AP Physics. I sat down at the table and showed her my problem. Angry Birds. Yep, I'm going to confess it. I downloaded the APP on my Droid the day before and I was stuck on a level. No matter what I did I couldn't get the trajectory down in order to take out all the obstacles in order to set the birds free. (I'm playing the Angry Birds Rio version).

While we were sitting at the table and I was explaining my conundrum to her, Tim walked up wanting to know what on earth was so important. I rambled on entirely to long for him and within the first few seconds I could see by the rolling of his eyes that he didn't think my problem was nearly as important as I did. What is important to me isn't necessarily important to Tim.

This thought was further confirmed as we had lunch with my in-laws and heard about all the uh um, fine quality items my father-in-law found garage saleing this morning. three guitars, a pottery wheel, roof shingles for Annabelle's new dog house, just to name a few. Tim was perplexed that his dad could ever resell any of this stuff in his small space in an antique shop in Prescott. But it looks like people who went through his space found many of these items worthy of their cash. What is important to me isn't necessarily important to others.

On the way home from lunch, my mother-in-law and I stopped at the quilting store. I had gifted her a handmade quilt for Christmas in which she could chose color, style and pattern. She would love to quilt and has one started in her project box, but she admitted that at this time in her life she would rather take those extra few minutes in the day and chat with a neighbor or linger a bit longer at lunch with a friend. She is a people person~I am a task person. We decided since I love to quilt and do tasks I would just make her quilts for her. What is important to some people isn't necessarily important to others.

When we look at others, do we wonder why they spend their time doing this, that, or the other? Do we we watch how others spend their money on certain things we wouldn't waste our cash on and wonder what is up? It's not wrong, just different. What is important to me isn't necessarily important to others.

So, the next time I catch myself thinking about what someone else is doing that I don't necessarily think is important, I want to ask myself what do I do in life that they would think isn't important? For instance, playing Angry Birds!

Day Twenty-one of Lent. Does God Really Love Teenagers?

Now that my daughters are teenagers they do their own laundry. Not just because they need to eventually learn to do it themselves but because I'm fragile and seeing their dainty, uh um, under clothing may throw me into a deep dark depression. Isn't there an age limit as to when you're allowed start shopping at Victoria Secret? But, I digress-- I was emptying Zoe's dry clothes into her basket so I could load my laundry into the dryer when I recognized a few pairs of her pants as being hand me downs. Hand me downs - from her mother, not her older sister (there ARE plenty of the latter too). I was kind of flattered. She liked my hand me downs enough to wear them. That got me whether if I would have worn my mom's clothes in high school? Would they have even fit me? And what about a mother daughter relationship would allow for such a phenomenal thing to occur?

When my neighbor Kimmie and I were in 4^th grade we were found in my mom’s closet more than once playing dress up. (I still have pictures to prove it!) We both dreamed of being influential teachers in the lives of others. The teachers at St. Theresa impacted us mostly for better and our drive and desire to be like them was evident. Do grade school teachers have the most impact on their students or does the influence continue on through middle school and high school? How does one interact with those around them to where they influence them for the good? Becoming a role model and a support system in life?

All these questions got me thinking: when did I stop dressing up in my mother's clothing and desiring to be like the adults in my life around me? Why did I stop looking to them for their input and influence in my life? Is there something that happens hormonally in teens, as some studies suggest, or does our world view as children change because life isn't what we've always been taught it's cracked up to be? Endings aren't always happy. The princess doesn't always get the prince. Kissing a frog definitely doesn't get you anything in life except slimy lips! Children are the ultimate optimists and then life happens. No wonder teenagers are cranky and disillusioned.

Neither Kim or I are teachers in the professional sense but we are both definitely influential teachers to those in our lives around us; namely our children. May we both gently teach our children the harsh reality that life does not revolve around them. Promises will sometimes be broken. Life is not always fair. Ultimately, I hope and pray they feel unconditional love from a couple of mothers who used to love diving into our mothers closets and pretending to be grown up while we were still optimists in a life where our parents were still able to keep us protected from the harsh realities of life.