Day 26 I just oiled up with seven different essential oils, and I'm tucking myself in for the night. We are all a tad congested and I'm desperate to prevent us from coughing each other awake. I also slathered the kids, and when Matt came upstairs he nearly fell over because the aroma is so strong and intense.
'Tis the season, I guess.
How about you? Do you use essential oils? Have any favorites?
Day 25 The jury's still out on whether or not I will survive the grade school haunted hallway that my FIVE YEAR OLD dragged me to. No joke, my heart is still racing (we made it out alive 90 minutes ago). I AM TOO OLD FOR THIS. As I ran out the back, screaming, "thank you, Jesus," I breathed such a sigh of relief that it was over.
AND THEN THE CHAINSAW.
That flippin' chainsaw. Why?
I made a beeline for the nearest bench and collapsed, Harper still squeezing my hand and laughing her head off.
"Oh mercy, Harper, give momma a minute. I need to make sure I'm alive."
Did I mention the haunted hallway was hosted by the middle school's National Junior Honor Society? A bunch of 11 and 12 year old smartypants. I assumed it would be SAFE for this 30-something mom, but OH NO. Middle schoolers are weird and awkward and the smart ones are even weirder. In other words, they are experts at making people FREAK OUT.
It was so bad at one point that they had to TURN THE LIGHTS ON for us.
Bless.
And so goes life as the momma of a thrill seeker.
Ever since we made a costume stop at the Halloween store and Harper experienced the fright-then-giggle from things that go jump in the night, she has been begging me to take her to a haunted house. So when an announcement came home from Henry's school advertising a haunted hallway at the middle school, hosted by the NATIONAL JUNIOR HONOR SOCIETY, I thought, "Oh good. This will be good clean fun and safe for 5-year-old and momma alike."
Right.
And here's the worst of it. As we waited in line for our turn, we could hear the occasional scream from those who had gone before us. But the screams weren't constant, just a random screech here and there.
Until it was our turn. From the minute we turned the corner down that first hallway, it was one long wail (me) complimented by a rhythm of squeal-giggle-squeal-giggle (my little ghost hunter). THE ENTIRE TIME.
I have never.
Oh mercy.
Oh my.
We're home now. I've built myself a nest of comfort. My bed with my memory foam mattress and handmade quilt, my hot tea with honey, lights on all over the house, TV show blaring about cops catching bad guys and locking them up, my Anne Lamott books. It's all better now, Ali. That's what I keep telling myself. And my racing heart.
As for my Harper girl, she's cuddled up next to me, asking when we can go back.
Day 24 Got a minute? I'd love your advice.
I know that if I say "I want to be a writer," y'all will tell me, "Oh, Ali, you are a writer."
And I get that.
But here's where I continue to stumble on my journey of identifying with being a writer. (No, it's not my A+ ability to write sentences with a high volume of prepositions. Or my killer skill of starting sentences with conjunctions.)
The struggle is this: Voice.
I haven't found my writer's voice.
Actually, I have, sort of, but it's more of a multiple personality. I have one voice that is feisty, snarky and often self-deprecating (example here). And then I have another voice that is poetic, impassioned and heart bleeding (example here).
Both are authentic. Both are spirited. Both are me.
But as a blogger and wannabe writer, I think I need to develop only one voice.
And so here's what I want to know. Do I try the overwhelming task of merging the two voices? Do I nurture one and kill the other? Where do I go from here?
Tell me your thoughts, sweet reader.
I'd love to hear your voice.
Day 23 Both kids brought home information about Red Ribbon Week, and one of the handouts listed a statistic that said, "Children whose parents talk to them about drugs at a young age are 50% less likely to use when they are older." And I was all, CRAP! I haven't talked to them about drugs. I need to talk to them about drugs. RIGHT NOW.
KIDS! We need to talk. Get over here. STAT.
And then as they looked up at me and I looked down at them, I couldn't for the life of me figure out what to say because it immediately felt like I had left my body and was watching some after school special featuring atrocious child acting and some washed up actress from the 80s.
"Now kids. I need to tell you something. Do you know what drugs are?"
"No, mom, what are drugs?"
"Well, kids. I was just getting ready to tell you about drugs."
And then I stumbled through some song and dance about the medicines that the doctor gives us are good drugs but some people take medicine when the doctor doesn't tell them to and that's bad drugs.
Clearly, I was nailing it.
Henry kind of tuned out because he's quick to discern when momma's talking crazy again, and Harper just stared at me with her big wide eyes, chin to the floor, mind blown that some people - kids even - would ever ever ever take pills that would make them sick.
And because the whole thing made me feel like a first-class nut job parent I threw out a real zinger, just to really hit it home.
"Yeah, I know, hard to believe, kids. But it's really no different than when you eat candy even though you know it's not a healthy choice but you do it anyway because it tastes good. That's like drugs, kids. People know it's a bad choice but they think it's fun so they do it anyway."
I thought Harper's eyes were going to explode right out of her skull, she just couldn't compute what crazy momma was saying. I could see her little brain waves churning faster as her breath drew deeper, processing this new information, as if my children eating candy is the same as some stoner kid taking hits from the bong.
All in all, it went well.
I'm pretty sure I'm raisin' my kids to be sober for life.
And man I wish I was a smoker. Because after that conversation, I could use a cigarette.
Day 22 I'm about to make you hate me.
I have a freakin' good life. The picture-perfect house in the country with walnut floors that most days are covered in any of hundreds of toys that my three beautiful and healthy children share or don't share. A man I married who I had only just met a few months before and turns how he's a total keeper. He's got a job and everything. Like that ever happens. Those beautiful healthy babies were no struggle to conceive and my greatest symptom as I grew them was acid reflux. Three pregnancies and I only puked once.
You've probably puked more times reading that last paragraph.
I haven't even begun to mention my family. I'm just not going to mention them because then you'll want to kill me.
Like I said, it's a really good life.
And I don't know why.
Why me when she has cancer AND a son with autism?
Why me when her van was stolen right before she was able to find insurance?
Why me when she had to flee her country, three kids in tow, and now she is fighting one hospital visit after the next?
Why me when she was a victim of trafficking?
Why me?
And here's a news flash for ya. I don't have an answer. I ask that same stupid question daily and still no answer.
While I know that God has poured out His grace over every nook and cranny of my lovely life, I have faith that He has poured it out over every nook and cranny of her life and her life and yes, even hers.
And here's a blog post wrapped-neatly-in-a-bow for ya. My theology of God and grace and blessing is all so warped and twisted that I just can't rest in anything other than, "Fine. This is what it is. Be grateful and pray. And spread the love and mercy of God like a Southern California wildfire during a drought on a windy day. And wouldya stop all your bitchin' and groanin' already. For the love, Ali, just shut up."
Amen.
Day 21 I am lying in bed and cannot think of one single thing to blog about. Surely there are dozens of things I can blog about, but none of them are exciting me. Actually, many excite me but they require more mental effort than I have at this present moment. So instead of staring at this screen, I'm gonna call it a night and hope the sandman fills my dreams with magical genius bloggy ideas.
'Night, y'all.
Day 20 I inherited this freakish gene from my Grandpa Hollywood. It's in my blood, my sister's blood, my mom's blood, and my aunt's blood.
We are always early.
I don't know. It just happens. And if it doesn't happen, I experience excruciating anxiety. Being late makes me angry, foul-mouthed, grumpy and reckless.
A friend once said that her often running late habit involves a lot of yelling and screaming. I told her that so does my habit of running early.
And so today, as I rushed my girls out the door to get Harper to school, fussing at them to hurry up, we're gonna be late (a lie), put your shoes on, to the van, girls - I said to the van, stop your dilly-dallying, hustle, come on, we gotta go, we finally were on the road and the clock assured me that we would be right on time, if not a minute early, for the beginning of the ten minute window we are given to drop off our preschooler.
Phew.
As I pulled into the school, I became confused as I noticed that not a single car was in the parking lot. Surely we weren't that early.
Surely we weren't.
Unless of course I was getting my daughter to school for Wednesday. Because apparently girlfriend ain't got no school today or tomorrow.
And apparently I missed that minor detail when I was hyper-focused on more pressing things like being on time.
And this, my friends, is such a perfect illustration of my life these days. Sure, the bulletin board in the laundry room proudly displays all the school calendars and activities, neatly hanging in a row. The papers that come home from school daily are filed tidy in a folder. I am organized. Except I'm very very very scatter-brained. The calendars on display are never glanced at (whose got time for that?) The papers in the folders are never read (must they really send home so many at one time?) And so while I do a mighty fine job of cracking the whip to get us where we thought we needed to be, I'm frantic and flailing when it comes to, oh, I don't know, keeping track of the days of the week.
But my on-time gene never goes off the clock. And so though today we were on time for no school, at least the backpack is already packed and in the van ready for Wednesday. And that makes my hurry-up-and-wait dance a mad party.
Day 19 The number one question I've been asked since we moved out to the sticks is, "What about the schools?"
And this remains the toughest question for me to answer.
Our new school district is small, rural, and simple. The athletic and extracurricular options are minimal and the state school report card is fairly decent but not quite exceptional. Because there are dozens of school districts in the surrounding area, our school district is only slightly above average in comparison.
At least on paper, anyway.
So when folks ask me about the schools, I think what they really want to ask is, "Are you concerned that you are making a decision to live in a school district that can't offer your children the academic rigor of some of the surrounding districts?"
And that's a fair question. We live in a highly competitive world, and in order to keep up, kids must stay ahead of the competition.
And the fact is that compared to our school district, some schools are better positioned to crank out a lot more kids who are better able to compete.
Why wouldn't a parent enroll their child in a school that boasts near perfect school report card scores if that parent is able to do so?
Well, that brings me to my answer, the answer to the question that is so difficult to answer.
The truth is, my concern for my child's education pales in comparison to my concern for my child's character.
Yes, high educational standards are well and good. I won't argue that for a second. However what matters even more to me than how my children are excelling academically is how they are developing personally, socially, emotionally and spiritually. Essentially, I care more about WHO my children are becoming than I do about WHAT they become.
Please don't misinterpret what I'm saying. I have nothing against schools that place a high value on academics. Heck, that's what schools are designed to do, in most cases. If my child excels in a highly competitive academic environment - holy cow, that's awesome. But if it's at the expense of his or her ability to engage the world and people, I'm a lot less impressed.
I actually don't care a whole lot about raising intelligent kids.
Which may sound crazy because I am constantly telling my kids, "You are so smart."
I tell them they are smart when they stop and think about a decision rather than acting flippantly. I tell them they are smart when they are faced with a challenge and they press in rather than give up. I tell them they are smart when they try a new way to solve a problem when other ways haven't worked.
I don't want my kids to think that smart equates to high IQ. Because the truth is, there will always be more intelligent kids. Always. But there will always ever be only one Henry. One Harper. One Greta. And I want my kids to be confident in who they were made to be regardless of their grades, test scores, and class rank.
As for our new district, I have sat at the board of education meetings, the PTO meetings and across from my son's principal, and there is no doubt that these leaders have a vested interest in my son for who he is, not for who they want to make him for the sake of performance on standardized tests.
And so our new school district, while not the cream of the crop academically, it is beautifully fit for our family and our values. The school climate is superb. The district community is second to none. The staff is melt-my-heart divine.
And if I do say so myself, choosing it makes us pretty darn smart.
Day 17 (not really) & Day 18 (kind of) For the first time I forgot about the challenge. I went an entire day (yesterday) without remembering that I committed to blogging daily. And by the grace of God my forgetfulness was a result of the kind of day that fills you up and over the brim, relationships that do the heart good.
In other words, I was so busy living, that I forgot to blog about it.
And so today is Day 18 of the challenge, although it's only the 17th time I've blogged. And tomorrow I'm gonna jump right back in at Day 19 and leave the not really Day 17 and kind of Day 18 behind in the all-the-feelings memory bank, still basking in the goodness of love.
Day 16 What's worse than coming home to discover that your dog ate a whole lotta Halloween candy (including the wrappers)? Knowing that sometime in the next 24 hours, most of it is gonna come back up. Worse yet, a good chunk of those 24 hours are sleeping hours. Which means that there's a very good chance I will be awakened from my coveted REMs to a dog barfing on the carpet.
NIGHTMARE.
I wish that in moments like these the phrase, "If I don't laugh, I'll cry," were true.
Instead of laughing or crying, I'm simply asking questions that would make the PETA people target my house with their bizarre nude picketing.
But hey, I kept my latte soy today, so you're welcome, PETA.