I am not a mother of hoop jumpers. And I am routinely reminded of this fact.
I have diligently tried to raise my offspring to understand the construct of the world. But they are very content to think about, getting around to, considering, being involved in, possibly participating, in life’s basic rules of engagement at their own pace. They construct their own hoops. Unfortunately, when you’re their mother, the hoops resemble hurdles. Large ones.
It’s not supposed to matter to me that so-and-so’s daughter is in “advanced this” or AP that. Or that this person’s son was recommended for such and such. That this acquaintance has a daughter that crosses all her T’s and dots all her I’s all the time. Sometimes those same people don’t understand how hard it is has been to let my children be who they are instead of what I want them to be. What I believe they can become. It’s not supposed to matter. But it does. It always has.
Read the full posting on Hoop Jumping and Birch Swinging
“So who put the BBQ on the truck?” I asked the MoH as he jogged up the stairs to change his clothes after pulling the behemoth alongside our curb.
“Me and a guy at the store.”
“So then I can help you get it off the truck, right?” I responded like there was some sort of a legitimate comparison between my own strength and a guy’s — any guy’s. Well, except maybe a 4th grader’s. “It should be fine,” I mumbled, already wondering. “I’ll just look for something we can lower it down onto.” This had worked in the past when the two of us had to put a large TV into an armoire. Now that was scary, I remembered, picturing one or both of us bent backwards with a humongous TV ready to fall back onto our heads as we fell through the hardwood floor. Ugh. Or the time that we moved the same armoire up to our bedroom after getting a new TV.
We lovingly refer to ourselves as The Doopids, because we can get things done most of the time, but it’s somewhat of a 3rd class circus act in the delivery. “All elbows and a**holes,” as my mother would politely say before pushing one of us away from the task and getting it done herself with a few grunts and a snort. Sadly, my mom wasn’t available to remind us that one buff senior can handily put to shame two younger desk jockeys — or act like she could.
Read the full posting on Mint Julips end the BBQ Saga in Paradise
So where is Paradise?
Paradise is in Southern California. I don’t always want to live here, but do, because it’s where my house, my family, and VBF are. Oh, and since I’m now unemployed, I have to say my husband works here, so it wouldn’t be easy to pull up stakes and move to Virginia where my sister just moved. I do appreciate the qualities of Paradise as much as a house potato can, but clearly I struggle since I’m in a room with blinds pulled, sitting in front of a monitor, and it’s probably a perfectly remarkable day out there.
And who is KellyPea?
Who am I?
A woman, wife, mother of sons, daughter, sister, good friend, cat and dog lover, gardener, passionate cook, house potato, schizophrenic reader, pseudo interior decorator, movie lover, closet photographer (no, I don’t take pictures of closets), writer, persnickety music lover, non-practicing pianist, semi-novice world traveler, daydreamer, and not least, erstwhile educator. I’m sure I’ve left out a few identities, but they will most likely surface as things evolve.
Everything — most of the time. I’m most likely not for the faint of heart. Imagine all of the above jockeying for position from day to day, or actually throughout the day. It makes my life interesting, and I am rarely bored.
So to avoid being bored, add this site to your RSS Reader and keep up with KellyPea living in Paradise!