It Ends With Me

Eating brought a lot of trauma for me as a child. I never thought of it as trauma until I became an adult and started to develop concerns with my own children's eating habits. Growing up, when I didn't finish my school lunch, I was reprimanded for something which was only partially in my control. I didn't have enough time to eat for one. I was a slow eater as a child. And what second-grader wanted to sit inside during recess to finish her lunch in solitude with a teacher? Um, no. It wasn't until 8th grade when I clearly remember being able to eat and finish my entire lunch at school. 

In elementary school, I'd arrive home after school and get grilled on how much of my lunch I finished. I bought school lunch so there wasn't a lunch box full of leftovers to be pored over. I used to draw pictures for my mom to show her how much of my lunch I had eaten, and most of the time, she'd always be disappointed, even when I thought I had eaten a good amount. 

These were the drawings of my childhood.

 
Now, my own child brings a lunch to school and I ask her in the car on the drive home if she finished her lunch. Most days, she tells me she did. Now, we pack her lunch so we're aware not to overload her with giant portions she can't finish in 20 minutes. Most of the time I expect her to finish her lunch because I know it wasn't actually a lot of food. 

Every now and then, she doesn't. One Friday, she told me she didn't finish her lunch because she had a birthday treat to eat. I asked her what it was: ice cream, in her favorite flavor, chocolate. Even without looking back at her (because I was driving) I could hear the joy in her voice as she told me about eating chocolate ice cream at school as a birthday treat. 

I actually felt it inside me, disappointment, as a parent, because she didn't finish her lunch. But hearing her talk about her ice cream was so special. I couldn't quash this moment for her. I didn't want to mar it with disappointment and sadness. So I didn't say anything. But I felt the pang of emotion - the emotion of wishing my mother had spared me from this trauma that lingers even decades later and knowing that holding myself back and not saying anything is against every fiber of my being. I can't change the way I feel about things like this, but I can change how my children will feel about these things years down the road.

Money Can Buy Time

It comes up every now and then in conversations, but other moms will ask me why I chose the school my children are at. The simple answer? Time. My kids go to school three days a week, it's a private school, and I pay for it. The school has other fundamentally good things about it, but my answer has remained the same for years - I relish the extra time I get with my kids, even if I'm paying for it.

I can't call it a regret because it wasn't my decision to make, but I still get worked up when I think about all the years my mother had to go to treatment in Houston and didn't take us with her because we had to go to school. Perhaps it was the "must follow directions" cultural training from her upbringing. I always resent the fact that they didn't try harder to make accommodations or do something differently. It was just a straightforward, "You've got to go to school and do your homework. We can't take you."

4th grade was the worst. They went so many times that year. I so badly wanted time with my mother, even if it meant waiting in a hospital hallway because I was too young to go inside the treatment room. Each night before they left, I'd practically beg them to wake me up the next morning and take me with them. They lied to me and said they would. I went to sleep. The next morning, I'd wake up at 7 am to a dark, empty house. I'm still traumatized thinking about it. 

This shaped the way I viewed my kids' educations. When my oldest was preparing for kindergarten, public school was basically eliminated because they didn't offer anything less than a full day. I had known this was coming. The first year of the district's full-day kindergarten was the 2008-2009 school year.  I always told myself, if my kids ended up in public school, they would be allowed to miss school whenever they felt like it and I'd be completely supportive. Now, don't get me wrong, this is with the assumption that they are exceeding grade level standards and completing their homework responsibly. I'm not condoning this for someone with a student who isn't meeting standards. And, knowingly, this would end once they reached the middle school and high school years. 

The old adage is: money can't buy time. I'm here to tell you it can, and we do it all the time without thinking about it. I'm buying time by paying for my kids' educations to have two home school days per week. This is two more days they would have with me than if they went to public school. We buy time when we pick up fast food because our children are hangry instead of waiting to drive home and grabbing something from the freezer or refrigerator at home to heat up or cook. We buy time when we purchase pre-peeled garlic instead of buying the heads because we don't have to stand there and peel the cloves one at a time. We buy time when we pay for a housekeeper or lawn maintenance so we can do other things with our time in lieu of cleaning or mowing. We buy time when we pay the premium at Disney for Lightning Lane passes instead of waiting in the "regular" line. 

Now, bottomline, nobody is adding extra hours or days to their life by spending any money. If we could, we would all go broke. Probably every single person alive would be going broke buying more time for themselves or for someone they loved. But, we buy time in our own ways. We buy time every single day, most likely, without even realizing. It's been labeled as convenience. 

I can't say how long we will stay at our current school. Things may change years from now and we may switch back to public school or a different school. But for the next couple of years, this is what I need. This is what I want. And I will savor the time I've "bought."

Journals

I kept journals for the majority of my teenage years. In my early twenties, I went back and catalogued them with their dates on the covers using index cards and tape. The earliest journal I have labeled is from 2005. The last journal I have labeled dates to 2013. I have another journal I've written in from 2013 to the present but it is not finished and therefore not labeled. I don't write in it often anymore, but if I have private thoughts, that's the journal I add it to.

I never used anything fancy. The one subject college rule notebooks were my go-to. They were cheap and easy to find. The colors were a plus. These notebooks are the ones you would have been after if you wanted to know my deepest darkest secrets in high school. 

The oldest notebook is 20 years old!

Nobody cares about my secrets anymore. Honestly, I don't even remember half of what's in these journals.  Will I ever go back and read them? Probably not. I don't think I want to reread any of them because they're cringey and full of my past I'd honestly rather forget. My husband asked me if I would just get rid of them. No, I wouldn't do that either. There's something sacred about having so much of my life chronicled within the pages of notebooks. I don't know what I'm going to do with them, but for now, they're taking up real estate in a cardboard box.

I did retrieve one journal which I did want to reread. This journal was a portion of my lab credits for my first college English class as a senior in high school. I didn't take AP English my senior year and I never regretted it. I had the best professor who is still my friend today. I retrieved this journal and did want to reread it because I had turned it in to my professor once upon a time as a portion of my grade. It wouldn't hold my deepest secrets, but it had to include something worthwhile.

It was a quick read. There were 30 entries written, each in three paragraphs of approximately three sentences. That was the requirement to earn our lab credits. As an adult reading my writing, it was still a little cringeworthy. Maybe I say that because it was my own life I was reading about. I was very much a 17/18 year old high schooler working part-time after school with the same struggles that most teenagers have - emotional turmoil, friendship, and the woes of my job. I can't say there's anything profound about the writing within this notebook and it won't be making any bestseller lists, but I enjoyed rereading it.

Had I not gone through and reread this journal, I would have forgotten about the memory when I drove through a rich neighborhood with a friend and admired the fancy houses and large yards. I would have forgotten about the memory when I took my friend's girlfriend shopping for a homecoming dress when I barely knew her at the time. I would have forgotten about the time my grandmother called my dad's cell phone number by mistake instead of dialing mine because she got confused. And although these are rather "insignificant" memories in the grand scope of life, they were fun memories to relive and relearn about myself. 

Unearthing my journals made me reminisce and miss the time when I used to have to just sit and write. As I write this blog, I'm racing against time knowing I have to change out of my loungewear and get to work in less than 45 minutes. Yes, I work from home and my "office" is probably 30 feet from where I'm sitting as I write this, but it's a mental item which needs to be completed. Life has drastically changed for me. Where I used to have time to sit on the carpet of my bedroom floor and write in journals about boys, I now make sure I have enough food in the refrigerator, leave the house on time to pick up my child from school to make sure she's not forgotten, and make sure the credit cards and utility bills get paid on time. 

Considering the fact that I have forgotten to pay a credit card bill (I believe 2 to be exact), forgotten about a scheduled city permit check (I was a week postpartum with my first!), and forgotten countless times to close the washing machine so the load would start washing and instead having to refill the washer a second time because of the automatic drain feature, the headspace to be able to sit down and reflect on life and write about "simple happenings" doesn't happen much anymore.  There are so many of these everyday events and moments which are not logged because there simply wasn't time or energy to sit down and do it. 

The decade or so of my life which lives within these journals will forever be remembered as a painful but special time of my life because there may never be another decade in which I write so many things down so meticulously. I used to want to remember everything I could in my head and keep it as a memory. As I got older, memories naturally faded and only the most prominent and significant stay long-term. And honestly, it's probably better that way. These will be there if I ever want to revisit them.

For now, I don't. 

Running Power

Nearly 13 years ago, I was probably at the lowest point in my life due to choices I had personally made. So this doesn't include my mother dying because that wasn't in my control. This was in my control, and I was facing it head-on.

The irony of this situation is that less than a month later, I met my future husband. I didn't know he was my future husband at the time. I was a clueless 20-year-old going into my last year at college wondering what in the world I was going to do with the rest of my life after I graduated. He was just a guy sitting across the table from me at a restaurant as we celebrated a mutual friend's birthday. Oh, and I did think he was cute.

But this isn't about him. This isn't about what brought me to the lowest point in my life either. This is about what I did after to bring myself out of the lowest point in my life. This is about a pair of shoes.

My 13-year-old shoes. 

I bought these pair of shoes brand new that fall as I started my third and final year of college. I was highly stressed, very lost, and I had trouble sleeping at night. I found myself lying awake with my thoughts, unable to shut off my brain. So I found a way to use my restless energy. I started running. The loop I ran around campus was approx 1.7 miles. This is the number I calculated based off a rough estimation from reading a campus map and using my AirPods case as a measuring tool. It's probably pretty accurate because I remember it was about a 2 mile run if I didn't take the shortcut.

On top of running, a friend and I would do Insanity workouts at her apartment in the afternoons after class twice a week. I think once, I was crazy enough to do both: an Insanity workout in the afternoon and a run in the evening. Thinking about doing that much exercise now makes my knees want to buckle. I'm 100% sure my body would not be able to handle that today. But at the time, it's exactly what I needed. 

After graduation, these shoes came with me overseas as I moved away for a year. They walked on icy ground. They rode trains with me as I traveled across a foreign country. They bicycled with me over the old city walls of Xi'An. And they came with me when I moved back. 

They got a lot of rest for the nine or so years after. In the last year, I brought them back out and they went biking with me. They took walks with me when I needed to heal my knee. And I finally noticed their wear and tear.

The mesh is tearing at the front corners
and the front of the sole is detaching. 

Earlier this year, I was in the restroom at a Walmart. There was an older lady walking out of one of the stalls. By chance, I happened to be looking toward the floor as I made my way into the restroom. And I noticed her shoes matched mine. The very same pair of shoes from 13 years ago which I'd purchased for myself. Could hers have been 13 years old, too? It's unlikely they were too new because the design and model has long been replaced with newer versions. But I couldn't mistake the color or the design - they were the same. 

It's nearing the time when I will replace this pair of shoes. Part of me is elated to not match the fashion choices of someone twice my age. But part of me is sad because getting rid of these shoes will mean getting rid of the physical history attached to them - the places they've been, the things they've done, the ground they've walked. Yes, my memories will be there, but that will be all. 

This pair of shoes saved me during a very difficult time. And I never knew they had the power to do so.

Clearance Gas

 One morning as we were driving to school, my daughter was looking out the window and told me, "Mommy, gas is on clearance! I see a 166." Now I've been alive long enough to know gas does not go on clearance. Only if there is a signage error is anyone able to get gas for anything close to "clearance" prices. Gas does not go on clearance, ever. But there was a reason she was telling me this, and I knew she could read. So while I was at the stoplight, I looked over toward the gas station and looked everywhere for a clearance sign. I looked at the gas pumps. I looked at the window to the little store. I did not see a clearance sign anywhere. 

The light turned green and I had to move on and keep driving. I told my daughter gas does not go on clearance and the conversation ended. We went to school and that was the last I heard about clearance gas for a few weeks.

After a few weeks, we were stopped at the same light, and again, my daughter told me, "Mommy, look, there's the clearance sign!" I turned to look again. This time, I saw it. Because of where the car was stopped and the angle at which I was now looking at the gas station. I saw the clearance sign. 

Finally, I understood what she was showing me. And then I explained to her what the word clearance means in this context. She's been very familiar with the word clearance in regards to shopping. Mommy looks at the clearance at Lowe's. She looks at the clearance at Kroger. She looks at the clearance at Walmart. She scans aisles for clearance at Sam's Club and Costco. We look at clearance at Michael's. We loved the clearance at Bed Bath and Beyond before they shuttered all physical store locations. Clearance has been a part of her life since she was a newborn. 

But this was the first time she's seen it in regards to height. So I explained to her that certain trucks or vehicles are very tall so they need to know if they can fit underneath. The sign lets the driver know how tall the top is. If the driver's vehicle is taller than that, he/she cannot drive underneath. And that is the second definition of clearance she's now acquainted with. 

I was glad to solve this mystery. 

An Alternate Universe

One of the books I read last year was The Time Keeper by Mitch Albom. It was one of the more unsettling books I'd read by him since I discovered Mitch as an author in my late teens. In it, the characters explore a life between time and experience what's most easily called an alternate universe. 

I think we all catch ourselves thinking about our alternate universes sometimes. What if I married this person instead? What if I had moved to a different state? What if I had made a different decision?

For me, I have many of these in my life. I think about how my life would have been different had I chosen a different major in college. What if I'd gone to a completely different college? My friends would have changed. My career path may have changed or been affected at the very least. My husband may be different because the circumstances which we met would have changed. And we always say had we gone to the same college, we wouldn't have dated or gotten married. I believe it.

We recently visited one of our alma maters with the littles.

I think about how my life would have been different if I had switched piano teachers or even had a different teacher altogether. How would my ability have been affected? Would I play better? Worse? Would I have enjoyed it more? Would I have taken lessons longer? All these possible outcomes are valid, but it's also valid that because of the path I was on, I started accepting accompanying work at the age of 19 beyond doing favors for friends. And although untraditional, it set me up for the career I have now. And I really wouldn't change that. 

The biggest alternate universe I used to toss around was by far the hardest to come to terms with. What if my mother didn't die? It's true that one complexity of my current life now would not be there, and in that aspect, I will always feel a little defeated. However, having my mother in my life would not have simplified everything.

I was able to be my own person in high school because she wasn't around. I proved I had maturity, discipline, responsibility. I was also able to live my life, enjoy parts of childhood and the "fun" of it which I did not before being a primary caregiver, as primary as a minor could be. 

I was able to make decisions and not have to think about someone else. I still remember starting 8th grade and overhearing someone say they thought I had moved because I was not on the yearbook committee as the editor. Everyone thought I was going to be the editor after 7th grade. Everyone on yearbook wanted me to be the editor. But I wasn't even on the committee. I've never told anyone this, but I did not re-apply to be on the yearbook committee after 7th grade. At the time when applications were due, my mother was alive. I had made the decision to stop joining yearbook so I didn't have to stay after school once a week. I was going to go home everyday after school and be with her. And help her. During 8th grade. 

I didn't know she'd be gone before the end of my 7th grade school year. And that's why I was not on the yearbook committee, much less the editor, in 8th grade. After that, I could freely choose which school clubs I wanted to join, what jobs I wanted to take after school, and where I wanted to go. It came at a high cost, indeed, but I had gained certain freedoms which a normal teenager should have been able to experience to some degree. 

When I started dating, I didn't have to get my mother's approval. She would have been a tough cookie to impress. Nobody would have been good enough. She would have said something negative about everyone. Yes, I'm assuming, but I knew my mother. She could have protected me from a lot of hurt. She could have lectured some of the guys I'd dated in the past when they deserved to be lectured. But she may have also held me back from taking risks, taking chances, and ultimately, allowing me to learn and discover for myself. Not having her there put me on the frontline. I felt every punch and jab. But it also meant I could grow stronger. 

I've said before she would have hated the house we bought. I practically hated it myself when we bought it. But you know what? It's turned out to be the best choice we ever made when it came to housing. We love our neighbors. I've blogged multiple times about our neighbors. Just search "neighbor" in the search bar and you'll find a plethora of posts. This one is still my favorite. Our house really is my dream home in many ways. Not all, but many. Because when I come home, I feel comforted. I feel at peace. I feel satisfied. If I didn't like a wall color, I'd notice occasionally. If my shower bothered me, I'd notice it periodically. That's not to say everything is exactly the way I want, but a lot of it is. And the things that aren't are not worth my headspace to fret over. I'm not sure my mother would have been able to see the end result the way we did when we closed on this house. We saw the potential. We saw the future. And we made it a reality. And I'm thankful I didn't have to hear my mother gripe about any of it. 

Today marks 20 years. Just seeing it written out makes my heart sink. The wave of heaviness and emotion still overcome me. And a part of me will forever be sad my mother died so soon. But when I look at the life I'm living today, my job, my husband, my children, my home, myself. 

I wouldn't change any of it. 

Two Decades of Grey - Middle School Part 2

When I was in 8th grade, I had a few friends already at the high school. One of them was part of the orchestra committee. The group was getting together to plan something, something which involved a trip to the grocery store. 

I don't remember how it was proposed to me to go meet a friend and hang out with them during their orchestra committee "planning meeting." I don't remember how I even got there or who drove. All I knew is I ended up at the local Kroger with a bunch of freshman and sophomore orchestra students.

I remember standing in an aisle, the group of us kind of in a circle formation, chatting. This one girl was looking my direction. Suddenly, she started approaching my right shoulder. My gaze instinctively followed her. She lifted up her arm and slowly reached for something. Then, she jolted her arm back and stepped backward, further away from me than she had been standing before. 

We looked at her, waiting for her explanation for the strange motions which had just occurred.

"I thought it was a bow hair."

I've never forgotten this line. How silly, right? None of us had an instrument with us. Why would there be a bow hair near my shoulder as I stood in the middle of a Kroger aisle with one friend and the rest mere acquaintances if not strangers. Of course, it wasn't a bow hair. She did not say what was implied when she realized what she had actually seen.

Bow hair or grey hair? I'll let you decide.

I wasn't dyeing my hair yet, but by 8th grade, I had learned which styles I could safely wear to school to hide all of the greys. It was limiting, but I was okay with it because it meant I could mind my business in peace and not have to field strange questions. Most of the time, I could almost forget they existed because nobody brought it up. The friends who knew didn't comment, and the rest of them didn't know. 

What I could not control were the moments when a strand would peek out unintentionally through the dark curtain of black and become visible. This is exactly what she saw that day in the aisle at Kroger. I remember feeling more alien and abnormal after this happened. A part of my memory remembers her shuddering as well as jolting back and stepping away. This may or may not be my mind making it up. But I didn't make up her words.

****

It's almost comical how illogical it was for her mind to have first thought I had a bow hair near me in the aisle of Kroger. But that only showed me how inconceivable it was for a 14-year-old girl to have grey hair in the minds of certain peers. And it made the truth sting that much more.

Two Decades of Grey: Middle School - Part 1

I was in middle school when I noticed my own grey hair and began to dislike it. Up until this age, I knew they existed, but they were few enough to lay low and not interfere. By 7th grade, I had to consciously do my hair for school in a way which concealed them. Certain hair styles for me were off the table. Anything with a half updo, I could not wear. 

One evening, I remember sitting at my desk in my room with the lamp on. It was supposed to be the desk used for homework. Very rarely did I ever complete my homework at my desk. I wrote my diary every evening at my desk. I crafted at my desk. I made a DIY sun catcher and used a blade to cut out shapes. For a while I practiced writing with my left hand at my desk. My ambidextrous talent never took off, but I'm decent on a dry erase board.

The DIY sun catcher I made in middle school. Two pieces of
cardboard sandwiching a sheet of iridescent film covered with decorative contact paper.
My first time using a blade to cut. This piece of art has survived decades.

I cut my hair at that desk. Once.

It wasn't your normal hair cut. I had somehow gotten the idea in my head that if I cut all of my grey hairs out, you wouldn't be able to find any and my hair would be restored to a uniform single color again. After all, they always tell you not to pull out grey hairs or else two would grow back, right? What a silly lie. So that's what I did one evening. I sat at my desk with my lamp turned on, grabbed a grey hair one by one, and snipped high up on my head.

After doing this, something inside of me felt more safe, comfortable. I was going to wear a half updo to school now that I'd found a "solution."

What my young teenage brain failed to process was that unless the scissors were placed adjacent to my scalp, (which I didn't do because I would risk cutting other hairs or my scalp itself - this I was able to process logically and correctly,) my greys weren't actually "gone." In fact, they were now even more obvious than if all the hairs on my head were a consistent length. 

I learned this the hard way when a friend saw and commented on my grey hairs being an uneven length compared to everything else. That's when something in my brain clicked and I came to the conclusion stated above. My "solution" wasn't actually a solution at all, and I became even more self-conscious.

***

In 8th grade, I remember being in the library with a few other girls. Our schedules were different so due to what they were doing at the middle school, we were hanging out in the library for an extended time that week. It was a book fair week. I remember us sitting between shelves of books for sale at the book fair. We were sprawled out on the floor just chatting and relaxing as teenagers do. 

Somehow the conversation went to talking about a movie. One of the girls remarked, "It would be really cool to have silver hair like the character." 

I replied, "Oh, I've got some. I'm almost there." 

I will never forget her response. "No, Cathy, yours are grey."

Shut down in five words I'll never be able to erase. She could have said a multitude of other things which wouldn't have had the same sting: 

You don't have enough yet. 

Maybe in 20 years. 

Haha, that's funny.

But instead, she said the worst thing you could have said to me as a response. And sadly, I'll never forget it.

Two Decades of Grey: Grade School

When I was in kindergarten, my mother was in her early 40s. She was considered one of the older parents of that generation. She also had a very even sprinkle of salt and pepper grey hair. I have memories of her coloring it occasionally, but she wasn't diligent about it, and I don't think she wanted to be. I have a clear memory of a boy in my kindergarten class asking me if the woman picking me up was my grandmother. That was the first negative impression left on me regarding grey hair. I knew my mother had grey hair, and I knew it wasn't her original hair color. I'm not saying natural because natural changes...it's whatever grows out of your head. And I was intuitive enough to understand that visual greys led someone to think you were older than you actually were. This is one of the earliest moments where I planted an idea in my head: I wanted to have kids early. Mentally, I didn't want to be the mother of a kindergartener and being mistaken for her grandmother. 

I know he didn't mean anything by asking me that - it's an innocent question trying to clarify a potential confusion. But I also know as a young child myself, it left an impression, one that still trails me in my shadows. I see it first-hand now in my own kindergartener. She surprises me daily with the questions she asks me and random conversations we have.

***

I was in grade school when my mother found my first grey hair. I remember it as being 4th grade. My mother had just been diagnosed with cancer within the last year. She saw it one afternoon and said with a sad voice, "You have a grey hair already." Her words held the weight of someone who walked the exact same path - she indeed had. I still have a fear I will be in her shoes from the other side. 

Besides this memory, I don't actually recall my mother commenting on my grey hair for the rest of her life. Maybe she didn't because she knew what it was like to be the young girl with premature grey hairs. Maybe she didn't because she was busy researching and finding the best doctors to consult to help her fight for her life. Maybe she didn't because she didn't care, and there were only a few - literally, countable on one hand at the time. I think this has been a secret blessing because if I remember my mother commenting on this, it would have tainted our relationship even more. So I'm glad she didn't, or I'm glad I don't remember. 

***

Sometime in the last ten years, it hit me that my mother had youthful skin. Even despite losing her hair due to all the treatments she was undergoing, her face looked young. I remember taking one of the last photos I remember with her on my 11th birthday. And for the longest time, it was very hard for me to look at the photo because all I saw were the effects of the cancer, the chemo, the radiation, and I didn't see the mother I knew as a child. 

That's actually not the last photo we have together. I found one from the summer I won grand prize at a piano competition. It was two years before she died. She'd lost even more hair. But she was happy, and she was next to me. Her face is so cute. 

I used to be ashamed of these photos. I didn't want to see my mother in photos because it solidified the horrors and the fears of what she experienced. It made my own trauma and scars that much more real. But I cherish these now. 

I miss the girl in these pictures. She was young, naive in the right ways, and simple. It's sad how with wisdom and knowledge come a layer of heaviness and burden. 

That was middle school. 

Just Fine

There are many things I did not appreciate about my childhood growing up. Once having my own children, I shaped a lot of my parenting on the exact opposite of the way I was raised. However, there is one poignant moment which has always stayed with me and goes down as the best parenting I've ever experienced.

8th grade was my last year as a straight-A-student. I had just started high school and it was one of the report cards in the middle of my freshman year. I was attending one of the most difficult high schools in my district. High school came like a slap in the face. My report card was littered with B's and even a C or two. The A's were a rare sighting that year with only 2-3 per grading period. 

My report card had arrived and was sitting on the counter atop a pile of mail and advertisements. As we were eating, my dad looked over my report card and asked me one question: Why are your grades so bad?

I responded with a simple, truthful, answer: School is hard.

After that, he put the report card down, we finished the meal, and my guess is no more words were spoken the rest of the evening.

I don't think my dad ever asked me about my grades again after that grading period. My grades stayed more or less the same in sophomore year. Junior year, they started to pick back up again and the majority became A's with a few B's and probably one C here and there. Senior year, I was a straight A student again. 

College was, again, a slap in the face because there was a learning curve to figure out how to balance 15 hours of class spread across 5 days. And to factor in the unspoken 20-30 hours of homework and studying a week for those 15 hours of class. Again, I followed that same trend of struggling immensely freshman year first semester and figuring out in the next 5 semesters which followed. Eventually, I regained my straight A status. 

I have to credit myself for being the kind of student and child who understood responsibility. I knew what to do and when to do it. If it didn't happen, it was because it was out of my ability or I had other priorities - for better or for worse. 

I was reminded of this memory again because I had a student come last week and she seemed kind of down. I didn't pry about it, and we had a great lesson together. When her lesson was over, we had to wait for her to get picked up. She muttered something about her mother "probably still mad at her" and I asked her why her mother was upset. She told me it was because of grades. I sighed. 

I've never thought of my parents as awesome parents who modeled wonderful parenting, but this one memory from my dad still stands out to me today. And honestly, I hope I can deal with the future grades of my children with a similar straightforward attitude. Because I know firsthand the difference it makes and the impression it leaves when you handle a situation with tact.

Sometimes I do wonder if this is how my dad still sees me....
because I know I will forever see my children as my babies. 

And I think, for however much he displays it, he knows I ended up just fine. Maybe better than just fine. 🙂

The List

I don't actually know what a healthy level of reading and writing should be at the kindergarten level, but I'm pretty sure my daughter is on par if not ahead of the game. It's been a lot of work keeping up with her homework, but she's learning a lot so we choose to put forth the effort. 

She started writing "lists" recently, but it's really just a bunch of scribbles on a piece of paper. She made an H-E-B list as well as a B-B-q list. I'm not really sure what B-B-q is supposed to be, but I know where she got her H-E-B inspiration from, haha. 

She kept telling me she was going to make a shopping list and give it to me. So I told her, sure, make your list and give it to me. Anything she can write down, spelled correctly, and read to me accurately, I will purchase at the store. 

I might be shooting myself in the foot with this offer because she's a lot smarter than I think (maybe). So I gave her two caveats:

- She has to do this before her 6th birthday or the offer expires.

- There's a $50 limit on what I buy off her list.

Oh, and obviously no parental help on this list. That should be understood, but I'll have to tell my husband just to make sure we're on the same page. *You're reading this, right? Got it? 😝*

Let's be honest. If the kid figures out how to spell lobster, and adds the word whole in front of it, I'm screwed. Especially if that's not the only item on the list! (Academically, she has learned all the phonetic rules to piece together those two words. 😱)

I'm kind of excited actually. I legitimately want to see what she would write on the list and what she actually wants me to buy. "Peas" is easy, but she doesn't like peas. Probably wouldn't want "beans" either. She might write "rice" but I can afford that one. 

Am I a genius or a crazy mother for doing this? Anyone out there want to try this for your kids now?? 😄

Pivotal

So I have not been blogging as much as I want to because life has been crazy this summer. My kids have started school (I know, they're old enough. Can you believe it? I both can and can't at the same time.) And life has felt like it's gone into turbo mode with them in school. We are doing a hybrid-type program with school and parent-guided homework so I feel like I just got dumped extra work even though I have some time away from both my kids now. But life is busy and I can't complain about where we're at, but wow, it's picked up a pace I wasn't quite expecting to be honest. 

I've always liked to be an intentional person, but the older I get, the more I feel the need to be intentional. One of the things I like is to be able to tell people from my past about where I am now and how I appreciate them for being in that phase of my life. No, I'm not going around messaging every person I went to high school with. But there are specific people who stand out for one reason or another. 

I actually started doing this with poignant books I read, too. I write to the author. In the last year, I've written to two. I heard back from the manager of one author. I don't take it personally when I don't hear back because there's numerous reasons why they don't respond. But on my behalf, I wrote to them, and that's the most I can expect of myself to do. I have yet to write to an author that I've been wanting to write to since I was a child. Her book has meant a lot to me, and yes, I've written about it on the blog. If you know what book/which author I'm talking about without me linking the post, then you really know me well and keep up with the blog. 😊 The main reason I haven't gotten around to writing her is because she does not have an online contact form. I've got to write or type out a letter to her, stick it in an envelope and use a stamp to mail it to her. Can I do all this? Absolutely. But unfortunately, it's so much easier for me to do something on a computer, phone, or iPad, so anything that can't be done from these three technologies is usually put off or forgotten. 

Recently, I messaged an old friend on her website. Her name has popped into my head multiple times throughout the years. I don't expect a response from her because if I did, chances are, I would be disappointed. We went to middle school together for one year. We met through communication applications class, or better known as "speech class." Now this isn't speech class for those needing extra help in pronunciation and speaking English. This was the communications class on presenting speeches, poise, gestures, and everything public speaking. Why in the world did I choose this class? 

Because it's my weakness. And for some reason, 12-year-old me thought, why not pick an elective to work on something I'm not good at? How mature of me, right? Instead of choosing an art class or home economics to craft and cook, I chose to suffer through a semester of writing and giving speeches to a class full of people I don't remember except this one friend. 

At the end of the school year, she found out she was moving. Again. She was used to it, but it didn't make the move any easier. At the end of the school year, my mom died. Life would never look the same for me ever again. She wrote me a note for the last day of school, and put it into a pouch she made along with a friendship bracelet and her school picture. I kept them all these years in a little box at my dad's house. 

How many 8th graders know how to sew/put together a knit pouch like this today?

Yes, I'm sentimental. I'm actually less sentimental than I used to be, but still sentimental nonetheless. But it's these little building blocks of memories which have led me to where I am today. 

In a year neither of us knew would be so pivotal to our lives, we had each other. 

Vintage Valentine's

I recently rediscovered my collection of Valentine's Day cards over the years. Believe it or not, the oldest cards in my collection are from my pre-kindergarten class! That's.... about 28-29 years ago 😱 As an adult (with my own pre-k age child!) it's easy to wonder why in the world I kept these. I actually know why in the world I kept these. Each of these cards stood out to me for a reason and that's precisely why I saved them.

1. Barbie

This first collection is comprised of Barbie valentine's. I was a huge Barbie fan once upon a time. Loved the clothes, accessories, and play sets, but was never a fan of the actual doll herself. I preferred stuffed animals. These three cards I kept precisely because I liked Barbie. 

Barbie cards surprisingly have not gone out of style. They are still handed out in classrooms today in the year 2023. But these three? Vintage. Definitely vintage. The one on the left was my favorite. 

2. Cute

The second category I saved was the cute category. Bears were my thing back in the day 🧸. They still kind of are, but I've been mostly converted to penguins 🐧. 

The two cards on the bottom are from preschool! They both have names on the back and I even know exactly who those people are. One was from a boy. After preschool, we didn't go to school together but our schools were in the same district. We ended up at the same college and hanging out with the same friend circle. One was from a girl. We actually ended up going to high school together and graduated in the same class. Both of these people are still friends with me on Facebook so they have potential to read this blog 😝 although I have a feeling they won't remember. 

3. Sparkly

I couldn't resist a sparkly card. And clearly, that is the only reason I kept these cards. 

The top center was a power ranger card. If I turned it over, the card itself is very blasé. Literally the only reason I kept that card was for the pink power ranger sparkly heart sticker on the back. I don't remember who Todd is at all. Sorry. 

On the bottom, we have N'Sync, Britney Spears, and someone doing an extreme sport. The actual sport is called skysurfing. I didn't even know that until I just looked it up...now...decades after receiving that card. Britney Spears was never my thing. I knew her by name but that was about it. Of all my mix CDs and music tracks, I had one song she wrote. I didn't even recognize her face in 5th grade when my bus driver showed me a picture. 🤷🏻‍♀️ N'Sync was also not my thing. Knew a couple of their songs...but never had one on any of my CDs. 

4. Repeats

The only reason I kept these is because I had so many of the same/similar designs from multiple years. I guess the dogs are kind of cute, but I think I kept the duplicates from sheer chance of receiving so many of the same design.

These are in fact from five different people. 

5. Magic Eye

Magic Eye was a big fad when I was in school. I used to love checking out the books from the library and holding them really close to my face (and smelling all that library-book-weird-smell that some books from the library have) and then moving them further away until my eyes saw the 3-D image bulging from the page. It took me a long time to finally see my first one. You had to really master the eye focus as well as the speed to back the page from your face. But when you saw it, they were the coolest thing ever.

Turning these into Valentine's Day cards was pretty genius. I will say that the little ones on the cards never worked as well as the ones in the books. 

6. Glow-in-the-Dark

Who doesn't love a cool glow-in-the-dark card? These just happen to be planets, which I don't particularly care for, but the glow-in-the-dark texture and feature was what captivated me. Luckily, these planets are still planets according to today's science. 

Sadly, nobody's memorizing "My Very Excellent Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas" anymore.  Nine pizzas has just turned into nachos. Or if you're into Dr. Seuss, Mallory Valerie Emily Mickels Just Saved Up Nine Hundred Ninety Nine Nickels. 

7. Teachers

Very rarely did we ever get cards from our teachers. I only saved three anyway from the 20+ teachers I had from pre-k until 5th grade. 

The top card was from my 4th grade homeroom teacher. I wonder if she picked that card on purpose for me because she knew I excelled at math. I'll never know, but her handwriting was beautiful. 

8. Friends

These three cards I actually kept because of the people who gave them to me. Nothing particular about the cards really appealed to me. I guess they do all have dogs in common, but that technically wasn't the reason why I kept them. 

These three cards were given to me by three friends who meant a lot to me in my elementary school days. One of these girls was my "first friend." I don't remember how we met or became friends, but I remember being friends with her by 2nd grade. The second girl and I became friends in 2nd grade because we were in the same grade. She had skipped 1st grade so we ended up classmates. She moved the same year I did, except she moved out of state completely and I just transferred schools within the district. We reconnected in middle school/high school periodically but our lives had moved on to different places. I remember being friends with the third girl but I don't remember specific details of our friendship. I know we were on the same Destination Imagination team for at least one year. There may have been two but those memories are foggy. 

9.

I honestly can't remember why I saved this card. The only reason I can think of is that it was one of the extras I had from one year. My mother wrote my name on this card so I'm assuming she must've written it on my other cards that year. As a parent now, my initial reaction would be, "Why in the world is the parent writing the child's name on her Valentine's Day cards?" And that reaction would be completely reasonable and expected. My four-year-old can write her name. I'm pretty sure I should have been able to write my own name 24+ times on little slips of paper.

But the reason why I will choose to keep this card now and forever is because it has my mother's handwriting on it. I'm glad she wrote my name on it instead of writing my name myself. As weird as it is, you don't think about these things until you think about these things. Had I been the child who had signed my own Valentine's Day cards, I wouldn't have this memento today. 

The Things We Remember

I was randomly reminiscing. And somehow I remembered things from my past which have been hidden away in files in my brain. Not forgotten, but not brought back often. I can't remember how we became friends. I don't actually remember talking to her at all in seventh grade, and then somehow in eighth grade, we became really good friends. 

We had first period health together. It was our most dreaded and most "entertaining" class. The boys were very immature and the girls were probably a little, if not more than a little, uncomfortable the entire semester. I remember we were learning about family units in the textbook, and she pointed to the picture of the blended family and then pointed her finger back at herself. 

My job lets me relive my middle school memories every now and then....

We became really close that year. I asked her if she and her mom would go bra shopping with me because it was probably time for me to "upgrade" from the ones my mom had gotten me in 6th grade so I could make it through changing in the locker rooms during gym without being half naked. Her mom drove us to the mall and then went off to shop on her own while my friend and I walked around ourselves. That wasn't how I imagined it, but it was all right. (As an adult being so far removed, thinking back on how I survived adolescence without my mother is unfathomable. I don't know how I made it to present day, but I know I don't want to do it again.)

We talked on the phone when she could sneak in a call. There were many calls which ended abruptly to avoid getting caught. There were a few times I went over to her house and we actually got to hang out. I was her piano accompanist that year. It was one way to get to her house and hang out after our rehearsal. We signed each other's yearbooks at the end of the year and said we'd be friends forever. 

In high school, we slowly began to drift apart. She had other friends she became closer to and I had mine. I do remember she helped me track down the locker combination of the guy I was dating at the time so I could put something in it to surprise him. He told me later he figured that's what she was doing because she stood by his locker for so long. She moved a few years later so we didn't graduate together. I don't think I've spoken to her in nearly 15 years. 

Friendship is special in how it evolves over time. We are not truly friends anymore given we do not know each other's lives beyond what is posted on social media. But I still cherish what we had. Seeing that these memories randomly come back to me and I can still remember exactly which classroom we had health class and the approximate locations of where we sat in reference to the room, it can't mean nothing. I wouldn't have made it through eighth grade without her.

Saint Say-Ens

Two years ago I was accompanying a French horn. I'd played for her previously. She was the first French horn I'd ever accompanied. When she came to my studio the first time for a rehearsal, I had two thoughts: the French horn is a very loud instrument and it has a very lovely timbre. For our second performance, she was performing Romance by Camille Saint-Saëns. It was a nice piece and I liked it a lot. We had a few rehearsals, she was prepared, and we were ready for the festival.

Yes, Camille is a man.

The morning of the performance, I arrived at the school and waited for her. She arrived and was allowed to perform shortly after. We entered the room and adjusted the chairs and positioned ourselves so we could see each other. Before performing, she introduced herself and the piece she was playing. 

"Hi, my name is...and I will be playing "Romance" by Camille Saint Say-Ens." I almost died right there. I knew whatever was going through that judge's head, he was sure to have already marked her down mentally because of her pronunciation. We performed, it was decent, I got paid, and that was that. (I made a mental note to discuss with students the proper pronunciation of their piece and composer after that, except Covid hit in full-force approximately a month after that performance and I put accompanying on the back-burner).

***

Over two years later, I was on the phone with a friend. He was in a very loud room and I had picked up his call on my iPad. Apparently, the audios/microphone on iPads, although decent, are not as strong as phones. Noted. 

We were talking about music and this particular composer came up again. I kept saying Saint-Saëns, and I said it the right way: San-Sohn(ce). And my friend just could not understand me whether through the din around him or the bad quality of the sound through the phone or iPad or whatever. I tried two or three times, and finally, I said, "Saint Say-Ens" to which he responded, "Ohhh. Ok." 😑

We both had a good laugh and continued on with the rest of our conversation. But for the record, I do know how to say his name correctly. 

Punished for Promptness: Part 2

I originally wrote on this last year and shared three instances where my timeliness backfired due to events outside of my control. There was one instance I forgot to include which I remembered later, so I'll share this story now.

When I was a freshman in college, I started taking classes toward my teaching certification my second semester. It was my very first teaching class with a student teaching component. Being the studious person I was, I checked my schedule early and wrote down room assignments so I'd be ready for the first day of classes.

My introduction to teaching class was my first class of the day. On my first day, I went to the building, sat outside the classroom, and waited. There was one other student waiting with me. We were nervously watching the clock. Class started. Nobody else was there. Five minutes passed. We started anxiously looking at each other. Then one of us (I remember it being me) looked online at the class schedule posting again only to find that the room listed was not the room we were sitting outside of. 

Frantically, we rushed to the other building and found the correct classroom where this class was being held. The two of us walked in about 10 minutes late and the professor glared at us. We meekly explained the situation, but I don't think she bought it. After all, 90% of the class made it on time, why didn't we? 

The correct answer to that is I believe we were the special 10% of our kind who had good intentions of being prompt, prepared, and ready. Unfortunately in this situation, it backfired. I do believe I was able to prove myself in the next two and a half years as I had this same professor again the year I graduated. She was one of a few teachers of the first class in sequence and she was the teacher who taught the third class. I was lucky enough to have her for both. We made teaching binders with all of our lesson plans, reflections, and teaching materials neatly catalogued. Each semester, I turned mine in early if not first. 

I've told my professor this story before. I don't remember what she said, but I don't think she remembered it happening. I don't blame her. There's a lot of kids to teach and two late ones for one class don't mean much. 

I still like being prompt. Even if it backfires.

Punished for Promptness

I’ve been someone who likes to get things done on time. My English teacher during my junior year of high school had a wonderful system where if we turned in our essays before the due date, we would earn five extra points because it allowed her to spread out her grading instead of receiving and grading 30 papers all at once.  You bet I capitalized on those bonus five points every time. I didn’t always write phenomenal papers, but those five points occasionally meant the difference between a B and an A. 

However, there've been three distinct times in my life when being prompt did not work in my favor. 

1. When I was in high school, we wrote essays for orchestra. Each year we got assigned our orchestra essay in the beginning of the year, and each year, most people would wait until about April to actually write them and turn them in before they were due. In April. The first year, that's kind of what I did. I was a freshman and I didn't really know what I was doing my entire freshman year. Sophomore year, I knew better. I planned the concert I'd attend and would write about and had everything done early. On the first day the teacher was accepting essays, I turned mine in. There was no special recognition or anything for being the first, and that's okay because I didn't expect anything. I was simply glad it was completed.

About a week later, my teacher had some candy and she randomly made the announcement that if anyone turned in their orchestra essay, they'd receive a piece. Nobody had their essay ready right at that moment, but I'd already handed mine in, and I did not receive a complimentary piece of candy for having already turned it in. I didn’t care about the candy. It was never about the candy. But why make a random statement a week later AND forget about the essay which had already been turned in? Maybe she didn't want to single me out. But if you're going to offer candy aren't you trying to single someone out?

2. Years later when I was at a conference, the director emailed about sending him rooming requests for the hotel. I sent him a reply with my roommate request that very same day. I never received a confirmation email from him saying he'd received my email, but confirmation emails get lost these days. So, fine. I didn't think about sending a follow up one to see if he'd received it because he was a busy person with lots to do. 

At the conference, I saw my room assignment and it was not rooming with the person I had requested. I didn't complain about it or tell anyone, but my friend and I knew something went wrong and it wasn't on our end. 

3. I purchased an item from a newly launched website to support a business. I received my item and was generally pleased with it. After a few months, I noticed the prices had lowered. Now these weren't temporarily lower prices. These were permanently lowered prices as far as I could see on the store's website. Including the special promo discounts which were still valid, I could have saved over $20 had I been lazier about supporting this business. That's a huge disappointment from a customer perspective because my fervent support upon the initial launch meant I paid more money. Shouldn't it be the other way around? 

It's a shame because I was going to buy more products, but after this happened, I haven't because I don't feel valued as a customer. My early loyalty was actually penalized. 

**

My memory is probably better than most to remember these seemingly minute details about life, but even the "insignificant" events shape me to be who I am today. Have these affected my perception of being prompt and timely? In some ways, yes, they have.

Canonized

 It had been bothering me for 10 years on and off. It was the last paper I wrote for his class in college. We were told to choose a piece of literature we thought worthy of being in the literary canon. Being a flustered college junior at the time anxiously awaiting to finish the last of her classes in order to get into full-time student teaching and graduate early, I picked a novel I was already reading, wasn't terrible, and fit the requirements so I thought: Jane Eyre. 

Now, Jane Eyre is not a terrible book by any means. I'm sure there are many fans of this novel who would have written a fabulous essay on why it should be a part of the literary canon. Unfortunately, that person was not me, and the essay I wrote was only slightly convincing of its canonical merit. It was my lowest scoring essay of his class for the semester, and I always remembered. 

This professor and I stayed in touch minimally over the years. We may have corresponded 2-3 times since I graduated. It took 10 years for me to have the courage to send him an email, and not only to tell him I wish I had written my essay on another book, but also which book I should have written it on.

Why was I so scared all these years? The book I wanted to choose, and still choose today, pales in difficulty to Jane Eyre. As an English major and graduating senior, choosing a book of importance to be canonized means a high-level, scholarly book, right? That's what I thought, and it took me all these years to finally come to terms with the fact that I thought wrong, and it was perfectly all right.

The book I should have chosen was a book I'd first read as an elementary school student. I read it again in 7th grade as required reading in English class that year. I read it again a few years later. And I read it again this summer. Each time I've read it, I've pulled away different philosophies, lessons, and themes. All of them have been there all along, but it took different life stages and different versions of who I was as a person to see them. 

I should have picked Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech. I've thought about rewriting that paper just to feel like I was being true to myself, but let's be honest. Nobody has any use for me to be writing a literary essay anymore. So instead, I'll share about it here.

1. Walk Two Moons is accessible to people of all ages and abilities. It could be for a challenge for an advanced 4th grader, which is about the time I discovered it. It could be just right for an on-level or below average 8th grader, or a refreshing, simple read for an adult. The protagonist is 13-years-old, so obviously it was written to appeal to the young adult audience of approximately middle school age. But as I mentioned before, I read it many times, and it still spoke to me each time.

2. The book is unpredictable. There are cliffhangers left at the end of multiple chapters, and the ending is not what you expect it to be. When reading it for the first time, it hooks you in a way that you want to keep going. The way it's all woven together is quite ingenious really. The first time I read the book, it took three days. The second time I read it, I finished it in one. And I am not a fast reader.

3. The book provides multiple perspectives depending on the reader's age and experience. Reading it at different periods of life allows the reader to relate to different characters. A middle schooler would relate to Phoebe or Salamanca whereas an adult reader would relate to Mrs. Winterbottom or Mr. Hiddle. 

If you know me, you'll know I relate very personally to Salamanca. That's one of the biggest reasons why I've always loved this book because it made me feel like there was someone out there, albeit fiction, who understand and experienced exactly what I was going through. But the older I've gotten, I've come to realize the true importance of where this book earns its title. And how little people take the time to walk two moons...in someone else's moccasins. 

Top Secret Writing

Today is Lou Gehrig's birthday. It's a random fact I came across when I was doing some fact-checking for this blog. I'm not a baseball fan and I've never been, but I know the generalities of his fame and I know he had a disease. Most people know it as "Lou Gehrig's disease", but it's actually called amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. So why is he actually so poignant in my memories? 

***

We were taking a test in 8th grade. My teacher specifically said, "After the test you can do whatever you want," because all they really want you to do is stay quiet and not disturb anyone else. Well, they also don't want you to cheat.

I took my test, didn't talk, didn't cheat off anyone, and turned it in. Then, following my teacher's directions, I pulled out my planner and started writing. It's what I did in 8th grade. I'd write little journal entries or random stream of consciousness in the empty dates we didn't use in our planners - fall break, Thanksgiving holiday, Christmas vacation, etc. These were my secret diary entries. Back then, my planner had some teenage top secret writing. Why did I do this? Because it was something I had with me at all times. It ended up being the most convenient place to jot down random thoughts.

My teacher saw me writing in my planner, got up from his desk, and came over to the side of my desk. Without framing anything, he said to me, "Show me what you're writing." 

Now I'm sitting there, and knowing what I was writing, I said, "No." I had my hand gently covering my planner and looked at him. He may have asked me again, but I don't remember. What I do remember is him grabbing my planner from beneath my hand and reading it. 

My hand smeared the pencil I'd just freshly written.

He read it, gave it back to me, and said, "Oh. It's just a journal entry of some sort." He walked back to his desk, sat down, and the testing resumed. (I doubt any cheating had actually happened during that ordeal, but if it did, it was the most opportune time for it to happen because he clearly wasn't watching the rest of the class.)

I remember what that journal entry was about, not in crystal clear details with vivid descriptions, but I remember why I wanted to write it down. I'd had a dream the night before. In that dream, I had Lou Gehrig's disease, and I was in a wheelchair. 

And that's it.

This event forever changed my view of this teacher. What once was an enjoyable class where I made decent grades turned into dread at having picked a seat right in front of the teacher's desk. (We NEVER changed seats that year BTW.)

Here's what should have happened.

The teacher should have come over and asked to read what I was writing. I would have responded, "No." He should have told me to take my planner and go with him to the corner of the classroom where he could still keep an eye on the rest of the class. Then, he should have asked me privately, "Are you writing down answers from the test?" I would have responded, "No." And he may have followed up with requesting to see my planner to make sure I was being honest. Then, I would have begrudgingly shown him my planner in order to prove my honesty despite not wanting anyone reading my private thoughts. He would have seen what it was about, realized I was not cheating, and we both would have returned to our desks with no less dignity than we started. 

But, alas, that is not how it played out.

***

I no longer have my school planners anymore. I got rid of them a while back during a cleaning purge. I didn't catalogue or save any of these journal entries hidden throughout the pages, but that's okay. What's important will be remembered in its own way.

How do you want to be remembered? 

Goodbye Mum

I sold my senior Homecoming mum today, sold it for 50% of the cost of the mum to begin with...so if you don't factor in inflation, that would be a negative 50% return. However, if you consider it literally plastic, paper, and ribbon hot glued together to make something ridiculously noisy that high school girls wear around for one day of their lives, I made a great sale. No, I did not wear mine around school. It's been hanging on a wall in my old bedroom for the last 10 years in pristine condition.

Every fall, I contemplated selling it to make some money and to get rid of it, but every fall, I either forgot or couldn't bring myself to sell it. There was too much sentimentality behind it because it was completely my own handiwork.

My handmade senior mum.

During junior year, my homecoming date was from another school. He and I had agreed not to do the mum and garter stuff with each other. We were going together just to have a date for the dance and to hang out with our friends. Well, being the girly girl I was, (and still am at heart,) I bought my own mum that year from the drill team moms and paid for it with my own money. I also bought some craft things and put together a last minute garter for him anyway even though we said we weren't going to do that. It wasn't my finest handiwork, but you know, for someone who thought he wasn't getting a garter, I think he was pleasantly surprised to have gotten one after all. I'm sure it's long been in the trash for years since that night.

For senior year, my homecoming date was yet again from another school. He and I had again agreed not to do the mum and garter stuff with each other. We were, once again, going together just to have a date for the dance and to hang out with our friends. And once again, being the girly girl I was, I wanted my own mum - because let's face it, the silver and white ones are so much more "elegant" than the maroon and white ones, if you can even call glitter, ribbon, and plastic "elegant."

But, I was going to make my own. Being a year wiser than I was the previous year and more intuitive, I figured out how to assemble all these seemingly useless pieces of craft materials they sell at Hobby Lobby and Michael's into something rather beautiful. My favorite part was the mum base. I creatively designed my own pattern and put it together with some of the more expensive glitter ribbons.

My mum base.

The trickiest part to making beautiful mums which I discovered in my own experience is how to embellish and hide the staples and glue. Everyone can take hot glue and glue a cow bell onto a piece of ribbon, or tie a cow bell onto a string and hang it off the mum. But how many people can DIY hide the charm hole at the top of the cow bell with something beautiful? (Also considering that mums are most often made by boys for girls with high expectations, chances are slim to none that they have any idea how to do this; hence, The Mum Shop in Plano has such lucrative business for only operating 3 months of the year.)

Someone out there will be Class of 2019...how
convenient: I only had to change one sticker.

17-year-old me figured that out, and I had a lot of fun making my own bows and ribbon embellishments to hide the charm holes, staples, and hot glue.

Made my own deluxe loops, and my own
ribbon braid on the right.

Cleverly concealed the top of the bell
beneath a decorative ribbon.

It was still very bittersweet and a bit sad when I handed away my mum to the lady who was picking it up. Granted, I would much rather have the cash than my mum hanging in my room, but I'm still sentimental at heart and I will miss my fine handiwork from 10 years ago. Also I'm pretty sure she will take apart my mum and simply use it for pieces to make another one. But I'm thankful I was able to sell it for cash than simply throw it away in the trash. Perhaps my legacy will live on anonymously through someone else's mum, at least for one year.

Just for kicks and giggles, I went online to The Mum Shop and created a mum order for something comparable to mine (number of charms, number of ribbons, etc.) to see how much it would cost to buy. I paid quite a bit less than what they're charging. Here are the numbers:

In my opinion, mums these days have gotten so large and so flashy that they're gaudy. I think they're actually more beautiful and elegant when they don't weigh 20 pounds and cover the entire girl whom it adorns. But I digress.

I did, however, remember to remove one detail from my mum. Years ago when I was preparing to hang my mum in my room, I needed a large needle or safety pin to hang it up on the pushpin. The only thing I could think of to use was a pearl pin I had kept in my music box. Before selling it and giving it away, I switched out the pearl pin with one of my many safety pins I've amassed from shopping at baby consignments. (I probably could have handed it to her without anything and it would have been fine, but I was trying to make it more marketable.) 

Why such a big fuss over such a small pin? It's the pin from my corsage from my mother's funeral.

In about sixteen years, I'll hopefully be able to pull up this blog post and share with my daughter about my old Homecoming mum and how much fun I had making it and how special it was for me. 

Goodbye, mum. I'll miss you.