Do you ever lie in bed at night during a bad storm and wonder if all the wild animals outside are OK?

Observing elementary kids on the playground is what I do for my part time job. The other day, I noticed something profound.

Fresh snow had fallen overnight and it was thick and damp; perfect for making tunnels and forts. I love to watch kids of all ages at school create the same kinds of things my friends and I did when I was young.

I watched as two very determined fifth graders worked hard at their tunnel, digging hard and fast at the heavy snow on opposite sides of a snow bank. They had just completed it – victory at last!

That is, until another kid jumped made a run for it and stomped on it until the tunnel was caved in.

I, like the kids, was aghast. Then it hit me.  

There are kids who are builders and those who are destroyers.

And really, I’m never surprised at those who destroy, including this particular urchin, who is well-known for his roughhousing and general disrespect of authority

It made me wonder what kids like him will be like as they get older  and the stakes get higher – destroying people’s lives, dignity, trust.

 I realize not every naughty kid will grow up to be degenerates. People can change.  I know of one such child who was that way and is now a cop. And a good one, at that – calm and level headed.

But it’s the builders I’m most concerned about.

When dreams are shattered or their hard work is destroyed, will these kids prevail? Will they press on to overcome the obstacles others put in their way or hold back their drive and stifle their own creativity out of fear?

So many resources are spent on the destroyers – specialized teachers and lots of attention. And later, usually law enforcement and the court system.  

The eternal squeaky wheels.

My heart, however, will always be with the builders.

Sports

Your child may begin his/her “sports career” on the same team as their best buddy, but it may not stay that way through the years. And the day one kid makes the better team than their friend, I guarantee that friendships will be affected. (That goes for the parents, as well.)

Best advice for first timers going through this? Both players and parents, take heed: First, don’t act like the big dog early on. Second, be open to new friendships on whatever team you are a part of.

In addition, parents of players on the better teams may feel – and act like – their child is untouchable and destined for greatness. And that may be the case. But another guarantee is that not every kid on every top team will earn a scholarship. And, in the end, those who actually do probably deserve it.

Beyond that, many who go on to play college sports don’t end up sticking with it or for other reasons don’t continue to play. Best laid plans and all that…

Playdates

Invite the kids over you want and practice the policy that not everyone needs to be included every time. Teach your kid not to feel like they need to invite Aleiyshah over every time they ask Amberrhh to play. Make no excused to the parents and don’t apologize for it.

Conversely, teach your kids to accept that they won’t always be invited. This can be hard, especially when girls are involved. Feelings seem to get hurt easier and tears may ensue, but it’s a good lesson to learn. One that, as an adult, I sometimes have to remind myself.

Friendships

Value quality of friendships over quantity, but encourage kids to be open to making several acquaintances. The dynamics of friendships can and do change. My stance? Persuade your children to not concentrate solely on one best friend. One half of the friendship will inevitably pull away at some point and you don’t want your kid to be the one left behind.

Gossip

From early on, I told my daughter to watch what she said – and to whom. Basically, to trust no one – at least not completely. I know girls are prone to gossip so I let her know that if she had to tell someone a good piece of juice, to tell me. I told her I can be her sounding board and that I wouldn’t, in turn, spread the gossip to other moms (barring the information was anything dangerous or illegal, etc., of course).

Best Words of Wisdom

As a parent, stay out of the drama. It really is easier than you think. I’m a social person so it was natural for me to develop friendships with moms of her friends. But I kept a healthy distance. And once they all realized I couldn’t be baited or sucked into the pettiness, I was respected.

Most of all, I respected myself.

I have a tidy house now and that’s great, but sometimes I miss the toys.

We had our neighbors’ girls over today and as usual, I brought up all the Barbie and My Little Pony toys of our daughter’s youth for them to play with.

When they left, it was a mess. Doll clothes, plastic furniture, and horses with missing hooves were scattered across the floor. It brought me back to almost two decades ago.

Back then, when my kids were young, I was often frustrated by the mess in my house. What if someone suddenly pops over, I’d think. It took me awhile to reconcile that not only would “people” (and who exactly were those people – grandparents, friends??) not care about the clutter, but would probably have the same thing going on at their own houses.

How I wish I could go back in time and address my younger self…

When our son, Wyatt, was a toddler, he would drag out all the pots and pans from the kitchen cupboards and clang and bang them around while “cooking” dinner.

We let him do it and he had a blast but there were times when I huffed and puffed and wished I didn’t have to re-clean the clean pots to make our actual dinner.

Was it a big deal, especially when my son had such fun playing with them? No. In fact, it was a small price to pay to see the look of joy on my little one’s face. And who knows, it could have helped cultivate the seed inside Wyatt that has now made him into the impressive cook he is today.

Fast forward a few years, and Wyatt would take up the entire living room and meticulously line up his little matchbox NASCAR cars, two by two. It was great, until he couldn’t find a particular car and would throw things out of his toy box in a rage trying to find it. How I’d curse under my breath while trying to reassure him we’d find it.

Except how endearing was it when he’d make his dad sing the national anthem each time before his “race” began? Our whole family still laughs hysterically when we remember that.

And Eva, my daughter, the way she played with her dolls and horses that was always taking up “valuable” real estate in the family room. Listening in to how the dolls interacted, however, we found they were mostly kind to each other, the way Eva herself treated the people in her life. Sure there was that time when one naughty stallion, Ed, ate all the birthday cake and the other horses shunned him. But who wouldn’t in real life, right?

In the end, my kids had fun and their play cultivated creativity. Why didn’t I always see that?

Because I worked outside the house full time. Because my commute was at least 45 minutes to an hour in the morning and afternoon. Because there was dinner, then dishes to do. When Eva was born, there were bottles and diapers and baths to give. ..

But they weren’t excuses to get upset. Not good ones, anyway. I usually suffered, quote unquote, in silence, but there were times I raised my voice. Yelled, if I want to be honest. And for that, I’m sorry.

However, despite the mess and the occasional outburst, I did let them play. We have photo albums filled of my kids playing with their toys, often to the point where one can’t tell the color of the carpeting (and if one did, it would be gross).

 It’s why I’ve kept them all, down to the last Barbie shoe (with no mate) and Jeff Gordon Matchbox car (with a missing wheel, due to a terrible crash in my living room circa ‘05).

God willing, I’ll have grandchildren to share the toys with. And this time around, I know I won’t mind the mess.

I’ve always been a night person. Ergo, I’m not a morning person.

I love being nestled in bed, a good book in my hands and a dim yellow illuminating overhead while my husband sleeps. Or sprawled out alone on a hotel’s king size bed, looking out at the big city lights until I fall asleep.

But over the past year I’ve discovered a certain joy in not only waking up early myself but waking up my house.

I find great comfort in the routine. I open all the blinds and say hi to the world, while my cat winds through my legs meowing for his breakfast.

I love to hear my dogs’ nails as they scamper across the wood floor to the couch, where they will each find their own blanket to nap on (even though they just got out of bed, but that’s a dog’s life for you).

Then I boot up my computer and take that first glorious sip of coffee.

Since working from home the past decade, I don’t mind what weather I see out the window. Living in the Midwest, commute times are dictated by snow, sleet, and wind for half the year. I still sympathize with those who have to navigate the roads, especially my husband and son, but selfishly, I relish the opportunity I have to stay safe and comfortable in my home office.

This particular day it’s mid-February, and as I watch the snow falling in silence, I’m thankful – and ready – to live another productive (hopefully!) day.

My brother and I were weird.

While growing up, we’d gaze out our front bay window during the winter and shake our heads at kids who walked through our snow. We liked how a new snowfall resembled a fluffy white blanket covering our yard.

By and large, we were indoor kids during the cold months. Sure we’d go and play in the new snow once in a while, but we preferred to be cozy in the house over messing up a pristine, glistening, lawn.

I tried to limit the use of my crayons for the same reason. I’d take them out to color, only to sit and smell and admire their wholeness and sharpness. I liked how organized the rows of colors looked, especially in the treasured 64-count boxes.  Once I broke the seal, so to speak, I’d be fine, but I tended to use the same colors repeatedly so as to avoid inflicting the same pain to their buddies.

Likewise with notebooks.

I recently came across a small, pocket-size notebook I’ve had since my youth. It was a traveler’s journal, as noted on the cover. The pages had lines and cute pictures and anecdotes relating to famous cities and travel tips.

I remember saving the little book for a really special trip.

I’ve been on countless trips since I received the book, including France and Ecuador, but the pages remain blank.

How sad, I thought. How more special can you get than other continents?

At some point in my years I read a story somewhere of an older lady who said one thing she regretted was not using the “good China” for everyday use or for unremarkable occasions.

I didn’t own any China, but I wondered how many pictures were never drawn or memories and experiences lost because I didn’t want to “mess up” a cute blank notebook.

It was around that time when I started a program that encouraged participants to freewrite three pages a day. I purchased a moleskin olive green notebook from a bookstore and got to work.

I recall it was tough to “mess up” the very first page in the beginning, but I soon overcame it and am now over 20 notebooks in. Not much gives me as much pleasure as picking out a new journal, whether it is fabric covered or depicting a favorite Van Gogh on the cover.  

After all, no one ever said they were glad to discover blank notebooks their mother never wrote in.

Now, if only I can start using my cute, clean, pressed, and unused tea towels I have stashed in a kitchen drawer because I’m afraid they’ll get stained…

There’s no way around it. When you’re married you often must attend events you aren’t crazy about, such as yesterday’s annual picnic with the in-laws.

Though I enjoy the great food and catching up with everyone, it’s the sitting around hour after hour when I’ve said all there’s needed to be said and heard all that needed to be heard, with the time of departure completely left up to my husband’s whim, making me feel like there’s an albatross around my neck.

But circumstances allowed an anomaly in the drudgery of this year’s aforementioned gathering.

I drove separately for the first time in decades, as I made plans to take care of our friends’ (monster) dog for the night.

This time, I came, I saw, I went.

I showed up earlier than the husband, said hi to all, grabbed a heaping carb-loaded plate of food, and stuffed my face. The husband arrived a short time later and we visited for a bit. When I felt like I wanted to leave, I did just that.

No slapping of my thighs whilst announcing I’d better get going (only to sit back and linger another half-hour). No feigning regrets nor proffering excuses.

I literally (and I use that word sparingly – yet appropriately) said good-bye to my husband, got into my car, and left.

That, my wedded friends, is freedom.

And once in a while, even in a committed and loving relationship, both halves need to experience the bliss.

Three friends. Three things each are going through.

If you are having a bad day, just ask any of them how they’re doing.

Take my friends Kyle and Jill. Today they got to bring their baby home from the hospital.

After 15 months.

To say little Elin was born prematurely would be an understatement. Her due date was supposed to be September 9, 2021. But Jill, Elin’s mom, found herself in the hospital almost four months earlier.

On May 22, Elin was born, weighing in at a whopping 13.1 oz.

After 9 surgeries, and, by her mom’s account, over 260 lbs of candy brought to the NICU nurses, Elin finally came home. Though the family is happy to be all together, Elin still needs round the clock care to help manage her breathing tube.

Now, for my friend Monica. Born in Texas but found herself in middle Minnesota, married to her husband, whom she met when he was stationed in Dallas.

When her parents got to be too much for her brothers to take care of in Texas, Monica and her husband made the difficult and laborious decision to move her parents to Minnesota. They purchased a house that was set up to accommodate the parents’ physical limitations.

Fast forward four years and Monica’s beloved father passed away at age 90. Mom is still living, but it’s tough. There’s a ton of history and bad blood between Monica and her mom, which often manifests itself through rude and condescending jabs from the mother. She also doesn’t miss an opportunity to make life difficult for Monica, her husband, and their three college-aged children.

Then there’s Tammy, a friend of mine since high school. She was an only child who found herself an adult orphan at age 43.

Recently, Tammy has been posting a lot of old photos she’s found on Facebook. In one picture, she remarked how she always found it odd that her mother got married in a red dress.

Today, she got an explanation.

Tammy was having lunch with Mavis, her mother’s best friend, who revealed her mother had been married to another man before she wedded Tammy’s father.

The man, it turns out, had an incredibly violent past. After they eventually (and thankfully) divorced, Tammy’s mom never spoke of him again.

Today I sit here on my computer, no breathing tube needed, my parents of sound mind and body in their apartment not far from my home, and life-changing secrets still comfortably hidden away.

There must be a gene that only emerges when one gets past 50.

And once it manifests itself, one becomes officially old.

See, I bought a bird feeder.

My dad, prior to moving into an apartment with my mother a few months ago, spent decades and many dollars on buying bird food and squirrel food for the feeders he placed outside his front living room window. Every time we visited him he would tell us stories about his birds, ducks, geese, and squirrels – one albino! – that he watched for hours. He’d tell us about the squirrels who performed acrobatic stunts while trying to get at the bird seed and squabbles between breeds of birds.  

My parents’ neighbors with a pool weren’t too crazy about the waterfowl visiting, however, but my dad didn’t care. He’d plant himself in front of the bay window, saying what took place outside was better than anything on television.

It soon became apparent that the animals counted on my dad as much as he did them, as the birds would squawk if the feeder was empty. He even had a squirrel go up to the front door, unabashedly letting him know the peanut container needed to be refilled.

At times I felt sad for my dad, like his birds and squirrels were the only things going on in his life.

But now I get it.

I have found that sometimes it’s the simple pleasures of this world that are the most satisfying.

You can learn a lot from feeding and watching birds. Take the family that made a nest in one of my hanging baskets outside my home office. I got to watch the male bird sit atop the plant hook and guard the basket while the mother bird sat on their eggs, creating a safe and warm place for their youngsters to incubate. Once in awhile I’d get close enough to look between the flowers and see her sitting there, facing out to the yard. She looked so patient and content. I’d wonder what she was thinking about.

When the babies hatched, I saw the mother fly off and return with food, with the father always nearby.

It was a simple life.

Not that simply existing should be our, as humans, only goal. It is in our essence to want to strive for, to aspire to, more than merely surviving. But what if that is what some of us get pleasure from? After all, the mother bird I observed was quietly doing what she needed to do, what she was born to do. What if taking care of your family and your home is what gives you the greatest joy?

If my dad, in his years of retirement and jigsaw puzzles and word finds and reruns of Gunsmoke, finds enjoyment in bearing witness to the quiet and stillness of wildlife, then I can too.

Watching birds and squirrels is communing with nature. And there’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, I count myself lucky that that is what I can focus my attention on. My husband and I are employed, our children are healthy, and our house isn’t getting bombed.

One day I looked in the flower basket and found the babies gone. They’ve never come back to the nest, which I’ve left intact. I leave it there as a reminder of what I got to be a part of.  How to be still and patient and content, being happy with what I have and recognizing that anything more is a gift.

Is there anything more annoying than a bored husband?

The standing around, staring out windows, and roaming from room to room, in search of faults relating to things that have absolutely nothing to do with him. The family will tiptoe around this bored husband/father, checking his face for what he’ll lay his eyes on to dissect, proffering criticism as “advice” that was never asked for nor is appreciated.

The root of the boredom relates to him not having a plan, yet he doesn’t realize he didn’t take action to make a plan.

He may have forgotten he has a to-do list filled with chores the rest of the family cannot (or aren’t qualified for or would do wrong) but because he didn’t write said list remains defiant in completing any of the tasks.

Please find something to do, I whisper to myself.

For the love of all that is holy, find something to do…