Heroes Coming out of the Woodwork

I have this awful habit of finding wee little injured critters.  It's a bit of a love/hate thing for me.  They are absolutely adorable, but the heartache involved is a bit exhausting.

As a kid I stumbled upon (literally, folks, I actually tripped over them) two injured opossums at two very different locations/times.  They were teenagers and had a fighting chance at survival.  We contacted the rescue folks, learned all about how to nurse them back to health, and had the pleasure of possum pets until they were big and strong enough to be released back into the wild.  After that my luck has been poor.  Multiple rescued birds that have lived less than an hour.  An opossum I found about a year ago at the school where I work that was so infested with fleas that it was terribly anemic, and it died the night I brought it home.  (Weird factoid...when a flea-infested animal dies, fleas bale big time.  It was something to behold.  So glad it happened outside as I held it when it took its last breath as I rocked on our porch swing.)

So, tonight when I found a baby squirrel I was both excited and filled with thoughts of "Why me?!?!"  First thing I did was make sure all of our animals were in.  Second thing I went out to look for a possible nest site.  Third thing I narrowly avoided being side-swiped by an adult squirrel.  I can only image it was a parent in the midst of freaking out.  Fourth thing I went in to do research.  Fifth thing I moved the baby to a spot where the parents could find it.  I waited about an hour with no results and the I moved on to the sixth thing, bringing it in to warm it up with my body heat whilst I did more research.  My little guy did a shift, too, as it's rather hard for me to do Google searches one-handed.  Seventh thing I called 311 to ask for help (wish this would've been my first thing because the Wildlife Rescue place was already closed by this time...but I'm not willing to feel guilty, I did my best, people).  Eighth thing I begged my facebook friends for help.  Man, that so rocked!  Helpful heroes left and right!!!  Ninth thing put the little fella in a high walled box with some rags for warmth and tied it up in the tree with the suspected squirrel nest.  Tenth thing made a plan to take it to a wonderful friend who had generously offered to take the little critter on and also offered some great info.  Totally a hero in this story.  Eleventh thing followed wonderful friend's great info by asking my wonderful (and very brave and quite good looking) husband to get to the tip-top of a tree, see if the nest I suspected was indeed a squirrel nest, and place the baby squirrel in the nest.  And he did!!!  Course there was that moment of confirmation when the adult squirrel jumped out of the nest and leaped to an adjacent tree.  That bit was scary, but it also filled us with great hope.  Dave delicately worked his hand into the nest, gently placed the baby in there, and came back down.  My hero!!

Now we will let Mother Nature take back her ownership of this situation.  I wish that little one the best of luck.  And you better bet I'll think that teenage squirrel I see in a few months is the one we rescued.  Darn tootin'!

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Who you callin' funny lookin'?

When I was about fifteen I went to a really lovely camp in California.  My mom, my brother, and I all went, in fact.  As I recall it was in Big Sur, but who knows...I didn't really pay much attention to things like that at the time...that, and I've always been geographically challenged.

Anyway, it was Satir Family Camp based on the work of Virginia Satir.  I think of it every once in a while and there is always one thing that pops into my head as my chief memory.  I was sitting with a group of kids in a tent and this little guy, who must have been about twelve, looked right at me and told me, "You're going to be a funny looking grown-up."

OK, so...wow!  When I close my eyes I can still totally see what he looked like.  He had shaggy blond hair, glasses with super thick lenses, teeth a little too big for his face, and a bit of a recessed chin.   Yes, he was absolutely adorable!  Seriously!  At least that's what I think of him now.  Back then I though he was a "little turd".

So, as I've aged, his words visit me from time to time, particularly on bad hair and got-too-little-sleep days.  As I'm pondering my own look I think of him.  I wonder if he ever thinks of the little girl cursed with looks that would go goofy over the years.  I wonder what he looks like now.  Somehow I imagine he still has thick lens glasses, shaggy hair, a recessed chin, teeth that finally match his head, and I bet he's absolutely adorable!

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Rainbow Connection

This afternoon I was talking to my kid about our heritage.  Really what prompted it was he was wondering about why he has blond hair.

Me:  "I figure that's or Norwegian genes."

Little guy:  "Do I have any Irish in me?"

Me:  "I dunno.  Let's ask dad later."

Little guy:  "I know I have Cherokee and English in me."

Me:  "Yup."

Little guy:  "Do I have any African American in me?"

Me:  "Not that I know of.  Wish we did, though.  Sure would be nice to have a little bit of everything in us."

Little guy:  "Yeah."

Yup...he gets it.

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The Early Bird Keeps on Getting the Blame

Some things I will never live down.  Even worse, I will never be forgiven for.  Did I break on of the Ten Commandments?  Uh...heavens no!

What I did was this...about eight years ago I got my son to a birthday party late.  Did he ream me out then with an outpouring of great disappointment?  Uh-huh.  Has he continued to ream me out at least once a year since then?  You betcha!

I never know when it's going to rear its ugly head...but the other night was the night.


Little guy:  "It's OK for us to be a little late, mom."  I was dropping him off at a band event.

Me:  "But I don't like to get you places late."

Little guy:  "Unless it's a birthday party!"

Me:  "You're still upset about that?"

Little guy:  "You got me there two hours late."

Me:  "I had the time wrong.  I thought I was getting you there early."

Little guy:  "It wasn't just me.  It was my friend, too."

Me:  "I didn't even remember that you had a friend with us."

Little guy:  "Well, you did!"

Me:  "Know what?  I don't even care about this any more.  I've gotten you places early or on time ever since then."

Little guy:  silence....

Me:  "OK...Alright.  We're here...early."

Little guy:  "Thanks, mom."


OK, I guess that's it...until the next time anyway.

Yeesh!

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Muscle Car Mama

I have to brag here just a bit.  We were on the highway today and I...yes, me...nailed it in a game of "What cool car is that?" from quite a long distance away.  What was said car?  Well, my friends, it was a 1969 Camaro Z28.  Yes, my kids were impressed with my mad skills once they verified it on Google images.  (Let me take a moment to thank my high school boyfriend for educating me about important things such as this.  Who knew it would ever come in so handy.)

The following conversation ensued...


Little guy:  "I want a muscle car?"

Big guy:  "Why would you want an old car?"

Me and the little guy:  "They're cool!"

Big guy:  "I just want a regular newish car."

Little guy:  "I want a car like the one Michael Weston drives."  He's referring to a show called "Burn Notice" and the amazing car Michael drives is a beautiful 1973 Dodge Charger.

Me:  "OK, here's the deal, kid.  If you get a muscle car you have to do two things."

Little guy:  "What?"

Me:  "First you have to promise not to drive it too fast...ever.  And, second, you have to let me drive it."

Little guy:  "Deal."


...thinking I'm a really bad mom for kind of hoping my almost fifteen-year-old gets a muscle car.

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Sometimes a Car is not just a Car

I tend to let clutter get the best of me every once in a while.  Very mild, mind you, but piles do show up here and there and tend to stick around a lot longer than certain members of my family would prefer that they would.  Anyway, today I got in my car to go to the grocery store.  I was, frankly, grossed out.


"My car is possessed by the funk, I must exorcise the demon!!!"


So, groceries were shopped and put away, I was hydrated for the task ahead, out to the carport I went.  I took a few deep meditative breaths and opened the door.  As I scanned the vehicle I began noticing something.  This was not my clutter!


Car Clutter Inventory List

• orange karate belt
• half full water bottle
• three dirty athletic socks
• ace bandage
• karate duffel bag
• safety pins that used to hold the ace bandage together
• Nerf gun that my kid purchased at the thrift store last night
• Nerf bullets that were shot at me in the car last night
...and...
• blue athletic cup (IT IS NEVER OK TO LEAVE THIS IN YOUR MOM'S CAR!!!!)


So, essentially I drive around in a stinky gym locker.  Gag!

I know one kid who has a job tonight.

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I don't wanna, I don't hafta, and you can't make me.

I've come to the conclusion that I really, really, really, really, really don't like performing.  Now, mind you, this does not apply to my teaching.  I'll happily make a fool of myself all day long for my students...all in the name of learning, of course.  But, when it comes to being in front of a crowd I must absolutely, positively take a pass.

Now, I didn't decide this all of a sudden.  Nope.  It's been coming on stronger and stronger over the years.  And I've had my fair number of performances in my life...ballet and piano as a wee one, commercials and plays as a tween, band as a teenager, belly dancing in my 20s and 30s...so it's not like I'm just a big chicken unwilling to even try it.

Well, today it came to a head.  I was at school in the cafeteria for an amazing dancing presentation.  During one part they asked the teachers in the room to volunteer to come up to be part of the performance.  I stayed seated.  I looked away.  And, you got it, one of the performers came right up to me, grabbed my hand and pulled me up...even though I was giving all kinds of excuses.  "My arm is injured."  "It really, really is."  (True, my arm is injured.)

But up I went, along with a bunch of other teachers.  I got in the line they had formed, realized that I was right by the door...and, by golly, I left.

I was so happy as I walked down the hall quietly saying, "I don't wanna, I don't hafta, and you can't make me."  So, finally...at forty-five...I feel liberated!  Yay, me!

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