Why I Like to Write

By and large, I feel like I was born with the need to write.  I don't this mean that in a, "I was born to be the next Jane Austen" sort of way.  That would be very annoying, let alone arrogant.  Putting it bluntly, I've always just liked to write stuff.  When I was a little older than Margo, I'd draw a bunch of scribbles on lined paper and ask my mom if I had written anything.  "No?"  I'd reply.  "Well did I at least write any letters?"  When I was about 8 or so, I got my first journal-- a Lisa Frank diary with a pair of ballet slippers painted on the cover.  I have no clue who gave it to me, and even more bewildering, why in the heck they picked out ballet slippers is beyond me.  "Two left feet" would be an extremely kind description of my God-given dancing ability.  Regardless, I loved this diary.  It had a lock and key, which I pretty much thought made me big stuff.  I filled that journal, cover to cover, mostly with thing about friends, who was mad at who at school, and why my little sister was the most irritating person on the planet.  By and large, I wrote exactly what you'd expect out of an 8 year old.  But from that point forward, I kept a diary until I was 22.  You're probably wondering why I stopped.  Or maybe you don't give a hoot.  I'm telling you anyway.  The truth is, I really don't have an answer.  I did adopt an 8 week old puppy when I was 22. That, aside from the time I tried to make chocolate covered pretzels with NesQuik, was probably one of the biggest disasters of my life.  So I'm going to say I was too busy de-worming a dog we think came from a puppy mill than to write about my day, which at that point, involved rowdy, know-it-all, honors level juniors in high school by day, crazy hyper Reggie dog by night.  Who wants to relive that in writing at the end of each day?

I'm not a particularly sentimental person when it comes to stuff.  I have no problem purging junk, as well as  things that aren't junk but that I'm tired of storing.  I like freeing up space in the house and then reorganizing.  It's like moving to a whole new house without nearly as much work.  I mean, yes, you've still got the leaky kitchen faucet you've always had, but a little TLC to the closet, and you can handle so much more out of that faucet.  But when it comes to my old journals, I'd probably consider them my top, if not only, prized possession (aside from my kids.  Do they count as possessions??).  "What about your wedding album?!" you ask.  Well, those pictures are on some disc in the hoity-toity photographer's studio.  Push comes to shove, all of that can be duplicated (for a pretty penny, I'm sure).  But the stomach flu on my 11th birthday that I wrote about?  That's priceless.  Occasionally, and I'm talking about maybe once every 2 or 3 years, I'll pull out one of those diaries.  I'm usually pretty embarrassed for the teenage version of myself, which is why anymore, I go straight for the Lisa Frank.  It's a lot easier to tolerate an 8 year old's obnoxiousness than it is a 17 year old's, even in (or maybe especially in) yourself.

Aside from journals, I love (and I mean LOVE) to make my grocery lists, to write invitations to parties, and to address envelopes.  That's sort of weird, isn't it?  I told you I like to write "stuff," and I'm not so egocentric as to just write things about me all day long.  I mean, I get that a blog sort of resides on the premise of me:  my life, observations, my thoughts.  Come to think of it, a blog is about the most self-absorbed type of literature out there.  Does it even count as literature??  This is a philosophical debate for another day, mostly because if I go down this road right now, I'm going to lose people.  You'll "x out" of this screen and go back to playing Candy Crush.  Don't even pretend you won't.  But I will say that I had to write a paper my senior year of high school that defined and described what literature really is.  What did I write, you ask?  I have no idea.  That was a long time ago. I don't even know why I still remember that assignment, especially when I keep forgetting to buy things like toilet bowl cleaner. But anyway, I do just like the physical act of writing stuff,whether pen and paper style, or on the computer.  I'm not saying that I like to draw on my computer screen.  I'm saying I like to type ideas.  Do I have to explain everything?

This may come as a surprise, especially if you've ever had a kid-free meal with me because I can talk and talk and talk, but in real life, I'm an introvert.  Now before you get carried away with that, allow me to clear up some common and aggravating misconceptions about introverts:  it doesn't mean I don't like people, nor does it mean I'm shy.  It doesn't mean I'm anti-social, which now that I brought that up-- the true definition of "anti-social" means a person who behaves contrary to social norms, not someone who shies away from crowds.  So the person who habitually steals purses off shoulders at Wal-Mart, then goes out to the parking lot and punches the cart kid in the face-- that's antisocial, because it's bizarre and inappropriate social behavior.  I took psychology my junior year of high school, so that's how I know I'm right about this.  Seriously, look it up.  And if you're thinking, "But Sara, all teenagers behave in bizarre and inappropriate ways."  I would agree with you, which is why many mental illnesses shouldn't be diagnosed until young adulthood, when hormones calm the heck down and people quit acting like morons 90% of the time. That doesn't always happen in real life, but I'm not getting in to the debate about over-medicated youth... at least not today.  I should say that a couple of months ago, I broke out in hives and my ears started to swell.  Imagine a bright red elephant.  The ER doctor asked if I needed any pain medication.  He wasn't joking, either.  There's something messed up about that.  Maybe I don't look like your typical drug seeker in that I have all my teeth and can usually carry on a conversation without twitching, but you hear about moms like me getting hooked to stuff all the time.  Have you seen Dr. Phil???  Just in case you're wondering, I responded to the doctor by saying that what I really needed was a prescription for some heavy-duty sleeping meds, maybe a muscle relaxer, and an anti-anxiety. I thoroughly expected a hearty laugh out of him.  No dice.

Back to the introvert thing.  Introverts need time alone. That's how we recharge our batteries.  We like quiet.  We like time away from the world.  And I'm not just talking about time away from your chatty Aunt Sharon with the uni-brow.  I'm talking about time away from even people you like best.  How much time we like sans people sort of depends on the individual and the situation.  If I go to a party, chances are I'll come home totally fried , useless for a good couple of hours.  Not because I didn't have fun.  In fact, if there are decent snacks, chances are I actually did have fun.  And because I rarely get invited to parties, it's sort of a big deal when it actually happens; it's something to get excited about. Heck, any event that doesn't involve cutting up food, putting shoes on the right feet, and being handed a booger is absolutely something to get excited about.  Introverts just need time to unwind from all the energy we used up at said gathering.  Unlike extroverts, who recharge their batteries by socializing, introverts re-energize by being alone with their thoughts. It's like a fuel tank:  introverts fill up on their own, extroverts fill up by engaging with others. I wish people understood that.  You say "introvert" and people assume you're a sociopath.  Here's another thing about introverts, which probably contributes to the brain dead social setting phenomenon:  we tend to find small talk incredibly cumbersome.  We'd rather just jump into a deep conversation about the deterioration of the traditional family unit, why young adults don't go to church, and the Republican Party's inability to produce a worthwhile Presidential candidate.  That's interesting to us.  The weather, however, is not.  If you see me at Aldi and have a thought on any of these topics, please feel free to stop me; just don't ask me "how things are going."

So the whole introvert description is just a segue, albeit a long one, to another reason I like to write.  By the way, "segue" is pronounced "seg-way."  See, you knew that word after all.  Don't worry, I had to look up the spelling, too, and I double checked because I didn't believe Google and I were talking about the same word at first.  So anyway, I like to write because it does give me that much needed time with my own thoughts.  Maybe this is true of everyone, but I've always sort of got this running dialogue going on in my head: conversations I'd like to have if Oprah ever interviewed me: things I'd like to say about kids, about living in a teeny house with kids, about maintaining your sanity in a teeny house with kids.  Writing allows me to collect all of those thoughts, organize them, then stick them in a file folder in my brain.  The goal is that I lay it to rest and move on to incessantly mulling over a different topic.  If you're anything like me, you understand what I'm talking about.  And if you have no clue what I'm saying, you're A) probably not an introvert and B) probably wondering why I haven't pursued medication for this.

It should also be noted that while other women my age (women?  Are you serious? I still feel like I'm 10), have hobbies-- cooking, crafting, working out, I have about none. No, not even "about none."  That's an overstatement.  I absolutely have no hobbies.  So yes, you're understanding correctly-- I rarely go to parties, and I have no pastimes.  Don't I sound like someone you want to be friends with?  Cooking, for example, makes a huge mess, and mostly, whatever I make is merely edible at best, nothing to write home about.  Crafting, and I'm not sure exactly what that includes, is super stinkin' expensive. I've tried scrapbooking on a few different occasions, and let's just say I don't think I've ever completed an entire scrapbook, maybe not even an entire page.  Do you know how much money that means I've flushed??  I don't even want to think about that.  Between the back and forth to Hobby Lobby for stickers and cut-outs and special scissors that make fancy, squiggly cuts, I just couldn't handle the commitment.  Where in the world are you supposed to store all that stuff, anyway??  I see all theses fancy craft rooms on Pinterest. Yeah, let me know when you actually design one of those.  Everyone I know crams all their art supplies in a couple of clear, shoe box-size Rubbermaids and that jams that in the coat closet, right underneath the basket of mismatched mittens. I don't care how organized you are, you know exactly what I'm talking about.  And as for working out.... are you kidding me?!  My hats go off to all the mommies out there squeezing in time for the gym.  It's just that I'd rather be reading the encyclopedia.  Or filing our taxes.  I made the volleyball team in the 7th grade, which I'm just going to go ahead and say publicly that I think the coach kept from cutting me merely because I was a really nice girl.  Seriously. I had absolutely no talent, and if truth be told, I think I caused more problems than anything else.  By problems, I mean that I was afraid of the ball.  That's a pretty major hang-up in volleyball.  Then, when I got to high school, I decided to join the Cross Country team.  It was a sport that didn't involve a ball, a net, a stick, or a racket.  Fairly non-threatening, right?  Only issue:  I hated running. And on top of that, I was slow.  And I mean super slow.  I did make a lot of friends on the team, so that was a positive.  But then there was that whole introvert thing. When the rest of the girls were gearing up to hang out after a race, I was ready to sit on the couch and veg out for the rest of the afternoon in complete solitude, maybe watch  a Lifetime movie or The Frugal Gourmet.  Just me and my thoughts. If you're thinking that the teenage Sara sounded a lot like a 95 year old, fuddy-duddy spinster, I'd say you're pretty perceptive. To re-read this actually makes me laugh.  What a weirdo I was.... er... am. ;)  It's a darn good thing Eric is a natural athlete and isn't half as awkward.  He may be stoic and serious, but he's not the awkward type.  Our kids would be S.O.L. without his genes.  I know you're nodding in agreement.

So, the last reason I enjoy writing (and yes, that means you're almost to the end of this post; please, curb your enthusiasm) is that it's sort of a super nerdy form of rebellion, right up there with Dungeons and Dragons in the school cafeteria on lunch break.  I learned all of these grammar rules in school and for the longest time, I'd follow them without deviation.  Sentences with complete subjects and predicates.  No run-ons, please.  Commas in all the right places (there actually are rules for commas, by the way; you don't just put them wherever it sounds good).  All of these are great rules, and if I didn't have kids, I'd probably still be teaching them to a bunch of apathetic teenagers on the brink of dozing off or checking their cell phones.  But then, once you've got all the rules mastered, you can start bending and breaking them.  Manipulating everything in language to say something original-- I love that! If you're lost, Google "e.e. Cummings poetry."

So there you go.  Thanks for indulging me by reading what I have to say.  Writing is truly just about my favorite thing in the world.  Other than my kids.  And being alone.  And looking up the spelling of words like "segue."

The Bieber Bust and My Mom's Green Recliner

So I get it, the Justin Bieber arrest, which I posted about on Facebook if you're interested, really doesn't qualify as real news.  We should probably fill our minds with much more important current events-- things like the price of crude oil, the whooping cough epidemic, who got kicked off the Bachelor last night.  But before I totally shut up about Bieber, I've been spending a lot of time thinking about what it would take to get that kid back on track.  Yes, I realize I have too much time on my hands.  An older, wise friend of mine pointed out that I really need to get out more.  Janice, you know who you are :)  But seriously, I don't think the kid is beyond hope.  Am I too idealistic?  Probably.  Everyone in Hollywood seems be be about one screw up away from a a year in prison.  Except for maybe Ellen DeGeneres.  That woman is hysterical.  Maybe if people danced more, like she does, we'd stay more grounded.  But I digress.  The point is, don't turn your kid into the next Justin Bieber.  Or Miley Cyrus (shudder).  Or Brittney Spears (remember the shaved head??).  I think about my own childhood, and I'm so thankful I was never once enrolled in a Little Miss Pageant.  Not that it could have happened-- I had short hair and chicken legs.  I still have short hair and chicken legs.  Aside from keeping out of the Toddlers & Tiaras social circle, my parents also did some things right in the punishment department, which I think has deterred me from renting a yellow Lambo and drag racing it through Miami Beach while intoxicated.

Allow me to take you through a few of the creative (and completely real) punishments my parents, mostly my mother, derived for their own, sick pleasure.


1.  At the age of 8 or so, my mother drove me to a teenage babysitter's house to apologize for my overzealous (read:  sassy pants) attitude when it came to making a box of mac & cheese.  Apparently, I was  overstepping my bounds when I took the liberty of adding an additional Kraft single to the saucepan. But it's called improvisation, and call it passive aggressive, but I'm still adding that additional slice of processed cheese, while praying to God my kids don't gnaw off my calf as they wait for lunch. Anyway, the sitter had some friends over that day I came over to apologize.  So yes, I had to say "sorry" in front of a room full of super cool teenagers with letter jackets and driver's licenses, which was as embarrassing as all get out.  They say punishments shouldn't involvement humiliation.  Guess who never challenged a babysitter again?  And while we're talking about apologies, I had to apologize once to my sister after she she bit me.  Yes, you read that correctly.  I was pinned for provoking her, for "egging it on." I have no clue if I'm spelling that correctly.  Apparently, I deserved the razor-sharp chomp of a two year old straight to the wrist, which could have actually drawn blood.  It didn't, but it definitely could have under the right circumstances.  Like if her teeth were shards of glass.  I still don't entirely know why I was punished for that.  I do know, however, that I said sorry, and I absolutely didn't mean it.  Once again, they, I'm assuming child psychologists, none of whom have children of their own but maybe a pet chimp who can sign "apple," "Texas," and "That old pick-up is rusty,"  also say that forcing an apology out of a child is detrimental to his ego.  I'm not sure about that, but I do know I've apologized countless times for things I'm not sorry about.  For dumping cold water on my sister while she was in the shower, for cleaning out my mom's personal stash of Godiva, for swinging by Dairy Queen when it wasn't in the budget.  WARNING, LADIES-- If your husband suggests mint.com as a way of tracking your family's spending, run.  Don't look back.  Returning to what I was saying-- learning how to apologize is a good skill, I think.  Even when we don't want to do it.  Even when we think we're right.  Even when we know the person had it coming to him.

2.  Another incident.  I'm not recalling the specifics, but I do remember being punished by my mother and forced to copy out of the dictionary and/or write sentences.  You wanna know what?  I actually enjoyed that punishment.  I love the act of physically writing something.  It's calming, therapeutic.  And I like having legible penmanship, unlike my husband.  He works at a bank, and I'm telling you, if he had to come up with a hand-written note for a client, the recipient would be certain First Financial had hired a third grader as the bank manager.  So yeah, the sentence-writing sort of backfired on my mom, but at least she was gutsy enough to try something other than grounded me from TV like everyone else's mom.  She was usually tired of me by 8pm, so the TV in my bedroom room, now that I think of it, was probably more about getting me out of her hair than actually providing a luxury. Those crazy psychologists, believe it or not, also say you'll definitely screw up your kids by installing a television in their rooms.  My parents even hooked up cable.  GASP!  My mother must have been really desperate for me to shut the heck up at night.  On top of that, the English teachers of the world say punishment by forcing a child to read and/or write will turn them off from all things related to literature, creative writing, and the entire artistic process.  Um, yeah.  I'm going to go ahead and say I'm living proof that the aforementioned theory is a bunch of baloney.  Make your kids write.  And make them learn cursive, while they're at it.

3.  As I got older, most of my punishments came in the form of "a talk in the green chair."  My mom  has this green, leather recliner in my parents' family room.  Having my folks invite me to "take a seat," while they cleared their throats and turned off the TV (something that never happened), was pretty much like being escorted to a guillotine.  You see, my family rarely had "family time."  There's no way on God's green earth my dad would have signed up to attend a family meeting, and I'm sure my mom felt like she pretty much had everything under control without something hokey like that.  Family game night?  I think my dad and I both would have rather attended the family meeting!  Unless we were headed to some forced-family-fun activity at an apple orchard or a winery, our conversations were limited to the daily run-down about school-- what we learned, what we wanted to learn, and what we should have learned but didn't because we smuggled in a Nano Pet. You think I'm kidding.  Come to a family dinner at my parents' house.  Guaranteed, someone will tell you to pipe down and eat your food. "A little less talking, a little more eating."  That was the song title to my childhood.   Road trip with the Roszczyks?  Better not... unless you like silence for 8 hours. And no bathroom breaks. I don't say this to make my parents out to be monsters.  They were more like werewolves-- they could turn on you quick.  That's a good way of keeping teenagers on their toes, by the way.  Catch them off guard, get 'em when they least expect it.  Being a fairly oblivious child, I was an easy target.  So anyway, the conversations involving both parents that took place from the vantage point of that recliner were never very good.  There was a lot of bloodshed, and I was typically left to pick up my dismembered limbs piece by piece.  Questions like, "What were you thinking?!" in regard to stealing For Sale signs out of people's lawns, and "Are you stupid?!" after I was caught talking to strangers in chat rooms.  Granted, I was probably your ordinary teenager.  But the way my dad's eyebrows would dance around on the top of his forehead while he shook his head in disappointment honestly made me wonder if I was a breath away from the detention center.  I look back at all that, and I do sometimes wonder if calling your kid "stupid" is necessarily the best approach.  But I think that sometimes it's better than the alternative-- telling them they're special, probably gifted, and destined for greatness. Kids pretty much think those things on their own.

For the record, my younger sister never, and I mean never, got into trouble the way I did.  She is the favorite child.  She should have been busted for that biting episode, but whatever.  I'm totally over it.  Aside from that, I don't think she's ever done anything even remotely close to green chair worthy.  My mom says that second-borns are privileged to watch all of the first kid's screw ups, so that's the reason Erin turned out so much better than me. I must have screwed up a lot, because she's pretty frickin perfect.  I think the birth order comment is supposed to make me feel better.  Instead, I sort of feel like I got the raw end of the deal.

My whole point is that loving our kids often means punishing them, even when you know they'll end up in therapy someday because of it.  Therapy is better than rehab and definitely better than jail.  I think the problem, aside from just good 'ol fashioned American laziness, is that we equate "love" with more toys, more privileges, more yellow Lamborghinis.  I know that's not a new thought, by the way.  Everyone says we need to quit giving our teenagers the keys to the Honda and a couple of credit cards.  But that's tough because if truth be told, I think we, ourselves, were probably overindulged as kids, too.  That's a harder pill to swallow.  All of us can point out that kids these days are spoiled and know very little about hard work, but none of want to admit that we, too, were probably just as pampered.  Reading that may make you cringe.  It certainly does me.  And so we've sort of lost track what it means to be to spoiled.  It's the blind leading the blind.  We're navigating our way through at least a couple of generations that have been catered to way beyond what it actually means to successfully parent and provide for children.  For example, my first car was my grandpa's hand-me-down, crimson, 1989 Fleetwood Cadillac.  That car was a boat, but honestly, I loved it-- leather seats, a Bose stereo, and a remote control that could start and defrost the car for you.  Eventually, the land yacht took a major dump, and my parents bought me a car in college that was less than 1 year old when they purchased it.  At the time, I thought they were doing what most all reasonable parents would do-- replacing what was broken. They were the parents after all, and since they had way more money than I did, of course they'd extend their hand (and their wallet).  Duh.  But a "replacement" would have been a 1994 Chevy Lumina.  The Malibu, which my husband actually drives these days, was a total and complete, undeserved upgrade.  And do you want to know what I did to that car????  In less than a year, I managed to cause $1,000 in damage to it.  The car my dad bought with a bonus. I still feel really bad about that one, worse now than I did then.  Paying for your own life does that to a person.  But it probably wouldn't have happened with the Cadillac... mostly because that thing was a beast.  The dings, dents, and scratches that should have been there saved me a lot of money (and even more explaining).  But once again, my argument is that I probably should have never been gifted the car in the first place.  I should have been given my old Schwinn and told to start saving up.

Love means more time in Mom's lap and more time playing blocks with Dad.  It absolutely means less wanting more, and more of being content with what we've already got.  It means giving up on the idea that more money, more power, more stuff will make you a happier person.  It means teaching our kids how to be responsible.  How to be appreciative.  How to work and work and work.  How to work without acknowledgement.  How to live on less.  How to help ourselves, and then help others.  How to figure it out on our own.  How to graciously accept success, as well as defeat.  How to stand out for the right reasons. Loving our kids means knowing that the very best form of ordinary is far better than what we're told (and sold) to believe.  Can someone deliver that message to Hollywood for me?

Back to Blogging I Go???

As many of you may already know, I used to blog.  As in, I think I posted like 3 blog entries before I gave up.  And when I say I "gave up," I mean that I had a baby.  That baby is now a 1-year old (see picture below), and I think we're finally settling in to our new normal.... which is a great thing, because we're now expecting a THIRD baby this coming summer.  Kidding.  Well, I'm not joking about the new baby coming in July.  That's really happening, Lord willing.  I'm kidding about it taking a year to adjust to our last baby.  It took about 9 months, which incidentally, is when I got pregnant with this third little gremlin.  You think we're nuts, don't you?  That's ok.  So do we.  We also really like kids.  But then again, most people don't run around saying, "I actually really despise children." That would get you a lot of hairy eyeballs.  By the way, I have absolutely no idea where that expression came from.  Thank heavens for Google.  I'll have to add it to my list of "Things That Must Be Googled," which already includes "spider veins in pregnancy," "how to know if your phone is being tapped," and "how to get fabric paint off the wall."  But back to the kid thing.  I told my husband before we were married that my ultimate goal in life is to drive a great big full-size van.  One of those 15 passenger monstrosities that are usually purchased second-hand for the church youth group.  That's my dream.  And you know what?  My in-laws actually have one of those vans, which could be why I hunted down Eric and assumed he's be game for it, himself.  He is, just so you know; I'm not one of those Dr. Phil head cases who repeatedly flushes the birth control without her husband's knowledge.  I'd never do that.  I do, however, have a picture of a big van on the vision board I made like 10 years ago. You have no clue what a vision board is, do you?  Allow me to explain-- you cut out all these pictures from magazines of things you'd hope to have in life.  You glue them on a poster board, then hide the finished project in your closet, because you know everyone will make fun of you if they find out you've got a picture of Ashton Kutcher on there.  Let' me clarify.  It's not that I wanted to marry Ashton Kutcher or anything.  Well, let me take that back.  I would have been ok with marrying him.  Probably more than ok with marrying him.  It was more that Ashton stood for the type of person I hoped to marry-- funny and with a cool haircut.  Now that I think of it, Eric is nothing like Ashton Kutcher.  Darn-it.  So that's a vision board.  But the big van?  I'm still holding on to hope for that one.  You're wondering if I've realized that all three of my kids, ages 3 and 18 months when the new baby is born, will all be in car seats at the same time.  No, as a matter of fact, that didn't dawn on me until just this very second.  Yikes.  I'm going to have my hands full.  That's a condescending little expression I hate, mostly because it's often accompanied by a snort and an eye roll.  It's as though the person saying it assumes I never considered the headache that comes with hoisting three whole squirmy little children into car seats.  And true, I didn't think of that.  But it doesn't mean I can't do it.  Play the piano with my toes while gargling battery acid: I don't think I could do that.  But kids and vehicle-loading?  Totally doable.  I hope. ;)