Admiration Nation

I have a philosophical problem.  I cannot definitively name the person I most admire.  Every child at any age can answer this question in a moment.  That is why it is such a great essay question. “Who do you most admire and why?” Depending on the age of the child you will get a 100 to 3,000 word essay on anyone from Batman to Martin Luther King, Jr. You are sure to get several, “My Mother”s as well.

So I started to think about it. Who do I most admire?  Martin Luther King, Jr. was certainly a great man, but I didn’t know him. Most of us only remember and study the best of him, and it is very easy to admire someone who has been deified based on his best qualities. I’m sure he had some unadmirable qualities too.  We all do.  My mother of course would be a great answer (especially since she reads this blog). And while I do admire her for making something of her life against all odds, I also don’t admire things about her; her temper in traffic for example.  Batman is just a silly answer for an adult, although he is totally hot!

Who do I most admire? It should be a woman. She should be a mother. She should be someone who is truthful and funny.  She should be someone who is organized; someone who sets goals and accomplishes them.  Someone who is well liked. Someone who is compassionate. She should be a good friend and a good listener. Did I just describe myself?

It should be noted that my first and immediate answer to the question was, “Myself.”  Embarrassed at my ego, I repressed the thought immediately. But after I reflected on it a little bit, I think that maybe it’s not so bad to admire oneself.  After all, I know myself better than I know anyone and I’m proud of the woman I’ve become.  Still, I scoured the hidden corners of my brain to come up with a name.  Oprah? Hillary? Abigail Adams? Madonna? Gloria Steinem? Angelina Jolie? Sarah Palin? OK, definitely NOT Sarah Palin, but what about Tina Fey?

Eventually, I came back to myself. I want every person who reads this to get a piece of paper. In the middle of this piece of paper, list your best qualites, anything about yourself that you love. At the top of that piece of paper write the words, “The person I most admire is myself because I…” then tape that piece of paper to your wall, desk or computer monitor and take a moment to celebrate yourself! You Rock. Revel in it!

Try-Try-Triathalon!

I think I can, I think I can, I think I can……I knew I could, I knew I could, I knew I could.

This weekend I competed in my first ever Triathalon. The Spirit of Akron, Womens-Only Triathalon is billed as, “A perfect venue for those ladies wanting to take on their first triathlon in a very non-competitive environment.”  And it was.  In fact, it was annoyningly non-competitive. At every turn, some stranger was telling me, “You’re doing great!” or “Keep it up!” Is it wrong that I wanted to smack them? I don’t do well with empty support from strangers. This is especailly true when said strangers are passing me on a hill while I’m sweating and vigorously pedaling my husband’s bike which I have literally rode three times prior to this moment.

In retrospect, of course I appreciate the encouragement and think it is truly a great event where women, most of which are competing in thier first ever triathalon, are supportive of each other. But in the moment, I admit that under my breath, I may have said, “Bite me!” a couple of times. I know I said, “You have got to be Freakin’ kidding me!” twice.  (Once when as I was just finishing up the bike portion of the race and they announced the overall winner crossing the finish line…I still had 2 miles to run! And once when the woman who pulled her baby on the back of her bike and then switched the carraige around and ran with the baby for the running portion passed me in the last leg of the race.) Anyway, congrats to super fast Triathalon girl and congrats to SUPER Stroller mom.  It is an accomplishment to just compete and complete. So, with fake trophy in hand, I will make my winner’s remarks.

I would first like to thank Dr. Leila Blake, who when I went to see her about hip pain, told me to take an Advil and quit my bitching and maybe try a triathalon. I’d like to thank Patti, my office mate who dared me to sign up for the event after I laughingly told her what my doctor had suggested. I would like to thank my son Jacob, who let me compete on his 6th birthday, thereby stealing some of his thunder. I would like to thank the fine makers of Advil (see above).  I would like to thank Dane, for inspiring me. I would like to thank my girlfriends who think (and ocassioanally mention) I’m awesome. You are all so much more awesome than I. I’d like to thank Vivian, for letting Jake spend the night so he wouldn’t be subjected to all the pre-race business. I’d like to thank my in-laws for the flowers and well-wishes. I would like to thank parents for raising me to believe I’m awesome (see above). And finally, I would like to thank my husband, Jeff, who not only forced me to get my butt out of bed on the mornings I didn’t want to work out, but who also reconfigured his bike so I could use it in the race, helped me set up my transition area, cheered for me at every turn, supported me all summer long and bursted with pride when I had finished the race.

I completed the triathalon ( 250 m swim, 7 mi bike, and 2 mi. run) in 1 hour and 8 mins. I had some trouble with my MP3 player and actaully got off my bike at one point to fix it. I had some trouble with the transitions becasue I had no idea what I was doing. So next year, barring any life-changing issues, I will compete again, if only to prove I can do it in under an hour. Maybe I can beat SUPER Stroller Mom in 2009.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle License Obtaining

This weekend, I completed the Motorcycle Ohio safety course in order to be officially licensed to drive a motorcycle.  I own a 2008 Buddy scooter and needed to take the course to legally be able to ride.  Now that I am legal, I can ride with my son on the back and/or ride at night and/or ride on the interstate.  Um, yeah that last one is not happening.  It is an exciting thing to be part of a bad-ass club like this, even if my ride is pink and only has a 125cc engine.

For the past six years, I have wanted a scooter. The first Vespa I ever saw up close was in a vendor’s tent at the X-Games in Philadelphia. I was eight months pregnant when I sat down on a scooter seat for the first time, and I fell in love. I asked the guy with the name tag, “Do these things come with child seats?” He laughed, but I was serious. I wanted that baby blue scooter so badly, but knew I’d have to wait, at least until the baby was born.  Well, I waited and waited and waited. In the mean time, my husband and I had the baby, moved to Cleveland, bought a house, bought a truck, got real jobs, and lived our lives.  Still, I never really let the scooter thing go.  As every birthday and Christmas approached, I’d remind everyone that all I really wanted was a scooter.  My husband would continually make excuses as to why I couldn’t get one, most of which were quite valid. “We don’t have the money.”  “It’s not practical for a woman with a toddler.”  “We live in Cleveland, how many sunny days are there really going to be?”  But I persevered, and still talked to anyone who would listen about my future pink scooter with a Hello Kitty helmet.

Then something magical happened; all the pieces fell into place.  My husband got a new job and a nice raise.  We made our final car payment.  My son was old enough that he could really ride on the back. Gas prices hit nearly $4/gallon.  Suddenly there was no more waiting, and I was at the scooter store, talking about Vespas versus Stellas versus Buddies. I was getting a scooter, and I wasn’t taking “no” for an answer.

“Can I take it for a test drive?” I asked the very nice man at Pride of Cleveland Scooters that let my kid play on all the bikes in the show room.

“Sure, I just need to see your license. You have a motorcycle endorsement, right?”

Um, no.

You don’t know me at all if you think that stopped me.  I paused, yes, but did not stop.  I went ahead and got my temps, scheduled my Motorcycle Ohio class, arranged for my dad to test drive scooters for me and bought my scooter all within two months of that day. I knew what I wanted, I just needed Dad to confirm that it was the right choice.

So there I was this weekend, taking the motorcycle course with Harley Davidson owners, biker chicks, men who had been arrested for driving without a motorcycle license, and fathers and sons who raced dirt bikes.  I was a little nervous that I would be treated as an impostor or mocked for being a girlie girl.  Beautifully it was totally the opposite.  All 12 people in my class and the two instructors were great and were definitely pulling for me to not only pass the class but to really learn to ride.  I was even the only one in the class lucky enough to have received a nickname: “Scooter”.  In the mornings the class gathered around Eloise (that’s my scooter’s name) and smoked cigarettes, drank coffee and asked me about my mpg, my horsepower, my trunk, my gas tank.  I was even asked out on a date by one of them. 

After two days of six consecutive hours on a Honda Rebel, my left hand hurts from pulling in the clutch so much, my inner thighs ache from straddling the motorcycle for hours on end, my right wrist hurts from playing with the throttle, and my nose and neck are sunburned.  But my pride is fine and dandy because I can ride with the best of ‘em.  Mount up, let’s ride!

Sweet Revenge

Ouch!

What do you do when you have been wronged?  Some people say to turn the other cheek.  That’s what Jesus would do.  Normally I might agree, however when it comes to spousal relations, I say that sometimes its OK to plot your revenge.  Don’t get me wrong, I am not condoning the “Don’t get mad, get even” type of violence one would see in a summer blockbuster complete with guns a blazin’ or months of trace amounts of poison in the soup.  It’s the little things that make revenge so sweet.  

My friend likes to get her revenge by sneaking full fat/full flavor food when her health nut husband makes her angry.  Just the other day, I snacked on “take that” Pringles she had purchased on the way to the boys’ t-ball game.  My sweet revenge is to purchase or simply wear loud print Capri pants when I am mad at my DH.  He hates this fashion statement more than anything.  So you can bet if he has been particularly annoying, I will be shopping at Ann Taylor Loft for some fun and funky pants.  Some would call it passive aggressive behavior, and I guess they would be right.  But does aggression always require action?  I don’t think so.

Everyone has their little secret dig at their spouse: Eating the last cookie even if you hate thin mints, drinking the last pricey beer in the fridge and leaving the girlie Coors Light, “accidentally” putting a red sock in the laundry with his t-shirts.  Sometimes it just feels so good, and nobody really gets hurt.  What do you do?  I’d love to hear it!

Writer’s Block

 

People continue to annoy me.

Lets see, some idiot took something off my desk yesterday when I wasn’t around. But I don’t feel like getting into that again.

My son does and says adorable things. He wants to lose a tooth so badly.

The world is still going to hell in a hand-basket.(Insert global, political, social issue here.)

The scooter story I’ve been working on for three months continues to confound me. I think I’m going to totally scrap it.

My friends (new and old) are so awesome.

My coworkers and I had an interesting discussion  yesterday: Would you rather die in your sleep or know the second before you die that you are going to die?  I chose the latter. I would hate to not have a final thought.

It’s shaping up to be the best summer of my life, so great to be Bethany right now.

Grrrrr.

Writer’s block.

Block block block!

Stupid Block.

Special Children

In my line of work, not a day goes by in which I do not hear something along the lines of “My child is gifted.” This is almost always followed by the parent insisting that I make an exception for said gifted child by doing one or all of the following: Enrolling them in a sold-out class, Moving them up to a class for older children, Giving them a scholarship or discount to attend a class, Permitting their child to “help” our curators in their labs. With so many gifted children in the world, the future will be bright indeed. 

Don’t let my sarcasm fool you.  I’m not implying that there are no gifted children out there. Look at Alia Sabur, the youngest professor at age 19. I’m sure she was a gifted child! I just think that what many of  today’s parents consider “gifted” is somehow less than. For example, just because a child knows how to read Level 4 “I Can Read” books in Kindergarten, doesn’t necessarily make them ready to skip a grade. They may be able to read the words onomatopoeia or verisimilitude, but do they comprehend them?  What about their aptitude for abstract ideas? Can they think outside the box? What about math (and I do not mean math table memorization)?  Can they figure and apply math concepts into their daily lives?  We also must consider social aspects. Can your child interact successfuly with other children his or her age? Can they speak their mind in class? Do they feel comfortable making mistakes in order to learn? There are so many factors to consider before we can label a child “Gifted.” Intellectually gifted children show ALL of the aforementioned qualities, not just one or two.

I have a couple of theories as to why there seems to be this influx of claims of giftedness. Please keep in mind that these theories are based on no data whatsoever.  The first is that as children, the current generation of parents of school aged children attended 1/2 day kindergarten (if at all) where we learned our ABCs, colors, shapes and numbers to 100. Today children master these skills in preschool. Most Kindergartens are full day, and because of No Child Left Behind (don’t get me started, perhaps a future blog post) children are pushed to learn some things we didn’t learn until first or second grade.  They seem smarter than we were, because they are seemingly learning more earlier. 

Theory number two is that parents believe that if their child gets straight A’s the child is gifted.  Oh my! I got straight A’s, and I am not now nor ever was considered gifted. I was a gifted memorizer perhaps, which comes in handy when testing, but this does not make me smarter than anyone else. I have a friend who’s babysitter is an honor student. She gets all A’s and B’s in AP courses, and the poor girl is dumber than a barrel of hair. Grades don’t mean smarts. Which brings me to the parents of home schooled children and the Montessori parents who’s children don’t receive grades (For the record, I will be a Montessori parent next year, so I’m not dissin’ ALL  of these parents, just the ones who consider their kids gifted). Some of these parents believe that simply because their child is learning in a different way, they are automatically gifted.  I actually had a woman tell me the other day, “Samantha is a first grader, but since she is in Montessori, it’s like she’s a third grader, so lets just move her into the class for the 3rd-5th graders.” Um, no.  Even little Alia Sabur (see above) as a 6 year old probably felt a little uncomfortable mingling with 11 year olds, and I would have made her take the the 1st grader class.

Theory number three is simply that parents want to show off. If their child is smart, it means they are a good parent and doing their job well. Maybe they are even the best parent on the planet…which is impossible because I am They want others to be impressed.  Sorry, I’m not. 

If you think your child is gifted, I urge you to really think about it and perhaps get the child tested before telling everyone who will listen how gifted your child is.  I get that your child is “special.” I’m a mom, and my child amazes me daily with the things he says and does. He is my universe and the most special person on Earth. But he’s not “gifted.” He’s just a kid who knows a lot about what he cares about and who is still growing and learning.  One of my favorite quotes about this whole issue comes from the movie The Incredibles. Helen Parr (Elastigirl) says to her son Dash, “Everyone is special, Dash,” and he replies “Which is another way of saying no one is.” Tru dat, Dash.  So get over it.

Happy Anniversary

I have been married to my DH for 9 years today.  At this very time (9:30 pm EST), 9 years ago, I was swing dancing to Jive Bunny surrounded by family and friends in a pouffy white dress, happy as can be. Fast forward to this very moment… my husband is out with the guys at a wing joint drinking beer talking about sports. I guess that is my anniversary present to him, and I’m not upset about it, really. I am perfectly happy to be sitting here blogging in the dark. After all, I have taken out the garbage, done the dishes, and washed a load of darks…

We have become a cliche. That is not to say that the romance is totally gone. Last weekend, my husband and I went on a date. We ate sushi and watched Iron Man. Next weekend we will be going to see Matt and Ben at Cleveland Public Theatre. We hold hands on walks, email each other during the work day, share private jokes, and sometimes we even have sex.

We’ve had our ups and downs over the years. I like to say that we’ve had seven happy years, and two shakey ones.  Year nine started out shakey, but has ended up quite happy.  Happy enough that I am “letting him” go out with his friends to talk about the Indians while I sit at home and watch Friends reruns on our anniversary.

I do not doubt that a year from this moment, my DH and I will be doing something fabulous as the 10th anniversary holds a little more cache.  I look forward to year ten and to reading this entry a year from now to see how far we’ve come.

 

WHOLEY Hottie?

Sunday was a good day.  Although it had all the makings of a normal Sunday; a longer-than-necessary after church meeting, laundry piled high, a vacuum cleaner in the middle of the living room floor, this Sunday was special. Donning only the sparcest of makeup and no hair products whatsoever, I headed out to Whole Foods to buy bread, juice boxes and string cheese in black Capri pants and a tee shirt that came from the top of the laundry pile. Little did I know that this very brief shopping trip would make me feel like the sexiest MOFO in Cleveland Heights. It must have been the shoes.

At the very last moment before leaving the house, I switched from my white sling-back Easy Spirit walking shoes to my black, heeled Mary janes. A bold choice considering the total lack of effort that went into the rest of my look perhaps, but this is Sunday. I should dress up a bit. I got in the car with my tote bags in hand, and off I went to buy organic goodness for my son’s lunch.

I don’t know about you, but for me, the clicky clack of high heeled shoes on floor makes me walk with my head a little higher, my hair a little bouncier, my face a  little smilier.  I pranced around Whole Foods sampling this, looking at that. In the dairy isle, after comparing one string cheese against the other, I passed a man who looked at me as if he knew me, or at least that is what I thought. He did that double-take thing, where I presumed he was thinking, “I know her. I wonder if my kid plays T-ball with her kid?” I smiled and walked on.  Later, as I was deciding whether or not to buy the delicious roasted red pepper hummus that was not on my list, the man passed again.  This time he stopped, turned around and said, “Excuse me?”

Ah, here it was, the “Don’t I know you from….” but it wasn’t.  I was totally shocked when he said, “I noticed you before, and my name is Eric, and I don’t know if you are married or not, but I just wanted to meet you.”  Blush.  Gush.  Aw shucks!  The best part about this whole exchange is that this was possibly the most attractive man that has ever approached me and definitely the most attractive man that has ever approached me sober in poor lighting.  Couldn’t he see I was wearing no makeup? That my black Capri pants were wrinkled beyond acceptable? That I had juice boxes and string cheese in my cart?  “I’m sorry, I’m married….but thank you!” 

What a great day! It must have been the shoes.

Now that Charlton Heston is dead, can we talk about gun control?

Last week in the Cleveland Plain Dealer,there was another story about a child who was accidentally shot and killed from a found gun in the hands of a curious kid. Sorry NRA, but kids don’t kill kids, guns kill kids. I just do not see any validity to arguments made by the National Rifle Association when it comes to hand guns. You might expect that kind of reaction from me because I am one of those liberal, suburban moms who shops at Whole Foods and approves of same sex couples adopting international children. However, if you look closer, you will see that I don’t fit the anti-gun mold. In fact, I am not anti-gun, I am anti-hand gun. I don’t know whether or not that makes my argurement more valid in your estimation, but I’m going to presume it does for the sake of this post.

I was born in a small town in Pennsylvania where it seems that everyone hunts. Even I have “bagged a critter”. (That poor raccoon!) Where I am from, school is cancelled on the first day of deer season, and pictures appear on the front page of the local paper the next day of 12-year-olds holding the antlers and their first kill. In the house where I was raised, my family proudly displayed an 8-point buck’s head on the living room wall. We named him Lance. Even today, when I go home to visit my parents, it is not a rare occurrence that I go with my dad to shoot cans or targets with a hunting rifle. Guns are everywhere in Northwest Pennsylvania, and yet I don’t think we have ever had an instance of a death of a child because another child found a hunting rifle and accidentally shot his friend. That is not to say there haven’t been hunting accidents or deaths caused by shotguns, but when we are talking about kids finding hunting rifles that end up to be the death of themselves or a friend, it simply doesn’t happen. 

There are two reasons that this is true. The first is that small children cannot manipulate a hunting rifle or a shotgun. The guns are large, heavy, difficult to load, and children do not have the physical strength required to cock the rifle to ready it for firing. The other reason is that hunting rifles are made for hunters to hunt. Hunters respect guns in an entirely different way than the average “gotta get a gun to protect myself” kind of person. Hunting rifles are not concealed weapons. In fact, most are probably prominently displayed (unloaded) in some sort of gun cabinet or over a mantle. Children who grow up seeing these guns every day have a better understanding of their function and appropriate use. They learn at an early age that gun equals death, because they have probably eaten whatever it is that those guns have killed. Handguns by contrast, are designed to kill people. That’s right, they are people killers. If you have a hand gun to protect yourself, you are saying, “I intend to shoot a person with this gun if he messes with me, or my stuff. ” Isn’t there something wrong with that? I think so.

Now, I am sure there are extremely responsible hand-gun owners out there. I do not just assume that everyone who owns a hand gun, leaves it unlocked within arms reach of a crib. But guess what, NRA: There are idiots that do, and those idiots are the ones responsible for the thousands of kids who accidentally shot and killed themselves or their friends. We have to protect kids from those who are IRRESPONSIBLE. The fact is that there are stupid, careless people who leave a loaded gun in an unlocked drawer in their home and assume that by telling a five year old to stay out of theirr room, that the child will obey. 

So NRA, I’ll make a deal with you, if you can prove to me that every person who owns a legal or illegal handgun is a totally responsible owner who leaves it unloaded in a lock box with the safety on in a hard to reach place and that they also have bullets in a separate secured location, I will say, yes hand-guns are super! Oh, you can’t promise what idiots will or will not do?  Then what gives you the right to speak for them or their poor children?

 

To see Charlton Heston’s gun collection, click HERE!

Facebook makes my face frown

     There is nothing wrong with me. I know this to be true. And yet, I have been told by countless people who I know and love (as well as those I don’t know at all) that there is. My name is Bethany, and I am not on Facebook. For the record, I also do not belong to any internet social networks or post on message boards. I have been told that I am missing out on all kinds of fun and opportunities to connect, but am I? 

     I will admit that I begrudgingly have a MySpace account. However, I only have it to get a handle on what my niece and nephews are up to (and Dear Lord, I wish I didn’t know!) I have never updated it, formatted it, blogged on it, added pictures to it, uploaded a song to listen to while you view it, or asked people to be on my friend list. I think I have a total of six MySpace “friends,” one of which is Tom the helpful MySpace IT guy.  

     I guess I am from the old school. I like to actually talk to my friends face to face. I like to throw parties and invite my own social network to attend. I choose to email or call friends I haven’t heard from in a while. Sometimes, I even write letters! I still communicate with the friends that I want to stay in touch with from high school and college. And to be quite honest, I really have no desire to hear from a guy who had a crush on me in 8^thgrade or some vaguely familiar Alpha Delta Pi that I took Intro to Psychology with. I don’t need to validate myself by having hundreds of “friends” listed on a web page. I don’t need to connect with “moms just like me,” because my best friends ARE moms like me, and we make a point to get together whenever possible to drink wine and talk about parenting, marriage, hopes, dreams, and who should win on Rock of Love 2. (Go Ambre!)

     Don’t get me wrong, the internet is a great tool. E-mail is vital to my life. Instant messaging with my best friend from work all day is sometimes the only thing that gets me through the day. I am happy to use the web to look up information and locations, do some personal banking, play Bejeweled or read the news and reviews from around the globe. But friendship is personal, isn’t it? It is for me. So thank you, but no thanks. I will decline your invitations to join Facebook or to make me your friend on MySpace. I have a party with my friends to plan.