tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4996083542794886672024-03-11T02:16:33.609-04:00Wonderfully Dysfunctionalone woman's journey to find normalAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-87694146190146442412014-01-06T21:25:00.000-05:002014-01-06T21:25:03.027-05:00If I stop feeding them, will they stop growing up?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigVklyHX09QelM24RHEVa65Gc2h-p3ggIgVGxLqrH9EoLDaf9kjROlDXXg_BwxYIh-o-R0jxTQZ9f3EGQrSD1iI_4pRTu16UCzz0dPlPH8d6EIa7cpOBvy5lNtFxO0HuPfQdefMfwLdNvJ/s1600/P1000681.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigVklyHX09QelM24RHEVa65Gc2h-p3ggIgVGxLqrH9EoLDaf9kjROlDXXg_BwxYIh-o-R0jxTQZ9f3EGQrSD1iI_4pRTu16UCzz0dPlPH8d6EIa7cpOBvy5lNtFxO0HuPfQdefMfwLdNvJ/s1600/P1000681.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
As my children grow and become more independent, their time with me decreases. Just yesterday my son was ridding piggy-back and my daughter snuggled her teddy bears. Now my boy towers over me like a grown man and my girl is driving a car.<br />
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Just one very short year ago I rang in the New Year with my teens by my side. We taught the younger nieces to slam pots and pans at the stroke of midnight and we passed out on the floor in one big family heap. This year both teens were at parties and I was just a taxi.<br />
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We all know that children grow up and if you’ve done your job as a parent, they grow up to be independent. But I’m not ready. Really. Every day I think of things I’ve forgotten to tell my kids about life, love, happiness and the future. <br />
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<span style="background-color: #9fc5e8;">Then life turns our conversations to: “Can I have a ride Mom,” “I’m going to the mall Mom,” “What’s for dinner Mom,” and “I’ll see ya tomorrow Mom.”</span><br />
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It’s the end of the day. I’ve handed out twenties like bubblegum and burned through two tanks of gas, not a wise word spoken. And the days tick on…<br />
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My kids communicate through email, Snap-Chat and Instagram. But I resist. I can’t be that mom who talks to her kid through Snap-Chap! But I also don’t want to be that mom who regrets all of the things she forgot to say. So I made a plan.<br />
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Every time I think of something important to tell my teens, I’ll shoot them an email entitled, “Just in case I forget to tell you…” I’ll talk about college choices, or how proud I am of them, or that they have a doctor’s appointment at the end of the week. I won’t make any rules about the content of the emails and I won’t expect a response. But at least I’ll know I haven’t forgotten. <br />
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I’ll sign my emails with “Just in case I forget to tell you, I love you to the moon and back.”<br />
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Some may think it’s pathetic that I’m using email to send messages to my teens. I might agree. But I could sit around yearning for the days of old forcing them to watch reruns of the Walton’s while I conjure up meaningful conversation. Instead I’ve decided to meet them in their own world of iPhones and instant messages.<br />
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<span style="background-color: #9fc5e8;"><strong>How do you connect with your kids?</strong></span></div>
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P.S. Can someone email this to my kids… just in case I forget to.<br />
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Thanks for stopping by.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-24350665585309042332013-11-06T21:50:00.001-05:002013-11-06T21:51:58.192-05:00Long Hair Breeds Bad Behavior (Reposted)<div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxyzVwTysxvhcSE4opqWL4eZReeSsMvgMhK4oBdmS4mw5sjOo3LZ9mN4pq7kFGnu01OV7Ii9Zp_ddQu3Ukyp4xQ9YL0tULLMq9kSz71VCKrU9LxopzhfKVcXPiXdDqYVm60vqVrjm0Jyzp/s1600/CrazyPirates.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxyzVwTysxvhcSE4opqWL4eZReeSsMvgMhK4oBdmS4mw5sjOo3LZ9mN4pq7kFGnu01OV7Ii9Zp_ddQu3Ukyp4xQ9YL0tULLMq9kSz71VCKrU9LxopzhfKVcXPiXdDqYVm60vqVrjm0Jyzp/s320/CrazyPirates.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div>
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I've been told that long hair breeds bad behavior. So, I'm posting this for all the moms with long-haired boys that are misbehaving. If only you had known that a simple haircut would have solved your problems. No longer do you need to teach your boy to be a good person. Simply chop off those nasty locks of hair and watch the magic! Don't take any chances, cut your girl's hair too. People will think your kids are respectable and so they will be. Right?</div>
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In the article <a href="http://www.parentdish.com/2007/10/11/boys-hair-long-or-short/">Boys hair: long or short </a>by Christina Sbarro, her husband argues, "...boys with long hair grow up to be irresponsible, carefree, wanderers, who don't know how to hold down a regular job. Said long haired boys might join a low-life garage band, or be influenced by the wrong crowd, and in general, would be disadvantaged in the corporate world of "grown up" America." Do you think she agreed? Nope.<br />
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If it were completely my decision, I would let my young boy have whatever hairstyle he wanted. If he started to misbehave, I would grab a big can of "no more video games" before grabbing the clippers.<br />
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<b>As an adult he may need to worry about how others perceive him, but as a child I need to worry about how he perceives himself.</b><br />
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<span style="background-color: #9fc5e8;"><strong>To clip or not to clip? What's your opinion?</strong></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-44827038407100785842013-09-24T08:07:00.000-04:002013-09-24T08:07:10.864-04:00A Bath, a Book, a Cup of Tea<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimahNlAO2XvAdIMdQUa9XL9_GugcuSBwdkY9BnPKDaskBiSwc9aK-j2C1Ohje27-sPWcH9C91YKxLezLPbmvB1z3luadbZA1b_YFAF5ImM36seeSUpLx73YZuHFKnZChFwGF6zx_5QvNom/s1600/Tea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimahNlAO2XvAdIMdQUa9XL9_GugcuSBwdkY9BnPKDaskBiSwc9aK-j2C1Ohje27-sPWcH9C91YKxLezLPbmvB1z3luadbZA1b_YFAF5ImM36seeSUpLx73YZuHFKnZChFwGF6zx_5QvNom/s320/Tea.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><em>T</em></span>onight I reserve just for me</div>
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A bath, a book, a cup of tea</div>
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My day was spent just like the rest</div>
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Job and family, I do my best</div>
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<br /></div>
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Laundry, bills, some dishes too</div>
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Come, I’ll read that book to you</div>
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Dress-up time is always fun</div>
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Kids in bed, the day is done</div>
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<br /></div>
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Fast asleep my children lay</div>
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This I’ve waited for all day</div>
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To take some time to pamper me</div>
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My bath, my book, my cup of tea</div>
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<br /></div>
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To your bedside I am drawn</div>
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Touch your cheeks, how they are warm</div>
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Reaching down to kiss your hair</div>
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I close my eyes and say a prayer</div>
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<br /></div>
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Someday you’ll be grown up too</div>
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Now’s the time for me and you</div>
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So in the bed with you I lay</div>
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My bath can wait just one more day.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> - <em>Buffi</em> 2002</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-23930722030123244552013-09-14T06:52:00.000-04:002013-09-15T19:34:35.505-04:00Sorry Eleanor Roosevelt, but I disagree<a href="http://www.imbuffi.blogspot.com/" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i882.photobucket.com/albums/ac22/imbuffi/MyBlog/0418001630.jpg" width="250" /></a><strong>Eleanor Roosevelt said, "It takes courage to love..." Sorry Eleanor, but I disagree. I think it’s easy to love.</strong><br />
<br />
As a young Mama, I held my babies close. I memorized every freckle on their little noses. I knew the origin of each bruise and scrape. Oh how I <strong>love</strong> my babies.<br />
<br />
It’s 10 o’clock and I’m picking up my teens from the movie theatre. Cell phones and bras replace the pacifiers and diapers. I bite a nail for each minute I wait to see them safely enter my car. Tonight, when they’re fast asleep, I’ll hold them tight again.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">My children teach me: <strong>It’s easy to love. It takes courage to let go.</strong></span><br />
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Blogging has opened me up to an audience of passionate, intelligent, funny and sometimes crazy people. I read your blogs and I’m in love. I envy the freedom you have with your words. How can I be that funny or poetic? I hit the “publish” button and cringe. I read my post a dozen times and it never sounds good enough. <br />
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<span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Blogging reminds me: <strong>It’s easy to love. It takes courage to let others love you. </strong></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #9fc5e8;"><strong>Where do you find your courage?</strong></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-82135220934209370822013-09-02T10:17:00.000-04:002013-09-15T19:33:38.222-04:00Dancin’ with Molly?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia_tfe80n8HY1THW54AQYHOn5c9f9aatLLJHTiDZFaeCjb5j9A5aAR4MCPpSzAvv6VbMclF9UdSLjkUUxWigSObAlWpzyRzRiZEDf5mw3DC2JCtwVMtHsNtXu3sjtt5mXQuW2o2eddoAD9/s1600/DancinWMolly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia_tfe80n8HY1THW54AQYHOn5c9f9aatLLJHTiDZFaeCjb5j9A5aAR4MCPpSzAvv6VbMclF9UdSLjkUUxWigSObAlWpzyRzRiZEDf5mw3DC2JCtwVMtHsNtXu3sjtt5mXQuW2o2eddoAD9/s320/DancinWMolly.jpg" width="240" /></a>When I was sixteen, “dancin’ with Molly” meant you were watching the ending of Sixteen Candle’s. This week they were the censored lyrics in a song performed by the almost-naked Miley Cyrus at the VMA. I never thought I’d miss Hannah Montana.</div>
<br />
When I was sixteen, graphic design meant you perfected a house on your Etch-A-Sketch and Mrs. Pac-Man was a modern chic. <br />
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When I was sixteen, a pool was guaranteed to be overflowing with any sweaty kid within a five mile radius. Today, sweat-free kids sit in their bedrooms sporting life-like guns on video games; the sound of “Marco-Polo” replaced with the voices of online strangers screaming obscenities after a good kill.<br />
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When I was sixteen, a season’s pass to an amusement park was reserved for the very rich or the stupidly spoiled. Today, unused season’s passes rot at the bottom of our kids’ Coach and Nike bags.<br />
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Yes, I long for the days when Rubik’s Cube was modern and Magic-Eight-Ball was my decision maker, but my teens force me to live in today’s world of Snap-Chat and iTunes. How do I cope? I force them to watch reruns of Colombo and The Odd Couple. Movies like <em>Jaws</em> and <em>Rocky</em> help bridge the gap from <em>my</em> sixteen to theirs. <br />
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And if all else fails, I grab my Coach Bag, buy the kids some $5 latte’s, and head over to the overpriced dine-in-theatre where we’ll watch a movie my parents still won’t let me see.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #9fc5e8;"><strong>How are you coping with the new Molly?</strong></span></div>
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<em><span style="color: orange;">Update on the book:</span></em><br />
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<strong><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1451591012/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1451591012&linkCode=as2&tag=bufnea-20" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: white;">Wonderfully Dysfunctional</span></a><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></strong></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #ead1dc;"><em><span style="background-color: white;">was rated</span> </em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="background-color: #ead1dc;">#1 Amazon Best Selling Family Memoir!</span></strong></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="background-color: white;">Huge Thanks to YOU.</span> </em></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-4257308770571619652013-08-22T18:01:00.000-04:002013-09-15T19:21:59.870-04:00Where’d I leave the baby?<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I missed my flight today. No, it wasn’t because of traffic. It wasn’t car trouble. I can’t even blame it on the kids this time. It was my acts-like-a-90-year-old memory. How does that happen? How could I forget what time my flight was.</div>
<br />
Wish I could say this was an isolated incident, but I’m losing my memory faster than dad’s losing his teeth. <strong>Here’s a glimpse of how my memory is wreaking havoc on my life:</strong><br />
<ul>
<li>I show up on the wrong day for doctor’s appointments and blame it on my damn iPhone calendar.</li>
<li>I get half-way through my shower and forget whether or not I washed my hair.</li>
<li>I forget I’m cooking. I have to set a timer-alarm to remind me there’s food on the stove; <br />
except I usually forget to set the alarm.</li>
<li>I forget what the kids asked me a minute ago. What’d ya say, you young wiper-snapper?</li>
<li>I never remember where I’m driving. If it weren’t for my lovely Australian GPS man, I’d be wondering the streets of neighboring towns wondering if I was late for something.</li>
</ul>
Hey, maybe all those stress dreams are really premonitions of times to come. You know the dreams… The one where your sitting in school, remembered the homework, forgot the clothes. <br />
<br />
Or my personal favorite: the one where you forgot something at the beach – frantically digging in the sand – <strong>I’m pretty sure I left the baby here a minute ago…</strong><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-2uH_55VFM2ZNZ5GcKzKWRaTTQnSN5fcVItOoZp6qCd0AWIyhVuOIpqYuvEKTfNx4dswNV2QBvNZQzM25sRqqlIOyhFsqPawbZ6Xc_Dl3KQS1cQJykLbMmiI7J9t4tS0EyvvctRBIjgIA/s1600/DerekBaby1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-2uH_55VFM2ZNZ5GcKzKWRaTTQnSN5fcVItOoZp6qCd0AWIyhVuOIpqYuvEKTfNx4dswNV2QBvNZQzM25sRqqlIOyhFsqPawbZ6Xc_Dl3KQS1cQJykLbMmiI7J9t4tS0EyvvctRBIjgIA/s320/DerekBaby1.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>
If my memory is any gage of my actual age, then I’m gunna need depends before the year is out.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #9fc5e8;"><strong>How has your mind failed you lately?</strong></span></div>
<br />
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Thanks for stopping by.<br />
<strong>Please support me with your honesty.</strong><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-58958059338301130332012-11-22T05:46:00.001-05:002013-09-02T07:11:57.501-04:00Thankful for Coffee and Grace<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUPcATiOhhZV0MH25LPcZpS4-3RDm_NZgJJC5z4mfiPYwAdBeHujgqooWVsXU2abcyqc1xQHMsAoLmr8xyq-eKl3_uxOpTmWKLQzIYoWvwNLbN_FODeuw2L2pAx8wUIN4hDBM1GtFyyubX/s1600/DSCN0663.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUPcATiOhhZV0MH25LPcZpS4-3RDm_NZgJJC5z4mfiPYwAdBeHujgqooWVsXU2abcyqc1xQHMsAoLmr8xyq-eKl3_uxOpTmWKLQzIYoWvwNLbN_FODeuw2L2pAx8wUIN4hDBM1GtFyyubX/s320/DSCN0663.JPG" width="320" /></a>Every morning I stop in at my local donut shop for a hot cup of heaven. Yesterday morning I began talking to the man behind the counter. You know him. He’s the one that always remembers how many sugars you like and is generous with his smiles and donuts. He’s the one that looks old and young all at the same time.</div>
<br />
I was surprised to find out that he’s alone here, supporting a family in another country thousands of miles away; A country filled with internal strife and poverty. He smiles and says, “My youngest will visit this summer.” Pride enhances his smile when he boasts of his daughters, now in medical school. There were so many questions I wanted to ask him, but his eyes said it all.<br />
<br />
Which got me thinking - the reason <em>I’m</em> not on the other side of that counter missing <em>my</em> family on the other side of the world has little to do with making proper choices. He was born into a slew of struggles I’ll never have to overcome, and some I’ll never even comprehend. Sure, we all have our battles and I carry my wounds like metals of honor. But hearing his story makes me remember how unfair life can be and how strong the human spirit is.<br />
<br />
<strong>Which leads me to the Joan Baez song lyrics stuck in my mind this morning, “There but for furtune go you and I." or, "There but for the grace of God go I."</strong><br />
<br />
Peeking into the rooms of my sleeping children, soft down blankets wrapped around their warm bodies, I’m thankful. <strong>What am I thankful for? Grace.</strong><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #9fc5e8;"><strong>What are you thankful for?</strong></span></div>
<br />
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><strong>Happy Thanksgiving</strong></em><br />
<b>Please support me with your honesty.</b><br />
<img align="center" alt="Buffi" src="http://i882.photobucket.com/albums/ac22/imbuffi/MyBlog/BuffiSignature.gif" style="border: 0px currentColor;" /></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-23001038489964197532012-10-14T10:49:00.001-04:002013-01-23T06:59:30.372-05:00Too Bad Plan B Pill Doesn’t Cure Asthma<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuFh2xw-js3y44rs2hpLLc5Hk68hgYENuEzCi_0HhtAx-cC6GpULbi9iBliPud-VmjOc2aoTGsR_BIMQqJOTc5kgRDYzEU4dwtBLsNqybIulKPccpJtQT-HQ4w8oEqkF9V6cMuUiJcLmSa/s1600/DSC_1269.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Wonderfully Dysfunctional" border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuFh2xw-js3y44rs2hpLLc5Hk68hgYENuEzCi_0HhtAx-cC6GpULbi9iBliPud-VmjOc2aoTGsR_BIMQqJOTc5kgRDYzEU4dwtBLsNqybIulKPccpJtQT-HQ4w8oEqkF9V6cMuUiJcLmSa/s1600/DSC_1269.JPG" title="Wonderfully Dysfunctional" width="320" /></a>I got a call from the school nurse last week. It went something like this:<br />
<br />
“Your son is having an asthma attack. Please pick him up.”<br />
<br />
<strong>“Oh shit! Give him a breathing treatment.”</strong><br />
<br />
“I can’t," the nurse snapped. "You didn’t provide the proper doctor-signed forms.”<br />
<br />
“REALLY? You’re not gunna treat him?”<br />
<br />
“I can’t. You had plenty of notice about providing the proper forms....and you sent him in with an expired inhaler.” The lecture went on.<br />
<br />
So, my son was sucking air through a straw in the midst of an asthma attack, sitting next to a cabinet full of inhalers, the nurse unable to break the rules to help him. <strong>Meanwhile, in a NY city school, a nurse is handing out Plan-B morning after pills like a pez dispenser.</strong> I can’t help but feel like regulation has taken the place of common sense.<br />
<br />
In the ABC News report, <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Health/york-city-plan-contraception-teens-school/story?id=17310468" target="_blank">New York City Schools Give Plan B 'Morning After' Pill to Teens,</a> <br />
Wallace states, "I do think we need to use caution in providing the Plan B pill to teens who may not fully understand why and how to use it." <br />
<br />
Really? Do ya think?<br />
<br />
The school nurse can’t give a Tums without a notarized letter from a pediatrician, but Plan B pills and contraception? How many do ya want? <br />
<br />
I’m not taking a stand for or against Plan B, I’m just saying lets be consistent. We can’t keep buying a bigger garbage can, sometimes we need to get off our ass and take out the garbage.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #9fc5e8;"><strong>Where do you see contradiction?</strong></span></div>
<br />
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Thanks for stopping by.<br />
<b>Please support me with your honesty.</b><br />
<img align="center" alt="Buffi" src="http://i882.photobucket.com/albums/ac22/imbuffi/MyBlog/BuffiSignature.gif" style="border: 0px currentColor;" /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-77972992368892856722012-09-28T18:06:00.000-04:002012-10-01T13:07:51.106-04:00Should We Care What The Neighbors Think?I’m often lecturing the kids with righteous statements like, “Be yourself.” and “You shouldn’t care about what others think of you.”<br />
<br />
Just the other day, I forced the kids to help me pull weeds. The front yard looked like Jurassic Park and we were having a party that weekend. I picked through rotting flowers, ranting, “We look like white trash. I can’t believe I let it get this bad.”<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9GEbYupmB55OTbzrpVXC_Qf3z0hWwyW9UGEsgx2sDJHk4nCFaW5QWhh8Z9SrkF3bopjZaeG0ziV2FtSYzU829ZkXj6otf13hkgxjG2I3Tgz3qp70I_h5qZZO8FhFCkDUU-gM6kjvyicJ8/s1600/DSC_0293.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Wonderfully Dysfunctional" border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9GEbYupmB55OTbzrpVXC_Qf3z0hWwyW9UGEsgx2sDJHk4nCFaW5QWhh8Z9SrkF3bopjZaeG0ziV2FtSYzU829ZkXj6otf13hkgxjG2I3Tgz3qp70I_h5qZZO8FhFCkDUU-gM6kjvyicJ8/s320/DSC_0293.JPG" title="Wonderfully Dysfunctional" width="320" /></a>The Boy, who was sitting on the driveway happily procrastinating, suddenly came to life. “Mom! I thought you said we shouldn’t care what people think about us.”<br />
<br />
I snapped back, “That’s true, but look at this place. Aren’t you ashamed to live here?”<br />
<br />
Sure that he found a way out of doing chores The Boy jumped to his feet and said, “I don’t care what people think about me and neither should you Mom.” <br />
<br />
The kids are genius at using my words against me. I’m in charge of teaching good core values, but there I was again…speechless. Why did I care what the house looked like?<br />
<br />
In the article <a href="http://www.pickthebrain.com/blog/why-you-shouldnt-care-what-others-think-about-you/" target="_blank">Why You shouldn’t Care What Others Think About You</a>, Michael Miles states, “We didn’t want to be singled out by the crowd for being different…” and goes on to call this “the drug of approval and importance.”<br />
<br />
School kids feel the pressure to fit in more than ever. So where do we draw the line of having a healthy need for acceptance? And why must I have such a smart-ass kid?<br />
<br />
After a brief fight with myself, I stood up and proclaimed, “I <em>don’t </em>care what others think. I want the house to look nice for <strong>ME</strong>. Now hurry and help me finish before the neighbors see me wearing these dirty jeans."<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #9fc5e8;"><strong>How are you driven to fit in?</strong></span></div>
<br />
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Thanks for stopping by.</div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b>Please support me with your honesty.</b></div>
<div style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img align="center" alt="Buffi" src="http://i882.photobucket.com/albums/ac22/imbuffi/MyBlog/BuffiSignature.gif" style="border: 0px currentColor;" /><br />
<em></em><br />
<em><span style="color: orange;">Update on the book:</span></em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<strong><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1451591012/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1451591012&linkCode=as2&tag=bufnea-20" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: white;">Wonderfully Dysfunctional</span></a><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></strong></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #ead1dc;"><em><span style="background-color: white;">was rated</span> </em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="background-color: #ead1dc;">#1 Amazon Best Selling Family Memoir!</span></strong></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="background-color: white;">Huge Thanks to YOU.</span> </em></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-29184057639185466162012-09-06T16:19:00.001-04:002012-10-01T13:08:07.852-04:00Confessions of a Dysfunctional Mother<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVS2bHMmrUBl_jI7vwpLBTDryRSqi4s-fkZKgeQUhT68fkEpetWdHnqi0SD2gf-tDDoZoMjE0VbjyYV7fAztXI5d6zI3qbwcvNV24hpdZwrJCV2LIcEvd3boDMaDQq91nLykhP3P_XzZCv/s1600/DSCN0140.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVS2bHMmrUBl_jI7vwpLBTDryRSqi4s-fkZKgeQUhT68fkEpetWdHnqi0SD2gf-tDDoZoMjE0VbjyYV7fAztXI5d6zI3qbwcvNV24hpdZwrJCV2LIcEvd3boDMaDQq91nLykhP3P_XzZCv/s320/DSCN0140.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
I never claimed to be a perfect mom. </div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<strong></strong><br /></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<strong>Here are some of my mommy-confessions (some old ones too):</strong></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<ul>
<li><strong><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">I never read to my toddlers</span></strong>. Good mommies read to their babies, right? Well, I fell asleep by page 3 - literally snoring on the playroom floor. Three-year old crying, “Read Momma.”</li>
</ul>
</div>
<ul>
<li><strong><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">I forgot about the kindergarten Halloween Parade</span></strong>. That child walking the parade without a costume? He was mine.</li>
<li><strong><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">I taught the kids how to make prank calls.</span></strong> Didn’t I read somewhere that prank calling helps children develop phone skills, reaction time and bi-lingual abilities?</li>
<li><strong><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">My kids are late for school, again. </span></strong> I pretend I don’t know what time it is, as I share a warm blueberry muffin with my teens in the local coffee shop. I *know* – I’m horrible!</li>
<li><strong><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">I taught the kids to forge my signature.</span> </strong>Have you seen the amount of paperwork that comes home in backpacks these days? Now I don’t have to sign anything. Hey… has anyone seen my checkbook?</li>
</ul>
<div>
I guess I can admit I’m not even trying to be perfect. BUT, what I AM trying to do is raise some amazing, kind, intelligent, strong children. Being myself seems to be working for now. <br />
<br />
My idea of a perfect Mom is one that’s not perfect at all. My kids may disagree with me. “Go get me a muffin, brats!”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #9fc5e8;"><strong>What’s your confession?</strong></span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Thanks for stopping by.</div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b>Please support me with your honesty.</b></div>
<div style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img align="center" alt="Buffi" src="http://i882.photobucket.com/albums/ac22/imbuffi/MyBlog/BuffiSignature.gif" style="border: 0px currentColor;" /><br />
<br />
<em><span style="color: orange;">Update on the book:</span></em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<strong><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1451591012/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1451591012&linkCode=as2&tag=bufnea-20" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: white;">Wonderfully Dysfunctional</span></a><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></strong></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #ead1dc;"><em><span style="background-color: white;">was rated</span> </em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="background-color: #ead1dc;">#1 Amazon Best Selling Family Memoir!</span></strong></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white;">Huge Thanks to YOU.</span> </div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-92030376743642654792012-07-29T10:26:00.001-04:002012-08-03T08:44:25.933-04:00Why should kids talk when they can IM?<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRsJf7faC9-w7bA01V6RWKVhT2YSNuLsUYm0hA_rcqW471ToFW92r6extnaY43TnUuxfffrASDDtKxkKiVNyZ-AndCJRL8A7qQkn7OLqtgEdzGCGPgEFTN6fMTCrgZx8bWp6OStvTxnC-B/s1600/DSCN3298.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRsJf7faC9-w7bA01V6RWKVhT2YSNuLsUYm0hA_rcqW471ToFW92r6extnaY43TnUuxfffrASDDtKxkKiVNyZ-AndCJRL8A7qQkn7OLqtgEdzGCGPgEFTN6fMTCrgZx8bWp6OStvTxnC-B/s320/DSCN3298.JPG" width="320" /></a>When I was a kid, being “social” meant to engage in face-to-face conversation, poker, board games and Sunday dinner. Mom had to drag us into the house for bedtime and there wasn’t an inch of our neighborhood that we hadn’t explored.</div>
<br />
Now? Advances in technology have brought social tools like twitter and Facebook to get us connected. I’m hooked too. <strong> </strong><br />
<br />
<strong>But have we really advanced?</strong><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>The PlayStation allows my son to visit his older cousin online. They can spend endless hours playing shooting games together, talking smack to newbies, and killing people.</li>
<li>The DS allows kids to sit right next to each other, play an entire game together, and never have to say a word to each other.</li>
<li>Facebook allows me to see what’s going on in the lives of my old friends. I can stalk their pages, see what their kids look like, reminisce of the good old days, and never have to say a word to them.</li>
<li>Twitter allows me to have casual conversation with a bunch of strangers, and since we’re limited to 140 characters, we always will be strangers.</li>
</ul>
<div>
Admittedly, I’m a “Social” tool addict. But I wouldn’t be upset if we replaced it all with good-old Sunday dinner, pen pals and town picnics.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #9fc5e8;"><strong>How social are you?</strong></span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Thanks for stopping by.</div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b>Please support me with your honesty.</b></div>
<div style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img align="center" alt="Buffi" src="http://i882.photobucket.com/albums/ac22/imbuffi/MyBlog/BuffiSignature.gif" style="border: 0px currentColor;" /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-82938542452743400062012-06-26T08:59:00.000-04:002012-10-01T13:03:59.844-04:00Raising a Man or an Imposter?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUlYj-KJWdyH3HvDmw4M93CsCz078VCzTQPy1VXiacTnzObjJnbuxxMO7eIdyPEZQd45RhN_KtGilCwdDZ4A1ge8-yBgcmKHXYJ8rebdanKyWQpbS4pdVQSF-l4aUGAUpZtmOD9OlO98TS/s1600/080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUlYj-KJWdyH3HvDmw4M93CsCz078VCzTQPy1VXiacTnzObjJnbuxxMO7eIdyPEZQd45RhN_KtGilCwdDZ4A1ge8-yBgcmKHXYJ8rebdanKyWQpbS4pdVQSF-l4aUGAUpZtmOD9OlO98TS/s320/080.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
Nobody really wants to raise a coward, chauvinist or swindler, but we’re crankin’ them out in droves.<br />
<br />
<em>The Muscle Man</em>: Flexes his muscles and makes sure everyone knows how important he is.<br />
<em>The Magician</em>: Magically disappears when any real work needs to be done. <br />
<em>The Caboose:</em> Has his nose permanently attached to his boss’ crack. <br />
<em>The Coward</em>: Goes to church on Sunday, and then cheats on his wife Monday night. <br />
<ul>
<strong>How can I teach my son to be a man with integrity, honor and accountability when the world is littered with the opposite?</strong> </ul>
<div>
The Article, <em>Teaching teenage boys to respect women</em>, reports, “In a world of raunchy music videos, sexually explicit video games, and (some) teenage girls growing up way faster than they should, it is very important to instill good values into your adolescent son.”</div>
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I agree. But I think we can battle the bad influences. Hell, I’m not saying I’m perfect or I have all the answers. I just know the man I don’t want my son to be.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
So here are some things I tell my son:</div>
<ul>
<li><strong><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Don’t be a snitch.</span></strong><div>
School rules support the idea that it’s honorable to tattle; Tell the truth and save yourself. </div>
<div>
I tell my son, “Only snitch if the person is in danger, if what they are doing might hurt themselves or someone else.”</div>
<div>
</div>
</li>
<li><strong><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Be a Leader.</span></strong><div>
Leaders don’t need followers; they just need an independent mind.</div>
<div>
I tell my son, “Take a look at someone you admire. What makes them stand out? They don’t follow the crowd. Remember, bossing other kids around doesn’t make you a leader.” </div>
<div>
</div>
</li>
<li><strong><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Be Accountable.</span></strong><div>
Every now and then I screw up. And when I do, the last thing I want to do is tell my kids. But I fight my intense need to be right and say, “Sorry kids, Mom’s not perfect.”</div>
<div>
</div>
</li>
<li><strong><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Have Honor and Integrity.</span></strong><div>
These can be challenging for a teen to grasp. We watch movies that embody honor and integrity like: <em>Scent of a Woman, Officer and a Gentlemen, Grand Torino and Witness</em>.</div>
</li>
</ul>
<div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #9fc5e8;"><strong>How are you raising your future man?</strong></span></div>
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Thanks for stopping by.</div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b>Please support me with your honesty.</b></div>
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<img align="center" alt="Buffi" src="http://i882.photobucket.com/albums/ac22/imbuffi/MyBlog/BuffiSignature.gif" style="border: 0px currentColor;" /><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="color: orange;">Update on the book: </span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">CreateSpace just started formating the INSIDE of the book- So Excited! </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Due to be in print before this summer *big smile*</span></strong></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-2341005049717016462012-06-21T10:23:00.001-04:002012-10-01T13:04:24.907-04:00Calm Down. It's Not A Crack Pipe!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhskk1jq-jZ6yUFHICfFaGZdWWBCfC6Ip0BmH7vAHoUHF1wFZ8_c1lNlIaC1y2frXgiU2cLu8H4NCTzld6WnCFCQx5knR3Svbqr3ERPWDXaW1slIqYZOadqGZypBO8gGqnNY1s6VVbgfOYk/s1600/Wonderfully-Dysfunctional-Roof-of-car.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhskk1jq-jZ6yUFHICfFaGZdWWBCfC6Ip0BmH7vAHoUHF1wFZ8_c1lNlIaC1y2frXgiU2cLu8H4NCTzld6WnCFCQx5knR3Svbqr3ERPWDXaW1slIqYZOadqGZypBO8gGqnNY1s6VVbgfOYk/s320/Wonderfully-Dysfunctional-Roof-of-car.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
And the woman toting a designer bag and high-fashion sunglasses approaches me in the A&P parking lot. <br />
<br />
She snarls, “You really shouldn't let your kids sit on the roof of your car." <br />
<br />
She’s acting like I’m sharing a crack pipe with them. Obviously, I’m not a kid. I don’t have a damn clue why sitting on the roof of the car is fun, but it is. <br />
<br />
"Lighten up. What’s the harm?"<br />
<br />
<strong>Here are some other things I let my kids do:</strong><br />
<ul>
<li>Jump off of the second floor balcony onto the couch</li>
<li>Draw with soap crayons all over the windows</li>
<li>Climb out their bedroom windows and sit on the roof</li>
<li>Drink coffee</li>
<li>Shoot my bird house with airsoft guns</li>
</ul>
<strong>But, more importantly, here are the things I don’t let my kids do</strong><br />
<ul>
<li>Bully other kids</li>
<li>Disrespect grownups</li>
<li>Drink mountain dew, Monster, or Beer</li>
</ul>
I’ve seen lots of disrespectful little bullies in the schoolyard these days. Maybe parents should reconsider what bad behavior is.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #9fc5e8;">What do you let your little brats do?</span></div>
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Thanks for stopping by.</div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b>Please support me with your honesty.</b></div>
<div style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<img align="center" alt="Buffi" src="http://i882.photobucket.com/albums/ac22/imbuffi/MyBlog/BuffiSignature.gif" style="border: 0px currentColor;" /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com45tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-43114530370800337522012-06-14T09:51:00.002-04:002012-10-01T13:09:42.858-04:00Hello God. It’s me, Buffi.<div style="clear: both;">
<span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; font-family: Calibri;"></span><br /></div>
<strong><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">And here it is... the cover proof.</span></strong> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU7uiBsYRohTNoCgpFMMg5QHbPfbMxMLIEoFz7B84676nk4V-bHxyaOLqJ1UIaJvaF7m45Zp3xgKA3TH7uYuKR__3oBqRw01FSVmu42wOy4RGu3kz0U1KluqCZlSw7zHn0kELl0ffCjfxs/s1600/WonderfullyDysfunctionalCover06142012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU7uiBsYRohTNoCgpFMMg5QHbPfbMxMLIEoFz7B84676nk4V-bHxyaOLqJ1UIaJvaF7m45Zp3xgKA3TH7uYuKR__3oBqRw01FSVmu42wOy4RGu3kz0U1KluqCZlSw7zHn0kELl0ffCjfxs/s1600/WonderfullyDysfunctionalCover06142012.jpg" /></a></div>
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I was so thrilled to see the proof this morning! I even printed it out and wrapped it around a Judy Blume book. Now, I’m walking around the house with this jury-rigged version of my book. I turn to the dishwasher and say, “Would you like me to sign your copy?” That’s how insane this publishing process has made me! Someone commit me.</div>
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<br /></div>
Anyway, I need to approve this design or submit a change request. Here’s my dilemma: I think the subtitle and my name are hard to read. <strong>What do you think?</strong><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Thanks for stopping by!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<strong>Please support me with your honesty.</strong></div>
<strong></strong><div style="text-align: center;">
<img src="http://i882.photobucket.com/albums/ac22/imbuffi/MyBlog/BuffiSignature.gif" style="border: 0px currentColor; text-align: left;" /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
CreateSpace gets an A!<br />
I used CreateSpace for the cover design and I think they did a good job. They got me the cover quickly and really listened to my needs. I’m holding the final review of their services until the end.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-37669619362958822952012-06-06T09:12:00.001-04:002012-10-01T13:04:51.883-04:00I'm a Senior Driver (re-posted)<div style="clear: both;">
I was walking out of the bagel store yesterday and noticed a car parked crooked. The back end was all the way over the white line into another parking space. <b>Don’t you HATE that?</b></div>
<br />
I was secretly having a discussion with the driver saying things like:<br />
<span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">“Did your five year old park the car for you?” and “Did you get hit over the head with a baseball bat today?”</span><br />
<br />
But then it happened. I realized the parked car was mine! But here’s the really terrible part – it was not the first time this week I did that. <strong>What’s wrong with me?</strong> <br />
<br />
Now I’m saying to myself:<br />
<span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">“It’s only a matter of time.” and “You’re only as old as you act.”</span><br />
<br />
This is how it all began. First I started peeing my pants every time I laughed, now I can’t park straight and before you know it I’ll be on line for the early-bird specials at the local Perkins. <br />
<br />
And then one day, when I’m not paying attention, I'll run one of my kids over…<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_obut3iOyY33JLrIj7C2r9cgSUZ-cF4d_8MhOxK98ZW3KhLDp748xsv2NVlVCFQQC__-nxchLqxXBfBVq-aIvjgDcX7emCpFCmrZCXzRWnY_aQQG-WLvftE0QUqONNztKfbn4XURdGyec/s1600/DSCN0674.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_obut3iOyY33JLrIj7C2r9cgSUZ-cF4d_8MhOxK98ZW3KhLDp748xsv2NVlVCFQQC__-nxchLqxXBfBVq-aIvjgDcX7emCpFCmrZCXzRWnY_aQQG-WLvftE0QUqONNztKfbn4XURdGyec/s320/DSCN0674.JPG" /></a></div>
<br />
OK… don’t freak out – I’m in a parking lot here and my daughter is acting. We were laughing so hard I peed my pants - really!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong><span lang="EN-AU" style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Have you turned into a Senior Driver?</span><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Thanks for stopping by.</div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b>Please support me with your honesty.</b></div>
<div style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img align="center" alt="Buffi" src="http://i882.photobucket.com/albums/ac22/imbuffi/MyBlog/BuffiSignature.gif" style="border: 0px currentColor;" /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-42255345296708474152012-04-18T08:18:00.000-04:002012-10-01T13:05:14.711-04:00Thinking Outside the Bath<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHEa5j7KaA5RFilyJAirVX2X9kH5ngFUmfm37z1BF-xOD_ofZojHG4H8cDiyr1kTEXYRFTeRLcsZ9wsKValff_VRNC69uhKPqBbN4uqVpWP_ib7NELvv_VNUSyN_bJmuMZohk3g4VjGT13/s1600/Bathtime.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHEa5j7KaA5RFilyJAirVX2X9kH5ngFUmfm37z1BF-xOD_ofZojHG4H8cDiyr1kTEXYRFTeRLcsZ9wsKValff_VRNC69uhKPqBbN4uqVpWP_ib7NELvv_VNUSyN_bJmuMZohk3g4VjGT13/s1600/Bathtime.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHEa5j7KaA5RFilyJAirVX2X9kH5ngFUmfm37z1BF-xOD_ofZojHG4H8cDiyr1kTEXYRFTeRLcsZ9wsKValff_VRNC69uhKPqBbN4uqVpWP_ib7NELvv_VNUSyN_bJmuMZohk3g4VjGT13/s320/Bathtime.jpg" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was summertime almost a decade ago. I was a workin’ mama with toddlers in the house. The night was no different than most. Dinner was done and we were making the most of the remaining daylight. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then it came. <strong>My nightly torture: <em>Bathtime</em>.</strong></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bathtime meant prying the baby girl’s arms from the jungle gym and yanking the baby boy from the blowup pool. Then lots of “Mommy I got soap in my eyes.” Followed by, “No you can’t dump the water on the floor.” </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">If the dimming sky didn’t remind me that Bathtime was near, the family alarm clock would.<br />Husband: “You need to give the kids a bath tonight.”<br />Me: “I just gave them one last night.”<br />Husband: “They’ve been running around all day. They look like sweaty little pigs.”<br />Me: “Its baby sweat. It doesn’t even smell.”</span></span></div>
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The kids are so smart. Show one chink in the parental armor and they dig in with their sharp little nails. “I don’t want to take a bath.” Then the parrot, “Me too.” Then the Husband, “Why aren’t the kids in the bath yet?”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>At the end of Bathtime, I was the only one ready for bed.</strong></span></span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I could have consulted with parenting.com article on <a href="http://www.parenting.com/article/making-bathtime-fun-again" target="_blank">Making Bathtime Fun Again</a>. I could have bought more bath toys, given formal notification before pouring water over their heads, or filled the bath with only an inch of water. <em>Really?</em></span></span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maybe I should have consulted my mother. You know her generation had to bathe their children in water carried in from the well. What do we modern-moms have to complain about?</span></span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>So, what did I do? </strong></span></span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I threw out the advice and did it my way. I brought the bath out to them. I placed the blowup baby pool on the deck and filled it with warm water (used a good old fashioned hose for that). Then, I handed them a bottle of no-tears baby shampoo, sat on a lounge chair with a glass of wine and watched the magic. The next night we used the kitchen sink.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Bathtime turned into bubbles, laughter and shampoo-hair dos.</strong> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">From that night on, I had the cleanest kids on the block. And I never had to clean the tub again. Win-Win. </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong><span lang="EN-AU" style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">How do you think outside the bath?</span><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
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Thanks for stopping by.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-379170076438838732012-04-04T08:22:00.001-04:002012-10-01T13:06:06.297-04:00Take Your Shorts Off<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHq_DqejwV_FLLBRzYRFDW6Jdmi1kBmZ48asP8nvRZKOH7wFPPgFnn-F6URlqyB2U-sZ7rtnvWBl5t3WQDUV5ghOuXlxh4btBcyy7XN3UxAwvX4oZRi8XdffdGTumNNBy18IjBeuDD1vTQ/s1600/DSC_0489.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Buffi Neal - Wonderfully Dysfunctional" border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHq_DqejwV_FLLBRzYRFDW6Jdmi1kBmZ48asP8nvRZKOH7wFPPgFnn-F6URlqyB2U-sZ7rtnvWBl5t3WQDUV5ghOuXlxh4btBcyy7XN3UxAwvX4oZRi8XdffdGTumNNBy18IjBeuDD1vTQ/s320/DSC_0489.JPG" title="" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My son has a pair of shorts that I absolutely detest. To me, they look like something a corner drug dealer would wear. To him, they look like they got stripped off the body of an NBA player. To make matters even more complicated, they were a gift from his older cousin.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>So, we begin our morning battle:</strong></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br />“Why do you have to wear those shorts when you have a whole drawer of shorts that fit you?”<br />
<br />“These do fit, Mom. They’re supposed to be long.”<br />
<br />I hold up the shorts I just bought him. “Here’s a nice pair. Why don’t you wear these?”<br />
<br />But The Boy is clever. “Okay Mom, I’ll wear those tomorrow.” He runs out the door to catch the bus.<br />
<br />So I look to the experts. In an article entitled <a href="http://www.news.com.au/money/mothers-have-unleashed-the-big-guns-of-wardrobe-warfare/story-e6frfmci-1226284717586#ixzz1o9PLyFh3" target="_blank">Mothers HaveUnleased the Guns of Wardrobe Warfare</a>, moms are paying $300 for personal shoppers to help their teens dress in age-appropriate fashion. <br />
<br /><strong>I’m speechless and nauseous.</strong><br />
<br />An article by parents.com entitled <a href="http://www.parents.com/kids/style/avoid-arguments-what-kids-wear/?page=2" target="_blank">How to Resolve More Clothing Conflicts</a>, encourages parents to bargain with their teens to wear appropriate clothes. Really? Bargain? <br />
<br /><strong>All of my research done, I had a battle-plan.</strong><br />
<br />
The battle replays. But this time is sounds like this:<br />
<br />“Mom! Do you know where my shorts are?”<br />
<br />“I think the new shorts I bought you are in your drawer.”<br />
<br />“No, Mom. The other shorts. The long blue ones. You know Mom, the shorts you hate….”<br />
<br />“Oh, those. Did you check the laundry basket?”<br />
<br />“Not there.”<br />
<br />“Did you check the dryer?”<br />
<br />“I checked. Not there either.”<br />
<br />“That’s weird. Maybe you left them at a friend’s house.”<br />
<br />“What? Come-on, Mom, where are they?”<br />
<br />“You’re gunna be late for school, pick another pair of shorts.”<br />
<br />
The Boy actually wore a nice pair of shorts that morning and every morning after. I didn’t need to break the bank paying for a personal shopper or come up with clever bargaining technique. <br />
<br />
I used good old-fashioned diversion mixed with Mommy-knows-best. I did feel a twinge of guilt. Should I have told him to check the garbage?<br />
</span></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong><span lang="EN-AU" style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">How do you handle your teen wardrobe
battles?</span><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-57868434953668826442012-04-01T19:59:00.000-04:002012-10-01T13:05:38.711-04:00Procrastination<div style="clear: both;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRUbO6jBTsz58O-b5kRHFcjIoP5-ztJrObK6H9lAuZAUcmWRiGLQ3bJ1YvUQMNvd6nlzYyO41a3CvQNqsS8i6LH3z1rfx4Yndj4AdE7KpzSIBgfvcQCpelPPLO9jScYaK12mZ5Ig5aWCcz/s1600/BuffiWriting2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRUbO6jBTsz58O-b5kRHFcjIoP5-ztJrObK6H9lAuZAUcmWRiGLQ3bJ1YvUQMNvd6nlzYyO41a3CvQNqsS8i6LH3z1rfx4Yndj4AdE7KpzSIBgfvcQCpelPPLO9jScYaK12mZ5Ig5aWCcz/s320/BuffiWriting2.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRUbO6jBTsz58O-b5kRHFcjIoP5-ztJrObK6H9lAuZAUcmWRiGLQ3bJ1YvUQMNvd6nlzYyO41a3CvQNqsS8i6LH3z1rfx4Yndj4AdE7KpzSIBgfvcQCpelPPLO9jScYaK12mZ5Ig5aWCcz/s1600/BuffiWriting2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRUbO6jBTsz58O-b5kRHFcjIoP5-ztJrObK6H9lAuZAUcmWRiGLQ3bJ1YvUQMNvd6nlzYyO41a3CvQNqsS8i6LH3z1rfx4Yndj4AdE7KpzSIBgfvcQCpelPPLO9jScYaK12mZ5Ig5aWCcz/s1600/BuffiWriting2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>It’s been almost one full year since I posted on my blog. Why? Equal parts of life, fear and procrastination.</div>
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<br />
2011 was the year that I put my book and blog aside to help a family member. It was a hard decision, but one I would make again. Six months of neglect left my blog stagnant, my book late and my writing spirit low. That’s life. Sometimes you have to sacrifice for those you love.</div>
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When my family obligation was completed, I found myself completely unable to write. I had lost my edge, my confidence, and once fear showed its ugly little face, procrastination was my only option.</div>
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Psych Basics Article on Procrastination states, “Everyone procrastinates sometimes, but 20 percent of people chronically avoid difficult tasks and deliberately look for distractions.... Procrastinators may say they perform better under pressure, but more often than not that's their way of justifying putting things off.”</div>
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What’s good news? This post is proof that it is possible to overcome procrastination and fear.</div>
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<strong><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Note to my Son: If Mommy can post this blog, after a year of excuses; you can finish that science project you had all month to do.</span></strong></div>
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<br />
I’m on Chapter 13 of my final book edit and my publisher is waiting with my finished cover. I will no longer let my book and blog be the victim of my life, my fears or my procrastination. </div>
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Stay tuned for another post next week. Thanks for all of your emails and constant support. It’s great to have a pen back in my hand.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-29709062192181741682011-04-10T11:02:00.010-04:002012-04-01T20:01:05.982-04:00I Would Never Let MY Kids Walk to School<div style="border: currentColor; clear: both;">
<a href="http://i882.photobucket.com/albums/ac22/imbuffi/DerekSchool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" r6="true" src="http://i882.photobucket.com/albums/ac22/imbuffi/DerekSchool.jpg" width="295" /></a></div>
U.S. Department of Transportation <a href="http://www.nh.gov/dot/org/projectdevelopment/planning/srts/documents/Declinenewsrelease040810.pdf">reports </a>that in 1969 only 12% of kids were driven to school. Today, that number has quadrupled, while the number of kids walking or biking has fallen to a despicable 13%. <br />
<br />
When I was a kid I didn't walk to school uphill both ways, but I did walk. I walked in the snow, in the rain, when I was sick and once with a sprained ankle. We all carried our books in our arms because book bags were for sissies. And when it rained, nobody had an umbrella or a ride home. <br />
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I never once heard Mom say, “Hi sweetie, I'm here to pick you up 'cause it's raining. Here are your headphones so you can watch a movie on the ride home.” And somehow I think I’m much better off having never heard it.<br />
<br />
We no longer build tree forts, we buy them. We don’t watch movies with our kids at the drive-ins. Instead, we drive while our kids watch movies. We control our kid's free time and read eHow.com articles like “How to Plan the Perfect Play Date.” Every morning I join the climate-controlled car line at the bus stop. Is anyone else disgusted?<br />
<br />
We all know that unstructured play is instrumental in the development of a well adjusted child, but still we follow the masses to soccer signups and cheer tryouts. Why should our children be left out? What choice do we have? The <a href="http://greatergood.berkeley.edu/raising_happiness/post/let_kids_just_play/">Let Kids Just Play </a>article written by Berkley.edu confirms that “unstructured play time is actually more important than homework.”<br />
<br />
So, how can I combat this parental trend without ostracizing my kids from all of their friends? I have no idea, but for the next week, I’m going to use Mom’s translations for all my common parenting phrases:<br />
<br />
<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2"><tbody>
<tr><td><strong>I would say</strong></td><td><strong>Mom would say</strong></td></tr>
<tr><td><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">“Time for your Play Date”</span></td><td><span style="background-color: #fce5cd;">“Get outside and don’t come in ‘till dinner.”</span></td></tr>
<tr><td><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">“You need a Time Out”</span></td><td><span style="background-color: #fce5cd;">“You’re in deep shit.”</span></td></tr>
<tr><td><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">“Organized Sports”</span></td><td><span style="background-color: #fce5cd;">“Summer Rec, Pickup games and Curb-Ball”</span></td></tr>
<tr><td><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">“Helicopter Parent”</span></td><td><span style="background-color: #fce5cd;">There’s no translation. Abstinence is the only choice.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Sorry to cut this post short, but I’ve gotta get to the bus stop to pick up the kids. After all, it's raining, their book bags are heavy, and we have some play dates to plan.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
How will you rid yourself of modern parenting?</div>
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This post is linked to the following blogs:</div>
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<a href="http://www.mommyheadadventures.com/" target="_blank"><img height="75" src="http://i846.photobucket.com/albums/ab22/tarapaige1/cupcake1-1-1.jpg" /></a> <a href="http://www.shibleysmiles.com/tag/relax-surf" target="_blank"><img alt="Sunday Blog Hop Shibley Smiles" height="75" src="http://www.shibleysmiles.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/SundayButton.jpg" /></a> <a href="http://www.inspiringyou2save.com/" target="_blank"><img height="75" src="http://i341.photobucket.com/albums/o386/jakennedy1111/IYTSButton2-1.jpg" /></a></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-87558237763273597402011-04-02T19:02:00.006-04:002013-09-02T08:48:01.791-04:00Protect Our Children, Stop Keeping Score?<div style="border: currentColor;">
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<a href="http://www.wonderfullydysfunctional.com/" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" height="320" src="http://i882.photobucket.com/albums/ac22/imbuffi/DSCN1478.jpg" width="281" /></a>When I was a kid, Field Day was the Olympics of grade school. It was a day we looked forward to all year. It was our chance to win the coveted blue First-Place ribbon in kickball, sprints or the three-legged race.</div>
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It was my daughter’s fifth grade Field Day and I was in charge of the basketball throwing station. Adrenalin-filled voices echoed through the school yard, tickling my memories. <br />
<br />
I instructed the kids, “Each team member gets one shot. The team with the highest score wins...”</div>
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A designer-clothes-wearing volunteer mom interrupted, “Oh no. We don’t keep score. Everybody’s a winner.”</div>
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Another Nosey-Nelly added, “She’s right. This is Field Day. This is supposed to be fun.”<br />
<br />
What’s not fun about keeping score? These kids are ten; I think they can count. It’s mathematically and logically impossible for everyone to be a winner.<br />
<br />
I said, “I tell you what, next year, you sign up to be Class Mom. Then you run field day however the hell you want. This year we’re keepin’ score.”<br />
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When did “Everybody’s-A-Winner” awards and “You-Participated” gold medals replace Fist-Place trophies? What are we teaching our children with these? Maybe an undeserved award will boost their self esteem. Maybe they can stare at the awards and pretend they don’t know who really won. </div>
<br />
In the Newsweek article <a href="http://www.newsweek.com/blogs/the-human-condition/2009/09/02/winning-isn-t-everything-why-everyone-gets-a-turn-may-be-good-for-little-kids.html">Winning Isn’t Everything…</a>, Leslie Goldman writes, “But after a certain age, sports aren’t just about fun and games. They are a critical tool to teaching kids about discipline, hard work, and winning and losing.”<br />
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Life is unfair, but we can’t make it fair by pretending everyone’s a winner. We can make it fair by teaching our kids how to win gracefully and loose with dignity and find their special talent – that one thing that they want to achieve. We’re not all awarded the valedictorian title or presidential job, but we can all strive for it. In America, that’s called opportunity.<br />
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There’s much to be learned from losing and much to be learned from winning. I’m just not sure what’s learned from pretending we’re not competing.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-6038334499089350242011-02-25T09:30:00.007-05:002011-04-10T11:04:42.380-04:00Contributing to the Delinquency of my Minors?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.wonderfullydysfuncitonal.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Wonderfully Dysfunctional" border="0" l6="true" src="http://i882.photobucket.com/albums/ac22/imbuffi/MandyPokerFace.jpg" /></a></div>Some families play Monopoly, some play Chutes-n-Ladders. In my house the game of choice is Poker. Texas Hold ‘Em.<br />
<br />
To make it even more deplorable, we don’t play for silly prizes or trinkets. No way! We play for money, green hard cash. If the kids want to play, they know to bring their piggy banks because Mommy doesn’t bank roll their gambling.<br />
<br />
Not everyone appreciates our love for Poker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During family parties, my children are banned from the poker table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Family members scold: “It’s inappropriate… You’re raising degenerates … Gambling leads to crime.” And my personal favorite, “What next?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Money laundering?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But they’re scolding me while counting chips and peaking at their own poker hands.<br />
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Why do I let them play Poker? Because poker is our equalizer. It bridges the gap between our ages. My teens become people. We interact, laugh and talk. It works for us. <br />
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Why not play board games? I wish I liked board games. Really I do. But I’d rather stick hot burning embers in my eyes than play with paper money or dice. I hate board games and my kids can tell – they know when Mom’s bluffing ;-). <br />
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A well-known Harvard law professor Charles Nesson wants to teach kids the skills of life using poker. He says, “Though just a game, poker teaches survival skills and encourages the development of good instincts. A good poker player learns to size up the competition quickly and decide where potential risks lie."<br />
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Acquiring math and life skills is just a bonus. I spend a lot of my time teaching, lecturing, or punishing my kids. Poker allows me to just play with them. Don’t worry, it’s not casino central every night. Here are other equalizers we’ve found: <br />
<ul><li>Cooking Channel – A compromise between their teen-trash and my chick flicks. </li>
<li>Colombo DVD series –Colombo rocks and is good for ages 9 and up.</li>
<li>Trampoline – Jumping on the trampoline reminds the kids that Mom’s not so old.</li>
<li>Set – A card game that doesn’t include betting and bluffing. Yes, we have some! </li>
</ul>I’m not saying Poker is the answer for you. And I’m not picketing the schools to get poker into the classrooms. I’m saying find what suits your family and don’t be afraid to look outside the norm. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong>What are your equalizers?</strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Thanks for stopping by.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Please support me with your honesty.</b></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://www.ohsosavvymom.com/"><img border="0" height="75" src="http://i1046.photobucket.com/albums/b465/lizgiver/FeedMeFriday.jpg" /></a> <a href="http://www.smartandtrendymoms.com/search/label/socialparade" target="_blank"><img alt="Smart and Trendy Moms" border="0" height="75" src="http://i778.photobucket.com/albums/yy64/smartandtrendymoms/Untitled-1.png" /></a> <a href="http://www.chubbycheeksthinks.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="75" src="http://i155.photobucket.com/albums/s317/stephaniesblog/button2-3.png" /></a></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-73407196941313858842011-02-18T09:18:00.009-05:002011-03-01T21:59:59.960-05:00Entrepreneur or Thief?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i882.photobucket.com/albums/ac22/imbuffi/DSCN2768.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" j6="true" src="http://i882.photobucket.com/albums/ac22/imbuffi/DSCN2768.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>The Principal called me last night and said, “We have a big problem.”<br />
<br />
She must have dialed the wrong number because my kids are perfect. I said, “Really?”<br />
<br />
“Your son is selling the use of his iPod.”<br />
“Oh, that.”<br />
“He was polite and honest when I confronted him. Did you know he's collected over $60?”<br />
“I know. Pretty smart huh?”<br />
The principal barked, “It’s against school policy.”<br />
<br />
Wait a minute. What about your fundraisers? You gave my son wrapping paper and candles and sent him out like a traveling sales man. You enticed him with promises of a <i>Super Grand Prize</i> that he was convinced he’d win. Hmmm… I wonder where he got the idea it was okay to sell at school?<br />
<br />
The principal continued, “We expect your son to return all of the money.”<br />
“He didn’t bully anyone. He wasn’t charging for friendship. He was providing a service and they bought it. It’s an iPod, not crack.”<br />
The principal said, “I’ll be contacting the parents of the other kids.” <br />
<br />
Great. Let’s really punish those kids for participating in the foundation of our country’s economic system. Kids have been putting quarters in pinball machines for years. They get value and the owner of the pinball machine gets compensated. It’s called Capitalism. I agree my son should not be breaking any rules, but return the money?<br />
<br />
“No problem. My son will bring back all of the money tomorrow.”<br />
<br />
He’ll also be bringing in some wrapping paper and I’ll be expecting a $45 refund too. It’ll be a great lesson for my son about how the customer is always right and the duty of a business to provide refunds.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">I wonder what the other kids will learn from this?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">* Disclaimer for the lawyers: The conversation above is a representation of a real conversation. My mind is not capable of recalling the exact words. I am in no way condoning breaking school rules, nor am I criticizing the actions of the principal. We all have our jobs and mine is to parent.</span></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Thanks for stopping by.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Please support me with your honesty.</b></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><img align="center" src="http://i882.photobucket.com/albums/ac22/imbuffi/MyBlog/BuffiSignature.gif" style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></div><div style="text-align: center;">This post is linked to the following blogs:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://beonefineday.blogspot.com/"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" height="75" src="http://i793.photobucket.com/albums/yy211/nantawan1/but.jpg" /></a> <a href="http://momroad.com/"><img alt="Follow Along Fridays" border="0" height="75" src="http://www.dsaffo.com/blog/followalongfridays.jpg" /></a> <a href="http://www.smartandtrendymoms.com/search/label/socialparade" target="_blank"><img alt="Smart and Trendy Moms" border="0" height="75" src="http://i778.photobucket.com/albums/yy64/smartandtrendymoms/Untitled-1.png" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-16202251271802570382011-02-11T19:23:00.007-05:002011-02-18T09:22:16.865-05:00Taming the Bully<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGMwCckrygdNN7kSamlBnWf9jXUMge0Mt_cXp7828oAU2xUnqBQqRAJFDJgWB5YD9oBVgzErhkAdiFfjgiFrhfXR1p0FrcttP1lrzqe3W5k5tl2EozhnacrPtfVJ2AnHtiVedTe9znVDJO/s1600/DSC_0672.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGMwCckrygdNN7kSamlBnWf9jXUMge0Mt_cXp7828oAU2xUnqBQqRAJFDJgWB5YD9oBVgzErhkAdiFfjgiFrhfXR1p0FrcttP1lrzqe3W5k5tl2EozhnacrPtfVJ2AnHtiVedTe9znVDJO/s320/DSC_0672.JPG" width="212" /></a></div><a href="http://newyork.cbslocal.com/2011/02/03/desperate-times-call-for-the-anti-bullying-coach/">CBSNewYork.com</a> reports, <em>“The Department of Education estimates as many as 160,000 children a day stay home from school because of the threat.”</em><br />
<br />
<div></div>There are all degrees of bullying and sometimes kids can even be bullied by adults. On her second week of First grade, I asked my daughter, “Why don’t you want to buy lunch at school anymore?”<br />
<br />
<div></div>She said, “’cause the Lunch Lady screams at me.”<br />
<br />
<div></div>Fighting back all instincts to race to school and kick some crotchety-ass, I said, “There’s only one thing we can do. Bake her cookies.”<br />
<br />
<div></div>We baked the cookies together and imagined why the Lunch Lady was so mean. Maybe she just had a hard life. Maybe she planned on retiring to Florida with her high school sweetheart, but he died before they ever made it out of New Jersey. Now she’s stuck making grilled-cheese sandwiches and mopping floors. Or maybe she just hates the way she looks in a hairnet. We don’t know her story. <br />
<br />
<div></div>My daughter packed the cookies into a brown lunch bag and wrote: <em>To My Lunch Lady, Love Amanda. </em><br />
<br />
<div></div>She brought cookies to school and handed them over, reluctantly. The Lunch Lady didn’t even glance down. She screamed, “Move it!” <br />
<br />
<div></div>But when Amanda turned around to look at the beast she saw it. It was so brief and subtle anyone else would have missed it completely. A wink and a smile. Lunch Lady never screamed at Amanda again.<br />
<br />
<div></div>Not only did my daughter tame the heart of the bologna-beast, she also learned a few life lessons:<br />
<ul><li>Don't be the victim</li>
<li>You have more power than you think</li>
<li>Love is much stronger than hatred</li>
<li>Trust your Mommy</li>
</ul>Not all bullies should be tamed. I teach my kids the first step is to tell someone.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
Thanks for stopping by.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Please support me with your honesty.</b></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">This post is linked to the following blogs:<br />
<a border="0" href="http://www.chubbycheeksthinks.com/" target="_blank"><img height="75" src="http://i58.photobucket.com/albums/g240/kimmie1432/blog/SurfinSaturdaysButton.jpg" /></a> <a border="0" href="http://www.chubbycheeksthinks.com/" target="_blank"><img height="75" src="http://i155.photobucket.com/albums/s317/stephaniesblog/button2-3.png" /></a> <a href="http://honestgirlreviews.blogspot.com/search/label/satbloghop"><img height="75" src="http://i35.tinypic.com/29vm5ol.jpg" /></a> <a href="http://amoroccan-acat-and-my-bigass.blogspot.com/search/label/Spicy%20Weekend%20Hop"><img height="75" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCyLa9e1Ct24Ge81rv9pNHJ2X_Nhc_vMEeFSzGae3Ww2WQ66dImn8uE-z-ssuIaf-IcgP5H9tr1U3lHH8SXUJlu4T1ui2K7JFq40PypR-87KRJfzsXbLV-vwd710CTh0OEzrbEALWsn7w/s320/hop.jpg" /></a><br />
<div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-35659489204407545862011-02-03T07:29:00.007-05:002011-02-11T19:28:28.886-05:00Don’t Judge the Bully<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4zrMqPtw44E448ZyZjCz9M1qiuw6K8uxzGDV9fsXV3IDCP9bfyMRE38NU52Fv_xgdZfcAUJtkzhvP1CF7TpXZootaYmVchOE-90wnsdvOIR97i-bFQx0g_T3m1MmBmiHT21dfDWPuPJQD/s1600/DSC_0345.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4zrMqPtw44E448ZyZjCz9M1qiuw6K8uxzGDV9fsXV3IDCP9bfyMRE38NU52Fv_xgdZfcAUJtkzhvP1CF7TpXZootaYmVchOE-90wnsdvOIR97i-bFQx0g_T3m1MmBmiHT21dfDWPuPJQD/s320/DSC_0345.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Even in our sweet little country town, there are bullies masquerading in clean-cut haircuts and Abercrombie polos. They can be found in the schoolyard, on the bus, and even in my neighborhood. They taunt, push, spit, steal seats and say stupid things like, “Nobody likes you,” and “You’re gay.” <br />
<br />
In the Yahoo News article by <i>Steven Nelson</i>, <a href="http://news.yahoo.com/s/dailycaller/20110106/pl_dailycaller/christiesignsantibullyingbillofrightsintolaw">New Jersey Governor Chris Christie signs ‘Anti-Bullying Bill of Rights’ into law</a>, State Sen. Diane Allen said, “We cannot change human nature, we can change how government and school officials respond to unacceptable behavior.”<br />
<br />
<div>Bullies are not new. I remember watching them beat up the same kid every day. I didn't know what to do and I still regret not doing anything. My kids will not regret. I put together four simple rules for my kids to follow:</div><ol><li><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><strong>Don’t be <em>The Bully</em>. </strong></span>You can’t control others, but you can yourself. Joining a Bully makes you a Bully.</li>
<li><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><strong>Help the underdog. </strong></span>You don’t have a choice. You must help. Even if you feel weird, even if it makes you unpopular, and even if you’re scared. Helping may be telling a teacher. Doing nothing makes you a Bully.</li>
<li><strong><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Never hit first. Always hit back</span><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">. </span></strong>If someone lays their hands, feet or teeth on you, hit them back harder.</li>
<li><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><strong>Never hit a girl, even if she’s <em>The Bully</em>. </strong></span>Let God take care of her punishment.</li>
</ol>I tell my kids to think about what a terrible life <i>The Bully</i> must have. Maybe <i>The Bully</i> has a mean daddy who hits him every night. Maybe <i>The Bully</i> has a mean older brother, or a dying parent.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Don’t be <i>The Bully</i> , Don’t put up with <i>The Bully</i> and Don’t judge <i>The Bully</i>.</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
How do you teach your kids about bullying?</div><div style="text-align: center;">Thanks for stopping by.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Please support me with your honesty.</b></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">This post is linked to the following blogs:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://takeitfrom-me.blogspot.com/2011/02/welcome-wednesday-2211.html"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" height="75" src="http://i952.photobucket.com/albums/ae7/KWynder/WelcomeWednesday.jpg" /></a> <a href="http://www.obviously-marvelous.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="Obviously MARvelous" height="75" src="http://i745.photobucket.com/albums/xx97/fortheloveof6/Untitled1.png" /></a> <a border="0" href="http://www.chubbycheeksthinks.com/" target="_blank"><img height="75" src="http://i58.photobucket.com/albums/g240/kimmie1432/blog/SurfinSaturdaysButton.jpg" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-499608354279488667.post-22672674761232810182011-01-24T09:21:00.009-05:002011-02-03T07:33:11.746-05:00Good Mommies Don’t Bribe Their Kids<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSU9tTiSO1Q7lProoAdzCWHBh_CgGK1eVJsZOFHCNEArN830WiDLNsm3wH_PSv6PFQFV4x-ACUMKdyqAJWZsx_xl1tT2ZX6asioLp7SgIHMZCuRRnCgZ4jEuwswAXvsE_ZQc882wDvgn4C/s1600/2005_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSU9tTiSO1Q7lProoAdzCWHBh_CgGK1eVJsZOFHCNEArN830WiDLNsm3wH_PSv6PFQFV4x-ACUMKdyqAJWZsx_xl1tT2ZX6asioLp7SgIHMZCuRRnCgZ4jEuwswAXvsE_ZQc882wDvgn4C/s320/2005_2.JPG" width="213" /></a></div><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">I guess I’m a bad mommy, ‘cause bribing is rampant in our home.</span> <br />
<br />
A recent TIME cover story <a href="http://www.time.com/time/nation/article/0,8599,1978589,00.html">Should Kids Be Bribed to Do Well in School?</a> by Amanda Ripley shows bribing may have merits.<br />
<br />
<em>"Money is not enough. (It never is.) But for some kids, it may be part of the solution. In the end, we all want our children to grow into self-motivated adults. The question is, How do we help them get there? And is it possible that at least for some kids, the road is paved not with stickers but with $20 bills?"</em><br />
<br />
There are plenty of things my kids have to do “because I said so” like clean their rooms, take out the garbage and kiss me good night. But, there are other things they should have a choice about. They are, after all, human beings with free will. This is where my bribing comes in. <br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Here's some cash I've recently paid out:</span><br />
$5 – to play with younger cousin<br />
$2 – to smile for a picture<br />
$10 – to pick up a dead mouse (I would have paid more)<br />
$1 – to warm up the car<br />
$3 – to taste zucchini<br />
$20 – to get a crew cut<br />
$50 – for straight A’s<br />
<br />
Most of the time, we settle on a price. But sometimes, like when I offered $10 and a Starbuck’s Hot Coco to take a picture on Santa’s lap, they just say no.<br />
<br />
I think, if done properly, bribing has a place in a happy home. What do you think?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Thanks for stopping by.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Please support me with your honesty.</b></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">This post is linked to the following blogs:<br />
<a href="http://takeitfrom-me.blogspot.com/2011/02/welcome-wednesday-2211.html"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" height="75" src="http://i952.photobucket.com/albums/ae7/KWynder/WelcomeWednesday.jpg" /></a> <a href="http://www.sheltonmade.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img height="75" src="http://i41.photobucket.com/albums/e287/KimberlyCarl/125by125NEWWorkWeekBlogHop.jpg" /></a> <a href="http://rachelsgiveaways.blogspot.com/2011/01/relax-and-make-friends-wednesday-blog_25.html" target="_blank"><img height="75" src="http://i1090.photobucket.com/albums/i366/Rachelsgiveaways/relaxbutton.jpg" /></a> <a href="http://thethingswefindinside.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="The Things We Find Inside" height="75" src="http://i1213.photobucket.com/albums/cc473/lilpurpleshortie2/Partyhop-1.jpg" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04225509798789205842noreply@blogger.com20