Natalie Whatley

Eleven short weeks ago this mother of three school-aged children was ecstatic over trading hectic schedules for the less rigorous days of summer. But today, dear friends, I sit equally as delighted that in just over twenty four hours the 2010-2011 school year will begin. I’m fickle that way. My sanity stays precariously balanced on a time-spent-with-offspring continuum.  Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy sharing days with the ones I love, but we’ve reached the saturation point. In short, we’re getting on each other’s nerves.

With three sets of everything to keep up with over and above myself, each new year presents challenges. But the bright side is watching my babies — two of which tower over me and have facial hair, the other will be looking me in the eye in no time — grow and mature through new experiences. (I just realized as I typed that last sentence: They are progressing, and I seem to be regressing. Oh my. That will have to be a discussion for another day, but thank you for bringing about that realization.)

This year will be full of firsts and lasts. I suppose in many ways each year is, but for this year our milestones are big. I’m bound to shed a tear, or maybe two million. The good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise: My oldest will graduate from high school. (That boy knows I love him to the ends of the earth, but he and I have rarely seen eye-to-eye on educational matters. I’m certain our relationship will improve a thousand-fold when he dons his cap and gown.) The middle child will spend his last year in junior high while the baby girl is just getting started there.  (If you see Jeremy around town, ask him how excited he is to be attending school once again on the same campus as his little sister. He can barely contain his emotions.)

Me, I’m just ready for them to get out of my house. Goodness, that sounds harsh, doesn’t it? Of course I don’t mean forever, just during the day so I can get back to my routine. It’s sort of sad how accustomed to being alone I have gotten. I found myself getting annoyed having to prepare my lunch with others in the kitchen.  Beside the fact that I was lunching while they were foraging for breakfast, I’m used to having all the counter and moving around space I want. It wasn’t such an issue when they were small, but now, they take up some real estate and we sort of get in each other’s way.  Oh, and they’re teen-aged moody. Not good when standing near me and sharp implements. I get ideas beyond slicing tomato.

Don’t worry, though, it’s said absence makes the heart grow fonder, so I’ll be back to adoring their cherubic faces as soon as their not in mine all day.

Hope everyone has a great start to the new school year!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

This past week was one crazy and contradictory journey. It saw me through a road trip I’d fantasized about for quite some time. But much to my surprise, when the light turned green I had a difficult time placing my foot on the accelerator.

Twelve short years ago, while three months pregnant and wrangling two boys ages five and two, I met Blue. It was love at first sight.

He was a brand-new, 1999 Chevrolet Suburban with all the seating and room my growing family would ever need – the quintessential mommy-mobile. (Some hold minivans in such esteem, but for reasons I can’t quite explain, I refused to go there. They’re just not me, but if you love yours, I respect that.)

Blue carried us home that day, and a long committed relationship began. Over the years he’s been present and provided reliable transportation for many major milestones: took all three of my children to their first days of kindergarten, brought home baby number three from the hospital, carried us safely to Florida for a Disney family vacation  . . . the list goes on and on.

Of course it’s easy to remember the big events, but what I appreciate the most about Blue was how he was always there for me day in, day out. There were hundreds of trips to the grocery store, school outings, doctor appointments, containing and transporting treasures I found during the course of my days; he safely delivered me and my cargo to every place we needed to be – even when there was no particular destination save for a needed clearing of the mind.

But life has a way of changing and I now find myself in a much different place. Today I’m feeling blue because my Blue is out in the driveway with “For Sale” painted on his large windows. I can hardly bear it.

Research has been done – some scientifically formal and some pure quackery – on the theory of “you are what you drive”. I read a good deal of it, and can say that Blue absolutely personified me and where I was in life for many years.  As you all know, I’m in a far different place now and so is Blue.

I won’t come right out and tell you what has taken Blue’s place, but she’s red, sleek, has a sun roof, and dare I say, a “Kathunka-boomer” stereo. (Thanks to my fellow columnist, Chris Buckner, for providing me with that term. In honor of you, Chris, I’ll turn it down whilst fueling. I’m classy that way.) You should read what the “you are what you drive” research says about all that. Because I like to remain mysterious, I won’t confirm or deny its validity.     

I’ve already admitted to being somewhat in a midlife-crisis sort of place, so I’m taking all the comments along those lines in stride. Plus, I know that while “crisis” often has a negative feel, it can go the opposite direction and simply be a turning point. For certain, my traveling companions can attest to some sharp turns and being jostled about without warning.

Thanks for all the rides, Blue, and for your gentle way of tempering my spirited flares. I’ll keep those lessons in mind when Red throws too much fuel on the fire.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

If you’re reading this on Saturday, pray for me, send me some good vibes, well wishes – something, anything, because I’ll be entrenched in what is hands-down the most exhausting, costly day of the year for me. If you’re reading on Sunday, well, I’ve already collapsed and may or may not awaken.  If you see me here again next week, you’ll know I survived.

Before I waltz into my tale of woe, I must first state that I am blessed beyond words to have three physically healthy children. I never take that for granted. (Their mental health is debatable. I’m doing my best, but I don’t always score highly in that department, so…) They’ve tried their hands (and feet) at all sorts of extracurricular activities over the years, but my daughter has gone a steady seven years taking dance lessons.

To seasoned dance parents, I bet I don’t even have to mention what’s happening this weekend. I know some of you are nodding sympathetically while others are thanking their lucky stars those days are behind them.  And I’m sure there are a select few who actually miss it.

Yes, my friends, it’s the highly anticipated (she can’t wait to perform), much dreaded (I have to help her change costumes, hair styles, and make-up many times over and faster than you can say tutu) dance recital.  And this wild tango occurs after spending the two previous consecutive nights rehearsing.

 Jeff enjoys the comforts of home during rehearsals and then gets to sit and see the entire show. Men aren’t allowed in the dressing areas for obvious reasons . . . what I wouldn’t pay to be the daddy, just for that one day. (He can keep the remainder of the year where he toils away to pay for it all.) But, I really don’t mean to complain and there are some deeper thoughts on the subject leaping inside my skull.

As we near the big performance, I always see a hint of mounting frustration with students and teachers alike. The teachers of course want to showcase the growth of their students to the people who tote those kiddos back and forth, spend a small fortune, and wait for hours inside studio. The students:  School is out and most of them are too tired and restless to give a ballet slipper over straight arms and pointed toes.  But somehow, everyone pulls through in the end. I hear the result is spectacular.

When I notice my own little ballerina getting discouraged as she’s pressed to make changes here an there to better the final results, I’m reminded of John Michael Montgomery’s song “Life’s A Dance”. It’s so true.

“Sink or swim you gotta give it a whirl.”

“Life’s a dance you learn as you go, sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow. Don’t worry about what you don’t know. Life’s a dance you learn as you go.”

I could learn a lesson from that myself. I, too, spend some time feeling disheartened – mostly over my inability to keep up with the beat of the music life’s radio chooses for me. Following has never been my thing, and leading requires sure footing that I’m not sure I possess. I guess it doesn’t matter because I’m a great swimmer  . . . even if I look like a fish out of water. 

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Last you all heard I was anxiously anticipating doing cartwheels upon the conclusion of my daughter’s fifth grade graduation ceremony. Cartwheels and a few ecstatic back flips were executed flawlessly – all the Kleenex sent my way was not needed. And I bet you thought that in the end I would sit and blubber. Not a single tear was shed. They don’t count if they stay within the confines of the eyelids.

I am, however, utterly exhausted as I sit staring at an empty page due to be filled by a looming deadline. I’m highly paid for enduring such stress and performing under it. A lesser person would’ve crumbled by now. I, however, am only a little cracked.

It would be nice if my exhaustion stemmed solely from reckless abandon while celebrating finally moving on from elementary school, but tis not the case. My body is merely tired. My mental faculties: shut down as they’ve used up even the emergency reserves.

Every parent of school-aged children knows that as soon as TAKS testing is complete, the calendar is chock full of all sorts of special, fun events. (I heard a few of you snicker. Yes, I know, “fun” is relative.)

Since I have three thusly-aged children, my calendar runneth over and especially last week. I managed to make it to everything I committed to attend – even showed up with a pleasant demeanor and a smile on my haggard face. I use haggard because laced between those numerous events came the death of a family pet and my oldest was in a car accident.

The car accident was minor and no one was injured. While I can’t say the same for the cars involved, I’ll be eternally grateful for that. But the phone call alerting me to the occurrence took at least ten years off my life. I always wondered how I’d react to such a notification. I’m much calmer in real life than in my imagination.

The family pet: a hamster named Justin. He lived a long, full, happy hamster life and passed away inside what could only be described as a rodent’s Taj Mahal. He curled up inside his food bowl, crossed his cute little pink feet and went to sleep.  Given his age, I knew the day was coming, but the timing couldn’t have been worse.

No matter, I dropped everything, helped a distraught child grieve and took care of the final arrangements. I don’t know which of us cried more.

Justin was by far the sweetest hamster we ever had. (I don’t allow just any rodent to sit on my shoulder.) I cried because I knew I was going to miss him chirping sweet nothings into my ear, but what was worse was seeing my child in such agony.

Upon reflection I realized that dealing with death and destruction on a small scale was a good experience for me and my kiddo. It’s guaranteed that life will throw much bigger losses our way. I suppose the little stresses I bemoan and like to blow out of proportion are good training, but it’s not expertise I look forward to using.

I’ll take that Kleenex for real now because in this end I am going to sit and blubber. And when I’m done: a few more ecstatic back flips because this week is over!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

With the kickoff of Memorial Day weekend, summer is unofficially here.

Before I get to the topic rolling around in my noggin this week, let’s pause from the barbecuing and enjoying family and friends to remember the fine men and women of the U.S. military who gave their lives in the service of this country. Freedom must never be taken for granted, and I fully appreciate the price many families have paid. Thank you.

The summer solstice and official beginning of summer won’t roll around until June 21, but here in these parts we know the humidity and hot temps come long before then.

For me, the beginning of June is more miserable than July or August because I’m not yet acclimated to the heat . . . from the sun or the incessant bickering that begins when three siblings begin cohabitating all day, every day after school lets out. I’ve got a few sane hours before that unpleasantness begins, so I’ll move on to more cheerful thoughts.

This coming Wednesday will be a happy, happy day for me – one that has been twelve long years in the making. Emphasis on the long and I can add sixyears if I consider my own elementary school days. That’s almost half my life! But I digress.

My youngest, Erin, will participate in fifth grade graduation exercises at Stephen F. Austin, and I will be forever done with elementary school. Can I get a “Hallelujah!” and an “Amen”? I’m having trouble containing my jubilation. And make no mistake, SFA Elementary is a fine institution of learning packed with the greatest staff ever to grace any school grounds, but I’m weary and ready to move on. 

I’d like to say that I waited until her graduation to allow burn-out to rear its ugly head in the form of some extreme parental laziness, but I can’t. (Yikes! She still has seven years to go.) The Big Guy had it all planned out, though.

My last baby is and always has been an easy-going, can-do kind of girl needing minimal prodding. Had I known she’d be that way before she got here, I would’ve enjoyed carrying her around for nine months instead of fretting over managing her on top of two rambunctious boys.  

I think back to when the oldest started school and how as soon as he came off the bus I was rifling through his backpack – often annoying him with my running commentary of things he considered over and done with.

I can’t recall the last time I went through Erin’s school stuff. As bad as that sounds, up until she got ready-to-get-out-of-school-now-itis, she had been pretty good about alerting me to the items needing my attention. Wow. I transformed from obsessing over everything without provocation to needing things held up in front of my face with flashing lights and alarming sound effects. Sad, but true.

In the end, I’m sure her elementary graduation will be a bittersweet moment. I’ll probably bawl like a hormonal middle-aged woman, just before I do cartwheels down the street. Somebody pass me the Kleenex. I’ll need them when I fall and scrape my knees.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Leave it to me to have something as simple as a furniture delivery causing me to question the status of my mental health. I can’t help it.

Psychology is fascinating and studying it is a demented little hobby of mine. If I do the mental gymnastics required to wrap my mind around possible reincarnation, I realize that I could’ve possibly been Sigmund Freud or Carl Jung in a previous life. Or, at the very least, occupy a twig on their family tree.

That wouldn’t be a problem except that the more I learn the crazier I become. Psychology courses always start with the caveat, “Don’t diagnose yourself.” One can only read so much in the DSM IV —Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders—before seeing bits and pieces of their own being in this psychosis or that neurosis.  However, it was actually a couple of television shows that alerted me to my potential disorder.

Disclaimer: This soul would never, in this lifetime or possibly others, poke fun at those with bona fide, certifiable “issues”. The following will simply be the inner ramblings of my really-does-have-bigger-things-to-worry-about conflicted mind.

My daughter was the lucky recipient of the new furnishings. The impending delivery date (we had a “back, back, back order slip”) gave us ample time to clean out and prepare for the big rearrangement of her room. She’s headed to junior high next year and that fact put her in just the right frame of mind to get rid of many things.

In the bittersweet end, we had cleared the room. It was a great feeling . . . until I realized just how much didn’t make the “donate” pile and had shifted to my bedroom for storage.

In an exhausted state, it hit me that I was going to have to clean out my closet to make room for a few things. And that, my friends, is where my troubles began.

I am the offspring of people who like to keep things – seemingly for sentimental reasons. And over the years as my parents cleaned out their homes they sent boxes to mine. The contents of said boxes were mostly unknown. A quick glance let me know the items were once prized possessions, but I didn’t fully inspect.  I kept it all because . . . well, that’s what I was supposed to do, right?

Having watched one too many episodes of Hoarders on A&E and TLC’s Hoarding: Buried Alive,—series that deal with the compulsive accumulation of too much stuff — I knew that holding on to things could generate massive problems over time.

Here’s what worries me: I had not a single worry standing over a rather large trash can and throwing away a good percentage of my closet contents.

Days later and completely unbothered I watched my “memories” loaded onto the garbage truck.  Then I wondered if the opposite of a hoarder is a cold, heartless, unsentimental shrew. No. The fact that I couldn’t possibly keep a lifetime of memories in my home doesn’t mean I can’t hoard memorable sentiments in my heart. There’s plenty of room in there, and the portability can’t be beat.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

What a relief to see this past week in the rear-view mirror! For those of you removed from school-aged children, the last few days were filled with Texas’ brand of standardized testing — TAKS — Texas Assessment of Knowledge and Skills, which is the current form designed to assess students’ attainment of reading, writing, math, science, and social studies skills required under Texas education standards.

As a mom who has spent the better part of a decade entrenched in the testing cycle, I’m not a fan. For the record, I fully understand the genesis of the whole mess and that it comes down from places far removed from our local educators.

There’s an extensive list of what gets me riled over it, but what had my pollen-dusted nose out of joint enough to cause me to write about it is this: The timing of the late spring tests couldn’t be worse. 

I get that the bulk of the school year is needed to teach the concepts students need in order to be successful, but geez . . . I can’t focus this time of year, and I (supposedly) have maturity on my side.

The sun is shining until very close to bedtime, birds are singing, the sweet fragrance of spring fills the air and it seems most folks just want to be outside doing something, anything, other than what falls under the scope of formal education.

Shoot, I’m writing this surrounded by the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle while sitting on the bank of Cedar Bayou (there are more beautiful bodies of water, but it’s a short walk from where I hang my hat) listening to the buzz of bees, watching the soft ripple of the water and the slight sway of the trees with a light breeze ruffling loose strands of my hair. Near perfection for a mind that needs to wander.

Memories of household chores try their best to interrupt these serene moments. I’m giving serious consideration to dragging the clothes down here and getting the laundry done the old-timey way. That’s as good an excuse as any I can think of to spend the day outdoors. I wonder if the family would mind their clothes smelling of eau de swampe instead of April fresh.

But getting back to testing, of course I put all the important dates on my calendar and made sure the youths in my charge were at least in their beds a little earlier than usual (making them fall asleep before they’re ready is a another issue entirely) and honed my skills as a short-order cook during the breakfast hour. 

These have become the only days I insist on breakfast consisting of something a few notches up from Pop-tarts on the nutritional scale. (I succumbed to the breakfast war a couple of years ago. Call it bad parenting if you’d like. For all intents and purposes, I have three teenagers – trust me when I say I have far bigger eggs to fry.)

Hats off to all the students, teachers, and parents who made it through! Let’s all wave goodbye to that rear-view image and set our sights back through the windshield.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

“Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!  Get your tickets here!  Step right up and enjoy the show!”

Legal disclaimer: Unlike the Ringling Brothers, I cannot guarantee to wow and amaze or even provide “The Greatest Show on Earth”. The price of admission: a few minutes of your time. Sorry, unable to give refunds.  

After admitting I was in a similar predicament as Buridan’s indecisive donkey — dying of starvation and thirst while standing between a pail of water and a haystack — I got a phone call from the wise Gladys “Granny” Adcox of Highlands. I open my ears wide when she speaks because at ninety-four years young she has heard, seen, and practically lived through it all. I count myself lucky to know her.  

“Popcorn! Get your fresh popcorn!”

A sympathetic Granny accurately diagnosed my ailment — the midlife blahs — and offered counsel that gave me great hope: This too shall pass. It may take every bit of ten years to find the exit door, but leave it will. Having something to look forward to is nice.

Her words were such relief. The pressure to completely revamp my life post the-most-labor-intensive-child-rearing years has caused me considerable mental anguish.

“Soda! Ice cold soda, here!”

 The phrase “get a life” sounds simple enough to execute, but I’m not known for taking the easiest route anywhere. Stubborn or just not the brightest bulb? Feel free to reach your own conclusion. No offense will be taken either way.

Trying to figure out the next ten years as opposed to the rest of my life (hypothetically speaking, of course – I don’t forget for one second that there’s no guarantee of a tomorrow) feels so much more like the living in the moment I’m striving to reach.

“Peanuts! Hot roasted peanuts!”

After much reading, deliberation, and a mindset bent on lighting the endless circle of blahs into a ring of fire to somersault through, I have decided to join the circus.

World travel, nomadic life, and glitzy costumes can all be mine. I won’t have to answer to anyone except the audience. Who wouldn’t like to stand before a cheering crowd begging for an encore? My stomach and heart flutter just thinking about it.

“Get your swirling light sticks! Twelve dollars!”

At the bare minimum, I could feed the animals. They would appreciate it and look forward to seeing me. In the other extreme, I have years of experience as a ring leader. Those who can only run three rings have nothing on me, and I can crack a whip like nobody’s business.

As a mom, I’ve been contorting and walking a high wire while performing acrobatics for years. No wonder I’m feeling like I’ve been fired from a cannon.

Many days, life under the bog top sounds sweet, but of course I’m clowning around. A girl can dream. A hormonal woman stuck in midlife knows her best shot at circus employment probably involves being the side-show bearded woman.   

“Cotton candy!”

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

I’m not one to sit and watch television. There isn’t much offered in that medium that grabs my attention and leaves me wanting more. I am, however, suffering through the last season of “Lost” – only because when I start something I like to finish. I’m nearing the finish line of the final season and quite frankly, I’m still . . . lost. Sigh. But that’s not what has my mind a-whizzing as I sit down to pen my weekly offering.

It’s no secret that I’m spending some time muddling around in life’s middle ground. It’s a place I knew I’d visit “someday” but who knew I would arrive when I did. Every time I checked the roadmap, it always seemed far, far away.  Now, here I am, supposedly in the heartland. Yeah, it’s a region of special importance all right, and I could wax eloquent about its specialness ad nauseum. Let’s just say it’s an OK place to visit, but I don’t want to live here, or is it there? Doesn’t matter. The passing of time guarantees I won’t be staying.

That brings me back to television programming. (You know I have a quirky habit of flying around the runway a bit before landing the plane. Please remain seated and I promise to make a point.) Have you seen the television show “The Middle” with Patricia Heaton as Frankie Heck, the mom?  It airs on channel 13 at 7:30 Wednesday nights and is about a middle-class family, living in the middle of Indiana. I’m convinced the writers of the show have hidden cameras in my house and follow me around. Sure, they switched up a few minor details for cover, but the underlying themes: my middle life.  

For a long time I operated under the notion that middle ground was a great destination – a place of harmonious compromise where all parties were at least somewhat agreeable. HA! Ever heard of Buridan’s Donkey? He stands an equal distance between a stack of hay and a pail of water, but dies of hunger and thirst because he couldn’t make a rational decision to choose one over the other. I’m that donkey! And I’ll tell you why I can’t make a rational decision: mid-life. Believe me when I say I’d take a simple crisis over what this craziness has become any day.

I’m stuck on high center – front and rear wheels spinning like mad. I’m not allowed to go back and as hard as I may rock, I can’t quite get traction on forward, either. To make matters worse, I’ve learned I could spend a decade here! Starvation and dehydration are looking attractive.

Back to the show: The writers of “The Middle” are brilliant. Take the premise and consider the family’s last name: Heck. We all know what other word that one can fill in for while in polite company. (I’m a little embarrassed since I’ve used it here frequently.) I can’t help but to think the name is intentional.  I get it, and I take some comfort in knowing somebody somewhere, fictional or not, understands why being stuck here in the middle has turned me into the biggest donkey ever.  After all, it is asinine to stand still and expect to get anywhere.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Life is full of necessary evils. For the most part, I’ve made peace with doing some things I despise simply because not doing them isn’t exactly preferable.  We all have a list, and I bet bathroom cleaning would rate highly for most of us, but my beef today pertains to a chore that has been eating away at what could otherwise be potentially enjoyable hours for too many years: grocery shopping.

Many Moon Pies ago I enjoyed going out into the vast world – like my ancient female ancestors – picking berries and gathering supplies necessary to run the hut…uh, I mean household.  Now I detest the job.

In order to make it palatable, I schedule the misery. Yes, I check my vast social calendar and the weather (a beautiful day will not be wasted) before spending an entire day engrossed with the grocer. And I’m usually not motivated to make that date with destiny until the hunter of the hut, the man who brings home the bacon, makes a comment along the lines of our pantry resembling the cupboard of Old Mother Hubbard. Then I’m forced to make a day of it. Really.

I shop one store after breakfast, loading the always-has-at-least-one-square-wheel cart as full as I can before taking thirteenth place in line at the front of the store with 15-plus check-stands available, but only one employee. Sigh. A fun little tip, though: Watching fellow line-standers is far more entertaining than the sordid magazine covers.

Once payment is made, I haul my vast booty (referring to the spoils gained as opposed to my posterior) home where I delight in unloading it all once again. A quick lunch is my prize after it’s all put away. Then it’s time for round two.

Different store, same cart, I embark on the second half of pure drudgery. It’s further complicated by the fact that most people are out of bed by this point and this market is more crowded . . . by people stopping in the aisles to have reunions and/or carry on conversations via cell phone.

While I appear patient and ever-so-sweet, I’m raging on the inside. Don’t they realize they’re standing right in front of the item that correlates to number 37 on my list? I’m looking to check off through 105 and be home before the school bus.  

I’ve tried to include the entire family in the fun and festivities by asking for meal ideas and items they’d like to see stocked on our personal grocery shelves. Heck, I even invited people to come along on my trips. I need sound effects for my column. Do you hear the crickets chirping just above the silence? I heard it, too.

Oh well, I’m done for a couple of weeks, and now that I’ve vented I’ll not give it another thought.  But lettuce all remember not to tarry too long in the aisles. If you’re standing in front of item number 37, plastic cutlery, things could get ugly.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley