Natalie Whatley

Today should be some sort of holiday. But even though it’s not, I’m still celebrating. Picture A.A. Milne’s Tigger —hyper friend of Winnie the Pooh and fellow inhabitant of Hundred Acre Wood—whose top is made out of rubber and bottom made out of springs . . . bouncing, trouncing, flouncing, pouncing  . . . fun, fun, fun, fun, FUN! Until it gets on someone’s nerves . . .

In case you missed it: We sprang forward during the wee hours. My favorite time of year has unofficially arrived.

Next Sunday will be the official ushering in of spring with the vernal equinox — that’s the fancy name for what happens when the sun shines directly over the equator causing day and night to be nearly equal in all parts of the world. I welcome it with open arms because I’m not a good sleeper. Winter’s dark hibernation is wasted on me.  

While I don’t like the idea of losing an hour to start off, my disdain is reconciled by the knowledge that I’ll see the benefits for months to come.  And as soon as I’m over the initial shock of resetting of my body’s clock, I’ll set about the business of infecting myself with a bad case of spring fever by snorting the yellow dust already plentiful at The Whatley Estate. I know that sounds crazy, but this year I need some “cover” for puffy, red eyes as I travel through the season.

Me feeling all Tigger-ish reminded me of a young man in my house who used to wear a Tigger costume and bounce about singing “The Wonderful Thing About Tiggers” song followed by a cute little growl. I can still see and hear it as clearly as if it was today. How time has sprung forward since then.

We’ve ordered the cap, gown, and graduation invitations and we’re both dreaming of the late-spring day when it will be time to leap into an entirely new phase in life. I’m not sure which of us is more ready, or more excited over the prospects, but I know who will find it impossible to keep her “allergy eyes” from watering.

It has been a long, hard journey complete with flat tires, overheating, blown head gaskets, crashes, and a too-often feeling of running on empty while wondering if we’d make it to the next fueling station. But the destination is now in sight.  We’re close to answering “Are we there yet?” in the affirmative. It’s all enough to make this grown woman cry tears of profound joy — every day until the early June arrival.

So, I’m embarking upon this spring with much added bounce in my step. And to steal a word from the real Tigger, I don’t care how “redikorus” I may look, you’ll probably see me in full costume bouncing, trouncing, flouncing and pouncing while having all sorts of fun, fun, fun, fun, FUN, because the wonderful thing about my Tigger-ish kid is that he is the only bouncy, pouncy one!

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

It’s not often that I allow all of you into the inner sanctum of my mind. I know you’re thinking, “My gosh, woman! If what I’ve seen comes only from the outer surface, you are a total fruit loop!” You’re probably right.  And I’ve had a busier than usual week which left me little time to dream up something silly for your edification. So I’ll try a different route this week. It should suffice beautifully since someone told me when I started this gig that most folks just enjoy observing someone else’s craziness. Stay tuned. There will be a fantastic train wreck. Who knows when, but in the end I’ll probably not disappoint. Anyway, recent excerpts from my diary:

Any day: My long stint as a live-in maid is drawing to an end, and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. For the second time, I have checked out from the library “What Color Is Your Parachute? : A Practical Manual for Job-Hunters and Career Changers” by Richard Bolles. Poring over each page for the second time while taking notes, I thought of all that inspirational talk about “who is packing your parachute?”.  I’ve determined I don’t have a parachute to pack. Guess I better get one. Pronto.

Everyday: Laundry. Laundry. And more laundry. Like my MawMaw King used to say, “It’s like the tide.” It’s never going to stop coming in. And I can’t find the words to describe the special feeling that washes over my entire being when I find FOLDED, clean clothes from the last batch in the dirty clothes hampers.  If I really wanted to live up to some of the names I’ve surely been called by the not-so-little teenage darlings who put them there, I’d place the now-smells-like-dirty-socks clothes in the drawers for wearing. (I don’t do it because the adults around my children during the day would surely notice the odor. A stay-at-home mom sending her kids out in filthy-smelling clothes . . . I don’t need that kind of publicity.)

Today: I didn’t exercise AND treated myself to nearly an entire box of Nabisco’s Chicken in a Biskit crackers while I—just for grins—read Clinton Kelly’s (Of TLC channel’s “What Not to Wear”) book “Oh No She Didn’t : The Top 100 Style Mistakes Women Make and How to Avoid Them”. I’m a fashion failure. I lost count, but I had committed at least 96 of his so-called “crimes”.  Lock me up, please.  I need a vacation and wearing the same jumpsuit everyday would remove the stress I’ll now feel upon entering the little house of horrors: my closet.   

Someday: I have big plans. I don’t know exactly what they are yet, but they’re big. Where do I want to be in five years? HA!  More realistic might be to think about where I’d like to be in five minutes. I might have some shred of control there.

And there you have it. Putting it all down on paper I realized that my surface thoughts are actually far more interesting that what’s going on in the under-construction deep far reaches. It’s pretty barren and there’s an awful echo. Hear the train whistle?

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

The little cold snaps we get chill me to the bone and serve as a bit of a comical reminder that this girl —born and raised in balmy southeast Texas — really has no concept of cold or winter for that matter. Furthermore, I have no burning desire to be educated on the topic. It is kind of a shame, though, not being able to fully enjoy the soft, thick comforts of a winter wardrobe except on a few select days.

Anyway, as we all experienced the dip in the mercury I endured a life event that caused me to pause and ponder the fantasy of freezing time: My oldest child turned 18. (I know, my youthful appearance —generously granted genetically to me through the ultra-young looking Linda Rowe and Ruby Watson—make it appear not possible, but tis true.) So, technically and by the letter of the law, I am now the parent of an adult. 

(We’ll pause here for snickering. We all know true adulthood in many cases now has been pushed nearly a full decade forward. Sigh. He and I both want to let go. Apron strings: not a problem. Purse strings: don’t get me started. Heart strings . . . we’ll keep those, but we’re both making adjustments.)

In many ways, it seems I became frozen in time as I embarked on motherhood. So much of what I thought defined me was boxed, flash frozen and set on the freezer shelf as my definition had forever changed. Over time and two more children later, that box moved to the far reaches of said freezer where it remained for at least a decade and a half.

In physics, cryogenics is the study of producing very low temperatures — WAY below freezing.  And that brings me to cryonics: the emerging field of medical technology involving cryopreservation whereby human and animals cells are frozen with the intent of future revival.

Without getting bogged down in things we mere mortals can barely understand, it seems science has figured out a way to rapidly freeze without damaging cell function, but the thawing-out process is still troublesome and where things go haywire. What a revelation.

In a fraction of a nanosecond I froze the pre-motherhood me. And as I have spent the past few years in a slow thaw, medical science has helped me see why things won’t be as smooth on this end of the process.

Now that I’m far beyond potty training, lost teeth, and watching over small bodies as they sleep, sometimes I wish I could have frozen them at say the tender age of three when they truly believed I was all-knowing.  Oh the possibilities if I could have learned with them standing still in time, but we know that’s not possible.

As life cycles dictate, more and more motherhood will move from center stage and what was will thaw and reemerge, but nowhere near the same.  For a while I suppose it’s OK to feel like a somewhat muddy puddle. But science or maybe just life has also taught me that if I’m still and patient (not my strong suit) long enough the mud will settle and the water will be clear. I can’t wait to see what was meant to be.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Greetings everyone! I hope this finds you all basking in the afterglow of a beautiful Christmas. Because this time of year gets so busy, I enlisted some help with my column. I’d love to give credit where credit is due, but as is my luck there’s controversy buried in something as simple as determining who penned the famous “‘Twas the Night before Christmas”.

To avoid potential problems, I’ll say thanks to Clement Clarke Moore OR Henry Livingston for providing inspiration way back in the 1820s. I’ll let those two hash it out.  And without further ado, on with the show!

(Disclaimer: In no way do I advocate the use of a Taser on cute little sugar-plummed-up human beings, but who among us hasn’t at least thought about it? Don’t implicate yourself out loud. I, of course, make my inner-most t ruminations known for your amusement.  That I might be arrested, or locked in a rubber room for doing so is a job hazard I accept; money and fame have a way of negating such things.)

‘Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the town, parents lying passed out, drooling, face down. The stockings are emptied all over the floor, sweet-candy contents consumed, hyperactivity hard to ignore. The children are crazed darting to and fro, with so much that is new, which way to go?

Mamma in her robe and Papa with his new razor, decided they should have asked for a Taser! Because all through the house there’s nothing but noise, whose idea was it to bring all these toys?

Up from the floor they arose feeling numb, remembering it all came with a rather large sum. The smiles seemed worth it leading up to the day, who imagined there would be such a fray? When what to their haggard eyes should appear, youthful energy waning, relief may be near!

Small little people beginning to yawn, they’ve not slept a wink since yesterday’s dawn. More rapid than the effects of sugar, energy tumbled. One tripped over strewn packaging and wearily stumbled. “Now, sleep! Now, Slumber, Now, Nap! Now, Doze! On Dream! On Hibernation”, sleepy parents propose. Don’t worry about a bed, right there is fine. Relax little darlings it’s all by design.

Like a litter of pups nestled in a papered box, they curl up wearing pajamas, feet covered by new socks. Silence reigns and a sweet sigh released, for all the mayhem has finally ceased. And then in the silence, the feeling, it grew. It really was worth it, what an incredible view. The moment, it sparkled.  The minutes began to pass. I wanted to freeze it, stop the hourglass!

Beginning the clean-up, trying not to disturb, the trash was cleared and hauled to the curb. Tired, but feeling renewed, my heart swelled, began to protrude. For it was all over, at least for a year. I leapt through the air and yelled a loud cheer.

Returning to ground and zipping across the drive, I rejoiced as I realized I’d made it through alive! And with that it was done, over, the end. At least until next year I mused as I grinned.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

My children accuse me of misusing “now” phrases, so I’ll try not to further humiliate them. I come before you this week as I throw myself on the mercy of my beloved daughter’s court while begging for forgiveness and swift, just punishment. To aid in my groveling, I’ll dig deep back into my own Ross Sterling High School days where I occupied space in the late, great Mr. Witt’s Latin class.

Brief background: My family of five requires five cellular phone devices to keep tabs on each others’ whereabouts and communicate items of extreme importance. My daughter, Erin, had the distinct honor of being the youngest person in Whatley family history to have been bestowed with a phone and full text-messaging capabilities. The fact that her older brothers were answered in the negative each time they begged at her age is still a thorny point of contention. What can I say? Mass communication became difficult when one family member didn’t have a phone. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

That said there have been “issues” concerning her phone— not of the misuse variety, but of the-thing-is-never-charged and she-forgets-to-carry-it kind. It has also been “misplaced” numerous times. And then there was the not-so-minor incident of a screen being cracked making one phone inoperable and needing to be replaced recently.

That new phone was in Erin’s possession mere weeks when it was “lost”. (By this point her older brothers were pointing out that I had no one to blame but myself —giving such a youngster a phone was a grave mistake on my part.) Our home, vehicles, and school property were searched extensively.

Erin and I both remembered the last time she held it in her hands because we simultaneously texted happy-birthday wishes to the same family member before school one morning. She claimed the phone was given back to me because the battery was almost dead. I had no recollection of that and nagged relentlessly for a full week before declaring the line was being shut off with no replacement forthcoming.

Before I continue, allow me to offer the following in my defense: Life with three teenagers is spelled C-H-A-O-S! Most days I barely know my own name much less have the ability to remember what transpired with whom and that is even more true regarding early-morning transactions.

So, night before last an excited Erin knocked on my bedroom door and announced she’d found her phone – stuffed inside a pair of high-top sneakers. In a flash, it all came back to me. Embarrassed, I sheepishly opened my door and looked that sweet little cherub in the face. We both knew who put the phone in there and that it was the same woman who threw a little mini-tantrum over said shoes having been left in the living room . . . again.

Now I remember having the phone on the morning in question and grumbling to myself about picking up the shoes I’d sweetly asked be removed earlier. I dropped the phone inside a shoe and placed the pair on the stairs. I forgot about the phone when I resumed the shoe tirade that afternoon.

To my baby girl: Mea culpa . . . no, mea maxima culpa! (Mr. Witt would be so proud.) That’s Latin for “my bad”.  I’m pleading guilty and asking that I be allowed to pick up your shoes from the living room floor for as long as I harassed you over the lost phone.  Deal?

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Life has a way of taking on some predictable patterns. For many years that fact and semi-endless monotony brought me strange comfort, but while it’s nice to know to some degree what lies ahead a little unpredictability at least appears exciting.

The phrase “thinking outside the box” has been bantered around plenty in recent years. Generally, it’s used in business settings, but we all do it to get through the days when challenges arise. While I don’t mean to brag, my mind does a decent job of going outside the confines of my mostly self-imposed cardboard container. Lately I’m wondering if that’s a good thing.

Maybe I’ve leapt from the precipice of the mid-life crazies or gone stark-raving mad, but my travels outside of the box leave me exposed to novel ways that entice me to stay. The routine I held dear is no longer my friend.

Way back when (before I really had a clue) I decided how I thought my life should run, and quite literally put myself in a box. Eventually, a rather large spring formed from my two legs and anchored itself to the floor. One of my arms morphed into a crank with a red bulb handle – where a manicured nail once rested.

The outside stimuli I placed in my world became the hands that turned the crank and caused a terribly annoying song to play. Something along the lines of, “All around the mulberry bush; the monkey chased the weasel. The monkey thought ‘twas all in fun, Pop! Goes the weasel!” And people wonder why I get a little testy.

The crank turns at a speed not determined by me and I must spring up —with an enormous, frighteningly large, phony smile —every time, “Pop! Goes the weasel.”  There was a time when my popping garnered shrieks of delight and happy clapping; old habits diminish the surprise factor. Don’t even get me started on the garish clown suit or the awful, over-the-big-top circus make-up job. And it’s definitely not pleasant to be squashed back down under a lid that locks shut.

So I’ve been thinking: Wouldn’t it be great to sneak a pair of wire cutters and detach that spring? Just maybe I’d get my legs back, and I get a little giddy thinking about the shocked look on the faces around me when— unanchored— I pop into orbit. Of course I’d come crashing down, would probably even sustain serious injury, but momentary flight and the ensuing freedom might be worth it.

I’m ready for a different role. Maybe I’ll play the monkey. Monkeys always have a good time and chasing a weasel around the mulberry bush is at least a different form of tedium.  

It sounds like great fun, but I bet that sneaky weasel will eventually pop me back into reality and remind me that in all likelihood, without the box I’m just a clown.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

All right, team, since you’re here and suited up, huddle around. I’ll play quarterback and pretend I know what I’m talking about. My ego is very fragile, so while I won’t be miffed if you let the other team sack me, it would mean a lot if you would refrain from snickering over lame strategy until you’re at least out of my earshot.

As I’ve mentioned before, I am full of useless information. My brain has an appetite for the strange and unusual. Because I like to keep it happy, I stuff it full on a daily basis. It’s fun, and I often wow (at least that’s how I interpret the surprised look) people with obscure information. It’s problematic because my mind can only hold so much before the useless stuff squishes out storage space needed for more useful things.

The problem: Here I am, born and bred and in the southern United States of America, where football is a religion, and I don’t know squat. I’ve gotten along pretty well in life without a working knowledge of it, but as of last week I found myself for the third year having a son out on the gridiron.

While I’m fairly certain I possess the intelligence to gain understanding of the game, motivation to do so is a hurdle. Having a strapping young man made absolutely huge by added pads who delights in the knowledge that he can now physically best the woman who held him down and changed his diaper out on the field should push me in that direction. I did read a few pages of Football for Dummies. And make no mistake I am a dummy in this regard.

Sitting in the stands, I rely on cues from those sitting around me in order to know when to clap, cheer, insult the official, or stand while doing all three.  That method isn’t foolproof when fans of both teams are sitting in the same bleachers; yes, I’ve cheered for the other team and at inappropriate times. Embarrassing. That’s also why I don’t buy t-shirts with “Whatley” or “Jeremy’s Mom” printed on the back.

What’s even sadder is that while I have been told countless times that my boy plays right (“right” is probably some sort of directional clue) tackle and does some other special-team stuff (please don’t ask me because I’ll tell you he runs the bases for bogey, or something), I can’t find him on the field. Thank goodness for jerseys and 12-inch numbers. “Yea, Jeremy! Of course I saw you make that play! You ‘da man!!”   

I suppose it’s time I opened my mind wide and received a little knowledge on the pigskin, but somehow I know it will be an incomplete pass. There’s a refrigerator-sized guy blocking and causing interference; I tried to plow through and hit a brick wall. He flicked me away like a bothersome gnat.

Oh well. Jeremy always has possession of my heart, so it doesn’t matter if he’s swinging a bat for a field goal or running the football to home plate . . . every play is the winning touchdown in my mind.

In a few short weeks you’re likely to find me railing against holidays. The big, over-commercialized ones are around the corner. Retailers make certain I’m aware far earlier than I find necessary. Annoyed, I look away. Some would say it’s a form of denial, but I prefer to think of it as thumbing my nose at the ridiculous.

That said, today is a special day and one that I’ve never allowed to go unnoticed here in my little corner of the paper. Today —the first Sunday after Labor Day, and as presidentially proclaimed in 1978—is Grandparents Day.

I walk a fine line here in that I know if I continue to build this one up, the retailers will come. But this is one I feel doesn’t get enough recognition.

When I think of the word grandparent, I hear emphasis on the grand. That sentiment increases when one can add great in front of it, and I was fortunate enough to have had great-grandparents far enough into my life that I have many fond memories of them: The funniest being that I called my great-grandfather “granddaughter” until I was well into my teens.

I started calling him that as a toddler and no one ever corrected me (that I can remember). It took my Aunt Bonnie, who is only five years my senior and known for telling things like they are, to set me straight. Yes, I was embarrassed. But, hey, I still love “Granddotter” (that’s how it was spelled in my misinformed-by-omission mind), the late Johnnie Spaulding, and think of his ever-so-sweet coin-doling self frequently.

As I move down the family tree and remember those I’ve lost, I’m happy to report that I still have “Granddotter’s” daughter, my grandmother. She recently moved to town, and some of you may have met her: Ruby Watson. If you know her already, you no doubt see where I get the fiery spunk that stays hidden beneath a genteel exterior. (We’re those publicly quiet types who surprise people with what we say when we decide to speak.)

Then I get to my children’s grandparents. It’s hard to know where to begin with this bunch. As I think of them and their contributions the thought of “where would we be without them?” is what repeatedly surfaces. These folks have come to the rescue countless times.

They talked me down from the parenting ledge during many instances when I struggled to survive their darling grandbabies. And on those days when I thought I’d snap, they graciously swooped in and carted off my offspring for days of spoiling. That was always a win-win.

The kids always had a great time under the doting glow of patient people who thought they could do no wrong, the grandparents got to enjoy some mostly-not-responsible-for-the-daily-grind kid fun, and I regained a shred of sanity. Not one of my children recognizes how much they owe their very lives to these people. Recall that I’ve spoken of why animals eat their young.

Many thanks and Happy Grandparents Day to those of you who make life grand!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Happy Labor Day weekend to you all! I hope you’re enjoying a last summer hurrah as we conclude this seasonal chapter.

Back in the day, school children would be preparing for their return to the classroom, but here in modern times we already have two full weeks of instruction under our belts.

It’s always a little weird to get those weeks in and then have a long weekend. I suppose it’s a good thing, though, as the first days are an exhausting exercise in getting sleep schedules back on track (you know I allowed my kiddos to sleep until noon all summer – the less time I had to endure bickering the better), learning new teachers’ personalities and getting in some semblance of a routine.

Let me preface the tirade that is forthcoming with a statement: No, I don’t look for things to complain about. These things find me, and I seem rather adept at voicing my displeasure. Honed skill or obnoxious habit? You decide.

The routine for the 2010-2011 school year will be that every single person in my house is on a different schedule. I’m tough and will adapt. However, I swear by Betty Crocker that I’m on the cusp of throwing in the apron when it comes to meals.

How many times has it been pounded in our collective head that family meal times are important? And that all sorts of familial crises can be averted if parents would just sit down and eat at least one meal a day with their children. I try, and I’d love to, but . . . By the time everyone rejoins me at home in the evenings, I don’t want to eat – my body’s screaming, “it’s bedtime!” or I’ve already succumbed to starvation and chewed my arm off while waiting. I’d attempt breakfast if anyone was sociable at that hour.

Since I let the pantry run bare just prior to school starting, I had some massive grocery shopping trips shortly after school started. And this is how the food has been rotating: I drag overflowing carts to my car, load the trunk while sweating profusely and deliver it all home where it’s unloaded and put away. Still sweating. Then, in a labor of love and sweating yet again over a hot stove, I use said groceries to prepare a meal that sits uneaten by at least three-fifths of the family. Since I can’t stand to see it go to waste, I pack it up and move it to the refrigerator. A few days later I’m pushing the remains down the garbage disposal.  And while I don’t have violent tendencies, the next person who says, “There’s nothing to eat”, may provide the garbage disposal with something a little more substantial to chew up.

It’s apparent I’m the one who will have to be more flexible. But I must draw the line at performing dinner-time gymnastics. I have upheld my end of the household labor agreement. If folks residing at The Whatley Estate aren’t careful, a strike may be in order. This laborer and her trusty disposal are fed up!

© 2010 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