Natalie Whatley

Happy Father’s Day to all the dads, granddads, and great-granddads! It’s your special day, so allow me to give you a big pat on the back. You deserve it.

Most of my recent writings have been a little heavy, so I went on a quest to find some quirky Father’s Day facts with the intent of making this one at least a little lighter and hopefully humorous.

The holiday is fairly young — made official in 1972 — but even considering its relative youth, I was puzzled over finding nothing beyond the sad truth that there are more collect calls placed on this day than any other. Just a shame. But dads already know that fatherhood comes with a price far greater than the cost of a phone call.

I suppose I couldn’t find anything silly because fathering is serious business. Many of us are blessed to have had a man who did the job well – without an instruction manual (not that they would’ve read it) and through countless societal changes in paternal expectations. Two thumbs up, guys, for hitting that moving target.

According to anthropologists, it’s given that a child will bond with its mother. Dads, however, have to work at it. That would explain why they’re just plain more fun to hang out with. Not to say that moms can’t have fun, but we’re certainly not known for ignoring all sense of decorum in the name of garnering a few giggles.

And as if having to best mom to be in the pecking order wasn’t enough, then there’s the job of being a provider.  Even in these days of moms being a mainstay in the workforce, it’s hard-wired for a man to furnish that which a child needs to grow and prosper. The pressure is enormous and goes far beyond monetary.

While dads provide the obvious: food, shelter and clothing, it’s the non-tangibles above and beyond those necessities that really allow for the spreading of wings and eventual flight.

Being a role model, administering discipline, believing in his children, providing physical and mental protection, showing pride, giving of his limited time . . . the list goes on and on as does the investment that often takes a lifetime to mature. It’s a remarkable thing to watch.

I don’t know where we would all be if not for the men who show tremendous inner strength in the face of their own personal challenges and insecurities while being a rock for their children. A look through history shows fathers have seen unique challenges since the dawn of time. They always find solutions.

And while the ladies may sit back and bemoan how it all must look – not so refined, maybe even a little brash – it doesn’t matter because the kids are giggling and deep down they know Dad’s no fool. Thanks dads, for all you provide and especially the laughs along the way. You’re the best!

© 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

Being an adventurous sort, I have many days when I desire a little excitement outside of the mothering-teenagers variety. My wish came true last Sunday morning.

I try to be out of bed before everyone else because it’s important that I have some quiet time to gather my thoughts and goals for the day before semi-organized chaos ensues.

I was doing just that while catching up on some reading and enjoying a cup of hot tea in what’s referred to at The Whatley Estate as the computer room, which abuts the backyard. (More refined folks would call the room a “study”, thus my use of “abut”. My persona is carefully balanced between down-home and pretentious.)

Lost in what I was reading, the subconscious parts of my brain began alerting me to trouble.  Coming to, I realized there was an awful racket coming from the backyard. Then I remembered Shadow the cat (aka “Killer”) was outside. The squawking and screeching of what sounded like an entire flock of birds prompted me to my feet.

Glancing through a window before flinging the door open, I saw a wild menagerie. The violence so intense that I threw reason aside before running full bore into the scene . . . in my nightgown and completely unarmed save for a loud voice. (I had been reading a fascinating book by FBI special agent, Joe Navarro, discussing how to override the limbic system and go against the body’s natural ability to flee danger. I soldiered in. No doubt he would’ve been proud.)

Shadow was hunkered down, apparently on top of prey and was being attacked from above by a pack of Blue Jays. Deduction told me he’d caught a bird and that the family had swooped down to take revenge.

“Shadow! Come here!”

He minds far better than my children, and because I think he appreciated the back-up, Shadow quickly gathered his catch and bolted towards me – with a SQUIRREL, who didn’t appear to be doing so well, flailing under the pressure of his jaw!

I love squirrels and have since hand-feeding them as a child with my Pawpaw on his porch to the east in Nederland, Texas. It was a sad day when I removed the corn feeders from my trees months ago. But I’d taken in a killer (this wasn’t Shadow’s first squirrel rodeo) and felt it was cruel to entice my furry little friends to their demise.

“Shadow! Put that down!”

The wounded was dropped and it scurried into some high, decorative grass close-by and collapsed.

I know Shadow was doing what cats instinctively do. And I did what I instinctively do when a young male in my house perturbs me:  He was read the riot act.

Oh well, it was a good training exercise. I have a few wild males around here to tame. Thinking I should take a cue from the Blue Jays – swoop down, peck some sense, and make them believe I’ll take an eye out if necessary. They meant business!

Can a cat be trained to override his limbic system? I may need some back-up.

© 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

First order of business, Happy Mother’s Day! I know you’re all expecting some words on motherhood, but since it’s my special day, too, and because I write about motherhood frequently, I’m putting my feet up and taking a break from the topic and the job. Plus, there’s something else important happening that I want you to know about.

While I try my best to appreciate those who work in public service year-round, next week is a special one where we can let our local police officers know how much we appreciate their protection and service.

In 1962 President John F. Kennedy designated May 15 as Peace Officers’ Memorial Day and the week surrounding that date as National Police Week. During this time, law enforcement officers past and present are to be commemorated for their courage and dedication in preserving the rights and security of all citizens. The week ends with a memorial service outside the U.S. Capitol honoring police officers killed in the line of duty from all over the United States.

Locally, and in honor of the Texas officers who made the ultimate sacrifice, the Baytown Police Department accompanied by surrounding agencies invites you to its annual Law Enforcement Police Memorial at noon on Friday, May 14 at St. Marks United Methodist Church, 3811 N. Main.

Four of the eleven officers lost in Texas this past year were from this general area. One, our very own Chambers County Deputy Sheriff, Shane Detwiler, was shot responding to the scene of a utility worker who had been fired upon. Recall how this community pulled together and hundreds lined Garth Rd. for his funeral procession.

As a graduate of the Baytown Police Department’s Citizens Police Academy I’ve had the opportunity to see the inner workings of the department and get to know some of the human beings behind the necessary authoritative personas and badges. Baytown is truly blessed. Our force is made up of a highly diverse, intelligent group who strive to ensure that our homes, families, and way of life are kept safe.

And on the very day I sat down to write this, I attended my third and youngest child’s graduation from the Baytown Police Department’s D.A.R.E. (Drug Abuse Resistance Education) program.  What an impact these officers have on impressionable young minds as they visit classrooms week after week educating, forming positive relationships, and imparting the importance of plain old good decision making. Proactive. I like that.

Stop an officer this week and thank them for the job they do, and please join me next Friday in honoring Texas’ “law enforcement officers who, through their courageous deeds, have made the ultimate sacrifice in service to their community . . . and let us recognize and pay respect to the survivors of our fallen heroes.” ~Presidential Proclamation John F. Kennedy  

A profession in law enforcement is a choice. Thank God for the special people willing to do it and willing to die for it. Precious lives are gone. Let’s make sure they’re not forgotten.

© 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

If you’re a regular reader of my column, you’re quite aware that I’ve hosted some pretty extravagant pity parties. I’m ashamed to admit that I can do them up right complete with decorations and mouth-watering hors d’oeuvres.

Self-pity is defined as a psychological state of mind where an individual in perceived adverse situations has not accepted the circumstances and does not have the confidence or ability to cope. Not becoming at all.

I think “perceived” is the key word there. And what gets my proverbial goat 99.9 percent of the time hardly qualifies under the definition of “adverse”.

While looking for ways to right that wrong, I encountered a recurring theme among the advice: Basically, I need to get out of my head and occupy myself with doing for others.

Recall that I have a husband; three children ages 11, 13, and 17; a dog; a cat; and two hamsters under my care. It would be an understatement to say that I already spend the bulk of my time in service to others. Three on the aforementioned list tolerate my services at best, but do complain when I slack on the job.

With that fresh on my mind, it was a no-brainer when long-time emcee of the Baytown Special Olympics, Steve Liles, mentioned that volunteers were needed for the annual event hosted by the City of Baytown last Saturday.

I couldn’t wait. And now that I’ve been, I don’t know what took me so long to get there.

As I stood in the volunteer check-in line with my two younger children, Erin and Jeremy, it became clear there was no shortage of people prepared to spend the day giving far more than time. I learned later that the volunteers outnumbered the athletes by more than 2-to-1!  A round of applause for the folks of Baytown!

My kiddos and I were assigned — along with many others — to be finish-line judges. I showed up that morning ready to work and do whatever was needed to make the day enjoyable for the participants. What really happened can only be chalked up to fate surely guided by The Big Guy. He knows when I need a swift kick in the backside.

During the opening ceremony, an athlete from Cy-Fair moved out onto the track in front of her team and began belting out The National Anthem . . . over the voice of the person singing with the microphone. She knew every word. I was standing, but thought I was going to fall to my knees. She got a standing ovation.

When the games began, we took our places at the relay finish line. Soon after the pop of the starting shot, I realized why I was there. Thank goodness for sunglasses because the waterworks commenced.

What do I know about struggling against adversity and making it down the track to the finish line with a bigger-than-life smile on my face – even though I wasn’t the “winner”?

Many thanks to the City of Baytown staff for all their hard work on a well-coordinated event. And from the bottom of my heart:  A big thank-you to the amazing athletes, their parents, and coaches. In the end, it was you who gave to me – a precious gift I’ll carry to the finish line.

© 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