Lynn Kellan's Blog, page 4

Who’s a good girl?

I broke into a nervous flop sweat when I was handed this:

Yikes. The kennel graded my dog’s behavior while I was on vacation. Did Callie remember her passport like the dog on the front of the report card? Did she remember to pack her toothbrush? Only one way to find out…

Oops. Does that mean she refused to leave the yard when it was time for bed? I held my breath and read on.

Well, my oh my. Look at that. Little Callie did all right. Who’s a good girl? Yes, Callie is a very good girl.

This post brought to you by Annoyed Dogs Who Didn’t Go on Vacation.

We won’t smile when you take our picture.

What happens when a big man eats a bigger burger?

I knew there was going to be trouble when my husband ordered The Mad Viking. What is it? Four patties. Two pounds of beef. One huge burger for one big guy.

Frankly, I didn’t think he’d be able to eat the whole thing. Honestly, I thought he was insane. Truly, I expected him to quit after a few bites.

Wrong. My guy relished every bite. Took him seven minutes to gobble the burger. Took me seven minutes to learn a very important lesson: NEVER UNDERESTIMATE YOUR SPOUSE.

The end.

Love,

Mrs. Mad Viking

Sitting is good for you

For 21 years, I’ve sat. I’ve sat and held babies all day long. I’ve sat and read books out loud for hours at a time. I’ve sat every day, waiting in the carpool line. I’ve sat through bazillions of concerts, volleyball games, basketball games, field hockey games, and lacrosse games. I’ve sat through tons of assemblies and listened as folks droned on and on and on. I’ve sat in the car to drive all morning to visit campus for a few hours, and then sat in the car to drive all afternoon to get home. I’ve sat and listened to my kid talk, countless times. I’ve sat and held her when things went wrong. I’ve sat and squeezed her when things went right.

A few days ago, I sat for my kid’s college graduation. All those decades of sitting felt like just a few minutes. I had no idea being a parent required so much sitting, but all of that time spent in a chair has been one of the most profoundly meaningful things I’ve ever done.

Here’s a cheer for all of the parents who sit! Sitting may be tough on our backs, but being in that chair is vitally important to the kid who looks out into the audience and sees you there, cheering for her.

 

 

Letting go of holding on…

Breathing, blinking, and worrying come naturally to me. Whenever something new appears, I gasp, I blink, and I worry about all the things that can go wrong. When my kid mentioned that she signed up to run a 13-mile race, I signed up to worry. Would she finish the race? Would the weather be too hot and humid? What would she do if she needed to pee at mile eight? Would everyone be nice? Would her knee hurt? Would I be able to find enough chocolate to get me to the finish line?

On the day of the race, I realized I wasn’t the only one worrying. See all of those folks standing in the grass? They’re worried about all of those crazy people who are about to run a half-marathon. Stop the race! No running is necessary! I’VE GOT A CAR!

Despite my attempt to wrestle the whistle from the starter, the race began.

My worries sprinted along with the runners. Where was my kid? Was she drinking enough? Was she having fun? Did she avoid the swarm of mosquitos near the park bench? I swallowed one of those nasty little bugs by accident, and it tasted like sprained muscles and broken dreams.

And then I saw her.

I saw her numerous times. At mile two. Mile seven. Mile nine. And mile eleven. And every single time she trotted into view, her pace was a little slower. Her face was a little sweatier.  Her steps were a little shorter. I’d worried that she’d get tired, and suddenly I had proof that my worry was well-founded. But then I noticed something. Something profound. Every time I saw her, she was smiling. She smiled every step of that 13 mile race.

Smiling had never occurred to me. I was too busy worrying.

When she finished the race, she taught me a valuable lesson: amazing things can be done if you just try…and if you just smile.

 

 

I can’t smell Mother’s Day

I can’t smell. Anything. Not even my dog’s feet, which usually remind me of salty corn chips. Losing my sense of smell happens every Mother’s Day, because of one lethal thing…

Pollen. The Devil’s Dust. My car is covered in this stuff. So is my house. So is the inside of my nose, which swells like a sponge whenever The Devil’s Dust descends.

I’d like to smell the flowers, but they’re the reason I’m breathing through my mouth like a slobbering ogre. I’d like to thank my husband for the bouquet he’ll give me in honor of birthing his children, but I’ll be sneezing too hard to give him a proper kiss. I’d like to taste the meal my kids will prepare for me, but all I’ll taste is nothing.

Can you smell Mother’s Day? If you can, please tell me what it smells like. If you can’t smell a thing, that’s okay. Allergies aren’t fun, but at least we’re not facing this:

Happy non-smelling day! All are welcome. Moms. Dads. Kids. Grandparents. Cousins. Friends. Aunts. Uncles. Let’s celebrate by planting a flower and not smelling its lovely aroma.

Love,

Lynn

Feed the birds

Do you ever feel like a bird feeder with an empty perch? It’s a rotten way to feel. You’re where you’re supposed to be, doing the things you’re supposed to do, yet no one shows any appreciation.

Yet, you still show up. You continue to be a parent, a spouse, a student, an employee, etc. If you don’t, bills won’t be paid and jobs won’t get done and toenails won’t get clipped. Deep inside, though, you yearn for someone to say, “Hey, I’m really glad you’re here. There’s no one else like you. I’m crazy about you, in a good way. Not a creepy way. Okay, maybe a little creepy, because I’m your number one fan times a zillion!”

We all yearn to hear stuff like that, don’t we? Honestly, complements make us feel special. We want to hear “You’re spectacular!” and “Gee, you’ve got a fantastic butt!” How can we make this happen?

I have an idea. Have you ever played the “Good and Bad” game? It’s easy: everyone talks about something good that happened and something bad that happened in the past 24 hours. It’s a great way to get a snapshot of everyone’s day. If we add a “Heartfelt Complement” to the game, we’ll have the chance to express admiration for the people in our lives. (If that doesn’t elicit one or two complements for me, I might ask my husband to write a poem about my butt.)

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This post is brought to you by Hearts.

Feed the hearts you care about.

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How to pick a college.

Four years ago, my daughter faced a major decision: where to go to college. Luckily, she had me to “help” her. We looked at cost. We looked at location. We looked at academic programs. We looked at the social life on each campus. Frankly, the decision was easy for me. I wanted her to attend my alma mater, the only university that mattered.

I took my daughter to see campus. I showed her the awesome new gym. I walked her through lecture halls and dorms and the quaint town of Lewisburg. (By the way, I did NOT graduate in the class of 1942.) Anyhow, we had a great time looking around. There was just one problem. My daughter kind of sort of wanted to go somewhere else. This is how my husband reacted:

I tried to be as stoic as my burly beloved. However, I was SURE I knew where she should go to college. Believe me, I was a little stunned when Bucknell ended up third on my sweetie’s list. How dare she! Despite my shock, I treated this shocking revelation with calm, poise, and grace.

After a good long cry in the parking lot of the grocery store, I hauled a huge vat of ice cream into our house in anticipation of The Final Decision. The choices boiled down to two colleges. There wasn’t much time left to decide, and my daughter struggled to make a choice. She tried. She made lists. She studied the options. She just had no idea what to do.

As the clock crept alarmingly closer to decision day, I couldn’t take the uncertainty any more. I swept all of the lists aside, turned off the TV, and proclaimed, “I’m  sending you to College A!!!!” She burst into a huge grin. Then, I shook my head and proclaimed, “No, wait. I misspoke. I’m sending you to College B!” Her grin disappeared.

Based on that smile, we chose College A. Frankly, I had my doubts. It was far away. It was expensive. It was different. And it was the best choice we ever made. My daughter has thrived there. In a few short weeks, she’ll graduate.

In hindsight, that stressful decision taught me a valuable lesson. Maybe a smile is the only thing that will tell you when something is right. Good luck to all of you who are facing that decision with your sweeties.

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This post brought to you by College Decision Day (May 1st).

FYI: Ice cream helps.

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88 keys to happiness.

My childhood was a bit odd. Every day, I heard things few people hear. Complex patterns of rhythm filled our house, powered by sharps and flats, forming songs composed by maestros who lived hundreds of years ago. Those sonatas and concertos came from a humble upright piano, played by my mother.

I thought everyone’s mom did what mine did. In quiet moments when I colored, Mom would sit down at the piano and play Chopin’s Fantasie Impromptu Op. 66. When I’d settle down to read a book, she’d play Beethoven’s Sonata No. 15. These were the soundtrack of my childhood, made all the more profound because those melodies came from someone I loved so very much.

When I started to play the piano, I began to understand why my mother craved those moments at the keyboard: creating something with your hands, whether it’s music or sewing or baking a cake, triggers a deep sense of satisfaction and well-being. Yep, using your hands is the key to happiness.

We can all use a little more happiness, right? Everywhere we look, there seems to be angst and anger. Hop on the Internet, and everyone is screaming about politics. Open the mail, and there’s nothing but bills. Run errands, and every clerk you encounter is in a bad mood. Hello, tension headache. Nice to see you again, anxiety.

Well, I’m fighting back with both hands. I’m taking all ten fingers and putting them on the keyboard. Frankly, I think we were designed to use our hands. When we don’t, our well-being suffers. (Check out these articles about how working with your hands might be the secret to happiness. And look at the health benefits of knitting.)

**** What hands-on activity lowers your stress levels? ****

My first whisker

The other day, I found a WHISKER growing on my FACE. A real whisker, people. It was thick and dark black, like the whiskers you find within a burly man’s vigorous mustache. I am not a big hairy dude, so the discovery of a whisker on my upper lip was mystifying. However, I treated this discovery with stoic reflection…

Okay, maybe I wasn’t completely calm when I found that nasty whisker. Maybe I panicked and cried and hid in the house for a week. After mourning my lost estrogen, I dried my tears and did some research. Let’s face it, misery loves company and I was going to find other women who wore their whiskers with pride. Behold, my results:

The sea is full of magical ladies who don’t let a few whiskers get in their way. I vow to rip a page out of their how-to-rock-a-beard manual. If I try hard enough, I can sprout a few whiskers on my chin. Honestly, I think my husband won’t be able to keep his hands off me.

If I can’t grow a beard, perhaps I can grow my whisker long enough to mimic this flowing mustache, which looks quite feminine in the water. Kind of like a long, flowing skirt for my upper lip. I think my husband will find this new look wildly erotic. I’d better buy a new scrapbook for all of the poems he’s going to write in honor of my beauty.

But wait. I found someone who looks just like me when I realize there’s no more ice cream in the freezer:

This gal’s five o’clock shadow/stubble is tough yet feminine. The perfect look for running errands. Picture me on the way to the grocery store’s crowded parking lot:

All of the beautiful, non-whiskered ladies clear outta my way when they spot my rockin’ whisker stubble, because they don’t have the courage to embrace whiskers or anything else that’s mildly terrifying.

And after all of those folks zip out of the way, I’ll pull into a premium spot right next to the store:

I might sound smug about my identity, but there’s a good chance you’ve got reason to be smug too. Go buy a magnifying mirror, bring it outside on a sunny day, and look at your reflection. Hey, what’s that on your chin? Oh, it’s just a crumb.

Never mind. And let’s pretend I never wrote this, okay?

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This post brought to you by hormones

and the Society of People Who Avoid Good Mirrors.

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Do I look weird?

My dog prances around with random three-hole-punch bits of paper on her nose as though it’s perfectly normal to have a circle glued to your face. We think she looks goofy, but she doesn’t care. We snicker, but she’s all right with that. Heck, we try to take the paper off her nose and suddenly a game of catch-me-if-you-can begins. My dog thinks having fun is more important than how she looks. Deep thoughts, doggy.

We added her to our family in 2007. It was all kind-of spur of the moment. We took the kids out to a farm that had a bunch of puppies, saw her, and said “this one!” My husband and I wanted to add a dog to the family so our kids would learn to feel comfortable around doggies. Turned out, our furry family member taught us much more than how to speak canine.

She’s showed us how to make friends even when you’re nervous your friend might gobble you up for a snack. She’s also showed us how difficult it can be to assimilate into a group when you don’t quite feel like you fight in…

And right now, she’s showing us how she feels about this almost-Spring-but-not-quite weather.

In conclusion, I assure you that Winter is almost over. Any minute now, the sun will burst through the clouds, flowers will bloom, pollen will soar, and we’ll sneeze our way to the medicine cabinet for some anti-histamines and sunscreen.

Love,

Lynn K.