Wilson Post Blogs

There is a problem facing women that has reached epidemic proportions. I’m not talking about a physical ailment, although I’m sure that this problem causes a few. I’m speaking of over extending, over scheduling, overwhelming or more appropriately named “the yes disease.”

I like to joke with my husband, that when he dies I’ll honor his death as they did in ancient Egypt. I’ll bury him with his dogs so that they can all go into the afterlife together.

My children, like most I suppose, do not know how to whisper. They demonstrate this best while in church. This is why we -- along with other parents whose children lack the ability to control their volume -- choose to sit in the balcony, where we can at least contain the noise.

I was lucky to be raised in an equal opportunity household. My brother and I were treated exactly the same. If he helped Dad change the oil in the car, I was doing it the next time. If he mowed the lawn one week, I mowed it the following. (Right about now, my husband is wondering how this is even remotely possible considering I don’t even know where he keeps our mower.) But, I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that my parents were big proponents of  - - anything a boy can do, a girl can do better!

I knew it when I married him. I knew that when it came to romance he was more Ralph Kramden than Casanova. Truth be told, my husband has never changed. He is who he is and that’s what I love about him. While I can be a bit wishy washy, he makes his mind up and never questions the decision made. So why am I surprised that he’s STILL not a hopeless romantic and just “hopeless?”

In my line of work, I often wear a suit and heels. Some days, however, it takes all the energy I have to put on my required “uniform.” So, whenever a nurse crosses my path in scrubs and crocks, I think to myself…. “why didn’t I become a nurse?”  But nursing would have probably been an unlikely career path for myself given  - sick people scare me.

How many times have your children let out a blood-curdling scream that has sent you running towards them thinking they have either poked their eye out or cut off a limb. To only find that they have a splinter or else big sister has pinched them.

There are few things in this world that I love more than doing laundry. It ranks up there with flaying my skin off with a potato peeler. As much as I loathe spending my days off separating colors, presoaking grass stained jeans and trying to find matches to socks that clearly do not want to be found, it is a necessary evil that I must tackle.

A few weeks ago, Becky told me that one of her resolutions for the new year was that she would stop holding grudges. She intended to let bygones be bygones and instead offer good thoughts for people who wronged her. 
 
I believe that’s what some people call “taking the high road.” Where that road leads to, I do not know, because it’s a road that is not programmed into my GPS.

Parenting is by far the hardest job. It’s harder than ditch digging. It’s harder than practicing medicine. It’s harder than just about anything. And what makes it hard is NOT KNOWING if you’re doing a good job. It’s like being in school and not getting your report card until eighteen years later when our kids decide to tell us how we could have done things better.

 Exactly seven days ago I received the following phone call from Becky:
 
“Hey, I woke up this morning and realized hell must have frozen over last night.”
 
“What do mean?,” I said.
 
“Well, I am sure hell froze over because YOU ARE ON FACEBOOK NOW!”
 
And so the odyssey began….

I started taking an interest on the subject of Birth Order after becoming an adult. Mainly because I had grown tired of my older siblings treating me like I’m still 5. Birth order explains a lot about a person’s behavior; especially a person who comes from a family of six children. I am number four in that order.

Like many tragedies…this one started so innocently.

Discomfort, embarrassment, anxiety… Usually I reserve these emotions for my mother-in-law’s visits. That is until I make my yearly pilgrimage to the gynecologist for my annual exam.

The visit always starts with a nurse calling my name and leading me back to the first and perhaps the most stressful part of my exam…the weigh in. The nurse and I exchange niceties and when we reach that big, impersonal piece of gagetry I say the same thing I always say, “Wouldn’t this be easier if I told you how much I weigh instead of me getting on the scale?”

Growing up, the men in my family did not watch much football. We were a soccer family. My father played on an adult team and coached my elementary school team. My brother was such a good player that he won a college soccer scholarship and was the captain of his college team.

The wrecking ball has officially hit our home. Of course I’m speaking metaphorically. This wrecking ball is not the kind that can literally tear a building down, but it will test the strength of the parents and children residing inside.

“Supernanny” is a television show that comes on each Wednesday evening. In this reality show a British nanny comes into a different American household each week and in a few short days turns cursing, hitting, spitting American children into proper British subjects.

There will come a day when you look around and have no idea how you ended up where you are. It’s one of those days that starts out with an endless to-do list...

Recently I had an encounter with an individual that was far from pleasant. The encounter was long past due as the situation had been intolerable for far longer than necessary.  Without going into the gory details, the bottom line is that this person was continually being unkind to one of my children.

Stress, In-laws, the kid table, cranberry mold, green bean casserole, Black Friday; yes, it’s time for Thanksgiving.