An open Letter to all the Jodi O's out there.

Today is 11/11 on the calendar. I am not much of a numbers geek, but 11 is special to me for a variety of reasons; some frivolous, some serious - ALL relevant to me. I usually happen to catch 11:11 on a digital clock twice a day and each time I do, it makes me smile. 11/11 also happens to be Veteran's Day. Coming from a family of Veterans and being married to a Veteran, it is important to me which is maybe why a particular exchange on social media today got under my skin enough that I need to get this out.  

While we believe in and support Veterans each and every day, we like to give a small shout out from our businesses on Veteran's Day and offer a little something extra to the women and men who have stepped up and served our country. This year, we offered our thanks and a free fountain drink (as well as our regular discount on purchases) to Veterans. A member of our community took it upon herself to rebuke us via social media because we "could have at least offered a lousy piece of pizza to go along with the lousy fountain drink". She also stated that my husband (the Veteran with ten years of service aboard United States Submarines) should be "really proud of himself" for his generosity. 

Well Jodi, while you CLEARLY do not know my husband, - I DO. He wouldn't begin to be "really proud of himself" for thanking someone for their service and offering to quench the thirst of a fellow Veteran. He wouldn't even recognize the value in opening up an opportunity for conversation with a person whose journey may have been different but whose willingness to sacrifice was the same. He just does those things because he is a decent human being. HE would never dream of telling you about the things he does to support Veterans on a consistent basis without fanfare or recognition, remuneration or accolades, but I will! 

I have watched my husband sit in the quiet for hours with a fellow Vet. Not speaking, not judging, just being. I have seen him answer the call many times of wives of a deployed service member when they were experiencing difficulty. I have assisted him in helping her with whatever she needed to make their deployment a little more bearable. I am aware that he has emptied his meager savings account on more than one occasion in the support of a fellow Veteran who had more immediate needs than he did. I have witnessed him stand on the pier and hold a distraught sailor in his arms when that sailor learned his wife left him during a six-month deployment. I have stood by his side at the funeral of a man with whom he served while he looked into the eyes of two young boys left behind and told them what a good and honorable man their father was. I have ridden beside him in the dark of night to get to a Veteran who said little more than "brother, I need you" I have, on occasions too numerous to keep track of watched him check in with a struggling Veteran, listen to their needs and arrange for those needs to be met. Whether it be housing, finances, substance abuse counseling, mental health services, access to Veterans services or a host of other things, my husband has shown up for his community and his country. 

As small business owners in a small community, we, like so many other family-run business owners have to make difficult decisions each and every day about where to allocate our pennies to keep our businesses afloat and the people who depend on us employed. Employee payroll comes first because you need to show up for the people who show up for you, then facility costs such as rent and electricity because without those, you don't get to keep the doors open. After that, different people make different decisions depending on their resources, talents, beliefs and business models. No one way is right. Each business has to navigate those choices in ways that best suit them and what they stand for. 

At OUR businesses, that means supporting our community in whatever ways we possibly can and one of the ways we do that is by providing food, gift certificates, gift baskets and other donations to Veterans causes all year round. Not just on November 11th, but all year. Not that you would know that because my husband doesn't do it to meet with your approval, Jodi. He does it because it is who he is and a cause he believes in to his very core. So much so, that even if he didn't do ONE of the things I have listed here today, he would STILL deserve to be honored, or at the very least not disrespected as you did today. Because, Jodi, while you can sit behind your computer screen and sneer at his 'meager offer of beverage and conversation', he signed on a line and took an oath over thirty years ago that quite literally offered up his very being to the United States Navy to use as they see fit in defense of this country. It is an oath, despite no longer being on active duty, which he will honor until his dying breath because that is who he is.

"I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God."

Do you know what that means, Jodi? Do you have a clue about the sacrifice the men and women who take that oath are agreeing to? My husband does. He took that oath each and every time he reenlisted. He agreed over and over to defend this country to the death if necessary. He did it knowing full well there are no sick days, no "I don't feel like it" days. He did it for minuscule pay and guaranteed extended time away from his loved ones. He even did it knowing there are people who feel justified to spit in a Veteran's face the way you did today, and still he did it because he loves his country and he believes that she is worth defending - even when it means protecting people like you.  

He and every other service member that I know, (and there are many) are cut from the very same cloth. To a one, they step up when others would stand there doing nothing or run in the other direction. They answer the call whether it be from their community, their country or a fellow Veteran. So while you may feel justified in spitting on a small business owner and his service to this country and his community, *I* and his fellow Veterans know better and seeing as today is about them and not you, I'm going to go spend the rest of my day supporting Veterans and their causes as opposed to tearing people apart. Hopefully, someday, you might choose to do the same. In the meantime, don't worry - the United States military has your back and whether you think so or not, we've got theirs. 

U.S.S. Mother Hen 

x

Flotsam and Jetsam

It's been a long time since I put pen to paper (or, as is the reality now, fingers to keyboard). I wish I could say it was because something life altering and fabulous had happened and I was so engrossed in basking in the fabulousness that I simply could not take the time to write. I am thankful that I do not need to report that something life-shattering and horrible has happened and I was too distraught to write. No, the only thing I have been doing is tending to the flotsam and jetsam of my existence. Flotsam, that stuff which washes overboard, often due to some sort of mishap and jetsam; that which is deliberately jettisoned. I, like so many others, have had my fair share of both this year.

I have always been one to have, from outward appearances, "one too many irons in the fire" perhaps. I never saw it in that way in that I was choosing to say "yes" to the responsibilities I took on. I was happy to be involved and give back in ways that helped others. I have had to step away from some irons that I enjoyed poking around with and I have had to pick up others which continually burn my hands, but such is the way of it.

2018 has been a challenging year so far. I say 'so far' because the eternal optimist in me still holds onto the hope that we as a nation, as a species, as a community can come together and launch a Hail Mary pass of love, grace, and peace toward others. At my core, I believe in actively practicing an attitude of gratitude so the fact that I have said on more than one occasion that 2018 can kiss my ample backside is saying something. In addition, we have had some pretty wonderful things happen over this year so my tendency to perceive this year as less than favorable has not been sitting well with me.

Thankfully, my dear friend Kay Trafton over at Fill Your Cup Wellness [@KayTraftonWellness] invited me to join a Thankfulness group for the month of November. For a split second, I thought
"ugh, one more thing to have to do" but due to my deep respect for Kay and appreciation of what she's doing, I joined the group. I practice active gratitude every day. I could find the time to type three things into a Facebook post; and for the first few days, that is exactly what I did. Jumped on. Typed three things. Jumped off. About a week in, however, an interesting thing happened. I started reading other people's posts about what they were thankful for and sometimes why and in addition to a gentle reminder from the universe about perspective, it externally solidified for me one of my long-held truths. Joy shared is doubled (or as is the case in the technology age - replicated exponentially)!

When we practice a personal attitude of gratitude and are mindful of our blessings and good fortune, we improve our outlook and in turn are more likely able to move through our existence leaving positive energy in our wake. When we bring that practice public, we are not only filling our own cup as Kay so lovingly and diligently encourages us to do, but we are actively filling others cups as well. In reading about other people's joy, I found my heart soaring.

 We MUST change the narrative of this country. Daily, there are reports of hate and violence toward others. Every media outlet available is rife with drama and anger. If you are able to take a deep breath and dive below all of that, though - there are stories of love and generosity and human connection all over the place. We just can't hear them because negativity is drowning out the sounds of joy. We can not let that happen. I am not for one second advocating ignoring people's suffering or pretending that there are not deep seeded, divisive issues in nearly every community. I am posing that one of the ways to interrupt the spread of those problems and begin to address them is by shifting the narrative so that the joy is so loud it drowns the negativity until it no longer has air to breathe. Just like one of the ways to squelch a fire is to deprive it of oxygen, we must eradicate hatred's ability to find an outlet for its voice.

Horrible things are always going to happen and we need to be aware of them so we can protect each other but even in the most horrific of situations, there is good happening. People helping, miracles occurring, something to be thankful for. Look for those things. Find those things and shine a light on them. Together, we can start to change the conversation.

I encourage you all to find your Kay. If you can't find a Kay, BE a Kay. Invite others to publicly share their joy and positivity. Some days it will be harder than others but on those days, it is the most crucial. In the sharing of mindful gratitude, we not only find joy, but we give joy which then, in turn, comes back to us exponentially. Doesn't that sound like a better narrative?

Namaste,

Mother Hen

Be Like Olivia

People who are Facebook friends with me have heard parts of this story before, but in today’s world I think EVERY day is a good day to introduce people to Olivia, so here you go.

I have a deep and abiding personal faith. I carry it with me wherever I am and as such, do not necessarily need to be within the walls of a church building to commune with God or feel spiritual. I do, however, experience a feeling of calm and peace when I attend services, so it is something I enjoy doing on a regular basis. Given the current tumultuous state of the world in which we live, I find myself seeking out the communal service at my church more regularly than ever before. This Sunday was no different and despite not having slept well on Saturday night, Sunday morning found me scrubbing my tired face in the shower and commencing the half hour drive to church.

I got there a little early and found my seat – not that there are “assigned” seats or anything but anyone who has attended Catholic church services with any regularity knows we all get a little predictable with regard to our pew sitting. I remember the day a few years ago that our priest, in an effort to shake us out of complacency encouraged us to stand up and switch seats with someone else! THAT was an interesting exercise in futility, but I applauded his effort. I honestly did not realize until I was about sixteen that the pew we occupied in church each Sunday while I was growing up was not actually our pew. In all the years we attended services there, we had never encountered anyone sitting in the second pew from the front, right, center despite frequently scurrying up the side aisle after the priest had already ascended the altar. Why would we? That was our pew. Everybody else was already sitting in their pew. Regardless, there I was this past Sunday morning, tired as anything and more than a little stressed when in walked Olivia. I closed my eyes and sent up a silent prayer of thanks. Olivia was just what I needed! I attend church hoping to get a ‘God Breeze’ as Marla Cilley of #FlyLady refers to them and Olivia almost always delivers.  

For those of you who don’t have the pleasure of knowing Olivia, she is a three-year-old girl who sits in the front row, right side of my church. She doesn’t tend to stay there, but at least that is where she starts out.  I remember clearly the first time I laid eyes on Olivia. She was singing her own little song about Jesus irrespective of the songs and readings going on in Mass. I tried to block her out and "pay attention" until we got to the Sign of Peace. For those of you not familiar, it is a time before Communion when you shake hands with those adjacent you in the pew and say "peace be with you". At this point in the service, the little girl, whose name I later discovered is Olivia, was no longer content to sing from her pew. She proceeded to leave her seat and come shake my hand while looking me directly in the eye and saying in a sincere, clear, confident voice "Peace be WITH you!" I was no longer capable of ignoring Olivia. She then proceeded to make her way around the entire church, to each and every pew with her message and comforting touch. She paused to lay her hands and heart with each person she could reach. "Peace be WITH you!" with particular emphasis on ‘with’ was repeated time and time again during the entire Eucharistic Rite. She made her way back across the front of the church where our priest and Eucharistic Ministers were standing, ready to deliver Communion and took her place back in the front row where she proceeded to deliver her sincere blessing as they passed by, to those who she could not reach during her pilgrimage around the church. Between her actions and our Communion hymn, "Be Not Afraid" I was in tears AND at peace.

Olivia was pretty restrained this past Sunday, snuggled in with her mama for most of the Mass. I figured she must have been as tired as I was and decided I would probably not get my God Breeze by way of Olivia. During the homily, our priest went on to discuss how we must all be a light in this world. He encouraged us to seek out those who may be different than we are, those who may feel disenfranchised or forgotten and to reach out to them. I listened to every word and my tired, cranky self felt the first tugs of peace creeping into my being. Despite being snuggled into her mama, apparently, Olivia was listening too. As soon as Father wished us the Sign of Peace, down out of her mother’s arms she wriggled. Olivia was off.

Around the church she proceeded to make her weekly pilgrimage. As each “Peace be WITH you!” echoed off the walls, my heart got a little bit lighter.  Before long, Olivia made her way to me. As she took my hand in both of her little hands she looked me directly in the eyes and gently, quietly whispered “Peace be with YOU.” I felt as if I were about to be bowled over, so strong was the God Breeze I was experiencing.

The song of preparation began to play and as we sang the words “Come! Open your Heart! Show your mercy to all those in fear! We are called to be the hope for the hopeless, so all hatred and blindness will be no more! We are called to act with justice, we are called to love tenderly, we are called to serve one another; to walk humbly with God” Olivia made her way back to her pew. Once again, I was left in tears and at peace.

Olivia is not afraid. Olivia knows the answer. She has already opened her heart. She is the epitome of loving tenderly. I challenge you to follow the lead of this three-year-old. Get up out of your pew, or your house or your comfort zone. Look your neighbor or a complete stranger in the eye. Reach out your hand with love and with a loud, clear voice say "Peace be WITH you!" #BelikeOlivia

We Gather Together

I am blessed. I recognize this every day. I give thanks for it every night. Of course, life has its challenges. Sure, some days (even some decades at this rate) seem like big, fat piles of poop but every day that I wake up is an opportunity to try again to make the world just a little bit better than I left it the day before. This past week finds another neighbor gone from this world too soon and it has me reflecting on the fact that not everybody gets the opportunity to live another day. It is not guaranteed to any of us. Seeing a little toddler at the funeral for my neighbor brought about an unexpected joy for me on a day I didn’t expect to feel a lot of happiness. She may have been little but she was there and that was important to me.

My grandmother’s second husband was the man I considered my grandfather. I did not have him in my life for long, but we made the years count. To say he was very special to me is an understatement of epic proportions. I never knew my biological grandfather because cancer claimed him while my mom was still pregnant with me. My grandpa Ted was everything I needed a grandpa to be. He had a collection of wool sweaters that zipped up the front and had suede patches on the elbows. He wore wide wale corduroy pants or Dickie work pants and always sported a pair of sturdy leather half-boots – even in the summer. Every day he would read the newspaper and smoke a White Owl cigar. Every night he would drink a highball and read some more. He was tall and skinny and mostly quiet and I thought he hung the moon.

He and my grandma would sometimes take me home with them for the weekend. I had the run of my grandpa’s office on those occasions. He would let me sit in his giant chair that swiveled around and around and around until I couldn’t walk a straight line. He never complained when I sharpened all the pencils on his huge, dark, pedestal table desk down to little nubs. He didn’t yell when I let the reservoir on the hand crank sharpener overflow and drop graphite shavings all over the slate floor. He didn’t even cringe (at least not that I noticed) when I would swing wide the antique glass doors of his cabinets and run my most likely grubby, little hands over the antique, leather-bound books with the embossed spines which he kept there.

There were all sorts of adventures while I visited and he took me on all of them. We would go on walks with his dog Brownie and he would point out various animal signs or wait while I chased a chipmunk. He would wink at me across the puzzle table where he would let me help with the 1000+ piece puzzles he would work on. I am sure I was more of a hindrance than a help but that didn’t stop him from sliding me part of his rum raisin ice cream across that table after I had eaten all of mine. He even let me sit on a stump and watch while he skinned a deer and talked with his close friend like I was “one of the guys” which was a pretty big deal for a four-year-old girl.

Despite our ever-changing adventures, there were certain things I could count on at all times with my grandpa. He would be patient. He would smell like wood smoke and something specific to him and soothing to me. He would do anything my grandma asked him to and he loved me unconditionally. We had this ridiculous game where I would climb in his lap and snuggle in. He would ask me for a kiss and I would shake my head no. He’d tap his cheek and I’d lean in with a smooch. Then he’d set me down and I would run to my special cupboard and remove my “payment” for the kiss from the ever-present packages of spearmint leaves, Canadian Mints and Payday candy bars that he kept there just for me. Now, in today’s world, I’m sure plenty of tongues would wag and agencies would be called about such an arrangement but I would have given the kisses freely and he would have offered the candy regardless and we both knew it. It was a ritual that was specific to us and so incredibly special to me. My grandmother told me years later that each time they went to the grocery store, the first place my grandfather stopped was the candy aisle and my special treats were the first items in the cart. “For my girl” he would say. I cherished my time with both of my grandparents which was why his death from injuries sustained in a fall left an unfillable void. His death was my first personal experience with loss. He was seventy-four. I was five.

Death and the inherent rituals that come along with it are all part of the life cycle. Funerals and memorial services may be in honor of the dead, but they are for the benefit of the living. They can serve as a way to put some order and predictability to a situation which is ultimately out of our control. A burial offers a framework for a community of people who share a common member to gather together. It allows them to share memories of the deceased and share in the burden of adjusting to a world without that person in it. For individuals who practice a faith, it provides an opportunity to lean on that faith and derive comfort from it. Grief, like death, does not discriminate based on age and therefore, I believe it is important for children to be introduced to funeral rites and customs at an early age.

Back then, it was not socially acceptable for children to attend funerals. I don’t think it was social compliance as much as a desire to protect me during a time of immense sadness that led to my parents leaving me in the care of someone else while they attended my grandfather’s funeral.  Not allowing me to participate in the funeral rituals for a man I loved beyond compare is a decision my parents regret. That experience (or lack thereof) is something that drove me to make certain my children were present and included each time someone we knew died.

As I attended the service for my friendly neighbor lady I observed all the funeral rituals we all take for granted – the religious ceremony, the flowers, the bringing of food and sharing of a meal, the toasts and the tears and the laughter and I smiled. I recognized that a funeral is not only a gift to the living but it is a way for people to participate in a shared experience. It is an opportunity to shed light on the various facets of a person’s life and maybe learn about a different side of them. I may not have been privy to my neighbor’s off-color sense of humor but listening to the stories her family shared I felt like I was. I imagined if she could have been there with her larger than life personality and her big, deep, belly laugh that she would have been sharing a whole boatload of stories herself.

Those memories have to be shared. The stories need to be retold – not just after the person dies but while they are in the room. At a birthday party or during family game night or out by the bonfire on a Saturday afternoon – it doesn’t really matter where or when but tell them. Tell the new boyfriends and girlfriends who venture into the fold. Traipse down memory lane with the older family members – even if everyone has “heard the story a thousand times!”. Recount and retell them for the children as they grow. Don’t pretty them up or leave parts out. We are all to a one, imperfect and the sharing and connecting to the imperfections is fully as important as all the rest- maybe even more so. It is in the recounting of memories that we not only get a glimpse of our loved one but perhaps we get a glimpse of ourselves and that connection is what will keep our loved one’s memory alive long after they are gone from this earth.

I may not have any grandchildren yet, but when I do, I will be encouraging their parents to engage them in the formal grieving process of funerals for as much as it is an acknowledgment of death, it is a celebration of life. Hopefully, it will be a long time before they attend my funeral, but when they do – I hope they all gather around, telling stories and eating candy from their special cupboard – the one right here next to this huge, dark, pedestal table desk at which I’m sitting. 

Never Let 'em See You Sweat

Some days I feel like I play a nonstop game of Whack a Mole – except it is most days and it isn’t a game. To someone looking in from the outside, it may appear that the last handful of years have not been overly kind to my family but I recognize that our circumstances are not unique and in the grand scheme of things, not that bad. Many families I know have felt the crunch over the last few years, be it financial, health issues, a complete shift in family dynamics or just general lack of hours in the day. The loss of loved ones, job change (or loss), aging of a parent or experiencing an empty nest can each on their own lead to extreme stress which sometimes manifests itself in marriage strife or health complications. Juggle several of these major life events, or all of them as in our case and things get real. Tie them all up with a hormone fluctuating, menopause bow and it is a gift that keeps on giving! In our home, we have had a number of events over the years that have tested our collective mettle but we always manage to come out on the other side, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

When faced with a big ole’ pile of ick, you have to have a toolbox or bag of tricks at the ready to help you navigate it. It is better to have at least the bones of this tool kit in place before an issue arises, but no worries if you don’t – life has a way of giving you what you need if you just look or ask for it. For our family, humor has always been a path through the dark. Whether at the funeral of a beloved neighbor, around the table during a difficult family conversation about job loss or in a hospital room where my husband lay with tubes and wires protruding from every existing orifice of his body along with a few surgically placed ones for good measure – humor has reared its head and soundly delivered us from things that might otherwise break us. Combining comedic relief with our deep personal faith, there isn’t anything we have come up against that we haven’t been able to handle, though I wouldn’t mind if the universe stopped trying quite so hard to send challenges our way.

 I’m well aware there are those who may see our shoulder shaking, silent laughter during a funeral as disrespectful. I have been admonished by a close family friend during a time of extreme financial hardship that “job loss is NO laughing matter” in response to my statement that “at least now, I might finally get my Tupperware cupboard organized and my orphan socks matched up”. More than one nurse shook their head at the sight of me bouncing into the intensive care ward over a three-week span sporting a string of “Just Eat Peas” and “Down With Beef!” t-shirts I made in response to an unfortunate incident involving my husband and what we refer to as the “shish-ka-bob of death”. (That is a story for a different day.) Everyone processes stress differently, to be sure. Luckily, our clan tends to get each other’s references even if the outside world doesn’t quite understand. In our family, sardonic humor and dry wit tend to serve us well and by that, I am perpetually blessed.

 The constant need to be “on” can wear a body down which is why it is imperative to find your bliss and explore your strengths. Don’t leave opportunities to refill your cup and recharge your batteries to chance. Does time spent in solitude fortify your resources? Does an evening snuggled under a comfy blanket with a special someone give you the strength to fight another day? Maybe dressing up in ridiculous outfits and belting out show tunes in front of a raucous crowd is more your speed. Sometimes life can feel like a gerbil wheel and other times that wheel comes loose and careens around the cage. Perhaps you will have to deal with a broken wheel that cannot possibly be bent back into shape. Hopefully, nothing but warmth and sunshine grace your world but some of the most beautiful skies can be seen after, or sometimes even during a storm so don’t despair. If you find yourself in a situation that starts to rock your world – use your tools. Lean on your people. Find your voice. Do your dance. Do not worry about what others may think or that you might offend someone. If I had let my inhibitions stop me from accessing my coping mechanisms, I would still be curled up in a little ball in a corner somewhere instead of living my life and loving my people. I don’t know about you, but I would much rather weather a few raised eyebrows or tongue clucks and come out on the other side than stay buttoned-down and implode. Besides, I’ve gotten some pretty cool T-Shirts out of the deal. 

About Mother Hen

Mother Hen’s House.

Midnight Musings of a middle-aged mother hen.

If you asked me five years ago to describe who I am; I would have without hesitation or exception said: “I’m a mom”. It is all I have ever wanted to be or identified as. Sure, I have had various jobs. A few careers even, but my identity? Wholly and completely, a mom. As a lifelong professional Early Educator, I wasn’t even just mom to my biological children but a stand-in mom to hundreds of other children over the last thirty years. The interesting thing is – kids grow up. What once was a twenty-four hour a day, seven days a week calling starts to not take up quite so many hours of the day. Oh sure, I am never “not” a mom, but my children are grown. They are spreading their wings and starting lives of their own as it should be and that leaves me with a lot of time, most of it in the quiet of the wee hours, fueled by menopausal insomnia, to question not who I have been, but who I might now become. It isn’t always a comfortable question to ponder but my midnight musings give me plenty of time to reflect, so here we are.

I have been a professional child care provider and Early Educator. I am a licensed foster parent and educational surrogate. I have served as a mentor to teen (and other) moms. I am a social justice advocate and a shared living provider for young adults with developmental disabilities. I am a daughter, sister, wife, mother, business partner, and friend. If left to my own devices, I prefer to be a social introvert but I will not hesitate to step out of my comfort zone and become a formidable warrior if my people need championing and that is how I became known as ‘Mother Hen’.

Given my proclivity to remain behind the scenes unless called upon, I would never have ventured into the public blogosphere. I would have remained perfectly happy to continue writing stories and poems for my kids and journal entries for myself, but apparently, the universe has other plans for this mother hen. I have a deep personal faith and I have received and accepted the message that to be here, on this page is part of my journey. I am by no means an expert, but I have packed a lot of living and experience into this life. My hope is with humor and heart, I can share my story with you and in doing so, perhaps you will find a “nugget” of inspiration or maybe some helpful hints or at the very least I can provide you with a dose of humor to make it through your own sleepless night. Not one of us is getting out of here alive, so we might as well enjoy the ride and pick up some sisters along the way. Namaste.