Writing Reality

    If anyone can recall their elementary public school days, you should be able to recall who your first elementary school principal was. Hopefully, that is. The reason why I say this is, usually you were deathly afraid of being sent down to the principal’s office. If that happened, your mother would be called. And depending on the family you grew up with, well it wasn’t going to be a pleasant experience. Like most elementary school-aged children, you were petrified.   Some of you who are younger reading this, may wonder why I use the word “petrified”. As history would have it, and the world spins on its axis, I was born in 1962. Yes, the Cold War was in existence. We had a President assassinated. The Civil Rights movement was in its everlasting tumultuous evolution, as was the sexual revolution and gender identity. Too, many may want to forget the Vietnam War ramping up and what that brought to the table when it came to individual behaviors. And the ramifications of stress by s

  The hustle and bustle of getting your child ready to apply, select and see colleges of their choice; perhaps yours too, can be an all-consuming process.   When my husband a few years ago suggested hiring a college counselor. I thought maybe. I also had the thought, that guidance counselors in our public school system handled college counseling with our help. And that hiring a college counselor outside of the school system was for the very privileged. Not something I thought we were able to afford being of an economic middle-class status. As he was a high school math teacher and I had my own therapy business, which was not profiting like it had due to the economy since 2008. As well, the increasing cost in overhead of having an office.   I knew college counselors who were clients of mine. One whom would be someone if I were to hire Bill, I would most definitely trust. However, my husband knew a retired counselor from the inner-city school system where he taught. He knew this man

  There are instances in life when someone achieves something in sports, where there are those who want to take credit for it. Or think that they could've done a better job at playing and or at coaching it. I am certain it happens quite often privately inside sport loving minds. Yet, I've witnessed it publicly.  And I'm not directing this to the aspect of social media.   I'm speaking of the pseudo-coaching-parents criticizing from the bleachers. If you ain't helping. Guess what? You ain't helping. Helping is watching.  Helping is, if you know something that lacked in your child's body movement that he/she could be aware of.  And it is something that you could discuss at home prior to the event, then fine.   As well, knowing it could be congruent with a coaches’ thinking. Perhaps, it’s something simple like bending their knees to prevent an injury and getting a better result. Or perhaps to quash a child's frustration. If the coach is unavailable, that

    A few nights ago, my two teenaged daughters were upset with one another. It had been mounting, the pressure that is. Finally, I called for a meeting in the basement, bright lighting shown and all. I remarked, “So, you don’t like her criticizing you. And you don’t like her peanut gallery judgements. Well, I do not like any of it. So, here now please agree to stop doing that. Both those things.” By the way, a little psychological trick I learned from “Mind Strategist” Dr. Dan Schaefer, author of “CLICK!”. The little trick is to not use the word(s) while instructing what you want someone to NOT do or touch.   So, I used the word ‘THAT’. Or the phrase, “Both those things”, instead.   Of course, the two begin blaming each other for their reactions. I tell them, “You can’t blame each other. That’s just ridiculous. Let us just stop saying those things.” There were grumbles, yet I pointed out each individual’s personality trait that annoyed the other. And I pointed out the lack of se

  The intersection I always wanted to create independence in my children. Yet, there is a dichotomy in parenting.  It's the push pull. Or at least that's what I call it. In my mind, the constant ebb and flow of parenting has been since I was a child. It was subtle then.  But I knew what it was.  I watched it. I was the parent-child. The parent-child is perhaps the Great worrier. As ironic as that seems, it's the intersection I've wrestled with. I wanted to be free. As a child I knew I had to be somewhat of a 'Babysitter' to not only my older and younger siblings, as well my parents.  For I was the child parenting the whereabouts of my parents. The whereabouts was not just a physical  entity. It was the arena of their status of an emotional whereabouts that they might be. I was always in check.  I knew at some point and time I would have to let go of parenting my siblings, or rather monitoring their whereabouts.  My parents?  I wondered when that would end

  It is amazing the way this day lands in 2021. Today, this year the date April 4th cuts across multiple cultural/ethnic and religious lines... It is the date that MLK was assassinated, which I remember vividly. This year it is Easter. And it is Qingming Festival... Tomb-sweeping Day in China, Malaysia, Thailand and in about eight other countries it is celebrated.   All three items are significant to me. Firstly, I come from Lutheran and Catholic religious families. Secondly, there will always remain a red thread in my soul and across my heart… I have Chinese family and Thai family relations.   And Third, this date is to me is the first although solemn, as a most significant piece of history I remember from my childhood. It was the assassination of MLK. It was a horrid day. One I won’t ever forget. I still feel the loss, deep in my soul. The Vietnam War is second in my childhood memory of historical events.   The names of the dead, casualty numbers shown on our television sets, ‘In

  A Mental Chore As I sat at our dinner table with our family of four, a little over two years ago. Our two teenage daughters and husband were discussing how reading enriches the mind. And how wonderful it was that all three of them were readers. I listened in as only an alien from a foreign solar system could. The three at that point could probably easily have read 100 pages per hour and comprehend what they'd read. Reading and comprehension were not in my mental vocabulary. To say it best I was reminded of just how painful reading has been all my life. Rarely, was it not. As they chatted, I remained inside my quiet, little restless mental hell-hole. I know my IQ just touches the mark of genius. A friend of mine begged me to take an IQ test after I'd adopted our first child. My friend gave IQ tests.  She was from Shanghai and well...Brilliant.  i figured everyone would find out just how dumb I really was. I was forty-one years of age (2003) when I finally acquiesced he