Theory 32: Forty is the perfect age.

My friends and family have enjoyed big chuckles all week, thanks to my 40^th birthday, which is today, February 14, 2014.  My mother-in-law Bop sent me gross/funny cards with $5 bills inside. She, Dogwood Debutante, Balloon Girl and Cake also had a happy pink and red flower arrangement with three “Happy Birthday” balloons delivered to my classroom at the junior high. That delivery, combined with a school day shortened three hours for a minor “snowpocalypse” made for an eventful 3^rd period with thirty-five freshmen! Friends have texted, teased, and treated me all week.

Look, I LOVE attention like Gnome loves candy. And, unlike most folks, I actually enjoy public speaking and being the center of attention. But, I’m not big on birthdays. I am a terrible birthday card giver. Even though I mail notes to people all the time for all types of occasions, I usually forget to buy birthday cards. I think it’s because my birthday is not that important to me. That sounds awful, doesn’t it? Sorry. Selfish? Sorry again.

I think Tall Child is catching my fever of apathy. He turned 50 in May. Our friends and I wanted to throw him a toga party as a nod to his youthful adventures and baby-booming swagger. But, he declined, saying, “Let’s just let this one slide on by.” Also, every February 14^th around supper time, I hand Tall Child a “For Husband” Valentine and he says, “Oh, Bug! Let’s trade cards later.” We eat supper. Then, Tall Child says, “I have to take care of something really quickly. I’ll be right back.” He makes a mad dash to Walgreens and comes home with a proud grin and two cards: a “For Wife” Valentine and a “For her” birthday card. Every year. Bless his Tall, kind, forgetful heart.

Maybe I have some disregard for my birthday because it’s on Valentine’s Day, and, except for Tall Child and my college sweetheart, Nixon Lover, who was, ironically, also born on Valentine’s Day in 1974, I never had a boyfriend on February 14th. The sting of an empty locker and no call from the office throughout high school never leaves you. It never leaves you. Why, male GP Highlanders, why? Was it my sharp tongue, hallway scowls, the fact that you had to pass Delicious’s 12^th grade English class to graduate, or was it my proclamation of virginity? (I think it was the latter.) Why no roses? I should have sent myself flowers. I’ve learned so much since high school. I mean, I buy myself cases of wine nowadays just for getting a paycheck. What’s the difference?

This is a good time to introduce one of my favorite people in the world, “Downton Gams.” She has signature style; a classy, yet casual look consisting of long-sleeved shirts, corduroys, preppy-yet-colorful loafers, and fitted down vests topped off with pearls, honey. Pearls. Downton Gams is a mix of British composure, European style, Land’s End practicality, and Old South tradition. And, she has the most beautiful legs in 37919. She’s an intellectual and passionate mother and a fantastic sounding board for a loon like me. I confessed to her last week, “I’m afraid folks are going to make a big deal about my birthday.” Downton Gams coached, “Don’t you worry about that, Bug, just get through it. I was sooooo glad to see that number come and go. No big deal. No big deal. That’s that. Done. Done. Forty. Done.”

I love my girl posse. Another member is Agape Agave. She’s “Agape” because she loves circles around you! Her natural instinct is unconditional, country-style, custard pie love. She’s “Agave” because she makes a mean beverage with a plant product of the same name. Agape Agave can quilt and sew and can tomatoes. She’s Agape Agave Awesome!

So, Agape Agave and I discussed my turning forty just yesterday. (She’s next.) I asked, “What do you think is good about turning 40?”

Agape Agave said, “Let me tell you what my mama said. She said to me one time, ‘Oh, honey, just wait til you’re 40. You won’t give a [dang] what anybody says to you.’”

I asked, “Well, do you think that’s right?

Agape Agave said, “I don’t know; I’m not forty, but you are tomorrow! You tell me! Ha!”

Well, I reflected all afternoon about the wise counsel I got from Downton Gams and Agape Agave, and they are right about AGE 40.

I may not want a big fuss, but I am happy to be forty. It’s the perfect age! I’m writing, obviously, from my own perspective and experience, but I think many of you forty-and-overs will relate. The rest of you can anticipate landing on this happy number. What do I mean? Why is forty the perfect age?

As I turn forty, I have to say that almost everything makes sense.

And, if something doesn’t make sense, I don’t even care. Delicious and Pooh taught me well, but much of my newfound confidence and free thinking comes from two experiences. First, adopting Gnome and having an open adoption with his birth family. The eight year journey from infertility to meeting Gnome for the first time was embedded with enlightenment beyond anything I ever expected. Second, my dear friends (some of whom you’ve met, some not yet) give me license to be me, without judgment or criticism, and—bonus—with support! As Pooh said, “I always like the people who like me.” Amen, daddy!

I don’t give a dang when people criticize me.

I wrote my book, The Eye of Adoption, to help other women affected by infertility and adoption. But, when you write a book (or a blog) you subject yourself to bad reviews, critical commentary, and ridicule. It’s especially hurtful when it comes from family who probably haven’t even read the book. If someone has a problem with my writing, my goals, or me, that problem is his/hers. Trust me, when you slap an essay like this into the blogosphere, you get all kinds of feedback. I embrace it, or I wouldn’t dare call this blog Theories: Size 12, Go on and get mad, but you know I’m right. Guess what? I know why I wrote the book. If someone doesn’t “get it” or like it, I don’t give a dang. If I were twenty-two years old and “put myself out there” in the writing world, a bad review would demolish me. Now, I just laugh, read the good reviews again, shake off the sting, and keep writing.

If I want to dance, I dance, thanks to inspiration from my smart, well-formed friend “Elaine.” “Elaine” loves the stage. She belongs on the stage. She’s not shy. And, boy oh boy, can she bust a move in her own special way. She is also really good at stretching. When “Elaine” takes the dance floor, she elevates the entire party to a new level of interest and excitement, especially when she’s joined by “Smokin’ Scrubs,” our gorgeous blonde friend who is a natural born tambourine player. She has a soulful, healing laugh, and is never shy about hopping on stage. Anywhere.

I don’t give a dang about material things.

I grew up in an old farmhouse and, for some crazy reason, bought another old house. At twenty-six years old, I wore myself out trying to make my 1956 plumbing nightmare of a house pretty and perfect with the “right” touches. Now, I don’t give a dang. The oddities no longer make me drive to Home Depot. They make me laugh.

I desperately need a laptop (mostly to dodge Gnome, Sharky, and Tall Child when I write), but I love the sentimentality of using my sweet late father-in-law’s computer.

Big Red is only my third car. She grunts and groans and is stick with duct tape, but we just crank up and go. She’s okay. I’m okay.

I don’t give a dang about my appearance.

Well, I am a girl. Let’s just say I don’t obsess, and I’m quite forgiving. I wear make-up because there’s no such thing as natural beauty and if I didn’t douse myself in Merle Norman, my students would think they had a substitute teacher. But I don’t worry about finding the “right” clothes like I did in my twenties and early thirties. Actually, I’m looking to embrace a uniform wardrobe. Think Diane Keaton or Simon Cowell. I want to look appropriate, yet be comfortable every day, but I don’t want to have to think about my clothes. I need to be professional, but prefer some eccentric flair. Ya’ll let me know what I should wear. Please read the rest of the post so you’ll know what you have to work with, ahem, around.

My precious, precious friend “Flower Child” is also inspires me to relax about looks. Flower Child and “Elaine” (her sister) are neighborhood leaders in compassion, philanthropy, and kindness. They just flat out know how to love their friends. And, they have their own kind of “uniforms.”

I told Flower Child I was contemplating a uniform, and that I needed two pair of shoes for each season, one black, one brown. She said, “Shoot, I only wear two pairs of shoes ever. Flip-flops if it’s warm. Uggs if it’s cold.” So free. So, so free.

I don’t give a dang about perfection. I just survive and thrive at work, at home, in school, in my writing. I don’t stress over mistakes. As a student, I competed against others and myself for higher grades and recognition. In my twenties and thirties, as a bank manager, I was frantic and ambitious.

Now, I just do the best I can and do no schoolwork at home. I also, as Delicious likes to preach, “always anticipate the incompetence of others.” I focus on preparation and then deliver the best goods I’ve got. I don’t get mad at others’ mistakes like I did years ago.

I am terribly flawed, yet self-aware.

I’ve watched myself for a while now, and noted a few things that bother me (and likely bother others). I’m loud in classrooms and restaurants and houses. I throw temper tantrums and toss Tupperware.  I’m quite destructive. I’ve always been this way. Delicious says I always rushed and “screwed up one side of the poster board” when I did science projects and she always had to drive back to the store for another poster board. I always wondered why she didn’t buy two poster boards in the first place. Whatever. Anyway, throughout my life I denied these flaws. Now, I embrace them, write about them, and try really hard to control the impulse to sling a light bulb at Tall Child. Knowing oneself is liberating.

I understand that I can’t control other people. So I don’t try.

If Tall Child doesn’t won’t get a checkup, shame on him. Other than Sharky and Gnome and myself, I am not responsible for another person’s healthcare. That’s all I have to say about that.

I love the idiosyncrasies of people I know. I’m not annoyed when they disagree with me like I was when I was younger. Instead, I try to learn from them, because anyone can learn from anyone. 

Speaking of, I’m less inhibited and more plain-spoken in my “old age.”

Even the book description of The Eye of Adoption on Amazon, reads “Dyer tells it like it is….” I figure folks are worn out guessing and trying to figure things out, so I just write like I speak, with flaws and all, but mostly, honesty, so readers can RELATE!

I trust myself. I know why I write what I write, and I write from my soul. Simple, trite, genius, spiritual, funny, dull, who knows? I just write and am flattered if anyone reads my work.

I’ve been accused of saying “whatever comes to mind” but friends, I hold about 80% in. Be warned. Why do you think I have to crank out the long blog posts every week? Yes, because I have so much nonsense to share with the world!

I don’t feel guilty for taking care of myself.

Agape Agave said, “All I want to do is diddle around on Pinterest, drink tons of coffee, and chase it with margaritas and I want everyone to leave me the [heck] alone.” Amen, sister wife. Do it. Women, at forty, I finally have the guts to say, “Hey, Tall Child and boys, I’m going to look for a bra and it will take a loooooong time. Suck it up. And, unless you want me to burn up our Verizon minutes in a pre-menopausal, big breasted rage, don’t call me while I’m sweating in a Dillard’s dressing room.” No. More. Guilt. Why, just yesterday I went to the grocery store all by myself. It was awesome!

I need other people to make choices for me.

I have terrible taste in clothing and accessories. I have complete trust in my friends and family who buy me treats to wear. As a matter of fact, they know and embrace this fact! Generous, thoughtful Downtown Gams gave me a Kate Spade handbag for my birthday! WHAAAAAT! It’s from New. York. City. And it’s beautiful. Isn’t that incredibly sweet? My last handbag was from The Walmart at the Walker Springs Exit on I-40.  I also asked her how to fix my hair for a Cotillion dance and she emphatically said, “We are curly girls. We can not go straight; it just makes us look tired.” Waves it is, Gams! Bop and Delicious like to buy me clothes. I don’t argue; I trust. I just put the new duds, hop into Big Red, and cruise to the junior high in style.

Consider: I’ve embraced my appearance and actually have lots of new things to celebrate!

1. Bigger boobs! Just when I thought my girls Atlantic and Pacific were normal, I visited Dillard’s to bra shop, as I said above. Well, I plopped one day’s worth of teacher wages on the biggest cup size sold at Dillard’s. Here’s the kicker/bouncer: I need the next size up. Really? Really? How much onion dip have I eaten? What gives? I am seriously considering surgery. I don’t give a dang what others think about A&P, but I am tired of being uncomfortable. Smokin’ Scrubs worked for a plastic surgeon; I’m gonna see what she thinks. I really want to Benjamin Button my breasts.

2. Old white woman booty! It’s happening. I’m getting that white-lady booty where the fat moves up and out, just below the waist. Like a shelf over a giant coffee bean. Or, a Valentine heart! But, what a wonderful place for Gnome to perch. It’s all about attitude, ladies.

3. Bedazzled legs! I’ve gotten into constellations lately because Sharky’s learning the lunar phases and Gnome stares up and gasps, “Look, stars!” Well, I happen to have similar wonders on my body. So, if you are chipping in ideas for my “uniform” please stay away from colors that bring out blue and purple. See photo below. So magical. Sooooo sexy.

At 40, I am wise and happily share my wisdom.

For example:

Tall Child (aged 50 years with an oaky aroma) bragged that  “50 is the new 40.” I hope he’s right. I have a thing for proportional reasoning, ever since my math instructional mentor “Certified Genius” taught me the following formula. 

Part                 Part

Whole    =       Whole

If I apply the proportional reasoning formula, I am 30 years old, weight 147 pounds, and wear a 34D. Confused? Do the math. Construct a response. Common Core. Booyah.

Friends, master this concept and you’ll increase standardized math test scores by 20%. I promise. It works with conversion (inches to feet, cm to yards), cooking (tablespoons to teaspoons, swaparoo with measuring cups), and—for you teachers—similar triangles (not mine, but the ones in the textbook)!  For tutoring on this topic, contact me at jdyer415@yahoo. Remember, I’m a teacher hustler. Rate is $35 an hour; and please don’t tell the IRS because they’ll just give 28% to Joe L.  (my extra husband down in Mississippi).

Age 40 is awesome because I’m friendlier. I love meeting other authors and readers and making new friends online. I am a social media butterfly and don’t care what people think or say about it. I “like” freely and promote others’ work with great joy. Through writing this blog and publishing my book, I have made some awesome new friends, all over the country. My life is much richer for accepting their online friendship.

I’m much less shy in my alone time, too. I used to think inside my mind. Now I just go ahead and talk to myself out loud. I’m easier to understand that way. As my grandfather, Big Man used to say, “I can’t imagine anyone I’d rather talk to than me. I am so interesting and I never argue.” But, I do enjoy my conversations with me more when I/we have them out loud because I/we enjoy inflection and mood. Sometimes people at the grocery store interrupt me/us. So rude.

Delicious  said, “One thing that comes with being older is you learn when to keep your mouth shut.” Maybe that one will come at 50, Delicious. Until then, I have lots to say. For example, spring semester quickly approaches, which means yearbooks are coming out soon. Which means, the superlative votes will happen shortly. Times have changed. Which brings us to Theory 33: Senior Superlatives must be modernized, and should include teachers.

Just a couple of weeks after I posted this diatribe, my sweet friends threw me a surprise party. What a special night. I am happy to be forty if I'm surrounded by these jewels. Here are some photos. Top night of my life!



See you next post. Until then, think outside the barn. All you other old folks, what do you like about being 40+?

I dedicate this song to me.

                           

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Theory 31: Mama’s behavior determines how well other folks like her baby.

How many of you have offended a new mother? How many of you have been offended by a new mother? How many of you offended others when you were a new mother? Please know I do not consider myself a behavioral expert in any way. I doubt my parenting skills almost daily. Sleep? Ha! Every man for himself! A balanced, organic, diet with perfect servings of fruits and vegetables for two growing boys? Let’s just say that over a week’s time, everyone has had some fruit. I make all kinds of mistakes, but one thing I try hard to get right is helping Sharky and Gnome build their own relationships with friends and family.

Readers, I’m assuming you are alone right now in your office, classroom, car, or living room. We can be honest here on Theories: Size 12, right? I want you to relax, close your eyes, and think of a child whom you should be close to and enjoy, but you just don’t like him/her like you should or like you expected to. Upsetting, isn’t it? Weird, huh? Now, concentrate on the child. See the child holding an adult hand and follow that hand up an arm, over a shoulder, up a neck. Do you see a face? Whose face do you see? The mother? Yep. It’s not the child’s fault you find him untouchable, odd, or annoying. It’s hers.

I figure I’ll get some hate mail on this post. As always, I dug around among my sources (friends) for blog fodder, but I’m not naming names or assigning blame! Oh well, I’ll take one for the team because all you mamas who committed the offenses I’m about to illustrate in Theory 31 choked at the buzzer! You were pregnant, a new mother, raising a toddler, rearing a young child and you missed something important. You failed to set your child up for social acceptance among your adult friends and family, which really stinks for your adult friends and family because they truly love your child and desire a one-on-one relationship with him/her. For those of you who are pregnant, take heed. Avoid what my aunt Terrific calls “bad baby etiquette.”

My uncle Gravy’s father said something long ago that made so much dang sense. He said, “Other people have to like your child, too.” So, how does a new mother accomplish this task? Why, by her own behavior, of course. She can’t always control her baby/toddler/child, but she absolutely can control herself. Let’s examine Theory 31: Mama’s behavior determines how well other folks like her baby, in three phases.

Phase 1: Pregnancy – Start thinking in the stirrups.

“For those who exalt themselves will be humbled,

and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

—Matthew 23:12 (NIV)

Check yourself, pregnant girl. Others’ attitudes toward your child start in gestational week one. When you see two pink lines, don’t text the news to close relatives and buddies. Anyone who is going to love the child merits a phone conversation, or better, a celebratory lunch!

Don’t be high maintenance. You can certainly sit in the backseat, unless maybe you are having triplets.

Whining is unattractive. You are eating guilt free. Live it up! Be happy and hit a drive-thru every day! When a certain hen in my crowd was expecting her first chick, she clucked relentlessly. Tall Child compared, “You know, Bug, when you were pregnant with Sharky, you didn’t act like that. It was like you were never even pregnant.” I took that as a compliment. I guess his forty pound weight gain kept him from noticing my fifty-five pound weight gain and twelve-hour naps. I suppose I was more hog than hen. 

When folks ask you about your due date, the sex, the nursery, be sweet. They are simply taking an interest or don’t even care and are just being polite. Don’t be all secretive and snooty. Exercise patience by listening intently to other mamas’ labor stories. They are trying to bond with you in the motherhood club and start a relationship with the baby. Visualize a friend talking to your child four years later, “I remember when your mama was pregnant. We were all so excited.” Trust me; you’ll be just as repetitive and annoying someday.

Refrain from rubbing and scratching your belly. Gross. I itch, too, but I don’t scratch it/them in public.

Let baby shower hostesses decide how many invitations hit the post office. Don’t pressure friends to go broke by inviting people you haven’t seen in years. When a kind soul throws you a baby shower, remember your goal is to collect booties, not loot. That is rude, you come across as a Prima donna, and people may dread what drama and elitism you will birth along with your baby.  Pregnancy may fatten your rear, but it does not by default fatten your friends’ wallets. Be thoughtful with your gift registry; mix up the items by price. Build respect for your growing family by showing respect to those who will love the baby and can’t afford a movie star stroller. I recently heard of a girl who actually has a “stroller fund” because she registered for a $900 dollar carriage. Really? The junior high teachers would have to throw an 8^th grade dance to come up with that kind of money!

Remember, you set the tone for the party. No one is really dying to watch you open gifts—until you open the gift she brought. Move quickly, speak up, laugh, smile, pass the sweet pink and blue fluffy loveys (what are those, anyway?) around. Demonstrate appreciation to faithful attendees who wreck their low-carb diets on iced petit fours smack dab in the middle of their day off.

Use your manners, girls. In the South we have legendarily explicit instructions for thank you notes. The important thing is to write them. Please. If you don’t take the time to thank someone who chipped fifty dollars into the stroller fund, how do you think she’ll feel about you and, consequently, your innocent baby? It just ain’t fittin’.

Be gracious to those who come to the hospital, especially older relatives who wait all day, eating Bugles and sipping Coke as they stiffly sit on mauve pleather.  Everyone who waits at the hospital should get to see the baby after it’s born. That same day/night. Tell that mean nurse trying to force you to breastfeed to chill for a second so everyone can meet the baby they’ve mentally labored and prayed for for nine months and twelve hours.

Phase 2: Infancy

The thing that impresses me most about America
is the way parents obey their children.

—Edward VIII

If you say “Shhhhhhhh” to a grown-up, Shhhhhhhhame on you! Children should cater to adults, not the other way around. If, for some insane reason, you must bring a baby to a tailgate, don’t ask any adults to curb their behavior. Go Vols!

If you are worried about cooties, stay home. People relate to and start loving your child when they are allowed to relate to and love your child. I took an eight-day-old Gnome to one of Sharky's baseball games. Sharky and his eight-year-old teammates begged to hold baby Gnome. I asked the boys to sit cross-legged on the ground. They actually got in a line to wait for their turns! Each boy held Gnome and, to this day, each boy loves Gnome. Groups of them will shout his name when he prances into a sporting venue. “Gnome” is to gyms and ball fields as “Norm” was to Cheers.

For the love of Similac, don’t be a nap Nazi. If I can sleep anywhere (band bus, football stadium, my classroom) so can a baby who mostly sleeps anyway. Babies love to be held. Friends love to hold babies!

When your buddy, your coworker, a sweet church lady or friend of your mother-in-law’s spends the time, effort, and money to cook and bring you a casserole, let her into your house. As a matter of fact, hand her the baby. Dig through the goody basket to pile up a plate full of everything she brought. Let her rock the baby and talk to you and watch you enjoy her considerate gift.  If she gave the baby an outfit, dress him in it. She’ll feel appreciated and trusted. And, she’ll feel important and connected to the child. If the baby is asleep, get the baby out of the bed so she can rock him/her.

Church: Go nursery or go home. Let that baby build blocks for Jesus!

Wedding: Go hallway or go home. Babies are the worst wedding crashers. A shrill shriek in the middle of The Lord’s Prayer? Sacrilegious!

Funeral: The last time I attempted a funeral with Gnome, he asked me to take him to the concession stand. I really think this is why SUVs have DVDs.

Phase 3: Toddlerhood into Childhood

A person's a person, no matter how small. — Dr. Seuss

I find it ironic that a woman will fall in love with a man, yet disagree with his mother’s parenting style.  That bride will vow to spend her entire life with a man who is a product of an upbringing that she thinks was done all wrong.

The grandparent-grandchild relationship is sacred. Mama, so long as granny and granddaddy are sane and safe, get out of the way! Delicious prefers the company of Gnome and Sharky without me. I can’t imagine never letting my boys spend the night with Delicious on her farm. That would be a tragedy! 

One of my favorite pictures and moments of all time: Sharky with Granddaddy

The same goes with nieces and nephews. I love my sis-in-law Dogwood Debutante, but I savor every alone moment I have with my nieces Balloon Girl and Cake. We have our own traditions, inside jokes, and tender moments. I would be sad without that trust from Dogwood Deb.

Mama, let your child get dirty. I made Sharky and Balloon Girl walk through our creek all the way from The Crippled Beagle Farm to Big Booty J’s farm. It was a hoot and one of my favorite memories with my sweet niece. If you set your child up to be untouchable, others will see her that way and may hesitate to interact with her.

Balloon Girl and Sharky wading in Kellum Creek. Guess what she stepped in in the cow field!

Mama, now and then, loosen your rules. One Halloween, a mother told me that she was going to let her daughter (a well-behaved pink princess) fill her orange pumpkin door to door, but when the princess went to bed, mama planned to throw all her candy in the trash. Say what? Boo! As soon as the mother was distracted in another conversation, I gave pitiful princess a cupcake. Oh, yes, I did. And she liked it. Oh, she liked it.

One should not sweat in a grocery store, dressing room, or restaurant. Is a toddler tantrum tearing you down and making it tough to select the right yogurt, bra, or mixed drink? Don’t make excuses, make an exit. If I take the time to drive Gnome to the farm, I dang sure don’t want to sit next to your screaming meanie on date night with Tall Child!

My cousins actually bought a bicycle for Sharky and taught him to ride. What a great memory for them to share! My cousins and friends are also generous with pictures on social media, which I really enjoy.

If distance is an issue, send some baby swag to loving relatives and friends. I love to mail Gnome's and Sharky’s sometimes impressive, sometimes disturbing schoolwork to loved ones. The recipients gain knowledge of my boys’ development and typically get a laugh out of their academic prowess or funny mistakes.

I am a teacher and I hate to admit this, but when parents are rude to me, I have to fight not to look at the child differently. Take good care of teachers. Don’t tempt them to tag your child as obnoxious just because you are.

~  ~  ~

Now, all that being said, my personal parenting skills are suspect. The first three months of his life, infant Gnome often slept in his Owl-themed bouncy seat beside me in a full-sized bed, which was beside his perfectly suitable baby bed. Toddler Sharky spun permanent grooves in our hardwood floors with his Big Wheel stunts. For the life of me, I can’t talk now 3 ½ year-old Gnome into using the toilet. I begged, “Do you want to take your diaper off and do number two, pleeeeaaaaase?” He said, “No way, that’s disgusting.” I just laughed and powdered his precious bottom. Heck, he still drinks from bottles (it makes sneaking him 5 mL of Amoxicillin so much easier). One spring break, all Sharky’s affluent schoolmates scattered to sun, sand, or ski slopes. I felt guilty/sorry for him, so I let him “cuss for spring break.” He was seven. That was probably not the best parenting move. But, as offensive as his language was (he even exhibited road rage; he called a driver a “shut-up man”), he at least only offended me and we kept his inappropriateness private. Why? Because, it’s important to me to raise children that other people can stand, I mean, like.

I hope a grown Sharky never shouts “Out of the way, ‘shut-up man’.  I hope my boys turn out alright. If they don’t, I likely won’t notice. By the time Gnome is a legal adult, I’ll be approaching teacher retirement age (I hope) and Tall Child will be collecting Social Security (I hope). You see, I turn 40 on February 14. I’m still maturing; I have mama meltdowns over grownup stuff like polygamy through the IRS and youth sports drama. Sometimes the Tupperware flies. I admit I show my tail. But, like any well-raised girl, I act better out in public. Most folks like me okay. Good work, Delicious! And, to tell you the truth, at this age, I’m just glad I like myself. Actually, as I age, I love myself more and more, so forget the old “I’m 39.95” cliché. Check with me next week, on my birthday, to read Theory 32:  40 is the perfect age. I might even show you some leg. Hmmm.

See you next post. Until then, think outside the barn.

Also, visit Amazon.com or my website to read about my book, The Eye of Adoption, my short story, Field Day, and my collection of essays for parents and teachers, Parents, Stop and Think.

Author website: www.jodydyer.com

CLICK HERE for the song for Theory 31. A classic.

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