The Average Person

Most of the people I know would consider themselves average. A generally accepted definition of “average” is something not out of the ordinary. Is that really so bad? I am a student of words and believe that a word can carry many responsibilities and inferences based on how it used, the tone of voice used when spoken and the context. In our current society, we expect everyone to excel beyond our wildest dreams – our favorite teams to pound their opponents into the turf, our favorite shows to win every award for which they are nominated, our children to talk at 9 months, read at 16 months, solve algebraic equations at age 3 and win the Nobel prize by the age of 5.

There’s too much pressure to be excellent. I used to harbor a deep-seated fear of my own mediocrity, but over the years, I have embraced the fact that I am not a stunningly beautiful woman, nor am I a wart-laden, socially inept ogre with a unibrow. I’m average looking. And I can live with that. In fact, there are times I long to be average – just another one of the teeming masses. I am what they call a “plus-size gal” and would give a kidney to be an “average” size. I’d like to be part of the average American family – with two parents, a house, 2 car garage, adorable children and a purebred dog. But instead I am a single mother of a toddler who works full time to barely make ends meet. And if the truth were to be told, I would venture to guess that there are more like me that would like to admit! I think there can be found a certain joy in being average.

If I push myself to achieve excellence all the time, I will push myself right into an early grave! Sure, there are times that I must be above average – parenting, my work, my writing – but sometimes, it’s OK to be just average. Do I want to spend an extra 15 minutes hand washing the dishes before I put them in the dishwasher because I want them to look excellent as they sit in my kitchen cabinet? Nope. Do I want to lose valuable play time with the Pie because I desire outstandingly shiny floors? Um…uh-uh. Do I agree to lose important sleep time in exchange for a spectacularly ironed shirt? Hell, no!

These days, every institution – from schools, corporations, lemonade stands – touts their goals of excellence. If all those entities are so excellent, where’s the balance? Where’s the enterprise? I remember when Avis started advertising that they try harder…there was no need to lie and say they were number one or the best. They knew they had things to work on and admitted it. I respect that. Ito me, it takes great courage to embrace ordinariness. I don’t mean to withdraw into oblivion, but to tread surely in a forward motion. You know what they say: The tall nail is the first to get hammered.

Being a perfectionist can practically paralyze you into believing that nothing is ever good enough. But when it really matters, some things just have to remain average. What a burden it must be to feel you have to be perfect all the time – perfectly groomed, perfectly articulate and perfectly charming. But that’s a little intimidating to average people who are just trying to make it through the day without shiny floors and ironed shirts!

Baby Cried the Day the Circus Came to Town

There are only about eight fewer things I love doing more than planning an event and my daughter’s birthday (her 4th) was more than an event, it was an extravaganza! In serious planning mode since January, I considered every detail and set a course to produce the Greatest Show on Earth … or At Least Our Little Corner of It!!!



Our circus guests dined on hot dogs, nachos, cotton candy and peanuts; they made their own circus party hats, posed in a photo booth, played games like Pin the Nose on the Clown and Elephant Ring Toss. The children ran around the grounds with innocent abandon while the adults looked on and wished they had a fraction of the energy on display.


There were prizes and candy, cake and ice cream, presents and friends. The only thing missing?

Pictures.


Don’t misunderstand, I took my camera to the park for the circus extravaganza and even managed to take about 568 pictures. However, when I got home to check out my awe-inspiring photography, the wind left my multi-colored big top tent. Upon entry into its dedicated slot, the memory card made a noise similar to that of a farting wildebeest and displayed a blank window on my screen. All my pictures were gone. My wild keening was heard about 11 blocks away and when I could finally breathe normally again, I attempted a recovery mission.


I downloaded an application, went through all the steps prepared myself to weep with joy as I expectantly gazed at the screen waiting for the lost photos to magically reappear.

Yeah, not so much.


The recovery mission was a failure and I have absolutely no pictures from my daughter’s 4th birthday party. It’s a good thing I have an excellent memory because I can recall those special moments later on in life.


Now where did I put my gingko-biloba?

A Bitter Pill and A Better Pie

I’ve had to make only a handful of really difficult decisions in my lifetime. But none proved greater than the decision to become my father’s full-time family caregiver. Dad is 82 and lost my mother 18 years ago. He lost a second wife almost three years ago. Over the past few years, he had grown more and more dependent upon me for a variety of tasks: laundry, computer help, grocery shopping and light bulb changing among others.



It dawned on me after nearly five months of unemployment that something was going to have to give one way or the other. Dad needed more of my time and I needed more of his financial assistance to make my ends meet. The conversation occurred somewhat naturally and we began to seriously discuss the option of me and the Pie moving in with him. I won’t lie; it was an emotional topic – for both of us.


Dad doesn’t like thinking about his mortality, nor do I, but the fact is that he is going to die. Neither of us knows when that will happen, and he refuses to entertain the idea of a nursing home. Truth is, I don’t want a stranger caring for him anyway.


So I had a lot to think about. How would I adjust to not having my own life? How would he adjust to the changes occurring under his own roof? How would the Pie adjust to the new environment? How can three generations separated by 40 years each live peacefully in the same house? I still don’t have answers to those questions, but what I do have is a plan.


I know, I know….God laughs when we plan, but there is no other way I can handle this situation without a well thought out plan and monkey ass load of lists.


It has now been a month since the Pie and I moved in and I believe the transition proved to be hardest on me. I bear the burden of preparing meals, laundering all the clothes, cleaning the entire house, yard work, transporting my charges to their respective appointments, shopping, staying on top of what prescriptions need filling, and fixing things. Lots of things. Light bulbs, stopped up toilets, leaky faucets, Barbie doll legs, Littlest Pet shop toys, fishing poles, shoes, air filters, TV connections and recliners have all needed my attention in some fashion.


Then there’s the things that I am always picking up: shoes, papers, blankets, clothes, toys, chewed up toys, dropped food, towels…and poop. LOTS of poop!! And not just the kind that once belonged to the emotionally disturbed dog!


My daughter adores her grandfather and enjoys her new big bed and pretty bedroom. Dad beams every time the Pie walks in the room and has laughed more in the past 47 days than in all of his 82 years. It just seems like we all have our own medicine to take, but I sometimes wish mine were easier to swallow.