Keep Being The School Mom

I can’t help it. I’m one of those moms. You know the ones that are excited for school to begin?

That’s me.

I’m not excited because it means that gives me a break from them. Heck, if I could I’d be in their classrooms everyday making sure they are paying attention, their shoes are tied and they carry the three in the math problem.

Ok, not really, but sometimes I wish I could be.

What I’m looking forward to is their own excitement of returning to class. I know children SAY they don’t want to go back but (secretly) they kind of do.

The friends they don’t get to hang out with over the summer will be there. The fall activities such as sports, drama and marching band are things they enjoyed and look forward to. It gets them back to being creative, talkative and interested in something again besides their phones which, and I know you’d agree with me here, is something we all wish they would spend less time with.

My stepdaughter checked Infinite Campus (our school portal) for her new classes every day for about three weeks wondering when it would be updated so she could see what her schedule would be. It’s new and exciting for her because she is starting seventh grade and that means it will be her first year with more than one teacher. She called me yesterday to tell me all about her classes and which friends were in which class with her.

My son loved his schedule because he found out his science class was his first class of the day and it is his absolute favorite. His teacher, Mr. Rodrigue, he says, is the best and makes it so much fun for him to learn.

What mom wouldn’t get excited about hearing those words?

He also noticed he would be in Advanced Algebra and that, he stated, was the hardest math class there was. He was happy about it but looked a little worried. I told him he should take it as a compliment that his math teacher last year had enough confidence in him that he thought he could handle it. He should be proud. He was fine after hearing that.

My stepson, a junior this year, actually said his schedule was “cool”.  I’d call that winning!

I’m excited for them. I will take pics on their first day of school (again) because that’s what moms do. We get to take two pictures a year: the first and last day and post them for all the world to see. All the rest are candids (don’t tell the kids!). It won’t be much longer until that stops happening. Begrudgingly, they smile for the camera then turn and walk into the building where they will be spending so much time. While they’re there, you’ll wonder and worry if they’re learning, paying attention, doing their work and passing it in on time. You check the Infinite Campus each day to make sure they aren’t behind on their assignments or if they tell you they have no homework you ask them about the assignment it says is due tomorrow. So there really is homework? Well, what do you know!

I’m that parent.

I’m the one that will fuss about heavy backpacks, picture day and lunch money. I’ll sometimes hover around the table while they’re working to be there just in case they ask for help. I’ll make sure they have a way to transport their projects they work so hard on to make sure they don’t get ruined before their presentation.

I’m excited!

I’m worried, too.

I will ask them who they sat with at lunch to make sure they aren’t lonely. I’ll ask what they learned that day to see if anything sparked their interest or if they’re having trouble in a subject. I’ll ask how they did on their test last week and, if they didn’t do very well, ask them what they think they can do or what they need to do better. Or if they did do well, I will congratulate them and tell them to keep it up!

I’m here for them.

They haven’t gone through many things in their young lives yet but, between myself and my husband, we have seen it all before. What is, might be or could happen to them is not unique as teenagers have been, well, teenagers for a million years.  But they THINK it is only happening to them and has never been experienced by anyone ever. Hopefully, they feel comfortable enough to tell us about the things that bother them or the situations they might be in and we can give them a little guidance along the way.

Being a teenager is not easy.

Neither is being a parent.

Whatever you can do to keep the lines of communications open between you and them, the teachers, the guidance counselors, the friends…keep them open.

Be excited. Be worried. Be there.

Keep being the mom.

Why I Believe, Love and Do

“As you take the normal opportunities of your daily life and create something of beauty and

helpfulness, you improve not only the world around you but also the world within you.”

― Dieter F. Uchtdorf

For the last few months at The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints in Skowhegan,

Maine, many of the talks given have had to do with ministering. Ministering is helping

out fellow Saints in our ward by visiting, calling, helping or writing to them to see how

they are doing and if they need any help physically or spiritually. For me, it’s a little

different.

I am a member of the Newport ward. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I attend Skowhegan

because that’s where my son goes. When we moved to our new location I didn’t know the

rules had changed and that it takes more than transferring records from one ward to another.

Now it takes meetings, letters and approval of the Big Three of the General Authority to

have them changed.  I am in the process of trying to get my records moved to the Skowhegan

ward so I can continue there, hold a calling, get my temple recommend and take my son to

the temple. Nothing means more to me than being able to attend with him and watching him

grow in the church.

Listening to the talks, the same advice is given each week to minister to the members of the

church. Not being a member of the ward, I have been trying other methods to help people in

our neighborhood. This past weekend was General Conference. I had listened to the two hour

session on Saturday and felt moved to share my message of faith and my love of our Heavenly

Father and his Son. On Sunday morning, I posted a picture of the Boston temple on my

Facebook page and wrote “Happy Sunday everyone! Have a blessed day and know God and I

love you! Time to recharge my spirit!” I prayed that morning to have missionary work come

to me in some form that I might include my son.

On Sunday afternoon, my prayer was answered.

It was the first warm day of Spring and my husband wanted to be outside, as did we all. He,

my son and I went across the road to an abandoned lot and decided to metal detect. It is one

of our favorite things to do together. While we were digging, an elderly woman pulled up

and watched us from her driver’s seat.

I approached her and asked if there was something I could do for her. She asked if the young

man, pointing at my son, would be willing to help her out by doing a few odd jobs around

her yard. I called my son over and he introduced himself. When asked he emitted an enthusiastic

yes! She lived only three houses away. We told her we would meet her with our rakes in hand.

A few minutes later we arrived in her driveway and she was explaining that this was the first

time in her life she was unable to prepare her flower garden for the season. My son and I went

to work immediately raking out the long grass that surrounded the rose bushes. He was careful

to not pull out any of the new growth that was sprouting through the wet ground. There were

many returning flowers pushing through.

While we worked I asked her about the flowers and about her life. It so happened her birthday

is the day after my father’s and they will both be eighty-three this year. She said she had asked

another young man to come by last week to help but he never came. She is very unsteady on

her feet and has trouble using the stairs in her home. With Spring she has much to do but hasn’t

the strength to do it.

We finished with that flowerbed and she asked us to move on the the front yard. We filled

garbage bags full of leaves, grass and sticks. The yard was finished and we put all of her tools

away in her garage. It was then time for payment. When she asked my son how much he would

like to be compensated he told her that there was no need to pay him. He had fun working in the

sunshine.

Still, she insisted on giving him something in return. He walked up to her and held out his arms

and went in for a giant hug. “This is my payment,” he stated.

Smiling and patting his back, she still insisted on a form of payment. Without payment, she said,

there would be no reason he would want to come back. Listening to her she reminded me of my

father. When helping my parents with their laundry and odd jobs, dad is always slipping a little

something in my hand before I leave even though I say it’s not necessary. She moved to her car,

retrieved a ten dollar bill and informed us it was for both of us. She enjoyed our company and

hoped we would come back. When I thanked her for letting us do God’s work that day she started

to cry. I gave her a big hug and said we would be back.

Much like the flowers of Spring it is time for us to come out of the darkness and see the sun. It

is time for us to renew ourselves and our covenants with our Heavenly Father and brush away

the tangled mess of events in our past that we hang onto that try and hold us from our true happiness.

Let us untangle ourselves from the weeds and thorns of our worries and doubts and bring new life

to, not only ourselves, but to others around us. That they may feel the love we have for our fellow

man. That they may see the good works that can be done by helping those around them. Simple

acts of kindness is all it takes.

Had we not been outside that glorious day, the answer to my prayer may have never been noticed.

Had I ignored her and not inquired as to why she was watching us, I would have missed the chance

to befriend her. I would have missed the chance to teach my son the power of doing God’s work. I

would have also missed his chance to show me he is living the gospel by doing the work for another

for the simple payment of a hug.

Brothers and Sisters, since the first time I heard Elder Uchtdorf empower his wisdom on us all with

his “Believe. Love. Do” mentality, I have been trying to put his words into action. I think it was

meant for me because he spoke to us on my birthday, October sixth, with this message. These three

simple words have changed my life for the better.

I BELIEVE in Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit and the Book of Mormon.

I LOVE them all, my fellow Saints and non-Saints.

I DO the work that is asked of me by God.

By Believing, Loving and Doing we were able to serve not only the woman who loved her flowers

but serve our Heavenly Father. And that is all that is ever asked of us.

Stepmom: Life on the Outside

I knew coming into the relationship it would be a struggle. No new relationship with children from previous ones is easy. If you were thinking it could be...you're wrong.

I was right.

The struggle is real.

But it didn't hit me until I attended her parent/teacher conference.

One of her writing assignments in her portfolio was titled "The People In My House". There she listed the names:

"Dad
Mom
Me
Brother
Memeré"

Nowhere was I or my son on the list.

I looked at her and jokingly asked where we were and she shrugged her shoulders and turned the page over as if I had never even asked the question.

A part of me died a little. Right there.

I have been in their lives for over 7 years. I have helped feed them, clothe them, take care of them when they were sick, been to every school function, baseball and basketball game, concert, parent/teacher conference and tryout. I have listened to their worries and their fears, helped them with school work or relationships, played games and took them to different places. I've taught them how to wash and fold laundry, do dishes and cook simple meals for themselves.

And still wasn't thought of as part of their family.

Her older brother has told me to my face the standard "you're not my mother" and I have said "I AM a mother. A stepmother counts." "Not in my eyes" was the response.

Being a blended family has its trials. There are days where we all get along. There are days when arguments ensue. You try and keep the peace between the "real" parents and keep the kids from feeling like they're stuck in the middle.

You do everything you can.

And it's never enough.

And it never will be.

You are on the outside looking in as the two of them whisper things to each and laugh at their inside jokes. You are downstairs not forcing them to watch a movie with you or do anything with you for that matter...even though you ask. They scramble upstairs as fast as they can to be alone...and you are left forgotten.

Again.

So you sit. By yourself. Remembering that list in her portfolio. Hoping one day she or he will realize the love you have in your heart for them.

And knowing with almost absolute certainty...

It will never happen.

The Difference Between Your Homeowners Insurance With and Without Flood Insurance

With all the heavy rains that have happened in the last two days I was curious what kind of damage is covered by insurance. Many people who buy a home where no lake, stream or river is located nearby often opt out of flood insurance seeing as the likelihood of a flood happening as virtually impossible.  I spoke with my insurance agent Scott Doyle of First Insurance of Maine today and he gave me a little insight of homeowners insurance and what it covers.

He has received an influx of calls dealing with residents that have, unfortunately, endured damage to their basements and living quarters due to water seeping into their homes. He informed me of what your insurance covers and why.

A standard homeowners policy will cover water damage due to a leaky roof or if the sump pump in your basement fails. HOWEVER, if the damage done is caused by water flowing into your basement from holes in the walls or seeping up through the floor then that is NOT covered by the standard policy. Those types of damage require FLOOD insurance.

That’s right.

Even if you don’t live in a flood zone, the water coming into your house by these methods is caused by flooding. What happens with the heavy rain is that it finds and makes paths or tunnels through the snow due to gravity. Water will make its own trail to get to where its going. The trails lead toward the walls of your home and, ultimately, to the basement of your house. The water will eventually find the weakest point of your foundation and break through. The tunnels can be on the sides of your house and even underneath. The water that enters this way is considered to be caused by a “flood”.

And if you don’t have flood insurance on your home, the damage won’t be covered. That means if your furnace is damaged: it’s not covered. If your washer and dryer are damaged: it’s not covered. If your items are stored in cardboard boxes, whatever you have will be destroyed. If they are stored in plastic totes they have a better chance of surviving but, ultimately, they won’t be covered either.

Do yourself a favor when purchasing a home: see how much extra a flood insurance policy is. You never know what might happen. A small monthly payment could save you thousands of dollars.

The Old Mainer

The temperatures in Maine in the month of January are frigid. That’s the best way to describe bone-chilling cold that seeps through the layers that we throw on to keep it away from our bodies. Winter in Maine is not for the faint of heart but it is for the Old Mainer.

I met him at the Irving rest stop in Augusta on my way to work when I stopped to fill my tank. It was three below zero and the wind was whipping at a good fifteen miles an hour. I had on my knitted hat, my LL Bean mittens and winter boots because it had snowed almost two feet the night before. Under my heavy fleece jacket were the layers of long sleeve shirt and bulky sweater. I was warm but it was one of those mornings where the wind pushed through everything and you just felt cold.

He pulled up a few pumps away in an older white Mercury sedan about the same time. I watched him get out. My guess was he was at least eighty years old. His skin sunk in a little around his cheeks and was wrinkled. He wore a clean pair of Levi’s, LL Bean duck boots, a white t-shirt and a buttoned blue flannel shirt. He had on his weathered brown Carhartt jacket and a baseball cap covered what little white hair remained on his head. He walked into the store at a leisurely gait with cash in his hand to prepay for his gas.

When I started to fill my car, a newer, black Ford F-150 pulled in a few pumps away on the other side. The man in his thirties jumped down from the lifted truck, pulled out his debit card and started pumping gas. He looked at me and said “Man, it’s cold this morning.” I replied that was pretty chilly. He left the truck and the pump running, did a big shiver, pulled his knit cap a little lower over his ears, shoved his gloved hands into the pocket of his puffy coat and hurried to the store.

The old Mainer was on his way out and held the door open for the young man as he rushed over the threshold.  He walked to his car and proceeded to fill his tank. While it was going, he used the squeegee brush to clean his windshield and his headlights. I notice his hands had no gloves. There was no protection from the wind on his ears.  

The younger man rushed back to his truck, took care of the nozzle and drove away.

The wind picked up and I started to shiver as the handled clicked and told me my tank was full. As I got into my car and prepared to leave, I decided to sit and watch him. He saw me and he gave me a small wave and I waved back and smiled. He finished with the gas cap, got in his car and proceeded to drive away. His license plate was in support of agriculture.

The cold didn’t faze him. He wasn’t in a hurry. He was like many of his generation that adapted to the unpredictable weather in Maine. Two feet of snow? It’s just a dusting. Three below zero? It’s a bit chilly. Here was one of the last of a dying breed of men and women who went about their business, minded their own and complained not of the temperature but adapted to the situation around them and carried on. Here was a man who was helpful to the next generation and polite to those around him. All good lessons you can learn from an Old Mainer.

Always Listen To Your Dad

It was the summer of 1997. I had just quit my first band. I felt I needed to go in a different direction. My biggest love was singing and, suddenly, my weekends were now free and there was no interest from other bands in the area of having me sing with them.

I was heartbroken.

I went to my parent’s house to visit and told them what had happened. I just started crying uncontrollably asking “What am I going to do? I love it so much.”

My father was visibly shaken. He had 1 son but he also had 8 daughters and hated to see any of them cry. He took my face in his hands and lifted my eyes to his. I will never forget that moment. When I looked in his eyes there were tears. He held my head and said “You know what? You have what I didn’t. You’ve got ‘IT’. You have a chance to make it. Don’t you worry. You’ll be okay. You are too good not to sing.” Back when he was in his early 20s, his voice had a close resemblance to that of Josh Groban thanks to training from the priests of his church he received. He missed his chance due to circumstances beyond his control.

Looking into his eyes that day I was determined to not let him down. I wasn’t going to let myself down. When Dad told me something, I always believed him. I wasn’t about to stop then.

Fast forward 21 years.

My father, 82, and my mother, 75, are now housebound. The only time they leave the house in the winter is to go to doctor’s appointments. In the spring, summer, and fall they venture out to their mailbox, their front yard to watch the parade pass by, the fenced-in backyard or are driven to a family gathering by one of us children. We all take turns running errands, cleaning house, cooking meals and just plain old visiting. We all love to visit and talk with them. We bring their grandchildren by to see them. Mom especially loves to see how big they are getting.

I had run an errand to the Christmas Tree Shop in Augusta and the Village Market in Fairfield the day before and stopped in to visit and deliver their purchases while my son was at Boy Scouts and my step-daughter was at basketball practice. They reimbursed me for the items I had bought them and we started talking.

My mother always asks “What’s new?” So I told them about the antics we had at work at the Maine Veterans’ Home that day, my meeting with the Stake President of my church and our plans for Christmas Day. I had them laughing when I told them about our cat who repeatedly clears a room due to its flatulence.  I mentioned that we had the weekend off from playing in the band because it was Christmas weekend and my dad startled.

“That reminds me,“ he piped up, “I had a dream about you last night.” I was so surprised. Dad never mentioned things like this.
“Me? What was I doing?” I started to laugh.

“Remember when you were at the Waterville Opera House and Ma and I were in our seats on the aisle and you sang that song to us?” I did. It was one of the best moments of my life. “The one where you got the standing ovation? Man,” he said “that was incredible. It was so good. You need to do that again. I dreamt about that last night.”

I was fighting back tears. My mind flashed back to that summer day 21 years ago and I had to hold it together. I didn’t want my dad to think he was making me cry even if they were tears of joy.

I cleared my throat and managed to make an announcement to them. “Thanks, Dad. As a matter of fact, I have big news. I have started a Miranda Lambert Tribute band and our first gig is in 3 months! I will be up on stage again just like that. The crazy thing is that I just booked a second one with a wonderful lady that says it’s going to be great. I haven’t even performed the first one yet! I am really hoping they go well because I’d like to branch out and take the show all over New England.”  Their eyes lit up.

“Wow! All over New England, you say?” said Dad. 

“That sounds cool,” added Mom.

I explained how I would wear a wig and have a costume change or two and how my younger sister, Jenny, would be singing back up. Practices were starting right after Christmas. I have a great group of musicians behind me including lead player Bruce Burpee, bass player Ed Nevins, rhythm player Larry Tilton and drummer Kyle Melcher. My husband, Chad, would be running the sound for us.

“Well,” Dad said “that sounds good. Good, good, good.”

“I’m glad you like it, Dad. I’ll make a video for you and you’ll be able to see it.”

“Good, good, good.” He nodded his head and smiled.

I have been singing in bands since I was 17 years old. Six years ago, thanks to the encouragement of my husband, I started my own band, Sharon Hood & Dixon Road. We have since opened for Luke Bryan, Keith Urban and, yes, Miranda Lambert. Now I’ve started this new venture paying tribute to a woman I admire so much.

Dad was right.

I was okay.
And I’m still singing.

Mysterious Truck Driver

In early 2000, I was a 26 year old contestant in a karaoke contest at a Skowhegan, Maine bowling alley/restaurant and lounge. If you made it to the finals you had the chance of winning $1000. I was excited because I loved to sing and we could really use the money. Back then, I was working three jobs and helping my, now former, husband get through nursing school. He would be graduating in just over a month and starting what would be his lifelong career. Myself, I was a medical biller for a mental health facility making just over $9/hour. I was also working for a temp agency and sang in a band almost every weekend until the wee hours of the morning.

 

The few trips we had made out of the state included Virginia, Florida, Tennessee and Washington, DC. This time, however, I would have to be making a trip alone. Washington D.C. in the dead of night was going to be quite the challenge.

 

The evening that I won my preliminary round of the contest I was told the date of the finals. My jaw dropped. It was the only weekend that I would not even be in Maine. The people who ran the contest looked at me incredulously. They told me I HAD to be there because I had a really good shot at winning. I needed to make a decision.

 

The reason I would not be able to participate was because we had promised my sister, who had never driven anywhere by herself, that we would travel to DC with her for the weekend. She was a huge fan of the television show, Emergency!, and her favorite actor, Randolph Mantooth, was going to be there that same weekend of the contest. He was the guest of honor at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History. There was going to be a display of memorabilia from the show and he would be there to introduce it. She really wanted to meet him.

 

I couldn’t be in two places at once.

 

When I told my husband he asked what we were going to do. We talked with my sister and hatched the plan to have him drive down with her in her car and spend the one night in the hostel we had all found in a travel book. I would drive down as soon at the contest was over and meet them at the Washington Monument the next morning at 8am.

 

At 5 am the day of the contest I wished my husband a safe trip and he left to meet my sister to travel the nearly 600 miles to their destination. I tried to go back to sleep. I took the day off specifically for that purpose but to no avail. I had always been a morning person and that day was no different.

 

I packed a light bag for the trip because I knew, win or lose, we were staying overnight and traveling back the next day. As luck would have it, I won the contest and the $1000 prize!. It was 10 o’clock at night and after changing my clothes I climbed into my 1993 Mercury Tracer and headed for the highway.

 

In 2000, I had an actual map. That’s it. No GPS. No cell phone. No English woman’s voice on an app to help guide me. It was me and the Rand McNally Road Atlas of the United States. I would travel I-95 South the entire way down.

 

As soon as I hit the Massachusetts border I noticed something peculiar. There were no cars. The only vehicles on the road were tractor trailers. When you’re under five feet tall in a compact car and there are semis in front, behind and to each side of you, you start to feel a bit nervous. I kept wondering if they could even see me at all. I found an opportunity to get to the right travel lane. I put my blinker on and it just so happened the truck in front of me put its blinker on. I moved over and so did they. When he would change lanes I did as well. This went on for a little while.

 

I finally had to pull over. Being awake for almost 20 hours was starting to take its toll on me. It was nearly 2 am and, though I had packed an overnight bag, I had failed to pack snacks. I saw the sign for the next rest stop and realized the truck was also going to rest as well. I parked my car and went to the McDonald’s to order food and a drink with caffeine. I never drank caffeinated drinks but I needed to stay awake for the rest of the drive. I looked at around at the people coming inside the building wondering if the truck driver who had been my guide was one of the patrons filing in.

 

I finished my late night snack, used the facilities and headed out. I filled the car with gas and started back on my way. I pulled back onto the highway with another six hour drive ahead of me.

 

About ten minutes down the road a truck pulled up alongside me and I saw a light go on in the cab. I saw a manly hand wave at me but that was all I could see. I turned my light on and waved back. Our lights went out and I heard his air horn blare. He sped up and pulled in front of me.

 

My truck driver was back!

 

Sure enough, the license plate was the same. It’s hard to forget when you were staring at the back end of the same truck for hours. Together until we reached DC the semi and I changed lanes. The driver would always wait for an opportunity to make certain I had enough space to change lanes with him.

 

The sun was starting to come up and the miles melted away. I started to see signs for the DC area. I knew I had to start following them. My hand reached for the signal but I didn’t really want to. I had followed the same truck for nearly 400 miles. I considered it and its driver my guardian angels. I flicked the blinker on to take the exit and I could see his hand wave out his window. I rolled down mine and waved back. He blew his horn and I exited the highway to find the Monument and my waiting family.

 

I’ll never know who he was or what triggered him to stay with me for so long or remember the name of the company he drove for. All I will remember is that this driver was a friend. He made my trip more enjoyable, less stressful and definitely more interesting. 10-3. If you're a trucker, you'll know what that means.