Fantasy, fruit loops & mindless drivel.

Jun29

Here I sit, with a sink full of dishes and a floor in dire need of vacuuming, thinking of nothing but mindless drivel. That in itself is not unusual, thinking of mindless drivel that is, not neglecting my chores. I am never mindless nor neglectful, or maybe I am, I didn’t used to be. No matter, it’s not like I can be objective on the subject. I’m fairly certain I just contradicted myself, 2 points for mindlessness.

I shouldn’t refer my daily housework endeavors chores. The word chore implies something you do to get your allowance. Somehow I doubt I’ll be getting five bucks at the end of the week.

I’m not sure what I could even buy for five dollars these days. Maybe a new hair brush. Mine hurts my head if I’m not careful, half those little colored balls have fallen off the tips of the plastic bristles or been plucked off, one by one in the night by some unseen maker of mischief. Of course, it could simply be that it’s old, I tend to hang on to items past their usefulness date. Not much of a spending spree I suppose.

It doesn’t matter, I hate my hair most of the time anyway. If the whole world was just bald I’d be a happy woman. I’d just shave it all off, but I’d probably have a misshapen head or something and look in the mirror every day and complain about that.

I’m not much of a complainer. I’m not. Besides, I don’t think anyone around here really listens to me all that often. My husband. Now he’s a complainer. Does anyone else know how hard it is to be married to a perfectionist? I used to be one, I’m over it now. So over it.

My husband is a great guy once you get past the fact that he’s a man. Don’t get me wrong, no man haters here, I have nothing against men. I love men, love, love, love them. I gave birth to three of them. Can you imagine what my bathroom looks like? I don’t get it, that thing cannot be that difficult to aim. Point and shoot boys.

When they where little a friend of mine suggested putting fruit loops in the potty to use as tinkle targets. It was great until I realized no one had flushed yet the soggy little rings of artificially flavored sweetness had disappeared, (insert collective eww here). I still have no idea who the culprit was.

My kids have always been really picky eaters, well, if you don’t count the fruit loop thing. They found some chocolate peanut butter in the store the other day and talked me into buying it. I have their undying adoration for the rest of the week now.

I bought some tea for myself, they say it’s relaxing. I don’t know who they are but I listen to them sometimes. I bought the Sleepy Time tea. I sipped a cup while reading a few chapters in my new book, the one I got for my birthday two years ago, and drifted off to sleep. It was wonderful until I awoke about an hour later with an extremely urgent need to use the powder room. A cup of tea will make you pee. They don’t print that part on the label.

I would have woken up anyway. I always do. I haven’t slept through the night in over twenty-four years. First it was late night feedings and diaper changes, then the bad dream phase. When they did sleep through the night I would wake up worried because they’d not woken and rush in to check on them. Just when I’d get used to it, a new bad dream phase would begin. Now late night television, video game marathons and the occasional bad dream often keep me from having those restful nights I so deserve.

I have a dream, well, more like a fantasy . . .

I envision myself waking around noon, gliding to the lilac scented tub that’s been drawn for me and submerging myself in warm bubbles. My husband comes in with a breakfast tray filled with fruits and champagne. He tells me the kids have gone out for the day and he will be in the garage building me bookshelves, I smile and dismiss him. I towel off and drape myself in a silken robe. Gracefully, I make my way into my spotless living room and do a Sound of Music type of spin before sinking onto the couch for a well deserved nap. I awaken to the cherubic laughter of my family as they return home. My husband retrieves the television remote for me before he begins to prepare dinner. After I’ve eaten my fill, I escape the pressures of the long day in a hot shower, then slide into bed and dream the sweetest of dreams.

But, that is a rather far stretch from reality. Far, far stretch. I live in the real world with popcorn under my feet, I didn’t even know we had popcorn. I guess I’d better lug out the old Dirt Devil and get to work. I can drivel in silence while I scrub the pans . . .

Crystal R. Cook

Can you tell me?

Jun29

My two oldest boys, both autistic wonders, did not develop conversational speech until they were each around 5 years old. I know all kids go through the thousand questions a day stage, but with them, especially my oldest, it was more than curiosity, it was a need to fill every ounce of themselves with knowledge, facts, and understanding of everything around them . . . they have never stopped asking, searching, and learning. I doubt they ever will.

Why is blue
the color of sky?
Do you know the answer?
Do you know why?

Why is grass green
instead of yellow or pink?
Do you have any idea?
What do you think?

Why is night dark,
instead of the day?
You really must tell me,
now what do you say?

There are so many things
I just need to know.
What makes the birds sing?
What makes the trees grow?

Who made the mountains?
Who put cold in the snow?
I wish someone would tell me,
I’d sure like to know.

Do you know the answers?
Will I ever find out?
Can anyone tell me,
what life is about?

What are clouds made of
and why do birds fly?
I’m just so curious,
I wonder why?

These questions were asked
by my inquisitive son,
from the moment he woke
till his day was done.

If I said just a minute
he would ask me why,
If I said I don’t know
he’d say can’t you try?

If I said nobody knows
he’d say can’t you guess?
I tried so very hard,
I tried my very best.

He followed me here
and he followed me there,
now don’t get me wrong,
I wanted to share,

but I needed a break
for my mind was weary,
I just couldn’t take
even one more query.

I looked at my son
and I beckoned him near,
I knelt down and whispered
so soft in his ear,

My sweet little man,
Mommy’s not mad,
but be a good boy
and go ask your DAD!

Crystal R. Cook 1995

Thank you, Mom

Jun22

Four times a year, I celebrate the birth of a child. Four times a year, I jokingly say I should be the one getting presents and cake and adoration, after all, I did do all the hard work on those celebratory days in our family history. The most joyous days of my life were spent in agonizing pain, pure physical torture, really.

Don’t get me wrong, despite the unbelievable, indescribable, thought it was never going to end, pain, I look back on those seemingly endless hours of labor with happiness and pride. Those were the greatest days of my life. I look forward to celebrating the day each of my children made their grand entrance into the world, I just happen to think good ole mom should get a pat or two on the back as well.

With that being said, I want to thank my mother. Today is my birthday. Today is the day she used every ounce of strength and love within her to give me the gift of life. Today is the day she became a mother. Her entire life changed and she embraced her new identity. When she held me in her arms, the pain she’d endured faded into memory. I wish I could remember the first moment our eyes met. I cherish my mother.

Today, I celebrate her . . .

This too shall pass, really.

Jun18

There are many mommy moments, even now, I’m not certain I’ve the strength to muster through, but then the next minute comes and I realize I survived, it gives me hope. This is not to say the journey has left me with all my sanity intact, far from it, but I’m confident I shall reach my destination with a wee bit left.

This too shall pass is a fitting mantra for mommies. I’ve said it during diaper duty and flu season, hectic mornings with missing shoes and terrible tantrums in the night. Teen angst . . . this too shall pass. Homework hassles . . . this too shall pass. Sibling rivalry at its worst . . . this too shall, who am I kidding, this one never ends.

Basically, when you think you simply can’t take a moment more you have to remind yourself you really have no choice, take a deep breath, count to sixty and voila, another minute has passed and you’re still standing. Good piece of advice here, when you take that deep, cleansing breath don’t forget to reverse it.

Sometimes you just do what you gotta do. I’m reminded of a day when my children were little. Thankfully, I wrote many memories down as they happened, you start to forget things you never thought you could as they get older. As we get older, I suppose I should say. The following is a preserved memory of one of those days . . .

I’d reached the end of my proverbial rope and resorted to good old-fashioned bribery. I had to, there was no other way,this too shall pass wasn’t doing the trick and I succumbed to the mommy bribe. I don’t recommend repeated use of this tactic but when you’re at your wit’s end it’s more of a survival technique than anything else. You’ll survive, the kids will survive. All’s well that ends well right?

I’d awoken early. I don’t mean early like, oh rapturous joy, the sun is shining, the birds are singing, my-oh-my what a wonderful day . . . no. I mean early like, three a.m. early. No sun, no birds, no singing, no nothing. Just a sprawled out child grinding his teeth and emitting other strange noises from various parts if his body.

When my eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room I saw a well-worn sock on my pillow. It certainly wasn’t mine. I reached to remove the foul thing but my arm was trapped beneath a leg that was attached to a sock-less foot. I gently pushed it aside only to find another leg beneath it. I had no idea my son was such a talented contortionist. I considered sending him off to join the circus, it was a fleeting thought.

When I’d untangled myself from his wiry little limbs I was dismayed to find I still couldn’t move. My body was on strike. It pained me greatly to arise. I tried to shoo the little bugger off to his own bed but he is either a really sound sleeper or a really good fake sleeper. Either way, I was unwilling to attempt an airlift and carry him to his own bed.

I pushed him aside with both of my feet and tried to fall asleep again. Ten seconds into it I had to use the ladies room. When I returned, the little bed hog was once again sprawled out across the length and width of my bed with my blankets in a bunch around him.

Generally I look upon my sleeping angels with wonder and warmth. At that moment though, I felt no motherly fuzzies stirring in my heart. I just wanted to go to sleep and if that meant he had to be moved, so be it. I pulled the covers from around, over and under him and pushed him to the far edge of the bed. By the time I was snuggled in and comfy again it was three forty-five a.m.

I wrestled with the ever-moving child until my alarm sounded at six-thirty. The sun was up, but I was not greeted by the melodies of a sweet morning song bird. A nasty old rooster my neighbors keep was cock-a-doodle-doodling like he could actually awake the entire sleeping population of the world. I briefly pondered substituting rooster for turkey at our next Thanksgiving.

My mirror refused to look at me; I guess it didn’t want to hurt my feelings with what I would see. I decided coffee would help considerably. I awaited the brewed concoction of caffeinated joy anxiously. As I poured, I was more than dismayed to see only plain hot water filling my cup. I’d neglected to put coffee in the filter.

I knew I had to wake the kids for school, but I was afraid and so very tired. I gathered my courage and awoke them each as gently as I could, even the offending troll still sleeping peacefully in my bed. Shortly after they’d eaten breakfast they all plopped down in front of the television and began surfing for morning cartoons.

I walked right over there and turned it off! “Excuse me, but do we watch T.V. before school?” They all looked at me like I was some insane maniac just escaped from the loony bin. Before any of them could speak I realized I, in all my wisdom, had just awoken my children at six-thirty in the morning on what was to be the beginning of a three-day weekend.

I turned the television back on and cried as I slowly shuffled back to the safety of my bed. A few minutes went by and I felt movement near my feet. A little body crawled up next to mine and snuggled in. It was the troll. The same one who’d caused such misery just hours earlier had come to comfort me.

Would you believe I actually fell fast asleep? My rejuvenating rest didn’t last long, but it was a welcome relief. The day went quickly by and we where all once again tucked into our beds for the night. Sleep found me and wrapped itself around me in soft, calming comfort.

When I was awakened at three forty-five by an elbow to the neck I decided to count my losses and give up. I simply could’nt win this battle. I was sleep deprived and only semi conscious. I took every blanket off my son and yanked the pillow from beneath his snoring, teeth grinding head and took to the quiet sanctuary of the couch. I’d like to tell you I got the required rest a mother should have, but I cannot.

The clock above me kept ticking away the seconds and shouting out the hours, the refrigerator came to life and the couch began to grow strange lumps beneath me. The next morning I promised my son a dollar for every night he stayed in his own bed. He pondered it and added hot cocoa in the mornings to sweeten the deal.

I agreed. No price is too high for a good nights sleep. I thought I was in the clear but when the other children found out he was getting extras for doing what he should be doing anyway they demanded equal treatment under the Siblings Fairness Act, which states no sibling should be denied what another sibling has regardless of the circumstances.

I don’t know when they came up with the whole Sibling Fairness Act routine, but I got a chuckle out of it. I told them we would live like paupers if I had to shell out four bucks a night so they settled for the hot cocoa and we all slept happily ever after . . . for a few nights anyway.

Crystal R. Cook

Raising Potential Writers

Jun17

A good writer is first a good reader . . .

William Faulkner once said, “Read, read, read. Read everything trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You’ll absorb it. Then write. If it is good, you’ll find out.”

Introducing children to the world of literature is one of the greatest gifts you can give them, regardless of whether or not writing is in their future. Before they can read, read to them, help them fall in love with words.

“Reading is to the mind what exercise is to the body.” Sir Richard Steele

Books captivate and spark imagination. Once they begin to read, they begin to learn, let the masters be their teachers. When I was six years old I read The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway, I was enraptured by the tale and soon sat down to write a story of my own. Some children seem to be born with a story within them, just waiting to be told.

“The difference between the right word and the nearly right word is the same as that between lightning and the lightning bug.” Mark Twain

Teach them to speak properly. If they are to write, they must know how to speak, and speak well. The proper use of words and a good vocabulary will only serve to enhance every aspect of their writing as well as their future relationships and employment opportunities. This is something you can do from the time they are babies, baby talk can be fun when it’s time to have fun, but I’m a firm believer that children need to be spoken to in the way we want them to one day speak.

Encouragement will foster confidence; too much encouragement can lead to disappointment, reserved honesty is sometimes best. I would never tell my children something was wonderfully written if it were not, instead, I would find the good in it, then offer suggestions for the parts that could use some attention. Read what your child writes and tell them you want to read more, your enthusiasm will fuel their own.

“There is only one trait that marks the writer. He is always watching. It’s a kind of trick of the mind and he is born with it.” Morley Callaghan

Teach them to see the world around them, help them become constant observers. Inspiration comes in many forms; sometimes the most insignificant of things will lead us to the most significant thought. It teaches them to be aware of themselves and all that surrounds them. It teaches there is so much more to be seen than most people realize, they’ll learn to see what others may not, they’ll experience so much more of life when they learn to look beyond the ordinary.

Two of my four children are writers, amazing writers, they are all avid readers and eloquent speakers as well. When they were young, one of their favorite pastimes was Mad Libs. Without realizing it, they were learning with each silly story. Before my daughter was five she knew what adjectives and pronouns were, she knew the difference between a verb and an adverb. They learned new words and how to spell them through family games of Scrabble.

I often sat with them, pen and paper in hand, and we wrote stories together, taking turns, paragraph by paragraph. Here they learned the proper usage of grammar and punctuation, they learned to be creative. They learned to show, not tell. They found their own voices within the words they penned to the page. Looking back on their earliest writing brings both smiles and tears, their innocence spilled upon page after page, they are some of my most treasured possessions.

“Advice to young writers? Always the same advice: learn to trust your own judgment, learn inner independence, learn to trust that time will sort the good from the bad including your own bad.” Doris Lessing

I encouraged them to keep journals, it’s important to have a place to write anything and everything. To me, it is in the pages of a journal where you learn the most about who you really are. There can be no self-expression without a sense of self.

I taught them to never throw away what they’ve written, even if they thought it wasn’t the greatest, I urged them to tuck it away and maybe someday revisit and rework, or at the very least, look back on to see how far they’ve come. One of my greatest regrets as a writer is the loss of work I deemed unworthy at the time.

As teenagers, I encouraged them to write often, offering critiques and advice along the way. Constructive criticism can be a difficult thing to take in the beginning; they learned to grow from it. They found online writing groups and sought out those teachers willing to take time and become a part of their journey as they wrote their way into each new chapter of their lives.

Now, as adults, they continue to write as they pursue other dreams and opportunities. Their ability to express themselves in both the written and spoken word is remarkable and rarely goes unnoticed. It wasn’t my intent to raise writers, my goal was to teach them the importance of words, language, and expression. The words we say follow us through life, they can open doors or they can close them.

I place great value on words, they are how we let the world know who we are, what we stand for, what we desire, need, and cherish in life. Their worth is immeasurable. Teaching a child the wonder of words, not just how to say them, but how to feel them and bring them to life, is as I said, a gift.

Crystal R. Cook

10 Simple Rules for Fathers

Jun16

Fathers have so much more influence on their child’s future than they may think.

Sons learn how to treat women by watching their fathers.

Daughters learn how men should treat women by watching their fathers.

They learn work ethics, values and morals; they learn things a father doesn’t even know he is teaching. A father is not simply a man who has a child. A father is a man who teaches his child, who sets an example which will effect the future of their son or daughter.

(1) Be mindful of the tongue –

Did you know for every negative thing said to a child there should be ten positives as well? Children need praise and encouragement. They need to know their dad is proud of them so they can learn to take pride in themselves.

(2) Silence is not golden –

Fathers must talk to their children. When they come home from work, even if they are tired or frustrated, it is vital they acknowledge their child. Ask him/her how their day was; tell him/her you missed them, give them a hug. If you don’t talk to them, one day they’ll stop trying to talk to you.

(3) Let them see love –

Children often grown up to have relationships which mirror the relationship their parents had. Fathers play the most important role in these future relationships. Sons tend to treat their girlfriends or wives in the same manner their father treated their mother. Daughters often find a man with the qualities of their father, a man who will treat her the way her father treated her mother. Even if there is a separation between mother and father, the children should never see anything but respect between them.

(4) Play with them –

A father who is willing to put down the paper, the iPad or the remote control and sit on the floor to play marbles with their son or have a tea party with their daughter is teaching their child they are worthy and loved. Ignoring a child sends the opposite message. Fathers should read to their children, tell them stories from when they were a kid or just have a good old’ tickle fight.

(5) Make memories –

Many children have more memories of their mother than they do of their father. Fathers need to make time to explore the wonders of the back yard, to go camping or fishing – Anything their child can look back on with fond remembrance.

(6) Hugs and kisses –

Kids need a good hug or a pat on the back from their dads. Many fathers have a difficult time showing affection in this way, but they need to know their child craves it and needs it. A true man, a good father, can overcome his difficulties for the sake of their child. Children should see their parents showing innocent affection for one another as well.

(7) Set the standard –

A father should be no less than he wants his child to be. A father needs to model the behavior he hopes his child will one day have.

(8) The way things used to be –

A father should not limit his parenting techniques by using the fallback, ‘That’s the way my dad did it’. A father must stop and think back to how his father made him feel before he continues down that path. Perhaps some aspects of his upbringing will be beneficial, perhaps some will not.

(9) The gift of time –

What most children want is to simply spend time with their dads. Sometimes a hectic work schedule or a long honey-do list makes spending time with their kids seem impossible, but even just a few minutes of a father’s undivided attention can make a world of difference in the life of his child.

(10) Be a hero –

Fathers may not realize it, but they are already heroes in the eyes of their children, their job is to keep it that way. A father should be someone his child can look up to. A father should be someone who makes his child feels safe and loved. A father should make certain his child knows he will always be there to help pick him/her up when they fall, share in their joy when they succeed and love them without condition.

A child is a precious and delicate gift given to a father. A father is precious and valued gift given to a child.

Crystal R. Cook

The Mountain – Facing my fear

Jun16

I would like to share with you a life changing event I’ve shared with precious few. It can be difficult to share some of the most deeply personal stories we keep tucked away inside of us. It’s good to share them though, release leads to healing.

Enough time has passed for me to look back upon this moment in my life and see what went wrong and how I could have done things differently . . . Live and learn. It’s my hope in sharing my story I may save even one person from suffering the horrors I did one cold, seemingly endless night, not too long ago.

I was standing before a mountain. I marveled at its height and breadth. The immenseness of it took my breath away. I felt helpless and small standing there in the shadow of it. I decided it was time to face my fears and conquer them by taking on that mountain. I was never one to take risks, to put myself out there, fear has always held me back.

I needed to do it, I had no choice. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. A test of both strength and endurance, not just of body but of mind as well. I’d put off this monumental journey for too long. I’d attempted it days before, but my irrational fears and anxiety kept me from seeing it through to the end.

I looked that mountain up and down, it was no Everest but it may as well have been. I wasn’t just doing it for myself. I was doing it for my family. They’d been so supportive, so encouraging, even after I failed the first time. They wanted this as much as I did.

I scanned the uneven surface of the mountain looking for the best place to begin. I spotted it, but as I reached and grasped the mountainside began to give way. At first I tried to remain calm but as more and more of the falling mountain came down upon me I began to panic. I had no time to think, before I knew it I was being buried. Buried alive.

When the mountain stopped trembling I began to claw my way out of the rubble. Luckily, I had the fortune of being in an air pocket, I knew the air would only last so long though. I quickly gave up my attempt at escape, afraid of collapsing the wall of debris around me. My only chance was to get someone’s attention. I began to cry out for help.

It seemed like an eternity passed before I heard the sounds of my rescuers. I extended my hand through a small hole above me and my prayers were answered when I felt the glorious touch of another hand grasping my outstretched fingers. I knew my ordeal would soon be over.

The hand released it’s comforting grip and I listened intently as a voice called out,

“Daaaaad, mom’s in the laundry pile again!”

My doctor checked me out, physically I was fine, but the emotional damage would take much longer to heal. He said I could have prevented the whole thing if I’d only done laundry earlier in the week. What does he know? Has he ever looked that beast in the eye? I think not. I’m sure Mrs. Doctor would understand.

I was certain they’d keep me overnight for observation, but he released me with a prescription for Xanax, one for Prozac and another for P.M.S (Psycho Mother Syndrome) and sent me on my way.

Perhaps I was being a bit melodramatic, perhaps a wee bit of insanity had taken over my mind, but I swear to you . . . The fear was real.

Crystal R. Cook

The day he was diagnosed – Autism

Jun15

I sat for what seemed like hours staring at the small stack of papers the doctor had given me. My tears had already stained many of the pages. I stared at the word Autistic, it stood out among the rest. I ran my finger along the printed word. Autism, Sensory Integration Dysfunction . . . the tears rained down.

We’d waited so long for a diagnosis, so long for someone to listen and understand. The tears I shed were not in sadness or despair, I was happy, near euphoric quite honestly, I was excited about what this long-awaited diagnosis meant for my son.

He will be 26 this year, I knew the moment our eyes first met there was something special about him. I realize all mothers could make that claim, but somehow I knew something was different. As time passed, it became more and more apparent there was more to my feeling than just a feeling. He was not meeting the milestones he should have been meeting. He was so different from other babies his age.

Twenty-plus years ago the Autistic Spectrum didn’t seem to exist. The word Autism kept coming to me, but the doctors dismissed the notion. When he was two, he was enrolled in a special needs preschool through early intervention. He was diagnosed as learning disabled with Sensory Integration Dysfunction. Later they added Pervasive Developmental Disorder – Not Otherwise Specified. He began speech and occupational therapy and I saw change and growth, but there was still something there, right beneath the surface.

He began speaking shortly before he was five years old, before that it was mostly echolalia sprinkled with random words and phrases he was learning. When he began grade school his services stopped. They said he did not have a qualifying condition to merit the services such as continued speech and occupational therapy he so badly needed. PDD-NOS was not specific enough.

He was listed as learning disabled and placed in a mainstream classroom with modified work. I watched my son slip away and I began to fight. All the while, teaching him and working with him as I always had, but I fought the school, I fought the district and finally, in the fourth grade he was placed in a special education class and he began to learn.

It wasn’t enough though. They didn’t understand him. They forced him to make eye contact he was unable to make. They forced him to suffer through an ever-changing and unpredictable schedule and punished him when he would retreat into his own little world. I once again brought up Autism. He can talk they said, he doesn’t have Autism. He is smart they said, he can’t possibly be Autistic.

My younger son was having many of the same difficulties and was beginning speech therapy. The school psychologist suggested I had Munchausen’s by proxy and urged me to seek help. I was furious. I made an appointment with yet another doctor and within a week my prayers were answered. By God’s grace we walked into the office of a young doctor who had recently attended a seminar about Autism.

He knew there was a spectrum, he new about Aspergers, he knew how to diagnose my son and he knew what we needed. In my heart I knew he was autistic, now someone else finally understood. I broke down in his office. I tried to hold it back but the flood of emotions I’d so long waited to release could not be contained. I praised the Lord right there in that office and have been praising him in thanks every day since.

With this new and proper diagnosis my son was placed in the perfect classroom setting, he was given back the therapies he needed and deserved. He began to grow and learn once again. There would be more battles with the district through the years, but I was relentless in my quest to see he had everything he needed to thrive.

I eventually fought to remove the Aspergers diagnosis in favor of Autism, technically, he fit the diagnostic criteria regarding speech development for Autism, it proved to be a magical word and the educational and therapeutic doors which had remained closed until that point, suddenly opened.

He is a wise and wonderful young man, intelligent and witty. He most definitely walks to the beat of his own drummer and he is perfect, just as I always knew he was.

The day my son was diagnosed with autism was one of the happiest days of my life. Two of my four children have autistic spectrum disorders, I have been blessed beyond measure, it is an honor to be their mother . . .

Crystal R. Cook

Youth Risk Behavior Surveillance

Jun15

Youth Risk Behavior Surveillance Report – CDC – LINK

Something has to change.

Our country is in trouble. Our youth, our future, their future, is at risk. Every generation paves the way for the next, today’s parents and educators are shaping tomorrow’s leaders, or are we letting the government and society shape them for us?

The decline of morality, educational values, and accountability in this nation is setting a frightening precedent for what will come. The recently released 2013 Youth Risk Behavior Surveillance from the CDC highlights this decline with startling statistics.

If this report does not convince you the youth of our nation are at risk, that parents and educators need to step up and return to the basics, you are deluding yourself. Kids are kids, they don’t always make the right choices, the key word here is choice. This is something they must be TAUGHT to do.

I realize there is a lot to sift through, but even scanning the text is enough to show where we are heading and it’s a downhill spiral if the kinder, gentler, politically correct, everybody wins, no consequences or accountability parenting continues.

Say no. Make rules. Enforce them. Discipline . . . Kids from toddlers to teens are growing up feeling entitled, they are told they have the right to do and have what they please. What they do have, is the right to be loved. They have the right to be cared for, nourished, sheltered, clothed, and educated, the rest of it they need to learn to earn.

http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=mfYEWtyRErg&feature=youtu.be

Children need to learn respect from the beginning, they need to know right from wrong, they need to have consequences . . .

Elementary school children know more about political rhetoric and alternative lifestyles than they do about compassion and responsibility. They are conditioned to accept the unacceptable. They are no longer required to strive to be their best, just enough is good enough. Make them read, write, study, speak properly. Stop numbing them to reality by allowing violent games, movies and television to invade their minds.

Backseat parenting is destroying their future.

Teachers are no longer allowed to teach the individual, they now teach to achieve tests score high enough to keep their positions. Many are dissolutioned with the profession they entered because they had a passion to teach and help shape the future and they have now been stifled.

Parents are no longer allowed to parent, or no longer know how to. Something simply has to change.

Goodnight Sweet Prince

Jun13

I used to love taking pictures of my kids while they slept, they looked like little angels . . . I was feeling nostalgic this morning and thought it would be sweet to recreate some of those memories. I ended up feeling like a creepy stalker though. Taking pictures of grown men sleeping, even if you did give birth to them, is just kind of weird.

While deleting the stalker-esque photos, I remembered how precious my babies were, how their soft wisps of hair would tickle my nose as I kissed their little foreheads goodnight. I thought of how my heart filled with their love when they wrapped those little arms around my neck. It still feels that way when they hug me, except now it feels like they are the ones holding me.

Every once in a while, I look at them and see them as they once were, like time stood still. Bittersweet moments. They grew, like they were supposed to, it just happened so darn quickly. I miss tucking them in, story times and lullabies. I miss hearing their innocent little prayers being said. I can still hear them in my heart.

On second thought, I think I’ll keep some of this mornings digital memories . . . I may just print them out and send it to them in an unmarked envelopes. That is what stalkers do, isn’t it?

Crystal R. Cook