On Growing Up

I realized the other day, that I've grown up.

I say grown up, because I don't feel like I've gotten older, even though this post is actually about just that.

The passage of time.

Based on technology.

Namely, the cell phone.

When I graduated from high school, cell phones were still relatively new, and most people still carried pagers, because those little boxes of uselessness were horribly cool. It definitely wasn't common place to see teenagers walking around with phones, texting their friends, or downloading music. They also weren't as tiny, or complex as they are now (the cell phones, not the kids--though that would be a whole different blog post).

I was nineteen before I had my first cellphone. It was through Verizon, and it was the size of my hand, black, and the bottom mouth piece flipped up to cover the keys-- actual keys that had shape and texture. Touch screens were obviously very, very far away still.

I remember going to the kiosk in the mall with my then best friend. We both signed up for a plan (without an ounce of credit to our name--nor was their a required down payment). I'm pretty sure the plan included about a billion minutes for some tiny amount that she and I could afford at our barely over minimum wage jobs.

Like I said, phones weren't that complex, and I'm equally sure texting hadn't sunk its teeth into the world yet. I know I didn't have it.

I also know, I didn't keep my phone for more than a year. I realized I didn't use it, and I had a land line, therefore, I didn't need it.

Ah, so much has changed.

Now, twelve years later, I wouldn't know what to do without my cell phone. I've had about three dozen different kinds ranging from brick-like basic models to the IPhone and my newer Android. I've also been with just about every provider there has been. Though, I've been with AT&T through all its names and changes, the longest.

Seven years.

Thinking about all the changes in the technology, and the fact I never use my home phone, nor do I actually use my cell phone minutes (hello, texting), reminds me how many years have past since my first phone.

Yes, I've grown up, but I'm still not getting old, and apparently neither are cell phones.

What was your first mobile phone like? I'd love to hear.

R.S.

On the 'State' of Happiness

So, this morning I read this blog post, and thought I'd give my own spin on it.

I've been part of the military my entire life, in one form or another. The funny thing is, I barely remember the moves, because my father actually retired from the Navy when I was a little older than what the Munchkin is now.

When my father retired we headed to his home state of Washington, and moved into the only home I remember. Now, there are flickers of memory from previous places, but they're pretty fuzzy from the passage of time. They don't really count.

We arrived in that little town in the Pacific Northwest just in time for me to begin first grade in the fall of 1988. I was lucky as far as the life of a military brat was concerned. I attended school with most of the same people from '88 until I graduated in 2000.

I wasn't moved around at random intervals like my sister was--she had to start all over again during her junior year in high school--and because of this I didn't seem to have the wanderlust that other people did. I didn't dream of backpacking through Europe, or flying off to the Middle East. I was content. Happy.

Kind of.

Then I hit my 20's and the wanderlust appeared. Not like it did in everyone else, but in a subtle way I didn't really notice. Between the ages of 20 and 24 I moved every six months. Not out of state or out of country, just to different places around the county.

In March of 2005, my brand spankin' new husband of a month--the Marine--had orders to Hawaii, and for the first time ever I was leaving the Continental U.S. Since then we've moved four times and lived in three different states.

I've still never been to a foreign country.

And my wanderlust is great.

I can't stay in one place for longer than two years without getting that 'itch' to move. I start getting antsy, and I start hating everything about the place I live. In the case of the desert, it's become a physical thing. I've NEVER had allergies, but in the last eighteen months I've not only acquired them, but they've set out to murder me.

Forget itchy, watery, or dry eyes. Forget sinus pressure. Bring on the allergy induced asthma!

That's right.

Why do something half-assed like boring sinus pressure, when you can go big and hyperventilate from a lack of oxygen? While doing nothing more strenuous than sitting on the couch? Or even better--sleeping.

Anyway, like the above mentioned blog, I've often wondered if it's where I am that depends on my happiness level.

Will I be at this level of happiness no matter where I'm at? Is there some place I'd be happier?

I know that while living in Washington I was never happy. That didn't become obvious until after I moved away, then it was so obvious I didn't know how I'd missed it for so long.

It turns out, that I'm at my 'happiest' or at least the 'happiest I know', when I'm some place sunny.

I don't do well with gray and dreary days filled with clouds and rain.

I 'thrive' in my own way, when it is sunny and bright.

It could be negative four out and as long as it's sunny I wouldn't care--though on a side note, I'm not a fan of extreme temperatures in either direction.

There isn't a particular 'state' I've found that I'm happiest in, and maybe that state doesn't exist. I know it's time to move again (even though a part of me would really like to buy a house and put down roots). Someday maybe I'll even get to a foreign country.

In my mid-twenties I believed Ireland was the place I needed to be.

Maybe it is.

Where is the place you're happiest? Have you found it yet?

R.S.

On the Munchkin Growing Up

Every day I am amazed by the things my daughter knows and does. Seeing her spell her first name-- which I admit is really long for a little kid to spell, and her last name makes me smile.

Knowing she can spell words like cat, dog, and hat also brings a grin to my face.

She isn't going to be my little girl much longer.

This makes me both happy and sad.

What a vicious circle.

I wouldn't change a thing.


R.S.

On Borrowing From Your Children

Maybe it was the way I was raised-- though I don't remember seeing any awards for parent of the year on shelves in the house while growing up, but I have the strange belief that parents are supposed to protect, educated, guide, and help their children.

Not the other way around. 

In our home, and even in the home I grew up in, the parents NEVER borrowed from the children. It just wasn't done. 

For instance, there were times while growing up that money was undoubtedly tight, but my parents NEVER came to us and said, 'gee, could we bum a couple of bucks--just until payday?' In my house, the Marine and I would never dream of going to the Munchkin and borrowing money from her.

Granted, she's not yet four, but she's got a college savings plan and a savings account that has more money in it than most Marines, and they're supposed to be adults. 

Have there been times where access to a couple of grand would have been nice? Could we have used it and then replaced it later? 

Sure.

If we weren't who we are.

That money is our daughter's. Not ours.

Every year the money we get from the child income tax credit goes straight into her college fund. We do not touch it.

Ever.

The way we see it is, without her we wouldn't have that money so it should go to her. She's in theory earned it for putting up with us for a year. 

Not everyone agrees with me on this.

I won't steal borrow money from my child's future just because I didn't plan well enough for myself. The Marine and I decided that long before we ever had children. 

We might not be perfect people, or perfect parents, but our daughter will have opportunities our families didn't give to us.

If nothing else, the Munchkin will be able to say, "my parents never did THAT." 

It's something, right?

Do you have any experiences with this? What are your thoughts?

R.S.