Getting Back in the Blogging Saddle

I took a leave of absence from blogging for a few weeks while my momma was in town from Idaho, and now I'm having a hard time getting back in the blogging saddle. Recently this little game has floated around Facebook, and since I spent way-too-much time trying to figure our my responses to it, I'm going to use it as my transition back into blogging. Enjoy...

I had two friends give me the number 10 (yes--TEN!!!) for this little game (thanksalot Kim Underwood Olson and Julie Ezola Hyde!) :)

Stuff about moi...

1. Let's start at the beginning. I was almost born on the Golden Gate Bridge (so the story goes if my mom is telling it). We lived in Napa, but my hospital was in SF, thus Mom's (and my) near-birth experience on the GG bridge.

2. When I was a kid, I wanted to marry The Fonz when I grew up.

3. If I was stuck on a desert island and was only allowed two things, I'd have to choose Chapstick and diet Coke. It is, what it is...

3. I've watched the movies Becoming Jane and Miss Potter more than I'd like to admit.

4. I can eat any food on this planet except for sweet potatoes. Just the smell of them makes me wanna Ralph.

5. Between steps, halves, and wholes, I have 10 sisters, and 3 brothers--for reals.

6. I'd rather be dancing...

7. Growing up, I thought I wasn't smart. In reality, I was lazy. I failed senior composition in high school (or should I say, gave up the last semester of my senior year), but went on the get A's in college English classes. I have 8 published novels for children and teens.

8. I like my chili with crackers (or crackers with my chili).

9. I have this secret wish to form my own rock band with Paul McCartney on bass guitar, Prince and Lenny Kravitz on Lead guitar, Phil Collins on drums, Billy Joel and Elton John taking turns on piano (because who can choose?), and me playing a mean tambourine. Lead vocals??? No idea... :)

10. I firmly believe that happiness is a choice...and I choose happy.

Tamra Torero is Wife to Paco, Momma to nine, Grandma of two, Bakery Manager, author of Shayla Witherwood: A Half-Faerie Tale and co-author of a Christmas novel,The Lost Son, with her son, Preston Norton. If she were pressed to come up with a number 11, it would be that her greatest desire in life is to be a stay-at-home mommy/writer...and BFF of JK. Just sayin'.

Wigging Out

*This post was previously published on another blog (which is now in blog-heaven), so I'm re-posting here because #1, It's an issue many women (and a whole lotta men) are facing and #2, my mommy is flying in from Idaho this afternoon, so instead of writing today, I'll be cleaning my house!

Today's topic: Wigging Out

Okay, I'll just say it. I have a wig. There. Done. (Whew.) And not only do I have a wig, but she has a name--Suzy. Why the name, you say? I dunno. Maybe because I feel a little like a different person when I'm wearing Suzy--a little like I'm part of the witness protection program. Not even my friends recognize me in Suzy, and to be honest, I don't really wear her all that often. But before you start thinking that my life is mysterious and exciting or something, I need to explain one more thing...

I have a condition, and for simplicity's sake, I'll just refer to it as female pattern baldness. I started noticing that my hair was thinning in my late twenties. Up until then I had really great hair. Like Goldylocks and Rapunzel great. But as many things in this life, the Good Lord giveth, and He taketh away. My "great" hair started to leave me, and what I was left with was very thin.

Now I can think of quite possibly a hundred-and-one other body parts that I'd like to be thin--my thighs, for example. Or my stomach. How about my upper arms! (Why, oh why not my upper arms?!) But my hair? No woman wants thin hair. Ever.

It got so bad and I was so distraught about my thinning hair, that about five years ago I went to a hair-transplant place I saw advertised on TV and told the doctor that I wanted the surgery. Go ahead--sew hair into my scalp. I've been through natural childbirth more than a half-dozen times. I've had a gallstone the size of your average kiwi removed from my body. I know pain! As a matter of fact, I'd endure just about any dose of discomfort (notice I say discomfort rather than pain because I certainly have no adverse convictions against great pain medication at this stage in my life) to have a full head of hair again.

Well, the kind doctor informed me that due to the extent of my hair loss, I simply wasn't a good candidate for hair transplant. Chances were that if they took hair from the back of my scalp and transplanted it on top, it'd just fall out again. BUT (they said, with a great sense of hope in their eyes), the minute hair cloning is approved and passed by the FDA (or some such regulatory committee--all whom I'm sure have full heads of hair), I can come on in and have the best strand of my hair cloned, and they will sew those puppies right into my head and I'll have a full head of hair again.

"Will you call me?" I asked.

They laughed. "Oh goodness. We can't call everyone when this happens." (Apparently I'm not the only one with sucky, non-transplant-worthy hair.) "But when it does, it'll be all over the news. Trust us--you'll know!"

I cried the entire way home (and for the record have yet to see a news report on hair cloning. C'mon scientists, government regulators, and media, in general! For the love of all-things-thin, will someone puh-leeze make this happen and then inform me when/if they hear about it. There's at least one middle-aged woman in Texas who needs this procedure. But in the meantime...

...I had to come up with an alternative to Suzy. She's great for church, I suppose, or some fancy-schmancy occasion (not that I have many of those). But the fact of the matter is that I get migraine headaches all-too easily, and Suzy is a migraine magnet. Can you say vice-grip-secured-with-metal-objects to my precious remaining hair follicles? Yup--ouch. Mostly, the wig just isn't worth the possible headache it will give me. Oh, and did I mention that I live in Texas (Houston, to be exact). Now, it's true that there are plenty 'a Texan folk who like their big hair. But me--I'd rather not wear a "fur cap" in Houston's hellicious summer heat that happens to last 9 months of the year.

So what's a thin-haired girl to do?

I've found that if I color my hair very blond, it has a camouflage effect, and the scalp isn't as noticeable through my color-treated hair. Also, because the real problem area is the top of my head, I pull the back locks into an up-do with a clip. I suppose it's the female version of the comb-over. It's the best I can do with what the Good Lord has left me with.

If I want to connect with my inner Farrah, I have Suzy (and a dose of Excedrin Migraine) to help me out. And, truth be told, it can be a lot of fun (check out my red-dress pic). But I, as a person--a woman--am not defined by my hair, or locks or coiffure or mane or tresses or lack there-of. Sure, I've had my weak and insecure moments, but what purpose does that serve other than to send me into a chocolate-induced coma. No thank you. My "thin" happens to be my hair, which at the moment happens to be in a bleach-blond up-do. And for the most part, it beats wigging out!

Tamra Torero is Wife to Paco, Momma to nine, Grandma of two, Bakery Manager, author of Shayla Witherwood: A Half-Faerie Tale and co-author of a Christmas novel,The Lost Son, with her son, Preston Norton. Oh yeah, and the other "joy" about thinning hair is that when you go to the beach, you get to play pirate dress-up and wear a bandana on your head. "Aaaarrr, matey!"

Confessions of an Introvert

I have a confession to make…

I’d rather text you than call you (with email a close second)…unless our relationship is close enough that mauling you in a huge bear hug would be neither awkward, nor icky for either of us. (I’ve been known to do this on occasion.)

With the exception of attending concerts with my sweetheart, I’d rather hang out at home watching movies, reading, or just chilling than head out to a big social event (with the exception of my high school reunions. Even I can manage stepping out once every ten years to see these dear friends, and was super bummed I missed our thirty last year).

On my break at work, one of my favorite things to do is to sit out in my car (Um, yeah... Sounding more hermit-ish by the second). Sometimes I go out for a little 30-minute nap, but often just to unwind from the frenzy of the store. I have to be at my social peak while at work, whether dealing with my customers or employees. Those 30 minutes of solitude relax and renew me on so many levels. It’s kinda like getting a massage to my psyche.

I can speak to groups of 500+ with no problem (and have done it dozens of times without fainting, throwing up, or sounding like a complete and total idiot…I think), but I’d rather skip the small talk which inevitably comes afterward…and unfortunately is unavoidable. Not so fond of the mingling concept, but do it when necessary.

I am married to Mr. Social--the life of the party--and I LOVE this about him. I’m so okay with letting him “represent” for the Torero Family in that realm. He is my other half, and does the extrovert thing very well--one of the bazillion reasons I love him so much.

Although I currently work in a very social situation as a bakery manager (and love and NEED, and thank my Father above every day that I can bring in this much-needed paycheck), my ideal working situation would be to turn this writer gig into a full-time thing. Yup—sitting at my computer…at home…alone (well, as much alone as you can be in this house) making up stories. Jobofmydreams! It’ll happen. Watch me…

 

Yup…I ‘m an introvert…as well as Abraham Lincoln, Emma Watson, Elanor Roosevelt. Christina Aguilera, J.K. Rowling, Michael Jordan, Gwyneth Paltrow, Harrison Ford, Charles Darwin, David Letterman, Bill Gates, Courtney Cox, Albert Einstein, Mahatma Gandhi, Laura Bush, Rosa Parks, Audrey Hepburn, Warren Buffett, Roy Rodgers, Candice Bergen, George Stephanopoulos and one third to one half of the population.

Maybe even you.

 

Tamra Torero is Wife to Paco, Momma to nine, Grandma of two, Bakery Manager, author of Shayla Witherwood: A Half-Faerie Tale and co-author of a Christmas novel,The Lost Son, with her son, Preston Norton. If she had a dime for every time someone said, "I thought you were shy...till I got to know you," she'd throw a huge party with lots of cake and ice cream...and make sure there was really good dancing music so she could dance instead of chit-chat.

From the Mouths of Moms

Sometimes when I open my mouth, my mother comes out…

I read this statement the other day and couldn’t stop grinning…partly because my momma is coming to visit from Idaho a week from today and I’m so dang excited, but mostly because it’s just so true.

I have become my mother!

Now, knocking on the door of The Big Five-0 (gulp), the similarities are a little eerie (or wonderful), depending on my mood, and how much I’m missing my momma, I suppose.

Mom gave birth to seven kids. I’ve given birth to seven kids.

Mom raised two step-daughters since they were very young, and who have always known her as “Mom,” and I’m doing the same. The other day I threw that silly old question out to Paco (because I always love to hear the million different ways he answers it): How much do you love me?

This time, his response nearly brought tears to my eyes: I love you so much, not only because you are my beautiful wife and I know I’ll grow old with you by my side, but because you have become a mother to my girls—someone they can always depend on and who is always there for them. I have to admit, the role of step-mom has re-defined this whole motherhood gig (read Anatomy of a Stepparent), but I can’t imagine my life for one minute without the addition of these two girls. And once again, I follow in my momma’s footsteps.

Growing up, Mom said many things I didn’t agree with…or didn’t want to at the time. Now, all these years later, it’s amazing how often I open my own mouth, and hear my own mom:

·         (Spoken as my sister and I were about to strangle or mortally wound each other) When you two grow up, you’re gonna be each other’s best friend. I HATED when Mom said this. At the time all I cared about was turning my sister into applesauce (physically, emotionally, or both). Now I’m the one singing Mom’s song. My two oldest daughters heard this from me for years and are now incredibly close (told you so). The youngest three are still in the throes of “applesauce” production. As for the relationship between my own sisters—READ THIS.

·         Kill ‘em with kindness. Mom offered these words of wisdom often, but most notably during a brief period of time in junior high when I was being bullied by a particular group of girls in one class. Mom went on to say, “Don’t let them bother you. Act like nothing is wrong, and pretty soon they’ll forget they’re even trying to bother you.” So I did. And they did. And when my own kids have met with a similar crisis, I’ve offered this same advice, further explaining, “These kids trying to bother you only have as much power as you give them.” So far, so good.

·         Kid Me: “But Mom, It’s not faaaaaiiiiiirrrrr…” (generally referring to one of my siblings getting or doing something that I wasn’t getting or doing and always said in a whiney voice. Mom (always calm and cool and matter-of-fact): Life’s not fair. I have to admit, I hated it when my mom said this, and it’s one of my favorite Mom-isms today…because, well…it’s just true. I’d like to think my follow-up to this statement is something like, “so be grateful for what you have,” and I’m sure at times it is. But it also might be something like, “so get over it already.” I'm a work in progress.

There are a million more ways and reasons why I’m like my mom, but I hope the reason by which my kids remember me the most is that I love them with all my heart, which happens to run at a 900% capacity—a strange phenomenon I learned by who else, but my mom.

 

Tamra Torero is Wife to Paco, Momma to nine, Grandma of two, Bakery Manager, author of Shayla Witherwood: A Half-Faerie Tale and co-author of a Christmas novel, The Lost Son, with her son, Preston Norton. She has grown up to be what she's always wanted to be--a mom (with New York Times Bestselling Author being a close second...and not YET achieved).

Surviving Adolescence--Female Style

Can there be such thing as an adolescent girl expert? I doubt it, but I’d like to throw my hat into the ring with some thoughts on girls. After all, I’m “well practiced” when it comes to the psyche of the adolescent female. First off, I was one (or as some might say, I’m a survivor). Dickens, in his classic novel, A Tale of Two Cities, accurately sums up the memories of my teen years—It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. I look back with selective fond memories, but wouldn’t return for a million dollar check hand delivered by Mr. Darcy himself (okay, I’m a liar…but this would never happen, so back to my point). Wouldn’t. Wanna. Re-live. Period!

Further endorsing my girl-expert credentials, I was raised in a household of seven sisters (my brother, Rob’s personal estrogen nightmare). I am also the mother of five daughters, ranging in age from 11 to 26. And for the cherry-chapstick on top, the main characters of seven of my eight published novels are teen or pre-teen girls (okay, one is half-faerie, but she’s a female adolescent half-faerie).

However you want to look at it, I know a thing or two about the mind of adolescent girls.

And in case you were wondering how we even classify the boundaries of adolescence, it’s a little sketchy. One online dictionary defines it as, a state of development prior to maturity. Goodness! With this definition, I know some forty and fifty year old adolescents (including myself at times). For all intents and purposes, let’s just say, 11 to 26—the ages of my own female posterity.

So here is my profound thought on girls…

Being an adolescent girl is both wonderful and difficult. (I know--deep!)

To quote my friend Dickens again from where we left off: it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way.

Okay…well, maybe that’s taking it to the extreme, but for some, I’d venture to say not. With the ups and downs of not only a maturing body, but a maturing intellect, adolescence is simply TOUGH!

So if I could impart one simple truth to my daughters and to all females—one bit of information to carry through life, to lift you up and empower you, and to make it all better at the end of a really long day—it would be this:

You are a daughter of God. Royalty. A princess! Not the tiara wearing princess, but a legacy bearing princess.

Wear this title with pride, and live up to your divine legacy by showing and giving yourself love and respect. In doing so, you will attract those into your life who will return this love and respect. They will see your true value—some have said which is far beyond rubies. This value--your value--can never be measured in a number (a GPA, a weight on a scale, an IQ, an income) because you, My Dear, are not only a Princess...

You are Amazing.

You are Adored.

You are Creation At Its Best!

and

YOU ARE PRICELESS!

Tamra Torero is Wife to Paco, Momma to nine, Grandma of two, Bakery Manager, author of Shayla Witherwood: A Half-Faerie Tale and co-author of a Christmas novel,The Lost Son, with her son, Preston Norton. Though never a prom queen, or homecoming princess, or even barn dance queen (yes, her high school had one), she has worn the Burger King crown on many occasions and considers herself a survivor of adolescence.

The Whole Wheat Entrepreneur

During my teen years, many of my friends got their first jobs. Some went to work for McDonald's while others found employment at the local grocery store. Admiring their newly acquired cash-flow, I was eager to join this jingling-pocket club. But I had something else in mind—something more…me. I was going to start my own business—be an entrepreneur like my mom who owned and operated her own family day-care center in our home. Mom was her own boss—she set the rules and determined her income. I wanted this too.

So after looking into several possibilities, I dove, hands-first (literally) into a business I could do from home. I started my own bread-making business. Mom had a wheat grinder (and a seemingly endless supply of wheat), a bread mixer, and a killer 100% whole-wheat bread recipe to boot. How could I go wrong?

Before you could say, show-me-the-money, I’d taken out an ad in my town’s local paper and was in business. By week’s end I had a few orders. Beyond excited, I was mentally polishing the cherry red Camaro-of-my-dreams which would soon be parked in front of my house.

Life was good.

Saturday came--bake day--and with mom loosely hovering, I got busy. But baking bread took way longer than I’d ever imagined (that dang dough was incredibly sticky). Mom, and even The Little Red Hen, made this bread baking thing look way easier than it was. Not only that, but it sucked up the better part of my one-and-only Saturday in the week.

Before sunset I’d delivered all four loaves of 100% whole-wheat bread to my customers and had roughly eight dollars in my pocket (and I don’t recall hearing a single jingle). Mom, in her mercy, didn’t charge me for the cost of the ingredients, or even the gas to deliver my goods, but she sure-as-heck made me clean up the horrific mess I’d made in her kitchen (the woman has her merciful limits and a kid-induced mess was one).

This same scenario continued for only a few more weeks. I never renewed the newspaper ad and never attracted that customer loyalty necessary for ongoing orders (which, honestly, was okay by me). My bread-baking business fell flat and I moved on to my next teenage adventure— house-cleaning if I remember right (never mind that I had trouble keeping my own bedroom clean).

That cherry red Camaro was never parked in front of my house.

But…I never lost that fire within to build a business, to be my own boss, to set my own goals, dreams, and expectations.

Over the years my entrepreneurship has delved into many directions. I’ve had many home-based businesses (one of which kept my very young family in food an entire school-year while my ex-husband finished college). In the past decade or so, I’ve focused my entrepreneurial endeavors towards my writing, publishing a newspaper column, eight novels, and now this blog. At this time, I also work a day-job (still trying to keep my now-not-so-young-and-much-larger family in food) ironically, as a bakery manager, overseeing, among other things, the baking of some very delicious 100% whole wheat bread. My entrepreneurial mindset and work ethic, applied to my position as bakery manager have helped build sales percent increase into the double digits over last year. Needless to say, my boss is very happy.

But am I happy?

I’d have to say that I’m a work in progress. I have an amazing husband who is my best friend. I have nine beautiful and healthy children. And every day off from the day job, I spend writing--creating--because this is my passion.

Some might call this craziness, but I like to look at it as Terry Orlick, world-renowned leader in the applied field of sport psychology, mental training, and excellence, and a former gymnastics champion and coach. He sums up my feelings perfectly:

“The heart of human excellence often begins to beat when you discover a pursuit that absorbs you, frees you, challenges you, or gives you a sense of meaning, joy, or passion.”

My heart beats every day…for my family, and for my writing.

They are my passion.

What is yours?

Tamra Torero is Wife to Paco, Momma to nine, Grandma of two, Bakery Manager, author of Shayla Witherwood: A Half-Faerie Tale and co-author of a Christmas novel,The Lost Son, with her son, Preston Norton. She has eaten many 'a loaf of 100% whole wheat bread over the years, but none as delicious as her mom's. 

My Happy List

I love, love, love John Denver. I’ll never forget that day in the early 70’s (I was maybe 9 or 10) when my older brother Rob had me totally convinced that John “Country Boy” Denver was our long-lost cousin (after all, he’s blond like us, right?). Maybe I just wanted to believe! Anyway, for that half-hour or so, I was one happy kid!

The other day while sitting in my car messing with my cell phone camera, I captured an interesting image, instantly reminding me of one of my favorite Denver songs—Sunshine on My Shoulders—and this fleeting moment of childhood happiness.

I’ve always been on Team Cup-Half-Full and try to look at the brighter side of life, and not because I live in some sort of La-La Land. Oh, no…I’ve lived through many ’a dark day but make a conscious choice every day to turn my face toward the sunshine—toward happiness.

So with this is mind I’d like to share with you (in no particular order) 10 things in this life that make me incredibly happy (my family not included. They are perched at the tippy-top of my Happy List).

Baby Faces: There’s a reason I have nine kids. “Nuf said.

The Mountains: I grew up at the base of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. I skied them every winter and camped in them every summer. Mountain air makes me feel alive.

The Beach: My love of this happy-place is fairly new. I suppose it’s what happens when you marry a self-proclaimed beach bum. I still love my mountains, but it doesn’t take many trips to the beach to be converted.

Books: This is a love that wasn’t developed until my mid-twenties. As I nursed my babies, I read. We were both nourished as we entered a new world. And for the record, my favorite book is Anne of Green Gables. Molly Chambers, the main character from my first published novel, Molly Mormon? was a total mesh of Anne Shirley and Yours Truly, down to the tips of her strawberry blond hair.

The BBC: Downton Abbey, Call the Midwife, and anything Austenesque. My little sis says it’s in our English roots. Must be!

Diet Coke and Hershey’s Special Dark Chocolate: I’m combining these two together just because. They both bring me way more happiness than they should…so much so that they’re mentioned in the acknowledgements of my novel, Shayla Witherwood: A Half-Faerie Tale.

Music: Most of my favorite music (including Mr. Denver’s) comes from the 70’s and 80’s. Why mess with perfection? Paco and I love to attend concerts and in the past few years have seen Earth Wind and Fire, Michael McDonald, Boz Scaggs, Donald Fagen (of Steely Dan), Rod Stewart, Stevie Nicks, Air Supply, Little River Band, and we even dipped into the 90’s and saw The Backstreet Boys.

Dancing: My memories of dancing reach back to the 70’s with American Bandstand and my sisters. I was on drill/dance teams in both high school and college. Today, Paco and I love to dance salsa.

My Dog: I’m not sure I’ve loved any non-human as much as I love this little guy, and would venture to say, I love him more than most humans. He’s part of my family—part of my heart. Mi Panchito!

And last but not least…

Writing: What can I say? There have been times I’ve had a love/hate relationship with it, times I haven’t written much, times when it’s about all I did, and even a brief period when it was taken away from me (long story for another day). All in all, writing is me, my purpose—something I have to do.

What is your sunshine--what brings you happiness? Please share in the comments.

Tamra Torero is Wife to Paco, Momma to nine, Grandma of two, Bakery Manager, author of Shayla Witherwood: A Half-Faerie Tale and co-author of a Christmas novel,The Lost Son, with her son, Preston Norton. Not only does she have a Happy List, she has a Happy Place...and urges everyone to find theirs. 

Our Amazing Youth (or, The Anti-"Twerk")

Only a short month ago I’d never heard the word “twerk’ and if pressured to speculate on its meaning, I might have guessed it to be some sort of twerp/jerk hybrid. Well, pop culture’s wrecking-ball-of-a-media frenzy gave me an education I’m not sure I ever wanted (and for the record, I like my definition better). Combine that with a recent local high school’s fatal stabbing and one might begin to wonder what’s happening to our youth.

Of course, it only takes a few deep breaths, and a good look around our neighborhoods, high schools, colleges, churches, communities (local as well as online), and yes, even the media, to see that humanity and good will is alive and well amongst our young people.

Take the recent buzz of Joey Prusak, the 19-year-old manager of a suburban Minneapolis Dairy Queen (okay, this fact alone impresses the freckles off me). After serving a blind customer, Prusak notices the man drop a twenty dollar bill. The lady next in line quickly snatches up the bill, tucking it in her purse while the blind man remains oblivious. When Prusak asks the woman to return the money to the blind customer and she refuses, the teen refuses to serve her, requesting that she leave. End of story? Nope! Prusak then takes $20 from his own wallet and gives it to the blind customer. The entire event is witnessed and chronicled by another customer and sent in an email to Prusak’s boss, which is pinned to the restaurant’s bulletin board, which is posted online by a fellow employee, which goes viral. Aaahh… Free press at its finest! Read more of Joey's story HERE.

McKenna Wright finished her senior year on top of the world. The energetic blonde completed a successful term as student body president of her Southern Utah high school, played the lead in several school productions, and wrapped up the year by earning a 4.0 GPA and valedictorian honors. With every scholarship available to her, McKenna chose to first conquer another challenge—teaching English half-way across the world…in China. According to her mom, “McKenna chose to go to China because she wanted to serve a humanitarian mission and feel like she was doing something that would last.” Something tells me McKenna has just begun to make a lasting impression and leave her enduring influence in this great big world.

Then there’s my good buddy, Robert Ybarra who works with me at the store. The two of us love talking all-things music. I’ll never forget the day he helped me dip chocolate strawberries in the bakery as we gushed over our favorite Beatles White Album songs (Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da and I Will for me, Martha, My Dear for him “because the piano intro is amazing, and Paul hides the name of his ex-girlfriend who the song is about and replaces it with the name of his dog, not to mention the orchestration had tuba and I played that in band.”) Robert could be my son and knows all of this and the lyrics to Rocky Raccoon—I LOVE this kid! And I love that he can not only engage in conversation with me (theoretically a middle-age lady, if you insist on being theoretical) but that he’s engaged in life and his future. When he’s not working at the store, he’s a full-time college student at the University of Houston, and works a second part-time job at the mall.

Twenty-three year old Alyssa recently headed south from her home and family in Michigan to commence the first of eight years enlisted with the US Army. Upon completion of her training she will be known as an Army Combat Medic. Not only do Medics, like Alyssa, provide medical treatment to wounded soldiers, they are a staple in the Army as every squad is required to have one in attendance while on any hazardous mission. They live and work with the soldiers day in and out, conducting sick calls and monitoring all aspects of the soldier’s health. As an American, and especially, as a mother, my heart swells with emotion and a sense of pride whenever I see a young person in uniform. As the mother of nine, I realize that this is someone’s daughter or son, sister or brother, and often the case, someone’s mommy or daddy, putting their life on the line to ensure the security, rights and freedom we enjoy as Americans. I hope we never take this sacrifice for granted. Thank you, Alyssa, and the countless others serving our country. God bless you and yours.

And then there’s my son, Josh, almost at the half-way mark of the two-year mission he’s serving for our church. He was assigned to serve in southern California. Josh isn’t paid for these two years of service, and as a matter of fact, worked several of his teenage years as a cook for Popeye’s Chicken to save up for it. Every Monday I receive and email from him, and today he said, “We were able to help Sister “Smith” (a lady in our ward) clean up her backyard. When we got there it looked like a battleground. But after a few hours of hard work from several missionaries, it was looking great! It was really neat because we could tell it really made a big difference for her and her family. I love service!” And I love that my son has developed a love for serving others…because this is how we truly learn Christ-like love in this life. For more info on a day in the life of a missionary, click HERE.

Yup, humanity and good will is alive and well amongst our young people. Look around. Oh, you may find a random "twerk" here or there, but I promise you won’t have to look far to find our not-so-hidden treasure--young people everywhere striving to make this world a better place!

 

 

Tamra Torero is Wife to Paco, Momma to nine, Grandma of two, Bakery Manager, author of Shayla Witherwood: A Half-Faerie Tale and co-author of a Christmas novel, The Lost Son, with her son, Preston Norton. She thinks that the silly goof-balls of the world should stop being such "twerks" and will continue to use this word in this way until the silly goof-balls of the world stop "dancing" silly.

Half Way to Moving Out

I recently read the following Facebook post by a mommy friend:

Today was…today...  “Jacob” turned nine today, and after getting in trouble for shooting a dart at his sister’s face, he felt the need to remind me that since he is now nine, he is half-way to moving out.

This made me both sigh and smile. Why are kids always so eager to grow up and move out? And (dare I admit) why am I sometimes so eager for them to move on with their life? It’s a crazy battle that plays out in all of our minds, depending on our mood and the number of “poop-head,” “booger-brains,” and “butt-face” labels slung about the house on any given day. I call these “white flag” days, and they generally end with Little Caesar’s pizza for the kids and a long, hot bath for me.

Now I have about as much expertise on this subject as the next middle-aged mom. I have nine “Jacobs” of my own, four of whom have already left home, with five more to go. Two live half-way across the country and two live half-way across town. Facebook, text messaging, email, and the good ol' telephone help, but I miss my "Jocobs" who have moved on, every single day.

 

As for the ones at home... Still too many "booger-brains" being flicked willy-nilly around our place for me to mourn the prospect of their leaving, but Paco and I do our best to deal with it all, one "booger-brain" a time. There are good days and there are white-flag days. Some days, one of our "Jacobs" figuratively stand at the front door with bags packed, prophesying impending freedom. Oh, the mixed emotions...

From the perspective of both parent and child (having lived both sides of this), leaving home is both wonderful and horrible. You have the freedom to fly, but now you have to flap your own dang wings—generally, a dilemma at one point or another.

 

As one prepares to set out into the wild blue yonder, society will be full of all sorts of helpful suggestions and conventional advice to commence this growing-up and moving-on endeavor--learn to balance a checkbook, change a tire, cook ramen noodles, blah, blah, blah... That's all important. But what I'd like to offer is the not-so-conventional advice to start our little "Jacob's" off on life's path. Here goes...

 

(Disclaimer--I take credit for none of these...but they all make me smile.)

 

Therapy is expensive. Bubble wrap is cheap. You choose.

 

To make a long story short, don't tell it.

 

If you find yourself in a hole, stop digging.

 

A penny saved is...not much...so...

 

The quickest way to double your money is to fold it over, and stick it back in your pocket.

 

Unlike people, laundry should be segregated by color.

 

Two wrongs don't make a right, but three lefts do.

 

If you get a paper on your windshield that says "parking fine" it doesn't mean you did a good job.

 

Don't bite the hand that looks dirty.

 

And lastly...

 

Life is a mystery to be lived, not a problem to be solved.

 

 

So slow down. Enjoy the mystery. And did I mention, slow down???

 

One of my kiddos turns eighteen in a few months, and I'm already grieving this prospect. When he does leave, the balance will shift to more kids grown and gone than at home. Not sure I'm ready yet for this, but you know how the old saying goes: Ready or not...

 

 

Tamra Torero is Wife to Paco, Momma to nine, Grandma of two, Bakery Manager, author of Shayla Witherwood: A Half-Faerie Tale and co-author of a Christmas novel, The Lost Son, with her son, Preston Norton. The day her first son left home she cried for an hour straight, ate an entire box of fudge-covered Oreos...solo...then took in two stray dogs. When they refused to answer to the name, Preston or Punky Doodle she cried some more. Today, she finds herself half-way to an empty nest.

 

 

 

Sisters and Blisters

I was raised in a “Brady Bunch” family (minus Alice, the maid-of-my-childhood-dreams). So, as the story goes, my mom (a very lovely lady…with three kids), married my dad (with two kids of his own), and then they had three more. If you do the math, that makes eight kids. And of the eight, seven of us were girls. For reals. Seven female siblings under one roof. My brother’s personal estrogen nightmare.

Yup, never a lack of Bonne Bell Lip Smackers or Love’s Baby Soft aroma wafting through our bathroom on any given school-day morning. And never a lack of sisters arguing over previously mentioned yummy-smelling (and quite-possibly edible and life sustaining) teen and pre-teen beauty items. Mom always told us that some day we’d be best friends. In my hyper-hormonal, adolescent frenzy, I didn’t believe it.

Oh, sure, some moments we sisters were each other’s besties—dressing up and taking “modeling shots” (no selfies or duck lips for us), Saturday boogie mornings with American Bandstand and Soul Train, or summers gathered around the TV tuned to General Hospital. (Luke? Seriously? I was always Team Scotty.)

But some moments we were more-than eager to take each other down. I remember (and quite possibly participated in) a few cat fights amongst the sisters. Where I inflicted the most sisterly damage (and perhaps missed my true calling in the realm of girl’s softball pitching, or maybe horseshoes) involved my throwing abilities.

On one occasion, I remember being so furious with my sister Shari, that I grabbed a baby bottle (full of milk) and threw the lactose-loaded missile at her sorry-butt little-sister face. (Seriously, she’s gorgeous. Just reliving the moment.) Well, Shari, obviously the smarter and more agile sister, ducked, leaving my loaded missile to fly at will…clear through the huge picture window at the front of our house. Oops.

(This is a  pic of me and Shari with the cute Mexican exchange student. There's a reason he's standing between us!)

 

Another of my throwing/tantrum memories (target: “Shari’s face” again) involved, um…well, a hockey puck. Yeah… And this time it hit her. In the chin. Seriously, what was I thinking? Well, clearly, I wasn’t. It’s amazing my sister still speaks to me (or speaks at all, for that matter). You’ll be happy to know that I’ve replaced throwing solid objects when angry, to screaming at the top of my lungs while driving my car…alone, of course. It helps. I think.

Aaaahhh, my younger years…

Life was complicated.

Life was simple.

And now life gets even. Because now I’m the mother of many daughters (five, to be exact). My two oldest have already passed through the I-want-to-throw-solid-objects-at-your-sorry-butt-face phase, and have actually become the best of friends (as I prophesied years back).

Now, if I could just convince the remaining three.

 

Maybe this poem I composed for my own sisters will help.

 

Of Sisters and Blisters

(Dedicated to the Magnificent Seven)

Sisters, like blisters, cause pain now and then.

With a rub the wrong way, she gets under your skin.

She’s always around. There’s just no place to hide.

And worst of all, Momma and Dad take her side.

She hogs the hot water, and borrows your clothes.

And Saturday night she dates all the cute beaus.

But just when you think that your world’s caving in,

All it takes from that girl is a hug and a grin.

She knows all your faults, but can put them aside,

To help build you up. To fill you with pride.

Now, as for the blister, it’s healed before long.

And in that same spot, the skin becomes strong.

So next time you notice a blister or two,

Just call up your sister, and say, “I love you!”

(Tami and Shari Today--Sister Survivors of The Early Years!!! Love you, Sis...and your chin looks maaahvelous!)

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Tamra Torero is Wife to Paco, Momma to nine, Grandma of two, Bakery Manager, author of Shayla Witherwood: A Half-Faerie Tale and co-author of a Christmas novel, The Lost Son, with her son, Preston Norton. She is a survivor of the early years of sisterhood, and in no way condones the throwing of loaded baby milk bottles or hockey pucks for any reason whatsoever. Word.