Moi?

I'm a little self-centered and sometimes I need to be reminded of that. My friend Ruth is only too happy to oblige.
We were talking on the phone recently and I was listing my husband's charity work.
For years now he has been driving about an hour and a half to clear a trail for the Nature Conservancy.
Recently, he has added weekly volunteer work at a child welfare agency that helps underprivileged and developmentally delayed kids. He had to have fingerprinting and background checks twice, recommendations from three people who aren't family and a physical before he was cleared to volunteer there.
Then last week, he announced that on his only day off, he was going to work at Habitat for Humanity.
He took Tucker with him, who seems to be following in his father's volunteering footsteps.
Of course, I think it's great for both of them to help others. I'm proud of them. But their activities make me start taking an account of my own actions.
I organized the refreshments for the school's musical evening. That took at least an hour of emailing. I'm on the board of the swim team and we meet at least once a year along with answering emails and texts from the coach. No, my volunteer hours don't seem to compare.
So I was feeling a little guilty as Earl and Tucker traipsed off on a cold, rainy night to build a house for the poor.
"Do you think he's only doing it to make me feel guilty?" I asked Ruth as we talked on the phone.
"I think," she said, "that it's not about you."
"Oh."
That gave me something to think about.

Joys of Motherhood

My kids can be so annoying and so funny. That really hasn't changed much since they were little.
Spencer is trying to redeem himself after his run-in with the law by volunteering at a basketball camp this week.
"It's horrible," he moans. He's coaching the third and fourth graders.
"Horrible for you or for the kids?" I ask on the drive there this morning.
"Both," he says.
Apparently the kids don't listen and just run amok. I had advised him to be firm with them, but this apparently hasn't helped.
"Just try to make a difference for one kid," I advise this morning as he gets out of the car.
"I do," he says. "I give them fun nicknames, like Slick Rick."
Then he loped across the field, all six-foot, three-inches of him. Making a difference, one nickname at a time.
All three of my children were home last night, which is unusual. One or all of them are generally "hanging out" with their friends somewhere in our small town. But following a day of swim practices and basketball scrimmages, they were all fairly lethargic.
About 11 p.m., I heard a sound outside and thought I saw movement. I pulled aside the curtains and saw the wind was whipping through the trees. I heard a rumble of thunder and saw a flash of light. Thunderstorm.
Then I remembered the convertible.
"Grace," I called to her. "Did you put the top up on the car?"
She hadn't.
"Come on," I yelled. "Thunderstorm."
The convertible top motor has given out. It won't put the top up or down. And, since it's heavy, it takes two people to put the top up.
We ran through the dark down the alley to the street where the car was parked.
"I'll work from the outside. You start the car," Grace yelled above the wind, flinching as thunder boomed again.
I started the car and tried the button that puts the top up. Nothing. Grace was tugging and pulling on the top.
I got out of the car and grabbed the other side. We pulled up then pushed it forward before I hopped the car to finish the job. Then we sprinted to the house again, with only a small scream from Grace when the lightning flashed again.
Never a dull minute at my house.