When Your Dreams Take a Detour

When I was about eight, my older brother decided that he wanted a tree house. He bugged my parents and wouldn't give up. There was one problem: We didn't have ANY trees even close to big enough for a tree house. In fact, the only tree we had was a tiny sapling almost big enough for some shade. However, my brother  happened to be the kind of person that would fixate on something until it was accomplished. So, my mom told him if he wanted it bad enough he would find a way to make it happen.

That begun the daily bike rides about two miles away, sometimes with lumber, hammers, and nails, to a neighbor's house. This couple had plenty of full grown trees and no little children at home anymore. Sometime my sister and I would follow on our bikes. There was already a perfectly good tree house in a tree in their backyard and we would spend hours playing in the ready-made play house, while my brother toiled away trying to build his own house in a different tree. 

Our way was easier and we sure had a good time, but looking back on it, my brother was the one who worked and learned. He was the one who got to enjoy something he built with his own hands. He didn't let the fact that we didn't have a tree stop him. He found a way to make it happen, he didn't take the easy way, he did the work.

Well, about a year ago I began an expedition to my tree house (otherwise known as pursuing my writing). My husband has always been so patient with my great plans and dreams. He lets me follow them and change plans when needed, without judging or letting his frustration show. My tree house is just not shaping up like I thought it would, it is time to decide what I'm going to do when I grow up. Maybe there is another way to build my tree house.

After much prayer and looking at many options, I have decided to apply to Dental Hygienist school. I can already see you all screaming, "WHAT?" 

I know, it's a new one, but it's a way I can build my tree house, and enjoy playing in it when it's finished. This career is a great way to make enough money to help out my family and to still have time to work on my writing, since almost all hygienists work part-time.

I have already started taking my pre-reqs and will apply to the school in February. It is really scary, since they only accept 18 students a year. But I believe if it is the right path for me, it will happen.

Julia is not happy about me going back to school. She remembers what I went through a few years ago when I finished by bachelor's degree, but I know my family is behind me in my new adventure.

This is not the path I had planned to take, but if it means I get my tree house, I'm ready to do the work!

The Great Fish Massacre of 2010

            It began as a normal day at Walmart with my two daughters. We wandered around the clothes section, they begged for just one more Littlest Pet Shop, and we tried all the free samples we could find. Then one of the girls suggested, “Let’s get a fish.” It happened to be one of the fish-free cycles in our home, so when my daughter suggested it, the other one jumped aboard.

            We took a stroll past the fish tanks and when I saw the tiny puffer fish, I was hooked. They are so cool: cute and harmless until threatened. Then, poof, with one gulp of water they double in size and become covered with death-threatening spikes.

            “That’s the one I want,” six-year-old Julia said pointing at the cutest ball of porcupine potential in the tank.

            Her older sister, MaryLynn, decided that she liked the colorful neon tetras.

            Both great choices, but we only had one tank. I stopped a worker as he hurried past to ask about putting the two fish in the same tank.

            “Oh, they should be fine,” he said. “The puffer fish are really slow and the tetras are quick. I’m sure they’ll stay away from the puffer.”

            That sounded reasonable to me. “Ok,” I answered in a fit of motherly generosity. “Let’s get one puffer fish and four little tetras.”

            The helpful man smiled as he caught the five fish and plopped them all into the same bag.

            Julia reached for the bag and the two girls chattered and giggled all the way up to the register while they began picking out names. By the time we took our place in line the puffer fish was dubbed Simba and the tetras were getting names like Sunshine and Sky.

            Suddenly, MaryLynn squealed, “Mom, he’s eating them, Mom!”

            I grabbed the bag and peered in to see a half a fish floating in the bag and Simba trying to take a chunk out of another tetra. MaryLynn burst into tears and began mourning her poor little Sunshine. “He was so cute. He didn’t deserve it.”

            In the meantime, I was trying to keep the puffer from consuming another pet. I used the tool I had on hand, my credit card. I began poking through the bag at Simba. “Stop it,” I command the fish, as if he might suddenly hear and obey me.

            By this time, Julia started crying too. Her adorable pincushion had turned into a mass murderer right before her eyes. She sobbed, “I didn’t know he would eat them, I didn’t know.”

Comments of the shoppers behind us began to filter through the scene that was my family.

“What’s going on up there?”

“Great, two crying children, glad I went shopping today.”

And the most helpful was, “Don’t you know that puffers are aggressive? They’ll eat anything they can catch.”

           No, obviously I didn’t know this.  You think I planned the fish massacre?

           I finally realized that the credit card poking wasn’t working when I witnessed Simba chomp another fish in two.  This brought another round of shrieks from both children. They buried their blotched faces in my stomach, and I held the bag up high as if I could keep the carnage from them. But I finally hit upon a plan that brought the slaughter to an end. I used the credit card to push into the bag and form two separate pools, keeping the puffer and what was left of the tetras apart.

Finally, it was my turn at the register.

           I smiled sweetly, handed the bag of half-eaten tetras and one well-fed puffer to the cashier and said, “You might want to tell the man back by the fish that puffers DO NOT do well with other fish.” I took each of my traumatized girls in hand and walked out leaving the cart of groceries sitting in line and the confused cashier clutching the miniature crime scene.