What does it mean to be content in a world full of oppulence?

I have been having a discussion with my husband about our life as of late. It seems, many of my married girlfriends are having similar conversations with their spouses. In a rough economy, many of our men-folk are feeling overwhelmed, dejected and generally frustrated with their percieved lack of accomplishments, thinking they should be far more financially secure by now, since they are after all, in their 30s. They are comparing their lives to that of their parents and grandparents. They remember a time when their parents had solid jobs and were home by 6 every night, where then the entire family would sit down and eat a healthy and well-balanced dinner. They remember being taken on fun vacations every summer, going to the store to pick out fresh school supplies and new clothes every fall and Christmases with stacks of presents as high as the tree itself.

Apparently all our husbands grew up on a television sitcom.

I grew up in a house with 6 kids and very little money. We literally ate what we could grow and when the food ran low, we just spread it out to last a little bit longer. Often this meant living off a pot of soup made of whatever my Mom could find in the cupboards. Chicken was for special occasions only; rabbit was the meat of choice (we raised them on the farm.) I ate my first steak my senior year of high school. On a daily basis we drank only water or milk (which was from the goat when times got really lean,) we only had soda on birthdays. We had juice only when my parents got paid but it would be the cheapest kind one could purchase; we could always tell how the family finances were doing, depending on whether or not there was a can of juice concentrate in the freezer.

We only got new clothes on our birthday and Christmas, and even then it was one outfit we got to pick out. Nearly everything we wore or played with was gently used, and given to us by friends or family who had since replaced them with the latest trends.

The thing is, I don't remember my childhood as a horrible time. Granted there are aspects of it that I'd rather not think about (mainly those painful events inflicted upon us by floundering parents) but as far as the kids being able to find ways to play and having fun? That was never in short supply. We spent endless hours of my childhood exploring the fields and forests around my house, using our imaginations to create new and exciting worlds.

I grew up in a house where if you "wanted" something badly enough, you would find a way to earn some money and save it until you had enough to buy what you wanted. This meant I was working by age 11, driving the hay truck or bucking bales, mowing lawns, caring for neighbor animals and livestock, mucking out stalls etc. Often, I found by the time I earned the money required to buy whatever it was I thought I wanted, it didn't seem that important to me anymore, and I just kept saving. When there was a time when I did really, really want something (like a new bat for softball) being able to buy them myself was a huge accomplishment and I subsequently treated my "possessions" with great care.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, the harder you have to work for something, the more you tend to care about it.

I know for me, I've never felt more blessed than I do now. I have a healthy and happy daughter and a loving husband. Sure we don't have the cars we would *like* to drive, or the house we'd *like* to have or make the money we would *like* to earn, but we both have a strong education and decent jobs that don't require us to work outside in the elements. We have a healthy and happy little girl, a cozy house to live in and a fridge full of food. To me, this is still pretty amazing.

There will always be somebody who is more successful, more rich, more beautiful. I guess the question is, when will we decide to be happy with who we are and what we have in this life?

What do you think?

The US Snowboarding team is wearing specially-designed plaid jackets and gore-tex "denim" pants supplied by Burton. Some say they look too casual for the world stage, some say they perfectly symbolize America's style.

What do you think?

Evie reading a book 02/03/2010

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Evie dancing 02/03/2010

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"How Mr. Wiggles lost his head" Or "How to traumatize 7th graders."

Mr. Wiggles was the class fish; my students named him. He was a bright blue Beta who I purchased from the local pet shop in September. He cost all of $3.75. He lived in a little "Beta" cube, which cost approximately three times that of the fish.

From September onward, Mr. Wiggles lives in his little home, which was perched on the bookshelf in the front of the classroom, so all could see him throughout the day. The children loved greeting him as they entered the room, asking him how his day was going. If he ever dared sleep, the class would inevitably burst into raucous chatter about his status- was he sleeping, or had he died?

It became a bit of a ritual, really. I would be in the middle of teaching when suddenly a child would start pointing to the cube, whispering to their neighbor. Soon, nearby students would overhear and continue in the speculation, until I would finally have to stop, walk over and tap the polycarbonate glass wall. Every time he would spring to action and the class would take a collective sigh.

Yesterday I returned to work from an extended medical absence. After settling in, I noticed Mr. Wiggles' tank water was not the regular clean translucent blue, but instead had taken on a pond-like quality, murky and green. Shortly after I made my observation my students began explaining that they ALL decided to care for Mr. Wiggles during my leave. Apparently, my Sub. had done the same; Mr. Wiggles had been fed enough food for six months in 12 days. I told the students we would clean the cube on Tuesday, during homeroom.

Today during homeroom, I announced it was time to clean Mr. Wiggles' home. 25 hands shot up in the air, volunteering to do the deed. I assigned two students and gave them the supplies- a small net to get him out, a little cup of filtered water wherein he could swim while his cube was cleaned, paper towels and a pass to the bathroom for cleaning.

The girls eagerly grabbed the net, and proceeded to "catch" the fish. The fish was in a body of water approximately 4" deep, in a 6'x6" square, but catching him was quite the elusive task. After a great deal of argument over proper technique, coaxing and several "helpful" suggestions offered from on-looking students, finally the fish was captured. Sadly however, this was the beginning of the end for our dear pet.

Once in the net, the girls stood there, unsure as to what to do next. With great urgency, I told them he needed to be in water; they quickly slammed the net into the cup of water and held it there, looking at me. "He's stuck, we can't get him out of the net!" They cried. I explained, "You have to keep the net open and gently let him swim out."

They yanked the net (with fish) back out of the water and proceeded to "coax" him out of his entanglement- by pulling on the edge of the net and trying to knock him into the water.

At this point, several children were screaming "Be careful, don't HURT him!" But it was too late. Mr. Wiggles slid down into the clean clear water; he was motionless. His body pointed up, mouth at the surface, fin at the bottom, lying in the water like a torpedo.

The room went silent; they looked at me in horror.

One student tapped the cup. He remained still.

“NOOOOOO!” One student cried, in his best Hollywood yell.

“He’s DEAD! You KILLED Mr. Wiggles!”

The poor student looked at me aghast. “Is he really dead, Mrs. Scott?”

“Umm, YES. He’s very, very dead.”

“I’m so, so sorry, I don’t know what happened!”

“It’s ok, these things happen.”

I then declared he would have to be flushed. Again, 25 hands shot up in the air. Some suggested we have a funeral, some wanted to go in a group and have a “ceremony” in the boys’ bathroom. I declined all suggestions and allowed one boy to carry the fish down to the restroom in the plastic cup. Others volunteered to clean out the cube.

About five minutes later, the fish flusher returned, stricken.

“You ok Bud?”

“His head fell off.”

“WHAT?!”

“His head. It fell off. When I dumped the water in the toilet, his head fell off. If just floated there. It was really gross, Mrs. Scott.”

“Oh NO, I’m so sorry that happened.”

“Uh huh.”

And so we are now without a fish. Approximately 30 seconds after he was gone, students began suggesting new pets for our class. Some wanted a hampster, others a snake. The number one suggestion was a naked mole rat.

I vetoed all pet suggestions; I think we need a break from live creatures being in the class. At least other than the human variety.