Somebody has to do the work

I don’t understand this idea that people shouldn’t have to work. Every single thing we enjoy exists because somebody got up in the morning and did a job. Somebody built the roads, grew the food, picked up the trash, stocked the shelves, built the houses, taught the kids, and kept the lights on.

People act like because America is already built, it will somehow keep running on its own. It won’t. Everything has to be maintained, repaired, replaced, and preserved. That requires work.

Life isn’t supposed to be a walk through a garden, tiptoeing through the tulips while everyone else pays your way. You’re supposed to contribute. You’re supposed to get up and do something. That’s how you appreciate what you have and how you gain pride in what you’ve earned.

I also don’t understand the idea that everyone should be their own boss and nobody should have to answer to anyone. If everyone owned a business, who would have the money to buy from those businesses? Society works because people fill different roles and depend on each other.

And no, I don’t think able-bodied adults should expect other taxpayers to support them while they choose not to contribute. People can give back in many ways—through a job, volunteering, mentoring, helping family, or serving their community. Everyone can contribute something.

Maybe this is my Gen X talking, but I was raised to believe that if you want something, you work for it. If you want a better life, you build it. And if you’re capable of contributing but choose not to, don’t expect everyone else to carry your load.

Somebody has to do the work. Otherwise, everything stops.

 

What the Hell Happened to My Eyebrows?

I knew getting older came with a few surprises.

I expected wrinkles. I expected random aches and pains that show up for no reason and stay longer than houseguests. I expected reading glasses. What I did not expect was for my eyebrows to quietly pack their bags and leave without so much as a goodbye note.

Seriously. What happened?

I didn’t shave them off during a wild phase in the ‘90s. Or pluck them into thin lines. (like the 90210 days). I’ve never been aggressive with eyebrow maintenance! Yet here I am, standing in front of the mirror, wondering if my eyebrows entered the Witness Protection Program. One day they were there, and the next they were so light I could barely find them.

And while I am on this rampage... WHY are new hairs popping up on my chin? It’s like my eyebrows are relocating to other parts of my face. Apparently, my body looked at the situation and said, “We’re moving the hair budget to another department.” I did not approve that transfer. What the hell?!

The good news is I’ve reached an age where I don’t panic about things like this anymore. Most women won’t leave the house without putting on lipstick. I won’t leave until I’ve drawn on a pair of eyebrows.

I am starting to laugh about it, but if anyone sees my missing eyebrows wandering around out there somewhere, tell them I’m looking for them. I’d really like them back.

The Questions That Kept Us Safer

Back when I was young, there were commercials reminding parents to ask their kids: Who? What? Where? Why? And How? Who are you with? What are you doing? Where are you going? Why are you going there? How are you getting there? It seemed simple, maybe even annoying at the time, but those questions probably kept more kids safe than we realized.

We also grew up hearing things like, “You are who you hang out with,” and “If I don’t know the parents, you’re not going.” We hated those rules as kids. As adults, I understand them completely.

Our parents wanted to know who was influencing us, whose house we were spending time in, whether there would be supervision, and if there was a safe way home. They checked in, set boundaries, and expected us to answer questions.

Parenting wasn’t about being your child’s best friend. It was about knowing their friends, knowing their families, paying attention to changes in behavior, trusting your gut, and being willing to say no.

Maybe those old questions and old rules weren’t controlling at all. Maybe they were one of the reasons so many of us made it safely to adulthood.

That’s a Wrap!

After 34 years in childcare, I did not sell my center because I wanted to. I sold because the system made it increasingly difficult to continue.

For decades, I did everything DHS asked of me. I became one of the first 2-Star centers in my county when the Star system was introduced. I earned additional credentials when master teachers became a requirement. I ensured my staff completed increasing training hours, maintained compliance with new regulations, achieved 5-Star status, and earned national accreditation. During COVID, we adapted yet again, providing virtual learning support and continuing to serve working families during one of the most difficult periods our industry has ever faced.

Every time DHS raised the bar, I met it. Every time new requirements were introduced, I invested in my program, my teachers, and my facility. I believed quality childcare mattered.

What I did not expect was for DHS to continually increase expectations while reducing the financial support needed to meet them. Subsidy reductions, eligibility changes, and unfunded mandates created a situation where providers were expected to deliver more services, hire more qualified staff, offer better benefits, maintain higher standards, and somehow do it with less revenue.

Quality childcare is expensive to provide. We were told to invest in continuity of care, teacher education, accreditation, and quality improvement. We did. Then the funding that helped support those efforts was taken away.

The reality is simple: childcare centers cannot operate at a loss. When government policies make quality care financially unsustainable, providers are left with two choices—lower their standards or leave the industry. I chose not to compromise the quality of care I spent 34 years building.

I was fortunate to have interested buyers and was able to sell. Many providers will not be so lucky. They will simply close their doors.

DHS says its mission is to support children and families. From where I stand, its policies are driving experienced providers out of the field and making quality childcare harder to find. After 34 years of adapting, complying, investing, and fighting to stay afloat, DHS did not just influence my decision to sell—it ultimately made it necessary.

Raven Carter,  Yukon OK

Monday Was Yesterday, Right?

One thing nobody told me about retirement is how fast time would go.

When I was working, it felt like it took forever for Friday to arrive. Monday would show up, and by Wednesday I was already wondering if Friday had gotten lost. The days were filled with schedules, deadlines, meetings, phone calls, and a hundred things demanding my attention. Some afternoons felt like they lasted a week all by themselves, and 6:00 p.m. seemed to take forever to get here.

Now, the weeks seem to disappear.

The funny thing is, it’s not because I’m sitting around doing nothing. I’ve actually been keeping busy. There are doctor appointments, grandkids staying the night, swimming, shopping, lunches with friends, day dates with my husband, and visits with my mom. I’ve done lots of cleaning and prep work for moving, and I’ve even stopped by the daycare to help with various things when they need an extra hand.

Somewhere between all of that, Monday turns into Friday.

I used to think retirement would feel slow. Instead, it feels like life just shifted gears. The clock hasn’t changed, but how I spend my time has. These days, my calendar is filled with people I love instead of things I have to do.

Still, if someone could explain how it’s already June, I’d appreciate it.

The Guilt Hat

I'm putting it away!

I’ve come to the conclusion that I spend a lot of my life wearing what I call the guilt hat. The guilt hat is invisible, but trust me, it’s there. It’s the hat that magically appears every time someone else’s problem lands in my lap. Suddenly, I’m wondering if I should do more, call more, help more, fix more, worry more, or somehow become personally responsible for things that were never mine to manage in the first place.

The crazy part is that nobody hands me this hat. I put it on myself. Someone is unhappy? I reach for the guilt hat. Someone made a bad decision? Here comes the guilt hat. Someone’s life is a mess? Let me see if my guilt hat matches my outfit.

Somewhere along the way, many of us learned that being a good person meant carrying things that don’t belong to us. We confuse caring with carrying, and they are not the same thing. I can care about you without fixing your life. I can love you without solving your problems. I can support you without making your responsibilities my responsibilities.

What I’ve finally realized is that not every problem is mine to solve, not every burden is mine to carry, and not every crisis requires my involvement. Just because something lands in front of me doesn’t mean I’m required to pick it up.

These days I’m trying to retire the guilt hat. Not because I don’t care, but because I’ve learned that carrying everyone else’s worries doesn’t make me a better friend, mother, spouse, or person. It just makes me tired.

Turns out the guilt hat was never a requirement. It was just an accessory I forgot I could take off.

Aged to Perfection

I’ve reached that stage of life where I no longer want my picture taken. Not because I’m ashamed of how I look or trying to hide from the camera. It’s because every time I see a picture of myself, I think, “Who is that woman?” In my head, I’m still me—the same personality, the same sense of humor, and the same person I’ve always been.

The strange thing about aging is that it sneaks up on you. One day you’re taking pictures, and the next you’re volunteering to be the photographer. Women have it the worst. Everywhere you look, someone is reversing, freezing, fighting, injecting, lifting, tightening, or filtering aging until they resemble a startled cartoon character. Apparently we’re supposed to spend retirement trying to look like we just graduated college.

I don’t want to look 22. I survived 22. I paid my dues for these laugh lines. I earned every gray hair, wrinkle, and reminder that I’ve actually lived a life. That doesn’t mean I want to let myself go. I still want to look nice and take care of myself. But there’s a huge difference between looking younger and looking good for your age.

Somewhere along the way, society decided “for your age” was an insult. I think it should be a compliment. Looking good for your age means you made it to your age. Not everyone gets that opportunity.

The truth is there has never been a fountain of youth, and there never will be. The choices are pretty simple: die young or live long enough to get old. That’s it. Yet somehow we’ve convinced women that aging is a personal failure instead of a privilege.

And people age differently. Some are blessed with great genetics; some aren’t. Some spent years in the sun; some didn’t. Some wrinkle, sag, or turn gray at 30. Some never do. None of those things make someone better than anyone else.

Maybe it’s time for a new motto. Not anti-aging. Not age-defying. Not forever young. Those are all marketing slogans designed to make us feel bad enough to buy something.

I say the new motto should be: Aged to Perfection. Because perfection isn’t looking 30 when you’re 60. Perfection is reaching an age where you finally stop apologizing for looking exactly the age that you are!

For As Long As I Can

My mom is 92 years old, and if I’m honest, it’s hard for me to picture a world without her in it.

When she found out she was pregnant with me, the doctor told her she would enjoy having a baby later in life. I think he was right. She loved me fiercely from the very beginning, even though I spent most of my childhood proving I wasn’t going to stay on the short leash she had planned for me.

Over the years, she became my favorite adventure partner. We could turn something as simple as shopping for coffee cups or decorating a room into a day full of laughter. And Lord, did we laugh. The kind of laughing that left tears running down our faces. Daddy would come into the room after trying to sleep and say, “You girls need to settle it down,” and we’d laugh even harder.

My mom has loved her family with her whole heart. She loved my daddy. She loved me. She loved my children and grandchildren. Not because she had to, but because loving her family was as natural as breathing to her. No matter what was happening in life, I always knew she was in my corner.

Now I watch the woman who once seemed larger than life grow tired. Her body doesn’t cooperate the way it used to. Her mind gets weary. And sometimes I look at her and think part of her heart has already started looking toward Heaven, where Daddy is waiting. I understand that. But I don’t like it.

Because no matter how old I am, I’m still her daughter. I’m still the girl who calls her mom. I’m still the girl who wants one more story, one more laugh, one more shopping trip, one more ordinary afternoon together.

I know the day is coming when I’ll have to let her go. But today is not that day. Today I’ll hold her hand a little longer, listen a little closer, and love her a little harder. And when the time finally comes, I won’t be grateful for losing her. I’ll be grateful for having her.

For 92 years, the world has been blessed with my mom. And for my entire life, I’ve been blessed that she was mine.

 

You Were My Cup of Tea, But I Drink Wine Now

I have two ex-husbands, which means I have enough experience to speak on the subject with at least some authority. Not expert-level authority, mind you. More like someone who has touched the hot stove twice and now feels qualified to give safety demonstrations.

The older I get, the more I realize that ex-husbands are a lot like tea. At one point, they seemed like exactly what I wanted. I chose them. I committed to them. I invested years of my life in them. I was absolutely convinced they were the right choice. Then somewhere along the way I discovered that what I thought was a rich, satisfying blend was actually lukewarm tea that had been sitting on the counter too long.

The funny thing about getting older is that your tastes change. At twenty, you’re looking for chemistry, excitement, and somebody who gives you butterflies. At my age, butterflies are suspicious. They usually mean something is wrong. What I’m looking for now is someone who can back a trailer, fix a garbage disposal, carry a heavy box, and not need emotional support when a project takes longer than expected.

When I was younger, I thought potential was attractive. Potential is highly overrated. Potential is just another word for “maybe someday.” I spent enough years around “maybe someday” to know it often turns into “probably not.” These days, I find competence incredibly attractive. A man who knows how to solve problems without creating three new ones? Swoon.

My husband now is good at pretty much everything. It’s honestly a little annoying. If something breaks, he fixes it. If something needs built, he builds it. If I have an idea, he figures out how to make it happen. Meanwhile, I once spent twenty minutes looking for my phone while talking on it. We all have our gifts.

I used to think romance was flowers, candlelight, and handwritten notes. Now I think romance is hearing, “I already took care of it.” That’s it. That’s the whole love language. If a man says, “Don’t worry about it, I fixed it,” I may need to sit down and fan myself.

The truth is, I don’t regret my ex-husbands. They taught me valuable lessons. Mostly expensive lessons, but lessons nonetheless. They helped me figure out what I wanted, what I needed, and what I would never again tolerate. Sometimes the purpose of an ex isn’t to stay in your life. Sometimes their purpose is simply to make you appreciate what comes next.

So yes, they were my cup of tea.

But life is funny. You grow up. You get wiser. Your standards improve. Your taste gets a little more refined.

And these days?

I drink wine now.

When Summer Nights Sound Like Childhood

Summer evenings have a sound all their own.

It’s kids laughing from somewhere three houses down.

Not your kids. Not even kids you know. Just the sound of childhood drifting through the neighborhood from yards away. The sound of games that have no score, bikes with no destination, and imaginations running wild until the porch lights come on.

It’s screen doors opening and closing. The crackle of a backyard fire pit. The hum of crickets taking over for the birds.

Some nights I’ll sit outside and hear those sounds, and they take me right back to being a kid myself. Back when catching fireflies was a perfectly acceptable way to spend an evening and nobody cared what time it was as long as they were home before dark.

The smell of wood smoke drifts through the air. The stars begin showing up one by one. The heat of the day finally lets go, and the whole neighborhood seems to exhale.

For all the things we spend our lives working toward, it’s funny how often the moments we remember are the simplest ones.

Not the promotions.

Not the bigger house.

Not the things we bought.

We remember summer nights.

We remember lawn chairs in the driveway, kids chasing fireflies through the yard, conversations around a fire pit, and the feeling that there was nowhere else we needed to be.

Those moments never seem important while they’re happening. They’re just ordinary evenings.

Until one day you realize those ordinary evenings became some of the best days of your life.

That’s the kind of wealth that doesn’t show up in a bank account.

And every summer, when I hear children laughing somewhere down the street, I’m reminded of just how rich those moments really are.

What Me Time?? You're A Parent Now!

 Alright, hold on to your coffee cups because what I’m about to say might ruffle some feathers. When exactly did this whole “I need me time” mantra become the anthem of adulthood? I mean, seriously, where did all these “woe-is-me, I-can’t-handle-it, life-is-hard” vibes come from? Don't you understand the assignment? Once you’ve got your own kids, or your own family, the concept of “me time” takes a backseat faster than a toddler spotting a candy aisle.

Look, life shifts gears once you step into the adult realm. Your “free time” is now spent cleaning the house you work 40 hours a week to afford. Your evenings? They’ve been overrun by little league games and recital rehearsals. And that mythical “me time” everyone keeps chasing? Guess where that is found? That was me sitting on the dryer, sneaking a few pages of a romance novel between laundry cycles. Glamorous, right?

Raising a family isn’t some choose-your-own-adventure game where you skip to the restful chapter. It’s life on loop with a soundtrack of “Mom, can I have?” and “Dad, where’s my?” The job description is clear: housework, kids, activities, repeat. “Me time” didn’t get the memo. But hey, those nighttime moments, when everyone else was asleep and I finally got to slide into bed? That was as good as it got, and honestly, it wasn’t half bad.

Now here’s the thing, and yes, this is the part where I grab the mic for a reality check. If you’re raising a family, congrats, you’ve signed up for a 24/7 gig with zero PTO. There aren’t extra hours hiding somewhere in the day; believe me, I’ve checked. It’s not about you anymore. It’s about the people you’re raising. And every time you moan about needing “me time,” your kids hear it. Loud and clear. The message you’re sending? That they’re some kind of burden. Ouch, right?

Here’s the deal, my fellow adults-in-training. It’s time to ditch the melodrama, lace up your big-kid shoes, and step onto the field you willingly signed up for. Parenting is chaos. It’s messy, exhausting, and relentless. And yet, those crumb-covered kisses, those sticky hugs, that moment when your kid lights up because you’re there? That’s the music. Time to stop fighting the beat and start dancing to it.

Success that Didn't Happen Overnight

The next time you’re tempted to say, “Damn, must be nice,” you might want to stop and consider what it took to get there.

What you’re seeing today didn’t happen overnight, and it certainly didn’t happen by accident.

It didn’t come from working an 8-to-5 and forgetting about it when the day was over.

It didn’t come from spending every evening parked on the couch watching TV.

It didn’t come from sleeping in every Saturday.

It didn’t come from doing the bare minimum, calling in whenever things got difficult, or being content with staying exactly where we were.

It came from years of getting up before the sun and going to bed long after everyone else.

It came from 12, 14, and 15 hour days when nobody was watching.

It came from working weekends when everyone else was relaxing.

It came from consistency. Not for a week. Not for a month. For years.

It came from picking one dream, one goal, and continuing to build on it year after year instead of constantly starting over.

It came from taking advantage of opportunities to improve our situation when they came along. While other people were spending every extra dollar on vacations, new toys, or things they wanted right now, we were often reinvesting in our future and making decisions that would create a better life later.

It came from taking risks, making sacrifices, and carrying responsibilities that most people never see.

It came from missed family events, sleepless nights, stress, worry, and continuing to push forward anyway.

It came from looking at where we were and asking ourselves, “How do we make tomorrow better than today?” Then doing the work required to make it happen.

What people often see is the result. They see the house, the business, the retirement, the lifestyle, or the success. What they don’t see are the decades of effort that came before it.

They don’t see the setbacks, the failures, the years of uncertainty, the sacrifices, or the discipline it took to keep going when quitting would have been easier.

So before you say, “Must be nice,” remember that what looks like luck from the outside is often the result of years of hard work, consistency, discipline, and choices made behind the scenes.

Most success stories aren’t built on luck. They’re built one decision, one sacrifice, and one long day at a time.

So yes, it is nice. But it wasn’t always. There were a lot of years when it was exhausting, stressful, and uncertain. The difference is we kept going anyway. And looking back now, it was absolutely worth every bit of the hard work it took to get here.

Not Every Problem Is Yours To Carry Or Yours To Solve

The Size of My Circle

I think I finally figured something out at 61 years old that probably should have occurred to me somewhere around 30.

Not everything deserves a front-row seat in my life.

Up until recently and for years, I’ve carried things that didn’t belong to me. Friends’ problems. Other people’s bad decisions. Political arguments. Sports losses. Family drama. Complete strangers on the internet who are apparently wrong about everything. And for what?

The Oklahoma City Thunder lose a series, and somehow I’m walking around like I personally missed free throws in the fourth quarter. A friend can’t get their life together after the 472nd piece of advice I have given, and somehow I’m sitting there worrying about it more than they are. Someone disagrees with my political views? Well, imagine that. In a country with over 300 million people, apparently a few of them think differently than I do. Who knew?

The older I get, the more I realize that every one of us lives inside a much smaller space than we think. My space is my marriage. My kids. My grandkids. My family. My home. My peace. That’s my space. Everything outside of that circle gets less and less control over my happiness.

Now, don’t misunderstand me. I can still care. I can listen to a friend. I can offer advice. I can cheer for my team. I can vote. I can have opinions. But 'caring' and 'carrying' are two different things.

Somewhere along the way, I started carrying things that were never mine to carry. I can’t make people make better decisions. I can’t force someone to be happy. I can’t make people agree with me. I can’t fix every problem I see. And honestly? Most of those things wouldn’t change my life anyway. The world keeps turning whether I spend three hours stressing about it or not. I’ve also realized something that feels almost rebellious to admit: I don’t need to feel guilty for being content.

That’s a strange thing, isn’t it?

Sometimes people act like if someone else is struggling, you’re supposed to struggle too. As if happiness is something you should apologize for. 

No thank you

I survived the hard years, the broke years, the stressful years, the exhausting years, the “Lord, if one more thing happens…” years. I’m not going to apologize because I’m finally comfortable in the space I’ve created. The truth is, most of us make mountains out of things that never actually climb into our own yard. We borrow trouble. We rehearse disasters. We argue with imaginary people. We carry burdens that belong to somebody else. And then we wonder why we’re tired.

These days, I’m trying something different. If it’s inside my circle, I’ll give it my attention. If it’s outside my circle, I’ll give it perspective. That doesn’t mean I don’t care. It just means I finally understand the difference between caring about something and allowing it to steal my peace.

And honestly? 

My peace is starting to feel a lot more valuable than being upset about things I was never in control of in the first place.