The Emotional Cost of Being in Charge

For 34 years, I was a daycare director/owner. Somewhere along the way, I developed skin so thick it could probably survive re-entry from space. You almost have to.

When you’re responsible for hundreds of children, dozens of employees, parents, payroll, licensing, food programs, staffing shortages, budgets, and making sure the whole place doesn’t fall apart before noon, you don’t have the luxury of getting emotionally invested in every problem that comes your way.

And trust me, there was always a problem.

Every day brought a new crisis. Someone couldn’t come to work because their babysitter quit. Someone’s car wouldn’t start. Someone’s cousin’s boyfriend’s dog had an emergency. Someone’s kid was sick. Someone’s check was in the mail. Someone forgot they didn’t pay and bought new shoes. Someone misunderstood. Someone swore they were told something that nobody actually told them.

And somehow, every one of those problems landed on my desk.

That’s the part people don’t understand about being the person in charge. You’re carrying the weight of the entire operation while everyone else sees you as their secretary, therapist, scheduler, complaint department, and miracle worker.

After a while, you stop reacting emotionally. Not because you’re heartless. Not because you don’t care. But because if you felt every hardship, every excuse, every complaint, and every crisis, you’d never survive the week.

You become practical. You stop asking, “How do you feel?” and start asking, “Okay, what’s the plan?” Feelings take a back seat because the bus still has to keep moving.

What I’ve realized after being retired for four weeks is that maybe I wasn’t as uncaring as I thought. Maybe I was just carrying too much responsibility to have room for everyone else’s emotions too.

Because lately, I’ve found myself actually feeling sorry for people again. Not solving their problems. Not figuring out how to make it work. Just feeling empathy. It’s the strangest thing. Maybe carrying the world on your shoulders for 34 years leaves very little room for feelings. Or maybe my empathy retired before I did and has finally returned from a four-week cruise.

Either way, it’s nice to see it again. Although let’s not get carried away.

If you call me tomorrow and tell me you’re late because a squirrel stole your car keys and Mercury is in retrograde, I’m still probably going to ask what your backup plan is. Some habits die hard. 😆

Your Emergency Is Not My Speed Limit! Back Off, NASCAR 🚗😂

The other day I was driving into town when I glanced in my rearview mirror and discovered a car practically on my bumper.

There are very few things in life that unite people from all walks of life quite like being tailgated. I don’t care who you are—we can all agree that the person riding six inches off your ass is annoying.

What exactly is the goal? Do they think if they get close enough I’ll suddenly discover a hidden gear? Because I hate to disappoint them, but my car doesn’t have a turbo button.

I checked my speedometer and I was already going over the speed limit. So why are you flying up behind me like that? If you’re transporting a kidney across state lines, I can understand the urgency. But if you’re just trying to beat me to the next red light, I have some bad news for you.

Sir, you need to cool your jets.

And let’s be honest—the closer you get to my bumper, the lighter my foot gets on the gas pedal. At this point, we’re both going to get beaten to the intersection by the turtle crawling out of the ditch.

Then they finally whip around and pass, giving me the glare like I’m the problem. Buddy, you should probably just be grateful I didn’t mistake your tailgating for a request to test my brakes.

At this point in life, I’ve stopped participating in other people’s emergencies. If you’re in that much of a hurry, pass me. Otherwise, plan on going slower then we both want to, cause I got all day!

I See Through the Amen

I Think I’m the Christian Bullshit Whistleblower …and they know I know.

The older I get, the less patience I have for people who wear Christianity like a Halloween costume. They post Bible verses, inspirational memes, and “God is good” statuses, then turn around and treat people with all the grace of a parking ticket.

And before anyone gets offended, I’m not talking about imperfect people. We’re all imperfect. Lord knows I am. I’m talking about people who treat Christianity like the latest fashion trend.

Some people collect Stanley cups they’ll never use. Some people collect Bible verses they’ll never live by.

I don’t know why I notice it so much, but I do. I see the selective morality. I see the “love thy neighbor” crowd becoming remarkably flexible on who qualifies as a neighbor. I see kindness that only applies to certain people.

And I swear they know I know. They seem a little leery around me. You know how some people can walk into a room and sense tension? I walk into a room and my hypocrisy detector starts beeping like a smoke alarm.

Faith shouldn’t be measured by how many Bible verses you post online or how loudly you proclaim you’re blessed. It’s measured by how you treat people when nobody is watching. Kindness, humility, honesty, forgiveness, and compassion will preach a louder sermon than Facebook ever will.

You don’t have to be perfect to be a Christian. But if your actions consistently contradict your words, people notice.

Some of us just have really good bullshit detectors.

I Don’t Want to Text My Lamp

Maybe I’m becoming an old grouch, but I swear everything has gotten way more complicated than it needs to be.

The other day I needed a light bulb. Just a light bulb. Not a life-changing purchase. Not a major financial decision. I wasn’t shopping for a car or a house. I needed something that screws into a lamp and lights up when I flip a switch. Apparently that’s no longer a simple task.

I stood in front of the light bulb aisle staring at enough options to make me question my intelligence. Warm light. Cool light. Daylight. Soft white. Bright white. LED. Dimmable. Energy-saving. Smart bulbs.

I don’t want a smart bulb. I want a bulb that’s smart enough to turn on when I flip the switch and turn off when I don’t need it anymore. That’s the entire job description. But now light bulbs need Wi-Fi. They need apps. They need passwords. Why does a lamp need to communicate with my phone? I don’t want to text my lamp. I don’t need notifications from my bedside table.

And once I started noticing it, I realized it’s not just light bulbs. Everything needs an app now. The thermostat needs an app. The garage door needs an app. The doorbell needs an app. The television needs an app. At this point, I’m shocked my toaster hasn’t asked me to create an account and accept updated terms and conditions.

The funny thing is that half these smart devices don’t seem all that smart. The old thermostat sat quietly on the wall for twenty years and never once lost its connection. The new thermostat occasionally acts like it’s forgotten where it lives.

Maybe it’s my age. Or maybe we’ve reached the point where companies are inventing solutions to problems nobody actually had.

I don’t need my refrigerator to tell me what’s inside it. I opened the door. I know what’s in there. What I need is for it to stop making noises that sound like a repair bill.

Sometimes I think technology has passed me by. Then I remember I’m not the one who decided a light bulb needed internet access. So maybe I’m not the problem after all.

Turns Out I Live on the Chisholm Trail

The other day I was looking at a map and discovered something I probably should have known years ago. Apparently, I live right where the Chisholm Trail used to run.

Not near it. Not sort of close. Practically on it.

All these years I’ve been worried about property taxes, Amazon deliveries, and whether the grass needs mowing, and it turns out that 150 years ago cowboys were driving thousands of longhorn cattle through this same area.

Can you imagine?

Today, if a neighbor’s dog gets loose, the neighborhood Facebook page goes into full emergency mode. Back then, people were moving entire herds of cattle across Oklahoma and hoping they all made it to Kansas.

The Chisholm Trail wasn’t some little dirt path either. Between 1867 and the 1880s, an estimated five million cattle and a million wild mustangs traveled north through Oklahoma. That’s a lot of hooves. Suddenly the traffic on Garth Brooks Boulevard doesn’t seem quite so impressive.

And here’s the crazy part. A cattle drive could stretch for miles. Cowboys spent months on the trail dealing with storms, river crossings, stampedes, heat, dust, snakes, and whatever else Mother Nature decided to throw at them. Meanwhile, I get irritated when my air conditioner takes longer than five minutes to cool the house down.

The area around my home address is considered part of the historic trail corridor. That means where my house sits today, there were once campfires, chuck wagons, cowboys sleeping under the stars, and enough cattle to make modern HOA committees spontaneously combust.

History is funny that way. We think of it as something that happened somewhere else. Then one day you realize you’re standing right in the middle of it.

Now every time I drive down my street , I’m going to imagine some cowboy looking around and saying, “One day this place will have traffic lights, coffee shops, and people paying half a million dollars to live where my cows are standing.”

And honestly?

He’d probably laugh himself right off his horse.