Ice, Ice, Go Away

   For the first half of my life, I endured snowy, icy winters.  It was a part of my existence that filled me with dread.  I did not mind the cold and snow; it was the treacherous ice that I feared the most. I have a mild form of brittle bones disease, so even a simple fall for me can mean a fracture. I live in mortal fear of the slip and fall. 

    In Michigan, sidewalks and parking lots are salted which helps melt the ice. I would strategically plot out my walking paths if the salt had not yet worked its magic, cut through the grass, walk through that snow drift, hold on to that fence for stability, while I carefully granny shuffled along.  Other kids could gleefully slip and slide past me, while I worried about what would happen if they lost control and knocked into me. 

    When I lived in Seattle, often the temperatures did not dip that low for a solid freeze, and if it did, I could usually manage to get by with walking through snowy patches or just staying home. One of the good things about moving to Texas was that I would no longer have to live in fear of walking on ice, until today that is. 

     An icy mix fell on the Central Texas area just before dawn this morning.  Other school districts announced delays as Texas and Texans are just not equipped to handle the kind of driving conditions that result from freezing rain. My district was a little late to make that call.  Children were already dropped off at the school when the delay (and subsequent closure) was announced.  I had already slid my truck into a spot and did the granny shuffle with my son as best as I could.  We managed to walk through the grass for part of the way, but once we reached the main drive, we had to cross the icy street. Fortunately, a friend helped us across the street, as in, she stood between my son and I and held our hands until we got to the door.  

     I was so terrified not only for me, but for my son to whom heredity was not kind and inherited brittle bones disease from me. I had to fight back tears of relief once we made it back inside.  I had hoped that the temperatures would increase and melt the ice by the time we left, but that was not the case.  I left the boy on a dry patch of sidewalk while I turned into Columbus, navigating and plotting out the safest path to my truck, nearly slipping more than a few times along the way.  The most treacherous part was right in front of my car door.  I opened the door, grabbed the wheel with a vise-like grip and raised myself up, losing traction as I did so, but tumbled safely inside. I was never so happy to pull into my own garage before as I was today. 

     I had hoped the temperatures would raise up enough today as my weather app promised, but from the looks of my patio, they did not.  So now I am fearfully fretting a replay of today for tomorrow and, I am scheduled to be outside tomorrow morning for car rider duty before school begins, helping children get safely from the cars and into the building.  I am terrified and yet embarrassed that I am worried about such a small thing that would not phase most people. I worry about my own son, can I get him inside safely? Will my daughter safely make it inside her school? 

     When they were younger, I would stick right by them at the park.  I would let them try anything they wanted, but I would spot them if they started to fall.  When my daughter's primary school had their annual roller skating unit in P.E., I would volunteer and hold her hands the whole time. I had other well meaning parents, who did not know our diagnosis, try to encourage me to be hands off, let my kids take chances, and I heard the label of "helicopter mom" being whispered. I don't feel that I have a choice in the matter.  As much as I don't want to fall and get hurt, my desire and need to keep them safe is stronger.  They get angry with me sometimes because I am forever reminding them, "Watch your step!" or pointing out, "That slab of sidewalk is higher than this one. Do you see it?"  I'm a mother though and it's my job to get them through childhood safely. It is my most important responsibility. 

     I'm hoping that the ice is gone by tomorrow morning, but I'm pretty sure that since the high never got much above freezing today, that did not happen. Wish me luck and good traction and balance for tomorrow as I am sure that there will definitely be school. 

     

   

    

     

Writer's Karma

I can't say that I have ever really believed in karma.  I know I have hoped for it on many occasions, but rarely have I actually been fortunate enough to witness it. This past week though, karma reared its ugly head on me, and bit me on the ass for something I did over 10 years ago.  

It all started when we moved to a new development out in the country, east of Tacoma shortly after our daughter had turned one years old. Before long, I met a neighbor who had twin girls the same age as my daughter. She informed me that she organized playgroups in her home with other families she had met.  We soon became regular fixtures at her playgroups. 

Every new mother is prone to those self doubts about whether you are doing this whole parenting thing right.  You worry about your child meeting those all important milestones on time. You can't help but look at other people's kids to gauge whether or not your kid is at the same level. You wonder if you should be doing something differently to nurture your baby's development. 

My own daughter had unfortunately inherited a mild form of brittle bones disease from me, and therefore she had more than her fair share of leg fractures and casts until she mastered walking. She was delayed in her gross motor skills as a result, but received weekly physical therapy to help her. So of course, I had my worries about her and my own self doubts about my abilities as a mother.  Linda was no different from me in that respect, however, unlike me, Linda would actually make comparisons of the kids out loud. I don't think for a minute that she meant it in a mean way.  I think she was just taking comfort in her observation that her twins had surpassed my child (and others) when it came to some developments. When her children became old enough to make such observations themselves, they did so, not only to my daughter, but to me. Needless to say, Linda and her brood got under my skin quite a bit, but because we were neighbors and because our kids attended the same preschool, I just silently endured her and her offspring. 

Linda had a strong personality, and when we mothers sat around talking about our challenges, she was the first to interrupt with her far superior way of doing things, or much worse, would dismiss the issue and shut down the speaker by proclaiming that she NEVER had such problems with HER girls. 

On one occasion, she was telling us how she bought her girls two new pairs of shoes each from Payless, and she encouraged the other mothers to check out the sale.  I mentioned, not meaning it in a haughty way, but I suppose in retrospect that was the way she perceived it, that I usually bought my children shoes when Nordstrom has its sale. I went on to say that I liked the way the sales people took the time to measure the kids, and that I preferred to buy Striderite because I knew it was a good shoe with plenty of support. She blanched, then sulked, and said nothing more about it until the next time we met.  The first thing out of her mouth after the pleasantries were out of the way was that she had talked to her pediatrician, and he confirmed that it was a waste of money to buy expensive shoes for kids and that the Payless ones were just as good.  She went on to ask if I had heard of their SmartFit shoes for kids and how they have excellent support.  To this day, I can't believe that she actually felt the need to discuss my shoe store and brand preference with her pediatrician. 

I became the editor of the monthly newsletter for our co-op preschool when Linda was the classroom representative for our children's class. Usually when people submitted articles, I would edit them and fix any errors that I noticed before entering them.  However, when Linda wrote a long article in regard to the upcoming bike day, and repeatedly spelled the word "helmet" as "helmut", I left it.  I left in all her errors.  I just clicked and pasted her entire submission right into the template for the newsletter.  I felt a little guilty about it, but not much.  Yes, it was passive aggressive, but it made me feel ever so slightly better for once one upping the one upper. 

Flash forward to present day, and karma has come to haunt me for my folly. I had submitted some information for a very informal publication with a limited distribution. This apparently was not a click and paste job, because I am sure I included commas. I am also sure I wrote the correct name of a school I attended. A song I paraphrased was botched to the point that it was unrecognizable and it sounded like I was a giddy 10 year old girl in writing it. If I send in a correction, to at very least correct the name of the school, I am pretty sure I would sound petty, and like I was taking such a small thing way too seriously when it was meant just for fun. So I suppose I will just live with the embarrassment that the people who read it, which would unfortunately be people I see on a daily basis, will think I am a sort of a dolt. Dang you Karma! I believe in you now!

The One About Pocket Calendars and Grandma

     It has become my custom over the years to go out after New Years to one of those calendar shops in the mall that at that point are selling what remains of their stock at 50% off list price.  I don't need a calendar for January when it's still December, so why buy one early and pay twice as much? Of course the stock is slim pickin's by then.  This year all the Elvis calendars were gone, so I was torn between pubs of Ireland and one with watercolors of fresh produce. I was not excited about either one, but that's what you get when you are a cheapskate who waits until the last minute. 

     While I was there, I picked up a pocket calendar. I don't know why I bought it.  After all, they are pretty much obsolete these days.  Who digs out a paper calendar from their purse, opens it to the correct month, then searches for a pen, all to write down their next dentist appointment?  Most people would just enter the date and time on their phone calendar, or at least take the business card with the date and time sticker on it, and stuff into their wallet. Using one of those plastic coated paper calendars the size of a checkbook seems kind of archaic. 

     I'm no stranger to the pocket calendar having bought many with cute kittens or flowers on them in the '80's and 90's.  When I worked part-time in retail or restaurants, they were excellent for keeping track of my shifts, but once I became a grown up and had a real job, whose schedule did not change, I had no need for the pocket calendar anymore.  To tell the truth, I don't have a need for it now either. But I saw it, I wanted it, and it was $2.50, so I bought it.  

     Looking at the calendar reminded me of my grandmother.  Every year, my grandma would fly up to Michigan from Tennessee to visit us for Christmas.  She spent nearly a month divided between my house and my uncle's. Every year, upon arriving, she would open up her yellow leather suitcase and pull out a bag from Hallmark.  Inside she would have a pocket calendar for each of us that she had gotten for free from the card shop. Even though I had no important dates to record in them, I adored those calendars and reading the inspirational quotes at the top of each month. 

     Like any kid, I loved the month of December because it meant Christmas and Christmas vacation. I had two other reasons for looking forward to it. My birthday fell at the beginning of the month, and December meant my grandma coming to stay. I enjoyed her visits almost as much as I enjoyed going to visit her in the summer in Tennessee. During the holiday break, she would make my sister and I oatmeal for breakfast, and we would watch The Price Is Right. She always had time to talk and listen, she was never impatient or annoyed, and she was never in a rush. I adored her.  

     One thing I never understood, and will never understand to this day, was how she was treated by my mother.  My mother was wonderful in many respects, but not in respect to her own mother.  My mother required and received respect from her own children.  I remember once getting suddenly slapped across the face without warning for "having a tone". Despite her strong opinions on her own children showing respect for their elders, this was not a philosophy she felt pertained to her. 

     Every word my grandma said, including and most especially the way she pronounced them, was up for ridicule. Although no words like "stupid" or "dumb" were actually spoken, they were implied with each snort of derision, and verbal challenge. My mother was not alone in this.  It seemed to be a family sport to pick on Grandma. (I must mention that although for whatever reason, my dad never particularly felt comfortable around Grandma, he never once engaged in the verbal put downs to my knowledge.) No one ever put a stop to it, and honestly, Grandma never seemed to be the least bit troubled by it.  I suppose that was just their family dynamic. 

     The first time that it became glaringly obvious to me was one Christmas Eve when family members kept trying to get her to say particular words so that they could laugh at her pronunciations. Instead of saying, "Where is my camera?", she would say, "Where is my Koh-DAK?"  That word alone would just send them into fits of giggles. That was the first time that it hit me that it was wrong.  I felt it in the pit of my stomach.  

     One summer, sometime after that Christmas, we were down in Tennessee visiting Grandma.  We were all outside one evening, enjoying the breeze, and waiting for the lightning bugs, when some neighbors stopped by and decided to sit a spell.  They were a younger couple.  The woman just gushed about Grandma. How they just LOVED her!  She was just so funny, and they enjoyed her company so much. I had never heard anyone say such wonderful things about her.  I had only heard her be a source of ridicule before, not someone to be admired.  

     The fact is, she should have been admired.  As a teen, she spent her summers working in a cannery.  She decided at some point the she wanted to leave her home and family and head north to become a nurse.  Her bags were packed, but just before she left for New York, her future husband proposed. Her parents were against the match and felt her intended's family was not good enough, but she went against them and married him anyway.  A massive heart attack took him when their kids were in their teens.  Grandma had kids to support, so she went to work.  She lived on her own for several years on Detroit's eastside, before retiring and moving back to Tennessee on her own and building herself a rather large house on some property she owned out in the country. She got involved in her community, rejoined her former church, made friends, and even had a few boyfriends along the way.  I can't imagine the courage she had to stand up to her parents, to single handedly support her family, and then to later to start a whole new life all on her own.  She was a pretty amazing woman, and I regret that my mother was somehow stuck in that ignorant adolescent mindset of thinking that her mother was less than the courageous, intelligent, and kindhearted woman that she truly was. 

Yes, I know, I rambled.  I got off topic.  I broke my personal rule about not speaking ill of family members, but these are my experiences, my observations, and my feelings.  They are not things I can bring up in a casual conversation, but I can put them here and get them off my chest. 

It's Not About You, Really.

I have nearly daily ideas for blogs, yet I write only rarely. Mostly because my ideas come from my direct experiences with people I know or the students I see at my job.  If I was anonymous, I could write about these things with impunity, but because someone might read my blog and become offended if they recognize themselves, I refrain. I have some really funny, entertaining stories to write, which kills me to not share.  As it is, people will occasionally think they recognize themselves in my blog and call me out for it.  It's not about you, really.  I swear.  If I think you may read my blog, I will not write about you, although I probably could and likely want to.

Sometimes I have inspiration for a post, but I feel like I don't have four strong paragraphs worth of material, which is the minimum that I strive for in writing a blog. Some ideas I just can't flesh out that far. Others I feel have been done before and likely much better by other writers. With some topics, I struggle to find the right tone. I don't want to come off as negative or self righteous. My goal is to share my experiences and perspective with a bit of humor and maybe a recipe if the story lends itself to it. 

Tone and voice are difficult for me to master in my writing.  I am an introvert by nature, and my inner dialog is often dark and sarcastic.  I think I am hilarious, but when I let one of my inner comments out, people often misinterpret my attempts at humor as sour grapes, mean spiritedness, or negativity. I have learned the hard way that although some people can say the same exact things I do, and in the same tone, they will be thought of as a riot; I will be thought of as mean, bitter, or even rude. I am generally a happy well-adjusted person, and I would never say anything with the purposeful intent of hurting someone, yet for whatever reason, I know I can come off as negative at times and not light-hearted and merely poking fun at a situation. It is a tricky balance for me. If you all could just see inside my head, it would be so much easier.

Lastly, some topics are just too taboo to touch.  I know I can't write a blog about my feelings or beliefs when it comes to religion, politics, or social justice without expecting some kind of backlash, despite occasionally having strong feelings about these things.  Even tame subjects seem to incite some readers to write me with either a complaint or with a desire to share their opposing view.  To that I say, opinions are like noses, (not really what I wanted to say, but keeping it clean), everyone has one, much like blogs these days. If yours is different than mine, I don't care.  Get your own damn blog and proclaim it.  Maybe I'll read it.   

Good Fences Make Good Neighbors

My husband and I are relatively quiet folks who keep to ourselves.  We don't have wild parties, rarely scream and yell unless the dog is about to chew on something precious or meant for our dinner, and we have never called the police nor had the cops called on us.  We are the best neighbors you never knew you had.  Unless of course, you are one of the many people who have lived near us over the years.  

At our first apartment, I can't say we ever annoyed anyone, although we were annoyed plenty with our neighbors that parked their one piece of crap car across the only two parking spaces and stole our Sunday newspaper every weekend. At our second apartment, we lived on the second floor, above a woman that I nicknamed "The Troll Who Lives Under the Stairs" or just "Troll" for short.

Like most trolls, she was too thickheaded to realize that the staircase led to three additional apartments, not just ours.  She was certain that all the foot traffic on the stairs was for our apartment only and therefore, despite the fact that I left every day at 7:00 AM and did not return until 9:00 PM (from my job at the prosecuting attorney's office and visiting my recently widowed father), in her feeble mind, we must be drug dealers and she reported this to the apartment managers who informed us of the accusation. She repeatedly made noise complaints against us, which was odd, because in those days, we were rarely home and never had guests over. 

The capper t'was the night before Christmas, 1994. At 4:00 AM the troll arrived with such a clatter (at our door), that I arose to see what was the matter.  There she was pounding at our door.  I opened it against my better judgment to find her red faced and angry.  She screamed for me to "Turn off your f***ing washing machine!"  I informed politely that it was not on, to which she screamed, "LIAR!!!!" I invited the angry beast inside, to my clean, nicely decorated apartment with Christmas tree aglow.  She stormed past me to the laundry closet, and then bellowed, "Where is that NOISE coming from?" I calmly replied, "Upstairs.  You know there are two other apartments up there, right? Not every noise you claim to be from us comes from our apartment." She pushed past me and raced up the stairs. 

I thought for sure after this encounter, the troll might be slightly apologetic or at least give me a head nod of acknowledgement when our paths invariably crossed.  That never happened.  She would only snarl in my general direction. We moved to our first house in the next few months. 

Our first neighborhood was probably once filled with young families, but now it had gone to seed and was filled with elderly couples.  They did not like us one bit.  I thought it was odd when I would drive by and wave to our new neighbors only to be scowled at in return.  I could not figure out how we could have offended them.  It turns out though, it was not us.  It was the former owner, and because we purchased the property before the signage went up, I suppose they thought we were kin.  

The former owner decided he wanted to paint the house barn red, and while he was at it, he wanted to paint the fence too, and not just the part he could see.  He wanted all sides painted barn red, including those that faced the neighbors' yards.  So he took it upon himself to enter their backyards unannounced with a sprayer of red paint.  As you can imagine, this did not go over well with the neighbors at all.  We were guilty by association. 

We never saw nor heard our neighbors at our second house, so really I can't say that we or they had any complaints.  At our third home, we had nice enough neighbors, although I didn't much care for having a homeowner's association. It just seemed like it was a bunch of busybodies who reveled in telling people how to live under the threat of a lien against their property if they did not comply. (I was friendly with some of the board members, and this was my impression of their HOA activities.)

In our current neighborhood, we have had a bit anonymity. As a family, we do not enjoy large gatherings of people we don't know, so we have never been to any of the neighborhood community pool parties, or Easter egg hunts. Although I would love to have a friendly neighbor next door like we always had growing up, I'm okay with just the friendly wave or head nod. We have had a pretty peaceful existence here until last week. 

Despite only being 6 years old, our wood fence is starting to show some wear and tear. My husband decided it was time to call a guy to get the necessary repairs done. He had a question about the required width of slats for the fences, and you know that this minutiae is just the sort of thing homeowner associations are very particular about. Since my husband is a man, he was not about to waste time searching the covenants and restrictions for the answer. He is a man. He has a question. He wants it answered tout de suite. 

He posed his query to our neighborhood Facebook page where neighbors frequently post important questions like, where can I find the best cupcakes, and who knows a good plumber. The homeowner association president himself promptly responded to the thread with the specific section of the covenants and restrictions (CCR) that would have that information.  Husband found the CCR online and read the pertinent section which did not address his question. It referred readers to a power point presentation that only revealed fence slats should be of a "standard" size. This was frustrating to him.  He invested all this time trying to find an answer to a simple question. Obviously the president knew the answer as he cited the specific section number of the CCR. Couldn't he have just as easily responded that there was no specified width for fence slats? Husband then added to his thread saying, why couldn't you just directly answer a simple question.  Mr. President took umbrage with that and made some sarcastic statement about teaching a man to fish. 

Four days later, a neighbor we have never met nor heard of, responded to the thread.  He ranted about how Mr. President does so much for our community and how people want him to spoon feed them answers because they are too lazy to look for their own answers. Husband responded with look, people ask all sorts of questions on here, we don't tell people to check Yelp for the best mechanic, urologist, or holiday light installer. He then asked the neighbor why he felt the need to pile on a four day old thread. This must have enraged the neighbor, as he then gave out his street address and challenged the husband "get off your lazy ass" and come down there, for what I presume would be a fight or duel. We later found out that this man is a medical doctor, not some redneck looking to raise hell on a Saturday night. Husband then decided it was best to just delete the thread and I have since started to refer to this neighbor as Dr. Hothead.

Meanwhile, prior to Dr. Hothead's response, another neighbor asked why there was construction going on near the neighborhood pool. Mr. President quickly answered that if the neighbor or anyone else wanted to know, they would need to attend the HOA board meeting on Monday. 

Really? To quote a very wise woman, "Ain't nobody got time for that!" What is the deal with this guy's air of mystery about things?  Why can't he directly answer a simple question?  To me it seems a perfect example of a tiny bit of power going to one's head. 

So instead of saying all of that in a comment, I responded in a way that I thought was kidding, in an albeit snarky way.  I wrote that Mr. President's response was in keeping with his teach a man to fish philosophy. I ended it with a winking smiley face to show this was just a friendly jab. Mr. President did not take my comment lightly. His next response in the thread was to go off on me and accuse me of bashing him in my comment and then insinuated that I was lazy, a complainer, a non-voter, and non-participator in our community. I have never met the man before.  I have never complained to him or any neighbor other than my own husband. I wrote another comment to the thread explaining that it was a friendly ribbing at most, and that I am sure he does work hard for our neighborhood, but some people, like myself, do not have the availability to attend board meetings nor the time to read board minutes.  

I did not receive a response, and I am okay with that. Quite honestly, I have no use for homeowner associations. If I had my wish, I would live in a sprawling ranch style house on a plot of land, with a large vegetable garden, a chicken coop and a small herd of goats. I would have a small farm stand and sell eggs and artisan cheeses. I would have an above ground pool in the yard for the kids.  All things which are against HOA rules, regulations, and restrictions. In my opinion, good fences really do make the best neighbors and hopefully we will get ours fixed soon.

140 Characters or Less

     Earlier today I made a tweet lamenting the lost art of storytelling.  I'm not sure if anyone knew what I was talking about and of course I have way more to say on the subject than the 140 character limit of Twitter allows. For people who lack the time, inclination, or attention span to read my blog, my tweet summed up the point of this particular post. 

     It is a topic I have been thinking about quite a bit lately.  It started with a just an inkling of an idea while I watched old black and white episodes of The Andy Griffith show a few weeks ago.  (Yes, I know, my television preferences are a bit unconventional for this decade or any of the three preceding it. Even though it aired before I was born, I've always enjoyed it.)  In one episode, Andy took Opie and his friends on a camp out. Around the campfire that evening, he told the boys a ghost story and unless they were all amazing actors at such a young age, they seemed genuinely mesmerized by the tale. There were no cutaways to illustrate the story like you would see in a show today; it was just an example of old fashioned story telling.

      In another episode, Aunt Bea, Andy, and Opie were sitting on the porch after dinner.  Opie was playing with his building blocks, Aunt Bea's hands were busy with needlework, while Andy strummed the guitar. All three would occasionally stop what they were doing to talk to one another.  When was the last time you just sat and talked to someone without glancing at phones, TV, or other technology?  Do you remember being a kid and going over to a relative's house and having to sit there quietly while the grown-ups talked until they thankfully had a heart and sent you off to play? They literally sat around for hours just talking, talking, talking. I can't even imagine that today.

     My daughter and I recently had a conversation about texting versus talking on the phone.  I was asking her how you get to know someone without actually speaking to them.  She said texting was better and easier than talking. My point was that you can't adequately have a conversation in a text. It does not convey tone. In text, you forgo telling details because it takes effort and time to type on a touch screen. You limit yourself to the bare bones. You also are not able to see the recipient's reaction and facial expressions, so you can't react in the way you would if you were communicating face to face. While I am speaking to someone, my eyes are always on them and I am constantly thinking of how to choose my words based on the non-verbal feedback I am receiving.  You can't do that in text.

       I miss having actual conversations with people where no one is distracted by the diversions at their fingertips.  We have so much information available to us at the mere swipe of our fingertips.  We can scan news stories for just the pertinent bits or parts that are interesting to us.  We can watch video clips and fast forward past the duller scenes. Unfortunately it seems like people want to do that now in conversations as well, or perhaps they have forgotten that it is rude and bad manners to divert your attention and focus away mid-conversation.

     It has gotten to the point that with some people, I try to limit what I need to say to 30 seconds or less.  My max conversation might be three minutes. If the person seems interested, I will speak longer and add additional comments and details, but I am on the lookout for the tell tale signs that they are no longer engaged.  There just is no point and it is quite honestly a little hurtful trying to talk to someone who can't be courteous enough to at least give you their full attention for more than a few moments.

     I suppose I sound horribly old fashioned and the mention of The Andy Griffith Show probably drives that home most of all, but I miss talking to people. I miss hearing stories. My dad always had funny stories to tell about his life and experiences. No one seems to tell their life stories anymore. I miss that.  I have to say that the longest conversations I have had with anyone lately, have been with my son, and I do not think it is any coincidence that he does not yet have a phone.

 

       

What's In A Name?

I hate my name.  I have never felt that it suited me or should belong to me. I blame my parents of course. They are the ones that did this to me. You see, they could not agree on a name for me when I was born.  My dad wanted Julia, my mom wanted Julieanne. As a compromise, they named me one, and called me the other. Until I was 5, I thought my name was Julieanne. I liked that name. I liked the way my Southern grandmother pronounced it as two separate words, Julie Anne, so that both the first and third syllable in the name was stressed. 

When I went to kindergarten, I was called and became known as Julia, which was news to me at first. The teacher, Mrs. Nelson, would pronounce it with two syllables  "Jool-ya". The other kids stretched it into three calling me "Jool-ee-ya". Oh how I hated the way it sounded!  It sounded ugly and boring and just wrong. I did not like it. It did not sound right at all. 

The nuns in grade school certainly did not abide by family nicknames, but by high school, I managed to be known mostly as Julie to my close friends.  Now professionally, my name has reverted back to Julia, much to my dismay. When I invite people to call me Julie instead, they say how they have seen my name as Julia and question which is correct. Some have even gone so far as to tell me that they like Julia better, and continue to call me that. My own husband, who knows how I feel about my name, for some reason, when speaking of me, calls me "Jool-ya".  I suppose he prefers that as well. 

To me, the name Julieanne is who I am. It is the name I was first called by my family.  It reminds me of home and being loved.  Being called "Mom", makes me feel the same way. That is reserved for two very special people in my life. Maybe it's okay that no one calls me Julieanne anymore. Maybe that exclusivity makes it special and private, and something reserved for the people who know me and love me in spite of it.