I’ll admit it. I can be a complainer. After all, there’s so much in this life to complain about: the dirty clothes that don’t make it into the basket, that annoying neighbor’s loud music, my husband’s shoes spread out at the front door, rainy days, traffic...

Complaining is a habit I cultivated since childhood, a skill I developed through the years. My parents didn’t seem to mind—they were great complainers, too—though I do recall some eye-rolling and long-drawn sighs from friends and schoolmates when I would voice my negative opinions. In fact, I can distinctly recall the exact moment when I first realized my complaining habit reached its expert level.

One day, as I reminded ray husband once again to remove his bills from the dining-room table, put his shoes away, and lower that bothersome radio, he put up his hand.“Stop! You’re your complaining. It’s driving me crazy.”

I looked at him blank-eyed.

He took a deep breath. “You never hear me complaining, do you?”

“Well,” I answered, “you’re complaining about my complaining, so actually, yes, I am hearing you complain right now.”

His eyes widened. A drop of sweat formed his upper lip. Then he grabbed his car keys and ran out of the door.

Perhaps I’d gone too far, I thought. Maybe I really did complain too much. But, what to do about it? After all, it had been a lifetime habit. And habits are hard to break.

I took a break and sat down to think about solution. When I felt annoyed, I could lock myself in the bathroom and scream. No. The neighbors would probably hear me. Phone a friend? She probably wouldn’t be a friend for very long. Then it hit me.

I’d been in the habit of keeping a journal for most of my life. It provided a sort of timeline for me，and I liked to review past entries occasionally to review the path I had been on at that point. Journaling kept me honest with myself, and I liked it for that reason. Perhaps, I though, a complaint journal might be the answer I was seeking.

That day, I decided to give it a try.

Besides the improved relationship with my husband, I saw other effects soon.            .

When my little brother Tom was four, Mom said something like “I’d give anything to have a few more hours in the day.” And Tom said, “Why don’t we buy a bigger clock?” If time worked that way, I could have used an extra-big clock last week!

Our teacher had asked us to make an art project showing how plants eat, “I can’t believe we only have two nights to finish it,” Noah said with a sigh. “I have no idea how I’ll get mine done.”

I didn’t say anything. Not because I was nervous—I wasn’t nervous at all. 1 love art projects! In fact, I was so relaxed that I didn’t work on the project at all on Monday night. I planned to start the minute I got home from baseball practice on Tuesday. But there was just one thing.

I forgot baseball would run later than usual because it was the day of Baseball Buddies, which happens every month, and it’s a chance for us older students to practise baseball with the adorable younger kids. The second I got home, I threw the entire craft box (手工盒) onto the kitchen table, took out my “How Plants Eat” paper, and started to work. But just then, the telephone rang.

It was my friend Ollie, who said his grandmother Abuela had just made cookies and wanted to know if I’d come help decorate them. I love decorating cookies, and I love, love, love Abucla’s world-famous Thanksgiving cookies that only happen once a year!

I had no choice. I had to go. Ollie and I put all the star cookies with red jam filling in one group, and all the snowflakes with white cream-cheese filling in another. It was 7 o'clock when I finally got home.1 planned to work on my project right after we ate. But then another interruption hit me.

“You’re a mom of five. You’re fifty years old!” My thoughts fought with my kids’ words—“Do it, Mom. You never do anything for yourself.”

It was Wednesday, the time for my first drum lesson. The minute I stepped into the house, I headed directly to the seating area in the back. My hands kept fidgeting (不停摆弄) with the sticks. I kept nervously looking at the time. I knew the teacher would say I was not the right type of person to play the drums. I turned around to see an older man looking at me.

“Stephanie? I’m Mike, the drum teacher,” he said. I felt nervous. But Mike had a very calm manner, so I relaxed just slightly. Not only did he not tell me that I was the wrong type of person to play the drums, but he complimented (称赞) me on how well I held the sticks and followed along with him. I learned how to read a couple of simple sheets of music, but then my thirty-minute lesson was over.

Walking back to my car, I was full of energy. With my practice pad set in the living room, I practiced as much as possible throughout the week. My fourteen-year-old daughter had often complained that I never sat down with them and that I was always working around the house. But now with my lesson to practice, I finally sat down with them, talking as I practiced my drumming. My second lesson came, and I played the sheets of music for Mike. When I finished the whole lesson without stopping, Mike said, “You played that perfectly!” He sounded amazed.

I’m by nature a quiet person—I work at the library—so it seems contradictory for me to pick drumming as something just for me. But I find as I sit in front of my set and beat out rhythms, I become so focused on the drums. I’m not nervous, shy or quiet. I’m a drummer.

As the weeks turned into months of playing, Mike convinced me to play at a show his band hosted.

“I’m so nervous. What will I do? What will I play?” I asked.

My teacher went up to the microphone and made the announcement.

“I hate living here,” Karen said as she helped her mother pull up weeds. “I wish we had never moved to this place.”“Karen, you’re just unhappy because you miss your old friends.” Mrs. Jackson said, “If you believe you can, you’ll make lots of new friends.” Karen sighed. They had been living in their new house for almost a week and so far she had made only one new friend.

Suddenly she noticed a colorful little rock on the ground. She pushed the loose dirt aside. It wasn’t a rock at all but a ring. Karen slipped the ring onto her finger, admiring it. It looked beautiful and fit her finger exactly.

“It’s so hot,” she said, “I sure wish I had something cold to drink.” Just then Mrs.Jackson came out carrying two big glasses of lemonade. “Let’s take a break,” she said, handing one to her daughter.“Lemonade!” Karen exclaimed. “Just what I was wishing for,” she said secretly. Now that she knew her ring was magic, she would have to be very careful about what she wished. Her next best wish must be a friend because she really needed a good friend.

Then she looked out the window and saw a girl about her age standing on the sidewalk and pulling at a dog. Without thinking, Karen said, “I wish that girl was my friend.” She slowly pulled off the ring and laid it back on the dresser. “Now all l have to do is to go outside and meet her,” she said to herself. It worked! The girl happened to be in the same grade as Karen. The whole afternoon saw the girls playing with the little brown dog happily until dinner time.

When she went in for dinner, Karen told her mom her new friend and the magic ring.