Sacre Coeur

It was our first morning in Paris.  We had slept until 11:00 a.m., overcome with exhaustion and jet lag.  We were staying in a rented apartment in Montmartre, a beautiful neighborhood just outside the heart of the city.  We were only ten minutes away from Sacre Coeur, a beautiful cathedral built on the city's highest point.  It was to be the first name we crossed off on our long list of places we wanted to see while we were in Paris. 

We climbed flight after flight of stairs to the stunning white onion domed cathedral.  The city was spread out below us, and my eyes craved to see some of the sights I had seen pictures of my whole life.  Was that Notre Dame, or was it that one, that church with the two towers?  Where is the Eiffel Tower?  I saw neither Notre Dame or the Eiffel Tower at this point, but it didn't really matter anymore.  Along with a slowly moving mass of people, I had climbed even more stairs to the entrance of Sacre Coeur.  An official looking man in a dark suit demanded silence inside, but it was not a difficult order to obey, as the interior of Sacre Coeur was so breathtakingly beautiful.

Kevin and I sat in a pew enjoying the beauty of the cathedral's dome and thumbing through our already indispensable Rick Steve's travel guide.  The central figure of Sacre Coeur's beautifully painted dome is Jesus, revealing his sacred heart or sacre coeur to the world.  On one side of Jesus are prominent Biblical figures.  On the other side are famous figures from France's history.  Above Jesus is the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove, and still above the dove but much more distant from the likenesses of men is the artist's rendition of God. 

Kevin and I rose from our pew and circled the cathedral's nave.  Like in most cathedrals, there were small, lovely chapels here and there along the exterior walls.  There were areas where one could light a candle in memory of a loved one, and there were statues of various saints.  The lit candles suddenly reminded me of a forgotten memory of our honeymoon five years earlier.  We were on the Hawaiian island of Kauai, and we were scheduled to take a helicopter ride so that we could better view the gorgeous scenery.  I was terrified of riding on a helicopter but had agreed to go since Kevin really wanted us to do it, and I knew it would be a wonderful experience if I could get past my fear.  We stopped at a small little church on our way to the helicopter ride.  No one was in the church besides us, and Kevin lit a candle in memory of his mother.  I signed the visitor's book there and wondered if it would be the last time I signed my name.  I was really nervous about getting on this helicopter.

We were just about to leave Sacre Coeur when I remembered a detail in Rick Steve's travel guide that had made me curious.  The travel guide had said to rub the statue of St. Peter's foot and gaze up to the heavens.  I wondered what would happen if I did this.  Was there some sort of skylight?  We circled around the nave again looking for the statue of St. Peter.  He wasn't too difficult to find.  The statue's foot was worn from the thousands and thousands who had performed this ritual.  I rubbed St. Peter's smooth bronze foot and looked up.  Much to my astonishment and delight I was staring straight into the eyes of Jesus.  The statue is positioned at the exact spot in the great cathedral where if you happen to look up, you are staring into the eyes of the dome's painting of Jesus. 

I suddenly felt such a feeling of complete peacefulness wash over me.  I gazed upward into the eyes of the painting and said a short prayer thanking Jesus for a safe journey to France and asking Him to take us safely home to our little boy when our vacation was over.  I felt as though I was so important to Jesus and that He was so attentively listening to me.  I wished that prayer was always like this for me.  For the next four days at least, my jitters about flying were over.  I was able to enjoy our trip.  Whenever I feel afraid or alone in future, I hope that I remember what happens at Sacre Coeur when you rub St. Peter's foot and gaze up into the heavens.

That's What Little Boys Are Made Of

"Sam, do you like my new dress?" asks our next door neighbor Ginny, age four.  Sam, nearly three, responds, "Ginny, have you seen my new car?  It talks."  There you have it, folks.  An essential difference between men and women illustrated perfectly by two preschoolers.  Apparently, Ginny will often remark to her mother as she is choosing her attire, "Sam's going to love me in this."  Ginny is not my little heartthrob's only admirer either.  His friend Ellery wore a dress with flowers on it to Sam's birthday party because Sam "loves flowers."  I've never heard Sam remark on all this dressing to please him other than to ask me once when we were about to meet Ginny, if she would "be wearing a dress." This comment would indicate that he notices more about what Ginny wears than he lets on.  But who knows what he was really thinking?  As with most men, he is oft times a mystery to me.

Sharing the story above has led me to remember a time when Sam and Ginny were in our living room and Sam wanted Ginny to watch Chuck the dump truck with him on television because, according to Sam, "Ginny loves Chuck."   As I watched them sitting side by side on our sofa, I couldn't help but think of all the times I have pretended to be interested in some sporting event or another to impress a man.  I wanted to ask her, "Are you really interested in Chuck, or are you just pretending?  It's okay.  You don't have to watch Chuck unless you just want to."  I stopped myself because after all, they are just three and four years old.  Although some gender differences are starting to emerge, they don't care about all this crazy gender stuff, and that's a good thing.  Sam has been known to play "fashion show" with Ginny.  And just because I'm not a huge fan of Chuck or baseball or football, that doesn't mean that Ginny won't be.

It was silly of me to worry that Ginny might be pretending to like the Chuck the truck show.  Children Sam and Ginny's age show the world their true selves.  They don't pretend.  When do we lose this and why?  Wouldn't it be better if we stayed true to ourselves as adults, too? 

Maybe this is one of the reasons that small children's sweet little gestures are oh so sweet.  You know that they mean what they say or do. For a while there, I would walk in our back yard and find loosely rolled pieces of paper.  Pictures drawn on them in red crayon.  A lady wearing a fancy dress.  A picture of a swimming pool.  Gifts from Ginny that she slid through the fence that separates our back yards.  Treasures to me.

Sam recently decided that he wanted to feed the turtles, ducks, and fish that live in a man made lake near our neighborhood.  He had fed them french fries, which they surprisingly really like, once before.  On the day that we decided to go back and feed them again, Sam picked at his lunch.  Just before we left the car to walk out to the lake, I asked Sam if he was sure he didn't want to eat any more of his chicken nuggets or french fries.  He said no that "maybe they'd like it," meaning the animals.  A generous gesture straight from a sweet little boy's heart. 

Although we could perhaps learn from the pure, honest sweetness and generosity of children, in all fairness I must admit that learning to pretend can sometimes be a good thing.  Twice now people have given Sam gifts, and he has told them he doesn't want them, creating awkward moments.  And what if we never learned to share even when we really don't want to?

Okay, maybe a little pretending is a good thing, but overall, my wish for you, Sam and Ginny, is that you stay true to who you are, whoever you are.  Who you are is a beautiful thing.

Plum Crazy and Back Again

It all began with the tiny old Asian lady.  I didn't give her a second thought when I saw her maroon car pull up in front of our house on an already hot June morning.  We live on a busy residential and commercial street.  I noticed her getting out of her car, but I was not alarmed.  Instead, I appreciated her rather old fashioned attire.  She was wearing a creme sun hat and a blue flowery print house dress.  She appeared to be in her late fifties or early to mid sixties.  Her face was rather tanned and weathered looking, as though she had spent much time outdoors.

I returned to watering and tending to the plants on our upstairs front porch.   Several minutes had passed when I happened to see the lady walking away from our house as though she had been at the front door.  I paused to watch her.  Was she leaving us one of those personality questionnaires that we get every now and then from Scientologists?  Or was she a Jehovah Witness who wanted to remind me that the end times are near?  I watched her walk to her maroon car.  She was carrying a medium sized plastic bag from JoAnn's.  The bag was filled to its capacity with plums from our plum tree.

Kevin and I have a plum tree in our front yard that is nothing short of magnificent.  Every year it produces so many plums that a couple of  branches break from the weight of them.  We give our friends and relatives plums.  Kevin takes plums to work.  We share them with our neighbors, and every year we meet a few nice strangers who ring our doorbell and ask us if we would mind their picking a few plums.  Of course, the answer is always, "Not at all.  We have more plums than we need."  I have made plum preserves with them and used them in plum tarts and plum cobblers.  We're proud of our plum tree, and it has provided us with many pleasant summer time memories.

What I was observing in my front yard right then, however,  was far from pleasant.  I stood frozen in amazement watching the tiny lady carefully place the bag of plums on her backseat floorboard.  I thought that maybe she would look up before she drove away and that I would give her a withering and knowing glare.  Here was a lady who did not bother to ring the doorbell and ask if she could pick some plums.  No, she was stealing our plums and not just a few, but a whole bagful.  Furthermore, her actions were apparently premeditated.  She drove up to our house with her bag and her intent to steal.

Clutching my little green watering can, I continued to watch this lady, determined to catch her eye.  She did not drive away.  Instead, she pulled out a second plastic bag, this one from Kroger and walked back towards our house, disappearing from my sight.  She was going back for more plums.

I had to say something to this lady to stop her, but I am anything but confrontational.  It had been a difficult month.  Kevin had been sick, things had been crazy, and it didn't look like I was going to have an opportunity to do much with the plums anyway.  "No!" I told myself.  It was the very principle of the thing.  People just weren't supposed to do things like this.

I went downstairs and flung open the front door, startling the lady as she was filling up her Kroger bag.  Before I even had a chance to speak, she backed away from the plum tree a bit and called out nervously, "I should pay you!  I should pay you!"  I told her not to worry about paying me but explained to her that we might like to use some of our plums and that I had seen that she already had another bag of them.  She thrust out the Kroger bag as though she were going to give them back to me.  "That's okay,"  I said.  "You go on and enjoy them."  She headed straight for her car and drove off.  Thanks to her startled and embarrassed reaction, confronting her had turned out to be a lot easier than I had thought it would be.

After the plum lady left, I was not really angry, just astounded by the audacity of her actions. Then, at lunch that same day, Kevin's cousin suggested that she might be a vendor at the nearby Farmer's Market and that she planned to sell our plums as "local" and "organic."  This theory may or may not have been true, but it felt true.  Suddenly I felt foolish and naive.  "You go on and enjoy them," I had said.  Luckily, either the plum stealing lady got the message and stayed away, or I just never caught her again.

A couple of weeks later, my day lily began to bloom for the first time in the back yard.  We had planted it last fall.  The blooms were absolutely gorgeous--red with a yellow center.  I was so proud that we had such beautiful flowers in our back yard for the first time.  A few days after we saw the first blooms, I noticed that there appeared to be several places on the plant where blossoms seemed to have been cut right off.  It appeared to be a clean cut as though someone holding a knife or a pair of scissors had done it.  I couldn't believe my eyes.  First the plum snatching lady and now this!  Part of me was a bit flattered, thinking that whoever was doing this must find our flowers to be awfully beautiful and tempting, but as more and more blossoms disappeared, I just became furious again and more than a little freaked out.  What was next?  The house?  I even put a lock on the gate in an attempt to deter the flower thief.  I imagined our setting up a hidden cameras.  It seemed to be the only way to catch this mean and mysterious person.  I would lie in wait for him (for some reason I figured it was a he), and I would confront him, and this time I would be scary.  Even if no one else did, this flower thief would learn that he had better not mess with me.

Around Father's Day I counted the number of times it looked like blossoms had been cut off my day lily.  Sixteen.  This was unbelievable unless...I looked around on the ground and found five or six wilted blossoms.  What if the blossoms fell off and somehow looked as though they had been cut?  A couple of days later I showed my day lily to my next door neighbor, who is an expert on flowers.  She did an excellent job of not making me feel foolish when she told me that day lilies look like that when the wilted blossoms fall off.  No flowers had been lost but apparently I had lost my mind.  I took the lock off of our back yard gate.  I decided to go inside and rest for a while.

May Rose

At the tender age of forty, I became interested in gardening.  Last year I grew herbs in containers.  This year I'm still growing herbs in containers, but Kevin and I have planted several things in the yard--a day lily, a hydrangea, two chrysanthemums, a tomato plant, and the May rose.  My grandmother called it the May rose because it only blooms during the month of May.  The May rose bush in her yard is nearly gone now, but years ago, my parents started a new rose bush in their yard.  This spring my mother's friend Patrick, who does odd jobs for my parents, dug out a "start" of the rose bush for me.  My mother instructed us to get some of the root, which was difficult because all the branches of the bush led to a central root ball.  Patrick persevered and got a bit of the root although I'm not sure that the bush in my parents' yard will ever be quite the same.  I drove home with a few prickly rose branches attached to a fragile looking bit of root.  The branches were so long they extended all the way into the back seat.

When I got home,  it was evident that my "start" of the rose bush needed to be planted right away.  The little leaves attached to the branches were sagging wearily.  Two neighbors helped me dig my hole and break up the soil.  Another neighbor invited Sam over to play with her kids.  My little rose bush was planted, and my next door neighbor said it would survive in our rocky soil because being an old fashioned rose, it would be "hardy as the dickens."  I wondered if she was right though.  After we planted my rose bush and pruned it a bit, it looked like I had planted two little green sticks upright in the yard.

I gave the rose bush a good watering like my neighbor said, but then I left it alone for a while.  It was the end of March or early April.  The weather was cool, and it rained a lot.  It soon became evident that I had not paid enough attention to it.  Instead of sprouting, one of its little ends dried up and turned black.  My neighbor suggested that if something didn't happen soon, we might have to try again.  I was dismayed.

Kevin was trying to get some grass seed to start in our yard at the time, and he began to water it and the May Rose faithfully twice a day.  I would see him water the two little sticks every morning before he went to work, and I'd think, "This is why I married this man."

One Saturday night in April I dreamed about my grandmother.  She passed away in May twenty-three years ago, but she appeared in my dream so clearly that you would have thought I had seen her last week.  Grandmother was quiet and sweet.  She had this way of making you feel comfortable in her presence.  I would feel comfortable talking with her or being silent with her.  When I was growing up, my family went to her and Grandaddy's house almost every Saturday.  She made wonderful fried chicken.  She'd always have a "cold drink" in the refrigerator for me, and there would usually be "ice milk" for dessert.  Sometimes, I guess when I was there on a weekday, I'd watch "her show," As the World Turns, with her.

In my dream Grandmother was standing in her kitchen, which did not look like her kitchen anymore in that it was a beautiful warm pink color.  Still I knew it was her kitchen.  I don't remember anything else about the dream other than feeling her peaceful, sweet presence.  I awoke happy to have had a dream about her.  I dream about her every once in a while, but instead of enjoying those happy feelings my over active mind began its destructive work.  "What did the dream mean?"  I wondered.   "Is something bad going to happen?  Was Grandmother trying to tell me something?  Is someone about to die?"  I have a real talent for turning my happy feelings into troubled ones.

I woke up from this dream on Easter Sunday morning.  Two days later, three days after my dream, the first little green shoots appeared on my grandmother's May rose, those two little sticks I planted in the ground..  All of Kevin's watering paid off, and it is, after all, an old timey rose, "hardy as the dickens."   Maybe Grandmother was trying to tell me something.  Maybe she was saying sometimes the dream doesn't mean anything bad at all.  Sometimes it just means there will be flowers.

There Are More Singers in the World than James Taylor

I was standing in Peck Hall looking at the English department's bulletin board when my professor asked me, "Are you thinking of pursuing an advanced course of study in English?"  I must have responded yes because then I distinctly remember him replying in his matter of fact way, "You'll do fine."

He was my professor for both sophomore literature courses and a course called Introduction to Popular Culture, which I mostly took just because I wanted to take another one of his classes.  He was also my academic adviser.  He had his PhD, but I remember he told his sophomore literature students, "My name is Dunne.  You can call me Mr. Dunne." 

He was known for his dry, sarcastic sense of humor and his straightforwardness, but he was a sentimental, tender hearted man as well.  He loved Fred Astaire movies, especially the ones with Fred and Ginger Rogers.  I remember his wife saying that on a trip to England he cried when he saw the memorial to T.S. Eliot at Westminster Abbey.  He gave simple, straightforward advice on writing that I find useful to this day.  He would say, "Read what you've written out loud, and if it sounds wrong, then it probably is wrong."

No one with the exception of my parents was ever more encouraging academically than Mr. Dunne.  He nominated me for the English department's highest honor three times.   He wrote glowing letters of recommendation for me and helped me get graduate teaching assistantships at two different colleges.  He appreciated the best in me but was aware of my lesser qualities.  He knew that I was my own worst enemy.  I still remember him saying to me, "I know you can do it, but you don't, and that's the problem." 

That low self esteem reared its ugly head in 1992 when I started graduate school across the state, my first real experience away from home.  After one semester I was back at home, mortified at the thought of what Mr. Dunne and everyone must think.  If Mr. Dunne was disappointed he never let it show.  I received a postcard from him that said the following in his almost indecipherable handwriting:  "I hear you are back from U.T.  I do not hear, however, that you are unable to pick up the phone or write.  Love, Michael Dunne."

I wasn't quite ready in 1992 for my world to grow larger.  At the time I was bewildered by the anxiety I felt in my new surroundings, but almost twenty years later, I can see the person I was back then and can understand why I experienced difficulties.  Of course,  Mr. Dunne knew what part of the problem was even back then.  I  remember sitting in his office the summer before I left for graduate school.  I had just returned from my first trip to Disney World which was also my first trip on an airplane.  I had gone with a girlfriend of mine.  I believe it was the first trip I ever took with someone other than my family.  Somehow the subject of James Taylor, my favorite singer at the time, must have entered the conversation.  The details of what I said are unclear, but this part I distinctly remember:  Mr. Dunne in his pull no punches way saying, "You know there are other places in the world to go to besides Disney World, and there other singers in the world besides James Taylor."

Nowadays I listen to James Taylor every now and then instead of all the time, and there are lots of places I want to visit although I can't wait to take my little boy to Disney World.  The other day I had my Ipod on shuffle and James Taylor came on singing,  "My Traveling Star."   I felt a rush of gratitude and affection for my brilliant and caring professor who believed in me, helped me to grow, and cared enough to say what he really thought.

Marcie

When the first signs of spring appear, she has entered my thoughts for the past six years now.  We became friends on our first day as teachers at a new school.  She was blonde, bubbly, "no bigger than a minute."  As country as they come, she grew up in Red Boiling Springs, Macon County, Tennessee.  Only a year apart in age, we bonded almost instantly and became acclimated to our new surroundings together.  We loved to get together and talk over the happenings of the school day and gossip about our new co-workers.  She had the life I longed for--a lovely home, a devoted husband, and an adorable little boy named Jake. 

She had the life I longed for that is until it was discovered that Marcie had cancer.  One of the things that Marcie and I had in common was that we were both worry warts.  Marcie was so scared yet so brave.  She was always having the doctors and their nurses check her for signs that the cancer had spread or returned.  She carried on though with her playful, self-deprecating sense of humor, trying on different wigs after her hair fell out, getting the larger bra size she always wanted after her double mastectomy.  She continued as the school's computer teacher that year, completing the school yearbook that she was in charge of compiling.

That summer we celebrated.  Marcie was going to be fine.  I introduced Marcie to my favorite restaurants of which there are quite a few.  We would go shopping.  I remember we went for a walk out at Radnor Lake.  We would ride in her red Jeep Cherokee and sometimes Jake, who was three or four would say, "Mama hold hand," and Marcie would reach back for his hand while she was driving with the other one.  We had such a fun time that summer that Marcie bought us shirts that said, "Summer of '04." 

A new school year began, and we started back to work with the reluctance that teachers, like students, feel at the end of the summer.  It wasn't but a couple of months into the school year when it became apparent that something wasn't right with Marcie.  Her back hurt.  Was it that old injury she had from the time her tiny frame had to carry Jake on an icy road when the car broke down?  "No, Marcie.  The doctors all said you were fine.  I'm sure the cancer hasn't returned," we all reassured her.  And yet, not too long after Christmas it was discovered that the unthinkable had happened.  The cancer had returned, and it had spread to her liver or her pancreas, which organ I do not recall for sure.   I didn't know what to say then and still don't know what to say now.   I was so stunned by this news.  "I'm never going to see my little boy grow up," Marcie cried on the phone to me.  I cried with her.  "I'm so sorry, Marcie.  So sorry."

Always a fighter Marcie was soon strong again.  She was going to try alternative therapies.  Her trust in God was always strong and now it was unwavering.  God was going to see her through this.  She went to Tijuana, Mexico to receive alternative treatments.

On a Sunday afternoon in April a co-worker called me to let me know that my friend had passed away.  Where she went I have no doubt.  The angels in heaven made fast friends with a lovely lady full of fun that day.  Why she went I will never know, at least not until my own time has come.  I sure do miss her though, and I find myself thinking of her from time to time all year round but especially when springtime comes.

Bat It Around Some More

One of the many things that I love about Kevin is his ability to get me unstuck when I get stuck, and unfortunately for both of us I get stuck quite often.  What do I mean by stuck?  Those leftovers that have been in the refrigerator too long?  I don't want to move them much less dump the container's contents and clean it.  The stain I don't quite know how to get out of my t-shirt?  Maybe I just won't wash it for a while.  Yeah, that will make it go away.  To my credit, as a stay at home mom I'm forced to confront this tendency of mine a lot, and I am getting better and better at dealing with it, but yet the tendency remains. 

My brother knows about my tendency to get stuck all too well.  I was telling Steve how much I dread potty training Sam and how I don't quite know how to go about it.  Steve's comment?  "Well, just be sure you don't go off and not do it."  Hmmm...I hadn't even thought of that.  (Just kidding)

Unfortunately for little Sam, he seems to have inherited his mother's tendency towards inertia at least when it comes to balloons.  On Sunday night the three of us went out to eat at a restaurant, and Sam received a helium balloon, which he adored.  All the way home he lovingly gazed at it.  He didn't want to go to bed because he didn't want to be separated from his balloon.  We finally got him to sleep by reassuring him that he could play with his balloon in the morning.  I felt a little guilty saying this because I knew in the morning that the balloon would not be quite the same. 

When I picked up Sam to carry him downstairs Monday morning, the first thing he said was "Balloon downstairs."  His balloon of course had sunk to floor.  I explained to Sam what had happened to it, but it was too late.  The balloon, like my stained t-shirt and the rancid leftovers, just couldn't be fixed, and it would just have to remain on the floor maybe forever or at least until nap time.  Sam walked around the floor bound balloon, keeping his distance.  As far as he was concerned, he and the balloon were done, and that was just fine by me, as I now saw the balloon as being kind of creepy just as he did.  

Thank goodness for Kevin who always helps mother and son see things in a different way.  Within five minutes of coming downstairs, Kevin had ingeniously hung the shunned balloon upside down in an empty door frame.  Sam and I now had a balloon tether ball game which was great fun.  Of course, when Kevin went to the kitchen to fix himself a bagel,  Sam and I started staring at the balloon a little too long again.  Sam commented that it looked like an upside down egg.  "Yes, it does,"  I replied.  Before you knew it, we had stopped playing. "Oh no, Kevin, he's getting creeped out again, "  I called.  "Bat it around some more," he replied.  Oh, yes, that is just the thing.  That will do the trick.

Here Comes the Noise

I have been reading Kathryn Stockett's The Help, a book that I would highly recommend to anyone who enjoys a good novel.  Set in 1960's Jackson, Mississippi, the title The Help refers to the African American maids that many of the families hired to help with the cooking, cleaning, and children.  In many instances these ladies were forced to endure much lingering racial prejudice. 

While reading this novel, I can't help but remember a lady who was very dear to me growing up.  It was 1970's Tennessee rather than 1960's Mississippi so thankfully a lot of those previously mentioned racial tensions had dissipated.  Her name is Rebecca.  My mother would hire her about once a week to help with cleaning our house and ironing.  Sometimes she would stay with us while my mother ran short errands.  My brother and I loved her.

Rebecca lived in a tiny run down house that has long since been torn down.  She worked as a custodian at the local high school.  She was the first African American that I really knew, and also, the first truly poor person I knew as well.  Rebecca could not be descibed as poor in spirit, however, or lacking in love.

She always wore the same clothes when she came over to our house, and we would pick her up and take her back home because she didn't have a car. I remember her white socks with her dark worn out loafers.  Rebecca may be the only person I have ever known who dipped snuff.  As a young child, I, of course, was fascinated with her spitting and with the small round metal cannister she carried.  Rebecca would always eat lunch with us, and I remember how much she appreciated and enjoyed her food whether it was a bologna sandwich with potato chips or a hamburger. She loved a Coca-Cola with that meal, too. She was very thoughtful, not wanting to disturb my eight, nine, or ten year old self from whatever "important" thing I was doing.  When she got to the point in her work where it was time to vacuum, she'd proclaim, "Here comes the noise!" before she switched on the vacuum. 

She thought my brother and I hung the moon.  According to her, I was as pretty as Miss America.  Not only did Rebecca think I was beautiful, but she thought I could sing.  Really sing.   One time, when she heard me singing along with my Carpenters record she told me I sang so well she couldn't tell the difference between my voice and Karen Carpenter's.  

It has probably been twenty years now since I've seen Rebecca.  Close to ninety years old now, she lives in a nursing home, and my parents tell me that she no longer knows people she once knew.  It is funny how someone can be a part of your life for so long, and you think they always will be, but then, of course things change.  I guess they are changing all the time.  I sing with my Ipod now instead of my record albums.  It doesn't seem like anyone irons much anymore.  My days of knowing Rebecca are over, but my appreciation of her remains.

Broken

"It's broken."  I've been thinking about how Sam, just over two and a half, confronts this reality on an almost daily basis.  His little musical table needs new batteries, some of his "reusable" stickers just won't stick anymore, his remote control train won't work, and he is getting a cold.  "Broken" is a part of his ordinary everyday life almost as routinely most days as watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and having pretzels for a snack.

And yet as an adult I don't like "broken."  I want to be in control.  I want things to go as I plan.  I want everything to be "perfect," whatever perfect is according to me.  Having Sam has helped me a great deal with this seemingly endless quest for "perfection."  My days with him may begin with me having a plan, but they turn into just unfolding and living.  Our days together are anything but perfect.   Sure, we have our tender moments when a little voice says, "I need a big hug," and then, "I need a bigger hug, " but there is a lot of "broken," too.  A lot of less than perfect and even ridiculous, too, like yesterday when I found myself angrily telling Sam that he wasn't getting any popcorn for his snack because he wouldn't take a nap.

I couldn't love him more though, and I don't know that I've ever enjoyed my life more than I do now.

I feel shy talking about matters of faith even though if you are reading this you are probably someone dear to me to whom I have given this link.  I feel that God is teaching me how to live through my daily experiences as a mother to my little boy.  I know what it is like now to let the day unfold because most days I'm just forced to let the day happen.  I don't care if things don't always go perfectly anymore because this experience of growing, living, and loving with my little boy is much better anyway.  This experience must be similar to what it feels like to let God be in control and to let His will be done.  I may have to relearn it again tomorrow, but at least I have these moments where I let go of my need to control and desire God's plan for my days.  Just as my days are so much better when I let go and just let them happen, God's will is so much better than any plan for myself that I could ever contrive.

Yes, it's broken, Sam, and here is something I want you to know.  That's okay.  Everything is going to be okay.

When Less Was More

Anyone who knows me these days knows that I have too much stuff.  Too many books, too many clothes, too many gadgets in my kitchen, and the list goes on and on.  Yesterday I was at my parents' old house going through some of my stuff that I haven't seen in at least twenty years.  Some of my stuff that I'd all but forgotten about, but oh, how special it was!  Much more special than many of the things I find myself picking up at Target or Kohl's when I'm shopping.

What particularly caught my eye were my pins.  They were just pins that a girl might stick on the lapel of her Sunday coat, but as I was looking at them, I remembered each of them so clearly.  There's the snowman with the pink hat that had lip gloss inside of it, and there's the little bird in a cage that wiggled a little when you shook it.  There's the pilgrim man and woman that I'd usually wear at Thanksgiving.  And of course a jack-o-lantern for Halloween and a Santa Claus for Christmas.  These pins are made of plastic, but I kept them in my little musical jewelry box with the twirling wind up ballerina inside of it.  I looked at them so, so many times and looked forward to wearing them as the holidays and seasons came around or as the mood presented itself.  There were a few pins from when I was a little older, too.  These were painted metal.  Miss Piggy wearing black fishnet tights and dancing like she was in a Broadway musical revue.  A little ordinary pig, too. I'm not sure what was up with the pigs.   It never would stay latched so I had to be careful to make sure that it didn't fall off my clothing.  I remembered this defect without even examining it.  These pins were among my treasures.

I was suddenly filled with tenderness for the girl that I was.  I treasured the things I had and was not always seeking more.  I always had lots of toys and things growing up, but at some point I accumulated so much "stuff" that it has sometimes become difficult to remember what is really important.    I want to be this girl again.  I want to buy less and purge more.  I want the opportunity to treasure the things that actually mean something to me. 

Not a Spring Chicken Anymore

My parents, ages 67 and 71, were recently paid a visit from a representative of the university where they both graduated.  I also graduated from this same university.  I felt suspicious of this visit.  "Ah," I thought knowingly, "this is the kind of thing I've heard others talk about.  This person is going to try to talk my parents into leaving our former college a sizable sum in their wills."  I felt bewildered in the way I have often been feeling lately and a little protective, too.  How did my mother and father get to be 67 and 71?  Where is the time going?  I must warn them about these money snatchers.

The visit my parents received from their former college's representative was thoroughly pleasant and anything but sinister.  In fact, my parents were graciously thanked for giving to the university for twenty years and presented with a commemorative coin. 

A few days ago, however, I received an e-mail from my former college's "Legacy" department.  Its purpose was to let me know that this year marks an "excellent time" to plan "to provide for the most important people" in my life.  The Legacy department hopes that I will keep my alma mater "at heart and consider a gift that will strengthen" its "long-term future." Sigh. While I've been lamenting the fact that my parents are getting older, I completely forgot to remember that I'm getting older, too. It is time I start realizing that I'm not a spring chicken myself anymore. 

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Super Dada and Wonder Mommy

Kevin and I have lately acquired powers that we did not know we possessed.  Sam woke up the other morning with a painful stuffy nose and told me to "get my nose better, Mama."  Suddenly I seem to possess special healing and/or comforting powers as the case requires.  Kevin, who has always been handy around the house when it comes to assembling toys or furniture, super-gluing broken objects, and making minor repairs, is finally getting the credit he deserves. "Da-da will fix it," a little voice will confidently proclaim whenever a cheaply made car comes apart or a clumsily handled sticker tears. This is the phase that I suppose I will be wistful for when teenage Sam someday finds me to be backward and uncool.  These phases are fleeting and fascinating.  I'm trying not to be sad about their passing especially since an equally interesting phase takes its place or is on its way.  For today I will just enjoy being Wonder Mommy.

Who is Banana Car?

As my friend Jenni says, we will never know.  Sam, age two and a half, has learned "Knock, knock" in part.  It is kind of mysterious seeming because I don't know where he picked it up and because of the following:

Sam:  Knock, knock

Mommy:  Who's there?

Sam:  Banana Car

Mommy:  Banana Car, who?

Sam: (Here he says nothing or he proceeds to "Knock, knock" again, but who is there is never someone as interesting sounding as Banana Car).

So who is Banana Car?  Is he made of an actual banana?  Is he peeled or unpeeled?  Green or ripe?  I guess we will never know.

A Beginning

I am calling this blog "Mommy Musings," having always been a big fan of alliteration, but I'm not sure what the primary focus of this blog will be, although I imagine much of it will be sharing some of the highlights and low lights of my life as a stay at home mom.  Beginning can be difficult, can't it?  I have always had the desire to be a writer in some form or another.  I recently turned forty-one, and I realize the time for beginning is now.  I remember eleven years ago when I had freaked out about turning thirty ("What!?!  No husband?!?  No children?! that sort of thing), I went to see the pastor at Woodmont Baptist Church for advice.  It seems strange to use the word "advice" on something like turning thirty.  As if it is something you have some control over or a decision that you make.  Anyway, Dr. Roebuck shared with me that he had just turned forty and that he had always wanted to write a book.  He said that he figured if this is something that he wanted to do, he had better start.  So I am starting, not a book but a blog.  I hope that I will think of a few things worth writing and that you will find them worth reading.