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.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
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.
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.
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