Five months ago you went away.
I visited your grave today
Expecting to find you there.
I did not find you in the ground.
Instead your spirit was all around
In a small yellow butterfly flittering by,
In the sight of a rusty iron gate.
When the gentle wind blew through the tree,
I could feel you next to me.
In the call of a bobwhite repeating his name,
I knew you are okay although nothing is the same.
You disappeared so suddenly on that early spring day.
Now that fall is almost here you start to feel so far away.
Yet you are here with me today.
Daddy, please stay with me today.
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Carolina in My Mind
Sam and I were going on an adventure. Kevin had a training with work in North Carolina, and we were going to tag along. There would be a rental car, and Sam and I would spend a couple of days exploring the nearby town of New Bern and perhaps even a bit of the North Carolina coast, which was only an hour away.
I was looking forward to going on this trip, but when Kevin told me about the wild ponies on an island off the coast of North Carolina, my excitement couldn't be contained. The ponies were believed to be the descendants of ponies that had survived Spanish shipwrecks hundreds of years ago. I pictured one, a beautiful light tan colored one, galloping through the surf. In my mind it looked so exotic, so Spanish. I burst out, "Is the island Chincoteague?" Kevin was not sure, but he thought the island had a different name.
Misty of Chincoteague was a children's book I had read when I was young. I had never been one of those girls who loved to read about horses, but Misty of Chincoteague was a Newberry Award winning children's book, and at one time I had aspired to reading all the Newberry Award winners. I could not remember anything about the book, only that the island of Chincoteague was somewhere off the coast of the eastern United States. I also had a vague mental picture of the book's cover, which of course was of the beautiful, mysterious horse named Misty.
I googled Chincoteague and saw that Chincoteague Island was off the coast of Virginia. What about that? There was more than one of this sort of island. Maybe someday we would tour them all. Kevin did some researching of his own and informed me that the island he was talking about was called Shackleford Banks. We would have to take a ferry to get there. Not only were there wild ponies, but apparently it was also a great place to find sea shells. I adjusted my mental image of Shackleford Island just a tad. This time I saw a cluster of beautiful, wild yet gentle ponies standing in the sand. I was nearby holding an enormous pink tinged conch shell. But wait, where was Sam? I didn't dwell on this minor detail for long. Of course Sam would be with me having just as much fun as I was.
Or would he? Sam has lately been going through a phase where he doesn't want to do things. He says he is scared, or he just wants to stay at home. It doesn't matter if the destination is story time at the library or a play date with a friend or an adventure on an uninhabited island off the coast of North Carolina, he will often say he doesn't want to go.
It wasn't until we were nearing the North Carolina coast on Sunday that reality started to displace my romantic notions. Even though we were in our rental vehicle with the windows rolled up, I could almost feel the ocean breeze and smell the salty air. Kevin and I were in a cheerful mood. Sam, worn out from a big day of traveling, just wanted to go to our hotel. Kevin tried to cheer him up a bit by suggesting to him that he and I might go on a little boat ride tomorrow. "Don't want to go on a boat ride" was the response. "Well, then, Sam, maybe we will go see some wild ponies," I suggested. It was then that Kevin reminded me that we would have to take a boat to see the wild ponies. They were, after all, on an island. "Oh," I sighed. Maybe I was a bit tired, too.
Sam fell asleep in our rental SUV, and I stopped by a visitor center we saw along the way. I learned more about Shackleford Banks. It is uninhabited. There are no restaurants and there are no toilets. You take a ferry there which leaves at certain times of the day. It leaves you there, and you tell the captain when you want it to return to pick you up. Other phrases from the brochure stuck in my mind. Bits about staying fifty feet away from the ponies and bits about "aggressive" stallions. Given the circumstances of Kevin having to work and Sam's present mood and my own nervous disposition, this was starting to seem like more of an adventure than the two of us could handle. Now I could picture us being charged by angry wild ponies or more likely, us wandering around an island looking for ponies in vain and Sam whining about not having energy and wanting to go to the hotel. I pictured the other visitors to Shackleford Island, and Sam and I didn't fit that description either. The moms were no doubt tanned and lean and looked like they belonged in their Keens instead of just wearing them because they were cute and comfortable like I did. They had probably kayaked their own boats there. The kids. What did the kids on Shackleford Island look like? I didn't know, but I doubted they were wanting to go back to their hotels so they could watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.
The lady at the visitor center broke these increasingly disturbing musings with information about Carrot Island, which is between Beaufort, North Carolina and Shackleford Banks. She said that some of the wild ponies live there and can actually be seen from Front Street in Beaufort.
With that news we were on our way to Beaufort, and before you knew it we were driving up and down Front Street in Beaufort, my eyes straining to see a pony on Carrot Island. Carrot Island was indeed only a short distance away from Beaufort. It almost looked like you could swim over there. Any moment now I was going to see a pony, I just knew it, and I could get this pony thing out of my system.
We never, however, saw a pony, and we would soon go to our hotel an hour away, and, finally becoming a realist, I did not know if we would make it back on this trip.
That is when, however, Kevin saw the sign for "The Waterbug." "The Waterbug" was a cute little boat along Front Street that actually had a tour of the harbor coming up at 5:30, which was only thirty minutes away. All the other ferrys did not appear to do tours this late in the day on a Sunday. I ran up to the stand and looked at the ad for "The Waterbug." It claimed that the boat would go near Carrot Island, and we might very well see some wild ponies. That was it. We were getting on that boat.
By this time Sam was awake and in a little better mood about not being at our hotel. He still, however, did not want to ride in a boat. "Scared," he said. The lady who sold tickets for the boat and I managed to get Sam to climb aboard to see if we could change his mind. "Want to get off," Sam said. The operators of "The Water Bug" needed four passengers to make the 5:30 trip. They had three middle aged ladies already so they made another attempt to persuade Sam. The captain herself told Sam he could sit in the captain's chair if he got back on the boat. Sam sat in the chair and was delighted, but when he got off the chair, he headed for the dock. Captain Peggy told Sam to just give it a few minutes and think about it. Sam told her he didn't need to think about it. My heart sank. I would not see any wild ponies frolicking along the shore. Then Sam surprised us all. "Don't need to think about it," he said. "I want to ride." We were astounded. "What changed your mind, buddy?" Kevin asked. "Never ridden a boat before," Sam replied.
As we made our way around the harbor, I couldn't help but think what a magical evening this was turning out to be. I was filled with pride over my little boy, who turned out to be so brave after all. The weather was perfect. We had seen some beautiful birds and any moment now we were going to see the ponies. Captain Peggy turned on some music, and of course, it was one of my all time favorite singers, James Taylor, singing "Carolina In My Mind." Captain Peggy pointed in the distance to a clump of trees on nearby Carrot Island. She had already told us that the ponies had been shy today, but I knew privately that they would come out for me. "And there," she said, "you can just make out one of the ponies. "I see it!" exclaimed one of the other women on the boat. I stared and stared, and then I stared some more. We weren't going that fast. I could not see anything that looked alive. We went on a ways more. Sam was as content as he could be. Captain Peggy played "Fire and Rain." She pointed out another pony in the distance. "Man, we are lucky," she said. Except I couldn't see this one either. I tried and tried to make it out. Kevin did, too. He took close up pictures in the direction Captain Peggy indicated hoping that they would reveal a pony.
The boat ride drew to a close. We never saw a pony. Two of the other women on the ride and of course, Captain Peggy, claimed they had. I saw a yacht that had just come in from Boca Raton but no pony. Sam had the right idea. He played with a couple of little plastic cars Captain Peggy loaned him and seemed to thoroughly enjoy the whole experience. I comforted myself with what at the time seemed to be some sort of profound secret truth. My idea was that maybe no one sees a wild pony. Maybe it is just something people want to see so badly that they believe they see it. I know this idea is not true, but I like it anyway.
I was looking forward to going on this trip, but when Kevin told me about the wild ponies on an island off the coast of North Carolina, my excitement couldn't be contained. The ponies were believed to be the descendants of ponies that had survived Spanish shipwrecks hundreds of years ago. I pictured one, a beautiful light tan colored one, galloping through the surf. In my mind it looked so exotic, so Spanish. I burst out, "Is the island Chincoteague?" Kevin was not sure, but he thought the island had a different name.
Misty of Chincoteague was a children's book I had read when I was young. I had never been one of those girls who loved to read about horses, but Misty of Chincoteague was a Newberry Award winning children's book, and at one time I had aspired to reading all the Newberry Award winners. I could not remember anything about the book, only that the island of Chincoteague was somewhere off the coast of the eastern United States. I also had a vague mental picture of the book's cover, which of course was of the beautiful, mysterious horse named Misty.
I googled Chincoteague and saw that Chincoteague Island was off the coast of Virginia. What about that? There was more than one of this sort of island. Maybe someday we would tour them all. Kevin did some researching of his own and informed me that the island he was talking about was called Shackleford Banks. We would have to take a ferry to get there. Not only were there wild ponies, but apparently it was also a great place to find sea shells. I adjusted my mental image of Shackleford Island just a tad. This time I saw a cluster of beautiful, wild yet gentle ponies standing in the sand. I was nearby holding an enormous pink tinged conch shell. But wait, where was Sam? I didn't dwell on this minor detail for long. Of course Sam would be with me having just as much fun as I was.
Or would he? Sam has lately been going through a phase where he doesn't want to do things. He says he is scared, or he just wants to stay at home. It doesn't matter if the destination is story time at the library or a play date with a friend or an adventure on an uninhabited island off the coast of North Carolina, he will often say he doesn't want to go.
It wasn't until we were nearing the North Carolina coast on Sunday that reality started to displace my romantic notions. Even though we were in our rental vehicle with the windows rolled up, I could almost feel the ocean breeze and smell the salty air. Kevin and I were in a cheerful mood. Sam, worn out from a big day of traveling, just wanted to go to our hotel. Kevin tried to cheer him up a bit by suggesting to him that he and I might go on a little boat ride tomorrow. "Don't want to go on a boat ride" was the response. "Well, then, Sam, maybe we will go see some wild ponies," I suggested. It was then that Kevin reminded me that we would have to take a boat to see the wild ponies. They were, after all, on an island. "Oh," I sighed. Maybe I was a bit tired, too.
Sam fell asleep in our rental SUV, and I stopped by a visitor center we saw along the way. I learned more about Shackleford Banks. It is uninhabited. There are no restaurants and there are no toilets. You take a ferry there which leaves at certain times of the day. It leaves you there, and you tell the captain when you want it to return to pick you up. Other phrases from the brochure stuck in my mind. Bits about staying fifty feet away from the ponies and bits about "aggressive" stallions. Given the circumstances of Kevin having to work and Sam's present mood and my own nervous disposition, this was starting to seem like more of an adventure than the two of us could handle. Now I could picture us being charged by angry wild ponies or more likely, us wandering around an island looking for ponies in vain and Sam whining about not having energy and wanting to go to the hotel. I pictured the other visitors to Shackleford Island, and Sam and I didn't fit that description either. The moms were no doubt tanned and lean and looked like they belonged in their Keens instead of just wearing them because they were cute and comfortable like I did. They had probably kayaked their own boats there. The kids. What did the kids on Shackleford Island look like? I didn't know, but I doubted they were wanting to go back to their hotels so they could watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.
The lady at the visitor center broke these increasingly disturbing musings with information about Carrot Island, which is between Beaufort, North Carolina and Shackleford Banks. She said that some of the wild ponies live there and can actually be seen from Front Street in Beaufort.
With that news we were on our way to Beaufort, and before you knew it we were driving up and down Front Street in Beaufort, my eyes straining to see a pony on Carrot Island. Carrot Island was indeed only a short distance away from Beaufort. It almost looked like you could swim over there. Any moment now I was going to see a pony, I just knew it, and I could get this pony thing out of my system.
We never, however, saw a pony, and we would soon go to our hotel an hour away, and, finally becoming a realist, I did not know if we would make it back on this trip.
That is when, however, Kevin saw the sign for "The Waterbug." "The Waterbug" was a cute little boat along Front Street that actually had a tour of the harbor coming up at 5:30, which was only thirty minutes away. All the other ferrys did not appear to do tours this late in the day on a Sunday. I ran up to the stand and looked at the ad for "The Waterbug." It claimed that the boat would go near Carrot Island, and we might very well see some wild ponies. That was it. We were getting on that boat.
By this time Sam was awake and in a little better mood about not being at our hotel. He still, however, did not want to ride in a boat. "Scared," he said. The lady who sold tickets for the boat and I managed to get Sam to climb aboard to see if we could change his mind. "Want to get off," Sam said. The operators of "The Water Bug" needed four passengers to make the 5:30 trip. They had three middle aged ladies already so they made another attempt to persuade Sam. The captain herself told Sam he could sit in the captain's chair if he got back on the boat. Sam sat in the chair and was delighted, but when he got off the chair, he headed for the dock. Captain Peggy told Sam to just give it a few minutes and think about it. Sam told her he didn't need to think about it. My heart sank. I would not see any wild ponies frolicking along the shore. Then Sam surprised us all. "Don't need to think about it," he said. "I want to ride." We were astounded. "What changed your mind, buddy?" Kevin asked. "Never ridden a boat before," Sam replied.
As we made our way around the harbor, I couldn't help but think what a magical evening this was turning out to be. I was filled with pride over my little boy, who turned out to be so brave after all. The weather was perfect. We had seen some beautiful birds and any moment now we were going to see the ponies. Captain Peggy turned on some music, and of course, it was one of my all time favorite singers, James Taylor, singing "Carolina In My Mind." Captain Peggy pointed in the distance to a clump of trees on nearby Carrot Island. She had already told us that the ponies had been shy today, but I knew privately that they would come out for me. "And there," she said, "you can just make out one of the ponies. "I see it!" exclaimed one of the other women on the boat. I stared and stared, and then I stared some more. We weren't going that fast. I could not see anything that looked alive. We went on a ways more. Sam was as content as he could be. Captain Peggy played "Fire and Rain." She pointed out another pony in the distance. "Man, we are lucky," she said. Except I couldn't see this one either. I tried and tried to make it out. Kevin did, too. He took close up pictures in the direction Captain Peggy indicated hoping that they would reveal a pony.
The boat ride drew to a close. We never saw a pony. Two of the other women on the ride and of course, Captain Peggy, claimed they had. I saw a yacht that had just come in from Boca Raton but no pony. Sam had the right idea. He played with a couple of little plastic cars Captain Peggy loaned him and seemed to thoroughly enjoy the whole experience. I comforted myself with what at the time seemed to be some sort of profound secret truth. My idea was that maybe no one sees a wild pony. Maybe it is just something people want to see so badly that they believe they see it. I know this idea is not true, but I like it anyway.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Today is What Matters
For me one of the best things about motherhood is the feeling that I am living in the present perhaps more fully than I have since I was in college over twenty years ago. For much of my young adulthood, I felt mired in past regret. I have been envious of Frank Sinatra in "My Way" because my regrets in my mind have not been "too few to mention." I realize that many of the mistakes I made were due to immaturity and that I should view them with more compassion than I tend to do, but, nevertheless, it has been all too easy for me to get bogged down in regret from time to time.
I guess at least three things have changed for me since those days when regretting the past and worrying about the future seemed to have me paralyzed. I became older and realized that life is short and that the last thing I wanted to do was to waste additional time thinking about what might have been. I met and married Kevin, who helped me to start living my life again instead of just thinking about it. And, of course, we had Sam, who keeps me so busy that I am delighted to find my feet are firmly planted in the present most of the time.
A couple of days ago I couldn't help but think again about the utter futility of giving the past too much thought and, of course, it was something that happened with Sam that reminded me of this lesson once again.
Sam loves these yogurt smoothie drinks for kids that I used to buy for him quite often until I became aware of their high sugar content. Perhaps the colorful cartoon monkeys decorating the bottle should have clued me in or maybe the names of the flavors, like "Splashin' Strawberry Banana." In any case, I finally stopped buying them but have had to endure Sam's frequent questioning on why I don't get the yogurt drinks anymore.
On a whim a few Sundays ago, I picked up a six pack of the yogurt drinks. I wanted to offer them to Sam as a reward for good behavior. The inner voice inside my head did not even wait for me to leave Kroger before it started screaming at me. "Yogurt drinks as a reward for good behavior? This is going to contribute to adulthood obesity. And you are bribing him again. Can't you make him behave without bribing him?" My inner voice's complaints fell on deaf ears this time. Sam's behavior had been so challenging for me to deal with lately that I was willing to try whatever I could to encourage him to be good. "Lighten up," I snapped at my uppity inner voice, "I'm just going to try it out!"
A friend of mine recently reminded me that with children, whether they are going through a good phase or a bad phase, it is just a phase. I believe that Sam was ending the end of a "bad phase" when I explained to him that he would get a yogurt drink as a treat at supper time if he had a good day the entire day. In any case, my experimentation in rewarding Sam for good behavior with yogurt drinks worked well except for the problem that occurred on day three.
On day three I forgot to give Sam his yogurt drink, and he forgot to ask for it. Right before bedtime I happened to mention that I owed Sam a yogurt drink for being so good all day long. Yes, I should have thought before I spoke, but you have to understand that part of what I was trying to do was to reinforce and encourage his good behavior. In any case, I was all set to give Sam his yogurt drink when Kevin reminded us that it often seems that if Sam eats or drinks too much right before bedtime he gets a tummy ache. He had a good point so we finally convinced an irritated but resigned Sam that he could have his yogurt drink first thing in the morning.
Sam is an early riser. He usually wakes up somewhere between 6 a.m. and 6:20. That means that I also wake up somewhere between 6 a.m. and 6:20 if I haven't woken up before. If I am lucky enough to have slept until Sam wakes me up, the last sort of discussion I want to have when I have just woken up is the kind of discussion that occurred the morning after Sam didn't get his yogurt drink previous night.
"Mommy!" Sam yells. I put on my glasses, robe, and slippers and stumble into his room.
"You ready to go downstairs, buddy?" I ask.
"Yogurt drink," he whines.
"Yeah, let's go downstairs and get your yogurt drink," I reply.
"Yogurt drink last night."
"Let's not worry about the yogurt drink last night. Let's go get your yogurt drink right now."
"Want to worry about yogurt drink last night."
And on this continued for several minutes. There is no doubt that my little boy is one of the greatest blessings of my life, but that does not change the fact that this kind of behavior first thing in the morning is simply maddening. Please let's go downstairs, watch a show, let me collect my thoughts and truly wake up. Anything but continue talking about this.
I tried everything I could to persuade Sam to go downstairs and stop talking about yesterday's yogurt drink but to no avail. Finally, the commanding, assertive Anne Marie that I often struggle to channel came to my rescue.
"If you don't stop worrying about it," I firmlysaid, "you are not going to get your yogurt drink today."
I am pleased to share with you that Sam then picked his "Happy Napper" penguin and his treasured blue elephant and came downstairs with his mom without further incident. I admit it. I was more than a little pleased with how that turned out.
I don't know what the future will bring. A small insane part of me already wants to worry about me in the future. Will I find myself dwelling on past mistakes and fretting about the future once again when I am not as busy with my little boy? Maybe not. It feels good not to be worrying as much. Maybe I will still be channelling my energy into more positive enterprises like this blog. In any case, I will try to remember what that frustrating early morning reminded me of, that if you don't let the past go, you may very well miss out on the "treats" that the present day has to offer.
I guess at least three things have changed for me since those days when regretting the past and worrying about the future seemed to have me paralyzed. I became older and realized that life is short and that the last thing I wanted to do was to waste additional time thinking about what might have been. I met and married Kevin, who helped me to start living my life again instead of just thinking about it. And, of course, we had Sam, who keeps me so busy that I am delighted to find my feet are firmly planted in the present most of the time.
A couple of days ago I couldn't help but think again about the utter futility of giving the past too much thought and, of course, it was something that happened with Sam that reminded me of this lesson once again.
Sam loves these yogurt smoothie drinks for kids that I used to buy for him quite often until I became aware of their high sugar content. Perhaps the colorful cartoon monkeys decorating the bottle should have clued me in or maybe the names of the flavors, like "Splashin' Strawberry Banana." In any case, I finally stopped buying them but have had to endure Sam's frequent questioning on why I don't get the yogurt drinks anymore.
On a whim a few Sundays ago, I picked up a six pack of the yogurt drinks. I wanted to offer them to Sam as a reward for good behavior. The inner voice inside my head did not even wait for me to leave Kroger before it started screaming at me. "Yogurt drinks as a reward for good behavior? This is going to contribute to adulthood obesity. And you are bribing him again. Can't you make him behave without bribing him?" My inner voice's complaints fell on deaf ears this time. Sam's behavior had been so challenging for me to deal with lately that I was willing to try whatever I could to encourage him to be good. "Lighten up," I snapped at my uppity inner voice, "I'm just going to try it out!"
A friend of mine recently reminded me that with children, whether they are going through a good phase or a bad phase, it is just a phase. I believe that Sam was ending the end of a "bad phase" when I explained to him that he would get a yogurt drink as a treat at supper time if he had a good day the entire day. In any case, my experimentation in rewarding Sam for good behavior with yogurt drinks worked well except for the problem that occurred on day three.
On day three I forgot to give Sam his yogurt drink, and he forgot to ask for it. Right before bedtime I happened to mention that I owed Sam a yogurt drink for being so good all day long. Yes, I should have thought before I spoke, but you have to understand that part of what I was trying to do was to reinforce and encourage his good behavior. In any case, I was all set to give Sam his yogurt drink when Kevin reminded us that it often seems that if Sam eats or drinks too much right before bedtime he gets a tummy ache. He had a good point so we finally convinced an irritated but resigned Sam that he could have his yogurt drink first thing in the morning.
Sam is an early riser. He usually wakes up somewhere between 6 a.m. and 6:20. That means that I also wake up somewhere between 6 a.m. and 6:20 if I haven't woken up before. If I am lucky enough to have slept until Sam wakes me up, the last sort of discussion I want to have when I have just woken up is the kind of discussion that occurred the morning after Sam didn't get his yogurt drink previous night.
"Mommy!" Sam yells. I put on my glasses, robe, and slippers and stumble into his room.
"You ready to go downstairs, buddy?" I ask.
"Yogurt drink," he whines.
"Yeah, let's go downstairs and get your yogurt drink," I reply.
"Yogurt drink last night."
"Let's not worry about the yogurt drink last night. Let's go get your yogurt drink right now."
"Want to worry about yogurt drink last night."
And on this continued for several minutes. There is no doubt that my little boy is one of the greatest blessings of my life, but that does not change the fact that this kind of behavior first thing in the morning is simply maddening. Please let's go downstairs, watch a show, let me collect my thoughts and truly wake up. Anything but continue talking about this.
I tried everything I could to persuade Sam to go downstairs and stop talking about yesterday's yogurt drink but to no avail. Finally, the commanding, assertive Anne Marie that I often struggle to channel came to my rescue.
"If you don't stop worrying about it," I firmlysaid, "you are not going to get your yogurt drink today."
I am pleased to share with you that Sam then picked his "Happy Napper" penguin and his treasured blue elephant and came downstairs with his mom without further incident. I admit it. I was more than a little pleased with how that turned out.
I don't know what the future will bring. A small insane part of me already wants to worry about me in the future. Will I find myself dwelling on past mistakes and fretting about the future once again when I am not as busy with my little boy? Maybe not. It feels good not to be worrying as much. Maybe I will still be channelling my energy into more positive enterprises like this blog. In any case, I will try to remember what that frustrating early morning reminded me of, that if you don't let the past go, you may very well miss out on the "treats" that the present day has to offer.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Theology 101?
Sam's latest obsession is superheroes. He loves to wear his Spiderman shirt. At night we read him kids' books on Batman, Superman, and Wonder Woman. He loves memorizing the different superheroes' names and learning their powers and limitations. He even knows the names of some of the slightly more obscure superheroes. For example, he knows Angel and Daredevil. We recently explained to Sam what it means to be blind when we were talking about Daredevil.
Two days ago I gave Sam five pairs of big boy superhero underwear. I tried to get him to wear a pair of his Thor underwear to Grandma's house, but he told me he would wait until he got to Grandma's to wear it. Yesterday he still was refusing to wear his new underwear, telling Grandma he would wear it at his house. My theory on this puzzling behavior is that he enjoys keeping his special new underwear brand new and that he enjoys looking at each pair and its featured character, something you can't do as well when you are wearing it!
I have mixed feelings about this new superhero phase. What happened to Thomas the train? I'm even looking longingly back on the days when the only thing he wanted to watch was Max and Ruby or Caillou. That is a sentiment I never thought I would express as I find both Ruby and Caillou to be extremely annoying.
Almost four just seems a young age to be so interested in superheroes. I know, I know what you are thinking. You read him books? You buy him underwear? What did you think would happen? The truth is I like the characters, too, and I love hearing him excitedly telling me all about Wolverine or Captain America. I just don't like the fighting. I cringe when I see his Batman or Spiderman action figures fighting the bad guys on the kitchen floor. A couple of days ago I heard him say the word "gun" for the first time when he was pretending a broken wooden piece of his clothes hamper was a gun. When Sam showed me his gun I replied, "I don't like guns" and walked away.
Since I have been somewhat worried about the influence of this latest obsession on Sam's moral development, I was thrilled when it recently became time for Sam to attend Vacation Bible School at the local Methodist church where he goes to Mother's Day Out. I breathed a little sigh of relief as Sam came home with a cross necklace he had strung and stories of Noah and his ark and other Biblical characters. Here, I thought, are some good wholesome influences to counter any negative effects of all these superheroes.
In the car after his last day of Bible school, Sam said, "If you follow Jesus you can change the world." "Is that true, Mommy?" he then asked. Thus began an impromptu discussion about Jesus, covering his relationship to God, his work on Earth, and even touching upon his death and resurrection. A rewarding topic to be sure, but one so heavy at times that I found myself wishing we could go back to talking about Noah and the ark.
I was explaining to Sam that Jesus healed the blind, allowing them to see again, when he asked, "Like Daredevil?" "Yes," I responded, "like Daredevil." I then had a brief moment when I could see the world through my son's eyes, a world where Daredevil and Jesus co-existed. No wonder Sam was suddenly interested in Jesus. In his mind He seemed just like another superhero and not just any superhero, but one that would enable Sam to change the world as well. I had a sudden mental image of Jesus inside an ancient dwelling with a dirt floor, healing the eyes of the rather shiny red Daredevil. Well, this was something I had never pictured before, but not too surprising considering that parenthood is taking me to all kinds of places I've never been to before. For now we'll just let Daredevil and Jesus co-exist. Sam is just almost four after all.
Two days ago I gave Sam five pairs of big boy superhero underwear. I tried to get him to wear a pair of his Thor underwear to Grandma's house, but he told me he would wait until he got to Grandma's to wear it. Yesterday he still was refusing to wear his new underwear, telling Grandma he would wear it at his house. My theory on this puzzling behavior is that he enjoys keeping his special new underwear brand new and that he enjoys looking at each pair and its featured character, something you can't do as well when you are wearing it!
I have mixed feelings about this new superhero phase. What happened to Thomas the train? I'm even looking longingly back on the days when the only thing he wanted to watch was Max and Ruby or Caillou. That is a sentiment I never thought I would express as I find both Ruby and Caillou to be extremely annoying.
Almost four just seems a young age to be so interested in superheroes. I know, I know what you are thinking. You read him books? You buy him underwear? What did you think would happen? The truth is I like the characters, too, and I love hearing him excitedly telling me all about Wolverine or Captain America. I just don't like the fighting. I cringe when I see his Batman or Spiderman action figures fighting the bad guys on the kitchen floor. A couple of days ago I heard him say the word "gun" for the first time when he was pretending a broken wooden piece of his clothes hamper was a gun. When Sam showed me his gun I replied, "I don't like guns" and walked away.
Since I have been somewhat worried about the influence of this latest obsession on Sam's moral development, I was thrilled when it recently became time for Sam to attend Vacation Bible School at the local Methodist church where he goes to Mother's Day Out. I breathed a little sigh of relief as Sam came home with a cross necklace he had strung and stories of Noah and his ark and other Biblical characters. Here, I thought, are some good wholesome influences to counter any negative effects of all these superheroes.
In the car after his last day of Bible school, Sam said, "If you follow Jesus you can change the world." "Is that true, Mommy?" he then asked. Thus began an impromptu discussion about Jesus, covering his relationship to God, his work on Earth, and even touching upon his death and resurrection. A rewarding topic to be sure, but one so heavy at times that I found myself wishing we could go back to talking about Noah and the ark.
I was explaining to Sam that Jesus healed the blind, allowing them to see again, when he asked, "Like Daredevil?" "Yes," I responded, "like Daredevil." I then had a brief moment when I could see the world through my son's eyes, a world where Daredevil and Jesus co-existed. No wonder Sam was suddenly interested in Jesus. In his mind He seemed just like another superhero and not just any superhero, but one that would enable Sam to change the world as well. I had a sudden mental image of Jesus inside an ancient dwelling with a dirt floor, healing the eyes of the rather shiny red Daredevil. Well, this was something I had never pictured before, but not too surprising considering that parenthood is taking me to all kinds of places I've never been to before. For now we'll just let Daredevil and Jesus co-exist. Sam is just almost four after all.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Remy
The Butlers said he weighed just two and a half pounds when they found him under their house. They gave him milk from a baby bottle and named him Remy.
He was not a mouse like his namesake, the Disney character in the animated film Ratatouille. By the time I saw much of him, he was a full grown gray cat, a little on the thin side. Ordinary looking perhaps, but anything but ordinary acting.
Everyone on our block knew Remy, and most had a story or an opinion about him. Even though he was technically the Butler's cat, he seemed to belong to us all. He loved to play chase with Jacque, the fluffy bichon puppy next door. He was not a friend to everyone or to every animal, however. He was known to terrorize George, our other next door neighbor's Jack Russell terrier.
More than anything else, Remy was known for slipping into people's houses and even businesses. He would just be right at the door when it was opened. "You know he goes into the Germantown Cafe," confided Mike, the owner of Zackie's hot dogs. Sam would burst into fits of laughter when Remy would slip through our door and find his way into our home.
A few months ago we had some additional flooring laid down in our attic. This required that the front door stayed open for little periods of time. I called one of the workmen we had hired to see if he needed anything. Mr. Scott assured me that everything was fine, but he added, "I think that one of your cats got out." As I opened my mouth to reply, "We don't have any cats," I of course realized of whom he was speaking.
Remy wore a little bell around his neck, which made his ability to sneak up on people all the more impressive. Maybe the bell hung there to give the birds he loved to chase fair warning. I'd often hear a little jingling in the trees in Lane and Jeanece's yard and know that Remy was on the prowl.
There were times that I probably could have stopped Remy from coming into our house, but I enjoyed rubbing his soft head, hearing him purr, and watching him roll onto his back seemingly wanting his belly rubbed. More like a puppy it seemed than a cat.
It is a wonder Remy stayed so thin. We were one of at least three families who fed him. Remy would come to our back door and meow pleadingly just about every day. Sam and I would give him milk. We even went so far as to purchase him his own little red dish.
Sadly, however, we never got to give Remy milk in his new dish. One day this spring we learned that Remy had been shot and his legs were mostly paralyzed. One of our elderly neighbors, upset about Remy disturbing his flower garden, shot him with a pellet gun.
In the days that followed, Remy continued to be his spirited self even while paralyzed. He escaped from our neighbor Ben, who was looking after him while the Butlers were out of town. Luckily, Drew and Ben found him. We all wondered if Remy would get better. Sam, Kevin, and I included him in our prayers at night.
One day in late spring we had our answer. "Remy is no more," Drew said. His owners had him put to sleep.
Sam has never mentioned again the little cat that started to seem like our own, but I wonder if he feels like I do. Does he miss the sound of Remy's little bell or the sight of him walking along the top of our fence? Does he miss his sweet playful ways? There is little red dish that sits on the deck at our back door. I don't have the heart to move it just yet.
He was not a mouse like his namesake, the Disney character in the animated film Ratatouille. By the time I saw much of him, he was a full grown gray cat, a little on the thin side. Ordinary looking perhaps, but anything but ordinary acting.
Everyone on our block knew Remy, and most had a story or an opinion about him. Even though he was technically the Butler's cat, he seemed to belong to us all. He loved to play chase with Jacque, the fluffy bichon puppy next door. He was not a friend to everyone or to every animal, however. He was known to terrorize George, our other next door neighbor's Jack Russell terrier.
More than anything else, Remy was known for slipping into people's houses and even businesses. He would just be right at the door when it was opened. "You know he goes into the Germantown Cafe," confided Mike, the owner of Zackie's hot dogs. Sam would burst into fits of laughter when Remy would slip through our door and find his way into our home.
A few months ago we had some additional flooring laid down in our attic. This required that the front door stayed open for little periods of time. I called one of the workmen we had hired to see if he needed anything. Mr. Scott assured me that everything was fine, but he added, "I think that one of your cats got out." As I opened my mouth to reply, "We don't have any cats," I of course realized of whom he was speaking.
Remy wore a little bell around his neck, which made his ability to sneak up on people all the more impressive. Maybe the bell hung there to give the birds he loved to chase fair warning. I'd often hear a little jingling in the trees in Lane and Jeanece's yard and know that Remy was on the prowl.
There were times that I probably could have stopped Remy from coming into our house, but I enjoyed rubbing his soft head, hearing him purr, and watching him roll onto his back seemingly wanting his belly rubbed. More like a puppy it seemed than a cat.
It is a wonder Remy stayed so thin. We were one of at least three families who fed him. Remy would come to our back door and meow pleadingly just about every day. Sam and I would give him milk. We even went so far as to purchase him his own little red dish.
Sadly, however, we never got to give Remy milk in his new dish. One day this spring we learned that Remy had been shot and his legs were mostly paralyzed. One of our elderly neighbors, upset about Remy disturbing his flower garden, shot him with a pellet gun.
In the days that followed, Remy continued to be his spirited self even while paralyzed. He escaped from our neighbor Ben, who was looking after him while the Butlers were out of town. Luckily, Drew and Ben found him. We all wondered if Remy would get better. Sam, Kevin, and I included him in our prayers at night.
One day in late spring we had our answer. "Remy is no more," Drew said. His owners had him put to sleep.
Sam has never mentioned again the little cat that started to seem like our own, but I wonder if he feels like I do. Does he miss the sound of Remy's little bell or the sight of him walking along the top of our fence? Does he miss his sweet playful ways? There is little red dish that sits on the deck at our back door. I don't have the heart to move it just yet.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Healthy Again
A note to my friends and family who are reading this post: I wrote most of this entry four months ago when Sam had pneumonia. He is doing just fine now. I didn't want you to worry. Thank you so much for reading.
Sam can whine with the best of them. He whines when he wants to watch another show and isn't getting his way or when the sprawling train track he built all over the floor is slightly disturbed. Or when he has to live with the injustice of a grape or a carrot remaining on his plate with the rest of his dinner. (oh, the horror!)
However, our little man is a stoically brave little man when it comes to being sick. Sam's mommy and daddy discovered today that Sam has pneumonia. I knew something was very wrong when Sam woke up this morning, walked a few steps into the hall, said, "Need to rest," and laid down on the floor. The doctor says that Sam is going to be just fine, but since I am writing this at a quarter til two on a sleepless Friday morning, I am apparently not convinced of that.
Sam, meanwhile, is sleeping relatively peacefully. That in itself is a blessing. I am thankful for Sam to receive a respite from the relentless coughing that has plagued him for several days now. Every now and again he whimpers a little in his sleep.
We've heard very little of this whimpering throughout the day, however. Sam has braved a visit to the doctor that included his first breathing treatment. He has patiently borne a breathing treatment and medicine through an inhaler four times today. He has taken oral medication four times today as well. All this with scarcely a complaint. During his breathing treatment he simply said, "Want to go home now." From time to time he will state the fact that is only all too obvious. "Still sick," he says. For the most part he just carries on playing and watching TV like he always does. He will cough so hard and for so long that I feel as though I am going to scream but then the next words out of his mouth soothe me as they are no doubt about an episode of "Jake and the Neverland Pirates" or maybe a request for me to get more water for his Magic Grow capsules.
How can Sam be so distraught over "grave injustices" like not getting to peel his own banana and then be so stoically resolute when he is very sick? Sam is equally as tough when it comes to accidents and injuries. He only cries or complains if he is very hurt or very frightened. Most of the time he just gets right up and keeps going.
I regularly glow with pride at his toughness and am just as regularly frustrated with his tantrums over what I consider to be minutia. Is it a three year old thing? Will he outgrow it? Or, is he already like his mother, overly anxious about all the little changes in our respective worlds, but, like me, also surprisingly brave at times? My anxiety issues are not something I would wish on anyone, but as I write these words, my inner voice says that he will be okay even if he is like me in many ways. I am very pleased and a little surprised to hear the voice inside my head automatically say that I am okay, that it is okay for Sam to take after me. This is not the way that my inner voice has always talked about me.
It has been four months since I started writing this post. I am not sure why I got so stuck writing it. It may simply be that keeping up with Sam keeps me very busy. I am glad to be finishing it though and hope to write again soon. My sweet little boy is not sick anymore and is nearing his fourth birthday. Also, it turns out that while writing this, I realized that I'm pretty healthy as well. It feels good to write that it is okay to be me and mean it. All of these things make me so happy and glad.
Sam can whine with the best of them. He whines when he wants to watch another show and isn't getting his way or when the sprawling train track he built all over the floor is slightly disturbed. Or when he has to live with the injustice of a grape or a carrot remaining on his plate with the rest of his dinner. (oh, the horror!)
However, our little man is a stoically brave little man when it comes to being sick. Sam's mommy and daddy discovered today that Sam has pneumonia. I knew something was very wrong when Sam woke up this morning, walked a few steps into the hall, said, "Need to rest," and laid down on the floor. The doctor says that Sam is going to be just fine, but since I am writing this at a quarter til two on a sleepless Friday morning, I am apparently not convinced of that.
Sam, meanwhile, is sleeping relatively peacefully. That in itself is a blessing. I am thankful for Sam to receive a respite from the relentless coughing that has plagued him for several days now. Every now and again he whimpers a little in his sleep.
We've heard very little of this whimpering throughout the day, however. Sam has braved a visit to the doctor that included his first breathing treatment. He has patiently borne a breathing treatment and medicine through an inhaler four times today. He has taken oral medication four times today as well. All this with scarcely a complaint. During his breathing treatment he simply said, "Want to go home now." From time to time he will state the fact that is only all too obvious. "Still sick," he says. For the most part he just carries on playing and watching TV like he always does. He will cough so hard and for so long that I feel as though I am going to scream but then the next words out of his mouth soothe me as they are no doubt about an episode of "Jake and the Neverland Pirates" or maybe a request for me to get more water for his Magic Grow capsules.
How can Sam be so distraught over "grave injustices" like not getting to peel his own banana and then be so stoically resolute when he is very sick? Sam is equally as tough when it comes to accidents and injuries. He only cries or complains if he is very hurt or very frightened. Most of the time he just gets right up and keeps going.
I regularly glow with pride at his toughness and am just as regularly frustrated with his tantrums over what I consider to be minutia. Is it a three year old thing? Will he outgrow it? Or, is he already like his mother, overly anxious about all the little changes in our respective worlds, but, like me, also surprisingly brave at times? My anxiety issues are not something I would wish on anyone, but as I write these words, my inner voice says that he will be okay even if he is like me in many ways. I am very pleased and a little surprised to hear the voice inside my head automatically say that I am okay, that it is okay for Sam to take after me. This is not the way that my inner voice has always talked about me.
It has been four months since I started writing this post. I am not sure why I got so stuck writing it. It may simply be that keeping up with Sam keeps me very busy. I am glad to be finishing it though and hope to write again soon. My sweet little boy is not sick anymore and is nearing his fourth birthday. Also, it turns out that while writing this, I realized that I'm pretty healthy as well. It feels good to write that it is okay to be me and mean it. All of these things make me so happy and glad.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)