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.
Monday, August 1, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, May 20, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
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.
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 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.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, February 14, 2011
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.
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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Tuesday, February 8, 2011
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.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
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.
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