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.
Monday, August 20, 2012
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.
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