A week and a half ago, #2 turned 10. It has taken me until today to put words to my emotions. Please forgive me, #2, for taking so long.
#2 is my most frustrating child, to me at least. I think it is because he is the one who is most like me. In him, I recognize my own potentials and possible failures. I see him doing many of the same things I did with many of the same results. It is hard not to call out to him and warn him of what lies ahead when I can see it so clearly. It is hard to remember that this life is his own.
I feel myself so wrapped around this child, this one I worked so hard for, that it is difficult to keep in mind that I have to begin letting go.
Here we are in the double digits. There was a time I was convinced that we would never get here, but here we are, on the threshold of his teens. He still holds my hand when we walk into stores, not because he's afraid, but because he still wants to do so. He still curls up next to me on the couch because he still wants to be my little boy. He still trembles a bit to confess wrongdoing, because my opinion of him still matters that much. He is still fighting to be my little boy even as the time of his childhood is sliding away.
I tell myself "not yet", "not today", he's still my baby now. He really isn't, for all he wants to be. He is my boy, soon to be my man, with his false bravado hiding his tender heart. He is my silent dreamer who dares to think the "what ifs" but is afraid to say them out loud lest they sound ridiculous when given voice. He is my odd one, not always understood by the world, but yearning to be given the opportunity to share his deep thoughts and deeper emotions.
But not today.
Today, he will put the deep things aside and laugh his infectious laugh, throwing back his head in his delight at simply being alive and being 10. For all of the good and bad and frustrating about #2, the best things are his love of God and his ability to enjoy the moment he is in. I wish he could teach me how.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
A Borrowed Baby
***Warning:This is a Crying Post, Grab Your Kleenex***
Three years ago, we lost our Bernadette half-way through pregnancy to a knot in her cord. My husband cried; my children cried; I could not cry. Tears would occasionally leak down my cheeks, but it was more overflow than mourning. I was too numb to actually be able to feel the loss of her.
How do you mourn someone you've never seen? How do you cry for an image in your mind? And not just for the baby she was, but the happy girl she would have become? One of my favorite phrases is a "remembered future." How do you mourn for all the remembered futures, all the should have beens?
Then an acquaintance handed me her 6 day old girl and I began to weep, loudly. The tears washed the makeup from my cheeks and any trace of mascara from my lashes. I cried and cried and cried. I began to heal.
Last week, #6 was the borrowed baby for a lovely couple I had never met before. We have a common friend who told me about them and asked for prayers. They had lost their son at week 19 of pregnancy due to tragic circumstances. They were stunned by the suddenness of death and by the swiftness with which tragedy had befallen them. Our common friend knew of our Bernadette and of the peace that came from being able to say good bye-to her. They were stuck in their grief, she told me, could I return the favor and let them borrow #6?
I met them last week at their home. They answered the door wearing the pinched look of grief and too much weight upon their shoulders. #6 was sleeping in that boneless baby way and I handed him over to the woman who would be his "mom" for the next hour or so.
"What's his name?" she asked.
"You tell me." I replied.
"Nathan. His name was Nathan." and the tears began to drip off of her chin.
I went quietly to the guest room and read a book I had brought while they held my boy and said good-bye to their own. With a place to focus their grief, they could hold it back no longer.
I could hear nothing but sobbing and then her wail of "I'm sorry I couldn't keep you safe. I was your mom and it was my job to keep you safe. I'm so sorry, Nathan."
They held and kissed and loved our boy for well over an hour before they brought him back to me. The tears had dried upon their cheeks and the hunch of their shoulders was lifting.
His "dad" held him close and whispered "Good-bye, my son."
His "mom" kissed him and said "I'll always love you." #6 smiled his giant smile and planted a face-licking baby kiss on her jaw. She smiled and said, "He kissed me good-bye."
They both hugged me tightly and then watched with quivering lips as I put a smiling cooing boy into his carseat for the ride home. I was half a block away when my phone rang.
"Thank you." she told me. "You don't know what a gift it is to be able to say good-bye."
"Yes, I do," I replied.
I could hear the slight smile in her voice as she said, "You'll never guess what my husband said. He said 'Do you think she knows? Do you think she knows that she's the Angel of Mercy and the Angel of Death? She gave him to us and then she took him away."
"Yeah," I sighed, "I know, and I'm sorry."
"We forgive you." She said, and I knew that they had.
*Written with great love for Nathan's parents, with their permission, in the hope that other parents will consider letting their own children be borrowed babies and help heal someone's heart. Saying good-bye is only the beginning, but it is the hardest part.
Three years ago, we lost our Bernadette half-way through pregnancy to a knot in her cord. My husband cried; my children cried; I could not cry. Tears would occasionally leak down my cheeks, but it was more overflow than mourning. I was too numb to actually be able to feel the loss of her.
How do you mourn someone you've never seen? How do you cry for an image in your mind? And not just for the baby she was, but the happy girl she would have become? One of my favorite phrases is a "remembered future." How do you mourn for all the remembered futures, all the should have beens?
Then an acquaintance handed me her 6 day old girl and I began to weep, loudly. The tears washed the makeup from my cheeks and any trace of mascara from my lashes. I cried and cried and cried. I began to heal.
Last week, #6 was the borrowed baby for a lovely couple I had never met before. We have a common friend who told me about them and asked for prayers. They had lost their son at week 19 of pregnancy due to tragic circumstances. They were stunned by the suddenness of death and by the swiftness with which tragedy had befallen them. Our common friend knew of our Bernadette and of the peace that came from being able to say good bye-to her. They were stuck in their grief, she told me, could I return the favor and let them borrow #6?
I met them last week at their home. They answered the door wearing the pinched look of grief and too much weight upon their shoulders. #6 was sleeping in that boneless baby way and I handed him over to the woman who would be his "mom" for the next hour or so.
"What's his name?" she asked.
"You tell me." I replied.
"Nathan. His name was Nathan." and the tears began to drip off of her chin.
I went quietly to the guest room and read a book I had brought while they held my boy and said good-bye to their own. With a place to focus their grief, they could hold it back no longer.
I could hear nothing but sobbing and then her wail of "I'm sorry I couldn't keep you safe. I was your mom and it was my job to keep you safe. I'm so sorry, Nathan."
They held and kissed and loved our boy for well over an hour before they brought him back to me. The tears had dried upon their cheeks and the hunch of their shoulders was lifting.
His "dad" held him close and whispered "Good-bye, my son."
His "mom" kissed him and said "I'll always love you." #6 smiled his giant smile and planted a face-licking baby kiss on her jaw. She smiled and said, "He kissed me good-bye."
They both hugged me tightly and then watched with quivering lips as I put a smiling cooing boy into his carseat for the ride home. I was half a block away when my phone rang.
"Thank you." she told me. "You don't know what a gift it is to be able to say good-bye."
"Yes, I do," I replied.
I could hear the slight smile in her voice as she said, "You'll never guess what my husband said. He said 'Do you think she knows? Do you think she knows that she's the Angel of Mercy and the Angel of Death? She gave him to us and then she took him away."
"Yeah," I sighed, "I know, and I'm sorry."
"We forgive you." She said, and I knew that they had.
*Written with great love for Nathan's parents, with their permission, in the hope that other parents will consider letting their own children be borrowed babies and help heal someone's heart. Saying good-bye is only the beginning, but it is the hardest part.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Odd
If you write 3.14 on a piece of paper and hold it up to the mirror it says PIE.
Just passin' it along.
Just passin' it along.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Stupid Is As Stupid Does
When I was a freshman in college, I couldn't wait to take Sculpture 101. I was one of those weird art kids in high school. Four years in the honors art program had puffed me up about my own creative abilities. I was the proverbial big fish in the little pond, and my label in our small town school was the "artsy girl." So, Sculpture 101 was my "fun" class in my poli sci schedule. It was supposed to be the class where I could relax my brain and just have fun. I should have taken bowling.
It didn't help that my sculpture professor was a sexist pig. I'm no feminist crazy here, so when I call him sexist, you can take my word for it. He began the semester by drawing the "perfect woman" on the white board. Other than no head and enormous boobs, I don't remember much about it. I was there to sculpt, who cared what kind of jerk taught the class?
I came to care very quickly. 18 years old and pretty cute, if I'm any judge of these things, I spent a good portion of the first few weeks being ogled by a man older than my own father. A man who looked down my shirt any chance he got. Not only that, but he hated anything I did.
I sculpted people and he yawned. I created impressionistic works, and he complained about how unoriginal I was. I made pots covered with monkey-men who had feathers sprouting from their heads; he shook his head and asked how I could fail art. I saw the work of my classmates and listened to his puffed-up opinions of his own artistic abilities. He used words I'm not sure he actually knew the meaning of to try and explain thoughts and feelings that I'm not sure he ever experienced. It was vapid pomposity and I was failing because I wouldn't stroke his ego.
I was unsure of what to do. What could I possibly create which would live up to his falsely high standards? I sat in class that Tuesday and punched and pinched and poked at the clay creating an amorphous blob. No thinking, just staring out the window brooding a bit, and doodling in clay.
Brilliance! he said. Wondrous creativity! What could this masterpiece be?
I raised a quizzical eyebrow and said the first word I thought of, "Yellow."
Yellow? he asked. This funny looking thing is yellow?
"It's my interpretation of the color yellow as a form."
He actually clapped his hands, the pompous fool. Clapped his hands as he stared at my chest. I saw no reason to correct myself and say it was my mental doodle. Yellow I'd said, and yellow it became.
The next week I created Red, and Green the next. I breezed through the semester by emptying my mind and creating nothing and then slapping a color on it and declaring it done. He was so sure that he knew everything that he showed how little he really understood.
My 9 colors made the student show. The professors exclaimed over the brilliance of my work. The other students were onto me. They weren't fooled for a moment. "It's an act, isn't it?" I was asked again and again. "It's not really anything but clever naming. Right?" One especially perceptive senior remarked.
The small town professors were so sure of what they wanted to see that they were unable to see the truth.
I learned a lot from that art class. I learned about pigs in authority and how it doesn't change them, but makes them more obnoxious. I learned that I have no patience for fools, no matter who they may be. I learned that I'm pretty quick on my feet and can think of weird stuff and make it sound plausible.
Most importantly I learned about people and self-importance and how easily we can all be fooled. When we are unwilling to be humble, to admit that we don't know, to seem less than the expert...that's when some young pup will come along and sculpt the color yellow and figure out how foolish we really are. How much better it would be to be kind and generous, and always learning, and admit that we really know nothing at all.
It didn't help that my sculpture professor was a sexist pig. I'm no feminist crazy here, so when I call him sexist, you can take my word for it. He began the semester by drawing the "perfect woman" on the white board. Other than no head and enormous boobs, I don't remember much about it. I was there to sculpt, who cared what kind of jerk taught the class?
I came to care very quickly. 18 years old and pretty cute, if I'm any judge of these things, I spent a good portion of the first few weeks being ogled by a man older than my own father. A man who looked down my shirt any chance he got. Not only that, but he hated anything I did.
I sculpted people and he yawned. I created impressionistic works, and he complained about how unoriginal I was. I made pots covered with monkey-men who had feathers sprouting from their heads; he shook his head and asked how I could fail art. I saw the work of my classmates and listened to his puffed-up opinions of his own artistic abilities. He used words I'm not sure he actually knew the meaning of to try and explain thoughts and feelings that I'm not sure he ever experienced. It was vapid pomposity and I was failing because I wouldn't stroke his ego.
I was unsure of what to do. What could I possibly create which would live up to his falsely high standards? I sat in class that Tuesday and punched and pinched and poked at the clay creating an amorphous blob. No thinking, just staring out the window brooding a bit, and doodling in clay.
Brilliance! he said. Wondrous creativity! What could this masterpiece be?
I raised a quizzical eyebrow and said the first word I thought of, "Yellow."
Yellow? he asked. This funny looking thing is yellow?
"It's my interpretation of the color yellow as a form."
He actually clapped his hands, the pompous fool. Clapped his hands as he stared at my chest. I saw no reason to correct myself and say it was my mental doodle. Yellow I'd said, and yellow it became.
The next week I created Red, and Green the next. I breezed through the semester by emptying my mind and creating nothing and then slapping a color on it and declaring it done. He was so sure that he knew everything that he showed how little he really understood.
My 9 colors made the student show. The professors exclaimed over the brilliance of my work. The other students were onto me. They weren't fooled for a moment. "It's an act, isn't it?" I was asked again and again. "It's not really anything but clever naming. Right?" One especially perceptive senior remarked.
The small town professors were so sure of what they wanted to see that they were unable to see the truth.
I learned a lot from that art class. I learned about pigs in authority and how it doesn't change them, but makes them more obnoxious. I learned that I have no patience for fools, no matter who they may be. I learned that I'm pretty quick on my feet and can think of weird stuff and make it sound plausible.
Most importantly I learned about people and self-importance and how easily we can all be fooled. When we are unwilling to be humble, to admit that we don't know, to seem less than the expert...that's when some young pup will come along and sculpt the color yellow and figure out how foolish we really are. How much better it would be to be kind and generous, and always learning, and admit that we really know nothing at all.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Merry Christmas from the Mom's house
I came down the stairs at just after 6:00 to start the coffee and found #'s 2 and 3 waiting patiently and gazing at the Christmas tree.
We got over 6 inches of snow yesterday and are blissfully snowed-in. No mad dashes to any relative's house; no one expected over here. Just a quiet day of the eight of us enjoying each other and celebrating our Savior's birth. (With a triple fudge birthday cake.) All I wanted for Christmas was a quiet, stress-free day with my children and my sweetheart. Thank you to God for the perfect gift!
A very, very Merry Christmas to you all!!!!
love always,
the Mom
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Shame On You Houston Channel 13!
Posted on facebook by a childhood friend of mine. He's a US Marshal in the Houston area.
I am asking ALL of my facebook friends to blog on Channel 13 News Houston's website in reference to the loss of K-9 Blek. Channel 13 news helicopter was asked to remove themselves from the immediate search area 3 times last night. They refused in order to get their story. They got their story. The story could quite possibly have read that the suspects were immediately captured. Instead, we are grieving for one of our own. Communication is key to survival. The Channel 13 helicopter flew so close overhead that neither James, Ted or myself could speak to each other without yelling at the top of our voices. This direclty affected Ted and James from communicating with Blek, and helping us locate him. It could have been any one of use who lost our lives in those woods last night. I feel we ALL need to take the time to let the NEWS MEDIA know our extreme displeasure with the means in which they will go to get their story, especially when it affects the lives of so many. Please demand they issue a public appology to the Law Enforcement community, but more specific Deputy Ted Dahlin and his family. This is my opinion and request only. It does not represent any request made by my office or the Administrators of my office. God Bless-
Sunday, December 20, 2009
The What-Ifs
My life is at a time of exciting possibilities. The Computer Guy and I have had many potentialities (is that a word?)presented to us in the past few weeks. Paths which could take us to new places in our family and our life together.
It is exhilarating to allow my mind to wonder down the path of "what if." What if I could do the things that have been proposed to me, could I actually do it? What if I failed? Could I live with seeing myself flop? Scarier still, what if I succeeded?
I'm like that kid on the high dive, peeking over the edge, contemplating either grand adventure or my own demise.
I once was a girl who would have shouted "What the heck?" into the wind and thrown myself headlong at this crazy thing. I would never have even seen the chance of failure. It would never have occurred to me that succeeding could be anything but grand.
What happens to us as we get older? Some people call it wiser, but I call it safe. There was a time I would have declared safe to be boring, but I've had enough of exciting and interesting to last me until I'm 90. I've learned that one girl's boring is another's bliss. I've grown comfortable with boring.
I'm not sure that comfortable is where I'm supposed to be.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
A Grace Thing
I overheard #3 talking with his best friend about Christmas and Santa Claus, it went something like this.
Friend: "I don't get that whole Santa and the chimney thing. How does he come down it."
#3: "What do you mean?"
Friend: "I mean does he really some down it? 'Cause last year, me and my brother snuck out and turned the fire on in the fireplace to see what would happen. That morning the fire was still on but there were presents under the tree. How did he not get burned?"
#3: "Oh, that's easy. He's a saint, you know St Nicholas? Saints are already dead. You can't die twice."
Friend: "You mean he's like a ghost?"
#3: "No, not a ghost, a saint. Don't ask me how it works. It's a Grace thing."
Friend: "I don't get that whole Santa and the chimney thing. How does he come down it."
#3: "What do you mean?"
Friend: "I mean does he really some down it? 'Cause last year, me and my brother snuck out and turned the fire on in the fireplace to see what would happen. That morning the fire was still on but there were presents under the tree. How did he not get burned?"
#3: "Oh, that's easy. He's a saint, you know St Nicholas? Saints are already dead. You can't die twice."
Friend: "You mean he's like a ghost?"
#3: "No, not a ghost, a saint. Don't ask me how it works. It's a Grace thing."
Friday, December 18, 2009
Home
There is a part of all of me that will forever be twelve, scabby knees and braces.
I can close my eyes and vividly remember the freedom of riding my bike to the pool in the summertime. It was the first time I'd been allowed to go any distance at all unsupervised and I reveled in the freedom of it. I know in my memory the feel of the sun and the smell of the dry South Texas wind. I can hear the sound of my own voice singing out over the sound of wheels and bike chain.
In the deep places in my mind, I can hear the voice of my mother chatting gaily on the phone with her sister, laughing that grown-up laugh when things are delightfully off-color and then whispering and giggling when I walked into the room. I know with certainty the smell of her perfume and the touch of her hand as it brushed my mop of hair off my forehead and out of my eyes. I can still feel the warm, dry press of her lips against my cheek and hear the whisper of "I love you" in my ear.
My memory resounds with the deep tones of my father singing on the way home from Mass and how safe it felt to sit beside him on the couch, watching the John Wayne movies I hated just content to sit there and be his girl. I recall his sourdough pancakes on Saturdays, and him laughing the first time he heard me say a bad word, and then even harder when I pleaded with him to not tell Mom.
I remember Christmas, the giant tree with its colored lights, and how Santa Claus always came while we were at Midnight Mass. I know in my mind the sound of my parents' voices singing carols and my father hefting me up into his arms to carry me to bed after I fell asleep on the couch.
There is a part of me which will forever be twelve and want to climb back into my memory. To live again in a world where I was loved and adored and the "good child." A time back before the world exploded.
All I wanted for Christmas was to be again someone's child for a moment. To be again their beloved girl, carefree and cared for.
I fell asleep this afternoon with the baby thinking that, for some things, the price is too dear. I awoke while dreaming in that confusing way where the dream seems real. Mom's throaty cackle wafted up from the kitchen with the scent of cinnamon rolls. For that brief second I was home again, warm and cozy. God gave me that unexpected gift of a trip back to childhood. It was all I really wanted for Christmas. I guess my Father came through for me after all.
I can close my eyes and vividly remember the freedom of riding my bike to the pool in the summertime. It was the first time I'd been allowed to go any distance at all unsupervised and I reveled in the freedom of it. I know in my memory the feel of the sun and the smell of the dry South Texas wind. I can hear the sound of my own voice singing out over the sound of wheels and bike chain.
In the deep places in my mind, I can hear the voice of my mother chatting gaily on the phone with her sister, laughing that grown-up laugh when things are delightfully off-color and then whispering and giggling when I walked into the room. I know with certainty the smell of her perfume and the touch of her hand as it brushed my mop of hair off my forehead and out of my eyes. I can still feel the warm, dry press of her lips against my cheek and hear the whisper of "I love you" in my ear.
My memory resounds with the deep tones of my father singing on the way home from Mass and how safe it felt to sit beside him on the couch, watching the John Wayne movies I hated just content to sit there and be his girl. I recall his sourdough pancakes on Saturdays, and him laughing the first time he heard me say a bad word, and then even harder when I pleaded with him to not tell Mom.
I remember Christmas, the giant tree with its colored lights, and how Santa Claus always came while we were at Midnight Mass. I know in my mind the sound of my parents' voices singing carols and my father hefting me up into his arms to carry me to bed after I fell asleep on the couch.
There is a part of me which will forever be twelve and want to climb back into my memory. To live again in a world where I was loved and adored and the "good child." A time back before the world exploded.
All I wanted for Christmas was to be again someone's child for a moment. To be again their beloved girl, carefree and cared for.
I fell asleep this afternoon with the baby thinking that, for some things, the price is too dear. I awoke while dreaming in that confusing way where the dream seems real. Mom's throaty cackle wafted up from the kitchen with the scent of cinnamon rolls. For that brief second I was home again, warm and cozy. God gave me that unexpected gift of a trip back to childhood. It was all I really wanted for Christmas. I guess my Father came through for me after all.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Meeting Him Here
I once heard a rabbi tell a tale about a father and his son. They had fought many years before and feelings were hurt on both sides. The son moved far away and carried on with his life, living as one with no father. The father missed his son terribly and grieved over the loss of his child.
One day, the father sent a messenger to his son who said, "Your father says, 'My son, I love you. Please come back to me.'"
The son said in reply, "There has been too much hurt. I can not return to you."
The father again sent the messenger to say, "So much time has passed. Let us leave it in the past where it belongs. My son, I love you, please return to me."
Again the son refused, "There has been too much time, and my life has gone on without you. I am still in too much pain. I can not return to you."
The father wept bitter tears, grieving for his lost child. Then he tried one last time, and the messenger said, "My son, I love you. Come to me, as far as you can, and I will meet you there."
Once, my father and I were very close. We were more comrades and confidantes, survivors of the same war, than father and child. Then, many years ago, we had a falling out. We went our separate ways and our lives continued on without each other.
I have grieved over the loss of him and have told him that my door is always open. He has never come. There are children in my house he has never seen. Grandbabies he has never held in the crook of his arm as they slumber peacefully by his heart. I have older children with no memory of him or memories which are swiftly fading. How could he have no interest in these precious ones?
Then someone we both love told me, "He reads your blog. Just to know how you are. He reads it whenever you write." I wept tears of joy and relief. This is not the action of someone who doesn't care. It is the action of someone who is frightened and unsure.
He has come to me as close as he can and I will meet him here.
Dad, this is for you. Allow me to introduce you to your grandchildren.
#1 is a cheerleader for her high school team. She is much grown up from the shy 5 year old you knew who was learning to play the guitar.
#2, the NICU baby who struggled to breathe is now a champion gymnast.
#3, who was a barely crawling baby when you saw him, now lives his life having amazing adventures. We usually see him like this.
But, like all super heroes, he has a secret identity, so here is mild-mannered #3.
Our sweet fairy girl, #4.
Our big moose, #5, who only sits still for so long.
And sweet #6. He smiles like this all the time. You would, too, if you were universally adored.
Merry Christmas, Dad, I hope you are happy and that life treats you well.
One day, the father sent a messenger to his son who said, "Your father says, 'My son, I love you. Please come back to me.'"
The son said in reply, "There has been too much hurt. I can not return to you."
The father again sent the messenger to say, "So much time has passed. Let us leave it in the past where it belongs. My son, I love you, please return to me."
Again the son refused, "There has been too much time, and my life has gone on without you. I am still in too much pain. I can not return to you."
The father wept bitter tears, grieving for his lost child. Then he tried one last time, and the messenger said, "My son, I love you. Come to me, as far as you can, and I will meet you there."
Once, my father and I were very close. We were more comrades and confidantes, survivors of the same war, than father and child. Then, many years ago, we had a falling out. We went our separate ways and our lives continued on without each other.
I have grieved over the loss of him and have told him that my door is always open. He has never come. There are children in my house he has never seen. Grandbabies he has never held in the crook of his arm as they slumber peacefully by his heart. I have older children with no memory of him or memories which are swiftly fading. How could he have no interest in these precious ones?
Then someone we both love told me, "He reads your blog. Just to know how you are. He reads it whenever you write." I wept tears of joy and relief. This is not the action of someone who doesn't care. It is the action of someone who is frightened and unsure.
He has come to me as close as he can and I will meet him here.
Dad, this is for you. Allow me to introduce you to your grandchildren.
#1 is a cheerleader for her high school team. She is much grown up from the shy 5 year old you knew who was learning to play the guitar.
#2, the NICU baby who struggled to breathe is now a champion gymnast.
#3, who was a barely crawling baby when you saw him, now lives his life having amazing adventures. We usually see him like this.
But, like all super heroes, he has a secret identity, so here is mild-mannered #3.
Our sweet fairy girl, #4.
Our big moose, #5, who only sits still for so long.
And sweet #6. He smiles like this all the time. You would, too, if you were universally adored.
Merry Christmas, Dad, I hope you are happy and that life treats you well.
Dang It!
My post-baby wheat allergy has returned just in time for Christmas. I love to bake and adjust recipes based upon the taste of the batter/dough. Everyone getting baked goods for their presents will just have to live with the taste the recipe person came up with and no special "Mom-ish" twist. Sorry, but that's life.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
The Power of a Baby
#6 and I went Christmas shopping at the mall yesterday. I was looking for gifts, and he was in his sling beaming his toothless grin at an adoring world. He loves the sling because it allows him to meet people eye to eye, and he is a boy who dearly loves people.
He often gets ignored or overlooked when people see only the number of children I have with me and not his sunny face. Yesterday he was in his glory. The only child in sight, he was free to flirt his way through the stores, one enchanted face at a time.
We were 10 feet into the first store when he flashed a grin and a dimple at two ladies in their 70s who were immediately drawn to us and had to exclaim over his cuteness. Before we had made our way out of the men's department, my son had charmed a dozen grandparents, and a couple of sales ladies.
"If you don't stop flirting, we'll be here forever," I whispered into his ear. He squealed and flapped his arms.
Then he saw the group of goth kids standing by the escalator. All with four or more face piercings and slouchy posture, the ones who seem so wrapped in their own depression that a cloud hangs over them. I started to edge away from them when #6 saw one of the boys looking at him and shrieked in delight and glowed with pleasure at the sight of this young man. The goth boy smiled back. He and his friends walked hesitantly over to us and he gently touched my baby's cheek with his finger. #6 reached up and wrapped his chubby hand around the boy's finger, cocked his head to the side and grinned. The whole group smiled in response and wished us a "Merry Christmas" as we walked away.
I began to sing softly to myself and appreciate the warmth of the reactions to the goodwill ambassador I carried. A new spring crept into my step and the stress of my shopping trip started to melt away.
We began to see the same people from one store to another the way mall shoppers do, but they were all friends of my son by that point, waving to my baby and greeting him by name. One of his new loves was a middle aged woman in a motorized wheelchair, her body was twisted and ravaged by disease, but #6 saw none of it. He saw her smile and her laughing eyes and grew more enthusiastic about her every time he spotted her. After our 5th run-in, she tentatively asked to be able to hold him. I lifted him from his sling and handed him to her. He studied her face for a moment and then wiggled his eyebrows and sang to her in his own sweet croaky way, and then laid his tiny head upon her shoulder for a moment before looking for me again.
All day, as I watched with growing understanding the power of love and trust upon an unsuspecting world, my son taught me about the truth of Christmas. The whole point of the season is a smiling baby boy who came into the world and loved everyone He saw and invited them to love Him in return. He didn't notice facial piercings or weird tattoos, or social status. He paid no mind to twisted bodies or aged faces. He simply loved the world and beamed His goodwill at all of us and waited patiently for us to adore Him back.
He often gets ignored or overlooked when people see only the number of children I have with me and not his sunny face. Yesterday he was in his glory. The only child in sight, he was free to flirt his way through the stores, one enchanted face at a time.
We were 10 feet into the first store when he flashed a grin and a dimple at two ladies in their 70s who were immediately drawn to us and had to exclaim over his cuteness. Before we had made our way out of the men's department, my son had charmed a dozen grandparents, and a couple of sales ladies.
"If you don't stop flirting, we'll be here forever," I whispered into his ear. He squealed and flapped his arms.
Then he saw the group of goth kids standing by the escalator. All with four or more face piercings and slouchy posture, the ones who seem so wrapped in their own depression that a cloud hangs over them. I started to edge away from them when #6 saw one of the boys looking at him and shrieked in delight and glowed with pleasure at the sight of this young man. The goth boy smiled back. He and his friends walked hesitantly over to us and he gently touched my baby's cheek with his finger. #6 reached up and wrapped his chubby hand around the boy's finger, cocked his head to the side and grinned. The whole group smiled in response and wished us a "Merry Christmas" as we walked away.
I began to sing softly to myself and appreciate the warmth of the reactions to the goodwill ambassador I carried. A new spring crept into my step and the stress of my shopping trip started to melt away.
We began to see the same people from one store to another the way mall shoppers do, but they were all friends of my son by that point, waving to my baby and greeting him by name. One of his new loves was a middle aged woman in a motorized wheelchair, her body was twisted and ravaged by disease, but #6 saw none of it. He saw her smile and her laughing eyes and grew more enthusiastic about her every time he spotted her. After our 5th run-in, she tentatively asked to be able to hold him. I lifted him from his sling and handed him to her. He studied her face for a moment and then wiggled his eyebrows and sang to her in his own sweet croaky way, and then laid his tiny head upon her shoulder for a moment before looking for me again.
All day, as I watched with growing understanding the power of love and trust upon an unsuspecting world, my son taught me about the truth of Christmas. The whole point of the season is a smiling baby boy who came into the world and loved everyone He saw and invited them to love Him in return. He didn't notice facial piercings or weird tattoos, or social status. He paid no mind to twisted bodies or aged faces. He simply loved the world and beamed His goodwill at all of us and waited patiently for us to adore Him back.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Leaky (for The Misfit)
My children are leaking goo from every hole in their heads. It's official. We have the flu at our house. I have it too, of course, but I am The Mom so no rest for me.
Someone once asked me if it was better to have them all sick at once or one after another. I tend to lean towards "all at once". It's like ripping off a band-aid. It's painful, but you get it over with.
It's days like these that make me want to run away and just hide out on a beach somewhere with something fruity in my hand. I just want a cute pink drink with a dumb umbrella thingy in it. Somewhere warm, sunning myself on the sand....not here cleaning up vomit..again.
I know these children are a gift, and that I should be grateful to have them, but at this moment they seem like more of a gag gift (in more ways than one.) Surely God doesn't give presents that leak, does he?
I went on line a couple days ago and found comfort in the unlikeliest of places. I found an infertility blog. As I read over this woman's heartache and her longing to have a child, just one child, it became clear to me that my current hell would be heavenly to her. She would take my disgustingly leaky children and be so very happy to have them. I'm offering all of this up for her, The Misfit. I hope and pray that someway God can take this achy, leaky, disgustingness that is my life right now and find a way to use it for her benefit. For her, I will not complain about 2 year olds who whine incessantly, or a 5 year old who uses a new tissue every time she blows her nose, or even my own feverishness. This is all a blessing, no matter how difficult that may be to see today.
Misfit, this one's for you. I pray it helps.
Someone once asked me if it was better to have them all sick at once or one after another. I tend to lean towards "all at once". It's like ripping off a band-aid. It's painful, but you get it over with.
It's days like these that make me want to run away and just hide out on a beach somewhere with something fruity in my hand. I just want a cute pink drink with a dumb umbrella thingy in it. Somewhere warm, sunning myself on the sand....not here cleaning up vomit..again.
I know these children are a gift, and that I should be grateful to have them, but at this moment they seem like more of a gag gift (in more ways than one.) Surely God doesn't give presents that leak, does he?
I went on line a couple days ago and found comfort in the unlikeliest of places. I found an infertility blog. As I read over this woman's heartache and her longing to have a child, just one child, it became clear to me that my current hell would be heavenly to her. She would take my disgustingly leaky children and be so very happy to have them. I'm offering all of this up for her, The Misfit. I hope and pray that someway God can take this achy, leaky, disgustingness that is my life right now and find a way to use it for her benefit. For her, I will not complain about 2 year olds who whine incessantly, or a 5 year old who uses a new tissue every time she blows her nose, or even my own feverishness. This is all a blessing, no matter how difficult that may be to see today.
Misfit, this one's for you. I pray it helps.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Leopard Stilettos
Today is the annual Christmas party at the Computer Guy's company. I know it's silly, but it's a day I look forward to all year. It's the one day when I get to get dressed up, not church dressed up but cocktail party dressed up, and go out with my sweet husband and be grown ups.
I bought my dress in September. I couldn't even wear it then, but knew that if I kicked my own butt hard enough I could lose the 10 pounds necessary to wear this perfect little black dress. I lost the weight weeks ago and topped it off by losing 3 more in the last week. Only will power and a cute dress can get you to lose weight at Thanksgiving!
Two weeks ago, I blew all my birthday money on killer shoes. Leopard stilettos with 4 inch heels. These babies are smokin' hot. I've been looking for the perfect pair since buying the dress and happily handed over every penny my mother in law had given me when I found them. I've never owned shoes this expensive. I think I once bought an entire wardrobe for less than the cost of this one pair of shoes.
I made an appointment to get my hair done and was pleasantly surprised to find that someone who loves me (you know who you are) had paid for a manicure and facial to go with it. How many times in her life does a mom of 6 get to get dolled up and feel like Cinderella for an evening, shoes and all?
Not this year. The Computer Guy is under the weather, so we will be skipping this evening's festivities. As sorry as I am for him, the girl in me is crushed.
The beauty appointments have been canceled. The dress will have to wait until another day, and my perfect shoes will sit upon the shelf unworn. Where am I going to wear leopard stilettos in my real life?
On second thought...I could vacuum in them. Maybe vacuuming would be a lot more fun if I do it while wearing the perfect 4 inch heels.
I bought my dress in September. I couldn't even wear it then, but knew that if I kicked my own butt hard enough I could lose the 10 pounds necessary to wear this perfect little black dress. I lost the weight weeks ago and topped it off by losing 3 more in the last week. Only will power and a cute dress can get you to lose weight at Thanksgiving!
Two weeks ago, I blew all my birthday money on killer shoes. Leopard stilettos with 4 inch heels. These babies are smokin' hot. I've been looking for the perfect pair since buying the dress and happily handed over every penny my mother in law had given me when I found them. I've never owned shoes this expensive. I think I once bought an entire wardrobe for less than the cost of this one pair of shoes.
I made an appointment to get my hair done and was pleasantly surprised to find that someone who loves me (you know who you are) had paid for a manicure and facial to go with it. How many times in her life does a mom of 6 get to get dolled up and feel like Cinderella for an evening, shoes and all?
Not this year. The Computer Guy is under the weather, so we will be skipping this evening's festivities. As sorry as I am for him, the girl in me is crushed.
The beauty appointments have been canceled. The dress will have to wait until another day, and my perfect shoes will sit upon the shelf unworn. Where am I going to wear leopard stilettos in my real life?
On second thought...I could vacuum in them. Maybe vacuuming would be a lot more fun if I do it while wearing the perfect 4 inch heels.
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