Archive for the 'Makes Me Sigh' Category

Magoo Car

June 30, 2008 | Always Real, Makes Me Sigh, Snips And Snails

Is it not true that you can drive through nearly any neighborhood in the country and spot one of these in someone’s front yard?

 

This is ours.  It’s a vintage model.  We call it a Magoo Car.

 

 

Sean’s Godmother Gigi bought it at a garage sale for her kids.  Her kids are grown now and have children of their own.  Even Gigi’s grandchildren have outgrown it, so a few years ago, when we were at her house in East Texas, Sean fell in love with it and Gigi let us “borrow” it.

 

Like all kids, Sean loves that little car.  And I love that Sean loves that little car. I have loved watching him play with that little car, putting gas in the little car, washing the little car with the garden hose, turning it upside down and working on the engine of that little car.

 

But now I’m ready for the Magoo car to bring joy to another family. I’m tired of looking at the Magoo car and want to reclaim the space that it occupies on my patio — especially now that Sean has outgrown it.  These days, he can barely wedge his skinny daddy long legs into the drivers seat, yet he can’t bear the thought of parting with it.

 

Anytime I mention that it might be time to return the Magoo car to Gigi, this suggestion is met with a powerful argument:  No.

 

Several weeks ago, we returned from vacation around midnight and found the Magoo car sitting at the entrance to the neighborhood, about two blocks from our house.  Under the shallow gray circle of light from the streetlamp, it looked like a sad old dog, waiting for its owner to return.  No telling how long the little car had been parked on the side of the road, suffering the sun and rain and curious stares from all the neighbors.

 

The last I had seen the car, it was parked behind the house near the garage.  Had someone taken it out for a joy ride and then abandoned it?  Or had the wind driven it down the driveway and pushed it along the street?  Or having noticed that we were leaving, maybe it tried to follow us, finally giving up exhausted after two blocks.  Or maybe — maybe it was searching for Gigi, trying to make its way back to East Texas.  I don’t know, but isn’t it fun to anthropomorphize? 

 

When we saw it, we wondered how long it had been sitting at the entrance of the neighborhood or why no one had claimed it.  But then again, who would want a 30-year-old Magoo car with two broken wheels and no gas cap?  Then I remembered who:  The long-legged little boy sleeping in the backseat who is in love with that old sun-faded high-miler jalopy. That’s who.

 

So after a long day of driving, we pulled in the driveway, gingerly pulled the little boy from his car seat and tucked him in his bed bothering only to take off his shoes.

 

And then AD walked back down the street and brought the little car home and parked it on my patio.

 

The next morning, when I looked out my back windows and saw that Magoo car occupying space on my patio, I realized that I didn’t really mind.  I didn’t really mind at all.

 

* * * * *

 

The people at Graco like me!

 

A Warm Blanket

June 25, 2008 | Makes Me Sigh, Snips And Snails

Today was one of those rare days in life where everything was just right.

 

The sky was clear, the air was clear and most importantly, my calendar was clear.

 

For the first time in several months, I didn’t have to be anywhere or prepare for anything or look into pleading eyes and say “Just a minute, just one more minute, let me finish this one thing…”

 

Every day is its own unique and holy creation and this day seems to have been created just for me.  I could do whatever I wanted to do and what I wanted to do was hang out with the little boy with pleading eyes.

 

We spent the afternoon puttering around in the backyard.  While I pulled weeds and cleaned out flower beds, he occupied himself with a big plastic tub filled with water from the hose.  Today the big plastic tub was a boiling cauldron and he was making soup.  Periodically, I stopped pulling weeds to have a taste.  But for the most part, we were involved in parallel play. He made soup, I pulled weeds.

 

From across the lawn and under the shade of my visor, I stole glances at him.  He was engaged in an animated conversation with an imaginary soup patron.  Just then, a butterfly floated by and whispered in my ear to inhale deeply and remember this moment – grass and earth, water and boy, a river of sky that sails quietly by on the currents of time never to return again.

 

All was well with the world today. This moment, this is how it should always be.

 

I inhaled deep and long, painted a picture of this day in my mind, and then exhaled slowly.  I felt as though a warm blanket fresh from the dryer had settled upon my heart.

 

Linus is wrong. Happiness is not a warm blanket. Contentment is.

 

The Triangle

June 16, 2008 | Always Real, Makes Me Sigh

One of my many downfalls as a mother is that it is terribly hard for me to resist buying toys for Sean no good reason.

 

If I were to be introspective about this weakness of mine, it’s probably because I didn’t have much growing up and I’m feeding my inner-poor child.  And although I believe there is tremendous character-building value in having less rather than more, being able to buy unexpected no-good-reason gifts for my child gives me great joy.  It delights me.  And I suppose that could be bad, but dang, it feels good.  If Sean were an ungrateful sort, it would stop.  But so far, that has not been the case.  He is extremely appreciative and that is the sweet cherry atop the cake of indulgence.

 

Therefore, anytime I’m out shopping I cruise through the toy aisles looking to see what’s new and/or marked down.  It’s a sickness and I cannot stop myself.

 

Last month when I was in the TJMaxx toy aisle, I noticed a Melissa & Doug’s boxed set of musical instruments.  It had 20 different pieces including a triangle!  As I stood in the toy aisle salivating over the 20 tiny instruments under the taut cellophane, I thought back to Mrs. Kelly’s kindergarten class of 1965.  On several occasions, she gave each of the children a musical instrument, which we played as we marched around the room.  I always wanted the triangle, but I never seemed to get it, no matter how high I raised my hand.  Consequently, I have spent the last 43 years dreaming of playing the triangle. Even given that compelling reason and TJ’s max to the minimum prices, Melissa and Doug wanted more for this box of musical goodness than I was willing to pay, so I put it back.

 

But then last week I was in TJMaxx, trolling the toy aisle – again — and the little box of musical instruments was on sale for $20!  What could I do? It was like God was saying “I really want you to have this.”  And who am I not to do God’s will?  So I bought it.

 

Later that evening, when I presented it to Sean, he squealed with delight while flapping his arms and hopping on one foot like some sort of psychotic tropical bird.  “I love it!” he said breathlessly, “I’ve wanted this since I was little!”

 

He ripped away the cellophane and then I spent the next 35 minutes working feverishly to free each of the 20 pieces from twist tie shackles while he stood beside me hopping from foot to foot, panting “Hurry Mom! Hurry!” 

 

He gleefully tried out each instrument as it was freed and when he got to the triangle, he marched around the room clanging it with great vigor and joy.  My heart overflowed to see him with that triangle.  At that moment, all my triangle dreams were fulfilled in him.  I told him the story of how when I was in kindergarten, I really wanted to play the triangle but never got the turn.

 

He stopped and cocked his head, slightly furrowing his brow with concern. Then he handed me the triangle.

 

“Here Mom,” he said. “Since you never got to have the triangle I want you to have it.”

 

I just looked at him standing there offering me his triangle.

 

I laughed and sighed all at once.  It was just so funny and sincere and compassionate and selfless and beyond what any four-year-old should think to do. All at the same time.  I thought about how in just four years he has managed to dissolve 48 years of hurts and disappointments. And then I sighed again.

 

I closed my eyes and shook my head in an effort to send away the salty tears that were gathering behind my eyes.

 

Then I took the triangle and clanged it with great vigor and joy and joined the parade around the den.

  

 

This Minute

June 10, 2008 | Always Real, Makes Me Sigh

The other night, after the last book had been read and the prayers had been said, I lay in Sean’s teeny tiny bed with him thinking about all the things in my life at which I am failing. So many things need attention and remain undone.  I was anxious for him to fall asleep so I could get up and pretend to attend to some of those things.

 

In between yawns, he gave expression to stray and disconnected thoughts, but eventually rolled over on his side with his back to me and fell silent.

 

As I lay there in the half dark, trying not to think of laundry and impatiently waiting for a sign that he was asleep, I looked at the curve of his small delicate spine.  I marveled over what a complex and beautiful thing the spine is and all that it does, things I don’t fully understand.  I traced my finger lightly over each bump.  I prayed that it would continue to grow strong and straight and that it would last him a life time. I prayed that he would be eager to use it to serve others.

 

Just then he stirred and turned towards me.

 

Rats! He was almost asleep.

 

But then, he reached up and molded the side of my face with his hand.  With sleepy eyes, he searched all over my face, as though he had a question.

 

In a quiet raspy voice, he said, “I like this minute.”

 

“You like this minute?” I asked.

 

“Yeah,” he said.  “This minute, right now, laying here with you.”

 

“Oh me too Sean,” I sighed, “I like this minute very much. There’s no place else I’d rather be.”

 

In that moment, I was reminded I had waited my entire life for just this minute. The laundry and other undone things that would distract me from this minute, they will wait.  But this minute – it will not come again.

 

And then he rolled over and slipped off to sleep.

 

Oh Sean.  Indeed, this minute, right here, right now. It’s exactly where I’m supposed to be. Not before. Not beyond.  But right here in this minute.

 

I watched him sleep for a while longer and then I got up and went to my own bed where I fell asleep counting blessings instead of failings.

 

 

Don’t Carry A Flashlight. Be A Flashlight.

May 12, 2008 | Faith, Makes Me Sigh

Last week, Antique Daddy and Sean and I were in the car and we drove past a house that had burned down.  This concerned Sean.

“I hope our house isn’t on fire when we get home,” he said, worried.

“Well Sean, even if it were, we are all here in the car together and that’s all that really matters.  All that is in the house is just stuff. We don’t really need it.”

I took the opportunity to reinforce one of my favorite New Testament stories.

“You know what Jesus told the apostles when he sent them out to preach the Gospel?  Don’t take anything with you.”

“Not even a flashlight?” he asked.

I laughed at the image of the apostles carrying a flashlight into the darkness.

And then I sighed.

I never know if I am the teacher or the student.

Transparent And Unapologetic

March 12, 2008 | Makes Me Sigh, School

Monday morning we were late for school. As usual. We are late almost every day, but thanks to Daylight Savings Time, we were well beyond our usual brand of late.

I walked Sean into his classroom and his classmates were already sitting on the floor working on some group activity.

Marlee, a tiny piquant blonde, looked up and noticed Sean standing there. Marlee is known for her exuberance, her boundless energy, her unabashed joi de vie.

She leapt to her feet, hurdled several of her classmates OJ style and then wrapped Sean up in a big bear hug, lifting him completely off the ground. Clearly, she was happy to see him. Oh that we might all be more like Marlee - transparent and unapologetic with our affection.

Sean did not return her embrace.  He did his best impression of a totem pole, keeping his arms stiffly down by his sides, neither moving his head or his eyes to the right or to the left. When she set him down he kind of pulled at his collar uncomfortably and stuck out his chin as if he were wearing a necktie that was too tight. 

Sean’s reserve did not deter Marlee. She grabbed him by the hand and pulled him into the hive of activity.

I turned to hang up his coat and his backpack and when I turned back to say goodbye, he was already engaged with his peers.  He felt welcomed and wanted here and had no need of his mother now.  He did not notice when I disappeared around the corner.

Thanks Marlee.  You make the world a better place. Don’t ever change.

The Seedling

March 5, 2008 | Makes Me Sigh

Earlier in the winter, Sean and Antique Daddy set about the task of planting a small seedling in our backyard.

When they were finished, they stood back, hand in hand, to admire their work.

Antique Daddy bent down on one knee and pulled Sean to him.

“Sean,” he said, “Some day, a long time from now, when you are an old man, as old as Papa George, I want you to come back here to this very spot. I want you to look at this tree and remember that you and I planted it.”

Sean made that awkward long face that he makes when he’s trying not to cry.  Then he looked up at his daddy with big fat tears threatening to tumble down his face. He shrugged his shoulders and held out his hands with his palms up, the universal gesture of bewilderment.

“Sometimes,” he whispered and then paused thoughtfully.

“Sometimes I want to grow up… and then sometimes… I don’t.” And then he shrugged again.

Oh Sean. That’s exactly how your mommy and daddy feel. Sometimes we want see you grow into a man with a life of your own. And sometimes we want to keep you a little boy forever.

Magic Cream

February 21, 2008 | Makes Me Sigh

Tuesday morning, just as the liquid pink sun spilled over the horizon, I made my way to Sean’s room. I stood over him for a minute and watched him sleep. The nightlight revealed the form of his rounded spine. Like a little bug, his knees and hands were drawn up tightly to his chest. He was cold. He has yet to master the art of pulling up the covers.

I resisted the urge to pull his blanket up over him. I was on a mission. I was about to do the one thing that everyone agrees you should never do – wake a sleeping baby. But it had to be done.

I gently patted and rubbed his back.  I dug one arm out from under him. I tugged him upright. Still sleeping, he sat up.  His head lolled drunkenly to one side and then he collapsed back into this bed, feet still on the floor.

“Sean,” I whispered, “We have to get up.”

I pulled him up again, this time lifting him into my arms.

“Wanna play Legos?” he yawned into my ear, still mostly asleep. 

“Okay,” I said, “But first I need to put some magic cream on your arms.”

“Okay,” he said, as if that made perfect sense.

I sat him down on the side of the bed again. I pulled his twig like arm out of his pajamas. I rubbed the lidocaine cream on the inside of his elbow and put a plastic bandage over it.

Now he was awake. This was not right. The big plastic bandage felt weird. This is a child who must have every tag cut out of every item of clothing he wears.  He did not like it. Tears sprang to his eyes. His bottom lip trembled.

“I don’t like this!” he said, tugging at the bandage. I gently pulled his hands away and tucked his arm back into his shirt.

I told him that we had to go get his blood drawn and that this magic cream would make it so that it wouldn’t hurt. He searched my face. I knew he was thinking about last week, when he had his blood drawn, how it was scary, how it hurt. I tried to wear the expression of a confident grown up, of someone who had a grip, someone who knew what she was doing — someone he could trust.

“Oh,” he said quietly. His chin dropped to his chest. Resignation. Compliance. He looked so small and pitiful.

I wanted to cover him with kisses, to tuck him safely back into his bed, to pull the blanket up over him.  Instead I wiped his tears with the sleeve of my robe. Then I pulled his other arm out of his pajama shirt and smoothed on the magic cream.

If only they made magic cream to numb the heart.

Walk, Act, Be

February 18, 2008 | Always Real, Makes Me Sigh, Outsmarted

Sunday afternoon was especially lazy here at the House of Antique.  It was cloudy and gray and cold outside, which suited my mood. It was a perfect day for turning inward, shutting the world away and hanging out with my small tribe.

I sat at my desk in the kitchen simultaneously watching Sean play in the den while I half-heartedly read email and tried not Google glycosuria.

“Mom,” he called to me, “come in here and play pirate with me.”

I did not want to play pirate. I wanted to sit at my desk and nurse my anxieties. I wanted to stew and worry about what might happen in the coming week.

“Well, I don’t really know how to be a pirate,” I said, hoping he’d ask his father instead, who without question would make a much better pirate. 

But he would not be dissuaded.

“C’mon mom, I’ll teach you!”

“Oh? Is there some sort of pirate training that you offer?”

“You don’t need any training!” he said rather scornfully, “You just walk like a pirate, you just act like a pirate – you just BE a pirate!”

That was the best advice I had heard all day.

At that moment, I vowed that I would not allow future worries to rob me of present joy.  I closed the lid to my laptop.  I walked away from my desk and my future worries and into the den to be a pirate.

In the coming week I will walk like someone who has her stuff together, I will act like someone who has her stuff together – and maybe, just maybe, I might just BE someone who has her stuff together.

And if I can’t pull that off, then I’ll just walk like a pirate.

There’s No Hugging In Soccer

February 7, 2008 | Always Real, Makes Me Sigh, Snips And Snails

Last night was soccer practice. The bleachers provide a sort of anonymous perspective from which to watch Sean interact with other children, almost like a two-way mirror.  It ’s fascinating and at the same time a little uncomfortable to see him off on his own, interacting with the world separate and apart from me. 

As I sit in the stands, part of me is engaged in a conversation with my friend Jennifer, but another part of me is watching Sean negotiate a soccer ball and the complex social network of 4-year-olds.

I observe that he is a rule follower. He listens to the coach, but sometimes, because he is quiet, he is misunderstood or simply overlooked. He prefers to stand back, to observe, always taking the last spot in line. I do not judge these traits to be good or bad, beneficial or detrimental, they just are.

At one point in the game, I see him look up to the stands. He is searching for my face. He is not crying, but his face is twisted in a valiant effort to hold back tears. I did not see what happened. He starts walking quickly to the sidelines and then makes his way up the stands to where I am sitting.

When his eyes meet mine, the safety latch releases and tears roll down his face.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, “What happened?”

“Hoo, Hoo, Hooper (sob) Hooper (sob) Hooper bumped my HAY-UD!” (SOB)

I look at his head, to where he is pointing. There is a red spot. Where he has been furiously rubbing it.

“Well, I’m sure it was an accident. That kind of thing sometimes happens in sports,” I say. “I think you’re going to be okay.”

He works up a few more sobs and buries his face into my shirt. I can feel his wet breath and tears on my neck. At this moment I want to ask Hooper to bump into Sean again next week.

“You better get back out there or you’re going to miss all the fun,” I encourage.

He shakes his head and burrows deeper into me.

“What if I go with you? What if I sit on the sidelines, would you want to go then?”

“Okay,” he agrees. He grabs my hand and we walk to the field together.

After the game is over he runs over to the sidelines to show me the stamps the coach has put on his hands and his tummy.

“That’s fantastic! You are awesome!” I enthuse.

“Come here and give me a hug!”

I hold my arms out expectantly.

He steps back a half step and shakes his head no, ever so slightly. He looks around nervously.

He is embarrassed.

“Not now,” he says.

“Okay,” I say and I leave it at that.

Now it’s my turn to hold back tears. This day has come as I knew it would, I just didn’t think it would come so soon. And I certainly didn’t think it would come on the same day when I was wearing a blouse stained with his snot and tears.

Reaching For The Angels

January 28, 2008 | Makes Me Sigh

Many many years ago, the church I attended held an annual silent auction that benefitted missions. The overseas missionaries sent home items from the country they were working in and put them up for auction to raise money. It was a splendid international bazaar of sorts with all kinds of unique and fabulous things offered. A good amount of intrigue and whispering and strategizing took place among the brethren at this auction in the name of furthering the kingdom of God.

I bid on and won a mobile of straw angels from Africa. I ended up paying something like $60 for it, even though I probably could have gotten one at World Market for $10, which would be about $8 more than it was worth. Not to mention that no one else bid on it.

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I didn’t really know what to do with the mobile as my décor is not African or straw, but I liked it, so I took it home and put it in a box for the next six or seven years.

When I was expecting Sean, I decided to do his room in Serengeti safari prints. As I was putting on the finishing touches, I remembered that I had this mobile and so before he was born, I dug it out and hung it from the light in his bedroom. When he was a little guy, I would put him up on my shoulders and let him reach up and fling the angels. It pleased him to send the angels spinning and flying and I’m sure it thrilled the angels as well.

I haven’t thought much about the straw angels for a long time because these days Sean is too big to hoist up to my shoulders. But the angels, they are still there, where they have been for the past four and a half years, floating quietly above my head and out of sight, as angels do.

The other night before bedtime, after we closed the last book, Sean and I sat in the rocking chair together and let what was left of the day drain away.  He tucked his head under my chin and curled up into me as best he could and we rocked back and forth, back and forth, without speaking a word.

“Mom,” he said quietly, looking up at the mobile, “You know, if I stand on your shoulders I can reach the angels.”

“Oh Sean,” I whispered. “You have no idea.”

He has no idea that it is he who lifts me to the angels.

Hands

January 9, 2008 | Always Real, Faith, Makes Me Sigh

The other night, in the wee small hours of the morning, I tiptoed into Sean’s room to check on him. I’m way beyond the days of checking on him 3 or 4 or 20 times a night to see if he is still breathing as I did those first several months of his life. Yet sometimes, something invisible gently stirs me into wakefulness and calls me to his room in the middle of the night to look at him.

Sure enough all was well. His little boy form, bathed in the amber glow of the nightlight lay peaceful and motionless.

As I turned to leave, I heard him whisper, “Mommy, will you lay down with me?”

“Sean, I didn’t know you were awake. Why are you awake?”

“Will you?” he pleaded with a desperate catch in his voice, “Will you please lay down with me? For a little while?”

“Sure” I said. “Move over.”

And so he did.

I should say here, that the bed Sean sleeps in is not really a big boy bed or even a youth bed. It is basically a crib six inches off the ground. It is so tiny it is straight out of The Three Bears and I am Goldilocks. If I contort myself just right I can snuggle up with him in this tiny bed. If I lay there much longer than 20 minutes, I can’t feel any of my limbs or walk upright the next day, but it’s a small price to pay, temporarily paralysis in exchange for snuggling.

I wedged myself in beside him. With his head tucked under my chin, he squirmed and squiggled and shifted until he had sufficiently pressed his bony backside into my tummy, just as he did in the days that I carried him in my body. He reached around for my hand and pulled it across him like a belt and then he wove his fingers between mine.

“Here’s the church,” he yawned. “Here’s the steeple….”

And then he gave up, too tired to continue.

Then, with his other hand, he covered our interlaced fingers. It struck me as an odd thing for a four-year-old to do. It was an old man sort of thing to do, this nestling of my hand, like a bird, into his two small hands.

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In the thinning morning darkness, I watched him stroke and pet our clasped hands as he drifted back to sleep. I flashed upon that day in 2003 when I first saw his hands on the sonogram – tiny, shaky, translucent fingers reaching for the light of this world and then shielding his eyes from the harshness of it.

I thought of how those little hands reached out for me as he took his first unsteady steps. I wondered how many more times he will seek my hand. Before he won’t. Dear God, bless me, that I might always be there to hold his hand and steady him as he goes, for as long as he needs me.

Then I flashed forward to the appointed day when that one clear call is for me. And on that day, it will be my shaky, translucent fingers that reach for the light of the next world and then shield my eyes from the glory of it. Dear God, bless me, that he might be there to hold my hand and steady me as I go into that great goodnight.

In that moment, and just for that moment, I felt as though I understood something of eternity.

Finally his hands stopped moving. He had fallen back to sleep. I slowly extricated myself from the tiny boy and the tiny bed. I stood over him for a moment, praying over him, that goodness and mercy will surely follow him all the days of his life.

I never tire of looking at him.

I hobbled back to bed.

A Bucket Of Love

December 16, 2007 | Makes Me Sigh

Wednesday it was cold and damp and rainy.  Everything, including my mood was  gray, as though someone had pulled the plugged and drained all the color out of my world.

As I’m driving Sean to school,  the noise of tires swooshing through the water and the rhythemic scrape and skritch of my windshield wipers are the only sound in the car.

I pull up to a stop light and look in the rearview mirror at that little boy, snuggled into his car seat. He is thoughtfully tracing the path of a raindrop with his finger on the window.  For some reason, the profile of his face peeking out from the hood of his coat is so sweet that it pricks my heart.  I feel my heart swell and my eyes begin to sting with tears. He doesn’t know that I am watching him.

“Sean,” I hear myself say, “I love you so much, so much more than you can even imagine.  I know you are only four and you can’t really understand that.”

“Oh,” he says quietly without diverting his gaze from the window.  “I understand.”

After a long pause, he asks, “Does Daddy love me too?”

He knows his daddy loves him. I’m not sure why he is asking this question.

“Oh yes, Sean, Daddy loves you so much that sometimes it makes him cry.”

“Oh.”

Long pause. I can see him thinking.

“Does Daddy love me more than you?”

This time the long pause belongs to me.

“Well, Sean, things like love and pain are not really quantifiable.  Daddy loves me from the wife bucket and he loves you from the little boy bucket. And those buckets are bottomless and always overflowing.”

“Oh.”

Long pause.

“Well if you get a hole in your bucket,” he said, “then I will give you some love from my bucket.”

Sometimes the things he says, makes my brain stop.  Makes my heart stop.  Makes my world stop. 

Just then the car behind me is honking loudly and angrily. The light had turned green.  The tears that had gathered in my eyes quickly evaporate. 

I push on the gas and move forward into the world of gray, except for the very bright spot of sunshine sitting in my backseat tracing a raindrop with his finger.

A Bicycle Built For One

December 6, 2007 | Makes Me Sigh

Sean loves to hear the story of how he came to be, how his mama and daddy wanted a baby so badly and how we prayed and waited and prayed and waited and prayed…. and then after five years, gave up.

I tell him that one day I just said “Okay God, you win.  Have it your way” and that shortly thereafter I found out that I was going to be a mama and that it was the most marvelous thing that ever happened to me.

The other night before bedtime, as I was lying in bed with Sean reading books, he turned to me and whispered that he had been praying that God would put another baby in my tummy so that he could have someone to ride bikes with.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he should ask God to leave the baby on the doorstep instead.

Bustin’ Jesus

December 1, 2007 | Makes Me Sigh

Many years ago, long before I had a child, or any hope of having a child, my house was not filled with large plastic primary colored things but with beautiful and breakable things. It was in those days that my mom bought me a lovely nativity set for Christmas.  My dad made me a manger to go with it which makes it even more special.  It is one of my favorite Christmas things.

Since it is breakable, I’ve always firmly impressed upon Sean that he is not to touch the nativity — only under threat of death or mortal sin is he to touch the nativity set  BECAUSE IT COULD BREAK AND THAT WOULD MAKE MOMMY UNHAPPY.  And he gets it when I speak in all caps, so he has never bothered it.

This year Sean watched me closely as I set up the nativity set and patiently listened to my exhortations to keep his mitts off the holy family.  And just as I am laying baby Jesus in his crib, I drop him and his head breaks cleanly off and rolls under the sofa.

Dark and foreboding clouds gathered on the horizon and silence engulfed the room. The lights on the tree flickered, sizzled and then went out.  Small animals scurried for cover. Mommy was unhappy.

Sean’s eyes grew as big as saucers.  He gasped and put both of his hands up to his mouth.

“Mommy… are you unhappy?” he whispers.

I hung my head in shame.  I had fully expected that when one of the pieces got broken, I would get to blame someone other than myself.

“Yes, Sean I’m not very happy about this,” I said as I felt around for Jesus’ head under the sofa.

Then he turns and hollers up the stairs, triumphantly ratting me out, “Daddy! Mommy busted Jesus!”

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The saving grace of Jesus and a little super glue can fix anything.

Helpless

November 1, 2007 | Always Real, Makes Me Sigh, Medical Mysteries

You know what the worst part of motherhood is? 

It’s not the vomit, although that ranks right up there, or the potty training or the southside real estate I gained during (and since) my pregnancy.

It’s the helplessness.

There is no worse feeling in the world than when you see your child in distress and are unable to help, to soothe, to make it go away.

If you have a child who has night terrors, then you know what I’m talking about.

One night this past summer, about an hour after I had put Sean to bed, I heard a blood curdling scream coming from his room.  I ran down to his bedroom to see what on earth was going on and found him sitting up in his bed on his knees, seemingly wide awake, breathlessly screaming and pointing at something in the corner.

He was not just crying — he was wild-eyed and shaking like a leaf.  He was terrified in every sense of the word. There was nothing that I could see in the corner.  Nothing in the room was amiss.  He didn’t even seem to notice that I was in the room.

He got out of his bed and with both hands clenched into tight trembling fists to his chest, he started backing away as though there were a vicious dog in the corner. I tried to pick him up and comfort him, but that just seemed to agitate him.  He thrashed and twisted and kicked trying to get away.  He was sweating and his heart was racing.  His eyes were open, but he was not awake.  He wouldn’t respond to my voice.  There was nothing I could do to help him.

After about 15 minutes, I got him back into his bed and within seconds he fell back to sleep, but I felt like I had just outrun a hungry bear. The next morning I asked him if he remembered anything unusual about the night before or if he remembered having a bad dream or anything at all, but he didn’t recall a thing.

Then it happened again the next night and the night after that.  He might skip a night or two, but all summer, every night after we put him to bed, we sat on pins and needles, waiting for the screaming to begin.  We were baffled.  We had always had a good bedtime routine with Sean.  He had always been a good sleeper. We had never had any sleep issues.  Nothing had changed in our household. Why was this happening all of a sudden?

I read up on night terrors and I learned that they are not unusual and not a result of my inept mothering.  Typically, children between ages 3 and 6 have them. They usually happen early on in the sleep cycle, an hour or two after they go to sleep. They usually last 15 to 30 minutes, sometimes longer. And there is nothing you can do but stand helplessly by and wait for them to pass.

The episodes are fewer and farther between these days.  Eventually Sean will outgrow his night terrors, but I suspect that as long as I’m a mother, this feeling of helplessness is not going to go away.

Elf

September 25, 2007 | Makes Me Sigh

Yesterday I decided I would go through all of Sean’s baby stuff, pull out a few cherished things and then pawn off donate the rest to our church which has a program to distribute gently worn baby stuff to people who can use them.

It was a monumental and difficult task but luckily I had the help of Antique Daddy who pulled every article of clothing out of the give away bag just as I put it in and wept loudly into it.  That really helped to move things along.  Additionally I had the help of Sean who had to try on everything. 

I won’t show you the picture of my living room looking like a Baby’s R Us that was hit by a tornado, but I will leave you with this picture of Sean wearing a Santa suit size 18-months which made me turn off task mode for a minute and laugh which helped to offset the sound of wailing coming from the give away bag.

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Ho! Now go away and take that camera with you!

Flying Bricks

August 16, 2007 | Always Real, Makes Me Sigh

A few weeks ago Sean and I went to the local science and history museum — not so much in a quest for science or history, but more in a quest for an air-conditioned change of scenery. By big city standards, the museum is really kind of a rinky dink place, but we like our dink on the rinky side, so it suits us just fine.

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The main attraction (for us) is not the Imax Theater or the exhibits, but the free children’s play space in the basement where they have a miniature grocery store that the wee ones enjoy looting. There is also a fishing boat, water table, telephones, cars and that kind of thing – a little pretend town. Sean really digs that kind of thing. I kind of do too.

In the midst of all that kiddy goodness, there is a little open frame house that is stocked with foam bricks. Sean and some other kids his size were busy in a cooperative effort to stack the bricks in the windows and open spaces when along comes a boy in a wheelchair. He is pale and thin. He is as bald as a baby bird. It is obvious to me that he is a cancer patient. Sean doesn’t notice that he is bald or in a wheel chair or that there is anything unusual about him at all.

The boy leans out of his wheel chair and picks up a few of the foam bricks off the floor and flings them through the window of the house, accurately toppling the bricks that the other children had so carefully arranged.

The bricks tumble into a heap inside the house. Sean thinks this is funny. He cackles loudly and then lobs a brick back at the boy in the wheelchair and then resumes frantically laying brickagain before the big bad wolf shows up. 

The boy pulls himself out of his chair, dragging a colostomy bag behind him. For some reason it is the sight of the colostomy bag that pitches my stomach into my throat. My heart swells and throbs with sympathy for the boy and his parents and every sick child in the universe.  Vinegary tasting fear waters up in my mouth — it could just as easily be my boy in that wheelchair.

I watch this wisp of a boy struggle out of his chair and then park himself on the floor in a pile of foam bricks outside the house. Delicate toothpick arms launch brick after brick up into the frame house, clearly in an effort to destroy what the other children are building.

Sean still thinks this is funny. Normally he would come to me crying and whining and complaining of the injustice of it all. But today he just giggles and occasionally throws a brick or two back at the boy. It’s a curious phenomenon.

As I watch the children in the house furiously trying to keep pace with the work of restoration, my amusement veers sharply left towards frustration. He is being obnoxious and I find it puzzling. I don’t realize I’m watching him a little too intently.

I’m jarred away from a morose and morbid thought when I’m bonked on the head with a flying brick. I turn my attention from the boy to the source of the brick. My boy is leaning out the window and laughing at me. He is the source of the brick. He is the source of my joy. My heart swells again, but for a different reason.

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The flying brick has given me a moment of clarity. I return my gaze to the bald headed boy. It makes sense. If your life were falling down around you, wouldn’t you want to tear everything down too — if for no other reason than just to taste a tiny bit of control? My sympathy towards the boy in the wheel chair melts into a puddle of admiration. And I can’t explain it.

Eventually, the kids grow tired of building and run away to other things.  Sean and I move on to other distractions as well.  Later, I see that the boy has pulled himself up into the house.  He looks so small and alone. I wonder if that is how he feels.  It’s how I feel.

That day, the world continued to spin and spiral along it’s ancient path in the flurry and spray of cosmic chaos, oblivious if not indifferent to pain and injustice and flying bricks.  And I can’t explain that either.

Pa Palmer

May 15, 2007 | Antique Friends, GiGi and Poopah, Makes Me Sigh, Texas

Friday afternoon, Antique Daddy and Sean and I were on our way to celebrate Mother’s Day weekend with Memaw when we got the phone call. The father of one of our dearest friends had passed away unexpectedly.

Pa Palmer, as everyone called him, was 85-years-old. On Monday, we returned him to the sandy East Texas soil from whence he came.

Except that we all will miss him terribly, it is no tragedy really. Pa Palmer lived long and he lived well. He loved others and was loved in return. He lived by his faith and he died by his faith. In that there can be no tragedy.

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Pa Palmer was a mild and unassuming man with smiling eyes that turned downward at the corners. I remember the first time I met him. He was a greeter at a church I was visiting and he reached out to shake my hand as he handed me a bulletin. His hands were large and warm and soft and perfectly matched his face. As I got to know Pa Palmer, I learned that the only thing larger and warmer and softer than his hands was his heart.

Pa Palmer made his living working with his hands, but he made his life serving with his hands. Someone told the story of how one time when he was delivering a meal to a shut-in, he spied a rusty and broken fan in the trash. He took it home, fixed it and returned it the following week. A fan is a blessed thing to have in Texas. One time I mentioned in passing that a lamp I loved had quit working. Not long thereafter, he showed up at my house and fixed it. As I watched him sit at my kitchen table tinkering with mysterious lamp parts, there was an unmistakable light and glow about him that came from within. To do for others was a joy to him. But perhaps the memory most deeply etched in my mind is watching him pull his 4-year-old great granddaughter up into his lap and those large hands of his patiently and tenderly combing the tangles out of her wispy white angel hair.

As we filed past the coffin, I reached out and touched Pa Palmer’s hands for the last time, the hands that had touched so many lives in the past 85 years. They were not soft and warm this time, but hard and cold. He was not there. The spirit and and energy that had fueled his life’s work had flown away home.

Tears filled my eyes and overflowed. I patted his hand one last time. Farewell Pa Palmer. Until we meet again.

Things I Don’t Miss And Things I Do Miss

March 22, 2007 | Makes Me Sigh

Things I Don’t Miss:
Diaper Genie refills
Bottle washing
$20/can Nutramigen
Baby Bjorn Sling Thing Contraption (designed to send post partum women over the edge)
Rectal thermometers
Blue Snot Sucker thingee

Things I Do Miss:
Bottle feeding, even the 2am feedings
Nose sucks
Slobbery ear kisses
This sound: Mahmahmahmahmahmah!
Leg hugs
Rompers
Morning AND afternoon naps
Itty bitty baby socks, even though they never stay on.
The baby with the delicious fat cheeks.

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