Archive for the 'Always Real' 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!

 

Snagged

June 23, 2008 | Always Real, Faith

When I started dating Antique Daddy, every time we had a date, I would run out and buy a new outfit.

 

I wanted him to really really like me.  How could he possibly really really like me if I were wearing something he had seen me wearing before?  I wanted to look my best and wearing something new made me feel good and made me feel confident.

 

As I got ready for the She Speaks conference in North Carolina, I of course wanted to buy a new outfit because I wanted everyone to really really like me. I wanted to look my best and feel confident.  Going to this conference was like going on a date with 550 women.  As I type these words, I am fully aware of how crazy that sounds but I also know, ladies, that you know of what I speak.

  

The month before the conference, I went to my sister-in-law Annette who has a fabulous boutique filled with gorgeous things and she fixed me up with a nice business casual outfit — a Nic and Zoe crocheted sweater and matching pants.  The sweater was a splurge, but it was perfect for the conference because first and foremost, it was cute. Second, it’s always cold in the hotels but hot outside, so layering was a good choice. 

 

For the month before the conference my expensive Nic and Zoe sweater hung in my closet and I gazed lovingly upon it. Sometimes I would even walk clear across the house to my closet just to look at it, like I was checking on sleeping baby.  I would imagine myself striding confidently around the Charlotte Embassy Suites where publishers and agents would throw themselves at my feet with book contracts  — because certainly anyone wearing a sweater as cute as that should be given a book contract.  That’s how it works in the world of publishing. I think that’s how it happened for J.K. Rowling.

 

On the big day of the conference, I did wear the sweater and it was cute and it kept me warm in cold hotel.  But it snagged on everything but air.  It snagged on my purse, it snagged on my bag, it snagged on the clasps on my pants, it snagged on my folder and my ink pen.  I don’t know how many times I had to beg the poor soul sitting next to me to separate me and my sweater from whatever it had glommed onto.  By the end of the day, this sweater looked like something the lawn mower had spit out. 

 

But I really didn’t care.  Although my sweater was frayed, my confidence was intact.  You see, I learned long ago that while I enjoy new and pretty things, sweaters and the other things of this world will sooner or later, ravel and fray, disappoint and fail.  Even people who not only really really like me but love me, will ultimately fail me – if for no other reason than that someday they will die.

 

My confidence comes not from what I wear but from the knowledge of Whose I am.

 

 

She Speaks, But She Misses The Wedding

Always Real

This weekend, my niece got married and Sean was in the wedding. He was the cutest little ole ring-bearing, tuxedo-wearing little boy you ever did see.  Maybe you saw it, but I did not.  I was at the She Speaks conference in North Carolina.

YOU MISSED SEEING YOUR LITTLE BOY IN A WEDDING?  HOW COULD YOU?  WHAT KIND OF MOTHER ARE YOU?

Trust me. I’ve said this in my head about 80,264 times this past weekend.

Even though the plans for this wedding were set since the first of the year, in all my blonde glory, I managed to remain unaware of the fact that the wedding and the conference were on the same weekend until it was too late to do anything about it.  I double booked and I had a very very hard choice to make.  You would think someone with so little excitement in her life could manage to keep two dates on a calendar of twelve months straight. But no, apparently not.

It was with much rending of garments and mental anquish that I chose to attend the conference over this family event.  I know in making that choice, that I disappointed people who are important to me.  I also know they are people with hearts that overflow with grace for me.  And that makes it a bit better. A little bit.

On the other hand - WOW! She Speaks! In North Carolina with some of my bloggy friends.  I have so much to tell you about my time there that will no doubt include a number of exclamation points and superlatives.  I was blessed beyond measure at that event and the amazing ladies who attended and the other amazing ladies worked so hard to put it on. 

But just now, I am tired and I want to spend my day in the sandbox with my cute little boy, even though he won’t be wearing a tuxedo.

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.

 

 

Guest Towels As Explained To A 4-Year-Old

May 28, 2008 | Always Real, Outsmarted

AM:  Here, Sean, don’t use those towels.  Use this one.

 

Sean: But I like those towels.  Why can’t I use those towels?

 

AM:  Those are guest towels.

 

Sean:  (blinks)

 

AM:  They’re for guests.

 

Sean: (blinks) 

 

Sean:  Am I a guest?

 

AM:  No. You live here.  Here, here’s your towel.

 

Sean:  Oh. (disappointed)  Why can’t I use the pretty towels? 

 

AM: (blinks)

 

AM:  Why indeed. 

 

AM:  Here.  (hands over the pretty towel)  Be my guest. 

 

The Salt Shaker

May 25, 2008 | Always Real, School, Snips And Snails

Sean does not yet hold his pencil properly.  I know.  If I were inclined towards over-parenting, I might be wringing my hands right now and consulting experts or at least Googling something. But I’m not.  As many of you know, I’m more inclined towards “Whatever Dude” parenting.

 

It’s not that he can’t hold the pencil properly; it’s that he won’t hold the pencil properly. He holds it in his fist like a little caveman.

 

When we sit down to color, I correct him.  Using the jaws of life, I loosen his little fingers from around the crayon and then reshape them into the proper position, the position that Harvard graduates and scholars everywhere use.

 

He immediately readjusts his grip to the caveman.

 

We stare at one another, like two chess players, each plotting their next move.

 

“Whatever dude,” I say. “If you want to be the only kid in class still holding their crayon like a caveman, that’s up to you.”

 

“Sometimes I just need to do things my own way,” he says defiantly.

 

I sigh. 

 

I know about having to do things ones own way.

 

“Well Sean,” I say, “You’re going to make life really hard for yourself that way.”

 

He’s four. He doesn’t know what I’m talking about. 

 

I don’t want him to be like me, always having to do things my own hard way. Life is much easier when you are marching with the parade and not off doing your own Snoopy dance.

 

“I’m going to get a notebook,” he announces boldly, “And I’m going to write down all my rules of what I want to do.”

 

I think I know what he’s talking about.

 

“Oh?” I ask, extremely interested.   “What is it exactly that you want to do?”

 

“I want to shake salt on the floor,” he says quickly and decisively, with an edge.

 

I stifle a laugh and try to suppress the image of leather jacket clad bad boys with turned up collars and salt shakers.

 

Without a word, I get up and get the salt shaker. I hand it to him.

 

For a minute, he just looks at it in the palm of my hand.  He takes it.

 

We look at each other, expressionless, like two poker players.

 

He hands the salt shaker back.

 

“Ah,” I say. “Good choice dude.”

 

It wasn’t the salt shaker he wanted. It was the power to make the decision.

 

Tomorrow he may decide to shake salt on my floor.

 

 

Walnuts And Watermelons - Everything You Really Need To Know About Pregnancy

May 23, 2008 | Always Real

No, not really.  I just thought that was a catchy title.

 

So then.

 

We have more books than we have space to put them, so last week, I decided to sort through some of them and cull out those with which I could bear to part.  I came across several books on pregnancy that, unfortunately, I won’t be in need of again so I set them aside to pass along.

 

A wave of nostalgia washed over me, so I sat down and thumbed through one.  The chapter that described the changes that happen to the female body during  pregnancy caught my attention, perhaps because “someone” had highlighted almost every word.  As I read along, I was rapt once again, just like I had never read this information before.

 

Even though I’ve been through a pregnancy and understand the basic process of gestation, the idea that another human being was formed perfect and whole from the makings of my own sorry body is still astonishing to me.  Astonishing!

 

It’s even more astonishing to think that the egg that became Sean was in me, among a million others, before I was even born. I never can quite wrap my mind around that, to think that he’s always been with me in some way.  I suspect that if he was with me before my life began, then at some point he will be with me after this life as well.  That is my hope anyway and my faith in the promises of Jesus sustain that hope.

 

I noticed that in one section I had underlined a paragraph that described how prior to conception my uterus was the size of a walnut, before eventually growing to be the size of a watermelon to accommodate the baby. And then after birth, at some point, it returned to its original walnut size.  

 

Amazing.

 

The book did not mention that before conception, my heart was also the size of a walnut – an old hard black walnut that even the squirrels wouldn’t have.  During my pregnancy, it grew to be the size of a watermelon.

 

It has not returned to its original size. 

 

The Laundry Basket

May 18, 2008 | Always Real

Saturday, I did 734 loads of laundry.  Now I know how the people at the post office feel about the mail — it never stops. It just keeps coming. 

 

Sometimes entire weeks will go by with the clean laundry not actually making it to it’s final destination.  Laundry gets washed, sometimes two or three times. Laundry gets dried –  eventually.  Laundry gets folded — more or less.  With good intentions, laundry gets put neatly into the laundry basket.  And then without notice, the laundry’s trip home is cancelled.  The laundry is forced to sit on the laundry tarmac, sometimes for weeks at a time, with no way to let the other socks and underwear know what happened to them.

 

Then, at some point, it just seems easier to get dressed in the kitchen right out of the laundry basket.  And then at the end of the day, the clothes end up in a different laundry basket where the laundry cycle starts all over again.  Kind of like the laundry version of Groundhog Day.  And the socks and underwear, they heave heavy sighs and cry in frustration because all they want is to get home, to sleep in their own drawer. 

 

In our next house, we are going to skip the pretense of having dressers and drawers.  We are just going to have laundry baskets.  Everyone, including the socks, will be much happier this way.

The Mystique of Older Motherhood or What A Crock

May 8, 2008 | Always Real, Hallmark Holidays

I get an email every week or so from someone saying that because I’m an older mother, I’m probably a better mom (than those younger moms), that I am probably wiser (than those younger moms), that I probably appreciate my child more (than those younger moms), that I probably have more patience (than those younger moms).

 

To that I say this: HA! 

 

For emphasis, I shall say it again: HA! 

 

Oh that it were so. Let me assure you, it is so not so.

 

Sometimes y’all?  The word Mom is the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.  It tickles my ears like no music ever has.  I remember how I longed and yearned to be called Mom for so long and it makes my heart melt like a popsicle on a summer day.

 

But then other times, after a long day, Mom is the last word I want to hear.

 

And I certainly don’t want to hear it 15 times in a row in various inflections.

 

Mom? MOM! MAHaaaaam! Mommmmmm! Maaaaahummmm?  MOE-UMM!! Mommy! MoMMee?  Mom-ME!

 

I just want it to stop. For. The. Love. Of. Pete. Give it a rest kid.  

 

In spite of my age, I am often not patient, not wise and not all that appreciative.  I am however, almost always more tired (than those younger moms).

 

Sorry to disappoint all you misguided emailers, but that’s the sorry truth about my geriatric mothering. 

 

What? You have days like that too?  And you are not of advanced maternal age?

 

The truth is that no matter your age, motherhood is often draining, exasperating, annoying, unsatisfying and almost always smelly.

 

It is also true that there is nothing else you have ever done in your life that you would describe in those terms, yet quickly add, “But I love it! It is the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me!”  

 

And it’s true. You love it. It is the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to you. And if you are like me, you’d like to do it all over again.

 

My hat is off to all you younger moms. You inspire me.  Happy Mother’s Day.

A Parable

May 6, 2008 | Always Real

Weeds have taken over my lawn. 

 

If you were passing by my house, you wouldn’t notice the weeds. I keep my lawn mowed and edged and tidy, so from outward appearances everything looks fine and dandy, even nice. Sort of.  But if you took the time to really look at the lawn you would see that it has been sorely neglected. 

 

My excuse is that since becoming a mother, it has been hard to keep up with the gardening.  There are so many other things screaming for my attention.  And the lawn, it doesn’t scream. It just waits for me, season after season, while the weeds quietly take over.

 

Sometimes when I went out to get the newspaper, I would notice that along the driveway, a weed had popped up.  Maybe if it were convenient, I would bend down and pull it out.  But mostly, I just said, “It’s just one weed. What can it hurt?” and keep going on my merry way.  Eventually I noticed that one or two weeds had become a lot of weeds and I said, “I really must do something about those weeds. Soon, I’m going to take steps to get rid of those weeds and make my lawn a thing of beauty for all to gaze upon.”  And then another season would pass.

 

I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten until the other day when I was out in the yard kicking the soccer ball with Sean.  One weed was particularly bothering me and I bent down to pluck it out.  Upon closer inspection, I saw that my lawn was really just weeds disguised as grass. I tugged hard, but the weed wouldn’t yield.  I tugged harder and harder.  My hands hurt and my face turned red.  Finally it broke off at the base and knocked me on my tail. It was still firmly rooted.

 

I sat down right then and there and began pulling the weeds away so what little grass was left could get some light.  After about an hour, I looked up and I hadn’t even made a dent.  I was never going to be able to get rid of all those weeds by myself.  I was daunted. I was discouraged.  I thought, why even bother?

 

Over time, the weeds had anchored into the bedrock and spread their long and spiny fingers far and wide choking out all the goodness and beauty.  How could I have let this happen?

 

If I ever hope to restore my lawn to it’s former beauty, I’m going to have to get some help.

Daily Reminders

May 5, 2008 | Always Real, Sometimes Sweet

At four and a half, Sean is getting to the age where his world is rapidly expanding.  Every day, it gets a little more crowded in his world, whereas before, it was just me. I was his whole world.  My starring role in his life is drawing nigh.  I know that.  That’s why I love those times when we are driving in the car.  If only for a few miles, it’s just the two of us.   Plus, he’s strapped in and can’t get away. 

 

On the way to school on Friday morning, I looked in the rearview mirror at him.  He was unusually contemplative.  He was looking out the window, but at the same time, seemed to be lost in himself. So I seized the opportunity.

 

“Sean, I love you so very much. Do you know that?” I asked him.

 

“Yes, I already know that,” he sighed.  “Why do you tell me so much?”

 

“Well two reasons,” I said.

 

“First of all I don’t ever want you to forget.  And second of all, I need to tell you.  My heart just overflows with so much love for you that I have to let some out once in awhile.”

 

“Your heart must really hold a lot,” he said. “Probably about 15 gallons.”

 

“For you?  Way more than 15 gallons,” I said.

 

“Do you love me as much water as there is in the ocean?”

 

“Way more,” I said.

 

“Oh. Well, you were right then,” he conceded, “That is a lot.”

 

“Don’t forget that,” I said.

 

“Okay.  You can remind me again tomorrow if you want.”

 

“You got it,” I said.

 

 

Every day.  Until my very last day.  With my very last breath.  I will remind you.

 

* * *

 

Other reminders:  You are loved, you are wanted, you were longed for, you are a blessing, you delight me, I’m glad I’m your mom, I like you, you are the apple of my eye, you are God’s unique creation, I enjoy your company…

 

 

A Decision

April 28, 2008 | Always Real, Faith, Papa Ed

I am fascinated by stories of people who manage to survive in the most extreme and unimaginable conditions.  When I hear those stories, I wonder what it is in them that keep them hanging on and I wonder if I have it in me.

 

Sometimes, when I imagine that I’ve accidentally fallen off a cruise ship, I don’t really see myself treading water for days at a time.  If faced with bobbing up and down in freezing waters, I would probably take the easy way out and allow myself to slip away.  I would be happy to move along to the next life sooner rather than later as opposed to suffering for any extended period of time.  I am not afraid of what lies beyond.  I know where I am going when this life is over.

 

On the other hand, I really like my life and am in no hurry to leave it all behind.

 

About 14 years ago, I was in danger of drowning, not in an ocean but in my own sorrow.  Like a person lost at sea, I felt hopeless – without hope, not one ray of sunshine could I find.  I couldn’t see that life would ever be good again.  I started thinking that maybe it would just be easier to slip under the waters, to yield to the darkness.  All the while everyone was saying, “You are amazing!  You are so strong!”  I didn’t understand that.  How could they not see how desperate I was?

 

During that time, my dad came out to Texas to hang out with me.  Unlike everyone else, maybe he sensed that I wasn’t holding it together as well as it appeared from the outside because one day he sat me down and told me about a story he had read about a girl who was lost in a great forest.  He said that every day she would climb the tallest tree she could find and she would shout at the top of her lungs, “I am a survivor! I will survive!”  And then she would listen for her own voice echoing back, “I will survive I will survive I will survive…”   Eventually she was rescued or found her way out of the forest, I don’t recall.

 

I don’t know if my dad really read that story or if he just made it up on the spot, but on that day, I became the girl who climbed a tree every day, shook her fist at the world and shouted, “I will survive!”  On that day and in that moment, I made a decision to carry on, to go on and live and to live well.

 

A decision — the difference between life and death. That is the certain something that survivors have in common. 

Learning Curve

April 4, 2008 | Always Real, Snips And Snails

When we brought Sean home from the hospital, like any new mother, I spent a lot of time just marveling over what an amazing creature he was — his tiny fingers, his itty bitty tongue, that he could pee into his own ear.

 

Seriously.

 

I don’t know why I’m bringing this up now, but recently it came to mind and it made me laugh — just like it did when it happened four and a half years ago. So I thought I better write it down now so I can remember to tell his prom date.

 

Somehow, I had managed to get through four decades of life without changing a diaper and the NICU nurse was able to sense this.  Perhaps it was the wide-eyed look of terror on my face. I don’t know.  So before they let us take him home, the NICU nurse made me change his diaper while she looked on, kind of like a test of sorts.   Luckily it was not a letter grade test but a pass/fail test — otherwise I would have had to ask for an extra credit assignment like reloading the diaper genie.

 

When we got him home, I laid him carefully on the changing table and mentally went through the checklist like a pilot getting ready to fly solo for the first time.  I had everything in place.  Fresh diaper! Check! Wipes! Check! Butt Paste! Check! Baby! Check!  In spite of my checklist, I didn’t know what I was doing and I knew I didn’t know what I was doing and I was pretty sure Sean knew I didn’t know what I was doing.  But then, unlike now, he couldn’t run away and hide. 

 

I pulled the old diaper off but made the tactical error of not immediately covering “it” up – as any mother of a boy will tell you, it’s a mistake you only make once.  I reached for the wipes and when I turned back, there was a perfect arc of pee going straight up and almost over his head. Almost, but not quite.  With his head turned to the side, he was peeing directly into his own ear.

 

I screamed like a little girl and then quickly covered “it” up. And then I laugh out loud because really? My kid had just pee’d into his own ear!  I decided right then that I liked him, that any boy who would pee into his own ear just to amuse his mother is worth keeping around. 

 

Make me feel better - tell me a story about your parental learning curve.

I’m A Nice Lady

April 1, 2008 | Always Real, Snips And Snails

This morning I had to take Sean for another round of blood work for the pediatric nephrologist. Not because he thinks anything is wrong, but because… I don’t really know why. He just said to do it and we said okay because occasionally we are compliant people.  I’m sure he has his reasons.

 

I smeared the lidocayne cream on Sean’s arm, which numbs the skin, and then covered it with the plastic bandage. We call it the magic cream.  Sean patted his arm reassuringly.   “Now we just let the magic soak in,” he said, sounding too grown up. 

 

As we drove to the lab, he sat quietly in the back seat and looked out the window.

 

“Everything okay?” I asked him.

 

‘Yup,” he said.

 

“Whatcha’ thinking about?” I asked him, concerned that he might be more worried about the blood draw than he was letting on.

 

“I was just thinking about you,” he said enthusiastically.

 

“Oh really?” I asked, delighted. “What were you thinking?”

 

“I was just thinking that you are a really nice lady.”

 

I was caught off guard.  I laughed at the same time that tears sprung to my eyes.  It was just so sweet and so funny, so little boy.

 

“Well, I think you are a really nice boy,” I said.

 

“Okay. Thanks,” he said.

 

The blood draw was a non-event. He sat in the chair and didn’t flinch or fuss. The nurses made all over him and told him how brave he was and what a big boy he was.  “Thank you,” he said.

 

We stopped by Wal-Mart on the way home because I needed milk.  I let him pick out a toy. Because afterall, I am a nice lady.

 

Stripes Are In

March 24, 2008 | Always Real, Antique Daddy, Snips And Snails

Apparently during the great blog blow up of March, this post went missing as well as the 45 or so comments, (except that I still have them in my email, yay merciful cyber gods).   I didn’t even realize it until I started cleaning up some files. Wonder what else I’ll find that’s not there….

 

In keeping with my quest to provide Sean with a perfect Norman Rockwell childhood, we stopped by Taco Bueno on the way home from church after Easter services and picked up some party burritos for lunch.  Who wants a ham and all the fixin’s served on the family china when you can have a burrito on paper?  I figure if I keep his expectations low, it will make it easier on his future wife.

 

Anyway, as our little tribe of three sat around the kitchen table quietly eating our pathetic Easter dinner of burritos off paper, without warning Sean turns to his father and says, “Daddy, I love you more than all the stripes on your shirt!”

 

“Why thank you Sean,” Antique Daddy says looking down at his shirt.

 

“In fact, I love you more than all the stripes on all the shirts in the world.”

 

“Wow,” Antique Daddy says, “That is a lot.”

 

Sean sets his burrito down and looks up at the ceiling.  In little boy fashion, he has shifted his brain into overdrive thinking how he can escalate this unquantifiable quantity of love he wants to describe into the realm of the absurd.

 

“All the shirts in the word - plus all the stripes on all the zebras in the world!”

 

He grins wildly at his daddy and then returns to his burrito.

 

When I am an old and brittle and I look back on the Easter that Sean was four, I won’t remember a big fancy dinner or a noisy table full of chattering people dressed in fancy clothes or overflowing Easter baskets.  I won’t even remember burritos.

 

I’ll remember that unquantifiable, unimaginable, unrestrained love is best described in stripes.

The Health Club

March 11, 2008 | Always Real

I have a treadmill in my house.  And a recumbent bike.  And a BowFlex.  And free weights. And all kinds of other work out paraphernalia.  You would think that I would be in great shape because I can work out any time I want, right?  It’s all right here in my house.  I can work out at 2am if I feel like it!

 

That’s what I rationalized said when I purchased each of those things.  But you know what?  I never feel like working out at 2am.  Never.  Not even one time.  You know what I feel like doing at 2am? Sleeping.   And on those rare occasions when I do feel like working out and actually get on the treadmill?  Within five minutes someone needs me to do something, find something or wipe something. And that’s the end of my workout.

 

With that thought in mind, back in the fall, in November I think, I joined one of those big national health clubs.  I rationalized said that if I went there to walk on the treadmill that probably no one would make me stop to wipe their bottom or find their keys.

 

Then there was Thanksgiving.  And then Christmas.  And then I felt cruddy most of January and February. No treading happened here, there nor anywhere.

 

And now it’s March!

 

And I’m actually going to the health club!  Well going may be a bit of an over statement.  How many times do you have to actually go somewhere before you can legally say going?  Let’s just say that I’ve been inside the health club a few times during the month of March.  So then, using my calculator – so far — it’s only costing me $157 per workout!  That’s the kind of stewardship that makes Dave Ramsey’s tummy turn.

 

I’ve learned a lot about working out since I’ve been “going” to the club.  I’ve learned that you can watch any music video on MTV while listening to the B-52’s sing Love Shack on your iPod and it works.  Music videos do not make sense to me, so why not just watch them all to Love Shack? Come to think of it, Love Shack doesn’t make any sense to me either, but it’s got a beat you can tread to.  Love Shack works with Regis and Kelly, Rachel Ray pouring E-V-Oh-Oh, Television’ Telemundo game shows and a local TV anchor doing the hand jive with Barney – you know, big purple Barney?  On an unrelated side note, when you are a television news journalist and you are hand jiving with Barney at 9am, your career has gotten seriously off track.

 

The other thing I’ve learned is that the possibilities of looking ridiculous at a health club are unlimited, even if you are not hand jiving with a dinosaur.  Add questionable clothing choices, an iPod and shoe laces to the equation and you’ve upped your odds exponentially of making a fool of yourself.

 

Of course I could also do that in the privacy of my own home for free at 2am.

 

If you make a fool of yourself and no sees you, are you still a fool?  Philosophically speaking, of course.

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.

Seasick

February 14, 2008 | Always Real, Faith, Medical Mysteries

Tuesday, I had my boat rocked.

In my life, I’ve had my boat rocked many a time. I’m a tough gal. I’m a high-cope person. I am good in a crisis. But yesterday was different. Yesterday it wasn’t about me, it was about my child. And it sent me overboard.

Tuesday morning, Antique Daddy and I took Sean in for his four-year check-up, which unfortunately includes four vaccinations. I was dreading having to put him through the four shots, but as a family that embraces pharmacology, it had to be done. (Your philosophy on vaccinations may be different than mine, feel free to discuss it on your blog.)

Since it was just shots, I agreed to see the nurse-practitioner. Go ahead and judge me now, I prefer the doctor. I’m a doctor snob. One reason I prefer the doctor to the nurse practitioner is because the doctor is not 6’4 and 85 pounds. He does not wear pointy-toed stiletto heels and expensive dry-clean only sweaters to see children who might puke without notice. Her clothing choices do not say “I love children!” Her clothing choices send a mixed message and confuse me. Therefore I am wary of her.

The regular nurse takes his blood pressure and does all the regular stuff and then hands me a plastic cup and orders me to get a urine sample from the patient. So I dutifully take Sean to the restroom and he happily complies as if there is nothing more fun one could do than pee in a cup and put it in a little window. “Can we do this at home?” he asks.  No.

We went back to the exam room and continued with an impromptu Tonka road rally and waited.  All was well and the seas were calm.  A little glint of sun peeked through the windows.

The semi-doctor breezes into the room, stepping through the Tonka road rally in her stiletto pumps and plops down in a chair and announces with no warning that Sean has a sugar count of 2000 in his urine, that he’s an insulin-dependent diabetic, that we need to gather up our stuff and rush to the Children’s hospital emergency room and have him admitted where they can start doing tests and that he will need an insulin pump for the rest of his life and I will have to finger-stick him to check his blood sugar several times a day.

As I’m trying to take in all this information, I’m watching Sean happily bouncing around the room, the picture of health in every way. And that’s when the room listed to one side. On another day, when I was feeling well, I would have put the brakes on. But I am at the tail end (I hope) of a nearly month-long bronchial infection and my reserves are low. In my weakened state, I just sat there with my mouth open and stared at her.

With all the energy I could muster, which was none, I feebly offer that maybe it was the blueberry muffin he ate that morning or some Valentine candy from the day before.

“No,” she dismisses me, “That might raise it to 200, but not 2000 blah blah blah the sky is falling blah…” After that I couldn’t hear anything other than that ch-ch-ch sound of my blood marching in my ears. And then she left the room to call her mother and proudly report the exciting diagnosis she just made. At that point, I felt like I was being burned at the stake. Heat started steadily rising from my torso to my head. The room started spinning and I had to decide whether to throw up or pass out. And so I knelt down on the floor to make either option more convenient. 

The regular nurse came in and asked me if I was okay. I said, no, I did not think I was okay and that I needed to lie down. She suggested that I lay on the exam table, so I crawled up there and curled up in a little ball and willed the room to stop spinning. Sean, who is oblivious to all of the drama happening around him, stops sailing a Tonka truck across the floor and climbs up on the table and curls up beside me. He kisses my cheek and pats my side. “I will take care of you Mommy,” he offers. How ironic. I can’t think. I can’t feel anything except the sensation of fire.

Twenty or thirty minutes or hours pass, I’m not sure which. I no longer have a grasp on time. The not-quite-a-doctor and the regular nurse have an argument discuss how to get blood work back STAT. The regular nurse, the one with some sense, sends us to another facility to have blood drawn before we go to Children’s. She hands me paperwork. This is good. I have something in my hands that I can do. I manage to pull myself together enough to check out and get to the car, but the sensation that I’m on fire and my legs are made of jello persists.

We go to the next place and get blood drawn, which on a four-year-old, is almost as fun as four shots in the same day. And then we go home and wait for several hours for the phone to ring. We cherish the next several hours because we don’t know if they will be the last four hours of our previously normal life. We play, we pray. Priorities are reordered.

Three hours later, the nurse-practitioner calls and reports that his blood sugar is as normal as can be. She tells us that she has talked to the endocrinologist at Children’s and that he suggests that the elevated sugar in the urine is a stress response to a recent ear infection.

So then.  The semi-doctor yelled “Boo!” and is now calling to say “Just kidding!”  I feel slightly relieved, but not. I want to break her 85-pound frame in two just the same.  She wants us to come back in for a retest of his urine later in the week and another blood draw next week, but in the meantime to go on with life as normal.  I’m not sure how to do that as I don’t normally live in the shadow of a giant scary question mark.

In the meantime, I remind myself that no matter the outcome, that we will cope. That if we have to, we will deal with this as families all over the world do and have.  In the meantime, I remind myself that my God is with me always, no matter how badly my boat is rocking. 

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.