Archive for the 'Sometimes Sweet' Category

Living Gesturally

March 28, 2007 | Always Real, Sometimes Sweet

When I was studying art in college, one of the exercises the professor had us do at the beginning of every class was a series of gestural drawings. A model would come into the studio, disrobe, strike a pose and then we would have 10-15 seconds to capture the line, the attitude and the form before he or she struck another pose.

The value of this exercise was that it taught me to see - to see what was important, what was essential. I learned to quickly capture the essence of a composition with just a few simple lines.

Now that I have a three year old, I don’t get to spend much time in my art studio, but I still use this same technique, only now I use words on scraps of paper instead of charcoal on newsprint. Like the gestural drawings, sometimes I’ll see something in what I’ve recorded that can be worked into a greater composition and other times I’ll look at a nonsensical string of words and wonder if Sudafed should really be an over-the-counter drug.

Earlier this week I opened the drawer of my nightstand so that I could sweep everything off the top and into the waiting drawer with my forearm. Dusting and cleaning all in one economic motion. Down in the dark recesses of the drawer, a small scrap of paper with my own handwriting caught my eye. I picked it up and read it:

Sean on tricycle, helmet, mails here, chapstick

While those words would make no sense to anyone else, for me they reconstituted a sweet and previously forgotten moment and brought it back to life.

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A day or two after I returned home from the hospital last month, I was resting in bed. Bringggg-bringggg! Sean announced his arrival by furiously working the bell on his little red Radio Flyer tricycle. He pedaled into my bedroom wearing a helmet. “Mail’s here ma’am,” he announced. Then he got off of his tricycle, opened the trunk and pulled out some coupons and junk mail. He handed them to me and then extended his other hand so that I could pull him up into bed with me. He was quickly distracted from his postal duties by the tube of Chapstick on my nightstand. “Can I use your Chapstick? My wips are willy willy chapped,” he said somberly. Before I could grant permission, he grabbed the tube and vigorously smeared Chapstick in a big circle around but not on his lips. “Want some?” he offered, holding the waxy stub up for me to see. When I declined, he scampered down out of my bed, got back on his bike and rode out of the room ringing his bell.

I smiled to myself as I looked at those few words scribbled on the back of a dry cleaning coupon. A verbal snapshot. I was reminded that it is the small, spare and even unremarkable memories that are the very essence of life. And maybe, even more so than grand moments in life — the weddings and the graduations –they are worthy of capturing and preserving.

And I think that’s why I blog.

Not Just Because He Wears A Napkin On His Head

March 20, 2007 | Joy, Sometimes Sweet

The prevailing assumption in our culture is that parents can’t wait for their children to grow up and leave home. And yes, there have been a few days when I would have traded Sean for a margarita and a plate of nachos. But not many. At least not too many.

Maybe most people do feel that way, but I don’t. Maybe because I waited so long and so late in life for him and maybe because I thought I’d never be a mother, but I am not anxious for this time to speed by. I am fully aware that the day he leaves my house will be here too soon.

I remember one time when Sean was about a year old, we were seated in a restaurant booth and he was enjoying the thrill of wearing a napkin on his head as everyone does. He was having a good time and we were having a good time watching him have a good time. At one point, the lady seated in the booth behind us turned and said, “Don’t worry, only 18 more years to freedom.” Without thinking I blurted, “But I don’t want to be free from him!” Her face contorted in disgust and disbelief, as though I had just stated for the record that I enjoy sticking straight pins in my eyeballs. That was kind of a conversation killer, so she immediately turned back to her margarita and nachos.

But it’s true, I’m having a great time being a mom even though I’m chronically tired and most of the time I feel like I don’t know what in the heck I’m doing. I mean how often can you take someone to dinner and get them to dance on the table with a napkin on their head purely for your own amusement without buying them drinks? Not that often people. Not since college anyway.

Sean is a source of joy in my life. I like having him around. He makes me laugh. He makes me remember to breathe long and deep. With or without a napkin on his head.

Sticky Prayers

March 14, 2007 | Faith, Reruns and Leftovers, School, Sometimes Sweet

I remember my mother’s prayers and they have followed me always. They have clung to me all my life. ~ Abraham Lincoln

Sean’s first school year officially ended last night with a little graduation ceremony for the five year olds who will be leaving the pre-school and moving on to kindergarten. The younger kids “sang them out” just as the losers on American Idol do. Well, more accurately, all the other kids sang out the grads. Sean stood on the stage and did an impression of Lot’s wife.

As all the five year olds marched across the stage in their adorable little caps and gowns, I wept. I don’t even have a kid in the graduating class and I cried. I am pathetic. I am normally not that much of a cryer, but lately ceremonies seem to prick that tender part of my heart and remind me that time slips like water through my fingers.

As each child marched across the stage to receive their diploma, the teacher announced where they would be going to school next year and what their career plans were. One boy wanted to drive a dump truck, another wanted to study to be a ninja. One girl wanted to be a princess, another a ballerina. Perhaps Abraham Lincoln wanted to be a ninja too.

The path laid before Sean may lead him to drive a truck or drive him to lead a nation — it is not mine to know or to choose. I know God has a plan for this boy and I’m going to try my best to not get in the way, but rather to walk along side him, holding his hand for as long as he’ll let me.

After that, I’ll just have to hope that my prayers follow him and cling to him always.

This post was published in May of 2006 ~ Antique Mommy

The Sleep Over

March 8, 2007 | Sometimes Sweet

Last night Antique Daddy wasn’t feeling well. In a pre-emptive move, I left him to his snotty, sneezy, germ-spreading self and Sean and I high-tailed up to the guest room for a Mom n’ Tot sleepover.

I’m not a big fan of co-sleeping because sleeping with Sean is like trying to sleep in the center of a tornado. There is just a lot of activity and not a lot of sleeping.

After we read six or seven books and said our prayers, we snuggled down into bed, face-to-face, nose-to-nose, on the same pillow. “Goodnight Sean, I love you,” I said to him which triggered his automatic response of “I wudsyew Mom.”

I just looked at him for a moment almost unable to believe that I was someone’s mom. How on earth did that happen? His crazy hair was going in all directions and his eyes were heavy with sleep. He looked like a teddy bear in his sleeper pajamas. I wanted to squeeze the puddin’ out of him but I didn’t lest I set off another round of jumping on the bed.

I watched his eyes flutter and then finally close. Stillness settled over the room. “I love being your mama,” I heard myself say.

“I wuds bein’ your boy,” he whispered back without opening his eyes.

And that somehow made up for the fact that I only got an hour and fifteen minutes of sleep.

Tiny Mirror

March 7, 2007 | Sometimes Sweet

In so many ways, looking into the face of Sean is like looking into a tiny mirror. I look at him and see me 44 years ago. I see in him the frustration that comes easily with mechanical things, square pegs that don’t fit into round holes, top-heavy things that tip over, gutter covers and easy open zip lock bags that don’t work as you imagine they will and that sort of thing. In this regard, I don’t want him to be like me because that means he might be in for a life of hurling objects across a room and that’s not good. My prayer is that he will learn to become patient and analytical, like his father.

Yet in other ways he is not like me at all. For example, this week I took him to story time at the local library for the first time. There was a grandmotherly lady who obviously had a lot of experience teaching small children. She read several books to the children and lead them through some songs with hand gestures and dance steps. She held their attention and they were all enamored of her. All the kids sat at her feet on a special rug with safari animals on it. They climbed all over one another to sit near her and get her attention and please her. All the kids, that is, except for Sean who sat on my lap like a potted plant.

When I was Sean’s age I would have had my mom drop me at the curb. I would have been in the middle of the crowd of kids, entertaining everyone whether they wanted it or not. I would have been organizing the post story-time cocktail party. I would have been making the teacher wish either she or I was on another planet. I was social. I was vibrant. I was noisy and obnoxious and I simply could not contain my exuberant self.

After story time, I asked Sean if he enjoyed it and would he would like to go again next week. “Yes,” he said, “But I just don’t want to sit on the rug.”

“Sure, okay,” I agreed. “Why not?”

“It makes me feel anxious,” he said soberly.

I sighed. Only middle-aged people in therapy should say that. And then I sighed again thinking that inside my three-year-old lives a middle-aged person in therapy — a middle-aged person in therapy who is blaming his mother for having tortured him with story time at the library.

All Of My Life

February 24, 2007 | Photo Essays, Sometimes Sweet

I waited for just this moment.

And it was worth it.

What You Get For 52 Years

February 20, 2007 | Papa Ed, Sometimes Sweet, Wivian

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It is earlier in the week. We are sitting around the breakfast table. I am not actually sitting, I’m kind of slouched over in my chair with my head on the table because I’m still feeling like last night’s piñata from my adventures in organ removal. But I’m pretending. I’m trying real hard. My parents are reading the newspaper. Sean is being Sean.

My dad looks up from the newspaper and over his eggs and toast, he says, “Hmmph!” as though he’s just discovered something. And he has. He just noticed the day’s date and that today is their 52nd wedding anniversary. In the chaos and the crazy of the past week, everyone had forgotten.

Dad scans the heartwarming Norman Rockwell scene around the table: his doped up middle-aged daughter with her face in her plate, his grandson spooning yogurt down his pajamas and his bride of 52 years obliviously working a Sudoku puzzle.

From the look on my dad’s face, I was guessing that maybe he was imagining himself as a young man standing at the altar of St. Al’s 52-years ago, full of youth and hope, kissing my pretty mom with his hands around her tiny waist. Or maybe he was thinking he just didn’t see this coming.

Nonetheless.

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad. We’ll celebrate next year, except without the morphine.

Photo: Wivian and Papa Ed, 1955

The Strawberry

February 11, 2007 | Joy, Snips And Snails, Sometimes Sweet

Somewhere along the way, in the bumpy course of my life, my eyes had become crusted over with the cynical smog and gunk and goo of the world. Bad news for an artist. I had just stopped seeing the exquisite surprises that God puts in my path every day. And I didn’t even realize it. Until Sean came along.

Having a little boy to point out the spot of bright red in a sepia colored world has been a marvelous and soul-healing thing. Sean has opened the eyes of my heart to see the wonder of the world again through his eyes and this, for me, has been the gift of parenthood.

Not too long ago, we had breakfast at IHOP and if ever there is a place where the world gathers up her cynicism, it’s at IHOP. We always seem to get some world worn waitress named Blanche who is all business but calls everyone honey. Blanche is probably 53 but looks 73 from smoking three packs a day and having worked at IHOP since she was 16.

As Blanche sets down the plate of pancakes before us, Sean shrieks with delight, “Oh Mommy! A strawberry!” he gasps. “Look! She brought us a strawberry!” And then he looks up at Blanche and gives her a smile that would light up the dark side of the moon.

 But Blanche doesn’t take notice. “Anything else honey?” she asks instead. Sean claps his hands together with glee and laughs his own funny little staccato laugh over the sight of such a rare and unusal thing. He picks it off the side of the plate and examines it.

Powdered sugar snows down on everything between the plate and his shirt. He holds it to his button nose and inhales deeply leaving a dusting of white behind. He feels of its bumpy texture. He offers me a sniff by shoving it firmly up my nose. Then he looks at me and smiles. A strawberry! Tiny white teeth and dimples punctuate the moment — those dimples that daily prick the tender underside of my crusty, cynical heart. It is so hard to be crusty and cynical when there are dimples.

I look at him as he licks what’s left of the the powdered sugar off the strawberry. I think of his happy little heart, still pure and unstained by the world, a world which cannot, will not, be distracted away from it’s cynicism long enough to appreciate the beauty of a single strawberry on a plate of pancakes.

In that moment, the strawberry and the boy are so blindingly and shockingly and painfully beautiful that it makes my eyes hurt. And I want to eat them both up.

This boy, he has opened the eyes of my heart.

Accept No Substitutes

January 8, 2007 | Antique Daddy, Reruns and Leftovers, Sometimes Sweet

This post was originally published in October of 2005. It explains a little bit about The Crib.

Like most modern households with children, we have divvied up the child-care tasks. Antique Daddy handles the bedtime routine and I handle everything else up to that point. And I must say that he does an excellent job. With very few exceptions, bedtime is a happy and special time that both he and Sean look forward to at the end of the day.

Antique Daddy was gone a few days this week, so I had to cover the bedtime routine. And I really thought it went well. Sean happily went to sleep each night. I thought I had tasted a little bit of that end-of-the-day magic that he shares with his daddy. I thought I had been accepted into the boy’s club.

When Antique Daddy returned home from a long day of work and travel, I decided that I would give him a pass and let him relax while I put Sean to bed. I seated myself in the rocker and pulled out one of his favorite books to read. I patted my legs and motioned for Sean to crawl up in my lap. But he just looked at me like I was from Mars. He grabbed my index finger and yanked on it making it perfectly clear I was in the wrong seat. After I removed myself from the seat of honor, he patted the seat of the rocker and said, “Dah-dee. Scheep dow.”

As Sean crawled up into his daddy’s lap, I sat down on the floor at the feet of the master hoping to gain some wisdom if only by breathing his rarified air. Sean looked down on me from his perch as if to say “Are you still here?” Pushing the book aside, he crawled down out of his daddy’s lap, and again by the finger, yanked me to my feet and showed me the door. He literally escorted me to the door — with a little push from behind lest anyone be uncertain about his intentions. At the door, I bent over for my goodnight kiss. He blew me a kiss and waved bye-bye, as in “buh-bye” and then slammed the door in my face.

Daddy was home. Without ceremony, my services were no longer needed.

The Crib

January 7, 2007 | Antique Daddy, Sometimes Sweet

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Yes, my three-year-old still sleeps in a crib. Not because he’s not ready for a big boy bed, but because his father is not ready for a big boy bed.

We have a BBB in the attic. Several times in the past year, I’ve mentioned to Antique Daddy that since Sean easily scrambles in and out of the crib, tightrope walks the rails and dive rolls out like a Chinese acrobat that perhaps the crib no longer serves it’s purpose. Perhaps it’s time to get the BBB out of the attic and let this little boy take a baby step towards becoming a big boy.

This suggestion is always met with some sort of vague response like “Okay, maybe this Saturday” which translates to “No.”

If you’ve been reading this blog very long, then you already know that there are some fundamental differences in how Antique Daddy and I approach life. I gobble, he savors. I cut and run, he hangs in. I move on, he lingers. I am impetuous, he is thoughtful. I cross my fingers, hope for the best and jump in with my blindfold firmly in place, he anal-yzes, plans, proceeds and then backs up. Because I am intimately acquainted with death and loss, my grip is loose. Because he is intimately acquainted with death and loss, his grip is tight. I look forward to the future, convinced that something wonderful is waiting for me just around the corner. He looks back and mourns the loss of each today. He is sentimental, I am crusty.

That is to say.

I have been working on him for the last six months to get the BBB out of the attic. I’m not foolish enough to think that the transition to the new bed won’t be without a few issues, a few sleepless nights, but I’m ready. I think Sean is ready. He is an adaptable little boy. It is time.

So this past Saturday was the “maybe this Saturday” Saturday. After breakfast, I mentioned to him that it was the perfect day to get out the BBB since he could get it out at the same time he was hauling the tsunami-sized wall of Christmas decorations into the attic.

A wall of silence went up. He turned his back to me. And when he turned back, he had tears in his eyes. “I’m just not ready,” he said. “I didn’t know that last night when I put him to bed that it would be the last night that I would ever get to put him to sleep in that crib. Give me a few more days.”

Now I know what men deal with. You just can’t counter tears.

It’s going to be really embarrassing when we haul Sean’s crib to his freshman dorm at UT. And his daddy insists on being his roommate so he can read him books and rock him to sleep each night.

An Old Friend

December 15, 2006 | Sometimes Sweet

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This is my old friend, Sitting Santa $1.39. I bought him the first year I moved to Texas when I was 21-years-old.

I was poorer than a church mouse in those days, yet I was out coveting shopping on my lunch hour. When you’re 21, nothing has to make much sense and that’s the beauty of being 21. Anyway, I spotted him in a Tuesday Morning and I was enchanted. The box in which he came, which I carefully return him to at the end of every season, has a sticker on it that reads Sitting Santa $1.39, so that’s what I’ve always called him.

The day I bought Sitting Santa $1.39, I think I had maybe $1.55 in my purse, so I skipped lunch and bought him instead. Like Antique Daddy, I knew the second I laid eyes on him that I had to have him and that he was mine, mine, mine and that we would be together always!

Every season, I look forward to unpacking him and fluffing out his poinsettias and placing him in the holiday seat of honor, the kitchen window. Unpacking him is like running into an old friend and then realizing how much you’ve missed them. Seems kind of silly that a cheap little piece of ceramic from China could mean so much, could do so much, but it does.

The past 25 Christmas seasons here in Texas have sometimes been joyous and filled with life and plenty. Other seasons have been sad and lonely and slim. Some years there have been big sparkly heavily-laden department store trees and other years little Charlie Brown trees and a few years no tree at all. But Sitting Santa $1.39 has been the constant in all the craziness that has been my life as a Texan. Sitting Santa $1.39 has helped to make the past 25 Christmas seasons a bit more bright.

That’s what old friends do.

The Measure Of A Boy

December 11, 2006 | Joy, Snips And Snails, Sometimes Sweet

“Eighteen inches!” the nurse announced shortly after you were born. That’s officially how long you were. When I’m old and gray, I won’t remember eighteen inches. But I will always remember that you were the length of my forearm when your tiny soft warm head rested in the palm of my hand.

A line on the wall marks 30 inches. That’s how tall you were on your first birthday. 30 inches meant that I could hold you in the rocking chair with your head nestled into my neck and your knees tucked comfortably under you. 30 inches meant I could lift you over the crib rails and place you in your bed without waking you.

Another mark on the wall shows that when you turned two, you were 35 inches tall. I don’t remember 35 inches, I remember the leg hugs. You would exuberantly wrap your arms around my upper leg and bury your face into my thigh, squealing with delight and glee and slobber. That’s what leg hugs mean - 35 inches.

Now at three, you are 40 inches tall. 40 inches means you can sit in my lap and I can rest my chin on your head. And smell your hair. And whisper kisses and prayers down the back of your shirt without you knowing it.

I know that someday we will stand eye-to-eye and then there will be a day beyond that when you will rest your chin on my head. And I will still want to whisper kisses and prayers down your shirt without you knowing it.

The Kiss

December 4, 2006 | Snips And Snails, Sometimes Sweet

Nothing will cure what ails you faster than an unsolicited kiss from a 3-year-old.

Earlier in the week as I was standing at the kitchen sink, Sean comes in to the kitchen and yanks on my shirt. “Mommy, I want to kiss you,” he says looking up at me.

“Terrific!” I say, drying my hands on a dish towel. Having played several lightening rounds of “Who’s The Boss” earlier in the day, I am delighted to be the object of his affection, yet suspicious. I bend over, close my eyes and brace myself. I am expecting one of those big sloppy snotty kisses where he uses my face for a Kleenex. Instead, he takes my face in his hands and as gentle as a butterfly, he kisses the tip of my nose.

“There!” he announces, “Howdya’ like that?”

I open my eyes. We are still nose to nose. “I liked it very much!” I say.

And then he plants two more on my nose.

“Here’s two more for later in case you need them.”

I use the dish towel in my hands to mop up my heart off the floor.

Thoughts On A Third Birthday Party

November 14, 2006 | Sometimes Sweet, Sometimes Tart

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Earlier in the week, I reminded Sean that his third birthday was coming up and I asked him what he would like for his birthday. “Oh, some party hats,” he said. “Is that all?” I asked. “Some balloons too would be nice,” he added. Oh that his desires might always be so simple. It won’t be long before the world will be too much with him, late and soon, as one of my favorite poets, Wordsworth wrote.

So, we have party hats and balloons. And even a gift. As you can see from the picture, I’m kind of the anti-Martha. Wrapping presents is not my specialty. My theory is, and I’m hoping I’m right on this, no one remembers the wrapping. Heck, unless it’s a car most of the time no one even remembers the present by the next day. If I’m wrong, well, that’ll give him one more thing to talk about in therapy. That and the fact his 46-year-old mother was the youngest person at his party.

A Little Boy Like Me

November 8, 2006 | Makes Me Sigh, Snips And Snails, Sometimes Sweet

Today Sean and I had a number of errands to run, which of course, included a trip to - you guessed it - Wal-Mart! But today, we did not go to our own personal Wal-Mart, the one that is one block away from our house, we went to the Wal-Mart that is one mile away. We are adventurous like that.

This Wal-Mart has a McDonalds in it and in a moment of weakness, as we were leaving the store, I agreed to stop in for breakfast. Anytime there is a possibility that my son will ingest food, I make the most of it. After we got our food, Sean chose a table by a window that looks out into the lobby of the store where the carts and the greeter are located.

As we were sitting there like two fish in a bowl eating our McFood, Sean starts making observations about the people who are coming and going.

“That lady’s in a hurry!” he said as a lady grabbed a cart and headed into the store like a racehorse.

“Sure enough,” I responded.

“That man has a hole in his paints. He needs new paints.”

“Maybe he’s going in the store to buy new pants,” I offered.

“That woman looks sad! Why is that woman sad?”

I looked at her. She did look as though the world were resting on her shoulders.

“I don’t know why she’s sad Sweetie,” I said, impressed with his astute observation.

He cocked his head and touched my forearm and said, “Maybe because she doesn’t have a little boy like me.”

Gulp. Tears instantly stung my eyes.

“Maybe so,” I said. “I was sad when I didn’t have a little boy like you.”

“Yeah” he said.

And then he shoved an entire biscuit in his mouth.

If Only It Came In A Jar

June 15, 2006 | Snips And Snails, Sometimes Sweet

Sean sat on the edge of the bathtub this morning watching me trying to perform a face lift on myself with a jar of Loreal ultra, energizing, firming, age-defying something or another.  It wasn’t going well.

“Want me to sing you a song?” he volunteered, maybe hoping to cheer me up.

“Absolutely!” I agreed.

“Je-jush loves me, dis I know,” he belted out in little boy falsetto, “and Bingo was his name-oh!”

Amusing and oh so wry.  The former Catholic school girl in me appreciated the Jesus-Bingo reference. And then I laughed out loud because, actually that was pretty good. And then the boy laughed because he had made his mother laugh.

Forget Loreal.  It’s amazing what a good laugh first thing in the morning can do for your countenance.

Mud Muffins

June 14, 2006 | Snips And Snails, Sometimes Sweet, Wivian

Photo temporarily unavailable.

My mom’s parenting philosophy has always been this: Never miss an opportunity to have fun.  If it didn’t hurt anything (permanently) and it was fun (and free) she would make it happen.

Nothing was ever too messy or too much trouble for my mom if it meant her kids having fun. The list of crazy things she would let us do (or think up for us to do) is endless, but one of the things I especially remember is that when it was too cold to go outside, she would bring snow inside in her big mixing bowls so that we could make little snowmen in the house.

I think the thing mom enjoyed most about her kids was the license to be a kid herself.  I want to be that kind of mom.

So last week I took a page out of her parenting book and set up a mud muffin making factory for Sean in the backyard. He worked in the gentle morning sunshine mixing and stirring mud in his big metal washtub, perfecting his muffin recipie “in case a moose came by.”  It wasn’t long before the clothes came off and he was clad only in mud, but there is precious little time in life when one can a) fit in a washtub and b) enjoy being unabashedly naked.

I sat in a lawn chair near the muffin factory employed as the chief taste-tester and company photographer while enjoying the intoxicating combination of sunshine, mud and a carefree little boy.

Maybe when he’s a grown man, he’ll remember the day that his crazy mom set him up in business making mud muffins in the backyard.  Or maybe he’ll just remember that no matter the trouble or the mess, his mama never missed an opportunity to have fun.

Rear View Mirror

June 13, 2006 | Antique Crazy, Mildly Amusing, Sometimes Sweet

Everyone needs someone in their life that they can count on to level with them, to tell them when they have spinach in their teeth. The only reliable source of truth in my life right now is not my mother, not my best friend and because he has learned better over the course of nearly ten years, certainly not my husband — it is the rearview mirror in my car.

Even on those days when I leave the house thinking I look not that bad for a 46-year-old woman with a toddler and too little sleep, my rearview mirror is only too happy to set me straight.

AM: Hi RVM! I’m looking hot today, doncha’ think? I got me a new tube of Tropical Pink lipstick at the grocery store for my new summer look. It looked great on Cindy Crawford on the display. I’m going to look like Cindy Crawford!

RVM: Um, Cindy is an exotic 6-foot tall brunette. You’re a non-descript pasty white 5’4 blonde with gray highlights.

AM: Tropical Pink too bright?

RVM: Just a tad. You could be trying too hard. Didn’t you used to have lips?

AM: Oh. Well, okay. But I’ve got a great attitude. It’s great to be alive! (big smile)

RVM: Speaking of…. Have you heard of this new tooth whitening toothpaste stuff? I’m just saying…

RVM: And while we’re on the topic, do you even own a pair of tweezers?

AM: That was a topic? Tweezers?

RVM: Check the chin sister. It happens.

AM: Okay. Sure. I see what you’re saying.

RVM: And Buff Puff. Buff Puff is your friend. Exfoliate and say goodbye to dull lifeless skin!

AM: Okay tweezers and Buff Puff and whitening toothpaste and lipstick. Anything else?

RVM: And is that tissue paper under your eyes or did a gift bag just explode in your face?

The bright lights of that much truth makes me want to pull the car back into the garage, close the door and leave the engine running. But then I look in that same mirror and catch the gaze of a little boy in the backseat. He is watching me indulge myself in this bizarre ritual of self-inspection. He is giving me a big toothy grin and waving his hand at me like he is washing a window. He’s calling “Hi Mommy! I see you!” to the mirror. He does see me. He sees me. He could not care less if his mommy is 26 or 46 or needs to exfoliate. I resolve to spend more time looking beyond the mirror and less time looking into it.

Then I put the car in drive and head to grocery store for tweezers, toothpaste, Buff Puff, lipstick and a toy for my good boy, because he has taught me the difference between reality and truth. And he makes me feel like I’m 26 again.

The Offering

June 5, 2006 | Faith, Outsmarted, Sometimes Sweet

After I gave Sean the lesson on earning money the other day, I realized that I should probably introduce the idea of saving, spending and sharing. I told him that some of the money he earned, he would save to pay for mommy’s luxury retirement villa, some of it he would be allowed to spend on toys or imported dark chocolate and some of it he would give back to God on Sundays.

So Sunday morning as we were getting ready for church, he said that he needed to get some money out of his bank to put in his pocket for “Je-jush.” Although technically he didn’t have a pocket, I was quite impressed. He not only remembered our lesson in money management, but he was willing to go along with it. Suze Orman would be proud.

I retrieved his little homemade bank from his dresser and handed it to him. He  upended it, the four coins (a penny, nickel, dime and quarter) jangling to the floor. He sat cross-legged on the floor, taking a long time to study his portfolio. As he sat there, he knocked the knuckles of his little boy fists lightly together. He hmmmm’d and pursed his lips in indecision. Which one? Which one? His hands quivered and darted from coin to coin as he decided and then undecided.

I prodded him, “Make a choice sweetie. Which coin would you like to put in the offering plate today?” Finally, his eyes lit up and he cheerfully announced, “The brown one!” Then he stood up and shoved his tightly clenched fist and the brown coin down into the waist of his shorts and out through the leg.

In his mind, I’m sure the brown one was the best of what he had to give. And if not, well at least he was cheerful about it. And God loves a cheerful giver.

Sticky Prayers

May 24, 2006 | Faith, School, Snips And Snails, Sometimes Sweet

“I remember my mother’s prayers and they have followed me always. They have clung to me all my life.”

~ Abraham Lincoln

 

Sean’s first school year officially ended last night with a little graduation ceremony for the five year olds who will be leaving the pre-school and moving on to kindergarten. The younger kids “sang them out” just as the losers on American Idol do. Well, more accurately, all the other kids sang out the grads. Sean stood on the stage and did an impression of Lot’s wife.

As all the five year olds marched across the stage in their adorable little caps and gowns, I wept. I don’t even have a kid in the graduating class and I cried. I am pathetic. I am normally not that much of a cryer, but lately ceremonies seem to prick that tender part of my heart and remind me that time slips like water through my fingers.

As each child marched across the stage to receive their diploma, the teacher announced where they would be going to school next year and what their career plans were. One boy wanted to drive a dump truck, another wanted to study to be a ninja. One girl wanted to be a princess, another a ballerina. Perhaps Abraham Lincoln wanted to be a ninja too.

The path laid before Sean may lead him to drive a truck or drive him to lead a nation — it is not mine to know or to choose. I know God has a plan for this boy and I’m going to try my best to not get in the way, but rather to walk along side him, holding his hand for as long as he’ll let me.

After that, I’ll just have to hope that my prayers follow him and cling to him always.