About 20 years ago, someone gave me a big roll of brown paper.  I lugged it home thinking I could do something artsy with it, although I had no idea what.

So I stuck it in the back of the closet until such time as an idea came to me.  And there it stayed for about 10 years until I moved and stashed it in the back of yet another closet for another ten years.  Then I had a child.  And an idea.  And the brown paper was finally put to use.

About once a week, Sean and I will get out the big roll of brown paper and stretch out six or eight feet on the floor and make something. Because that’s what we do. We make stuff.  We’ve got crayons and markers and we are not afraid to use them.

Last year, he was really interested in the rain forest, so we read a book on the rain forest and we learned about the various animals that inhabit each layer. Then we rolled out about 8 feet of our trusty brown paper and drew a ginormous tree and worked together to create a verticle mural of the rain forest from the river to the canopy.  It was fun and educational and a great way to kill a rainy afternoon.

The year he was four,  around Christmas time, we rolled out the brown paper and I had him lay down on it so that I could trace his outline.  Then he painted and drew himself as a Santa and we cut it out and displayed it on the wall.  You deck your halls with boughs of holly, we deck ours with dwarf-sized brown paper Santas.  We made another brown paper “Seanta” last year and again this year and it’s been fun to see how he has grown, physically and artistically.

Twenty years ago, I had no idea what I would do with that roll of brown paper.   The roll is almost gone and I still don’t know what I’ll do with it from day to day, but I know it will be something.

Last Friday I had lunch with some friends at a Mexican restaurant. I ordered the spinach quesadillas and they were delicious, but I could only eat about half of them, so I had the waiter box up the rest to take home.

Today, around lunch time, it occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten those spinach quesadillas.  So I worked the inside of our overburdened fridge like one of those slide puzzles looking for those quesadillas.  But they were not to be found.

“That’s weird,” I thought. “I distinctly remember leaving the restaurant with them and putting them in the….”

Crud!  Crud!  Crud on a cracker crud!

They were still in the car.  So I went out to the garage and there they were.  Under the driver’s seat.  Oddly enough my car did not smell any worse than usual.  It could be that the smell of rotting spinach quesadillas is actually a step up from how my car normally smells.

But it begs the question, why do I even bother with the restaurant leftovers?  Is it hope or delusion that I ask for the to-go box?  Because I always fully believe that I will actually consume said left overs.  Even though I never do.

Because Sr. Edwina never let me forget that poor children in China were starving when I was in the 2nd grade, I am psychologically obligated 40 years later to make the waiter box up food I won’t eat so that I can throw it away a week later, that is if I can find it, because by cracky, I paid for that food and I am going to be the one to throw it away to alleviate world hunger.   That actually made sense in my head. It’s complicated in there and the circuitry is circuitous.

Now of course there is no real way to prove this without putting GPS on to-go boxes, but because this is a blog, I shall state it with some authority anyway,  as though it were fact:  99.9% of the leftovers taken from a restaurant never make it off restaurant property.  80% of to-go boxes are left on the table, 10% end up on the vanity in the ladies room and 5% end up in the parking lot after being placed on the roof of the car.

What happens to the remaining 5% is anyone’s guess, but you might check under the driver’s seat of your car.

Today is Presidents Day, but if anyone deserves a national holiday, I think it is the First Ladies.

First Ladies are, more or less, accidental politicians – elected by default, blessed with opportunity, cursed with judgment and expectation. Some of them come into the role with reluctance and others with gusto, but all leave their own unique imprimatur on our nation’s history.

I have been fascinated with First Ladies since reading the biography of Dolley Madison in the third grade. My admiration for her was cemented when I read how she heroically risked her life to save the famous Gilbert Stuart painting of George Washington before the British set fire to the White House during the War of 1812. In addition to her spunk, Mrs. Madison was greatly admired across several continents for her beauty, exquisite fashion sense and as a gracious hostess, albeit one who liked to dip snuff.

Here are some fun First Lady facts:

Lou Hoover graduated from Stanford with a degree in geology and spoke fluent Chinese.

Grace Coolidge taught hearing impaired children.

Elizabeth Monroe was an epileptic and would only speak French at home.

Ellen Wilson was a professional artist and direct descendant of Pocahontas.

Frances Cleveland was the youngest First Lady at 21.  She was also the only First Lady to marry in the White House as well as the first to give birth at the White House.

Laura Bush is the only First Lady to give birth to twins.

Three First Ladies died while in the White House.

Five First Ladies were previously widowed before marrying a future president and three others were divorcees.

Eight First Ladies were widowed while in the White House, but only one remarried.

All but six First Ladies outlived their husbands after leaving the White House and only one, Frances Cleveland, remarried.

Only two of our 44 presidents made it to the White House without a woman standing squarely behind him.  The rest of them had a woman standing in the background, smiling and nodding, applauding and waving, listening and encouraging. And those women deserve a national holiday, don’t you think?

Happy First Ladies Presidents Day everyone!

***

Sources:

National First Ladies Library

White House, Our First Ladies

“Presidential Wives, An Anecdotal History” by Paul F. Boller, Jr., 1998, Oxford University Press.

“Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near.”  Philippians 4:5

Meg, who writes Spicy Magnolia, commented on one of my recent posts saying she was having her first baby in January and that she was scared out of her mind.  And so of course I thought, “I’ll bet Meg would love some unsolicited advice from the internets!”

So then Meg, here is everything you ever wanted to know about becoming a mom but was smart enough not to ask: 

• In the words of Dr. Spock, trust yourself.  Use your own good sense. If that fails, Google for reassurance. 
• You don’t need 99% of the stuff at Babies R Us.  Return that battery powered bottle warmer and buy yourself a nice pair of sweats.
• Never change a poopy diaper while wearing bell sleeves. 
• Don’t stock up on diapers. As soon as you do, they will grow into the next size.
• The one time you go to the grocery store without the diaper bag, you and the other customers will live to regret it.
• Don’t bother putting shoes on your kiddo until they start walking – more money for shoes for you! 
• Do what you have to do to make life easy for yourself.  I kept Sean in zip up sleepers for the first year of his life after trying to dress him in one of those cute little Osh Kosh bib overall outfits nearly sent me off the deep end. 
• Don’t under-estimate your baby’s ability to take in and absorb information – good and bad. Kids are omnipotent. They are aware of everything that is going on in the house. 
• Take lots of pictures and write stuff down. Your brain won’t be able to hold that much wonderful.
• Let your child see your eyes light up when he enters the room. Let him know every day that you are glad he was born, glad you got to be his mom. Let your child know daily he is a source of joy in your life.  This will make up for the times when motherhood kicks your booty.
• Never forget that motherhood is the most precious season in a woman’s life. Wring the joy out of every day.

Then again Meg, don’t listen to me. I have a whole category dedicated to parenting gone awry. 

Got some good new mom advice for Meg?  Leave it in the comments!

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Update:  A little thank you note to y’all from soon-to-be new mom Meg:

“Hello, everyone! This is Meg. I want to reply to each of your comments to say “thank you”! They all mean so much to me and I’m printing them out to keep. But for those of you who don’t have a blog for me to click on and reply to you personally, please accept my deep appreciation for taking the time to leave a comment; I still feel so encouraged by this post and the comments! I hope you have a wonderful day and thank you!

November 1st, 2008

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So then, yesterday Sean and I were at the zoo in the jungles of Malaysa swimming with a tiger and today we are heading out to the open seas on tall ships where we will join Sig in a little crab fishing.  Glory be my life is exciting.

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Sig Jr. drives the boat.

You may or may not remember, but last year Papa George saved the local park in Tuna from a big faceless corporation who wanted to install a cell tower right in the middle of the park amongst oak trees that are hundreds of years old. A cell tower would have destroyed the visual beauty of the park and made it not that much of a park, really.

Because Papa George is who he is, he was able to work out a deal for a small nearby church to rent a portion of their unused parking lot to house the cell tower thus providing the cell tower a more suitable home and the small church some much needed funding for their food pantry.

George reports that the cell tower was finally installed and that the church is now able to provide groceries for 50 families every Monday. This is a congregation of about 50 people feeding 50 families every Monday. I think that is amazing. And I’m so proud of my Papa George and they way he goes about quietly ministering to people behind the scenes.

Here’s a picture of Sean in the park (without a cell tower in the background) enjoying some retro space age playground equipment.

And for your reading convenience, here’s the whole story from last March.

The Broker

My father-in-law George is a sweet and gentle man with a heart as big as the ocean. He never raises his voice. If he’s really really mad, he might say “damn”. That’s the only way you know he’s really mad because he doesn’t raise his voice. And let me add that in the eleven years I’ve known him, I’ve only heard him utter that word one time. Truly, he is a servant of God who looks after widows and orphans in their distress. But don’t mess with him.

A while back George took his car to be washed. When it was done, he got back into his car to find that a roll of quarters was missing from the glove box. George went inside and spoke to the manager and politely asked for his quarters back. George is not a big guy. With a head of thick silver hair and a cane, he’s not an imposing presence. I’m sure when the carwash manager saw George, he figured he would blow him off like a ripe dandelion.

The manager all but said I don’t have your quarters old man and why don’t you scram. But George wouldn’t budge. George said that was fine, that he would just hang around and talk to all the customers until he got his quarters back. In about ten minutes the manager handed him his roll of quarters. George thanked him very much and went on about his business. George brokered a deal for everyone to do the right thing without causing a stink and that’s a quality in him that I really admire.

Across the street from my in-laws house is a park that covers one city block. It is filled with big gnarly twisting ancient oaks which shade the 1950′s space age inspired playground equipment, a basketball court, a picnic area and lots of open space to run and play.

In the middle of the park is a large granite stone that is engraved with the message that the park was donated to the children of Tuna in 1947 in memory of Janis by her mother. I don’t know what happened to Janis or how old she was when she died, but it’s touching to think of all the children that have played in that park under the shade of those trees, whose children now play in that park and even grandchildren, Sean included.

Recently a big cell phone service provider came through Tuna and decided that a good place to erect a cell tower would be smack dab in the middle of the park, leveling most of the ancient oaks, leaving only the margins of the park and thusly rendering it no longer a park for all intents and purposes.

In exchange for obliterating the park, the generous BCS (big corporate schmucks) were willing to compensate Tuna with rent of about $1000 a month. It is my impression that the Tuna powers-that-be were salivating at the thought of all that money pouring into the city coffers and maybe even the idea that they would no longer have to maintain the park. And certainly the dumb people of Tuna would go for that. The notice of their intent and the date of the hearing was surreptitiously buried in the back of the local newspaper. Unfortunately for them, not much gets by George and he was on the case.

George was the only one who showed up at the hearing. When BCS saw the sight of an unassuming elderly man leaning on his cane, they probably figured they had a ripe dandelion in their sights. But like the car wash manager, they would be wrong. George stood up and made his case on behalf of the children of Tuna. And whatever he said, it was enough to convince the board to kill the issue. For the time being or until they figured George had forgotten about it.

Across the street from the park is a building that used to be owned by the Baptist church which moved to a new and larger location several years ago. The property is currently owned by another religious organization whose primary purpose is to house a food bank for the needy. After the meeting, George visited with the pastor of the church/food bank and told him that if he were willing, he could rent his parking lot to BCS for over $1000 a month, income the food bank sorely needs. Within a few days, the deal was inked.

Thanks to George’s brokering skills, BCS will plant their cell tower in an unused parking lot, the food bank will earn some much needed income and the giant oaks will continue to shade the children of Tuna as they play in the park and little Janis will continue to rest in peace – a win-win-win-win deal for all parties.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God. Matthew 5:9

First the scientists discover that dark chocolate and red wine are good for you and now blogging!  Sign me up to be a guinnea pig for those studies! My friend Jeremiah, who actually IS a scientist, sent me this link from Scientific American about why blogging is good for you. 

Have a great weekend y’all!

Okay, I am happy to admit when I am wrong.  Here’s a teen who should write a book. She’s a college professor teaching math and physics and in her spare time, she is looking for a non-invasive method to test blood sugar.  If she is successful, she will become the patron saint of diabetics.  Her book is one that I would buy and read. 

Last night, around 3am, tornado sirens sliced through the darkness like a buzz saw, whirring and whining in their circular way. “GETUUUUP!  getuuuup!  GETUUUUP!  getuuuuuup!” they screamed.

An old tree outside my bedroom window strained against the wind and creaked and groaned in pain.  Its heavy branches clawed at the roof.  Rain randomly drummed the windows in an odd and uneven rhythm.  Lightning lit up the room and then just as quickly darted away as though trying to stay ahead of the thunder that growled deep and low in the distance like a hungry lion looking for something to devour.

But even before the wind and sirens had issued their warnings, I was awakened by another alarm, not whirring and shrill but silent and still.  Not off in the distance, but deep within me — an alarm so ancient and primal that it resides in the marrow of my bones, handed down from Eve.  It is an invisible hand that pulls a mother up out of her sleep like a puppet.  It is an invisible someone who whispers in her ear “getupgetupgetup”.   No matter your child sleeps in a room down the hall or on another continent, the shapeless, voiceless nudge of mother’s intuition warns that danger is afoot and urges, “Get up! Go! Don’t delay!”

I snatched my wedding ring off the bathroom vanity and hastily screwed it on my finger over a resistant knuckle.  If all we own were to be carried away by the wind in the darkness that night, that was fine, but my wedding ring is the one material thing I would grieve.

I made my way through the dark house to Sean’s room, dodging flashes of light as I went.  As I stood over him, the sirens began their plaintive wail.  Somehow, I had been expecting them.  I pulled my boy from his bed. He was heavy with sleep. I hoisted his warm little body up on my shoulder and turned on the flashlight.  “Mommy, what’s going on?” he asked, still asleep as I carried him into the small windowless bathroom.  I sat on the edge of the tub twisting my wedding ring, praying for mercy and rocking my boy. I was grateful that he was just down the hall and not a continent away. 

When the sirens stopped, I carried him back to my bed, because that night, even the room down the hall seemed too far away.

We lost a few small limbs and that was about it.  Not everyone escaped storm damage. Just a block away, it appears a tornado raged down the street, taking out trees and tossing them onto roof tops and cars.  One of our neighbors has to retrieve their trampoline from the roof of their house.