Limit Two Protocol

May 30, 2008 | Aunt Jean, Reruns and Leftovers

When I was at my Aunt Jean’s house a while back, I noticed that while she didn’t keep canned goods in the bathroom, she did have a stash of probably 25 or 30 giant Snickers bars. In the kitchen that is, not the bathroom. And it wasn’t even Halloween.

It was surprising to see so many candy bars because you never see her eat anything like that. Aunt Jean is tall and thin and regal and dignified and not given to self-indulgence. When I asked her about them, she said that when she was growing up, one of the oldest of seven very poor children, all she ever wanted was a big old candy bar all to her self. And now that she can afford them, she buys them because she can. But only when they are on sale.

Let me just stop here and say I would never have a stash of Snickers. Not because I’m not one to “stock up” on a commodity as precious as that, but because in order to have a stash I would have to have at least enough restraint not to eat them all. Whenever I get my hands on a Snickers bar, I chew off the paper with my teeth and then I toss it up in the air. And then I roll on it until I get the scent of Snickers on my neck. And then finally, I lay on the floor on my tummy with my feet out behind me and I gnaw on it and growl at anyone who looks my direction. So when she offered me one, I declined just to avoid that whole scene.

Anyway, apparently Aunt Jean really wanted her own liter of Diet Cherry 7-Up when she was growing too because when she sent me out to the garage to get something out of the extra refrigerator, I was confronted with an imposing wall of Diet Cherry 7-Up. When I asked her about it she said that Albertson’s had a super duper sale on them a while back, but it was limit two. “My goodness!” I said, “Limit two!? How on earth did you get so many?”

“Well, you know,” she said her voice trailing off. “I went to the store and I bought two.” She paused here to lightly pat her hair into place and then stretched her neck as though working out a kink. And then she evasively looked up and off to the left at nothing in particular. “And?” I asked. “Well, then I went home and…. I chaaaaanged clothes…. (cough) andthenIwentbackfortwomore (cough).”

In case you didn’t know, it’s in the fine print on the back of the bottles. In order to legally purchase two additional liters of Limit Two soda, you must have changed clothes. And not just in the car either. You must go home and change into a completely different color blouse. If we were to look at the grocery store surveillance video the week Diet Cherry 7-Up is on sale we would see my good and proper Aunt Jean wearing dark sunglasses, going in and out of the store carrying two liters of Diet Cherry 7-Up at a time. And you might think the video was on a loop until upon closer inspection you would see that she had changed clothes making it totally legal.

I then did a quick calculation in my head — four trips a day, four changes of clothes for seven days at which time limit two expires. And sure enough it adds up to a stash of enough Diet Cherry 7-Up that should last until the rapture at which time we will all be caught up in the air toasting the brethren with Diet Cherry 7-Up and Snickers.

And oh what a day of rejoicing it will be. 

* * * * *

This post was originally published in February of 2007.

The following is an excerpt from a recent email AD received from Aunt Jean:

“Tell AM that Albertson’s is having a special on their sugar this weekend and the limit is one. That leaves me with a problem. I am out of sugar and would like more than one bag.  I am considering several changes of clothes but I will have to change in the parking lot. If I drove home to change, the cost of gasoline would cancel out my savings on the sugar.  Life has it’s problems. But I love you anyway.  Love, Aunt Jean.”

My Aunt Jean cracks me up. Gotta love Tuna where clipping coupons is an investment strategy.

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. 

 

Mr. Malaprops

May 22, 2008 | Antique Embarrassment, Use Your Words

Sometimes, in a fit of motherly passion, I”ll scoop Sean up and smother him with kisses, telling him he’s so cute that I can’t stand it.  And then he squiggles and wiggles out of my arms and runs off, laughing and yelling “Yucky!”

Last week, we were at the grocery store, and as we were checking out, he was chatting up the cashier, a grandmotherly type. 

“You’re cute!” she cooed at him as I ran my credit card through the machine.

“Yeah but my mom can’t stand me,” he told her.  “She says that all the time.”  And then for some reason,  he offered her this weird, crooked, sad little smile.

The cashier narrowed her eyes and looked at me suspiciously.

It probably didn’t help that Sean had a dirty face and had dressed himself that morning as a Hip Hop Rap artist on a golf outing.

I shut my eyes and shook my head ever so slightly. 

The effort it was going to take to explain that it was the level of his cuteness that I can’t stand vs. him which I can stand very tolerably (sigh), exceeded my mental bandwidth at that particular moment.  So I didn’t even try. 

I think I exceeded my mental bandwidth just typing that sentence.

In some local ladies Bible study, there’s a Wal-Mart cashier asking for prayers for the little boy whose mother can’t stand him.  

Glenna’s Pink Calla Lily

May 21, 2008 | Photo Essays

This pink calla lily belongs to Sean’s surrograte and local grandma and my sister/mother/mentor/friend — Glenna.  She knows how to grow beautiful things like flowers and friendships.

I moved the pot it was in to the edge of her swimming pool to get the blue background and then contorted myself like a pretzel to get the shot. And then I fussed with the lighting on the edges in Photoshop.

I am reminded of the verse in Matthew 6 where Jesus says of lilies of the field, that not even Solomon in all his splendor was clothed such as these.

The Little Red Car

May 20, 2008 | Manners, Papa George, Snips And Snails

One of the problems of being an older parent of an only child — a child that is especially delightful and charming and works the strings of my heart like an angel strumming a harp — is not caving in and spoiling him rotten.  It takes a lot of restraint.  It takes a lot of that self-control stuff that I’m trying to teach him.

 

Antique Daddy and I believe that over-indulging the desires of Sean’s heart would be to abuse him.  We believe that it is good for Sean to not have everything he wants, to long for something a little bit, to have to save up for something.  I believe these things in theory.  In practice, I could use some practice.

 

Grandparents do not believe this in theory or practice.

 

* * * * *

 

In the past year or so, every time we have gone to Wal-Mart, Sean asks if we can stop and look at the little battery operated cars – Barbie cars, Lightning McQueen cars, Jeeps, John Deere tractors.  He stands in front of the wall of tiny vehicles and gazes upon their magnificence.  His eyes sparkle with desire.  I can see that he is imagining himself tooling around the neighborhood in the little red Lightning McQueen car waving to everyone he sees.

 

“Mom, can we get one of those little cars?” he asks.

 

“Well Sean, they’re really expensive. They cost about $300. That’s a lot of money,” I tell him.

 

“Please Mom, I really want one,” he pleads.

 

“I know you do.  That would be a really big present.  I’d have to talk to Daddy about that.”

 

“Maybe?” he asks, hopefully.

 

“Maybe someday,” I tell him. “We can’t buy everything we want.”

 

He doesn’t really understand that.  

 

* * * * *

 

Recently I got a Tuesday Morning ad in the mail and I noticed that they had a little red Dale Earnhardt battery-powered car for $99.  I was sorely tempted to run down to Tuesday Morning and get Sean one because a) it was only $99 and b) I was imagining how his eyes would light up when he saw it.  And I love it when I make his eyes light up, it jump starts my soul.

 

But I didn’t.

 

What stopped me was a) I would have to explain to Antique Daddy that I had breached our agreement for $99,  b) the little red car would have to occupy space in our garage that we do not have and c) that whole not over-indulging my child theory I’m supposed to be practicing.

 

* * * * *

 

Just before Mother’s Day the phone rang and it was Papa George – Papa George the grandfather who is immune from the rules governing the over-indulgence of children.

 

“Tell Sean I gotta surprise for him,” Papa George said in his Alabama drawl.

 

“Oh George,” I sighed.  “What have you done?” 

 

Papa George played the Grandpa card, confessed to buying the car, offered no apologies and hung up.

 

So we went to Tuna to celebrate Mother’s Day, and there it was in the middle of the living room — the little red car of Sean’s dreams. It was half way hidden under a blanket.  Like Houdini, Sean pulled the blanket away, clutched his heart and gasped in disbelief.

 

“I can’t believe my eyes!” he screamed.  “I have wanted one of these my entire life!”

 

Now, even if the story were to end here, y’all would probably be thinking, “That Papa George! What a fantastic grandpa!” And you would be right, but you have no idea.

 

Papa George is 81-years-old and his spine is crumbling. He has a hard time standing for 10 minutes at a time without white hot pain. It’s hard for him to get around.  Yet he got up at 6am, drove to Tuesday Morning and stood in line for two hours to get Sean the little red car. Two hours.

 

Papa George doesn’t know how to love small.

 

With no prodding from his parents, Sean jumped into the recliner with Papa George and gave him a big hug and a kiss and told him how much he liked the car.

 

I don’t know if that eased Papa George’s back pain any, but I’m sure it was good medicine for his heart.  It was for mine.

 

I’m just hoping a boy can be a little bit spoiled and not be rotten.

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.

School Cancellation Policy

May 16, 2008 | Antique Daddy, School, Sometimes Sweet

We are not a co-sleeping family.  It’s just not what works for us.  But I will admit there are times when I think it would be so very nice if we were.  There are times when I still want to hold my baby close to my heart as I did when he was an infant.  I want to look into his sleeping face and listen to him breathe.  These sweet and uncomplicated days, they are waning.  Too quickly they fly away into the star encrusted galaxy, into forever and beyond. 

 

Lately, Sean will wake up about 5:30 and come get in bed with us.  The gentle jingle jingle of Mr. Monkey announces the arrival of our visitor.  He tip toes to Antique Daddy’s side of the bed. Without a word, he throws a leg over and then clambers over him before wriggling down under the covers between us and falling back to sleep.  Shortly thereafter, I usually get up and enjoy that first cup of coffee and 30 minutes of a peaceful, sound-effects free house.

 

Wednesday morning, I sat at my desk with my coffee and listened to the rain patter against the kitchen window as I worked on a writing project. When I looked up again, I was astonished to see that it was nearly 8am.  The house was still dark.  A storm grumbled quietly off in the distance.  Sean should be up by this time, eating breakfast and getting dressed.  We would be late for school.  Again.  I made my way to my bedroom to get him up and going.

 

In a tangle of sheets and legs and arms, they were folded into the other, like an unopened flower.  I stood there for several minutes, watching them sleep, their breathing, synchronized and as steady and even as the rain that was falling against the windows.  I wondered if their dreams intersected in some unknown and secret place. I thought of how they are linked together for all eternity through me.

 

I could not make myself disturb them.  I did not want to send this moment hurling off into the galaxy.

 

There will be plenty of school days in his life, but the days when he can nestle into the protective curve of his daddy’s arm and dream little boy dreams are too few now.

 

I backed out of the room and quietly shut the door.

 

School was cancelled that day due to snuggling.

PSA - You’ve Got Questions, Karen Has Answers UPDATE: ANSWERS ARE IN!

Medical Mysteries

UPDATE:  This just in!  The Part 1 answers to the cancer-related questions are now available over at Karen’s for your perusal. This week the skin cancer questions will be addressed and next week will be on breast and cervical cancer questions.

* * * * *

Karen, who writes at Simply Amusing is working on a noble project called “Cancer - Nip It In The Bud With Early Detection” in an effort to save lives by encouraging early detection and yearly cancer screenings.  You can pop over to Karen’s place and ask any cancer-related question you want and the good doctor’s at Texas Oncology will answer it for you. 

Shortly after Sean was born, my doctor discovered my thyroid cancer.  Had I not been diligent about my checkups, I might not be writing this post.  Stay on top of those check ups people.

Reflections

May 15, 2008 | Photo Essays

 Sean likes to pick flowers for me.  Not the stem, just the flower.  The other day, while I was out, he picked a marigold from my garden and put it in this little vase to surprise me with upon my return.  Much like the multiple reflections in this photo, when he showed it to me, it made me happy to see how happy it made him to make me happy.

A Doughnut Themed Day

May 14, 2008 | Antique Junk Drawer, School

Warning:  No real point to this post.  Your time might be better spent cleaning lint from your belly button.

 

Some days just seem to have a theme.  Have you noticed? Friday, the theme of the day was apparently doughnuts.

 

Friday morning, Antique Daddy and I went to our end-of-the-year parent-teacher conference.  I was nervous, but it went extremely well.  I was so proud of the things Ms. Carrie told me about my little boy — it brought tears to my eye. My mother used to leave my parent-teacher conferences weeping too, but for entirely different reasons.  The good nuns did not appreciate my creativity and outgoing nature.  Quirky is not a quality admired by the Catholics.

 

I digress. It’s what I do.

 

Anyway, beyond the fact that Sean has more than mastered all of the skills appropriate for his age, Ms. Carrie reported that he is well liked, respects the teachers, demonstrates self-control, is kind, and shares. And is quite funny.  Is there anything more a mom could want?  I think not.  

 

After the conference, AD and I celebrated by stopping by Starbucks and basking in the after glow of parental pride.  As I ordered my coffee, I spotted an old-fashioned glazed cake doughnut in the pastry case.  Intoxicated by Sean’s good report, I ordered the doughnut with reckless abandon and ate it in about three bites.  I could not resist.  Glazed cake doughnuts are the one thing I almost never allow myself because if I eat one then that’s all I will be able to think about for three weeks and I will then spend all my free time talking myself in and out of getting in the car to go buy doughnuts. 

 

Later that same day, I overheard on the news that a man tried to attack a woman in a doughnut shop.  I didn’t catch the entire story, but that seemed like a gross miscalculation on his part.  Bad move.  Never get in between a woman and her doughnut. Depending on the time of the month, all that might be left of you is a powdered sugar outline.

 

Then finally, that night, I was watching a little late night food channel and Paula Deen and her son were making homemade doughnuts out of biscuits.  I love how Paula can tease six syllables out of the word doughnut.  Anyway, Paula pulled a doughnut from the hot grease and bounced it around in a paper bag full of powdered sugar and then presented it to the audience.  And they applauded. For the doughnut.

 

Some food I would not applaud, say turnips or miniature corn.  But a doughnut I would definitely applaud.  I would go so far as to stand and shout Encore! for a doughnut.

 

See? I told you. Pointless. And you could have had a clean belly button.

 

Don’t Carry A Flashlight. Be A Flashlight.

May 12, 2008 | Faith, Makes Me Sigh

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

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

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

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

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

“Not even a flashlight?” he asked.

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

And then I sighed.

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

We’re Good At Naming Stuff

May 11, 2008 | Antique Junk Drawer

This weekend, we went to Tuna to see Memaw and Papa George for Mother’s Day.  Sean really wanted to pack his own bag, so I let him.  When I checked his duffel bag, he had packed some favorite stuffed animals, several books and a Lightning McQueen diecast car.  But no underwear.  Everyone has their priorities.  Depending upon the trip, I might choose books over clean undies too.

When he was finished packing, he zipped up his bag and announced, “I got all my stuff in it!  But I’m going to call it a STUFFel bag!”  Totally cracked himself up.  And his mother too, who loves a good play on words.

With all due apologies to the town of Duffel, we like our name better and will henceforth refer to said bags as stuffel bags.

On the way back from Tuna, as we drove along the local super highway in the HOV lane, it occurred to me that High Occupancy Vehicle is not that accurate of a description because most of the cars you see only have two people in them.  In my view, two is not exactly a high rate of occupancy.

I think they should have named it the MOV lane for Multiple Occupancy Vehicle - a more accurate description, plus the marketing folks could sell it as the ”move” lane, playing off the idea that the lane is “supposed” to ”move” traffic.  TXDOT should really check with me on these things first.

Note:  Quotation marks in use to denote lame concept and implies eye roll. 

* * * * *

Does your family have any new and improved words?

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.

The Pearl Necklace

May 7, 2008 | Nostalgia

I was going through a box of jewelry the other day when I came across a matching set of pearl earrings and a single pearl drop necklace that I had stashed away years ago.   I realized, as I pulled them from their velvet hiding place, that I have had them for 30 years.  How could that be? I don’t even think of myself as being 30-years-old.

 

I ran my fingers along the delicate silver chain of the necklace.  I pulled up my hair and fastened the clasp behind my neck.  I put on the earrings and looked in the mirror.  I turned my head from side to side.  The small pinkish pearl orbs were as pretty as the day I first laid eyes on them, even if I was not.  They were a gift from my high school sweetheart Bob, with whom I was madly in love and dated for several years.  He had worked all winter chopping and selling firewood to buy them for me for my 18th birthday. 

 

It was some years later, after we had both moved on with our lives, that I realized that I was as much in love with Bob’s family as I was with Bob.  His mother LaWanda was so good and so kind to me. She was like a mother to me and I enjoyed her company tremendously.  For those few years that we dated, I spent a lot of time just hanging out at their house and being a part of their family.  

 

One warm and humid spring morning, Bob broke up with me.  And then he got in his truck and drove off.  The break up was not unexpected.  The anvil falling from the sky had cast its long black shadow upon me long before that spring day.  I was not surprised, but I was crushed all the same.

 

I sat on the front steps of his parent’s house and sobbed until I could no longer distinguish between the throbbing of my head and the throbbing of my heart.  Every cell in my body ached and grieved.  Deep down I knew it was for the best, but it was a chapter in my life I did not want to close.  LaWanda came out of the house and sat down beside me as I wept.  She wrapped me up in her arms and cried with me.  She told me that I was better off without him.  Yes, but would I be better off without her?  No, not really and I never was. Bob, I eventually got over.  LaWanda, I never did.   

 

Eventually I dried my tears and moved on with my life.  Several years later, I moved to Texas taking the pearls with me.  Whenever I went home to Illinois for a visit, I always stopped by to see LaWanda. It was always awkward driving up that familiar blacktop driveway, hoping to see Bob and hoping not to see Bob.  But then she would invite me into her house and it was like I was 18 again.  We’d sit side-by-side on her sofa, drink iced tea and laugh and talk about everything but Bob. 

 

For the next 20 years, I sent her a Christmas card and she sent me one too. She always wrote I hope you are happy, Love LaWanda.  One year, the Christmas card I sent was returned. Not At This Address an unfamiliar hand had scrawled across the envelope.  I found out later that she had died.  No one had told me.  My heart broke all over again.

 

I thought of all of these things as I took the pearls off and put them back to sleep in their velvet bed.  I snapped the lid shut as if that somehow provided closure.  I pulled the lid up again and took one long last look.  I made a wish that someday Sean will give them to a girl who will love me as much as I loved LaWanda.

 

And then I closed the lid one last time and put them away for another 15 or 20 years.

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…

 

 

Y’all Are So Flippin’ Cool!

May 2, 2008 | Give Aways, Joy

You all have no idea how much I have enjoyed the comments you left on the previous post about your mamas.  You have NO idea. I loved loved loved reading each and every one.    

 

Some of your comments made me laugh out loud, some made me sigh, many made me nod knowingly.  So many amazing women and so many amazing stories. I found myself wanting to call you up and find out more about your mom.  And of course, I did email many of you because I couldn’t resist telling you how something you said stirred me or tickled me in some way.

 

 I challenge each of you to take the thoughts you expressed here about your mom and expand upon them.  Sit down and write an essay about your mom or mom-type person.  It will bless future generations to be able read about her of your own hand. Do it, please. Don’t delay.

 

The first thing I realized as I started reading the comments is how important a name is. Knowing the name of your mother helped me visualize her in the story you told about her and made me feel like I knew her personally.  Thank you for that.

 

Some of your moms liked their names, some didn’t, some changed their names or the spelling of their names or went by a nickname, some were named unwittingly by someone other than their parents. Some found out years later their name was not what they thought it was.  So many different names, yet all the same name - mom. 

 

I think we’ll do this little exercise again in June for our daddios or dad-type personages in our lives. I’ll be casting about for another fabulous prize.

 

The only downside to this is that there is only one winner and I really hate that.  I want everyone to win.  If I were Oprah, you would look under your seat right now and find a Flip video.  But knowing the super nice people that you are, I know you all join me in congratulating Gale whose mama Linda was a charter member of the Monkees fan club.  I like you Gale, even though your mom and I are about the same age.  Congrats Gale and be on the lookout for an email from me!

 

Have a loverly weekend y’all and thanks for playing along.

So Flippin’ Cool

April 30, 2008 | Give Aways, Hallmark Holidays

 Last year, the lovely folks at Flip Video sent me their little hand held video-gadgety thingeedoo to try out and it was love at first sight.  This year they sent me one to give away to you, just in time for Mother’s Day! Yay nice Flip people! 

Here’s the lowdown on The Flip:  It is custom made for someone like me with a low techno-IQ and little time/patience/energy to figure stuff out and it’s small enough to fit in your purse. 

It is so simple to use.  Seriously, I took it out of the box, shot some video and then uploaded it (or is it downloaded?) to a video service in about 15 minutes. I keep it in my car just in case Sean does something cute or I spot a UFO and the local news needs footage. Because if a UFO is going to land on Earth, you better believe it will be in Texas.

You can get one at most of the usual places where techno-gadgetry is sold.  Or you can leave a comment here and maybe win one. 

Leave a comment on this post by midnight Thursday (5/1) telling me your mother’s first name (or your favorite mom-type person) and some fun factoid about her.  I’ll randomly draw a name to win a 60-minute Flip Video.

I’ll go first.  My mother’s name is Vivian.  Her parents named her Alberta but someone changed it on the birth certificate to Vivian. No one knows who.  It was too much trouble to change back, so Vivian she is to this day or “Bib” as her family calls her.  Or Wivian.  Also, her grandmother kidnapped her when she was five and took her to St. Louis. But that’s a story for another day.

* * * * * *

Edited to Add: Y’all! I am loving your comments and hearing about your moms. I really should be doing about a zillion other things, but I can’t tear myself away. 

Edited Again to Add: Even though the contest is over, feel free to leave a comment about your mom! I love reading them.