Wanted: People to Watch

I have been struggling to write this week, and I think I just figured out why.


I am people-watcher. I don’t go to the mall to shop, I go to watch. I watch and if I can, I listen. That sounds a little creepy, maybe it is. When we go out to eat, I typically tune-out my husband and children so I can watch people and listen to the conversations of other diners. I like to figure out who they are. Is it boyfriend and girlfriend with his parents, is it work friends, or is it a first date? Um….yeah…creepy. I’m pretty good, if I do say so myself, I could probably be a spy. Not the TV/movie kind of spy with all guns and special moves, but the lazy non-violent kind of spy. No? You think I am just nosy? Probably.

I haven’t been anywhere this past week to watch people. The grocery was sparse, as far as people watching goes, we were the only tourists at George Washington’s Boyhood home, and the only thing on television this past week was the royal wedding coverage. Which I did get up to watch, at 3 am, and continued to watch the highlights of, the rest of the day. Sometimes the boys can inspire me to write something, but mostly they have been jumping off furniture and fighting this week.

So if I have no people to watch, I don’t see anything “new”. The only behavior I see is my own and my children, and we are pretty boring. I haven’t seen anything to remind me of a pointless story, random thought, or ridiculous confession.

Maybe next week when the boys are back in school, or the grocery has more people, or I go to the mall. If I don’t get inspired I may have to write about why I don’t like chocolate cake…and that, my friends, would be pointless, random, ridiculous and seriously boring.

The Ugly/Beautiful Truth

I consider the form of a pregnant woman the most beautiful a woman can look. My sister M looked absolutely beautiful with each of her pregnancies. She had always been very thin in high school and especially college, in fact she didn’t weigh more than me (a sophomore in high school) until she was 8 months pregnant! Her face filled out, she had a glow, and her knees looked….I don't know....better somehow. She is still beautiful.

D will disagree (or at least he should), I didn’t look that great with my first pregnancy. By the third trimester I was swollen beyond belief…three times my normal size. My ankles were gross, my toes looked like huge grapes, and my face…I didn’t know that my chin could swell independently of the rest of my face. I suppose this wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t been for my unfortunate decision to cut my hair really short. It looked cute at first, when my face was in proportion:

But then…

Frightening.

Now my second pregnancy was a little better. I didn’t have the debilitating heartburn (yes! It can be debilitating) or the massive swelling and high blood pressure.

All through both pregnancies I kept waiting for that magic 2nd trimester where I was supposed to feel great…..it never happened. I went from feeling nauseous with terrible heartburn to feeling swollen with terrible heartburn. Some women are cut out for pregnancies...I am not one of those women.  I'm a whiner.  Of course it was all worth it, they always are. When it was all said and done, I got the two most beautiful baby boys. Who despite their appearance do, in fact, have the same two parents.

What a gift it is to grow children inside of your body. I am a woman but I grew two boys…with all the appropriate parts, now tell me there is not a miracle in that! In hind-sight, I believe they have rendered my pregnancies beautiful despite what the pictures show.

12 Days and Counting

That’s all that is left of the 120. About a week ago I made a “count-down chain” for the boys. Each day we remove a link of the chain, L suggested waiting to take the last link off until Daddy is in the house.

I had thought about making this chain when D first left, but I decided against it for a couple of reasons. I was not that ambitious to cut, label and attach 120 slips of paper, but mostly I was worried. I worried that the length of the chain would feel overwhelming to the boys.  I can’t imagine where it would have stretched to in our kitchen. Removing one link of over 100 doesn’t make that much of a difference, where as removing one link of only twenty makes a big difference. I wouldn’t have thought that I would put so much effort into thinking about a paper chain. This must be the most thought out and worried over paper chain in all of history.

Shortly before D left, in January, I remember that a gallon of milk put me in tears. Why? Because the expiration date was AFTER D would leave. Today I bought a gallon of milk that made me smile. Its expiration date is the day he comes home. Now that the time is so short, I’ve noticed that the words “let’s wait” have crept back into my vocabulary. Wait until Daddy is home to straighten the basement, to go out for pizza, to dust the ceiling fans. We are excited to hug Daddy, celebrate having Daddy home….and put Daddy to work!

H will celebrate his 5th birthday in these 12 days before D’s return, and I know H will miss his Daddy on this day. Otherwise he has done very well, I think. He is young and is used to spending most of his time with me. He missed D, but to be honest, it didn’t seem like he noticed. L, on the other hand, has really missed D. He has struggled with missing his daddy almost from the beginning. L has always been an emotional and sensitive child, and in D’s absence his reactions have become stronger and it takes longer to “settle” him. This is a boy that NEEDS his dad. L and I talk often about D. What he is doing (I reassure that he is safe), when he is coming home (I reassure that he IS coming home) and what we can do to make the time pass.

L has a classmate whose father deployed the same time as D. Her dad, however, won’t be home for eight more months. My heart goes out to this little girl and family and I worry that L’s excitement will really upset her. So L agreed that, at school, he would tamp down his excitement; but at home…he can go wild.

I am thrilled that D is coming home, I have missed him terribly. We are so lucky….we are lucky that he is in a safe place, we are lucky that he will only be gone for 4 months, we are lucky…. Most deployed soldiers are gone for 12 months; one of D’s friends will leave on his 3rd twelve-month deployment this fall. L’s classmate…who knows how many of her 7 years her dad has been home? I sometimes feel guilty for missing him, does that make sense? I have no right to miss my husband for a measly 4 months when most wives are missing their husbands for 12 months and some who will be missing their husbands forever.

So our chain gets shorter. We count down the days till we are all together again. L, H, D, Mary, and Mary’s Worries (my constant companion).

Prom!

In high school, I was never voted queen of anything, thankfully, then you get your picture taken or worse…video! And those pictures and video don’t go away. My last trip home, my mom was going through some old VHS tapes and one was my “Senior Class Video”. Which I probably paid $15 dollars for and wasn’t in one second of. I was probably mad at the time…but I am relieved now. There was a lot of footage of prom and it got me to thinking.

When I was in high school I went to 3 Proms. When I was a sophomore, my junior boyfriend (as in 11th grade, not apprentice boyfriend) asked me to his prom. It was a fun time, though there was another girl with the same dress: red and fun…but I wore it better (at least that’s what my boyfriend said…smart boy!) We went with a larger group of friends that had all met at a friend’s house to eat and dress. My junior year I went with a friend that was a boy. We went with a big group of friends who all came to my house before prom to eat and dress. I loved my dress: black and sparkly…however I couldn’t raise my arms the entire evening. It pulled the dress up…above the line of support hose that my 115 pound self insisted on wearing. It wouldn’t have been a problem, really if I weren’t so short and my date so tall. Tricky….. (No YMCA for me that prom!)

Now my senior year….that was an interesting year. I asked this young man I knew from a theatre production, he was a great dancer, an African American and come to find out an alcoholic. When I bought the tickets I had to write his name down as being my date. His name was Malcolm, after I wrote it down the student behind the table looked at the name and asked accusingly “like Malcolm X?” I should have known that this was going to get around. We had only one minority student in my class; his father was Japanese…..so sure enough when my mom went to get her hair done the following day…Malcolm was big news! Well as it would happen just a few weeks before prom, Malcolm had an “incident” and was unable to go to my prom because he was in jail…..busy.

Now I was without a date. My two best girl-friends had dates and the plan was to meet at my house eat then dress then leave. So my friend set me up with a blind date for prom. So we were all waiting for him at my house, in our regular clothes, when he steps out of his car already dressed! We high-tailed it upstairs to dress as fast as we could, meanwhile my mom entertained him downstairs. We laughed so hard it hurt. This was my favorite dress: a black cocktail dress borrowed from my 26 year-old sister. “Saucy” was the way my prom date would later describe the dress, or was he referring to me…I will never know. That was the only blind date I’ve ever been on. 

So while no “official photos” remain of my proms, I do have mine. Fun times…Why did I, and most of my friends think we need to lose weight in high school?....I mean seriously, look at my arms!  I wish my arms were skinny like that now.  Now they are more....muscular...yeah, that's it, muscular.....from lifting children and grocery bags.

And though I was not queen in high school, I am currently queen of my family.  Being the only girl has some perks...or so I'm told. 

 

1st Grade Worries

All parents worry when their children start school. They worry about the big stuff: getting teased, fitting in, riding the bus, etc… I am no exception.


All through kindergarten L could not pronounce his name correctly, the tricky tongue placement in the “L” sound….worse too because our last name also starts with L. Other letter combinations were and still are a work in progress. At first, I only worried that he would start to feel self conscience about his speech. He does not, but instead his speech difficulties made spelling very difficult for him. Because he couldn’t pronounce the words correctly, he also could not spell the words correctly. Last summer, for the first time he was finally able to say his name correctly, and now in the 1st grade he has been seeing the speech therapist regularly with very good results. L has a really great teacher and a “best friend”, he really loves school. For the most part, all of my big worries have been resolved. (Until second grade.....)

But then there are the little things. I worry that he will find out things that I don’t want him to find out yet. Such as Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny, and…..Chuck E. Cheese's.

Absolutely terrifying…..

Lunch

“I don’t care where we go for lunch…you decide.”


Today I went out to lunch with my two neighborhood girlfriends, J and J. We had been planning this lunch for several weeks and we always wait until the morning of to decide where to go. I don’t know the total number of text messages that went back and forth for this lunch, but certainly a 2 minute conference call could have saved the three of us a lot of time.

Neither one of us wanted to make that decision, not because we aren’t decisive. After all, we spent most of lunch working out the times we would all (husbands too) be getting together over the next few months without consulting our husbands. They also volunteered their husbands to cut the grass at my house!

I can’t speak for all of woman-kind, but I can speak for myself and explain why I do this. I make decisions all day long. I decide when we need to get up in the morning, what kind of clothes are appropriate for the weather, breakfast, lunch, quiet-time, dinner, disciplines, baths, haircuts, I decide the child-appropriate answers to questions all day long, etc…. With D’s deployment, especially, I am making ALL of the decisions. That’s motherhood…tiny decisions all day long. Imagine the weight that those tiny decisions carry cumulatively…. It’s enormous.

So when it comes to deciding where to “lunch” with friends (and 4 children)…………..someone, anyone, please spare me the tiny additional weight of that decision!

Does that make sense?

Beware!

Facebook is dangerous. I believe there are three categories of Facebook dangers:


1 – Being Exploited

2 – Being Stupid

3 – Being Cruel

All three could easily be solved by deleting your account. But then how would you learn about your high school friend that you haven’t seen in 15 years’ new haircut? Or the cute thing your friend’s dog just did? Or what someone had for dinner? Just think of how much you would be missing….scary! (I admit I am guilty of all of the previous)

1 – Being Exploited

This is a real danger, especially to the younger FB users. Sharing too much information and “friending” people that you’ve never met is clearly a danger. I didn’t get a phone in my room until college, and now 10 year-olds (and younger) have computers with internet access in their bedrooms, and don’t all teenagers have smart phones now? What the heck are parents thinking? I can understand a cell phone for your child, but I’m thinking one of those “Jitterbugs” with the huge buttons (marketed for the elderly) is the way to go when my boys are teenagers. I can hear you saying to yourself “just wait, Mary, and see….”

2 – Being Stupid

I’m not talking about the misspelled word, or the incorrect use of the word “your”. I am talking about posting things that are personal and damaging to your significant other (or soon to be ex-significant other). I have heard more than once “FB ruined my relationship”. But I disagree…the two of  you  ruined your relationship and FB was your medium. People used to break-up in person, or in letters, or over the phone, and unless you were on TV, had your letter published, or had a party-line no one else was witness. But now there is FB, where you can trash the once “love or your life” in front of all your friends, family, and strangers. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Problems in your relationship should only be heard by your girl-friends, or better yet….your significant other!

D knows that among my FB friends are ex-boyfriends. D also has a tremendous amount of trust and self-esteem. I know that among his FB friends are ex-girl friends and I also have a tremendous amount of trust and self-esteem. If either you or your significant other has a deficit in either of those…you have no business “friending” an old crush.

3 – Being Cruel

This is the most dangerous. I have read far too many posts that are disrespectful and even hateful. Even among some of my closest friends I read things that make me ashamed. Obesity, religion, physical handicaps, mental handicaps, unique haircuts…… Really?! Is this how you want to present yourself to your friends and family?

As a rule, I only make fun of myself (I’ve got a lot of material) and I only say things that I would also say to Mister Rogers. I am disappointed that it has become okay to be stupid and cruel in a public forum. I am also disappointed that I used the word “friending” more than once in writing this post.

Car ride from.....home (what did you think I was going to say?)

The following is a faithful transcript of a recent trip to pick L up from school:

H: I don’t like scary stories…but they are not really true, mommy.

M: No.

H: No. I want to go camping. Every time we go camping we go camping in the woods, but make sure we don’t see its shadow. Sneaking up on our camp. We got to guard stuff…you have to stay outside and guard our tent while we sleep.

M: laughing oh, okay

H: The bears are bigger than people, even bigger than grown-ups. You gotta guard stuff….bigger than anything…you gotta guard stuff.

Can you tie two things together so they are pointing each other?

M: What?

H: You can mommy, or three things, but four is too hard because they are all pointing different ways.

M: I have no idea what you are talking about.

H: humming

H: They even scare bats.

M: What does?

H: That monster. He can scare bats away, he can scare anything away. If you want to get away you have to ride on a cheetah because that monster is so big it can’t take...can’t run… it’s so big. It’s bigger than a tree, mommy, bigger than a house, bigger than the Washington Monument!

M: wow!

H: and bigger than a tower, bigger than a sky scrapper. Bigger…than…anything.

M: how does it hide then?

H: Well it’s not bigger than a mountain, so it hides behind mountains. Are trees bigger than mountains?

M: no

H: Are sky scrapers bigger than mountains? I think the Washington monument is bigger than a mountain.

M: No a mountain is bigger.

H: Okay, so it can hide behind the mountains. But the monsters grown-up ARE bigger than mountains. So they….

M: Where do they hide then?

H: So they... they…They squeeze right through a fence, so no one will see them.

M: But they are so big?

H: When they get in there, at day, they are just like a rock. They…they turn into a rock. And when people come… I just making this up…Mommy…Camping…I will tell you the whole story when we eat. But I don’t want to READ the whole story cause then it might come real. Right mommy? Can stories come real?

M: No, stories can’t come true, not the scary ones.

H: Well what if you read it too much?

M: That’s why you shouldn’t read scary stories too much. That’s why they call them stories…they are make-believe.

H: They are not real. Well, some stories are true. Are some stories true? But not scary ones. Everyone knows there are no such thing as monsters. It is just someone dressed up. But if it’s not someone dressed up as a monster….it’s still not real. That’s why they call them stories. I’m glad they are not real, mommy. Cause I like to go in the woods a lot. I’ll always remember the story, mommy….. Camping.

Humming

What would happen if you eat a bug, mommy?

M: nothing, it would probably taste pretty bad.

H: maybe you might turn into a bug…or you might turn into an insect. That’s funny…mommy, that is just a joke.

M: I know

H: Mommy, I think lady bugs are cute. I think lady bugs are cutest bugs. ARE they, mommy?

M: I suppose.

H: Cause...cause…because…I say I like lady bugs the best, mommy. Crickets can stay up at night, right mommy?

M: Yes, they can

H: Mommy, I know a dinosaur that stays up…..a Troodon.

M: a Troodon?

H: it stays up, it’s nocturnal. What else dinosaurs are nocturnal?

M: I suppose a lot of the meat eaters were nocturnal, like a velociraptor, maybe?

H: or maybe a kind of frog?

M: a frog?

H: in dinosaur times. But I know a dinosaur that could sleep on its….could…could sleep standing up.

M: what’s that?

H: An Iguanodon!

M: they sleep standing up? I didn’t know that.

H: I learned that. You didn’t know. Just like a horse does, right mommy?

M: yes

H: mommy?

M: yes?

H: mommy?

M: yes??

H: mommy?

M: Yes! I am listening.

H: also cows mommy. Giraffes…mommy, do giraffes sleep standing up mommy? Giraffes?

M: I imagine they do, because it is pretty hard for them to get off the ground with those long legs.

H: maybe it’s really hard to get off, but what, what eat giraffes?

M: What do you think eat giraffes?

H: I don’t know, mommy.

M: well what is a big meat eater that lives in Africa?

H: a lion?

M: yes

H: oh yeah, a lion. Or maybe a tiger….

M: Tigers don’t live in Africa.

H: Where do they live?

M: India.

H: Oh. The next time we go to Africa or India, we can’t take Riley. Because a tiger or a lion might eat her. And every day would be a bad day. No one would protect us then, right mommy?

M: I would fight a lion for you.

H: but, but, but Daddy lions are really tough. How would you fight a daddy lion mommy? How would you protect us from a hippo?

M: I would do my best.

H: you have to remember to stay away from its mouth…it could swallow you whole. One thing that you couldn’t fight is a crocodile…once its mouth closes you can’t open it….you would be gone forever. If it ate you, you would be gone forever. Oh yeah…gone forever. You could break the top part of his mouth off, right mommy? But not a baby hippo. If a baby hippo got eaten the mother hippo would have to come really fast. Before it could get swallowed. Then the hippo would open is wide mouth and it would drop the baby hippo.

I want to save animals, mommy.

M: I think that is a good plan.

H: do you want to help?

M: absolutely.

H: girls and boys are allowed…..but no bad guys, cause bad guys might steal the animals. So never, never, never take an animal out of the wild….or a jungle. I will tell you….Honey badgers eat crocodile eggs and lizards with pink eyes. What else mommy? Do you want to help me, mommy?

M: are we saving animals right now?

H: no…when we are grownups. Do you want to help me?

M: absolutely.

H: I will remember mommy.

M: I will remember too

H: What if you forget and I will remind you mommy.

M: that’s good because sometimes I am forgetful.

H: what is…does forgetful mean, mommy?

M: it means that I forget stuff.

H: oh. How I , if I forget something I just sing a song. I just sing a song.

M: how does it go?

H: no I forgot. I can’t sing it now, mommy. It’s about numbers. IT is in my head...it just pops out of my head. No….I got it now.

Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet too.

Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet too.

I’ll never forget that song. I can count to a hundred: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69……..

M: 70

H: 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99…..100!

M: that was really good! Wow!

H: want me to do it again?

M: sure………….

They tell me that one day I will miss these car rides...and my sanity.

Decisions

D and I often talk about the different paths our lives could have taken if we’d made different decisions. I am so happy where I am, that I would never wish to undo a decision…because even the bad ones led me here. Not that I have a lot of bad decisions, or good ones for that matter. Most of the decisions I make are small, seemingly unimportant. Looking back, though I can see how that seemingly small decision was the precedent for other seemingly small decisions.


I was thinking about dating….yes I know I’m married. (Except for the “Hugh Jackman” clause, I will not be doing any more dating….to be fair D has a “Lucy Liu” clause) I am talking about the dating I did before I got married.

One spring break, during college, a boy that I had met the previous summer in a theater production took me to Chicago for the day. Josh only got permission from his parents to drive the nicer car because my uncle was the priest from their parish….so I MUST be a good girl. He was probably disappointed that I was, in fact, a good girl. The 4 hours to Chicago, I knew he wanted to hold my hand. But my saving grace was this nice car had heated seats…so under the pretext of cold, I sat on my hands. After the four hours and some traffic we arrived in Chicago, we went to the Field Museum; I relented and held his hand. I could also tell that he wanted to kiss me, but he didn’t. For a 19 year old boy he was actually pretty good at reading body language…or it could have been the freezing temperatures, high wind, and my runny nose? We didn’t hold hands too long on the way home because, we ran into some really awful snow. Spring blizzard in northern Indiana…that’s how we roll. Once we made it to my house, a joint decision was made between Josh, my parents, and his that is was probably too dangerous for him to drive the additional 30 miles to his home, so he stayed at my house. He slept in an unused room, that had been shut up most of the winter and was only a little above freezing. I must have been really cold even with the stacks of blankets my parents gave him….I wouldn’t know, I stayed snugly in my well-heated room, one floor up. We never went on another date. He never asked, and neither did I. What if?

There were other dates too, that were memorable. Then there are memorable people too, that under different circumstances could have changed the course of my life. I dated a Carl in college that graduated shortly after we met. I even picked out the names of our children really liked him. We kept in contact and saw each other a few times, until he invited me to move to California, after I graduated. I declined, and then that was it. What if?

Prior to meeting D, I had a serious boyfriend Tony. I found out, after we broke up, that he had purchased a ring. What if?

Sometimes D and I sit and talk about our What Ifs…..because for all of my Carls, he’s got 3 Marilyns (he is 8 years older than me...that's fair, right?). The teenage angst and the college heart-breaks all led me here. I love it here. When I think of all those decisions that could have been life changing…is there such a thing as a “bad one?” I don’t think so.

Complimenting.......

I’ve received three lasting compliments in my life. I will never forget these compliments and I like to repeat them…so if you’ve heard them before ignore the rest of this.


The first one was when I was 15. During the summer I was in rehearsal for my second ever civic show. As part of the marketing for the show, we marched in a parade. At the start of the parade, a younger girl, maybe 12, came off the curb and asked me if I had been in the show last summer. I had, and she remembered me. She remembered me, a chorus girl. I will never know who she was, or what made her remember me.

I think this compliment speaks to the part of me that wants to be memorable and special. Not the everyone is special, but the selfish kind of special. Doesn’t everyone have a bit of that? Even now more than twice that age, I still want to be special. I honestly think it plays more than a small part of why I continue to write these posts.

My second lasting compliment is very simple.  It is the people that have chosen to know me, and the people that didn't have a choice but like me anyway.  The love I receive from my friends and family is a gift.  I am selfish, sarcastic and often judgmental. Fortunately I have a highly developed “filter”. This filter prevents most of my less than generous thoughts from turning into speech. I credit my parents for this filter, by the way. Because of this filter, I hear myself described as kind, thoughtful, etc… That is a lot to live up to and I fail every day, but these people love me inspite of my many failures.   That brings me to the best compliment I’ve ever received.

I was 25-ish. There was a new hire where I was working and she had a difficult time telling myself and another woman apart. My boss said, “That’s easy…Elaine is the tall one, and Mary is the feisty one.” He may never know what a great compliment I consider that. He could have just as easily said “short”, but he didn’t. He said I was feisty. I do feel plucky and resilient. I am quick to speak my opinion, quick to debate my position, and sadly quick to take offence. So this compliment spoke to the part of me that wants to be true to my character. It didn’t give me anything to live up to. I couldn’t possible fail that perception of me, because it was a fact.

Thank you, Mystery Girl.  Thank you, friends and family.  Thank you, Frank.

I would love to know the best compliment you’ve received?

My Post-Partum

“Today on NPR…..” D LOVES when I say this at the beginning of a conversation. He doesn’t really, but because he loves me he puts up with my opinions. Now, with this little blog of mine, I get to share my unresearched and biased opinions with others.


Today on NPR, there was a segment on how frighteningly common is for a parent to take the life of their children. They briefly discussed the merits of the “insanity plea” for these cases. I don’t want to talk about this because it is tragic, but I will say, that in my unreaserched and biased opinion that a mother MUST be mentally ill to do such a thing.

It got me to thinking about when L was an infant. He was my first baby and he was colicky. I didn’t know what I was doing (nieces and nephews, no matter how much child care you provide, do not prepare you for parenthood). I was overwhelmed, exhausted and I felt empty. There was a period of time that the only way he would stop crying was to walk with him in our tiny kitchen with the fluorescent light on. I can’t tell you how many nights I wanted to bundle him up and put him on our neighbor’s door step.

I know moms don’t like to talk about it; there is a great fear of judgment. Judge me if you will, but I am being honest. Those first three months of his life, I often felt like I could simply walk away. There were even times when I thought to myself, “what would happen if I just dropped him?” So scary to think about now, but it was my reality then. I realize now that I was depressed. My pregnancy had been so uncomplicated but his birth was a nightmare. I felt like I had failed my precious baby boy. I missed the first hour and half of his life, I missed his first cry. I missed the nurse crying out, “it’s a boy!” I judged myself more harshly during that time, than any else could have.

I had, of course, read the chapter on post-partum depression from my pregnancy book. I remember thinking that I was not depressed but I followed the advice anyway. I talked about it. I talked to D  about what I was feeling, including the scary stuff. But I didn’t talk to my girl-friends, because it seemed like they had it all-together.  I wish that I had been brave enough to talk to my girl-friends about this. Maybe they were struggling too, and we could have supported each other. I smiled for them, just like I smiled for the camera.  But inside, I was desperate to "feel normal" again.  We made it through this hard time, the three of us, and no one worse for the journey.

No one ever told me that I could feel that way. No one could have prepared me for how difficult it was. I never felt more alone than when I rocked my crying baby at 3 am. Moms need to talk about this and share our experiences; we would find out that we were not alone on those endless nights.

Company

'My idea of good company, Mr Elliot, is the company of clever, well-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation; that is what I call good company.'

'You are mistaken,' said he gently, 'that is not good company; that is the best.'

Jane Austen, Persuasion

Isn’t that the truth? I love company. I love the kind of company that comes for dinner, and then you start talking until suddenly you realize that it is midnight, but it is still 1 am before your guests get out the door.

When we lived in Germany, I lived for company. During most of our time in Germany, L was a toddler and I was either pregnant or H was a baby. This made it difficult for us to “be company” (if we’d been invited) so company came to us. In Germany, I thought that holidays would be difficult being so far from home. In truth, our apartment was always filled with people on holidays. I always pestered D to invite the single soldiers, or anyone that would be alone for a holiday. New soldiers were always invited to our house for dinner. For a while, we had someone to dinner almost every night. I would call D, during the day to see who was coming. If Nick was coming, I knew not to cook the vegetables. Mandy could eat more than any woman I knew and still be so stinking skinny, once she ate an honest to goodness pig leg (then the rest of Nick’s that he couldn’t finish). Chris ate so fast, he could clean his plate in literally 3 minutes. Jeff cooked for us sometimes…..once when I was newly pregnant (infer morning-sickness) Jeff decided to make garlic scrambled eggs. He had slept on the couch (infer hangover) and wanted to make breakfast for us as a thank you. When I stepped out of the shower that morning, all I could smell was garlic…oh it was terrible. I should add that they were also inedible, according to D.

Those 4 especially, and others became our family. I was sad to leave Germany. Back in the United States the families of the single soldiers are closer (relatively), and visiting them rarely involved 8 hour plane flights. There is also an element of familiarity. Though language was never really an obstacle, because most Europeans have at least some working knowledge of English, things were still unfamiliar. So a home-cooked meal (at least that’s how I sold it!) was comfortable, familiar, and easy for them. Here, we are as familiar with the local restaurants as we are with our own homes.

I like overnight company too; I have never had a guest wear out their welcome. Even extended stay company, is fun. Shortly after D and I were married, our best man moved in with us while he was going through a divorce. Not the happiest of circumstances for him, but it was pleasant to have company. We had a good time. We have a couple of sets of friends/neighbors now that we often spend holidays with. Next year, Jeff (from Germany) may be moving in with us while he finishes school. I am really looking forward to it…as long as he doesn’t make eggs.

I honestly mean it when I say to my friends and family that our doors are always open.  Come for a short while, or come and stay.  D.C. vacation....free room and board!  The only payment I accept is clever conversation.....

Grass!

I think I could like mowing the grass. I could…..if it wasn’t so hard. Insert whimper here.


Growing up my dad mowed the grass. The yard was big, it would have taken days to mow with a push mower…my dad used his tractor with a mowing deck, and even then it took several hours to do it right. He enjoyed it, riding along hearing nothing but white noise; I imagine that he did a lot of thinking. Maybe meditation is a better word, if it were me I know that my mind would go where it wanted. Maybe he was able to block out all the fears, worries, and stressors that come with being husband and father of six. My little brother JT likes mowing too. When JT lived at home he would race to mow the grass before my dad could do it. Though not a father, I am sure JT appreciated the white noise too.

At my house, the yard is not big, but steep. Not just a little steep either, it is a lot steep. Last year, we bought a reel-mower. I thought I would be a good idea for the following reasons: better for the environment, quieter (so I could still hear the boys), and easier for me to handle.

It is better for the environment, sure. Now the other two? I was ever so wrong…..

The reel-mower is heavy. Remember that our yard is steep….so mowing down the steep hill was no problem. It was the up part. I have one of two choices: pull it up behind me and the grass does not get cut, or push it up and risk losing my strength and consequently a toe. I didn’t like being downhill of the whirling blades of terror. I can’t tell you how many times I slipped, pulling that stupid thing up behind me. It was because of this, that it was also not quieter…because I was doing a lot of complaining and cursing.

This year we have an electric mower. I mowed the grass a couple of days ago. The really unfortunate part about our yard is that the steepest and most difficult part of the yard is in the front, not in the back, where I would be hidden from the neighbors and passers-by. My sister-in-law recommended setting up a concession stand for the spectators next time.

I was constantly battling the cord. As I whipped the cord to move it, I whipped it right across the bridge of my nose. I held it together, I didn’t cry or curse. When I was pushing the mower across the steep part (not down or up), I rolled it. I immediately let go of the handle and it turned off, but not before dragging me half way down the hill with it. The mower was still in working condition, and nothing was damaged except my pride (which I had very little to begin with). After sitting for some time, I righted the mower and myself and finished the yard. My nose is bruised and my muscles are sore, and the yard looks great okay ......mowed.

This was nothing like meditation, this was lawn-mower wrestling. Perhaps it will become the latest rage in Extreme Suburban Housewifery? Maybe the local Redi-Med will sponsor me?

You're Afraid of What?

This is a pictorial essay just some of the things I am afraid of. 

I told my husband that I would seriously need to be sedated to be a passenger on this bridge.  No thank you, we will go the long way or not go at all.

you may notice a theme with these:

makes my stomach churn just looking at these pictures.  Ick.

And, yes, even:

Yesterday, a petting zoo came to H's school.  H was so excited, he ran up, knelt down and pet it with no fear.  "Mommy, feel how soft this is!" he insisted.  My hand hesitated above, but I wanted to set a good example for H.  I pet it.  I pet a rabbit.  I still feel a little ill today.  I know it seems unreasonable,but a rodent is a rodent.   Hamsters, gerbils, guinea pigs, they all make me cringe. 

These are just my tangible fears, my intangible fears are much more numerous.

Imperfections

I just saw this video.   I am really fired up about this.  So bear with me....

I think this is just another example of indulging our children. Throwing lavish birthday parties, spending hundreds for Christmas, never saying "no."  Our job as parents is to teach our children.  We teach them to be kind, to love themselves, and how to handle disappointments.  We teach these things to our children so they are prepared for the thoughtlessness of others.  We teach them manners, we teach them to be good sports and gracious winners.  We teach them to stand up for themselves and for those who are weaker than they.  We teach them to have fun and be respective at the same time.

I have ears that stick out, and I was always teased, always.  I had a P.E. teacher call me Mousy-Mary, classmates that called me alien, and even all through high school I was called Fievel.  That is one cute mouse!  And guess what?  It helped me to know my real friends.  Did it hurt my feelings? ...sometimes.  Hurt feelings are a part of life, from childhood to adulthood.  It's unavoidable...you are doing a disservice to your children if you don't teach them how to respond and recover from hurt feelings.  I am certain if my ears didn't stick out, they would have found something else to tease me about.  How did teasing become bullying? Was I bullied?  I never thought so, but today it would be called bullying.  I am sure that I teased other kids too, we all do.  Was I a bully?  I always thought a bully was the kid who made you give up your lunch money, or who threatened to (or actaully did) hit you.

I don't like this so-called "War on Bullies" (as it relates to teasing, physical abuse by adults or peers is never okay).  I may be completely off my rocker. Learn to say "no", teach your children, and most importantly set a good example.  You can't fix everything for your child, you can't protect them from everything, and some lessons need to be learned.  I hope that I am teaching these things to my boys.  I hope that I am teaching them to be good men, and that having a sense of humor about yourself will save you a lot of grief.  I love my witch nose, my freakishly small hands, my Neaderthal feet, my beauty-marks, and my sticky-out ears.   

Everyone has something that makes them different.  Sometimes it's a big thing, sometimes it is small things.  I am reminded of this scene from Finding Nemo:

I love this scene, because even "obnoxious" is an imperfection. No one is perfect, and my ears and nose come with some distinct advantages.  Some green paint and a pointy hat ; I am set for Halloween.  And no one does a chimp impression quite like mine.

Room for Improvement

Sometimes, just when you really start to believe that you’ve got this whole “mom” thing under control, you get a little reminder that there is always room for improvement. Yesterday was this day.

The last week has been pretty smooth here in the house. Despite my darling H dumping his food into the sink when I step out of the room, the good thing is that I can see what he’s done in the sink…now if he’d given to the dog…I’d have no proof. Smooth, and there is less than a month until D’s return, but I feel like I could do this a while longer. I do miss him, of course, and not just because he mows the grass and takes out the trash. I felt confident; we made it through the winter with no major sicknesses, no ER visits, and no craziness. The boys are happy and strong; I am feeling happy, collected, and pretty darn smart. Well….I was.

Yesterday, L’s report card came home. His grades are great, he has moved up in both his reading and math groups. There was a small note on the report card that said “I know L is having a hard time missing his Dad.” Maybe this was just a way of the teacher letting me know that SHE KNOWS how hard this is on all of us…. Or maybe she is trying to tell me that I am a really rotten mother. See how my mind works?

On the one hand, all children are bipolar. I say this with sincere respect for the condition. In one breath H can tell me, “you’ve ruined my whole life mommy” to “this is the best day of my life.” I’ve learned to take some of these swings with grain of salt, and ignore the others. I actually thought L was doing pretty good with D’s absence. The first few weeks were the hardest, he was often telling me how much he missed Daddy, but it seemed that he had rebounded a little. D has been gone this long, and longer before, but as the boys get older their awareness grows. I know that I have to be very careful about watching the news. I don’t want him to see images or hear things that might frighten him for D’s safety. Recently, they began a unit in school about the Civil War. Time lines don’t mean much to first graders, and that night before bed I had to assure my tearful boy that Daddy did not fight in the Civil War, and that he was safe. I felt like I handled that pretty well.

But on the other hand, I am not perfect. I am so far from perfect, I can’t even see it. Are there things that I should have and could have done to help L with his feelings? Yes. There is certainly room for improvement in my parenting skills. The problem with not being able to see perfect, is that I don’t know what it looks like. I know that guilt is not a very good motivator, but it can be effective.

Every day I will do the best that I know how, and every day I will learn a little, so that the next day the best that I know how is a little better.

Popcorn

I love popcorn. I love popcorn more than anyone else in the whole world...really. The quantity and frequency of popcorn consumption you may find shocking. I find it shocking. It is for that reason that I give up popcorn for Lent each year.


Not microwave popcorn…I am pretty sure that is poison. Movie theatre popcorn is not much better. I like it popped in a little oil, and then sprinkled with salt. Only crazy people pop it with air, what are they thinking? The salt won’t stick. No butter! It makes the popcorn soggy. You may be thinking, hey that doesn’t sound like it would be bad for you. But I will repeat the quantity that I eat probably is. Think of the largest mixing bowl you have….filled with popcorn…I could easily eat that much popcorn, every night of the week. You know when you are asked what you would bring on a deserted island……..

It is scientifically proven some foods get better if they sit for a little bit: (Wait..what? It is NOT proven? Well some things you don’t need science for anyway) Potato salad, chili, lasagna, etc. Popcorn tastes better the day after too. Seriously…..try it. But not the buttered, popcorn seasoned, microwaved stuff….I don’t kid when I say “poison.”

I give it up for Lent because I realize that it can’t be good for me to eat that much, before bed especially, and because it is a challenge. Shortly after Ash Wednesday, the boys wanted a “Fort-Night”: pizza, popcorn, movie and sleeping in a fort they built in L’s room. So I made popcorn. Oh it was hard not to cheat. I like the feel of the unpopped kernels in the bag. I love the noise that popcorn makes when it pops, and the smell. But I didn’t eat any. They didn’t finish all the popcorn, so there was some left over in the morning. I still didn’t eat any. Did I mention how hard this was for me?

It is also scientifically proven that some food tastes better when someone makes it for you, like sandwiches and, in my case, popcorn. My dad makes the best popcorn. I’ve watched and it doesn’t look like he does anything different than what I do, so the natural conclusion is that he has some sort of magic spell that he places on the corn…or it’s because he has one of those fancy popcorn pots. But I am pretty sure it is a magic spell. When I am at my parents’ house, all I have to do to get popcorn is look at my dad and say, “Daddy?” I think I must have a little magic too, because within 5 minutes I have a heaping bowl of popcorn in my lap. Amazing.

JT and I eating popcorn circa 1982. But I use my hands now..both of them.

Community

On Tuesdays, I always phone my mother. Other days during the week too, but every Tuesday we have a phone date. This morning I listened with envy as she reminisced about her childhood. Not envy, that’s not quite the right word, maybe a better word will come to me as I continue. She grew up in the city of Fort Wayne, in a neighborhood, in a community. A community where the parents knew each other, they watched out for each other’s children. A community that sat on front porches, went for after dinner walks, and cared for each other. “Children were safe in the street” my mom said.

How does a neighborhood become a community? I live in a neighborhood, but it is not a community. I want a lot of things for my children, and a community is easily in the top 5. I want to know my neighbors and their children; I want my neighbors to know my children.

I grew up in a farm. I say “in” instead of “on” because we were surrounded by pasture. Our driveway was long, ¼ mile and went through a pasture; we had cattle guards at either end of the drive. I always had to explain to my town friends that it was OKAY TO DRIVE OVER IT!

It was a community, but a different kind. It was community that came together for hay-making or rounding up cows, or attempting to round up pigs (that is its own story). We didn’t get together very often to just visit. Our kind of community was safe too, on an average day we didn’t see anyone besides family. My little brother JT and I got up about 5 each morning to do the morning barn chores. On Saturdays my dad would tape an additional chore list to the television. We had to complete those before we turned it on. We played “Lewis and Clark” in the woods, we waded in the creeks, and swung from the barn rafters. My dad would wake us to watch a goat being born, and we were never turned away from watching one being butchered either. My parents were my community, my little brother my best friend.

If I could, I would give to my children both of these communities. But I can’t. I can’t give them a farm. I hear that there are farms in VA, but I think it’s a myth. I live in a neighborhood with no sidewalks, and our front porches are too small for chairs. So if I want a community for my children I have to create it.

Whether D wants to or not, we are having a neighborhood party when he gets home. I am going to learn names and invent reasons to stop by unannounced. I actually love it when mail gets delivered to our house by mistake. I know I could just put it in the mailbox, but this is an opportunity to talk to my neighbors, so I always take it to the door.

Maybe this is something that my neighbors want too? I guess I’ll find out. My neighbors WILL learn my name, but whether they repeat it with kindness or annoyance remains to be seen.

Nope, couldn't think of a better word.  Envy it is.

Nap Time

I told D, the other day, that it was probably time to wean H from his naps, as he will be starting full-day kindergarten next year. Oh but I don’t want to, but not for the reasons you may think. It is not because he is growing up, it is because I love nap time. Nap time is a beautiful thing.

I will never forget when I got both boys to start napping at the same time. It was glorious. We were living in Germany, D was gone a lot, and I was homesick and completely overwhelmed. Then I started to get 1.5 hours of peace every day. I always taped a note over the doorbell: If you ring this bell, you will receive the full force of my temper. I will then come to your house, wake your children in the middle of the night and give them sugar and caffeine. Actually, I just wrote “Please knock quietly” but they would have been sorry if they rang.

I have always kept the boys on a strict nap schedule for my own sanity. I have a friend whose theory is: they will nap when they are tired and they will nap anywhere. No thank you, my friend. I like to know when to expect the cease-fire…it eases me off the trigger. Strict nap schedules do make it more difficult to get out and about; however, more than one adventure has been cut short when it approached nap time. Sometimes we would try to have a “fun” day and skip nap time……hell in a stroller.

So I am going to put off the nap-weaning. H still naps 3 hours a day, and there is no fighting about it. The last two days he has asked me when he can go to sleep. Seriously…I am not messing with this.

Who Do You Think You Are?

I’ve been completely preoccupied the last several days on Ancestry.com. Sifting through ship’s manifests, census records, social security indexes, and obituaries makes me feel like a detective. I am getting a real high when I am able to trace my ancestry back another generation. I am doing my best for D too, but a call to his mom is in order to confirm some names.


My own mother has been working for a while on her and my father’s family trees. Even after all her work, I was able to pin down some information that was a mystery her whole life. I am a mystery solver.

I like to call myself a European Mutt: German, Irish, sprinkle in some Swiss and French and here I am. I think when I fill out demographic information from now on I will mark other, and write in European American. Why does finding this information make us feel special?

I know some people who trace all their ancestors back to one country, usually Ireland. I find it irritating that they then use that an excuse to get drunk and fight. Sorry fellas…..THE QUIET MAN is not a role model.

German ancestry as an excuse to get drunk and fight.

Swiss ancestry as an excuse to get drunk and …..ski?

I am seeing a pattern here. The truth is most of us are not Irish Americans, German Americans, or European Americans…we are Americans. The customs our ancestors brought with them from “the old country” have been adapted and merged so that they are nearly unrecognizable. And that’s okay. I am okay with who I am.

Joe

Today, the boys and I met a man named Joe. He said that he was thinking of changing his name, because he hears “Hey Joe!” often, but they aren’t talking to him. He was considering the names Aloysius or Ticonderoga. He told us this several times, and he asked our names too. He said L should run for President with a name like that and when he does he will vote for him. He said he didn’t know people were still naming children H, and it was a good solid name. Mary, too, he said was a good name, the names of both his grandmothers and his mother.


There is a lot in a name, isn’t there? People laugh when I say the names of my 3 brothers, and I admit, I sometimes repeat them for effect. My father’s name fits nicely with theirs as well, and my sister M fits nicely with mine. I always save my sister N and my mother for last, and follow up with “we don’t know where they came from.” They are not strange names, or uncommon, they just don’t fit with the THEME. If you are trying to do the math, that’s 8. Two parents….six kids. Naming six kids is a big job, and I think that when it came to me (#5) and my little brother they gave up and went to basics. It’s okay, though, I like my name…like Joe said, it’s a good name.

D and I only had two children to name. We had an easy time picking out the name Jillian for a girl; I should have known it was too easy and that a girl was not in the cards. We really struggled with a boy’s name for our first child. If I’d had my way he would have been name Paul, but D shot that down along with most of the other names I’d suggested. We finally agreed on L, and he should run for president.

With our second, I wanted to name him Martin. But D suggested a name I never expected him to like, so we easily agreed. H is a traditional name, but it has become uncommon. H gets a lot of attention for his name. Usually something like, “that was my Uncle’s name, but of course he passed away 50 years ago” or they think they mishear and ask him to repeat it 5 times.

Joe asked him to repeat it several times, partly because he “didn’t know that people still named children H” and partly because he was hard of hearing. Joe was 89. L and I went over to thank Joe for his service in WWII (it was on his hat). Joe was in the Navy, and had been shot twice. One bullet went right through his body, and the other was taken from his leg. A confirmed “old bachelor” he called himself but assumed that D, must be a handsome fellow to have such good looking boys and a pretty wife (the light was dim).

When we said our goodbyes to Joe and went to the car, I couldn’t help the lump in my throat. I like the name Joe; it’s a good name, a hero’s name.

Battle Zone

Our kitchen table has become a battle zone. I have a 4 year old that won’t eat…anything besides pizza. H can really put away the pizza, but everything else is a fight. I tell myself before every meal Mary, don’t make this a fight. But I do. He won’t eat, or he says, “I’m still chewing!” He puts food in his mouth chews twice then just holds it in his cheeks. I start trying to make it a game, then I count, and I threaten taking away his after dinner cookie, but nothing works. I am frustrated and to be honest…angry.


Sharing a meal, sharing a basic need should bring us closer. It is not supposed to be a battle. I want to sit down, and talk to my boys. How did I get so off-track?

Suppertime, when I was still living at home, was my favorite time of day. We would sit down, eat, and sometimes end up sitting there for hours, talking. We talked about everything. We told stories, we teased each other, we talked science, we talked history, we talked. Even now, when I go to my parents, I look forward to meal time, because everyone stops, sits and talks.

I have no delusions; I know that I created this battle. I have no one else to blame. Since they were babies, I have worried that they weren’t eating enough. Since the first time I held L to feed him I’ve been stressed.

When D went off to basic training, then to AIT (Advanced Individual Training) we knew that he would be gone for a while. L was 6 months old, and since I had no job holding me in the town where we lived, Baby L and I moved in with my parents. Everything went smoothly, for the most part, I missed D and even though I was grateful for the support of my parents, I didn’t want to be parented. I WAS a parent. Just a month after we moved in, I noticed that L looked pale. The doctor said he was fine, but even then I expressed my concern about not producing enough milk. He said not to worry. L didn’t get any better, so one day he and I drove 3 hours to go to our old pediatrician, who put him on a scale and he had lost 4 pounds. When you only weigh 17 to begin with, 4 is a lot. I was devastated, because I knew that it was my fault. The stress of moving in with my parents, and D being gone, had completely dried up my milk, and I didn’t notice. This was my fault. To make matters worse, he would not take a bottle or cup, he wouldn’t suck. I fed my baby boy for 3 months with a medicine dropper, before he finally mastered the sippy-cup.

I see that since that time, I’ve made this fight. Meal after meal, I created this dynamic that we are locked in now. One part of me says relax, he will eat when he is hungry. The other part of me says, Mary, you idiot, don’t you remember how you almost starved your baby. So I go to battle. I am still fighting for those 4 pounds.

Home is Where the Army Sends You

What I want for myself is adventure and new experiences, what I want for my boys is a consistent home. Often in the military, you don’t get what you want; but I do get half of what I want. We are a very lucky military family, we don’t move every 3 or so years. We will stay here for a long time. This past Christmas was the first time in 10 years that we’d had a Christmas in the same house for 2 consecutive years. It was great.

On the other hand, I like moving around, I like exploring and finding new ways to do things. I like living in different houses, it’s like rearranging the furniture…big time. I suppose it’s my personality, or the fact that I have a difficult time making friends. The longer I live someplace the more aware I become that I haven’t made any friends.

Our first duty station, as a family, was Heidelberg Germany. I could not have been more excited to go. L was 18 months when we finally got there, D had been there several months before we arrived. I was ready to explore, learn German, and only wear dark clothes. I quickly learned that it was not a vacation, it was life. There were bills to pay, groceries to buy, an apartment to clean, and soon 2 young children to care for. We call H our German souvenir.



We did go on one vacation while we lived in Germany, back to the U.S. for my sister’s wedding! I was 7 months pregnant at the time and my dad kept telling the same joke over and over: “What does this baby and my chainsaw have in common?........They were both made in Germany!” My dad seriously loves his chainsaw.





I only saw two castles while we were there, and never made it to France, or to Munich in September. I did learn a little German, a very little, and mostly related to driving. I did drive on the autobahn (just once by mistake!)

Now we are in Virginia, in our own house. I am thrilled that my boys will have a consistent home. I suppose I should work on making some friends, but rearranging the furniture is easier.

Me the Cynic

I remember very clearly my college graduation ceremony. It was hot in the field house. There was a lot of snickering about "Cum Laude". Mostly I remember the message from the commencement speaker. His message was about avoiding cynicism.


Sadly, it didn't stick. But I think for him to reach me, he would have had to go back to elementary school. For as long as I can remember, I have had a distrust of organizations, but at the same time I believe that people are generally good. It's groups of people I have a hard time trusting.

So here we are just days from a likely Federal Government shutdown, and why? Because generally good people get together and create organizations that don't work. It is possible that D, who is deployed along with so many others, will work without pay. Now tell me why I should trust the elected officials? It is not just the soldiers who work without pay; it is the families at home that go without groceries. And what are they talking about now, even before the shutdown? Whose fault it is. People! Please! Show me that I am wrong!

I have NEVER voted, nor am I ever likely to do so. Civic duty, you say? How about the civic duty of the people that get elected? In my opinion, it does not matter who gets elected because they all do the same thing...very little. They do a little dance, skirting the real issues, and making statements that don't tell you anything. I believe that since I don't vote I can't complain about the decisions. What decisions? Where are the sweeping changes, and major overhauls? Stuck, in the purgatory of politics.

Professional politicians are celebrities. They say the right thing to the camera, and behave badly otherwise.  I am tired of and angry with American politics. I want to be wrong, for once in my life, I want to be wrong. I want to believe that organizations actually care for people, not just ideologies and bottom lines. I don’t want to be a cynic…it makes for a lot of worrying, and I’m a mom I already have my fair share.

Grandfathers

I never had a grandfather, that is I never knew either of my grandfathers. They both passed away before I was born. But like so many people my age and older I had a surrogate grandfather….Mister Rogers.


Recently I was talking about Mister Rogers and DK, my step-son, had absolutely no idea who I was talking about. I even sang the song….nothing….not a clue. I showed him a YouTube clip of Mister Rogers changing his shoes and sweater, nope. In fact he laughed at how silly I was to have such affection for a man I’ve never met (good thing I didn’t tell him about my affection for Hugh Jackman which is totally inappropriate for a post about grandfathers).

I always wished for a grandfather whose lap I could sit on, a grandfather to tell me funny stories about my parents as children, a grandfather that gave me sweets, or a grandfather that smelled like pipe smoke. Naturally I didn’t know Mister Rogers aside from seeing him on TV, but I loved him, and I believe he would have loved me too. Yuck…wiping weird salty water from my face…and moving on.

Growing up, many of my friends’ grandparents where only a little older than my parents. My parents were more often mistaken as my grandparents rather than my parents. It was painful for my little brother and I, when no one thought we were our parents’ children.

I am so thankful that my boys have wonderful grandfathers. They have real men that can be hugged and who hug them back, who love them and make them feel special.

My dad, in addition to being grandfather to 14, also prides himself on being a real surrogate grandfather to some children from church. I love and resent this at the same time. I feel jealous of the time he spends with them. But more importantly I love that he is giving to these girls what I never had, what I always wished for. I love that they have a grandfather they can hug, who sincerely loves them.

A grandfather is a gift; hug yours if you can. Think of him if you can’t. I will think of my grandfathers, and as always I will think of Mister Rogers. 

Again with the weird salty water.....I better have this checked out.

L's Bad Day

My boy L had a bad day today.  It seems that everything that could go wrong, did.

The morning started off pretty good, he spent the morning playing April Fools jokes on me, silly ones like, "Mommy...I'm a statue....April Fools!" So when I dropped him off at school, how was I to know what was in store for him.  Had I only known.....

During recess, he and his buddy Jake were being chased by a girl (darn girls!) and in his attempt to flee he slipped on some wooden steps and fell.  He scraped up his chin then landed squarely on the butt in a big mud puddle.  I am not exactly sure how that happened, but he has a scrape on the chin and some mud- caked jeans came home in a plastic bag.  The note that came home said that he was very upset... rightfully so....I am upset too that a girl was chasing him too.  Oh....what?  He was upset about the fall?

Later during P.E. he was accidentally knocked down by another girl and bruised his knee.....  THEN another girl was following him and "I did not like that" L said.

When he got home I put his muddy coat, gloves and pants in the washing machine with some other laundry and when I was taking them out to put in the dryer, I noticed a lot of red in the washing machine.  My dear, darling boy had brought home a ketchup package for his little brother.  When will I learn to check pockets? So through the wash again went all the clothes.  But L was upset because now he could not give the ketchup package to H, and it was my fault.

Oh and there is more....He had climbed up on the counter and when he went to jump down, he caught the leg of his "borrowed from the teacher" pants on the newly installed hardware on the cabinet door.  Fortunately the pants were very loose and they just hiked up as he came to the floor.  But the hardware will probably leave a nice little bruise on his backside.  Oh and since I installed the hardware...this was also my fault.

Clearly girls are a problem for him, and will likely remain so for the rest of his life.

Eeyore

Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water.  "Pathetic," he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again. "As I thought," he said. "No better from this side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that's what it is."
Winnie the Pooh


I happen to know Eeyore, we dated briefly in college. Eeyore was (and still is) a nice guy, deeply sentimental, and suffered from the WOE-IS-MEs. A simple “no thank you, I do not want Chinese food this evening” could crush him, ruin his day, and cause him to write really awful poetry. He had scores of friends who went out of their way to protect his feelings. They thought they were bolstering his self-confidence, but I think it reinforced his selfish behavior. Of course he continued to express how pitiful he was; he got a lot of attention. “Notice me, notice me, I am so miserable”

Now I could be totally off, here. Maybe I should be more compassionate…I probably should. I also think that he needs a little perspective. I wish that he could step back from himself for just a moment to appreciate how much he does have. He has a job, first of all, not one that he loves, but it pays the bills and puts a roof over his head. He has brothers and sisters that care for him. He has enough to eat, and he still has scores of friends.


I believe that perspective is the cure for most bad days. On days that I feel sorry for myself, I remind myself that perspective is all around me. My neighbor’s husband deployed for 12 months. My friend is preparing for the birth of her child and the death of her mother at the same time. Another friend lost her young son in a tragic accident. There’s perspective for you.


If Eeyore would look up from his own reflection, he may find things looking a little brighter.