All Growed Up!

 

Freddy!

 

"Mothers"

My mother's name is... Scarlett.

Her favorite color is... red.

For fun, my mother likes to... write.

My mother likes to eat... pizza.

The food that my mother cooks best is... green beans.

If I had lots of money, I would buy my mother... a book.

My mother looks pretty when... she's at a circus.

My mother doesn't like to... have a lot of noise.

My mother loves me because... I hug her a lot.

My mother makes me feel... happy.

I love my mother because... she loves me.

(Freddy, 6 years)

 

Freddy's Mother's Day Claymation

Write it down!

When I first learned I was pregnant, I knew I wanted to write it down. Eighteen years and three children later, I am still keeping journals for my kids. I began each pregnancy with lists. First, there were lists of every morsel, every crumb of food that I put into my mouth. (Didn't last long) Then there were my long, rambling attempts at keeping a poetic history of their childhood. (Lasted even less time than it took me to cuss, in disgust, that I could no longer tie my own shoes with this belly!) Eventually I found my groove, by simply promising myself and my children that I would be as honest as I possibly could with them, while being nice.

"In the fierceness of my own battles, I chose to tell you only what would inspire you and keep you safe." 

My cedar chest, that place which holds all things special, keeps many of these journals today. Someday, I will give them to my children. They are theirs, after all. Their artwork, Their words, Their memories... with all my love.  As a child, I remember sitting with my mother, as she read her own small hand-written notes. So many, in fact, that I knew then she must really love me. I had heard many stories, but here was proof, in writing, that I was loved and adored. I think it was my mother's listing habits, which inspired me to keep my own children's stories... to remember that I may not have been perfect, but I did love them.

This year for Mother's Day, my youngest son gave me something precious. Our story... through his eyes. (Stop-Action Video, "A Mothers Day To Remember", by Freddy, 12 years). And, as is now tradition, it will be added to his journal. It's the one busting at the seams with drawings of his family, his pets, his musings, his dreams! Rifling through its pages today, I found this entry...

May 2, 2006

"I was quietly doing laundry in my most favorite room of the house the other day. We know this by how much time I choose to spend there. I heard the laundry chute open up and slowly cast my eyes in the direction of the pile gathering just below it, to see a soft baby blue blanket with a hole in the corner and two stuffed bears plop on top and roll down the mountain of laundry below. 

Two seconds later, I heard your sweet little seven year old voice quietly call down, "Are you okay down there, Butter Bear? How 'bout you, Oats?".

When the hole in the ceiling snapped closed again, It came to me. I am already in Heaven, and I just don't know it yet. Then I wondered... So, what's Hell going to be like? 'Cause that's where I'm goin' for all of those bad thoughts I was thinking just before those bears plopped onto that mountain and into my heart.

You are still my littlest one, Freddy!, and I'm going to miss you when you're all "growed up". 

I already do."

Tell your children you love them more than life itself. Then show them. Their history resides in our memories. If nothing else, it will give them a head start in the lesson of forgiveness.
Love!

Don't Let a Day Go By

Grandma's

She took his strong, young hand in hers and said, "Don't let a day go by that you don't learn something." My grandmother, his great-grandmother, is ninety-four years old. She's lived a hard life, but one overflowing in adoration and love. The light hurts her eyes and she tires easily in our efforts to make her more comfortable, but tonight, in this moment, she is fully awake and she is smiling at him.

Life as we know it has changed for our family. But isn't that the way of things. No tragedy in a life lived well. No great surprises. And yet, there is still a sadness in each of us when we look into her eyes and when we talk with her and when we hold her delicate hands in ours. We are grieving for our yesterdays and wishing we had just a few more tomorrows, but there never seem to be enough of those.

It's been a long time since we've found her stooping to light the stove for Thanksgiving dinner or standing in front of the kitchen sink, wrist deep in soapy water on a warm spring day. The house my grandfather built for her and their children is no longer the center of every holiday, nor is it overflowing with grandchildren laughing and running through its rooms. Life seems to have stopped there, but for the changing of the guard -- six sisters, one brother and years of dedication to caring for their mother, as she cared for them.

But, when we give ourselves time -- Time to sit on the back steps listening to the birds talk to each other before the sun rises or to the cars passing on the road late at night, like they always have -- Time to move around in her kitchen as she did; preparing meals for many, washing, feeding and loving babies, visiting with family over a glass of tea or a cake homemade -- Time to watch her sleep, hoping that she dreams fondly of how her papa doted on her, her husband loved her, her children adore her and her grandchildren and great-grandchildren learned from her -- Time to heal the wound in our hearts with our memories and know, that if they fade we too will be gently reminded by those who love and adore us.

"Don't let a day go by that you don't learn something." I certainly will try, I say to myself, as I listen from the door. My son smiles back with his eyes. I think he knows to store this moment for another day. I will try with all that I am to learn from her wisdom and her example, I assure myself. I will make every effort to live to my full potential and then -- just to be happy, as she has always assured me that I can be.

And when my children lean in, as she pulls them to her for a kiss good-bye, I hope to smile as well as share my tears, because I have learned, it truly is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. That among all else is what I will pass on to my children, as I hope they will to theirs.  And that is more than enough. My grandmother taught me that.

~ Helen Virginia Ball Rogers 1915~2010

My grandmother

Mother Love

Mother Heart! Who knew the struggle

in those years that stood the test.

Mother Heart! I’d like to snuggle

once again close to your breast.

For the world with Fame’s great story,

all its triumphs, all its gold;

could not rob me of the glory

of the Mother Love I hold.

~ P. W. Reynolds

My Mother and Me

When I became a mother for the first time – I knew. He was mine and I was his, no matter what. Our daughter was born two and half years later and our youngest son, a few years after that – and still, I knew. The bond had been made. There was no denying it. 

What I didn’t know then was how that bond I held with my children would draw me closer to my own mother. The mother I spent the first quarter of my life adoring and the second – well, that’s what teenagers do, right? 

I, like most every girl of thirteen, once entertained the fantasy, that I must have been taken from my “real” parents – loving, caring people with no children other than myself, most likely stolen from them in the dead of night. They would be gracious people, probably with a lot of money, who now had holes in their hearts where mine should have been lovingly adored. The realization dawned on me then, as I searched the family photo albums and rummaged through the cedar chest for proof that I was, in fact, heir to the throne of… well, the throne of something I was sure. 

These fantasies would not last, however, for it was in that moment when I lay eyes on a photograph of me, as an infant, lying in my mother’s arms – that I knew I was hers. It only took the next twenty or thirty years for me to understand exactly what that meant.

This was the mother who made me comb my hair and brush my teeth before stepping foot out of the house. I heard more than once, “Sugar isn’t for breakfast" and "Those beautiful eyes weren’t meant to be hidden away by your hair". She taught me always to say, ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and told me to hold my shoulders up and be proud of where I come from. “If you believe you’re somebody, then others will believe it too.” This mother encouraged, begged and insisted that I do my homework, clean my room and eat my vegetables. Where was the justice in that, I cried.

All mothers have expectations, I suppose, which most of us spend a lifetime trying to live up to – especially as daughters. Now that I am older I can honestly say, Thank Heaven they do! If it were not for my mother’s expectations, I might never have known what it means to dream, to try and even to fail. Her vision of her children’s limitless potential was what first set me on the path, to settle for nothing less than my best. 

Mother’s Day passed some months back now. It was my seventeenth this year– my mother’s forty-third, and after all this time, I still struggled with what to give as a gift on that special day. How do I thank the one person who gave me life, and then raised me to be who I am today? A box of chocolates are always appreciated.  When are they not?  Chocolate covered cherries are her favorite.  Perhaps some flowers or a nice set of wind chimes. When I was two, five and ten, my hand print on a paper bag would have made her smile. That, after all, was what I was after. The days of my cooing and acting cute have long since passed, though that Mother love and approval is still the golden ticket, even if I have children of my own seeking the same thing.  

What is it that we mothers really want from our children? Do we actually look forward to the perfect store bought gift on those special occasions? You know, the ones that are all about us!  Do we prefer they be wrapped in pretty paper and ribbons or handed over in the store’s plastic bag? From one mother to the rest, I admit, I prefer pretty paper. But what is it, I ask, that really leaves us feeling loved and appreciated?  This year I came to the same conclusion that I have since I was first able to give my mother something other than my hand print on that paper bag – all she really wants is my time and my attention. And, something simple wrapped in pretty paper couldn’t hurt. Words do mean something and when those of Love and Appreciation are followed up with action, they can mean even more.

This week in November, my mother has a birthday.  Happy Birthday, Mom!  I will wrap my arms around her, kiss her on the cheek ~ and while I'm at it, I will tell her that I love her and that she will always be mine... as *I* am hers.  

When her own happiness waned, she stayed. Where her own dreams faltered, she stood fast. I thank her, not simply because she taught me better, but because I am truly grateful for her unfailing dedication and for her love. What better gift to give and receive than words of Love from your children.

With all my love, Dear Mother!

                                                

                                                 

"When I Start"

Yeah. Yeah. 

That’s right!

Listen to them scatter.

Ever have one of those moments when your mouth shares, aloud, exactly what’s on your mind? It was suggested to me recently by a trickster, a sh*t stirrer-upper, a woman of both class and crass – that I simply explain my dilemma to the lawn tractor dealer behind the counter, by way of complete honesty, which ironically was neither complete, nor the honest truth. 

“Tell him,” she stated, “that you need that part today – because you’re starting your period tomorrow.”

“But, I’m not starting my period tomorrow,” I replied, giddy with fear. For, I know her all too well.

“That is not the point of this exercise,” she insisted.

“What is,” I wanted to know, laughing now at the absurdity of her suggestion.

“Just tell him – and then say nothing.”

“Nothing,” I aped.

“Nothing,” she replied, insistent. “Just wait for it.”

“For what,” I asked, considering how freeing it might feel to entertain this deviance.

“For the blank stare that will follow when you simply tell him, ‘I need this part no later than five pm today... because I start my period tomorrow’.” 

She grinned.
“What can he, possibly, say in response to that?” “It’s brilliant!”

Now, I’m not one to be so blunt. Shock value is highly overrated. Nor, am I one to mislead a poor, unsuspecting sap by making up lies. But, I found this funny. Not so funny, mind you, that I seriously considered embarrassing, both myself and the unfortunate victim, in the lawn and tractor service department. Enough, I will say, that I can agree the look of confusion, followed by terror, might have been worthy of a small lie, if only I were as deviant as she. 

What is it, honestly, about we women that makes us want to share this most intimate of details with men anyway? It’s a “Sure Thing” with our male counterparts. Ask them to add tampons to the ‘Honey Do Grocery List’ and you are almost guaranteed to see the man before you, morph into the boy he once was, complete with mumbled protestations as he shuffles his feet and lowers his eyes to the floor. You would think they worry the cashier will suspect they are for his use and not yours! 

C’mon people, I don’t know how many times I had to stop into the ‘hardware’ store, with a baby on my hip, to pick up another box of Trojans. You don’t hear me complaining – much. 

Here is what I find fascinating about Men:

They’ll pierce a rusty hook through a wriggling worm with nary a flinch.

They’ll smash their finger with a hammer and talk about how cool it looks for days.

They’ll slice through their shin with a newly sharpened blade on a chain saw without any sign of a whimper.

They’ll scrape the lifeless body of a gnat onto the side of their plate and continue eating.

They’ll turn their underwear inside out and sideways to avoid doing the laundry.

They’ll skin a rabbit and all its kin with the precision of a surgeon and still name their child’s pet, Sweetie Pie.

They will watch as their children are born with tears in their eyes, even as they try to escape the horror of what just happened to their wife. Yet, they will not go along without a fuss, at the mention of “When I start”.

I’m a big girl. I know when I’m trying to lead a horse to water ~ and I know, there is No Way, That Horse is Gonna Fall For Any of My Old Tricks.

I also know I like to talk a lot about me, especially about “…my heart, my brain, my smarts, my medical charts and when I start”! 

A girl can dream.

I didn’t follow through with our little psychological experiment. I do still have to look this man in the eye, when I pick up my part next week, after all.  Though, I do still think, fondly, of her suggestion that I separate myself from my inner monologue, if only once in a while.  A life lived in fear... and all that.

On second thought ~ a little talk of feminine hygiene might be in order, if it doesn’t arrive in a more timely manner.

                            

                            Let's Talk About When I Start!

A Clean House

You know you have been living in squalor when your kid comes home from school and says, “It feels good when the house is clean. Thanks, Mom.” I mean really, how many times have you heard “thank you” from your kids for clearing a path through the house, much less from your teenagers? My point exactly.

My response was cool and thoughtfully calculated, at a time when my premenopausal urges sometimes border on the insane. Cry or kill—those are generally my options. More often lately, however, it is wallowing in nostalgia for my lost years with my babies.

So, I made no sudden movements, like tearfully yanking the kid in for a hug or anything, which would have only denied me any further glimpses of gratitude. I did not crumple to the floor, though my pride took a step forward ready to defend my honor and a somewhat precariously perched feeling of self-worth, despite the generous compliment I had just been handed. I also, mind you, held my tongue and did not roll out a list of the minutia that made up my day, a day which, between you and me, started on my hands and knees beneath the toilets and ended in scraping at least ten years of scum from the shower walls and floors. And, with a modicum of self-pity, I did not even voice what had me lugging the vacuum cleaner from one room to the next or excavating mountains of laundry, or staring wide-eyed at a stack of bills and managing my family’s school, work, and social calendars, or removing enough dust from a ceiling to knit a sweater. These daily rituals would only bore them. Besides, most days they stand patiently aside as I scurry about the kitchen, the laundry room, and the closet anyway, while they text no less than a small army of friends and then casually ask, “So, what’s for dinner?” If little else, I suppose I have taught them to run quickly and to fend for themselves.

I ask myself this question: Woman, what has you tied up in a knot so tight that you are spending your days making a list of the lists you have to make? For those who fail to see my point, allow me to clear it up for you and for me. 

I am so busy always trying to get ahead of the laundry that I might as well pitch a tent in what is arguably the highest trafficked room in the house. This is due to the fact that said laundry, though folded and hung, rarely makes it to its “rightful” place.

I am so busy running … to the human food/toiletries/hardware store, the feed store, the mechanic (this is where any one of our vehicles resides at any given time), the doctor, the emergency room, the doctor again, the football/baseball/basketball/soccer practices and games, and just for fun … more practices... the old school, the new school, the old front of the new school, the dark and creepy basement of the old school where I, and a smattering of other mothers, dig for/plan for/and complete an ungodly amount of holiday ornaments for those most fortunate young souls who will make our hard-earned volunteerism all worthwhile for a low, low price … and, that place you take your dog when he’s getting old – is officially old – isn’t coming back... that other place you take other people’s dogs, cats, whatever when you cannot possibly house/clean/or feed even one more … well, maybe one more.

I am so busy that my kids take notice when I clean house. 

I am so busy that I have forgotten, as I sometimes do, why I do it at all.

"A clean house" is a clear mind, a fresh start, an opportunity to remind myself that …

A)  Dusting isn’t so bad, but is perhaps better left to those who give a rat’s …

B)  "Life", is indeed, "what happens while you’re making other plans."

And... C)  Raising kids is very much like being pecked to death by a chicken, but what cute little chickens they are who sometimes say, “Thank you.”

A Winter Stomp

“The night was ... moist.”

Well, actually it was more of a moonless, snow-covered, bitter, and frosty wet. But school was called here in the Midwest for the fifth time this season and we had a date with a new family tradition. So, I whipped up a fabulously easy pot of white chicken chili, set it on the back stove for our return, and headed out the door to three kids and a husband who were, practically, running in place with their excitement.

I love it when we, the parents, are given the rare opportunity to holler through the house, “Kids, get dressed! We’re goin’ out!” On a wintry night like this one, when the snow is already a foot deep outside our windows, they all come running, snatching up socks by the handfuls and rummaging through the hat and mitten basket, which sits by our front door. Moments like these always remind me of warm childhood memories when my brother and I were granted the surprise of a late-night outdoor adventure.

Of course, our dad was more of the, “Let’s see how long we can sit here with our butts in the snow on the edge of this cliff, in stealth mode, and wait for any sign of life to scurry by.” I can never quite describe this kind of “adventure” to my kids without evoking scrunched eyebrows and comments like, “What? How is that fun?” Tracking rabbits into a snowy bank, in the hopes that you will find that little cottony tail sticking out of the bushes, running through sleepy woods with nothing to see by but the reflection of the sparkling snow on the ground, just waiting for your dad to jump out at you, growling like a bear. These are, indeed, warm memories.

This is our third Winter Stomp. It’s now officially a family tradition. At least, that’s what the kids tell us. Our first stop is always down at the barn to give clicks and pats to the horse and ponies, Mindy, Loretta, and H.I. They no doubt wondered, “What the heck are the humans doing down here at this hour!” With the kids tugging on our coat sleeves in the direction of our woods, we set out, led through “secret” paths, across the creek bed and up the bank.

This was where Rick, my husband, the manly man of the bunch, refused a helping hand from, as he put it, “a little girl,” our daughter, Colleen. At which time, he was promptly punched once in the arm for this chauvinistic, demoralizing, not to mention ill-advised comment and a second time for flinching! (I know he is VERY sorry for this moment of indiscretion, and will keep his caveman commentary to himself in the future.) I, by the way, was now perturbed to say the least, that this now meant that I could absolutely not request any aide myself for the rest of this jaunt through the cold woods. But, by the time we’d trudged across the open pasture and made our way over to the lane that runs alongside our house, I had forgiven him his failings and shamelessly begged for a hand, a coat tail, anything to pull me up this long and slippery hill.

We made our way out to the road and waved hello again to our warm and cozy house “all lit up like a cruise ship,” as Rick always describes it. I have to say, it was really difficult, standing there in the snow up to our ankles, out of breath, and contemplating the actual wording I would use to suggest to our kids, that we be done with our winter stomp and go home now. Eyeing my hesitation, Rick foiled my selfish plan with his humorous interpretation of an ice skater’s routine in the moonlight. I respectably swallowed my whimpers, sipped the last of my French vanilla coffee in my American Expedition Travel Thermos, took another deep breath, and followed in his footsteps. My youngest, Freddy, grabbed my gloved hand with his thick little gloved fingers and smiled at me as if he knew and understood my second thoughts, and then we pressed onward, hand in hand.

We talked about last year’s winter stomp down this road when all the houses were lit up with Christmas lights and about how neat it feels to walk down the center of the road in the middle of the night. As we crested another small hill, we saw an old farmhouse and barn still lit up with red and blue and green lights, fuzzy through the falling snow. Our oldest, Will, graced us with his teen-angst, melodramatic refusal to sing Christmas carols in January, in front of the only house on the road still in the spirit, by falling back and out of arms reach with his shadowed form and walking stick. By the time we’d started the second verse of Jingle Bells, he was closing in on us. Lucky him, we ran out of breath for the third.

Colleen persuaded her younger brother, Freddy, to stop and make snow angels in their usual spot under the barn lights, shining through a long line of cedars. Freddy offered a hand to her so that she wouldn’t mess it up trying to crawl out of it (isn’t that sweet?), at which time Colleen rudely refused his help and reached for my hand, insisting that he wasn’t strong enough to lift her up (sins of the Father, I’m thinking about now!). It’s times like these when I really shine as a mother. The girl was left with the boy’s help or none at all, as I gave her my most disappointed mama-look and turned up the road. (Isn’t this just the picture I’d had of a warm family outing?)

Actually, that moment came a few minutes later when Colleen lay down in our path, in her cute little snow coat and boots to make another snow angel, and Freddy, still holding my hand, not missing a beat, kicked snow up onto her still little body as we side-stepped her in the road. (Now, THAT’S the stuff that makes for good family memories!) By the time we’d turned for home, we were all tired, hungry, and facing a long walk with the wind and snow in our faces. I took Will’s hand and Freddy’s, and Freddy took Colleen’s hand and she took her dad’s, and for what seemed like a good long minute ... or two, we all walked together hand in hand down a quiet country road looking for our cruise ship.

When I reached our well, across from the old oak tree, I seriously considered dropping to my knees and giving thanks for the feeling still left in my toes, and would have if I had thought I could get back up without assistance. I have to maintain some dignity in front of my children, after all.

We closed the doors behind us, shed our wet clothes and boots wherever we dropped, passed out warm bowls of sustenance, and headed downstairs to the family room. There we would snuggle our cold toes together in front of a welcoming fire. On his way down to his chair, I smiled with affection as Rick switched off light after light. I paused by the front door, alone in the glow coming in through the window, looking out on the snow still coming down. I thought to myself, what if someone is out on their winter stomp tonight looking for some small sign that they’re not alone.

I joined my family beside the fire, filling our bellies with warmth, coveting new memories for years to come, while our front porch light lit up the snow on our front lawn ... and the tree limbs outlined in white ... and the dead flower stems in our front garden poking out of the cold ... and a sled left in the driveway for Rick to swear over in the morning ... and a cat or two’s footprints leading toward a heated little bed in the garage. Well, it is certainly the cruise ship I would ride, again and again.

Love and Warmth From Your Cruise Director, Scarlett

Ahhh...Feel The Love

I was lumbering through our nightly ritual of kissing the kids goodnight recently. This, unfortunately, translates into: It was a good day with the kids, no worries, and nothing on the boob tube to hurry to that warm, quiet spot on the couch for that evening. I do have my priorities. They’re not always in a straight, unfaltering line, but they pinch me when I deviate too far from what's really important, so I try not to be too hard on myself. The routine usually plays out a little like this ...

Lights out in the boys’ room, the evening’s music playlist agreed on, picked out, and switched on, Tom Petty wins out ... again. I dip and sway from bunk to bunk with tucks and kisses, avoiding too many licks from all of the animals who seem to gravitate toward our oldest’s bed, same place, different night; all the while trying to determine whether or not he’s ready to go to sleep ... OR ... he’s lying in wait to steal a tickle underneath my armpit. After proving to him, once again, that, yes, his mother is still bigger, stronger, and wiser tonight, I look him in the eye, kiss him full on the lips, and tell him how much I love him, how incredibly smart he is, and how lucky we all are to have him in our family. He is still young enough to smile with pride and reassurance, even as he gets one last giggle, on the fringe of madness, out of me. Satisfied, he turns his head and is instantly asleep. That’s our Will.

Stumbling over that same blessed toy robot thing that was lying on the floor the night before, which I distinctly remember hurling through their open closet doors twice this week, (I think it’s possessed), I then limp to our youngest’s bed, where he is usually lying sideways with his feet up against the wall, his Blankie and Butter Bear curled up around his neck and his head hanging over the side. Every night it’s the same.

“Did you go potty, Freddy? Freddy? Freddy, did you go potty yet?”

“Mom, I’m not sweepy. Mom, why do I have to go to bed without any cookies?”

“Freddy? Did you hear what I asked you? Are you listenin’ to me?”

“My belly hurts. Pleeeaaassseee, can I have just two cookies in bed? Pretty please, Greatest Mommy in the whole world?” His daddy taught him that trick. (He’s holding up three fingers, mentally notes the difference, and asks for three instead of two.)

“Freddy, I’m losing patience with you kid. Now, did you go potty or not?”

This first attempt at saying goodnight to Freddy always ends the same. No, he did not go potty when I asked him to, and yes, he’s going to go now, and yes, he’s going to start listening better, and yes, he can have A cookie in bed, but if he dares to ask for more than ONE SINGLE COOKIE and not be happy about that, then he’ll have nothing!
(When Harry Met Sally reference to follow: “Not even the pie?” “No. I’ll take the pie, but not heated.”)

Two down and one in the hole in this touchy-feely routine, “Who’s running this show?” I ask myself, as I move to the next room, knowing the answer lies in my heart. The evidence is overwhelming and undeniable.

Colleen! Strikingly beautiful, smart as a tack, Colleen! The little fox has been working on her plan for the last fifteen minutes or so, to keep me sitting on the edge of her little pink bed for as long as is motherly possible.

“Tell me a story about when you were little, Mom. A long one!”

She listens intently to my monologue, taking notes, I am sure, twirling the end of her purring kitten’s tail around her closed eyes and underneath her chin. All the while, the little fingers on her free hand clutch the hem of my shirt. This child’s desperation is heartbreaking ... IF, you’re never the wiser! I eventually leave her to her own resources for the night with no less than three lights streaming into her room for her to draw, read, or work on her next masterpiece, knowing it will not be the last I see of her before morning.

Somewhere in the middle of night, I will be stretching out in our bed, only to realize that something alive is hugging onto my leg! It giggles and it has a bed of it’s own, but alas, it will only be young for a short time ... and so, I am more than happy to move it to her father’s side of the bed.

So, back to Freddy. The cookie is eaten. He did not choke on the crumbles. He is finally settled in his bed with his head on his pillow, and is now lying there in nothing but his tight little Spongebob underwear. Most, if not all of the last fifteen minutes that he’s been flitting about outside of Colleen’s bedroom door is forgiven and I am now in the homestretch!

I will finally shed my bra and lie on my bed staring at the ceiling. Life is good.When I sit down to give one last kiss to this adorable boy, it’s amazingly difficult letting go of his little face. His sweaty blonde hair fans back through my fingers and he smiles adoringly at me like the model child he so often can be. I can’t keep from kissing him over and over on his cheeks, and his eyes, and on the underside of his pudgy chin and on his little fingers playing with my hair that keeps falling into his face.

And then, he said in his most sweetest little four-year-old voice,

“Mom? Are you done yet?”

“Ahhhhhhhh ... Feel the love!”
Little twirp.

Ophelia's In The Bathwater

'Ophelia' in a party dress!

It isn’t so unusual in this life of parenting, for a soul to search, looking for answers or recognition. Perhaps it is why mine seeks out and feels most at home in a Shakespearean tragedy. Well, more of a melodrama really.

When I have the time to reflect, I find this life more often resembles a comedy of errors. Just so, my eyes are open to this simple truth. It is certainly mundane in its moments. “Aye, there’s the rub!” This must be why I’ve seen Ophelia floating in my bathtub!

Entrenched in my early evening hustle, I stole a peek in on my little girl in the bathtub, convinced I would find her, either slyly coaxing the kitten into the water with her, or more likely, still running about the upstairs hall unclothed and searching for bath-time companions. Neither of which would involve actually washing her body, as she was sent there to do.

Act I: Scene I The curtain lay closed.

I first spied the Fisher-Price wind-up record player on the bath’s edge. Weary tines played out “Jack and Jill went up the hill,” on the child’s music box. “To fetch a pail of water.” Soft tin tones, composed of a melodious tinkle and plunk on the tines, lured me into a calmer state of mind. All remained still on the other side of the curtain, as I pulled it to the side, practiced in the stealthy art of spying on my children.

Lo, and behold! Nay, thine eyes do not deceive me! There she lies, her young fair-skinned little body, floating weightless in the water, effortless. “To fetch a pail of water.” Fine eyelashes lay feathered against her cheeks. Yellow-haired wisps rippled beneath waves of warm water, in deliberate movement, beckoning me into the silent depths of her reverie, as shadow and light played on the exposed surface of her skin.

Dissolved, were my feelings of injustice sprinting through my veins only moments before, at the thought of having to enforce discipline, rather than getting on with the business of running a household. The child was in the place where she was supposed to be, after all. In that moment, I was jarred into a child’s daydream, alone in my thoughts, lighter than water. Changing over the laundry, answering the phone, stirring the pot on the stove with the wooden spoon I still held in my hand, seemingly not as urgent. I was given a glimpse into my own childhood; a less complicated existence overflowing with perfection. Safe. Warm. Happy.

“… and Jill went tumbling after …” I left her there, unaware of my barging in on her big scene in my small play. Someday I’ll write it down, I promise myself, and she’ll know. Until then, I’ll exercise more patience, keep my eyes open, and try never to throw my Ophelia out with the bathwater.

The end … of the beginning.

You're Not From Around Here, Are You?

I am often asked, “You’re not from around here, are you?” inviting conversation every time I open my mouth to speak. It is with pride that I strut my southern roots, calling attention to my place of origin with drawn out syllables served up with a side of hospitality. This unmistakable calling card, established early in my childhood, afforded me a place from which to stand on my own two feet. It gave me a name of my own and a home in my heart, no matter where the wind blew me.

To this question, my answer is always the same, “Kentucky is my home, born and raised.” It’s here my mid-western friends politely remind me that my identity crisis is showing. Despite their friendly teasing, they step to the side making room for the soap box I carry in my back pocket on the enthusiastic, if not enlightening, subject of my southern upbringing.

Home was my beginning. Here I seek constancy in times of confusion, significance in times of isolation. It is familiar ground beneath my feet, and it is the steady, insistent heartbeat of family. A willful spirit stumbled out of me in this place, brilliantly ordinary. It was here that I discovered me and yet, it is the one place I know better than I know myself.

Kentucky is my home. Home where the grass is so green it’s blue and the scrappy little redbuds shoot up like weeds. It is where I first learned to whistle, carry a tune, and tie my shoes. It was the land my ancestors left Ireland and England for; to raise their families on rich soil, worship in their faith, and to play their old-timey music every spare moment between.

This is where I heard as a child, stumbling into the kitchen on the slam of the screen door, that I was a “sight for sore eyes.” Here “everything’s fine and the goose is hangin‘ high”, if you ask Grandma. It’s where I developed a taste for the sugary tartness of handpicked gooseberries made into a pie, and to fancy southern sweet tea in a tall glass. This place is Home. It’s fried chicken in the skillet and fresh sliced tomatoes from the garden, green beans cooked down with bacon, mashed potatoes with lots of cream and butter, and jam cake with caramel icing sitting on the sideboard.

This small slice of the world is where a wave and a nod are the customary thing to do when you pass your neighbor, his tractor, or his dog on the road. It’s where the old folks miss the old ways and the young ones fight for change, and both still sit down together to supper. This place I call Home is “the dearest land outside of heaven to me,” though I have lived more than six hundred miles west of it for most of my thirty-nine years.

I am often reminded that, “Life is what happens while you’re making other plans.” It just “happened” to drag me kicking and screaming all the way to Missouri, where unexpectedly, the gateway to the west opened a window to my heart. It is here I met and married the love of my life, and where we’ve chosen to raise our three gloriously rowdy children. In this place where blue skies blanket a sea of wheat and corn, and the serpentine banks of the Missouri River twist an weave through lush countryside, I put down roots; even as I dreamt of returning home. Here we are building new memories with every fence post set, every friendship fostered and with every waning season renewed by the next. It is here we live and laugh and cry and dream.

My native tongue is as much a part of me today as those misty blue hills mirrored in the color of my eyes. I don’t catch the moonrise above the treetops over those Kentucky hills as often as I’d like, and I’m much too late to listen for Grandpa’s “Faded Love” on the fiddle, though I can still hear the bounce of his bow on the strings. And yet, there is no distance so great between me and Home that I would fear the emptiness of a star-filled sky.

Here in this place out west, far from my beginnings, I have made a home; and yet, when I am asked the inevitable, “You’re not from around here, are you?”, as the sound of my southern roots give me away, a rise of excitement and belonging fills me up, ’cause I’m a homegrown Kentucky girl at heart and I always will be.