One Thing I learned....Make That Two...

Thursday I was in to get Todd's broken glasses replaced. The eyeglass place I use is pretty much stocked with impossibly thin and darling babes. One of them in particular  is especially cute, and also genuinely sweet. I thought about it the last time I was in there. I thought about it again this time because she is!... just terribly pretty and nice too. Helpful and friendly.

But while I was standing there waiting, she and some of her co-workers were having an ongoing conversation: A customer who had  left the store a little earlier had asked her if something had bitten her on the face. She had a little cluster of acne on one cheek, that to me looked like nothing but acne,  but apparently some caring customer with the wrong eye prescription or something, had expressed concern.

And she was beyond distressed!

"I KNOW I have terrible acne!" she said, "I don't need to have it pointed it out to me!!"
The other employees were commiserating.
She held out her hands to show them she was so upset her hands were trembling. She talked about how much make-up she was going to have to wear from there on out (even though she had it on there thick already)...On and on...and on some more. One of the customers heard and empathized and gave their horror stories from bygone days...they all agreed the person who asked her the question was unbelievably rude. She managed to say all this and still be endearing, which is an almost impossible fete. If anybody else had tried it it would have been nauseating.

I didn't say anything, but I felt incredible sympathy for her, (a little for the dear departed customer, too) and disdain for a system that holds bodily perfection on a pedestal so high that to fall from it will crush you.

I wished somehow she could know that her sweet personality and charm altogether overwhelmed that bit of acne on her cheek.

I also thought about the almost constant presence of acne on my face, since I was a teen, which was a very long time ago...with no make-up to camouflage its presence. Sometimes it bothers me...but seldom. It bothers me mostly when people make it a point of conversation. And they do, occasionally. They mean well. But it means they're thinking about it, and if other people are thinking about it and let you know they're thinking about it, it's easy to feel self-conscious.

But I won't  let it bother me anymore. I refuse. I learned in 15 minutes how sad and pathetic it is to invest anxiety in your looks when your spirit and disposition totally eclipse your appearance, if you let them....if you yourself refuse to assign yourself worth based on the veneer that covers the true you: your heart and soul.

I learned the comments only have power over you if you choose to own them.

And I learned something else. Never ask a girl if something bit her on the face.

The Light in the Window

We had an excellent sermon on The Prodigal Son this morning. And my mind kept going when the sermon stopped...

The Prodigal Son wanted to leave his father and asked for his inheritance. The father gave it to him, and let him go.
And he had a great time! For awhile. For awhile he lived well, and no doubt had a lot more fun than his father ever let him have!
But then the inheritance dwindled, and disappeared. He was bankrupt and starving and increasingly desperate. Dirty; disgusting.

And I thought how analogous it is of a spiritual prodigal. The virtues he develops as a child of God seeking to obey and do his Father's will, and the blessings that flow from those virtues are rich and abundant...and if he chooses to leave the Father and take his own way, that inheritance will go with him. And serve him well! Very well!

For awhile.Years, perhaps.

But apart from the Father it will dwindle...and disappear...till he is bankrupt spiritually, emotionally, and often physically and mentally as well...

We all have prodigal tendencies, I think. I know I do. Some of you have taken to the road, and the journey is losing its enchantment the farther you travel it.

But like Tom Bodett for Motel 6, our Heavenly Father has left the light on for ya.
Unlike Tom, He is also pacing the floor and watching the road.

Terror on the Homefront

Childhood is not for the faint of heart...

This is an old facebook status that took on a life of its own. I'm transferring it to here for safekeeping. Because who knows?...Ahem...maybe I'll abandon facebook sometime!!

It was written Friday, August 26, 2011 

 

A garden spider has taken up residence outside our back door. It is clearly a direct descendant of another garden spider; one I will never forget....

I was about 5, I guess, the summer The Spider spun her web between the propane tank and the white concrete wall of our house outside our back porch in NC. I had a phobia of spiders that had no roots in reason and extended to my worst nightmares at night.

We often ran through the space between the gas tank and the house when we were playing, but The Spider brought that to an abrupt halt. I shuddered at the sight of her, even at the THOUGHT of her, and she introduced a level of horror to my life that was quite unmeasurable.

One day Jeff and I were having a water fight. I had a glass Pepsi bottle filled with water, and Jeff was chasing me. In my preoccupation with escaping him I went streaking through that garden spider and her huge web without thinking.

I knew instantly what I had done, but it was too late!!! I streaked PANICKED and SCREAMING!SCREAMING!!SCREAMING!SCREAMING!!!SCREAMING!!!! up the steps, across the porch, through the screen door and into the living room, hurled my bottle to the floor where the water blub-blubbed out onto the braided rug, and stood like a demon-possessed water-soaked screaming machine, paralyzed by horror!!!

And so there I was, in Mother's living room. She came flying to my aid, but had not the merest hint as to what my problem was, and there was no way I could afford to quit screaming long enough to tell her!!!!!!

I don't know how she figured it out. Maybe I did manage to convey it somehow... maybe Jeff told her. At any rate, she commenced to calming me down in her unruffled, reliable fashion. She had, and still has, a remarkable talent for imparting sympathy and compassion without validating ones' fears. She cleaned the web off me, and I think I remember her showing me the dead spider, and taking its shriveled carcass out on a flyswatter.

She told me that the spider was probably just as afraid of me as I was of her.

But I am here to tell you, there is NO WAY that that was the truth!!!! No way. There wasn't enough space in a million spiders to hold the fear that was in my heart that day.

I'm still irrationally afraid of spiders. But I believe in facing your fears, and through the years I have gradually conquered it. Small spiders no longer scare me. Medium-sized spiders, I can swat with suave confidence.

But ......I'd just as soon the spider by my back door wasn't there.

Pooh

He came flying around the corner the other day and said, "Did you see that picture of Pooh, Mom? Do you like it?"
"Yes, I like it!" I said. "I like it a lot!"
Todd had taken a picture of Pooh and made it our computer wallpaper.
 And then I had epiphany  of sorts. "Would you like if we'd get it framed?"

You could see the wheels of his mind start turning, "How could you frame it?" He asked.
"We'd get it printed at Walmart, and buy a frame for it. You could keep it on your dresser."
"Oh yes! Yes! YES!!" Wild excitement spurted out all over him.
And off he went, leaving in his wake his mom drifting down a silent brook of memories...to the day when Pooh first entered his life.

Todd was due on August the 10th. I remember that date because I had to repeat it so often to little Regan. She could not WAIT for him to be born. I couldn't either. It had been awhile since we had a baby in the house. Frankly, I preferred motherhood to pregnancy a thousand times over, and this pregnancy had had its share of scares and bed rest and hospital visits. It had been a long nine months.

But the 10th of August came and went, and no baby. Another week passed and another came. And finally, with some help from the doctor, Todd Asher was born, 12 days late. I remember us looking at him the first time... Todd in my arms; the Chief, who deserved a medal denoting supreme courage and endurance, as do most husbands of new mothers, to my right, hovering above us both. Todd was our fifth child and fourth son.

We couldn't have been happier.

The nurse whisked him away to be weighed and foot printed and brought his certificate with his little prints on it, to show us. His footprints were goofy, oddly smudged around his toes, and I kidded the nurse about her not getting his toe prints right. She laughed a little and made some comment about having had trouble with it.

That was a clue. I missed it.

They brought him back, weighed, and swaddled and ready to eat.
And they left us alone, the three of us. But, despite his apparent hunger, he seemed to have trouble sucking. Another nurse came to see if she could help, and in just a moment, with no word of explanation, she put her finger into his mouth, and then quietly took him from me and left the room.

That was another clue. But I wasn't looking for clues. I had just had a baby.

She brought him back to us again. I picked up his little hand  to adore its tininess. A couple of the fingers fell away from it at an odd angle. His pinkie finger had two fingernails, and upon investigation, seemed to be two fingers together. I showed it to The Chief. He had seen it earlier, and hadn't said anything.

That was a third clue. A couple questions rippled through my mind, but I felt no particular alarm.

Later, when we were settled into our room, the pediatrician came in and pulled up a chair. He was nice enough, but he wasn't our regular pediatrician, and we had no established relationship with him.

"Your little boy," he said, "was born with a few birth defects. Major minors I would call them."
 He launched into a run-down of the things he had been able to observe to that point. He was matter-of-fact, but not unkind. Todd's toes overlapped each other. His right hand had significant defects. He had a cleft in his soft palate...I forget if he mentioned other things then or not. I was unfazed. I loved the mothering job. If Todd took more mothering, I'd give it to him. Simple as that.

The most apparent defect at that point was that he was born with a cleft of the soft palate. This meant his mouth was open into his nasal cavity. He was unable to create suction, making nursing impossible. The nurse showed me how to feed him. I put his milk in a miniature cup and then holding him up-right on my knees, I held the little cup to his lips and he sip-sip-sipped it off, like a pro. Like he had known all along how to do this. I was disbelieving.

Later, they gave me a bottle nipple created especially for babies with cleft palates. He learned to strip the milk from it with his tongue. No suction necessary, but regulating the flow was tricky, and  it ran from his nose and half-drowned him over and over and over. Feeding him was a very long process. It nearly consumed my life. I was determined to keep from feeding him formula as long as possible, so he would have every possible benefit from my own milk. But determination cannot scale every mountain. I capitulated after about a month and a half and started feeding him formula, trying not so successfully to shrug off the guilt.

Thinking about it now, I still cry a little. Mom-guilt is a mantle the fingers of reason are unable to lift from your shoulders.

And we began seeing doctors. So many doctors. About This. About That. He needs this test. And that test. And these x-rays. And those therapists. And this specialist. And that procedure. He should be checked for possible syndromes. And this panel should have a look at him.

The endless labyrinth of halls that is MCG took on a familiarity we could never have envisioned. The security guards at the parking garage became common acquaintances. I learned to know the parking garage, how to extract myself from the predictable caterpillar of cars that crawled its way from floor to crowded floor, and snag the parking spots less apparent to the uninitiated.

Todd's plastic surgeon said doing cleft palate surgery was most successful and effective when done at approximately eight months old. I looked forward to that day, and dreaded it at the same time. It was his first major surgery.

We went through what would in later years become conventional routine. Pre-op. No eating after midnight. Keeping him occupied and entertained until they called us back. Trying to act, for his sake, like it was no biggie, like everything would be fine. We purposed to stay with him as long as we could and asked the doctor if we could go back to the operating room and stay with him till the anesthesia claimed him.

And then we walked, just the Chief and I, back to the waiting room alone, to wait. And wait. In a room full of other parents and grandparents trying to entertain and pacify other little children who hadn't eaten since midnight.

Finally the surgeon came out and told us surgery was complete and he was happy with how it went. They had sewn a string through his tongue he said, and it would be hanging out of his mouth. It was necessary should his airway begin to swell, we could pull his tongue out and free his breathing.

He left, and we waited some more.

And then the door opened, and a nurse called "Strite". We followed her back as she gave us a brief run-down of  his condition.

And there he was, one baby boy in a whole row of little people in varying stages of anesthesia's spell, separated by curtains.

I was unprepared for how pitiful he was. He was so small and awful in that ill-fitting hospital gown, with that string hanging out of his bloody mouth.  When he woke his eyes brimmed with unspoken confusion, fear, and anguish.

I hid my own anguish. Or tried.

Once he was properly awake they moved us all together into a recovery room. The Chief carrying the plastic drawstring bag probably, with Todd's own clothes. The nurse with the IV pole. Me, with Todd. That's how it usually worked.

The room was dim and pretty small. The obligatory shades of gray in every direction. Except for one spot. One big Spot of Gold with black eyes and nose and a bright red sweater.

It was Pooh. Waiting patiently for his boy to get there. There was a piece of paper there with him.  I can't remember the exact wording, but it said something like: This bear has been donated by...I think her name was Carolyn something, during a WBBQ fund drive for the patients at the MCG Children's Medical Center.

It was a tough couple days for Todd, and for the Chief and me. The only thing you can do for a baby that age is try to convey your love for them through the pain, and hope they understand that much at least...that you are there, and will not leave. That's all you have. It seems so inadequate.

All the while Pooh sat calmly in the corner of the vinyl couch, waiting.

And then it was time to go home, and we loaded him up with all the other things...the prescriptions, the instructions, the discharge papers, and this and that.

And off he went to his new home, with his new boy. There was no way we perceived how important a bear he was.

Todd quickly came to adore Pooh. He took him to bed with him faithfully every night....Pooh sat beside him where he played.
And they grew...Well, Todd grew...Pooh pretty much stayed the same. He dressed him in his own pants in the morning, (they were short pants on Todd, long pants on Pooh.)...and put him in pj's at night. Todd grew out of the pants, but Pooh didn't. He keeps a pair or two to this day, in case Pooh is in a pants-wearing mood.

They have had parties together. And gone to grandmother's house. And camping.
He talks for Pooh when Pooh can't find the words to speak... a little boy who for years struggled to find his own voice.

Sometimes Pooh needs a bath, at which point Todd keeps careful track of the washing machine and how soon he'll be out again. And then of course, he needs drying...and it takes so LONG for him to dry! But he's pretty and golden again then. Just like new! And his little sweater is so bright!

Todd and Pooh are ten years old now. Todd has changed a lot. Pooh, not so much.

Todd has been through multiple surgeries in those ten years. That cleft palate surgery was just one of many. But Pooh has been a constant in his life from that first one.

And often when I see them together, and think how much happiness Pooh has brought to Todd over the years, nearly his entire life....I think of Carolyn. And I wish she knew.

Pooh's picture has now been printed and laminated, and today, I hope to find a frame.
Red, I think, to match his sweater. Or perhaps black, to bring out the color of his eyes.

Thank you, Carolyn...wherever you are. Thank you so much.

March, or whatever...

What do you do when you reeeally feel like writing but have nothing to write about??
We're about to see. Because that is the case.

My life has been like a handful of confetti for the last while, bits and pieces, flung...twirling, falling. The aftermath isn't especially tidy. Or noteworthy. Or sensible.

It's March now.

I wish for Spring one day. I wish for snow the next. Or even both the same instant. I think mostly I just wish for something besides sullen skies and drizmal. And coldness.

But I did plan The Garden of My Dreams. That was fun and not dependent at all on happy weather. You should see it, my dream garden.
I'd like to see it myself, actually. But I won't, I suppose.
The garden that comes to pass seldom bears overmuch resemblance to The Garden of my Dreams.

This takes none of the pleasure away from the dream, however. None.

The Chief ordered the seeds. He and a couple of the natives refurbished my little greenhouse. Last week I filled the first flats with potting soil and tucked in the first batch of seeds. Tomatoes and peppers of various varieties. Over 160 seeds in all. And some herbs.
A day or so later I planted more things, cone flowers, daisies, impatiens, coleus, caladium bulbs....more herbs...

A couple days later, eggplant, and okra and and I forget what all...and more herbs....

And the Chief said, "You planted the okra? We usually just plant that in the garden." Oh yes. I forgot.
I ran out of pots, so I bought more.

And planted more.

The Chief came home the next day and said, "Did you plant anything today?" And I said, "No, I ran out of pots again."

So now I am in the waiting stage. Waiting for more pots. But especially waiting for the first glad seedling sighting.

Truth be told there is nothing much gladder in the whole world than the first seedling sighting. Not for me. Every morning I take my rooster mug and fill it with steaming coffee and go check on my flats. I check the soil to see if it needs watering. And then I peer at the soil. And peer at the soil.

And peer at the soil.

This is more fun than you would believe. This is my absolute favorite hobby.

One day, I will see a miniature translucent palish arch emerging from the soil somewhere...out of all those hundreds of tiny pots. Because that's the first thing you see...and then that afternoon maybe, or the next day, one side of the arch will break free from the soil and there it will be! A little white stem topped by two baby leaves. A seedling!! And then there will be another one... and ten more...and dozens!!! It's entirely thrilling!

 I check them every morning, while I husp my coffee, and count them to see if there are more than last time. I look at them all carefully, note their progress, and try to discern if I'm killing them yet or not.
When I'm all through, I look at them one more time. And wish I had planted more so I would have more to look at.

Then I step out of the balmy earthiness of my little greenhouse, close the door behind me, and cradling my empty rooster mug, brace myself against the harsher realities of March.

So this is one fragment from the handful of confetti. And one, I believe, is enough.

I Took a Walk

I took, yesterday, in the interest of personal inventory reduction, a walk.

It shouldn't have felt as cold as it did, but there was no sun.  Twenty steps in I was huddled into myself and tucking in loose parts.

It's winter. I would say I don't like it, but that would mean spending 1/4 of my life not liking something, so I won't say that. Winter actually does have a couple redeeming qualities.

Snow, for instance, (which we rarely have). And ice for ice skating, (which we never have).

The other parts of winter I like are really not "liking winter" exactly, as much as enjoying the coping techniques.
Hot tea, for instance; Earl Grey in particular. Snuggling under covers in a chilly room. A Chief who cheerfully lets me put my freezing feet on him. Fire in the fireplace. (Not that we have one). Chili soup and corn bread.  Fuzzy socks. Long evenings for game-playing. And looking forward to spring.

Side virtues of dubious distinction, but virtues, none-the-less: I appreciate each one.

Outside, devoid of all these, I set out on my walk, under a canopy of naked, rattling branches, and a thin breeze cutting its way among the trees.

I pondered my crazy sister who lives farther north, who recently told me she LOVES winter! (I knew this before, she was just saying it again.)
They all do, she said. Her young son had slept the other night with his bedroom window open when it was 9 degrees outside. She made him keep his bedroom door shut she said, so the rest of the house wouldn't be 9 degrees.....(This judgement call of her's apparently redeeming her of all insanity. All I have to say is, "We report. You decide.")

But I thought of her and how she loves winter as I walked along, and contemplated the thought processes that would lead a person to love such a dark, cold, melancholy Thing. What was it like in her brain? I attempted to squeeze myself into it. It was an ill-fitting effort, and sizable parts of me dangled out the sides, but it was interesting to be sort of there.

I walked past the place where the resident coyote keeps appearing. I looked for him, but didn't see him. I turned the corner and headed up the hill. Smoke trailed on the breeze now and then, likely from someone's chimney. Someone with a fireplace.
A barred owl hooted from down near the creek. The forest floor was alive with pert squirrels who dashed noisily through crisp leaves and leaped to silent sentry positions against nearby tree trunks.

I got to the end of the lane and turned to walk down the hill. No cars. Geese gronk-gronk-gronked  off to my right. I watched as a trio of them flew above me and disappeared to the left over the swamp. Or is it a pond? It's a pond when it gets dammed up in front of the culvert that runs beneath the road, and empties on the far side. Sometimes there are beavers to dam it up. But sometimes there aren't. Right now, there aren't. Perhaps it gets a little local aid from surrounding humanity, I don't know. But it's nicest when it's a pond and right now it's a pond.
The sound of rushing water shut out the world. It was pleasant. The geese and the pond. Even on a cold gray day, it was all beautiful. It all fit, somehow. Maybe this was how it was to love winter.

I left the pond and walked up the hill. You burn more calories in cold weather. Another definite plus.
My phone rang. It was a friend. I walked along...or maybe sort of panted along...talking, walking, and burning extra calories thanks to the cold.

A car approached, the first I had seen. A little white car. I tried to flag it down. It blasted past, but then thought better of it and backed up. It's nice living on a road where you can back up without getting killed, and the only car that passes you has your husband in it.
I hopped in. It was nice and warm. I climbed out of my sister's brain and gave myself a good fluffing-up shake. It hadn't been altogether unpleasant there, perhaps sometime I would return. It was, at any rate, a reasonable survival technique.
 I think.
Unless winter makes you crazy without you really knowing.

In Lieu of Anything Substantive....

The Chief is working today...the boys went off to play football...the littles went to watch...which leaves Reg and me....
...and she is occupying herself....

So I went to the kitchen. It was lonely and sleepish and wished someone would come cheer it up. "I could do that, I suppose." I thought to myself.

I got out the skillet and a roasted chicken carcass. It still had some valuable chicken on it. I carved it offa there and put it in the pan with a little oil. And a little garlic, and some fresh pepper, and some cumin....and fried it a little, and piled it on a plate.

The kitchen opened its eyes and blinked.

I got an onion from the bin and peeled it and sliced some of it and put it in the pan. I put a little more oil in it, stirring it now and then till it was about right. I put it on the plate with the chicken.

The kitchen stretched and twitched its whiskers.

I got out my little white mixing bowl. It's just a perfect little crockery mixing bowl...but pretty small. Small was just right. I put a handful of flour in it, sprinkled in a little salt, a mere pinch of baking powder and then took my bowl to the spigot and ran some warmish water into it, stirred it up, kneaded it a little bit and rolled out a nice thin tortilla. I put my tortilla in the pan with some more oil. Fried it on one side. Fried it on the other side, and piled my chicken and onions on top of it.

The kitchen stretched and sat on its haunches.

I got the hot sauce and blooped it all over the chicken and onions.
I got the lettuce and cut a pile of lettuce over it.
I opened the sour cream and added some and drizzled a little Vidalia Onion Honey Mustard dressing on it, (from Woodside Kitchen, which makes the best dressing).

The kitchen began to flick the tip of its tail back and forth, back and forth..

I shredded just a little cheddar over it and and attempted to close the tortilla over top of it. Pfft.
Okay, so now what?
I got it over to my plate. It took all my hands and several pancake turners and custom tortilla-transferring skills.
I took a bite.

The kitchen purred. And smiled. I saw it smile. I think.