I couldn't write for a few days. I was sad. Wednesday was full of emotions. My life was fine-great. I had so many things for which to be thankful. I hear people say that. I have said it. But, do we really-do I really mean it. What does it take for us to be thankful for what we have- right now- at this very moment. Sometimes other people's pain or our own pain is what it takes.
Wednesday was a normal day. Our alarm went off at 5 a.m. just like it does every weekday-and of course we hit snooze until 5:10, until 5:15 and in 5 minute increments until we hopped up at 5:30 ready for our hot tea and to get on with the business of being The Stoners.
I executed my routine with perfection. I got out of my warm and cozy bed. I walked downstairs and to the Persian rug in front of the fireplace and I got on my knees to pray and meditate. I got up and sat in my chair where my hot tea was presented to me by my husband of almost twenty years. We chatted for about 20 minutes like we do each day. We talked about what was going on with us, our children and the office. We made sure we were on the same page as to what needed to be done that particular day. I got up and made hot tea for the children. Camille usually likes a good stout tea and Ben is partial to "Tazo Calm" tea-thank God. I made their breakfast which consisted of microwaving a biscuit or pouring cereal. I made my husband his next cup of tea. I then made lunch for each of my children. Some days I put silly notes in there just so they can remember how much I love them. Some days we are yelling and screaming to get ready and that we are running late. On these days I am pissed off so I figure they are lucky that I am even making their lunch. Some days I see this as a chore. Some days I stop and thank God that they are still young enough that I am making school lunches.
On Wednesday I did something as mundane as run an office errand for Allen. I went to the printer. A lady I have known for several years who works there told me that Sunday had been the 3 year anniversary of her twenty something year-old daughter and her 5 year old granddaughter's death in an automobile accident. I stood there and listened to her recount the last time she talked to her daughter-how her daughter had begged her mom to be careful on that horrible rainy day. I listened as she told me how her granddaughter called her Gan-ma and how they had taken a walk the day before. She told me how it used to drive her crazy when her daughter would throw her head back and sling her long blond hair around while she was standing in the kitchen. She told me how her granddaughter was a handful and was always a bundle of energy.
She told me that she wished her daughter could be in her kitchen today slinging her hair around. She told me that she wished her granddaughter could run through the house with a roar.
She told me to go home and hug my children and be thankful for all of the mundane tasks, all of the arguments, and all of the noise. She said, "Be tough-teach them right and wrong, but really stop and be thankful."
I stood there and cried. I cried for her pain, but I also cried for me. I cried that I am never really satisfied and that I always want more. I cried that I had sent my children off in frustration that day.
I cried that I have been married to someone I love and LIKE for almost twenty years who will still bring me tea. I cried that my son procrastinates when it is time to get ready-but so does his daddy and if he is anything like him and- I think he is-he will grow into a fine man. I cried that my daughter talks back and tells me exactly what she thinks, but I realize she is just like me and I always know where I stand with her and that she has a heart and a conscience. I cried that I can't have a glass of wine or spiked eggnog for the holidays, but that I've found a group of people who have helped me accept that. I cried that we have had a tough year financially, but that we haven't missed a meal, we have two cars in our driveway and we have continued to wake up in our warm comfortable home. I cried that my mother is not here, but that I do have great memories. I cried that I can't lose that last 10 pounds, but that I have at least lost the first 10. I cried that I need to drive to Hunstville to buy my favorite Laura Mercier lip-gloss, but that I have just enough at the bottom of the tube that I can scrape out.
I cried because sometimes I don't stop to be thankful. I cried for the lady teaching me this lesson. I cried because I needed to be thankful that someone else shared her pain with me-that it wasn't my pain. Even though I was sorry for her-it was her pain that could teach me.
I was in a hurry on Wednesday; I had so many things to do. But, I am so thankful I stopped long enough to learn a lesson. Of course, this is not the first time I have heard this lesson and I am pretty sure I will need to hear it again. But, I suppose one of the things for which I am most thankful is-that as a student of life I get the chance to start over each day and if I do it right and carry over my lessons-they may just stick.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
I'm A Big Girl Now
I remember with such fondness talking with my daddy as he spoke of the realization that he was growing older. He poignantly told me that one day it just happened. "I put my hand through the arm of my coat sleeve and out slipped my father's hand on the other end." Today I think I know how he felt. Today I put on my pants and when I looked in the mirror I saw my mother's butt. Not the tight full butt of her youth, but my mother's middle-aged butt. Overnight-boom.
DNA structure is beyond my comprehension. I do remember a little about dominant and recessive genes. I know there are some traits I got from my mother and some I inherited from my daddy. But, I also know something else-that bitch Giselle Bundchen is walking around in my body. The reason I know this is, because of my feature checklist.
1. my daddy- has tall-long legs .......Giselle- has tall long legs
2. my daddy- has a square jaw & strong features...Giselle- has a square jaw & strong features
3. my daddy-has a small butt-no fat..............Giselle-has a small butt-no fat
4. my daddy-has sandy blond hair.............Giselle-has sandy blond hair
5. my daddy-height(5'11").................Giselle-height(5'10.5")
6. my mother-muscular arms............Giselle-muscular arms
7. my mother-wavy hair.................Giselle-wavy hair
8. my mother-small waist..............Giselle-small waist
9. my mother-pretty eyes............Giselle-pretty eyes
10. my mother-small boobs..........Giselle-small boobs
There you have it-proof that there must have been a mix up in the gene pool. Even at 45 years old if I had gotten what was rightfully mine, I would be able to throw on my slimmest jeans, tightest skirts or workout pants without a layer of Lycra or Spanx sucking in all the imperfections. But, I understand that possession is 9/10 of the law and since Giselle does possess my body there is not a thing I can do about it. I will just accept that I inherited the height of my maternal great-grandmother (a sort of Mickey Rooney stature), the butt of the Brewer's(my mother's family) and the strong square jaw of my father. So who am I to question God's creation?
DNA structure is beyond my comprehension. I do remember a little about dominant and recessive genes. I know there are some traits I got from my mother and some I inherited from my daddy. But, I also know something else-that bitch Giselle Bundchen is walking around in my body. The reason I know this is, because of my feature checklist.
1. my daddy- has tall-long legs .......Giselle- has tall long legs
2. my daddy- has a square jaw & strong features...Giselle- has a square jaw & strong features
3. my daddy-has a small butt-no fat..............Giselle-has a small butt-no fat
4. my daddy-has sandy blond hair.............Giselle-has sandy blond hair
5. my daddy-height(5'11").................Giselle-height(5'10.5")
6. my mother-muscular arms............Giselle-muscular arms
7. my mother-wavy hair.................Giselle-wavy hair
8. my mother-small waist..............Giselle-small waist
9. my mother-pretty eyes............Giselle-pretty eyes
10. my mother-small boobs..........Giselle-small boobs
There you have it-proof that there must have been a mix up in the gene pool. Even at 45 years old if I had gotten what was rightfully mine, I would be able to throw on my slimmest jeans, tightest skirts or workout pants without a layer of Lycra or Spanx sucking in all the imperfections. But, I understand that possession is 9/10 of the law and since Giselle does possess my body there is not a thing I can do about it. I will just accept that I inherited the height of my maternal great-grandmother (a sort of Mickey Rooney stature), the butt of the Brewer's(my mother's family) and the strong square jaw of my father. So who am I to question God's creation?
Monday, December 10, 2007
Who's That Girl?
Even in this era of "political correctness" it is hard not to label people. I find that I do this as a way to describe people-not to label-but to describe. I might say-"Oh, you know my friend, Fred, you know-my gay friend." I don't do this to be disrespectful to him, but this will paint a picture for you that the friend to whom I am referring is my well-dressed, fun to gossip with friend who is one hell of a decorator. Then, you'll know-oh yes, "that" Fred. Women, especially Southern ones, wear their gay-man friendships like a charm. We all have one. And, every Southern woman thinks the gay man is HER best friend. But, the gay man knows he has so many socialite women friends, because there are only so many gay men friends to go around.
Then, we talk about our friends of color-you know-my African-American friend. Because of this friendship we have great insight into and first-hand knowledge, or so we think, of the Civil Rights Movement. We think we know how it feels to be a single person of color in a sea of homogenous
faces. We tell her-"you go girl!" and we go on and on about how Oprah is our hero! To prove what great friends we are we will invite her to go to a fund-raiser for Barack Obama.
As the holidays approach we pause to remember Hanukkah and the Festival of Lights and sometimes we even send cards with Happy Hanukkah to our Jewish friends. We make sure we tell them Happy Holidays and that we don't send them a card with best holiday wishes and reminding them "the reason for the season." Then, we acknowledge that Hanukkah really isn't their Christmas and that Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah are both more important holidays on the Jewish calendar. We bid them Mazal Tov and Shalom.
In politics everyone wears a label. Hillary is a woman, Mitt is a Morman, Barack is African-American, McCain is a former prisoner of war, Rudy is divorced, Fred Thompson is an actor, Ron Paul is a doctor, Richardson is Hispanic and the list goes on.
My life is enriched because of these labels. It means that I share the world with many different types of people. Labels are just describing words. Labels tell our story. We use them to describe people-not because we are trying to stereotype them because we are just trying to paint a picture. If you need to describe me-you know who I am-the chatty, white, attorney's wife, mother, junior league volunteer who is a member of a 12-step program. Get the picture?
Then, we talk about our friends of color-you know-my African-American friend. Because of this friendship we have great insight into and first-hand knowledge, or so we think, of the Civil Rights Movement. We think we know how it feels to be a single person of color in a sea of homogenous
faces. We tell her-"you go girl!" and we go on and on about how Oprah is our hero! To prove what great friends we are we will invite her to go to a fund-raiser for Barack Obama.
As the holidays approach we pause to remember Hanukkah and the Festival of Lights and sometimes we even send cards with Happy Hanukkah to our Jewish friends. We make sure we tell them Happy Holidays and that we don't send them a card with best holiday wishes and reminding them "the reason for the season." Then, we acknowledge that Hanukkah really isn't their Christmas and that Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah are both more important holidays on the Jewish calendar. We bid them Mazal Tov and Shalom.
In politics everyone wears a label. Hillary is a woman, Mitt is a Morman, Barack is African-American, McCain is a former prisoner of war, Rudy is divorced, Fred Thompson is an actor, Ron Paul is a doctor, Richardson is Hispanic and the list goes on.
My life is enriched because of these labels. It means that I share the world with many different types of people. Labels are just describing words. Labels tell our story. We use them to describe people-not because we are trying to stereotype them because we are just trying to paint a picture. If you need to describe me-you know who I am-the chatty, white, attorney's wife, mother, junior league volunteer who is a member of a 12-step program. Get the picture?
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Ben-Is-the Menace
Yesterday I ran to look in the mirror to see if I looked weird, because wierd things always happen to me. I don't have any piercings except for each earring hole I got in 6th grade. I don't have any weird tattoos, but I still attract the craziest things.
What set out to be a normal day-my son playing in the yard with friends-my daughter hanging out with a girlfriend-my husband working at the office and me typing away at the computer-turned into a Saturday afternoon of-"do other people's children do this stuff?"
I looked outside to check on the children playing in my yard-only to see my son up on the roof of our shed. I looked out and yelled to him-"what on earth are you doing up there?" "We're playing hide-and-go-seek!"
"Well-you need to get down now, because you may fall and get hurt! Get down-NOW! I want to go back inside and continue writing!"
"I can't." he says. "I'm afraid!" "Ben, you had better get down now! I want to go back inside!" "Mom, I can't! Remember, I'M AFRAID OF HEIGHTS!" "AFRAID OF HEIGHTS?" I yelled. "THEN WHY THE HELL DID YOU CLIMB UP THERE?"
"Because I wanted a good hiding place," he answered sheepishly.
So, the children and I proceeded to coach him on sliding down on his bottom off the shed. He still thought it was too high. He then thought he would jump off the side-onto the berm topped with pine straw. I didn't think this was a good idea because the berm looked to be too far from the side of the shed. I then decided to go up the ladder-hold it steady-and extend my arm for him to come down. "No, mom, we might both fall!"
By this time I was really frustrated. I went into what I affectionately call-Redneck Mother Mode. I yelled unabashedly-"Ben-dammit-you come down now or I am sending everyone home!" "Mom, please don't yell! You are making me nervous!" So, I calmed down and told him with my sweetest voice that I was only trying to help him-that I wanted him to get down without getting hurt-and that I could not leave him out there because I was afraid if the children encouraged him he may just fall and literally break his neck. "So, Sweetie, come on down. Just take my hand. Mommy wants to help you." He wasn't coming down.
That was it. I had all I could take. He had to get off of the roof. If he could get up there he had to grow up and figure out how to get down. I told him that I was sending Leslie home and that I was leaving to take Luke home. I thought desire to play with friends would trump fear;I thought that he would come to his senses and jump or slide. He just sat there and cried. I still thought he'd come down. It really wasn't that high. It was only about eight feet high. And, he had always climbed trees and he had never been afraid of heights when it came to tree-climbing so surely he'd come down.
I dramatically got in the car with Luke and slowly backed out of the driveway. I carefully cut my eyes to see if he would come down. He just sat there-defeated looking as if he might celebrate the coming holidays up on that roof top.
When I realized he wasn't coming down-I was then committed to take his friend home. I couldn't go back on my word. I then called my next door neighbor to look outside to check on him. I didn't want him to get hurt while I was gone. She told me, "He's just sitting up there." He did seem to be yelling for someone to come get him down. But, he seemed to realize-he was stuck up there for the time being.
I had so many thoughts run through my head like-I tried to help him get down-what do I do now? Do I make my husband come home from the office, do I call my neighbor to come help, do I call the fire department? On the one hand he needed to learn a lesson, but on the other hand I didn't want him to get hurt. I just decided he would need to sit up there and think about it for a while. When I got home he was still there. Just sitting calmly-not upset-just sitting relaxing up on the roof. My neighbor even came over to take photos so we could have a laugh when he grows up. He asked me if he could get him down, but I said-no-he needed to think about it. Ben posed for the photos; my neighbor encouraged him, but he still wasn't coming down.
An hour and fifteen minutes had passed since I first looked out to see him up on the rooftop. The next thing I knew I heard him running in the door. "Mom! I'm down!" When I asked him how he got down, he said, "Tony said he would call 911 and they would get me down-I thought that would be pretty embarrassing; plus I was really hungry!" I then realized that the old saying-"You've never seen a skeleton of a cat up a tree-" also holds true with little boys. I realized that embarrassment and appetite always trump fear.
What set out to be a normal day-my son playing in the yard with friends-my daughter hanging out with a girlfriend-my husband working at the office and me typing away at the computer-turned into a Saturday afternoon of-"do other people's children do this stuff?"
I looked outside to check on the children playing in my yard-only to see my son up on the roof of our shed. I looked out and yelled to him-"what on earth are you doing up there?" "We're playing hide-and-go-seek!"
"Well-you need to get down now, because you may fall and get hurt! Get down-NOW! I want to go back inside and continue writing!"
"I can't." he says. "I'm afraid!" "Ben, you had better get down now! I want to go back inside!" "Mom, I can't! Remember, I'M AFRAID OF HEIGHTS!" "AFRAID OF HEIGHTS?" I yelled. "THEN WHY THE HELL DID YOU CLIMB UP THERE?"
"Because I wanted a good hiding place," he answered sheepishly.
So, the children and I proceeded to coach him on sliding down on his bottom off the shed. He still thought it was too high. He then thought he would jump off the side-onto the berm topped with pine straw. I didn't think this was a good idea because the berm looked to be too far from the side of the shed. I then decided to go up the ladder-hold it steady-and extend my arm for him to come down. "No, mom, we might both fall!"
By this time I was really frustrated. I went into what I affectionately call-Redneck Mother Mode. I yelled unabashedly-"Ben-dammit-you come down now or I am sending everyone home!" "Mom, please don't yell! You are making me nervous!" So, I calmed down and told him with my sweetest voice that I was only trying to help him-that I wanted him to get down without getting hurt-and that I could not leave him out there because I was afraid if the children encouraged him he may just fall and literally break his neck. "So, Sweetie, come on down. Just take my hand. Mommy wants to help you." He wasn't coming down.
That was it. I had all I could take. He had to get off of the roof. If he could get up there he had to grow up and figure out how to get down. I told him that I was sending Leslie home and that I was leaving to take Luke home. I thought desire to play with friends would trump fear;I thought that he would come to his senses and jump or slide. He just sat there and cried. I still thought he'd come down. It really wasn't that high. It was only about eight feet high. And, he had always climbed trees and he had never been afraid of heights when it came to tree-climbing so surely he'd come down.
I dramatically got in the car with Luke and slowly backed out of the driveway. I carefully cut my eyes to see if he would come down. He just sat there-defeated looking as if he might celebrate the coming holidays up on that roof top.
When I realized he wasn't coming down-I was then committed to take his friend home. I couldn't go back on my word. I then called my next door neighbor to look outside to check on him. I didn't want him to get hurt while I was gone. She told me, "He's just sitting up there." He did seem to be yelling for someone to come get him down. But, he seemed to realize-he was stuck up there for the time being.
I had so many thoughts run through my head like-I tried to help him get down-what do I do now? Do I make my husband come home from the office, do I call my neighbor to come help, do I call the fire department? On the one hand he needed to learn a lesson, but on the other hand I didn't want him to get hurt. I just decided he would need to sit up there and think about it for a while. When I got home he was still there. Just sitting calmly-not upset-just sitting relaxing up on the roof. My neighbor even came over to take photos so we could have a laugh when he grows up. He asked me if he could get him down, but I said-no-he needed to think about it. Ben posed for the photos; my neighbor encouraged him, but he still wasn't coming down.
An hour and fifteen minutes had passed since I first looked out to see him up on the rooftop. The next thing I knew I heard him running in the door. "Mom! I'm down!" When I asked him how he got down, he said, "Tony said he would call 911 and they would get me down-I thought that would be pretty embarrassing; plus I was really hungry!" I then realized that the old saying-"You've never seen a skeleton of a cat up a tree-" also holds true with little boys. I realized that embarrassment and appetite always trump fear.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
My Giving Heart
Needy people all over the U.S. are eating rutabagas, cream of mushroom soup and navy beans. This morning I caught my 11 year old son raiding our pantry for the Canned Food Drive at school. His efforts were not totally altruistic; there was a competition. It was actually the Auburn/Alabama canned food drive. Which students could bring more canned goods-those who are Auburn fans or those who are Alabama fans?
I remember when I was growing up helping my mother collect cans from our pantry to take to school for "the needy people." We certainly didn't have a lot of money, but we considered ourselves a fortunate family. We had food, clothing and shelter. We didn't have everything we wanted, but we did have what we needed.
My parents were very giving people and raised me to be the same, but there is something about collecting cans from my pantry that brings out the greedy child in me. I give money to charities. We also choose a family for Christmas and buy presents for them, but when it comes to the cans in my pantry I have this "that's mine" reaction.
As my youngest began to place cans in the grocery bag I caught myself saying, "No, that is my 0 points Progresso soup-I eat that all the time-and, no, we need that Campbell's Chicken Noodle soup-you know flu season is coming. Wait! Don't take the tomato sauce-I may need that for something-anyway, needy people don't want that! Let's see-o.k. you can take the Sunshine brand Rutabagas, and the Hummas Tahina(chick pea dip) that I picked up from the Arabic grocery, take the Navy Beans-sometimes I just can't pass up 6 cans for $2.00-even if we really don't eat them-that is such a great price. You can also take some cream of mushroom soup-I bought a bunch of those in case I got in the mood to make a cassarole."
He finally collected about 10 cans for his "team" and for the needy people-of course. I was so glad that the tradition of canned food drives lives on in the lives of my children. Even if secretly I am glad we cleaned out the pantry of those orphaned cans. If I had been asked to donate money to buy canned goods-I could have easily written the check. But, try taking my good soup and I don't feel so charitable.
I remember when I was growing up helping my mother collect cans from our pantry to take to school for "the needy people." We certainly didn't have a lot of money, but we considered ourselves a fortunate family. We had food, clothing and shelter. We didn't have everything we wanted, but we did have what we needed.
My parents were very giving people and raised me to be the same, but there is something about collecting cans from my pantry that brings out the greedy child in me. I give money to charities. We also choose a family for Christmas and buy presents for them, but when it comes to the cans in my pantry I have this "that's mine" reaction.
As my youngest began to place cans in the grocery bag I caught myself saying, "No, that is my 0 points Progresso soup-I eat that all the time-and, no, we need that Campbell's Chicken Noodle soup-you know flu season is coming. Wait! Don't take the tomato sauce-I may need that for something-anyway, needy people don't want that! Let's see-o.k. you can take the Sunshine brand Rutabagas, and the Hummas Tahina(chick pea dip) that I picked up from the Arabic grocery, take the Navy Beans-sometimes I just can't pass up 6 cans for $2.00-even if we really don't eat them-that is such a great price. You can also take some cream of mushroom soup-I bought a bunch of those in case I got in the mood to make a cassarole."
He finally collected about 10 cans for his "team" and for the needy people-of course. I was so glad that the tradition of canned food drives lives on in the lives of my children. Even if secretly I am glad we cleaned out the pantry of those orphaned cans. If I had been asked to donate money to buy canned goods-I could have easily written the check. But, try taking my good soup and I don't feel so charitable.
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