Butterfly: “Why, why, WHY does Mom make us get a flu shot every year?? None of my friends have to get them!”
Rock Star: “Because she hates us.”
Butterfly: “I can’t stand shots. I’d rather get the flu. I’d rather DIE!”
Rock Star: “Why couldn’t we belong to that religion that is against medical care?”
Butterfly: “I don’t know, but (pointing to the driver’s seat) she’s horrible!”
The above was a conversation between my teenagers yesterday, as I drove our minivan to the doctor’s office for our annual family bonding ritual: “ The Administration of the Influenza Vaccine.” Little Squirt sat oblivious in his car seat. He’s a “live in the moment” kind of guy.
They went on singing my praises all the way to the clinic. Call me Mommy Dearest, but I make my kids get the flu shot every year, because I love them and do not went them to suffer from influenza. I abstain. Not because I fear the shot, but because I would welcome an excuse to spend 3 full days in bed with a box of Kleenex and the remote control, my family waiting on me hand and foot.
We pulled up to the doctor’s office, and I corralled my reluctant children into the waiting room, where they spent another ten minutes wringing their hands in anxiety. Then we were ushered into a room where the nurse lined them up and stuck them. First Butterfly, then Little Squirt, and lastly Rock Star. It was all over in a few short minutes. Two cried and one was stoic. I won’t name names. I gave them sweet-filled treat bags for the ride home, to boost their endorphins and assuage my guilt. Then I told them about Madeline.
I worked as a Pediatric Nurse in an office for 12 years, giving thousands of shots to children of various ages and cooperative levels. On the occasion that I would have an extremely non-compliant or combative child, whom even the parent was unable to control, I would call for “Madeline.”
Madeline was the oldest and most experienced nurse in our pediatric office. She was big of form and personality, with a heart of gold deeply imbedded in a crusty exterior. She took a no-nonsense, “Old School” approach to her nursing skills. She’d march into the patient room with a loud, “What’s going on in here?!!”, move the startled parent out of the way, grab the bewildered child in a bear hug with a stern warning to “Hold still or else!”, and then I’d administer the required shots before they even knew what was happening. I’d leave the room in a fit of giggles, remembering how the child’s fear of the needle was greatly diminished by the terror of their interaction with Madeline. I’m guessing “The Bogey-Man” they dreamed of that night had her face.
I drove my children home, and reassured them that, even with tender deltoid muscles, they’d be able to carry their Trick-or-Treat bags the next evening. I pampered them with ice packs and put a movie on for all of them to watch together. And our ritual was done for the year.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
Speaking of Sleeping Beauty
I have a little secret I’d like to confess. But please don’t tell anyone. Here goes. Sometimes I take afternoon naps. Not lengthy ones, mind you. Just long enough to feel refreshed.
I am not a loafer. I do not wile away the hours eating bonbons and watching “Oprah.” I am up at 5:30 every morning, and in a mad burst of energy, I workout, shower, carpool, clean the house, wash some laundry loads, homeschool two children, make a few phone calls, and so forth. That’s all before lunch. I pack a lot of punch into the first 7 hours of my day. Then I’m beat. So occasionally I will indulge myself in a little catnap while my boys are quietly doing their own things.
I told a friend about my secret, one day, and she went all “Judy Judgmental” on me. She was like, “Must be nice to have so much free time,” and “Wow- what a princess!” And so, not wanting to be judged, I hide my secret like a closet drinker.
Just today, I was pampering myself with one of these naps on our family room couch when I heard the doorbell ring. Willing the person to just GO AWAY, I ignored the bell. But before I could stop him, Little Squirt ran to open the door. “Mommy’s sleeping,” I heard him say, to my horror. Leaping up and quickly trying to smooth the pillow lines from my cheek, I headed to the door, calling, “I’m not sleeping!” I stopped suddenly when I saw who it was.
It was HER, one of my neighbors from down the street, The Woman Who Does Everything Better Than Everyone Else. The person by whom I’d least like to be caught taking a nap. This neighbor is the most competitive woman that I know. She doesn’t let any conversation go by without blatant braggadocio. Apparently, according to Her Perfectness, she runs a highly successful business, volunteers her time to many charities, isn’t ever cursed with dandelions on her lawn, raises Super Kids who are straight-A students and soccer stars and Prom Kings, and oh by-the-way is flying to Tahiti this spring, etc. She would never be caught dead taking a nap in the middle of the afternoon, I’m quite certain. But I have her beat on one thing; I am thinner. And I know it irritates the heck out of her.
She was at my home to ask for donations for endangered blunt-nosed lizards, or something. I wasn’t really listening. I was just mortified that I was caught red-handed catching forty winks. By her. But, I decided with resolution, I would not allow myself to feel less than adequate. She would not draw the mistaken conclusion that I am lazy. I would just have to fib.
“Did I wake you? Stressful day??” she queried patronizingly, false concern written on her over-done Mary Kayed face. “Uh, no,” I said. “I never take naps. That would just be slothful. Which I’m definitely not. I lead a very full and productive life.”
“I always wonder just what you stay-at-home mothers, do,” she went on, smugly. “You certainly must enjoy living a life of leisure. I, personally, would be terribly bored.” The woman was pure evil. I wanted to escort her and her two-piece Prada knock-off suit off my property on the double.
“I don’t lead a leisurely life. I am very busy homeschooling my two sons. There’s the Hydrologic Cycle thing we’re doing for science. And I'm writing a novel. And I'm working on a secret project for the government. But I’m not allowed to talk about it.”
She looked at me skeptically, then began yammering on about how our planet would cease to exist in the next few years unless I made a $20 donation to the Endangered Blunt-Nosed Lizard Foundation and blah blah blah. I wanted her to leave and fast.
“I donated to the lizards yesterday. And to the tree frogs the day before. And these are not pillow lines on my face. They’re linear hives,” I said with conviction. “I have allergies.”
She cocked her head and looked at me suspiciously. Why was she not leaving yet??
“Well, I must run,” I said. “I have something on the stove. Dinner. For the local homeless shelter. I’ve been cooking all day and haven’t napped at all. Where would I find the time?”
She crossed her arms. She knew I was lying. She made no move to go.
I am not proud of what I said next, but I wanted her GONE. So I went in for the kill. “Guess what??" I announced, "I just lost five pounds. Effortlessly!” I smiled smugly.
It worked. With a “Humph!” my neighbor did an about-face in her Miu Miu knock-off heels, and clicked down my sidewalk. "Have a nice day!" I called. And with that, I went back to the couch. For my long deserved nap.
I am not a loafer. I do not wile away the hours eating bonbons and watching “Oprah.” I am up at 5:30 every morning, and in a mad burst of energy, I workout, shower, carpool, clean the house, wash some laundry loads, homeschool two children, make a few phone calls, and so forth. That’s all before lunch. I pack a lot of punch into the first 7 hours of my day. Then I’m beat. So occasionally I will indulge myself in a little catnap while my boys are quietly doing their own things.
I told a friend about my secret, one day, and she went all “Judy Judgmental” on me. She was like, “Must be nice to have so much free time,” and “Wow- what a princess!” And so, not wanting to be judged, I hide my secret like a closet drinker.
Just today, I was pampering myself with one of these naps on our family room couch when I heard the doorbell ring. Willing the person to just GO AWAY, I ignored the bell. But before I could stop him, Little Squirt ran to open the door. “Mommy’s sleeping,” I heard him say, to my horror. Leaping up and quickly trying to smooth the pillow lines from my cheek, I headed to the door, calling, “I’m not sleeping!” I stopped suddenly when I saw who it was.
It was HER, one of my neighbors from down the street, The Woman Who Does Everything Better Than Everyone Else. The person by whom I’d least like to be caught taking a nap. This neighbor is the most competitive woman that I know. She doesn’t let any conversation go by without blatant braggadocio. Apparently, according to Her Perfectness, she runs a highly successful business, volunteers her time to many charities, isn’t ever cursed with dandelions on her lawn, raises Super Kids who are straight-A students and soccer stars and Prom Kings, and oh by-the-way is flying to Tahiti this spring, etc. She would never be caught dead taking a nap in the middle of the afternoon, I’m quite certain. But I have her beat on one thing; I am thinner. And I know it irritates the heck out of her.
She was at my home to ask for donations for endangered blunt-nosed lizards, or something. I wasn’t really listening. I was just mortified that I was caught red-handed catching forty winks. By her. But, I decided with resolution, I would not allow myself to feel less than adequate. She would not draw the mistaken conclusion that I am lazy. I would just have to fib.
“Did I wake you? Stressful day??” she queried patronizingly, false concern written on her over-done Mary Kayed face. “Uh, no,” I said. “I never take naps. That would just be slothful. Which I’m definitely not. I lead a very full and productive life.”
“I always wonder just what you stay-at-home mothers, do,” she went on, smugly. “You certainly must enjoy living a life of leisure. I, personally, would be terribly bored.” The woman was pure evil. I wanted to escort her and her two-piece Prada knock-off suit off my property on the double.
“I don’t lead a leisurely life. I am very busy homeschooling my two sons. There’s the Hydrologic Cycle thing we’re doing for science. And I'm writing a novel. And I'm working on a secret project for the government. But I’m not allowed to talk about it.”
She looked at me skeptically, then began yammering on about how our planet would cease to exist in the next few years unless I made a $20 donation to the Endangered Blunt-Nosed Lizard Foundation and blah blah blah. I wanted her to leave and fast.
“I donated to the lizards yesterday. And to the tree frogs the day before. And these are not pillow lines on my face. They’re linear hives,” I said with conviction. “I have allergies.”
She cocked her head and looked at me suspiciously. Why was she not leaving yet??
“Well, I must run,” I said. “I have something on the stove. Dinner. For the local homeless shelter. I’ve been cooking all day and haven’t napped at all. Where would I find the time?”
She crossed her arms. She knew I was lying. She made no move to go.
I am not proud of what I said next, but I wanted her GONE. So I went in for the kill. “Guess what??" I announced, "I just lost five pounds. Effortlessly!” I smiled smugly.
It worked. With a “Humph!” my neighbor did an about-face in her Miu Miu knock-off heels, and clicked down my sidewalk. "Have a nice day!" I called. And with that, I went back to the couch. For my long deserved nap.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Trunk or Treat
Last night we went to some friends’ for dinner, and then out to a Christian concert. We heard Todd Agnew, Rush of Fools, and the adorable and gifted Joy Whitlock. It was wonderful and refreshing to our spirits. Unfortunately, however, because we got home quite late, I did not get nearly the beauty rest I need to be authentically believable as the character I am playing tonight, Sleeping Beauty.
We have “Trunk or Treat” at our church this evening, where people decorate their cars, dress up in costumes, and pass out candy to the visiting children. For the second year in a row, my family has teamed up with another to re-create a fairy tale castle, complete with crocodile-ridden moat to keep out the annoying visiting children that are looking for candy. (Just kidding about the moat. We really love children and besides, the church would frown upon an overt act of hostility like that.) I am Sleeping Beauty again this year, and Super Hubs and Little Squirt shall be knights. My teenagers will also be present at this event, doing their best to avoid our castle and pretend they don’t know us.
Last year was the debut of our two-story extravaganza made out of refrigerator boxes painted blue. Have you been to Disney World? Cinderella’s castle ain’t got nothin’ on this one! I hate to brag, but it was pretty clearly one of the best “trunks” on the church parking lot last year, for which I can take absolutely no credit. All the hard work was done by the other couple and Super Hubs. I just had to throw on my pink costume and tiara, and join the fun.
I am really hoping beyond hope there’ll be a Disney Talent Scout present tonight who’ll hire me on the spot and fly me down to Orlando, where my life will be spent posing for pictures taken by visitors to The Happiest Place on Earth. I really must figure out how I can get paid to act like a princess. One can dream.
So now, because I am a firm believer in “Method Acting,” I shall spend the next few hours dozing on the couch. Just to get into character for tonight, of course.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Date Night
Today I am jumping for joy. Floating with elation. Jubilant. Can you guess why? No, not because a new Super Walmart just opened in our town. (Although that’s good news. My gosh, the place has everything and is as big as O‘Hare! I put three miles on my pedometer just trying to find dish soap.) I am beaming with delight today because it’s DATE NIGHT! La la la de da de da. It’s Date Night, my favorite night of the week.
I love my children deeply, God knows I would jump in front of a train for each one of them, but occasionally I need a break. So Super Hubs and I, pretty much without exception, clear Friday evenings for our Date Night. I covet that time with him to catch up on our week, breathe deeply and just enjoy being together. My own personal sanity depends upon this weekly ritual of ours. It really does.
And tonight I have planned the evening, although he does not yet know this. I have done some research and found a cozy, intimate little out-of-the-way private establishment that I bet you’ve never patronized. And it fits our budget, which is low-ish at the moment. I will surprise Super Hubs with dinner tonight in our Master Bedroom!
A few weeks ago, a good friend of mine, who has amazing artistic gifts, helped me decorate our Master Bedroom. (Well, truthfully, she decorated while I sat on my bed sipping Pepsi, and watched her do her magic. Which worked out well for both of us.) Now for the first time in my 18 year marriage, I love love love my Master Bedroom. It’s beautiful, serene and elegant, thanks to my very talented friend. My spirits lift every time I enter.
On the wrought iron table that sits in front of our bay window, I will serve a fan-tabulous meal of coconut-crusted tilapia with mango and papaya (a frozen ready-to-eat, actually, but it does take some effort to push the microwave buttons), mashed potatoes and salad. And perhaps we’ll open a bottle of wine and toast another week gone right. We’ll ban the kids to the downstairs, light the candles, put on a little light jazz, and have a lovely, romantic dinner.
Then later, if we’re really feeling wild, perhaps I’ll drag Super Hubs out to the new Super Walmart and get a little early Christmas shopping done. While wearing roller blades, because, I tell you again, that place is ginormous!
So if you happen to see Super Hubs today, please don’t tell him about our surprise dinner in the Master Bedroom. Hopefully he won’t read this post until tomorrow.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
To My Beautiful Friends
I had tea this morning with a small group of women, treasured friends. We shared personal insights on a book we’ve been reading together. I left with my heart feeling full at the transformation I see in them. And hopefully they see in me.
So this post is for each of the girlfriends in my life that have chosen the difficult paths of growth and change. You know who you are. You touch me with your openness and vulnerability. You’ve decided you want to give your children the irreplaceable gift of a whole and healthy mother. You refuse to pass on the brokenness in your upbringing. You allow God to work on your heart in bits and pieces, even when it’s agony. You don’t stay stuck. You keep focused on the goal.
I see you becoming gentler, softer. You carry yourself with a new kind of quiet confidence and strength; more sure of who you are. I love to see the joy in your eyes as you begin to realize how beautiful you are, how gifted. It’s thrilling to watch your creativity become unleashed, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon to soar the skies and dance on the flowers. You are becoming more and more who God intended you to be.
I, too, am a work in progress. And you are my inspirational heroes. I love you, my girlfriends! Way to go!!
The old woman I shall become will be quite different from the woman I am now. Another I is beginning. (Amandine Dupin, 1804-1876)
So this post is for each of the girlfriends in my life that have chosen the difficult paths of growth and change. You know who you are. You touch me with your openness and vulnerability. You’ve decided you want to give your children the irreplaceable gift of a whole and healthy mother. You refuse to pass on the brokenness in your upbringing. You allow God to work on your heart in bits and pieces, even when it’s agony. You don’t stay stuck. You keep focused on the goal.
I see you becoming gentler, softer. You carry yourself with a new kind of quiet confidence and strength; more sure of who you are. I love to see the joy in your eyes as you begin to realize how beautiful you are, how gifted. It’s thrilling to watch your creativity become unleashed, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon to soar the skies and dance on the flowers. You are becoming more and more who God intended you to be.
I, too, am a work in progress. And you are my inspirational heroes. I love you, my girlfriends! Way to go!!
The old woman I shall become will be quite different from the woman I am now. Another I is beginning. (Amandine Dupin, 1804-1876)
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Relationships I Have Known
My 16-year-old daughter came through the door in tears the other afternoon. She and her boyfriend had had an argument. “This time it’s serious!” she said. “We may break up!”
Knowing her propensity for the dramatic, I bit my tongue and contemplated my rock and my hard place. If I offer a platitude, she’ll feel invalidated. If I say nothing, she’ll think I don’t care. They’re both still frazzled since their auto accident of the other night, and tensions are running high. I think they’ll be okay; they’ve weathered storms before.
I was about to offer her comfort, when my daughter made this outrageous statement: “Why am I even telling you about this anyway?? You know NOTHING about relationships!” And with a toss of her long black mane, she flitted up the stairs.
I know nothing about relationships ???!! I was speechless. I am, quite possibly, the resident expert on relationships! Besides the obvious wisdom of my age, which hovers slightly above……well, a little northwards of thirty on a good Mary Kay face cream day, I have been married more than 18 years to the same man, have mothered three children, and have a rich variety of friendships. I am The Relationship Queen, to be quite honest. A Highly Relational Sanguine. But mostly, my relationship expertise has to do with the fact that I was an Alpha Omicron Pi. And who knows more about dating relationships, as I believe my daughter was referring to, than a Sorority Girl?
As she stomped up the stairs to her room, I took a quick trip down Memory Lane, stopping specifically at “The College Years; My Social Life As An AOPi.” I thought of the dating stories I could share with my daughter. There was Tyne, a Preppy Fraternity boy and my first heartbreak, who impressed me with his class and style, yet had a shadowy back story that included dealing illegal drugs and armed robbery. There was Liam, a really sweet guy who hovered around for years, his only fault being that he was greatly adored by my mother. The kiss of death for me.
There was Jay, the gorgeous Sacks Fifth Avenue model, who wined and dined me for a few weeks, until he figured out he was gay. And I took it personally and didn’t speak with him for months. And Bill, who’s idea of a great first date was a drive to watch his sister’s high school volleyball game. And my only blind date, a farm boy, who wore overalls to our Fall Informal, mortifying me with his complete lack of sophistication. And Derek the Medical Student, who had a Glaring God Complex. And Mike The Two-Timer, and Vic The Weird, and Bob The Boring……the list goes on and on. I dated quite a lot.
I thought about the dances, the formals, the mixers, the late night fries at the campus Dug-Out. The breakups, when I’d share tears and Doritos with my Sorority Sisters, while burning incense and listening to The Carpenters. "Just like me, they long to be, close to you...."
I thought of my daughter and of the stories I could share with her. But I decided to wait until the age when she needs me to be her friend more than she needs me to be her mother. Right now she’s only sixteen. And believes me to be Complete Moron. But she knows I’m here to listen, if she needs me to.
A few hours later, I watched my daughter and her boyfriend, cute and cuddly on the couch, giggling together over a movie, their argument already forgotten. All was right again in her world. As I knew it would be.
Knowing her propensity for the dramatic, I bit my tongue and contemplated my rock and my hard place. If I offer a platitude, she’ll feel invalidated. If I say nothing, she’ll think I don’t care. They’re both still frazzled since their auto accident of the other night, and tensions are running high. I think they’ll be okay; they’ve weathered storms before.
I was about to offer her comfort, when my daughter made this outrageous statement: “Why am I even telling you about this anyway?? You know NOTHING about relationships!” And with a toss of her long black mane, she flitted up the stairs.
I know nothing about relationships ???!! I was speechless. I am, quite possibly, the resident expert on relationships! Besides the obvious wisdom of my age, which hovers slightly above……well, a little northwards of thirty on a good Mary Kay face cream day, I have been married more than 18 years to the same man, have mothered three children, and have a rich variety of friendships. I am The Relationship Queen, to be quite honest. A Highly Relational Sanguine. But mostly, my relationship expertise has to do with the fact that I was an Alpha Omicron Pi. And who knows more about dating relationships, as I believe my daughter was referring to, than a Sorority Girl?
As she stomped up the stairs to her room, I took a quick trip down Memory Lane, stopping specifically at “The College Years; My Social Life As An AOPi.” I thought of the dating stories I could share with my daughter. There was Tyne, a Preppy Fraternity boy and my first heartbreak, who impressed me with his class and style, yet had a shadowy back story that included dealing illegal drugs and armed robbery. There was Liam, a really sweet guy who hovered around for years, his only fault being that he was greatly adored by my mother. The kiss of death for me.
There was Jay, the gorgeous Sacks Fifth Avenue model, who wined and dined me for a few weeks, until he figured out he was gay. And I took it personally and didn’t speak with him for months. And Bill, who’s idea of a great first date was a drive to watch his sister’s high school volleyball game. And my only blind date, a farm boy, who wore overalls to our Fall Informal, mortifying me with his complete lack of sophistication. And Derek the Medical Student, who had a Glaring God Complex. And Mike The Two-Timer, and Vic The Weird, and Bob The Boring……the list goes on and on. I dated quite a lot.
I thought about the dances, the formals, the mixers, the late night fries at the campus Dug-Out. The breakups, when I’d share tears and Doritos with my Sorority Sisters, while burning incense and listening to The Carpenters. "Just like me, they long to be, close to you...."
I thought of my daughter and of the stories I could share with her. But I decided to wait until the age when she needs me to be her friend more than she needs me to be her mother. Right now she’s only sixteen. And believes me to be Complete Moron. But she knows I’m here to listen, if she needs me to.
A few hours later, I watched my daughter and her boyfriend, cute and cuddly on the couch, giggling together over a movie, their argument already forgotten. All was right again in her world. As I knew it would be.
Monday, October 22, 2007
October
Ah, October! You bewildering, beguiling, mysterious month. You dazzle me with your colors, intrigue me with your scents. You are the bridge, connecting the warm months with the cold. Your contrary nature allures me. You beckon with your sunny warmth, then confuse me with your chill, reminding me of some relationships I have known. But yet you remain my favorite month.
Apparently, we’ve had the 6th warmest October since 1871 here in the Chicago suburbs. Yesterday hovered at about 70 degrees, but today is cold, drizzly and dreary, which probably accounts for the head cold I feel coming on. Tonight, after a hot bubble bath, a “cocktail” of orange juice and a large dose of “The Closer,” I will attempt to get a good 8 hours of sleep and nip this in the bud.
I will leave you tonight with a couple stanzas from a poem, “In Hardwood Grove,” by one of the Poet Masters, Robert Frost. I love his metaphor of the leaves, that things sometimes must fall down before they can be raised up. Hmmmm......thoughts to ponder.
Before the leaves can mount again
To fill the trees with another shade,
They must go down past things coming up.
They must go down into the dark decayed.
They must be pierced by flowers and put
Beneath the feet of dancing flowers.
However it is in some other world
I know that this is the way in ours.
Apparently, we’ve had the 6th warmest October since 1871 here in the Chicago suburbs. Yesterday hovered at about 70 degrees, but today is cold, drizzly and dreary, which probably accounts for the head cold I feel coming on. Tonight, after a hot bubble bath, a “cocktail” of orange juice and a large dose of “The Closer,” I will attempt to get a good 8 hours of sleep and nip this in the bud.
I will leave you tonight with a couple stanzas from a poem, “In Hardwood Grove,” by one of the Poet Masters, Robert Frost. I love his metaphor of the leaves, that things sometimes must fall down before they can be raised up. Hmmmm......thoughts to ponder.
Before the leaves can mount again
To fill the trees with another shade,
They must go down past things coming up.
They must go down into the dark decayed.
They must be pierced by flowers and put
Beneath the feet of dancing flowers.
However it is in some other world
I know that this is the way in ours.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
'Skeeters
For some strange reason of which we have yet to figure out, mosquitoes have a psychotic attraction to my husband, Super Hubs. I just do not understand this. Perhaps it’s because of his olive-complected skin from a Mediterranean lineage. Or his aftershave. I don’t really know. What I do know is that mosquitoes love him; feast on him; savor him until they are so fully satiated they fly drunkenly back to their lairs and fall into comas until the next time he ventures out of doors. Me - they don’t love so much. I am cursed with the fair skin of my United Kingdom ancestors, which is apparently not so delicious.
Super Hubs and I can be sitting in the same place at the same time, and he’ll come away covered with itchy welts, while I am completely left alone by the little buggers. The other morning, Super Hubs woke up to say, “Man, I had a lousy sleep last night. Those dang-blasted 'skeeters kept attacking like a bunch of Kamikaze pilots on steroids.” He scratched himself vigorously. “I didn’t feel a-one,” I said. “Slept like a baby.”
And why is that? Why do they not touch me? I try not to take it personally. Who really knows what goes on in the microscopic mind of a mosquito?
Here’s my personal theory of the scenario:
(Super Hubs and I sitting innocently on our back deck)
Mosquito #1 (Says to his brother) ”Hey Bro, THERE HE IS!! The delectable one I told you about. Mmm Mmm. Just looking at him makes me salivate!”
Mosquito #2 “Do you mean the Italian-looking dude with the glasses?”
Mosquito #1 “That’s right.”
Mosquito #2 “But what about the blond?”
Mosquito #1 “Oh, I never bother with her, unless the line on him is too long. She’s like the Dollar Menu at Wendy’s. But him, he’s a Four Star Restaurant! He’s like dining at Chez Paul. Now let’s go get the gang, and we’ll all have dinner together. I’m buying.”
And then the two blood-sucking brothers invite their buddies, and their spouses, and their Uncle Louie and Aunt Carmelina, and then they all fly onto Super Hubs, and they start with drinks and Oysters Rockefeller at the ankles, work up to Chateaubriand at his torso, and finish off with cappuccinos and crème brulee somewhere around his neck. And so forth. I don’t really know, but I’m guessing it happens something like that.
But here’s what’s really weird. The other afternoon Super Hubs went out to do a little yard work. It was quite chilly here in the Midwest, the temperature hovering at about 50-something degrees. And he came running into the house, asking me where the anti-itch cream was. “I’ve just been dive-bombed by the ‘skeeters. I’ve got big welts all over my back!” “No way!” I incredulously. “The mosquitoes can’t possibly still be around. I saw frost on the ground this morning! Haven’t they flown off to their condos in Barbados or wherever they go when it’s cold??” I pulled up Super Hubs’ shirt and looked at his back. And sure enough, there sat several large welts.
So the point of my story is that, apparently, which I believe defies all scientific research of the top entomologists in this country, Super Hubs is a yummy-enough incentive for mosquitoes to hang around here for the winter! Which is good news for the people of Barbados.
Super Hubs and I can be sitting in the same place at the same time, and he’ll come away covered with itchy welts, while I am completely left alone by the little buggers. The other morning, Super Hubs woke up to say, “Man, I had a lousy sleep last night. Those dang-blasted 'skeeters kept attacking like a bunch of Kamikaze pilots on steroids.” He scratched himself vigorously. “I didn’t feel a-one,” I said. “Slept like a baby.”
And why is that? Why do they not touch me? I try not to take it personally. Who really knows what goes on in the microscopic mind of a mosquito?
Here’s my personal theory of the scenario:
(Super Hubs and I sitting innocently on our back deck)
Mosquito #1 (Says to his brother) ”Hey Bro, THERE HE IS!! The delectable one I told you about. Mmm Mmm. Just looking at him makes me salivate!”
Mosquito #2 “Do you mean the Italian-looking dude with the glasses?”
Mosquito #1 “That’s right.”
Mosquito #2 “But what about the blond?”
Mosquito #1 “Oh, I never bother with her, unless the line on him is too long. She’s like the Dollar Menu at Wendy’s. But him, he’s a Four Star Restaurant! He’s like dining at Chez Paul. Now let’s go get the gang, and we’ll all have dinner together. I’m buying.”
And then the two blood-sucking brothers invite their buddies, and their spouses, and their Uncle Louie and Aunt Carmelina, and then they all fly onto Super Hubs, and they start with drinks and Oysters Rockefeller at the ankles, work up to Chateaubriand at his torso, and finish off with cappuccinos and crème brulee somewhere around his neck. And so forth. I don’t really know, but I’m guessing it happens something like that.
But here’s what’s really weird. The other afternoon Super Hubs went out to do a little yard work. It was quite chilly here in the Midwest, the temperature hovering at about 50-something degrees. And he came running into the house, asking me where the anti-itch cream was. “I’ve just been dive-bombed by the ‘skeeters. I’ve got big welts all over my back!” “No way!” I incredulously. “The mosquitoes can’t possibly still be around. I saw frost on the ground this morning! Haven’t they flown off to their condos in Barbados or wherever they go when it’s cold??” I pulled up Super Hubs’ shirt and looked at his back. And sure enough, there sat several large welts.
So the point of my story is that, apparently, which I believe defies all scientific research of the top entomologists in this country, Super Hubs is a yummy-enough incentive for mosquitoes to hang around here for the winter! Which is good news for the people of Barbados.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
I'm Thankful
This is a day when all I can muster in my heart is, “Thank you, God.”
Ironically, after yesterday’s post, I got the late night phone call that every parent dreads: “Mom, I’ve been in a car accident.” My daughter and three of her friends, driving home from a football game, were in a bad accident . The driver of the car, cut off by another vehicle, hit the guard rail going 50 miles an hour and crashed into the median, totaling the car. Thankfully, all four teens walked away with relatively minor injuries.
My heart dropped to my stomach as I arrived at the scene, road blocks set up, emergency lights flashing, and saw the front end of the car, completely smashed. I climbed into the ambulance to see the four teens, being attended to by the paramedics, huddled together, upset and comforting each other.
I shared a bond with the other parents who rushed to the scene, grabbed their kids in bear hugs, and said over and over, “Thank God you’re alive!” The same unspoken thoughts clouded our hearts. Many other scenarios have played out in my mind since, over and over again, like a movie reel that is stuck. The “what if’s.” It could have ended very differently. One of the fire fighters told us, “They’re very lucky.”
Yesterday, before the accident, I was annoyed with my teenage daughter over the usual. The empty liter bottle in the fridge that somehow didn’t make it to the recycling bin, the wet towel left on the floor of the bathroom, the unsatisfactory trigonometry grade.
Today I drove past the scene of the accident, viewing it in the daylight. I saw the guard rail that had been cut away, the skid marks and oil stains. Reminders of how very blessed I am to still have my daughter with me, the annoyances of yesterday now completely insignificant. I will hug her often today and remember just how passionately I love her.
Yesterday morning I asked God to protect my children. And in His love and mercy, He did. And today I say, “Thank you, thank you, God.”
Ironically, after yesterday’s post, I got the late night phone call that every parent dreads: “Mom, I’ve been in a car accident.” My daughter and three of her friends, driving home from a football game, were in a bad accident . The driver of the car, cut off by another vehicle, hit the guard rail going 50 miles an hour and crashed into the median, totaling the car. Thankfully, all four teens walked away with relatively minor injuries.
My heart dropped to my stomach as I arrived at the scene, road blocks set up, emergency lights flashing, and saw the front end of the car, completely smashed. I climbed into the ambulance to see the four teens, being attended to by the paramedics, huddled together, upset and comforting each other.
I shared a bond with the other parents who rushed to the scene, grabbed their kids in bear hugs, and said over and over, “Thank God you’re alive!” The same unspoken thoughts clouded our hearts. Many other scenarios have played out in my mind since, over and over again, like a movie reel that is stuck. The “what if’s.” It could have ended very differently. One of the fire fighters told us, “They’re very lucky.”
Yesterday, before the accident, I was annoyed with my teenage daughter over the usual. The empty liter bottle in the fridge that somehow didn’t make it to the recycling bin, the wet towel left on the floor of the bathroom, the unsatisfactory trigonometry grade.
Today I drove past the scene of the accident, viewing it in the daylight. I saw the guard rail that had been cut away, the skid marks and oil stains. Reminders of how very blessed I am to still have my daughter with me, the annoyances of yesterday now completely insignificant. I will hug her often today and remember just how passionately I love her.
Yesterday morning I asked God to protect my children. And in His love and mercy, He did. And today I say, “Thank you, thank you, God.”
Friday, October 19, 2007
Danger Ahead
I have a list of things that scare me:
1. Weapons of Mass Destruction.
2. Serial killers.
3. Cancer.
4. Spiders.
5. Spiders with cancer.
6. The monthly arrival of my Discover Card bill.
But nothing quite grips my heart with as much terror as the daily carpool. Every morning at dawn, I drive my daughter and her friend to the local high school. Little Squirt, my five-year-old, who’s ready for action by 5:30 am, comes along for the ride. I breath a quick prayer in preparation. Then I don my safety helmet, buckle in tightly, clutch the steering wheel in a death grip, notify my passengers to assume the “crash position,” put the car into gear, and we’re off. Off to an adventure that makes Nascar drivers look like wimps.
High-school students behind wheels are a frightening lot. Speeding, brake-squealing, loud-radio-listening, cell phone-talking, giggling, oblivious, hormonal-laden teenagers are navigating thousands of pounds of steel and having obvious death wishes on their way to school. They terrorize every other car on the road.
Ten minutes later, I pull up in front of the high school as my daughter and her friend jump out, and then I prepare for the fearful ride home. “We’re half-way to safety, Little Squirt,” I call encouragingly to the backseat, knowing full well that the worst of our adventure still lies ahead. This leg of the journey back is wrought with dangers on par with Odysseus’ return to his homeland.
This particular danger takes the form of a high school boy I refer to as “Dale Earnhardt Jr. Jr.” As I turn onto Amberwood Dr., every single day, right on schedule, burning rubber in his SUV, “Dale” comes squealing around the corner, and careening into the left lane. I see him, with homicidal intent in his steely eyes, sneer as he comes within inches of smashing into my car, and sending me and Little Squirt into oblivion. My blood-pressure sky high, my pulse racing, I pull over to the side of the road, breathing heavily, cowering in fear, until Little Squirt says, “Mommy, he’s gone. You can open your eyes now.” Then I watch “Dale” from my rear-view mirror, driving off in the wake of engine fumes. And then we drive home. That’s our daily carpool routine. Which explains my breakfast martini.
1. Weapons of Mass Destruction.
2. Serial killers.
3. Cancer.
4. Spiders.
5. Spiders with cancer.
6. The monthly arrival of my Discover Card bill.
But nothing quite grips my heart with as much terror as the daily carpool. Every morning at dawn, I drive my daughter and her friend to the local high school. Little Squirt, my five-year-old, who’s ready for action by 5:30 am, comes along for the ride. I breath a quick prayer in preparation. Then I don my safety helmet, buckle in tightly, clutch the steering wheel in a death grip, notify my passengers to assume the “crash position,” put the car into gear, and we’re off. Off to an adventure that makes Nascar drivers look like wimps.
High-school students behind wheels are a frightening lot. Speeding, brake-squealing, loud-radio-listening, cell phone-talking, giggling, oblivious, hormonal-laden teenagers are navigating thousands of pounds of steel and having obvious death wishes on their way to school. They terrorize every other car on the road.
Ten minutes later, I pull up in front of the high school as my daughter and her friend jump out, and then I prepare for the fearful ride home. “We’re half-way to safety, Little Squirt,” I call encouragingly to the backseat, knowing full well that the worst of our adventure still lies ahead. This leg of the journey back is wrought with dangers on par with Odysseus’ return to his homeland.
This particular danger takes the form of a high school boy I refer to as “Dale Earnhardt Jr. Jr.” As I turn onto Amberwood Dr., every single day, right on schedule, burning rubber in his SUV, “Dale” comes squealing around the corner, and careening into the left lane. I see him, with homicidal intent in his steely eyes, sneer as he comes within inches of smashing into my car, and sending me and Little Squirt into oblivion. My blood-pressure sky high, my pulse racing, I pull over to the side of the road, breathing heavily, cowering in fear, until Little Squirt says, “Mommy, he’s gone. You can open your eyes now.” Then I watch “Dale” from my rear-view mirror, driving off in the wake of engine fumes. And then we drive home. That’s our daily carpool routine. Which explains my breakfast martini.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Spices
I’ve been known, on the rare occasion, to bend our homeschool curriculum to suit my own needs for the day. I’ll ask the kids to help me scrub mold off the shower door and call it “Science”. I’ll wrangle them into addressing my Christmas cards and call it “Social Studies.” Or “Handwriting.” And it’s not beneath me to occasionally bargain, “Mommy has a sore back. Give me a 15-minute shoulder rub, I’ll let you skip math for today.” I actually only did that once, when I’d slept in a weird position on the previous night. At other times, we buckle down and cover a lot of ground on all subjects, so it evens out over the school year.
I decided the other day that my spice shelf needed organizing. I have literally 46 jars of spices, although I only use about 5 on a regular basis. Some I hardly ever touch, such as turmeric, which I bought to use in a recipe 7 years ago and haven’t needed since. So if anyone out there needs to borrow some turmeric, come on over, because I have plenty.
My spice shelf was beginning to distress me. Greatly. It had become messy and cluttered, and I hadn’t had a spare moment to clean it out. I was starting to buy spices I already had because I couldn’t find them in the chaos. So I asked my 13-year-old son, Rock Star, to organize the spices for me. Alphabetizing while learning the names of the various spices could be considered “Language Arts” and “World Studies” rolled into one. Maybe even “Chemistry.” He’d learn while organizing, and I’d also benefit! It was a win/win situation. So it seemed.
Rock Star is a typical teenage boy. He has a lot of great qualities, God love him. He’s gentle, sweet and loving. An easy child to raise, for the most part. But a challenge and a half to homeschool. His work ethic leaves much to be desired. Hopefully that will change as he matures, but I have my doubts. If he could stare out the window all day in lieu of getting a good education, he’d be happy. He could care less about The French and Indian War. He is not intrigued with learning the molecular structure of hydrochloric acid. He has no use for finding a prepositional phrase. And he is most definitely not interested in spices.
There are four things that appeal to Rock Star: His guitar, his iPod, his MySpace page, and girls. And, while I wouldn’t call him lazy, he’s not what I’d consider a “self-starter.” He needs explicit instructions. FOR EVERYTHING. Like the time I asked him to put the bagged salad into the salad bowl for dinner. And at dinner time, on the table, there sat the salad, still in the bag, in the bowl.
I left Rock Star to tackle the spice shelf, albeit reluctantly, while I did school with Little Squirt, my 5-year-old. A quick 2-minutes later, Rock Star proudly announced he’d completed the task, and was off to check his MySpace. “Way to go!” I praised him, thinking how grateful I was that he’d finished a project I had been stressing over for so long. I looked forward to a brand-new organized spice shelf. Maybe I’d even cook something fabulous for dinner in celebration!
A few minutes later, I opened the cabinet door, and sat staring at my spice shelf , perplexed and confused. What the ????? Expecting to find neatly organized “Allspice, Anise, Basil”, etc., I stared in bewilderment at “Oregano, Red Pepper Flakes, Ginger, Poultry Seasoning, etc……” “Caraway” followed “Rubbed Sage.” “Garlic powder” stood next to “Thyme.” My heart sank as I pictured having to review the alphabet with my 8th-grader. Clearly I had failed as his homeschool teacher. Massively.
I called him into the kitchen. “I thought you said you alphabetized these!” I said, exasperated. “I DID!” he responded, incredulously. I asked him to explain. Speaking to me very slowly, as though I was mentally disabled, he said, “The Jewels come first, then The McCormicks, then The Shopper’s Values.”
Apparently he had his own “system.” Alphabetizing by brands. Like I said: Needs. Explicit. Instructions.
I decided the other day that my spice shelf needed organizing. I have literally 46 jars of spices, although I only use about 5 on a regular basis. Some I hardly ever touch, such as turmeric, which I bought to use in a recipe 7 years ago and haven’t needed since. So if anyone out there needs to borrow some turmeric, come on over, because I have plenty.
My spice shelf was beginning to distress me. Greatly. It had become messy and cluttered, and I hadn’t had a spare moment to clean it out. I was starting to buy spices I already had because I couldn’t find them in the chaos. So I asked my 13-year-old son, Rock Star, to organize the spices for me. Alphabetizing while learning the names of the various spices could be considered “Language Arts” and “World Studies” rolled into one. Maybe even “Chemistry.” He’d learn while organizing, and I’d also benefit! It was a win/win situation. So it seemed.
Rock Star is a typical teenage boy. He has a lot of great qualities, God love him. He’s gentle, sweet and loving. An easy child to raise, for the most part. But a challenge and a half to homeschool. His work ethic leaves much to be desired. Hopefully that will change as he matures, but I have my doubts. If he could stare out the window all day in lieu of getting a good education, he’d be happy. He could care less about The French and Indian War. He is not intrigued with learning the molecular structure of hydrochloric acid. He has no use for finding a prepositional phrase. And he is most definitely not interested in spices.
There are four things that appeal to Rock Star: His guitar, his iPod, his MySpace page, and girls. And, while I wouldn’t call him lazy, he’s not what I’d consider a “self-starter.” He needs explicit instructions. FOR EVERYTHING. Like the time I asked him to put the bagged salad into the salad bowl for dinner. And at dinner time, on the table, there sat the salad, still in the bag, in the bowl.
I left Rock Star to tackle the spice shelf, albeit reluctantly, while I did school with Little Squirt, my 5-year-old. A quick 2-minutes later, Rock Star proudly announced he’d completed the task, and was off to check his MySpace. “Way to go!” I praised him, thinking how grateful I was that he’d finished a project I had been stressing over for so long. I looked forward to a brand-new organized spice shelf. Maybe I’d even cook something fabulous for dinner in celebration!
A few minutes later, I opened the cabinet door, and sat staring at my spice shelf , perplexed and confused. What the ????? Expecting to find neatly organized “Allspice, Anise, Basil”, etc., I stared in bewilderment at “Oregano, Red Pepper Flakes, Ginger, Poultry Seasoning, etc……” “Caraway” followed “Rubbed Sage.” “Garlic powder” stood next to “Thyme.” My heart sank as I pictured having to review the alphabet with my 8th-grader. Clearly I had failed as his homeschool teacher. Massively.
I called him into the kitchen. “I thought you said you alphabetized these!” I said, exasperated. “I DID!” he responded, incredulously. I asked him to explain. Speaking to me very slowly, as though I was mentally disabled, he said, “The Jewels come first, then The McCormicks, then The Shopper’s Values.”
Apparently he had his own “system.” Alphabetizing by brands. Like I said: Needs. Explicit. Instructions.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Small Offerings
A friend left me a voice mail the other day. Her husband was just diagnosed with cancer, and a complicated surgery is scheduled for next week. Would I pray?
I am a nurturer by nature, and I’d do anything for my friends. When they are hurting, I immediately connect emotionally. How can I take away their pain? I want to fix, heal, cure, carry. But aside from performing the surgery myself (and without a medical license that would hardly be legal. Or safe.), how can I possibly solve a problem this gargantuan? I cannot make this better for my friend, as hard as I try. The enormity of the situation is overwhelming.
I happen to have a lot of friends struggling with pain during this season. Deep pain. Hear my heart, Friends: “I care about you and wish I could make this go away. I want to turn back time and erase this from your future. But I cannot. I feel helpless and I hate that.”
So today I am making chocolate chip cookies for my friend whose husband has cancer. Mrs. Field’s recipe. They are rich and buttery and probably very bad for you. But they make excellent comfort food. When I feel helpless, I bake and I pray. Jump into action. But often my offerings to those that are hurting feel so insignificant. Naïve. So childlike in their shape. “Your husband has cancer? Have a cookie. And I’ll be praying.” Love in the form of a baked good. Hope translated into prayer.
No sweet treat will cure his cancer. No hug, touch, or word will ease her anxiety. I cannot take this pain away from my friend. And that distresses me to the core of my being.
Today, after the cookies have cooled, I will meet my friend at Starbucks. We will order vanilla lattes, find a quiet table in the corner, and pray together. I’ll ask God to fix, heal, cure, carry. Which is the best that I can offer.
I am a nurturer by nature, and I’d do anything for my friends. When they are hurting, I immediately connect emotionally. How can I take away their pain? I want to fix, heal, cure, carry. But aside from performing the surgery myself (and without a medical license that would hardly be legal. Or safe.), how can I possibly solve a problem this gargantuan? I cannot make this better for my friend, as hard as I try. The enormity of the situation is overwhelming.
I happen to have a lot of friends struggling with pain during this season. Deep pain. Hear my heart, Friends: “I care about you and wish I could make this go away. I want to turn back time and erase this from your future. But I cannot. I feel helpless and I hate that.”
So today I am making chocolate chip cookies for my friend whose husband has cancer. Mrs. Field’s recipe. They are rich and buttery and probably very bad for you. But they make excellent comfort food. When I feel helpless, I bake and I pray. Jump into action. But often my offerings to those that are hurting feel so insignificant. Naïve. So childlike in their shape. “Your husband has cancer? Have a cookie. And I’ll be praying.” Love in the form of a baked good. Hope translated into prayer.
No sweet treat will cure his cancer. No hug, touch, or word will ease her anxiety. I cannot take this pain away from my friend. And that distresses me to the core of my being.
Today, after the cookies have cooled, I will meet my friend at Starbucks. We will order vanilla lattes, find a quiet table in the corner, and pray together. I’ll ask God to fix, heal, cure, carry. Which is the best that I can offer.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
"Hello, Kelly"
The summer I was four years old, my family vacationed at The Basin Harbor Club on Lake Champlain in Vt. It was a luxury resort that offered a variety of activities for all generations. My affluent grandparents were spending the summer there, and invited my family to come up for a week. The drive from my house in Warwick, Rhode Island, seemed endless. But I bubbled up with excitement as I caught the symbol of my first view of Basin Harbor; the colorful Adirondack chairs that resided in front of the sprawling cottages. “I see a red chair!” I yelled with much enthusiasm.
I don’t remember much about that trip. I know my family stayed in one of the cottages. I was too young to partake of the golf or tennis lessons. I believe that I went swimming, and I vaguely remember attending a children’s day camp that offered arts and crafts. I have seen a photograph taken by my father, labeled “Basin Harbor” on the back, of me on a hayride wearing a summer dress and matching hat that looked ridiculously over-sized on my head. I have no memory of that hayride. What I do recall, however, is an experience of that trip that shines in my memory like a beacon on a murky night. It occurred during dinner, the third night of our vacation.
We ate every evening in the spectacular Main Dining Room, surrounded by windows exhibiting gorgeous views of Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks. A band would play, drawing some folks to waltz on the dance floor. Formal attire was required, and I loved to put on one of my lacy dresses and white patent-leather shoes and twirl around before dinner, encouraging much adulation from my grandfather, whom I adored. My parents were of the subscribers to the “Don’t Give The Kid A Swelled Head” theory of parenting. They were extremely frugal in their bestowing of affirmation. As a result, I was starving. Hungry for praise and encouragement. Verbal affirmation. My love language.
On this particular night of my memory, I excitedly entered the Main Dining Room for dinner, eager to have my usual shrimp cocktail and “Shirley Temple” drink. Seated at a table near the window with my parents and grandparents, I distracted myself by watching some colorful sailboats lazily skimming Lake Champlain while listening to the club band play. Suddenly, I was startled to hear, “Can Kelly come up here?” With a big smile, my grandfather took me by the hand and led me to the center of the dance floor, where a spotlight now shone. And the band began to play a song. FOR ME!
“Hello, Kelly…Well hello, Kelly…. It’s so nice to have you back where you belong….,” they sang. My pulse began to race. “You’re looking well, Kelly…I can tell, Kelly…You’re still glowin’, you’re still crowin’ , you’re still goin’ strong…” A song FOR ME! Still holding my grandfather’s hand, I swayed a bit. He twirled me around. My courage growing, I precociously began to do a little dance in time to the music, clicking my shiny white shoes on the smooth floor. Every eye in the dining room was on me, every smile was for me. I was the “belle of the ball.” I was thrilled to the bone! And I was wearing my favorite party dress! My heart soared with rapture. For that moment, I felt loved and adored like never before. I ate it up with my entire being, gluttonous with greed, until I was completely satiated. The affirmation I had been yearning for my whole four years of life felt poured over me in buckets on that night. It was MY song. It was MY dance. It was MY moment to shine.
It wasn’t until years later that I learned the song was actually called, “Hello, Dolly” from the Broadway musical of the same name, and that the lyrics had been changed on the spur of the moment that night, when my grandfather had implored the band to play a song for his beloved granddaughter. And the band played it every subsequent night of my vacation, as soon as I entered the dining room. A simple request from the heart of a dear, thoughtful man. Making a deep impact on the soul of a little four-year-old girl. Invaluable.
The years have gifted me with the love and affirmation I need, given generously from my husband, children and a smattering of friends. But during those times when I feel beaten up by the stuff of life; days or weeks when I feel misunderstood, invalidated, unappreciated or overlooked, I can reach down into my memory bank and draw up the picture of my four-year-old self, dancing in the spotlight. Feeling loved.
And from what I know of God’s character, I am the apple of His eye; sated with all of His undivided attention, devotion and love. I need nothing more. I can almost hear Him singing, when I enter Heaven, "Hello, Kelly...Well hello, Kelly...It's so nice to have you home where you belong..."
“You are beautiful, my darling, beautiful beyond words.” (Song of Songs 4:1)
I don’t remember much about that trip. I know my family stayed in one of the cottages. I was too young to partake of the golf or tennis lessons. I believe that I went swimming, and I vaguely remember attending a children’s day camp that offered arts and crafts. I have seen a photograph taken by my father, labeled “Basin Harbor” on the back, of me on a hayride wearing a summer dress and matching hat that looked ridiculously over-sized on my head. I have no memory of that hayride. What I do recall, however, is an experience of that trip that shines in my memory like a beacon on a murky night. It occurred during dinner, the third night of our vacation.
We ate every evening in the spectacular Main Dining Room, surrounded by windows exhibiting gorgeous views of Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks. A band would play, drawing some folks to waltz on the dance floor. Formal attire was required, and I loved to put on one of my lacy dresses and white patent-leather shoes and twirl around before dinner, encouraging much adulation from my grandfather, whom I adored. My parents were of the subscribers to the “Don’t Give The Kid A Swelled Head” theory of parenting. They were extremely frugal in their bestowing of affirmation. As a result, I was starving. Hungry for praise and encouragement. Verbal affirmation. My love language.
On this particular night of my memory, I excitedly entered the Main Dining Room for dinner, eager to have my usual shrimp cocktail and “Shirley Temple” drink. Seated at a table near the window with my parents and grandparents, I distracted myself by watching some colorful sailboats lazily skimming Lake Champlain while listening to the club band play. Suddenly, I was startled to hear, “Can Kelly come up here?” With a big smile, my grandfather took me by the hand and led me to the center of the dance floor, where a spotlight now shone. And the band began to play a song. FOR ME!
“Hello, Kelly…Well hello, Kelly…. It’s so nice to have you back where you belong….,” they sang. My pulse began to race. “You’re looking well, Kelly…I can tell, Kelly…You’re still glowin’, you’re still crowin’ , you’re still goin’ strong…” A song FOR ME! Still holding my grandfather’s hand, I swayed a bit. He twirled me around. My courage growing, I precociously began to do a little dance in time to the music, clicking my shiny white shoes on the smooth floor. Every eye in the dining room was on me, every smile was for me. I was the “belle of the ball.” I was thrilled to the bone! And I was wearing my favorite party dress! My heart soared with rapture. For that moment, I felt loved and adored like never before. I ate it up with my entire being, gluttonous with greed, until I was completely satiated. The affirmation I had been yearning for my whole four years of life felt poured over me in buckets on that night. It was MY song. It was MY dance. It was MY moment to shine.
It wasn’t until years later that I learned the song was actually called, “Hello, Dolly” from the Broadway musical of the same name, and that the lyrics had been changed on the spur of the moment that night, when my grandfather had implored the band to play a song for his beloved granddaughter. And the band played it every subsequent night of my vacation, as soon as I entered the dining room. A simple request from the heart of a dear, thoughtful man. Making a deep impact on the soul of a little four-year-old girl. Invaluable.
The years have gifted me with the love and affirmation I need, given generously from my husband, children and a smattering of friends. But during those times when I feel beaten up by the stuff of life; days or weeks when I feel misunderstood, invalidated, unappreciated or overlooked, I can reach down into my memory bank and draw up the picture of my four-year-old self, dancing in the spotlight. Feeling loved.
And from what I know of God’s character, I am the apple of His eye; sated with all of His undivided attention, devotion and love. I need nothing more. I can almost hear Him singing, when I enter Heaven, "Hello, Kelly...Well hello, Kelly...It's so nice to have you home where you belong..."
“You are beautiful, my darling, beautiful beyond words.” (Song of Songs 4:1)
Monday, October 15, 2007
Welcome, Friends!
Welcome to my blog, friends! I love love love to write about everything and nothing. I've thought about having a blog for two years, but hesitated because it felt so narcissistic. "My thoughts," "my views," "my life," etc. All "Me Me Me" and "Mine Mine Mine." But I got over that.
Who am I? A woman a few years north of 30(approximately) with the most wonderful husband in the world, Super Hubs, and three amazing kids, Butterfly, Rock Star and Little Squirt.*
And, quite honestly, a mass of contradictions:
- A sanguine extrovert who hates to leave a party, and a contemplative writer who craves space for solitude.
- A Christian woman who loves to pray, and a 'drama queen' who flourishes in the spotlight.
- A Registered Nurse who hates science and eats junk food.
- A homeschooling mom with an aversion to denim jumpers and an addiction to designer purses.
- A free-spirit who craves structure.
You get the picture. A mass of contradictions. I am complicated. A paradox. C'est moi. Hence the name of this blog. And my long-suffering husband's daily supply of TUMS.
I will attempt to chronicle my life, musings, conversations and stories. Some posts will be light and fun, and others, deep and melancholy. So consider yourselves forewarned.
Oh - and I love the occasional Dirty Martini. Very dirty. With a blue cheese-stuffed olive. :-)
*Names changed to protect the innocent
Who am I? A woman a few years north of 30(approximately) with the most wonderful husband in the world, Super Hubs, and three amazing kids, Butterfly, Rock Star and Little Squirt.*
And, quite honestly, a mass of contradictions:
- A sanguine extrovert who hates to leave a party, and a contemplative writer who craves space for solitude.
- A Christian woman who loves to pray, and a 'drama queen' who flourishes in the spotlight.
- A Registered Nurse who hates science and eats junk food.
- A homeschooling mom with an aversion to denim jumpers and an addiction to designer purses.
- A free-spirit who craves structure.
You get the picture. A mass of contradictions. I am complicated. A paradox. C'est moi. Hence the name of this blog. And my long-suffering husband's daily supply of TUMS.
I will attempt to chronicle my life, musings, conversations and stories. Some posts will be light and fun, and others, deep and melancholy. So consider yourselves forewarned.
Oh - and I love the occasional Dirty Martini. Very dirty. With a blue cheese-stuffed olive. :-)
*Names changed to protect the innocent
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