There is nothing better than those little spaces in time when I get out of my own way long enough to experience a pure and beatific glimpse of God. Those modest flashes of the merest sliver of the formation of my Heavenly Father.
This morning my little nugget ambled down the stairs to find me dressed and ready for the day. A little sleepy and full of kisses, he was still so warm from burrowing in the den of his blankets that his hug was like slipping on an electric snuggee (patent pending). It was so dark in the house that our German Shepherd's tail became an unfortunate casualty as I fumbled around to the Christmas tree and turned on the lights. And, for whatever reason this day, instead of rushing/shoving us headlong into the day, we cuddled up on the chaise under the white, purple, green and red lights. The house was so quiet that we naturally slipped into whispers as we looked at ornaments and my little nugget pointed out each and every one he had hung (and even some he will be tall enough to hang next year). He told me all about the angel that lives (if only for 6 weeks a year) at the top of our tree, and I told him about the job God had given her. How she announces every year that unto us is born a Savoir, who is Christ the Lord. He asked me silly questions and serious ones and ones that are typically and egocentrically 4 years old. I buried my nose in the little space at the back of his neck and kissed him until he made me stop (which gets shorter with every quickening day). We kept warm under his too small blanket and I covetously smelled in the last moments of baby boy in his hair before it naturally gives way the to the big boy kindergarten smells of paste, outside and (in lucky moments) laundry soap. I bit my tongue a little to keep all the rushing love from spilling out headlong into a good old-fashioned mommy cry. My little nugget is still sensitive to the changes in my voice, and I wanted every second of this little pause to be filled with sweet calm and quiet. I wanted him to rest and know the truth of being safe in my arms and acutely loved as we snuggled under his thread-bare crib blanket beneath the Christmas tree lights.
Our little snuggle only lasted 10 minutes or so until we began to add first one hungry brother and then another until eventually the chaise whimpered under our collective weight, and the dogs let us know that this snuggle-fest must come to a close. It was, indeed, time to get hopping. We had breakfast to make and play practice to jet off to and Christmas shopping to finish and library books to drop off and checks to be deposited and packages to be mailed and the cub scout swim party to rush to and friends coming in to play and and and.... BUT in those few fleeting moments I was crowded with the truth that I had just experienced with my own babies about one millionth, or more likely billioneth, of the love and care God has for His children...and I was blown away.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Friday, April 30, 2010
The Night I Was Bested by Two Pint-Sized Chupacabras
So I went out to eat the other night...by myself (shocking). I wanted to finish my book without interruptions (chocolate-dipped cheese cake for the mind, the "Twilight" series, if you don't know…don't ask, you're better off left in the dark). I would have been just as happy curled up on some moderately clean surface at home, but that's not an option…if the chief underwear washer is home; then by-golly, by-jiminy she had better be a'washin' something. (I work for short, cruel task-masters)
Anywho, I was completely absorbed in my book and lemon rice soup. I became aware on the fringes of my consciousness of a family sitting (I use this verb loosely) to my right. Then I was given no choice but to notice them when one of their bobble-headed children poked me on the arm on his way to the restroom. It took me by surprise (one does not think one will be accosted while eating soup), and I looked up to find a little pie-faced kid staring at me with a malicious grin. Sure I could have been projecting, I was reading a book about vampires, but I don't think so. "Okay kid", I thought, "I'm feeling charitable today. I will ignore your creepiness in favor of reading my book. Now scamper off and pee on the bathroom floor like I'm sure you do at home."
It soon became clear to me...this was not a "family" to be ignored. This was the kind of "family" that clears out restaurants and movie theaters. The kind of "family" that drives up to your house for a visit…and you lock all the doors and hang garlic and crosses around your neck. These little dears were so vile, so defectively behaved…I can't even spit/type out any description that can even come close to capturing their putrescence. To make the state of affairs even more painful, their parents were devoid of anything even remotely resembling a spinal column. I mean, we've all seen parents that kind of...well…stink on ice (and we probably are those parents occasionally. I mean not me, of course, but…), but these two took it to the level of freak show performance art: Come One, Come All!!! See with Your Own Eyes…the Amazingly, Dim-witted Parents Made Entirely of Grape Jelly, Teeth and Hair (excitement swells through the restaurant, and the crowd roars).
These two gelatinous mounds had zilcho by way of control on those two pint-sized chupacabras. They "begged" them to sit in the booth with them and wait for their food (in the restaurant's defense, it's hard to scare up a live sacrifice on short notice). They "pleaded" with them to not pretend to stab people with the Coney Island cutlery. They all but offered them blood money to stop running around the tables. I, of course, being the non-judgmental soul that I am, said nothing and continued to read (Yes…the books are that good). Finally, the kitchen staff produced whatever it is that demon seeds eat. These two smallish people informed their parents that they would not sit with them, and proceeded to plop down at yet another table even closer to me…why...why...why?
At this point, my Andi-O-Meter was tick, tick, ticking away; counting down the milliseconds to detonation. BUT I WAS TRUMPED!! Before I could even give my patented "I will stuff you in a small, dirty box in the back of my closet" look, Diablo One made a face and started yelling at the top of his lungs, "EWWWW, something smells….Oh, it's just her!!"…yep you guessed it...he was standing on his chair and pointing at me. There are moments in life when no reaction seems perfectly appropriate. There is not one action or word that comes to mind that will move you past the moment you are living in. This was just such a time. I just started to nod my head (I think a part of me always knew this day would come) and looked squinty eyed at the "Jello-Jigglers" parents. Their heads took on voodoo shrunken head proportions as they slumped down in their seats . The "mom" (I feel dirty even using this here) just sat there with her jaw unhinged (come on…was she really that surprised). She looked at me, while the "dad" kept his eyes firmly planted on his fish and chips, (which, FYI, is what that stench was…you little monster!!) and mumbled something about…"Oh, no, no, Barnaby (or some equally pretentious name), that must be the food your smelling". I can tell you what I was smelling…a couple of REEKINGLY HORRIFIC PARENTAL UNITS & THEIR FESTERINGLY ROTTEN CHILDREN!!!
The rest of their time in the restaurant was anti-climatic. The little fiends dug into their "chicken strips" (though I still suspect it was actually something more sinister) and left within 10 minutes. I think their handlers saw the other patrons of the Coney Island fashioning pitchforks and torches out of forks and chicken shish-kebobs. I continued to read as they exited, but I still wasn't off the hook. The "mom" stopped at my table on the way out and said in her most convincing breathy voice, "I'm so sorry if the boys disrupted your reading…" Again…for the second time in one evening (let alone one lifetime) I was speechless…which was then followed by a sort of loud snort/laughy/raspberry-blowing thingy. "Yeah, sure", I say with as much sarcasm as possible when your drooling on yourself "no problem" (laugh, hiccup, snort...sigh).
Anywho, I was completely absorbed in my book and lemon rice soup. I became aware on the fringes of my consciousness of a family sitting (I use this verb loosely) to my right. Then I was given no choice but to notice them when one of their bobble-headed children poked me on the arm on his way to the restroom. It took me by surprise (one does not think one will be accosted while eating soup), and I looked up to find a little pie-faced kid staring at me with a malicious grin. Sure I could have been projecting, I was reading a book about vampires, but I don't think so. "Okay kid", I thought, "I'm feeling charitable today. I will ignore your creepiness in favor of reading my book. Now scamper off and pee on the bathroom floor like I'm sure you do at home."
It soon became clear to me...this was not a "family" to be ignored. This was the kind of "family" that clears out restaurants and movie theaters. The kind of "family" that drives up to your house for a visit…and you lock all the doors and hang garlic and crosses around your neck. These little dears were so vile, so defectively behaved…I can't even spit/type out any description that can even come close to capturing their putrescence. To make the state of affairs even more painful, their parents were devoid of anything even remotely resembling a spinal column. I mean, we've all seen parents that kind of...well…stink on ice (and we probably are those parents occasionally. I mean not me, of course, but…), but these two took it to the level of freak show performance art: Come One, Come All!!! See with Your Own Eyes…the Amazingly, Dim-witted Parents Made Entirely of Grape Jelly, Teeth and Hair (excitement swells through the restaurant, and the crowd roars).
These two gelatinous mounds had zilcho by way of control on those two pint-sized chupacabras. They "begged" them to sit in the booth with them and wait for their food (in the restaurant's defense, it's hard to scare up a live sacrifice on short notice). They "pleaded" with them to not pretend to stab people with the Coney Island cutlery. They all but offered them blood money to stop running around the tables. I, of course, being the non-judgmental soul that I am, said nothing and continued to read (Yes…the books are that good). Finally, the kitchen staff produced whatever it is that demon seeds eat. These two smallish people informed their parents that they would not sit with them, and proceeded to plop down at yet another table even closer to me…why...why...why?
At this point, my Andi-O-Meter was tick, tick, ticking away; counting down the milliseconds to detonation. BUT I WAS TRUMPED!! Before I could even give my patented "I will stuff you in a small, dirty box in the back of my closet" look, Diablo One made a face and started yelling at the top of his lungs, "EWWWW, something smells….Oh, it's just her!!"…yep you guessed it...he was standing on his chair and pointing at me. There are moments in life when no reaction seems perfectly appropriate. There is not one action or word that comes to mind that will move you past the moment you are living in. This was just such a time. I just started to nod my head (I think a part of me always knew this day would come) and looked squinty eyed at the "Jello-Jigglers" parents. Their heads took on voodoo shrunken head proportions as they slumped down in their seats . The "mom" (I feel dirty even using this here) just sat there with her jaw unhinged (come on…was she really that surprised). She looked at me, while the "dad" kept his eyes firmly planted on his fish and chips, (which, FYI, is what that stench was…you little monster!!) and mumbled something about…"Oh, no, no, Barnaby (or some equally pretentious name), that must be the food your smelling". I can tell you what I was smelling…a couple of REEKINGLY HORRIFIC PARENTAL UNITS & THEIR FESTERINGLY ROTTEN CHILDREN!!!
The rest of their time in the restaurant was anti-climatic. The little fiends dug into their "chicken strips" (though I still suspect it was actually something more sinister) and left within 10 minutes. I think their handlers saw the other patrons of the Coney Island fashioning pitchforks and torches out of forks and chicken shish-kebobs. I continued to read as they exited, but I still wasn't off the hook. The "mom" stopped at my table on the way out and said in her most convincing breathy voice, "I'm so sorry if the boys disrupted your reading…" Again…for the second time in one evening (let alone one lifetime) I was speechless…which was then followed by a sort of loud snort/laughy/raspberry-blowing thingy. "Yeah, sure", I say with as much sarcasm as possible when your drooling on yourself "no problem" (laugh, hiccup, snort...sigh).
The Snow-Capped Covered Gloves are Coming Off
Dear Parents:
WHY DO YOU LET YOUR TEENAGERS GO TO THE MOVIES UNCHAPERONED WHEN YOU KNOW THEY ARE BRAIN DEAD & LACK ALL SOCIAL GRACES!!!!!!
WHY WHY WHY In the name of all that's butterlicious....why? (Banging head against empty box of Snow Caps)...(side note: I like to use my big front teeth ((that my parents didn't deem worthy of braces...even though they sprang for my sisters and she now has a lovely smile)) to scrape the white candy dots off every little chocolatey cap...what fun, what joy)
Sorry...getting back on track....
Furthermore, why must they always see what I am seeing...and in that same vein...What does that say about my taste in movies. Moving on, if I see your teenager at the movie theater again...I will kidnap her/him and make her/him clean all the most disgusting bits of my house. We will call this just compensation for the hard-earned (though not by me) money I paid to see "House Bunny"...
I feel this is the only course of action left to me after tonight's "incident"...
Me: Sinking comfortably into the fetid seat I will call home for the next 98 minutes.
You're Obnoxious Children: Guffawing at every stupid thing their idiot boyfriends say. Snapping their gum (which if you have read my earlier blogs would know is punishable with a beat down), and generally being little cretins.
The movie begins....Scene One: The Playboy Mansion. Your group of jerkies use a laser pointer to show everyone in the movie theater just where all the breasts are on the screen. Oh, how lucky for us to have this tutorial. After each point...laughter...loud and forced. I sat in my seat as long as I could. I assessed my chances of making it out of the theater alive after I say something. I decided to wait it out, but as luck would have it, my patience is shorter than your children's anatomy lesson.
At this point I half stand and turn around and yell in my best "outside demon voice", "SERIOUSLY, KNOCK IT OFF!" 6 teens (and a few training program pre-teens) get wide-eyed and look around at each other in accusation. I sat down and enjoyed the rest of the movie...little red laser free.
After the movie comes the exhausting posturing I must now do to show I am crazier and meaner than they could ever be. I wait to see if they leave. I have to stand up slowly and give a little faux stretch as if to say "You Bore Me!" I turn around and look every last little bugger in the eye with my dead-eye glare. I then saunter out of the row (it is crucial at this point that you don't trip...that really spoils the effect). I stroll down the stairs and out of the theater. I wait to see if they follow...when they don't....I bolt to my vehicle looking over my shoulder the whole way.
This whole process could be avoided if you simply show some common sense and attend said movies with your rude little darlings. If you cannot trust them to do anything mannerly or logical at home, they why for the love of cheesy pretzels are you sending them my way. Please do not force me to make good on my little "teen-napping" scheme. You have no idea how dirty those bits of my house can be!!!
Sincerely,
A woman who likes her movies and you best not be messing with that.
WHY DO YOU LET YOUR TEENAGERS GO TO THE MOVIES UNCHAPERONED WHEN YOU KNOW THEY ARE BRAIN DEAD & LACK ALL SOCIAL GRACES!!!!!!
WHY WHY WHY In the name of all that's butterlicious....why? (Banging head against empty box of Snow Caps)...(side note: I like to use my big front teeth ((that my parents didn't deem worthy of braces...even though they sprang for my sisters and she now has a lovely smile)) to scrape the white candy dots off every little chocolatey cap...what fun, what joy)
Sorry...getting back on track....
Furthermore, why must they always see what I am seeing...and in that same vein...What does that say about my taste in movies. Moving on, if I see your teenager at the movie theater again...I will kidnap her/him and make her/him clean all the most disgusting bits of my house. We will call this just compensation for the hard-earned (though not by me) money I paid to see "House Bunny"...
I feel this is the only course of action left to me after tonight's "incident"...
Me: Sinking comfortably into the fetid seat I will call home for the next 98 minutes.
You're Obnoxious Children: Guffawing at every stupid thing their idiot boyfriends say. Snapping their gum (which if you have read my earlier blogs would know is punishable with a beat down), and generally being little cretins.
The movie begins....Scene One: The Playboy Mansion. Your group of jerkies use a laser pointer to show everyone in the movie theater just where all the breasts are on the screen. Oh, how lucky for us to have this tutorial. After each point...laughter...loud and forced. I sat in my seat as long as I could. I assessed my chances of making it out of the theater alive after I say something. I decided to wait it out, but as luck would have it, my patience is shorter than your children's anatomy lesson.
At this point I half stand and turn around and yell in my best "outside demon voice", "SERIOUSLY, KNOCK IT OFF!" 6 teens (and a few training program pre-teens) get wide-eyed and look around at each other in accusation. I sat down and enjoyed the rest of the movie...little red laser free.
After the movie comes the exhausting posturing I must now do to show I am crazier and meaner than they could ever be. I wait to see if they leave. I have to stand up slowly and give a little faux stretch as if to say "You Bore Me!" I turn around and look every last little bugger in the eye with my dead-eye glare. I then saunter out of the row (it is crucial at this point that you don't trip...that really spoils the effect). I stroll down the stairs and out of the theater. I wait to see if they follow...when they don't....I bolt to my vehicle looking over my shoulder the whole way.
This whole process could be avoided if you simply show some common sense and attend said movies with your rude little darlings. If you cannot trust them to do anything mannerly or logical at home, they why for the love of cheesy pretzels are you sending them my way. Please do not force me to make good on my little "teen-napping" scheme. You have no idea how dirty those bits of my house can be!!!
Sincerely,
A woman who likes her movies and you best not be messing with that.
Beans and Rice in the School Parking Lot
I always thought it sounded so gross when I would hear a Mom say with all fervor..."I CAN'T WAIT FOR SCHOOL TO START!". My marshmallow center would shrink a little as I gazed lovingly at my beautiful boys playing on the floor. How could anyone be so callous? How could they not adore having their progeny right where they could see them, and smash their little faces with kisses anytime they wanted? Why would you want to shuttle your little darlings off, when you could be with them every waking moment kissing their chubby, dimpled feet and tickling their distended milk-filled bellies....Ah yes, the good old days...
I have discovered that these feelings fade as your children grow into smallish adults. Little people with all the same nasty attitudes, cranky mornings and "I'm board" afternoons that full-on adults have. At this point, I think it must be said that I have considered parking them in front of the school with their back packs and some canned goods for the next two weeks.
I mean, don't think that I'm unfeeling...I would drive by a couple of times a week when I get coffee and check on them...for goodness sakes, I'm not a monster.
Well, anyway...I let you know if the State of Michigan considers this "Self-Defense" or "Child Endangerment"...stay tuned.
I have discovered that these feelings fade as your children grow into smallish adults. Little people with all the same nasty attitudes, cranky mornings and "I'm board" afternoons that full-on adults have. At this point, I think it must be said that I have considered parking them in front of the school with their back packs and some canned goods for the next two weeks.
I mean, don't think that I'm unfeeling...I would drive by a couple of times a week when I get coffee and check on them...for goodness sakes, I'm not a monster.
Well, anyway...I let you know if the State of Michigan considers this "Self-Defense" or "Child Endangerment"...stay tuned.
Do Not Make Me Waddle Over There
There is no such thing as the "Perfect Parent". This is a mythical creature that gallops through the forest with unicorns and sits down to tea with hobbits. Unfortunately, at the other end of the spectrum, there are horrific parents. Monsters that walk in the light...but I am not going to talk about either of those. I am here to address and bash the "If I could stop thinking about myself for 3 seconds put together, I might actually have a shot at being a half-way decent parent." (Model year 2008)
These are the idiots who treat their kids (and yours if they coach soccer) as accoutrement to their self-involved lives. Children are not whole entities to them, but rather living breathing extensions of how they define themselves. There is no care given to Billy's easily bruised developing ego, because "Coach Jerk-Face" is too busy wondering how a losing team will make him look. I had an opportunity a while back to see this beast in action, and was stunned that no one (with the exception of guess who) had the gumption to tell this flaming idiot to close his whoppers hole....(picture that "doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo" Scooby doo thing)...
The year...2000 (but really, you probably saw this guy last week). The setting: my house which backed up to a playground / soccer field...I was pregnant with my second son, and enjoying a balmy Michigan afternoon. The weather was text book perfect. The door wall was open and the sounds of little kid voices from the soccer field were bouncing around my dining room. I sat in a rocking chair reading (what a motherly scene) something by Diana Gabaldon (run out now and buy the whole series...you will thank me for it).
Soon the soccer game starts. All these little munchkin people running around in their primary colored shirts and shiny shorts. This continues for a while...and I am completely engrossed in my book...a rhino could have given me the finger, and I wouldn't have noticed. Then through the back door of my psyche I hear this voice...you know the kind. It makes the back of your neck tingle unpleasantly (which my sister and I have named "the tinglies"...when the tone in someone's voice irritates you to the point that you consider jacking them).
Anywho, this voice I realize is actually a feet-stomping, arm-waving, screaming me-me whose name is "COACH". This guy could have given Bobby Knight a run for his money...however, the obvious difference being the size and age of the people he was freaking out on. He was going ape-bongo-nutso on children no bigger than garden gnomes. This went on for MANY LONG MINUTES. His voice carried across the field and slammed into me...syllable by syllable. I kept waiting for an outraged parent to walk up and cold-cock him, but nope everyone just sat on their little canvas-bag toted chairs drinking their "poisoned-Kool-Aid". As this continues, a red hot rage begins to make it's way from my feet to the top of my head...actual steam began to bellow out my ears and nostrils.
My husband walks into the room to see me pacing back and forth (with a waddle) hands on hips, and that tell-tale look on my face. He sees said look, and begins to talk me down...this DOES NOT WORK. Finally, when I can stand it no longer, my jaw unhinges and I scream for all the world to hear, "OH, FOR THE LOVE OF CHEESECAKE, SHUT YOUR GAPING CAKE WHOLE". "THEY ARE LITTLE KIDS, NOT THE MANCHESTER UNITED TEAM".
A stunned semi-quiet falls over the field as eyes swing my way. People begin to titter and laugh. The coach's eyes bug out as he focuses on my 5 foot tall penguin shaped body. And then the clapping begins...not Carnegie Hall worthy, but a nice smattering of applause. My husband stands in the other room shaking his head, and I throw my hands up in the universally accepted Italian gesture of "what..what are you lookin' at". Needless to say the game continued, and I needed a bowl of ice cream to calm down.
I recount this story not to put myself up as some sort of paragon of parental/maternal virtue, but simply to say this...If you are screaming your bloody head off in public...where we can all see you, you raving moron...then what, perchance, do you do to your kids in private. Please consider this the next time you decide that these little INDIVIDUALS have shamed you so terribly that your only recourse is to have a verbal aneurism....and to all the parents who just sat in their canvas seats (which I will admit are hard to get out of), next time be the protector that your job description requires of you.
I bid you adieu.
These are the idiots who treat their kids (and yours if they coach soccer) as accoutrement to their self-involved lives. Children are not whole entities to them, but rather living breathing extensions of how they define themselves. There is no care given to Billy's easily bruised developing ego, because "Coach Jerk-Face" is too busy wondering how a losing team will make him look. I had an opportunity a while back to see this beast in action, and was stunned that no one (with the exception of guess who) had the gumption to tell this flaming idiot to close his whoppers hole....(picture that "doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo" Scooby doo thing)...
The year...2000 (but really, you probably saw this guy last week). The setting: my house which backed up to a playground / soccer field...I was pregnant with my second son, and enjoying a balmy Michigan afternoon. The weather was text book perfect. The door wall was open and the sounds of little kid voices from the soccer field were bouncing around my dining room. I sat in a rocking chair reading (what a motherly scene) something by Diana Gabaldon (run out now and buy the whole series...you will thank me for it).
Soon the soccer game starts. All these little munchkin people running around in their primary colored shirts and shiny shorts. This continues for a while...and I am completely engrossed in my book...a rhino could have given me the finger, and I wouldn't have noticed. Then through the back door of my psyche I hear this voice...you know the kind. It makes the back of your neck tingle unpleasantly (which my sister and I have named "the tinglies"...when the tone in someone's voice irritates you to the point that you consider jacking them).
Anywho, this voice I realize is actually a feet-stomping, arm-waving, screaming me-me whose name is "COACH". This guy could have given Bobby Knight a run for his money...however, the obvious difference being the size and age of the people he was freaking out on. He was going ape-bongo-nutso on children no bigger than garden gnomes. This went on for MANY LONG MINUTES. His voice carried across the field and slammed into me...syllable by syllable. I kept waiting for an outraged parent to walk up and cold-cock him, but nope everyone just sat on their little canvas-bag toted chairs drinking their "poisoned-Kool-Aid". As this continues, a red hot rage begins to make it's way from my feet to the top of my head...actual steam began to bellow out my ears and nostrils.
My husband walks into the room to see me pacing back and forth (with a waddle) hands on hips, and that tell-tale look on my face. He sees said look, and begins to talk me down...this DOES NOT WORK. Finally, when I can stand it no longer, my jaw unhinges and I scream for all the world to hear, "OH, FOR THE LOVE OF CHEESECAKE, SHUT YOUR GAPING CAKE WHOLE". "THEY ARE LITTLE KIDS, NOT THE MANCHESTER UNITED TEAM".
A stunned semi-quiet falls over the field as eyes swing my way. People begin to titter and laugh. The coach's eyes bug out as he focuses on my 5 foot tall penguin shaped body. And then the clapping begins...not Carnegie Hall worthy, but a nice smattering of applause. My husband stands in the other room shaking his head, and I throw my hands up in the universally accepted Italian gesture of "what..what are you lookin' at". Needless to say the game continued, and I needed a bowl of ice cream to calm down.
I recount this story not to put myself up as some sort of paragon of parental/maternal virtue, but simply to say this...If you are screaming your bloody head off in public...where we can all see you, you raving moron...then what, perchance, do you do to your kids in private. Please consider this the next time you decide that these little INDIVIDUALS have shamed you so terribly that your only recourse is to have a verbal aneurism....and to all the parents who just sat in their canvas seats (which I will admit are hard to get out of), next time be the protector that your job description requires of you.
I bid you adieu.
Simple is as Simple Does
Michigan is crisp this morning. The leaves are markedly burnt orange, brick red, and goldenrod, and the sky is a watery cornflower blue that hugs the curve of the world. It’s like God only used these 4 crayons to color the fall skyline today.
The frosted tips of the crunchy grass look like snow in the 7 a.m. light. It’s not cold enough yet for gloves; just for pulling your fingers back into your sleeves. I am sitting on my porch watching my boys wait for the bus. Their voices shoot around the yard without the sound dampening benefit of full-bloom trees and bushes.
My hot, not-too-sweet coffee and 7 grain toast (all health benefits negated by the pools of butter melted on top) keep me company. The dog lays next to me with one eye on the boys and one eye on my breakfast. She knows if she doesn’t get too fresh, I’ll flip her a piece of crust.
As the cold leeches from the porch into the seat of my pajamas, I am struck by the “ordinariness” of this little tableau. It’s the kind of scene you hope you will have as an adult. Your adult self is “master” of all that you survey. It’s a bitter-sweet picture, you now know, that’s as simple and as complicated as every little microscopic level of real “adult” life.
I can hear the bus rumbling a block away. The boys don’t notice or don’t care, and they continue their game of “monster freeze-tag” (in keeping with the season, of course). They won’t remember this morning when they are 38 and 40, but I know that when I am 67 I will have memorized this morning as one of the loveliest and most prized snap shots of our lives. As the bus roars away, on every macro and microscopic level of real “adult” life, I know that I am blessed.
The frosted tips of the crunchy grass look like snow in the 7 a.m. light. It’s not cold enough yet for gloves; just for pulling your fingers back into your sleeves. I am sitting on my porch watching my boys wait for the bus. Their voices shoot around the yard without the sound dampening benefit of full-bloom trees and bushes.
My hot, not-too-sweet coffee and 7 grain toast (all health benefits negated by the pools of butter melted on top) keep me company. The dog lays next to me with one eye on the boys and one eye on my breakfast. She knows if she doesn’t get too fresh, I’ll flip her a piece of crust.
As the cold leeches from the porch into the seat of my pajamas, I am struck by the “ordinariness” of this little tableau. It’s the kind of scene you hope you will have as an adult. Your adult self is “master” of all that you survey. It’s a bitter-sweet picture, you now know, that’s as simple and as complicated as every little microscopic level of real “adult” life.
I can hear the bus rumbling a block away. The boys don’t notice or don’t care, and they continue their game of “monster freeze-tag” (in keeping with the season, of course). They won’t remember this morning when they are 38 and 40, but I know that when I am 67 I will have memorized this morning as one of the loveliest and most prized snap shots of our lives. As the bus roars away, on every macro and microscopic level of real “adult” life, I know that I am blessed.
Pixie Dust, Woodsmoke and Memories
My neighbors are clearing their woods today. The downed trees and soggy leaves are heaped together and burning. It’s a good day to do this chore. The bright white clouds and plush blue sky are lying conspicuously against one another like felt cut-outs. I walk down the gravel driveway wearing a sweatshirt, shorts and mud boots because, after an unsympathetic Michigan winter, 39 degrees feels like a vacation and I find myself stretching toward the sun like my son’s leopard gecko. I raise my winter pale nose in the air and smell the rot and the new of spring. They're coming together in a kind of rock-opera for the senses. It’s a textured blend of drama, familiarity and unexpected surprises that keeps me breathing in deeply. The magic smell of wood smoke breezes by me and my memories roll back and forward. They shift sideways down my timeline and come to a jerky stop on my 1976 memories. These are the sweet and awkward and lovely spaces in time that layer over each other and press together to make a 38 year old wife and mom of 3…
I can remember lying on our bellies on the cold rug-covered floor at Gnon and Don's (that's Grandma and Grandpa in our regional dialect). The bottom level of the villa house, because of tradition and culture, is used for mid-day meals, work day gathering and the frequent ringing of chicken necks. Because it’s partially in the ground, it’s getting cold downstairs now and the big fireplace is burning. Gnon is kneading bread at the long table and us kids are spread out on the floors and shabby couches watching a little black and white TV with rabbit ears and tinfoil. We are completely focused on Bo and Luke Duke’s run from the law. We take turns sitting on the hearth stone to warm up, and because there is no grate over the opening, you can only sit still for a few minutes at a time. We switch places when the hot slab burns our little backsides and we jump off itching the seats of our farm-dirt covered pants. It doesn’t matter how filthy we are down here. This area is made for farm people. The big double doors let in the occasional stray goat and chicken and work boots and coats line the wall. The dirt feels good here, and is as perfectly met to the space as flocked wall paper in a fancy hotel.
Lunch will be here soon and we will all meet together at the long table. Gnon already has pots bubbling and bread sliced. Maybe it’s pasta with fresh bread for sopping, or polenta with sauce and hard salami freckled with spicy peppercorns. There will be wine for the adults and a sort of “kiddie wine spritzer” for us. A splash of wine and then filled the rest of the way with “Lime-Up”, the glass-bottled Italian version of the American brand. Lunch is a raucous time where kids can talk and laugh and the adults argue and swear. We know implicitly which words we can repeat and which ones we save to say to each other in secret. Sometimes we are yelled at, but we know that’s just how the people that love you talk. There are cookies after. Sesame cookies and flower shaped cookies with maraschino cherries in the middle. We drink little cups of dark, thick coffee with a splash of cream and mounds of sugar. Finally we are stuffed and warm through and through and the adults break away to go back to work. Today the pigs are being loaded and taken away.
Warmed up again we wander outside and throw pebbles at the chickens. I visit my pet rabbits, Romeo & Juliet. They were a gift last Easter from my city Aunt and Uncle. They have quite a family now and sometimes their off-spring ends up in a stew on Gnon’s table, but so far my long-eared, star-crossed lovers have escaped this fate. We run into the hay storage and rush to lie down on the stepped levels of hay bales. It pokes through our clothes, but keeps us warm. We argue about what to play. I am tired of playing house because I am always the mom and never get to be the teenager. The older boys are bored and they start to pick on us to fill the time. We all start to argue and sides are chosen. We run out and split off from each other, running around the house. I dash up the side stairs to the balcony that runs the length of the top level of the house. My cousin joins me and we press our cold noses against the windows and look in at the all the finery.
The top level is very rarely seen by us from the inside. The couches are creamy colored and covered in plastic. The carpet is thick and there are pretty things made of glass and polished metals everywhere. The dining table is covered in a white cloth with lacey parts and over that, the requisite plastic cover. On the table there are two beautiful demitasse cups decorated with gold, and delicate little spoons rest on the matching saucers. This world is only visited when we are spanking clean and on our best behavior. It’s for the day of rest and quiet visits, and as beautiful as it is, we would rather wear our dirty clothes and roll around down stairs.
From this high vantage point, we can see across the dirt road to the field where the pigs are being loaded into a big red truck with slatted-board sides. The obese pigs bump against each other as they are herded into the back. I feel embarrassed for them that they don’t have any pants to cover their naked pink bottoms as they are pushed and prodded from behind. Their squealing carries across the field to us on the balcony. I know that they are going to give us food, but I think of it more as a voluntary offering. They will give us their bacon and pork chops and then stay all tucked up in their wide piggy beds until they feel better. Sometimes I bring my mom two halves of a gartner snake that my cousin has run over with his bike. I know that if she just puts a band-aid on it, it will be up and slithering through the garden in no time. My parents don’t feel the need to tell me any different and we are all happy with my view of the world.
The pigs are loaded, and the truck is lumbering away down the dirt road past my house, and past my Aunt Pina and Uncle Jim’s, and my Auntie Emma and Uncle Carlo’s and out into the big world beyond that I rarely see. We all wander back downstairs to wait for our parents. It’s time to go home and soak off the day and eat dinner. Gnon slips us a cookie for the walk home and we are all suddenly so tired every step is a chore. My dad and I break off first, and the rest of the group continues down the road. I’m happy to be home and I am immediately directed to the tub. I put on my Holly Hobbie pajamas and come down to eat. My house is warm and scrubbed clean and we sit at the island counter and eat together. Maybe we will watch a little TV afterward or maybe not, but I know tonight I will fall asleep snuggled up with my folks…
I pull the mail out of the box and head back up the driveway to the house. The boys will be home from school soon and dinner has to be started. I am so filled to the brim with emotions that I cry just a little. I am not at all sad, but that’s what I do when I feel too full. I walk and pray and thank God for giving me my life. For allowing all the layers of me, even the ones I would rather cast off. I think of my Grandpa who loved me all out and taught me the value of comedy. I remember my Aunt Pina who I still miss and cry for, and of all the others still here and loved even if we talk infrequently. I tell God I know how blessed I am and that I won’t forget to pass it on. My boys will be that loved, that sure of their place in the world. They will have layers created by their father and me and by all the family and friends that surround them. They will be yelled at in love and snuggled with under the blankets while we watch TV. Their world view will grow with them as they mature and when they are fathers they will be able to run down the timeline of their lives and know that they are blessed.
I can remember lying on our bellies on the cold rug-covered floor at Gnon and Don's (that's Grandma and Grandpa in our regional dialect). The bottom level of the villa house, because of tradition and culture, is used for mid-day meals, work day gathering and the frequent ringing of chicken necks. Because it’s partially in the ground, it’s getting cold downstairs now and the big fireplace is burning. Gnon is kneading bread at the long table and us kids are spread out on the floors and shabby couches watching a little black and white TV with rabbit ears and tinfoil. We are completely focused on Bo and Luke Duke’s run from the law. We take turns sitting on the hearth stone to warm up, and because there is no grate over the opening, you can only sit still for a few minutes at a time. We switch places when the hot slab burns our little backsides and we jump off itching the seats of our farm-dirt covered pants. It doesn’t matter how filthy we are down here. This area is made for farm people. The big double doors let in the occasional stray goat and chicken and work boots and coats line the wall. The dirt feels good here, and is as perfectly met to the space as flocked wall paper in a fancy hotel.
Lunch will be here soon and we will all meet together at the long table. Gnon already has pots bubbling and bread sliced. Maybe it’s pasta with fresh bread for sopping, or polenta with sauce and hard salami freckled with spicy peppercorns. There will be wine for the adults and a sort of “kiddie wine spritzer” for us. A splash of wine and then filled the rest of the way with “Lime-Up”, the glass-bottled Italian version of the American brand. Lunch is a raucous time where kids can talk and laugh and the adults argue and swear. We know implicitly which words we can repeat and which ones we save to say to each other in secret. Sometimes we are yelled at, but we know that’s just how the people that love you talk. There are cookies after. Sesame cookies and flower shaped cookies with maraschino cherries in the middle. We drink little cups of dark, thick coffee with a splash of cream and mounds of sugar. Finally we are stuffed and warm through and through and the adults break away to go back to work. Today the pigs are being loaded and taken away.
Warmed up again we wander outside and throw pebbles at the chickens. I visit my pet rabbits, Romeo & Juliet. They were a gift last Easter from my city Aunt and Uncle. They have quite a family now and sometimes their off-spring ends up in a stew on Gnon’s table, but so far my long-eared, star-crossed lovers have escaped this fate. We run into the hay storage and rush to lie down on the stepped levels of hay bales. It pokes through our clothes, but keeps us warm. We argue about what to play. I am tired of playing house because I am always the mom and never get to be the teenager. The older boys are bored and they start to pick on us to fill the time. We all start to argue and sides are chosen. We run out and split off from each other, running around the house. I dash up the side stairs to the balcony that runs the length of the top level of the house. My cousin joins me and we press our cold noses against the windows and look in at the all the finery.
The top level is very rarely seen by us from the inside. The couches are creamy colored and covered in plastic. The carpet is thick and there are pretty things made of glass and polished metals everywhere. The dining table is covered in a white cloth with lacey parts and over that, the requisite plastic cover. On the table there are two beautiful demitasse cups decorated with gold, and delicate little spoons rest on the matching saucers. This world is only visited when we are spanking clean and on our best behavior. It’s for the day of rest and quiet visits, and as beautiful as it is, we would rather wear our dirty clothes and roll around down stairs.
From this high vantage point, we can see across the dirt road to the field where the pigs are being loaded into a big red truck with slatted-board sides. The obese pigs bump against each other as they are herded into the back. I feel embarrassed for them that they don’t have any pants to cover their naked pink bottoms as they are pushed and prodded from behind. Their squealing carries across the field to us on the balcony. I know that they are going to give us food, but I think of it more as a voluntary offering. They will give us their bacon and pork chops and then stay all tucked up in their wide piggy beds until they feel better. Sometimes I bring my mom two halves of a gartner snake that my cousin has run over with his bike. I know that if she just puts a band-aid on it, it will be up and slithering through the garden in no time. My parents don’t feel the need to tell me any different and we are all happy with my view of the world.
The pigs are loaded, and the truck is lumbering away down the dirt road past my house, and past my Aunt Pina and Uncle Jim’s, and my Auntie Emma and Uncle Carlo’s and out into the big world beyond that I rarely see. We all wander back downstairs to wait for our parents. It’s time to go home and soak off the day and eat dinner. Gnon slips us a cookie for the walk home and we are all suddenly so tired every step is a chore. My dad and I break off first, and the rest of the group continues down the road. I’m happy to be home and I am immediately directed to the tub. I put on my Holly Hobbie pajamas and come down to eat. My house is warm and scrubbed clean and we sit at the island counter and eat together. Maybe we will watch a little TV afterward or maybe not, but I know tonight I will fall asleep snuggled up with my folks…
I pull the mail out of the box and head back up the driveway to the house. The boys will be home from school soon and dinner has to be started. I am so filled to the brim with emotions that I cry just a little. I am not at all sad, but that’s what I do when I feel too full. I walk and pray and thank God for giving me my life. For allowing all the layers of me, even the ones I would rather cast off. I think of my Grandpa who loved me all out and taught me the value of comedy. I remember my Aunt Pina who I still miss and cry for, and of all the others still here and loved even if we talk infrequently. I tell God I know how blessed I am and that I won’t forget to pass it on. My boys will be that loved, that sure of their place in the world. They will have layers created by their father and me and by all the family and friends that surround them. They will be yelled at in love and snuggled with under the blankets while we watch TV. Their world view will grow with them as they mature and when they are fathers they will be able to run down the timeline of their lives and know that they are blessed.
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