This morning, I couldn't find my jeans anywhere. I had just washed them the night before - so I assumed my husband had put them away in some logical location. I heard him down in the kitchen finishing up breakfast with our son, so I stuck my head over the top of the stairs and hollered down at him to see if he knew where they were.
My toddler heard me and ran to the bottom of the stairs to find me.
"I'm up here, buddy," I called down to him.
He looked up, cocked his head in a funny way, and said-asked, "Mama?"
When I confirmed that it was, in fact, me, he began to laugh hysterically.
I looked down at myself, at 32 weeks pregnant, clad only in my bra and underwear, and I started to laugh too.
Pregnancy is beautiful for many reasons, but I am not sure there is much that is more beautiful than seeing it through the eyes of someone with a good, honest sense of humor.
12/31/12
12/18/12
I Happy
My toddler's new favorite thing to say is: "I happy."
When he wakes up, when he is going to sleep, when he has a bad dream and we rock for a few minutes, when he is eating grapes, when he is at a party with my co-workers, when he is in a bubble bath, when we sing his favorite song, when he is hugging the dog, when our whole family is together at the same time . . . these are all times he utters those precious words: "I happy."
They always take me off guard. Before he started saying the expression (and who knows where he picked it up), I can't remember the last time I heard anyone say, "I'm happy."
But I find it totally impossible, after he says those two sweet words, not to look back at him and say - regardless of the day, "I'm so glad you're happy. I'm happy too."
"Happy too," he says back to me - in a way that is matter-of-fact but also disarmingly intimate, as if in confirmation of some pact that we formed, some password into the happiness club. Then he goes about whatever he was doing or - better yet - smiles up at me and starts again:
"I happy."
"I'm happy too."
"Happy too," he will sigh.
And the more times we say it, the happier I am.
When he wakes up, when he is going to sleep, when he has a bad dream and we rock for a few minutes, when he is eating grapes, when he is at a party with my co-workers, when he is in a bubble bath, when we sing his favorite song, when he is hugging the dog, when our whole family is together at the same time . . . these are all times he utters those precious words: "I happy."
They always take me off guard. Before he started saying the expression (and who knows where he picked it up), I can't remember the last time I heard anyone say, "I'm happy."
But I find it totally impossible, after he says those two sweet words, not to look back at him and say - regardless of the day, "I'm so glad you're happy. I'm happy too."
"Happy too," he says back to me - in a way that is matter-of-fact but also disarmingly intimate, as if in confirmation of some pact that we formed, some password into the happiness club. Then he goes about whatever he was doing or - better yet - smiles up at me and starts again:
"I happy."
"I'm happy too."
"Happy too," he will sigh.
And the more times we say it, the happier I am.
11/27/12
Perfect House
My grandmother lives in a perfect house.
Not a house that makes you feel stiff or inadequate or poor, but one that makes you want to better yourself in the right kind of ways.
At my house, if my son spills something on the floor, I roll my eyes and leave it there for a day when I am less tired. But at Nana's, when he dumps potpourri all over the carpet, I cannot leave it. I am compelled to pick it up, piece by piece, and then vacuum over it, and then vacuum over the mismatched vacuum lines on the floor. She begs me to leave it until Monday, "When Nell comes," but that wouldn't be right - not at Nana's house.
Things are prissy at Nana's house, but not rude. She has a sitting room filled with tiny teacups and pictures of trees and rivers that I liked to look at when I studied there in middle school. The room has a hush about it, reminding you that some things are meant to be sacred. But it is a kind hush that beckons my 19 month in and urges him to lift dainty china to his lips in uncharacteristically mannerly play.
At Nana's house, everything has a place - and at one point in time, I knew about every thing and every place. I would roam through the cabinets and the closets and the button jars and the drawers while she teased me about being a snoop and warned me about dinner parties where hosts filled bathroom cabinets with marbles to trap unsuspecting, nosey guests. I would laugh at her warning and move on to the next cabinet, soaking up the same sort of comfort I got when reading Little Women or The Boxcar Children.
Food tastes better in this perfect house than it does anywhere else. Even fruitcake, which somehow tastes like candied tar everywhere else, comes out soft and second-tempting. Traveling salesmen, army boys meant to be "surviving in the wilderness" from Fort Stewart, dogs, wild cats, hungry grandchildren, and then hungry grandchildren's spouses, have all been in on this secret --- showing up hat in hand or purr in throat at just the right time.
At Nana's house - we talk about the best part of our day, not the worst. Everything feels better there. And we always leave better than we came.
It is a perfect house.
Not a house that makes you feel stiff or inadequate or poor, but one that makes you want to better yourself in the right kind of ways.
At my house, if my son spills something on the floor, I roll my eyes and leave it there for a day when I am less tired. But at Nana's, when he dumps potpourri all over the carpet, I cannot leave it. I am compelled to pick it up, piece by piece, and then vacuum over it, and then vacuum over the mismatched vacuum lines on the floor. She begs me to leave it until Monday, "When Nell comes," but that wouldn't be right - not at Nana's house.
Things are prissy at Nana's house, but not rude. She has a sitting room filled with tiny teacups and pictures of trees and rivers that I liked to look at when I studied there in middle school. The room has a hush about it, reminding you that some things are meant to be sacred. But it is a kind hush that beckons my 19 month in and urges him to lift dainty china to his lips in uncharacteristically mannerly play.
At Nana's house, everything has a place - and at one point in time, I knew about every thing and every place. I would roam through the cabinets and the closets and the button jars and the drawers while she teased me about being a snoop and warned me about dinner parties where hosts filled bathroom cabinets with marbles to trap unsuspecting, nosey guests. I would laugh at her warning and move on to the next cabinet, soaking up the same sort of comfort I got when reading Little Women or The Boxcar Children.
Food tastes better in this perfect house than it does anywhere else. Even fruitcake, which somehow tastes like candied tar everywhere else, comes out soft and second-tempting. Traveling salesmen, army boys meant to be "surviving in the wilderness" from Fort Stewart, dogs, wild cats, hungry grandchildren, and then hungry grandchildren's spouses, have all been in on this secret --- showing up hat in hand or purr in throat at just the right time.
At Nana's house - we talk about the best part of our day, not the worst. Everything feels better there. And we always leave better than we came.
It is a perfect house.
11/12/12
Yellow Nursery
Some girls dream
Of the perfect wedding:
The dress,
the favors,
the attendants,
the cake.
Not me.
I really just wanted to look beautiful
And have dancing.
Lots and lots of dancing.
What, then, were my little girl dreams
made of?
White cradles,
yellow walls,
stuffed animals,
cheery pictures,
crocheted blankets,
sunny corners,
and
well-stocked closets
full of tiny
perfect
precious
things.
I did not know
That - when the time came -
I would rent
a condo
Full to the brim
With the collections
Of just two.
I did not know
That my first baby
Would be such a shock
To the system
That indecision would
Prevent any
Tasteful Choices.
I did not know
That parenting
And pregnancy
Would be so exhausting
For both of us
That my husband's
Top wish as
We wait for baby number two
Would be more time
. . . . . to sleep.
I did not know
That painting a nursery
Would be
The straw that
Might break the camel's back
And that I would come to a place -
This place -
Where I pray that
Little girl dreams
Of a yellow nursery
Don't trump grown up priorities
Like love and common-sense.
Of the perfect wedding:
The dress,
the favors,
the attendants,
the cake.
Not me.
I really just wanted to look beautiful
And have dancing.
Lots and lots of dancing.
What, then, were my little girl dreams
made of?
White cradles,
yellow walls,
stuffed animals,
cheery pictures,
crocheted blankets,
sunny corners,
and
well-stocked closets
full of tiny
perfect
precious
things.
I did not know
That - when the time came -
I would rent
a condo
Full to the brim
With the collections
Of just two.
I did not know
That my first baby
Would be such a shock
To the system
That indecision would
Prevent any
Tasteful Choices.
I did not know
That parenting
And pregnancy
Would be so exhausting
For both of us
That my husband's
Top wish as
We wait for baby number two
Would be more time
. . . . . to sleep.
I did not know
That painting a nursery
Would be
The straw that
Might break the camel's back
And that I would come to a place -
This place -
Where I pray that
Little girl dreams
Of a yellow nursery
Don't trump grown up priorities
Like love and common-sense.
11/8/12
Apple Salad
Son in crib
Singing softly
His first Doo-Wop:
"Waa Waa Waa Waa."
We think its cute
And we surrender
Our tired feet
To the bed
Where we stare
At the baby monitor
And listen to his
Fading murmers.
Long week!
And it's only
Wednesday.
Husband closes tired eyes
And I shift
From the left
To the right
And to the left again
Seeking comfort
For that growing
Belly of mine.
Two days of traveling
Have worn me out in a way
That makes my faults
Shine like Miss Hannigan's
Version of the Chrysler Building.
Just as things are starting
To look really bleak,
Perfect, Loving, Dutiful
Husband sighs, says:
I should really go
To the grocery store -
Get something for dinner tomorrow.
Not tonight, I say.
Maybe this weekend.
And (says growing baby #2)
Maybe then we can buy
Apples
And make a salad
With cherries
And raisins
And maybe bananas.
I look at Husband,
Who is always
Gleeful about food
And I am shocked!
He is not smiling.
He is not even a little
Excited.
It hits me,
But I can hardly believe it:
He does not like apple salad!
Over six years I have
Been married
And I did not know that
He does not like apple salad!
I say it out loud
The blasphemous words
Shooting off of my tongue
And he turns to me, sheepish:
It's not that I dislike them . . .
he stammers,
And then he drives the nail
Into his own coffin:
It's just that fruit and mayo,
he says,
well, they must be a Southern thing.
But the combination!
I hear myself say,
The apples,
And the cherries,
And the raisins,
And the bananas . . .
I can't even finish the description
It is too lovely to describe
In this apple-empty house
So I simply sputter
The accusation again,
Forever damning his
Credibility
As the foodie he believes himself to be:
You don't like apple salad!
He tries once again to justify
But I interrupt him
With a crowing cackle
This is just the boost I needed!
Not only is he tragically flawed
(Hallelujah!)
But there will be more
Apple salad for me!
Singing softly
His first Doo-Wop:
"Waa Waa Waa Waa."
We think its cute
And we surrender
Our tired feet
To the bed
Where we stare
At the baby monitor
And listen to his
Fading murmers.
Long week!
And it's only
Wednesday.
Husband closes tired eyes
And I shift
From the left
To the right
And to the left again
Seeking comfort
For that growing
Belly of mine.
Two days of traveling
Have worn me out in a way
That makes my faults
Shine like Miss Hannigan's
Version of the Chrysler Building.
Just as things are starting
To look really bleak,
Perfect, Loving, Dutiful
Husband sighs, says:
I should really go
To the grocery store -
Get something for dinner tomorrow.
Not tonight, I say.
Maybe this weekend.
And (says growing baby #2)
Maybe then we can buy
Apples
And make a salad
With cherries
And raisins
And maybe bananas.
I look at Husband,
Who is always
Gleeful about food
And I am shocked!
He is not smiling.
He is not even a little
Excited.
It hits me,
But I can hardly believe it:
He does not like apple salad!
Over six years I have
Been married
And I did not know that
He does not like apple salad!
I say it out loud
The blasphemous words
Shooting off of my tongue
And he turns to me, sheepish:
It's not that I dislike them . . .
he stammers,
And then he drives the nail
Into his own coffin:
It's just that fruit and mayo,
he says,
well, they must be a Southern thing.
But the combination!
I hear myself say,
The apples,
And the cherries,
And the raisins,
And the bananas . . .
I can't even finish the description
It is too lovely to describe
In this apple-empty house
So I simply sputter
The accusation again,
Forever damning his
Credibility
As the foodie he believes himself to be:
You don't like apple salad!
He tries once again to justify
But I interrupt him
With a crowing cackle
This is just the boost I needed!
Not only is he tragically flawed
(Hallelujah!)
But there will be more
Apple salad for me!
10/2/12
Tired Thoughts of Missing You
Frightened cry
Wakes me up
And I am glad
Not for the dream
That woke you
But for the excuse
To pick you up
At 12:30 am.
For the past
Two nights
Daddy has tucked
You in alone.
I've been at work.
Missing you every second.
But how do I share
The loss I feel
With a one year old?
All you know
Is that I was not here
At home
Where I am supposed to be.
Heavy sigh.
No one taught me
How to be
This kind of Mommy.
As you snuggle closer to me
Your baby brother --
or maybe a sister? ---
starts to kick against you.
You can't feel him or her yet
But this little one loves you
Just like I do
And knows that things are best
When you are near.
What a wonderful big brother
You will be!
I click through tomorrow's list
Wondering what I can skip
To spend some extra time with you.
But - there is nothing.
It all has to be done
Or Saturday will become a work day
And I will resent it all the more
For taking me away from you
On a day we always share.
I love holding you so close
But baby-to-be
Squirms against my bladder
And I realize that I must put you down.
I lay you in your crib
Next to the penguin Dada calls Fonzi
I tuck you in with prayers
That I can't articulate ---
Only feel.
God knows what I mean.
9/13/12
Night-Night, Dada!
Jammies on.
Stories read.
Mama rocking.
Dada says,
“I love you near.
I love you far.
I love you anywhere
You are.
Now sleep, my lamb.
Now rest, my dove.
May Angels guard you
From above.
I'll see you soon.
It won't be long.
Now rest, my darling.
To this song.”
Night-night, Dada!
He tip-toes out.
I close my eyes.
Mama hums
A lullaby.
I hear him patter
Down the stairs.
I hear him settle
In his chair.
All is quiet
When I peek.
Mama is
Almost asleep . . .
Wake up, Mama!
I put my finger
In her nose.
I poke her tummy
With my toes.
Mama frowns
And takes my hand,
"Time for sleep,
My little man."
For a minute
I snuggle near.
Then I pull
On her left ear.
She starts to giggle.
I giggle back.
"Okay, Little Mister,
You're under attack!"
She kisses my neck.
She tickles my tum.
I laugh and I laugh
And I kiss her in turn.
I start to howl
And she joins me.
We're howling so loud
We don't hear the door creak . . .
Dada!!!
He tries not to smile
As he shakes his head,
"Okay, Little Monkeys!
It's past time for bed!"
He scoops me away
Out of her lap.
Mama fake-coughs
To cover a laugh.
He motions her out
As he takes her seat.
He starts to rock.
He strokes my cheek.
I try to fight it.
I want to play!
I poke at his tummy
But I hear him say,
“I love you near.
I love you far.
I love you anywhere
You are.
Now sleep, my lamb.
Now rest, my dove.
May Angels guard you
From above.
I'll see you soon.
It won't be long.
Now rest, my darling
To this song.
My eyes are heavy.
My mind is light.
I start to drift
Into the night.
"Night-night, little slugger,"
He whispers to me.
"Night-night, Dada,"
I fall fast asleep.
Stories read.
Mama rocking.
Dada says,
“I love you near.
I love you far.
I love you anywhere
You are.
Now sleep, my lamb.
Now rest, my dove.
May Angels guard you
From above.
I'll see you soon.
It won't be long.
Now rest, my darling.
To this song.”
Night-night, Dada!
He tip-toes out.
I close my eyes.
Mama hums
A lullaby.
I hear him patter
Down the stairs.
I hear him settle
In his chair.
All is quiet
When I peek.
Mama is
Almost asleep . . .
Wake up, Mama!
I put my finger
In her nose.
I poke her tummy
With my toes.
Mama frowns
And takes my hand,
"Time for sleep,
My little man."
For a minute
I snuggle near.
Then I pull
On her left ear.
She starts to giggle.
I giggle back.
"Okay, Little Mister,
You're under attack!"
She kisses my neck.
She tickles my tum.
I laugh and I laugh
And I kiss her in turn.
I start to howl
And she joins me.
We're howling so loud
We don't hear the door creak . . .
Dada!!!
He tries not to smile
As he shakes his head,
"Okay, Little Monkeys!
It's past time for bed!"
He scoops me away
Out of her lap.
Mama fake-coughs
To cover a laugh.
He motions her out
As he takes her seat.
He starts to rock.
He strokes my cheek.
I try to fight it.
I want to play!
I poke at his tummy
But I hear him say,
“I love you near.
I love you far.
I love you anywhere
You are.
Now sleep, my lamb.
Now rest, my dove.
May Angels guard you
From above.
I'll see you soon.
It won't be long.
Now rest, my darling
To this song.
My eyes are heavy.
My mind is light.
I start to drift
Into the night.
"Night-night, little slugger,"
He whispers to me.
"Night-night, Dada,"
I fall fast asleep.
6/23/12
Tub Hugs
What a day, Little Man! It started so early with you passing me your snuggly
friends over the top of your crib so I could hug them and kiss them awake.
Hello day!
After coffee and breakfast (so much breakfast!) we headed out - me, you, dad, and the pup- for a stroll down the hill to the park with the ducks. There you gave me - only me - rock presents carefully chosen from the playground floor and then you and dad climbed to the tippy top of the tall fort tower, where you hollared "Hewoah" and "H-e-e-y" to early morning run-walkers who weren't as friendly as you! And then down you slid on the big yellow slide once, twice, three times - then four - before you took a turn on the swing and wound up face first in the gravel.
But you didn't cry! Not my brave boy! Instead, you ran after the ducks and tried to swim and met a new doggy and ran back and forth across the wooden bridge --- but never to me, because you were afraid I'd lock you up in the big red stroller.
After the walk, you were so tired, so very, very tired, that your eyelids drooped and you stumbled every where you zig-zaggedly tried to go. So you and I went upstairs with a warm bottle and a pile of books and we read and read until you convinced me that you didn't really need to sleep - just rest. I relented and let you on the floor where you quickly threw a temper tantrum so fierce that I gave up and put you firmly in the crib so you could take a break or a much, much needed nap.
Eventually, you slept, and for twenty minutes or so Dad and I watched Home and Garden Television like we used to do when we actually cared about the state of our home. Just as our eyelids got heavy and we began to drift away We heard your "I'm awake!" cry and up we shot, ready to play again.
I tried to pick you up from your crib, but you were mad at me! Mad for leaving you to cry. And so you chose Dad until I redeemed myself by reading Dr. Seuss's ABC while Dad did a funny dance.
For lunch you had spaghetti - so much spaghetti! And then it was off to dreamworld while Dad cleaned the bathroom and I caught up on work.
When you woke up we decided to go to real shopping, which required a trip to the big-town! But first - we turned your car seat so that you could face the world like a grown up. Oh the joy!
In the store you were king of the shopping cart and exercised your royal position by throwing down your ball every five seconds so that your loyal subjects might have the honor of retrieving it. On the sidewalk, you refused to hold hands. "I'm a big boy!,” said your fast gait, determined eyes, pursed lips. And so we let you be one until you managed to find the bubbles in Costplus World Market (who knew they had bubbles?) and wouldn't let go!
Shopping done, it was time for dinner out at your first Bar-B-Que joint. Would you believe it? You even said "Bar-B", which made your dad swell with pride as he navigated the Pilot past the restaurant.
When we got there you were mostly good, looking at books and kids and coloring for the very first time! But when dinner came, Mommy could not help you! Oh no, food delivered by any hand other than your own was worthy of the floor alone.
But you ate! Oh how you ate! Corn on the cob - one in each fist. Green beans and chicken and mashed potatoes too. You ate until you looked like you were going to drop right there into the macaroni which you previously loved but no longer even like.
So we shuttled you off fast as we could back into the car and down the highway until we arrived safely back at the house. For a minute you played rough games with dad and did a masterful job of looking fresh as a new day. But I caught you yawning and whisked you to the bath to wash the bar-b-que that your defiant hands pressed into your hair.
And there, my sweet son, with the warm water lapping ducks into your tiny ribs, you were my baby again. You splashed with your toys for only a minute before you stood and turned to me and covered me with one wet hug after another. You delivered sweet, sleepy kisses reserved only for the truly deliriously tired days into my shoulder while you lay your head against my cheek.
With a sopping wet shirt I scooped you out of the water and loved you close to me, soaking up the simple goodness of mother and child. "You are blessed among women," I though to myself, wondering how I fortuned into a life full of such joy.
After coffee and breakfast (so much breakfast!) we headed out - me, you, dad, and the pup- for a stroll down the hill to the park with the ducks. There you gave me - only me - rock presents carefully chosen from the playground floor and then you and dad climbed to the tippy top of the tall fort tower, where you hollared "Hewoah" and "H-e-e-y" to early morning run-walkers who weren't as friendly as you! And then down you slid on the big yellow slide once, twice, three times - then four - before you took a turn on the swing and wound up face first in the gravel.
But you didn't cry! Not my brave boy! Instead, you ran after the ducks and tried to swim and met a new doggy and ran back and forth across the wooden bridge --- but never to me, because you were afraid I'd lock you up in the big red stroller.
After the walk, you were so tired, so very, very tired, that your eyelids drooped and you stumbled every where you zig-zaggedly tried to go. So you and I went upstairs with a warm bottle and a pile of books and we read and read until you convinced me that you didn't really need to sleep - just rest. I relented and let you on the floor where you quickly threw a temper tantrum so fierce that I gave up and put you firmly in the crib so you could take a break or a much, much needed nap.
Eventually, you slept, and for twenty minutes or so Dad and I watched Home and Garden Television like we used to do when we actually cared about the state of our home. Just as our eyelids got heavy and we began to drift away We heard your "I'm awake!" cry and up we shot, ready to play again.
I tried to pick you up from your crib, but you were mad at me! Mad for leaving you to cry. And so you chose Dad until I redeemed myself by reading Dr. Seuss's ABC while Dad did a funny dance.
For lunch you had spaghetti - so much spaghetti! And then it was off to dreamworld while Dad cleaned the bathroom and I caught up on work.
When you woke up we decided to go to real shopping, which required a trip to the big-town! But first - we turned your car seat so that you could face the world like a grown up. Oh the joy!
In the store you were king of the shopping cart and exercised your royal position by throwing down your ball every five seconds so that your loyal subjects might have the honor of retrieving it. On the sidewalk, you refused to hold hands. "I'm a big boy!,” said your fast gait, determined eyes, pursed lips. And so we let you be one until you managed to find the bubbles in Costplus World Market (who knew they had bubbles?) and wouldn't let go!
Shopping done, it was time for dinner out at your first Bar-B-Que joint. Would you believe it? You even said "Bar-B", which made your dad swell with pride as he navigated the Pilot past the restaurant.
When we got there you were mostly good, looking at books and kids and coloring for the very first time! But when dinner came, Mommy could not help you! Oh no, food delivered by any hand other than your own was worthy of the floor alone.
But you ate! Oh how you ate! Corn on the cob - one in each fist. Green beans and chicken and mashed potatoes too. You ate until you looked like you were going to drop right there into the macaroni which you previously loved but no longer even like.
So we shuttled you off fast as we could back into the car and down the highway until we arrived safely back at the house. For a minute you played rough games with dad and did a masterful job of looking fresh as a new day. But I caught you yawning and whisked you to the bath to wash the bar-b-que that your defiant hands pressed into your hair.
And there, my sweet son, with the warm water lapping ducks into your tiny ribs, you were my baby again. You splashed with your toys for only a minute before you stood and turned to me and covered me with one wet hug after another. You delivered sweet, sleepy kisses reserved only for the truly deliriously tired days into my shoulder while you lay your head against my cheek.
With a sopping wet shirt I scooped you out of the water and loved you close to me, soaking up the simple goodness of mother and child. "You are blessed among women," I though to myself, wondering how I fortuned into a life full of such joy.
6/22/12
Having It All
Today I read another blog
About whether I can ever
Truly "Have it All."
I used to say:
Hell, yes!
I can have it all!
And my career-climbing
high-achieving
testosterone-mimicking
actions reflected it.
And then I had a baby,
and learned that some aspects
of femininity cannot be denied
And I said,
With droopy eyes
(Ok - not just eyes)
And guilt-laden heart:
"Definitely not."
Now I have a toddler
And I am getting more sleep
And I say:
"It depends."
You're thinking,
"That's a cop-out!
Weak woman,
You need to take a position!"
Well, I do take a position:
And I still say:
It depends
On how you define
"All."
I think there is something
In the human heart
So bent on striving
That we find it hard to function
If we aren't in pursuit.
So - we often don't even know
A cushy destination
When we're sitting
On a plush sofa
With laundry - so much laundry! -
Strewn all around us
Watching episode after episode
Of Parks and Recreation
And laughing so hard it hurts
With our husband beside us
And our child safely, sweetly
Sleeping
In the well-appointed nursery
upstairs
(and yes, I'm just speaking generally here).
I'll go even further:
I'm a Christian
And I so desperately try
To be a good one.
I pray HARD
to be better
and read endless devotionals
and have long-winded
conversations about the direction of life
with my patient spouse.
But the truth -
the very, very difficult truth -
Is that effort in the form of
Devotional reading, philosophizing, and
effort-filled requests isn't going
To get me where I am going.
I'm already going where I am going
Because of grace!
And the effort of Another.
So the question for me
Isn't really:
Can I have it all?
The question becomes
What do I do with it All?
Because I'm pretty sure
I'm already there.
About whether I can ever
Truly "Have it All."
I used to say:
Hell, yes!
I can have it all!
And my career-climbing
high-achieving
testosterone-mimicking
actions reflected it.
And then I had a baby,
and learned that some aspects
of femininity cannot be denied
And I said,
With droopy eyes
(Ok - not just eyes)
And guilt-laden heart:
"Definitely not."
Now I have a toddler
And I am getting more sleep
And I say:
"It depends."
You're thinking,
"That's a cop-out!
Weak woman,
You need to take a position!"
Well, I do take a position:
And I still say:
It depends
On how you define
"All."
I think there is something
In the human heart
So bent on striving
That we find it hard to function
If we aren't in pursuit.
So - we often don't even know
A cushy destination
When we're sitting
On a plush sofa
With laundry - so much laundry! -
Strewn all around us
Watching episode after episode
Of Parks and Recreation
And laughing so hard it hurts
With our husband beside us
And our child safely, sweetly
Sleeping
In the well-appointed nursery
upstairs
(and yes, I'm just speaking generally here).
I'll go even further:
I'm a Christian
And I so desperately try
To be a good one.
I pray HARD
to be better
and read endless devotionals
and have long-winded
conversations about the direction of life
with my patient spouse.
But the truth -
the very, very difficult truth -
Is that effort in the form of
Devotional reading, philosophizing, and
effort-filled requests isn't going
To get me where I am going.
I'm already going where I am going
Because of grace!
And the effort of Another.
So the question for me
Isn't really:
Can I have it all?
The question becomes
What do I do with it All?
Because I'm pretty sure
I'm already there.
6/21/12
Bright Whites
This is to the man who walked
With a joyful bounce
In front of my car
At a four way stop,
Hindering me from
Returning to my office
With my bag of ill-chosen
But frenzy-inducing
Fast food:
Sir, you were impossible to miss!
With bleach-white socks
Pulled tight with precision and care
Illuminating your feet, ankles,
and most of your calves.
Oblivious to my disdain
For your taste in lower-leg-sleeves
You turned and smiled at me
And gave me the
Friendliest wave ---
As if the world were
Your oyster
And should be mine too.
I am still thinking of you
Many hours later
And remembering with a fond smile
Your now-endearing
Fashion disaster.
With a joyful bounce
In front of my car
At a four way stop,
Hindering me from
Returning to my office
With my bag of ill-chosen
But frenzy-inducing
Fast food:
Sir, you were impossible to miss!
With bleach-white socks
Pulled tight with precision and care
Illuminating your feet, ankles,
and most of your calves.
Oblivious to my disdain
For your taste in lower-leg-sleeves
You turned and smiled at me
And gave me the
Friendliest wave ---
As if the world were
Your oyster
And should be mine too.
I am still thinking of you
Many hours later
And remembering with a fond smile
Your now-endearing
Fashion disaster.
5/30/12
Bianco Chapter 2
The Funeral
When we got back to the house with the mail, Zooley - my super annoying, "I'm so-much-more-mature-than-you" big sister - was hysterical. She opened the door for us and, with mascara that she wasn't allowed to wear running down her face - she cry-stuttered:
"B-b--b-b" and then she grabbed my mom and cried in that way that teenage girls do.
My mom, with one hand still on the stroller, stroked her hair and said "Oh honey, I'm sure it's not so bad. What happened? Is it a boy?"
Zooley tried to answer and then just burried her head in my mom's shoulder again and started sobbing hysterically. Iris, who had been chewing happily on the hair of one of Zooley's old Barbie dolls, looked back and forth from my mom and Zooley, and then she started to cry too.
Girls.
Mom pushed the stroller in over the doorstoop and, with her stroller hand, she pulled the door shut behind us all. Still holding Zooley, she motioned to me to grab the Kleenex. I rolled my eyes, but I grabbed the box and bought it over.
"Zoo, Zoo . . ." Mom said, "What on earth could possibly be that bad?"
After a few more dramatic cries and a big nose blow that I should have recorded on my phone, Zooley sat down in the chair and weakly stammered:
"Bart, oh poor B-b-b-art . . ." before burying her head in her hands.
I don't know what came over me. Maybe it was the way Zooley called me Pipsqueak at the rec department in front of 6 foot tall girl-bully Stacey Jernigan, or maybe it was the fact that Bartholomew ate my gerbil Hank last year, or maybe it was just a combo of the sun and the talking sparrow, but before I could stop myself I blurted out:
"Bartholomew is dead."
Zooley pulled her head out of her hands and just stared at me, mom said "Oh honey!", and Iris began to cry in earnest. I decided it was time to jet.
"Going over to Sam's!" I called over my shoulder as I pulled at the still moist door handle.
I was 2.2 seconds from freedom when Zooley said: "'You're not going to come to the funeral?"
I paused for a milisecond too long, and Mom said: "Bianco, I think you should stay here to support your sister."
I groaned. I was so close!
Twenty minutes later, instead of playing Madden with Sam, I found myself in the McGruder's back yard discussing "arrangments" for an old, fat, mean cat. Mom had given me several I-mean-business looks, so I was trying to appear respectful, but . . . the truth was: I did not think I was going to miss Bartholomew very much.
It's not that I don't like animals. I have a boxer named Greg, and we are TIGHT. I mean, he is the ONLY creature on the planet who knows that I wet the bed last Fourth of July (Give a guy some respect! We went to Taco Bell and got to mix our own sodas!). Greg is awesome. And I really liked Hank too. He was a very cute little gerbil and seemed to really like my original rendition of Weezer's Sweater Song (my dad has super excellent taste in old music).
But Bartholomew??? Bartholomew is . . . err, was . . . a different story.
For starters, I am allergic to cats. Everyone in my family knows this, but they STILL let him in our house. And that cat made it his job to be everywhere that I was. I found Bartholomew hair on my pillow, on my clothes, even in the shower.
Also, he was not very nice. This wasn't the cute little kitty that comes arches its back on your leg and purrs for you to scratch his ears. This was deamon kitty. He was a scratcher, and a biter - and HE ATE MY GERBIL.
Finally, Bartholomew wasn't even our cat, but he was always at our place, begging for handouts. He especially liked my fruit roll ups, and sometimes batted them right out of my hand. Cats aren't even supposed to like people food!
So, I wasn't altogether sad that we woudn't be seeing Bartholomew anymore, but everyone else sure was. I don't know what Mr. McGruder does during the day, but on the weekend he makes money by playing some bagpipes he inherited from his dad at rich people weddings. After a proper burial spot was chosen under the old oak tree, Mr. McGruder busted out the bagpipes and played the loudest, saddest song I'd ever heard. Then Zooley recited some poem she knew from school, and Iris insisted that the Barbie whose hair she had been chewing earlier be buried next to the box containing Bartholomew. Ms. McGruder said some prayer about cats going to heaven, and Zooley began to cry again. My mom put a comforting arm around her. I wiped some sweat off of my lip and tried to look solemn, which wasn't too hard since I had a headache from the bagpipes.
With a ceremonial salute, Mr. McGruder picked up the shovel, and was about to drop the first clod of dirt over Bartholomew's box when Iris, who had wandered closer to the MacGruder's porch, screamed. Mr. McGruder dropped the shovel, dirt went flying through the air, and everyone ran to Iris. We got there just in time to see the long black tail of a snake slither under the porch.
My mom grabbed Iris, tears running down her ashen face, and everyone gathered close - making sure that she was just scared and not bitten. Mrs. McGruder was already on the phone, asking the operator for the number of an exterminator. Mr. McGruder was peering under the porch where the snake disappeared, his bare legs sticking out underneath his ceremonial kilt, and Zooley - only Zooley - was wandering back to the soon-to-be cat cemetary under the oak tree. She bent on her knees near the still-open grave and - after rubbing her eyes twice - called back to the group in a hollow, deadpan voice:
"He's gone."
As everyone ran back to the grave to see for themselves the vacant hole, I watched a sparrow hop from the tree to the nearby fence, and I thought I heard a quiet call:
Be-ware, be-ware, be-ware the night. Barthomew is de-ead!
Bianco: The Beginning
Chapter 1: The Warning
On the day that my neighbor's cat, Bartholomew, died, the sparrow told me first.I was trudging up the hill from the mailbox with my mom, bouncing a basketball beside me as I walked. I looked up just as we passed the "Summit Lane" road sign and saw the sparrow sitting there, right above the "i" --- exactly where he always was.
"Hello Sparrow," I said, just like I had for as long as I could remember.
I turned the basketball on my hand, ready to bounce it again, when I heard it:
"Bart . . . Bart . . . Bartholmew is de -ead, de-ead, de-ead."
I jerked my head up and looked wildly around, left and right, to see who was talking. My mom was pushing my little sister Iris in the stroller. Mom's face was red and sweaty, and the only thing she seemed concerned about was getting up the hill. It was pretty obvious that she didn't say it.
I took off my favorite Chicago Bears hat and rubbed my ear to make sure that I wasn't hearing things, and then I heard the sparrow whistle. I looked directly at him and - sure enough - he sang:
"Be - ware, ware, ware: Barthomew is de-ead, de-ead, de-ead."
"Are you talking?" I said - stupidly, because I had just seen him talking. The bird cocked his head and stared at me, and so I asked him again:
"Hey - are you talking to me?"
My mom, now half way up the hill, turned and looked at me, sweat running down her nose:
"Bianco, who are you talking to?"
The bird whistled again and then - just as plain as day - he winked at me.
"Bianco - I'm asking you a question! Who are you talking to?" My mom asked-ordered.
"Ummm - no one." I mumbled, not about to tell her I was talking to a winking bird. She already thought I made up enough stuff.
"Ok - well, catch up. We'll wait on you," she said.
I took one last look at the sparrow, and he looked back at me. I began to run to catch up to Mom and Iris, and I heard one last warning as I jogged up the hill:
"Be-ware, be-ware, be-ware the night! Bartholomew is dead!"
5/24/12
Uphill Climb
Some days
Some weeks
Some years
It is all uphill
on a sputtering
volcano
without
any shoes.
At first
Days,
Weeks,
Years
Like that
Are mostly O.K.
"I'm learning a lot!"
You say,
optimistically -
sure that everything
will work out
in the end.
And then,
you get tired
of all this learning.
You just want
things to be like
they were . . .
never mind that you
didn't like the way things were
when you were there.
So you get angry.
You pout and kick and
scream and stomp
and wonder
"Why am I here?"
You start sentences
in your head like:
"If God really loved me . . ."
And then you stop the
blasphemy - but you
kind of wonder.
Then you realize that your
attitude is all wrong.
God does love you!
He wants something
better for you then you could have
planned for yourself.
That's why you are
going through all of this!
So - you make up your
mind to blaze forward
harder, braver, with more
effort and enthusiasm.
God must want you here, right?
I mean - you're here. So this must
be the right place. Right?
You get up in the morning
and you chant "Persevere!
Persevere! Persevere!"
You drink your morning coffee
Your lunch coffee
Your 4 pm coffee
And your 6 pm diet coke
And you play your
"Eye of the Tiger"
- or whatever -
to give you something
to jitter to in your car.
You think great thoughts
in the shower
and at 4 am (when you are still awake
because of all that coffee)
and you are sure that
great things are
coming . . .
just around the corner.
Soon you are tired
and dehydrated
and dangerously hopeful -
and you make
a big leap,
a grand gesture,
a "Watch my perseverance
pay off!"
kind of move,
and - you fall
splickity splat flat
on your wide-eyed
face.
And you are so tired
so very, very tired
that you cry!
Right there
in front of God
and everybody (which
includes your boss
and a couple of those skeptical men
who make jokes about hormonal
women).
You replace your coffee breaks with tears
And you feel real good and sorry for yourself.
I mean, you've done everything you could do,
right?
And then you hear:
Be Still
And you think:
It can't be that simple, right?
I've been optimistic,
and mad,
and patient,
and hopeful,
and depressed.
Now you want me
to just be still?
So you try.
You try really hard.
But you're not very good at being still!
You're better at walking
uphill
on a sputtering volcano
without any shoes.
But - out of options,
you take a seat
Right where you are.
You look at the terrain
You've covered,
At the lessons you've learned,
at the hopes you've hoped
At the dreams you've dashed
And - with no other plan -
You cling to faith
And pray it intercedes.
Some weeks
Some years
It is all uphill
on a sputtering
volcano
without
any shoes.
At first
Days,
Weeks,
Years
Like that
Are mostly O.K.
"I'm learning a lot!"
You say,
optimistically -
sure that everything
will work out
in the end.
And then,
you get tired
of all this learning.
You just want
things to be like
they were . . .
never mind that you
didn't like the way things were
when you were there.
So you get angry.
You pout and kick and
scream and stomp
and wonder
"Why am I here?"
You start sentences
in your head like:
"If God really loved me . . ."
And then you stop the
blasphemy - but you
kind of wonder.
Then you realize that your
attitude is all wrong.
God does love you!
He wants something
better for you then you could have
planned for yourself.
That's why you are
going through all of this!
So - you make up your
mind to blaze forward
harder, braver, with more
effort and enthusiasm.
God must want you here, right?
I mean - you're here. So this must
be the right place. Right?
You get up in the morning
and you chant "Persevere!
Persevere! Persevere!"
You drink your morning coffee
Your lunch coffee
Your 4 pm coffee
And your 6 pm diet coke
And you play your
"Eye of the Tiger"
- or whatever -
to give you something
to jitter to in your car.
You think great thoughts
in the shower
and at 4 am (when you are still awake
because of all that coffee)
and you are sure that
great things are
coming . . .
just around the corner.
Soon you are tired
and dehydrated
and dangerously hopeful -
and you make
a big leap,
a grand gesture,
a "Watch my perseverance
pay off!"
kind of move,
and - you fall
splickity splat flat
on your wide-eyed
face.
And you are so tired
so very, very tired
that you cry!
Right there
in front of God
and everybody (which
includes your boss
and a couple of those skeptical men
who make jokes about hormonal
women).
You replace your coffee breaks with tears
And you feel real good and sorry for yourself.
I mean, you've done everything you could do,
right?
And then you hear:
Be Still
And you think:
It can't be that simple, right?
I've been optimistic,
and mad,
and patient,
and hopeful,
and depressed.
Now you want me
to just be still?
So you try.
You try really hard.
But you're not very good at being still!
You're better at walking
uphill
on a sputtering volcano
without any shoes.
But - out of options,
you take a seat
Right where you are.
You look at the terrain
You've covered,
At the lessons you've learned,
at the hopes you've hoped
At the dreams you've dashed
And - with no other plan -
You cling to faith
And pray it intercedes.
5/22/12
Enough
New International Version (©1984)
"It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery." Galations 5:1
My 18 year old cousin is a beauty:
Long blonde hair, athletic body, a smile that sparkles.
She is ornamented in a GAP top, designer jeans, shoes meant to be rugged that probably cost a fortune.
I have not seen her in months, and as we catch up she talks with me in an unfamiliar cadence, something borrowed from her friends or a movie or maybe a celebrity on tv.
I follow her on Facebook and know about her life from her pictures and her posts. It's a good life. She is a sports star, a popular girl; she has had many cute boyfriends. I am happy for her. Any-age-teen can be rough, but it doesn't look so bad for her. She's one of the lucky ones that has emerged on her feet.
As we chat, I wait for the jealousy to seep in. My own adolescence was a far cry from hers, and I am accustomed to envy on behalf of my awkward past. I wait for it . . . but it doesn't come. Instead, a new thought surprises me, a splash of cold water to the soul: I realize as we talk that I want more for her, so much more for her.
It's hard to articulate, and it sounds like judgment. At first it feels that way too. I barely know her. Should I assume that she is shallow and lacking because she seems to be navigating high school with ease? That's not really what I meant.
My reaction to her coolness is visceral but not malicious or condemning. I know - intuitively if not personally - that my cousin has great worth wholly apart from her facade. And what I desire is for her to know it too. I ache to free her from the cultural constraints that demean her unwitting soul, to show her that she is enough. Period. And yet I sit silent. It will be years before she is ready for my sermon. The trouble with refinement is that it requires passing through the fire. As all who have gone before have witnessed, no lecture or textbook can substitute for the kiln of life.
So although I cannot save her grief, my observations reflect a plank in my own eye with which I must reckon. How many times recently have I pled with my Father to accessorize my life with success and railed against him when he withheld? As I think over the nature my prayers from the last few months, I am humbled by the simple realization that my Father wants more for me than my requests. I ask for things to bolster my value; enhance my sense of self-worth. Benevolently, my Father withholds. It is only as I quiet my rebellion and accept my circumstance that I can hear him whisper - softly and gently - that with Him and to Him, I am enough. Period.
Thank you, Oh God, for the freeing of my soul!
"It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery." Galations 5:1
My 18 year old cousin is a beauty:
Long blonde hair, athletic body, a smile that sparkles.
She is ornamented in a GAP top, designer jeans, shoes meant to be rugged that probably cost a fortune.
I have not seen her in months, and as we catch up she talks with me in an unfamiliar cadence, something borrowed from her friends or a movie or maybe a celebrity on tv.
I follow her on Facebook and know about her life from her pictures and her posts. It's a good life. She is a sports star, a popular girl; she has had many cute boyfriends. I am happy for her. Any-age-teen can be rough, but it doesn't look so bad for her. She's one of the lucky ones that has emerged on her feet.
As we chat, I wait for the jealousy to seep in. My own adolescence was a far cry from hers, and I am accustomed to envy on behalf of my awkward past. I wait for it . . . but it doesn't come. Instead, a new thought surprises me, a splash of cold water to the soul: I realize as we talk that I want more for her, so much more for her.
It's hard to articulate, and it sounds like judgment. At first it feels that way too. I barely know her. Should I assume that she is shallow and lacking because she seems to be navigating high school with ease? That's not really what I meant.
My reaction to her coolness is visceral but not malicious or condemning. I know - intuitively if not personally - that my cousin has great worth wholly apart from her facade. And what I desire is for her to know it too. I ache to free her from the cultural constraints that demean her unwitting soul, to show her that she is enough. Period. And yet I sit silent. It will be years before she is ready for my sermon. The trouble with refinement is that it requires passing through the fire. As all who have gone before have witnessed, no lecture or textbook can substitute for the kiln of life.
So although I cannot save her grief, my observations reflect a plank in my own eye with which I must reckon. How many times recently have I pled with my Father to accessorize my life with success and railed against him when he withheld? As I think over the nature my prayers from the last few months, I am humbled by the simple realization that my Father wants more for me than my requests. I ask for things to bolster my value; enhance my sense of self-worth. Benevolently, my Father withholds. It is only as I quiet my rebellion and accept my circumstance that I can hear him whisper - softly and gently - that with Him and to Him, I am enough. Period.
Thank you, Oh God, for the freeing of my soul!
5/20/12
Sunday Best
It is 8:05 am, and my son is rubbing his eyes. He doesn't usually nap this early. In fact, some mornings, he doesn't nap at all anymore. We just finished a family breakfast of pancakes and fruit, and the carbs must be doing him in. I dab at his banana-caked face with a paper towel and hastily make plans that will enable us to get to early (a.k.a. less-crowded nursery) church.
"Ok," I say to Theo, "You get the pork in the crock pot for small group tonight and jump in the shower, and I'll take care of the baby. When you're ready, I'll shower."
My husband, who is gathering the plates and picking up a sippy cup off the ground, says, "New plan. I'll take care of the pork, you take care of the baby. Then you shower and get ready, and we'll swap."
I smile. He knows me well, and he must really want to get to church on time.
I grab Collin and head upstairs for a diaper change. On the way up, I start to hear the whiny, "I'm tired" cry.
"Can you grab me a warm bottle?" I call as I round the corner to the nursery.
A few minutes later, a sleep sacked Collin is sitting in my lap, bottle in hand. His piano CD, which he has listened to at nap time and bed time almost every day since he was born, is playing. He is pretending like he isn't tired, but every thirty seconds or so he lays his head against my chest. I close my eyes, hoping it will encourage him to do likewise. I feel little fingers in my nose, then on my teeth, then against my cheek. I try not to smile as I take his hand and hold it gentle-firm in my hand. He begins to relax against me, and - after a few minutes - I peek to see if he is still awake. He is, but he is staring blankly at the curtains and sucking furiously on his pacifier. A few more minutes pass, and he is out.
His right arm is tucked under my left arm and his body is stretched out horizontally across my lap until his legs fall off the end. I can remember a time - not so very long ago - when his whole body fit between my arms. Last night, I showed him a picture of himself at that stage. I pointed to the picture to practice his name and said, "Col-lin."
He smiled, clapped his hands and says "Ba-by?!"
You're still my baby! I wanted to say. But, instead, with feigned enthusiasm, I said, "That's right, it's a baby!," and I put him down on the ground, on two feet, so he could tot away.
My time rocking him to sleep is limited. Most days, he can't get comfortable on me. Right now is an exception, and I am soaking it up. I know I need to get a move on it so we can get to church, and I promise myself I will -- in just 2 more minutes.
In the meantime, I finger his curls and think of his grandmother saying, "He is the only Lu with curly hair!" I find the little patch of auburn - his "mommy stripe" - in his otherwise dark hair and I lift it up, thinking of how much I love every little hair on his head.
My two minutes are up and I move my hands to lift him to the crib, but there is something so special about this fleeting moment that I pause. I know that I am making a decision between going to church with dirty hair or clean, but I am now mommy-drunk with love for this baby. I relax my grip and settle back into the rocker.
As I listen to his rhythmic breath, I find myself wondering if God cares whether I am fixed up for church. It seems disrespectful to show up half-dirty week after week, but things like this always seem to interfere. My tired thoughts begin to wonder, and I find myself hypothesizing about whether Jesus would go to church with dirty hair if he was a woman in the Bible-belt South. (I didn't promise that this was going to be scholarly!).
As soon as I think the question, I know the answer. If it meant that he got to hold on and love one of his precious children (including me!) for an extra thirty minutes, of course he would chose the dirty hair! He endured humiliation, shame, and death so that he could save us at our worst. A sacrificed shower seems rather minor . . .
Once again, motherhood has pointed me up. Thanks be to God!
"Ok," I say to Theo, "You get the pork in the crock pot for small group tonight and jump in the shower, and I'll take care of the baby. When you're ready, I'll shower."
My husband, who is gathering the plates and picking up a sippy cup off the ground, says, "New plan. I'll take care of the pork, you take care of the baby. Then you shower and get ready, and we'll swap."
I smile. He knows me well, and he must really want to get to church on time.
I grab Collin and head upstairs for a diaper change. On the way up, I start to hear the whiny, "I'm tired" cry.
"Can you grab me a warm bottle?" I call as I round the corner to the nursery.
A few minutes later, a sleep sacked Collin is sitting in my lap, bottle in hand. His piano CD, which he has listened to at nap time and bed time almost every day since he was born, is playing. He is pretending like he isn't tired, but every thirty seconds or so he lays his head against my chest. I close my eyes, hoping it will encourage him to do likewise. I feel little fingers in my nose, then on my teeth, then against my cheek. I try not to smile as I take his hand and hold it gentle-firm in my hand. He begins to relax against me, and - after a few minutes - I peek to see if he is still awake. He is, but he is staring blankly at the curtains and sucking furiously on his pacifier. A few more minutes pass, and he is out.
His right arm is tucked under my left arm and his body is stretched out horizontally across my lap until his legs fall off the end. I can remember a time - not so very long ago - when his whole body fit between my arms. Last night, I showed him a picture of himself at that stage. I pointed to the picture to practice his name and said, "Col-lin."
He smiled, clapped his hands and says "Ba-by?!"
You're still my baby! I wanted to say. But, instead, with feigned enthusiasm, I said, "That's right, it's a baby!," and I put him down on the ground, on two feet, so he could tot away.
My time rocking him to sleep is limited. Most days, he can't get comfortable on me. Right now is an exception, and I am soaking it up. I know I need to get a move on it so we can get to church, and I promise myself I will -- in just 2 more minutes.
In the meantime, I finger his curls and think of his grandmother saying, "He is the only Lu with curly hair!" I find the little patch of auburn - his "mommy stripe" - in his otherwise dark hair and I lift it up, thinking of how much I love every little hair on his head.
My two minutes are up and I move my hands to lift him to the crib, but there is something so special about this fleeting moment that I pause. I know that I am making a decision between going to church with dirty hair or clean, but I am now mommy-drunk with love for this baby. I relax my grip and settle back into the rocker.
As I listen to his rhythmic breath, I find myself wondering if God cares whether I am fixed up for church. It seems disrespectful to show up half-dirty week after week, but things like this always seem to interfere. My tired thoughts begin to wonder, and I find myself hypothesizing about whether Jesus would go to church with dirty hair if he was a woman in the Bible-belt South. (I didn't promise that this was going to be scholarly!).
As soon as I think the question, I know the answer. If it meant that he got to hold on and love one of his precious children (including me!) for an extra thirty minutes, of course he would chose the dirty hair! He endured humiliation, shame, and death so that he could save us at our worst. A sacrificed shower seems rather minor . . .
Once again, motherhood has pointed me up. Thanks be to God!
5/17/12
Growing Up in Georgia 4-H
A speech for the Whitfield County 4-H Club.
* To be completely honest, Jennifer Nettles would have no idea who I am today. However, we did speak one time when she told me I couldn't change out of wet socks at camp because I needed to get to a dance at the rec hall. Fortunately, Mr. Dollar intervened and let me change my socks anyway. At any rate, it is cool that I had one brush with someone soon-to-be famous.
Throughout
the years, I have been asked to defend Georgia 4-H in many different
situations. From college friends who
thought of it as a hick organization to state legislators who have asked me if
the program is still relevant in a time of budget cuts, I have had many chances
to give a list of bullet points describing the value of the program. I have always struggled in these
conversations and situations because 4-H has had such a tremendous impact on my
life that it is hard to summarize in 30 seconds. Often, after listing a few attributes such as
4-H’s ability to develop leaders and its ability to educate youth in
non-traditional settings, I conclude by saying something that sounds cliché
like: 4-H has made the person I am today. Most people don’t give me an opportunity to
explain what I mean by that, but I’d like to take the next few minutes to share
my story with you.
I grew
up in Claxton, Georgia on a farm. My
grandparents lived right down the road from me, and I spent countless hours at
their house snooping through their closets and drawers to find out more about my dad
and how he grew up. One day, when I was
tall enough to see it, I found a closet shelf full of trophies. Nana explained that the trophies were my
dad’s old 4-H awards from steer shows and project achievement. She told me all about the projects he
participated in while he was in 4-H. It
sounded like so much fun! I couldn’t
wait until I was old enough to participate.
In
fifth grade, 4-H became even more attractive.
My dad came up with the great idea that summer to put my older sister,
younger brother, and me out in peanut fields every morning to weed these
terrible things called citrens out of the peanuts by hand. Every day for about 4 hours, we literally
crawled through peanut fields doing this.
He paid us $2.00 an hour, but he wouldn’t let us spend the money because
he said we needed to save up. I truly hated
this job!
During
the third week in June 1992, I got a break from peanut weeding to go to 4-H
camp. It was nothing short of
magical! For a whole week, I got to go
swimming, canoeing, learn archery, and meet friends from all over the state. It was one of the most wonderful experiences
in my life. After camp, I wrote a letter
to my cabin’s counselor, Mac Gunnels, thanking him and all of the other
counselors for such a wonderful week.
Would you believe it? He wrote
back! He told me that he read my letter
to all of the counselors at camp and that it made them cry. That was amazing to me and was probably the
very first time that I learned that something I said or wrote could have a truly
positive impact on others. He asked me
to keep in touch and let him know about my future 4-H experiences. I did.
Through most of middle school and a little of high school, I stayed in
touch. In 6th grade, I told
him about my decision to accept Christ, and he celebrated with me with the
nicest letter. During times in high
school when so many of my friends made fun of that decision and what it
represented, I thought of his support and how nice it was to know that someone
I looked up to supported my decision.
As you
can imagine, I continued to do everything I could in 4-H because (1) it got me
off the farm; and (2) it continued to expose me to the most wonderful people
and experiences. Our county agents,
Mike Dollar and Tonya Beasley, seemed to ALWAYS have time for me – no matter
how busy they were. They would let me
sit in their office and talk with them, often well past 5 o’clock, about
whatever was on my mind. Now – years
later – I don’t remember much about the conversations, but I do remember the
amazing investment in time that they gave me.
In fact, when I was making my most recent career transition, it was my county agents that I thought most often about.
I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up, but I knew who I
wanted to be like. Because of their
patience and positive support, they were names that came up most often to the top
of my list.
4-H
gave me wonderful opportunities to explore things that I thought I was
interested in. In middle school, I just
knew I wanted to be a veterinarian. I
asked my dad to help me with my projects on dog care and swine, and he did more
than that. One Saturday morning, he came
to the house and told me to hop in the truck.
He drove over to a lot on the farm where people were staring at a poor
cow that was obviously in distress. My
dad explained that she was trying to deliver twins that were co-joined
at the head, and he told me to pay attention to the vet that was helping
her. Two minutes later, I was back in
the truck, white as a sheet. Without any
college loans to pay back, I knew that I needed to change my future career
path. I attribute that experience fully
to my involvement in 4-H and the conversations that my dad and I had as a
result of that involvement.
After
the cow incident, I switched my project to public speaking. I spent the next several years giving
speeches – first in my community, and then all over the state. You have no idea how valuable those
experiences were - and continue to be - to me.
During my third year in law school, I did an externship with a local
attorney named John Williams. As part of
the externship, I tagged along with him to courthouses all over eastern
Virginia. One day, he asked me if I
wanted to defend a client in a criminal trial.
Thinking I would have plenty of time to prepare with him, I said,
“Sure!”
He smiled at me and asked, “Can you be ready to go in thirty minutes?”
Let me tell you, I was scared out
of my mind. A real trial, impacting real
people, in a real courtroom looks very different when you are a third year,
inexperienced law student than it does when you are watching it on tv. I walked to the client room where I was to
meet the defendant for the first time, and I thought about running back to John
and telling him that I just couldn’t do it.
But – at that very moment – I thought about all the times I had done
public speeches in 4-H when I was scared, and I realized that if I could do
that then that I could handle this case now.
I walked through the door, met my client, and conducted my very first
trial that afternoon.
If you participate in enough 4-H
activities, you eventually end up with friends all over the state. I am proud to say that Keri Gandy Hobbs, who
I met when we were hanging up our officer candidate signs at the Canteen at
Rock Eagle in 7th grade, Leigh Varnadoe, who I went on a leadership
tour of Georgia with as a tenth grader, Kelle Spencer Ashley, who I was a
counselor with at Rock Eagle, and Marcy McElveen Pugliese, who was my best
Evans County 4-H friend, just threw me a baby shower last year. Emily Howard Watson, who I planned meetings
with as a fellow Jr. Board officer in middle school, now participates with me
in meetings as a co-worker at the Archway Partnership at the University of
Georgia. And – to name drop a little –
Jennifer Nettles, who is the principal singer in Sugerland, was my cabin’s
“Milk Mama” at Rock Eagle in 7th grade.* With the exception of Marcy - all of these
people lived hours away from me, but we were able to grow up together because
of our experiences in Georgia 4-H.
I could go on for hours about my
experiences in 4-H and still not be able to fully recount the profound impact
it has had on my life. As I mentioned at
the outset, it has made me the person I am today in so many different
ways. And – lucky for me - my story isn’t over
yet. As my life progresses, I look forward to adding onto my story and onto this speech. But - tonight, I look forward to learning
a little about your stories and seeing how 4-H is making a difference in your
life too. Congratulations on your awards and good luck as you daily try to make the best even better.
* To be completely honest, Jennifer Nettles would have no idea who I am today. However, we did speak one time when she told me I couldn't change out of wet socks at camp because I needed to get to a dance at the rec hall. Fortunately, Mr. Dollar intervened and let me change my socks anyway. At any rate, it is cool that I had one brush with someone soon-to-be famous.
5/16/12
Mood Killer
It is an ice cream for dinner kind of day.
You know, the "why don't you take the minutes" and "could you get me some more sweet tea?"
statement-not-really-question kind of day.
A I'll-sit-in-the-spare-room-on-the-old-blue-couch-and-write-poetry kind of day.
A worse-than-6th-grade-with-unshaven-legs-in-shorts-season-kind of day.
Just thinking about this day makes my eyes water and my dog inch closer in concern.
And then ---
my better half arrives to tempt me off the old blue couch with tidings of dinner.
I scowl at his nerve. I'm having a pity party, for Pete's sake!
Just as a tear threatens to snake down my nose, he lifts his arms into the air and begins to flap
them in war eagle fashion. He brings his face down close to mine and stares at me with patient
brown eyes. I want to maintain my frown but my resolve melts as I stare back and comprehend the goofy blessing of this husband of mine.
Stubborn, I reject his dinner and he goes downstairs as I try to continue my doom-and-gloom poetry, but all I can think of is how lucky I am and how good dinner smells.
He reappears and tells me that he is going to eat it all himself, and I realize that I must return the favor and prevent him from self-sabotage. After all, it is time for dessert.
5/10/12
Happy Times
A very good day
is on its way
to nodding off
. . . But not me.
For the first time
Neither workout
------ nor wine!
Is lulling me to sleep.
What should I do?
With this new
Burst of energy?
I'd like to write
(I have time tonight!)
But my inspiration
Is rather weak
I tell my spouse
I'm without a doubt
In need of a
Poetic Muse
Without a hint of a flirt
He whips off his shirt
And grins from
Cheek to cheek.
When its all said and done
This poem's for fun
And not
Its artistic merit
But . . . who cares?
Its a vehicle to share
A fun night with
my family.
is on its way
to nodding off
. . . But not me.
For the first time
Neither workout
------ nor wine!
Is lulling me to sleep.
What should I do?
With this new
Burst of energy?
I'd like to write
(I have time tonight!)
But my inspiration
Is rather weak
I tell my spouse
I'm without a doubt
In need of a
Poetic Muse
Without a hint of a flirt
He whips off his shirt
And grins from
Cheek to cheek.
When its all said and done
This poem's for fun
And not
Its artistic merit
But . . . who cares?
Its a vehicle to share
A fun night with
my family.
4/27/12
Progressive Diner
In my twenties,
Solitary dining was a triumph.
At my well-positioned
table-for-one, I took
elegant bites of
grilled chicken salad
and judgmental sips of
Diet - always diet - Coca-Cola
while perusing my blackberry
to demonstrate that I was confident alone,
but desperately needed.
Now I am 31
And I choose my
table-for-one
outside so I can enjoy
the April weather.
I take my I-Phone out
because I am needed,
but I place it away from
my food -
close enough to see it
light up, but far enough away
that its urgent to-do's
do not disrupt my appetite.
I take my BLT out of
its squeaky white container
and add mayo to the white bread,
understanding that food paid for
is meant to be enjoyed.
I take a hasty bite and gulp water
to wet the desert of my
overly caffeinated mouth
on this 5:20 am kind-of-day.
I look around at tables of
companions, and I envy them . . .
Not because I need a crowd,
but because on this busy day
of posturing and have-to's,
I think I'd enjoy the unpurposed
conversation that comes
when you have lunch
with a friend.
Solitary dining was a triumph.
At my well-positioned
table-for-one, I took
elegant bites of
grilled chicken salad
and judgmental sips of
Diet - always diet - Coca-Cola
while perusing my blackberry
to demonstrate that I was confident alone,
but desperately needed.
Now I am 31
And I choose my
table-for-one
outside so I can enjoy
the April weather.
I take my I-Phone out
because I am needed,
but I place it away from
my food -
close enough to see it
light up, but far enough away
that its urgent to-do's
do not disrupt my appetite.
I take my BLT out of
its squeaky white container
and add mayo to the white bread,
understanding that food paid for
is meant to be enjoyed.
I take a hasty bite and gulp water
to wet the desert of my
overly caffeinated mouth
on this 5:20 am kind-of-day.
I look around at tables of
companions, and I envy them . . .
Not because I need a crowd,
but because on this busy day
of posturing and have-to's,
I think I'd enjoy the unpurposed
conversation that comes
when you have lunch
with a friend.
4/16/12
Unapologetic
In the South
We women
Are overly apologetic.
I discovered this
When my mom
Here to help me
With my new baby
Apologized to her
Visiting Friend
About my noticeable
lack of
a Behind
I also noticed this
When one of my
Childhood Besties
Apologized to
Her Single Friends
For my thoughtless
References to my marriage
While attempting to relate
To them at one of those
awkward
spend-48-hours-with-
awesome-girls-you-don't-
know-bachelorette-parties.
Cut from the same cloth,
I have apologized for
my crying baby;
my shedding dog;
my wonderful but
not always mannerly
husband
(bless his heart!
he was raised in New York!);
my lying friend's
whoppers;
my boss's temper;
my mom and dad
who were not cool enough
to drink (you know,
it's just that alcoholism
runs in our family . . .)
And don't get me
started on myself:
my weight;
my house;
the fact that I sweat when
I am nervous or -
God-forbid -
hot;
my non-cooking;
my aversion to rude
people;
my ugliness;
my beauty;
my jobs botched and
my jobs well-done.
I am, in hindsight,
a professional
apologizer.
In the South
We women
Subscribe to the Bible
For the most part.
But I'm not sure that
This thing that looks
like humility
Is not decades of
oppression
Masked as a Virtue.
I'm also not sure
If it's not a little
Of our God-complex
rearing its prideful head.
Either way, its not
as pretty
or as polite
as it seems.
I think I prefer
The style of
My unapologetic
roomies from law school
Those girls
could tolerate
house temperatures
frigid enough
to freeze
the shampoo
in the shower
And they
could also handle
Life without
Showering themselves
With insults.
I liked those girls!
Well - once I got
used to it.
And I have
a much
healthier relationship
with the one
who expressed anger by refusing to flush the toilet
than I do with
most of my oh-so-polite-
but-what-are-they-really-
thinking
Georgia girls
(and no -
she never
apologized -- not even
for the
number twos).
So I will not
now
apologize
for making
you read this
vertical essay
(ha! you thought
it was
a poem!)
nor will I apologize
for being
Southern
and raised
in this
grand but
OVERRATED
tradition.
Instead, I think
I will just
stop - both the
apologizing and the
essay -
before I accidently
apologize
again
(see previous
paragraph).
THE END
We women
Are overly apologetic.
I discovered this
When my mom
Here to help me
With my new baby
Apologized to her
Visiting Friend
About my noticeable
lack of
a Behind
I also noticed this
When one of my
Childhood Besties
Apologized to
Her Single Friends
For my thoughtless
References to my marriage
While attempting to relate
To them at one of those
awkward
spend-48-hours-with-
awesome-girls-you-don't-
know-bachelorette-parties.
Cut from the same cloth,
I have apologized for
my crying baby;
my shedding dog;
my wonderful but
not always mannerly
husband
(bless his heart!
he was raised in New York!);
my lying friend's
whoppers;
my boss's temper;
my mom and dad
who were not cool enough
to drink (you know,
it's just that alcoholism
runs in our family . . .)
And don't get me
started on myself:
my weight;
my house;
the fact that I sweat when
I am nervous or -
God-forbid -
hot;
my non-cooking;
my aversion to rude
people;
my ugliness;
my beauty;
my jobs botched and
my jobs well-done.
I am, in hindsight,
a professional
apologizer.
In the South
We women
Subscribe to the Bible
For the most part.
But I'm not sure that
This thing that looks
like humility
Is not decades of
oppression
Masked as a Virtue.
I'm also not sure
If it's not a little
Of our God-complex
rearing its prideful head.
Either way, its not
as pretty
or as polite
as it seems.
I think I prefer
The style of
My unapologetic
roomies from law school
Those girls
could tolerate
house temperatures
frigid enough
to freeze
the shampoo
in the shower
And they
could also handle
Life without
Showering themselves
With insults.
I liked those girls!
Well - once I got
used to it.
And I have
a much
healthier relationship
with the one
who expressed anger by refusing to flush the toilet
than I do with
most of my oh-so-polite-
but-what-are-they-really-
thinking
Georgia girls
(and no -
she never
apologized -- not even
for the
number twos).
So I will not
now
apologize
for making
you read this
vertical essay
(ha! you thought
it was
a poem!)
nor will I apologize
for being
Southern
and raised
in this
grand but
OVERRATED
tradition.
Instead, I think
I will just
stop - both the
apologizing and the
essay -
before I accidently
apologize
again
(see previous
paragraph).
THE END
4/11/12
Tough Love
There is this thing
Called Tough Love
And this is what it looks like:
You watching
Someone you love
Hurting themselves
And acting like
They love the vice
More than they love you.
What's so tough about
"Just watching"?
Everything.
Especially when you know
it is all you can do.
Called Tough Love
And this is what it looks like:
You watching
Someone you love
Hurting themselves
And acting like
They love the vice
More than they love you.
What's so tough about
"Just watching"?
Everything.
Especially when you know
it is all you can do.
4/4/12
Reflections of a Business Traveler
Dear Cover on My Hotel Bed:
Who has lain across your spread?
Whose tired feet have stretched their toes
Across your tacky patterned rows?
And whose bare bum - all red and bumpy
Has graced your surface - soft and comfy?
And how many late night indiscretions
Could you reveal in a confession?
And what of all those pay-per-views
That your bedmates have perused?
Oh Cover of My Squeaky Queen
When was the last time you were cleaned?
Something tells me "Not Today"
And so - this evening - let's part ways
I'll slide you off with pincher fingers
And head to the bath - lest your germs linger
(Pause - look around - gag and groan)
Dear Shower in my Borrowed Home . . .
Who has lain across your spread?
Whose tired feet have stretched their toes
Across your tacky patterned rows?
And whose bare bum - all red and bumpy
Has graced your surface - soft and comfy?
And how many late night indiscretions
Could you reveal in a confession?
And what of all those pay-per-views
That your bedmates have perused?
Oh Cover of My Squeaky Queen
When was the last time you were cleaned?
Something tells me "Not Today"
And so - this evening - let's part ways
I'll slide you off with pincher fingers
And head to the bath - lest your germs linger
(Pause - look around - gag and groan)
Dear Shower in my Borrowed Home . . .
3/28/12
Wags
Snooze button +
Grumpy baby +
Burnt coffee +
Angry Me
Equals
A Chihuahua Tail
Wagging
A Saint Bernard
Grumpy baby +
Burnt coffee +
Angry Me
Equals
A Chihuahua Tail
Wagging
A Saint Bernard
3/27/12
To My Baby - On Your First Birthday
Dearest Baby of Mine:
What a joy it has been to get to know you, little one, over the past year and nine months! From those first spazzy kicks in my belly to your excited and adorable way of bouncing up and down (while always yelling and sometimes peeing) in the bathtub, you have delivered so much energy and pizazz to this world! It was a quiet and boring place before you arrived!
I know I should be writing about you, as this is YOUR birthday, but I can't help but reflect on how much you have changed me. First of all - you made me a mother! I was so afraid of this responsibility for so long, but I can barely remember being anything but a mother now. I feel like I was born to be a mother! And I love being your mom so much! Thank you for this privilege. When you hit a time in life (and you will - probably during puberty, when some girl breaks your heart, during your freshman year in college, and after a hard day's work at your first job) and you feel like you are no good and that the world would be better off without you, stop and call me! From your first moment of being, you have been a blessing. You have helped me fulfill my calling --- a calling I didn't even really know I had. Thank you, sweet son!
Second, you remind me - day in and day out - that I am not in control of you or really anything else. You were one heavy baby, and I was very excited to get you out of my tummy and into the world. To my surprise, I had tremendous separation anxiety after you were on the outside. Everywhere I looked, I saw things that could hurt you: dirty hands, the sides of your bassinet, your dad traipsing too quickly down the stairs, your own brain (what if you forgot to breathe?!), gravity . . . the list went on and on. I barely slept for the first three months of your life, afraid that something was going to take you away from me. And then - something did take you away from me: Work! Sending you to daycare was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I literally sobbed the first time I visited your classroom. Your teachers-to-be had to give me hugs! I made Daddy take you to daycare for the first six months because I could not bear to leave you (I still sometimes tear up when I leave --- how I long to spend your days with you!). I prayed and prayed and still pray for peace about leaving you. During one of my prayers, I understood God to say "Don't worry . . . I love your baby and will provide for him exactly what he needs." I wanted to trust God --- but not completely. Truthfully, part of me wanted to feel guilty about leaving you during the day because it meant that maybe - just maybe - I was in control of you. I think I wanted to believe that my choices could protect you from all evil and harm; that by holding you more I could somehow transmit my 30-years-worth of experiences into your little being so that you don't have to make my mistakes or struggle with any demons that I might inadvertently pass on to you. But sweet son - I am beginning to learn a lesson that I will struggle with for the rest of my life: I am not in control. I can chose what I feed you and expose you to, and I will try to make the very best decisions that I can. But the real stuff - the important things - are out of my hands. That is hard for a mama to swallow! But - in the meantime - the understanding that I can't make the real decisions has turned me to the One who can. Thank you for deepening my faith and relationship with our Heavenly Father. As you get older, I hope your Daddy and I can introduce you to Him in a way that is worthy, and I pray that He will mitigate our failings and inadequacies with a lifetime of mercies and blessings just for you.
Finally, you have taught me to love deeper than I understood deep to be. You are so incredibly precious to me. I cannot explain this in detail because there are no words to describe how much I love you. I pray that one day you will know this kind of love too.
I cannot wait to see your life unfold. I am anxious to know all of the details: who will your friends be? what will capture your imagination? what will you choose as a career? who will you marry? where will life take you? I am anxious to know your story, but I'm not in a hurry. In the meantime, I will delight in watching each day of your life unfold and will relish the joy of witnessing you grow into my little man.
Happy First Birthday, Baby Boy!
Love, Mama
What a joy it has been to get to know you, little one, over the past year and nine months! From those first spazzy kicks in my belly to your excited and adorable way of bouncing up and down (while always yelling and sometimes peeing) in the bathtub, you have delivered so much energy and pizazz to this world! It was a quiet and boring place before you arrived!
I know I should be writing about you, as this is YOUR birthday, but I can't help but reflect on how much you have changed me. First of all - you made me a mother! I was so afraid of this responsibility for so long, but I can barely remember being anything but a mother now. I feel like I was born to be a mother! And I love being your mom so much! Thank you for this privilege. When you hit a time in life (and you will - probably during puberty, when some girl breaks your heart, during your freshman year in college, and after a hard day's work at your first job) and you feel like you are no good and that the world would be better off without you, stop and call me! From your first moment of being, you have been a blessing. You have helped me fulfill my calling --- a calling I didn't even really know I had. Thank you, sweet son!
Second, you remind me - day in and day out - that I am not in control of you or really anything else. You were one heavy baby, and I was very excited to get you out of my tummy and into the world. To my surprise, I had tremendous separation anxiety after you were on the outside. Everywhere I looked, I saw things that could hurt you: dirty hands, the sides of your bassinet, your dad traipsing too quickly down the stairs, your own brain (what if you forgot to breathe?!), gravity . . . the list went on and on. I barely slept for the first three months of your life, afraid that something was going to take you away from me. And then - something did take you away from me: Work! Sending you to daycare was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I literally sobbed the first time I visited your classroom. Your teachers-to-be had to give me hugs! I made Daddy take you to daycare for the first six months because I could not bear to leave you (I still sometimes tear up when I leave --- how I long to spend your days with you!). I prayed and prayed and still pray for peace about leaving you. During one of my prayers, I understood God to say "Don't worry . . . I love your baby and will provide for him exactly what he needs." I wanted to trust God --- but not completely. Truthfully, part of me wanted to feel guilty about leaving you during the day because it meant that maybe - just maybe - I was in control of you. I think I wanted to believe that my choices could protect you from all evil and harm; that by holding you more I could somehow transmit my 30-years-worth of experiences into your little being so that you don't have to make my mistakes or struggle with any demons that I might inadvertently pass on to you. But sweet son - I am beginning to learn a lesson that I will struggle with for the rest of my life: I am not in control. I can chose what I feed you and expose you to, and I will try to make the very best decisions that I can. But the real stuff - the important things - are out of my hands. That is hard for a mama to swallow! But - in the meantime - the understanding that I can't make the real decisions has turned me to the One who can. Thank you for deepening my faith and relationship with our Heavenly Father. As you get older, I hope your Daddy and I can introduce you to Him in a way that is worthy, and I pray that He will mitigate our failings and inadequacies with a lifetime of mercies and blessings just for you.
Finally, you have taught me to love deeper than I understood deep to be. You are so incredibly precious to me. I cannot explain this in detail because there are no words to describe how much I love you. I pray that one day you will know this kind of love too.
I cannot wait to see your life unfold. I am anxious to know all of the details: who will your friends be? what will capture your imagination? what will you choose as a career? who will you marry? where will life take you? I am anxious to know your story, but I'm not in a hurry. In the meantime, I will delight in watching each day of your life unfold and will relish the joy of witnessing you grow into my little man.
Happy First Birthday, Baby Boy!
Love, Mama
3/22/12
Pepper's Dayo
A recent work of art by my goofy dad:
Bravo
Arrivo
Bookmarko
Cheerio
Collino
Collino
Way-to-go
Girlo!
3/21/12
A Mom's Perogative
One day a girl will ask me:
'Please tell me what he was like!
I love him so much and
and I want to know:
what was my Collin like as a tike?"
I'll smile at
This sweet little princess
And I'll tell her a thing or two
But my Collin, some things I'll keep secret
Things just between me and you.
'Please tell me what he was like!
I love him so much and
and I want to know:
what was my Collin like as a tike?"
I'll smile at
This sweet little princess
And I'll tell her a thing or two
But my Collin, some things I'll keep secret
Things just between me and you.
Itsy Bitsy
Do I have faith?
Oh yes! My friend,
In things that I can see.
But when it comes to
Everything else
It's as small
As a mustard seed.
Oh yes! My friend,
In things that I can see.
But when it comes to
Everything else
It's as small
As a mustard seed.
Sophisticated
Somehow, somewhere
Along my way
I got so
Sophisticated
I read the news
And dressed in hues
That were classically
Understated.
I learned how to talk
And walk the walk
Blending in
Was a given
I mastered the art
Of the expedited start
Oh my! I was
So driven.
But I soon found
that I was bored
My image was
Overrated
I dropped the act
And made a pact
To recover all that
I'd traded.
I was given an out
A road with less clout
And I took it - hooray for me!
It's not always comfy
But I'll tell you something
It beats tedious
Conformity.
Along my way
I got so
Sophisticated
I read the news
And dressed in hues
That were classically
Understated.
I learned how to talk
And walk the walk
Blending in
Was a given
I mastered the art
Of the expedited start
Oh my! I was
So driven.
But I soon found
that I was bored
My image was
Overrated
I dropped the act
And made a pact
To recover all that
I'd traded.
I was given an out
A road with less clout
And I took it - hooray for me!
It's not always comfy
But I'll tell you something
It beats tedious
Conformity.
3/20/12
Pets
My monsters
They come out at night
Usually around 2 a.m.
They growl and scowl
And bite for spite
And threaten to do me in.
So what do I do
To these little critters
That nightly disrupt my sleep?
I pet them and feed them
And otherwise appease them
In the hopes that my secrets
They'll keep.
They come out at night
Usually around 2 a.m.
They growl and scowl
And bite for spite
And threaten to do me in.
So what do I do
To these little critters
That nightly disrupt my sleep?
I pet them and feed them
And otherwise appease them
In the hopes that my secrets
They'll keep.
Bad News
I do not enjoy
Hearing bad news
Unless it pertains to others
I'm ashamed to say
My neighbor's bad day
Sometimes makes me
Feel so much better.
Hearing bad news
Unless it pertains to others
I'm ashamed to say
My neighbor's bad day
Sometimes makes me
Feel so much better.
3/16/12
Love Story
There is a time
In baby's life
That may not be meant
For baby at all
He won't remember
Our sleepless nights
The endless rocks
Our frustrated tears
He won't know
That he was hard to feed
Prone to spit up
Difficult to burp
These early days
He won't remember
Any single moment
Any hard-won joy
Instead, it seems
This time is just for us
Me and baby's dad
As we learn to love
For the sake of love
And not for ourselves.
Thank you, sweet baby
For your unintended gift
Thanks to you
We will never be the same.
Could there be a more perfect love
Than one so pure
That we do not care
If it is remembered at all?
3/4/12
Ode to Blue Jeans
Oh 30-S
Boy Style
Relaxed Fit
Denim
Let's go out for a walk
It's been awhile
And You and I
My friend
Are overdue
For a talk
We met
In the GAP
4 years back.
We insulted each other
From the start.
"You're fat,"
You derided
And silently chided
With a nod to the
Skinny girl's cart
"You're on sale,"
I sneered,
"And a little too blue.
You're lucky
I tried you at all."
And so it began
My friend and
My fiend
My go-to
For winter and Fall.
For years we
bonded
Over T-shirts and
Sweaters
Like 7th grade girls
At the dance
We swapped secrets
And letters
And I'll love you forevers
And our image
We mutually
Enhanced.
Until . . .
The day
arrived
I was with CHILD!
You'd think
You'd be
ecstatic.
But instead
All I heard
was a gasp and a moan
And a button
That made your feelings
Emphatic.
So I hid you
In the back
With the dorky
Khaki slacks
And tried to ignore
Your gloating:
"You'll never wear me again,
I always knew I'd win!"
You said to my .
Waist -
Ever-bloating.
Well,
I've got news for you,
My 30-S Blues:
Turns out that
You were wrong.
'Cause that's my
Hiney you're wearing
Oh - don't you go swearing
Or hiding
Against
My thong.
I'm well within
My rights
To reject you
For spite.
It's me that's the miracle maker
I housed a new being
So it's you
I'll be seeing
Off to the next
Thrift store taker.
Boy Style
Relaxed Fit
Denim
Let's go out for a walk
It's been awhile
And You and I
My friend
Are overdue
For a talk
We met
In the GAP
4 years back.
We insulted each other
From the start.
"You're fat,"
You derided
And silently chided
With a nod to the
Skinny girl's cart
"You're on sale,"
I sneered,
"And a little too blue.
You're lucky
I tried you at all."
And so it began
My friend and
My fiend
My go-to
For winter and Fall.
For years we
bonded
Over T-shirts and
Sweaters
Like 7th grade girls
At the dance
We swapped secrets
And letters
And I'll love you forevers
And our image
We mutually
Enhanced.
Until . . .
The day
arrived
I was with CHILD!
You'd think
You'd be
ecstatic.
But instead
All I heard
was a gasp and a moan
And a button
That made your feelings
Emphatic.
So I hid you
In the back
With the dorky
Khaki slacks
And tried to ignore
Your gloating:
"You'll never wear me again,
I always knew I'd win!"
You said to my .
Waist -
Ever-bloating.
Well,
I've got news for you,
My 30-S Blues:
Turns out that
You were wrong.
'Cause that's my
Hiney you're wearing
Oh - don't you go swearing
Or hiding
Against
My thong.
I'm well within
My rights
To reject you
For spite.
It's me that's the miracle maker
I housed a new being
So it's you
I'll be seeing
Off to the next
Thrift store taker.
3/1/12
Southern Hospitality
Scrub, scrub
Clean, clean
It's time to make
Our baseboards gleam!
Our special guests
Are on their way
Wouldn't want them
To have occassion to say:
"Melissa's house is just like mine
Full of pet fur and laundry and grime!"
Oh no! Heavens no!
That just won't do
We can't have them knowing
the real me and you!
Get to work!
Roll those sleeves up!
Don't turn on tv!
Haven't you heard of hospitality?
Oh no! Oh goodness!
They're almost here!
Slap on some lipstick
Hide the cheap beer
Open the door
Fling out our arms
Make small talk and banter
That oozes with charm
Scowl; fret at each fuzz ball
That litters the floor
Keep track of their flaws
Be sure to keep score
Suffer through dinner
Your back ramrod straight
Make sure that you offer
Tea, coffee and cake
Pray that they leave
Why are you so tired?
The conversation is lovely
But you're just not inspired
Finally they go
Off into the night
You've never been so happy
To see the glow of tail lights
Grab that cheap beer
Let your tummy hang out
Eat the leftover cake
Let your sheddy dog out.
Clean, clean
It's time to make
Our baseboards gleam!
Our special guests
Are on their way
Wouldn't want them
To have occassion to say:
"Melissa's house is just like mine
Full of pet fur and laundry and grime!"
Oh no! Heavens no!
That just won't do
We can't have them knowing
the real me and you!
Get to work!
Roll those sleeves up!
Don't turn on tv!
Haven't you heard of hospitality?
Oh no! Oh goodness!
They're almost here!
Slap on some lipstick
Hide the cheap beer
Open the door
Fling out our arms
Make small talk and banter
That oozes with charm
Scowl; fret at each fuzz ball
That litters the floor
Keep track of their flaws
Be sure to keep score
Suffer through dinner
Your back ramrod straight
Make sure that you offer
Tea, coffee and cake
Pray that they leave
Why are you so tired?
The conversation is lovely
But you're just not inspired
Finally they go
Off into the night
You've never been so happy
To see the glow of tail lights
Grab that cheap beer
Let your tummy hang out
Eat the leftover cake
Let your sheddy dog out.
Worry Wart
The night has come
It's time for bed
And yet I sit
Awake instead
My head - it throbs
My neck is stiff
My mind is racing
Full of "What Ifs"
I want to go
I want to sleep
I want to trust
My worries will keep
And yet I sit
And yet I type
Waiting, it seems
For all to be right
Don't I know
It's not up to me?
I think I know
And yet - instinctively
I sit and fret
I sit and type
And wait, and wait, and wait
For light.
It's time for bed
And yet I sit
Awake instead
My head - it throbs
My neck is stiff
My mind is racing
Full of "What Ifs"
I want to go
I want to sleep
I want to trust
My worries will keep
And yet I sit
And yet I type
Waiting, it seems
For all to be right
Don't I know
It's not up to me?
I think I know
And yet - instinctively
I sit and fret
I sit and type
And wait, and wait, and wait
For light.
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