Clarity: The View Through My Window

Most of us, if we’re honest, spend a good amount of our precious time searching for a certain level of clearness, or transparency, in the way we hope to one day see the world.  Life, relationships, our tight-roped walked dreams and holding-our-breath hopes rarely emerge crystallized in our heads after a few downward facing dogs or a twelve hour sleep.

   Let’s face it.  More times than not, we only get a glimpse of the “now”, through a murky, muddled mess.  A smoggy, polluted haze of the wish I could of’s and all of the should’ve been's.

   It’s not like the simple easy first few steps of childhood, the wide-eyed innocence of infancy; a small stride, a crooked grin.  For me, my clarity came in the early movements of my youth; a twirl, an extended arm, a warm palm, my own ballet shoes dancing a top my father’s slippered feet. 

   It’s easy to forget sometimes how wonderful it is to be loved like that. No strings, or what ifs, or what could have been.

   My bay window in my study where I write looks out across the porch. I love it; this shell tabby material thing that belongs to just me.  Maybe because it protrudes from the house on its own, with nothing under it, weightless but sound in structure and intent.  Or maybe it’s because I can see my kitchen and breakfast room table on the other side through another bay window... this one, though, firmly planted on a concrete slab and surrounded by shiny teak.

   But see, it doesn’t matter.  Rain, sun, fog, tears; I can always voyeur into part of my life from the past that belongs in my daughters present now.

   I watch my husband make my daughters laugh…hard….their heads thrown back while their bellies shake.  I see them deep in concentration over a math equation, a bad day, or maybe just trying to decide what snack to eat.

   I smile as I see his hand extend, and they dance without music, chest on cheek… and I can’t help but think…..

  How wonderful it is to be loved like that.

  Happy Father’s Day.

Paper Crumbs

 

       I miss notes.

   Not the pastel multi-colored Post-It ones that are scattered all over your desk to remind you of all the things you’d just as soon forget.  Or the notes left on the front door by your Pest Control, Cable, Heating & Air, “Fill in the Blank” guy telling you you’ve missed your appointment….again.  Oh, and I can’t forget about the ones from your kids.  You know, the notes scribbled in neon crayon on your precious computer paper that say things like “you’ve ruined my life” or “if I had my own ATM card and knew how to drive I’d be so out of here.”

  No.  Those are the kind of notes I can live without.

  I’m talking about the notes from my own childhood.  The ones scrawled in blue ball point pen on torn out pieces of notebook paper that were then passed, pitched, or planed with the highest of hopes you wouldn’t get caught.

  Those were the “daze.”

  Evidently, in High School I really liked to write notes.  As I was reading over a few of them again the other night from my old Holly Hobby keep sake box, someone named FODOBC once jotted down “I feel like you live to write notes.”

  FODOBC, you were right.  And my secret hoard of stacks and stacks of them from the 90’s is undeniable proof.

  There is nothing particular juicy contained within their tattered pages, I can promise you that.  They were all about the mundane day to day existence of a teenager:

  “I screwed up the Vocab. Test.  I’m so stupid.  Tomorrow I am going to Applebee’s.”

  “Your brother sounds weird on the phone.  What do you want for Christmas?  I want everything in the world.”

  “I guess I’ll tell you what is bothering me.  It’s going to be straight to the point.  I like you a lot and you don’t like me.”

  “I watched some after school special called “Sometimes I Don’t Like My Mother.”  It’s pretty good.”

  Kind of sums it all up, doesn’t?  The insecurities of youth; the weirdness of family and how you feel about yourself; not yet understanding your parents had to actually parent in the most difficult of times and not be your friend; and the naivety of not knowing that one day….all of those things you wanted so desperately…. you will never really need.

  I read something the other day.  I’m not sure who wrote it but it made me pause and think.  It went something like this: “Don’t not go where the path may lead.  Go instead where there is no path and lead a trail.”

  Yes, it’s a grand thought.   The world needs more trailblazers; more individuals and free thinkers.  But if each one of us is different, a one-of-a-kind and our own life unique, then we are all trailblazers by birth making our own personal and particular path through life.  The questions is then- how do you mark your trail, carve your initials into the root of it, and leave something behind to show you were there in the trenches slowly making your way towards the light?

  Paper crumbs.

  Every journal, note, scrap, torn piece of paper tells a story of where we have been and where we would like to go.

  And least that’s what I like to think.  But I am old…fashioned, that is.

  I feel sorry for our children.  They live in a new world of 130 character Tweets, abbreviated slanged texts, and a paperless trail of thoughts and emotions sent out in the big, black void of cyber-space; a scary place where you never know who will end up seeing your most sacred wishes.

  Not-to-mention, their vernacular looks like battle code for a nuclear submarine.

  NAGI- Not a good idea.

  J4F= Just for fun.

  JSYK- Just so you know.

  IKR- I know, right?

  FTF- Face to Face.

  4EAE- Forever and Ever.

  The Pew Internet & American Life Project recently reported that texting is ranked as the number one mode of communication with the 12- 17 set, with a median average of 60 texts a day. 

  Why is there a constant need to be in touch with someone, everyone these days when you really don’t even have anything to say?

  “What R U doin”

  “Nothin U”

  What happened to appropriate distances of space and time, to looking forward to the moment when you could actually formulate a whole sentence and an entire thought- let alone, spell out the words “you” and “are” and put pen to paper?

  I know, I know.   It’s fast and it’s easy. 

  I just hope they realize 4EAE might stand for forever and ever, but it doesn’t represent it.

  Forever and ever symbolizes your word, your honesty, and your character that you’ll spread like seeds as you blaze your way through your individual path of life.

  I just hope our children learn to leave the right kind of crumbs so everyone will know who they sincerely are.  Not just some quick and easy abbreviated version of their true selves.

  Write on, my future trail blazers.  Write on.

Staying Still

"Nobody is bored when he is trying to make something that is beautiful or to discover something that is true."- W.R. "Dean" Inge; Anglican Priest and Cambridge Professor (1860-1954)

 I am hardly, if ever, bored.

 I don't know if it it's because I love to read (anything), eat (same answer), nap (anywhere), daydream (all the time) or just plain think.

 I am perfectly comfortable doing nothing- as my motto for these past few decades is time wasted is not wasted time.

 I don't worry if the early bird eats the worm, I miss the midnight train, or the world passes me by.

 I am not really in an all out hurry to get anywhere.

 I have always been comfortable with where I'm at in the moment.

 My children.  Not so much.

When I was their age, when I was bored, I would pick up a volume of my grandfather’s collection of burgundy colored hard-covers-Shakespeare’s As You Like It, was one of the first plays I ever read.  I would look for signs in the clouds during the day; the big dipper and fireflies at night.  I ate crabapples from their backyard and flung the skinny cores over the fence so their neighbor’s goat had something to eat.

I never complained.

My girls are evidently not on the same page; the one mapped out of my childhood.  Theirs is a much different narrative.  I often wonder where I went wrong.   

See, they are bored at the drop of the hat, let down by the shake of the empty cereal box, and dejected at the dreaded depleted power button on their wireless palm held players of DVD’s.

There is no doubt I am doing them a disservice.  If anything, I want them to grow up knowing the world owes you not a damn-excuse my language-thing.  It’s up to them to seek out adventure, fill up their proverbial cup, and let the tides of life soak through them.

I want them drenched and wet.  Not scared to go out into the rain.

So, I am going to change a few things up, shut down the whiny, relentless sleepovers, put the ke-bosh on all the complaining, and will- from this day forward- refuse to be privy to their demands to be entertained 24-7.

I survived.

Didn’t you?

So, for me, I implemented …..  The Bored Jar.

It’s simple, really.  Whenever your dependents complain there isn’t a single thing on God’s green earth to do- have them stick their little hand in this:  A mason jar, tin can, or shoe box (really, anything will do) filled up with the following “random” choices written in stubby crayons on torn-off pieces of scrap paper.  Here’s a quick example:

·         Play Lego’s with Mom for hours, after which she will clean the whole mess up, make you cookie’s and care-less about what time you go to bed.

·         Organize, with absolutely no help from anyone over the legal age of 18, the entire house full of Lego’s into color coordinated bins, labeled to size and description, including all classification and lamentation of said instructions.

·         Two hours with any craft-any time-extra glue-moderate glitter with zero complaining of “remember the last time you did that, it took a good 5 inch chunk out of my Oriental rug.”

·         Two hours of peeling two years of super glue off the table, vacuuming a decade’s worth of sparkles from the carpet, and cleaning all the toilets and litter box to boot.

Even the 12 and under set know that’s a crap shoot-it’s 50/50.  It’s the equivalent of thinking you’re going in to construct a fairy princess or a matchbox hot rod out of a few pipe cleaners, a handful of tooth picks and spun sugar, only to be folding the whites, sifting out your winter socks, and wondering what is Mom (since you had to scrub and wash the fridge) cooking for dinner.

Mine, I shake that Bored Jar and they are out playing ball in the cul-de-sac in a New York minute.

Where they should be.

If I can teach them anything, while I still have them, it’s to: be still but still seeking, be contemplative but never complacent, stay reflective in spirit so they may always shine, and lastly, be spontaneous but wise so they will find what they need and be happy with what they have.

Bored is, like everything else, a word…not a state of mind. Beauty and Truth…words, too…but in their natural stripped down essence.  Well, those are for my girls to find. 

Happy Hunting.

Now, go out and look for them.

Everything's Coming Up Daisies

Spring has sprung.

Then clocks were flung- when some of us realized we’d lost an hour’s worth of sleep.

Where does the time go, really?

 If only I could find it, I’d like to get some of it back, please.  And it’s not like I’m asking for too much.  It’s only time, after all…not carb-free calzones, roomier airplane seats, or world peace.

My oldest daughter, who refuses, like me, to grow up, always seems to have the right answer for questions such as these.

Her: “We need magic beans.  Are magic beans in season?”

Me: “I don’t know.  Let’s Google it.”

See, Livi, because she is so acutely aware of her surroundings, is in no hurry to hurl herself directly into the harm’s way of life.

If you were to tell her- go on, the world is waiting for you- she’d ask if it’s some sort of trap.  You know, a place filled with heartbreak, hunger, unrealistic health care premiums, and 5 dollar gallons of unleaded gasoline.

I get you, sister.

I, like you, want to live in a slice of space where joy is eating Chick-Filet Polynesian sauce with your finger, love is unconditional, and freedom is sleeping in and watching Saturday morning cartoons while eating buckets of Captain Crunch topped with whipped cream.

Sometimes when I watch Livi turning cartwheels barefoot in the grass, her long wavy hair trailing behind her, she reminds me so much of my Aunt Beverly.  I adored her as a child. 

I adore her still. 

As the wife of my mom’s youngest brother, Beverly seemed more of an older cousin to me even though she was 19 years older.  On the weekends we would drive to Colbert, GA, I couldn’t wait to see her making the hour and a half drive seem twice as long.  As soon as you were sprung free from the car, she would chase you around and around the house, tickle you until you were utterly exhausted, and let you brush her lush long, blonde hair for hours on end without complaint.

Beverly was light and air and pixie dust.

She was beautiful.

She loved daisies, too.  I remember them in vases at her house, loosely arranged and lovingly picked.  They embodied her, as well, with their simple elegance and innocent beauty.  Like Beverly, they signify kindness, patience, loyalty, and love.

I still think of her whenever I see a daisy.  And if I were to close my eyes, I can picture her running through the woods, laughing, her long blonde hair flowing behind her, forever young. 

See, I never did get to see her grow old.  She lost her battle with breast cancer at 38 years-old, when I was a freshman at Georgia.

She never got to see her two young kids, Kimberly, 11, and Chris, 9, grow into adulthood, either.

Time, that tick tock span of inevitability, can be cruel, sometimes too. Well, a lot of times…..if we’re honest.

But what if that makes the young at heart, the youthful spirits, the Beverly’s of this world the wisest of us all?

What can we learn from those who have the insight and sensitivity to know the heartaches and pains of life, but instead embrace the joys and small wonders of the world all the same?

Her son, Chris Butler, is getting married here on the island at the King & Prince on the 30^th of March.  It’s hard to believe time has flown by so fast. 

If I could say anything to Chris and his bride-to-be, Erin, it would be to enter into your new lives together with the same wild abandonment, love of life and curiosity as your mother.

I’m reminded of the song Forever Young written by Bob Dylan around the time Beverly was 18.  He wrote this after taking a break from touring and had become a father: 

 

“May God bless you and keep you always

May your wishes all come true

May you always do for others

And let others do for you

May you build a ladder to the stars

And climb on every rung

May you stay forever young.”

 

“May you grow up to be righteous

May you grow up to be true

May you always know the truth

And see the lights surrounding you

May you always be courageous

Stand upright and be strong

May you stay forever young.”

 

“May your hands always be busy

May your feet always be swift

May you have a strong foundation

When the winds of changes shift

May your heart always be joyful

And may your song always be sung

May you stay forever young.”

 

Congratulations, Erin and Chris.  May your song always be sound, honest, pure and full of light and lots of love.

And once you walk the aisle and stand together, ‘building your ladder to the stars’, just know how proud she’d be of the both of you. Together. Always.

 

 

The Birds, the Bees and Dr.Pepper

 

Love is in the air.

I can smell it.

The cedar chipped, dry hay pellet, and wet rodent hair odor of ardent affection.

Why, you might want to ask, would I willingly become a landlord to a 2-lb, 12-week-old guinea pig with a bald spot and a serious bladder control issue? 

I’m a sucker for my ten-year-old’s dark lash-lined baby blues.

It’s important to note here, that people have told me they notice I write about my oldest daughter Liv, way more than I do about my youngest, Margot.  There is a very simple and perfectly sane reason for this.  Because Margot would kill me.  Well, not kill me, but I would most certainly never hear the end of it and we spend a lot of time together so I try and stay on her good side.  But for this one time, and one time only, she has given me permission- albeit written and signed by two witnesses and sealed with Super Glue- that I may type her name into my lap top and tell her story.  The story of how she came to love a little cutie named Dr.Pepper.

Here goes:

Margot never asks for anything. When you ask her, let’s say, what she wants for Christmas, she’ll say “nothing” because “I already have everything I need, I have all of you.”  Seriously, y’all.  She is my giver, my dish washer, my clothes folder, my bruised knee kisser.

She just gives and gives and gives without prompt or expectation of reward.

She’s an old soul.

I look up to her.

So, when she came up to me batting those big blue eyes, a fist of dollars in one hand and a flow chart in the other, asking me for a guinea pig, how could I say no?

But what I should have said no to was the guinea pig “sleep-over” the very next Friday.

Talk about a restless night.

Having four pre-teen girls over for a spend the night pales in comparison to the stress, gray hair, panic attacks, and reflux that creeps up while trying to keep two smelly rats from getting down to business, sneaking some nooky, playing chutes and ladders, mixing some Travolta with some Newton-John- you get the picture- while trying to have a glass of wine and catch up on TiVo.

See, as soon as our bald little fur ball came home, pooping and nibbling all the way, Margot promptly dubbed him Dr. Pepper, then picked up my cell and invited her friend Gloria and her guinea, Gucci, over right away for popcorn, kibble, lettuce remnants, carrot shavings, and a marathon movie showing of Eddie Murphy as Dr. Doolittle.

At first, I wasn’t really worried about Gucci.  At all. For one thing, Dr. P was only 3 months old, and from looks of it, a little wet behind the ears.  Meanwhile, Gucci was a well seasoned veteran of rodent life, a Barbara Walters of guinea pigdom, if you will, to our little own Tom Sawyer.  And let’s just say what Gucci lacked in manners and personal hygiene, she made up for in fur, fat, and lethargy -while Pepper, poor thing, was a mere hyper shrimp of a tiny thing.  It would be like Richard Simmons and Roseanne Barr were to take roll in the wood shavings; it just didn’t seem all that likely.

But what have we learned about the re-birth of jelly shoes, pasta makers, and shoulder pads?  Well, absolutely anything is possible.

Now, I don’t know about y’all but I learned about the birds and the bees at the middle school lunch table and watching after-school specials.  These days, we have doctors, nurses, and mental health professionals who start coming to school during 5^th grade PE to explain to our kids all about the birds and the bees.

Me, it doesn’t matter if they were a Harvard grad and a fellow at John-Hopkins, my kids come home and the same thing happens when I try and explain the ins and outs, the ying and the yang’s , the bow-chica-bow-wows of adulthood. They still look at me with a blank stare and say “I just don’t get it.”

So my expectations were not exactly high when I held my breath and entered the guinea pig concubine with a stick of incense and a few printed downloads from National Geographic for Kids.

“Girls,” I gasp for clean air, not finding any. “It’s really important Gucci and Dr. P keep a reasonable- I mean large, really, really large- distance between them.  Separate them with a blanket a pillow, a My Little Pony, a stick of gum.  Just whatever you do, don’t leave them alone, unsupervised…together.  You understand?

“10-4, Ms. Laura,” Gloria tells me, as she pulls Gucci out from under the covers- Dr. P nowhere to be found. “Is it okay though that we already used them to make a guinea pig tower and make  a run for the Gold at the 2013 Guinea Pig Olympics in wrestling?  I think Dr. Pepper won.”

My guess was Dr. P was already burrowed back in his pig pen liar enjoying a good cedar cigar.

I shred up my print outs into teeny tiny pieces and toss them into Gucci’s overnight travel case.   At least the newlyweds will have something to pee on.

Oh well, I tried. 

I called Rachel with the news.  Looks like we have 63 days to wait and see.  At least we both agree we are way too young to be great-grandmothers. 

Looking back, I also learned a whole heck of a lot that night.

I learned knowledge is power.  Ignorance is not always bliss and love means sometimes- well, a lot of times- having to say no.

But for now, old soul or not, I want my baby to hang on tight to these precious moments of childhood where a little, balding pint size fellow can still be a girl’s best friend.

Saying Thanks: Past, Present, and Future

Previously published The Brunswick News/Coastal Illustrated Nov. 19, 2009

 

                Volunteering in my daughter’s first grade class, I get to relearn some things I’ve had to toss out of my brain to make room for the more “important” stuff like my social security number and all my online passwords.  Just the other day, I was reminded that a long time ago, way before man created ESPN and Trivial Pursuit, the first Plymouth colonists gathered with their neighboring Indian friends to celebrate an ample harvest that has now become known as Thanksgiving.

                The main man around town, Governor William Bradford proclaimed to all “ye pilgrims, with your wives, and ye little ones do gather at ye meeting house, on ye hill, between the hours of 9 and 12 in the day time, on Thursday, November 29^th, the year of the lord one thousand six hundred and twenty-three and the third year since ye Pilgrims landed on ye Pilgrim Rock….”

                Trying embossing that place and date on a piece of Crane card stock these days and I can guarantee you won’t be able to afford the 10 pound turkey  or premium liquor.  But if we look on the bright side, we can always say thank goodness for the fruits of technology and the little ole thing called “ye” Evite.  This way we might be able to procure the 47 cups of peanut oil needed to fry the little sucker in the first place, as well as the 5 Brandy Alexanders needed to get through Aunt Shirley’s slide show of Eastern Europe.

                All of this got me thinking; how much have things really changed since that November 400 years ago?

                First, there’s the obvious: when the pilgrims headed up that hill to the meeting place, I’m certain when they arrived there wasn’t a single autumn checked tablecloth from the Martha Stewart Home Collection or a tissue paper turkey accordion in sight.  There was no Scattergories game to cause fighting between family members so vicious that it sends somebody packing for a premature departure.  There weren’t yet the airline tickets to buy that cost as much as college.  No one had the enjoyment of kicked seats and “Are we there, yet?”s for hours on end.  Last, but not least, there wasn’t one single, dirty Pyrex dish to soak and scour.

                We have made positive strides like having Hellman’s Mayonnaise and Ritz Cracker crumbs that we can pour all over our vegetables to our heart’s content.  We can gorge on sweet pecan pies with Tennessee bourbon and chocolate chips while ingesting, like my daughter does, Reddi-Wip straight from the can.  We may have to worry about cholesterol and Type 2 diabetes, but we don’t have to worry about diseases like small pox, polio, or that nasty gangrene.  And not only do we not have to shoot, pluck, and dress our own turkey; we can call the Fourth of May and pick one up the same day.

                There are however, some things that have stayed exactly the same.  Women still do most, if not all of the cooking.  And although we finally have forks, there are plenty of people around our table that still eat with their fingers.  But most importantly, Thanksgiving reminds us, like our predecessors, to focus not on the stuff we don’t have, but on the stuff we do.

                I always say that if you want to see simplicity and goodness, all you have to do is look at the world through the eyes of “ye little ones,” as Governor Bradford liked to call them.  I learned a lot while helping the first grade students write their own Thanksgiving Proclamations.  Here are some of the gems they shared.

Cason, Age 6:

                “I am thankful for my Dad because he takes the time to play with me and build Legos; and my Mom because she gives good hugs and is always nice to me.  I am thankful for my friends because they help me with things I can’t do and are fun to be with.”

 

Mary Ryals, Age 6:

                “I am thankful for my house because if we did not have a house we would have to live on the side of the road.  I am thankful for God because He is my father in Heaven.”

 

Malcolm, Age 7:

“I am thankful for the ocean because it has cool stuff in it.  I am thankful for my brother, Henry, and my sister, Emmie, because they annoy me but keep my life interesting.”

               

Maybe today in our fast paced, recession riddled, panicked world, we can, for a day at least, celebrate like the pilgrims before us the simple things like warmth, good food, health and love.  And as our wise Malcolm, in all the infinite wisdom of his seven years, reminds us: rejoice in family even if they do drive you crazy because, if nothing else, they’ll keep us entertained long after the leftovers (and Brandy Alexanders) are gone.

                Happy Thanksgiving, y’all!

Critters and Kids

Previously published on thesouthernc.com- August 8,2012

               “You’re a sweetheart to the max. I love you like Crispy Critters.”- Wesley Willis

    People like to say down here in the South that if you can fry it, well…. you can surely eat it. I don’t know about that seeing as it was my brother who inherited my PaPa’s .22, his deep fryer, and a shared affinity for wild, domestic, and backyard game. See, in tribute to the gentility of the stoic Peach state and, of course, concern for the fairer sex, I got the oak china cabinet and the crystal. Trust me, social stereotypes aside, I’m not complaining.

    But what I did become heir to was an appreciation of what you hunt, you eat. What manages to get away, well….that’s where all the good stories come from.

    Rabbit stew, venison jerky and 1950’s cordial glasses aside, it seems this has all fallen on deaf ears, or more correctly, on the freckled, tiny earring pierced ones of my eleven year old daughter with her two index fingers firmly shoved in deep.

   We’ve talked food chain, overpopulation, protein, and malnutrition. It doesn’t matter. There isn’t a caterpillar too fuzzy, a pig too fat, nor a bee too busy. Every creature-big or small- she encounters is not only worthy of life, but of a more prosperous one at that. She will not stop until the “meek” have inherited the earth, or at least her room, our porch, and every Tupperware container out of the kitchen.

   And that’s what I love about her the most.

   We’ve rescued lady bugs, turtles, frogs, dogs. We’ve resuscitated stunned birds, hermit crabs, sand dollars, cats, and a trio of three legged lizards.

    We’ve formed triages on the trampoline, emergency medivacs from kite string, and recovery rooms out of coolers equipped with the finest bottles of water straight from the freshest of springs.

   This summer was no exception up on Lake Winnipesaukee.

   “Baby, no, no, no. Don’t cry,” says my friend Nick to my daughter as she spots something suffering, then bends over to pick up a crumpled dragonfly off the swim dock they have just hoisted themselves onto. “Whatever you do darlin’, just don’t name him.”

   He knows her too well.

  “But his name is Chocolate,” she wails.

   I watch Nick shrug his shoulders across the water. It’s done.

   The next hour is a frantic blur of E.R. reality TV proportions as we hunt for iPhones for research purposes, fill empty beer bottles with fresh lake water, huddle in and around an empty chicken salad container that contains a working IV, a twisted up insect and half a dozen fresh picked wild blueberries...oh yeah, and prepare for the worst.

   It doesn’t take long.

   “For the LOVE of God,” Gramma yells over her knitting and Michael Phelps going for gold on the TV. “Someone pronounce the thing dead already.”

   The fact that my daughter has used her iPad as a sound machine near Chocolate’s ICU bed and is simulating noises from the woodland forest probably doesn’t help matters…or her grandmother’s sanity….or mine for that matter, either. But yet, she still isn’t ready to give up.

   “Shouldn’t someone tell her it’s dead,” whispers her Aunt Alicia, as we all peer into the plastic abyss of uneaten blueberries and lost hope. “It’s the humane thing to do.”

   But I can’t.

   “It can wait until the morning.”

   It was a restless night. Especially, I am sure, for Livi, who kept vigil over both of her two broken things: her dragonfly and her heart.

   The summer sun rises especially early in New England (around 4:30) and with it all sorts of critters: loons, ducks, insects, small children.

   I tip-toed downstairs.

   “Mom, guess what,” Livi pops up from the sofa. “Come look!”

   Sure enough, Chocolate was perched on top of a curling piece of birch bark, bright eyed and bushy tailed, flapping his once crumpled and mangled wings in a quick and steady rhythm like a heartbeat.

   “Come on, Mom.” She reaches for my hand. “Let’s go outside and let him go.”

   People who can feel someone else’s pain and tragedy and importance on this planet-I mean really feel it, not just pontificate on empty words and failed promises- are the ones who have the strength and endurance to stand by and to help. Of this, I am sure. And of this, I am hopeful.

   I think of my PaPa often. I picture him with his rifle, hunting squirrels and tending to his garden. I am grateful for the ultimate intangible gift he has given me: life and the continuation of it.

   No matter how great or how small.

Unsung Heroes

It happens every year.

And for the life of me, I just can’t figure out why.  Whenever they come out with the Top Ten Most Dangerous Jobs List every year, it always leaves me wondering who “they” actually are and what type of qualifications “they” possess to come up with the list in the first place.

They certainly haven’t stared down fear as they look into their own tired eyes through the bathroom mirror while cleaning their kid’s projectile vomit from their face, arms, and legs, knowing it will be a mere 24 hours before they’ll be right back in the bathroom, but this time laying on the cool tile floor, sick as a dog, in between the toilet and the sink.

Have they ever changed a diaper on a freeway or ripped open 17 juice boxes and served 40 snacks from the front seat without a seatbelt, extra napkins, or a "thank you" and a "please"?

Have they ever been hit in the head with baseball, a Frisbee, a half-dressed Polly Pocket doll, and a fat piece of orange sidewalk chalk- all at the same time-simply trying to navigate their way, in peace, from the driveway to the mailbox for their People magazine?

No.  I don’t think so.  If they had, motherhood would make the Top Ten List every stinking time.

What I do find fascinating about these lists y’all, (besides whoever makes them probably sits around and watches "Deadliest Catch" and "Ice Road Truckers all day"), is how a mother’s job title fits into every single one of these dangerous occupations. It’s actually uncanny. 

Let’s take a look at a few shall we:

Garbage Collector: 

It’s true if your job is to hang off the back of a three ton truck barreling down the road at 60 mph; it’s probably pretty dicey wondering if you’ll fall off and all.  But if you’ve ever emptied a stuffed dirty diaper bail on a empty stomach and 3 hours sleep, chances are greater or at least equal to fainting, then tumbling down the stairs, and hitting your head on a remote control airplane than plummeting of a garbage truck and into the street.

Wild Animal Tamer:

No one wants to tussle with a hungry crocodile; I’ll be the first to admit that.  But y’all can’t tell me wrestling a fifty pound, over-sugared, over-tired toddler out of the pool at lunch time doesn’t require a lot of skill.  Please.  Not to mention, I have seen moms do it with a baby on their hip, designer sunglasses a top their head, and a full glass of iced tea in their hand- without even one spill. 

Truck Drivers/Taxi Drivers/Chauffeurs:

This one to me is a no brainer.  Especially, since we SHARE the same roads with them anyways.  But truck driver’s, well, they’re  cruising solo, for MONEY, in the safety of an air-conditioned cab way up high out of reach of paper airplanes and empty goldfish pouches.  And if they’re taxi drivers or chauffeurs, they have the privilege of rolling up the window partition thingy that separates them from their passengers or can at least kick them out for being rude and yelling at the top of their lungs “please, pull over, I have to PEE! PEE!  PEE!” or “Stop touching me!” over and over and over again while you just trying to make it a few miles down the street.

Fisherman:

I have no doubt that’s a scary job, being out on a small boat in the middle of a vast sea.  But how about being alone with a pre-teen or teenager after school sitting around the kitchen table?

Mom: How was your day?

Kid: Good

Mom: What did you do in school?

Kid: Nothing

Mom: So how did you do on the science test?

Kid: Can we stop talking now.  It’s exhausting and "Deadliest Catch" is on.

I know fisherman put their lives in danger every day so we can eat, but at least they get something on their line every now and then.  mom’s fish all day, every day, and rarely reel in anything but an empty table five minutes after dinnertime, a stack of dirty dishes, and eight loads of smelly laundry.

 So, now do you see what I’m talking about?  Being a mother is one of the toughest, thankless, most mind boggling and exhausting occupations out there.

Moms are the unsung heroes, the battered and the bruised, the very ones who take a licking and keep on kicking.  They are the soldiers that keep marching on.

But if you ask anyone of them, they’d probably all tell you the same thing.  They wouldn’t trade their job for anything in the world.

Happy Moms Day, ladies!  I know it’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.  Actually, literally, the whole world does, or we would cease to exist as a species………

So pamper yourself every once and awhile and keep on, keeping on. 

See you in the trenches.