Humorous, inspirational take on growing up and growing older
There are a few words of holy writ I wish had never been written. With slight variations, they all say the same thing: Give thanks unto God for all things.
It’s that qualifier “all” that is troublesome. It is easy to be thankful for all things when fortune is smiling down on you. Not so much when your life has been up-ended.
…
“I want some marshmallows,” my three year old daughter announced.
“Get a bowl.”
She tried opening the drawer but the plastic bowls had been jumbled making it impossible to open. I fished my hand through the opening, righted enough bowls that the drawer opened and she chose one.
She searched for the marshmallows.
“They’re in the cupboard.”
…
I walked in the back door of my parents’ home physically spent, teetering on the edge of an emotional abyss. My husband helped me to the spare bedroom where I dropped onto the bed. Satisfied I would be OK, he left for a few hours of errands.
The tears I had held back flowed, fueled by the morning’s pain and a healthy dose of self-pity….
Shortly after my daughter was born, in the fog of sleep deprivation, amidst the 24/7 feeding, changing, rocking and bathing schedule, and when the neglect of not cooking, cleaning or doing laundry began to overwhelm me, I clearly remember the moment I had an epiphany.
“MY MOTHER DID ALL OF THIS FOR ME? ”
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?!”
The level of sacrifice, work and love required to bring a child into the world and help them grow into an independent, moral, contributing human being…well…. words fail. It almost has to be experienced to be understood.
Thus my dilemma….
It was hot and muggy. I heaved against the ancient lawn mower’s handle which had already been re-welded once. Heavy and unwieldy, it was truly SELF propelled. My husband had tried to replace it but money was tight and technically it still cut the grass – so it was at the bottom of the wish list.
With blisters forming on my hands, I was regretting my decision of ever wanting to switch roles….
Some things you only need to learn once. And a caveat. If even the mention of throwing up makes you head to the toilet –skip reading this.
Any plane that holds less than 130 people is small by my standards. A plane that holds four is one I avoid.
My husband recently fulfilled his life’s dream and purchased just such a plane. He loves it. I do not. But I do love him, and so once in a while he lures me into the plane — especially when commercial flights are overbooked. After all, what could go wrong on a three hour flight across the desert? On a hot August afternoon? With something called thermals that bounce the plane up/down, forwards/backwards and side/side – at the same time….
Born the fifth of eight children with a stay-at-home Mom meant we rarely ate out. But once in a while, the local burger chain ran a .15 cent hamburger special. On those nights we loaded up the red Volkswagon bus for dinner out on the town.
Bright fluorescent lights reflected off the checkerboard of red and white tiles that wrapped around the front of the burger joint. Dad and at least one child stood in the winding line, the sounds and smells of sizzling beef patties wafting around them. Finally, he gave his order to the harried teenager scribbling on a scratch pad and hollering out numbers over her shoulder. Sodas were out of the question when water was perfectly fine and free. French fries were never on special at the same time so we had to share….
Clap-slap, clap-slap. The rhythm of hands slapping against my newly polished picture windows grated on my nerves. It hadn’t been too bad when my two teenage daughters had perfected their moves on the kitchen table. There it was only noise. But multiple hand prints on windows that had taken considerable effort to get clean was annoying.
When my glare didn’t dissuade their enthusiasm I handed them window cleaner and rags with instructions to “make it as clean as it was,” knowing it would likely be full of streaks afterwards.
As I walked away, my mind drifted back to another hand print on another glass surface. This one by the elder teenager now pounding on the windows. Except she was three years old….
It is the calm before the storm. White roses, hydrangeas and calla lilies crowd a tabletop awaiting final transport and placement. One hundred and fifty stacked place settings serve as a sober reminder there is a lot of work yet to come. Tomorrow, a thousand details will flow together in nuptial pomp and ceremony, dreamed about for years and executed to exhaustion.
There is an aura of anticipation riffling through family members who have gathered to share in the pot-luck meal, catch up on each other’s lives and review tomorrow’s details.
Woven into the hum of voices, and nap-deprived babies, come the mishmash notes of alto and baritone saxophones warming up. Grandfather and Cousin are practicing for tomorrow’s first dance between the bride and groom. Almost imperceptibly the disjointed notes align into the beginning of a melody….
There are hundreds of sweet moments after ushering a newborn into the world. Most of them deal with firsts; the first heart-melting smile, the first luxurious sleep through the night, the first shaky step. Sweet indeed. But none of those can compare to the first words.
Not the babblings from a cooing baby – as precious as they are. These coveted first words come down the road.
Way down the road.
It was an ordinary day when I experienced those extraordinary FIRST WORDS. My recently engaged daughter called after a particularly frustrating day making life-after-marriage plans with her fiancée. Her three words made every hard choice that had left me second guessing my parenting skills worth it….