I know, I know - Easter is over! But the remnants of the day still linger (after all, it's only Tuesday).
Which brings me to speak about this blog that I love and which I thank my friend, Maureen, for introducing me to. It's a blog written by an American woman who, some 20+ years ago, met and married a Frenchman. She writes about family, living in France, antiquing, cooking and more. I love reading her blog. I get lost in the beauty of southern France and the writing of this incredible writer.
She recently posted some photos of things related to Easter (Paques). After writing about some very old postcards, she offered an opportunity for her readers to win one of the postcards. We could write a story in the comments section about the one we desired, which I did. This is the one I want. And this is the story I wrote about it:
The
old egg had never come to fruition, never cracking open with new life
to bestow upon an adoring mother duck its beauty of new life, new
birth. Instead, the little heart ceased and was absorbed by time as the
egg fossilized and hardened to a petrified state, its former inhabitant long gone. Its
outer shell weathered the elements and the egg took on a patina that
only age, sadness and time could create.
Early one morning, as Sophie partook in the annual Easter hunt
hosted by her grandmother, she raced happily to the other side of the
pond. Surely, her brothers would not dare to follow because the path to
the other side was long overgrown and covered with thorns. Sophie often
marveled at that far side where summer's heat brought pretty
pink roses to those woesome boughs.
Coming too close to the edge of the pond, she slipped in the mud and glided
downward, her Easter egg hunt about to come to a watery end. Quickly,
she grabbed an old branch and was spared the drenching which she knew would have also
garnered her a scolding from Nana Louise.
As she pulled herself up the slippery slope, Sophie noticed
something gray and sparkling in the morning sun. The dew had created
sunlit diamonds on the small specimen. Sophie gingerly edged to the beautiful
trinket and gently cupped it in her hands.
Smiling, she headed back to the house carrying the only egg she
needed. It was hard like a rock, but its shape...surely it was an egg.
Papa marveled at the incredible find and Mama and Nana Louise helped
Sophie sift through Nana's basket of ribbons. Mama gently pulled some
flowers from the beautiful centerpiece that rested on the dinner table and, together, they glued colorful adornments to the oval treasure.
Within minutes, the old, worn, abandoned egg was new again, exuding
a beauty unlike any other that had been retrieved that day. Sophie clasped
her hands and gazed at its fresh radiance with sparkling eyes.
"May I keep it?" she queried, giving Papa a sidelong glance.
"Oui, ma cherie," he replied with a moustached grin as he stroked his child's flaxen hair lovingly.
Over the years, as Sophie grew, the egg became a part of her own
family and their Easter tradition. Each Easter eve, her children
would anxiously watch as Sophie gently took the egg out of its velvet
lined box, which had become its new home, and placed it in a holder on the mantle.
The children would sit and listen eagerly as Sophie told the story of the egg and
what it meant to her: a time of resurrection, joy and the promise of
hope.
Unless you have a two year old, or any child who naps in your household, you have no comprehension of the stress involved when noise is made during those naps. It's the kind of stress akin to running from a bomber plane aiming a huge machine gun at you with bullets bouncing at your feet. It's the kind of stress that happens when you go to chase a 120 pound rottweiler out of your yard and, after he turns to run, stops, sizes you up and realizes he weighs as much as you. And he has muscle. And big teeth. And he takes off running at speeds that would break Mach 1 - twice - and you're running for the door keeping your hips thrust in front of you at least 3 feet because you know he's going for your butt and there's nothing else on your mind but getting in that door, both cheeks intact.
When a child naps, it's the only time we have to relax. When I say relax, I mean I get to clean the bathtub without the house midget leaning over me, asking 50 questions and trying to touch the green cleanser, which always ends up in his hair, on his face and all over me.
The mornings that Liam sleeps in, I quietly rise, make the coffee and sit on the couch in the dark to meditate, pray, and think about what I'm going to make for dinner.
This morning was one of those mornings when he slept in and I, instead of bouncing out of bed and making the coffee, thought I'd just lay there awhile and doze. I got up, went to the bathroom, tiptoed back toward the bed and saw that Druck had flung the covers off of himself. "He's not up yet," I say. "I'm gonna lay down for a few more minutes."
"But I need to get going," says the frumpy mass on the bed, rubbing his eyes and looking pathetic.
When this occurs, what I would like to do is put my hands on my hips and SCREAM, "Then go make the damned coffee YOURSELF, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!"
Instead, because he is the main bread winner and has enough stress in his life to fill the Rose Bowl x 4, I sigh quietly, march to my bathrobe, fling it on and, with an annoyed huff, quietly slip out to the kitchen to QUIETLY make the coffee. And, like clockwork, when the coffee stops gurgling, working man emerges and gets his pre-dawn elixir.
This morning, like the other rare mornings when he sees his wife sitting peacefully on the couch, in the dark, and there is no angelic chatter going on in stereo around us, he rummages through the cupboard as if there were but one coffee cup amidst 5,000 plates. "What the HELL is going on out there?" I say in an increasingly loud whisper. Working man says nothing and closes the cupboard. Loudly. As if the latch is on the other side of the wall and the only way to close it is to get a running start, leap through the air and ram his shoulder into it.
Throwing my hands up in the air and rolling my head from side to side, I throw out a loud "Tch! Tch!" which sounds like a less than amused cricket giving its prey a pre-murderous warning.
When Druck walks past, hair plastered to the back of his head and not even glancing my way, I say, "I wonder how many years I'll get if they can't find you." Which is followed by a quiet close of the bedroom door as I sit there. Annoyed.
And now the little darling is down for his nap. And despite the fact that no one, absolutely no one, called me or rang my doorbell when he was walking, talking and singing, now that it's naptime, the mother of the neighbor lady who is visiting from out of state has come by, rung the doorbell, talked my ear off in a loud voice because she can't hear, and I am all but sweating adrenaline because I just need some time, ok? And her rambling about the dentist is killing me, making me want my own root canal NOW. And the UPS guy, who normally drops off any kind of packages at 5:30 pm, has already been here by 3 pm, and, of course, rang the bell and left faster than I could open the door and yell, WHY ARE YOU HERE THIS EARLY, so loudly that he will never ever need dermabrasion NO MATTER WHAT.
The phone hasn't rung since yesterday afternoon (at naptime) but now it's gone off 3 times. And those blasted trains, that usually only come by once an hour, have come by three times in 40 minutes, blaring their warning signal non-stop.
Trains, helicopters, UPS men, neighbors, politicians, pollsters, long distance reps, scientists and cable guys are apparently required to take a prerequisite before being hired: IDIOTS 101 (Ignoring Daytime Importance of Toddlers Sleeping). I'll dedicate the reference to the Idiot UPS guy to KSP, who knows who he is. Scientists, you ask? What do they have to do with IDIOTS 101? Ahem. I'm married to the scientist.
As for that rottweiler story (you thought I'd leave that one hanging?), he never got a taste of my butt, but instead, as my young children (at the time) looked on, I took those 36" legs and leapt from the ground to the top of the porch (five steps, I'll have you know) in one bound. As I scurried inside the door, he came to a screeching halt and slammed into the steps, apparently unable to hurl that large mass up five steps, even though he thought he could. Maggie: 1. Rottweiler: 0.
I had been planning to write a post about my Dad's 80th birthday. I even started it and then, tragedy struck. I will get back to Dad soon, but I have to mention my beautiful son, Christopher.
On February 1, Christopher was brutally beaten by a bunch of thugs out to cause some violence by sinking their fists into my son's beautiful face. I will never understand such violence and, quite frankly, I never want to.
When I got the call from the hospital at 1:30 pm, all the staffer would tell me was that my son had been badly beaten and that I needed to get to the hospital to sign for surgery. "How bad is he?" I asked. "I don't know, ma'am." "Is he conscious?" She didn't know. "Does he have brain damage?" "I don't know." "Can you tell me anything?" "He had a CT scan that showed no bleeding into the brain." "Then there is no brain damage?" "I don't know." "Will he survive?" She didn't know. After each question, I took deep breaths and blew out loudly, trying to stop the room from spinning. "I'm on my way...."
I ran to the living room window and scanned the neighborhood. Mondays are busy days in my neighborhood. Most of my friends are working. But John. John's car was in the driveway so I picked up the phone and called him. When he answered in his cheery voice, I frantically explained, again between exhaling huge breaths, what happened and that I needed him to come to my house to watch Liam for me. Pronto. He obliged and, as I raced around, blurting out instructions and throwing a pile of diapers at his feet and a big container of wipes, Liam woke from his nap.
I climbed the stairs, breathing deeply, and quickly changed back into "Nimmy." Ever-loving, happy, cheery, calm, ready-to-play Nimmy. Liam and I came downstairs and chatted with John for awhile as I gently continued showing John where Liam's things were. Liam clung to me like a baby koala bear, not loosening his grip until he felt certain that Nimmy and John had one goal: to play with Liam. During this time, my mind raced wildly, with me still not knowing what the circumstances were, and knowing I had to get to the hospital. In less than 10 minutes, Nimmy was able to don her coat, and slowly, quietly, slip out the front door.
Christopher was born on a lovely October evening, 1981. The evening before his birth, his dad and I prepared for bed. Christopher was accustomed to his father talking to him, through/at his mother's belly, offering advice and words of love throughout the pregnancy. That night, Druck said, "Listen, you. I'm ready to see you. And I don't want to go to work tomorrow. So come on out of there. Tonight!" And he did - or at least he began the journey into the world that evening. At 3:30 the following morning, I awoke with harsh pains and cramping not unlike the severe cramping I had during my endometriosis-plagued cycle. I began to get up to head to the bathroom for a pad when I stopped at the edge of the bed and said, "Wait a minute." I looked down at my swollen belly and realized what was going on.
I sat in bed for about 15 minutes, looking down at my sleeping husband, while the contractions came about every 5-6 minutes. Finally, I tapped him on the head and, when he sleepily opened one eye, said, "I think I'm having our baby..."
Now, over 28 years later, as I drove to the hospital for something much less pleasant, thoughts of my child swam through my mind. I spoke to God and said, "No. No. He has to be ok. No. You cannot take him yet."
When I arrived at Detroit Receiving Hospital, I raced through the halls, frantically following signs until I got to the information desk. When I got to ICU, there was one nurse in the room. I ran to the edge of my son's bed and began spewing questions as I scanned his face for some familiarity beneath the badly beaten visage before me. His lips were swollen three times their size and both eyes were blackened and swollen shut. Dried blood encrusted his broken nose and I saw that he was on a ventilator. The nurse did not know any answers to my questions. She had just come on duty and hadn't yet looked at his chart. I asked her to go and get someone who could answer my questions as I flung my coat into a chair and gripped the rails of the bed. She asked me if I'd like some water and I said YES. AFTER YOU CALL SOMEONE TO TELL ME WHAT IS GOING ON. PLEASE.
Christopher is like a sleeper movie. A 4-D drama/comedy/romance with incredible twists and turns accompanied by beautiful scenery, brilliant colors, and eloquent language. In many of these movies that we call life, people get married, have children and raise them. Most kids are just kids. But Christopher was not simply a cookie cutter kid who went to school, played sports and did his homework. The movie just kept getting better and better. From an early age, he possessed a perception and depth that takes some people years to gain, if ever. And his love was, and is, bigger than life itself.
In ICU, as machines beeped monotonously, my eyes darted from my son's face to the doctors and back. And back again. Finally, I had some answers. Orbitol fractures, fractured jaw, nose fractures, multiple facial fractures. No brain damage. No cervical spine damage. No internal organ damage. He would live. Now, finally, I could collapse into the chair and wait for my husband to arrive who was speeding to the hospital from New York and was, at the time I contacted him, still two hours away.
He was always a quiet kid, but one who knew what he wanted. During family gatherings, he'd politely engage with the adults and played hard like a kid, but was never out of control. Never whined about what he didn't have. He knew his parents worked hard - his mom worked full-time, managing a Boston law firm, rushing home each day to gather up her children from after-school care, bring them home, talk to them about their day, prepare dinner, and help with homework afterward; and his dad who was working even harder, completing his postdoctoral fellowship through Harvard's Department of Genetics and Massachusetts General Hospital, trying to fit in time to provide his children with some semblance of normalcy through the rigorous demands that life required at the time.
When my husband arrived, I had to go downstairs to allow him up. Only two in ICU at a time, and Christopher's fiancee' was holding steadfast vigil that would take an army to pull her away. I stepped off the elevator and saw Druck pacing. I motioned harshly with my hand for him to come and he hastened to my side. I saw the tears in his eyes as his face screamed a kind of pain that was only saved for the worst possible things in life. "He's OK," I said, calmly. "He's going to live. He has no brain damage. But he doesn't look so good. Go on up." Druck nodded in acquiescence, raced to the elevators, and was gone.
Growing up and even now, Christopher has always respected his friends and family and would never speak harshly to them or about them; he is devoted, loyal and trustworthy.
One day, after playing at his friend, Ben's, house, having taken his baseball card collection with him to trade with Ben and another friend, he came home - quiet, but clearly distraught. I studied my son for awhile as I sat in the living room chair, asking him about his time at Ben's. He avoided eye contact and was quieter than usual. Finally, I said, "Bub, what's wrong. Something is wrong." My dear, sweet 10 year old flung himself into my lap and sobbed uncontrollably. Ben and the other boy had taken some of his cards forcibly, and there had been a tussle. Christopher didn't fight back. In this instance, my son respected the friendship more than fighting over some cards and took their cruelty like one wiser than his years, got what cards of his he could, promptly left, and walked home. He demanded that I not call Ben's mother and I didn't. I knew he didn't want to suffer the ramifications any child wishes to avoid when their mother calls someone else's mother. But I swore to myself that if it happened again, Ben would be receiving a phone call from my husband.
As any parent can attest, until you are a parent, you just don't get it. Becoming a parent changes your entire life. You take better care of yourself. You make sure the doors are locked. You get excited about poop. You get excited about potty training. You are brought to a new level in life where you remember how beautiful the simplest of things are: patiently watching a bug crawl across the pavement and hurrying it along with a poke of your finger, or re-learning what the color "sienna" or "periwinkle" is. Giggling at the tickle of a leaf across your skin, or racing to see the luminescence of a brilliant moon on a summer's evening all bring back a lost naivete and interest in the world that only a child can bring alive again.
Two days after the incident, Christopher's nurse was tending to him and talking to me and Christopher's fiancee, asking if we were able to piece anything together. But Christopher hadn't really yet been able to speak. I said, "Whatever happened, I don't think he fought back. Maybe he was unable. Look at his hands and his fingernails. There are no marks," I said. And, suddenly, he spoke. A whisper, but he spoke. "I...didn't...fight....back." Emily and I rushed to his side and leaned in. "Sweetheart?" I said. "Do you remember anything?"
"I ... didn't fight back." Eventually he relayed that there were too many of them. He just focused on protecting his head. Christopher didn't fight back. He knew better. He focused on self-preservation before fighting a bunch of thugs and took the brutal beating, knowing there was no way he could get away and focused only on survival.
Driving to the hospital that day, I wondered if I had done everything I possibly could, said everything I needed to say to my son during his life, in the event I might, indeed, lose him. While we all have regrets in life and there are things we might have done differently, I felt comfortable in knowing that every phone call with both of my children is always ended with an "I love you," and my regular text messages emphasizing my love for each of them were received and acknowledged with a return, "I love you too."
Touching and hugging and looking into those beautiful brown eyes had been a way of life for over 28 years. I knew that if I lost him, I hadn't failed at telling him how much I loved him and how much he meant to me.
The first day after his surgery, my husband had already arrived at the hospital. I walked into the room and my son was sitting in a chair, his head cocked to the side, studying me through a small slit in his right eye. The other eye had not yet opened. I sat in the chair beside him and he watched me, tried to read me, waiting to see if his mother's face would show him that it was going to be OK. I reached over and gently stroked his arm and his hand and said, "It's going to be OK." Tears rolled out of each corner of his eyes and I knew my son needed to hear that.
Thankfully, Christopher is on the mend. Prayer is powerful and he is recovering quicker than expected, thanks also to the fact that he works out almost daily and eats right. And love is powerful. Hope is powerful. Still, these character tests come in and out of our lives now and then, perhaps as a reality check. And so, I ask you today, have you told a loved one, "I love you?" Have you not let too much time lapse in between hugs and the look that says, "you mean everything to me?" Don't let it go too long. Because they are so worth it. So worth the time, the effort, the look, the touch, the note in the lunch bag or on the kitchen table, the special dessert, the smile and, yes, even the tears.
I haven't posted in over two weeks. For anyone who is the mother of an almost 2 year old, you can totally relate. If you are the grandmother of an almost 2 year old living with you, you can way relate.
Last night, Druck turned to me and said, "Are you taking a nap when Liam naps?" I told him, "No." Because that is when I get the bulk of my chores done.
"You need to take a nap," he urged. "You look....bad." My eyes narrowed and, before I could speak, he quickly added, "I mean, you look tired."
I spent yesterday's naptime trying to balance our checkbook. Something that Druck normally does because I am a trainwreck when it comes to math. I have no idea how I passed my math and chemistry classes in high school except that I carried my "Pray to St. Jude" pen around that my mother gave me like it was the Holy Grail. And perhaps it was. For those of you who don't know, St. Jude is the Catholic patron saint of Hopeless Cases. Which is me. When it comes to math - and other things. And the carrying on with the pen was all when I was a Catholic. So I don't know if Jude would do me any favors now. But, apparently, someone favored me when I, sitting there in my "I Bring Nothing to the Table" t-shirt that my friend, Laura, got me for my 50th birthday, actually balanced the checkbook.
When I got to the end and Quickbooks shot up the CONGRATULATIONS! window, I popped up straight and tall in my chair and stared at the screen for a few seconds, blinking in disbelief several times, before standing up and doing high fives to imaginery people. If that wasn't enough (which it wasn't), I proceeded to pull a Tom Cruise and danced on the couch. I stomped through the cushions, whipped off my shirt and paraded around the house wearing only my jeans and mint colored push-up bra, playing an air guitar solo that could put even Santana to shame, because HEY! I BROUGHT SOMETHING TO THE TABLE! And if my friend, Lisa, is reading this, I know...I KNOW! Her jaw just hit the table and she's making an appointment for some kind of jaw rewiring because she KNOWS I can't add or subtract to save my life or even the life of an entire country.
So, after regaining composure from my ecstatic bout of nirvana, I put my shirt back on and texted Druck, "CHECKBOOK BALANCED," to which he responded in the form of a photo. I don't know about the rest of you, but for some reason, that photo brings the movie, BRAVEHEART, to mind.
And yes, I drank in that praise like a 21 year-old warrior, tossing back her 22nd bonus shot of some heinous whiskey on her birthday night, and whipped off my shirt again, grabbed my air guitar and danced through those cushions one more time, relishing my moment of glory until the little girl across the street (Mia), rang the doorbell and I scrambled for my clothing, smoothed my hair and, breathless, but elated, because it's the little things in life that matter, I purchased 3 boxes of Girl Scout cookies from her, closed the door and went to start the laundry.
Leaving tomorrow for my high school reunion. We're celebrating our 50th birthdays - not an actual "out of high school" milestone. It'll be one of those whirlwind weekends. Leaving tomorrow, driving for 7 hours. Saturday will be spent with my dad during the day and the evening at the reunion. Later that evening, I will depart there to meet up with neighbor friends to celebrate another reunion. I'll drive home on Sunday.
I have not seen almost all of these people in over 30 years. Thankfully, we have reconnected through Facebook. I'll try to take pics of people, places and good food. I'll miss Liam, though. Each day with him has its own predictability flavored with brand new things: Liam running and hiding behind the sheers in the living room, standing perfectly still, hands clasped, waiting for someone to look for him. If we don't come quickly enough, he'll call out, "Ee-yum (Liam)?" It's our cue to drop everything and go look for him. It's a little difficult when you can see him right there and he is watching with an impish grin on his face until we suddenly and amazingly find him.
Yesterday morning, I made him pancakes for breakfast. Afterward, as he sat atop the dryer watching Poppy iron himself a shirt for work, I stood and marveled at two of my three favorite men in my life (the third being my son). When Poppy asked Liam if Grammy had made him pancakes, that beautiful child, eyes fixed on the ironing project, pointed to his little mouth and did a loud and emphatic, "Mmmmmmmmm!!!" That said it all. With one little sound.
I'll enjoy my weekend but will be anxious to get back to my family.
Until then, my wishes are for each of you to enjoy your own families this weekend.
A few days ago, I was going through things that I should have sorted through long ago because, at this point, my son's old closet is piled to the ceiling with boxes, trashbags filled with everything but real trash (although that is debatable), and clothes. Many of these things are filled with stuff that no one has any idea what to do with. For example: I uncovered the following items in the last box I opened: one old sneaker (without laces), an empty matchbook, a lacy red bra (Son, we need to have a talk), a very long leather shoelace, several gum wrappers, a variety of paperback books, plastic bags, an old spiral notebook and, for lack of a better word, the only adjective I can come up with is "interesting" when I mention the photographs (Son? We need to talk).
Of all of the items in the box, the one that interested me the most was the spiral notebook because it was one that I had used over the years to communicate things to my kids (and vice versa) when we were running at the speed of light to soccer games, work, school, etc. Some notes in particular caught my attention.
My note:
Do homework, unload dishwasher, vacuum living room and dining room. Do NOT leave the house before this is done.
The response note:
Mom, I couldn't do my homework because I left my books in my locker by mistake. So I had to go to Nicole's to use her books and do homework there. Also, her mom sprained her ankle and needs help with housework.
Observations: (1) How does one leave their books and homework in their locker BY MISTAKE? I mean, you obviously had them in your possession and had to access the locker and physically put the books in there. (2) Nicole's mom sprained her ankle? I remember one incident when I was in bed with food poisoning and all I got was, "I need a ride to so and so's. Do you have money for a cab if you can't take me? I'm hungry. Are you going to be better by dinner time? I can't ride my bike. It's too far. What's for dinner?"
My note:
Reminder: You are grounded. Do not leave this house. If you are not here when I get home, there will be consequences.
The response note:
Mom, Nicole's boyfriend broke up with her and she is really depressed. I had to go be with her. I love you!
Observations: (1) Child? Nicole's boyfriend was the boyfriend she stole from you and you had wished she'd die. (2) You're going to be even more depressed than Nicole when I catch up with you. Because you are now grounded until your 82nd birthday.
Over the years, there are a few things I have learned as a parent. Like making notes of all calls that come in (thanks to the very useful caller ID). I'm serious - take down every single number that comes to the house. If your child has a cell phone, wait until they are sound asleep at night. Then sneak their phone from them and go through their directory of numbers.
I used to keep a separate address book with all of the kids' cell and home numbers (yes, I even got home numbers on occasion when someone was grounded and the cell phone was taken from them and SHRIEK! they had to call from their home phone).
On rare occasions, when kids are being sneaky, they block their number, so be alert and get those numbers when no one is grounded, no one is trying to sneak out at 3 am, etc. They will come in handy later when you get up at 4 am and glance in your kid's room and see that instead of a human on the bed, there is a football with a pom pom for hair and a bunch of pillows hastily wadded together under the covers. I mean, really, do you think I would believe your hair would go from dark brown to fuschia in a matter of hours? Or that your skin color would tan 15 shades darker? Well, ok, maybe that isn't so far fetched, but again, being aware is half the battle. Having those phone numbers when you're in the car at 4:30, driving around from house to house, helps.
And my favorite note from my son (when he was a young naive 15 year old):
Mom, I went to Matt's house for the night because his parents are out of town and they didn't want him here by himself. I will call you later.
My response:
I waited until 10 pm and called Matt's house. No answer. At 10:30 pm, my son called.
Me: Where are you? (Note: Caller ID was blocked).
Son: I'm at Matt's house.
Me: OK, well let me call you right back.
Son: Why?
Me: I'll call you right back. (Hang up - call Matt's house. His mother answers sounding very sleepy).
Me: Matt's mom? This is Chip's mom. Is he there?
Matt's Mom: No. I thought he was at your house with Matt.
Me: Uh, no. Chip is supposed to be at your house because you are allegedly away for the weekend and he is keeping Matt company tonight.
Mom: Interesting. That's what they told me about your house.
Needless to say, when a nervous Chip called five minutes later from the party he was at, I told him in my fully possessed Linda Blair voice, "I'm coming for you. NOW. And Matt's mom is coming for him. And while you're waiting for us, you can think about how much better it will be for you when you start telling the truth. After you've been grounded and relegated to litter box duty for the next 8 months."
Did it work? Sometimes. But the important thing about being a parent is to remain vigilant. No matter that you occasionally only get 3 hours of sleep on a Friday night (and not because you're the parent of an infant). No matter that you get a police officer knocking on your car window because you're staking out a house, reviewing in your mind when and how you're going to make your approach and drag your kid out of there. By the way, the police officer? He was a good assist that night, the party was broken up and I was only accused of being a narc by 12 angry kids to which I replied, "What 'til next weekend!"
As an aside, what kind of crazy parents leave for the weekend trusting that their teenage kids aren't going to throw a party that usually gets out of control, things get stolen, fights break out, etc. It is a rare teenager who can be trusted in such a way and to those parents I say, how'd you get so lucky?
Thankfully, I haven't had to pull out my Linda Blair voice in quite awhile. But my kids are in their 20s now. Not that that matters. It was not two weeks ago when I left a note to please, if you are here in my house, eating food, dirtying dishes, clean up after yourself and, put your dishes in the dishwasher. The note I got in return said, "Mom, sorry, I was in a hurry. And the dishes in the dishwasher were clean so I couldn't put my dirty dishes in there." I stared out the window for a moment, shook my head and took myself out to dinner.
Maggie hasn't been writing much lately. Chalk it up to reading and discussing and fighting/slaying right wing dragons who seem to fly in her tower window every now and then. A maiden gets tired, ok? And those burns from the hot air that comes from those dragons' mouths, well, I'm recovering.
I'll be writing soon. About pathcouli. Or border bullies. Or both.
I recently was accused of being a drama queen, or, to put it more succinctly, someone who is always having a crisis. First, if you know me, you'd know that isn't true. Yes, there are many crises going on - not just for me, for everyone. It's called life. But I don't get crazy about them. Second, you have to remember that I am a writer. A creative writer. So when I blog about something, I write for entertainment's sake and, while what I write is true (unless of course, I am posting an excerpt from my long-awaited novel), please don't confuse my emotions. I, like everyone else on this planet, do have issues. I handle my "issues" a few different ways: (1) by compartmentalizing and putting them away to bring out only in therapy, or in a lone rant, or occasionally (poor dear man), on my husband; (2) keeping a smile because I have no desire to burden others; and (3) through writing. Writing is one of the ways I handle "issues." And I usually do it with humor. Unless it is something of a very serious nature.
One might take my humorous meltdown about Henry the 8th as having issues or always being in crisis mode. All I can say is that if you think that, then you're at the wrong blog. I laugh at my meltdowns, I laugh at my wardrobe malfunctions, I laugh at my mistakes. I have learned that if you take life too seriously, it will kill you. If I can't laugh or make others laugh, what's the point?
If you want to find some real jaw dropping drama (and humor), why don't you go live for awhile at www.dooce.com. Or, if you just want drama, go to www.mcknob.com. There is another blog I regularly frequent, and interact with its readers, but I won't post its name here. I don't want to share it with those who are finger pointing. Because I like going there often and (woot!) I leave comments there. So I'm keeping that one for myself.
My blog has garnered me new friends, an editorial position with a national magazine for which I also write regular articles, and, well, apparently, a few enemies. But the animosity is one-sided. Those who are upset with me or my blog (apparently), should really talk to me rather than stay in the shadows and talk about me behind my back. I often wonder why people do that - talk about others behind their back? To gain an army against that person who has no idea that foul words are being talked about him/her? (Unless, of course, someone spills the beans). And why do that? Why try to spread the hate? To feel better about yourself or to feel superior? I have neither a superiority complex nor an inferiority complex. So, whatever makes you feel better, go with it because I'll just keep being me. Mostly harmless. A bit neurotic. Always loving.
I am respectful about my writing and will continue to be so. I don't hold grudges even though some wear theirs like a badge of honor. But I will continue to be who I am, always striving to be better, and will hope that others will accept me. I learned long ago, through the always sage advice of my mom, that you can't be liked by everyone. And you have to accept that in order to survive.
When the officer pulled me over, I was in a hurry. "Did you know you were speeding?" He leaned and gave me a sideways glance.
"I was not speeding."
"Ma'am, you were speeding."
"I was going 5 miles over, if that."
"That's speeding."
"Would it help if I told you I know Doug Wiley?" I held my breath.
"What?"
"Doug Wiley. He's my friend's brother. He works for the same police department as you. The short, balding guy. I think he works the night shift. But he's been around for awhile. I know him."
He shifted and smiled. "I know Doug. But what does that have to do with you?"
"I know him because I'm friends with his sister."
"And?"
"It works for his sister. I guess not for me, huh?"
"License and registration."
I handed him my papers and he returned to his vehicle for an eternity. All I could imagine was a SWAT team surrounding me and Harrison Ford stepping out of one of the cruisers, hand on his gun. I relaxed somewhat by reminding myself that Harrison Ford would never step out of a cruiser on my behalf, let alone approach me. My arresting officer would be Dom Deluise.
When he finally returned and handed me back my papers, he smiled. "Look, if you just show up for court and object, it'll be dismissed. I won't be there."
"So what's the point? Why even give me this?"
"You were speeding."
"I was not speeding. What's my defense?"
"Pardon?"
"In court. What's my defense?"
"Doug Wiley." With that, he sauntered back to his vehicle.
"A favor?" I called out before he got back into his car and paused, hand on the door handle. "Don't tell Doug what I said about him? Please?"
A flash of teeth broke into a broad grin, and he was gone.
Now don't even tell me you don't know where this went.
Not long ago, I videotaped myself in a prone position which, in itself, speaks volumes because these days, usually when I am in a prone position, I am either severely injured or suffering from insomnia. The latter was true when I made this video talking about fashion.
Since I am still trying to learn the ins and outs of my camera, the one my husband bought me for Christmas which was not the one I asked for but, he claims, is just as good as the one I did ask for, and somehow, I am not believing him, I haven't had any photo shoots yet. It's also somewhat difficult photographing one's self. There is a timer on the camera, yes. But it's not the same as taking time, getting the perfect lighting, pose, etc., and snapping a photo knowing that the clothing is being shown right. My goal, you may recall, is to photograph "fashion sense" for women 50 and over. Granted, I won't be 50 until November, but I'm close enough.
Be patient and we'll get there. I have to find an amateur photographer willing to take 20 minutes here and there to do my bidding. I can't ask my daughter to be that person. She'll tell me to get over myself. That it's not about me. That I'm not so hot and that people really don't care anyway. Like I didn't already know that about myself. And like that isn't why I haven't been in therapy for the last 10 years? Well, and also to talk about YOU, dear child, and how to handle you without the kid gloves.
For now, the best piece of fashion I came across was a t-shirt I saw when I was sitting on the roof of a very popular, very busy beachside bar/restaurant in South Carolina. My friend, Laura, actually pointed it out to me. A woman, seemingly confident in herself, sat at a table with friends, laughing and engaging in loud conversation. It takes confidence to wear such a t-shirt as hers. I want that confidence.
When I glanced over, my lips curled into a smile and in that aha moment, I realized that I had to have one of those t-shirts. Because it described my life in six small words: I BRING NOTHING TO THE TABLE.
The old egg had never come to fruition, never cracking open with new life to bestow upon an adoring mother duck its beauty of new life, new birth. Instead, the little heart ceased and was absorbed by time as the egg fossilized and hardened to a petrified state, its former inhabitant long gone. Its outer shell weathered the elements and the egg took on a patina that only age, sadness and time could create.
Early one morning, as Sophie partook in the annual Easter hunt hosted by her grandmother, she raced happily to the other side of the pond. Surely, her brothers would not dare to follow because the path to the other side was long overgrown and covered with thorns. Sophie often marveled at that far side where summer's heat brought pretty pink roses to those woesome boughs.
Coming too close to the edge of the pond, she slipped in the mud and glided downward, her Easter egg hunt about to come to a watery end. Quickly, she grabbed an old branch and was spared the drenching which she knew would have also garnered her a scolding from Nana Louise.
As she pulled herself up the slippery slope, Sophie noticed something gray and sparkling in the morning sun. The dew had created sunlit diamonds on the small specimen. Sophie gingerly edged to the beautiful trinket and gently cupped it in her hands.
Smiling, she headed back to the house carrying the only egg she needed. It was hard like a rock, but its shape...surely it was an egg.
Papa marveled at the incredible find and Mama and Nana Louise helped Sophie sift through Nana's basket of ribbons. Mama gently pulled some flowers from the beautiful centerpiece that rested on the dinner table and, together, they glued colorful adornments to the oval treasure.
Within minutes, the old, worn, abandoned egg was new again, exuding a beauty unlike any other that had been retrieved that day. Sophie clasped her hands and gazed at its fresh radiance with sparkling eyes.
"May I keep it?" she queried, giving Papa a sidelong glance.
"Oui, ma cherie," he replied with a moustached grin as he stroked his child's flaxen hair lovingly.
Over the years, as Sophie grew, the egg became a part of her own family and their Easter tradition. Each Easter eve, her children would anxiously watch as Sophie gently took the egg out of its velvet lined box, which had become its new home, and placed it in a holder on the mantle. The children would sit and listen eagerly as Sophie told the story of the egg and what it meant to her: a time of resurrection, joy and the promise of hope.
Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma