food, crochet, merriment
about the glossy ads…
when you think no one is looking…
and you’re completely free to check out the bargains…
or nibble on them.
It’s just so hard to be patient and wait for all those sales…
especially when you’re really hungry right now…
and you still think no one is watching.
But Baby Chompy…here’s something you need to know.
Your good mama is always watching.
…and everything that it means to you.
I have a lovely, sweet daughter that sees this day just a tiny bit differently—after many years of being raised by a single-mom.
She’s just a cute little reminder to me that whether you are—climbing mountains or sliding down them, realizing reasons to rejoice or to mourn, lying in the warm sunshine or splashing in the rain—this life is what you make it–every step of the way.
We are determined to make it good.
A truly happy person is one who can enjoy the scenery while on a detour. ~Author Unknown
I suppose I’ve been driving this route for some time now.
Ooooh-whoo. Seven fifteen a.m. every morning for the past one hundred years.
Perhaps I exaggerate just a tad–but you get the point.
I’ve taken this road in the pouring rain…
thick and spooky fog……
and slippery, blinding, icy snow.
Driven it before daylight savings time when it was so dark outside the streetlights were still on.
With all the windows down in the summer when the cooler wouldn’t work.
In the winter with blankets wrapped around our shoulders and heads and feet because the heater wouldn’t kick in.
Attended every football game, track event, and choir concert humanly possible.
Grumbled now and then about the caffeine-induced erratic drivers or teenage pedestrians with a “you-know-you-won’t-hit-me” death wish, and the ridiculous youngsters that really shouldn’t have a license in the first place—as we all converged here in this very parking lot—before any decent human being should even be out of bed.
Sat, crocheting in this holding space for hours at a time, doing that mama thing we call waiting, sometimes alone and sometimes while my beloved cargo spent some needed time…with their mom.
Sat, idling along with the car, staring at this tinted glass door–that far away one between the cars–looking for any sign of Daney boy, or the bald kid.
Oh, the laughing and talking and listening and teasing and heartbreaks and secrets and real earth life we’ve had at this place.
All to end up here. One. Very. Last. Time.
The bald kid thinks that I’ll be so glad to sleep in. He thinks that I’ll be relieved to save so much gas in the car. He’s sure I’m happy to see it all be finally–after 24 years and 5 kids—over.
I’m afraid he’s very…
very….
wrong.
And when that alarm clock doesn’t go off at 6:30 am any more, it won’t matter…
because I’ll already be awake…
wishing that it would…
just one more time.
Off to school—1996
Week 11 Food storage prompt:
10 lbs. sugar, 1 lb salt
tell me…
What is it with boys and guns anyway?
Have you ever noticed that you don’t have to actually hand them a play gun, because everything–EVERYTHING magically has the ability to become one? Rakes…tripods…cd cases…balloons…bread.
Whatever.
In their mind, every inanimate object within their reach, has the innate ability to maim. This is a skill that only boys have–or, I might add, want.
From birth.
Of course, this skill puts everyone in their rifle scope every waking moment. We wouldn’t want to waste precious practice time, would we? Consequently, no one is safe.
In fact, I remember helping 3 year old Daney boy get dressed one day and his little thumb-and-finger-gun kept being loaded and fired too dang close to my head for me to like it.
Finally, after having my ears and chin and both eyes taken out by Hop-along’s imaginary bullets and a bit weary of his gun hand waving in my face, I held on to his arm and said, “Hey! You know, it isn’t very nice for boys to shoot at their mommas.”
His eyes immediately filled up with tears and he collapsed in a heap in front of me.
“I wasn’t shooting my momma.” Oh, he was wailing now.
“Reeeeally?” I said.
And I’m Mother Goose.
He pulled himself up and wiped at his nose with his sweatshirt sleeve. To the washer with that one.
“I was killing the bad guys….
so…
they don’t…
get….
…you.”
dun..dun..dun.
sigh.
The “Mother of the Year” title just flew past me…
…again.
Rats.
My boy…my other boy, you know the one with a tiny bit more hair than the bald kid—-the far, far away one?
Well, I got to speak to him today. Christmas and Mother’s Day are the four days in two years that we get to actually talk to our missionary boy on the phone. After 25 minutes of trying to make the calling card work and the crowded, Mother’s Day phone lines work, and the crazy land line work–we finally got through.
It was so wonderful to hear his voice. I spoke to him first, because I’m the mom–then everyone else had a turn. As much as I loved talking to him personally, it was easier to relax and enjoy the call by just putting him on speaker phone and listening to everyone else talk to him. Every time it was passed to me, I had to fight–really fight the urge to yell, “What are you doing on the other side of the world?!!”
The good news is that he is well and safe and happy, and while he is still my boy, he says he wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else in the world right now. We talked to him for about an hour until we realized that with it being 9 hours ahead for him–it was well past his bedtime.
He asked if he could say a prayer in Lithuanian for us. It was incredible to hear him speaking so confidently in a language I have never heard. I tried to be brave when he needed to say, “good-bye,” but it was hard.
I console myself by remembering that in less than one month, he will have been gone a year. He is learning and growing and serving and becoming a very wonderful young man. I am so proud of him…but I miss him so much.
No matter how old my children get, I suppose I will never stop counting them, over and over whenever we go somewhere together. It’s a mama bear instinct to make sure they are all here…safe. “One, two, three, four, five….one, two, three, four, five…one, two, three, four…dang it.”
This is good. This is right.
This is tough stuff for the wuss mom of the year.
I’m working on it–and it is getting better.
Kind comments will be gratefully accepted and may even give you 25 Celestial points…
you never know.
Ain’t he cute?