I know I've been scarce, but there's been an awful lot going on around me, lately. It's just been an unusual couple of weeks with some people in my life needing a little extra from me. That happens to all of us, sometimes, and we just have to stop and do what needs doing. That's just a woman's way.   

So, with a kind of a random trail of thoughts, this might best be described as a stream of consciousness post.

I believe we haven't really talked since my birthday/Mother's Day week. My 51st birthday week was one of the best I've had so far. It even spilled over into the next week and those are always the best kinds of birthdays. I've already learned that there are some things you just can't do over 50, though. Like get up off the floor quietly, tell yourself, "I don't need to write that down", and leave home without checking your chin. We packed so much into my birthday weekend that I went to church without the usual 10x mirror inspection. To my horror, I discovered, the following Monday, that I'd attended Mother's Day worship looking like Fred Sanford. I also was reminded, that week, that it's best to mentally establish that you're certain of both parties' names before you set off into an introduction. Over 50s can run into trouble halfway through the process.  
I was scrolling through Facebook, last week, and saw my younger brother had posted this picture of his feet after running a 35 mile race in his running sandals.
And this was a couple of weeks after seeing the next picture of him after biking in a race in the Pisgah National Forest with its climbing terrain and, obviously, wet conditions. Meanwhile, my older brother drove to New Mexico for the weekend to hunt turkeys. Never mind that we have turkeys a-plenty here and I came within a couple of feet of hitting one in mid-flight with my car right here in Mississippi on that very same weekend. That's typical of their weekends, though. Traveling long distances to hunt or fish for something or to pedal a bike up a mountain, all at the expense of sleep. Continuously, reports of their pursuits accumulate; making a girl, who enjoys lunch dates, historical biographies, and afternoon naps to begin to question her parentage or, at the very least, marvel at the wonders of genetics.
I attended orientation with Carson at Mississippi State, last week. He's a transfer from our community college and we went to get all of his affairs taken care of on the day, which was designated just for transfers. At check-in, the parents were given maroon Mississippi State tote bags full of information and the students were given black bags for all of their paperwork for the day. The people with black bags walked around drooling with stars in their eyes; thirsty to drink from this cup called freedom. Meanwhile, the people with maroon bags looked hollow-eyed and appeared to be doing a lot of math silently in their heads. Basically, the black bags met all day about the services and amenities the university offered them and the maroon bags met all day about methods of payment for the services and amenities to be rendered to those with the black bags. And, perhaps, most ironic, how the financers with the maroon bags would need to acquire permission from the non-paying black baggers to access their academic information. You can't make this stuff up.
We've been through the car buying process since we last talked. I got a new vehicle, a few weeks ago. Enjoying the ever so fleeting new car smell and still learning all the buttons. I'm still in that stage of car ownership when you park it far away from the crowd. This is always a short-lived period, which should pass as soon as it receives its first ding. Technology has come so far since our last car purchase that I'm not even real sure I could ram my car into yours even if I wanted to. I'm sure that is a good feature in most situations, but you never know when it might become a hindrance. Perhaps, though, in my case, the most life-altering feature is the keyless start. Up to this point, I have spent a considerable percentage of my life digging in the bottom of my purse for my keys. Now, I am looking for a new hobby to fill all this extra time, which I find spilling from my hands.

This being our first summer with Ruby, we are just learning that she has a low tolerance for heat. Perhaps even as low as her mother's. A fan has been purchased for her sleeping quarters as I certainly understand her plight. It's gotten hot fast, down here.
Now that my kids are grown, though, I'm feeling like a young mother again with her around. Ruby and I have had the all familiar talk parents have about how we're not going to lay around in the house all summer, but that we're going to go outside and play. So, she's in and out, all day. In and out. I let her out and she's back at the door in 5 minutes with her friends, Izzy and Olive. They're wanting a slurp out of the water bowl or to get a snack aka Milk Bone. There they are. The high dollar corgi and boxer, and then our Ruby, from the Out of the Pound Program, looking up at me; reminding me of the days of my red-faced kids and their friends begging to come in for Kool-Aid Jammers and Goldfish crackers. Davis and I even put in a pool aka bought a plastic kiddie pool, so that Ruby can host parties, this summer. May start looking like an episode of Girls Gone Wild, over here. You know, some parents will do anything to assure their kids will be popular.
We've lost a long fought battle with Ruby, though. Our sweet neighbors' son works at Chick-Fil-A and he keeps his pair of required black work shoes in their garage. Ruby, fascinated with the chicken- flavored slip-ons, has made it her daily objective to go and get the shoes, one by one, and bring them over to our house, where she stores them in a hiding place reserved for her most treasured possessions. We have found everything from dead birds and other dogs' water bowls, to extraordinarily fine stick specimens amongst the most revered pile o' things. Many-a-day, the neighbors have called or texted to see if the work shoes were over here and we'd go hauling them back across the street so that the young man could report for God's work down at the Chick-Fil-A. Sadly, though, despite our disciplinary efforts, we'd have to repeat the process again and again, because, well, you know.....Out of the Pound Program and all.

Well, I drove up in the driveway, yesterday, to find she'd gotten the chicken scratch 'n' sniff shoes and was in the front yard literally consuming them. They looked as if they'd been for a ride through the chipper. We gave the neighbors our apologies and money for the shoes, but you really can't blame Ruby. No one can resist shoes infused with the smell of a Number 1, no pickle, with a sweet tea. A dog's will to refrain can only take her so far.        
Well, I just had to catch you up on a whole lot of nothing, I suppose. I hope y'all are having a great start to your summer!

Talk soon!

   

I didn't make it by here, last week, and had racked up a few things to share. I'd planned to tell some lighthearted stories accumulated from the time I'd been gone, but then this day took a turn. Those will have to wait until later in the week.

Late this afternoon, the sound of sirens on our cul-de-sac roused all of us from our houses. Confusing and unsettling was the sight of all of the emergency vehicles in our quiet, little neighborhood. Little did we know that what we were hearing from our front yards was the sound of a family being changed forever.

I promised to write, today, but it just didn't seem right, tonight. I'll check back in later in the week.

In the meantime, please, pray for the grieving family in my neighborhood. God knows exactly who they are.


Talk soon-

Well, Mother's Day is upon us again. Only 2 more shopping days left if you haven't taken care of things yet. I thought I'd play a rerun, today, of a tribute I did for all the old school mothers of the 50's, 60's, and 70's. They were of a hardier stock than us, younger women. No, they didn't have to light kerosene lamps or cook on a potbellied stove or anything like that, but they did raise us without many of the modern benefits and vital information that we enjoyed as mothers.

So, in their honor, I want to recognize the mothers out there, who raised us. You packed our metal lunchboxes without the convenience of Snack Packs, Handi-Packs, and Variety Packs. No, you were only armed with your big bag of Golden Flake cheese curls, a pack of Butter Rings, and some sandwich bags with handy tie closures. Crustables? Hot Pockets? Pshhh. Not for you. It was a loaf of Sunbeam, a pack of bologna, a jar of Blue Plate, and a block of cheese; all cut at a diagonal with the crust manually removed. There were no convenient foil pouch drinks either. No, you had to wash our Charlie's Angels thermos, make a pitcher of Kool-Aid, and pour it in there with a couple of ice cubes that you'd popped out of the trays.   

You didn't even have cartoon channels to entertain us all day. If Sesame Street was over, you were out of luck until the next day. There were no tablets or iPhones to keep us occupied in waiting rooms or while you shopped. You actually had to talk to us. I mean, there wasn't anything else to do. You couldn't call your friends, while we were in the car either. You had to wait until we got home, so you could use the avocado green phone on the kitchen wall. So, you had plenty of time to talk and play a lot of car games with us, while we were out and about with you.               

You didn't have Pinterest or Facebook or Instagram or Twitter. Bless your heart. You didn't have recipes, theme party ideas, decorating tips, and a daily dose of insecurity-feeding comparison right at your finger tips 24/7. Nothing by which to gauge your social standing. Nothing to help you assess the job you were doing as a parent. Nothing to monitor how you were doing in keeping up with the Joneses. Nothing to guide you toward what's trending when making decisions for your family. That must have been hard for you.         

You made pies before store bought pie crusts were a thing. You cut up chickens.You set the table.  Made Sunday lunch. Never fed us in the car. Supper was something you made at home and was eaten around a table. You washed dishes by hand. Kept ice trays full. You baked our birthday cakes. Made Rice Krispie treats without a microwave. You fried chicken in Crisco. Your spaghetti sauce didn't come from a jar. Your macaroni and cheese wasn't safety cone orange. 

You didn't have the convenience of the time out chair or the treat jar. No, discipline meant you had to get your hands dirty. Swatting at bare legs with your hand or a belt to the bottom. A switch, a wooden spoon...anything would work. Sure, there were some slammed doors and a lot of tears, but you took it all in stride. After all, I guess you thought the goal was to make decent adults out of us, not a best friend.

You didn't have the luxury of the embroidery machine to personalize everything from our pencil bags down to our underwear. No, but you were quite crafty with the magic marker monogramming that you did inside our jackets and book bags and, well, it got the job done. While the look was not as crisp, it had its advantages. The name of our big brother or cousin or whoever could easily be marked out and ours could be written underneath when it got passed down our way.  

You didn't have online shopping so the need for anything would require that you load us up in the car and traipse all over town until we found it. Store to store. In and out. In and out. At least, though, you didn't have to worry with those pesky booster seats or seatbelts, which were stuffed so far down into the vinyl seats that you couldn't have found them anyway.   

And anytime a report assignment was given to us at school, it meant driving us all down to the library and pointing us in the direction of the card catalog. You had to help us find where the heck 021.009 HOB was. Heaven forbid it was already checked out and we had to go back home and borrow the neighbor's outdated World Book Encyclopedia. 

When we got older and started driving, you had no way to know if we made it safely until we got there. No, you had to worry and worry until we could arrive at our destination and find a pay phone to call you. And if we were late getting home, well, you were all alone with your imagination until we finally showed up. You couldn't text us while we were in school to ask if we'd finished our project or if we'd worked out the problem with our friend and, frankly, those weren't things that concerned you. You had to wait until we got home and, even then, you, sometimes, thought it was best if we dealt with it on our own without your intervention. You didn't have any means by which you could stay in communication with us every minute of the day. You couldn't even text us to come to the dinner table. You had to do it the old-fashioned way and scream our first, middle, and last names, down the hall, and then count to 3 if it came to that. 

You couldn't google questions about us......or search WebMD........or email Focus on the Family.  No, it was left to your own judgment as to whether we had a concussion, a case of lockjaw, or a multiple personality disorder. These conclusions were usually derived from at-home diagnostic testing like "How many fingers am I holding up?'....."Can you move it?"....or "When's the last time you went to the bathroom?"     

You did so much that our generation didn't have to do as mothers. 

You washed our cloth diapers and had to stick those pins through them without puncturing our small intestines.   

You rolled our hair every Saturday night on pink sponge rollers....so tight that our eyes were slanty.

You mastered those twin bead ponytail holders and, how, I'll never know.

You managed to keep us from swallowing those bite-sized Fisher Price people that came with our schoolhouse and barnyard.

You didn't let us turn over in those top heavy walkers or fall to our deaths from those rickety high chairs.

You always had our painter's pants looking as white as snow and without any help from Oxi-Clean. 

You kept us from flying through the windshield with the quick draw of your right arm across our chests as we moved around the car at will.

You reminded us to be careful when we went out in traffic on our bikes since there was nothing but prayer between our heads and the pavement. 

You sewed the pom-poms back on our footie socks when they'd gotten loose.

You needlepointed Holly Hobbie to adorn our rooms. 

You dabbed a little clear nail polish on our pantyhose runs to keep them from getting out of control. 

You were awesome. 

Just awesome.                 

There were some things you didn't do, though. I hate to even bring them up. But, we can't blame you, really, because you just didn't know any better.

You never called out our ball coaches or got in their faces when they didn't play us. Knowing good and well, we were better than all the other kids out there and, most likely, destined to go pro, one day. 

You didn't buy us cars that were nicer than yours. In most cases, they were so bad that we named them. Naming them was our coping mechanism to help us endure the humiliation of driving up at high school in a pea green used car that was as long as a city block.       

You didn't hire a photographer for our prom like it was our wedding day or something. 

You never told us how we were the best at everything and how we deserved the top spot at anything.  You didn't even fill our daily schedules with lessons and practices and push us to be out front and outshine the other kids. You wasted so many of our afternoons by just letting us stay at home and play outside. It's most likely the reason why we never made it to Broadway or the MLB. 
   
You and our fathers didn't go out in a field of wildflowers and have pregnancy pictures made, depriving us of the chance to know what your bare bellies looked like when you were carrying us. This has taken years for us to overcome.   

Not once did you go to the school and defend us and put the teachers in their place. What was that about? 

You, apparently, didn't know you were supposed to take enough pictures of us to compose a short film each day.  Heck, we were lucky if you went through a roll of film and a pack of flash cubes in two year's time.

You were, obviously, unaware that using phrases like, "I'm gonna beat the living daylights out of you," or "I'm gonna whip you so hard, you won't be able to sit down for a week" could cause irreparable harm to our fragile psyches, give us lifelong trust issues, and hurl us into a life of violence.  

If we got a new toy, you had the gall to tell us to read the directions and figure it out for ourselves, when you could have done it so much faster and saved us a lot of trouble. 

You sent us outside with a bag of firecrackers and a box of matches and never once did you hover or fret or make us wear safety goggles. I guess you thought we had enough common sense and fear of pain to make good decisions. 

You let us fill out our store bought Valentines all by ourselves. I suppose you thought it was ok that our valentines looked like a child had done them. Embarrassing.   

You thought we'd be happy with a little birthday cake in the backyard with a handful of neighborhood kids when all we secretly wanted was a 3 ring circus with live animals, a cotton candy machine, a photographer, overstimulation, and hundreds of our best friends to shower us with enough gifts for all the children in the tri-county area.

I guess we'll forgive you. Bless your hearts. You just didn't know. 

I suppose, we'll cut you some slack...because, well, the cloth diaper thing.

I really think we benefited from an amazing generation of mothers. Sometimes, I wish we didn't have so many tools and information and conveniences to help us with this parenting thing today. Our kids might be better off.  And us, too.

If you're blessed to still have your mothers, I hope you'll enjoy loving on them, this weekend. They went through a lot to get us grown.

Have a great Mother's Day with your people!    

There were two of you. One with black hair and one with red. You wore white hats and pantyhose and white shoes that squeaked as you led me and my mother down the long, tiled hallway to an exam room to wait on the pediatrician. I can still hear your voices and see your faces in my mind. Even though you had to inflict pain, sometimes, you were always kind to me. I remember you.

You were a short lady with a sweet smile. You were there when I made that first dreaded trip to the "woman" doctor. I'd dreaded the day for weeks. You called me sweetie and darlin' and patted on me. You made me feel more relaxed in that awkward time for a young lady. I remember you.

As a young married woman, I remember the doctor telling us that I'd miscarried my first pregnancy. When he left the room, you stayed behind and hugged me and loved me with your compassionate words. I remember you.

There were three of you in the office, where I'd come for my prenatal checkups when I was expecting my babies. You found their heartbeats. You measured my belly as it grew. And when I had you on the other end of the phone, you eased my worries and answered my questions. I remember you.

You were both there when I came into labor and delivery with my nervous husband, that night, to have our first child. I don't recall visual memories of you because of the drugs, but I clearly remember both of your voices. You held me and cheered for me and told me how good I was doing. You treated me like I was the only person that mattered to you at that moment. I remember you.

I was a first time mother and it was time for her first shots. I brought my mother along with me, so she could hold her, while you gave her the vaccinations. So fresh into motherhood, I didn't think I could bear to be an accomplice in causing her pain. I sat in the chair and cried, while you and my mother took care of business across the room. You were soft-spoken and gentle with her and quite proficient in making the heart-rending process go quickly. I remember you.

I came in with my husband for an unplanned C-section to be done during the doctor's lunch hour. I was awake and there were some problems that arose, but I never knew about them until later. The tone of your voices never changed and the rhythm of your conversations with me never missed a beat. I remember you.

My firstborn had her tonsils taken out. You brought her back to us and talked so sweetly to her; just like she was your child. You had assured her that she could take her teddy bear along and, when she got sick, you cleaned his fur until he was good as new. I remember you.

You came and got me for surgeries and brought me back. You talked to me and laughed with me and gave me the feeling that I was in good care. You got blankets when I was cold and ice chips when I was thirsty and sat with me as I woke up from deep sleep. Sometimes, I could hear you, but couldn't see you, but it was so comforting to know you were there. I remember you.

You were in the emergency room, those nights, when we'd bring our young son in for asthma problems. Sometimes, home treatment wasn't enough to give him relief. You understood that struggling for breath and watching someone you love struggle for breath were among the most distressing experiences. You worked fast and got him the help he needed, so we could all breathe easier. I remember you.
    
I visited my daddy at the hospital in his last days. We all knew he wasn't going home from there. You'd come in and speak to him with the cheeriest voices. You'd laugh and joke with him like he was a person and not a patient. Even though you'd seen death come there many times before, you didn't act like he was just another case or a chart number. You treated him like you'd want someone to treat your daddy. I remember you.

You came in with the doctor to assist with a test. I was anxious about what the spot in question might be, but you had a way of making me feel at ease. You talked to me about different things that got my mind off of all the possibilities and you were as relieved as I was when we got good news. I remember you.

We never forget the nurses, who've taken care of us or someone we love. What they do may seem routine to them, but, when you're the one in the bed, how you were made to feel in those happy, scary, painful, or life-altering moments, becomes an indelible memory.   

Thank you, nurses, for taking care of us! You make a difference, every day.  

Happy Nurses Week!

We remember you.