Perfect Day

We will look back on those pictures and remember it always as the perfect day that it was - full of play and laughter from the children and the adults. All of us in our white shirts and blue jeans - a family created by those two who somehow still love each other and have stuck it out through the trials, who raised three children who understand committment, love, and family. Is there a better tribute to my mom and dad that having us all together, all matching, all happy (even though we, too, have fought through our own trials). Brad and Christina with their beautiful girls; Brent and me with our wonderful boys; Nathan and Dawn who've not yet embarked on family-life but who will - and Mom and Dad who started it all. I was so proud to be with this family, my family, whom I love so dearly and who have made me who I am. I am so thankful.

Those Fading Childhood Days

What to do when our little boys grow up -

When that child we once held in our arms,

who was so little pressed against our hearts,

is too big to carry - Oh, how I long for that baby

who once cried but was soothed as I rocked him to sleep.

Now, he's too big to rock in that old chair we've given away.

Too big to sit in that once pea-ridden high chair.

Too big to suck on that pacifier that used to stay c

ontinually in his mouth

(oh, and the one in his hand just in case).

I miss the baby he once was and long for that part of mothering

that is forever gone.

I wish I could slow down these days -

these days that I know will also be gone from me too quickly.

How can I make it all last longer?

How can I revel in these moments of firsts

oh, just a little longer?

Movies in My Mind

I gathered every available chair in the house
The dinning room chairs used for family meals
The high chair, property of my baby brother
The carraige (mine - for my babies)
And I sat.
I sat in front of the dishwasher
Just waiting for the show to begin
My mother swarmed around me
Cooking
Cleaning
Crafting her projects
In my mind, I was crafting my own project
The movie that was about to "play" on the screen before me
Was but a figment of my young and vivid imagination.
Yet, to me, it was everything.
It was an escape. It was freedom.
It was so real.
The noise of my brothers quieted.
And a world was created where none existed.
A world all my own.
How I cherished these "movie" times.
Where have they gone?
Oh, where have all the stories,
all the imaginary "real" stories, gone?

Applause

This morning on my drive to school the wind was blowing just enough to ruffle the leaves on the already changing trees. My first thought was that it looked like hands applauding - cheering the morning commuters on their way to schools and works. As I was driving, I passed a boy walking just under the applauding tree. He looked rather forlorn and an Eyore-type cloud seemed to hang over his head; he didn't notice the cheering trees. I wonder how much better all of our days would be, though, if we did pay attention to the beautiful nature surrounding us, encouraging us, cheering us on even during our roughest moments. We could all use a little more of that, I think. A little sunshine and a little applause to start our days. I'm thankful for that moment today - it's just what I needed!

Chiseled By the Hands of Experience

Yes, this is why girls love and need their mothers so much! Because they really hear us when no one else does...not really. And after all we put them through, they love us and listen to us anyway. They understand; they're there. Always.

Over the past few days my children have truly demonstrated the old adage that we're repaid for all the torture we bestoy on our parents - especially our mothers! Yesterday, Brock came home without the project we've spent the week working on (that's due today, by the way!). Then, he began complaining about football practice and guitar practice, both of which take precious time away from playing with the boys down the block. I reminded him that he chose to do those things and that I didn't want to hear it; of course, I was heard just as much as I'm sure I heard my own mother as a similarly irresponsible child.

And, of course - since I was already so annoyed, Jackson would wake up this morning completely unhappy and un-consolable with the clothes, shoes, and socks I'd laid out for him to wear. So, I did what moms do - I gave the speech to both of them about being more appreciative. More responsible for themselves. I was boiling over with stress and frustration.

So, who did I call? My mother. Thank God for mothers! I kept venting as I walked into school and then, just as poetic justice would work, I realized (upon reaching my classroom) that I'd left my badge at home and my computer in my truck. So much for my responsibility talk!

Forged by Fire

Oh, the battles we've faced and the goals we have accomplished! From college kids ignorantly blissful about our new family to successful adults who were able to succeed when no one thought we could. Fulfilling our own life's purpose; our own life's dream; making our way to our own pyramids. How can I not think of The Alchemist when I think about how we've had our own paths to take in this journey of life? It's hard to believe that we have come so far and to a place where we are really where we want to be.

Congratulations to you! And, congratulations to me!

I watched you wake up this morning and dress in your slacks, shirt, and tie. Then, I watched as you pulled your white coat over your shoulders. The same white coat I saw on the back of the couch before we went to sleep last night with a stethoscope lying on top of it. This is a man living his dreams, I thought. Even through it all - you're able to fulfill your dreams. I'm so proud of you and you should be proud, too.

Then, I drove into my parking spot at school after dropping off the children. I walked into AHS and felt at home in my profession: the room I've decorated with my books and my literary world; the kids whom I love. I'm so glad to be where I am - where I'm meant to be. How blessed and fortunate are we to live the lives we planned after all the trials and all the work; to have made it to these pyramids of our dreams. The blood, sweat, and tears that have lead us here.

Fading Sunset

Sitting on the lake, I watched the sun set behind the great Kentucky hills. The sheer beauty of it always draws my thoughts to just how quickly the most precious and perfect things in life fade away from us.

I didn't have time to grab my camera - it was simply gone too quickly. Isn't that just how it goes? At that one moment our lives are settled and things seem to be going our way, it all fades from existence. Gone. Forever denied and quickly - oh, so too quickly - forgotten. How is it, then, that we allow ourselves to hold on so tightly to those things that simply cannot last? Why do we want those quickly lost moments to last forever?

My best friend says maybe life is about that one second of beauty - like the short time a butterfly's perfectly colorful wing is witnessable before he files again from the flower. But, I do not accept that. I want more than one second of life's beauty. I want a full life of it. I want to hold on to that setting sun before it sinks behind the hills of Kentucky for longer that it's meant to be held, I suppose. But, I cannot bring myself to accept any less than that.

Faithful Gardener

There she is, standing for hours; pruning a single fern that no one else will notice. Just standing and picking, picking and perfecting, for hours on that one little flower, that one little aspect of her lawn that no one else even seems to notice. In fact, when the watchful observer spots her on the way to meet friends for dinner and sees her again working tirelessly on that same spot upon returning, nothing is noticeably different. All seems as it was before. Yet, for the faithful gardener a state of perfection is finally reached and she may retire yet again to her home. Hours of work, hours of her life that is to the observer wasted, has ended in sweet success to the gardener.

But, still…hours...? On a single fern...? On any single plant…? Really…? Is that necessary!?

And then I’m reminded how much of our lives are spent gardening our own single ferns. Those little things we place so much importance on that no one else even seems to notice. Sometimes it’s a physical attribute, sometimes it’s academia, sometimes it’s relationships with our family or friends, sometimes it’s one thing at which we failed or that one success. We stand and prune and pick away to perfect that one little thing. Do we ignore bigger things in the process? Do we forget to focus on our whole existence? Too busily slaving away for sweet success in something that doesn’t matter? Or, is that one sweet success what it’s all about?

Sunflowers and Doves

Driving home from Holiday World with my best friend beside me and my children almost to sleep in the back, I pointed to the beautiful sunflower field out the right window. The sea of yellow stretched through the otherwise barren and weed-laden field and my first thoughts were of the symbolism therein: something tall and beautiful in an unkempt field, which (in my mind) translated to hope and love in otherwise dashed dreams, which made me think of mistakes (weeds) both heart wrenching yet somehow beautiful, which led to…

“Hey, Leslie. You know why that sunflower field’s there? See, people plant those fields to attract doves and then that’s where they hunt. The flowers attract the doves and – bam!”

How sad. All that beauty to attract the innocent and to make the kill. Isn’t that how it is, though? We like to think things are beautiful just to be beautiful; that real and simple peace exists. But, then, we’re slapped in the face with the cruel reality that beauty (whether people, situations, events, objects, etc.) often only attract so as to kill. I wonder, how often are we the dove? And, how often are we the sea of yellow sunflowers?

Rain Doesn't Slow Them Down!

A day at Holiday World isn't at all stiffled with just a little rain.
The boys had a blast anyway... we were already soaked, after all.

The End of Summer

He walks along the gravel road, obviously deep in thought - too deep for any nine year old boy. But, then, he's always been too deep for any boy his age. He wonders and things. He loves to learn and know and question. And yet, when I say to him, moments after this deep, reflective picture is taken: "Hey, buddy, you look ready for school to start again." He immediately transforms into a child, for once, as he runs away down the hill, "NOOOO!" he shouts with a smile from ear to ear. Not yet! Me either, buddy. Not yet.

Peaches with Granny

When classmates shared their stories of cooking with Grandma, learning to sew with Mamaw, and listening to old stories from Nona, I pretended to understand but only chimed in when the conversation finally shifted to something less abstract; because for me, a loving grandmother was an oxymoron. My biological grandmother died when my mom was only twelve-years-old, leaving my mother’s stepmom as my version; she was far from Monday-morning-share-time worthy. Even now what comes to mind is of her is: cadaverously wan and purely wicked. Wanda’s small, emaciated frame hung with skin like grease melting from candlesticks and her wolf-gray hair speared into the heavens as almost a mockery of God’s goodness. At a very young age I was sure that she was the awful wolf in the Little Red Riding Hood story and my real grandmother would soon be home to reclaim her rightful spot. The nickname lovingly bestowed upon her by the step-grandkids was “Wicked Wanda,” although when the parents were in ear-shot we called her Granny. The day she refused me a peach became the last day I spoke to her. I was only ten years old.

My mother gave me the choice this day to stay home or go shopping. The only condition was that if I went shopping I had to stop by Granny and Papaw’s house on the way home – this meant that at the end of our extremely awkward meeting I would be expected to hug Wicked Wanda. Her bony arms would wrap around my small body and I was often afraid I would be suffocated in her sham love. I usually made it around this cursed expectation by having an untimely stomach ache, an unstoppable sneezing fit, or some other feigned disorder that I knew would keep her icy, overpowering hands far away from me. She had too often before hurt my tender feelings with the common events of hiding the Christmas candy from the step-grandkids until her real grandchildren arrived to consume it all in front of us; allowing them to jump on her bed while our bottoms were to remain rooted on her bedroom floor; yelling at me for putting my shoe on her couch the day I was trying to show her I’d learned to tie my own shoe, and so many others. And, I was a creative child. As much as I knew she and I should love each other, her age and position in our family allowed her to hold the cards to this love and she wasn’t a very good sharer.

Although my mother said she just didn’t know how to love well, I didn’t think these were great starts and I long-ago decided that one more awkward hug would really get us no closer to love than any of the previous. However, I decided to go with my mother on her shopping expedition and I would try again to gain my Granny’s love like one of her real grandchildren. I would try because I was a young, obedient child and I knew that this was not a normal grandmother-granddaughter relationship. I wanted to have stories of my wonderful granny to share at school. I wanted to give her another shot because, before life jaded me, I wanted to love and be loved in return.

I walked through her kitchen after we arrived and there were two bushels of peaches on the kitchen cabinet. Partly because I love peaches and partly thinking it would be a compliment to her and perhaps a nice segue into a normal grandmother-granddaughter conversation, I asked if I might have one. All before-mentioned experiences with this woman flooded my mind with her nasty, hateful, hasty response which held more with her tone of voice, flash of eyes, and movement of hand than simply her words, but they were: “No. I’m going to use those peaches to make a pie.” She swigged down another gulp of her tequila and stared at me. Her sharp, disapproving eyes pierced my heart and I once again couldn’t understand what I had done to cause this woman to hate me. “Well, I guess if you have to have one, then go ahead!”
God, no, I didn’t want one of her damn peaches anymore. There’s nothing that could have persuaded me then, and I bit my tongue and stifled my feelings as I calmly asked my mother for the car keys so I could go sit outside.

Wicked Wanda later came outside to again begrudgingly offer me a peach (at my mother’s persuasion I’m sure) but I was much too hard-headed for that even then and she’d hurt me too many times in the past. I smiled and said no thank-you. I didn’t want to be rude or disrespectful, but I wouldn’t allow her to treat me like a step-child any longer and, so, there was still no way in hell I’d accept her peach now. If I’d been more capable – if life were only a Disney movie or a fairy-tale and I could be the bad person for just a moment – I would have cursed her pies and peaches, but I just stayed outside and listened to the car radio – heartbroken that a woman who should love me, just didn’t and just never would.

We drove away that day and I cried to my understanding mother who assured me I wouldn’t have to go back there. I had escaped a hug on this day when I hadn’t even thought of a plan; maybe she’d had the plan to escape mine, too – if so, she won.