Four-Legged Angels

 

BabyGirl woke up in the night last night, not an unusual occurrence in my home.  After tending to her and returning to bed, I found I couldn’t sleep…also not an unusual occurrence.  As I lay in bed, listening to Big Boy Bo snore, I laughed to myself.  He’s really good at snoring…even when he’s awake.

 

 

This morning, I awoke and listened to him in his usual routine of stretching, yawning, shaking, and jumping down from the bed and heading to the back door to check on his yard.  I snuggled with Crazy Baby Daisy as she ran through her daily routine of yawning (with a quiet little girlie yelp to punctuate), stretching, shaking till her ears create a syncopated rhythm, and then trotting off after her Big Boy Bo before she misses out on some excitement.

I thought to myself, “People who don’t have pets are really missing out.”

My experiences with my doggies have run the gamut.  I’ve paid hundreds of dollars to vets to fix problems and cure disease.  Heck, even recently, I’ve paid hundreds of dollars to vets when nothing was wrong!  I’ve attended obedience classes and nearly died of mortal embarrassment as my four-legged pupil made a fool of me and behaved as a saint for the teacher.  I’ve read book after book on dog training, dog care, and dog language.  I think I’ve grown to become quite a fair and just Alpha Dog, who can command the respect of many* dogs – even unfamiliar. I’ve been through groomers good and bad, vets good and bad, dog sitters good and bad, foods, treats, kennels, you name it.  I’ve cried as we’ve rushed them to the pet ER.  I’ve prayed that I won’t have to say good-bye just yet, not this time, I’m not ready yet.  I’ve had sleepless nights with my dogs just as a young mommy does with her babies.  My career as a Doggie Mommy has had it all. 

I think all pet owners would agree, though, that there’s an intangible element of being an Alpha Dog (or cat?  Do they have alpha cats?) that cannot be matched.  Without pets, particularly dogs, you’re missing out on a very special guardian angel. 

Recently, I was at my brother’s house.  Ours plus theirs made three dogs together.  As I took a phone call that brought me to tears, I no longer sat alone on the floor by the couch.  My lap was warmed by a big, fluffy white head and floppy ears.  Sweet Thomas, my nephew doggie, came to comfort me, just as a good friend would come put their hand on your back or give you a hug as you cried.  Thomas curled up beside me and didn’t leave my side.  He was sad for me, with me.  He was there to comfort me, protect me, make things better in anyway he could.  Thomas slept with me that night, after having barely acknowledged my presence in his home prior to that moment.  (Like a child, he had been too busy hanging with his cousins.)

Years ago, I remember sitting on the floor of our apartment sobbing, my face buried in the guest bed.  I’m not even sure what upset me so, perhaps a fight with FireDaddy…plus, I was very pregnant with BigGirl.  Bo, at the time just a little adolescent doggie, still wild with energy and very vocal, gingerly crept towards my face.  His front paws leading the way, tentative and cautious, demonstrating his submission and good intentions, Bo came to me to help.  He licked my tears and stayed with me.  Calmly.  Patiently.  He knew I needed him.  He was still and quiet.  He was loyal.  He stayed with me through his dinner time without so much as a hungry rumble.  I was never alone.

My mother tells of a time she was alone, recovering from surgery.  She aw0ke from a nap feeling the presence of her loyal poodle, Hershey.  She could feel him lying right up against her side, like he always did.  Only, Hershey had grown old, blind, and feeble years before.  His life had lost its quality and my parents had already made the hard decision to put him down.  They had cried and said good-bye on a surreal day, weeks and weeks prior to this one.  Mother had already grown used to his absence.  On this day, though, she could swear he had been there, guarding her.  Tending to her needs.  Showing his love and loyalty, just as doggies do.

Pastor Frank, the man who married FireDaddy and I, once told us, “A woman is like a mirror.  She will treat you the way you treat her.”  I think this is true of women (at least myself), but even more so, I think it is true of dogs.  I’m sure there are tons of people out there that would argue my points and say, “But I had a dog and it was nothing like that.”  Just as they say dogs can smell fear, they know your heart.  Nine times out of ten, if you love them, they will love you.  If you open your heart and welcome them into your life as a true member of your family, not just an outside inhabitant of your yard, they will never let you be alone.  It takes time, but it’s an investment that will pay you back tenfold. 

This morning, as I do many days, I gave thanks for my little four-legged guardian angels on Earth. 

(*Note: I did not say ALL, but many.  Darn that little Teddy Dog.  His brother wasn’t as stubborn, though.) 

Lessons Learned

Some days are more productive than others. 

…Which is not to say that today I washed, dried, or folded the laundry giving me dirty looks throughout my house, weeded the flowerbeds that might soon climb up the walls, windows and doors of my home like a horror film, or cleaned the floors and bathrooms that I’m curse under my breath countless times a day.  No, I did none of those.  However, I learned a few things today.

For instance,

1.  Those awesome squeezable mayonnaise containers that boast “none left in the bottle” are not lying.  Be careful how much you squeeze, because you can’t take the mayo out of the chicken salad as easily as you can put it in.

2. I really must remember not to make chicken salad, prepare two girlies’ lunches, eat my own delicious chicken salad pita lunch, and clean the kitchen between showering and drying/styling my hair.  It’s a recipe for a bad hair day.

3. Flies are much easier to swat the day after they sneak in through the sliding glass door.  They’re hungry and weak…and more susceptible to my ninja-like swatting abilities.

3. The word is out about $5 movies on Sunday at our local theater.  Get there early.

4. Teach your children about the value of siblings.  Tell them, openly, that one day, they will be the closest person they have left.  Remind them that siblings are a gift to be treasured, not an inconvenience and a hassle to be tolerated.

5. Never take your children’s words too seriously.  One minute, they will swear they hate each other, vow that they will never forgive or play together again, and proclaim that they wish that evil sister had never been born…and the next minute you will find them cozied up together, “teaching” each other to read, giggling and cooing at pictures of baby animals.

6. Last, but not least, I’m reminded today, once again, that life is a fragile and fleeting miracle.  We have no guarantees.  Tomorrow could be stolen from us far faster than my ninja skills steal it from dehydrated flies in my kitchen. 

In all seriousness, I told my girlies today, “You’ll never know when you’ll never see someone again.  Tell them you love them and treat them like a gift you cherish every day.” 

And never, ever lose sight of that truth. 

 

Thinking of Baby Amelia and my long lost friend, Jen, today.  I love you both.

Mama

I was raised by a near perfect mother.  Our well decorated home was immaculately clean.  Her checkbook was balanced the day the statement arrived, every single month.  We ate home-cooked dinners FAR more often than not.  She was Room Mother Extraordinaire and her banana bread could win awards.

We had homemade, expertly decorated birthday cakes in designs that reflected our personalities and interests – a Barbie cake for me, a pizza cake for my brother, even a brown sugar sand trap complimented the fresh from scratch buttercream icing rough, fairway and green on the golf course cake she made for my lady golfer 4th grade teacher.  Our lunch bags were lovingly branded each morning with our names…in calligraphy.  My dresses were smocked with care by my own mother’s hands.  In fact, I even had a smocked nightgown with matching smocked barrettes. 

We were well mannered, well behaved children growing up.  We knew to say “ma’am” and “sir” to adults.  When called upon, we were trained to reply not with a “Huh?” or “What?”, but a “Ma’am?” or “Sir?”  We did not run in people’s living rooms or put our feet on their furniture; and if we did, we immediately stopped when corrected – sans sass talk.

We wrote thank you notes.  Our table was properly set with placemats and cloth napkins for each meal.  After dinner, as we cleared our own places, we thanked my mother for the delicious fare.  My older brother and I attended Cotillion when we were ten, where we practiced introductions and dancing.

My mother was not a “stay at home” mom.  She was a “work at home” mom. In addition to flawlessly running the household and raising children, she ran the family home building business from her desk - keeping books, helping Daddy manage contractors, and selecting flooring, wallpaper, lighting, and more.  She taxied us to dance, Blue Birds, Boy Scouts, soccer, T-ball and more.  She volunteered at the local hospital, served in the Junior League and occasionally worked in a friend’s gift shop. 

This was my mother. 

And today, as I sit in my pajamas, lazily letting my baby girlies sleep in on this summer morning, sipping a canned Diet Coke for breakfast, I marvel at the fact that she left dishes in her sink today when she left for work.

***

I remember sitting in my mother’s closet, in awe of her clothes.  She had so many clothes.  Clothes she’d hung onto for what, to my young mind, seemed like decades.  In reality, most of them were only a few years or perhaps A decade, I suppose.  She had a Real Wardrobe, not just a bunch of clothes.  I remember wanting to one day have a closet like that.  I remember wanting my closet to be organized and tidy like hers; everything in its own place with room to breathe.

I remember her long skirts, scarves, and jewelry.  She had earrings upon earrings and all sorts of zippered silky bags tucked away with gold and jewels inside.  Her shoes and her slips were so feminine and adult. 

I would sit on the little stool and help her decide which outfit to wear and how to accessorize it.  She asked my opinion and listened to my suggestions, almost as much then as she still does now.  She would show me shiny treasures - some hers and some mine – and tell me their stories, surrounded by the quiet in her closet. 

***

I am not my mother.  And, I will never be her.  My home will never be as clean as hers.  My cakes will never be as good, my sewing never as perfect, and my daughters’ school lunches will never wear their names in calligraphy.  My checkbook will forever envy the loving care hers receives, and my budget will never be so carefully balanced.  My closet is a shameful mess right now, and my baby doggie is much more at home in there than my girlies. 

The older I get, though, the more I am OK with this.  I am me.  This is me. 

I love and treasure my mother.  Her home is a comfort to me, as is my own.  My mother gave me love and safety everyday, just as I do for my girlies.  My mother was with me everyday; everyday she gave me herself.  I am with my girlies everyday; everyday I give them myself.  I kiss.  I hug.  I love.  I laugh and fuss and teach.  Just like Mama.

 

***** It’s been a while, I know.  I’m not entirely sure I’m back for good, but I thought I’d make an appearance.  I’ve also made a few appearances here in during my hiatus.  Hope to see you all again soon. *****

Cheating Death

This week, my students asked if I would read some of my personal writing to them.  I quickly and politely declined, but offered to write a story for them, at their request.  One group of students asked me to write a story about a vacation.  They specifically said, “Tell what went wrong…” as part of their request.  This story immediately came to my mind.  I can’t believe I haven’t written it before, as it is a story that has been told over and over again since that day.  Here’s the story I wrote for them today…

 

The boat hovered heavily above my head as we trudged towards the river. My anxiety expanded like a balloon to fill my entire chest and gut.

When Daddy planned this little white water rafting vacation for us, I’d actually been excited. It sounded fun. After all, I love the water. I love boats. We would be in the capable hands of our river guides. I had envisioned a warm spring day and sunshine escorting us down along our gentle river ride, save for a few exciting twists and turns along the way. My sugar plum fairy fantasies faded when we arrived at the river outfitters headquarters, shivering in the forty degree gray morning, and heard the news about the body.

“Well, at least we don’t have to worry about the body washing up today,” the local river expert laughed in reply to my mother’s nervous questions. We paced the floor quietly, our eyes soaking up the images of inflatable boats hovering sideways above rocks and racing water, its inhabitants clad in helmets, life vests and full body wet suits. As it turns out, he wasn’t kidding. Earlier in the week, a young woman had drowned in the stretch of the river that we would attempt to navigate today. Fortunately for us, her body was recovered only a day or two prior to this frigid morning.**

“Well, isn’t that comforting...” I murmured sarcastically under my breath.

A young man led us downstairs to the basement room where they stored the wetsuits and other gear. After they sized us up with their experienced eyes and a few clarifying questions, our wardrobe for the day was rationed and we were off to squeeze our flesh into this neoprene second skin. We looked like a box of classic crayons once we were ready, only bumpier and wearing goofy, hesitant grins.

Our guide chatted away, making small talk with us and laughing at inside jokes with his fellow river men. It seemed oddly distant to think of my warm, safe life at home in Florida as I marched towards impending danger. The voices in my head were dying to blurt out, “I’ve changed my mind! I’ll stay here! You go and have fun without me!” I considered running across that two-lane bridge that led us to the log building on the hill. The walk back to the Hardee’s where we’d eaten biscuits and eggs for breakfast wouldn’t be difficult. Perhaps I could find a little corner store, stock up on magazines and make myself at home in a fast food booth for the day. The hours would crawl, I was sure, but that seemed far preferable to being pinned beneath a raft, sucking freezing cold water into my lungs. I felt like a lemming – deathly afraid to go, but too chicken to speak out against the herd.

As the men, both taller and stronger than us ladies, righted the raft and set it afloat, I listened to the last minute review of safety procedures. Stay out of the bottom of the raft. If you find yourself taking an accidental plunge, extend your paddle and never let it go – this is your lifeline. Keep your feet up so you don’t get snared on fallen trees or other dangers beneath the surface. Listen to your guide. Listen and follow instructions...for dear life.

I have never in my life felt so close to death. I’ve never been to war or in the presence of malicious gunfire. I’ve never felt like my life depended on the clarity of my thinking and my physical abilities, until that day.

As we overtook the first rapids, my apprehension would blur and sharpen like the manual focus of a lens. When he told us we were approaching “Decision” rapid, I yearned to raise my hand and give up. “I quit! I’m done! Call the helicopter and get me out of this canyon!” I imagined myself announcing to the world. But, again, I refrained.

With each rapid we conquered, I whole-heartedly participated in the traditional paddles up “YEEEEEHAAAAAAWWWW!!” celebration. I felt my spirit give thanks that I would live to see the next round of torture in the watery path between me and the rickety, powder blue school bus that would take us back to safety.

The “Big Nasty” lived up to its name. My mother, just as terrified as I, had been unable to heed our guide’s advice. She had fearfully wadded her body up between the inflatable bolsters that spanned the width of the raft. She felt, inaccurately, safer on the thin synthetic floor of the vessel...until she found herself in the 50-degree raging river. Mascara streaking down her face, her short hair plastered to her skin beneath her plastic helmet, she gasped for air as she surfaced. The life vest kept her afloat as our guide hollered for her to hold out her paddle. I barely saw her paddle, now dangerous extension of her arm, reaching towards our boat, just as my Marine brother, a trained and professional hero, toppled into the river. In a blur of wet faces and choppy water, I saw the knot welling up on my brother’s head. My mother’s attempt at rescue had smacked him forcefully just above his eye. With a surreal smoothness, our guide expertly plucked my mother’s vest from the water and deposited her exhausted, stunned body in the boat at his feet. As he gave my brother his arm, everyone’s breath escaped in relief. We were unaware that we’d even been holding it.

“HE SAID NOT TO SIT ON THE BOTTOM OF THE BOAT, MOTHER!” I scolded her, rage quickly responding to my overwhelming fear. I had been afraid my mother would suffer more than just a sharp splash into icy waters. Once I realized the danger had passed, I couldn’t help being mad at her for putting herself into such a dangerous predicament – she should have followed directions! I took this as a personal lesson and reinforced my thighs and rear with steely muscles. “I will NOT,” I silently pledged, “be bounced into that river,” and I would sooner cripple myself than risk suffocating beneath a boat.

At some point between a heartfelt YEEHAW and the relentless sprouting of a fresh batch of terror, I heard our guide hollering to his counterpart on another raft in the fleet. It was lunchtime. They were making plans for a cliffhanger picnic, literally.

The guides nimbly hopped from their respective boats onto a rocky ledge on the canyon wall. They were patient and gentle as they offered their strong, steady hold to each of us as we abandoned the familiarity of our air-filled seats for the questionable security of this spot of earth. We clustered around the tiny campfire, begging for warmth; not only was the river stealing our body heat with its persistent spray and splashes, but the wind and sprinkling rain worked to fill in the blanks between the river’s attacks. Our bodies ached with cold.

For just a moment, I allowed my mind to float away, escaping to the day years ago when we picnicked on the Hawaiian Island of Lanai. Our adventure of sailing and snorkeling had been unexpectedly punctuated by a delicious, luxurious teriyaki lunch. Perhaps these guides had a similar treat planned. Perhaps they’d serve up some “river cowboy” stew to nourish our fatigue and famine. Once again, my daydreams were cut short as I held out my hand to accept a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Lovely. This is even better,” I laughed at my own disappointment.

After an all too short relief from our mental and physical stress, we found ourselves piling back into the boats and launching for the remainder of the gorge. I was resigned to gut through the journey and eager for my next steps on solid ground.

After an irrelevant stretch of time, we heard the tone of our guide’s voice change as he refreshed our memory to the safety precautions outlined at the start of the trip. He spoke with no degree of humor, explaining the severity and danger of the rapid we would next attack. This rapid, the Coliseum, is categorized class IV+. A class VI rapid is often thought of as unnavigable, a class V is “expert”, requiring extensively practiced rescue skills. I must have worn the face of a prisoner standing before a firing squad. My life would surely end that day. I was positive I would not survive this obstacle.

Again, I hunkered down and stabbed my will to live into the water with my oar. I met every command with the strength of my bones. My jaw painfully clamped, as though trying to hoard air into my lungs, preparing for the worst-case scenario. I was so intently focused on my role in this unlikely crew, that I didn’t immediately notice the guide climbing out of his seat and onto the boulder in the river, the boulder on which our boat was now pinned. I also didn’t notice him pulling passengers out of the boat and onto the rock beside him, until I heard the shouts.

My mother and the other, now faceless, mariners were hollering to me. “Move! Get over here! Get up and move!”

I tried in my shock and confusion to move, but something was stopping me. There was a rope – nothing of consequence, just enough to fluster my blurred thinking, just enough to stun me into helplessness. In my memory, it feels like minutes; in actuality, I’m sure it wasn’t even seconds. Once again, Our Heroic Guide, employed his brute strength and quick thinking to snatch me up from my assigned seat. He pulled my body like a rag doll to the top of the boat, and I watched my seat flood before my eyes. I saw the ghost of my body as the water pulled it under and buried it in a watery grave.

The next few moments are lost to me. I do not remember returning to my seat. I do not remember freeing ourselves from the rock. I do not remember racing through the fall. What I do remember is my breath and blood flooding through my body finally as I heard Our Heroic Guide laugh in celebration with a fellow river runner. I do remember the oars up YEEHAW that I witnessed from above the boat, in an out of body moment. I do remember the numbness that protected me from the reality of the moment.

And, I’ll never, ever, as long as I live, forget the moment my feet finally touched that riverbank. I was alive. I climbed that sleek, muddy incline, thankful for the pain I felt in my thighs. I was thankful for the trees that canopied above me. I was thankful for the smelly exhaust from the pitiful bus in which we rode home. I was thankful for the silent, albeit fearful in its own narrow, winding, mountainside way, bus ride back to that log building on the Cheat River. I was thankful for my dry clothes and the rented mini-van waiting in the gravel parking lot. I was thankful for the hotel bed hours away that would later shelter my weary, empty body.

And, the next morning, I was mostly thankful for the strong arm that helped me lift my dilapidated body from its resting place, for without it, I could not have moved.

 

**As I was researching the Cheat River Canyon today, trying to remember the name of the fall that nearly got me, I stumbled on this link.  Apparently, outdoorsmen have a way of playing with time.  I found this report detailing the events of the woman’s death.  However, it actually occurred a few years prior to our arrival…not a few days.  But, the story is so much sweeter the way they told it. :)

 

This post was also submitted as a part of {W}rite-of Passage challenge #8: Plot.

Brothers

I remember my brother saying once, about a boy I was madly in love with at the time, “He would be a great guy, if he wasn’t dating my sister.”

Brothers.  They are quite a story.

Of course, my story about brothers is from the perspective of a sister.  People talk so much about a girl’s relationship with her father and how important it is in her future relationships.  I have no doubt that is true.  But, in retrospect, I also know a girl’s relationship with her brothers can have just as powerful an influence on her relationships with men, too.

My brothers and I played cars in the den.  We set up our own garages around the room – under the piano bench, under the skirts of chairs and sofas, beneath chests and coffee tables.  We acted out scenes and stories with Corvettes and Firebirds and Lamborghinis in the lead roles.

My brothers and I played G. I. Joe.  Well, they played G. I. Joe and I played Barbie and, at times, their two worlds mingled.

I remember playing spy.  We’d load ourselves down with canteens and flashlights and assorted supplies before we crawled through air ducts (under and between furniture) and snuck into darkened offices to rifle through imaginary filing cabinets.

Riding together in the backseat on long road trips, we giggled till I nearly wet my pants, making up personalized license plates with potty puns.  Mama and Daddy would fuss from the frontseat for us to quiet down.  It’s not safe.  We were distracting the driver.  We’d bite our lips and whisper for a minute or two before our laughter roared all over again.

My brothers taught me to play and laugh.  They taught me to appreciate boys for what they are.

I still learn from – and about – my brothers today.  Brothers, be they old or young – want to fix things.  They want to advise and counsel.  It’s their way of protecting.

Brothers send friends to look out for you on dates.  Brothers walk behind you and your friends to and from school.  Brothers silently watch you do stupid things and, years later, tell you it hurt them – even though you thought they didn’t care.

Brothers look upon sisters like a big mess of tears and ribbons and puffy hearts and nonsense.  But, that big mess is theirs for keeps.

I hope that brothers also look upon sisters as a soft heart that cares for them.  The first girl that ever loved them and thought of them as their own.  A girl that knows them to be a strong, capable man that carries inside him the heart of a baby boy.  The boy who cried at the sight of his mama crying and when his beloved pet lizard died.  Boys that suffered heartbreaks at the hands of girls like me. 

Boys that hug their sister and make it feel like home.

Boys and girls are so different.  But, on the inside – in the quiet little memories and spaces between their souls – brothers and sisters are really very much the same.

Sisters

I always wanted a sister.  I still wish I had one.  One that was really mine – not just obligated by marriage or some sort of Uber-Friend.  I dreamt of a sister on whom I could stake my claim, in whom I could expect undying loyalty.  A bond of blood, chromosomes, life and heart.  A history filled with pinky-promises, tearful fights, side-splitting laughter, and whispers in the dark.

I love watching my girlies cuddle like kittens – in front of the TV, eating snacks, beneath quilts and sheets, even at the kitchen table.  Everyday their closeness – or, rather, their absence of personal space and boundaries – amazes me.  It is not the same with brothers.

Yet, I am surprised at how rough and tumble they can be.  More and more, lately, I find them man-handling each other – wrestling around like hyper little puppies in a pen, knowing full well that Mama will snatch them up by the scruff of their neck any  second.  I’ll walk through the den and find them behind the couch, halfway beneath an end table – one sister pinned flat on her back as the other straddles her chest.  Their giggles escalating uncontrollably like wild fires.

BabyGirl was less than a year old when we moved them into the same bedroom.  At a routine well check-up, I hashed out  some baby sleep questions with the pediatrician.  At the time, he asked me if I wanted BabyGirl to be more reliant on me or her sister.  Did I want her to learn to be comforted by BigGirl in the night, or me?  I knew then that, while I did not wish to place a burden on BigGirl, I wanted them to share a close bond that would comfort them both throughout their nights – and days – forever.

A long time ago, My Daddy told my brothers and me that we were the closest thing in the world to each other.  He spoke these words in a fit of frustration and heartbreak; we fought like cats and dogs.  I’ve never forgotten that lecture.  In fact, I’ve preached my own version of it a few times to my girlies.

On the last occasion I tried to impart that pearl of wisdom to my girls, I watched BigGirl’s eyes tearfully soak up my message.  I explained to her that, one day, a long time away from today, Mommy and Daddy would be gone.  We would be in heaven.  But, they wouldn’t be alone because they would have each other.  That is the best, most important gift Mommy and Daddy has ever given them – each other.  They will be best friends, worst enemies, soul mates, teacher and student, companions, playmates, competition, and – one day – parents to each other.  Over time, they will be everything to each other.

To each other, they will scream obscenities, hurl prized possessions, confide deepest secrets, and confess dreams and fears.  Between them, they will protect each others’ stories.  They will know each other better than FireDaddy and I will ever know either of them.  A bittersweet thought.

I love my girlies.  I love BigGirl and I love BabyGirl.  I love them more than I know how to describe.  But, what I love even more than either of them is their sisterhood.  My love for them as a pair is exponentially larger and grander and more amazingly overwhelming than my love for either of them independently.

When I was pregnant with BabyGirl, I feared that this wonderful new addition would jeopardize my relationship with BigGirl.  I worried that I could not possibly love another baby as much as I so obviously loved her.  I worried about jealousy, sibling rivalry, perceived favoritism, and all sorts of potential threats.  I sought the council of friends, my mother, and every mother of multiple children I knew.

One mother, I don’t remember who, finally spoke the words that settled the worry in my heart.  “Don’t think of it as taking something away from her…you are giving her a gift no one else can, a gift like no other.  You are giving her the best gift of all – a sister.”

Things I Take for Granted

Every now and again, life smacks you across the face and says, “See how lucky you are?!? Now stop complaining!”

Over the holidays, I helped FireDaddy and his fellow firemen collect donations for a family who lost everything in a house fire a week or two before Christmas.  This family was low income, to say the least, and had NO insurance.  None. They lost it all and were on their own.  American Red Cross is very helpful to families like these, but this is only a start.  This single mother needed a lot to help give their family (her son and mother) a jumpstart. 

As I drove around one afternoon, collecting items from friends and shopping for gift cards and such, I talked to my girlies about what I was doing.  I want them to know what their Daddy and I believe is right – helping others.

Last night, it happened again.  This time, it was an apartment building across the street from the school in which I teach.  Six of our families are displaced from their homes and starting from scratch. They have the clothes on their backs and, gladly, an empty apartment, hastily made ready for them by complex management.  The American Red Cross has them set up in a hotel for three nights and, at this I’m truly amazed, the local Ruby Tuesday has granted these families FREE MEALS for as long as they need it!  The road ahead is still very long for these families, though. 

 

But, that’s really just one thing I take for granted…

I also take for granted that my husband will go to work everyday and come home safely at the conclusion of each shift.  I must admit that, fairly recently, haunting thoughts have run through my mind as I kiss him good-bye as he leaves for work.  I always give him a big hug and tell him to be safe.  There’s a little, frightened voice in my mind, only about an inch tall, that whispers to me, “What if this is the last time?  What if today is the day something happens?”

Morbid, but true.  It could happen. 

Friends ask me how I stand it.  How am I not worried ALL. THE. TIME?

 

I answer them honestly: I don’t think about it.

 

Until the nights when I stay up to watch the late news after his evening call home, recounting the excitement of a good fire.  I proudly watch for his face on the television.  And, then I hear the details he cleverly omitted from his reporting…

“…live rounds exploding…grenades found in the home…”

Or like the night I heard about the shooting turned car chase turned hostage stand-off.  Yep.  He was there for it all.  What I found out later was that he was pulled by the SWAT team to go in closer with them as their medic…or something like that.  I’ve blocked most of it out. 

It is always after the fact that he reveals the true danger – and his fear.

Even simple, “innocent” stories he tells me remind me of how aware he is of the risks.  I hear it when he tells me about arriving at a call, realizing “something isn’t right” and calling police to the scene.  It’s not just the element of risk from accidents or fire – but the element of CRIME. 

 

And then there’s the other thing…him.  Even if he comes home alive and in one piece, he isn’t the same. 

I asked him something recently.  It occurred to me that when I see those “Drive Safely” signs on the side of the road, I think to myself, “Someone died there.”  When HE sees those signs, does he remember the night they died? Does he still see the wreck?

Yes. He does.

Every time he drives past this corner or that pillar of an overpass or that tree, he relives that scene. 

Every time he drives past that house, he remembers that call.

Every time he eats at that restaurant, he remembers the man that choked.  He remembers working on him, spread out in the middle of the tables, as families and diners sat watching, stunned and helpless.

Every time he drives past that parking lot, he remembers the young man that died there, a bullet in his head.

Every time.

Every time.

Every time.

 

He told me this summer, “You’d think it would get easier.”

I think it’s rather the opposite, in fact.

 

I take for granted that, since he came home safely in one piece, life goes on as normal.  And, since he doesn’t talk much about these things, especially right away, I often never know what is on his mind.  I am thankful for the days he comes home and says, “We had a bad call.”  At least then I know. 

 

On September 11th of his first year on the department, FireDaddy was on duty.  I met him at a local remembrance ceremony in which his department participated.  I stood by the ladder truck with all the guys on his shift and watched interpretive dancers and other such performers take their turn on the stage of the amphitheater.  We talked and joked and enjoyed the beautiful weather as the American flag, perched atop the erect ladder beside us, waved in the ocean air. 

At the end of the night, the dancers brought roses over to the firefighters and shook their hands in thanks.  They saw me standing amongst them and the lead dancer asked, “Are you a wife?”  I replied with a smile and a nod.  She hugged me tightly, presented a rose and thanked me, too.

At the time, I laughed and said, “Don’t thank me!  I don’t do anything!  They’re the heroes!”

I still think that, whole-heartedly.  But, after being the wife of a firefighter for nearly a decade, I also realize I sacrifice more than I think about.  More than I care to admit.

 

And then there are the good days. 

“I saved a life today,” he texted me last week.  CPR conversions are rare.  When they happen, it is a celebration. 

The call toned out CPR in progress at a doctor’s office.  They arrive on scene and none of the three doctors in the room were touching the patient…and it was apparent they hadn’t yet.  One of the three offered their help once the firefighters arrived, but it was refused. 

FireDaddy and his guys got busy immediately.  Thank God the woman let out a sudden gasp after a while and she, shockingly, “came to”.  FireDaddy later told me that he’d never seen anything like it.  In the case of those fortunate successful conversions, the patient is usually still very much altered.  This woman, though, was fully alert.  On this day, they walked in the office men and walked out heroes.  They saved her life.  They truly saved her life.

If there were only more days like those.

 

There is so much I take for granted.

Cold.

Even in Florida, it has been darn right cold outside this week. The kind of cold that makes you crave pajamas. Sweat pants. Big, squishy, crew socks. Hoodies. Blankets and quilts. Blazing fires in your fireplace and hot cocoa -- or the “grown-up” version of cocoa, hot lattes.

My bed has taken quite good care of me each night; a quilt, and sometimes a throw blanket, layered on top of my coverlet. Even with the assistance of a crow bar, I would still struggle to pry myself loose from its warm embrace. My personal bed heaters, Bo and Daisy, have risen to the occasion beautifully. Bo dutifully curls up by my feetsies, keeping my sock-clad toesies warm. Daisy wads her balled-up self under my arm and, on occasion, moves to my pillow in the night, molding to the top of my head like a canine stocking cap.

My kitchen, this week, has pumped out comfort food: crock-pot chicken with dressing, pork chops, chili, spaghetti, and, coming soon, asparagus & green pea risotto. For this weekend, I’m planning a roast, cooked over the course of the day. On Monday, we celebrated a successful first day back to “the grind” with a fresh batch of fudge brownies and tall glasses of skim milk.

Ironically, this week (by far the coldest week in recent memory) BigGirl’s homework included star gazing. Star gazing. In freezing temperatures. So, she and FireDaddy bundled up in their warmest winter gear, and spent time in the dark night yard, searching for constellations.  Orion, Cassiopeia, Lepus… The Lollipop. They shivered as they came inside, sporting red noses, rosy cheeks, and excited smiles.  They talked loudly and with renewed energy as they told BabyGirl and I their every observation.

Each night this week, the girlies have prayed for snow, wishing against all odds that the magic of inside-out jammies would bring a winter weather miracle to Florida. BigGirl has gone so far as wearing three layers inside out…an undershirt, and two layers of pajamas – all inside-out. Each morning, BabyGirl has crept straight from sleep, eyes filled with hope, to the sliding glass door to check for snow. Each day, these hopeful girlies have been disappointed only momentarily, realizing they can try again tonight, and maybe tomorrow will be different.

While much of me is tired of the frivolous annoyances brought on by the cold – covering plants, dripping faucets, the weight of extra coats, bundling up protesting children, searching closets, drawers and hampers for weather-appropriate clothes for the girlies, starting the car early each morning and carrying blankets to warm my Drama Princesses on the way to school – I must admit that much of me has enjoyed it.  In some ways, it is a fun, refreshing change of pace.  It’s fun to wear scarves and hats and gloves and tights and boots.  Create a new look, a new “cold weather you”.  It’s fun to cozy up in the big bed together, shivering between cold sheets.  It’s such a treat to enjoy a warm fire (especially living with FireDaddy…but that’s another post) and feel your heart flutter at the prospect of future flurries. 

The cold has returned pieces of my childhood to my mind.  The smell of snow.  Counting marshmallows in my hot chocolate.  Watching the way those marshmallows slowly soften and get bubbly as they melt into my warm treat.  My Mama relentlessly prodded and stoked the fire.  Daddy, in his Wellington boots, stocking cap, brown jacket and gloves, replenished firewood from stacks out back.  I remember how cold my feet were as they walked on the tile in our Texas home, and how, as I played outside, my fingers and face stung long before I confessed my chill to anyone.  A gray winter sky hung low above brown, dormant yards.  Barren gray trees stretching from cold red clay to touch heavy clouds.  Freezing cold air carried the smell of burning wood to my nose.  I hear the crunch of snow under my feet and remember stiffly walking in my heavy winter jacket and boots.  One year, the lake froze and I stood fearful on the safety of the back law, watching in awe as my crazy uncles walked out onto the ice, playing and goofing around like a bunch of overgrown boys.  One year, the unexpected sight of snow in the morning as I woke up at a friend’s house made me homesick.  You should be at home when it snows, I thought.  I missed My Mama and My Daddy and my brothers.

I’m a little homesick today at the thought of it all. 

Hello there, Winter.  I’ve missed you, too.

 

Photo credits:  http://www.flickr.com/photos/elifayse/ / CC BY 2.0

It’s simple.

My dear friend, Cher, wrote a New Year’s post yesterday.  She was inspired by this post to choose One Little Word as a theme, if you will, for her 2010.  I think that’s a fabulous way to avoid the dissolution of resolutions while still setting a goal.

So, here I go. 

I want to focus on what is important: family, friends, health, and home. 

I want to target my work as a mother, a wife, and a teacher.

I want to make choices that bring peace into my home.  I want to give myself, my children, and my husband the gift of time, and I want to spend it, not money, to make us happy.  I want to sit by the fire with cocoa and cookies more often.  I want to dig in the dirt together.  I want to party in our PJs.  I want to take walks and ride bikes and blow bubbles and color.  I want to smile at the sun and enjoy a cool, ocean breeze.

For the past week, ever since we’ve returned from our Hillbilly Holiday, my girlies and I have been a bit reclusive…and we’ve loved every minute of it.  I’ve cooked and crafted and sewn.  We’ve read and colored and played games.  I’ve worn yoga pants, a bare face, and a ponytail for days at a time.  It’s been marvelous.

In 2010, I’m not going to try to keep up with the Joneses – or, for that matter, the Millers, the Popes or the even the Nguyens.  I will search for contentment with where I am in life. 

I also want to CLEAN OUT.  How much stuff does a person REALLY need?? I’m a sentimental kind of gal, so this can be hard for me…but I’d like to try traveling light for a while. 

I will surround myself with things and people that make me happy. 

I want to simplify my life. 

My word for 2010 is SIMPLIFY.

What is your word?

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety-Jig

We made it home safely last night from our Hillbilly Holiday.  Today, the girlies and I have done virtually nothing other than bask in the comfort of home, only venturing out to retrieve our loving and faithful pets from their “camp” and make a quick stop for Christmas card photos. 

I promised my girlies an afternoon treat of cocoa and cookies.  Today’s snack was made better by a special holiday serenade from Michael Buble.   Later, we spent more than an hour gathered around the kitchen table, catching up on our advent coloring pages.  (My hand has yet to fully recover from The Crayola Grip.) 

My suitcase still lies in the floor of my office, waiting for me to properly unpack the clean shirts, socks, pants, and sweaters.  Laundry from our journey, now washed, dried, and folded neatly, patiently awaits my attention.  My guest bedroom remains a pile of projects to complete and gifts to prepare.  My refrigerator and cupboards are nearly bare and I’ve no specific plans yet for holiday baking or special eats. 

Today, the girlies focused their energy today on reuniting with their toys and various belongings.  BabyGirl slept for hours this evening curled up in a chair like a kitten.  I chatted with My Mama, FireDaddy’s Mama, and my girlies.  I cuddled my puppies and kissed my babies.  I talked with friends and gave thanks for our safe return. 

My Blackberry is filled with notes on thoughts from my journey I’d like to share with you….but today is not the day, friends. 

I am so glad to be home again.

What In the Name of Hee-Haw Junction Was I Thinking???

FireDaddy and I have planned a Hillbilly Holiday trip.

What was I thinking?

The current plan is to shove off from Point A immediately after school on Tuesday of next week. We will drive to Atlanta and crash with some friends for the night before it’s on the road again in the morning to complete the long journey to the back hills of Kentucky.

And when I say “back hills”, I mean it.

No internet. No mall. The nearest Walmart is more than 30 minutes away – and you practically need a compass to find your way. Cracker Barrel is known as a “Big City Store”.

The last time I visited Kentucky (which was also my first) I realized near the end of the trip that I had not eaten fruit the entire time we were in Kentucky.

It is like travelling back in time.

Now, I need to clarify – these people are the sweetest, kindest, most loving people on the face of God’s great planet. They love, love, love you all like family – even before you’re family. On that trip, my girlies and I met for the first time FireDaddy’s eldest aunt (who still lives in the same house in which she was born – the home that did not have indoor plumbing until FireDaddy’s Daddy was grown, in the Army, and PAID for the plumbing to be installed in his Mammaw’s home), and she sent them both home with two 15-inch collectible dolls from her den just because. They just do that kind of stuff. FireDaddy’s uncle routinely takes him out to the shed, or hat closet, or wherever he keeps his crazy stash – and gives him a new Kentucky Wildcats hat every time he sees him. Every meal, when you visit, is like a feast, complete with pies and cakes and gravy and all the fixin’s. These people love my husband, they love my babies, and they love me. And, for that, I am immensely grateful and touched.

However, when we get right down to it – I AM A CITY GIRL. I am spoiled. And, to top it all off, I am a FLORIDA city girl. I don’t do cold very well at all. I’ve had trouble dressing my darling girlies this year on the few “cold” days we’ve had (high in 50s) so far – much less clothing them for a week of wet, cloudy days with temps in the 40s and 30s! So, that’s one panic…

Another is, OH. MY. GOSH! This is happening NEXT WEEK, PEOPLE!!! NEXT WEEK!!!!

My mind is racing with all the things I need to do before then – and only have one weekend left to accomplish. Things like:

1. Tear my house apart looking for the portable DVD player (which I haven’t seen since the summer months) that will prevent FireDaddy and I from strapping our girlies to the roof of our car all the way between Georgia and Kentucky.

2. Purchase and pack a week’s worth of chocolate pop-tarts, gummy snacks, apples, Wheat Thins, Diet Dr. Pepper, CapriSuns, Oreos, and other “survival basics” for the car ride (and sneaky snacks while we’ve there).

3. Refill every prescription known to man – Ibuprofen 800, Prozac Weekly, Prozac daily, muscle relaxers, and anything else you may be able to suggest - that will help me survive being trapped in a Pacifica with FireDaddy and my babies for like a gajillion miles. FireDaddy and BabyGirl don’t always see eye to eye…especially in the car.

4. Sew and wrap presents for the family we’re going to see there….because, have I mentioned? I’m doing a handmade Christmas this year…(i.e. more evidence supporting my claims to insanity)

5. Print photos to insert in my Christmas cards so I can mail them before we high-tail it off for a week.

6. Find a loving, temporary home for my two darling four-legged children….because if they were going too, I might elect to stay home.

7. Get those same darling four-legged children groomed so their winter camp counselors, whomever they wind up being, don’t think I’m a neglectful mother.

8. Wash the twenty-five loads of laundry that has accumulated in the last week at my house.

9. Find an adorable dress suitable for LittleGirl to wear to school all day and straight into her holiday program TOMORROW NIGHT.

10. Continue to plan for and survive the remaining 5 days of the 2009 school year, including (but not limited to) writing detailed sub plans for the last day of school prior to the holiday break (for which, I will not be present), feed my family, and generally go about my life as expected by the world around me.

11. Fight off this sinus infection that is threatening to attack me any moment.

12. Continue to work towards producing and packaging the other handmade gifts I’ve planned for my friends, family and my daughters’ teachers.

What was I thinking?

Scratch that. I know what I was thinking.

I was thinking that these people - this family - are important to FireDaddy and our girlies and I. These are people that aren’t getting any younger or healthier as time wears on, to say the least. These are people that are worth the hassle and heartache that accompanies traveling long distances in a car with short people. These people are part of my daughters’ heritage, whether they understand this or not, and they need to know them. They need to know where they came from. And so does FireDaddy. And so do I.

In the long run, these are small prices to pay for the memories that will be made.

Perhaps I should focus on the feeling that overwhelmed my whole being the moment I stepped foot in that 1920-something home that Auntie and Uncle have owned since their own youth. The feeling that brought tears to my eyes so boldly that I could not stop them from falling down my cheeks. The feeling that instantly, gently, amazingly carried my soul hundreds of miles away to a little home in Louisiana where my own family member had lived. The feeling that said “home”, even though it was all new to me.

Perhaps I should focus on the pictures of babies frozen in time. And brides blushing beside their grooms. And Olan Mills portraits of wrinkled eyes and smiles. The creak in the floorboards. The slow, soft sound of tired feet shuffling to the kitchen to set the morning pot to brew. The cheery yellow wall hangings in a tiny, tiny kitchen. The kitchen stove that doesn’t know the meaning of a day off.

Perhaps I will focus on these.

Oh, what a happy holiday it will be.

Photo credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/auvet/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

O’ Christmas Tree, O’ Christmas Tree

The tree is finally up.  Whew.

While this is definitely the most cumbersome of all decorating chores, it is also one of the most sentimental.  Ornaments on our tree, like many of yours, tell the tale of who we are and where we’ve been. 

There are faces on our tree.  Lots of little smiling faces.  Every year, we watch the faces grow older.

 

 

Ornaments mark milestones in our family’s story.  Our first Christmas together and my babies’ first Christmases. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some ornaments were handmade by family, friends, and even a few former students.

Of course, there are lots of firefighters and fire trucks, too.

Many ornaments came directly from the childhood trees of Little Girl Mommy and Little Boy FireDaddy.

Some of my newest favorites are more playful in spirit, reflecting my love of the beach and water.

Our ornaments represent our heritage,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the contents of our hearts,  

 and the child inside each of us.

 

And that sounds just about right to me.  Isn’t that what Christmas is all about?

 

 

 

Christmas for My Girlies

Christmas, if you ask me, is best seen through the eyes of a child.  I love watching my little girlies experience the magic.  So, naturally, some of my most favorite Christmas decorations are the ones centered around my babies.

One of the earliest traditions began as a gift from a secret Santa [My brother and sister-in-law].  Before BabyGirl was with us, a box containing this advent house appeared unexpectedly on our front porch.  This beautiful house brings so much excitement to our family throughout the entire month of December.  Every night, we open a door and discover the treasure is hiding inside.  Hair bows, bath fizzies, candies, “grow me” pets, coin purses, stamps, stickers, play dough and more.  As BabyGirl has grown and taken a more active role in holidays, they take turns opening doors each night.  BigGirl opens all the odds, BabyGirl opens the evens.  Some doors contain items to be shared, while others hold something for each of them.  In years past, some treats have been a little larger than these little doors can handle.  In those cases, our little elf has been known to leave clues guiding the way to their daily dose of Christmas cheer.

 

Last year, we welcomed a brand new tradition to our home:  Elway, the Elf on the Shelf.  Elway and his friends have become quite the rage all over the land of Christmas, it seems…but that doesn’t make him any less special to us.  I laughed this year as BabyGirl said to me, “Mommy. He watching me.  I don’t want him watching me.”  (Guilty conscience, my dear??) This year, it was apparent that Elway brought the house with him on his long trek from the North Pole.  And…he brought with him another mysterious box…with no return address.

 

 

Elway also brought with him this adorable pink tree.   We found the perfect home for it on the tea table in the girlies’ room.  We’ve begun slowly decorating it with knick-knacks and homemade ornaments.  And (more evidence that the Big Man from the North had something to do with all this Christmas goodness), two consecutive doors in the advent house revealed supplies to make angel ornaments!  Who else would have known but the Big Man himself? 

 

There are also child-sized, unbreakable versions of Christmas favorites throughout my house.  I fell in love with this children’s nativity set (seen here as arranged by BigGirl) from Bombay Kids, (R.I.P. Bombay Company & Bombay Kids. You are missed...)

 

 

 

 

 

 

… and this stuffed Hallmark Christmas tree with buttons for hanging felt ornament sets.  (The ornament sets came with little board books telling holiday stories, too!  Even better!) 

 

  And, this year, our traditions have even been enhanced by the blogosphere!  Thanks to Elsie Marley, the girlies and I are making advent coloring books, one day at a time.  Well, BigGirl wants to compile her art into a collection.  BabyGirl wants to hang hers on the wall over her bed.  (I think I’m going to hang a string and clip them, a la clothesline, as we go.)  It’s amazing how much fun it has been…just simple paper and crayons!  And, it’s free!

 

In the words of Maria from The Sound of Music, “These are a few of my favorite things.”

What are some of your favorite children’s Christmas traditions?

Crackin’ Open a Can of Christmas

The sun hadn’t even set on Thanksgiving Day and my “so-called friends” were posting pictures of their Christmas trees on Facebook, making me feel like a slacker.

Then, I went and hurt myself, somehow, and was incapacitated for a day and a half, in a house freshly cleaned from top to bottom in preparation for decorations.

Then, BigGirl woke up with a raging 104.4 fever, and another day was sidetracked.

Gosh darn it, I became hell-bent on putting out some flippin’ red and green already!!! In a typical neurotic fit, I began unloading the Rubbermaid tubs in the garage patiently awaiting my attention. One by one, we smiled at the pillows and cutsies and greeted them like old friends who’d come to visit. “Awww, I remember that…” BigGirl would say.

“Mommy, it’s not Christmas yet. I don’t want you to make dat,” BabyGirl chimed in.

As I, once again, found homes, some new and some the same, for all these familiar faces, I realized how many stories I pull out of the attic every year. (Well, more accurately, FireDaddy pulls them out of the attic…I pull them out of the tubs.)

Like the “crystal” candy dish my little old next door neighbor gave to us the year we were married, Mrs. Russell. I can see her face and remember the worry we had for her when she was hospitalized for a month or so. I remember her purple God awful reflecting ball she kept in her little courtyard by her front door, and her excitement as she called us over to look at her century plant in bloom. I never would have chosen this for myself, but it reminds me of friendship.

I have this crazy, random blue metal basket with Santa on it. Every year I pull it out and wonder exactly what I will do with it and where I will put it. But I don’t have the heart to give it away. It was given to me by a sweet, sweet friend I taught with in a past life. She was as country as country gets. And she would give you the shirt off her back, and the diesel dually she rode in on. The basket was filled with sausage (from their own pigs, I believe), corn bread, and bean soup mix. I miss her.

There’s the toy soldier my mother made, in her toll painting days. He’s so handsome. I have a thing for toy soldiers, I think. You know, being a man in uniform and all. I remember sitting in our kitchen watching her paint these projects. I was impressed with how easy she made it look, and how cool it was that water worked like an eraser when used correctly. I was thrilled when she said I could have it – for the girls, of course.

I love my green table runner with little red birds appliquéd on it. It’s cheery and looks semi-homemade. (Sometimes illusions are a good thing.) I love all the fabrics that come out of my tubs. Pillows, dolls, animals, stockings, napkins, runners, and more. Fabric has such a warming, inviting effect on a room. And what house doesn’t need a little more warmth in it for the holidays?

I love my basket of Christmas books, a second generation tradition. Since my girlies were so small when I started collecting, we have board books and everything beyond. As they mature and grow, so will this special collection. And, I’ll save the board books for friends’ babies and cousins and nieces and nephews and, one day, grandbabies. I love that it was the first item I pulled out of the garage. I presented it to BigGirl like her first gift of the season – and she received it as such. Both girlies immediately plunged into the basket of treasures, promptly browsing one after another after another. Quietly. Enjoying.

All of these stories and memories and thoughts fumble and bumble around my head like blind little mice. And we haven’t even touched the five (or more) tubs of ornaments yet. That’s another post entirely…

I love Christmas. I love that, like many things, no two are exactly alike. I love that with every little tchotchke I put out every year, I am surrounding myself with memories and faces. I love that decorating your home for Christmas each year is an act of creating. Creating memories. Creating a mood. Creating a backdrop for time spent with people you love.

Christmas is coming. Just you wait.

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Psst! Did you hear? Barking Mad is having a Crazy Christmas Giveaway! A $300 TARGET GIFT CARD!!! You know how I feel about Target, y'all...Anyhow, here's her link and all that jazz - go check it out!