for the Carport Queen

For my entire life, I remember having what my mom referred to as a "carport sale."  It is now referred to as a garage sale, I assume because here in suburbia we all have garages that close up over our cars and back in Mississippi, we had a carport that was open to wave at the neighbors.  This is certainly better in my opinion as much of my young life involved time spent under a carport - eating watermelon, shelling peas (watching other people shell peas), swinging (because good carports have swings), talking, and listening to it rain in a fold out lawn chair, something my daddy considers as sacred as a national holiday.   I learned very early to appreciate this activity. 

But, at my house, the carport was used several times a year for a sale.  And, people I'm going to tell you that my mama knew how to do it.  My parents even built a carport onto the house that I grew up in because it didn't come with one.  It had an attic above it and she would climb those pull down stairs 2 or 3 times a year and drag out whatever in the world she had down to that carport to sell.  My daddy would tie twine along the sides of the posts of the carport for a clothing rack and there she'd go.  She had plywood boards over boxes for tables, a sharpie, and a roll of masking tape and we'd go to town pricing stuff.  She'd send daddy to McDonalds because cooking was out of the question and she couldn't leave "the sale."  Sometimes my little 10 year old self would be left to watch "the sale" while she went inside for a minute and I'd get worried that I would have to start naming prices, especially when it was stuff my daddy had pulled out like vehicles, riding mowers, or old tires.  We'd have random people trying on clothes in our house, stuffing their feet into shoes that were way too small, and the whole time my mama was telling them how great they looked in so-and-so, and how they really needed to buy the navy blue one too.  And they did.  If they asked how much something was, she said, "oh, a dollar," or "I'll take a dollar," or "how 'bout a dollar."  And, at the end of the day, the woman would have several hundred dollars and what was left, she'd send my brother back up those pull down stairs to save for the next "sale."  

Today I had my own sale in my garage with a couple of friends and ironically it happened to coincide with Carport Sale Queen's birthday.   I pulled stuff down from the attic, stickered it, hauled it, displayed it, moved it, priced it, and moved it some more.  I found myself arguing about $3 for candlesticks with some old man in a Mercedes.  Guess that's how he got it.  At the end of the day, I still don't hold a candle to her but I did make a little money and other people had to haul off my junk.  The city kept taking our sign so we had to alternate people sitting down at the end of the street holding up the sign - we figured it was harder to move people.  Dang codes.  We got lots of compliments on creativity and some people stopped just because of our sign models, one which was my husband.  The difference in me and my mama is that at the end of the day I had Stephen haul it all to Goodwill because I'm not taking it back up to save for another "sale." Carport Queen, you can have that one.  I'm one and done.

The kids an I celebrated the rest of mom's birthday with our balloon send off.  I started this tradition a few years ago as a way to help hang onto memories and talk about things she liked.  Kate was really into birthdays, and parties, so perfect.  Birthdays are happy, birthdays have balloons, birthdays have parties.  I like to keep it simple.  We've really enjoyed this and it's something the kids are starting to look forward to.  The first year was the beach, because we happened to be there and because she LOVED the beach.  Last year, I let Bailey pick and he picked the baseball field where he played Coach Pitch because we all know she would have been at all the games she could.  Perfect.  And, well this year, we had a plan but it got a bit derailed after the "sale" but I think it turned out perfectly.  They picked their Uncle Ed's who has a fantastic yard full of treasures and a pool.  It was 97 degrees.  These kids are brilliant.  

They picked red balloons this year in honor of Nana's favorite color.  It never fails that every year the ladies at Kroger ask if we're having a party and I tell them, "well, yes we are."  We actually managed to make it to the said destination without popping or losing one this year.  We were looking for the perfect spot when I spotted the big ole chicken.  No doubt that was it.  My mama loved a chicken.  She decorated her farmhouse with rooster lamps, canisters, and other Southern farm apparel.  They were tasteful chickens, and really who doesn't love a good old egg laying bird.  She even had a Vera Bradley bag in a chicken pattern that she kept important papers, medicine, catalogs, that she needed to carry with her.  Reference was made to "my chicken bag" whenever I asked where some so-and-so was.  With that big chicken as our backdrop, they sent off those birthday balloons.  Well, sort of.  One kind of got stuck in the tree and a hummingbird tried to eat it.  Nobody freaked out so I figured we'd all come a long way.  I'm sure a big gust of wind will eventually send it on its way.  

After all, somebody's always late to the party.   

Mom's 60th birthday 2008.
Notice that she's nowhere near or interested in the cake, yet completely delighted in
holding Kate and watching her grandsons blow out her candles. Also, note the rooster lamp
directly behind her head.
She was never late to the party. 

Since I'm late to the blogging party, I included our last 2 years of videos too.  This is where I realize how big my kids are.  Look at their itty bitty legs barely sticking out of those shorts on the first one!  

Bless the nest

Earlier this week I spent four hours in the dark.  Life was going along just great.  Disney channel blaring, clothes in the washer, dishwasher running, leftover chicken in the oven, 2 out of 4 using the wi-fi, lights ablaze all over the house.  The wind blows and the lights go out.  Shoot. 
My people freak out.  The dog vibrates, the kids look at the radar on my iPhone.  The questions start. “What will we do if it doesn’t come back on?”  “We can’t even watch TV!”  “What will we eat?” “There’s nothing to do!”  This was in the first 30 seconds.  
I see the wind start blowing, Stephen and I lower the umbrella and then watch the wind blow our 20 trees.  I stand at the door fielding the questions but my mind goes to the mama bird and her nest in my fern in my backyard.  I remember that she flew out when we walked outside.  To occupy his mind I tell Bailey to keep an eye on the fern and our baby birds as it sways back and forth like a pendulum on the arbor.  I wonder if I should intervene and take it off the hanger or just leave it alone.  I imagine how silly I would look out there holding a fern steady in the middle of a storm and think of how my mom always said not to interfere with nature so I let it swing.  I wonder if the mama is in it and if she’s gripping her little bird feet tight to the nest she had built or if she is watching from the fence and hoping her nest would sustain the rocking so those egg babies don’t roll out.  I think about how I’m certain I’m the only one thinking about baby bird eggs right now.  
We all pack up in the car to go to a restaurant across town where they have lights and warm food.  We see friends and all talk about how they too had to go out because of no power.  Tragic.  We return home with our bellies full and our house dark.  Stephen gets on his iPhone with 3G.  I light candles, get a flashlight and sit down with my stack of magazines.  Glorious.  No laundry - can‘t do it, can’t even see it.  I read an article on Sheryl Crow surviving cancer and living with a brain tumor, 3 broken engagements, 2 adoptions, a bunch of Grammys, a ranch with hired people to call and check on her kids at school during a storm, and how she is thriving at 52.  I read about her lumpectomy and radiation and think, “wow, I had a lot of cancer, wonder what the article would say if I was her.”  I write that article in my head.  
I take my flashlight and give my girl a bath in the dark and think of how brilliant she is for asking for her headlamp because she “doesn’t like to carry stuff.”  I dig in the junk drawer for triple-A batteries because I’m that prepared.  This buys me another article because her brother who secretly thinks she’s ingenious is now borrowing her light and looking through his dark room for his so he can build legos.  
He resorts to playing a game on the iPad that’s still got a charge and she crawls in my lap and asks why I’m not scared.  I tell her, “It’s just a storm.”  I borrow the headlamp and pick up a decorating magazine, enjoying the flicker and scent of beach, lemon zest, and leftover Christmas cinnamon, and freshly shampooed hair.  It’s still dark, I’m still sitting, she’s asleep but jerks when it thunders so I keep holding.   
And, just like that, the lights come on.  It’s all like I left it 4 hours ago.  The TV flashes on, the toys are in the floor, the dishes are in the sink and the clothes aren’t dry.  I’m sad.  Truly sad.  I remember how it was 30 seconds ago when it was dark and I didn’t have to make excuses for sitting and reading a magazine with a borrowed headlamp. 
I check Facebook because that’s the best way to snap myself back into technology and see that people in the neighborhood are taking a poll to see if other people were in the dark and talking about whether their food in the fridge might spoil.  I hear sighs of relief from upstairs so thankful that the lights are on so they can go to bed for Pete’s sake.  I blow out the candles, turn on the dryer, clean up the kitchen, make coffee for the next day to come on the automatic timer. 
I think of how good we have it.  How God tries to show us by turning of the lights so we can only see His path, sometimes dimly lit and sometimes smelling like last Christmas.  How he makes our nest strong enough to withstand the rocking from the storm.  How He teaches us as mothers to grip our babies with our tiny bird fingers but when we don’t make it there in time, He teaches us to wait patiently and watch from the fence so we can watch Him work in the storm.  I think about my storms.  I think about how He’s held the nest steady and how the sides are built just perfectly high enough to protect my 3 eggs from the rocking and let me watch from the fence.  I thank Him.

I pray for another power outage.

   

Same God that moves mountains

I saw folders...

I had a moment this week in Target.  As I was walking through the isle looking for more citronella candles, I saw a beautiful thing - colored folders.  Oh, yes.  And markers, and paper, and a completely empty isle of shelving waiting for more.  Be still my heart.  The end is near.  By now, we’ve been through at least 12 boxes of popsicles, kept our kids up way too late, slapped at 458 mosquitos, and caught at least 138 lightening bugs to stuff into a jar to suffocate. Parts of it are wonderful and parts of it I find longing for a sweater.  I started off strong, plastering my rules on the fridge, checking out books from the library, but I’ve wavered.  I have found myself making the beds more than them, and the books got returned unread.  In the absence of structure, schedules, and routine, I am just putty.  God bless the homeschool moms. 

The summer is actually going pretty well. We turn on the sprinklers to simulate a pool and water the grass and there has been some talk of sleeping outdoors in a tent.  The tent got set up by Stephen in order to justify his nomination for Father-of-the-Year, but the actual sleeping part has yet to come to fruition.  I don’t camp.  I don’t like tents, or hard ground, random bug screeches, and when my bed is 10 feet away, it seems downright silly.  I did condone the dragging of the sleeping materials outside and then hung out in the tent for 20 minutes in the dark until it was decided that the lack of lighting and electronic devices weren’t really worth it.  Father-of-the-Year rested in his bed while I waited this thing out in the dark backyard.  I guess he was worn slap out from setting it up.  Kate was the disappointed one.  It’s not surprising since I’m certain that it’s only a matter of time before she’s hugging trees and running barefoot through the fields of clover.

There was the incident of the free popsicle campaign where my firstborn apparently advertised to the neighborhood that he was giving them away and the freezer and fridge got left open all day.  Full of food.  And popsicles.  In the heat.  There was a grape and food flavored drippy mess coming out of my freezer by 5:00.  After I peeled myself off of the ceiling and spent a couple of hours with a water hose, rain boots, and a garbage bag, I now have a very clean, but very empty freezer.  Bailey was standing there during my fit of rage so he got recruited to help with dumping.  I think he was scared.  This was day #2.  I started searching for more camps.  He revised the rules.  

Queen Elsa - points for the blue heels

I’ve gotten to spend a little extra time with my kids due to the impeccable timing of the ole NJ, but it’s not at all a bad thing.  I’ve gotten the opportunity to observe and reflect on lots of things - like how grown up they are compared to last year.  They dress themselves.  He wears some form of athletic gear - gym shorts and florescent graphic t-shirt that says something like, “EAT MY LUNCH” with colored socks to his knees that cost more than his shoes and a flat-bill baseball cap.  Looks like mismatch day is everyday.  She alternates between a cute dress, swimsuit, and orphan style depending on the mood.  And the shoes.  One day it was leopard print high-tops with a sweet little white dress.  Whatever.  I’m losing control.  He spends most of his time researching the sport of baseball on the internet, watching YouTube videos of replays and comparing prices for the best accessories.  She choreographs routines to prepare for her career as Queen Elsa of Arendelle.  Then, there's the food choices.  Boy wonder is done with the kids meals, out with the chicken nuggets.  He chose a turkey, bacon, avocado sandwich for lunch and makes requests like the Melting Pot and Macaroni Grill for lunch.  Yeah, right.  

Future motivational speakers

They sort of like each other, but sort of don’t want anyone to know.  I’ve caught them in bed watching a movie together, playing games on the iPad, playing in the pool together, and selling lemonade together. There’s an occasional moment of unforced sharing with no ulterior motive. I took them to the pet store for dog food and this happened: 

Note the victory fist

He bought it with his own money for her “birthday.”  Her name is Suzy.  I am definitely putty.  They can be harmonious but in 5 seconds start pinching and flailing their arms at each other.  I used to do this trick to my brother - where you move your arms real fast so he has a hard time finding way to hit you.  But mine both do it, at the same time, in a store until one does the old duck and pinch move and there is yelling or tears.  Or, they play the copycat game in the car, my favorite.  Good times.   

Sometime during the NJ, my husband sold our old but very reliable truck and bought this :

He really loves the past.  Like, high-school loves the past.  This is what goes down when I get put to sleep and doped up for a couple of days.  I have plastic surgery and he goes topless.  He installed him a new set of speakers and one of those radios that we all had in our cars back in the day because no factory radio was good enough - the kind where the face comes off so no one steals it.  This was in the first 20 minutes he owned it.  He washed it and waxed it and shined it.  We ride around town listening to tunes from the "Jeep play list" which consists of high-school music, with the top off, doors off, and our youngest in a booster seat.  I’ve caught her leaning her head out with her tongue hanging out like a dog.  And I can’t drive it.  I never learned how to drive a 5-speed.  I tried a couple of times but two kids in the back yelling, “give it gas!” and “off the clutch too fast!”  is not conducive to learning. So, I currently enjoy being driven around by others, listening to tunes, while the wind blows my hair into a ratty tangled mess that I will condition later.  

One day, we crossed over the border into the great state and picked blueberries.  As I pulled up into the farm, I realized once again that I have become my mother.  I remember her dragging us to pick blueberries in the blazing Mississippi heat, telling us how fun this would be and how great whatever blueberry creation she made would be.  I remember hours of picking and my bucket never filled up as I nearly melted in the heat.  Pure torture.  She talked about it my whole life.  I knew we were in trouble when the summer job teen dropped us off in the golf cart at the far end of the row and said, “Pick the whole bush and walk back up there when you’re done.”  I quickly realized I’m raising pansies.  They complained about the heat, asked for shade, then Bailey had a fake baseball game with the blueberries which then turned into practicing catching them in their mouths.  There was lots of eating and about a cup each in their bucket by the time I filled mine up.  At one point, Bailey asked me if we were slaves.  Seriously.  The kid is funny but lazy.  His sister finally punched him and said, “just pick or she won’t let us leave!”  In spite of all of this, I found it very peaceful - birds chirping, nature, sun-warmed berries that you pluck off the bush and let explode in your mouth, and a brother and sister that will hopefully drag their own kids to do the same when they are grown.  I got them ice cream as a consolation prize.  

I wonder what they will remember from the summer.  I have tried to think of my own memories and most of them involve time - with my grandmothers, family, cousins, friends.  For them, I seriously doubt it will be the baseball camp or inventors camp, hopefully VBS, but probably not pottery camp except for the ceramic bird to remind her one day when she’s 36 and dusting underneath it.  It certainly won’t be the hundreds of dollars we forked over for to various people and organizations in our city, but maybe they’ll call and thank us when they write their own checks.  I bet it will be their daddy driving them to get ice cream in a new really used Jeep, baseball with neighborhood kids, first sleepovers, crashing other people’s pools, berry picking, popsicles, lightening bugs, catching  frogs, watching baby birds grow, riding scooters in the streets even after the lights come on, and being generally carefree.  I’m sure it won’t be how their mommy made them make their beds, read books, and organize their legos by color because they don't remember that now.  

Oh the public schools are calling.  I can hear them.  They scream of schedules and routines, bedtimes, and brushed teeth.  I miss you, schools.  And teachers of the first and fourth grades, I know that you are not feeling me here, but I promise to have my two shiny and sparkly on the first day so that you will love them instantly and the tight grip you had to release on your summer break will be a tiny bit worth it.  And, when you ask them what they did this summer and they answer, “My mommy got a nose job and my daddy got a jeep,” you won’t judge.  This has been stated so I’m sure it will be again.  

For now, I will relish in the last couple of hours I have spent with my little sidekick in our pajamas watching Tinkerbell and the Great Fairy Rescue.  And, I will giggle at the text I just got and the memories I know my son is making with his cousin, Henry, as they are trying to train cats to walk on a leash at my brother’s house this very moment.  Cat camp is good camp.  I will certainly make the next 25 days worthwhile.  But, who’s counting?  

our pool

Ode to surgery

After plastic surgery,  we went topless.

So, I’ve made a list of observations this week in honor of my first plastic surgery and outpatient surgery experience and thought I thought I’d share my top 10:

10.   There is but one goal in the outpatient surgery center - to get you out as fast as possible.  It is not about comfort, people.  It is about turnaround.  Are you breathing?  Can you lift your eyelids?  Please walk to the bathroom and change your clothes.  The car is outside.  

9.  You will be asked if you have any questions no less than 42 times the morning of surgery.  You don’t have any questions because you don’t know what to ask.  There is an explanation of what so-and-so doctor/nurse is going to do followed by, “Do you have any questions?”  It is confusing.  Should I ask a question or is this rhetorical?  I have been asked so many times that I’m wishing I came with a list.  Am I missing something here?  Is this the time to be sarcastic?  It’s my nature, but I’m still trying to get that gold star.  

8.  You will not know or remember the kind people who spend those 5-10 minutes with you prior to surgery.  As a medical professional, I personally enjoy the connections I make with people.  I find it so odd that these people spend their days meeting and greeting half dressed, half-asleep people in shower caps.  They are probably very under-appreciated for their efforts because no one can remember their faces or names, yet they help keep you alive and comfortable for a good 2 hours of your life.  Enclosed in my discharge papers was a card with autographs of all the people who came in contact with me so I can write their names on the survey that I will get in the mail.  Nice touch. I will.  They deserve to be recognized for their heroic efforts.  

7.  You will have no idea what medications you’ve been given but it will darn sure take a long time to wear off.  After 6 hours I was still a loopy loopster and Kate was yelling at me for falling asleep on the floor while playing polly pockets with her.  

6.  There is a list of instructions that you will be given to follow which in spite of all the times you were asked if you had any questions and didn’t, you and your husband will not be exactly clear on what you can and cannot do.  For example, when leaning down to get a trash bag out of the cabinet, your husband will yell freakishly at you because of some brief recollection about not bending over. 

5.  “Swelling peaks at day 3” does not mean that it starts at day 3.  It means that there for darn sure will be swelling on day 3 and maybe after that it will begin to slowly diminish to the point where your nostrils are similar in size and the bridge of your nose gains definition.  Prior to that, there will be throbbing pain from the sinus cavity to the tip of your nose.  Maybe this was when I was supposed to ask the questions.  I was thinking that I should have been more inquisitive about the details of the “cheek lift” and the cutting and pulling of the skin from my ear to put on my nose.  Yes, I do hear much better out of my nose now.  

4.  I am not as good at wound care on myself as on other people.  I used to do burn care and I’ve seen dozens of skin grafts.  I never loved it but found it intriguing - the healing process, the dressing changes, making it look pretty, until this experience.  The magic is gone.  I am totally unintrigued.  Sutures around and through the nose, then some more pulling on the ear are not cool.  I get queasy looking at it, touching it, and because the nose happens to be smack dab in the middle of my face, it is somewhat consuming of my thoughts, especially with the twitching shooting sensations that I assume are from damaged nerves and whatnot.  
It’s like this: 
I need to do laundry. 
MY NOSE.  
“Mommy I’m hungry.  Can I have lunch?” Yes, what would you like?  
MYNOSEMYNOSE
Is that a booger?  
NOIT”STHESTITCHESINMYNOSEMYNOSEMYNOSE
Is my nose running?
MYNOSEMYNOSE 
I hope I don’t sneeze...
something is pinching
IT’SMYNOSE
My earring is pulling, I’ll take it out. 
Wait, that’s my ear stitches.  Shoot...

3.  Tape is sticky.  I always hated tape on the face.  Especially on little people with tubes in their noses.  I felt so sorry for them and in hospitals sometimes they put socks on their hands to keep them from pulling the tubes out.  They just want the tape off!  I flat out hated it.  Guess what?  It is bad and evil.  I still hate it.  It is itchy, especially when it’s 93 degrees.  It makes the already pulling skin crawl.  I spent 24 minutes trying to remove tape residue in order to replace the tape.  The good news is it’s almost the exact color of my skin so people don’t notice.  In a dark room.  

2.  There is good news.  Some of the stitches will probably come out this week.  This results in less tape, the ability to accessorize - I get my earrings back, and less pulling.  One more step forward for the beautification committee.  It is a relatively short amount of discomfort in comparison to the magnitude of what I could endure, already have endured, and what others endure.  Inconvenient, annoying, uncomfortable, yes.  Permanent damage - hopefully minimal.  I have told 5 new medical people my story this week and once they lifted their chins off of the floor, they may have walked away with at least a tiny glimpse of the magnitude of God’s miracles.  It is also estimated that about 100 of you will read this, laugh, and maybe pass it to your friends to prove my insanity which will only serve me better the next time we act a little crazy around here.  And, when it’s all said and done, I may look 27 on my 37th birthday from all this skin pulling - you will all be jealous. 

1.  Lastly, I consider myself pretty comfortable in my skin, metaphorically and otherwise.  This has not come easily or without a price.  It has been a long process of swallowing my insecurities or airing them out in the wide open public or whichever the situation calls for.  I have discovered that there are days that I’m not going to look that good but in order to function in the world, I have to be in the world.  And, besides that, someone is going to tell me out of courtesy that I look good.  I love those people.  So, day 2, I ripped off the bandage from my ear and aired out the stitches and paraded myself in straight-up public with the bandage on my nose.  I find myself analyzing other people’s thoughts, watching for double-takes, and staring back.  It’s just a band-aid, people.  What this has made me appreciate and be more aware of is 2 things:  

1.  I have spent 14 years of my life with differently-abled and sometimes differently looking people.  I love them.  I love who they are and I want the world to love them like I do and like their families do.  People are curious, people are ignorant to who you are as a person, or who someone is different from you actually is, people are human.  People have no idea what any of us have been through or are going through at any moment.  This has been a gentle reminder and public service announcement I have no idea what people are going through at any moment so I have no right to judge and have even more incentive to empower the families that I know that they do not owe the world an explanation.  

2.  My own children are watching.  They are watching to see how I react to people, how comfortable I am.  If it’s no big deal to me, it’s really not to them. They are impressionable little sponges.  Here’s a few quotes:

• Man honks at me at a red light. Kate yells, “Hey, quit honking at my mommy!  She has stitches in her face!”
• Kate is on Facetime with her BFF from school (um, yeah, this happened), “My mommy can come get you for a playdate as soon as she’s finished with her stitches.”  I explain to said child’s caregiver that statement.
• Doorbell rings, just finished removing the tape adhesive and I answer it, full out uncovered stitches, hair wet, wound in my nose.  Bailey: “You really need to cover that up before you answer the door.”
• “Mommy, I really don’t like your ear or your nose.”  Neither do I, Kate. Thanks.
• Kate breaks off toenail and says, “It doesn’t hurt.  I’m just like my mommy and if I’m going to be brave like my mommy, then I’ll just have to get in the bathtub.”
• Yesterday.  “Mommy, your ear really doesn’t look all that bad.”  Thanks, Bailey.

I’ve been given a small opportunity to show them how I deal with different, how to accept people’s differences, and how to react or un-react.  I shall use it as best as I know how.  

It’s just a band-aid.  

I leave you with this very lame tribute to my experience:

Ode to Outpatient Surgery

by, Kimberly Jessop

We’re all here early

No food or drink

That means no coffee

Too hard to think

About signing the papers for directives, consent, next of kin,

oops, I just stole your pen.

You owe us this much and sign the HIPPA,

Could I please have a sippa?

Wear comfortable clothes

No earrings, no make-up, bed-head galore,

PJs and sweatpants?

She really should have worn more...

EVERYTHING off. Gown opens in back.

Follow directions and no one gets hurt,

Gripper socks on.

 You won’t need your shirt.

Possessions in bag, 

you can climb onto the bed

under the warm paper blanket

shower cap on your head.

Let’s review history, 

You don’t have much, right?  

More than you’d think-

Do we have all night?  

There’s a stick in the arm

Everyone’s in a hurry

A syringe full of drugs

You took my glasses so it’s blurry...

A cold OR 

then out like a light

woke up to strange lady 

Did I sleep here last night?  

She hands me a bag 

of my worldly goods

Stand up and walk.

 

If I could see, then I would...

“A gold star!” she exclaims.

For what? I am thinking 

I have tape all over my face 

And I feel like I’ve been drinking.

Car is waiting outside

For them to shove you in

Thank goodness for him - 

My next of kin.

Into the car

I leave in a haze 

Home to sleep it off 

for the next couple of days.

Yes, surgery’s over 

I’ll check this one DONE

Another scar to prove

This battle I’ve won.  

Sassy number six...

Dear Kate, 
It’s been six years since I first laid my eyes on your sweet face.  Tiny and fierce.  That part has not changed.  Your big eyes hardly ever closed.  You instantly had our hearts.  You always had a plan and before you could talk, we spent most of our time trying to figure it out.  Even now, we usually don’t find out until after the fact.  You are always happy, and always ready for a party.  You have joined your daddy as co-chairperson of the hospitality committee and together you make sure that everybody is happy and has a good time.  You are a bona fide monkey - you can climb anything and you teeter on the edge of everything.  You are the first to say thank-you and regardless of how terrible I think I’ve been at being your mommy that day, you tell me how much you love me and that I’m the best mommy ever and the best cooker ever especially when it’s cocoa krispies or chicken nuggets.

You were certainly God’s gift in a time when He knew I needed you most.  I prayed that your Nana would see my children, and oh yeah God, if you could make this last one a girl, that would be great too.  And He did.  A precious girl named appropriately after my mother.  I sent your daddy to the store for a gallon of pink paint for your room.  Your daddy and I fought over naming you but in the end I won, and he knew that he didn’t stand a chance.  I love introducing you as Martha Kate because I know that so much of her is in you.  

I sometimes feel guilty because I had so many distractions when you were little in taking care of Nana and then taking care of myself, but now I know that it only makes me treasure the time I spend with you even more.  Even though you don't remember, you helped comfort me from so many unpleasant things. You went with me every morning to see Nana before she went to heaven - and even when you were that little, you knew to kiss her gently.  I wanted you to soak up as much of her as you could, and I needed your company too.  I tell you that I think your favorite place on earth is my lap.  I love how you sit in it, fall asleep in it, and reach your arms up to be held even at 6.  And I hold you.  I think that’s why God has kept you little for so long - so I can hold you and make up for the times when I couldn’t.  

At 6 years old you have developed quite a sense of fashion, a love for music, love for dancing, an imagination that is bigger than the sky, and a heart that is bigger than your body.  You don’t command an audience but if I happen to catch one of your theatrical performances for the latest Disney soundtrack or one of your daddy’s 80’s songs, I’m sure to be mesmerized by your confidence in your dance moves, your passionate expressions, and your ability to stay in tune with every word.  (As I write, I’m listening to you video yourself singing Happy Birthday to yourself complete with ‘cha-cha-cha”).  You have determined that red cowboy boots go with everything.  I’m almost convinced that you’re right.  You love jewelry - especially the kind that sparkles and love to wear it and pick it out for me to wear.  I let you because I used to do this too.  And, you LOVE high heels.  We were in the grocery store parking lot the other day, I was hurrying you as usual, and you stopped dead in your tracks and said, “Listen, mommy! I love that sound!  Do you hear it?”  I didn’t so I asked what sound and you said, “high heels!”  There was a lady across the parking wearing heels.  You have taught me to slow down and sometimes stop to appreciate the little things in life.  

You love the outside.  When you were a baby you would be screaming your tiny little head off and then I would walk outside and you would instantly stop - wide-eyed and looking at the trees.  We spent the first 6 weeks of your life in the backyard swing.  Maybe that’s why you like to swing so high now - or maybe because it is the closest to flying that you can imagine.  You love to play and dream up elaborate stories for your toys - they have such a fantastic life.  The Polly Pockets and the Lalaloopsies get to go to school with the Playmobil people, live in castles with Rapunzel, swim in hotel pools with Barbie, and have picnics with Strawberry Shortcake.  It drives me crazy that you mix them all but I also know that the beautiful thing about your personality is that you don’t see boundaries or limitations.  Everybody and everything should get along.  You are certain that cookies and candy are a food group and if they were you’d be considered a great eater.  You love to draw and make cards - you make me one at least every week and one for anyone else that needs one.  Now that you can read and write, they are even better! 

At 6 years old, you are decisive, opinionated, and not easily persuaded.  It takes you point five seconds to decide if you like something and you don't ever look back.  I hope this is how you always are.  And, believe me, there’s no forcing you into it, unless I want to pay.  You don’t really care what people think and if anyone dares to say anything about how your boots don’t match, you look at them like they have two heads and somehow make them believe that THEY in fact were wrong for wearing sandals. 

You are my helper and I’m learning to let you help because you’re getting really good at it.  You like to help me plant flowers and pick them out and I know this is how I learned to love plants, because I helped my mother too.  You just learned how to pull the plants out gently and love when it rains because you know they will grow.  You love to help me cook, windex my windows, pass out the plates, and help with my painting projects.  You even figured out how to wrap birthday presents in the car on the way to the party, a skill you will find useful for many years to come.  When I need something done quickly, I ask you because you can get it done before the boys in the house can think about it. 

Yes ma’am you are quite a girl - 33 pounds of sunshine.  Full speed, all day, all the time, until you crash.  You bring people into your world and they have a hard time saying no.  This will serve you well too.  We all love you so much - even your brother, though he looks grossed out and doesn’t always act like it.  I”m proud of who you are - confident, creative, and self-sufficient - and more proud of who you will become.  
Happy birthday, Martha Kate Jessop!  I love you so much!

Mommy

Because I'm the mother. That's why.

Mama, I don’t know how we do it.  There’s so much packed into M-O-M that it would be impossible to write a job description.  I’ve spent the last few weeks pouring over a calendar trying to carefully plan an appropriately stimulating summer break for my 2 kids while we go to work.  I realized the magnitude of this task about 15 seconds after I quit paying for full time daycare and sent my kid to preschool.  Here come the holidays.  I remember the first time I heard a preschool mom talk about her spreadsheet for summer break when Bailey was 3.  I was very puzzled and thought it was ridiculously over the top.  I get it now.  I kind of need one but can’t figure out how to make one.  Sure, there are great summer camps out there, like fairy ballet camp which is destined to be your little girl’s dream come true for the cost of one week’s groceries and only covering 2 hours of your 8 hour day.  Oh, and the nine year old boy can’t stay home and wouldn’t and shouldn’t wear tights.  I feel like I’m part of a strategic planning committee with the sole purpose of preventing my children’s brains from turning to mush while providing a safe, loving environment free of property destruction.   I’m the chair and there are no board members.  

And it's the end of school.  The last few weeks are filled with testing, parties, and ceremonies, field days, and field trips - all the fillers that they need to fit in the the instructional year or saved for their last hat trick to entertain when the kids are buck wild.  The outside activities that are trying to wrap it up too - cramming baseball games into every night of the week, recitals, plays, etc.  The standardized bubbled in testing week nearly killed us.  Four straight days of bubbling in answers after 3 weeks of multiple choice practice tests sent my impatient and distractible boy into a fit of rage.  He looked longingly outdoors as we fought to the finish of 40 more bubble questions.  He wore me down to the point where I quit checking the answers and just settled for finishing - I was impressed with his educated guess on Harriet Tubman.  And, the folder.  Sometimes I forget, ok, maybe a lot.  The surprise extra homework makes for interesting breakfast conversation on nouns and verbs.  I'm over the conduct grades - Bailey gets to give his to himself and he follows the rules.  Kate is 75% excellent and 25% talks too much, so we're good.  And the lunches.  They are tired of picking out what they want and I’m tired of giving them choices.  Even though I never pretended to make the Bento style Pinterest lunch, the lunchables that I used to save for when I was in a real hurry are becoming all too frequent.  I’m not proud, but they are fed.  

We are tired, but so were our mamas.  Forever engrained in my memory is the sound of my mother’s footsteps back and forth across our ranch house’s hardwood floors every morning before she came into wake me up for school.  I now know how precisely timed all of this madness was, and what madness it was.  She was almost running - the plates in the china cabinet shook every time she walked from the kitchen to the bathroom, bathroom to the bedroom, the hairdryer blowing, curling iron slamming, breakfast cooking, slinging lunches.  She even ironed the clothes.  Then she went to yelling the wake up calls - first me, then my brother, then my brother, then my brother.  I wondered why she drank so much coffee.   Poor thing, that coffee slid off her dashboard more times than it stayed on when she backed out of the driveway to go to work and teach other people’s kids, and heaven knows she needed that coffee.  I sure do.  

And that’s just the every day.  On top of that, we are supposed to make productive citizens out of these short people that look like us.  The footnotes include conversations on how to talk to adults respectfully and choose your friends wisely, serving as mediator between Coach Daddy and boy child when the frustration turns to yelling over not swinging the baseball bat in the game, and listening to your new reader sound out every word of a 30 page PInkalicious book.  Again.  Because you, mama, hold the magic key.  You understand the souls.  You know when and why they are afraid, frustrated, exhausted, sick, need to be held, loved, and understood.  You held them, fed them, looked into their baby eyes with your bleary weary eyes every night while the whole world slept.  You can detect a fever from across the room, a cough in the middle of the night, and your own kid’s cry among a crowd of 100 kids even if you can’t see their face.  You anticipate their needs.  You take pride in the quick reflexes it requires to get the trashcan to catch the puke before it hits the carpet and your “seatbelt arm” is second nature even if they are all buckled in the backseat.  You can fry bacon, clean a skinned knee, and call out spelling words at the same time. You know what makes them tick, what excites them, and what’s going to make them sad. Because, you will be sad too.  You bow up when somebody messes with your baby and the a mad mama evokes more fear in the eyes of coaches or school principals than any other human on earth. When the lunches are packed and they are at school, you start worrying about dinner, spelling words, getting to bed on time, remembering the red bandana and the extra large box for the train you volunteered to make for the graduation ceremony, and what in the world you’re going to do with them when the bell rings on the last day of school.  

I was listening to the Today show the other day and one of their segments on Mother’s Day was about how research has been done that proves that being a mother actually helps improve women’s memories.  First of all, I must say that it’s absurd that someone funded a research study on this and after I pondered over how much money must have been wasted on this, I laughed.  Of course it does.  Let’s save that money for cancer research so we can all hang onto those memories a little longer.  As soon as you’re handed that baby, you go instantly from a life of self absorption and self-centeredness to focusing on the demands of a precise schedule of feeding and caring for a newborn on no sleep.  It’s a rigorous exercises in memory development.  At first it’s about stamina but then over time you start taking pictures of things in your mind and store those for later out of survival - where’s the pacifier because if you don’t know, you’re life will not be pretty, where’s Thomas the Train, Lightening McQueen, my baseball hat, my Barbie shoe, that little Happy Meal toy that clips to my backpack, my homework sheet, my red socks, my shoes.  Then it becomes just what you do.  Your husband calls to ask where the so-and-so is and you instantly shift your brain to the left side of the top cabinet above the washing machine, under the couch in the living room, or the last place it should be - in the closet where it belongs.  It won’t do to say, “I saw it somewhere,” so you store it, along with the schedules of 3 people in the house, your grocery list, and oh, yeah, BUY TOILET PAPER.  In all that remembering, you also somehow became the holder.  Hold the baby doll, the iPod, the gum wrapper, the snotty kleenex, the chewed gum, the cool bug that's barely alive, the limp flower she picked for you, the shiny rock, the dress-up shoes because her feet hurt, the purse you begged her to leave in the car, the five-year-old because she's tired.  You are mom.  You hold stuff and you know where stuff is. 

Yes, it is clear that while the daddys have strengths they are not running this circus.  My husband called me this week in the middle of the day to talk about what he might grill this weekend and then another time demanding to nail down our summer vacation plans at that very moment.  And, has the nerve to ask about details of some message I sent to someone months ago.  I thought you were working? I am.  I love him but, really?  

But, there are the moments that make it all worth it.  There is the end of the day when I’m finishing work on and decided to download the Frozen soundtrack for Kate to listen to so I could get something done.  I’m laughing so hard at her passionately singing every word to those songs to my computer that I get nothing done.  Or, one day after school last week when my boy made me an afternoon snack of flavored water and peanut butter crackers.  You know he loves me because he hates peanut butter.  There’s watching him be so excited about getting to play in the infield for the first time, practicing his fake pitches during the game, and then somehow in all that dancing around he was doing, actually stopping the ball.  Sure, we lost but he had more fun at that game than any he’s played all year.  There’s the night that I decided we had enough daylight after dinner to work on riding a bike without training wheels and she got it, in about 5 minutes.  There’s my patio full of flowers I’ve never seen because I let her pick them out and help me plant them, who knows if they’ll live.  And, my favorite.  There WILL BE handmade Mother’s Day Gifts.  God bless those teachers who remember the mamas.  We love them - especially the handprint ones.    

So, no, my nails aren’t done.  Ever.  My underwear usually doesn't have holes, I don’t have time or money for massages, or sometimes even my own lunch.  I'm more jealous of the gal down the street's minivan with the remote door opener than any convertible I see.  But, I’m doing it.  I'm there.  I’m at the baseball game, the kindergarten graduation ceremony.  I pause what I’m doing to watch the neighborhood boys play kickball in my backyard, run out to the street to yell at my kid for forgetting his bike helmet, and drive back up to the school to deliver the picture money and the homework folder.  I get my kicks through the excitement in my kids eyes when their seeds they planted sprout up, when I watch them ride a bike for the first time, and when they pile on top of me on the couch every time I sit down.  I let her wear red cowboy boots with smocked dresses and  pick out my jewelry for church.  I take pictures of the chalk mermaid she drew on the concrete, and the first frog of the year that he picks up and squeezes til his eyes bulge out.  I take pictures in my brain of her “dance routines” to LET IT GO (bless it), and him running across home plate. I answer questions like, “how do mama birds teach their babies to fly?” and “do you ever get mad at your friends?” because they are teachable moments that I hope will be stored in their memories. 

Yes ma’am, we are the CEOs of a corporation with unlimited opportunity and unlimited benefits.  We’ve earned the right to say, “because I’m your mother, that’s why” or “because I said so.”  We’ve earned the right to a clean house, to use the bathroom with the door closed, to 30 minutes of silence, to sit on the couch and do nothing, get our nails done, or buy ourselves some nice flowers, even if it’s for a day.  Of course, none of this will happen and we know it.  Even still, the return on our investments will be great.  It’s exhausting and never-ending but there’s no better job.  

I love this quote from Kelly Corrigan where she compares motherhood to the skill needed in a game of golf:

“Perhaps the precision involved in holing a crucial putt is, by comparison, a smallish party trick when held up to delicate, well-timed conversations about prejudice, self-respect and personal standards, faith, citizenship and STDs.”

Happy Mother’s Day!

January 12, 2005 

May 19, 2008

1977

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1997

Mother's Day 2009