Enjoy The Mess

Who ever said boys and girls are similar, obviously never raised both. Raising two boys had its advantages – and its disadvantages, depending on your point of view. With the boys, there was no everlasting shower or bath, no hair curling and styling, no seven different outfits before you find the right one. With the boys, I could shout, “come on, let’s go!” and they were instantly calling “shotgun” for the front seat.

Yes, it has taken me quite a while, but I have finally learned that if we are going somewhere, Mickey needs an hour to get ready. That’s an hour after the hour long bath.

Sharing a bathroom with Mickey tests my unconditional love for her every day. Amidst the puddles of contact solution on the countertop, strands of foot-long hair wrap themselves round and round into never-ending circles, and every container in her basket lay open on the countertop, leaving the basket itself, empty. Two pairs of flip-flops, along with yesterday’s socks are scattered over the floor, strewn together with the nine million towels – some hung over the rods and some just laying limp on the floor. Her job is to clean the bathroom, and now you know why.

Driving past a nearby house, I think to myself. Their two girls are gone. Graduated from high school, college and moved on. I’ll bet their bathroom is as clean as a whistle.

So I take a deep breath and try to somehow enjoy the mess while I can.

The Little Red Tree

My son and I planted a tree the second summer after his best friend died.

Early in the spring of 2005, I asked Jonathan if he thought it would be a good idea to plant a tree to remember his friend, Kyle. He agreed. I asked Jonathan what kind of tree he thought we should plant. It didn’t take him long to decide. After just a split second, he replied, “a red one.”

His friend Kyle loved red tractors and red barns. A red tree would be perfect. Jonathan and his dad dug the hole in the back yard. Mickey and I added water and packed the dirt back into the hole, making sure the tree was in the ground straight. I watered the tree faithfully, protecting it from drought. I carefully pruned a few branches, sculpting its shape, ever so slightly. Each spring I marvel to see how the little red tree has survived the long, cold winter and I wait anxiously for the leaves to magically appear, almost overnight. The tree is filled with life, it’s is one of God’s most beautiful creations.

As the little red tree grows and transforms itself into a mighty maple, I am comforted by its beauty and its strength. This mighty maple will someday tower above us, have branches that will eventually shade us, and the wind through its branches will cool us from the hot summer sun.

Every single time I mow around the little red tree, I fondly remember Kyle spending quite a bit of time mowing this same lawn. He wasn’t very good about going around the trees without bumping into them. I remember gently reminding him to watch out for the trees. Thinking about him mowing, I quietly laugh just a little to myself and then wipe a tear from my eyes as I make another round past the little red tree, wishing Kyle was still here, offering to mow my lawn.

The little red tree points straight to heaven. And, as I make a final round past this special spot in my yard, I feel that Kyle is probably looking down on me as I mow – making sure I take care not to bump into the little red tree.

The little red tree - as reminder of how beautiful heaven is.

Like A Sponge

At age four, like a sponge, Mickey soaks in all the letters of the alphabet, the numbers to one hundred, colors, shapes and even beginning social skills. It is her first experience with preschool and I am amazed at how much she can learn. At age six, she can read a book. No longer is my Christmas list safe in my desk drawer. Like a sponge, at age eleven she learns the names of all the states and their capitals. At age twelve, about the world – the history of Egypt, Greece and Rome. This year at age thirteen, like a sponge, her brain sorts and stores information about the branches of the government, the election process; along with cells, vertebrates, and animal kingdoms, circle graphs and percents.

In my second trip around parenting, this time I am much more in awe of the learning process and how much my daughter really wants to learn (even if she doesn’t admit it). I realize now that the people she spends more time with than her parents indeed shape and mold her mind with every little speck of information they throw at her. They are a very important part of her life, because they are teaching her things that I can’t, things that she will someday pull from the catacombs of her mind for retrieval when her daughter asks her, “Mom, what does biological diversity mean?”

Like her mother, she probably won’t remember exactly, but she will know how to figure out the answer, and like a sponge, her daughter will soak it all in.

Kudos to all the teachers of our children.

My Thoughts Wander

As I drive past the neighbors, I see they are re-shingling their roof. My thoughts wander.
We re-shingled our roof over four years ago. I can remember debating on the color for months, driving around town looking at houses, riding across the creek on the 4-wheeler, gazing back towards the house from a distance, imagining different colors. I always feel like these kinds of decisions will be easy. Until the time comes to actually make the decision - then it’s always hard. Finally, I decided on green. My thoughts wander.
Back then, when I was worried about what color shingles to put on the roof, I had no idea that in the near future, life as I knew it would no longer exist. There would be twists, turns and detours. Hopes and dreams would be put on hold indefinitely. My thoughts wander.
Today there remains a true dividing line in my life, an instant in time if you will, in which every thought I have either happened before or after that time. My thoughts wander.
Over four years later, I wish I would have chosen charcoal shingles instead of green. Over four years later, I wish things could still be that simple and carefree.

The Best Mother's Day Gifts

Toast. I’m already awake but I lie in bed for just a while yet. I hear the slamming of the bread drawer, the sliding of the kitchen chair across the floor, and the click of the toaster as she pushes the lever down. The microwave is humming, most likely bringing a cold cup of water to warmth - just enough to dissolve the instant coffee crystals. I sit upright in bed and perch my head on the mounds of pillows. I look forward to this every year – and as Mickey gets just a little bit older, she adorns the tray with a few more fun things. I might get jelly on the toast this year, or maybe a small hand-picked bouquet of whatever flowers she can find outside – dandelions, violets, or maybe a tulip. I most likely will get a half-dozen “coupons” for free hugs and kisses, and maybe even one for a break from doing the dishes, and several “I love you"s. The youngest child, oh so special.

The bargain shopper. He thoughtfully picked out a pair of flowered garden gloves for me, added a bag of malted milk balls to his cart, and then at the last minute, waiting in the checkout line he tossed in a roll of duct tape just to make sure he had a decent sized gift. A couple years later he brought me a nice hanging geranium, boasting that he got it on clearance for $8.00, because he bought it on Mother’s Day morning. The middle child, oh so special.

Just hugs. A hug from his big, grown-up arms,laced with the gleam of love in his eyes, is plenty for me and always has been. His wife adds her personal touch with a beautiful card, signed by both of them – and the granddaughters too. The oldest child, oh so special.

Each of my children show their love for their mother in very different ways, and each of these are the best Mother’s Day gifts ever – because they all come from the heart, with love and devotion, and I truly cherish each one. I have everything I need.

Are You His Mother, Or What?

I just got back from a weekend trip to visit my son and his roommate, an old high school friend. Although both boys have grown up in the ten years following high school, I couldn’t help but reminisce to myself just a little bit.

From my June 14, 2000 journal -

Jonathan calls, “Mom, how does Cody go about going to the doctor?”

“What happened?”

“He hurt his foot at the rodeo.” (He was not participating – he was too old.)

“He was sliding down the tent pole and probably broke his ankle.” (At two a.m. - you do the math.)

“He should probably call his mother and find out if he has to go to a certain clinic, then call that clinic and tell them he needs to have an x-ray. Oh, and make sure you tell Cody to call into work and let them know what’s going on also.”

Cody is now in my basement 24 hours a day until the doctor says he can go back to work. Should I worry that he has only microwave popcorn to eat? Should I worry that he might need some movies to watch or something? Should I make sure there’s plenty of ice?

Last night I fed him broasted chicken and macaroni and cheese. Then I invited him upstairs for a change of scenery. He sat in the recliner for a while and watched tv with Mickey. I offered to get him a bag of ice for his foot. I asked him if he needed any ibuprofen.

Mickey says to me, “Are you his mother, or what?”

I shrugged off her question, but realized that there is an instinctive part inside all mothers to take care of anyone’s children, not just their own. Besides, this is how they learn!

The next day I fed him two BLT’s and a chocolate malt, to which Cody replied, “I tried to pick up my room a little today. It was kind of hard to do though, because I had to crawl on the floor to do it.”

Ten years later, Cody is now a successful manager at a large retail store – still going to rodeos almost every weekend. But these ones, he is participating in.