The Case of the Stolen Snowman

For some reason, I've had this story circulating in my head lately.  I don't really know why, but I thought I would share it with you.  The story is true. . . unbelievably true.

When I was a little girl,  a very, very long time ago (only 2 "very"s, so I'm not as old as dirt), my family moved to Illinois for six month.  Something to do with dad and the military, but the "why" is really irrelevant.  The "where" is important, though.  We were all from Mississippi where it snows maybe once every seven years.  Kind of like a plague, and, yes, most Southern adults treat it like one.  Kids, of course, are enamored of snow.  It is the stuff of which dreams are made.

You can have fights with snow. . . and clobber your baby sister repeatedly with snowballs all in the name of fun. :-)  (Sorry, sis.  Well, no, not really, but it sounded good!)

You can get free days from school with enough snow.

You can make snow-cream instead of ice cream.

And, you can make snowmen.

So, picture this.  This little Mississippi girl, just turned 6, with blonde hair and blue/green eyes got to build her first snowman.  It was just my height (so it was maybe 3 feet tall).  It had arms made from sticks.  I don't remember what we used to make the eyes and smile, but then Daddy did something special.  He broke two icicles off of the bottom of his old Dodge car and stuck them in the top of the snowman's head......Angel's snowman now had horns.  :-D

It may not have been the prettiest or most conventional snowman, but it was perfect to me.  It was lumpy, asymmetrical, and lop-sided. . . and it was mine.  My very first snowman.  I was so proud.  If you grew up building snowmen, you can't imagine just how proud I was.  Not only had I never built one before, I knew in my little 6-yr-old mind, that I probably never would build another one.  This was a Once-In-A-Lifetime Event!

We smiled, we took pictures, we celebrated.  Then we went inside to our neighbor's and ate popsicles.  I don't know why we ate popsicles in December, but we did.  Then we went upstairs to our apartment.  I, of course, ran to the window to check on my snowman.  IT WAS GONE!!!!  "Somebody stole my snowman!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.

"What?" asked my dad.

"No, honey," said my most reasonable mother.  "Some kids probably just came by and knocked it down."

"Uh-uh!  They STOLE it!"  Nobody seemed to understand that.  My snowman was gone; therefore, someone stole it.  It was not broken up into a million pieces.  It was not melted.  It was GONE.  Stolen.  Snowman-napped.  To say I was mad is like saying Mother Theresa was a "nice lady."  Un. Der. State. Ment.

My parents (reasonable adults dealing with a very UNreasonable child) took me downstairs to show me the snow spread all over the ground that would be the destructive particles left remaining of my once proud accomplishment.  Boy were they fooled.  No extra snow.  There was still a flat and level place where my snowman had been.  There were footprints!  "See?  He WAS STOLEN!!!"  I shouted with the self-righteous anger only a 6-yr-old can have.  "I TOLD you!"

I forced my father to follow the footprints with instructions to retrieve my snowman.  Dutifully, he followed them.

I watched from the upstairs apartment window for him to return with my snowman.

Her returned without him.  He said he followed the footprints for 6 blocks and then lost the trail (an Indian tracker my father isn't!  Maybe I should have sent my mother since she has the Cherokee blood.  Hmm.......)

We spent 6 months in Illinois.  I had my 6th birthday there.  And all I can really remember is the day my snowman was stolen.

I hope those thieves enjoyed him.  'Cause this little Mississippi girl is STILL upset about that.

Yes, I do carry a grudge about some things.

More Moments from M

M:  What's for supper?
Me: Macaroni & Cheese!
M. Mac & Cheese!!!  I LOVE that stuff!  I've never had that before!
Me Thinking to Myself:  Well, which is it kid?  Lol.

M.  was swing a toy flashlight he pretends is a nunchuck and it dropped on the floor.
M:  Mommy, did I break my neck?
Me:  No, darling, you didn't break your neck.
M:  Well, did I twist my ankle?
Me:  No, darling, you didn't twist your ankle.
M:  Well, I felt something in my ankle twist.
Me:  Do you even know where your ankle is?
M: Noooo. . . .
Me:  It's right here (I grab his ankle)
M:  Well, my ankles are in my neck.
Me  Thinking to Myself:  Kid, you are something else!

Me:  Get back to the table and eat your supper!  Don't pet the dog while you're eating!  That's just gross!  You don't know what he's been doing!  He's been rolling in the mud!
. . . . . . 5 Minutes Later. . . .
Me:  M, I told you not to pet the dog while you're eating!  STOP THAT!
M:  I'm not petting him, Mommy.  I'm trying to get him to lick me!
Me Thinking to Myself:  YUCK!   I think he missed the point.

"Home Is Where the Heart Is"

Pliny the Elder sure had it right.  Home IS where the heart is.

I have moved 22 times in my life.  I've had 18 different addresses (yes, I admit, I moved back in with mom a time or two, and I discovered college dorms weren't THAT bad).  I have lived in 3 states.  But only 1 place is home.

I spent the years between 3 and 15 in a very small community called (believe it or not) House.  I say that is where I grew up, though maturity is another matter entirely.  The closest town is a half hour away.  Growing up I was bored to tears.  I could NOT wait to get out of there!  I was going to go to college.  I was going to be a lawyer - a Prosecution Trial Lawyer.  I was going to be rich, have a very nice, large house.  I was going to drive a Jaguar.  I was going to marry a rich, powerful man and have 2.3 children.  I had PLANS!!!  Note the emphasis?

Guess what?  Not much of that happened.

I went to college, but I dropped out after 5 semesters.  I got married, and I got divorced (thankfully with no kids!).

Then my life got back on track . . . sort of.  I went back to college and got a Bachelor's in Accounting.  Somehow over the years, I lost all desire to argue and confront people so being a trial lawyer was definitely out.

I remarried a wonderful man even if he was as broke as I was.  Well, maybe he wasn't THAT broke as he wasn't paying off student loans.  We have 2 beautiful, sweet, bratty,charming, brilliant (okay, maybe just very, VERY smart), loving, annoying,  boys that drive me crazy and I wouldn't trade for all the gold in the world.  Most of the time.  Other time. . . . another story.

My plans changed.  But home?  That never changed.  I was always still that small town country girl from House. I still wore t-shirts, and jeans with boots most days.  I still wasn't comfortable in a fancy dress.  I still liked to walk anywhere I could, and my idea of fun was curling up with a good book in a quiet corner somewhere.  And being who I was, the place I called "home" never changed.

Oh, I used that word to any residence I had, but it was just a word.  Home (with a capital "H") was always that small community where I grew up.  I could still remember the way the sunlight would shine down through the tall pines and make the water in the creek sparkle where I would walk in the summer afternoons.  I could hear my grandmother's voice calling me to come out of the woods and eat.  I could remember the sounds of the whippoorwills calling at night.  I remembered Home.

And I went home.  The place I thought was boring growing up suddenly seemed like the place I wanted to raise my children.  Quiet, old-fashioned, moral, peaceful.  I didn't have to worry about drive-by shooting, gang related violence, or drug deals at the end of my driveway.  The local gas station still closes at dark.  My boys play outside without me having to supervise every move they make.  I don't have to worry about strangers talking to my kids.  I even live on a dirt road if you can believe it.

And Home now is just about 1 little within-walking-distance mile of Home where I grew up.  Thomas Wolfe said "you can't go home again."  He may be right.  Home may not be exactly what it was while I was growing up, but it's close enough for me . . . and my family.

My heart, my family, and I are Home.

Today is A Better Day

Yesterday was a Not-So-Good Day.  You know that if you read what I wrote then.  Today is Better.  Not A Great Day, but A Better Day.

We didn't make it church this morning, and we really should have gone.  I know I could have used it, and my little heathen children need all of the religion they can get!  But my husband J obviously wasn't feeling well since he slept until 11:30 am -- and since he Never Ever does that, I knew something wasn't right with him.  Plus, I had (and still have) a headache and my stomach isn't real happy either.  Yes, they are probably both stress related, but I can't do much about that.

Today is still A Better Day.  My boys wanted pancakes for breakfast.  Well, I wasn't really feeling up to it and put them off.  Z came back at lunch time wanting them, and that started me thinking.  He's been asking for them for two or three weekends now.  They aren't really THAT hard to make since we have that wonderful helper Bisquick.  And I really needed to do something for THEM.  So I made pancakes.  With chocolate chips in them just the way my boys love them.

Their smiles made everything worth it.
They didn't notice the ones that browned a little quicker than I thought they would.
They didn't notice that they weren't perfectly shaped.
They didn't see anything wrong.

All they saw was Mommy fixed something for them that they really liked.  And I think Z (at almost 8 years old) realized I did this just for him and his brother, which is a really grown-up observation for him to make.  See, I can't eat pancakes anymore.  I had gestational diabetes when I was pregnant with him and again with his brother, and my system just can't handle syrup anymore.  It throws my body into some weird tailspin.  Irrelevant information.

Z ate 6 pancakes.  By himself.  Even J only ate 3.  M only ate 2, but he just turned 5, so I don't expect much there.  But the smiles......they were pretty wonderful.  And to hear them say Thank you was fantastic.  But when Z smiled at me, and said, "Thank you, Mom, for making these.  I really like the way you made them for me," it almost broke my heart, and healed it up again.

Today is A Better Day.  My kids are happy, and I know they love me.  That's really all that matters right now.

Thank you, Z, for making my world all better.

Scared

Have you ever been scared?  I don't mean scare of spiders, or scared of a strange noise.  I don't mean scared of  what mom or dad is going to do to you when they find out what you did.  I mean scared all the way to the bottom of your heart.  Scared that is so deep you feel your bones shake.  That kind of scared.

I feel that way now.

Let me tell you a story.  When my first child was 3 weeks old, he started throwing up.  Nothing would stay down for long.  It got worse and worse.  We saw five doctors in five days and got five different diagnoses.  Finally, after ending up in the ER at 1 am, and my son's pediatrician back to work after surgery, we found out what was actually wrong.  Pyloric Stenosis.  The muscle between his stomach and his small intestine grew too fast and closed off the opening so his food had no place to go.  He weighed less than he did the day we brought him home from the hospital.  They transported us to Blair Batson Children's Hospital in Jackson and he had surgery the next morning.  The very day Z turned 4 weeks old, they operated on him.  4 Weeks Old. That day I was scared.  I handed my baby off to a doctor for surgery.  But at least I knew that the doctor was going to heal my baby.  I was scared, but I knew it was going to be all right.

I don't know that right now.

The details of what is happening really don't matter (and please don't ask).  Suffice it to say, I'm wandering around in the dark and I'm lost.  I can't find my way out.  I can't find a light.  I'm not sure when it will end.  I know it will, but I like a timeline so that I can count down.  I can see progress then.

I believe in God.  I know he will get us through.  I do have faith.  But I'm still absolutely terrified.  My world is completely shaken.  I can't be calm and steady and sure like some Christians I know.  I really wish I could.  I know this is a test or a trial of His, but honestly, all I really want is to KNOW how this will end.  Knowing that it WILL end doesn't help.  At all.

People tell me to be quiet and listen to that "still, small voice."  I'm afraid that mean, cruel whisper of doubt is louder no matter how hard I try to ignore it.

I'm trying to have faith.  I'm trying to believe.  But I can't help but wonder if I'm clinging desperately to the wrong choice.

I'm tired of wandering around lost in the dark.

I'm tired of being scared.

I'm tired of feeling helpless.

Please God take away my fear.
Please God give me strength.
Please God give me peace.

Knowing All of the Answers

I remember when I was young (yes, a veeeerrrryyyyyy long time ago), I thought my parents had all of the answers.  They knew why the sky was blue.  The knew what we were having for dinner.  They knew why my little sister was so annoying.  They knew how Santa could travel the earth in one night.  They knew the going rate the tooth fairy paid for a front tooth vs a molar.  They knew everything.  They were the smartest people on earth.

I decided then (with the wisdom of a child) that 30 was the magic age.  When I turned 30, I would know all of the answers.  I would be wise, beautiful, confident, and successful.  When I was 30, my world would be perfect.

Guess what?  I was wrong.

Now, on the other side of 40, I admit that not only do I NOT have all of the answers, I don't even know where to look for most of them.  Some answers just can't be found in the dictionary, or in encyclopedias (yes, I am that old), or even *gasp*shudder* on the internet.

I'm not perfect.  I'm not even close.  I'm not smart.  I'm not beautiful.  I'm not confident.  I still feel insecure and afraid.  I am still as socially awkward now as I was in high school (though, Thank You, God, for helping me to survive That Horror!).  I still have trouble remembering that sometimes it is best to remain quiet.  I still can't think of the "right" thing to say in difficult situations.  I can't kiss my kids boo-boos better and I can't protect them from life's little agonies.  I can't even comfort my husband when life throws him a curve.  I can't take care of my mother like I wish I could.  I feel completely inadequate as a Daughter, as a Wife, as Mother, even as a Woman.

But sometimes, I get close to being perfect.  I can change light bulbs for my mother and change the sheets on her bed.  I can rock my little boy to sleep sometimes even at the age of 5. I can still tell my boys how proud I am of them and all they accomplish.  I can hold my husband's hand, look him in the eye and honestly tell him that I love him, and that I believe in him, and know that he believes me even if he doesn't believe in himself.

So while, I'm still not wise, or beautiful, or confident, I think I am successful.  I'm happy with my life.  I don't have a high-powered job and money is still tight, but I don't need those things.  I have a husband I love that loves me, and my kids still (mostly) think I'm perfect.  Those are the criteria by which I judge my success.  And when I feel inadequate and awkward and helpless, I try to remember to remind myself of those things.  Some days I'm more successful than others, but sometimes making the effort is all that matters.

Kids!!! The Reason I'm Medicated

I had planned a very different post from what this is going to be.  Really I had.  Especially since it has been three whole weeks since my last post (holidays, littlest heathen's birthday, end-of-year in accounting, the excuses could go on).  But after the morning I've had, I really need to vent.

I sat down earlier to write the post I wanted to write.  Z wanted to ask me a question.  Then M wanted to come in the room.  Then the dogs wanted out.  Before I could get logged in to write, the dogs wanted back in.  Then the cat started letting me know that she wanted SOMETHING, but I never figured out what.  Then M decided he was hungry.  And, no, I'm not a single parent.  There IS another adult in the house.  But my children seem to think I'm the one to go to get anything, fix anything, ask anything, etc.  Normally, this would be bragging rights as to how much my children love me.  But not today.  TODAY I WANT 5 MINUTES OF JUST ME!!!!  Is that too much to ask?  Okay, actually, I would like a couple of hours, but I will settle for 5 minutes.

I keep waiting for one of them to interrupt me again.  But since I took the Nintendo DS away because Z wouldn't do as he was told, now he's cleaning his room before I take away the TV.  Motivation.  Yep.  But that still leaves M, the dogs, the cat, and even the husband.  What?  Silence?  Hmmmmmm, they must have figured out mom's not in the best of moods this morning.  I wonder why!  Actually, I started out in a good mood.  I did.

I can tell already that this is one of the days that reinforce my need to be medicated.  Legitimately.  I forget exactly what the technical term is, but my doctor gave me a prescription that keeps me from completely losing my temper, or crying uncontrollably when my hormones hit, or deciding my husband really does need to sleep on the couch, or telling my boss exactly what he could do to help at year-end, or. . . well, you get the picture.

And for those of you that would look down your nose at me for being medicated, or whisper behind my back about my attitude toward my kids, well, I have another blog for you to read. Jill (otherwise known as Scary Mommy) says it better than I could in her post Mothering Children in the Digital Age .  It doesn't just apply to the digital age.  In fact, I think this digital age makes mothering a little easier -- we now have an outlet that our parents, grandparents, etc. didn't have.

Yes, today is a day I prove my medication works.  Or one of them (take your pick of kids, pets, husband, or any other critter in the vicinity) would be duct-taped in a closet -- and, yes, that really does work.  I know because I did it to my sister when we were kids to get some blessed peace and quiet.

But the timer just went off on the oven.  The apple-cinnamon muffins (mix, not homemade *sigh* who has the time or energy?) are ready.  So, I'm going feed the animals (including the kids), take my medication, get a cup of coffee and a muffin, then sit back, relax, enjoy my breakfast, and wait for the medication to kick in.  I'm sure my kids are anxiously awaiting that kick-in, too.

I highly recommend it.