Growing Up Is HARD........on Mom

Yesterday, my two sons had milestones.....and so did I.  They enjoyed themselves very much.  Me?  Not so much.

My oldest son, Z, had his Parent Picnic and Awards Day at school.  He made Honor Roll for the year (Yay, Z!!!!!) and earned over 70 points in his Accelerated Reader Program -- one of the highest in his class.  I am so very proud of him.  And though he clearly got his brains from me, I was still a little sad.  My boy is growing up. Fast.  He is only 8, yet he already reaches my shoulder.  Granted, the basketball teams in school were never beating down my door (or even knocking, for that matter), but still.  He shouldn't really be that tall.....should he?

Watching Z wasn't so difficult though.  He quit giving me hugs and kisses in public over 5 years ago.  He has grown independent and really is turning into a little man.  He loves to build things and show them off to me -- and I am always suitably impressed -- but he never wants me to help anymore.  He doesn't want me to read bedtime stories to him.  I'm still a part of his world, just not an active part.  And I haven't really been for a while, so though I brushed back a couple tears during the slide show at the end of awards, I really came through it okay.

Last night was a completely different situation.  M graduated from Pre-Kindergarten school.  He dressed up in big boy clothes -- pull-over shirt and khakis -- and had on his cap and gown.  All of a sudden, he wasn't my baby anymore.  Who is this little boy?  Wait! Where is my baby?!?!? NOOOOOooooooooooo, this CAN'T be him!  He's 5.  He still crawls in my lap to give me hugs and kisses -- and he still fits!  He loves on me anytime and anywhere, and sometimes it's even his idea.  He still wants bedtime stories (though I'm beginning to suspect it's to delay bedtime more than wanting time with me) and occasionally even lets me rock him.  I bawled like the baby M is still supposed to be.  He walked across that stage, got his diploma and his "Imagination Award" (very apt, I promise you!) like he owned the place.  I cried more.

Z is my oldest, and though it was hard, it was not THIS hard.  I think.  The distraction of his brother who would have been 2 at the time kept me from dwelling on just how fast all of this happened.  M, though, is the baby.  No more distractions.  No more of these events will be happening.  He is my last one.  I'm trying to write all of this down so that I won't forget anything. I write it down to help myself adjust to how fast my boys are growing up.

One little man.  One little boy.  Neither of them so "little" anymore.  What's a mom to do?

Then M came running up to me, gave me a hug, and went running off to race his brother up and down the halls (despite my admonishments not to run inside), and suddenly he was my baby again.  I got a reprieve.  But this fall, when they both climb on that big yellow school bus -- one to 3rd grade and one to Kindergarten -- I make no promises.  Yes, I do.  I promise I will cry all the way to work.  Or maybe I'll follow the bus all the way to school . . . . . . .even if it is the opposite direction from work.

Is It Better to Choose Early or Late?

This is a hard post for me to write, but the thoughts keep circling in my head, so I'm hoping I can think through it all if I write it down.  Maybe you can even help me decide, or at least reconcile my decision.

The question came up in my Sunday School class whether it is better to discover Christ and obtain salvation later in life, or be raised in the church and decide early on to be a Christian.

One lady said she thought she missed a lot by coming to Him late in life.  She was 21 when she decided to believe and stated that she wished she had been raised in church.  She seems to think she would know a lot more and be a better Christian.  Now, I happen to believe she is an exceptional Christian, and a wonderful woman.  She is always kind to people, and rarely has a bad word to say about anyone -- and I say "rarely" because I just don't want to believe that she doesn't at least THINK something bad sometimes because surely no one is that "good," are they?  She is always ready to help, lend an ear, or anything else that is needed from her.  She works hard to care for her sister and her grandson, plus work, and (until very recently) go to school to become a nurse.  Pretty incredible, huh?  I certainly couldn't do all of that.  And I definitely could not do it with the perpetual smile on my face that she always has.  She is quick to laugh, even at herself.  She's just amazing.

Now, I, on the other hand was raised in church.  Well, mostly.  I accepted Christ when I was 13.  And I do believe it was real.  I knew what I was doing.  I remember being so excited, happy.  It really felt like I had been re-born as the Bible states we are.  I was filled with something bigger than I am.

But then it changed.  Everything changed.  I changed.

My parents divorced.  I moved to another town, another school, another culture almost.  From the country to the city (or as close to "city" as we get around here).  Everybody was busy.  I was going to high school, and then I got a job, and a boyfriend.  No excuses, but church suddenly wasn't on the schedule anymore.  Or in my heart, I'm sorry to say.

Now whether you believe in God or not (and I really hope you do) there is still "right" and "wrong" and we are brought up to know the difference.  Stealing, lying, cheating, swearing whether we believe those things are "wrong" or "sins," we are still taught by our parents not to do them.  We know we aren't supposed to do certain things.  We KNOW.  And yet, we still do them anyway.

For about a decade, I lived a life that was wrong.  I did things I knew were wrong.  I did things I'm ashamed to admit.  That I did things wrong is hard to admit.  That I lived that life is hard to admit.  The details aren't really important, well, they are important to me, and to God.  But, frankly, they are really none of anyone else's business.  They are private.  Mine are mine, just as yours are yours.  Scars are scars whether self-inflicted or obtained from others, and should never be shown just for showing.

I admit that to say, Yes, I found my way back to the right path.  I'm not perfect -- far from it -- but I try now.  I try harder to do what is right, what is moral, what is Christian.  Judge me if you want, but judge me for who I am now.  My past made me who I am, but it is also called "Past" for a reason.  I don't live there anymore.  Except maybe at midnight when I can't sleep and all of the insecurities, fears, and other skeletons come rattling their chains in my head.

So, if I could stray even being raised in church, believing in what was right and wrong, knowing my behavior and attitude were wrong, what does that say about me?  It does NOT reflect badly on my upbringing.  I chose to ignore it.  I chose to behave inappropriately.  They did a good job teaching.  I learned.  I just chose to go another way then.

She discovered him late in life.  Is it easier for her to forgive herself for her sins and accept His forgiveness?  Or is it easier for me to forgive myself and accept His forgiveness knowing that I CHOSE to do wrong?  Each of us had to make our own decisions.  Each of us had to reconcile our own behavior.  Each of us has to choose to stop doing wrong and choose to start doing right.  Each of us has to choose Him.

I'm still trying to come to terms with that period in my life.  The Bible teaches that He forgives all who come to Him truly repentant of heart.  But it's pretty hard to ask forgiveness from The One Who Is Perfect, when I am so perfectly imperfect myself.  And it's almost impossible to ask forgiveness from Him, when I haven't yet forgiven myself.  But I'm trying.  And I'm getting there.

I told you this was a hard post to write.  But if my words can help just one other person, then it will be worth it.  And try to remember not to judge a person by who they were.  If you must judge someone at all, try to judge them by who they are and who they are trying to be.  Support is much more motivating than condemnation.

Thank you for listening.

I Want a "Do-Over"

Anybody else want a do-over?  Remember those?  For those of you that don't, a do-over is when you mess up a little, or screw up royally (as I am wont to do), you yell (yes, YELL), "DO-OVER" and then re-do whatever it was you did wrong, hopefully getting it correct the second time around.

Well, I want a do-over.  I'm not sure what time frame though.  I've made an awful lot of mistakes.

When I graduated high school, I picked the wrong college.  WAY wrong.  Perfect example.  I came out of class one day and found my 8-year-old hatchback Ford parked between a brand new Mercedes and a brand new Jaguar.  See the problem?  But I made some contacts there that I never would have made elsewhere, so I can't quite regret that choice completely.

I quit college.  That choice I can and do regret even though I did go back (y-e-a-a-a-r-r-r-s-s-s later) and get my degree which led me to a job that I actually love.  Most days.

I married the wrong man.  A very, VERY, VERY WRONG man.  (Did you get the hint that it was not the right guy?)  I won't go into all of the reason that particular relationship was wrong, but I will say that those 4 years of marriage felt like 10.  I celebrated for 3 months when the divorce papers were signed.  But I grew up a lot in those 4 years.  I learned how to compromise.  I learned patience.  I learned fighting is futile because it changes nothing.  I learned how to pick up the pieces of my life and put them back together.  I learned to be satisfied with the little things in life.  So despite my myriad scars, I can't quite make myself regret that choice either.  Those scars made me who I am and make me appreciate the man I later married and with whom I now have two beautiful, annoying, sweet, stubborn, persistent, charming young monsters gentlemen.  And I wouldn't trade any of them for anything in the world.  Most of the time.

More immediately, I would request a do-over at 6am this morning.  I would say, "Nope.  Not getting out of bed today.  It's going to be a bad day, so I'm just going to sleep through it.  Sorry.  Go on without me."  See, these are the things that went wrong:

1.  Payroll was incorrect, so three checks needed to be re-cut.  Not as simple as it sounds.

2.  Husband and Z are going camping with the Cub Scouts tonight.  I told M it was just going to be him and me tonight, wouldn't we have fun.  His response?  "But I want to spend the night with Mamaw."  *sigh*

3.  Husband's good mood this morning lasted just about until lunch.  A little longer than most days this week, but not as long as I had hoped.

4.  My good mood evaporated last Monday and hasn't been seen since.  But at least I'm no longer grumpy.  I'm just depressed.  Much easier to live with me.  Oh, yeah.  NOBODY is living with me tonight.

5.  I just re-read what I've written so far and it's not as funny as I'd hoped.  More like depressing and sad.

I think I'll stop and get a bottle of wine on my way home.  Go home, put on my pj's, eat pizza, drink wine, take a bubble bath, read a book, go to bed early, and sleep late in the morning.  Maybe tomorrow's sunshine will make everything better.

If not, I'll ask for a do-over then.  *sigh*  Why don't I believe that's going to work.

Scabs & Scars

I have two friends having marital trouble right now.  Okay, the trouble is really over.  One is signing divorce papers in a couple weeks, and the other......well, the paperwork may not be started, but I think it's a formality.  I feel bad for them.  Really bad.

My first friend is hurting pretty bad.  She tried to work it out, but just couldn't.  The details don't matter -- and if they matter to you, that's just tough because it's HER story to tell, not mine.  I hurt for her.  She lost several friends over this.  She's trying to take care of herself, her kids, her new place, and. . . . .well, her new lifestyle.  It all changed.  It seemed like it changed in a blink.  I'm sure it felt like forever to her, but to those of us that didn't know what was going on inside her marriage (and we never really know what anyone's marriage is really like, do we?) it seemed to happen in just a couple of day.  There was a castle.  Then there was a vacant hill.  Boom!  Gone.

My other friend is NOT hurting.  That's what worries me.  She's past all of that.  When the pain stops, that's when you really know it's over.  I know from experience.  When that final straw breaks and your first reaction is to smile, it's over.  It doesn't matter what you do from there on out, it's done.  Finished.  IF they work it out (and I doubt that's going to happen) it will never be the same.  I don't think it will even be a marriage.  When the other person in the marriage loses all power to hurt you, they lose their standing.  A marriage takes two people to succeed.  When one holds all the power and the other holds none, it just won't work.

Trust is gone in both cases.  Pain or not, there are wounds -- some are just further along in the healing process.  Scabs and scars.  That is all that is left of two once good marriages.  Now four adults and three kids all have different lives.  They are different people than they were just six months ago.

And I can't do anything for them.  I'm used to trying to help my friends.  That's what friends do.  We help.  But I can't.  I can't fix this.  I can't lessen the hurt.  I can't fast forward time until everyone feels better.  Scabs and scars, and me with no band-aids.

I feel bad for all of them.  I wish I could just DO something.  But I can't.  All I have to offer is a shoulder, an ear, and hugs.  I can be supportive, and listen.  Those things seem like nothing when you're watching marriages break apart like the ground in an earthquake.  I just hope those scabs and scars cover wounds that are minimal.

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.