Counting my blessings

"Thanksgiving" by Norman Rockwell

I wrapped up my Thankful Thursdays series last week.  I'll let you decide if it was intentional or a miscalculation.  (Before you decide, remember I do hold degrees in accounting and finance.  On the other hand, I'd rather balance a buzzing chainsaw than our checkbook.)

Anyhoo.


The six-week countdown was a good reminder of just how much of my life falls under the blanket heading of "blessings."  But they are/were pretty general in nature, and occasionally I suspect God likes to hear some specific thank-you's from me.  So here's just the tip of the iceberg of detailed things I'm grateful for, from A to Z. Some of these are more profound than others, but really - shouldn't we be grateful for everything we have been given, whether it's inconsequential or completely essential to our life?

A is for Anthony Shea.  Oldest son, owner of Sadie, my beloved grandpuppy.  He was our parenting guinea pig, and seems to have survived his childhood with a fairly well-adjusted outlook on life, and has become a confident, fun and capable young man.

B is for books.  Starting with the Bible and winding my way through cookbooks, Dr. Seuss, my beloved literary giants, even frothy fiction on the beach.  Books are one of life's greatest and simplest pleasures.  The smell of bookstores and books, new or old, the way the spine creaks when you open a book for the first time.  And the way a well-crafted story draws you into it, and makes you feel and think differently when you've finished reading it.

C is for chocolate.  It is and will always be my favorite flavor in the whole wide world.  Creamy milk or smooth and dark - it's all good.

D is for David Brice.  Younger son, and the child everyone would vote as most like his mama in so many ways.  He too somehow survived his "wonder years" under our parentage and has a way of looking at things that is uniquely his own.  Life with Brice will never, ever be dull.

E is for Eden:  my birth family.  My grandparents, aunts, uncles and my parents and brother all bear this name and they surround me with love, and I love 'em back.  Without them, I wouldn't be!

F is for football.  It took me a long time to be able to say I love the game, but recently on a trip home (after another frustrating defeat), the car was filled with football talk about the game and upcoming high school matchups that would lead up to the state final championship. And I realized I was in my element.

G is for gardening.  There is something about watching seeds become seedlings and the smell of fresh-turned dirt in the spring that brings me in tune with the One who created me and everything I see when I'm down on hands and knees, tending to things of this earth.

H is for Highland Heights Church of Christ. My spiritual family.  May God bless every one of my brothers and sisters.  It's not about the place, it's about the people and the faith and hope we share.

I is for ice cream.  Homemade is best.  A hot fudge sundae can cure almost anything, and an offer to slip out for some ice cream can make an ordinary evening rather extraordinary.

J is for Jesus.  He is my savior, my king, my teacher, my brother.  Everything I need to know about living in this world, I can learn from His example and teachings.  Without Him, I would have no hope for anything beyond this life.

K is for kisses from the dogs.  Puppy kisses are wet and sloppy and their doggy breath is stinky.  But they love me and  never tire of letting me know they do.  The trust and unconditional love of a dog is a treasured gift.

L is for Lea.  Many years ago, my husband's family opened their hearts and shared their name with me. My mother-in-law is an amazing and precious woman, my brothers- and sister-in-law are as close as blood.  You don't marry your spouse's family, but I think I got a pretty good deal when I married into this one.

M is for marshmallows. Roasted and toasted, or all soft and gooey floating on hot, hot chocolate.  Everyone's life should include some puffy goodness every now and again.

N is for needlework.  From the time I was a child, the women in my life taught me to use my hands to sew, embroider, crochet and knit.  Admittedly, I am not an artistic person by nature, but with a needle in hand, I can create something useful, soft to touch, and pretty to look at.  I'm grateful to those who taught me, and I've enjoyed teaching others.  It's a pass-along gift from one generation to the next.

O is for the Olympics. For thousands of years, humans have pushed their bodies in order to compete against each other.  Watching Olympic athletes is both inspiring and deluding - they make it look so effortless we sometimes forget how much blood, sweat, pain and tears it took them to reach the place where they are.  But it's a marvelous tradition that has stood the test of time, and continues to challenge us to be better tomorrow than we are today.

P is for polish.  I have a plethora of polishing and cleaning concoctions.  The smell of furniture polish says the house is clean.  Squeaky shiny mirrors and doors let light sparkle and glow.  The simple act of buffing and polishing something from dull and dirty to a soft sheen or high polish reminds me of how God works to remove my rough edges and and dirty spots.  Not to mention, a fresh coat of polish on my toes can make me happy from head to toe.

Q is for Q-tips.  Pure genius.  So small, so soft, and yet so totally useful. And cheap.  Really.  Just try to imagine life without them and then you'll be thankful for them, too.

R is for rainy days.  There is something healing and soothing in hearing rain drop to earth.  It's a cool respite in the middle of summer, a gentle noise that can lull us to sleep.  Naps on a rainy day?  Pure, simple pleasure.

S is for Shelby. Our youngest child and only daughter.  Swimmer girl is a beautiful creature inside and out.  I am humbled by her faith, and awed by her capacity to love and understand others, and her love of God and life. Sooner than I care to think about, she will be ready to strike out on her own, and I can't wait to see how her life turns out.

T is for Tony.  Aka Mr. Official.  And truly, my better half.  God must have thought a lot of me to put this man in my life.  There's so much more I could say, but if you know him, you know why I love him with my whole heart.

U is for uniforms, especially those worn by men and women who defend and protect us.  Since ancient times, soldiers have worn clothing that sets them apart from civilians, and I am always proud and humbled when I find myself standing next to a member of our military, whether they are in their dress blues or whites, or fatigues.  They have stepped up to the line and set themselves apart by their actions and their attire, and they have my undying admiration and respect.

V is for vacations. In my life, I've been privileged to visit from sea to shining sea and quite a few of the places in between.  The thrill of packing in anticipation of a trip, experiencing new vistas and foods, finding just the right keepsake to bring home, and finally returning to our own beds after some time away gives us memories that last a lifetime, and sometimes a new-found perspective.

W is for water.  It's not only what we're largely made of, but it replenishes us when we drink it, invigorates us when we jump in, cleanses and calms children (and adults) before bedtime, and reminds us of God's power and presence when we see his handiwork in thundering waterfalls, mirror-like lakes and pounding ocean waves.

X is for Xerox and X-rays, and all the other marvels of the technological age we live in, where we can replicate anything at the touch of a button, and peer inside our bodies and see babies growing, pinpoint cancerous tumors to remove, and see broken bones that can be made good as new.  We live in a truly amazing era.  And what we know now simply points out how much more we don't know.

Y is for yoga.  It is part physical, creating flexibility, strength and balance.  It's also part mental, soothing and calming with steady breathing and focused attention.  An hour of yoga is an hour well spent.

Z is for the zillions of blessings I haven't begun to list here.  Try to count your blessings, I dare you. They are infinite and they just keep coming, so keep enjoying the life you have and thank God for the the good things He sends your way.  As Harriet Beecher Stowe so eloquently put it,

"Give this one day to thanks, to joy, to gratitude."

Today is the big day.  It starts with the Macy's Day Parade (shout out to Evan O'Neal, who will be marching in it!) and turkey and all the trimmings. I pray for safe travels for all of us going "over the river and through the woods," and an edifying and peaceful day of giving thanks for all we have.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Hanging up my hack license

Swimmer girl turns 16 today. We are very excited for her - but not as excited as she is, of course. Among all the other things that come with turning 16, she will soon have her driver's license.

And for me, that means my taxi-driver days will finally draw to a close after more than a quarter-century of commission.   In those years, I have hauled my babies and toddlers and children and adolescents (and their friends) to every place they needed and wanted to go. I have put over 250,000 miles on four cars in the process.  We've eaten, spilled, upchucked; changed diapers and clothes; laughed, cried and argued and fussed in my mom-taxis.  We've had a few roadside breakdowns and a couple chats with policemen and troopers,  but thankfully no accidents with a baby or child on board.

If you're a young mom reading this, I can promise you this:  the years and miles will fly by. Your taste in music will adapt to theirs, and vice-versa.   We have explored the full extent of the radio dial, tuning in and out of country, jazz, hip-hop, Christian and dabbled in rap and alternative.  Classic rock is our shared language.  We've belted out southern rock together, argued over who-sang-that-song, and deciphered lyrics more times than I can count.   Looking back, I think we were blessed to not have built-in DVD players and portable DS players at our disposal.  Yes, we had our share of backseat territory disputes and petty squabbles borne out of boredom.  But in the close confines of the car, you have a captive audience - just unplug them from the electronics occasionally and you might be surprised by what they confide in you on an otherwise silent ride.

I have cemented my relationship with my adolescent children just by sitting in the driver's seat - many deep, heart- and soul-searching conversations with each child have taken place in the car, and most of them started out as nothing more than a ride home from school or church, or a quick jaunt to town, just mom and kid. 

So enjoy your taxi driver status while it lasts - because it doesn't last forever.

Happy -and safe - travels,


P.S. - Happy birthday, baby girl.  One pink velvet cake coming up!

Happy birthday to my boy

Dear Son,

In 1988, you made your grand entrance into this world.  Even before you were born, you were determined to do things on your own timetable.  You were intractable and impossibly late - a defining characteristic we share.  One of many, I think.  At two weeks past your due date, you gave no signs that you planned to arrive anytime soon, so I begged the doctor to give you your own birthday, instead of risking that you would show up on your older brother's birthday, which is four days past your own.  I am convinced you stood on your hands, scrunched up your chubby face and stubbornly refused to leave the cramped quarters you occupied until there was no other choice.

You were our second baby and second boy, but you were and are uniquely you.  I refused an epidural and you topped the scales at 9 pounds 2 ounces - nearly as big as your brother was and two pounds bigger than your sister who came along later.  When you were born, you were blue and still, and we were paralyzed with fear.  Those first few moments of silence in the delivery room, waiting for you to take a breath, you had the undivided attention of us all.  I've never heard a more wonderful sound than when you finally let loose with a healthy squall.

We have no pictures of your arrival, but it was not second-child-syndrome at work.  In the pre-digital era of the late 80s, we didn't realize the 35 mm camera had no film.  When he discovered what he had done, your daddy tearfully offered to take us all back to the hospital and re-enact your arrival and homecoming.  It would have been like reality TV before there was such a thing.

You were my sleeper.  Once we settled into a routine, you'd nearly always snooze until a civilized hour of the morning, and after your brother's early-morning antics, I was happy for your laid-back approach to mornings.  From the beginning, you and your brother had a push-me-pull-you relationship.  Best friends one minute, all-out guerrilla-style assault warfare the next.  You insisted on rooming together and jumbling up your Lego blocks to create a nighttime obstacle course to your bunk beds.  He outgrew them, you continued to love them, asking for more elaborate sets each birthday and Christmas.

As you sailed through your boyhood, you did everything "big brother" did, but you took things more seriously.  Soccer, skateboarding, snow skiing, you name it.  If he could do it, you could too - only better, longer, faster, harder and more competitively.

For seven years, you enjoyed "baby-of-the-family" status.  You then became possibly the world's most reluctant middle child, a title we still tease you with fifteen years later.  Push-me-pull-you defined your relationship with your baby sister, too.  But I have watched you with her in unguarded moments, and I've seen the gentleness and protectiveness that you tried to hide between a gruff countenance, especially during your teenage years. You are a loyal and protective sibling to your brother and sister, even as you look for ways to needle them.

I love you fiercely, more fiercely than any argument we had from time to time as you grew from boy to man-child.  You are my mirror, you know.  I look at you and I see the parts of me that dared my family to love me as I grew from child to adult, too.   And now you are a grown man.  People will continue to comment on how much you look like your Uncle Nate and your Papaw, but you are--without a doubt--your own man.

And as you stand firmly on the shores of adulthood, your life's path lies ahead of you - you're almost through with college, and I  know God has great things in store for you.  I pray as you move forward, you will listen for His voice and seek His will, and become the faith-filled man He and I see in you.   I wish you many happy returns of this day.

Love,
Your mama


P.S. Stay out of the Turtle Cake until after dinner.

Reflections on motherhood

Sunday was "Mother's Day" - a holiday set aside for us to recognize and honor our mothers.  Maybe it's because I've been a mom for almost a quarter-century, or maybe it's because there are so many ways for moms to express themselves now (Facebook, blogs, etc.), or maybe this holiday has truly changed in its focus.  It seems that most of what I heard and read from other moms was introspective, focusing on their thoughts on being a mom.  The sentiments expressed required a few hankies.

As for me, I love being a mom but if I look at it through the lens of realism, I'd have to say it is the hardest job I've ever had, by far.  It has consumed me, humbled me, worn me ragged, and brought me face-to-face with truths about my own childhood - the good, the bad and the ugly.  I have paced the floor with crying colicky babies.  I have paced the floor waiting for teenagers to get home.  I've been awakened in the night by feverish infants, and by telephone calls needing my help.

I have dealt with toddler insurrections and teenage rebellion.  I've compromised, negotiated, plea-bargained, punished, scolded, cajoled, mediated, rendered judgments, imposed sentencing, and reversed past decisions.  Sometimes all in a single day.

Motherhood IS wonderful.  It is God's best and greatest blessing for women.  But it is not for sissies, and it's not all sweetness and light, cooing and cuddling, photo ops and Hallmark card moments.

If I had known then (before children) what I know now, I would have still become a mother, but it would have been with more fear and trepidation.  Mothers go where angels fear to tread, and in my case, rushed in with foolish speed and abandon.  We just don't have enough foreknowledge or sense to see the tough road this journey will take.

On Mother's Day, I received honor and love from my children, whom I adore as precious gifts from God.  But it's not the time to post about how much I love them, wanted them, or my dreams for them.  I'll save those thoughts for another day.

On Mother's Day, it's my turn to look back and give honor and praise to my mother, because before I went through the trials and trevails of motherhood, she forged her own path as a mother, establishing boundaries and guidelines, showing love to the unloveable side of her children, standing up for her children and standing firm in her decisions for us.  Day after day, year after year, her actions and reactions shaped and molded us, and made us who we are today. She guided the development of my faith, my worldviews, my integrity, and my sense of self-worth. No doubt, there are many things I've said and done that I unconsciously borrow from my own rearing. 

I'm thankful I can talk to my mom and tell her how much she means to me, and I am so sorry for those who can't, whether it's distance, death or battle-scarred relationships that separate them from their mothers.

My children are precious, but so is my own mom.  Let me never take her for granted.