When the Corn's Done Poppin'

After writing my last blog about my father I didn't realize how cathartic it would be. I didn't feel badly about writing it. It was factual and it was accurate. At least for me. As they say, "Feelings are neither right or wrong... they just are." But I did feel like I'd finally, truly, buried my father. Then something happened.

Some other memories started to present themselves. It was kind of like how popcorn works. Deep inside the kernel of dried corn is the slightest drop of moisture. As the heat rises the moisture begins to boil which causes it to explode, turning it inside out. A little butter and salt and you're ready for a good movie. Or, in my case, a dreary drama. But when the explosion happened for me and when all the popcorn was gone from the bowl, there were several unpopped kernels remaining, as there usually are. For me, those kernels were the good memories. The things I remember about my father that were once fond memories, but now... now they felt warm inside and tangible enough to hold. These weren't going to pop.  And I felt these good memories every bit as strongly as I felt the painful ones. So I wanted to share a few of them here.

my folks were avid  Dodger fans

Once, while watching a baseball game on TV, I was sitting right next to my dad on the couch. He suddenly, for some unknown reason, put his arm around me and gave me a big hug and squeezed me tight. Then, he went right back to the game. I remember it now as if I'm sitting next to him on that couch. I can hear the sound he made too. It was a great hug.




At dinner one evening the three of us girls, as I recall it anyway, were talking about cute boys. I think Cathy may have been teasing Sherry about having a crush on Don Grady (may he rest in peace) from My Three Sons. That sounds pretty much like how it would have gone down. But the rest of this memory is crystal clear in my head now. I piped up saying that I thought my dad was the handsomest man in the world. And I meant that. Next thing I remember is him reaching into his pocket and pulling out a quarter. He slapped it in front of me with a big grin on his face. Even now it makes me smile. Everyone immediately started back-peddling, agreeing that Dad was, indeed, the best looking man alive. Too late. He pushed back his chair and got up, still wearing that sly grin on his face, and he left the table. When I left the table I was a little richer and felt a little happier. It only cost a quarter, but that memory is priceless. 

Father's Day, and every other gift-giving holiday, was always a challenge for me with my father. I don't recall ever getting him a gift that he liked enough to comment on it besides saying "thank you". Ever. I don't know if any of us kids did. But one year, as an adult, my husband, kids and I went to see my Dad on Father's Day. He was outside walking around checking out his lawn when I walked up and handed him a small bouquet of tootsie pops saying, "Happy Father's Day, POP!" Emphasizing the POP. (guffaw) He took the candy bouquet from my hand and threw his arms around me and gave me a big warm hug. Score! That was a great day. My dad didn't care about gifts. I think he preferred to feel endeared. Cathy, btw, has an awesome story about some of my dad's old shoes. I hope she shares it sometime. It's a good story.

Over the years, these have been some childhood memories that I have recalled now and again. But they have never, ever tugged at my heart or brought tears to my eyes like they do now. I'm so grateful that God saw fit to finally allow me to bury my father, and now remember some happy times with my dad.

Dear God, Don't Let Me Miss It

Last month (August 26th) was the 21st anniversary of my father's death. He was never a protective presence in my life.  He was neither encouraging nor affectionate. As a teenager I remember well feeling so vulnerable in my relationships with boys and feeling I owed them something for giving me the simplest attention. That was always on my part, not on the boy's. As I got older I did not trust men, and knew nothing about guarding my heart or saving myself for the man who would be worthy of me, in my father's eyes. I felt ill at ease if ever a boy showed an interest in me and I think I knew I would disappoint them in some way, and that scared me. Years later I still could not identify the boundaries that could have kept me safe from too many bad choices. I felt I owed things to men in order to be noticed. And being noticed was the closest I came to knowing love. Nowadays, there's so much written about the importance of a father's role in the life of his teenaged daughter. But we didn't know that stuff back then. And I'm not so sure it would have mattered to my father even if we did. He was an amateur radio enthusiast and most of his time and attention went to complete strangers over illusive airwaves sent through larger and taller towers he kept inate of the art condition every year. My father was head smart. But his heart was a mystery.

W6CRE. We all knew his call letters early on.

So this year, when sissy tagged me in a photo of my dad to share on my Facebook wall as a remembrancer of his passing I felt, for the very first time, that I had the choice to acknowledge all the hurts and the yuckiness I have felt and mourned since he died. Sissy  has my mother's strength and her deep sense family loyalty. It is strong and rich in her blood. She wants us all to be happy, and her heart will never rest until she has done her utmost to bring peace where there is hurt or misunderstanding. I love my sister for that. It sometimes irritates me, but she's usually right so I most often defer to her in these things. But this year I declined that "tag" on Facebook. I didn't want to acknowledge the anniversary my father's death. It seemed pretentious and contradictory to me. But I couldn't tell her about it because I didn't exactly know how. I didn't have the words. And I felt badly that I couldn't explain it. All I knew was that I felt angry. After 21 years, all the stuffed feelings of neglect and abandonment I'd experienced from my father had come to a head. Out of nowhere. All I could recall was being so hurt by the man that I had, 21 years earlier, secretly prayed for God to let me be with as he withered away from the cancer that killed him. And God answered that prayer. I was with him when he died. Just him and me. Alone. I didn't plan on that. But afterward, I did think there should be some sort of special bond or some kind of a connection I'd feel between us because of my being there. It was perhaps a lofty hope. I wanted it to count for something. And I think I had convincing myself into thinking I finally did something special for him and wasn't that wonderful? 'Did I do good, dad?' I wanted an answer. Or even an acknowledgement that I'd asked the question. But he was dead now. There would be no hope of an answer or a nod. Now it was permanent. So I hadn't really done anything all that great at all.

My handsome father during WWII

Over the years I could never put my finger on what it was I felt whenever my father's name came up. I could never find the words to express what it was that I felt toward him at all. The man who was never my “daddy”, but was always my father. My mom had always taught us to accept him for who he was and not to think about the things that he wasn't. She didn't put it that clearly, but that's what we knew she was saying. I had been taught to believe that it was wrong to give room to any thought of my father that was less than the "good provider" that he was. And he was. Whatever needs I may have had beyond that simply weren't as significant as they felt to me. So that's how we lived. And as long as my mother was alive, I never let my heart even go there; to a deep hole that held the question mark to a question I dare not ask. I mustn't. I would not hurt her by suggesting that her husband was less than the wonderful man she had married. Even though she knew. She knew. 

Then about a month ago I was following a link posted by one of my favorite bloggers which led me to a post entitled, Nella Cordelia, A Birth Story. It was not what I had expected in the least. It is a precious and beautifully-written story from a mother about the birth of her daughter. It was also the most difficult thing this woman had ever had to write. I encourage you to read it with a box of tissue and a heart full of joy. You will need both. You can fink it here. The story relates the birth of what was expected to be a healthy baby girl who, right after delivery, was detected with Downs Syndrome. No one even noticed. No one. Except for the new mom. She knew something was wrong right away. And eventually they all did. But until then it was just her. Alone. Not expecting to see what she saw, or feel what she felt. And as she looked at her precious new baby and their eyes locked, she could almost hear her little girl say... "Love me. Love me. I'm not what you expected, but oh, please love me." And that is what I wish I could have said to my father years before he died. 

My siblings in 2002. L-R, Cathy, me, Tom, and Sherry.

I envisioned myself sitting next to him as he lie in the rented hospital bed that now shared space in his "ham shack" During his final hours I mentally asked him to acknowledge his children. To notice that he wasn't just leaving his wife. He was leaving four of the greatest achievements of his life. I wished I could have understood why he could only give what little he gave and understand all the excuses my mother always made for why he was the way he was. Absent and intolerant in so many ways. He detested questions. And I was a very inquisitive kid, but I learned early on not to ask questions. Why was he broken? What did we lack that he so wished for? Mostly, I felt like he'd missed the chance to fully participate in my life and he'd misspent the time he'd had with all of his kids for so many years. And now, finally, I let myself be good and angry. Why had it taken so long for me to allow myself to feel this stuff? I cried for the girl I had once been, who wanted to fill a daddy's empty lap so very badly. I embraced the teenager who needed a father's arms around her to protect her from the ugly things some young girls should never have to experience or endure or  lies that they believe about themselves. I let myself feel it all, and mourn it all, and get the poison out. And I did. Then... I was done.

My dad's last Christmas with us. He sat for the photo. Nice.

Today, I don't feel any of that pain. It's gone. It's been grieved over and worked out. I almost feel a sense of loss for my dad because he did miss so much. But the lesson I will never forget, the one truth that God has shown me in the midst of this  emotional spillage that had to happen, is this. In some way I think I see people through new eyes now. Everyone has a bit of that lovable Nella Cordelia in them. And with it comes the challenges and the heartbreak we are all destined to endure if we are to live. Mother Teresa once said, "everyone is going through something" and isn't that the truth? I see how God loves His kids and wants us desperately to love them too. So now I  wonder if my father ever thought Nella Cordelia's thoughts. "Love me. Love me. I'm not what you expected, but oh, please love me." I'll never know. But I can say with certainty that I have thought these very thoughts in my own life. And what about my kids? Do they ever think like that? It's especially important now that I don't miss the chance I do have, here and now, to love them and acknowledge them and protect them from some of the hurts that they don't need to experience. But I'm determined to not miss the chance my father did. Am I what they expected? I don't know.  I know that I am not alone is my experience. But, I don't want to miss the chance to change things. So dear Lord, please don't let me miss it.

~ Susan Renée

National Lazy Day

"Let's do this. Let's be l-a-Zzzzzz."

Today is National Lazy Day. AND it happens to be a Friday to boot. DOUBLE win.

It's also National S'mores Day... which kinda defeats the whole being lazy thing.

To Gram or not to Gram...that is the Question.

I read a bumper sticker once that said “If I knew having grandchildren would be so much fun, I would have had them first”. It's funny 'cause it's so true. If you are a grandparent you're nodding your head up and down, thinking of the sublime difference between raising your kids and raising your grandchildren.

Calvin Wesley (my youngest)  and Gram

I became “Gram” for the first time when I was 45 years old and it was a brand new experience for me. An experience for which I had no concept of, nor training for. I'd had no grandparents around when I was a child, and my own mother and mother-in-law lived far away from us when my kids were young. They were from a generation and an upbringing that taught “Grandchildren should be seen (when called for) but not heard from, so please keep the noise down and go play outside like a good boy”. Neither of them were what you'd call spoilers or smotherers. I don't fault them. They did the best they knew to do, as do all of us. So donning the mantle of “Gram” was entering unchartered waters for me, and over the years I've experienced multiple moments of being lost at sea on the S.S. Gramma—oftentimes feeling like a fish out of water, flapping my fins on the sand, gasping for air and hoping someone throws me back into the ocean.

Leah and Lorynne (my two oldest g-daughters)

By the time I was 55 I had been blessed with 7 more grandchildren....that's 8 grandkids in 10 years if anyone is doing the math....and I realized along the way that it was either sink or swim in the grandma pool—and after all these years, I still flounder. My own mother had four children and 12 grandchildren between them all. As adults, her kids were tossed to every compass point in the country; Georgia, Florida, Arizona and So. California. She advised me once (after observing me laughing and playing with the two oldest granddaughters when they were very young) not to get too emotionally close to my little darlings. Shaking her head and looking at me with love she said, “Their parents could decide to move to Timbuktoo, you know. And you'll get your heart broken”. She was looking out for my best interests. She was speaking from experience. She was right. She was wise. Sigh....she was ignored.

Georgia, Cal and Mary Katherine - my Bischlets

I have thrown caution to the wind and shamelessly loved each one of my grandchildren, and can't even explain how big my heart grows when they simply walk into a room, give me a hug and call me “Gram.” I rejoice with them over their triumphs, pray for them continually, and cheer them on from the sidelines. I secretly worry about them when they go to summer camp or when they get bullied in school. The oldest one just got her driver's license, and that opens up a whole new can of anxiety. I am still amazed after all this time over how much of my heart they have unknowingly taken posession of.

Jared and Ian - Inseparable Cousins

I also worry about whether or not I'm doing it right. Do I spoil them too much? Not enough? Should I offer more advice? No advice? Should I offer more help to their parents? Or am I in their lives too much? And here's something else....although I am a huge supporter of my wonderful adult children who each are (truth be told) doing an outstanding parenting job, I have absolutely no say-so in how they raise my grandchildren. AND even if I disagree with parenting decisions they make, I must remain firmly supportive of them, and especially to the grandkids faces when they don't agree with their parents either. I am still a mom and am painfully aware that my first job is to cheer on my own kids as their number one fan....but it's difficult. It's annoying at times. I think to myself  “Just let me raise your kids...I'm older and smarter, and I'd do a much better job now than I did when I was raising YOU.” Don't get me wrong—I do give my opinion...which largely falls on deaf ears—but then I shut up. Well I usually shut up...OK maybe sometimes.

Oh mom you were right. And you were wrong. You were a rock, you were an island...you didn't have to be inconvenienced to pick up my kids from school—ever—or sit with me in the doctor's office holding my fevered babies in your arms, awaiting our turn. You never had to sacrifice your saturday mornings to attend children's soccer games or rush to their school after work on a weeknight to see their Spring recital; and they never bothered you with a request to decorate a special cake for them for their birthdays. You were able to live your life unfettered, foot-loose and fancy-free; buying grown-up cars instead of mini-vans, and placing expensive objects d'art around your home without fear of them being demolished.

Ryan..letting Gram kiss him

On the other hand, you never had a grandchild call you on a Saturday morning asking you to come over and pick them up so they could come spend the day with you “just 'cause”. You never called your out-of-town grandkids, asking them to put the phone on the piano and play you their latest recital piece then clap your hands and hoot so loud the phone rattled on the keyboard. You never had those grandchildren spend a weekend with you then hug you so tight when they were leaving to go back home, and ask if they could stay with you longer. You never held a colicky grandchild in your arms at 11:00 pm in the dark, rocking in your rocking chair, singing lullabyes with the moonlight streaming into the window, with every ounce of your being melting into her beautiful, wide-awake brown eyes. And you never experienced the awesome pride as, with tears in your eyes, you watched them walk down the aisle to graduate from school, knowing they'll be entering life happy and successful and yes, that you have a tiny little part in that.

Mom sometimes I wonder if you can see us from heaven and if you are still wagging your warning finger at me. Or if your opinion has softened and changed—if you rejoice with me in the accomplishments of your great-children, as well as the accomplishments of your daughter. Oh mom, I know you were happy and lived a good long life. I don't think you had many regrets...but you missed out on so much.

SIRIous Business

We're BAAAACK!

Being new (again) to California, Mustache Man and I had to get our car registered and new driver's licenses this week. Today we went to the DMV. In Arizona it's called the MVD, which I never got used to. So I'm back home, without any vowels. And it was the usual madhouse that I remember from the days before Al Gore invented the internet and you could do everything online. But, being new to the state (again), we had to go IN to get established as permanent, law-abiding, tax-paying, recycled residents of Jerry Brown's California. Even with an appointment the line to get our pictures taken was loooong.

We both had to take a written test which was totally unexpected and extremely unstudied for. What the?!? I've been driving for a hundred years. What could I possibly not know? We both barely passed. And FYI, it is illegal to drive with a "blood alcohol concentration" that is higher than .08. I did not know that. So, no more driving for me after 11am. I suspected the long line was because of New Guy. New Guy was having a hard day. I really felt for him. We've all been there, right? No one wants to be New Guy. And Ready For Retirement Lady was barely giving him minimal help. The Waiting In Line people were getting restless. And the Mustache and I, being the codependent, make-everyone-happy, proactive people that we are, felt we had to do something about it.

hey SIRI, how you doin'?

We heard a lot of numbers being called over the PA by the automated pre-recorded voice of a woman. "Number B104 will now be served at window 34." Picking up on this, Mustache and I, we say out loud, "this female voice making the announcements? She should really be a SIRI." She would say "If you have numBER BEE. one. OH. four. please go TO window numBER thirTEE-four. She could even be interactive. She'd make wisecrack comments about people who go to the wrong window or have a pouty face. "Hey, you IN the YELLow jacKET. You are at the wrong winDOW. Are you stuPID?" and "Hey, I don't LIKE your attiTUDE. Go to the END of the LINE." All in that monotone she's so fond of. Everyone would be afraid to do anything wrong and get called out by SIRI. She'd make farting sounds right before the camera shot your picture just to make you smile weird. Or comment on what you're wearing. "That purple puke jacKET is not IN your COlor WHEEL, girlFRIEND." There's no end to what a SIRI could do at the DMV. She could even ride along for your driving test. "Turn left at the NEXT corner. I said left. LEFT. YOU fail."  ha.ha. This was fun. The Waiting In Line people became engaged. They threw out ideas for a funny SIRI comments. It was great. Plus it was G-rated. Nice.

it's raining money!

"But why stop here?", we say as we walk across the parking lot to find our car, which now has to be smog-emission tested for our new state and returned to the DMV for verification within 60 days. Mustache Man and I think we should sell this SIRI idea to the Department of Transportation (a government entity who will, of course, build our business) and we'd make a virtual killing. We'd call it, "SIRIously??" Okay. Who wants in?

Calling All Moms

I read another great post today from one of my all-time favorite blogs called Mammalingo, entitled, "A Letter To My Sons, Take Two". Mammalingo is a trip and a half. I love her. We don't agree on everything which is cool because I can always catch a glimpse of someone else's take on things whilst enjoying the dollop of humor she inevitably plops on top. Make that a BIG dollop.

Today she shared some sage advice in a letter to her sons as they grow into strapping young men. I encourage you to read it. Good stuff. But it was her last bit that made me, at first, chuckle to myself and then gulp down the muddy lump that suddenly developed in my throat and made it hard to breathe for just a moment. Her advice? "oh yeah. Call your mother."

The reality of our sons growing up and moving on and totally forgetting (certainly not refusing?) to call their moms is just all too... REAL. It's as if these kids of ours think a stork really did deliver them and then, as soon as they get a taste of independence, (or fall in love with another woman besidesyou)<;they just don't seem to want their mom around... hovering

so what's the problem?

When my son moved away from home at the age of eighteen to attend a school of ministry, it wasn't so far away that his dad and I couldn't visit every now and again. And we did. And it was great. And when we would leave I'd always remind him to call his mom. "Don't forget to call your mom!". blah blah blah. yeah yeah yeah. He took it all in stride and I did get a couple calls out of that effort. Then I decided to leave a more creative reminder for him. haha. Funny mom. It was a non-toxic, car-safe, window paint reminder, correctly and very neatly spelled backwards on his car's rear window. How cute is that? Look in the rearview mirror. hahaha. No? For some reason, my son did NOT think this was funny. At all. Not even a little bit. I didn't find this out until later, when the calls stopped all together, but I had think embarrassed him in front of his fellow students. What? But yeah, I did, and yes, I did feel badly. Really badly. But fer cryin' out loud, how does a mother know when what used to be funny just isn't funny anymore? And then, no calls at all? Bah! Maybe he just "forgot". Probably. Maybe. Ya know, you raise your kids to be strong and wise and independent and what happens when they go ahead and do all that? They drop you like yesterday's news. This is tough stuff. And that is probably a really appropriate metaphor. But seriously, isn't that what they are supposed to do? And if we don't feel some kind of gutting then maybe we're doing it wrong. And we're moms. We really don't want to do it wrong. (even though we often do)

I hope Mammalingo's sons call her, though. I really do. At least with the good important stuff. Like what they had for lunch that day. I hope they do.

oh and p.s. My son is in his 30s and still not so good at calling. So I moved in with him. Problem solved.

That's What He Said

Last Sunday I took myself out to lunch. It was about noon and church had just let out. Living near a retirement village it's not hard to spot so many carefree, retired, restaurant-going, golf cart-driving, gray-haired folk who seem to have lived a good life and now have no worries in their little retirement world. So, as I sat and observed the patrons coming and going I noticed this foursome in particular. And this is why. The man on the left spoke across the table to his friend with constant hand movement. Was he telling a fish story? or how to rotate a tire? It was extreme movage of the hands. And all the while his sweet little wife next to him delighted the woman across from the table with her soft spoken (who-knows-what-she-was-saying) monologue. Was it grandkids or gossip or gardening tips? Who knows. But those two talked for a good half hour, non-stop, while the couple on the right just listened. Non-stop listening. 

I thought about my husband and how many years we've been together and how did we behave in restaurants? And that prompted the next question; are we that old? And do we look this good? But the real question to me was, which couple would my husband and I be in this scenario?? The mind reels. But the fact is, we will never look this mature nor this responsible. Ever. And I'm not sure how I feel about that. So my question didn't really need an answer at all.

Then I went home and took a nap. People-watching is exhausting. Maybe I am that old. pshh...

So... which couple are you?

Thoughts on Mother's Day 2012

Mom's Wedding Day

I grew up a Navy brat in the 50's and 60's, moving every few years, and after 20 years of serving his country, my dad reluctantly retired and moved us to the Antelope Valley in southern California. There were four of us kids and I was somewhere in the middle. After entering civilian life, my father found a perfectly respectable job in civil service while my mother was a perfectly normal stay at home working mom. And work she did. The woman was domestic as all get-out. Our house was cleaned and spit-polished daily. Our clothes were hand-sewn, starched, and wrinkle-free. Our hair was curled and our bangs were short. Our pillow cases and my dad's handkerchiefs were ironed for crying out loud--even the garage was organized and clear of clutter. We ate three home made meals a day and I can count on one hand the number of times we ate out during my first 16 years of life. We had a formal living room that we NEVER used. We kids were only allowed to step foot in there barefoot and right after our baths. It was a special treat to sit on that pristine white sofa, scrubbed and red-cheeked in my jammies, wondering if I would have such a nice white sofa when I was grown up.

Grandma, Mom holding me, Dad and Sherry in front

Being a religious woman, she taught us geeky sayings like “Pretty is as pretty does”, and “Look before you Leap” and (my favorite) “If you don't have anything good to say about someone then say nothing at all”. She taught us the golden rule, “please” and “thank you” and how important it is to use proper grammar. I rolled my eyes and sighed whenever she would open her mouth, but she was right, as we all know by now. I look back on those days and in my mind I see my mom vacuuming the living room in a dress, heels and a pearl necklace. I know she didn't but she may as well have been. She was the perfect June Cleaver.

Now I thought my mother was average. I thought that every kid had a mother like mine and a comfortable home with fresh baked cookies waiting for them after school. I thought every mother was a strong matriarchal figure, holding the family together while my dad was called away, sometimes for months, to serve Uncle Sam. She was virtually a single mom and carried our burdens, shielded us from stress or, oftentimes the truth, to keep us from worrying. I never gave her much thought, unless it involved her meeting my needs and expectations; new clothes, a ride to the library, hot dinners, popcorn on Friday nights and a warm bed with clean sheets to slip into at the end of the day. As we became teenagers and o-so worldly-wise, my sister and I were regular know-it-alls, noticing my mother's faults and eagerly bringing them to her attention. We mocked the way she pronounced certain words (she was from Arkansas, we were California to the bone). She took up the ukelele and would sit in that white living room playing and singing to her heart's content...but we were too cool to appreciate that and scoffed at her from the other room till she finally gave it up. Oh mom...we were such jerks. We were so selfish; so self-absorbed.

Mom and Me a few years ago at the Whistlestop Cafe in GA.

For the record, I did apologize to her for that in my later, adult years and even bought her another ukelele hoping she'd play again. But by then the arthritis in her hands had taken away any ability she had to play. I also apologized to her in later years for the stress I caused her during my checkered past...like running off at 18 with an AWOL sailor to live in a van near San Francisco with my other hippie friends...and without the benefit of holy matrimony. She just smiled at me and said “I know, Mary Catherine. I know”. During the last 15 years of her life, we became close. She'd listen to me as I'd pour out my heart about the difficulties of raising teenagers and the nuisance of annual pap smears. She'd just smile. She knew.

She passed away almost four years ago. She was going on 83 and had lived a good long life. It was her time and she was ready to go. But I sure as heck wasn't ready for her to leave. I almost drove to the desert today (Mother's Day) to visit her grave—but she's not there, so I stayed at home with that hollow feeling in my heart I get around this time of year. My own adult children came over and I let them distract me with their various stories of the difficulties of raising kids and the inconvenience of their annual OB/GYN visits. I nod and listen...she taught me well. I like to think mom is listening in, laughing at our jokes and nodding her head in wisdom.  I like to think that someday I'll see her when it's my time to “shuffle off this mortal coil”and fly to heaven. I can see the look of excitement she'll have on her face when she sees me for the first time, and I imagine she'll be waiting for me with a fresh pot of coffee and a twinkle in her eye as we sit and visit and talk about the old days. I know we'll skip over the trying times, and only talk about the good cause that's the way we'll remember it. I'm glad I have that to look forward to.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Mary Catherine ~

Feeding the Baby

I finally figured out what sport comes to mind when feeding my beloved 6-month-old grandson. 

Yep. This is it. Target shooting. But without the arrows or sharp pointy objects. Just one spoon. One baby. And 180 degrees of moving target. If this were an olympic sport, I would be so ready to compete.

Whitewashed Fences

Recently my husband, Jim (aka Mustache Man) and I have been seeing a "life" counselor.  Roderick (life coach) talked about the importance of us having someone other than each other that we could confide in and feel safe with. Well, I just sat up a bit prouder in my chair and put an imaginary notch in  my imaginary belt of self-righteousness.  I DO have someone I can confide in and she 1) does not pressure me to call her every Tuesday, 2) does not demand that I tell her first before I tell anyone else anything of any importance that happens in my life and 3) she doesn't judge me. I'm pretty sure about #3. I'm feeling pretty confident so I'll go with it. So, my safe-to-purge-on person? Yeah, I'm talking about my tea-toking sister, Cathy. (not her real name).  She's seen me in some very low places (not real places) and has always been there to lift me up, even if it's just to get me to smile. I sometimes think that making someone smile is a lot like whitewashing a wooden fence. It's not a terribly glamorous job, but it sure makes the house look nicer.  So I was thinking about that today (smiles, not fences) because Jim and I had to cancel our counseling appointment tomorrow (nothing serious). And she's my go-to gal so naturally I'd think of her... is any of this making sense? She's the husband I never knew I always wanted. OK, that's not true either. But here's the thing with Cathy and me. We work on our friendship everyday, and it's called texting. And it's FREE. Inevitably one of us will get a headache from tap-typing on our iPhones, so when the mood strikes we will email. I don't try to wax eloquent when I write to her, I don't always spell check, although that is incredibly difficult for me to NOT do.  My sister is extremely low-maintenance and she always lifts up my spirits, and I know that's what she wants to do. Because she loves me. I just love her for that.

Here's a typical short-version of an email from today. It's not Mark Twain, but it got my fences whitewashed just the same. And that's what mattered.  It's all that mattered on this particular day.

On Dec 5, 2011, at 2:26 PM, Susan Fernald wrote:

> I opened my email today and now there's 192 unopened emails there.Lurking. Most of them are stuff i've started "following", and SodaHead crap. oy. my head hurts again. I was up all night and couldn't sleep so I watched White Collar on Netflix. It's a funny white collar crime series. Catchy title huh? Then I got up at 7, showered and dressed, drank some coffee, watched some Top Gear with Evan then went to see my baby boy. OMG. He's grown, sissy. And he didn't even wait for me. He sits in my lap now and smiles and chews HARD with those newbie teeth of his. He's 17 pounds and 4 feet tall. He's gonna be a husky kid, and he's gonna be Gramma's care bear when he's old enough to hug me as great as his daddy does. I call Sam our family's care bear, and he is. Then I came home and saw that new Pinterest deal inviting me to join via my Facebook account. I'm pretty sure the banks are in cahoots with Facebook and you'll have have a driver's license, ss# and a FB acct to put money in the bank. So anyway I checked it out since Lisa told me she had a "board". huh? I started up just a peck and a paw on that and OMG how many hours will this snag out of my already sedentary day? Pinterest is WAY better than Farm Town. Do you think I can do both? I may have to sell off one of my 12 farms. You think i'm kidding but I'm not. Lisa got the 4S iphone and now sends me great pictures again. She sent one that had a picture of B next to a photo of her that I had taken after she'd gotten her cast off at 4 months. They look exactly alike. Well, you and I both think that. And I was thinking how MUCH I'm enjoying that baby who was just sitting in my lap, not doing anything special except brightening my world, and I think maybe I got to get Lisa twice, so I could love her all over again. But this time I'll do it better. And then I'm all crying and now I can't stop and my head hurts even more. How can happy tears hurt so much? OK, enough out of me. How are you doing sissy?

From Cathy Berthiaume -REPLY- 

>Now i"m crying too after that last bit in your email. Yeah. Grandkids are like getting a chance to do it all again and we WOULD do it better. If only our grown children would listen...
I'm glad you're feeling a bit better. Man that flu really took you downtown to China town.

Here's a random story:

Sometimes I use Mike's glucose meter to check my blood sugar level. It's always around 75 or 80. He's always burnt that its so low. "You should have diabetes too" he says. "You are more of a candidate for that than I am". And I just say "tch tch. Don't sulk. Now excuse me cause there's a donut int he kitchen calling my name".

But seriously he shakes his head like "it doesn't make sense". Well he has the family history of diabetes, right? But he really eats healthy and has always taken loads of vitamins and walks so really it isn't fair. he is keeping it down to below 120 though by diet and exercise alone. I saw my endocrinologist this morning for my thyroid and I told him about Mike and he said that only 3% of people with diabetes actually keep it under control without medication so yay for Mike. If it was me I am SURE I'd be on medication.


ps my under achieveing thyroid is fine.

pps tell that baby to STOP growing for crying out loud

See what I mean? Whitewashed fences. And I didn't use spellcheck either.
~Susan Renee~