Every day should be Memorial Day ...

I was just over at a fellow Faith in Fiction Blogger's site http://kathleenpopa.typepad.com/my_weblog/ and was moved by her Memorial Day tribute post.

It made me think of my friend Heidi's boy, Joshua.

When I first met Josh he was five years old, running circles around his single, struggling, grad-student mama, in his dinosaur-decked pajamas.

Now, he's running a helicopter crew in Iraq, undoubtedly suited in a flak jacket and M-something or other.

My last encounter with Josh was this past winter when he was home before being shipped over. He wrapped me in a muscle tight Marine hug and I promised him I'd pray for him.

I rarely do. Not enough, anyway. Truth is, I forget. Like most of us who don't have a loved one "over there" I go about my daily life. Until I see a newscast or read a report of another bombing or escalation. Then, it's not soldier Josh I think of. It's jammie Josh. And my own little boy, who at this very moment is tucked safely in bed in his own dinosaur pj's.

I see Heidi nearly every other day. And, of course I ask about Josh. I know they stay in touch via email and a unit log.

But, being close to a deployed soldier is not the same as being the mother of one. The mere fact that I am often "reminded" of Josh relays that I often forget. That's not something Heidi, or any soldier's mother has the privilege to do.

This Memorial Day, and everyday we, I, need to remember that though all soldiers were once some mother's little girl or boy, they are now men and women -- giving up their freedom; sacrificing their lifestyle and possibly their life so that we can go on with ours.

Everyday should be Memorial Day, where would we be without those who have gone before, and for us?

Mothering isn't for Wimps

Yesterday I yelled at my son. The kind of yell where my throat still hurts. I am still sad. Yes, he was being difficult. Yes, he was being a pest. Yes, I was at the end of my patience, obviously. But, No, he didn't deserve it.

He was just being himself.

And -- this is where the trouble began -- I was just being myself. My self-ish self.

My son is a talker. A noise maker. A very verbal being who NEEDS interaction like I need silence. Yesterday, apparantly, I didn't want to be needed. But, that's not really my choice anymore, is it? We are such opposites, he and I. And most days, home alone together. The afternoons are sometimes very long.

At the root of my impatience with him is guilt. Guilt that eats away at me for not being a more creative, loving, selfless mother. And regret. Regret that I ever allowed him to watch TV, that I don't pray more, read to him more, seek activities that will stimulate his amazing brain more.

Pursuing my own interests & needs above his sometimes is what keeps me sane. But, doing so also makes me wonder what it is costing him. And us. What he will remember from these fleeting days. What I will remember.

Truth is, kidstuff bores me. His endless stories seem like nonsense to me. His running noise an assault on my senses. Someday, and soon, he'll prefer his friends to us. I know this. And, I don't blame him.

I know he'll not always be around. Knowing this doesn't change my need for solitude, time, quiet. But, it should change my attitude. It hasn't, really. Sometimes, though, he does.

When he climbs in bed with me in the morning to snuggle and hold my hand, I am reassured that he knows he is loved. That he believes me when I tell him I am proud of him. That he is affirmed, deep inside, that we love him for who he is.

He's a funny kid. An entertainer, a leader, a smart and witty boy who is learning to negotiate life and build friendships. He knows how to laugh and make others laugh. He's resiliant. I'm starting to see that he is a peacemaker at heart.

I still have so much to learn about myself, especially about being a mother. Guess I couldn't do it without him.

Strange Dreams ...

A couple strange dreams last night. One was about a meeting. Another about a horserace.

The meeting dream: I approached my seat in a room filled with familiar people (church, maybe?) and sat next to a friend I knew but didn’t recognize. The meeting moderator began going over the agenda, warning us not to use the word "camel" explaining that it had become a sacred word, and no longer politically correct to speak in public. The substitute word, she explained further, was "kaedra" and announced that I would be the one to listen for offenders. She then explained that I was the most qualified in the group for this task based on my track record as a writer. (okay, whatever. It's a dream, remember...)

Next thing I knew, I was delivering a speech about why I write. I began by relaying how, when I was fifteen, someone told me I had a way with words. I continued on about following my heart, praying and looking for opportunities to do what it is I was meant to do.

The weird part is that everyone was at rapt attention, even while the whole time I was trying unsuccessfully to screw a lid onto a travel mug that had been placed at each of our spots.

Then, out of nowhere a young woman asked “Can you begin a sentence with the word ‘T’was’?”

I said: “T’was quite unfortunate that these mugs, which I’m sure we paid for, were improperly made.”

The horserace dream ended with me quizzing my son about why, when he approached the pack racing toward the finish, he dropped the reins and let the horse fall back. I knew he would have won if he’d just kept going. He wouldn’t answer me. When I woke up, I recognized it was actually me on the horse - afraid of getting hurt by pushing through to the finish line.

Then I woke up.

This morning, the first thing I read in my email was today’s post from Infuze (an online publication at http://www.infuzemagazine.com/) Couldn’t have been more relevant.

I Dare You to Move, indeed.

Doubt creeps in ...

It must happen slowly and while I'm not paying attention, because suddenly one day, I'll wonder what in the world am I doing? Writing a book? Yeah, right. I'd better get a real job, or go back to my previous one, because this just isn't going to pan out.

Then, I visit a bookstore, flip through a few pages of a random title, or even one that's been recommended and right there in front of me is junk. Something I could easily do better -- and I realize its not ability or desire that's keeping me back. It's fear. Plain old fear. The same fear that has held me from achieving my goals in other vocations.

This time, though, I'm determined to conquer it. With God's help, personal perserverance and time, I will succeed.

Just keep writing. Just keep writing. Just keep writing...

That's the Molokini Atoll, off Maui, in the background. Eli spotted an eel for the whole boatload of snorkelers. 

2004 Christmas Story

And the Stockings Were Hung …

I slammed my palm against the steering wheel.

“Phooey!”

Parking lots had sucked up too much of my day. This time, though I’d followed the yellow arrows dutifully, my compliance hadn’t yielded a spot.

Ten minutes of fruitless weaving and still nowhere to put the car.

“What’s wrong, Mama?”

“Never mind, Jack. Just can’t find a parking spot.”

“There’s one!”

I braked instinctively, sending shopping bags tumbling off the seats. Their contents rattled forward in unison, creating a symphony of small parts. I envisioned Legos, Tinkertoys, Monopoly pieces and Craftsman sockets forming colorful little landscapes all over the minivan floor.

Then I imagined pulling up to the store entrance and pouring every tiny piece into the donation barrel. If everything had spilled, that would be reason enough to cancel Christmas this year.

Instead, I pulled into Jack’s spot and uprighted the bags, stuffing their toppled contents quickly away. The marvel of modern shrink wrap had thwarted my fantasy. The Salvation Army would just have to wait.

“Okay, Jack, you can unbuckle.”

“My Bionicle fell. I want to take him in.”

“No. It’s getting dark, hurry up.”

Jack jumped down from his seat and got on all fours, insistent on locating the rogue toy.

“Jack, LET’S GO!”

“Wait, Mom. It’s right here…”

“We’ll do it the hard way, then,” I said and pulled him from the van.

In the time it took me to close the doors and zip my purse, Jack had forgotten our dispute. He had, in fact, already turned into an airplane.

“Look Mom, I’m flying!”

I timed my steps to meet his as he emerged from between two parked cars, and caught a hand on the end of his outstretched wing-arm.

“C’mon, Jack. Stop it.” I felt more like a traffic cop with this child than a parent, constantly urging him as I was, to hurry up, slow down, stop, go, wait. “He’s a five year old boy.” My husband reminded me whenever I complained. “That’s what five year old boys do.” I figured all males had been born into a surreptitious pact which required performing wild, unceasing movements designed to crack their mother's ability to hang on to their wits. I was close but, for the moment, still unbroken.

He was still at the end of my arm, wiggling for all his worth and no doubt conjuring up his next antic. Considering we were approaching the entrance of the store, I was certain it involved the automatic doors.

Finishing three last items, then going home to somehow turn the hamburger I’d forgotten to thaw into spaghetti sauce were the next items on the list I’d been composing in my head all day. Chasing my five year old through Target was not.

“You, my friend, are going in the cart.”

“But Mama …”

I hated the thought of putting him in the cart. But, more than that, I hated the thought of wasting any more time. And wondering if he was going to get lost. I hated that thought, too. So, though he had become too big for me to lift, he was going in. Somehow.

I’d seen other mothers do it -- hang on to the cart with all their might while their kids climbed over the sides. I’d always thought how ridiculous and unsafe that was and wondered why they couldn’t control their children.

Then, I had a child of my own. Even after I’d had him, and the naiveté had worn thin, I still believed that once he was too big for carts, I’d teach my child to walk nicely beside me, hand in hand. Whether we were in the grocery store or at the mall, I’d use these opportunities to teach him smart shopping. We’d survey our possible purchases, discuss the options, and I’d sneak in little math lessons along the way.

Damn my convictions. This was the final stop on our last-minute tour; the lines were getting longer and my patience growing shorter. I boosted Jack into the cart and felt a humble kinship with all the worn-down mothers I’d ever scorned.

Three stockings. That’s all I was after. I didn’t care what they looked like, however generic or fake. Tacky ones, in fact, would help me make the point that stockings were a pointless tradition anyway. One I was taking up only because of pressure I felt at home, and would not truly embrace.

I’d bucked this tradition since our first married Christmas. Mark’s mother had hung her handmade creations from their perfectly decked mantle, each one designed especially for its name-bearer. The lovingly embroidered pieces, finished with bells, tiny ornaments or heirloom lace reflected a stability and family intimacy I was afraid I’d never grasp.

That first married year she’d added one for me. JENNIFER was boldly embroidered along the top cuff, the lustrous green taffeta finished off with glittery glass beads. When we’d prepared to leave after dessert that evening, she’d taken mine down along with Mark’s and offered it to me along with Marks.

“They’re yours, now, Jen. Welcome to the family.”

I’d declined. Then, and every year following. They were truly beautiful things, though I worried that accepting them would obligate me to continue the custom which I saw as an attempt to keep Mark in the clutches of her mysterious holiday rituals. I simply wasn’t up to it.

So, here we were, after nine years of Donna’s stockings, navigating our way to the Seasonal/Holiday aisle. Me, attempting to avoid toy sightings along the way. And Jack, loudly streaming his commercial consciousness and, I think, expecting me to actually listen. What I heard was something like “Mom, Mom … Shrek something something … look, Mom … Lego gizmo something something …Stop, Mom… Hot Wheels something gadget…Mom, WAIT! GO BACK! I WANT THAT. MOM, STOP!”

I don’t know how close I was to my destination when it happened. I only knew that my last nerve had finally unraveled. The impatient, malevolent mother I swore I’d never become had instantly appeared.

I looked at Jack and gritted my teeth. “You-are-not-getting-one-more-thing.”

“In fact,” I continued, curling a nasty smile into place, “that’s it.” I turned the cart around. “We’re going home.”

I walked out of the store, trying to ignore his tears of disappointment and the guilt and exhaustion creeping into my soul.

~ ~ ~

At dinner, Mark offered his holiday countdown. “Two days ‘til Christmas!”

“Mama says we’re not getting stockings again.” Jack replied.

I forked a swirl of spaghetti into my mouth and avoided looking up. I felt Mark looking at me, though I knew by his pleasant tone that he was speaking to Jack.

“Mama and I will talk about this later, Jack. Eat your green beans.”

We’d always tried to keep our mealtime discussions pleasant, but Mark’s stare had reheated the unpleasantness of my day. I couldn’t wait ‘til later.

“He doesn’t need a stocking, Mark. He was unruly all day. He’s getting too much as it is. He doesn’t deserve one more thing.”

Jack dropped his fork to his plate, and looked into his lap. “I guess I shouldn’t get any gifts then,” he said.

Mark reached to lift our son’s sad face. “What do you mean, Jack?”

“My Sunday school teacher says we’ve already received a gift we didn’t deserve. And that if we tried to earn it, we couldn’t. No matter how good we are.”

I closed my eyes and tried to keep the lump in my throat from choking me.

“That’s right Jack,” Mark replied. “None of us deserve God’s gift. But, they can never be taken away.” Mark turned his gaze toward me again. “You remember that, okay, son?”

“Okay, Dad. I’ll try.”

He was right. And I had been wrong. For years.

I thought of Donna’s beautiful stockings. And all those Christmas nights I’d refused to bring them home.

“That’s the whole point of Christmas, isn’t it?” I asked.

“What?” Mark asked.

“Accepting what is offered.” Of course, it was about giving. But it was also about receiving. How could I have missed that for so long? “Dad’s right, Jack. And I’m sorry about today. You’ll get your stocking, honey.”

Even if I had to drive across two counties on Christmas Eve to get it.

~ ~ ~

“I’ll be up in a little while,” I told Mark as he headed to bed. “I’ve got a couple things to do.”

I wrapped Mark’s tool set and tucked it under the tree. Then I sat down at the computer and sent off an email.

Dear Donna,

If it’s not too late, I’d like to accept the stockings you’ve tried to give me over the years. They are beautiful and we will treasure them. I know Mark and Jack would be thrilled to have them here on Christmas morning. And so would I. Please let me know if I can stop by tomorrow. I don’t have much time left to fill them up!

Jennifer

P.S. Merry Christmas Donna. And...Thank You.