Advice From One Who Knows

It’s taken me a week to write this but I wanted to be clear in my head before I did it. The deaths of seven innocent babies in the Oklahoma tornado is hard to imagine. What their parents are going through is even harder. I’ve been in a similar situation so I’d like to offer a little advice to those who, like me, know one of the families of those children.

First and foremost, don’t say “I know how you feel.” You don’t. You couldn’t. Even if you’ve gone through it, the child that they just lost wasn’t yours. Their circumstances aren’t yours.

Don’t tell them to let you know if you can do anything. Ask them what you can do. They are not thinking clearly right now. And won’t be for the foreseeable future.

Give them closeness when they need it, distance when they don’t. Don’t hover but don’t be nonexistent either. It’s a fine line. Learn to walk it.

It doesn’t end when the funeral does. That’s actually when reality sets in. The reality that has become this family’s life. Don’t disappear. Don’t forget important dates…birthdays, special occasions. They will need you then.

Don’t avoid sharing memories of their lost little one. They will cry. But they will also appreciate you. Laughing is not disrespectful, it’s encouraged. Share a funny story or a sweet one. Unless they ask you not too. But most parents won’t.

As you can imagine, losing a child is one of the hardest things for a parent to experience. Whether it be from illness or an accident, it doesn’t matter. All you know is you will never hold that child in your arms again. You will never be able to play a game with them or watch them sleep. The best advice I can give you is let them dictate to you what they need and when they need it.

Top Six Reasons I Haven't Written

My daughters have been nagging me lately because I haven’t given them anything to read in several months. Ok, ok, it's been since before Christmas. They say they need something to amuse them from time to time. Reminds me of my favorite line in Dances With Wolves that goes "Somebody back home is saying 'Now why don't he write?'" To that end, and to get them off my case, I give you my top six excuses  reasons for my absence.

Lack of Motivational Thoughts…I tend to be a mite lacking in wordage (is that a word? Spell check seems to think so.) unless something truly bites my behind and screams “WRITE ME!” Yes, in capital letters. At least they are in my mind. This usually isn’t a problem for me since I have a pretty imaginative mind. Usually. Haven’t been bitten lately. Not even a small nip.

Drawing a Blank…I always write down my thoughts when they come to me. Most times I get these truly inspirational ideas in the middle of the night (good thing I’m single), which can be aggravating but such is the life of a writer. Lately, however, the screen has been blank, the pages empty. This is a different reason from the previous one because although I get these thoughts I write down (usually), they are not always motivational or even worthy of being written. On a happy note, I’ve been having quite a few hours of uninterrupted sleep for the first time since I became a mother many moons ago.

Guilt…I spend a lot of my waking hours, like most people, at my real job. When I get home, there is this handsome four-year-old who wants to be with me. To talk, shoot some hoops or just to watch his favorite show on TV. Locking myself in my bedroom to write takes away from that and makes my stomach hurt. Especially when I hear a small voice calling at the bottom of my door “Yaya, are you done working yet?”

Lack of Motivation (which is different from motivational thoughts)…This can also be termed laziness. I prefer to call it focus challenged. I’ve been known to sit at my computer, prepared to write, when something calls to me. Twitter. Facebook. A stupid show on the television. At that time, all ideas/thoughts/words, other than the meaningless ones I tweet or post, ooze out of my mind. I’m not sure if they spatter on the ceiling (looking up would require movement) or just disappear into thin air. But they are gone.

Inappropriateness…(I don’t know if this is a word either but it fits.) I’m currently working on a serious article for a friend, a very sensitive issue involving her life, and I thought that it might be offensive to her to if I wrote something funny…ok, ok, mildly amusing. She assures me that is not the case so I’m not excused on her behalf.

Lack of Readership…Like most writers, at least the honest ones, I always wonder if anyone will even read what I’ve posted. I know my daughters do but that’s only because I threaten them with bodily harm if they don’t. My family? I don’t even think the majority of them realize that I write. But then again, we’re not really a Leave It To Beaver kind of family. Hell, I don’t think we’re even an All In The Family type of group. We share DNA and meet up at a funeral every once in a while to say hello. And so I rely on the world wide web to send my ramblings along, hoping that someone will find it interesting. At least I have the opportunity. That’s all I need.

And so, my nagging daughters, I have written something for you to read. Something to ward off the boredom that has entered your sphere. I have fulfilled my vow and now I suggest that you go out and find a more worthwhile way to fill your lives. You could die from holding your breath waiting for me to write a blog lately and it’s really not a good way to go. But thanks, anyway, for giving me a boost off my literary butt. I guess I needed it.

A Christmas Message To Those I've Lost

 

As the Christmas season approaches, I am putting aside my usual snarky and often quirky writing style to bring you something meaning and heartfelt. Hey, I’m allowed to be poignant and weepy once a year, right? Christmas always makes me think about how a lot of those I love aren’t with me anymore and how I would like to have one more conversation with each of them. To tell them one more thing that I may not have said while they were still here to listen. And so I give you, in no particular order of importance, a Christmas message to some of those I have lost.

Barb and Dick, my former in-laws. I’m sorry for the way our relationship ended. We were so close at one time but we let issues and circumstances come between us. It should not have been that way because of our deep feelings for each other but more importantly, because of the beautiful angels we shared. We had such wonderful holidays together; Christmas Eve with midnight mass and opening gifts in front of the fireplace, spiced wine and cookie baking. I wish we could do it again. Thinking of those times this season and wishing things had been different in the end.

My daddy. As I watched you get older and more ill, I saw your frustration trying to accomplish things you couldn’t do anymore and I ached for you. But even with all of your medical issues, you never lost the joy you had in your grandchildren and they all adored you. There’s another great-grandchild coming for you in the spring and I’m sure you would fall in love with her as soon as you saw her, just like you did with all of the others. Christmas was a beautiful time with you because you had so much spirit in your giving. All of the grandkids share that love of giving gifts and of themselves. I will think of you much this year as I watch my own grandson open his prizes on Christmas morning and smile as I remember you doing the same. PS I’m still working too hard and too much. Maybe I’ll slack off next year.

Me mummy. As you lay in bed year after year, your body was wasting away but your faith and gentleness remained. I thank you for the lessons you taught me and how you led by example. Most evident of these lessons was Christmas, where you showed that while giving gifts was important, it was reason we did it that was of highest value. I was grateful for our last holiday together because although you couldn’t speak to me, you could give me that special mom-hug that always warmed my heart. I’ll miss you this year as always.

Connor Lee, my son and my best bud. I truly believe you were only supposed to be here for a short time but I so wish it could have been longer. I wonder often what you would be like at nineteen and if we would still be as close as we were when you left me at four. Our last Christmas together was a banner one. Michael Jordan everything and your squeals of joy. Giggles and tickles. A happy day from beginning to end and it’s on video for me to watch when I someday get the courage to do so. I would like to have one last hug and kiss but I’ll settle for the memories of the happy little boy that you were. I will think of you especially on Christmas morning, of the way you enjoyed it with your whole being.

Baby boy. I don’t know whether you were a boy or a girl but I have my suspicions. Instinct tells me you were a son. I didn’t get to meet you but I know I will some day. Daddy and I would have loved to have held you at least once but we didn’t get that privilege. Christmas would have been even more joyous that year if you could have joined us. I would have watched you and your sister opening gifts, laughing with giddiness, but it was not to be. I will think of you this year and wonder.

Jessica, my niece. You learned some hard lessons in your short life and I know the burden of those was a heavy load to carry. Mostly I really wish I would have known you better. Not the tough person you allowed the world to see but the beautiful girl you kept hidden inside. When you left us, you should know that the best gift you gave was the little girl you left behind for us to enjoy. She is spunky, intelligent and tireless. A wonderful remembrance of the child that you were before life showed you the rougher side of things. I will think of that child this Christmas and your daughter who still embraces all that is good in this world.

The losing is difficult, all but one within the last twelve years, but the remembrance makes the grief easier to bear. In this season of giving, it is very easy to get lost in the commercial side of things but in allowing myself to think of them, I keep the real meaning of Christmas close to me. Much as those mentioned above are close in my heart with the memories they have left me and being able to share them in this message. Merry Christmas, readers. And thank you.

Moving & Grooving

If you have young children, you know the names Rich, Scott, Dave and Smitty. And if you don’t, you should. Yes, I’m talking about the Imagination Movers, the kid’s rock band from New Orleans that has taken the world by storm, aided in part (but only in part) by their brief but very popular run on Disney. Right off the bat, I want to tell you that this is not another article promoting the group. Not that I wouldn’t promote them, because I do…I am a proud member of Imagination Mover’s Street Teams in PA, FL/GA and LA/TX, doing my best to spread the love. But that isn’t the meaning behind my blog. This is a story that documents our personal induction in to what is aptly called Mover Nation. In a world where most news you hear is bad and terrible influences are everywhere for those of us raising children, I want to share something that is positive. No negativity allowed in this post. To begin…

Our family began watching the Imagination Movers when my grandson, Elijah, was eight months old. I was surfing through the TV channels one morning trying to find anything that wasn’t a mindless, annoying cartoon to calm my feverish little guy during a bout with whatever illness it was that caused nasty fluids to come out both ends of his body and landed on a show I now know so well. Four gentlemen about my age running around in blue coveralls, waving giant toothbrushes and singing about how everyone needs to brush their teeth. Apparently their rodent friend didn’t brush his and now had a cavity. I rolled my eyes and prepared to flip the channel yet again when I noticed, hey, these guys are kinda cute. And, hey, this music is really good. Then, more importantly, I saw that Elijah had stopped crying and was watching intently. Bonus! Thus, the Mover frenzy in our home had begun.

That band (and their awesome show) from New Orleans became a staple in Elijah’s life in record time. Amazingly enough, the grown-ups enjoyed it just as much as he did, with great rock music and awesome annoyance avoidance (I just made that up). We DVR’d episodes for emergencies (i.e. belly aches, missed/interrupted naps, Momma working overtime). We bought their CD’s and DVD’s for peaceful road trips. Elijah’s love affair with all things Mover had been established. He had a Mover Dave gadget hat (which he now eats pizza out of), a Mover Smitty hat, Mover Scott’s wobble goggles and drum sticks like Mover Rich. Oh, and also a stuffed replica of the rodent, who I have since learned is Warehouse Mouse, basically the show’s mascot. If it’s for sale on their website, he has it. When we heard the Mover’s were touring the US in 2011, we bought tickets to their Pittsburgh show. Third row, center. We couldn’t wait to see his reaction to seeing his hero’s live and in person.

So, the concert…Elijah, now two, danced and laughed at Choo Choo Soul, who provided the opening act. He was also familiar with them since they are Disney related. But once the Mover’s came on stage, he barely blinked, eyes never leaving the stage. He was awestruck. The only change in his demeanor was when Mover Rich hopped down and made his way to stand on the seat in front of us. Elijah smiled for the first time since the show began and almost reverently touched Rich’s leg. A pat on his head from Rich brought an almost hysterical giggle.

Of course we sprung for the Mini Mover Package, which gives you not only the great seats we enjoyed but also a chance to mingle with the Mover dudes backstage in their “think tank”. We had a blast there as well. Elijah got a hug from Genevive and DC from Choo Choo Soul. He was able to pull Mover Scott’s beard and get his picture with all of his idols. Getting him out of the room was a different story. But after we warned him that none of the band would like it if he misbehaved, we were able to make our exit peacefully.

Fast forward to 2012. My daughter purchased tickets for the Mover’s Rock-O-Matic concert in Houston Texas, originally scheduled for early March then delayed until the end of September. Ironically, we were now living in the Mover’s home state of Louisiana but they weren’t performing in our area so we hopped a plane to Houston (if the mountain won’t come to Mohammad…). Elijah, now the grand old age of three and a self-proclaimed #1 Mover Smitty fan, was so excited that all he could talk about was being able to sit down with the Mover’s and have a nice long chat. Um, you and about fifty thousand other fans, sweet baby.

We had originally had front row seats but due to a scheduling issue, our 5 p.m. show was combined with the earlier one on that day. As a consolation prize, our boys in blue invited those affected by the change to the sound check prior to the big event. In we went with the others, Elijah lugging a sign as big as himself declaring his hero-worship of Mover Smitty. I wasn’t sure what to expect at this point but I should have known. All four of those wonderful men and their crew came down off the stage to meet the group. To make a long story short (yeah, like when have I ever done that, you ask?)…We learned about a sound check (thank you, Scott). As for Elijah? He got a Mover guitar pick (thank you, Rich). His sign (shown below) was placed on stage for the concert (thank you, Smitty). And Dave tried on his Mover Dave hat (he wants his pizza back, Dave).

The concert was fabulous. Of course. And, once again, we had purchased the Mini Mover Package. We heard more music, played with balloons and got our pictures taken with the Mover’s. We had to wait to get Elijah’s hat autographed until after all the families got their pictures taken. When told this, I initially thought “uh oh, this should be fun” since Elijah waits for things about as well as he eats his vegetables (which is not). But my little boy, that mostly inexhaustible ball of energy, stood by the gate without moving for over an hour watching as family after family posed and chatted. When I asked him if he wanted to sit down beside me, he replied “No. I’m waiting to talk to the Mover’s.” He was not disappointed. Because the Mover’s rarely, if ever, disappoint and only then when it’s beyond their control.

After the last photo was taken, he snagged Mover Dave as he moved toward the fans (Dave, he was asking if you really ate things that came out of your hat and telling you that he actually did too. We can vouch for him. Unfortunately he does.). We moved on to Mover Scott…thank you for the Twitter recognition, by the way…and Scott was uber patient while hearing all about his toy dog, Big Bad Barry (affectionately named after that famous dog from the Walkaway Walkie episode), who had attended the show with us. Mover Smitty was next and the photo op was so exciting for Elijah that he had trouble speaking (I can relate, little buddy. I felt the same when I met Drew Brees.). But he was asking you if you liked having his sign on stage with you, El Smitto. We grabbed Mover Rich on our way toward the door and got a great picture of the two of them comparing muscles and mean roars.

And to the door we went. Not a cry, not a fuss. Because he got what he came for. He was able to see the Imagination Movers on stage, dance to their music and have fun. Most importantly, he was able to visit a little with four guys who bring such joy to so many children (and to their parents). A class act from beginning to end, never forgetting their fans or the importance of a little one-on-one time. My little guy had the time of his life. And for that, Rich, Scott, Dave and Smitty, this Yaya thanks you from the bottom of her heart. See ya next year!

Going Generic

When I moved last year, I not only left my home, I left my job as well. And while it wasn’t a position where I was an up-and-comer going places, it paid good. Really good. Add that to my husband’s salary, we made pretty decent money. I’m not bragging about it. I tell you this to bring you to the point I’m hopefully going to make. For years I haven’t had to worry about how much the groceries cost, within reason of course. If I wanted to buy a new pair of shoes, I bought them. A new outfit (or several)? No problem. I hit the clearance racks because I always wanted to see how much I could get for a little but it was a game to me. Now it’s a necessity.

Life on a single income. I haven’t done it in so long that I’d forgotten what a struggle it can be. And how does it work? Read on. No, this is not a shopper’s blog to teach you how to keep your finances in order or how to get $600 worth of groceries for a mere ten cents. It is my comeuppance. My sojourn into the real world where most people struggle with the high cost of just barely living.

I begin at our first step. We have learned to love blue and white. Not clothes or shoes. Food packages. In other words, we buy generic. If it has the same ingredients as the name brand, we buy it. Even if it only saves us a quarter. It’s been hit or miss but we’ve discovered in the last year which no names work and which don’t. Most are extremely comparable but you have the ones that obviously aren’t do-overs. Store brand deodorant? Only if you live alone, work alone and never come into contact with another human being in the course of your day. Feminine protection? May as well use newspaper. The only plus to those babies is that there are no instructions on the wrappers saying which way is up. Yes, I’m serious (not even gonna ask who came up with that idea). Ketchup, mustard and most other condiments? No brainer. They are about the same. And toilet paper? Sorry, Charmin, but GV Ultra Strong is exactly the same and costs half as much.

Step two? You’ve guessed it, coupons! Where internet surfing was once an enjoyable thing, it’s now a desperate mission to find $1 offs. It is a personal victory to find something bigger. A challenge of utmost proportions. We have arguments, my daughter and I, about who gets to look at the Sunday paper first, who gets the prime coupons. Not that it matters since we live in the same place and shop for groceries together. It’s the thrill of the hunt. Store ads are another thing we compare religiously. If Store A is within two miles of Sam Walton’s world and has fruit on sale, we go there.

I have to admit that some coupon websites are confusing to me. To get a coupon for this product, you have to go to a site to sign up for that one, then go to still another site. After donating a pint of blood, selling fifty lottery tickets for two great causes and dancing the hula, you get to…sigh…another site? Forget it. By the time I’ve finished jumping through their hoops, I’ve forgotten what product the coupon was for anyway.

And I absolutely refuse to go on the website belonging to a certain coupon lady just on principle. Her commercials make me want to bury my face in a pillow and scream until my head explodes. Just something about her obsessive perkiness irritates the crap out of me. I would mention her clothes (which, by the way, went out of style in the ‘70’s) but that would be catty and totally beneath me. In all fairness, I’ll admit she has done a great thing for shoppers everywhere. She’s just not for me.

Step three? We have discovered that juice tastes better in big, gallon jugs as opposed to the cute little boxes. At least that’s what we tell the little guy. Do you realize how much those things with pictures of your favorite Disney characters on them cost? I do. At least I do now. Yogurt? Did you know they sell it in big tubs that are easily divided into small, snack-size portions? Who knew? And leftovers make a great day-after lunch at work! This is especially good since the only place for takeout around my office is the golden arches. Artery clogging, butt exploding fast food. Definitely not my idea of a decent lunch. Did you know that prepared foods are full of fat and chemicals? Yeah, I knew it too but they are so easy. But now I realize that not only are the majority of them unhealthy, they can be recreated for half the price in most cases. I read ingredient in the store, buy them and create those tasty delights all by myself at a fraction of the cost (damn, I should write a cookbook)!

We’ve had to make some sacrifices. Frequent dinners out? A thing of the past but this ritual has been replaced by our monthly church dinners. Prepared by women who really (and I do mean really) know how to cook. Pizza delivery? Not when you can get it for less than half the price from your local grocer. Haven’t you seen the commercials? “It’s not delivery, it’s….” Otherwise non-events in our already full-to-the-brim lives. There are more meaningful ways to find enrichment and still pay the rent.

So this is the Kellye family secret to survival of the fittest. If you are in a similar situation, I hope this makes you feel better knowing there are others going through it. If you are financially blessed, I hope it makes you realize how fortunate you are. If my blog makes you want to send me money, that’s cool. Ok, not really.

Random Thoughts of Idiocy

I haven’t written a blog in a while so a lot of really annoying thoughts have been rolling around in my head clamoring for release. They make it very hard to sleep so I thought perhaps someone else should be on the receiving end of all of this mayhem and then I can purge my mind. Thus, I reach deep into my pit of pithyness to bring them to you. I apologize in advance for any pain this may inflict.

The preacher man came to see us recently, always an enjoyable time. He’s a large, boisterous, thoroughly likable man (typical Southern Baptist) and we had a nice, long visit. I always love to spend time with the man, even though he has dubbed me the Pennsylvania Princess. Hey, there’s nothing wrong with living in the wrong state as long as you eventually get to the right one. But I digress (a nasty habit of mine). After chatting for a while, he looked around my place and asked me why I was living in an apartment. Uh, because they gave me a key and my furniture doesn’t fit in my car? But don’t you want a house, he asks. Let’s see, I said, pondering the concept. Mow my own grass (which I actually do not mind), do my own repairs (I do a lot of these anyway) and pay twice as much (this is a definite no)? I don’t think so. Besides, I already own a house. In Pennsylvania. Now if I could only get my ex-husband to move out of it.

I have neighbors (yes, I do), who live in a three bedroom apartment like mine. Mom, Dad and six (yes, six) children. In a three bedroom apartment. Apparently they are very generous people because last winter they invited a friend to live them. A single mom with three kids. Ok, 8 + 4 = 12. Three bedroom apartment. I guess they were feeling overwhelming generous last month as they invited another friend to stay. With her two kids. So that’s 8 + 4 + 3 = 15. Yes, in a three bedroom apartment. Oh, and did I mention that all the children are under the age of twelve? And that, between the four adults, they only have one car? So Monday through Friday, they pile all the wee ones in the car and take them to school. Pick a lap. Then they repeat the process in reverse in the afternoon. Now if I did that, I’d most assuredly get pulled over and arrested. But that’s just my luck.

I have discovered recently that Walmart’s website sells over seven hundred types of toilet seats. Y’all are probably wondering how I know that and no, I don’t view websites for toilet seats as a rule. I was actually looking for something else but had to weed through all the these to get to it. Enlongated seats (for those with extra long legs). Cushy seats, the kind that make the sighing sound when you sit (kind of like they’re saying “OMG, lose weight, fatty.”) Seats that close themselves (um…for those too lazy to do the deed?). Seat tattoos (oh, yes they do). Anti microbial seats for added sanitation. And for those who love that extra fresh, just showered feeling after you tinkle, they have seats with adjustable rear and front washes. You can add an adjustable warmth dryer to those for a mere $150. Anyway, after learning all there is to know about every possible type of toilet seat, I get to the section that has what I wanted to look at in the first place. A replacement tank cover for one of our toilets. Broken, I might add, by a certain overactive three-year-old (slamming it made a really cool sound). What I learned from the Walmart website, other than the fact that there are over seven hundred types of seats, was that tank covers are an extremely rare, overpriced breed. Does anyone have an unused toilet I can swipe the cover from? Because I’m definitely not paying over $50 for a plain white piece of porcelain that just sits there getting dusty.

All this talk about toilets brings me to my next random thought. A strange one but would you expect anything else from me? When a person has to go pee in the middle of the night (yes, I’m going there), why does one lay in bed in obvious discomfort and think the urge is going to go away? I don’t personally do this but I’ve heard stories…ok, so I do. It would be so much simpler to get up out of bed, do my business and return to blissful dreaminess but I lay there trying to go back to sleep knowing full well that it just ain’t gonna happen. Is it that difficult to move? For me, the answer is yes.

Another item that just came to me as I sit staring out the window trying to collect my thoughts…what do you imagine a bird sitting on a wire is thinking about? Did you ever really think about it? I am because there’s one outside my window right now. There it is, looking around, not moving much. Just a ruffle of his feathers once in a while. Is he (or she) wondering where the humans are going in such a hurry? Is it deciding which car (or head) to poop on next time he gets the urge? Wondering what possessed the person in the Mini Cooper to strap down what looks to be a king-sized mattress and box springs to the top of his car (it just drove by, true story)? Or is this bird merely waiting on the next unsuspecting bug to fly by so he can swoop him up for lunch? Most likely this is the answer but you never know what goes through the mind of a bird. And why do I care? I don’t. Just wool gathering.

And I’m gathering wool because my computer (thankfully the one at work, not home) is being doctored by my helpful IT person. I have a Trojan virus (no doubt named after the popular condom brand whose failure helped to create my second child) that came from only the person who created the virus knows where. Which brings me to my point…yes, I do have one. Who are the people who get their jollies from creating viruses? Why do they do it? Are they evil people or are they just bored? Or are they perhaps manufacturers of computer hardware trying to increase business by destroying our hard drives? My theory, and I’m not being paranoid or jaded about this, is that all the viruses come from those who create and sell virus protection software. Because if you think about it, without viruses we wouldn’t need their programs and how would they make their millions if we didn’t? In addition to that theory comes the thought that, if they didn’t create the problem in the first place, how do they know how to fix it? My theory brings a sarcastic snort from my ever-so-talented IT guy. Eh, what does he know?

Well, the pit is empty. The well is dry. For the moment. At least until I try to go to sleep tonight. And just an afterthought, this blog sounded funnier in my head than it does when I’m reading it. Too bad. I’m posting it anyway. And I’m glad I apologized in advance.

Dear Daddy

Dear Daddy,

In the two years since you’ve been gone, I realize that there were a few things I never told you and, since it’s Father’s Day, I wanted to let you know what they were.

1. Thank you for getting us the camp site in Ohio with one of the better trees. I realize that this was a long time ago but I wanted to say thanks anyway. By the way, thanks as well for taking us on all of those awesome vacation trips when we were kids. I know that they were expensive but you always made sure we had a great time.
2. Remember the commercial about the older couple who wanted life insurance so they wouldn’t be a burden to their kids? You always wanted to be a burden when you got older but you never were. I’m sorry for that. But thanks for always making us laugh when the commercial came on by saying you wanted to be one.
3. Thank you for making me leave my hot dog from Lisa’s bonfire on the tree stump at the end of the lane and for smacking me on the butt for running away to be there. I knew I was disobeying but I did it anyway. Your discipline showed me you loved me (although I didn’t believe it at the time) and helped me realize how important your rules were.
4. Thanks for not yelling at my girls when they planted the bean seeds in your corn patch when they were little. And for letting the beans grow instead of pulling them up even though your corn crop wasn’t quite so good that year. Most of all, thank you for teaching them about gardening and giving them the love of watching things grow.
5. Thank you so much for being there when I lost Connor even though you were busy taking care of Mom. You told me that sometimes bad things happen but that God would take care of my little boy. You knew how to comfort me when no one else could.
6. Thank you for letting me get to know you even better when you came to live with us. I know that you were missing your farm and all of the things that you weren’t able to do anymore because of your health but you made the best of it. The stories you told us about when you were growing up meant the world to me. I loved having you there.
7. Thank you for being my Daddy. You weren’t always patient. You weren’t always loving. But I knew that you loved me and wanted the best for me. I knew that you would do anything for me.

I miss you, Daddy, but I know that you are in a better place now. You have no more pain, no more suffering. I will see you again some day, but until then, I will miss you. Happy Father's Day.

I love you,

Soozie

Elijah Takes Ochsner

I thought it was going to be a nice, calm day. I got out of bed at 5:00 a.m., fixed my coffee and laid out my clothes for work. I had to be there at 7:00 but only had to work until noon. A short day, out of the heat before it got too bad or made the customers too cranky. The rest of my day would be free to write, clean my house and create some type of spectacular epicurean delight for dinner. I should have known better. I live with a three-year-old where nothing ever goes as planned.

When I got out of the shower and noticed my bedroom door open, my first thought was “uh oh”. Elijah has broken into my room again. As I’ve mentioned in other blogs, the child safety knob is no match for my boy. And when he gets in, there’s always something misplaced, mishandled or downright broken. After a quick scan, I found him hiding under my blankets. Then I noticed the little cup I use for my vitamins was knocked over. Out of five pills that I had put in the cup, four remained and the one that was missing was my blood pressure medicine. I don’t usually get them out until I’m ready to take them but I was tired and didn’t want to forget, never expecting him to wake up so early. Ok, fast forward to panic.

I yelled for his mother who was, of course, still sleeping, threw on some clothes and we were out the door in five minutes. Fortunately for us, the emergency room is only a few miles away. And we already know the way there since this is our third trip since moving to Louisiana in November. First the spilled hot tea and then the infamous pasta in the ear incident. The staff in the hospital are getting to know us well. Not exactly a good thing I’m thinking. So we roar into the parking lot, I push my daughter out of the car with him and find my parking spot with shaking hands. As I run to the door, I’m half expecting to find my little angel in a coma or having seizures.

No, not my boy. He’s entertaining the admissions nurse with tales of whale sharks and unicorns. He’s picking out which examination room he wants and asking questions about the equipment in the one he’s finally placed in. When the doctor comes in, he plays with the stethoscope, rubber gloves and whatever else he can get his many hands on (I know he only has two but there always seem to be more). After the doctor calls poison control (why didn’t we think of that?) and assures us that there will be no side effects to his indulgence (if they don’t affect a three-year-old, why the hell do I take them?), we emerge to the office area where our boy makes phone calls to the same nurse and takes a pleasant ride in a wheel chair. All the while, another nurse is advising my daughter that if this is the way he normally acts, she should abstain from having more children. I agree. He’s one of the reasons I take those pills in the first place.

So they pretty much kick us out of the place before he can cause too much destruction and, after a much calmer me drives home, Elijah plops himself down on the couch and orders breakfast (oh, yes he did). When I collapse beside him, he puts his arms around my neck and says, ever so sweetly, “Yaya, let’s have some coffee and watch the Mover’s. You’ll feel better then.” No, Elijah, I’ll feel better when you are twenty-five and we’ve successfully gotten through the toddler years…and all the years in between.

Connor's Gift

Once upon a time I was given a wonderful gift. I received this gift when I thought I’d never get another. His name was Connor. I didn’t know at the time, but Connor was a temporary prize. Sent to teach a lesson but not to keep. Today is not an anniversary or a birthday. It is just a day I choose to reflect on what I had and what I lost. And what I learned.

A beautiful baby who grew to be a handsome toddler. Dark, glossy hair and big, blue eyes. A smile that denied words. When I think back, I always remember those three things most of all. But there was so much more. At times I worry that if I don’t write these things down, I will somehow forget how special he was and lose the tiny details that made him that way. So occasionally I reminisce and put pen to paper, as it were. And every once in a while I go back and read what I have written. Most often what I write doesn’t do him justice but that’s my lack, not his. I don’t usually share what I write but I felt compelled to today for some reason. Today is the day I am remembering a few things from the last six months of the four and a half years he was granted.

My favorite memory involves his love for basketball. Michael Jordan was his idol. Honestly, you would think he was a pro player when you watched his little hands dribble the ball. On the day I am thinking, he was playing with his Uncle Steve, my sister’s husband. Uncle Steve is a large man, standing at least 6’2”, with a deep, booming voice. You’d think that the kids would be afraid of him but they gather around him like bees on clover.  And he loves to torment the little ones (in a good way) with his strange sense of humor. The torment today…holding the ball out of Connor’s reach. Well, Connor put up with it for a little while, giggling and dancing around his adored uncle. Finally, he could take no more. He went behind Steve and bit him on the butt. Hard. If Steve had been wearing jeans, it wouldn’t have been so bad, but, this day he was wearing sweat pants.  Ouch! Intending to scold my little biter, I could only laugh until my sides hurt. Thanks for the laughter, little guy.

I also remember one day Connor came into the house from playing because he was hungry. I sat him down at the table with a bowl of cereal and as he ate, I asked him where his siblings were. “Still outside,” he said. “What are they doing outside?” I asked. Without even slowing the movement of spoon to mouth, he responded, “They’re painting the fence.” My husband and I looked at each other incredulously, before rushing outside to interrupt the moment of creativity before it got too far out of hand. It occurred to us afterward that Connor had thrown his sibs under the bus without even stopping to breathe. I guess it was payback for the evening before when they all put their lima beans on his plate so they wouldn’t have to eat them. Good move, buddy. Proud of you for that one.

There is so much more that I remember. He learned to ride his bike without training wheels the weekend before he died. Wow, he was proud. I have that on video.  I remember the special hugs we always shared. I am blessed in that regard as I can feel them now when I hug his nephew, Elijah Connor. I have pictures; the last one taken several months before his death sits on my dresser. And I have my memories that I write down. Oh, I close my eyes and see that impish grin, hear that little voice. I always wonder what he’d be like if he were still here with us today. And without saying why, I constantly tell parents “love your children fiercely and hold them tight”. Because you never know. We didn’t know.

Being Someone Else

Do you ever wish you were someone else? I mean someone other than who you are? A lot of people do but I’m not one of them. Call it self esteem or just plain cockiness but I know who I am. I don’t know what I’m doing half the time but I am positive that I am doing what I was meant to and being who I am supposed to be.

First and foremost, I am a child of God. I was made in His image and I believe in His word. Holy roller? No. Just a Christian. I look to God for council in whatever I choose to do before I do it. And I advise others to do the same.

I am a parent. A Momma. I have raised my two daughters to the best of my ability and I always hope that they find their way in life to be a bit easier on them than it was on me. But then again, if it were a piece of cake for me, would I be the person I am? I don’t think so. I always believe that the trials you go through in life make you stronger. Apparently, so does Kelly Clarkson, since she wrote a song about it. But I thought of it first.

I am a grandmother. A YaYa. Where the nickname came from is beyond me, but the little, blond, crazy person running around my house is one of the highlights of my life. He’s outrageous, intelligent and has personality with a capital P. Handsome and charismatic. Mischievous and slightly odd. As you can tell, I am not only a grandmother, but a proud one as well.

I am a nurse. Not by profession but out of necessity, as the two previous descriptions can attest. What parent or grandparent isn’t? I bandage bloody fingers and kiss bruised knees. I pull out splinters and put toothpaste on bee stings. Yes, toothpaste and it really works. So I can add nurse to my personal description even though I have no degree in the medical field.

I am a sister and a friend. I believe those two go together since you can’t be a sister without honestly caring about your siblings. It’s the same for being a true friend. Friends are family sometimes even more than those who share your blood. And I’d like to believe I’m a good one. I offer sympathy and advice. I am more than willing to hold hands and offer a shoulder to cry on. I am always there.

I am a breadwinner. I don’t know why it is called that but, for the moment, I bring home the bacon. Along with the other groceries. I don’t particularly care for the job I have now but at least it gives me a chance to write. No sixty hour weeks there. And a better one is on the horizon. I hope. Until my writing starts bringing in some cash.

So that’s who I am, what I do. I am proud of what I have accomplished thus far although I realize that there is more I must do. But, for now, I can honestly say that I would not have it any other way. I am me.

Mom Vs Yaya

It’s a popular saying that you can always spoil your grandchildren and then send them home with their parents. Well, I’m here to tell you that it’s not always the case. Oh, I’ve spoiled him rotten all right. Unfortunately (well, not really), he doesn’t go home. He lives here.

 So basically I have a spoiled rotten three-year-old living with me and no one to blame but myself. His mom is here too of course. But all that gets me is this…Momma yells at him and he runs screaming to me. I don’t yell anymore. Due to my ever so vast experience and superior knowledge, having raised two daughters to adulthood, I know that yelling only brings on more yelling. And there’s no winning a shouting match with a toddler. Instead, I have “the look”. Eyebrows lowered, nostrils slightly flared and lips, as my mother always said, pressed togetherly. Works at least nine out of ten times. Ok, five out of ten but who’s counting.

 The problem is the sympathy factor. I think most grandparents have it. You know what it is. Your little baby is getting scolded or punished for something they deserve to be scolded or punished for. And it’s like watching your own child getting yelled at by the soccer coach. You want to step in but you know you just can’t. In this case it would null the effectiveness factor of the parental unit. But, oh you want to.
 Case in point, yesterday the little angel took it upon himself to make lunch. Not sure what he made but he was banished to his room. He came sneaking into my sanctuary, which is typically off limits when I’m working unless it’s time for the evening Imagination Movers viewing on my laptop, and sat on my bed quietly beside me. That was my first clue as this child never sits quietly for much. He broke my heart as he sat dejectedly looking at his clasped hands and sighing deeply. Remembering the effectiveness factor, our conversation went something like this:

 YaYa: What’s wrong, buddy?
Elijah: I made Momma mad.
YaYa: What did you do?
Elijah: I made lunch.
YaYa: Why did you do that? You know you aren’t allowed to be in the kitchen alone.
Elijah: I was ever so hungry. I didn’t mean to make a mess and now Momma is really mad at me.
YaYa: Did you say you were sorry?
Elijah: No.
YaYa: Why not?
Elijah: Cause I don’t know.

 Oh, the sad little face he had! It was either smother him with hugs and kisses or laugh hysterically. I did neither. I did the right thing, which was to advise the little imp to apologize to his mother, then I sent him on his way. Telling my daughter to have patience is easy to do but I remember when mine were that age. Seriously, how much patience did I have? Probably about the same amount as she does. But what is more important? Having to mop the kitchen floor for the second time that day or encouraging the child’s creativity in lunch construction?

The Gate

We have taken a new step trying to end my grandson Elijah’s fascination with all things kitchen related. Our newest attempt to save our sanity as well as our dishes. We have purchased a gate. It is the latest technology in accident prevention where little ones are concerned.  Top of the line model. Will it work? Let me explain the mind of Elijah first and you can be the judge.

Elijah is imaginative, mischievous and far too intelligent for a 3-year-old.  His penchant for getting in to trouble is as inventive as his acts of defiance. If something is forbidden by Momma or YaYa, you can bet that he will be sneaking it to his room or hiding it in the trash can. No company has invented a safety lock or device that can stump our boy.  Those plastic things you put on doorknobs? Didn’t phase him. He was halfway down the block before we realized he was gone. The little clippee things you put in drawers? His nimble little fingers make those a waste of time as well. He can pry off those electrical outlet protectors like a thief picks a lock on a door.

Which brings me to the kitchen. The refrigerator problem, which came first, has been solved by some creative inspiration. Two (yes, two) childproof locks, one held on by superglue (because he peeled off the sticky thing that came with it), added to one of the zipper, claw-looking things holding the doors together. I have trouble getting it open on occasion. We have a ghetto rendition of rope & lock on the cabinets under the kitchen sink. He’s still analyzing that. You know those rubber bracelets that people wear proclaiming support for one cause or another? Yep, one of those hold our other cabinets shut. We can’t open them but neither can he.

His climbing is the thing that is making us pulling our hair out. He insists that the counter is the coolest spot to be. And the gadgets that sit on the counter, things he isn’t allowed to touch, are like beacons that call to him day or night. I have found him on the counter via the oven at 2:00 a.m. We have since used packing tape to hold the oven door closed since the “child proof” device took very little imagination to open. Didn’t really matter what we used. He couldn’t figure out how to get the tape off but he climbed up anyway. Don’t know how but the next morning I found him sitting there eating jelly beans in leftover coffee out of his Easter bucket.

I have made coffee in the morning that has tasted suspiciously like soap. Turns out our boy had turned off the dishwasher prior to its completion and nothing rinsed. No, nothing we put on, over or around the dishwasher has deterred him.

I awoke one morning to the sound of running water. Upon entering the kitchen, I found him “washing dishes” while “taking a bath”. To the tune of a brand new bottle of dishwashing liquid, which was now empty. Bubbles were everywhere. But he and the dishes that were left on the counter overnight were sparkling.

The only concern I really have was when he found the “wives”. Knives in a butcher block holder that USED to sit on the counter have been relegated behind the above-mentioned ghetto rope/lock cabinet under the sink. Not very handy when you are trying to find a pair of scissors or a knife. We have also learned not to put the knives in the dishwasher. He likes them too much to leave them in there.

Back to the gate that we recently purchased.  Top of the line?  It took him ten (yes, ten) minutes to figure it out. No, he wasn’t able to open it.  We couldn’t either but that’s neither here nor there. He climbed over it.  Five foot high, tightly wedged and attached in the doorway.  Shiny, slippery metal poles from top to bottom. He. Climbed. Over. It. He must have those suction cup things on the bottom of his feet like a tree frog (I haven’t found them but I know they are there). The gate has since been uninstalled, repackaged and will be returned to the store. And we are back to square one.  Have we given up?  Never!  Just waiting for a new idea to pop into our heads. By the time we figure it out, he will be graduating high school.  Any advice?

Days Like This

Momma always said there would be days like this, as the song goes. But my mother never really prepared me for what I am experiencing now. I’m hoping that my daughters see what I am going through and learn from it. I’ve always shared things with them and this is no different. They know the story and see how it is affecting me.

I’ve heard that the more trials and tribulations that you go through, the stronger you become. I should be Hercules by now, I’m thinking. But I’m getting tired of fighting the war. Tired of getting one step ahead and then getting kicked back a mile. It reminds me of how things were when my babies were small and it was all on me to take care of them. Life situations knocked me down and I dragged myself back up time after time. I was super mom. And I was exhausted.

This is a little different. I see no end in sight, no light at the end of the tunnel. It’s not that I’m depressed. I’m angry. I’m so angry at circumstances and the situation that is responsible. I can’t get through and it is more frustrating than anything I’ve ever gone through. I can’t have what is mine and I can’t justify the issues. Health is such a fragile thing. You take care of yourself all of your life and issues just eat away at you, causing you to deteriorate no matter how hard you try to placate.

I guess this isn’t really making much sense but I’m thanking God that I have the power to write this down and exfoliate my mind. No, I’m not suicidal. That’s as far from my mind as the earth is from the moon. What I am is tired. Tired of trying to deal with things that are out of my realm. And all I can do now is try to rid myself of the anger so it doesn’t make me bitter. The life we have been given is a gift and to squander that gift with bitterness is more than irresponsible. It’s criminal. Sinful.

And now that I have written it down, I plan to leave it alone. It’s not in my hands anyway so why ruin my sanity with one more thing. So, as I’ve learned to do in this thing called life, I’m picking myself back up and making the best of it. I refuse to let my positive attitude and love of life be destroyed by something that should not have any power over me.

The Mom I Wasn't

Mother’s day always makes me contemplate the effect I had on my children when they were young. Always something that’s easier to do when they are grown, I guess. I always have the same questions year after year. I don’t ask them, of course, because they are going to tell me that I was the best ever. But I always wonder. So this year, since I’m a blogger now (yay hoo!), I decided to write it down. Purge my system of the questions that have been lingering for 20+ years. This is the mom I was. What about the mom I wasn’t?

I remember the first time I held my kids. I thought to myself “this little person grew inside of me.” I was awesome! Then the fear set in. I was just a kid myself. Was I good enough to raise them? How do you raise a child anyway? Mom, help! Asking her just got me the typical response. “There is no manual for raising children. You’ll just have to muddle along like the rest of us did.” Thanks, Mom, I feel ever so much better. But she was there when I inundated her with frantic calls. Deanna has a fever. “Put her in a bathtub with lukewarm water and let her play.” Debbie just fell and cracked her head (which time?). ”Are her eyes crossed? She’ll be ok.” It didn’t help that we were living in Dallas, some 1,200 miles away. Anyway, between Mom’s sage advice and my own inept trials and errors, they grew up fine. But…

Like most moms these days, I had to work. I had the same feelings most moms get when I dropped them off at daycare. I was the most horrible mother in the world. Were the daycares good enough? Who would kiss their boo boos?  What if they choked on their lunch? Would they think I’d deserted them? Or, the worst of it all, would they end up loving their caretakers more than me?  Yeah, that’s a silly one, I know. Brought to life when they didn’t want to go home their first day.

Being a working mom and raising kids is tough enough but try the insecurities of attempting to climb the corporate ladder (not that I did too well) and assuage the guilt. Did I work too much? If I hadn’t put in the extra five to ten hours per week at work, would they be more well adjusted adults? Yes, I loved my job but did I love it more than my kids? I don’t think so but why was it so easy to drop them off at the daycare after a particularly hectic morning at home because work was preferable than dealing with a whiny, snotty child? Deanna, for the first five years of her life, had to be completely dressed before I woke her unless I wanted to wrestle what seemed to be an oversized octopus every day. Not a morning person. Still isn’t, for that matter. Debbie, even at the tender age of two, had to pick out her own clothes because NOTHING I picked out for her would work. Yep, she’s still that way as well.

Speaking of clothes, did they have enough? Did they have what the other kids their age had? Money was always tight but I didn’t want them to be left out. I have strong memories of Deanna being disappointed because the first parent’s night at school was upon us and there was either enough gas in my car to either go to work the next morning or go to the school. I still remember her telling me “But I put all my projects on my desk and everything.” And it still breaks my heart. There wasn’t enough money for Debbie to be a cheerleader in fourth grade. Why kids needed to be cheerleaders at that age is beyond me but I still remember her hiding behind a tree at the park watching the more affluent girls practicing their cheers on the ball field. And I felt like a piece of dirt because she couldn’t join.

Vacations were there but I didn’t get to take them to Europe. Yeah, that’s a stupid one but I wanted it for them anyway. Did I do enough fun stuff with them? We did the zoo and spent lots of time at the park. And shopping. They were champion shoppers before they were ten. Once we moved back to Pennsylvania, they spent lots of time on Pap and Gramma’s farm. They had family. I gave them family.  The county fair every year. Rib cookoffs, once again courtesy of Pap and Gramma. Instruments so that they could join the band in school. From sixth grade to graduation, they were in the band. There was never enough money for Disney when they were kids but damn it, they went with the band in high school. We scrimped, saved, washed cars and fund-raised until we were exhausted but they went to Disney.

Ok, so money was tight. Who doesn’t have that problem these days. More importantly, was there enough love? Did I show them enough love? They never went to bed without a kiss, a hug and an I love you. Even when they were sent to bed in disgrace, they had that. I cooked meals that they liked. Ok, so a lot of those meals were out of a box but they liked them. I played with them when they were small, talked about sex with them as teens and was as helpful as I could be when they came to me with problems. They have always known that they could talk to me about anything. Even…gulp…relationships. Not that I’m an expert on those but I tried. I kissed boo boos, dried tears and drove car pools. They had birthday parties and sleep overs. Warm beds and fully tummies.

Most of all, I guess, they had and still have a mom who loves them, is proud of them and will always be ready to lend a helping hand. Isn’t that what all moms strive to be? I don’t know but it’s who I am. Whether I do it well is a question I guess I will always ask myself.

Things I Wonder About

Since I think about off the wall stuff from time to time (ok, so I do it all the time), I thought I’d put my musings on paper.  Unless you know me pretty well, you as a reader probably won’t understand a lot of what I will be writing about but try to stick with it. It may click or you may click off.  I get it. Not everyone wants to know my inner child or read my ramblings. But I decided that rather than lie awake tonight with a load of things going through my head, I’d write it all down before I turned off the light. What a novel idea! Wish I had thought of it before.  And since I’m writing it all down, I may as well post it, right? Anyway, here goes nothing.

Since my move to the “big city”, I always notice different things that I never noticed back in the home land. Drugs stores are a question to me. Did you ever notice that if you see a Walgreens, you don’t have to look far to see a CVS? It’s always within a block but most likely it will be right across the street. Do they have a competition going? Are they related and want to live close to each other? And do they have spies that go across the street to check prices to see if Colgate toothpaste is cheaper? Just one last drug store thing…what the hell do the letters CVS stand for anyway? OK, so I said you might not get it but I wonder about these things for some reason. It gets better after this, I promise.

I read an article about how things are changing grammatically in the typing world. It is no longer necessary to put two spaces after a period at the end of a sentence. Only one space is required from here on. OMG, who thinks up these things? Was someone in the grammatical world bored one day and just thought “I think I’ll mess with all the writers/bloggers in the world and change a rule that has been in place since the invention of the typewriter (for those of you who don’t know what a typewriter is, it came before computers).” Or was it necessary for planetary alignment that the extra space just HAD TO GO? Astrologically speaking, I just don’t get it. And how does one go about not putting in the extra space after doing it for twenty-five years? My fingers just automatically put it in and when I forget to put it in, I automatically go back and fix it. Whatever will they think of next? And who has this much time on their hands to change the rule that didn’t need to be changed in the first place?

I recently re-entered the dating world after 20+ years so I need some help from singles out there with this one. Is it against proper dating etiquette to text, tweet or answer your cell phone while out having dinner with someone who is boring the crap out of you and talks with their mouth full? I mean, he’s a nice guy and all but there are some things that really gross me out. One of those things is talking with food in your mouth. I mean, you never know when something is going to fly out of their mouth and nail you right in the face. Plus it goes against everything my momma ever taught me about table manners. He also eats with his elbows on the table and points with his fork but I’ll let those things slide. Since he’s paying for dinner, I thought I’d be kind. But I just had to tell a friend (or two) about it or I’ll just explode and tell him to shut his freakin’ mouth because I didn’t want to wear his dinner. So I’m texting, tweeting and answering my cell phone. I’m also back to the same problem I had when I was younger. This guy bored me to tears and grossed me out but I still say at the end of the evening “sure, I’d love to do it again.” I’m a sap.

Why is it so damn hard to stop playing a computer game until you win? I don’t play many, mostly because I don’t have the patience to sit mindlessly staring at the screen while unsuccessfully trying to maneuver my mouse somewhere it apparently doesn’t want to go. But I still sit there playing, occasionally flipping back to my word document that definitely isn’t writing itself, and I can’t shut it off until I win. I’m honestly thinking it’s the screen that comes up after I lose. You know the one I’m talking about. The one that says “sorry but you lost the game”.  It’s actually very polite but you know what it would tell you if it could…you are a LOSER!!! You LOST the game and you SUCK at it! It just galls me that a computer would tell me that if it could. I know it would. Which prompts me to hit the play again button and I get sucked in even deeper. Bloody hell.

And what is the proper length for a blog? I know I ramble on mindlessly until I run out of words to say (that’s a lie because I never do…run out of words, that is) or my eyes cross but no one has ever been able to tell me when to stop. I used to watch the word count at the bottom of the screen but that was a lot of pressure. I would either have what I considered too many words to say what I was saying or not quite enough for what I considered plausible prose. So I’m stuck with winging it and I’m really not a “wing it” kind of girl. I like to think about things because if I don’t, I get into a heap of trouble in the end. Never dive into the pool without first testing the water. Never take a bite without smelling what I’m going to eat (was never allowed to do that at momma’s house, going back to the table manners thing). So I’m floundering a bit and I’ve decided that if I haven’t said it all within a thousand words, it can’t be said. I mean, it’s not a novel I’m writing here, it’s a simple blog, right? Until I hear differently, that’s what I’m going with. Please tell me if I’m wrong.

Well, since I’m near the end of my self-imposed word limit, I guess I should quit while I’m ahead. I did warn you that you may not understand where my thinking comes from. Actually this was more than getting things out of my head, which really doesn’t matter since more stuff comes in to replace it almost immediately anyway. It was an exercise in the new grammatical rule of only putting one space after a period. I came really close to getting it. Seriously, I think it’s time I got some sleep. Because I know as soon as I post this, two young girls are going to be discussing me, asking each other “Has Momma finally lost her marbles?”

Random Thoughts

Sometimes I get bogged down in my self-imposed pit of pithyness where I take everything I have written down in my little faithful notebook that never leaves my side and transform it into a blog. I get little ideas in my head constantly. When these ideas come to me, I write them down (day or night, seriously). Occasionally I look at what I have written and wonder what made me even think these thoughts but most times it makes sense.  Well, to me it does. I have a mind that doesn’t work like most minds do. I constantly see the funny, often irritating side of things in day to day happenings and they get turned around in weird ways with my unusual sense of humor. Thus, I have the aforementioned pit.

 As an example, I was driving to work the yesterday and as I entered the highway, a man in a rather expensive car came up beside me on the ramp, squeezed in between my car and the one ahead of me (despite the fact there was ample space behind me) and what he did next really boggled my mind and got me thinking in my typical “Soozie” way. This man in this rather expensive car (did I mention that?) risked life and limb to cross two lanes, despite the fact that someone else already occupied them, to get to the outside lane. I’m already shaking my head in disbelief. He then proceeded to wangle his way back to the right hand lane to exit less than two miles from where he entered.  So, as I said, I’m already thinking what in the world is so important to this man that he has to risk his life and others to get to that exit five seconds earlier than I. Maybe he’s an obstetrician and has to deliver a baby…right now! Or he’s late for a meeting that could save the world from possible instant destruction. I’m trying to be fair here. And the answer to this man’s desperate, demon-like rush…wait for it!  I caught up to him in the drive through lane at Starbucks. So he drove like a maniac to get a Venti Cinnamon Dolce Frappuccino Light. Seriously, I heard him order it. Of course, I had to write down his order in the event that I would someday need the information.

 The previous paragraph has nothing to do with this blog. It’s just a brief sojourn into the way my strange, often wacky, way the mind of Soozie works. Almost criminal, ain’t it?

 What I really want to write about is this morning. An I-just-can’t-win kind of morning. It’s early on my day off. I am blissfully, peacefully sitting on my patio enjoying my coffee (how does anyone start their day without a cup, I wonder?). Just plain brew, mind you. Nothing fancy. A little cinnamon cream. The birds are singing, the stray cat that lives on my patio is washing her face. All of a sudden, I hear the buzzing and scraping of motorized equipment all around me. What???  Along comes the local landscaping crew with their edgers and wackers and mowers, oh my! And there I sit, unfettered, uncombed and unpolished, looking as if I had just crawled out of bed. Which I had. Even my nails were undone, no mani, no pedi. And the peacefulness is gone. Shot to hell. There should be a law against early birds mowing the grass. At least wait until nine…or ten. Welcome to city (and apartment) life, Soozie Girl. It’s been a long time. And then there’s my daughter, who says “Well, it is Friday, you know. They always do yard work on Friday.” How would I know? I work most Fridays.

 I enter my humble abode to fetter and shower (I think I’ll shower first) to find my always loving and ever so adorable grandson sitting on the counter eating jelly beans in a bucket of leftover coffee. How did he get on the counter, you ask? He opened the oven door, climbed up and on his journey to the coffee pot, turned on the oven. So I have a 900 degree kitchen, coffee that didn’t make it into the bucket spilled on the floor and the innocent, handsome face of a three-year-old who asks me with a smile “Want some jelly beans, YaYa? They’re yummy.”

So after an appointment with a wooden spoon, a stern lecture about the perils of turning on the oven and climbing, some scrubbing to clean up the mess, I adjourn to my sanctuary, which in this case is my bedroom, to turn on my computer. My shower is forgotten as I plan to indulge in some tweeting and FB posting. It’s still early and, as I mentioned, it is my day off. And…my computer will not turn on.  My. Computer. Will. Not. Turn. On.

 Deep breathing. Mantra of “patience, patience, patience.” I unplug it, plug it back in. No luck. I take the battery out, put it back in. No luck. I cuss at it. No luck. Doesn’t understand basic, vulgar English, I guess. I shake it (ok, so I’m really frustrated at this point) and hear a lovely rattle. Take out the battery pack again and remove three pennies, two dimes and a nickel…how did I miss that earlier? I realize that my personal, private sanctuary has been invaded whilst I toiled at my place of employment the day before. Again, the above-mentioned loving and adorable grandson. I removed all coins, put the battery in again and…voila! I’m once again computing. After another stern lecture about the perils of messing with my most prized possession to the three-year-old.

 Ah, hell. I’m just going to take a shower, call work and see if they need me today. I’m not in the mood to have a day off. Or perhaps I should take off my really big bitch hat and try to enjoy myself. Voting for the latter. Not really in the mood to work either.

Advice to My Daughters

Growing up, I watched my mother go through her life as if it were a journey.  She raised six children with a strong but gentle hand (and a switch from the tree next to the house).  She scrimped when times were bad and rejoiced when they were not quite as difficult.  She praised God and encouraged us all to do the same (some of us got it, the others not so much).   She loved a husband who was, for the most part, a difficult and demanding man but also one who took care of her until the end.  And through it all, she never lost her sense of humor, her faith or her positive outlook.  Mom never gave me advice on life and I often wish she had so that I could have avoided a lot of mistakes in my often delusional youth.

So, with two grown daughters of my own, I feel compelled to give them the benefit of my oh-so-worldly experience so perhaps they can avoid some of my biggest blunders.  They’ll make enough mistakes on their own without repeating mine.  That being said, I came up with several pithy, somewhat noteworthy (I think) thoughts I believe could guide them on this sometimes disastrous but mostly rewarding road we call life.

Number one on my list, my angels, is put your life in God’s hands and trust him to lead you forward.  You’ll have to listen closely to avoid missing his council as the world is noisy and misleading but you’ll be glad in the end that you did.  Can you do it without him?  Certainly if you want to but I wouldn’t advise it.  All that will get you is a lot of missteps you could have skipped and a very long, hot eternity.  If you listen to nothing else in this message, listen to this.

Second, learn from my mistakes but don’t let them color your world black or become jaded as I have.  Not all men are abusive.  There are plenty of them out there who are decent and respectful to women.  Long before you were conceived, God had your husband chosen for you (honest, it’s in the Bible).  All you need to do is listen and He will lead you to the one you were meant to be with.  If you pick a man with your hormones, trust me, this too shall pass.  And know that my marriage was not all bad.  It’s just that sometimes weakness leads people to poisons that they shouldn’t indulge in and that, in turn, leads to collisions that could have otherwise been avoided.  But in the end, I was gifted with you and for that, I would do it all again.

Don’t wait too long to realize your passion and move forward with it.  Life sometimes gets in the way and something you were meant to do gets pushed aside.  Do not let this happen.  God has given each of us a special gift, a talent that we are not supposed to squander.  Find it, use it and don’t let it sit idly in your subconscious.  My passion is writing and I’ve waited a long time to realize that it’s what I should have been doing all along.  I might not be good at it but the words that have been in my head for all these years need to come out and be written.  So, ladies, get off your butts and find your passion.

Treat your children as what they are, a precious gift from God.  When they frustrate you, realize that you will laugh about it someday when they are grown and you need to use it to embarrass them.  When they cry, hold them close.  Some day you will wish you still could.  When they laugh, laugh yourself silly with them.  They are such a joy even in the darkest times so realize that and embrace the experience.  Life has taught me, the hard way, that you never know how long you were meant to have them and you must never miss a day of the paradise that is your child.

Now that I’ve gotten all of the mushy, teary junk out of the way, I guess I should add some practical, yeah-right stuff in here so…don’t drink excessively and never drink and drive.  Never smoke and avoid eating yourself into obesity.  Mind your elders; they really do know more than you.  Don’t drive too fast for conditions and always watch for black ice.  And, most importantly, know that chocolate really is a cure-all.  Might I suggest Harry & David Moose Munch Bars?

And this, my precious babies, is what I have learned in my vast experience so far.  Take it to heart or tell me I’m crazy.  But, at the very least, read it.  Just sayin….

What Would I Do Without My Laptop

What would I do without it?

It’s just a possession. A 15.6 inch pink rectangular box. A mainstay of my existence, I’m afraid. I’m speaking of my laptop.  It’s not a gamers dream, doesn’t have BluRay, just DVD. It is HD but that’s as fancy as I get. So what would I do without it? Hmm…I dare to contemplate. My daughter just lost hers as the result of a virus so I’m using her as a guideline of sorts.

Number one, since I’m a writer, I would have to buy pens. Lots and lots of pens. I write constantly. Every time a thought comes in to my head while I’m socially networking or blogging, which is often, I type it in to my trusty little Dell. My friend that never speaks to me but is always close by. So I would need a lot of pens.  Oh, and paper. Paper with lines on it. I’m not the neatest scribbler, as my notebooks on my nightstand can attest. Hey, who can be neat and tidy when it’s 3:00 a.m. and a thought needs to be written down? So I would need pens and paper with lines. A lot of both.

Games. Oh, geez. I’d need to take the board games out of storage and dust them off.  I would be hoping none of the pieces are missing.  Game pieces are never missing on computerized games. It’s kind of a rule.  Oh, and rules.  I’d have to read the rules of the games I own.  It’s been so long since I’ve played any of them that I’ve probably forgotten most of the rules. Then you have to factor in the three-year-old.  Oh, I can see it now; game pieces strewn everywhere. Sure to get lost. So games would be another issue if I didn’t have my little friend.

Then there is the aforementioned social networking. I’d have to get a bigger cell phone plan since I’d be calling everyone instead of just typing the little tidbits of my random thoughts. I wouldn’t be able to blog unless I mailed it in. Can you mail in a blog? I’m thinking not. They wouldn’t be able to read my handwriting anyway since, as I mentioned above, it’s not the neatest. Oh, and email. I rarely use it any more but still, if I didn’t have it, I would definitely miss it. Oh, yeah, I have it on my phone but really? Has to be on the big screen. Twitter, Facebook, I would miss you so much. So my social networking would be next to nil.

News and weather? I’d probably have to start watching the television again but who has the time for that when there is so much to do on the computer (see above). Oh, right. I wouldn’t have the computer so I would have more time to watch TV. But then I’d be scribbling on paper to get my blogs and novel done and I don’t think I can write 95 words per minute like I can type. So it would take twice as long to get my stuff done (every woman has stuff). This would be really bad. And I’m really not patient enough to watch TV either. I hate commercials, news anchors annoy me and I’d have to constantly answer the question “why aren’t we watching Mickey Mouse?”

Mickey Mouse? Oh, here comes another disaster. I would not have all the episodes of the Imagination Movers available at a moment’s notice for that emergency, please-stop-crying-now viewing. Definitely not a good thing. And since it’s our time together, Mr. Three-Year-Old and I, it would be heartbreaking not to have it. I downloaded quite a few episodes of this, his favorite show from I-tunes and, ohmygosh, how would I download music on to my IPod? I’d never survive without it. This is getting worse and worse. Why am I writing this blog and getting myself all upset? There, there.  Little pink friend is alive and kicking, so not to worry.

So, my friend, if you care anything at all about my needs, please take care of yourself.  Do not inherit any nasty little viruses and rest when I do because you know that I will need you when I wake up. I’ve given you the best that I can; top-notch virus protection, a can of air to keep your keyboard neat and tidy, a mouse to die for.  Not to mention that I stroke your ego often and sincerely. All I ask is that you be there for me when I need you.

The Story of Me

I’ve been assigned the task of writing an autobiography, the story of me, an obituary of sorts.  Daunting but cathartic, I’m told.  How does a person who is reluctant to talk about herself write the story of her life?  By looking at it through the eyes of an outsider, I’m thinking.  It’s more than I was born, I grew and I live.  It’s about feelings, beliefs and the courage to act upon both.  And so I begin.

I was born a farm girl, second youngest of six (so reminds me of the line in The Jerk…I was born a poor, black child). We had little money but food was plentiful thanks to gardens and livestock.  Love was also plentiful.  Mom was gentle and caring; Dad tough but fair.  Work was most plentiful of all. I grew up in the garden, the hayfield and the barn.  Throwing bales of hay and pulling weeds.  Picking and canning vegetables.  Chasing cows and pigs.  Ever try to rope a pig? Not easy, I assure you.  And dreamed of the day I could get out.  My fondest memory of it all was my dreams, not realizing that someday I would look back on it all and appreciate what I was given. 

From my father, I learned the value of hard work and developed a love of sports.  He worked the steel mill during the day and the farm in the evening to provide for his large family.  He never stopped as long as there was something that needed to be done.  And we all joined in, willingly or not.  I remember watching sports with him from a very young age.  We went to a lot of Pirate games with my father and they were the greatest times.  I wanted to be the first female member of the Pittsburgh Pirates when I was a kid.  Together we enjoyed the glory days of the ‘70’s Steelers and Pirates, along with the incredible Lemieux years with the Penguins.

From my mother came my love of music and the basis for my faith.  Mom was a concert pianist, a member of the church choir and a fantastic example of how faith can positively mold you.  She led by example.  She was mild mannered and just a wee bit ditsy.  Not much of a cook, but she could make you cry when her fingers touched the piano keys.  When things got her down, she relied on prayer.  In her later years, after all six of us had moved out, Mom had a chair upstairs in the old farmhouse where she sat when life got to her.  She called it her crying chair.  It had sagging springs, with an old cover over the cushion and desperately needed refinishing.  I don’t remember where it came from but when she passed away, I went to the chair and did my own crying.

I think, of the two of them, I resemble my mother in next to nothing other than musical aptitude and strong faith.  I work hard, like my father, and have little tolerance for anyone who doesn’t.  Those who know me would tell you that I inherited my father’s disposition, although whether that is a good thing or bad depends mostly on the situation at hand. 

As a child, I had the usual lessons, piano and gymnastics, baton for which I had no coordination.  Together, my younger sister and I were in local parades twirling our batons (more of a weapon in my hands) in our little purple suits with the fringe on the butt or tumbling on the pavement to the detriment of our knees and hands.  As I grew older, I had my clarinet, piano and singing in the chorus.  Music and dancing had become the two most important things in my life.  To a certain extent, they still are; a calm island in the storms of life.  I have since added a guitar to my repertoire although my lessons there go slowly.

When I was a teen, I discovered my love of the written word.  I began with sappy, miserable poems full of angst, my anger at the world in general.  Because I also loved music, my next genre was song writing, equally foolish and melancholy.  I believe my mother thought I was suicidal when she read it all, although nothing could have been further from the truth.  Except the day that John Lennon was shot but wasn’t every teenager that day?  Writing had become my passion and so upon graduation, I headed to college with the dream of some day becoming the first female sports writer to enter the hallowed halls of the Pittsburgh Steelers locker room.  That didn’t happen but I did make it in when my young daughter, full of love and awe for Bubby Brister and Merril Hoge of the ‘80’s Steelers teams, followed them in after a practice game.  They were both very kind as we were kicked out.

Life is what happens when you are busy making plans or so I’ve heard.  I didn’t graduate from that esteemed institution of higher learning, much to my father’s great disappointment and infuriation.  But although my college experience was brief, I learned well in my brief sojourn there from several very dedicated and talented professors, both of whom I remain in touch with to this day.  Instead of being a world famous reporter, I fell in love and became a wife and mother at a very young age.  And a mother again several years later to a second daughter.  While that sounds cliché and banal even to my ears, that is basically what happened.  Although my tumultuous marriage took the way of my reporting dreams, I have no regrets as I have the love of two beautiful young ladies, both of whom I am very proud.  I had a son for a short time, a handsome sprite who loved to play basketball and pretend he was Michael Jordan.  I guess God figured he needed him more than I and took him away after only four years.  And finally, a grandson, who is just rowdy and resourceful enough to make my life both challenging and exhausting.  And I wouldn’t change a thing about any of it, even if I could.

I have my little quirks, as most people do.  Most of them revolve around my dream.  How many people do you know edit every novel they read as they read it?  I do it unconsciously.  I can’t help myself.  It is also a habit to wake up out of a sound sleep to write on the notepad I keep beside my bed.  Or halt a conversation to do the same thing.  People who know me have come to expect it.  Hey, if it isn’t written down, it’s forgotten.  I speak to strangers constantly, although now, almost everyone is a stranger.  I listen to everyone’s problems without judgment.  My friends from back home say I like to adopt people and perhaps I do.  Children most of all.  I may be more like my mother than I thought because I feel an incessant need to help people. 

I spent almost twenty years behind a desk at several different companies, each as diverse and, to be truthful, boring as the other.  While I made some really awesome lifelong friends, I had a constant feeling with each job that I was only there on a temporary basis, as a means to an end.  I had no idea where I was supposed to be but knew that I’d get there in time.  I lived in several different states, enjoying my time in Texas most of all.  And knew that I would move on, whether I liked it or not.  My younger daughter calls me a flight risk. And now, as I sit in the place I have chosen (or was chosen for me), I am almost back to the beginning.  Utilizing my love for writing and hoping, despite my ocean of self-doubt at times, that I can succeed where I didn’t before.  My dream changed as I got older, but became no less grandiose.  And now, as I venture on in my writing, my only goal is to become better than Danielle Steele and almost as good as Nora Roberts.

How will I be seen when I am no longer around to see?  A Christian who, more often than not, walked the walk.  A loving mother, most assuredly.  An adoring grandmother, most definitely.  But hopefully also a loyal friend and confidant.  These four things are worth more than as a talented writer or even a successful one.  I’d like to see my legacy as children and grandchildren who are secure in who they are and fully free to show their love to whomever they choose.  To follow their dreams wherever they might lead them.  And that, for better or worse, is the story of me.