Leave the Light On

As he often does, my ten-year-old son asked that I leave his light on low as he climbed into bed. I told him I was tired and did not want to have to turn it off after he was asleep, but still I complied.

As he settled in, he mused, "I don't know what I am going to do when I am a grownup. I'll have to get a timer or something."

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Dear Abby

Dear Abby,
Why do I put my attention to the trivial, while the important stuff gets lost? Why do I spend time with people whom I hardly know, and let time pass without hailing those I love the most? I am like a horse with blinders on, seeing only the immediate steps in front of me, losing the landscape around me. Do you know why, dear Abby?
Stymied in the Southwest

It is so much easier to attend to that which is in front of my face, than to continually examine what is important in my life and attend to it accordingly. I can think of no other reason why I do not pick up the phone or mail a quick note more often to the people I love.

Blessed are we who are fortunate enough to have loved ones willing to carry the load. I have several of these forgiving souls in my landscape. They reach out to me, and put themselves in front of my eyes, and get my attention. I prance and whinny, and playfully step along with them awhile, until they recede again, leaving me to focus once again on the brambles under my feet.

There was this particular little girl. I first met her as she peeked around from behind her father, big dark eyes full of uncertainty. She was six then. Not long afterwards, we found ourselves at a restaurant. Her father was apologetic as his daughter was defiant and rude. I understood that she did not want to share her Daddy with this strange woman. I got it. After dinner, we went to sit at the beach, and rudeness gave way to giggles as we sat and drew pictures on each other with the charcoal bits from a beach fire. Our relationship began.

Within a year, this little girl became part of my daily life, as her father did. We were a team, the three of us, exploring the landscape of the county. We often found ourselves in nature since we were young and broke, and the countryside was free. Our favorite path through meadows and gullies is now a freeway corridor. But I'll never forget our secret waterfall where we would picnic and navigate the boulders barefoot. We were becoming a family.

Snippets of memories. New Year's Eve at the Sycamore Inn. (She and I made a country inn at my apartment, complete with check-in and dinner. We spent all day setting it up. Her dad rolled his eyes at our goofiness, but bless his heart, he played along when we were all ready.) For her eighth birthday, I bought her Lee Press-On Nails. She might as well have won the lottery.

At nine, this little girl became defiant again. Maybe it was the ring that made me act differently. Maybe the prospect of actually becoming her mother made me think that I was supposed to be in control. Her ninth birthday with all her little friends around was not a proud moment for us. She was rebelling and I did not know what to do about it. I felt a child myself. What did I know about being a mother of a soon-to-be preteen? As it was, I never found out.

Love does not conquer all. Or maybe it does, but he and I did not possess that kind of love. Our team of three became two and one again. But I could not bear leaving behind this sweet dark-eyed little girl. Her father and I remained friends, and she and I evolved to have our own relationship, separate and unique. I drove miles to pick her up from her grandmother on weekends. We would have girl chats and do each other's nails. I yearned to teach her, my first feeling of homeschooling I imagine. I can still hear her chanting her multiplication doubles and state capitals. "Shy Anne, Why Owe Me!" I even taught my own daughter years later, "What is the capital of Alaska?" She would answer as my dark-eyed little girl once did, "I dunno. D'you know?"

She and I continued to be close through the next few years, as I developed a relationship with the man I would actually marry. I told him that this little girl would be a part of our lives, and he always supported that. He knew that I had promised that if anything happened to her father, I would become her legal guardian if she asked. We had that understanding as we planned our wedding with our twelve-year-old flower girl.

As it were, she made it to adulthood without incident. Soon after we were married, my little girl moved a short plane flight away and proceeded to grow up. I was able to visit quite often because my work took me there quite a bit. She also flew down to see her grandmother, so I was able to see her then. We continued along.

I think my blinders went on when I had a daughter of my own. Not that my daughter replaced my little dark-eyed girl. There was room enough for both in my heart. It's just that when the life is being sucked from you, you tend to get distracted. Then I had another child. My life was full of joy and brambles. I never forgot a birthday or a Christmas, but there was so much to do, what with applesauce and diapers, and later with schooling and playdates. I was so thankful that my dark-eyed girl continued to visit about once a year when she would come down to see her grandmother. Through her efforts, she developed a relationship with my two children, and they adore her.

Just last night, in fact, she was here. She had come down to be a bridesmaid in a wedding, and had taken the effort to spend time with me and my family. I was stunned by her beauty. She has grown into a gorgeous woman of twenty-eight, as lovely on the inside as out. But something about this visit was different. She thought maybe I was different. Or maybe it was seeing her and my daughter the same height, acting like sisters. Whatever the difference, I saw my dark-eyed little girl as a full-grown woman, and we connected as we have never connected before. It was a wonderful but short visit, since she had to drive off by four in the morning to catch her plane. So we said our goodbyes before going to bed. When I awoke, I found that she had left her bridesmaid's bouquet for us, three dozen white roses.

She is embarking on beginning her own family, with a lovely diamond on her finger. She is full of hopes and dreams and self-examination and growth. I want to walk beside her as she enters this stage of her life, and I am so thankful that we have come to this point together.

The blinders will be coming off so I can see the love around me, instead of worrying about the brambles underfoot. Thank you, my dark-eyed girl, for being one of those forgiving souls in my landscape.

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Reflections on a Mother's Worth

I remember asking my mother a question when I was still in awe of my new baby daughter, "Mom, did you love me as much as I love my baby?"

I have replayed her answer often these past years. "Of course I did." Simple as that. But I am still comprehending the magnitude of that answer. It tempts me to truly feel worthy.

How pleasant it must be to be in the position of a grandmother. The mother labors to dig a path for her children, struggling to keep pace in front of them, every once in awhile turning around to corral them back on the path. Meanwhile, the grandmother is strolling alongside the children, holding hands and picking flowers. Every once in awhile, the grandmother provides advice on the shoveling technique, but no gloves are offered. When the mother complains about the toil and hardship, the grandmother holds up her palm to show her own hardened calluses in sympathy.

So why is it so difficult to understand that my mother loved me as much as I love my children, and as much as I see that she loves her grandchildren? Perhaps it is because I have come so far in life without truly appreciating what my mother has done for me. Maybe it is easier to question that love than to feel the guilt. But there comes a time when every mother must face the truth: that indeed, her own mother felt that love, lived that love, and suffered that love.

It is necessary for young children to be ignorant of their mother's sacrifice. If our children comprehended how much they put us out, they would probably implode with guilt. That is why motherhood has acquired the reputation for being a thankless job. But as adults, we can and need to understand. It is part of the maturing process that every woman must go through, whether she has children of her own or not. It is just that having children forces the issue.

No wonder a grandmother loves her grandchildren so much. She knows that those children are responsible for the newly-formed painful calluses that cause her daughter to finally look back at her mother with understanding, forgiveness and true appreciation.

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First Class Boy

There was a time when my children provided me with all sorts of humorous fodder to fold into a story that grandparents would find amusing. Now that my children are older, these opportunities are fewer. My nine-year-old son, however, being the innocent constitution that he is, will probably give me a few more years of laughter.

Oh how excited he was to receive a package from a stranger. He opened it to reveal the contents, showing me a small bag of about a dozen flat yellow Legos.

"Daddy got me the Legos I needed!"

Not sure why he would be so excited about these generic Legos, I asked him what he was going to do with them. He proceeded to explain all about something concerning something. My husband and son have a super secret Lego thing going. I rarely ask.

He was still talking about his package as we pulled the garbage bins in from the curb. He told me how Daddy had the man who sent them write his name on the package.

"And Daddy even had him send it FIRST CLASS!"
.

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Prattle of the Preteen

I can’t just pick up the phone anymore. I used to be able to pick it up at any old time, dial, and speak. That privilege is no longer in my life as of the last month.

My preteen daughter has discovered the telephone as a communication device. It is not enough to have playdates (do we call them that anymore?) and email. Even IM (instant messenger for those of you not tech-hip) leaves the voice intonations lacking. No, the telephone rings constantly now.

Fortunately it is still just girls calling, talking about boys I imagine. And for some reason, the phone rings three or four different times during one conversation. Not sure if it is potty breaks or what. So I have learned to not answer the phone. It’s rarely for me anymore.

I have patience so far. I remember being in seventh grade with the receiver hanging off my ear. I have an image of myself lying on the pistachio-green carpet in the formal dining room with my feet up on the wall, chatting with Debbie about absolutely nothing, twirling the phone cord through my fingers. It was connection; it was society. I will not deny that of my daughter. But it’s only been a month.

Earlier today she asked if she could walk down to the store with her friend this afternoon. Here she is, almost a teenager, and she has never walked out of our neighborhood unescorted by an adult. She's traveled on her own with her class trip, but not to the store around the corner. That is not unusual. When put against my peers, I am no more protective about such things than any of them. My daughter has a friend who lives nearby (but across a busy intersection) and we as mothers still walk our girls back and forth. And the other girl is almost as tall as me. It is less a sign of overprotection and more a sign of the times.

In response to her request to go to the store, I told her I had to think about it and talk to her father. What am I afraid of? Let me count the fears. I am afraid of the white van pulling up to two attractive young girls and being off with them. I am afraid of her running across the busy street and miscalculating oncoming traffic. Pretty much the same things that I was afraid of when she was two. Nothing much different there.

Maybe it is time. I am open to her growing up. It allows me more freedom to discover myself again outside the role of being a mother. I do trust her judgment in crossing the street. And the odds of that white van being along the quarter-mile distance during the five minutes they are walking is arguably slim.

She is still waiting for my permission. Mainly because I am unable to call her father since she is still on the phone.


Epilogue: Dad made the call with a decisive, "No way! I don't want some creep in a van picking them up." I suppose I needed a few things at the store anyway. They can disappear on their own while I shop. Baby steps.

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Water, Water, Everywhere

I knew I was in trouble when the body aches started. My husband had just left for a two week business trip across the country. Within a day, I was in bed with a full-blown flu, the kind that makes the room spin if you attempt to stand.

My daughter was eight, and my son five. All the grandparents were out of state, and my close friends had children of their own that they did not want to get sick. So we were pretty much on our own. Even though my kids were quite independent, I was a little worried about how they would feed themselves for a couple of days. Turns out it wasn't my children I should have been concerned about.

It was all I could do to crawl to the bathroom and back. There was no way that I could navigate the stairs, nor attempt to fix myself something to eat once I got to the kitchen. I needed to rely on my children for sustenance.

I knew from the sound emanating from downstairs that my kids were taking full advantage of my weakened state to watch marathon television. My beleaguered throat would not allow me to call out to them, so I waited for what seemed hours for one of them to check on me. When that time finally came, rather, when one of them walked by the door, I croaked out something incoherent.

My daughter poked her head in. I whispered hoarsely, "Water...please."

I heard her shout down to her brother to bring me up some water. Then she disappeared. I waited. And waited. About an hour later, my son bounded in and jumped on the bed. His bouncing shook my very existence. I begged him, "Please, honey, stop bouncing. Please bring me some water. Please."

"Sure, Mommy." He bounced away and blessedly returned moments later. In his hand was a small Bob the Builder cup, half-filled with lukewarm water. I grabbed it and drank it in one swallow. It merely teased my parched mouth.

My daughter walked in then. I took hold of her arm tightly, and implored her through tears. I told her I had not eaten in a day and a half. I needed an entire jug of water, and some kind of food. I told her I needed her to check on me at least once an hour. I was sobbing by this point. Bless her heart, she finally got it. She finally understood that her mother was truly ill and needed assistance. She got to work.

She enlisted her brother's help, and from the sounds coming from the kitchen, they were making Thanksgiving dinner. I wondered if I should have suggested a bowl of cereal.

They appeared at the door a half-hour later with a tray, announcing that they had made pancakes. I was confused since they were not allowed to turn on the gas stove. I attempted to sit up as I questioned how they made pancakes.

My son smiled and exclaimed, "Oh, easy! We made them in the microwave!"

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British Biscuit Blunder

It was one of those opportunities that could not be passed. My young daughter blinked at me with big eyes, after she looked at her fairy book with recipes and drawings of the magical moment. Can we have a tea party right now? With her little brother interested as well, I relented. We chose one of the several recipes of which I was sure we had all the ingredients. (I was not too interested in dipping violet petals in sugar water and eating them, even if we'd had any violet petals handy.)

Looking at the recipes, I noticed the primary measurements were in metric, so figured the book was probably from England. One glance at the back proved the first price to be in U.K. pounds. We also noticed they recommended "caster" sugar, of which I was unfamiliar. My daughter guessed it might be confectioner's sugar, so I thought we best look it up. Sure enough, it was "chiefly British," but ended up being finely granulated sugar. So with our translations in hand (using the cup measurements in parentheses), we headed for the kitchen to make "Shaped Biscuits." I figured we could have them with butter and jam. I love flaky biscuits, and thought it might be fun making them from scratch for the first time instead of using Bisquick or one of those pop cans.

I had one of those rare moments of complete mother patience as I allowed my children to make not only the biscuits, but quite a mess as well. They cooperated well, taking turns measuring and stirring, while I interjected teaspoons of wisdom here and there: Use the half measuring cup three times instead of getting out the one-cup and half-cup. Use the back of a knife to swipe off the top of the cup. Yes, one-third two times is two-thirds. Hot water rinses off grease better than cold water. Give your brother a turn. No, we only use the sifter for flour.

The children rolled out the stiff dough, and I pulled out the cookie cutters. I figured different shaped biscuits might be more fun than just round ones, so I helped them choose larger simple designs that might have a chance of being recognizable after the biscuits rose and fluffed out. My daughter chose flowers and butterflies to go with the theme, and my son chose a teapot and a sun. They rolled and stamped and rolled again. They rolled the dough quite thin, but I figured I would just watch the oven so the thinner ones did not burn. As we placed them on the pan, I reminded the children that they were biscuits and not cookies, even though they quite resembled cookies after using the cutters. They reassured me that they knew.

I cleaned up some while the children worked on a second batch of biscuits, shaping more butterflies and a Pooh bear with eyeballs. One of my son's suns broke in half as I transferred it to the second pan, and he cried out in dismay. Quickly turning it broken-side down, I said, "It's a setting sun!" He smiled in agreement. Crisis averted.

I checked the oven a few times, but the biscuits were not rising or changing shape at all. I knew we had followed the recipe exactly, so I figured the children must have just rolled them too thin, just over a quarter-inch. I took them out when they started to look a little dry and figured I would just have to explain to the children that sometimes it is the process, not the product. We had enjoyed ourselves making them after all. So our biscuits were little bricks. Maybe we could dunk them in peppermint tea to soften them. I broke off a corner of the setting sun and put it in my mouth. It immediately melted like soft butter, infusing a gentle sweetness like a light breeze on a spring day. It brought me back to my early days on my own, when I would bake my favorite shortbread recipe and drink Earl Grey...

Then it hit me like the swift heel of a hand on my forehead. I turned to my daughter with big eyes and said, "The British call cookies biscuits!"

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