College kids.
Fun, friendships, freedom.
Falling in love.
Basketball, softball and soccer games, Street Fighter.
Bible studies, dinners out...
Thinking we were all grown up.
Being so wrong.
Just kids.
Newlyweds.
Together. Stars in our eyes. Totally in love.
Dreams of the future. Not even sure what to dream.
Cold winter, ice storms, radiator heat.
Money earned. Money spent. Laundromat, pizza place.
Thinking love was all we needed.
Being completely right.
Being completely wrong
Being completely in love.
Growing up.
First baby. Shock, excitement, heartache.
Innocence lost. Crying, Sadness. Solitude.
Leaning on each other. Loving each other.
Trusting. Doubting.
Too young for broken hearts,
but that didn't matter.
Believing "it is well" though it didn't feel "well".
Being right.
Parenthood.
Completely worth the risks.
Definitely worth the wait.
Two perfect blessings.
Love like we have never known.
Worry, joy, laughter, pain...all magnified.
Juggling new hats. Daddy, Mommy.
Thinking we should have been required to take a test.
Knowing we would have never passed. :)
Learning day by day.
Smiling at them- at just the thought of them.
Smiling at seeing each other in their eyes.
Growing older.
Long in the tooth. :) Gray hair.
Aches, pains, sun damage.
Happy Birthdays for us...for them.
Finding our love has grown comforting.
Not thinking there is anything wrong with that.
Knowing our love is true. Still laughing, still happy.
More beautiful than ever.
Like good wine.
One Heart. Two bodies. 100 directions.
Always coming home to the same place.
Our Future.
Quickly becoming the past.
Wide open. Full of potential.
Uncertain. Unknown. Unlimited.
Planning.
Thinking we have time.
Being so wrong.
The future is not now.
The future was yesterday.
Together, we two.
In love. Happy. Side by side. Step by step.
Thinking we are blessed.
Being so right!
Jayme, I love the memory of falling in love with you, and the reality of staying in love with you. For the notes on my car, and the poems that you wrote. For the dinners you made, and the flowers. For when you get up with the kids, and when you chase them all around the house and make them laugh. For the smiles, laughter, and maybe even more, for the tears. Thank you. What we have done together, we never could have done apart. "...all because two people fell in love".
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Priceless
I feel like people should know about our last drive from Orlando to Cleveland, TN. We were going for different reasons, Jayme for a car show about thirty minutes from my sister's house, and the kids and me to spend a few glorious days with my sister and her family.
In our pre-child days, this is a little bit less than a nine hour drive. With kids, 9-10 hours is doable, as long as the kids "hold it" for as long as possible between bathroom stops, and there are no dinners at Cracker Barrel. This drive,however, did not go as planned...at all, in any way.
We left our house at 8:15 much to Jayme's dismay because he had wanted to leave at 8. We were meeting a friend of his on the highway, in order to convoy to Chattanooga where there was a Volkswagen show that they were attending. We got gas, and got going. We headed to the predetermined spot on the highway where we were to wait for them to drive past and then follow them to TN. We waited for them for about ten or fifteen minutes. It was fine, not a bad wait, other than my brain convincing me that being pulled over on the side of a highway, with my precious children singing songs in the back seat, is perhaps the deadliest place in the world to be. "Good thing we didn't leave the house on time", I lovingly pointed out to Jayme. "Otherwise we would have had to wait with a bulls-eye on our car for a half hour". Sometimes, I am fun to be married to, and sometimes I am just...not. Anyway, they passed us and we pulled out behind their car, ready to get to the business of the trip.
About ten minutes later we got a call from the car in front of us that they had to pull over. They were towing a car to the VW show, and needed to adjust something on the car. We pulled over again, in the deadliest place on earth, and after five minutes or so, started driving again. Just as we took off to merge back into traffic Taryn started making a choking sound, and when I looked back, she was covered in throw up. Gross! If you know me at all, I do not do throw up. Her mommy (I like to refer to myself in the third person when I do stupid things) had given her a bowl of dried cranberries to eat, and she had eaten about 50 craisins in about 2 minutes. She had started to choke on some, and voila...threw them up. We called the car in front of us to tell them to pull over so we could handle the "situation".
We got Taryn cleaned up and settled down, but the stop at the rest area took almost an hour. She was hysterical. This was only the second time in her life that she had thrown up, and she was afraid to throw up again. She just wanted to go home. In fact, I believe at this point she had volunteered to walk home. In addition to the getting sick, she had a meltdown in the restrooms because they were automatic flush toilets, and she is terrified of them. I knew there was no way that we were stopping again for a bathroom break, we were already WAY behind schedule, so she had no choice. The people outside of the bathroom probably thought I was being abusive, but I assure you I was not. Taryn had her hands over her ears (although it was completely silent in the bathroom) and she was screaming, "Get me out of here! Just let me GOOOO." I did not let her go. Eventually, she used the bathroom.
It was now almost 10:00, and we were only about thirty minutes from home. I was stressing out. We got to driving, and finally got some good miles under our tires when we got a call from the car in front of us, "after we cross into Georgia, do you want to stop for lunch?" I informed them that would be great, we just needed a place with grilled cheese, or chicken nuggets and other than that could stop anywhere. The restaurant of choice, Cracker Barrel. So, I was freaking out in my travelers mind. Cracker Barrel? Oh no. Good food, but slow service! "Relax", my brain told me. "Enjoy the day. Stop watching the clock. You have kids, and they would probably like to get out of the car for a while. You are on a relaxing trip, no one is keeping time. It's not a race." I responded that plan sounded fine, and we went to Cracker Barrel.
The kids were excited to get pancakes for lunch, but Taryn was still afraid to throw up if she ate again, so she only nibbled at hers. Her desire to eat was further diminished by the fact that Cracker Barrel gives real Maple Syrup for pancakes, and Taryn (like her mother) despises real Maple Syrup. We only like pancake syrup in my house. We asked for sugar free syrup, which tastes like aunt Jemima, and she ate a few bites, but still almost nothing. (Oh well, can't live in the Cracker Barrel waiting for Taryn to be brave enough to eat delicious pancakes!)
Back on the road, and thirty minutes into the drive Taryn announced that she had to go potty. I reminded her that she just went, but she apparently had to go Number 2. (Of course she did). We told her we were looking for a place and would stop as soon as possible. We were able to play out that scene for about thirty minutes before she couldn't hold it, so we called up to the front car, and pulled over. Guess what kind of toilets were at the rest area? That's right!! Automatic toilets. Taryn had a panic attack...again. She refused to go...I made her try, she did a drip of pee pee and we were back in the car again. Shortly, we had to make a routine stop for gas and I took Taryn in to the grossest bathroom that has ever failed to be maintained. It was the kind where you get the key inside and walk around back to use it. I opened the door and wanted to run away screaming in terror, but not Taryn. Her eyes lit up! "Mommy!!!! It doesn't flush on it's own!!!" (OK, so apparently I am going to enter this filth hole. No problem Taryn,let me just use every Wet Wipe in my purse to clean the general toilet area and then you can have at it). She went (all numbers), and we got back to driving.
At this point we were basically to Atlanta. We had already been on the road for ten hours, and I just couldn't get it out of my head that we should ALREADY be there! Just as we got into the heart of Atlanta the sky opened up and the rain started falling in sheets. We could barely see. It was 6 pm on a Friday and traffic was bad. There were minutes where I don't think I took a breath. (As if the passenger of the car holding her breath helps the ride be more safe?) I couldn't help it. I think the kids were being good, but truly, I don't remember. I just remember the fear.
The rest of the two hours went smoothly. We persevered through the torrents of rain, dropped Jayme off at his hotel, about thirty minutes from my sister's house, and then the kids and I kept going until we reached Cleveland! I called Chrissy when we were almost there and she met me off the exit. In the rain, and having been too long since our last visit, I knew full well the possibility of my getting lost. I still get lost in my own home town, sadly. I followed her to the house, and have never been so happy to be done with a drive. I checked my watch. 8:30. It just took us twelve hours to make a 8 and a half hour trip, Aaaaaaggghhhhh!!! Substandard!!! Had I known before we left that we would have been substandard and traumatized travelers, then I may have chosen to stay home.
Three days later though, when I was leaving my sister's house to go pick Jayme up from the hotel, all I could think was that it was totally worth it. Gas: $200 Driving time: 12 long hours, frustrations: plentiful, three days with my sister: PRICELESS!!!!
In our pre-child days, this is a little bit less than a nine hour drive. With kids, 9-10 hours is doable, as long as the kids "hold it" for as long as possible between bathroom stops, and there are no dinners at Cracker Barrel. This drive,however, did not go as planned...at all, in any way.
We left our house at 8:15 much to Jayme's dismay because he had wanted to leave at 8. We were meeting a friend of his on the highway, in order to convoy to Chattanooga where there was a Volkswagen show that they were attending. We got gas, and got going. We headed to the predetermined spot on the highway where we were to wait for them to drive past and then follow them to TN. We waited for them for about ten or fifteen minutes. It was fine, not a bad wait, other than my brain convincing me that being pulled over on the side of a highway, with my precious children singing songs in the back seat, is perhaps the deadliest place in the world to be. "Good thing we didn't leave the house on time", I lovingly pointed out to Jayme. "Otherwise we would have had to wait with a bulls-eye on our car for a half hour". Sometimes, I am fun to be married to, and sometimes I am just...not. Anyway, they passed us and we pulled out behind their car, ready to get to the business of the trip.
About ten minutes later we got a call from the car in front of us that they had to pull over. They were towing a car to the VW show, and needed to adjust something on the car. We pulled over again, in the deadliest place on earth, and after five minutes or so, started driving again. Just as we took off to merge back into traffic Taryn started making a choking sound, and when I looked back, she was covered in throw up. Gross! If you know me at all, I do not do throw up. Her mommy (I like to refer to myself in the third person when I do stupid things) had given her a bowl of dried cranberries to eat, and she had eaten about 50 craisins in about 2 minutes. She had started to choke on some, and voila...threw them up. We called the car in front of us to tell them to pull over so we could handle the "situation".
We got Taryn cleaned up and settled down, but the stop at the rest area took almost an hour. She was hysterical. This was only the second time in her life that she had thrown up, and she was afraid to throw up again. She just wanted to go home. In fact, I believe at this point she had volunteered to walk home. In addition to the getting sick, she had a meltdown in the restrooms because they were automatic flush toilets, and she is terrified of them. I knew there was no way that we were stopping again for a bathroom break, we were already WAY behind schedule, so she had no choice. The people outside of the bathroom probably thought I was being abusive, but I assure you I was not. Taryn had her hands over her ears (although it was completely silent in the bathroom) and she was screaming, "Get me out of here! Just let me GOOOO." I did not let her go. Eventually, she used the bathroom.
It was now almost 10:00, and we were only about thirty minutes from home. I was stressing out. We got to driving, and finally got some good miles under our tires when we got a call from the car in front of us, "after we cross into Georgia, do you want to stop for lunch?" I informed them that would be great, we just needed a place with grilled cheese, or chicken nuggets and other than that could stop anywhere. The restaurant of choice, Cracker Barrel. So, I was freaking out in my travelers mind. Cracker Barrel? Oh no. Good food, but slow service! "Relax", my brain told me. "Enjoy the day. Stop watching the clock. You have kids, and they would probably like to get out of the car for a while. You are on a relaxing trip, no one is keeping time. It's not a race." I responded that plan sounded fine, and we went to Cracker Barrel.
The kids were excited to get pancakes for lunch, but Taryn was still afraid to throw up if she ate again, so she only nibbled at hers. Her desire to eat was further diminished by the fact that Cracker Barrel gives real Maple Syrup for pancakes, and Taryn (like her mother) despises real Maple Syrup. We only like pancake syrup in my house. We asked for sugar free syrup, which tastes like aunt Jemima, and she ate a few bites, but still almost nothing. (Oh well, can't live in the Cracker Barrel waiting for Taryn to be brave enough to eat delicious pancakes!)
Back on the road, and thirty minutes into the drive Taryn announced that she had to go potty. I reminded her that she just went, but she apparently had to go Number 2. (Of course she did). We told her we were looking for a place and would stop as soon as possible. We were able to play out that scene for about thirty minutes before she couldn't hold it, so we called up to the front car, and pulled over. Guess what kind of toilets were at the rest area? That's right!! Automatic toilets. Taryn had a panic attack...again. She refused to go...I made her try, she did a drip of pee pee and we were back in the car again. Shortly, we had to make a routine stop for gas and I took Taryn in to the grossest bathroom that has ever failed to be maintained. It was the kind where you get the key inside and walk around back to use it. I opened the door and wanted to run away screaming in terror, but not Taryn. Her eyes lit up! "Mommy!!!! It doesn't flush on it's own!!!" (OK, so apparently I am going to enter this filth hole. No problem Taryn,let me just use every Wet Wipe in my purse to clean the general toilet area and then you can have at it). She went (all numbers), and we got back to driving.
At this point we were basically to Atlanta. We had already been on the road for ten hours, and I just couldn't get it out of my head that we should ALREADY be there! Just as we got into the heart of Atlanta the sky opened up and the rain started falling in sheets. We could barely see. It was 6 pm on a Friday and traffic was bad. There were minutes where I don't think I took a breath. (As if the passenger of the car holding her breath helps the ride be more safe?) I couldn't help it. I think the kids were being good, but truly, I don't remember. I just remember the fear.
The rest of the two hours went smoothly. We persevered through the torrents of rain, dropped Jayme off at his hotel, about thirty minutes from my sister's house, and then the kids and I kept going until we reached Cleveland! I called Chrissy when we were almost there and she met me off the exit. In the rain, and having been too long since our last visit, I knew full well the possibility of my getting lost. I still get lost in my own home town, sadly. I followed her to the house, and have never been so happy to be done with a drive. I checked my watch. 8:30. It just took us twelve hours to make a 8 and a half hour trip, Aaaaaaggghhhhh!!! Substandard!!! Had I known before we left that we would have been substandard and traumatized travelers, then I may have chosen to stay home.
Three days later though, when I was leaving my sister's house to go pick Jayme up from the hotel, all I could think was that it was totally worth it. Gas: $200 Driving time: 12 long hours, frustrations: plentiful, three days with my sister: PRICELESS!!!!
My little girl
I have been reflecting on the incomprehensible fact that my baby girl, Taryn, is almost a whole fist full of fingers old. In nine days, she will be five. She is super excited for cake, and a party, and to grow up. Always wanting to grow up. Sometimes I tease her, and beg her to stop getting older. She gets very serious (as she is wont to do) and says, "Don't worry, Mommy. Even though I am getting older, I will never be too big for you to hold." But she will. I know that someday soon, she will. Still, the pride that I have in her, and the joy of watching her grow up usually drowns out that sad, quiet little voice that is saying goodbye to her babyhood with each passing day. Usually. At birthday time, though, I allow myself the indulgence of a little bit of happy sadness. Laughter mixed with tears! My baby is growing up.
There are so many things that I adore about Taryn. One of my favorites is that she loves her baby brother ferociously. Sometimes literally! I have to count to three and only let her hug him for three seconds because if not, she would never let go, and Trevor feels strongly about that.
I love how funny Taryn is. Most of the time she doesn't try to be funny, she just has this silly, creative mind. When we made turkey cookies for Thanksgiving, she named them Turkey Butt cookies, and when she couldn't figure out how God can see her when she can't see Him, she decided in a split second that He must have huge googly-eyes. I love how her little button of a nose wrinkles all up when she thinks something is really funny, and how she throws her head back when she laughs.
I like how she shouts, "I'm ok" from the other room after I hear her fall down, and I love kissing her boo boos when she isn't ok.
I love her conscience. She confesses everything she does wrong, and it is sweet, and pure and refreshing. I hope she never learns to lie about her mistakes.
I love when Taryn puts on a puppet show for the family. She hides behind the coffee table, but not quite all the way. Her puppet, Puppy, sometimes yells at us to be quiet, and tells Trevor not to get up. And at the end, she says, "Thank you, thank you, thank you". Always three times, and always with a fun "performer" voice, while Puppy takes a bow.
Taryn's dance moves are like none other, but the best thing about them is that she says, "check out my moves" before she dances. She is also a terrific twirler. She spins, and spins, and spins, around and around for minutes on end. She gets dizzy eventually, but it seems to take much longer than it does for me, and she loves every minute of it.
Taryn is a comforter. Sometimes she looks at our 11 year old dog (who she generally pays no attention to) and asks, "Why is Molly sad today?" I always tell her, usually too briskly, "Molly's fine, she's just like she is every day". But then, as I walk away, I hear Taryn saying, "It's ok sweetie pie,you don't have to be sad". Melts my heart right there on the spot. She is that way with Trevor too, rubbing his back if he cries and trying to give him his favorite toys. And if daddy shouts from the garage, and it sounds to be a shout of pain, she runs to the door to say, "What's wrong Daddy? Are you OK? She hasn't learned to tune out other people's pain. I hope she never does.
Taryn loves sweets. She loves ice cream, which I believe she inherited from my mom's side of the family. (Ask them. They will agree!) She loves chocolate, jellybeans, cookies, cakes, lollipops...anything and everything sweet. Except Moon Pies. Those she does not like one bit! She and Trevor were M&M's for Halloween in honor of her adoration of sweets. We don't allow much sugar, but we know that when we do, Taryn is going to be overjoyed.
I love that Taryn isn't typical. She loves airplanes, rockets, trains, and race cars. Her favorite color is blue, and her second favorite is pink. She thinks a lot for a four year old and possibly over-thinks situations that she's concerned about. When she heard the local weatherman on the news tracking the hurricanes in the Gulf we had a three day discussion about what hurricanes are, and how to be safe. Don't get me wrong, it can be exhausting, and it is frustrating sometimes that she won't just BELIEVE me, and let it go. On the other hand, I think it is a neat quality that she wants to make sense of everything, and takes everything to heart. She has been that way since she was a baby! I remember that after a dinner with friends when Taryn was maybe five months old,the friend said, "Jen, your kid is too serious". It's true. Sometimes she is--and I love it. Maybe its because she is also too silly, and too funny, and too sweet, and too compassionate, and too in love with sugar...it just makes sense that she is too serious.
Taryn's baby years were precious. I would not trade them for anything. The four million photos I took, and the five outfit changes per day just to wear all of the cute stuff. She was like a little diva baby! The floppy hats, and the kisses, cuddles, and that baby smell! The big toothless grins, and the fuzzy little head. It seems like yesterday, and I loved yesterday! But today is even more amazing! Today Taryn counts, counts in Spanish, and counts by tens to 100! She rhymes like Dr. Seuss himself, and she is starting to sound out words! She makes me laugh when no one else can, and I love how she thinks my drawings are true works of art. "Wow, Mommy", she always says. "That's amazing!" It amazes me that anyone could look at my art and think anything nice about it, but to my little girl I am amazing! My heart is at least 5 times bigger and more full of love than it was five years ago, and my life is at least 5 million times brighter! If that isn't something to celebrate, then I don't know what is!
Taryn, I could not celebrate this day enough to do it justice if we celebrated it for 365 days straight! Happy birthday! You are my beautiful, bright, growing up-girl, and I love you---right up to the moon and back!
There are so many things that I adore about Taryn. One of my favorites is that she loves her baby brother ferociously. Sometimes literally! I have to count to three and only let her hug him for three seconds because if not, she would never let go, and Trevor feels strongly about that.
I love how funny Taryn is. Most of the time she doesn't try to be funny, she just has this silly, creative mind. When we made turkey cookies for Thanksgiving, she named them Turkey Butt cookies, and when she couldn't figure out how God can see her when she can't see Him, she decided in a split second that He must have huge googly-eyes. I love how her little button of a nose wrinkles all up when she thinks something is really funny, and how she throws her head back when she laughs.
I like how she shouts, "I'm ok" from the other room after I hear her fall down, and I love kissing her boo boos when she isn't ok.
I love her conscience. She confesses everything she does wrong, and it is sweet, and pure and refreshing. I hope she never learns to lie about her mistakes.
I love when Taryn puts on a puppet show for the family. She hides behind the coffee table, but not quite all the way. Her puppet, Puppy, sometimes yells at us to be quiet, and tells Trevor not to get up. And at the end, she says, "Thank you, thank you, thank you". Always three times, and always with a fun "performer" voice, while Puppy takes a bow.
Taryn's dance moves are like none other, but the best thing about them is that she says, "check out my moves" before she dances. She is also a terrific twirler. She spins, and spins, and spins, around and around for minutes on end. She gets dizzy eventually, but it seems to take much longer than it does for me, and she loves every minute of it.
Taryn is a comforter. Sometimes she looks at our 11 year old dog (who she generally pays no attention to) and asks, "Why is Molly sad today?" I always tell her, usually too briskly, "Molly's fine, she's just like she is every day". But then, as I walk away, I hear Taryn saying, "It's ok sweetie pie,you don't have to be sad". Melts my heart right there on the spot. She is that way with Trevor too, rubbing his back if he cries and trying to give him his favorite toys. And if daddy shouts from the garage, and it sounds to be a shout of pain, she runs to the door to say, "What's wrong Daddy? Are you OK? She hasn't learned to tune out other people's pain. I hope she never does.
Taryn loves sweets. She loves ice cream, which I believe she inherited from my mom's side of the family. (Ask them. They will agree!) She loves chocolate, jellybeans, cookies, cakes, lollipops...anything and everything sweet. Except Moon Pies. Those she does not like one bit! She and Trevor were M&M's for Halloween in honor of her adoration of sweets. We don't allow much sugar, but we know that when we do, Taryn is going to be overjoyed.
I love that Taryn isn't typical. She loves airplanes, rockets, trains, and race cars. Her favorite color is blue, and her second favorite is pink. She thinks a lot for a four year old and possibly over-thinks situations that she's concerned about. When she heard the local weatherman on the news tracking the hurricanes in the Gulf we had a three day discussion about what hurricanes are, and how to be safe. Don't get me wrong, it can be exhausting, and it is frustrating sometimes that she won't just BELIEVE me, and let it go. On the other hand, I think it is a neat quality that she wants to make sense of everything, and takes everything to heart. She has been that way since she was a baby! I remember that after a dinner with friends when Taryn was maybe five months old,the friend said, "Jen, your kid is too serious". It's true. Sometimes she is--and I love it. Maybe its because she is also too silly, and too funny, and too sweet, and too compassionate, and too in love with sugar...it just makes sense that she is too serious.
Taryn's baby years were precious. I would not trade them for anything. The four million photos I took, and the five outfit changes per day just to wear all of the cute stuff. She was like a little diva baby! The floppy hats, and the kisses, cuddles, and that baby smell! The big toothless grins, and the fuzzy little head. It seems like yesterday, and I loved yesterday! But today is even more amazing! Today Taryn counts, counts in Spanish, and counts by tens to 100! She rhymes like Dr. Seuss himself, and she is starting to sound out words! She makes me laugh when no one else can, and I love how she thinks my drawings are true works of art. "Wow, Mommy", she always says. "That's amazing!" It amazes me that anyone could look at my art and think anything nice about it, but to my little girl I am amazing! My heart is at least 5 times bigger and more full of love than it was five years ago, and my life is at least 5 million times brighter! If that isn't something to celebrate, then I don't know what is!
Taryn, I could not celebrate this day enough to do it justice if we celebrated it for 365 days straight! Happy birthday! You are my beautiful, bright, growing up-girl, and I love you---right up to the moon and back!
Friday, May 6, 2011
Mother
You loved me.
Unconditionally. Truly. Deeply. Always.
Even before you knew me, you loved the thought of me.
When I was unlovable, you loved me still.
You are my mother.
You sacrificed for me.
Your body. Your finances. Your independence. Your sleep.
And with a smile on your face and a happy heart,
you went without, to make sure that I never did.
You are my mother.
You taught me.
Manners. Courage. Strength. Beauty. Perseverance.
You taught me by your example, and by your words.
I learned to be what I saw in you.
I learned without knowing I learned.
You are my mother.
You let me go.
Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. Graciously.
When everything in you wanted to hold on tighter.
You trusted me enough to say goodbye, and know I would return.
You are my mother.
And now...
I love them.
I sacrifice for them.
I teach them, and one day...
I will let them go.
I am their mother.
Unconditionally. Truly. Deeply. Always.
Even before you knew me, you loved the thought of me.
When I was unlovable, you loved me still.
You are my mother.
You sacrificed for me.
Your body. Your finances. Your independence. Your sleep.
And with a smile on your face and a happy heart,
you went without, to make sure that I never did.
You are my mother.
You taught me.
Manners. Courage. Strength. Beauty. Perseverance.
You taught me by your example, and by your words.
I learned to be what I saw in you.
I learned without knowing I learned.
You are my mother.
You let me go.
Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. Graciously.
When everything in you wanted to hold on tighter.
You trusted me enough to say goodbye, and know I would return.
You are my mother.
And now...
I love them.
I sacrifice for them.
I teach them, and one day...
I will let them go.
I am their mother.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
We call ourselves Mainahs.
One of my close friends often commented to me, after hearing my many little vignettes about my childhood, that I should write a book about life in Maine. I used to chuckle, but never really thought much about it. To me, life in Maine was just life, and not really anything to write a book about. I have noticed the longer that I have lived away from The Great State, that there were a lot of things that I grew up doing, seeing, and hearing, that the rest of the world doesn't know about. Just as anyone has local norms that they know better than outsiders, the same is true for people from Maine. Mainers. Though if you ask one of us, we call ourselves Main-ahs!
Many of the things that I have discovered are unique to Maine (or in some cases New England) are foods. Whoopie pies, Italians (sandwiches, not people), Moxie, not to mention lobster caught by my neighbor. Still other things are weather related: blizzards in April, wearing T shirts in June because the temps climbed out of the 50's, walking up to the beach and being excited if the water temp on the chalkboard was 60. On a related note, there was the unforgettable feeling of sharp pain that started at my ankles and ran up the back of my legs when I first put my feet into the ocean water, as my blood adjusted to the cold. It was almost like an ice cream headache for my whole body. And then, there was the pinkish-red hue that the body has after swimming in said water, similar to how one's skin looks after applying an ice pack to an injury. In Florida, people don't look like that after they swim. But the weather related things weren't all bad. The faint smell of the salt air on a 78 degree summer day. All of the windows open, and the curtains blowing in the breeze, and not a cloud in the perfectly blue sky. Zero percent humidity. Perfect, Maine summer days are why Maine is called Vacationland. Nothing beats the beauty of Maine in the summer.
There were things, too, that were just experiences. In the spring and summer, it was lovely to canoe in the marsh just five minutes from my house, or go on a whale watch. In the winter, the whole family would go cross country skiing in the woods behind the house, or go skating on the nearby frozen pond. Neighbors had snow mobiles, but I never dared ride on one, a fact that I now completely regret. The best part of winter, by far, for me as a kid was going sledding on "snow days". Now that I am a teacher, I regularly miss snow days! There is a lot of Maine that is not on the ocean, but I grew up five minutes from the coast, and I have never seen anything that is as gorgeous to me as the rugged coast of Maine. It is breathtaking to walk on the shoreline and look out to the water to see the dark blue waves pound against the cliffs making a foamy white spray. I could watch that for hours. In summer I also loved the occasional trips to the Lobster Shack for a hamburger boat or fried clams, or the short ferry ride out to Peak's Island to spend the day.
The way we talk in Maine is a bit different too. It was poorly impersonated in "Murder She Wrote" (one of my favorite shows) by the fictional folks in Cabot Cove, but they had the right idea. R sounds, other than at beginnings of words or in blends, are dropped and replaced with the 'ah' sound. I grew up being called Jennifah...and we drove the "cah" to the the "p-ah-k". The other big dialect thing in Maine is the tremendously skilled use of the word "wicked". In Maine vernacular, "wicked" has no moral implications. It is used indiscriminately for both good and bad things. It simply means really, really, very, very. For example, a breathtakingly gorgeous day at the beach isn't "really nice", it's WICKED nice. Being stricken with a terrible flu isn't really bad, it's a WICKED bad flu. Notice how wicked doesn't replace bad. It describes it. That is key to the proper use of wicked, Mainer style. Sorry. Mainah style!
Maine was an amazingly awesome, scratch that, wicked awesome place to grow up. It was safe, and fun, and full of what life should be full of...experiences. There may have been kids who never went outside, and instead grew pasty white playing video games for every waking moment. I, however, didn't know any of them. The kids I knew climbed trees, went skiing, rode their bikes, went to the beach, went fishing or lobstering with their dad, ran cross country through the wooded trails, went on family hikes, and apple picking, or spent summers at the family house on one of Maine's awesome lakes. They even, when forced, helped their parents with the gardening. Ok, maybe that was just me. But, it was a good life. It was, as the state motto says, "The way life should be".
"I felt like I'd been misplaced in the cosmos and I belonged in Maine."
-Terry Goodkind
Many of the things that I have discovered are unique to Maine (or in some cases New England) are foods. Whoopie pies, Italians (sandwiches, not people), Moxie, not to mention lobster caught by my neighbor. Still other things are weather related: blizzards in April, wearing T shirts in June because the temps climbed out of the 50's, walking up to the beach and being excited if the water temp on the chalkboard was 60. On a related note, there was the unforgettable feeling of sharp pain that started at my ankles and ran up the back of my legs when I first put my feet into the ocean water, as my blood adjusted to the cold. It was almost like an ice cream headache for my whole body. And then, there was the pinkish-red hue that the body has after swimming in said water, similar to how one's skin looks after applying an ice pack to an injury. In Florida, people don't look like that after they swim. But the weather related things weren't all bad. The faint smell of the salt air on a 78 degree summer day. All of the windows open, and the curtains blowing in the breeze, and not a cloud in the perfectly blue sky. Zero percent humidity. Perfect, Maine summer days are why Maine is called Vacationland. Nothing beats the beauty of Maine in the summer.
There were things, too, that were just experiences. In the spring and summer, it was lovely to canoe in the marsh just five minutes from my house, or go on a whale watch. In the winter, the whole family would go cross country skiing in the woods behind the house, or go skating on the nearby frozen pond. Neighbors had snow mobiles, but I never dared ride on one, a fact that I now completely regret. The best part of winter, by far, for me as a kid was going sledding on "snow days". Now that I am a teacher, I regularly miss snow days! There is a lot of Maine that is not on the ocean, but I grew up five minutes from the coast, and I have never seen anything that is as gorgeous to me as the rugged coast of Maine. It is breathtaking to walk on the shoreline and look out to the water to see the dark blue waves pound against the cliffs making a foamy white spray. I could watch that for hours. In summer I also loved the occasional trips to the Lobster Shack for a hamburger boat or fried clams, or the short ferry ride out to Peak's Island to spend the day.
The way we talk in Maine is a bit different too. It was poorly impersonated in "Murder She Wrote" (one of my favorite shows) by the fictional folks in Cabot Cove, but they had the right idea. R sounds, other than at beginnings of words or in blends, are dropped and replaced with the 'ah' sound. I grew up being called Jennifah...and we drove the "cah" to the the "p-ah-k". The other big dialect thing in Maine is the tremendously skilled use of the word "wicked". In Maine vernacular, "wicked" has no moral implications. It is used indiscriminately for both good and bad things. It simply means really, really, very, very. For example, a breathtakingly gorgeous day at the beach isn't "really nice", it's WICKED nice. Being stricken with a terrible flu isn't really bad, it's a WICKED bad flu. Notice how wicked doesn't replace bad. It describes it. That is key to the proper use of wicked, Mainer style. Sorry. Mainah style!
Maine was an amazingly awesome, scratch that, wicked awesome place to grow up. It was safe, and fun, and full of what life should be full of...experiences. There may have been kids who never went outside, and instead grew pasty white playing video games for every waking moment. I, however, didn't know any of them. The kids I knew climbed trees, went skiing, rode their bikes, went to the beach, went fishing or lobstering with their dad, ran cross country through the wooded trails, went on family hikes, and apple picking, or spent summers at the family house on one of Maine's awesome lakes. They even, when forced, helped their parents with the gardening. Ok, maybe that was just me. But, it was a good life. It was, as the state motto says, "The way life should be".
"I felt like I'd been misplaced in the cosmos and I belonged in Maine."
-Terry Goodkind
Friday, March 11, 2011
A Shoe Full of Slush
This year, the Spring Equinox is on March 20, a mere 9 days away. I wish I was excited about that, but I'm just not. In fact, I don't really care much for Spring. It is kind of an indistinguishable season here in Florida. The weather is warming up, but after a a mere six weeks of on-and-off chilly weather with a few cold days sprinkled in, its not really something that I look forward to. Plus, Spring means it is almost summer, and although school break is glorious, it comes along 100 degree temperatures, and 100% humidity. I don't do a massive spring cleaning, or really anything special when spring gets here. School is not ending or starting. Nothing really significant is going on in my life. Spring comes and goes without me really giving it much thought at all.
But I remember Spring. Somewhere, in the foggy, recesses of my mind I remember when Spring was all that we thought about. I remember people talking about whether or not The Groundhog saw his shadow, and hoping for an early Spring so that we could bring on the snow melting, and the trees budding. Budding trees, so adorable, coming alive with their little promises of an end to the near black and white colorlessness of winter. I remember actual Spring Cleaning. It was the time when Dad got the screens out from the cellar, and we took the Storm door down from the front entrance. We would hose off the screens and put them in the windows- a sign that warm weather and open windows were near. I also remember slush!
Slush is snow's alter-ego. It is brownish, or almost gray looking, because it is filled with dirt. Dirt that came from sand and salt from the city trucks covering the streets to make the roads safer, stuff snow plows scraped up while clearing the streets, from the cars driving by, and from people walking through it. Slush is gross. It sneaks into shoes, and splashes on pant legs. People romanticize snow. Heck, I romanticize snow. Lovely, puffy flakes, falling from the sky. Coating the world in a pure, clean layer of luminous, icy beauty. But, with Spring comes warmer weather. The icicles, three inches in diameter, start to melt and fall like daggers to the earth and the snowy dream world goes away. No one would romanticize slush, but even slush and threat of impalement from ice daggers cannot destroy Spring.
Spring means promise. It means the end of the freezing cold, and the high heat bills. It means no more shoveling, scraping the windshield, snow blowing, or bundling up. The days begin to get longer, and it stays light past 5pm for the first time in months. That feeling of the burden of winter begins to lift because "Spring is in the air". Life just feels more manageable, and doable, and hopeful. I miss that. That feeling that, though the world looks dirty and slushy, there is beauty blooming beneath the surface. It can be felt. What does it feel like? Well, like "whistling, even when your shoe is full of slush"!
Happy Spring everyone! Maybe we don't feel a giant shift in the weather, or the daylight hours where we live. But let's embrace Spring anyway. Make it a time of new beginning. Be reminded to be refreshed, and to hope in the the unseen beauty in our own lives. Even if we can't see it, and even if our lives seem a little slushy at the moment. Take heart. Let's open up the windows of our souls, and feel the breeze. Spring is the air!
"Spring is when you feel like whistling even with a shoe full of slush".
~ Greg Larson
But I remember Spring. Somewhere, in the foggy, recesses of my mind I remember when Spring was all that we thought about. I remember people talking about whether or not The Groundhog saw his shadow, and hoping for an early Spring so that we could bring on the snow melting, and the trees budding. Budding trees, so adorable, coming alive with their little promises of an end to the near black and white colorlessness of winter. I remember actual Spring Cleaning. It was the time when Dad got the screens out from the cellar, and we took the Storm door down from the front entrance. We would hose off the screens and put them in the windows- a sign that warm weather and open windows were near. I also remember slush!
Slush is snow's alter-ego. It is brownish, or almost gray looking, because it is filled with dirt. Dirt that came from sand and salt from the city trucks covering the streets to make the roads safer, stuff snow plows scraped up while clearing the streets, from the cars driving by, and from people walking through it. Slush is gross. It sneaks into shoes, and splashes on pant legs. People romanticize snow. Heck, I romanticize snow. Lovely, puffy flakes, falling from the sky. Coating the world in a pure, clean layer of luminous, icy beauty. But, with Spring comes warmer weather. The icicles, three inches in diameter, start to melt and fall like daggers to the earth and the snowy dream world goes away. No one would romanticize slush, but even slush and threat of impalement from ice daggers cannot destroy Spring.
Spring means promise. It means the end of the freezing cold, and the high heat bills. It means no more shoveling, scraping the windshield, snow blowing, or bundling up. The days begin to get longer, and it stays light past 5pm for the first time in months. That feeling of the burden of winter begins to lift because "Spring is in the air". Life just feels more manageable, and doable, and hopeful. I miss that. That feeling that, though the world looks dirty and slushy, there is beauty blooming beneath the surface. It can be felt. What does it feel like? Well, like "whistling, even when your shoe is full of slush"!
Happy Spring everyone! Maybe we don't feel a giant shift in the weather, or the daylight hours where we live. But let's embrace Spring anyway. Make it a time of new beginning. Be reminded to be refreshed, and to hope in the the unseen beauty in our own lives. Even if we can't see it, and even if our lives seem a little slushy at the moment. Take heart. Let's open up the windows of our souls, and feel the breeze. Spring is the air!
"Spring is when you feel like whistling even with a shoe full of slush".
~ Greg Larson
Saturday, March 5, 2011
The Goodness of a Dog
I think it is time for me to write about the goodness of a dog. Not just the general worth of a dog, or the possibility of goodness that dogs can bring. This is the goodness of my former best friend, and the first living thing that ever really needed me, my dog Max.
Max's life story is interesting from the start. When she was 8 weeks old she was living in the house of a bunch of sorority girls who were feeding her soup and calling her Snickers, as sorority girls would. Jayme and I were at a college soccer game, sitting on a blanket on the sidelines, when she came walking past on the end of a little red leash. I overheard the girl that was walking her say that she didn't think they could keep her, but wasn't she cute? I didn't know anything about this girl except for that her name was Anna, and that I had seen Jayme talk to her before. I told him we should take the dog!
Jayme, in his usual take-care-of business manner, let Anna know that he would take the dog if she couldn't. He set up a time to go to the house to see her, which resulted in our awareness of her name and less than ideal soup diet. The next thing we knew, Max, the puppy formerly known as Snickers, was ours. I use the word "ours" loosely. Technically, she was Jayme's. He had the apartment, and I lived in the dorm, so she lived with him. In addition, he had the money, and I lived on peanut butter an jelly and pop tarts, so he paid for her shots, dog bed, food, and basically everything that her survival required. She may have lived with him and needed his financial backing, but in my heart,she was mine.
I was the one that named her Max. It is ranked like #1 in dog names, but she was a girl, so that made it unique. Plus, it fit her. I could have named her Sasha, or Sadie, but if Max was a person, she would have been the starting pitcher on a boy's little league team, or the only girl on the soccer team. She would have laughed in the faces of the Sashas and Sadies of the world. When they were running from bugs and being too full for dessert, she would have been killing spiders with her shoe and eating a full course meal. Her eyes gave her away- so full of mischief and spirit! And we could see her spunk even at ten pounds. She would give these mean, sideways glances at her rope toy and squeaky pink sneaker-glances that told me she needed a tough girl name. It had to be Max.
She was precious as can be too! Little tiny pink tongue that would like my face all over if I would let her. Mostly she just settled for my hands when she could sneak a lick in, and licking the tears from my cheeks when I was too sad to stop her. I know, I was 19 and way too young to be sad. But I was a also girl living 17 hours from home, missing my family, and juggling a Biology major with playing basketball, friend issues, self-esteem issues, love issues...there were plenty of opportunities for her to "dry" my tears.
I have so many favorite memories with Max. My favorite college memory was when Jayme, Max, and I went camping on this little mountain in Chattanooga. Jayme, having access to some money at the time, went and bought a tent, lantern, and some basic camping supplies; the most notable of which was this sleeping bag that was rated as being warm enough for -32 degrees! We were in Tennessee, and it was not that cold. It seemed like a ridiculous purchase to me, plus, I had no money. Jayme did offer to buy me one, but when I saw the price tag I declined, opting instead to bring some quilts and blankets from my dorm room. We went camping with some other people, and of course stayed up late by the campfire talking and roasting marshmallows, but in the early morning hours went to our brand spanking new tent to go to sleep. I remember that when we unzipped the zipper to go into the tent, his shiny brand new sleeping bag shined in the night. It was really nice. I could almost hear the angels singing. He climbed in, zipped up his bag, and I snuggled up in my blankets. As I tried to sleep on top of that mountain, the temperature took a dive! I don't know how cold it got, but I know that I was freezing! As I lay there on the cold ground shivering in my little cotton quilts I looked over at Jayme, in his sleeping bag rated safe for use in the North Pole, and I honest to God saw a little bead of sweat on his forehead. In that moment, I think I hated him just a little. I asked him if we could switch for a little while. I even asked if I could get in with him, forget dignity at this point, or the appearance of evil, I just wanted to live! That's when he said it, the line that he will never live down for as long as we live, "Sorry, it's a one man bag". I was a twenty year old, sweet, innocent girl-child so at that point I guessed that I had to respect that. I had seen the label myself, it really was a one man bag. Thank God we brought Max. I pulled her over under my ice cold cotton quilts, and snuggled with her all night long. I am surprised she lived. I think she warmed my body by at least 20 degrees which means I was probably sucking the life right out of her, but she didn't mind. She didn't say "no sharing", or even remind me that her fur was really just meant for her. She snugged with me, and kissed me, and let me use her like a big brown pillow. My best friend.
Max had an adventurous life. She lived in a one bedroom studio apartment and got walks in the mulch by the plants when we first saved her from a life as sorority- mascot, Snickers. Then, Jayme moved to a farm where she had acres to run and play, and another dog on the property to frolic with. When we moved to Maine after we got married, Max was in her hay day. She had always had a thick brown coat but had never put it to good use before, other than saving my life on a cold Tennessee mountain once. Seeing her in the cold though, I realized that she had that glorious fur for a reason. In Maine, she came alive! She loved going out in the snow. She would run and jump and stick her muzzle way down deep in the snow until she sneezed, and snow would fly up all around her. She would run with her mouth wide open, and it looked like she wore the biggest smile on her face! She loved walks on the beach. She would dance on the sand with her feet in the water, and would run and jump into the cold, salty ocean at Ferry Beach and paddle out to retrieve whatever we threw...a tennis ball, or stick. She seemed to go so slow, and she would hold her head up really high to not get water on her face. I wasn't sure that she was having any fun at all, until she would get back to shore with her treasure and go crazy running and rolling around in the sand. Just seeing how little things made her happy, made me happy. She made me appreciate the small things, which is quite a mighty thing for a small dog to do.
After we moved to Florida, Max was with me during the hardest three months of my life. I was really sick, to the point of needing home health care, and Max never left my side. When Jayme or his mom would come get her to take her out back to play, or go for a walk, she would look up at me with these eyes that seemed to be asking if it was OK with me. I sang a lot of songs during those months, and Max seemed to enjoy them. She would lick my hand in encouragement as it dangled over the side of the bed, and sometimes would even jump up on the bed and lay alongside me like my missing puzzles pieces. She fit just right, and provided the weight and rhythmic breathing that I needed to rest, and sometimes even sleep. I never knew a more loyal friend.
Max was 14 years old when we finally had to put her to sleep. I never would have been able to do it, were it not so obvious that she needed to go. She had had a couple of mini strokes earlier that year, but seemed to recover fully from them. She never stopped enjoying her walks, and other than being deaf and an occasional bathroom accident, had an unaffected life. Then one morning, she had a full blown stroke. She fell down and could not get up, and her head was tilted to the side in a strange way that she could not control. She kept trying to stand, but just couldn't. I cried. I picked her up in my arms, all 52 pounds of her, and carried her out back. I layed down next to her in the grass and tried to calm her- she seemed afraid. "It's OK Maxi. You're my best girl. Mommy is here with you. I love you, and you are alright". She was trying to lick me. Maybe she knew I was afraid too.
I kept waiting to see if it would pass, and if she would be alright, but her eyes were different. They had lost their spark, and their shine. The mischief that I loved so much was gone, and I knew things were about to get really tough. It was a Saturday morning, but our vet was open. We called and asked to bring Max in. When the lady on the phone asked why, I remember telling her, "I think my dog is dying". I got the car ready for her while Jayme gave her a bath. She hated baths, but she was a proud girl, and she would not have wanted to be seen in her current state. She was covered in pee, and dirt, and grass, and that is no way for the "best girl" to go out. We cleaned her up, and put her in the back of the jeep on a nice soft quilt. We put the seats down and I rode with her in the back - holding her head, and singing to my girl. It was my turn to be a friend now. In all of ours years together, I was never the one by her side. I was always walking away...to go back to the dorm, to work, on a date with Jayme, or to visit a friend, always knowing that she would be there for me when I got home. Now, she was walking away from me, but I was going to see her to the door.
Dr. Jones confirmed that this had been a bad stroke, and if we did not put her down, she would die soon enough on her own. That putting her to sleep would be kinder, as what she felt now was probably very unsettling to her, and confusing. He had been her vet for almost ten years, and knew her well, so he performed a bit of a service for her as she lay on the cold silver vet's table that she had always hated so much. His words were sweet, beautiful and awful, and the hardest things I ever had to hear. He gave her a shot that helped her fall asleep before he actually euthanized her, and I stayed with her through that. I talked to her and patted her face until she fell to sleep. She looked so peaceful. In her old age, she loved to sleep more than anything, and she was even snoring like she had always done on her green, plaid dog bed in the kitchen. I kissed her sweet little head, and left the room. Jayme stayed by her side until the end, but I needed to leave with the picture of her sleeping in peace.
Now, three years later, Max lives on with me. I have pictures of her, of course, and I tell stories of her to Taryn at bedtime. Her name is in almost all of my computer passwords in some form or another, and, of course, the answer to that security question on various websites, "what was the name of your first pet?". Max taught me so much- about love, happiness, enjoying the moment, being thankful for small things, and always waiting faithfully for the ones you love. I had pets before Max, and pets after Max. But Max was my soul-mate pet. She was the one who I loved to the core, and who I always trusted. I felt like she could defend me from harm, and be trusted with my deepest secrets. She never failed me, hurt me, gave me a dirty look, or ignored my calls. She was really, almost perfect; a super hero, minus the cape. It seems silly to people who aren't dog people, or pet people, or worse...are cat people. I know that, and I even think I understand. That's the thing about love though. Until you experience it, you can never really understand when you hear others talk about it. And that's OK. I really, truly, miss my friend, Max. I don't know if all dogs go to heaven, but if there can only be one up there, then it should be Max. I'm certainly going to whistle her tune when I get there, and I hope she comes running!
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