Tag Archives: Family

By the Numbers

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Today’s numbers are much better!

4:  The number of days until College Boy returns home for the summer.

7:  The number of school days left for The Middle Kid.

12:  The number of school days left for The Little Guy.

2:  The number lunch dates with friends I have planned for the rest of the week.

1:  The number of shopping sprees I have planned for this week.

6:  The number of squirrels that were frolicking in my back yard this morning.

86,400:  The number of seconds in this day.  I’m going to make the most of them!!

It is Meat and Drink to Me*

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As I’ve already professed to the world that I consider myself a Nerd, it will come as no big shock to hear that I love to read.  As a nerdy kid, my social skills were a little lax, so being with 3-dimensional people was sometimes awkward.  Thus began my friendship with the local librarian.  The Wagner Library was about 6 blocks from my house, and (back in the day when you could let a little girl roam about unsupervised) I went there almost every day.

Check out that first edition Bobbsey Twins novel! It's OK to be jealous!

5 was the number of books you were allowed to check out in one day, and 5 was the number of books I went home with most of the time.  Several times a week I’d trot back for more.  After exploring the library and reading different things, I determined that I liked non-fiction best, and after exhausting all the books that “interested” me, I set out to read the entire library.  That proved to be a little ambitious (even for me), so I narrowed my scope down to Sections 920 through 998:  Biographies and History.  And I started reading them in order.

My love affair with reading continued through high school, and when it came time to declare a major, I stumbled on something in the curriculum guide that seemed too good to be true:  A Liberal Arts degree, with concentrations in Literature and History.  I studied Shakespeare, Moliere, and my favorite author– Emerson.  My husband fell in love with me over Hawthorne’s Young Goodman Brown.  (He’ll probably deny that, but I know the truth.)  I delved into Russian and European history with zeal, and actually worked as a research assistant on a book called The Artist as Politician, relating the role of art in the politics of 19th century France.

A few of the "Little Kid Favorites" we keep on the shelf. The rest are in boxes (many, many boxes) in storage.

Then something happened.  I had kids.  And the pursuits I loved so much before took a back burner to their pursuits, and I stopped reading.  Well, I didn’t stop altogether.  I just stopped reading books with big words and no illustrations.  I read what they read.  We started with Dr. Seuss, and worked our way up through J.K. Rowling and Lemony Snicket.  One summer I read the entire Lloyd Alexander series, The Chronicles of Prydain (which I highly recommend!) with The Middle Child.  Reading and sharing it with him gave me great joy, and I vowed I’d start reading again, but it was a promise I didn’t keep.

Then a funny thing happened.  The kids grew up.  And I rediscovered my favorite pastime!  Now I have 20 years of catching up to do, so I’m taking it kind of slow, but I’m proud to say that in the last few months I’ve finished TWO BOOKS!  Actual hardbacks, with no pictures!  The kids had to fend for themselves a couple of times, and I left clothes in the dryer overnight.  But I finished!  (Sounds like a small feat to those without kids and a house and a dog and a mother-in-law, but it’s a huge accomplishment for me!)  So What I Read will become a part of The Lucky Mom’s new world, and I’ll be accountable to my followers to keep it interesting!

(In case you’re interested, the two books, Jane Boleyn: The True Story of the Infamous Lady Rochford by Julia Fox and Tina Fey’s new memoir Bossypants, will be reviewed under the tab at the right, What I Read.

*  *  *  *  *

*“It is meat and drink to me…” — William Shakespeare, As You Like It (1616)

I (heart) NOLA

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And I want my kids to (heart) it, too.  So when I realized that my Little Guy wasn’t developing the same affinity for it that the rest of us share, I had a mission:  to convert this suburban kid into a proper New Orleanian.

I feel blessed that I got to grow up here, and that – after wandering about for a few years – my husband and I decided to return and raise our family here.  We settled in the ‘burbs for mundane reasons (insurance, property taxes, sidewalks you can safely ride a tricycle on, and playgrounds) but our hearts were always in The City.  Despite our mailing address saying otherwise, we consider ourselves New Orleanians.  (By the way, New Orleanians NEVER refer to our hometown as “The Big Easy.”  It’s The Crescent City, The City, or NOLA.)

Back in the day (before we had kids) my husband and I were very cool people.  We would hop in our car (a shiny, blue Alfa Romeo convertible!)  and drive around The City, looking for a place to land.  Like most we developed a pattern of regular places, but we were always eager to find a new spot, too.

When our first round of kids came along, except for dragging around more gear, our pace didn’t change much.  We continued our regular jaunts to the French Quarter, City Park, and Uptown.  We’d go to Mass at the Cathedral, have dinner in the Quarter, and walk along the river.  Once we rode the entire streetcar line – from the beginning to the end of the line and all the way back.  New Orleans was our extended back yard.  As the kids got old enough to start whining about these “adventures,” we caved in and did it less often. But when we had visitors to show around, or a grown-up night out, our car instinctively crossed the 17th Street Canal* into The City.

The City would become an integral part of our big kids’ lives, too.  They went to middle school in City Park, and high school in Mid-City, so they returned to the familiar paths we once roamed.  They practiced lacrosse at Scout Island, played games at Pan-American Stadium, and ate dessert at Brocato’s.  Unlike many suburban kids, going into The City was part of their daily life.

So when the Little Guy started showing signs that he’d rather remain in suburbia, I knew I needed to do something about it.  (I learned this on a recent field trip to the Musee Conti wax museum, when he wanted to go home rather than roam the streets of the Quarter with his friends from school.)  Seizing a day from Spring Break this week, I planned an outing designed to make him become aware of the very cool things that are in our big back yard, and turn on his lust for all it has to offer (well, almost all of what it has to offer.  He’ll have to learn the rest from his brothers in a few years.)

Since no adventure is complete without a running buddy, I called the mom of his friend K, and she was in.  A little brainstorming and a plan was hatched.  There were some logistics to consider (picking up The Middle Child and K’s brother from school at 3:00), so we decided to leave our cars in Mid-City and take the streetcar down Canal Street to The French Quarter.  We wanted to roam aimlessly (sort of), have lunch someplace cool, and roam down a different path back to the streetcar line.  (I prefer to do this kind of thing with a VERY LOOSE PLAN, to avoid turning into a drill sergeant, which doesn’t become me at all, and can bring the mood down in a milli-second.)  Knowing my Little Guy as I do, I feared it would turn into a whining session fast if his brain wasn’t engaged in the moment, so I made a scavenger hunt-list of things he and K would have to find on our adventure.  Operation I (heart) NOLA was born!

We learned some historical things (that the Battle of New Orleans was fought after the War of 1812 had officially ended), some interesting things (that pigeons will eat Red Beans and Rice from your plate if you’re not paying attention), and some practical things (that the mystery fluid along the street is called Party Gravy, and you NEVER touch anything in it).

B & K riding the streetcar, acting goofy.

Lunch at the Gazebo Cafe.

Statue of Joan of Arc, patroness of New Orleans. (Joanie on the Pony to us.)

We learned that NOLA has her own rhythm (played to the beat of street musicians), and that streetcars aren’t very predictable (give yourself extra time when relying on them for transportation).

Street performer playing a James Taylor tune.

Lucky Dog vendor (We did not eat Lucky Dogs. I have conflicting opinions about whether that’s a cool thing to do or a game of intestinal roulette.)

We marveled at the beautiful paintings on the ceiling of the St. Louis Cathedral (how did they do that) and discovered the secret courtyards tucked between the beautiful buildings in the Quarter.

B & K at Jackson Square. B acting goofy again.

Completed scavenger hunt! (We had to re-route in the interest of time, so we skipped the Market and went back via the Hard Rock Café.)

Operation I (heart) NOLA was a success! Next year, the Little Guy will transition to his new school in The City.  As he starts venturing there daily I hope he develops the same love for NOLA that his dad and I share.  I hope he learns to love it so much that he’ll never want to leave!

(For a complete list of awesome places to visit in New Orleans, send The Lucky Mom a message!)

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Stuff you might not know:

*The 17th Street Canal divides Jefferson Parish and Orleans Parish. (We call our counties “parishes” in Louisiana.)  It became infamous when, during Hurricane Katrina, the canal’s levee failed, flooding the adjacent part of town.

Table for 12

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I love my dining room. Not because it’s all that fancy, or because we eat dinner in there all that often.  But because it’s become one of the places where the “Kodak moments” of my life seem to happen.  (I’m dating myself with the use of the term “Kodak moments,” aren’t I??)

My dining room is at the front of the house, just to the right of the front door, so it’s often the first impression people get when they visit my home for the first time.  In fact, if the rest of downstairs looks like it usually does, I will occasionally usher a visitor in that direction to avoid the general clutter that typically invades the direct path in.  For Halloween, when I’m opening the door for lots of people, I stage the table with decorations and candles, giving an ooohhh-aaahhh impression to those who peek in.  (It’s fine with me if they think it always looks like that!)

It serves us well for homework and studying.  The outlets in the room are usually available for a visiting laptop, and the big table is perfect for laying out flash cards or spreading out notes.

This is my first house with a real dining room.  When we moved in I had visions of fancy-smanchy dinner parties and grown-up soirees, with guests milling around, admiring my china and sipping from my good crystal.  Those events never did come to pass, but the things that have happened in this room have been even better.

I serve my holiday meals there, usually with extra tables pulled in for the family and friends who come to share special days with us.  Yesterday, as I was setting the table for Easter dinner, a wave of nostalgia came over me, and I started thinking about the memories the room had.  Snapshots flashed through my mind, and a smile came to The Lucky Mom’s face.

Christmas 2008, the year my husband was in Iraq. That year we only had 10 people at the table, but it was important to me to keep my tradition going.

We moved here in 1999.  That Christmas was the first time I was able to seat all of our guests in the same area.  We had several tables pushed together, spilling into the living room.  But we were all there.  A few years prior I had bought enough “party china” to serve more people than could possibly gather in my house.  I checked online to make sure the place settings were done right.  The room looked beautiful.

Thanksgiving of 2006 was the first holiday that our best friends (the ones we celebrate all special events and holidays with) were back in their house after Katrina.  After we sat down, my dear friend Elena said the blessing.  With her voice shaking and tears in her eyes, she gave thanks that we were all together again.  I’ll never forget that moment, for it reminded us of what really matters.

Our holiday crew has changed quite a bit over the years.  After Katrina, one whole branch of our family tree moved to Houston.  The next year, my mom went to heaven, and Gramps is now in a nursing home.  As for the “kid’s table,” 3 of the kids are in college, and 2 are over 6’ tall.  But they’re still our “kids,” and sit at their designated table without complaint.

Setting up the dining room for holidays is a bit of work — bringing in extra tables and chairs, pulling out the china, finding enough silverware for everyone.  Picking it all up is definitely a chore.

But I love it when my dining room looks like this:

because it means people I love are on their way!

Nerd + Nerd = More Nerds

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{ Source: Sony Pictures Animation }

nerd   (noun \ˈnərd\):  an unstylish, unattractive, or socially inept person; especially : one slavishly devoted to intellectual or academic pursuits

(Yes, I looked it up.  It’s what I do.)

The Caboose came home from school a few days ago in a bad mood.  He went up to his room to sulk for a little while, then appeared in the kitchen a few moments later, ready to talk about it.

Him:  I’m glad I’m not going back to that school next year.

Me:  (Concerned look.)  Why?

Him:  Because they have too many bullies.

Me:  (Seething.)  What happened?

Him:  The popular kids were calling me and my friends names.

Me:  (Seething more.) What did they call you?

Him:  Nerds.

Me:  (Sympathetic look.)  Aww.

You must understand, “aww” was the word that came out of my mouth, but my brain was saying “yessss!”  For I know the path of a nerd.  And it turned out just fine for me.

You see, I’m a nerd.  To be specific, I’m an English Nerd.  My husband is also a nerd.  He’s a Computer Nerd.  Turns out that when two nerds marry and have kids, guess what their offspring turn out to be.  You got it…more nerds.

Now I use the term with great affection.  Many of my closest friends are nerds.  (Go figure.)  But coming to terms with being a nerd is a long process.  And my Little Guy just isn’t there yet.  It’s my job to get him there.

When my kids read this (…who am I kidding, they don’t read my blog…) they’re not going to be happy.  Having one’s mom tell the world you’re a nerd can’t be good for adolescent self-esteem, but deep down I think the two older kids already know.

As for The Caboose, I’ll tell him over and over that he shouldn’t listen to what other people say.  I’ll reinforce the philosophy that “it’s what’s inside that matters.”  I’ll remind him that he has many friends who like him just the way he is.  But he’ll still want to be more like the  popular kids.  And he’ll want to be one of them.  It’s part of growing up.

This week is my College Boy’s Spring Break.  (Some of my friends have been expressing woe over their kids going to the beach for Spring Break.  I can’t even imagine that level of worry.)  When he said he planned to stay home, I was quite relieved.  Then a magical thing happened:  his girlfriend came to our house, and tucked under her arm was a physics book.  I almost cried.  They spent the afternoon at the dining room table with laptops and physics books. He has (at least on a sub-conscious level) realized he’s a nerd, embraced it, and is seeking out others like him.  The circle of life is complete for that one.

The wild-card among my children appears to be Slick, the middle child.  He has cool hair, a quick wit, and a free spirit.  He plays two team sports.  This apple may roll a little farther from the tree than the others.  (He’ll probably be a Democrat.)  But he did set his alarm for 3:30 A.M. a few days ago to wake up and study for a Latin test, so he’s clearly showing nerdy tendencies.

Raising a house full of nerds has made me happier and prouder than I ever could have imagined.  I’ve realized that the world has enough Alpha Males.  It needs more Nerds.  It needs more people who value intelligence over attention and substance over style.  I’m happily doing my part for the greater good!

So, to all the popular girls who called me names in high school, thank you.  (I’m sure some of you turned out nicely, too.)

Mama Mia

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Twenty five years ago, I married a half-Sicilian New Orleanian.  Anyone who knows anything about Italian boys from New Orleans knows that means he came with a big, loud, Italian family, and an Italian mother who loved to cook.  And her signature dish was bracioloni.*

This dish was served at all high holidays, and whenever an out-of-town relative was visiting.  All those gathered anticipated it, raved about it, and devoured it.  It was the apex of the food experience. 

Now, I myself come from a long line of good cooks.  Half Cajun and half redneck, I jest frequently that I can cook anything —  whether it comes from a grocery store or comes home in an ice chest.  From my grandmother’s chicken and dumplings to my mother’s duck, I’ve been taking it in my whole life.  But once I figured out the relationship between my husband and his mother’s cooking, I vowed I would never cook Italian food while she was still alive.  There was just no reason to put myself through that  process.  It would never be as good, and I would never hear the end of it. 

But the fact is, I really like Italian food, and my kids really like it, too.  So I started introducing some entry-level dishes to my husband and kids, like lasagna and chicken cacciatore.  They gave them rave reviews, and boosted my confidence.  When I saw a local chef presenting his bracioloni recipe on TV, he captured my attention.  I listened intently to his technique, and paid a visit to his grocery store/butcher shop the next day.  Armed with his advice, a small container of his “secret” seasoning blend, and a perfectly cut flank steak, I decided to give it a try.

It was quite different from my mother-in-law’s version of the dish, which made me feel better.  Rather than trying to out-do her, I was exploring my own variation of this favorite.  I did all the work while no one was home, thinking I could throw it away without anyone being the wiser if it was lousy.  But it wasn’t.  It was terrific, and my husband raved that it was better than his mother’s.**  I didn’t know if he was just being kind, or if it was actually that good, but when he asked me when I was planning to make it again I was validated.  Even though my mother-in-law was alive and well, I had shaken off my fear.  An Italian chef was born! 

As all good Southern cooks do, I’ve tweaked the recipe a bit, and my family loves it.  So when College Boy came home for Spring Break I decided to pull out the stops and reward him for spending the week with us, instead of going to the beach like everyone else.

Following this post is the photo-essay/recipe for The Lucky Mom’s bracioloni.   If you feel like trying it, let me know.  I’d love to hear how it turns out.

Fine print:

*The exact spelling and pronunciation of this dish is disputed everywhere.  Braciole, bracioloni, brocioloni, whatever.  It’s a fabulous stuffed, rolled meat.

** If anyone tells her this we will both categorically deny it.

The Long Goodbye

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Those who have a loved one with Alzheimer’s know what this means.

The term was made famous when Nancy Reagan described her husband’s slip into a distant world.  We all get its meaning, but only those of us who live with it truly understand it.

My father-in-law, “Gramps” to all of us, started experiencing lapses in judgment about 15 years ago. At first it was of little consequence, just slight confusion and poor decision-making.  It slipped into forgetfulness and some short-term memory loss.  Within a few years the confusion grew, and the memory loss became more profound. Simple household tasks were becoming off-limits, and driving was no longer safe.  His wife assumed the 24-hour responsibility, and the 36-hour day.  As it became no longer safe for him to be left unattended at home, Gramps became a frequent face at our house, allowing his wife a few precious hours to herself.  Then sitters became part of the routine, and eventually, a search for an appropriate facility to relocate him.

While this was happening, the impression my kids had of their grandfather changed as well. Only my oldest son has memories of Gramps when he was “whole” – when he worked, drove a car, and remembered their names. My middle son remembers him in the beginning of his decline.  He recalls going fishing, throwing a ball, going on vacations together.  But my little guy has only known Alzheimer’s Gramps.

In a way, the little guy has the easiest load to cope with, because he only remembers Gramps the way he is now.  He didn’t have to watch him slip away from us. He understands what Alzheimer’s is, and knows first-hand what it means.

In his prime, Gramps was an amazing man.  He worked tirelessly for his family.  In a story we can all relate to today, Gramps worked two jobs to rebuild his family’s losses after Hurricane Betsy.  He was generous, kind, and polite to a fault.  His wife never touched a vacuum cleaner, or pumped gas.  When his children cried at night, he paced the floor with them.  He served in the Navy with his twin brother, and served his community as a Shriner.

He currently resides at a skilled-care facility for Veterans, the third residential facility we’ve placed him in.  It’s not a VA facility, but a partnership between the state and the VA.  As a war vets home, it’s mostly men, and a place where he seems to feel comfortable with his neighbors.

Which brings me to today.

We had a lacrosse game in Baton Rouge, and stopped to see Gramps at his “home” on our way home this afternoon.  While we adults visit often, we keep our visits with the kids controlled, limited to times when we think Gramps will be receptive to visitors, and under conditions that won’t freak them out. 

We arrived in the early afternoon, and I ushered the boys to the family room, while hubby went to retrieve Gramps from the secure Alzheimer’s unit.  Some of the other residents are in states of deeper decline, and visiting the unit can be uncomfortable even for adults.   So Gramps greeted the boys in the game room, where the air hockey and pool tables waited, and other families visited with their loved ones.  We spent about an hour visiting with him, playing games, and talking.

Watching them interact with their grandfather was a beautiful thing. They played pool with patience, explaining the rules with every turn, and laughing along when things got confusing.  They reminded him of their names, what grade they’re in, and promised to visit more often.

As the rate of his decline continues to accelerate, opportunities like today will come less often.  Catching him on a good day will be a gift, and the number of times they get to make memories with their grandfather will decrease.  And when he can no longer interact with them, and no longer remembers them, they will have something to cling to.  So will I.

I’ll pray for you, you heartless jerk.

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It was up… it was down.  Now it’s up again.  My cooling off period is over, and I’ve decided I’ve got to say what I’ve got to say.

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I’m so angry right now I don’t know what to do with myself.  The kind of angry I don’t get very often.  The kind of angry I don’t understand, because it is so unlike me.  The kind of angry that makes me wish bad things on people.

I don’t get like this over a wrong committed against me.  This level of ire is reserved for those who commit a wrong against one of my peeps.  One of my kids.  The details of this will (I’m sure) come out eventually, but for now I’ll keep it vague.  Not because I’m trying to protect anyone, just because I’m certain if I start, I will spill spew vitriol the likes of which the world hasn’t seen from me in decades.  There will be words spoken – and written – that can’t be taken back.

I think you get my point now.  I’m pissed.

So here it is in a nutshell: Someone has done something that has caused one of my children pain and humiliation.  Big pain.  Big humiliation. Which leaves me with the cleaning up part.  How to teach a child to deal with anger and disappointment, how to hold your head upright in an extremely awkward situation, and how to move on. I’m thinking I’m going to have to break this thing up into manageable chunks to deal with it.

Dealing with anger is a work in progress for me.  I do it better now than I have in the past, but shrinks everywhere make a living coaching people on how to do this, so I don’t feel bad that I haven’t mastered it.  I do know a couple of rules:  1) Resist the urge to confront immediately.  A cooling-off period is mandatory.  2) It always looks different to the person on the other end, so consider this before responding.  It may change your perspective, or it may give you good ammunition for sniping later. 3) NEVER put anything in writing after having consumed alcohol.

The next part is harder: how to reenter the public eye after being humiliated.  My instinctive maternal response was to shelter the boy.  To open my wing and tuck him under like a mother duck would do her baby in a rainstorm.  Then the rain would have to roll off of me, not him.  But that ain’t how it works for us humans.  Sooner or later we have to face the world.  A friend shared a cliché with me once, “If you have to eat a shit sandwich, there’s no point nibbling.”  Good advice.  Just get it done.  Expect it to be awful, and get it done.

Then, moving on.  Ahhhh.  The other part that keeps the mental health profession thriving.  Any and all advice is appreciated.

This particular kid faces more trials than most kids.  But then, not as many as others.  As I’ve shared before, when my mama was feeling down, she’d invoke the old saying, “I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.” There are parents out there today crying for much greater pains their kids are feeling.  And I reminded myself of that last night.  His problems are small compared to the big, scary world.  But they are BIG to him.  They are HUGE to him.  And his perspective is the only one I care about right now.

So the person who has committed this wrong against one of mine better look out.  When I decide to say my piece, it won’t be very nice.  And while I don’t usually wish harm to others, right now I’m wishing it on you, you arrogant coward.

To use the words of the Jaron and the Long Road To Love song, I’ll pray for you, sir.

I pray your brakes go out running down a hill.
I pray a flowerpot falls from a window sill and knocks you in the head like I’d like to.
I pray your birthday comes and nobody calls.
I pray you’re flying high when your engine stalls.
I pray all your dreams never come true.
Just know wherever you are honey, I pray for you.

Family Expectations

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Note:  This post was moved from another page on the blog…  You’re not crazy.  You may have read it before.

My family has gone through a lot of transformation in the last few years.  My husband’s deployment to the Middle East, kids growing up and going off to college, little boys turning into big kids, and aging grandparents have all caused some unanticipated growing pains for us all.  So recently I felt the need to develop a new family policy.

In the “olden days,” things became law when they were posted in the town square for all to see.  It was understood that a citizen’s responsibilities included checking the designated wall from time to time to keep up with the changes, and to act accordingly.  In our house, the equivalent of that town wall is the refrigerator.  The left side of the fridge is for scheduling.  My integrated calendar hangs on that side, with each family member’s activities merged into one place.  The right side of the fridge is for policy.  When mom has a message for the family, that’s where it goes.  And the bigger it is, the more importance it bears.  And when it’s in colors – well, you just better read it and be ready to discuss it at dinner.

If I’ve learned nothing else as the only female in my household, it’s that I think differently than they do.  My girly sensibilities about being nice, sharing and the like don’t translate well to the guys.  But, still, I felt the need to restore a bit of gentility to my home, so started a list.   I pondered the lists in pop culture that state things that everyone should already know.  The one that seemed to have started it all was Robert Fulghum’s 1988 credo All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.  Simple instructions – like Play Fair, Don’t Hit People, and Don’t Take Things That Aren’t Yours – that too many people seem to have forgotten (if they ever knew them to begin with).  The list I read most recently was Gretchen Rubin’s 12 Rules of Adulthood in her book The Happiness Project.  Hers are less practical and more existential, but still strike at the heart of kindness, honesty and fairness, in an introspective way.

As I considered the purpose of my list – to promote harmony in my household – I had to keep it on the practical side.  The males who live in this house don’t really like it when I speak in code, and I don’t really like it when they don’t understand me, so I figured I’d better be direct. Thus the list entitled “Family Expectations” was born.  Printed neatly on a small poster-sized page, each item in a different color, I’d used all the tools in my bag to express to them that this was important to me.  I even taped it to the fridge about 4’ off the ground, so it would be eye level to the youngest reader.  I went further, and de-cluttered the top of the fridge, so it wouldn’t be lost in the visual chaos that sometimes creeps up.

Family Expectations:

Be happy.

Cooperate with others.

Show respect.

Communicate without anger.

Act responsibly.

Be honest.

Pick up after yourself.

Forgive.

I chose not to make the customary announcement about the new posting, but to let it come to me from each of them in their own way.  While one or two of them may have chosen not to bring it up, I knew they all saw it, so my message was delivered.  Whether it would bring about a change in behavior I’d have to wait and see.  I didn’t think any of the entries were unreasonable, and all were things that a loving family should do anyway, so I had no need to feel like this was an abusive request.

The first day went by without remark.  The second day one of the kids made a sarcastic crack, actually using one of the posted expectations to extort a desired behavior from his brother.  (NOT what I had in mind.)   On the third day my youngest son drew a picture on the list, and added a few items.  (Again, not what I had in mind.)  The dialogue I imagined never happened, but my point was made.

I get these dreamy visions sometimes, of my family having an intellectual discussion about matters that are of importance to me, taking them seriously, ending with a big group hug of confirmation.  But that never happens.  So I have to accept that we are not the uber-polite, Stepford-family in my visions.  My kids argue, don’t clean their rooms without threats, pull tricks not to eat their vegetables, and sneak electronic devices under the covers after bedtime.  But they also do their homework, eat dinner at the table with their parents, go to their little brother’s school play on a Saturday night, and are generally good kids.   And we love each other.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.  I’m such a Lucky Mom!

The Lucky Daughter

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I’ve been thinking a lot about my mom lately.  Maybe it’s the holidays, which are so full of the memories and traditions she gave me.  Maybe it’s the growing kids that she didn’t get to share with me.  Who knows.  When I think of her I don’t usually get sad, because (1) she had an awesome life and (2) I know she’s in heaven, which must be pretty awesome!!   But the thoughts of her have prompted me to make a list of her best attributes, with the hope that I can emulate some of them.

The only baby picture of my mom.

She was old-fashioned.  But not in a backward way – she held on to traditions that added values to our family.  Believe me, she embraced modern conveniences every chance she got during her daily life.  But when it came to holidays, she baked every pecan pie just the way her mother did.  My children were the only ones in preschool with starched pants.  She prayed every day.  She held on to the things that made life meaningful.

She embraced change.  Sounds like a contradiction to the previous item, but it’s not.  She had a great career, jumped on the technology bandwagon when it rolled through, and got a toe ring when she was in her 60s.  My son and I were talking about cell phones the other day, and he commented that if Granny were alive, she’d have the coolest phone on the market, and she’d play games on it all day long.  And she’d be on Facebook.  No doubt about that.

My mom and her friend we called Mimi. They’ve been best friends from age 15, all the way through their “Red Hat” days!

She was fiercely protective of her family.  Sarah Palin may think she’s the original Mama Grizzly – but she never met my mom.  She could be a little meek when it came to herself, but woe betide the person who committed a wrong against one of hers.  That’s all I’m going to say about that.  Those who were on the receiving end of that know who they are.

She was generous.  My family was a fairly modest, middle-class family.  Our life wasn’t fancy, but we had a brick home, 2 cars and a boat.  We didn’t take extravagant vacations or buy expensive clothes, but my parents gave generously to their children, their church, and their chosen charities.  I don’t ever remember her walking past a bell ringer at Christmas or a Shriner in front of the grocery store without dropping money in their bucket.  When kids would knock at the door selling candy, she’d pay for two boxes, and then give one back to the kid to keep for himself.  She never put coins in a collection basket, or ones for that matter.  She gave generously.

She faced the end of her life with courage.  As her physical health declined, she acknowledged it.  In the final months on earth, she suffered a series of strokes, each one taking a little more from her.  She had vascular dementia, which would come and go when one of the small strokes she had would hit.  Sometimes it would last for a few hours, sometimes a few days.  But when her wits were with her, she spoke openly and honestly about life and death.  She wasn’t afraid to die.  I think it’s because her life was so well-lived.

She was a woman of faith.  No doubt inspired by her mother (who I never knew).  She lived with us when my youngest son was born, and that child never went to bed without having a Hail Mary sung to him at bedtime.  She did a good job at infusing faith into everyday activities.  She didn’t just practice her faith.  She lived it.

She was a delightful blend of love, strength, faith, and beauty.  She loved the beach, a good cup of coffee, and visiting with her sisters.  She died with a freshly done cherry-red pedicure.  She had the same best friend from age 15.  She liked to travel, but she loved coming home.