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Becoming Mom

5/8/2016

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“You are the Mom,” he said. “Sing the lullaby,”


I looked blankly back at my Greek Language professor, not quite believing my ears.  All the other students were staring.


“You sing,” he repeated.  “We learn this song so you can sing to your baby.  So sing!”


Could I say no?  


Could I disappear under my too-small desk?


I didn’t mind singing with the class.  I could fade in, unnoticed, with the bellowers around me.  No one particularly cared that the pregnant one sang off-key. 


I heaved myself from the chair.


“Sing for us!” the professor said again, completely ignoring my strife.  “You got Greek baby, you sing Greek lullaby.”  


My belly suddenly seemed to grow to enormous proportions, swirling with nausea underneath that small child.  My cheeks burned.  


But I stood, and I sang.


“Fisa ageri apolo to pedi kimise mou…”   I carried the tune of Braham’s Lullaby awkwardly and fearfully, like one would carry a rooster in a paper bag. 


Talk about self-conscious embarrassment.


I was a Mother, because I was eight months pregnant and ready to pop.  


But I was not MOM yet. 


No.  


Not yet.


Six weeks later, in a hospital room in the middle of the night, my self-consciousness would molt away while I yelled at a nurse “I don’t care if my plan says I want a natural birth with no medication!  I’VE CHANGED MY MIND!”  My world crashed down a rubbly landslide around me, in a rush of pain and agony.  When I suddenly landed on the bottom of the cliff, on solid, silent ground, I stared into the bluest eyes and the reddest face of the most beautiful and delicate creature I had ever beheld. 
 
She was screaming.  


I melted. 


Nothing else mattered anymore. 


I was Mom.


The metamorphosis brought me out of my personal cocoon, and turned me into something new.
The complete transformation caught me by surprise.  I had thought I was all grown up already.  I was twenty-eight years old, for crying out loud.  I knew who I was, and what I liked.


I read Dickens, Dumas, Dante.


After my transformation into MOM, I bought a new book.  


It was Go, Dog, Go.


I set aside my language studies, and perfected the most ridiculous baby talk.  “You are such a Cutie Pie!  Yes, you are!  Are you a little honey bunch?  Yes, you are!”


She smiled at me, that little cherub with the chubby cheeks.  And I would somehow forget that she was the same chimp who had kept me awake for four hours the night before, colicky and crying.  


Those first long weeks of being Mom, life hinged upon the 15 minute cycle of the wind-up baby swing and my willingness to sing.   As the swing slowed to a stop, the child awakened and screamed, and like Pavlov’s dog, I frantically rewound the handle, singing another song to get 15 more minutes of sleep.  Creak, creak, sway, sway…crank. crank. crank. “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way…”  I felt inept.  Where were those studies when I needed them?  Reports?  Doctors’ notes?  I had studied current academic thought on child psychology.


But no one had ever hinted to me how important it would be to sing.  Except that Greek professor.  He was on to something there.  Perhaps Classical Greek widom.


It didn’t matter that I was unkempt with fatigue, my hair unbrushed, my entire chest wall cracked, chapped and bleeding from eternally nursing.  My life had become a swamp of poopy diapers, spit-up-on burp cloths and hemorrhoids.   To this child, I was beautiful.  I was the goddess Athena, the opera diva Maria Callas, and Broadway star Idina Menzel wrapped into one big feeding machine.   I could sing.  


And my baby would look up into my eyes with her inquisitive little face, patting me on the chin.  She’d pull a fistful of my hair, cling to me while she fell asleep and I could only remember that I loved her.  


And I would sing with unashamed peace and joy.


I had become Mom. 

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Happy Heart Day!

2/14/2016

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The World has Fallen Down

1/16/2016

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The death of David Bowie had me feeling sentimental today.  I turned on some tunes while I made lunch for the kids.    As soon as he heard me blasting “As the World Falls Down” (Labrynth)  Doug entered the kitchen.   That was the song we began our married life with.  First dance as a couple.  


Aww.  


I was so desperately nervous to dance in front of all those people watching.  David Bowie’s music calmed me down.  What were Doug and I thinking?  Two artists, in our 20’s, getting married and dancing to Muppet music?  And the song was called “As the World Falls Down”?  Really?


Here we are, seven kids and a few decades later.  Yes, the World Has Fallen.  I cast aside the sandwiches and lettuce, like a bride tossing her bouquet all over again.  And Doug and I begin to dance.  In the kitchen.  No one is watching, so it’s all good.  


“Ewww!  Time to leave!” one child cries.


“It’s so romantic!” says another, dreamily.  


Small One appears out of nowhere, an Easter basket full of Kleenexes on her arm.  She pulls a tissue out of the basket with great pomp and circumstance, and throws it on the floor at our feet.  Again and again, she rains down Kleenexes around us as we whirled around in front of the dishwasher.  


“I’m your flower girl!”

When she asked me to put on my wedding dress, I just laughed.  Perhaps my arm might fit in the skirt part?   She was thrilled when I suggested it might fit her better, instead.  Oh, the twirling that ensued.  Just Joy.


Thank you for the music, Mr. Bowie.  

It's a lovely world, even though it has fallen down.
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Small Hand

1/9/2016

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Recently I needed to drive to the airport to pick someone up from a red-eye flight.   I tried to plan ahead a bit, so I wouldn’t be too tired.  Supper was on the table, bam!  Right at 5 o’clock.  Dishes done, backpacks and lunch boxes for tomorrow morning’s school rush all lined up.  Just like clockwork.


At around 6 pm, the kids were all calmly reading, so I thought I’d take a small nap before the kids went to bed.  I cozied up with a fuzzy blanket, fell asleep right away, while the neat, clean kids read books quietly, the whole time.  The kids said their prayers and put themselves to bed.  I awoke refreshed, and rested…


…Said No Mom, Ever!


Who am I trying to kid?  Reality runs a different race around here.


Instead, I dealt out bowls for Cheerios, smooth and fast, like a blackjack pro.  Spoons flashed, a blur of lightening on the table. Watch out for flying cups!  Good thing they are plastic.  Milk spilled where?  And that is ENOUGH sugar, Mister-I-Don’t-Care-If-I-Have-To-Go-To-The-Dentist-Again.  Did you really spill milk on her homework?  Well, it’s not the graphing calculator, so we’re fine.  Prayers, anyone?


At around 6 pm, dishes were piled high.  Dishwasher broken again!  The kids were nowhere to be seen.  Backpacks and lunch boxes and homework papers were scattered all over the living room.  This seemed the perfect time to sneak off and sleep for a few minutes.  I should have hidden in the closet.  I cozied up with the unfolded but clean laundry piled all over my bed, closed my eyes, and drooled like a leaky faucet. 


Then I heard them.  In my drowsy state of semi-consiousness, I heard the pitter patter of small feet.  No one was yelling, so I kept on dreaming…I can sleep through this.  More feet entered the room.  Clickety click, the dog’s toenails crossed the hardwood floor.  With a few squeaks on his tennis ball, he scampered away like an aged buffalo across the prairie, hoofs beating.  Two Small Someones climbed onto the bed.  One began to giggle.  One began to jump.  The giggler joined in the jumping, and bounced the other kid off the bed.  A chorus of laughter ensued, and the voices faded away into the kitchen.  Meanwhile, Child Number Three climbed into bed and covered me with her cherished blanket.  


And she began to sing.  


Her little hands tangled into my hair, rubbing my head like just like I have done for her whenever she is sick, or needing extra love.  Gently, she smoothed out the snarls, and caressed my sagging jowls.  “Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry me hoooooome…”  Her voice lilted through my foggy brain and I drifted, asleep in the softness of the melody and the laundry.  I didn’t fully awaken even as she began to sing Christmas carols.  Joy to the World, Silent Night, We Three Kings… Every song she had heard lately, during Advent and Christmas, rang out softly and clearly in her little cherub’s voice.  


She mothered me, just like she mothers her ragged pink stuffed dog.  I felt loved.  Cherished. 


Just then, in my dream-state, I knew the two bed-jumpers had returned.  They began to jump and laugh and chortle and steal my bath-towel pillow.  Oh, how the Lullaby Girl howled!  Fiercely and Instantly, she was upon them.  She leapt from the bed, a fa-la-la-la-la trailing behind her like tinsel from a tree, and she chased those two big siblings right out of the room.  Scolding them for all she was worth.  A roaring tigress, defending her sleeping kitten.


My eyes opened completely, and I saw her face then, peering closely into mine.  “It’s all right, Mom.” she whispered.  “They’re gone now.  They won’t be back.  Close your eyes.”  Again she lifted her voice in song “…The First Nowell, the Angels did say, was to certain poor shepherds in fields where they lay….”




Late that night, as I drove off to the airport, I remembered the touch of her little hands on my forehead.   And her ferocious defense of her sleeping Mom.  


This was what being a Mom is all about, and I wondered at the mystery of it all.  Motherhood is a tumbled mix of Love and Ferocity, Lullabies and Scoldings, a full kitchen sink and a shepherd, lying in the fields among her sheep.


Silent night, Holy night.  


Motherhood is oh, so very lovely. 

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Are You Ready for Christmas?

12/17/2015

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Are you ready for Christmas?  

There is so much to do!  Start checking off the long list:

Presents… ’Tis the season to bustle about, rushing to buy presents.  Make sure you don’t forget anyone!  Is this the right size?  Oh, forget it.  If a mom buys clothing for a teenager, it just ends up on the closet floor anyway.  This mom definitely doesn’t know what is cool.  Is cool even a word anymore?  I think they say “hot” now.  Personally, I would rather spontaneously combust than call my daughter’s clothing “hot”.  Good grief.  The thought of my little girls someday being hot is enough to engulf me in burning flames of panic.  That is hot.  Better stick to books.  Maybe if I buy them books, they’ll be more interested in the library.  Libraries are safe and quiet.  And socks.  Books and socks.  They’ll be so pleased with their Christmas presents…


Decorate…  Must I?  The house is so cluttered already, that I can’t bear to do it.  Can’t we just arrange your Playmobil characters on the mantel in a Christmas-y, manger scene and be happy?  You can add the giraffe and the orangutan, too, Dear.  I know they all want to see Baby Jesus.  I’ll even light some candles.  But that didn’t go so well this year.  The first night of advent, the lone candle flickered in the darkness, a glow of warmth like a halo while we sang Silent Night.  Then the flame scorched a hole in a lampshade.  I knew it was too cluttered in here!  I am done with candles. 


To the delight of the kids, we do now have a tree in the living room.  It’s not enough to have a huge family, a dog on the couch, and a rabbit dwelling in the living room.  We also have a Christmas tree.  It is completely covered with hundreds of sparkling things.  We had a lot of lights to string up.  This fake tree is supposed to automatically light up, but it is old and mostly doesn’t work.  After searching for stored strings of lights, finding the lights in the garage, untangling the lights, testing the lights,  dropping the lights, cleaning up the glass from the broken lights…I had enough of lights.  But one side of the tree was clearly still dark, and all we had left were nets of lights that are supposed to go outside on shrubs.  We have no shrubs.  Why do we own lights like this?  I figured no one will ever notice if we throw them on the Dark Side of the Tree.  The next day, my mom came over to visit, and see the tree.  She ooohed and aaahed and praised me completely for my newly-emerged home decorating skills.  Then she looked at me quizzically. “Why did you use shrub lights?”  Why, indeed.
Let this be a lesson to you.   
You can’t fool Mom. 


Bake… I did it.  I specially adapted my grandmother’s Christmas cookie recipe to be Gluten Free.   After years of trial and error, and more trial and error, they were finally perfect!  “These are great, Mom!”  “Can we frost them now?” “I get the green sprinkles!” The kitchen was filled with warmth and sugar and lovely memories of my grandma.  We can only do just one cookie sheet before bed, I warned.  Just one.  We are not eating all of these cookies before Christmas!  This is just a sample!  So we rolled and cut out and baked and finally, we all crowded around the table to frost and decorate the one pan of cookies.  As little hands grabbed for stars and trees and gingerbread shaped cookies, one little hand knocked over a rather large glass of water.  Yes.  Right onto the cookie sheet.  “Save the cookies!!!” the cry rang out.  Now, some cookies might be strong enough to be dunked in coffee, and enjoyed.  But not my gluten free genius cookies. They did not fare well with the mild drowning.  We decorated the few cookies that survived, trying not to stare at the mush in the pan.  At least we hadn’t baked them all.


Clean…  Clean?  I have nothing to say on this matter.  The more I clean, the more I realize that the walls need fresh paint.
You know, I can barely juggle my own regular stuff.  How can I add Christmas preparations as well?!   It is so frustrating!  It will never be clean, let alone perfect!  Our Christmas dinner will be loud and crowded, probably burnt, and someone will spill their drink, and the plates will have to be pushed aside and the tablecloth lifted and scrunched, and we will all laugh and be soggy and happy together anyway.  Reading books.  In our new socks.  


I guess that is our "perfect".


In all my preparation frustrations of last week, I grabbed my camera and went for a walk.  I needed some peace and quiet.  I needed an ‘all is calm, all is bright’ kind of moment.  A  new perspective.  In the frosty cold of the morning, with the sun just beginning to rise, here is what I found:
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It's just an old barn.  That's all.  Run down, caving in.  Severely deficient, like my home decorating skills.   But some hard working people, a long time ago, picked rocks from their fields.  They gathered them together, and patiently stacked them.  One rock at a time, a bit of mortar here and there... added rough wood and nails.  It's not pretty.  It's not perfect.
But this barn is all that was needed.
It's all I need right now.  
I stood at the barn door, thinking about the holy night in Bethlehem long ago...
This is all I need to get ready for Christmas.  
I will muck out my own barn by going to confession, and saying I'm sorry to those I have hurt.  I will sweep away the stones of cynicism, and instead try to repair faith by putting the stones to more constructive use.
I will add some hay of gentleness.
That's it.  
And I will wait.

I'll be ready for Christmas, after all.
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She's in a Book!

11/12/2015

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Okay, I know it's not even Thanksgiving yet...  But this just arrived in the mail, and I wanted to share it.  Guideposts has published their 2015 Edition of  "The Joys of Christmas", and inside is a story about Stella!  We're so excited!  This was the big Christmas photo shoot that I wrote about in June.  A great big thank you to my editor, Daniel Kessel, and to Guideposts editor-in-chief, Edward Grinnan, who writes about his brother, Bobby, in the notes from the editor.  Also many thanks to David Bowman Photography for patiently taking pictures.  
 Thank you all for sharing in the Joys of Christmas with us!
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The Truth

9/15/2015

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Before my daughter was born with Down Syndrome, some people painted a grim and terrible picture of what my life would be like if such a thing happened.  

“Your life will never be the same!”  
“Your life will revolve around hospitals.”  
“You won’t have time for your other kids.”  
“You will always be sad and regretful of the things your child cannot do.”

Even after she was born, a geneticist at a specialty clinic upbraided me, using primitive scare tactics.  
“I know you like babies, but you will never want to have another baby after this one,” she said in an authoritative voice, towering over me in my daughter’s cardiology office.  “You will worry and agonize every moment of another pregnancy.  You’re old and your risks are high that this will happen to you again.”  

She said this to me as my small, almond-eyed daughter cooed softly in my arm, tightly gripping my finger and my heartstrings.  

Despite that doctor’s admonishments and scolding, a couple of years later, my daughter grew into a  glorious, curious toddler.  And I did get pregnant again.  On purpose. 

I was 39 years old.   

At that ultrasound appointment, the doctor examined my prenatal son’s body closely.  He measured limbs, organs, examined bone structure, checking all the typical markers for Down Syndrome.  

“You need to have a Triple Screen done,” he said.  “I don’t see results in your file.  You are considered a geriatric in the ob/gyn world, so you need to have that done.  The fetal matter is high risk for abnormalities.”  

Wait.  He had just told me I was having a son.  Why was he now calling my little man fetal matter and wanting tests for abnormalities?  

“Look.  I’m not afraid,” I said.  “I already have a child with Down Syndrome, and she’s not the least bit scary.  She’s wonderful and absolutely beloved.”

The doctor looked me in the eye for a moment.  He closed his file, stood up, and left the room without another word.

After he was gone, the young ultrasound technician leaned in toward me, with a confiding smile.

“I’m not allowed to say this in the office", she said in a hushed voice. "But I’m so happy for you!  My friend has a toddler with Down Syndrome, and he is full of love.  He has made their family’s life so rich and happy!  I know how much love your daughter brings.”

We chatted about babies and Down Syndrome for a few more minutes, quietly sharing the joy that we both knew well.  Babies with Down Syndrome are, like every baby, full of Love.  

As an expectant parent, you may feel afraid.  You will be tested, and categorized, and railroaded.  You will be counseled, scolded, and warned.  You may feel inept or not up to the task, or just plain stressed out, because all circumstances are not ideal.  But talk is talk.  Threats of doom are just threats.  You don’t have to go down that path of worry and fear.  Especially if your child shows some characteristic that seems unique, or challenging, or just plain scary… 

Don’t lose sight of the simple truth.   

Your life will change forever, because you will be filled with Love. 

When my daughter was about a month old, I was holding her in my arms, speaking to a friend.  A man in a suit, a stranger, approached me.  He was visiting from out of town, he said.   "My own son has Down Syndrome, too.  I miss him so much when I travel.  May I hold her, please?” he asked.  He cradled my baby close to his heart, then kissed her soft, peachy face.  Tears dripped down his cheek and into his beard.  “You have no idea of the Love that is in store for you,” he said, and walked away.  

He was right.  

You have no idea of the Love that is in store for you.  

That is the truth.

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Semicolon Cat

7/29/2015

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;

A semicolon is a small bit of punctuation that separates two related ideas.  

It’s a clause. 

A pause.  

A semicolon says,  “Wait!  This is not the end;  there is more to come.”

The news today tells us that some people are tattooing semicolons on their wrists to symbolize that there is more to their life story.  They are people who have fought with death or trauma or attempts at suicide, but they have won the battle.  Even though they walked through a very dark valley, and their world and situation seemed hopeless, they made it through.  People with semicolon tattoos are survivors with a backstory.

They paused. 

And they chose hope. 


So, I'd like to introduce my friend.   I like to call him Semicolon Cat.  He has a backstory.

Someone didn’t want him when he was a baby.  He was thrown away.  Abandoned in the darkness of a Minnesota winter.  He was unloved and left to die.

Semicolon Cat appeared on the edge of a woods where my friend lives.  He was tiny, hungry, and matted.  Just a kitten, he had battle scars from facing a mean world on his own.  One ear was wounded; probably frozen in the winter winds.  It bent over, cartilage broken, and just stayed that way, folded in half.  His tail was bent, too.  It dangled and dragged along as he walked, hanging by a thread.  His abdomen was caked in matted blood.

He stayed on the periphery of the woods, watching my friend’s cat daintily lap up her cream on the sunny porch in the mornings.  She slept in an igloo dog house with a heated floor pad, dining twice a day.  She was petted and fluffy and beloved.  He stayed on the edge of the yard, watching.  Suffering.  Afraid.  Wounded.

The family asked around, but no one admitted to losing a little ragged calico cat.  Not a cat whose half a tail just fell off.  The family put out a little extra cat food at night, and left a warm quilt out on the porch.  

The kitten stayed.

The female cat wouldn’t let him in her house.   “It’s too cold for him!” the children said.  “The little kitty needs a place to sleep!”  They left him treats, and my friends cut a hole in their garage door, just the size for a stray feral cat.  He curled up in the warm garage, and began to heal.  Days and weeks and months passed.  Spring came, and Semicolon Cat fattened up on the love of the children, on the pets and caresses and the joy of strings tied to sticks that he chased around the yard.    

He chose this family, and they all love him, just the way he is.  He came out of the woods and right into their hearts, to stay.  He likes to keep close by, following them around, purring and marking their legs with his scent of ownership.  He is a good hunter, and leaves his people special gifts of dead frogs and moles.  He lounges around, right at their front door, rolling over to expose his belly for pets, because he trusts them so implicitly.  He is the most affectionate and loving cat I have ever met.   He is beloved.

Someday if you find yourself in a dark place, feeling unloved and alone, please remember Semicolon Cat.   

Pause.  

Hope. 

Make it through for the Love and Joy that is waiting for you, on the other side of the woods.  

Because someday, today will only be your backstory…  and you can fill the rest of your story with love.
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Gentle and Rare

7/15/2015

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“I see you have a child with Down Syndrome. (Snort) So how’s that goin’ for ya?”   

The woman waited for a response, looking at me with a snarky smile.  I took a deep, slow breath.  

How does one answer a question like this?

Was she hoping I would give her an inside scoop, gossip with a stranger about the difficulties of caring for a child with special needs?  Could she be serious?  

I know it’s easy to get defensive.  Maybe she wasn’t trying to be rude.  Maybe she really wanted to know. 

A lot of people want to know.

Children with Down Syndrome are just not seen much these days.  They are like an elusive, gentle, endangered Panda.  

Rare. 

“My daughter is doing really well, actually.”  I begin.  “She’s a gentle kid who loves to read.  She is one of the kindest people I’ve ever known.”

I smiled at the woman.  After a few more minutes of chatting, when she walked away, she smiled back.  

Only now, her smile was genuine.  

Today reminded me that life is not about confrontation.  It’s not about winning by lawmaking,  or by brute force, or even by being just rude.

We win this life one heart at a time, with gentleness.  With love.

Because when people care, it makes all the difference....

for both an endangered animal and for a child.
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A Special Hug

6/15/2015

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Before, I didn’t know.

Before my child was born with Down Syndrome, I never thought about what it meant to have a child that was Special.  Because all my kids were special.  Each one is unique, with his or her own talents, abilities and struggles.  They are all special.  But Stella is Special, with a capital S.  It’s a little something extra.

That extra chromosome has done something remarkable and different to her, that I never could have understood before I knew her.  One tiny extra chromosome has changed everything.  

Let me explain with a story.

One evening, when Stella was about two years old, our family visited a church that was not our own.  As presentations were made by speakers, Stella got a bit antsy, so I left the pew and stood in the back of the church to bounce her in my arms.  Maybe she would fall asleep, so I could hear the presentations and learn something.  I had a few stressors at the time, and could use a bit of a spiritual boost.  I was looking forward to this.

But Stella had another idea.  She wiggled and wriggled, trying energetically to get down, away from me.  In her deep, low voice, she started to repeat  “Dow.  Dowww!”  She emphatically wanted down, and she wasn’t about to be shushed.  I set her down on the floor, and she began ambling straight toward a man against the back wall.  I followed, trying to quietly corral her back in a corner where we could have a little personal space, and wouldn’t disturb anyone.  No way.  Stella persisted, and beelined as fast as she could, right up to the man.  

He was stern looking, bearded, and wearing old jeans.  Stella walked right up to him, and hugged his leg.  

“Sorry,” I mumbled, and sheepishly retrieved my child.  

For the next five or ten minutes, we repeated this scene.

People were starting to stare.  

Stella would yell at me to let her down, and right away, she’d run to the man, and hug his leg.

Soon she began to call “Uppa!  Uppa!”

The man looked bewildered.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered.  “She wants you to pick her up.”  

“Really?”  He looked surprised.  Then he leaned down, and held out his arms.  My little Stella embraced him, tightly wrapping her arms around his neck.

I stood right next to him, watching. 

Stella buried her face in his bearded neck, gently touching the back of his head with her small fingers.  She petted him, and rested.  A group of people watched Stella, no longer paying any attention to the speaker.  Everyone in the back of the crowded church was watching the toddler hugging the grizzled man.  

She rested for about ten minutes like that, nestled in his arms.  Loving him.

When the speaker finished whatever it was she was saying, the man gently handed my daughter back to me.

“Thank you,” he said, and walked away, into the starry night.  A tear glistened on his cheek.

After he left, a man and woman approached me.  “Do you know that man?” They asked. 

“No.”

“I am astonished that your daughter went up to him like that!”

“He’s the crankiest, grumpiest man!  He doesn’t talk to anyone, he always just stands in the back, scowling and waiting.”  

Before I knew Stella, I would have been surprised.  Perhaps embarrassed, even.  But not now.  Now I know Stella.  That little extra chromosome has given her a superpower, an ability to love others, unfiltered.  Unchained by manners, or propriety, or personal space issues.  Without words, without a presentation, or a speech…  With something as simple and uncomplicated as a hug, she helps people feel God’s love.  

And I am not surprised at all. 

Because now, I know.  

Sometimes Special comes with a capital “S”.  

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Choose your life.

6/9/2015

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This week, I found five unexpected surprises in my yard.  

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  1. Child with a bruised eye.  Just like a girl in a Norman Rockwell painting, she was quite satisfied to have a pulsing, darkening battle scar.   This somehow proved to the child that even though she is one of the smallest, she is also quite tough. She was in pain, but pleased nonetheless. 
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2.  Bleeding Hearts.  Every year, Dog makes a bed out of this plant, wrecking it entirely.  He starts out by losing his tennis ball nearby, and tears up the earth looking for it.  This plant has always gotten in his way, and become nothing but a sleeping mat for Dog.  And I always get angry.  But not this year.  This year we outsmarted him by enclosing the plant with rocks.  We win!

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3.  Poison Ivy.  Yep.  This is what Dog chose to roll about and play in, since he couldn’t reach the Bleeding Hearts.  Dog has had two very soapy baths this week.  He was alternately pleased, unhappy, and confused.  We lose.

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4.  I will never go out in the woods again.  This girl wasn’t afraid of my camera in the least.  I am the one who found her, and I am terrified.

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5.  Someone planted a garden here, long ago.  It’s only when I am too busy to breathe that I get surprises like this.  When I have no time to weed the garden, when I just let the green little sprouts alone, the strangest and most beautiful surprises pop up.  Sometimes it’s good to be too tired to meddle.  Lovely Things happen all by themselves.  

What is the point of all this rambling, you ask?

I’m getting there.  

Usually I just write about the Love, Joy, and Peace that I find.  

And I do find it!  Even in the strangest places.

That doesn’t mean that other things don’t exist for me.  The proverbial Poison Ivy, black eyes, creepy spiders…everyone has them. 

But we all get to choose what we want to keep in our pockets and memories.  I want to remember the Love.  I want to cherish the smile and contentment of a girl who played hard and won.  I want to treasure Joy in the plant that actually survived the Dog!  I want to remember this blueish flower.  It’s unique and exciting, and I did nothing to create or nurture it.  It needed me to step aside and let it be, in Peace.  I can appreciate that. 

So now you know.  Love, Joy, and Peace are here, right in the middle of everything creepy.  

And you get to choose what you want to hold on to. 

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For James

5/24/2015

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I met him two years ago, in Washington DC.  

Within the shadow of our nation’s capitol, the citizens of the First World bustled past, unnoticing.  I was among them.  We moved across the sidewalks and crosswalks as fish swimming in a school, fluid and fast.  He sat against the side of a brick building, alone, clutching a worn backpack.

Our eyes met.  

I stopped.

“Please,” he reached up his hand with a whisper, “I’m so hungry.”

I stopped because he whispered, gently.

“Have you had lunch today?” I asked, reaching into my pocket.

“No, Ma’am. God bless you, Ma’am.”

My own lunch money weighed on me heavily.  I had restaurant plans.  The five dollar bill I handed to him seemed, suddenly, grossly deficient.  I switched pockets, knowing that 5 bucks wouldn’t buy him much lunch at Burger King across the street.

“Where are you from?” I asked.  I was not accustomed to being called Ma’am.  “What’s your name?”

“James. I’m from Mississippi,” he began.  Then came Vietnam.  Then just drifting… I did some coal mining.”  he began to unbutton his shirt, revealing two large, mirrored scars on his dark chest.   “I just got too many problems at once, so I come up here… I got kids, too.  I don’t see them anymore.  I figure life’s gotta be better in the city.”

We talked for a few more minutes.  He told me my daughters were beautiful, just like their Momma.  

I gave him my lunch money.  

And that was that.

It was time to move on.  But before I left, he asked me for something more.

“You pray for me, Ma’am.  And I’ll pray for you.”

“I will, James.  I will.”

Then I walked away.

I walked away, but something about my conversation with James had changed me.  

He was a vagrant.  A miner.  A veteran.  A father.  Somewhere, someone loved him. 

He told me that Someone was Jesus.  “He’s with me, right out here on the street,” James had said.   “He’s the one that sent you to give me lunch today.  He brings me joy, every day.  And he loves you, too.”

Oh, James.  

You; the Forgotten, the Hungry, the Abandoned, the Alone…

You have Joy?

You have Love?

You told me that you also have Peace.

You, James, Unknown Soldier, have the three elusive riches that the Wealthy World strives to find, and cannot.  You have nothing, and yet you have everything.



Well, James.  Today I am back in Washington DC, and I went looking for you.  I wanted you to know that you changed how I see people, James.  You helped me to find Love, Joy, and Peace in my own little world.  I wanted to remember you in a real way, and say thank you, James.

So I went to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.  

I didn’t find you.  But you know what I did find, James?  

I found hundreds and thousands of you…

Your fellow veterans were there for you, James.  They came in massive caravans of motorcycles, swarming the National Mall, slowly making their pilgrimage to Arlington National Cemetery across the bridge.  They rode, they walked, they held each other up as they climbed the hill.  They brought their families.  They brought flowers.  They came with children.  And burdens.  And tears.  

They wore leather, and white ponytails, and grizzled beards.  They wore crisp military uniforms and brass buttons and crew cuts.  They wore baby packs and held on to strollers, walkers, and canes.   

Though they came to the cemetery, they also came to give respect and honor to the Other Unknown Soldiers…to the veterans whose lives are still a living sacrifice.  They honor the veterans who are still fighting the battles of disability, woundedness, and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  

Like you, James.  

This day is for you.  

Thank you.
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I have Found a Firefighter in my Home

5/13/2015

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This week, I realized for the first time that I am married to a Firefighter.

I thought he was a sensitive artist type, but I was mistaken.  

He’s a Firefighter.

The way I see it, Firefighters are always on alert, constantly ready to stop catastrophes.  They see a billowing plume of smoke, and dash out with a big truck, hose and axe to stop the fire and fix the problem.

But my problem is that I am the problem.  

And I’m not on fire.

Being an emotional person, sometimes (okay, let’s admit it.  Not sometimes, but daily…)  I have emotional outbursts.   My billowing clouds of emotion tumble about, rising and falling, blown about by the winds of change.  And they do change.  The emotional clouds change color (from pale, baby blue all the way to darkest, threatening green)  they change shape and size (from ooo, a pretty one - all the way to OMG get out of the way, it’s a funnel cloud!)  But the point is, they are clouds.  Emotions aren’t tangible objects.  They float about, scare people sometimes, and then disappear as quickly as they arise.  They seldom emit downpours, unless, of course, it is Typhoon Season.  Then you’d just better get the heck out of the way.  

Take cover.

Now, all this cloud activity would be fine if I had married an artist, or even a weatherman.  

But apparently, I didn’t.

I married a Firefighter.  

At the first sign of rising smoke (or clouds or steam or even slight vapors) he grabs his trusty axe.  Engines roaring with efficiency and power,  he puts on a self contained breathing apparatus.  He grabs a light and radio, and personal protective gear.  He watches the Emotional Clouds for changes in volume, color, intensity, and movement.  He listens for popping sounds and stressing noises.  He scans the walls for cracks.  He is on the offense, ready to chop down doors and bulldoze firebreaks and blast my Emotional Cloud with 126 psi of water pressure.  

He has one thought only.  Kill the fire.  Quick.

But, as we all know, there is no real fire.  Only my Emotional Clouds.  

The more my Firefighter tries to dissipate the clouds, the more I huff and puff and my emotions blow into tornadoes, hurricanes, thunderstorms, and even an occasional blizzard.  Water doesn’t help that.  His offensive tactics with water only ice everything up.  

And he doesn’t want that.

This whole scenario sounds hopeless…  Stressful!  Whatever can we do to fix it?  How can we get rid of the blasted smoke?

The answer is so easy, it’s magical.  You just need the right person for the job.

Call off the firefighter.  

Call up the sister. 

“Hello?” she’ll say, answering her cell phone at any hour.  

“Hi.”

That’s all she needs.  Just by the tone of my “Hi,” she can assess the emotional content, and she knows what to say, what to do, and how to proceed.  Her response may be a compassionate sigh, an I’m-fed-up retort, or even an all-out laugh.  She has even been known to scold my Emotional Clouds away with an oh-for-heaven’s-sake-you’re-ridiculous response.  Whatever she says, it is usually perfect.  Five minutes with my sister, and the threatening Emotional Cloud disappears, melting into a comfortable summer breeze.  Sunshine, even.  Great weather forecast for the rest of the day!  

And my poor, besieged Firefighter is left standing in his tangled pile of high tech, fireproof gear, without a smoke cloud in sight, wondering what happened.   He has all this power and muscle,  intensity, technology, and testosterone, yet all his best efforts often make that cloud worse.  And while he is baffled by and battling the stormclouds from hell, a tiny 110 pound, middle-aged woman vanquishes his enemy over a cell phone.  

Works every time.  He’ll never really know how or why.  He wouldn’t understand it, anyway.  

But I do.  Firefighters battle fires.  

And I don’t deal out real fires, just Billowing, Blustering Emotional Clouds of smoke.  

And that kind of smoke is best blown away by the soft gentle breeze of a Sister.

Thank God for sisters!  

And thank God for Firefighters, too.  They are overworked and underpaid.  Perhaps they are under-appreciated, a tiny bit, though you'll never hear that from me.  

I love my Firefighter.  
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Happy Mother's Day

5/10/2015

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Happy Mother's Day!  
 
I present to you the Ideal Mother:   She is gentle, kind, generous...

Selfless.

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At the opposite end of the Mother Spectrum, this is my reality:  

Selfie.  

With kids. 

Good thing I have a sense of humor.  It's one of the best things I have.  Well, besides all those kids.   A bunch of us are in there, somewhere.  Piled up, in each others' faces, laughing and choking together.  Heaven knows we don't have any peace and quiet.  

"Click."  

Say a prayer for all the mothers today, will ya?  Motherhood is a wild ride!

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Becoming a Mom

4/22/2015

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Dear Newbie, 

Today you became a mother.

I know you have waited a very long time to become a Mom.  No matter how many months or years you have longed for this, no matter how many tears have been shed, no matter if this is a natural birth, a c-section, an adoption, or foster care, today, everything changes. 

You have become a Mother.

I know that you are nervous.  Even scared.

You should be.

Advice is usually given by those with no experience, but I’ve been around the parenting block a time or two…or seven.   I shouldn’t say anything.  I have made enough mistakes that I have learned to keep my mouth shut.  But today, I just can’t be quiet.  I have something to say to you, New Mom.  It’s important.  

You don’t have much time. 

From the very first moment you look into the face of that little helpless child, you and I, and all mothers throughout the time continuum, are on the same path.  We are mothers.

I am getting a little choked up here, because I know what is in store for you.

Becoming Mom is going to hurt you.  
It’s going to turn your heart inside out and tenderize it.
Today, when you become Mom, you will never be the same.

You’ll look into her eyes, and instantly, every fiber of your being is going to go haywire.  All synapses will fire at once, flooding your brain in chemical Mama Love, and you will feel the primeval maternal instinct that swells from the depths of your soul, erupting into a force that wants to nurture and caress that baby, while at the same time, you’d fight a rabid saber tooth tiger just to defend her.

I don’t know if you have ever felt this way before, but today you will.

In your world yesterday, you may have been an attorney, a pharmacist, a highly skilled professional, a construction worker, a student.  It doesn’t matter.

Today, you will talk baby talk.
You will.
And she will open her eyes, and look up at you, and she will smile.
So you’ll do it some more.  

Today, you will begin to clean up messes that you never knew could exist.  You will be aghast.  You will be drooled on, cried on, sneezed on, puked on, leaked on, 
perhaps simultaneously.  She will look up at you, crying, needing you so much.  You’ll bathe her, and she will smile.   Or she might scream because she is afraid of water.

But when it is over, she will smell just right, and she will curl up in a towel and breathe softly on your neck.  She’ll hold on to you and her small hands will be warm and sweet as she clings to you.  
She will feel safe with you.

You’re her mom.

As she grows, she will begin to crawl, and she will start to discover the world.
And she will break your stuff.

All of it.

And you won’t even mind, because those tiny little hands 
reaching up to find a place to grab onto in this world
Are also reaching for your hand.  Wanting your help and your guidance 
And your love. 
Your love is going to mean more to this little person than to anyone else in the world.

You’re the one.

Love her with all you’ve got.
Tell her every day, show her every day.
Love her whether she is graceful or awkward, special needs or typical, healthy or frail. None of that matters as much as the very important fact that love heals everything.  If you are broken, her love will heal you.  If she is broken, your love will heal her.  She is just what you need, and you are just what she needs.  

You are perfect for each other.

Put down the phone, and play blocks.
Close the laptop, and have a tea party.  Eat cookies together.
Cancel the meeting, and instead, sit on the couch with a blanket wrapped around you like a tent, and read Go Dog Go for the 373rd time.

Look her right in the eyes and tell her she is worth it.

She is.

Let her style your hair till it’s tangled up in knots and barrettes, and she tells you that you’re the Most Beautiful Mommy in the World.  
You will be.
Sing her to sleep at night.  Try to be patient.
Be her model for compassion and kindness and forgiveness.  

Forgive her.  

Forgive yourself.  Because you will both make mistakes.

You will not get paid anything for this.  You will get no raise, no promotion, no street cred.  You will spend your money on her.  All of it.  She will need diapers and formula and snacks and braces and school uniforms and sports physicals and auto insurance and oh dear, college tuition.  

You will be the one she needs when she scrapes her knee, drops her sucker, loses her laptop, gets her heart broken,  and crashes her car.  You will also be the one she wants when she needs a hug, loses her first tooth, wants to serve tea, makes a friend, learns to read, starts to drive, graduates.

If you do your job right, then someday, 

She will leave you.  

She will walk away, or drive away, or be carried away.  

No matter when that happens, it will be too soon.  When that day comes, your heart will stretch and break again, erupting and overflowing with Mama Love and 

You will cry.

If you get the precious gift of being her mother for just one month, or just one year, or five years…or even eighteen years…don’t let it pass you by.  

Those tears that I shed for you today, New Mom…They were tears of joy.

Congratulations, My Dear.  

Today, your life is going to change.
And that is a beautiful thing.
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Holding Her Hand

4/14/2015

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So, it happened again yesterday.  

I’m quite used to it now.
Ever since my child was born with Down Syndrome, I became Conspicuous.

We are no longer passed by on the street, unnoticed.  We stand out.  We are smiled at, hugged, patted on the arm, greeted warmly as if we are long lost friends, and welcomed.  We have also been frowned at, turned away from, and even cried to.  

People notice us.

Once, when Stella was only about three months old, she slept in her carseat next to me while we ate at a restaurant.  One of the employees began to wipe down tables near us, looking inquisitively in our direction.  She cleaned closer and closer, until at last, she walked right over to me, staring at my baby.

“What a beautiful baby you have there,” she began.

“Thank you.  She’s pretty new.”

“She is adorable.” The lady cooed at Stella, then her misty eyes began to drip.

“Is she very hard?” she asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Is she very difficult?  To take care of, I mean?”

“She’s quite easy going, actually.  She likes to be cuddled. She has been to doctors quite a lot, but she is pretty calm there, too.  She’s a content baby.”

The stranger then started to cry.  She explained to me how 50 years ago, when she was a very young mother, she had given birth to a child with Down Syndrome, also.  The people in her life and the doctor convinced her that the child would be too much work for her.  “Too many needs,” they said.  “They told me she was a big problem and that she would never function in the world and she would be a burden on me the rest of my life.  But you know what?”  The woman continued, “Not a day has gone by that my heart doesn’t break over her.  I wonder what she is doing, and what she would look like.  I wonder if she was ever happy.  She will be fifty years old this month.  They never even let me hold her before they took her away…”

I held this woman’s work-worn, wrinkled hand while she cried in the restaurant.  Then I placed Stella’s tiny hand in hers.  She held on, and my daughter’s hand became the link that somehow connected her to her own long-lost, beloved daughter.

When her tears had run dry, we hugged and parted ways.

“I wanted her.”  She said. “I always wanted her.  And I love her to this day.”

My own heart ached with this woman’s fifty years of hidden pain and regret.  I wish I could have said something to her, to support her way back when she was a young mother, afraid.  I wish I could have put her baby’s hand in hers, and helped her give and receive the Love that her child brought.  The Love that they both needed to be happy.  My heart aches with compassion for her and all Mothers like her, those who hold on to pain and heartbreak instead of small hands.

I am a very Conspicuous Mother, noticed and confided in where ever I go, holding my child’s hand.  And I promise you that Mothers love their children forever, no matter what.

I am so grateful to have this small hand to hold.  

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Hidden Family

4/13/2015

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Look what I found.  

Safely hidden away from the world of hawks and eagles, tucked into a little thicket, a Cardinal is nesting.  She seems to be alone here, sitting on her eggs.  But she’s not.  

Cardinals mate for life.  And he’s here, all right.  He watches over her every minute.  He’s higher up in the tall trees, singing to her much of the day.  His clear songs ring out to keep her company, as well as to distract any predators from finding his beloved.  He is bright and showy and loud, she is plain and muted and quieter, and they are utterly devoted to each other.  Did you know that male Cardinals will feed their mates, beak to beak, while the eggs are being incubated by the female?  After the little ones hatch, Dad takes a turn on the nest.  They work together.

They give me great hope.  

We are not alone.  Though often hidden, there are self-sacrificing, hard working, devoted ones, doing what is best for their families day after day, year after year.  They don’t make the news.  But these tiny guys are busy living their entire lives, about 15 years, in the same place, with the same mate.  

They are tenacious.  

Devoted.

Inspiring.

And they are everywhere…
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Happy Easter!

4/4/2015

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Happy Easter from the real Easter Bunny!   Her name is Philomena.
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She worked very hard last night, delivering all those baskets.  As your kids search around for candy and eggs,  Phil would like you to know that it is always possible to find joy, no matter what your circumstances.  You just have to know where to search: 
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Look Up!  Philomena says to Cheer Up, Keep your Hopes Up, Look Up, Rise Up, the Sun is Coming Up... The answer to what you are looking for is Up.  
Always Up. 
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Happy Easter!
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Good Friday

4/2/2015

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For you.  Because He loves you.
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Sunset of My Child

3/30/2015

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“Good night, I love you.  God Bless You.”

A kiss on the forehead, a caress on the cheek.  Tuck the covers up over her shoulder and around down, under her chin.

She has her flashlight, the closet door is closed.  

One last look around the room…  “I love you.”   Then I shut the door.

But not all the way, of course.

How many times did I go through this routine?  

I was always too tired to appreciate it.  Exhausted and weary…
I didn’t really comprehend that one night was going to be the last night.

But it was.

One night, I tucked her in, she smiled up at me with dreamy eyes, half mast.

Then I watched the glowing sun, sinking so slowly on the horizon, the colors were spectacular and vivid and I thought it just couldn’t get any more beautiful and precious.   

It seemed only a few moments.

The stars appeared in the darkness, and I felt an ache in my heart and a lump in my throat as a premonition, warning me of change.

“They grow up fast,” the old ladies warned, when they had arrived with baby presents.  “Cherish every moment,” they had chided when she was noisy at church.  “It can’t last forever,” they had smiled through gritted teeth, waiting to pick up their own kid from driver’s ed.

They were right.  

When the sun rose the next morning, the birds sand a joyful song and the world awoke to a brand new day.

And she was all grown up.

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I'm Ashamed of You, Mom...

3/26/2015

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“I’m ashamed of you, Mom,” he teased.  

He looked down on me, patted my head like he would the dog, and smiled.  “How could you forget that Fionn mac Cumhaill had a dog named Bran?”

This, from the sixth grader.  

Oi.

When did the boy become smarter than I am?

It must have happened overnight.  That’s it.

One evening, I tucked him in, kissed him goodnight and made sure his baby tooth was safely under the pillow so the blasted tooth fairy could find it in the frantic moments before breakfast. 

The next thing I knew, he had all his adult teeth, a slightly shady top lip, and was spouting off Gaelic history, chuckling at my forgetfulness.

“I thought you said you went to college, Mom.  What happened?”

What happened, indeed.

I am getting old-ish.

I don’t remember the quadratic equation, nor why it is important.  
I can no longer recite the Gettysburg Address.  
I don’t “get” any references to pop culture, unless my kids explain them.   

My hair is greying, my hips are widening, and my eyes require cheap plastic magnifiers to read.

Is it true that nostrils really keep growing?  

Because I remember being a child, and looking up into my grandmother’s loving face.  Her hair was grey and wiry, her girth enabled her to handle two kids on her lap at once for admiring agates and other treasures.  Her face was brown with creases and wrinkles and little spots on it and we loved her dearly.  I admired every bit of her as she taught me to make her homemade cinnamon rolls (“Stop beating up the dough!  If you want tender rolls you have to handle it more gently!”)  She is the one who inspired my love of Irish history, we spent hours together, poring over her expired subscriptions of Irish magazines.   

These days, I look into the mirror, and I see that my face is turning into hers.  

The first thing that comes to mind is,  “Oh, my, Grandmother, what big nostrils you have.”

I never noticed her nostrils when she was alive.  I noticed the love between her and her sisters, her devotion to my grandpa, the way she always baked delicious things when we came to visit.  I noticed her spunk and her sass in responding to the jokes of my numerous uncles.  And being one of the younger cousins, I noticed how she often put her arm around the teenage girl cousins, hugging them close as they talked about “things” in the kitchen together.  I noticed that she always had an extra sparkle in her eye when she smiled at Jeff and the boys, who made us laugh with their antics, like hiding my uncle’s cigarettes up a tall tree.  I can see her now, swatting away at those teasing faces with her hands, laughing at their torments as they wheedled for more cookies.

I saw a lot of love and devotion and laughter.  I saw her as the heart of her huge, happy family.

I never saw big nostrils.  Or wrinkles, or grey hair.  I only saw Grandma, who loved us.
Was she smart?  Did she know the quadratic equation?  
I don’t know.
Who cared?

She was a grandma, a mother, a sister, a friend.  

She was loved.

I’d like to remind everyone that to be loved IS to be beautiful.  

When they pat your head and smile, they are telling you that they love you.  
When they pull you close and hug you,  they are not counting your grey hairs, and they are not measuring your nostrils. 

They love you.

So in my grandmother’s words, “stop beating up the dough,” and be a little more gentle with yourself, please.

You are loved.

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Got Joy?

3/21/2015

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It's World Down Syndrome Day, 3 - 21.  Love, joy, and peace to you!
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Ailing Pianos

3/6/2015

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Little Fugue in G Minor by Bach is softly echoing through my living room.

I love this song.  Especially when it’s played by my kid.

Gentle, lilting, then intense, the notes tumble over each other like a waterfall, and I am carried away.   It is such an emotionally charged piece, and of course, I get choked up watching her play, imagining her in the very distant future, dressed in a floor length gown, performing Rachmaninoff on a stage. 

She’s just a little kid and she halts on some of the notes.  Determination is written on her face, and at the difficult passages, her small fingers pick out the notes timidly and delicately.  She looks over at me.

“Hey Mom,” she sighs and stops playing.  “Can I play a kid one now?  I like Chopsticks better.”

Reality check.  

The truth is, the Bach I so enjoy comes from my kid playing a magic piano app on someone’s Ipad.  

It’s not the real thing, it’s just an app.  Pathetic, right?  But I’ll take whatever music I can get.

I did buy an old piano, almost twenty years ago.  

I bought it used, and now it is unused.  

It has been moved three times.  In those twenty years, I have paid for three kids’ piano lessons.  I idealized the thought of piano playing kids like our former Perfect Neighbor Kids, who learned from their grandmother and could play anything, sensitively and beautifully.  Collectively, my kids know exactly one song on the real piano.  Just one, rollicking, pounding jazzy creation of their dad, who likes to tinker in music.  

No one can really play the piano.

The last time I had our real piano tuned, about twelve years ago, the guy was quite taken aback.  

“You say some of the notes won’t play,”  he began. 

“Yeah, it’s a pretty old instrument.”

“That’s not the problem.”  He sternly looked at me.  “Do you know what I found in this piano?”


Did I want to know?  Because that sounded like a loaded question to me.  What was it?  Was there money?  A treasure map to a lost civilization?  Or something hideous?  I looked at him nervously.  Was it terrible?

“What?”

He made a flourish with his hand, displaying the hidden contents of our piano.  Stickers.  A postage stamp.  More stickers.  Twelve small paper dolls.  A family photo.  And 89 cents in coins.

Hmm…

“How would you expect this piano to function properly when it is being used as a safe deposit box by your children?”  He humphed.  

That was the last time I had it tuned.  

And that is why the only piano music around here comes from an app.  

Until recently.  

Someone Else’s Kid was visiting our house, and sat down at our neglected, old treasure receptacle of a piano.  The notes reached my ears while I was making supper in the kitchen.  I stopped everything to listen.  It enchanted me.  I crept to the edge of the wall, and peered around the corner so as not to disturb whoever was playing.  Someone Else’s Kid continued, intense and smiling.  Eagerly, his fingers fluid like water, he poured out song after song…Joplin, Bach, Mozart, Schumann, and more.  I didn’t know my piano could sound like that!  He had a look on his face that was priceless.  I think it was love.  He loved playing the piano.  Every note was joy.  I leaned against the kitchen wall and a tear rolled down my cheek.  It was beautiful, because he loved it.  

After a while, Someone Else’s Kid got up, and ambled away to another adventure with the boys.  

But his music stayed with me.  

It certainly was not my piano that was worthy or beautiful.

It was the child’s Love, shining through the piano.  Through that wretched piano.  

Love changed it, and enabled it to make beautiful music.

Isn’t that what God does for us?   

We may be old and broken, beat up by the world.  People may think we are useless.  We collect junk on the outside and we often come with hidden baggage on the inside.

But the truth is, when God loves us, our real worth shows.  Love makes us be beautiful.

And God always loves us.  




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