Kickin' & Screamin'

To begin, it’s been so long since I’ve written that I just spent longer than I want to admit getting logged on to this site. But now I’m here, and the relief and feeling of comfort I felt as soon as I found my way back told me that I need this. I’ve missed it, but so much excitement has bombarded my life over the past couple of years–I guess I pushed my blog so far back into the corner that I forgot what corner it was in. Just so far this year I have married my wonderful David, finally moved into our new home, put my old house on the market, and sent my baby girl to college. But I digress….as I’m here to share something with you all that happened to us yesterday, because within minutes of it happening, one of my first thoughts was “this is it. This is what I’ll write about.” Not only have I let the craziness of life in general get in the way of my writing, but I’ve also struggled with what to write. I’ve been writing all this time…in my head, on scraps of paper, on the notes app on my phone….just short snippets of this and that. Things I didn’t want to forget. Things important to me. But in this season on life, it all seemed personal. Private. I needed for God to slap me upside the head with something I would be busting to write about, like He used to. And yesterday, He did.

We’ve not been on the lake all summer. We just moved to the lake a few months ago, after a year of renovations, to be with my Mom and enjoy our life in a spot I’ve always called my happy place. This house has been in my life since day one. And I’ve spent the majority of every summer of my life on the lake at this very house, until this year. Every spare moment of daylight has been spent working on renovations, getting settled, painting…you name it. We would gaze down at the dock longingly throughout the summer, but turning right back to our work…talking about how wonderful next summer will be, when all this stuff is finally complete.

But yesterday, we drew the line. It was Labor Day, and we agreed to hit the dock and relax (something we’d almost forgotten how to do) for the first and probably only day before the end of summer.

We had cranked the boat a couple of times over the past few months, keeping the battery alive as it sat down there all alone. Yet it still needed a charge, which David took care of–along with gassing it up, and we were suddenly so excited for our day of relaxation on the water.

TIME OUT –as I go back to about six weeks ago. Ella had turned 18 in the spring. Since shortly after her father died, she’s said that she wanted to get her first tattoo once she was 18, and she’s known exactly what she wanted. She was 12 when she first told me of this–an I honesty figured it was just something that sounded good in her heart, after the loss of her Daddy, and I felt sure that she would forget about it, or change her mind a dozen times about what she wanted her first tattoo to be. But not once in those six, almost seven years did she waver from her plan. It was solid as stone in her heart and nothing could or would change it.

A turtle. It was a turtle. Specifically a red slider turtle. That’s what her Daddy had on his right shoulder. He loved them. He would bring his red sliders home from his classroom on holidays and for the summer, and Ella would sit in his lap as they watched them and he taught her all about them. And that’s what Ella had planned, all these years, to have tattooed on the same shoulder as her Daddy. We discussed the permanency, the pain, and her eagerness just grew stronger. So my baby girl now has her turtle. The pain made her cry. The physical pain, and the emotional pain. I cried, because I love her more than I ever thought possible.

And now we’re back–to Labor Day. Yesterday. The date happened to be September 2. Seven years to the day of our loss. Seven years to the day of Ella losing her Daddy. For Ella and I–our least favorite day of the year. She had come home from school for the long weekend, and we had talked, hugged, cried, remembered…an emotional repeat of each year before–and then we smiled and looked forward to our time on the water.

As we waited for David to crank up, and do a few final things, I looked past Ella and saw a huge turtle in the water. Not an unusual sight, we enjoyed watching it swim around a bit–knowing that once we moved the boat out of the dock, it would no doubt scare the turtle away.

We boarded the boat and backed out of the dock, and the turtle surprisingly stayed put, swimming around, diving down for a snack, then popping his head back up out of the water. David accelerated for us to head out, and the boat said “nope.” It wouldn’t go. It only idled slowly, but would turn off every time we tried to go any faster. We decided it needed to warm up after sitting all summer, and we were a bit afraid to get very far from the dock, in case it completely quit on us. So we circled. Around and around, slow loops behind our dock. We laughed at how silly we must have looked–just making very slow circles in the heat while all the boats nearby were zooming by fast, enjoying the breeze.

After our first loop or two, I saw the turtle again. Pointing it out to Ella, completely shocked that it hadn’t been scared away by us consistently driving by his play area. My entire life on that lake, any turtle I’ve ever seen would skedaddle very quickly if you approached–even on a float, much less a loud boat. A turtle sighting is usually a “look, quick!” thing–because it will be gone just a few seconds later…with no desire to hang out with humans.

This guy wasn’t leaving. He floated around, splashing and playing like a kid in the water, stopping to look at us every time we passed in our slow circles. I was tempted to jump in and see if he would stick around for me to get close, but I didn’t want to chance him leaving us. As we looped by our friend for at least the tenth time, we decided to get just a bit closer. He stopped swimming, with his feet moving just enough to keep him afloat, and he lifted his head high out of the water. Ella and I saw it at the same time. He was a red slider. He stared at us, and something in that stare brought us to tears. He was a red slider. On September 2.

The boat wouldn’t go. That boat would NOT let us leave our little cove yesterday. If it had, we wouldn’t have seen that he was a red slider. We would have given him one more look as we left the dock, and probably not thought anymore about it. But he needed to be seen. And because the boat wouldn’t go, he provided us with the best September 2 we’ve had since that day. That horrible day.

Yesterday was a great day. The boat wouldn’t go. And he was just a happy turtle playing in the water. We were hot and sweaty and didn’t get the day we planned, but God gave us something that we will never forget.

He was still there when we began walking back up the hill to the house. Holding hands with Ella–her hand felt like my tiny little girl…crying happy tears and thanking God for strange happenings that can give us peace and comfort like we never imagined.

God works in mysterious ways. Answered prayers, and prayers that we are incredibly thankful were never answered. Good times, bad times, soul-changing events, moments when we fall on our knees in desperation of His answers. And turtles.

Thank you, God, for turtles.

Now, go hug someone and tell them how much they mean to you.

Well, shame on me. I have been MIA from the blog world since May. At which time, I’m pretty certain, I promised I’d write more. Just another thing in 2021 that didn’t go quite as planned. But I’m alive, healthy, and have too many blessings to count. So, at least my absence is not due to death, sickness, or having no blessings to count.

As those who know me in real life know…I’m a bit crazy. “Extra” as the kids say these days. I always have been, but experiences that life has placed on my doorstep over the past few years has increased my “extra” somewhat.

Merriam-Webster defines “extra” as being more than what is usual or expected; more than is necessary.

Necessary. Sort of a boring word to me now, at this stage in my life. Most of us seem to wake up in the morning and do what’s necessary. We brush our teeth and shower–necessary to not be deemed as gross. We eat breakfast. Necessary to survive. We consume caffeine. Necessary to allow us to be a nice human and not stab someone. But what ELSE? What can we do to go beyond what ‘s “necessary?”

What EXTRA things can we add into each day to make it better?

I had a vibe back in mid-November, when I heard someone in the grocery store say, “I can’t believe Thanksgiving is next week.” The person they were talking to said something that stopped me in my tracks. Sadly, they said “yeah…I’m afraid the holidays are just going to be depressing this year. Nobody seems to be in the spirit. I’m actually dreading Thanksgiving and Christmas.” Then the saddest part came….as they said, “I’ll just be glad when it’s all over.”

It’s not like I’d never heard it before. I heard myself say it, just a few years ago. I don’t know why it hit me like it did. I really wanted to walk over to that person and give them a hug. But hugging strangers during a pandemic seems to be frowned upon, so I refrained. But I hope, since that day, someone has hugged that person, and I hope they ended up having a decent (if not better) Thanksgiving, and that they are actually enjoying a bit of Christmas spirit right now.

That day, I went home and decided that I was going to be extra. I wasn’t sure how, but I figured it wouldn’t be that hard for me–in particular– to come up with an idea of how to go beyond what’s necessary to just get through the holidays. Beyond necessary. EXTRA.

Only a few minutes on Amazon and I found it. A Santa suit. Everything included. Wig, beard…everything. All the EXTRAS. Yes.

My Mom lives on the lake. She has one of the most seen docks in our area. Right by a highly travelled bridge. For years, I have referred to this dock as my happy place. I spend as much time as possible down there every spring and summer, late into fall. Last year, my sweet man David started putting lights on the dock, spreading Christmas cheer for everyone who drove across the bridge. But it still needed a little something else. A little something extra.

Hmmm…..did someone say EXTRA??

I was pretty pumped when the extremely large Santa suit arrived a few days later. I had to stuff the biggest pillow I could find down my pants to keep them on, and to try to appear nice and round like Santa should be. The beard was itchy but I didn’t care. It took great effort to get the wig on over all of my hair, but 27 hair pins later, it was secured. I looked ridiculous. Ridiculously EXTRA. I was ready. I was ready to spread some cheer.

The day after Thanksgiving, I went down to the dock, in full Santa gear. Big speaker in tow, ready to play some music. Some dancing music. I cranked it up. And I stared to dance. I danced and danced. Within five minutes people were honking their horns as they crossed the bridge. Arms were waving out the car windows. People I know were sending me texts…”OMG! Was that you I just saw dancing on the dock? That was hilarious!” I was adding a little EXTRA to their day.

Now, keep in mind that I’m a horrible dancer. But that, you see, made it even more extra. Also keep in mind that I have a 15-year-old daughter…. you know– that age where everything you do embarrasses them. Oh, the sheer terror in her eyes when she saw what I was doing. But even she, after some time, got a kick out of the reaction I was getting. And she only criticized my dance moves a few times.

I would notice the same cars passing over the bridge going one direction, then coming right back across going the other way. I realized they were turning around to cross over the bridge again. I tried to work my schedule to be dancing each afternoon around the time that the buses left the nearby elementary school (which happens to be where I worked the last 10 years of my teaching career). Hearing the buses honk their horns as they crossed the bridge and seeing all the little hands waving in the bus windows…made my heart happy. Pictures of me started showing up on stranger’s Facebook pages. It was hilarious. I was giving full invitation for people to laugh at me, as long as it was making them smile–that’s all that mattered to me.

My favorite day was about a week into December. I was tired, and ready to call it quits for the afternoon. I went to my speaker and turned off my music. In the sudden quietness, I heard a tiny voice yelling “HEY SANTA!” The way sound travels on water…it took me a second to find where the little voice was coming from. I finally saw a family of people several docks down, waving their arms high in the air. I saw the tiny human that was no doubt yelling at me. There was no way I could just wave back and then leave. They were watching. That tiny little human was watching. I cranked my speaker back up and started right back dancing. And danced and danced until I saw them walking up the hill back towards their house…still waving. There were several of them…a pretty big family. And apparently, I was mistaken when I thought I saw all of them heading towards the house. As I once again went to stop my music, thinking that I could now stop for the day, I glanced back at their dock once more. Coming my way were two people in a paddle boat. All bundled up, fighting the afternoon winds, heading my way. A mother and a tiny little boy. The mother paddled hard, as the little boy’s legs weren’t long enough to help much. They made it over to the dock as I stood there and waved. And then I suddenly realized that I might be about to ruin Santa for this child. Did he think I was really Santa? I remembered my own child at that age…believing with all her heart in Santa and his wonderfulness. When this little boy got close to me and saw me and heard my voice, was I going to ruin his belief? I wanted this to be something amazing for him, not the letdown of just realizing he had been watching a crazy woman with bad dance moves impersonate the guy in the bright red suit.

As they approached, I just stood atop the dock and waved….afraid to say anything, unable to make my voice sound like Santa’s. As they finally reached me, he looked up and said “Hey! Are you one of Santa’s helpers?” I could feel the relief flood through my body. Relief and excitement. “I AM, as a matter of fact, one of Santa’s helpers!” I said….as his mom looked up at me from that paddle boat and winked. She had handled everything. She had prepped him to NOT be disappointed, just like I had tried to prep the people driving across that bridge to feel some happiness.

I went on to tell him that Santa had put me in charge of this section of the lake. My job was to dance and wave at cars and boats and spread Christmas cheer. He asked me where the real Santa was, and I told him, “well, he’s at the North Pole, of course! He’s getting everything ready for Christmas!” The smile on his face made it all worthwhile. He waved at me the entire time his mom paddled them back to their dock. I continued to dance until they were completely out of sight, back up at their house.

I had several other visitors by boat, mostly people out fishing and enjoying the crazy warm weather we’ve been having here in Georgia. But that little guy will be the reason that I know I did something good.

I danced my last time yesterday, dancing until the sun went down behind the trees right across from me. As horns honked and arms waved, I felt happy that God put just enough crazy in me. Not too much, (though some might argue that point)….but just enough.

Quite often, I’m told “you’re crazy!” And my reply?

….“Thanks!“

If anyone ever told me I was just normal, It would probably break my heart. I don’t want to just be what’s necessary. I want to be Extra.

I hope your Christmas has an EXTRA special touch this year. If you fear that it’s only going to be normal….just the necessary amount of cheer to get through, then perhaps YOU could add a little extra, making it better than ever expected. Trust me…you won’t regret it.

Merry Christmas, and God Bless.

Well, we’re five months in to good old 2021 and I’ve already failed to do what I said I’d do….write more. I have good excuses….which of course I’m going to tell you all about in future blogs, but still….I really hate that I’m so far behind.

As I was mentally preparing to write today, thoughts were slowly moving through my mind as to what I’d write about. I honestly didn’t know until just a few minutes ago. I just knew that I would write today. Something.

It’s been one of my “talking to myself really loud” days. I mean, I guess I do it every day….but I think some days are worse than others. Ella is home sick today (just a yucky cold) and she’s yelled “WHAT??” three times in the past couple of hours….thinking she heard me talking to her. But nope–just me chatting with myself. It was an odd sentence that I mumbled out loud about 20 minutes ago that prompted my idea for todays blog entry….as I was putting up a load of laundry, I told myself, “I’ll take my laptop to the cat room and see if I can type out some thoughts.”

The cat room.

Yes, that’s correct. I’ve lived in this house for 20 years, and the room I’m currently sitting in has gone through many transformations. I bought the house when I was single, three bedrooms waiting for my unique and eclectic touch to make each my own. After decorating the master and what would be the guest room just as I wanted….this third room remained empty.

After a little thought, I decided my third bedroom would become the catch-all room for all of my quirkiness. I was a middle school teacher at the time, and I loved Altoids. Talking and singing all day long with my chorus and music classes, I was always munching on an Altoid. My students knew I loved them, so I was gifted cans of Altoids all throughout the school year. I started keeping them, never throwing one away. I had over two hundred little red and white tins. I strung them up with some thin rope and hung them all over the room….like some sort of bizarre Christmas decoration. I filled the room with bean bag chairs, covered the walls in my own paintings, and even painted some of my favorite quotes directly on the walls. It was completely crazy. No one else thought it was nearly as cool as I did. But I didn’t care. It was my house and I’d do what I wanted.

When I married, the room changed a bit, but remained a collection of both my silliness and his. Then, one of the most amazing thoughts ever popped into my head when we started the process of adopting our baby Guatemalan girl. This room would become hers. The nursery. Our beautiful baby girl’s room. And it did. The walls were painted and my quotes were erased. The Altoid cans came down, replaced with cute little ladybugs and caterpillars and butterflies. For the next ten years, this room held my greatest treasure. She slept here and played here, had puppet shows and tea parties here. Oh, the giggles these walls have heard. The closet door is still marked with her height as she’s grown through the years, and the chest that was once filled with diapers and onesies still remains over near the door.

A few years ago, Ella got the big idea of changing rooms. She decided she wanted to move across the hall in to the guest room. I jumped on the opportunity, because what better way to thoroughly deep clean a room than to literally have to move everything out of it? It was quite a chore, but we tackled it. She moved out of a little girls room and in to a teenagers room….boxing up toys as we went, getting rid of things she no longer wanted. Some things, of course, I just couldn’t get rid of….it’s a Mom thing. So yeah….the attic become more full of “memory boxes” (aka–stuff I just can’t throw away)….as the big move occurred.

So, once again, this room was empty. I cleaned it, moved a few small pieces of furniture in, hung a few pieces of art, and labeled it my “reading room.” I’m pretty certain I’ve only sat in this room to actually read twice. But it sounded good.

Something about the room made me sad. Maybe it was just reminiscing about the past? Thinking about my younger years when my crazy personality dominated the room? Missing my baby girl’s crib and toys and reading bedtime stories? I’m not sure. But I finally got to a point to where I would close the door to this room, because it just made me feel a little weird.

Shortly after, we found a Mamma cat and her three babies in the woods at my Mom’s….scared and hungry, the Mamma trying so hard to take care of her litter. I already had four cats, due to the fact that this exact same scenario had happened a couple of years before, and I did NOT need or want any more cats. But I’m also a sucker. A big, fat sucker. Long story short….within a couple of weeks, I was bringing those cats home. Where in the world would I put them until they were big enough to get spayed/neutered, and be around my pets? Ahhhh…..”the room.” That’s what it had become. Not a guest room, not the spare room, just “the room.”

Mamma and babies moved in, toys, litter box, food and water bowls….the works. Ella would walk in with her eyes beaming (for SHE is the main reason I ended up with these cats….I have since learned to say NO a bit more freely….but it was a hard period of time, as these cats seemed to magically appear shortly after Ella’s daddy passed away. Saying no to her was super hard for me for quite a while. There were nights when I agreed to simple requests like ice cream for dinner, and bigger things like….. cats. Lord have mercy)

After a few weeks, spaying and neutering, and introductions to the rest of the zoo that lives here at this funny farm, the cats became part of our crew. The room was cleaned up, decluttered of all things cat, and the door was closed again. I don’t know why I kept closing the door. I told myself it was to keep the room clean. I mean, we’re not the neatest humans to exist, plus all the dogs and cats….it was like the ONE room in the house that stayed clean. But why?? Why did I need “the room” to be clean?…..cut off from the rest of the house?

I recently became friends with a woman who lives on my road. It’s a crying shame that we have just now become friends. We’ve both lived here for so long….just never reaching out and talking. I knew who she was, she knew me–through mutual friends and neighbors, but we’d never really spoken until recently. She’s also retired, from education-just like me. And guess what else? Her love, her passion, her whole HEART…is fostering kittens. Helpless, baby cats who have no mother. Kittens who are so tiny they must be bottle fed every two hours around the clock. This woman gets no sleep, gives her whole heart to helpless animals, and is one of the most caring humans I’ve ever met.

Lisa. God bless Lisa.

I really want to say “long story short” here, but isn’t it WAY too late for that?? Let’s just say that sometimes when you meet a new friend who shares the same passion that you do….you begin to work together, sharing that passion, helping each other.

So, yes. I have officially added “fostering” to my list of things I choose to fill my life with. I wish you had a visual to accompany what you’re reading. I’m here on the loveseat, in front of the window, laptop balanced on my legs. To my right is Waffle. I brought Waffle home from the rescue on a Sunday morning. I was told she was in the beginning of her third trimester of pregnancy….I was told I probably had a couple of weeks–maybe three– left until she had kittens. Four days later, she gave birth to five tiny baby creatures that scared the hell out of me. So tiny. So fragile. So helpless.

To elaborate on the past two and a half weeks since the birth of these babies, would be elaborating on some of the hardest days I’ve experiences since my husband died. The five babies are now three. Two were born so sick, so frail….and with absolutely no medical history on Mamma Waffle, no way of knowing what might be wrong. Their deaths aged me in years. Broke my heart all over again in places that had just barely healed from things life had dealt me before. The cat room has brought me to my knees, to prayer, to sobbing, and fear.

But it has also brought a joy that I didn’t know I needed.

Back to the visual I want you to have. Waffle has now left my side so that she can go join Scramble, Hashbrown and Coffee. She’s nursing them on their fluffy pillow. I’ll get up to weigh them in a little bit to make sure they are still making great progress, getting healthier and chunkier each day. Once she finishes nursing, she will return to my side. She will purr and paw at my hand until I scratch her behind her ears. I’m certain of this because it’s our routine every evening. Two moms, just bonding and learning.

No, I’m not keeping these cats. I’m fostering for a rescue organization that will find them wonderful homes. Plus–I can’t keep my fosters, because I need “the room” to foster more. And then more. I’ll continue to help save lives in whatever way I can. Even if it’s just allowing some animals to live in this room until they are ready for their next home….a forever home.

Some will come here to give birth, like Waffle. Some will come here to heal from sickness. Some will come here because they are old and no one wants to adopt them. Kittens will live here until they are big enough to get spayed or neutered, then I will no doubt cry my eyes out as I take them to the rescue for their surgery, then to the adoption center, where their future humans will see them, and fall in love with them just like I have. It will be a circle of life and a circle of heartache bound into one. But I must hold on to the fact that I’m making a difference. I’m making a tiny, tiny difference in this world. Lots and lots of tiny, tiny things add up to something big. I want to be a part of that. I NEED to be a part of that.

My heart will ache for quite a while when it’s time to say goodbye to Waffle and these babies. The heartache I’m currently going through over the loss of her two tiny babies really hurts.

When we hurt, we do what we can to fix it. If I have a headache, I take a pain pill. If my leg aches, I put heat on it. It’s our instinct to find a fix for what hurts.

My heart hurts. Pain pills don’t help. Heat doesn’t help. But those three growing kittens help. Their fat bellies help. The way Waffle looks at me helps.

And this room….helps. Yes, the door is still closed, but only for the protection of these tiny, furry guests in my home. In my heart, the door is wide open. This room has become my favorite room in the house. It holds hope. Hope, mixed with the memories of all things this room has been before.

The cat room.

Thank you Lisa, for introducing me to something that will break my heart, yet make it heal even stronger. Thank you for helping me through horrible loss, and crying with me. Thank you for helping me learn how to make a tiny difference.

The cat room. Full of hope and love. A place for me to think, pray, even take a nap. My own animals peek in there from time to time….sniff around the door a little, then go about their business. I think they know that their human is just helping others. They know more than we give them credit for, that’s for sure.

So….I have my cat room.

Do you have a place? No–not a room filled with cats (or maybe you do??)….but just a place. Where you can go to think. Pray. Even take a nap. A place where you can get away from it all….or sit and think about it all. Listen to music. Read a book. Think about that person you haven’t thought about in years. Bring up your favorite memories and just relive them in your head and in your heart. Clear your mind. Or, fill your mind with things that make you happy.

Find a place.

And go talk to that neighbor that you’ve always wanted to meet.

God bless the helpless animals who have no human to love them. God bless the humans who have no one to love them either.

Oh, how I wish there was enough love to spread evenly throughout the world. I’m doing my tiny, tiny part. Hope you’ll do your part too.

Peace, love and….

Waffle…..

As a performer, I always preferred a larger audience. Not because I wanted more people to see me (I mean….sure, I’m a bit of a ham….but that’s truly not why). Instead, it was because the more people in the audience, the less nervous I was. In a small room, performing in front of 15 people can be quite terrifying. You know that they are all looking at you, seeing your face twitch (a lovely thing my face tends to do when I’m nervous. It’s very attractive)…they see the sweat beads on your forehead. Honestly, they’re just a bit too close. Walking out on a huge stage with hundreds or (even better) thousands seated before you is a different rush all together. They are farther away…not able to see the twitching face and sweat beads. They sit as a sea of spectators….far enough away for comfort, yet there to see me. It’s an ego boost, a rush. And, of course, the biggest difference is the applause. When those 15 people applaud you, it feels a bit lacking. They could be beating their hands together with enough force to bruise them and it’s still just not enough to convince you that your performance was enough. It just sounds….sparse. But that big crowd makes you feel amazing. You could fall to the floor on your entrance, forget your lyrics, and accidentally blow spit down your chin and you’re still going to feel amazing when the applause hits. Even if only half of them clap as the other half sits in shock at what just happened, it’s still a lot of applause. It’s validation.

Yep. Validation.

I’ll never deny that I’ve thrived on it in the past. Validation. Acceptance. Affirmation.

I’ve come to notice in the past year or so….you know, the pandemic we’re all muddling through….that smaller audiences are suddenly more my style. When the world first shut down last March, my daughter became my audience. God bless her. She’s a patient, patient human. I didn’t handle the shelter in place well at first. I needed people. Friends. I needed my audience. Oh….my poor child. Don’t get me wrong, she was having fun. But due to the fact that she was 13 at the time, about to turn 14….she was, by the official law of all teenagers, fighting every urge to admit that her Mom was funny in any way. We made videos to post to social media….hoping to entertain our “audience”….as they were all quarantined as well. I was convinced that every person I knew through any social media platform needed a laugh, and I had somehow bestowed it upon myself to provide that laugh for them. I then went through my “famous painting re-creation” phase…where I would spent countless hours dressing up like people in historical artwork, adding a twist of humor–of course– and yes, Ella was my photographer. She somehow didn’t find it amusing at all when I insisted that she take at least 30 pictures of me in almost the same exact pose, so that I could go through all the pictures and choose my favorite.

I knew my audience was small….as my sense of humor is quite strange, and many people just don’t “get me.” But even if only a handful of people laughed, it was worth it. It was worth making my small audience happy. We needed that. We still do.

Last fall, I think I found the perfect platform for a dork like myself. I found TikTok. Please don’t judge. Just hear me out.

Yes, I know what you’re thinking. TikTok is for kids. Teenagers. They shake their butts to highly inappropriate songs and laugh at stuff only a teenager would find funny. Yes….that’s a big part of it. And that’s why I first signed up for my account…to stalk my child. I had allowed her to have a TikTok and I needed to know what she was watching. And I must say that every parent needs to do the same. There’s some horrifically freaky crap out there that your child does NOT need to be participating in. But I’m super blessed. My child defers from eating Tide pods and watching people be bullied. She’s uplifting and positive. She pretends to still think boys are gross, yet talks about them on the car ride home from school every day.

I had a plan. I started my TikTok account, only to check out her “stuff” and browse a bit. And I did exactly that for about nine days. Then it occurred to me that I could have an audience there. I could be the complete idiot that I am and post my craziness for the world to see. Most people would hesitate a while over this concept. Most people would worry that people would just make fun of them, laugh at them in “the wrong way” or just refuse to watch at all. But my brain skips over that nonsense. If there’s an opportunity to act a fool and share the foolishness, I’m in. I had struck gold. I found my audience. Right smack dab in the middle of a pandemic.

Of course, a large part of this decision was due to the fact that I had found what the youngsters call “old people TikTok.” I discovered that there were thousands of Moms, thousands of women my age doing exactly what I wanted to do….be myself in all my goofiness. I wasn’t alone! There were women over 50….laughing and having fun. Being humorously honest about raising teenagers. Laughing about how imperfect we all are. I had found my people.

My plan was to keep my TikTok from Ella. I decided to wait until after Christmas to spring the news on her….”guess what? I’ve got TikTok and 27 people think I’m kinda funny.” I knew she wouldn’t be openly impressed or proud, because–once again–that’s against the official law of all teenagers. But I thought she might think–deep down in her soul– that it was just a tad bit cool.

I waited until right before Christmas….not making it as long as I had originally intended (I rarely do)…and sprung the news on her. “Ella…guess what I’ve done? I signed up for TikTok! And I have about a thousand followers! Isn’t that a HOOT? Pretty cool, right??”

“Ummm…Mom, I’ve known about your TikTok for several weeks. You know, your voice really carries. I heard you talking about it in the kitchen like a month ago. And one time when you and me were in the backseat of the car together, you checked your TikTok and I saw the reflection in the car window. But yeah…I guess it’s cool. But Mom, you KNOW that you’re weird, right? I mean…sometimes I just don’t think you’re as funny as YOU think you are. I don’t have to follow you on TikTok, do I?? Can that just be YOUR thing?”

Alrighty then.

Dang.

Took me a good fifteen minutes to shake that off, then I got right back up on my A-game and continued on my quest to entertain my small audience. I love all the voice-over stuff. Remember when we were kids and we’d lip sync in front of the mirror to our favorite albums? I spent a LOT of time in my bedroom lip syncing to Toni Tennille and Marie Osmond. LOTS of time. Carly Simon, Joan Jett (had to put on the leather jacket for her stuff)….I was the master lip sync queen.

Years later, as a music teacher, I ironically had the rule of “NO LIP SYNCING” when it came time for talent show auditions. Kids were always wanting to lip sync for their talent show act. I’d explain to them…”that’s not really a talent. Can you actually SING for me? Or choose another talent? Sorry….no lip syncing.” HUH….little did I know.

Here I am, a 51 year old grown-ass woman….lip syncing things that I think are funny, to post on a platform for the world to see. My sincere apologies to all of those kids who wanted to lip sync their favorite Harry Styles song, only to be given a big fat NO from their teacher. My bad.

After working hard on the lip syncing and trying to be funny….I one day decided to make a video of myself at a local store. I found some spices that I thought were funny, due to the name, and wanted to share my find on video. I almost didn’t post it because it wasn’t “staged” or funny or a “TikTok trend.” It was just me. Being me. But I decided to post my little clip right before I went to bed one night in early December. The next morning, I awoke to over a hundred thousand views on that post (as opposed to the maybe 200 or 250 I’d usually get!)….WHAAAAT? It was a hoot. People thought it was funny….probably because they were hearing my real voice for the first time…saying “shit” (that’s in the name of the spices…the whole reason I found it to be funny)….just being me. My followers from other parts of the country were probably laughing at my southern drawl. I didn’t care. I just thought it was fun to have an audience. To this day, that video got more views than anything else I’ve done. Just me being the dork I truly am.

My main audience is my Mother, a few close friends, and about 2,500 random strangers who may or may not just be making fun of me. Ella still doesn’t follow me. However, I do show her an occasional video that I think she might like, and a few times she’s even giggled a little. I’ve even received a “good job, Mom” a time or two. I’m not famous nor will I ever be. But I have a little audience that I enjoy.

If it weren’t for TikTok, I might have resorted to stand up comedy by now…which would most definitely be a disaster. That in-person audience would be there….and it would be very, very small. They’d see the twitching face and beads of sweat. And they’d be hearing some really corny jokes that I seriously doubt would be applauded. WHEW. I’m twitching and sweating just thinking about it.

I’ve shared all this nonsense to say this: DO YOU HAVE AN AUDIENCE? If so….what do you share with them? Your audience might just be those you live with, or those you work with. A small (or large) group of friends–who you might not be seeing as often as you like, with the world the way it is. Your audience might be social media. And I can’t leave out the possibility of you simply being your own audience. Here’s what matters….WHAT do you do for your audience? Do you try your best to provide some laughter? Positivity? Encouragement? Do you try to provide a distraction for those who might need it more than you could imagine? I’m not suggesting that you walk around like a clown trying to make everyone laugh every minute of the day. But do you uplift your audience in YOUR own way? EVEN IF YOUR ONLY AUDIENCE IS YOURSELF?

I cracked a joke in line at a drug store a few days ago…a really bad joke. The cashier laughed, but seemed to have tears in her eyes. Sad tears. I felt like a complete fool for about two seconds until she said “you have no idea how bad I needed that laugh.” I don’t know what she was going through, but she was my tiny audience for a couple of minutes. And I’d like to think that I brightened her day just a tad.

You might not be a performer….but you DO have an audience. You always have an audience. Your actions, your words, even the expression on your face (though hard to see through masks these days) is being shown to an audience.

Make it a good performance. Doesn’t have to be funny…but can be positive, uplifting, and encouraging. YOU might be the only person to be kind to someone today. YOUR smile might be the only smile someone sees today. And because of that mask you are wearing to the grocery store…you might just have to show that smile in another way. Through a kind word, simply holding the door for someone. Saying thank you.

Thank YOU for being my small audience today as you read my words. I appreciate you…more than you know.

Oh, and if you happen to enjoy a corny post on the “Old Mom” side of TikTok now and then….look me up… @kickinandscreamin. I’d love to have you be a part of my small audience there, as well.

‘Cause YOU….my small audience, mean the world to me.

God Bless.

Happy belated New Year to all….as it’s been since October since I’ve collected some coherent thoughts to share. I fear that COVID and the drastic change it has brought to our lives has killed more of my brain cells than I care to admit. I’m not proud of my three month gap in writing (though I do it all the time–this time it’s bothering me) and I’m determined to write more this year. Come on, 2021…give me some stuff. Some hot topics. Some deep thoughts. Funny stuff. Something.

I got a little lazy towards the end of the year. Don’t we all? –just a little? The holidays get me every time. I blame it on the extra sugar…all the baking, the cakes and Christmas cookies. The sugar convinces my brain that I need a nap more than I need a workout. So, like seven million other people in the world, I got my act together as the New Year hit. Back to my daily walks and hikes. Good for the body, good for the soul.

On any day I can, I prefer to hike in the woods. I’m at home there. If I believed in reincarnation, I’d want to come back as a creature who lived there….a bird, squirrel, maybe a raccoon. (and immediately as I typed that my mind began to whirl…..”no, wait! I’d want to come back as a dog or cat and live with someone who spoils their animals as much as I do…living my best life”…..jeez….this is opening up a whole new book of thoughts). ANYWAY…(focus, Mary….) YES–the woods. I’m at home there. When I hike, they are MY woods….and everyone I pass by is just a visitor. A little possessive, yes…. but that’s just how much I love the woods. I claim them as mine whenever I visit.

Quite often, though, there’s just no time for that…and I take my daily walk on the road where I live. A nice little neighborhood. Killer hill towards the beginning of my road…always a challenge on those leg muscles. To make sure I don’t cheat and turn back early, I tell myself I must go all the way up to the stop sign. A couple of days ago, my legs were particularly unhappy and I was tempted to stop and turn around…that downhill return was going to feel so good. But no…gotta keep going. All the way to the stop sign. Must touch the stop sign before you can return. So I go and go until I literally touch the stop sign. As I do, I look up and see it. A strip of red tape stuck to the red sign. My tape. I put it there. About a year and a half ago during a very sad time for my daughter and I. One of our precious cats, Jimmie, had gone missing. I made up a dozen flyers and hung them up all around our neighborhood and neighboring roads. I hung each flyer with red tape. I comforted Ella as she cried each day for a couple of weeks. The tears started to fade, as did our hope of ever seeing Jimmie again. After six weeks, my flyers were weathered and faded. Driving by several of them each day as I took Ella to school, we decided that it was time to take them down. I retraced my steps and found each of the twelve flyers I’d hung. Ripping them down in tears and utter sadness, I didn’t bother to remove my red tape. I was angry. I was heartbroken. I just wanted my flyers to be gone, as seeing them was no longer a sign of hope…anticipating the possibility of someone seeing Jimmie’s face on the flyer and calling us to say they’d found her. They had become a horrible reminder that Jimmie was gone. I ripped them down, one by one, and threw them away in a trash can at the local gas station. I remember crying as I put gas in my car that day. I knew I’d never see Jimmie again. And, unfortunately, I was right. We’ll never know what happened to Jimmie. She was a bit of a loner. A quiet cat who enjoyed her privacy. So, we tell ourselves that she just got tired of our crazy house. Ella and myself (neither of us are quiet), three dogs and several more cats….just too much for little Jimmie. We tell ourselves that she ventured out the pet door to find a quiet place to live. We picture her living with someone else. Because we can’t picture her not being in this world anymore. We just can’t. When you’ve been through tough times like we have, you do whatever you can to imagine good stuff….good stuff over bad stuff, whenever possible. I imagine Jimmie wandering up to the home of an older lady. She’d always wanted a cat. She lives a quiet life and spoils Jimmie rotten. They cuddle in a chair together each night. They are extremely happy together. This lady never saw my flyers…and never knew that Jimmie belonged to someone else. Jimmie refused to keep her collar on, so the lady had no way of knowing. She just felt like “it was meant to be.” And maybe it was. That’s what we like to believe. Call it pretend….call it crazy. Whatever. It’s our story and we’re sticking to it.

All of this ran through my mind for the remainder of my walk that day. That piece of red tape represented a story. The story of a sad time. But–a sad time that we survived. I’ve been in and out of the neighborhood several times since….both on foot and in the car. I’ve quickly developed a habit of looking at that strip of red tape every time I stop at the sign. A reminder. A mark. I guess I could try to get the tape off the sign. It would probably come right off. But I don’t want it removed. I like it. Reminders are good. We need to be reminded of hard times….to be thankful for the good times. I see that tape and I miss Jimmie. Then I return home and I give my remaining animals extra love and hugs. I think of others who have lost pets and humans like I have. We’re a team. A club. We have all left marks on the world. One of my marks just happens to be a piece of tape on a sign.

As I took Ella to school this morning, I knew that I’d be sitting down to write this as soon as I returned home. I finally felt the urge to write that I’d been missing for too long. It was rainy and foggy as I returned home, but I had an urge to stop and see the red tape before I wrote. I pulled my car off the road and got out….wondering if the neighbors were watching, but not really caring. I touched the tape and said goodbye to Jimmie. I needed closure. I tugged at the tape just a little. It was stuck really good. I’m glad. I want it left there. It’s one of my many marks on the world. I’ll be sad if the stop sign is replaced one day. I might just have to make a mark on the new one. A good mark, I hope. Maybe a funny sticker or some googly eyes.

I returned to my car and came home to write. I plopped down in the chair I always sit in to write, with Kramer in my lap. Kramer, the little brown tabby cat that ALWAYS sits in my lap as I type, is Jimmie’s son. Just know that–since I’ve had Kramer– every blog of mine you’ve ever read has been typed with my arms stretched out to my laptop, over the top of a purring cat. Not easy, but I’d expect nothing less. Kramer has always been a “in your face” kind of cat, but he definitely became more clingy when Jimmie left. At first, I thought it was because he was sad. But who am I kidding?? He’s clingy for ME. He knows. He’s comforting me. I don’t care who you are…cat person or not…it’s true. He knows and I know he knows.

We don’t deserve animals.

But– thank you, God….for allowing us to have them.

You’ve left lots of marks in the world too. Yours are probably fancier and more interesting than tape on a stop sign. But whatever they are….leave them. Don’t try to remove them. Don’t try to hide them or cover them up. They tell your story. Like a scar. Be proud that you’ve survived. Be happy that you are still here to tell the story of where that mark came from.

God bless….and I’ll be back soon. I don’t do New Years resolutions…but I do vow to write more. Keep walking and keep writing. Otherwise, I fear I’d lose my mind. What do you vow to keep doing?? What keeps you sane? No matter what, just keep on keeping on. The sun has come out since I’ve been writing. What started as a foggy and dreary morning has become a beautiful, sunny day. Perfect. I plan to enjoy it and I hope you do the same.

Peace.

I recently helped a friend rescue a couple of feral cats. We got them fixed–a tiny step in attempting to help with the feral cat overpopulation–then took them to their new home with a great family. The whole thing made me feel really good….doing a small thing to help out in a big world. But let me backtrack just a bit. These cats….a sweet couple that truly seemed to be in love (which is quite mind boggling to me, actually…..do cats fall in love? You’d have to see the way the boy cat looks at the girl cat to understand…), anyway–these cats had produced several litters in the past…with the most recent one being only weeks before. My friend Dana caught two of the kittens–while the third disappeared. I have convinced myself that the third scuttled through the woods and found an amazing family to live with forever and ever (yeah, yeah….I know. I’m quite the pollyanna). Dana found a home for one of the remaining kittens, which left one. One tiny-faced little gray tabby cat, small enough to sit in the palm of your hand.

So, I got the big idea that I was going to foster this kitten until she was big enough to get fixed, then she would go to live with the same family that took in her parents, whom Dana had now named Baby Daddy and Mamacita. **So yes–those of you who know me well are now shaking your head and laughing over the fact that I honestly thought that I could FOSTER…keeping this little kitten whose face was no bigger than a silver dollar, care for her and love her, then GIVE HER TO SOMEONE ELSE. Go ahead….keep laughing. I get it. But the thing is…I wanted to be “that person.” I still do. I want to be someone who can foster an animal ONLY until it is big enough, strong enough and healthy enough to go to its forever home. Yep.

As I’m sure you’ve assumed by now….I still have that kitten. I named her “Foster”–(clever, right?), and yep….she’s not going anywhere. I think I might have been able to do it if her face hadn’t been so tiny and if her eyes hadn’t been so big. I’m serious. Don’t laugh. But the truth is–I failed. I’m what the rescue community calls a “foster failure.” That ball of fluff is sitting on my shoulder right now as I type….as all of my many other rescues are scattered around the room, snoozing….occasionally stretching or moving to a spot of sunshine reflected on to the floor. I’m a sucker. And in this particular situation…..a failure.

This whole thing has had me thinking a lot about our failures. We all have many, no doubt–all throughout life. Some are small, some are so big that it changes everything. What matters, of course, is how we handle that failure. What we learn. What we take away from it. What we allow it to take from us–or not take from us.

I’ve certainly survived more failures in my life than my recently failed attempt at fostering a kitten. I’ve failed at personal goals, relationships, projects, diets….I even failed world history in high school. Even worse– I failed the vision test when I went to get my drivers learners permit (a teenagers nightmare, right?). From that experience I learned that I was extrememly near sighted and never realized that I was actually supposed to be able to read all those signs on the side of the road. I just assumed they were blurry to everyone else, too. Every other failure has taught me something. Perhaps I learned that I had set my goals too high. Perhaps I learned that the task at hand was simply too hard for me on that particular day–no matter how hard I tried and how stubborn I am. Perhaps I learned to stop beating myself up…to be thankful for the progress I made, and not consider it a failure just because I didn’t make it all the way to the top of the mountain. Sometimes I had to ask for help–which, by the way–is one of the hardest things in the world for me to do. Sometimes I had to throw away my first, second, or tenth attempt and just keep starting over. Perhaps I had to change my plan completely. Perhaps MY plan wasn’t God’s plan.

Some failures will scar us so bad that we could try for days to think of something positive that came from the failure–never able to think of a thing. Other failures will leave us thankful–SO happy that things didn’t work out the way we had hoped. This brings to mind that popular saying that hung on my refrigerator until it it fell apart: “I thank God for protecting me from what I thought I wanted and blessing me with what I didn’t know I needed.” It was printed on blue paper, hanging there by a magnet for years and years. So many times I took it off the fridge and just held it. Cried with it. A beautiful reminder that many of my “failures” were not failures at all in His eyes. To me, it seemed as though I had failed. To Him, I was simply on the wrong path.

Today I will fail. I probably won’t eat as healthy as I planned to when I woke. I won’t get all of the laundry done that I think I’m going to. I won’t make as much progress as I want to on my projects around the house. I probably won’t cross much off of my “to do” list. And lord knows I won’t succeed in helping my daughter with her math homework.

But all of those failures are so small. So trivial. Makes me thankful. So thankful. There are many around me who are suffering through failures that seem bigger than life to them right now. Failed marriages. Failed friendships. Failed careers. Failed relationships with children. Failed goals that will change their life in ways they never imagined. The fact that I couldn’t give a cat away? Wow….that’s so tiny. Deeper thought really puts that in to perspective.

What we all must remember is that NO failure…big or small, is allowed to defeat us. Keep on keeping on.

I’ll try to foster again someday….and I’ll try big, huge things too. I’ll fail (“at the fostering“, you’re thinking…right?). But, I’ll also succeed…at other stuff. So will you. No one is exempt from failure. But we’re ALL capable of continuing to TRY. I don’t care how cliche it sounds… we must keep on keeping on. Daily. Hourly.

Robert F. Kennedy was quoted as saying  “Only those who dare to fail greatly can ever achieve greatly.” Hmmm….I think I’ve found my new refridgerator quote.

Let’s pray for those who are failing. No matter how small. For, small to us could be huge to them.

Pray for their survival, as many feel as though they won’t survive. Pray for strength. Pray that they take something with them that they can hold on to….perhaps a lesson learned, a bit of courage to try again. Maybe the failure they are crying over today is not a failure at all…but just the pain of God picking them up from one path and putting them on another. As many of us know, that can hurt.

Godspeed to you all….and here’s hoping that we all succeed at something great today.

Now, time to cuddle with this cat. 🙂

I skipped June, and almost skipped July. And I’m not just referring to the fact that I didn’t write during those months….but the months just feel “skipped.” Right? Where is time going? In one way….time is dragging by during these hard times. Day after day of the same thing….hearing of more COVID cases, enduring the “masks or no masks” debate….will school start? Will the world ever fully reopen? But in another way, the time is flying by. Yesterday was March….I swear it was just yesterday. Where did the summer go?

I woke up this morning with my teacher friends on my mind. Heavily on my mind. My closest friends are the ones I taught with. I felt their pain in the spring when the world shut down, and I feel their anxiousness today. The Friday before returning to school. OH, how I remember that feeling. In every “normal” year that I taught school, all 23 of them, this “last weekend” of summer brought on such a mixture of emotions, it would almost make me physically sick. My body couldn’t decide how to feel. Anxious, most definitely. Excited, of course. Sad to see summer end….absolutely. Nervous? Heck yes. I don’t care who you are….any teacher that says they’re not nervous at the beginning of a school year is lying. Liar Liar, pants on fire.

But those years were “normal” years for me. And yes–I feel the need to put quotation marks around the word NORMAL….for, who the heck even knows what that is anymore?? I retired before the world went crazy. I didn’t have to teach virtually to students who didn’t understand what was going on…students who just wanted to return to school to see their teachers and friends. Students who are now wondering if anything about this coming school year will even come close to falling under the “normal” category.

So, my teacher friends are feeling that “last weekend of the summer” knot of nerves in their guts today, with a 1000% increase of anxiousness, not knowing what in the world is going to happen. Trying to be prepared for every possible scenario, having no clue which one will play out. Superheroes. They are all freakin’ superheroes.

As my readers know, I love to people watch, and….well, I love to eavesdrop and listen to people as well. And I’ve found that the best conversations can often be overheard at the grocery store. Maybe it’s the desperation to talk to other humans in these trying times….but here lately I’ve noticed the increase of conversations in the checkout line. Yesterday, my subjects were two Moms…discussing the upcoming school year. The conversation started as one Mom complimented the mask that the second Mom was wearing. The fabric had little green aliens on it, and the Mom explained that she had made several of them for her child to wear to school this year. The others, she told, included Spongebob, and Superman. She said that she was just trying to make lemonade out of lemons….that, if her son had to wear masks to school, she wanted them to be fun. Something his friends would like.

The other Mom didn’t seem to share the same positive outlook. I could almost hear the “Wah Wah Wah” Debbie Downer music in the background as she spoke of how “stupid” everything was….how it was stupid for the schools to even try reopening, because they’re just going to shut right back down within a few weeks. She went on to say that she did, actually, understand how hard it must be for the teachers….making plans that they might not get to implement….having hopes of a “normal” that probably isn’t going to happen. She ended her horribly depressing monologue with “teachers are damned if they do, and damned if they don’t.”

Positive, alien-mask wearing Mom number one looked stunned. I pretended to pick out a candy bar near the checkout line beside them, just to hear what was said next. And I’m so glad I did.

She replied, “I think I’d rather say that all of us, teachers, students and parents–everyone, are blessed if we do, and blessed if we don’t.”

Debbie Downer chuckled and said “well, we’ll see!” and the conversation ended. She didn’t get it. The words of the other Mom didn’t sink in with her like they did me. I decided to put the Snickers bar back down (very reluctantly….I really wanted that thing) and I spoke to positive Mom over the counter, through my mask, and told her…. “Hey….I like that. Blessed if we do, blessed if we don’t.” I guess I gave away the fact that I had been listening to their conversation, but I didn’t care. She needed a kudos for that positivity that so many of us have misplaced.

She smiled at me. I knew….though those little green aliens on her mask covered her mouth. I could see it in her eyes.

The kids might get to go back to school for a few weeks before the state of our world makes it to where they all have to go back home, to virtual learning. They might make it to Christmas. They might make it all year. The school year might seem so chaotic at first, that everyone doubts it will work for more than a week. Or it might go smoother than anyone ever imagined. You don’t know. I don’t know. And I can promise you the teachers don’t know. But they are working their tails off to make sure every base is covered to make it the best situation possible.

If you are having anywhere NEAR a “normal” day….you are blessed. If you’re not in the hospital right now, you are blessed. If you’re not making funeral arrangements for a loved one right now, you are blessed. If you have a home and food to eat, you are blessed. If you have a family that loves you, you are blessed. If you have children who are going back to school soon, in whatever capacity, you are blessed.

If you are a teacher, you are BLESSED. God called you to do one of the most important jobs on this earth. And NOPE–you never dreamed that a year like this would exist during your career….but it’s happening, and you are tackling it. YOU’VE GOT THIS.

Blessed if we do, Blessed if we don’t.

Whatever decision you make….whatever crisis arrives, there’s going to be something to be thankful for….something God has blessed you with.

Embrace it.

We’ve got this….and to my teacher friends, Godspeed.

Wash your capes and get them ready for your return to school on Monday, because YOU, my freinds, are SUPERHEROES.

When I get discouraged, I always try to gather my thoughts enough to put down some words…for writing tends to calm me, and who doesn’t need a little calming during these trying days? Any other blogger in their right mind would no doubt try to focus their thoughts on the current state of our nation. But I’m afraid that the hatred and violence that currently abounds has left me pretty speechless…which doensn’t happen often. All I know to do is pray. I’m praying for the families of those who have been killed, who are suffering, and who are discriminated against daily…on a level that most of us can’t even imagine. I’m praying for those who live in fear. For those who live in fear every day–not just on the days when something so terrible happens that the nation begins to riot…but even on the somewhat peaceful days…they still suffer in fear. In silence. I’m praying for the police officers around our country….for, one man’s despicable actions do not reflect the character of them all. So, I’m praying. Hard. I’m praying for my teenage daugher’s future…as I ache for her to have a wonderful life, in a country that should bring her amazing opportunites, love, and a feeling of security and peace. But this will only happen if everyone does their part. Everyone. Including you, and including me.

I think we all feel a level of sadness right now….some more than others, no doubt–but I can’t imagine anyone being callous enough to simply feel nothing. What makes it even worse, is that on top of the craziness that’s affecting our nation as a whole….we all have our personal battles, that seem to be the “cherry on top” of the big bowl of chaos.

Our cherry on top fell hard today, and splattered the yucky sadness all over the place. Our sweet cat Cosmo died. He was only five years old, and he was the one cat that proved that not all cats are weird, unpredictable asses. He was sweet. A sweet soul in the body of a cat. A rare find that I once never thought possible. He loved to be held. His eyes were huge and full of life. He loved my daughter unbelievably. Yep…a cat. Loved a human. It happened. All the people who dislike cats would have completely changed their attitude towards felines if they could have spent ten minutes with Cosmo. I guarantee it.

Cats usually live a long time. Cosmo would have been nine years old when Ella graduated high school. She always said that her hope was to live in a cat-friendly apartment when she went to college so that Cosmo could go with her. She had plans with this cat. Her plans died today.

The thing with the human heart is…. pain is pain. Heartache is heartache. Our heart doesn’t work on a scale of one to ten. When our hearts feel broken for any reason, it hurts. It all hurts. The murder of innocent people hurts. Watching news coverage of riots and lootings and violence that will solve NOTHING hurts. This damn pandemic hurts. The death of our cat hurts. Most of 2020 has hurt.

The passing of Cosmo has brought to mind that we all hurt, in our own ways. Almost all of you have a “cherry on top” going on, most likely, that the rest of us don’t even know about. Something personal–something that you might fear that others would deem “small and unimportant” compared to the state of our world. But to you–it’s huge. It’s personal. Like Cosmo was to us. And it hurts.

Maybe you’re experiencing a physical hurt, maybe a heartache for the violence you woke up to read about this morning. Maybe you have a sick loved one, maybe you are sick yourself. Maybe you’re just depressed. Maybe you just miss going out to eat and shopping and going to the movies and doing whatever you want to do without fear. Maybe you just miss that loved one you haven’t seen in weeks, in fear of violating social distancing. Maybe you’re just angry because you hate 2020 and you want a do-over.

Maybe your cat died.

Heartache hurts like hell. Physically, human hearts are pretty much all the same. Some are smaller, larger, weaker, scarred and damaged….but for the most part…they’re the same as they do their job–however well–pumping blood through our bodies. They all hurt. No matter your color, your race, your sex, your age, your religion, your ethnic origin…..our hearts are the same. Sure, some people seem to have NO heart, from their actions, from their words, and from their hate. But even those people have a heart. Though it seems nonexistent…it’s in there, pumping just like ours. And if God allows justice to be served, they may–one day, in time– feel the heartache that they’ve been too cold and paralyzed to feel thus far in their miserable existence.

My prayer for all is that love will win.

My prayer is that our nation will heal. Like an open wound that hurts beyond belief….but suddenly starts to heal. Suddenly starts to hurt a little less. Look a little better. Feel a little better. Then before long, all that’s left is a scar. It’s tender to the touch….like a reminder of what was once there…

We’re definitely earning more scars here lately. But the good news is–we all have room left for a few more scars. Some of us have less room than others…some of us are already covered in more scars than we ever dreamed of –but there’s room for a few more. And each one will hopefully make us stronger, and make us thankful that we healed up enough to be left with nothing but a scar…and perhaps the memories of the pain that led to the scar to start with.

I pray for peace. I pray for harmony. I pray for laughter…

I pray for love. I pray for forgiveness. I pray for unity….

I pray that happy times will outnumber the sad times…

I pray that LOVE will heal our wounds….

…and we can live, scars and all, in peace.

I pray that we gather up lots of love and happiness to store in our hearts…so that the next heartache will be a bit more bearable than the last.

God bless you all….

God bless the memory of our Cosmo…

God bless my crying child…

God bless all of you who are hurting….

HOLD ON a bit longer….and the wound will heal.

Then, show off your scar….be proud that you earned it. You earned it through survival. And you’ll do it again.

Run free, Cosmo. If there are squirrels in heaven, go chase one for me…

Mothers Day is the holiday that has changed most drastically for me throughout the years.  As a child, it was one of my favorite days….as we celebrated my beautiful Mother and Grandmother.  A huge meal was usually prepared by my Grandmother, followed by multiple homemade desserts, fun and tons of laughter.  Both Mom and my “Nain Nain” made me feel just as celebrated as them.  “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be a Mother” my Mom would always say.  I’ll admit that comment, which I heard year after year (and still do) always made my heart happy….and does so even more now that I catch myself saying it to my daughter.  She, just like me, is an only child….and truly is the reason I’m a Mother.

Later in my life, after getting married on my thirty second birthday, I developed a strong desire to become a Mother myself.  This happened a few years after my “I don’t want to have children” phase that many women go through.  Yet it seems that those of us who boast that comment the loudest end up being the ones who change our minds the strongest….suddenly living in disbelief that we ever felt that way.  Suddenly wanting nothing more than to have a child.

For a few years, Mother’s Day became a day I dreaded.  This will make me sound like a horrible person to many of you….for your Mothers have passed on and you miss them more than words can say.  Yet, I still had my beautiful Mother during these years….and still dreaded the day, for I selfishly couldn’t think of anything else but the fact that I couldn’t be a Mother. I felt like the world was celebrating a day that I couldn’t fully participate in.  I showered my Mom in cards and flowers and special time together, faking a smile to everyone else, though my Mom knew more than anyone how bad I was hurting.

I thought the worst slap in the face of Mother’s Day was during the time I was trying so hard to get pregnant.  Going through endless infertility treatments, shots, drugs, more shots, tears, disappointments, and BAM!  “Happy Mother’s Day to all the Moms in the world!  You’re never going to be one!”….or so I believed as I once again faked a smile and made the most of the day.  But I was so very wrong.  The hardest Mother’s Day was actually in 2006.  Mother’s Day fell on May 14 of that year, and a baby girl had been born in Guatemala City just eighteen days before.  One week after her birth, we were told that she would be ours.  An eight pound healthy baby girl whose birth Mother couldn’t give her the life she deserved.  Ours.  Our daughter.  In one way, it was the happiest Mother’s Day I could have ever imagined.  But the distance between us and that sweet baby in Guatemala tore me up.  I hadn’t even met her yet.  She didn’t know me.  She didn’t know my voice.  She didn’t know my face.  But she was to be mine.  The laws made us wait another few weeks before we finally met our daughter….and the laws made us wait another eleven months before we were able to bring her home.  Laws.  Red tape.  Government.  Authorities.  Keeping me from meeting my daughter.  But we celebrated.  My Mother gave me my first ever Mother’s Day card.  I still have it….tucked in my bible. I was a Mother.  The day felt better.  Not complete yet–until the next year when we had our Ella in our arms.  She had been home with us for just over a month when Mother’s Day rolled back around.  It was MY Mother’s Day.  It finally happened.  That year, for the first time in many, many years, I went to bed on the evening of Mother’s Day and I didn’t cry.  Instead, I laid on the sofa with a baby girl sleeping on my chest until the wee hours of the morning….at which time I finally put her to bed in her little crib.  Then I sat on the floor beside her and fell asleep.  I spent the entire night with my baby girl.  It was the best Mother’s Day ever.

The ups and downs of this day still occur, as the death of my Grandmother changed everything once again.  I see the sadness in my Mother’s eyes, as well as the eyes of many of my friends who have lost their Mothers.  I dread that day.  Though I’m convinced my stubborn Mother will refuse to give up and will most likely live to be one hundred….I still have a sick fear in the pit of my stomach that I might possibly be joining that group one day….experiencing Mother’s Day without my Mother.

I braved the grocery store this morning.  As I sat in my car, tying my mask on to my face (ahhhh yes….the Mother’s Day of coronavirus…) I counted eight people walking to their cars with flowers.  Some were young, some older….on their way to present their Mother, wife, sister….who knows…with flowers in celebration of her special day.  I laughed out loud as a man walked out of Great Clips and yelled “Man!  That felt good!” I guess the quarantine had caused him to fall a little behind on his haircuts.  He kept running his fingers through his hair as he walked up the sidewalk towards me.  We entered the store at the same time, and I saw him again in the checkout line with a huge bouquet of flowers.  A haircut and flowers.  Looking good for his Mom…or maybe his wife.   As I finished my shopping, I noticed there were many more, purchasing flowers and plants, balloons and cards.  I loved the thought of all the recipients of these goodies, how sometime today they would be given their gifts.  Many happy women will be smiling today.

But many will be crying.

I bought flowers today too, but mine were a bit different.  I bought flowers for my Grandmother’s grave…which I visited this afternoon with Ella and my Mom.  The headstone and grassy mound was as close as Mom can get to her Mother today.  The knowledge that she will indeed see her Mom again one day gives her comfort and hope.  But some days, even comfort and hope can’t keep the tears away.

I woke up this morning to a beautiful hand made card by my girl who is now fourteen years old.  She had prepared a scavenger hunt, where she led me through the house to find colorful paper flowers with handwritten notes on the back of each one.  Wonderful quotes, like my favorite– “Nothing is really lost until your Mother can’t find it.”

As we have laughed and thoroughly enjoyed our day together,  I can’t help but think of someone who I never had the privilege of meeting.  A Mother.  A woman who lived in the small village of San Marcos, Guatemala, who decided to give her baby girl up for adoption.  I have always loved this woman…more than I ever thought possible.  I mean….how can you love someone so much that you’ve never met?  Someone I’ll never meet.  But the love and admiration I hold for her is more than I can explain.  She gave birth to a baby girl who has turned out to be someone she would be in complete awe of.  She would be amazed at how beautiful her baby has turned out.  She would love to hear her baby girl’s laughter.  She would love to see her dance, and to hear her sing.  She would be so impressed at what a good heart her baby girl has.  How much she loves me and her Grandmother.  How much she loves animals.  She would love to know what a friendly social butterfly her baby girl turned out to be….never meeting a stranger.

I think of her often throughout the year, especially today.  I guarantee she has thought about me as well, and the beautiful baby girl she said goodbye to within hours after giving birth.

I overheard an older lady in the grocery store this morning, talking to someone as she waited in line to pay for her groceries.  Apparently, she had recently lost her Mother, as the lady in line with her asked how she was holding up.  The woman’s reply, “it hurts.  Every day hurts….but I’ve dreaded today.  I knew Mother’s Day would hurt even worse.”

It’s definitely been a day that hurt many.  There are many of you who have buried your Mothers, and miss them more than you ever thought possible.  Some of you never felt the true love of a Mother, for the time she should have spent with you was spent with drugs or alcohol, and the unbelievable unfairness of hard times.  Some of you have buried your daughter, who was also a Mother, and the ache you feel for your grandchildren eats you up inside.   Some of you ache so badly to become a Mother, that you are simply waiting for today to be over, so that you can continue to pray that maybe next year, on Mother’s Day, it will finally be your day.

Some of you may understand how Ella’s birth mother must be feeling today.  And some of you  understand how I feel today, as an adoptive parent–so filled with thankfulness that you think your heart my explode….simply unable to believe that God chose YOU to be their Mother.  That God chose THEM to be your child.

It’s most definitely a day of many, many emotions….maybe more so than any other holiday.

Some of you have a rough week ahead.  Sure…today was nice, but tomorrow you are back to screaming toddlers and dirty diapers and negative bank accounts.  Tomorrow you may be back to not knowing how much longer you’ll have your job due to the current state of our world.  Some of you are doing it all alone….you’re in my club.  And though you don’t think so–you are KILLING it.  YOU are a hero.

No matter what kind of emotions today brought to your heart, I hope you feel peace.

Whether or not you are a Mother–even if there’s not one single human being that you’re responsible for–you’re still responsible for yourself.  So, take care of yourself.  Find peace.  Find happiness.  Just be sure to find that happiness within YOURSELF–because no one else can do it for you.  Then, if you are lucky enough to still have your Mom around, give her a call.  Even if you’ve already called her.  Even if you’ve already spent the day with her.  Do it anyway.  Just give her one more I love you to complete her day.

Below, you’ll find one of my favorite stories, by one of my favorite writers–Erma Bombeck.  Read it.  Enjoy it.  Believe it.

Peace to all.

 

 

“When God Created Mothers”  –by Erma Bombeck

When the Good Lord was creating mothers, He was into His sixth day of “overtime” when the angel appeared and said. “You’re doing a lot of fiddling around on this one.”

And God said, “Have you read the specs on this order?” She has to be completely washable, but not plastic. Have 180 moveable parts…all replaceable. Run on black coffee and leftovers. Have a lap that disappears when she stands up. A kiss that can cure anything from a broken leg to a disappointed love affair. And six pairs of hands.”

The angel shook her head slowly and said. “Six pairs of hands…. no way.”

It’s not the hands that are causing me problems,” God remarked, “it’s the three pairs of eyes that mothers have to have.”

That’s on the standard model?” asked the angel. God nodded.

One pair that sees through closed doors when she asks, ‘What are you kids doing in there?’ when she already knows. Another here in the back of her head that sees what she shouldn’t but what she has to know, and of course the ones here in front that can look at a child when he goofs up and say. ‘I understand and I love you’ without so much as uttering a word.”

God,” said the angel touching his sleeve gently, “Get some rest tomorrow….”

I can’t,” said God, “I’m so close to creating something so close to myself. Already I have one who heals herself when she is sick…can feed a family of six on one pound of hamburger…and can get a nine year old to stand under a shower.”

The angel circled the model of a mother very slowly. “It’s too soft,” she sighed.

But tough!” said God excitedly. “You can imagine what this mother can do or endure.”

Can it think?”

Not only can it think, but it can reason and compromise,” said the Creator.

Finally, the angel bent over and ran her finger across the cheek.

There’s a leak,” she pronounced. “I told You that You were trying to put too much into this model.”

It’s not a leak,” said the Lord, “It’s a tear.”

What’s it for?”

It’s for joy, sadness, disappointment, pain, loneliness, and pride.”

You are a genius, ” said the angel.

Somberly, God said, “I didn’t put it there.”