September 2 of last year is when it all started, or when it all ended, I guess. That’s the day my husband made his last decision here on this earth. The SECOND….the second of September. For days, into weeks, I would stare at the date on the calendar, trying to comprehend how everything in my world had changed on that single day. I laid in bed one night and figured out that, as of September 2, 2017, I had lived 17,005 days (you have time to figure things like this in your head when you don’t sleep….) But that one day, the second of September, it all changed in a way no one can prepare for.
I’m one of those people who never know the date…I’m always having to check my phone or ask someone….but I know when it’s the second day of every month. It’s an anniversary of sorts, and a reminder that I’ve survived another month. I’ve grown one month stronger. I’ve watched my daughter grow another month. The morning of the second, every month since last September, I’ve woken up thinking “it’s the second day of the month”…..every single month, like an alarm clock. I think it’s a God thing.
It took me a few months to realize what God was doing. It was January 2 when it hit me. I went to bed the night before, after gorging on our typical collard greens and black eyed peas feast for New Years Day, feeling very blah–due to the fact that we had to return to school the next day (after a glorious two week Christmas break). I couldn’t sleep, which wasn’t uncommon at all, and tried to find distraction in a good book. I happened to look up at the digital clock beside my bed at the instant it changed from 11:59pm to 12:00 am. I won’t digress into the fact that I actually keep that clock set 10 minutes fast, for that would just ruin my nice little story. In MY head, it had just struck midnight, though the rest of the world had 10 minutes of the day left.
At that moment, I felt something. Not a dread of knowing the alarm would be going off a mere six hours later….but a sense of peace. And, of course, the immediate reminder in my head that it was now the second day of the month. I felt encouraged, renewed, and immediately started thinking of something fun I could do with my daughter after work that day.
The next month, on February second, it was my Grandfathers birthday–though he’s been in heaven a few years now, we still celebrate him. It was a Friday, and Groundhog Day. I was doing a special activity that morning with a group of kids–we were making bird feeders for our school’s garden, and I remember a little boy sitting beside me as we rolled our peanut butter covered paper towel rolls in bird seed. He said, “this is going to be the best day ever for all the birds around here!” His excitement brought tears to my eyes. It was a good day. It was the second day of the month.
The next month, on March 2, I was asked to visit a first grade class at my school and read “Horton Hears a Who” to them. It was a simple task, the typical scene of me sitting in a chair with the kids gathered around my feet. Nothing spectacular happened, everyone behaved and seemed to enjoy the story. But there was just something about their attentive eyes, and their excitement about finding out what happened on the next page that hit me hard. I walked out of Mrs. Smith’s classroom, into the nearest restroom, and I cried. I had no idea at that time why I was crying….and at first I assumed it was hormones and the general exhaustion that any teacher is feeling by March of each school year. But then I realized, it was a happy cry. Just a random, happy “I’m just thankful to be here” kind of cry.
The following months of April and May, I woke up on the second immediately aware of the date, and thankful. Just thankful for everything. Even the pain I’d endured over the previous months–because I know it’s made me strong. I know this, because by this point, I had started keeping a calendar of “the seconds”–just to keep track.
On June 2nd, the sun came out. School had ended, and it was officially summertime, but it had rained for nine days straight. The lake was at a record breaking high, rivers were flooding, houses were damaged, and we all felt like we were going to mold. I woke up on June 2nd to sunshine. I gathered up my girl and my lake bag, and we celebrated summer all day. As we sat down at the dock, Ella was actually the one who mentioned the date. I saw her counting on her fingers, rattling off months, before she looked at me and said “it’s been nine months today.” It was the first time she’d ever mentioned the “anniversary” of that day. After talking for a while, I shared with her how I actually thought about it every month, but in a way differently than she might expect. I told her how I had noticed that the second day of each month had been special in some way, and that I believed it was God helping me, making sure I didn’t brood on the date, but be thankful for our healing. She looked at me with those dark brown eyes and said “He’s making sure you LIVE EVERY SECOND.”
LIVE EVERY SECOND.
I cried, she hugged me, she told me she loved me, and we went about our day. The second day of the month.
In a few days, on July 2nd, it will be my birthday. It would have also been my 17th wedding anniversary. I bet it’s going to be a good day (though I’m not at all thrilled to be turning 49). But if it’s not, I’m going to live every second of it anyway.
Even at almost 50, I often think about pregnancy. No, I no longer have the desire to be pregnant….but I think about it like someone thinks about something they’ve never experienced–wondering what it would have been like. I have a dear friend who recently gave birth to her first child. Her pregnancy fascinated me. The first time I saw her baby boy kick inside of her belly, I had cold chills. I will never know what it feels like to have a little life growing inside of me. And honestly, I couldn’t be more thankful. For, if I had gotten pregnant back when I desperately wanted to, I wouldn’t have turned to adoption. Thinking about my life without Ella literally makes me struggle to breathe. GOD KNEW. God knew that the child he had chosen for me wouldn’t grow in my belly, but in a woman’s belly in San Marcos, Guatemala.
When Keith and I married, we didn’t want children (or so we thought). We were both teachers, surrounded by hundreds of children every day. We were truly content with each other, and the daily routine of coming home to our dogs each and every day. Then, in the summer of 2003–two years after getting married–our thoughts on children changed. Both of us had a drastic change of heart on the exact same evening. We went to visit family in Indiana, and met a sweet boy named Brady for the first time. I’m not good at this family tree thing–so you figure it out: He is my aunt’s (by marriage) sister’s grandchild. He was a bit over a year old at the time. We were all sitting outside of my aunt and uncle’s home, making homemade pizza on the grill (that’s how my brain works…I specifically remember the food)….and Brady was toddling around offering everyone a rock from the tiny pile he had made on the patio. His laughter cut through me in a way I’d never experienced. His smile pierced my heart, and his hugs made me want to cry in a way I didn’t know existed. As soon as we retired to our room that night, Keith and I looked at each other. We stared at each other for a few seconds, then at the exact same moment, each of us blurted out, “I want a child!” I remember crying that night….so thankful that God had shown me that I did, indeed, need a tiny human being in my life….even though I had been convinced otherwise for so long.
We immediately thought that our newly made decision would be so easy ….in that all we needed to do now was get pregnant. We were both 34, and we knew we were a little older than most new parents….but we never in a million years thought that we would face infertility. That word–“infertility”–seemed like something you just hear about happening to other people. It’s a word that sounds so hopeless and sterile….and brings on an hollow place in your heart that aches every single day. I spent so much time at my doctor’s office, every employee there knew me by name. I would sit in the waiting room and watch teenage girls walk in, hugely pregnant, often alone, and often accompanied by a bum-looking boy with his pants hanging down past his underwear. That boy didn’t even want to be a Daddy, and it angered me that life was so unfair. I would see couples walk in hand in hand, smiles beaming so bright it was blinding. I would catch myself staring at them…wondering how long it took them to get to this glorious pregnant state.
I would get so angry that I would leave the waiting room to go lock myself in the nearest restroom so I could cry and hyperventilate in private. More than once, the nurse would come knock on the bathroom door, telling me it was my time to see the doctor. She knew if I wasn’t in the waiting room, I’d be locked in the bathroom crying.
The strange thing was, after Keith and I both underwent many different (and rather humiliating) procedures, we were told that there was no medical reason for our inability to get pregnant. Nothing was “wrong” with either of us….we just simply couldn’t conceive a child. At that time, I was angered even more by that. It would have been easier if we could have had a “reason”….a medical reason for why we couldn’t conceive. But what we learned later was that we DID have a reason….not a medical reason, but a GOD reason. God wanted us to adopt.
We finally heard God, as we both became not only content–but also excited about the option of adoption. We were immediately drawn to international adoption. And because I knew a couple of families who had adopted from Russia, I told Keith that I felt like we should check in to adopting from that country. We began filing paperwork, researching, and even meeting with my friends who had beautiful children adopted from Russia. Everything was moving along, but nothing felt right. It felt weird, cold and routine….but not like I thought it should feel. I began to pray, asking God to show me what was missing. Something HAD to be missing. Beginning the process of adopting a child shouldn’t feel so empty, right?
Our adoption agency sent me tons of reading literature, brochures and general information on a weekly basis. Some of it was pinpointed towards Russia, and some covered a broad scope that included information on other countries. One afternoon, I sat on our front porch swing and looked through some info that had arrived in the mail, and I froze on a particular brochure. I held it in my hand and felt like I couldn’t move. I had cold chills, tears in my eyes, and a firm grip on the paper in my hand, which was filled with pictures of children with big brown eyes and beautiful olive skin. After at least an hour of crying on my porch swing, KNOWING God had spoken to me, I called Keith and said, “we’re looking in the wrong place! Our child isn’t in Russia. Our child will be born in Guatemala.”
The next morning, I drove to the adoption agency and began the mountain of paperwork necessary to change everything over to Guatemala. Suddenly, it all felt wonderful. The warm fuzzies that were missing before were now there. My heart was full of hope and excitement. Unfortunately, my heart wasn’t prepared for the fact that another year would pass before we were finally told that our child had been born. The paperwork grew and grew, the red tape was thick, and I felt like the process was draining me of my hope. We would wait for weeks and weeks for one little document to get approved, only to find out that it was denied because the person who notarized it forgot to put their middle initial in their signature, therefore not matching their notary stamp. I would cry myself to sleep as I knew that we had a good six weeks added on to our wait just because of one little mistake. I had never felt so mentally and emotionally exhausted in my life.
I finally grew so weak that I told Keith that perhaps we should call the adoption agency and change our preference. We had previously requested a girl. We wanted a baby girl so badly, but I was starting to feel like perhaps the preference of a girl was holding us up. What if a baby boy became available? Shouldn’t we be open to that? So, the following morning, I picked up the phone to call Carol, our adoption consultant. When she answered, she said something about how ironic it was that I was calling her, because she had just sat down to dial our number….she had wonderful news! A baby girl had been born in San Marcos, Guatemala, and the mother desires for the child to be adopted. This baby girl, named Alba by her biological mother, was ours. OURS. SHE WAS OURS.
We had to wait until she was eight weeks old, and until more mountains of paperwork were filed, then we could visit her. We still had months of waiting until we could bring her home….but she was ours. Our baby girl. Our Ella.
The day she turned eight weeks old, our plane landed in Guatemala City. We checked in to a hotel right next door to the US Embassy and anxiously waiting for our Ella to arrive. A few hours later, a taxi pulled up in front of the hotel, with an older lady holding a beautiful baby girl. No car seat, just the two them in the back of that taxi. The lady was Dorita, Dora for short, who was Ella’s foster mother. Ella lived with Dora and eleven other family members in a tiny house in Guatemala City. Dora spoke no English, but had a look of love on her face that assured me that she was taking very good care of our baby girl. Behind the taxi was a nice car, driven by our Guatemalan-appointed attorney, Lily. She translated for Dora and explained to us that we would have Ella in our care for four days and nights. On the fifth day, my heart broke into a hundred pieces. That was the day that a taxi arrived once again, with Dora in the back, this time to take Ella back to her home. We still had months of paperwork to wait on….we had to give OUR baby back to Dora, and leave. I cried a cry like I had never experienced. My chest hurt. My body ached. I had never hurt like that before. I didn’t think I would survive. That plane trip home, back to Atlanta, was unlike anything we ever thought we’d have to endure.
For months, I had been writing a journal to our baby girl, sharing my thoughts and fears. One night, I wrote to her, “I want to hold you and love on you so much that it physically hurts me. I don’t know how I can keep holding on. All I know to do is keep praying. Keep praying until something happens.” I kept staring at my words until I saw the letters PUSH jumping off the page. Pray Until Something Happens. PUSH. I made copies of a picture of Ella–one that we took the very first day we met her–and wrote PUSH on each one. I hung them all over the house. I hung them in my car. I gave them to friends, asking for their prayers.
EVERYTHING was complete on our end. We were waiting on the Guatemalan government to finish their part. They seemed to be in no hurry. They didn’t understand our pain. They didn’t know how bad my heart hurt.
Five more months passed, and we were still waiting. We received pictures and letters from Dora. The letters were translated by one of her sons who spoke broken English. The pictures she sent were the most precious items I’d ever held. The end still wasn’t in sight, and I had to see Ella again. This time, Keith chose to stay home and I took my Mom. We flew in late one afternoon, and arranged for Ella to be brought to us the following morning at the same hotel as before. The next morning at 8:00 sharp, the taxi arrived with my seven month old child sitting in Dora’s lap. For some reason, Mom had brought a little purse down with her from the hotel room. When the door to the taxi opened, Mom began to cry and she threw that little purse over in some thick, thorny bushes. While Dora passed my Ella over to my Mom, who was meeting her granddaughter for the first time, I was crawling through a thorny bush trying to find Mom’s purse. I had blood dripping from my arms and legs when I finally emerged with it in hand….crying from excitement and loving the fact that God allows us to experience humor in even the most painful events in life. When Dora placed Ella into Mom’s arms, Ella placed her had on Mom’s cheek and smiled at her. They’ve been inseparable ever since.
Mom and I are extremely close….the very best of friends. I knew that leaving Ella, once again, in Guatemala would break me. What I hadn’t prepared for was seeing my Mom have to leave her behind. Experiencing that pain together is something that most Moms and Daughters will never experience. It brought us even closer, and we didn’t even think that was possible. Without Mom with me that day–the day I once again had to leave my daughter behind–I don’t think I would have made it. I think my heart would have broken in half, never to be mended again.
We kept praying, PUSH…PUSH. Then late in the evening on March 31, 2007, we received the phone call that I had longed for and prayed for…for what seemed like an eternity. The paperwork was complete. It was approved. We were FINISHED. We spent the next day getting everything in order, plane reservations made, packing, and getting ready to go down to Guatemala one more time–this time to bring our baby girl HOME. We arrived on April 2. Dora arrived in the taxi a few hours later, holding our 11 month old Ella. Dora had brought her son along to translate, and we later met with our attorney Lily, to finalize the plans for our FINAL paper signing the following morning, next door at the US Embassy.
The following morning, we walked over to the Embassy and waiting in line for an hour. When we finally heard our names called, I immediately started crying. I was so happy I simply couldn’t hold it in a minute longer. We approached the judge, and the second we signed the VERY last document, our baby girl threw up all over me. Turns out, she had a horrible stomach bug….what we found out later was being called the “worse virus to hit Central America in 10 years.”
Being the strong, resilient child she was, she was better by the next morning, at which time it hit Keith. He was deathly ill for about 15 hours, locked in the second bedroom of our little suite at the Casa la Grande Hotel. Afraid to enter Guatemala City alone with our new bundle of joy, Ella and I roamed the hotel grounds and spent time on the hotel patio while Keith suffered in privacy.
The next day was the most exciting day of our lives….we were flying home with our daughter. FINALLY, just 20 days shy of her first birthday, bringing our girl home. We woke up so excited, packing our things and getting ready to meet our taxi to the airport. Then it hit….I thought I had escaped it. I was “the healthy one” and I was sure that I wouldn’t catch it. Oh dear Lord in Heaven, was I wrong. The taxi had to pull over twice for me to throw up on the streets of Guatemala City. I had to stay in a bathroom of the tiny airport until our plane was called for boarding. Once we got on the plane, I got so sick that the flight crew made an exception to the strict rules and actually allowed me to stay in the bathroom for take-off, rather than being in my seat. The flight attendants would occasionally knock on the bathroom door and ask if I was okay, and an announcement was finally made that the restroom in the back of the plane was “out of order”–and all passengers should use the restroom in the front of the plane until further notice.
I have never been that sick since. I hope I never am. But, oh what JOY I had in my heart as I sat on the cramped floor of that airplane bathroom with my head at toilet level….knowing that our child was sitting in the seat a few rows away, laughing and playing. About 20 minutes before landing, I was finally back in my seat. As a male flight attendant walked by, Ella reached out and grabbed his hiney with her tiny little fingers and laughed a laugh so loud that my once broken heart burst with joy. The flight attendant said “are you flirting with me??” I knew then she would was a pistol, and I wasn’t wrong.
Ella brings me a joy that can’t easily be described. GOD chose her for me. On that day when we brought Ella home, I never dreamed I’d one day be a single parent. I never dreamed that we would endure the pain and heartbreak that we have. I never imagined that my heart would be broken yet again in a much different way than it was when I had to leave my baby girl in Guatemala. But God knew. HE knew all of this would happen, and that it would be hard, it would hurt in unbearable ways, but HE would get us through. Ella and I are two peas in a pod. Life has made us tough. We are strong chicks and we’re proud of that.
God is good. He knows what’s good for you, and what you can handle. He will help you through the junk that you can’t handle. He will provide. He provided me with an angel from Guatemala.
If you’re struggling with anything–which we all do at some point in life, just PUSH. Pray Until Something Happens. It will happen. God Bless!
Our first night with EllaThe first time I held my daughterThe day Mom met her granddaughterElla today, almost 12 years old
I currently have a student teacher, and she’s pretty awesome. She graduates from college in a couple of months, and is spending her last few weeks of college with me in my classroom. For the past few weeks, she’s been teaching all of my classes–to get the full experience of what my job entails, as she hopes to begin a similar job next year. It’s been quite amazing, actually….going to work each day, and having someone else do your job as you sit back and observe. It’s truly mind-opening, and has me thinking about other aspects of our lives, and how freaking amazing it would be if we could have the opportunity to practice things in life before actually jumping in. But even better, what if we could sit back and watch. Just watch. Watch our life.
Over the past weeks, I feel like I’ve been watching a younger (much, much younger) version of myself. Lacie and I have similar personalities, obviously share a love of music, and most importantly–have a similar sense of humor. Feeling as though I’m seeing a younger me– It has me thinking…..WHAT IF we were able to see a younger version of ourselves, and actually intervene. What if we could stop ourselves from making our stupidest mistakes? What if we could go back to all the times we got scared and ran away, and tell ourselves to be brave and go for it. Would we?
The little images we see on TV…..a dude has a little angel on one shoulder and a little devil on the other…..as they bicker back and forth, trying to outdo the other. What if we had a little version of ourselves on one shoulder–only 30 years older than our actual age. An older version of YOU–always riding along with you, giving you the advice you need to hear in order to end up being the person you want to be. Would we listen?
Honestly, most of us would try our best to ignore our older self. We’re all convinced we know what we’re doing, and we don’t need an old fart telling us what to do. Also, most of us have the horrible habit of listening to others more than we listen to ourselves. We don’t take the time to sit quietly and search our own hearts when we make decisions. We make them based on what others are doing, what others are thinking, and what looks cool on the internet.
I’ve pondered on this for a while, and I’ve come to the conclusion that if I had a tiny Mary on my shoulder, 30 years older than I am now (OMG, she’d be almost 80!)….she would probably be giving me two thumbs up on just about everything I’ve done so far in this rollercoaster of a life. Because, even though a huge percentage of it has been horribly stupid, those decisions are what has make me into who I am today. Without those stupid mistakes, I’d be boring. I’d have fewer scars (and fewer tattoos…sorry, Mom). I’d be less seasoned, less complex, and I wouldn’t have the crazy stories to share with my daughter. I can’t imagine my life without every single stupid decision I’ve ever made.
I mean, of course I have regrets….we all do. I regret not telling my college voice teacher how much he meant to me before he died. I regret not getting a cat until I was 45. On many occasions, I’ve regretted not speaking my mind. I regret not spending more time with my Grandparents in their last years on earth. I regret not learning to play the guitar. I regret the night I drank a bottle of wine and ate an entire container of wasabi peas. That was a bad, bad night. The list goes on….
I think if we all were to make a list, we’d see that the funny, stupid regrets far outweigh the serious ones. I think most of us would agree that our regrets make us who we are, and make for great lessons to share with our children.
So, to my student teacher, Lacie, I give you this advice: DO IT. DO LIFE. Do exactly what you’ve been doing as I’ve sat at my desk watching you. You’ll sit and watch people too–all throughout your life– and you’ll see some of them do things exactly like you would, and you’ll see some do things that you’d never consider doing. You’ll see things you love….join in and do those things. You’ll see things you hate. Stand up against those things if you truly think they are wrong. Always go out of your way to protect the children that you teach. Then go home and take care of YOU. Don’t worry about failing. Worry about the chances you’ll miss if you don’t try. Make stupid decisions and get some good regrets gathered up so you can tell your children about them someday.
And a quote that hits me very close to home– author unknown, so I like to claim it as my own….
“Never regret growing old. It’s a privilege denied to many.”
God Bless Lacie, and all of my teacher peeps, as we’ve made it to Spring Break. Enjoy your time off. Make some fun memories, and HEY–no biggie if a regret or two occurs
May we return to school rested and ready to conquer the world.
At first, I was shocked to realize that my last blog was July 23…over five months ago. But then I remembered, that’s about the time the end started drawing near.
I knew Keith had depression when I married him. I had somehow always found myself attracted to troubled souls. He was stable, seemed happy, and seemed to be head over heels in love with me, as I was him. So, six short weeks after dating, I said yes. Yes to his proposal, and yes to living with a man with depression that, in the 16 years to come, scared me more than I knew I could be scared.
This blog post is not about Keith’s depression, or even about him necessarily….but about new beginnings. I have never, in my 48 years on this earth, been so happy to say goodbye to a year. I never wanted to have to be as strong as I’ve become. But I do intend on carrying this strength over in the new year and using it at full potential. Keith is now at peace, having made his final decision on September 2. Frankly, I deserve to be at peace too, as does our child, and we will continue to learn how to do so in this upcoming year.
So, new beginnings. A highly overused phrase this time of year. Most of us repeat the same old resolutions every year, knowing good and well very little of it will happen. Lose weight (that’s got to me the most popular, right?), get in shape, be positive, make more money, get that promotion, quit smoking, blah blah blah. I get sick of hearing it all, honestly.
In a recent article on news.sky.com, the top 10 New Years resolutions were listed, along with a percentage of how many people made them number one on their list. Let me just add my two cents worth to there…..
Lose weight– 48% That’s all fine and dandy if you are truly doing it for you. I’m sickened at the amount of people that attempt to lost weight to please someone else. Do it for you. If you are happy the way you are, and your health isn’t at risk, then stay the way you are. Your weight is your business.
Exercise more– 41% I’m an exerciser, because it makes me feel good. Everyone should exercise, because of that. NOT to “get skinny” or to compete with your friend who can run faster and longer than you do. Again, do it for you. Quit trying to outdo everyone in your life. That’s ridiculous. Run because it makes you feel amazing. NOT because you want to post your distance on Facebook then sit around and see how many likes and comments you get–hoping it will make you feel even better about yourself.
Save more money– 32% Good for you!!! But are you saving it just to blow it all on your new paintball guns or big-ass tires for your truck? Eh….you’re defeating the purpose. Saving for your children? Their future? Then you go on with your bad self and keep up the good work.
Improve diet– 31% Yeah…you just said that because you’ve been eating like a starving wild hog since Thanksgiving, and you have a sense of guilt within you….telling you that everything will be okay if you just start eating more broccoli and less cake. Just get your act together, throw out the rest of that pie and make good choices. Quit announcing that you are “improving your diet”….cause everyone’s going to be laughing at you they next time they see you at the Dairy Queen.
Something else– 22% Um….okay. That’s super specific. I guess this leaves the door wide open for someone like me to imagine what this particular group of people are thinking about when they say “something else.” I suppose some people would like to gain the strength to stop hiding in the laundry room while eating all the secret boxes of Girl Scout Thin Mints that they purchased without their family knowing. Perhaps some people want to quit a habit that no one knows they have…therefore linking it into the “something else” category. Maybe they sniff glitter, eat cardboard, snack on their cat’s food…who knows. Perhaps they are only one tweak away from applying to be on “My Strange Addiction”….but truly feel like they might get a grip on their issues in this new year. I mean, I totally get it. Maybe this WILL be the year that this group of individuals finally get over their desire to eat petunias, drink fingernail polish, or put mothballs in their scrambled eggs. More power to them. Good luck with all that.
Pursue a career ambition– 15%. Sorry to be a Debbie Downer, but if you really wanted that new career, you would have already gone for it. Stop fooling yourself and everyone around you. If you really mean it, get out there tomorrow and make stuff happen. Seriously. Prove me and everyone else wrong….but don’t just talk about it. Don’t just dream about it. Do it.
Spend more time with family….a sad 14%. Do you truly love being around your family? If so, then yes–get your butt in gear and see them. Have dinner, laugh, share memories. Make more memories. If you truly dislike them, and you only feel obligated to see them because they are in your family….stop wasting your time. Trust me. “Family” is defined by the people who truly love you and want to spend time with you. You should never feel obligated to spend time with people–blood related or not. And they shouldn’t feel obligated to spend time with you.
Take up a new hobby– 12% OK…..WHAT new hobby do you desire to do, that is so intriguing that you’ve made it into a New Years resolution?? Knitting? Basket weaving? Sky Diving? Scrapbooking? Vegetable gardening? Yodeling?? The word “hobby” annoys me…..and the phrase made popular by an Atlanta woman a few years ago comes to mind…as she made her debut on the news, saying “ain’t nobody got time for that.” Maybe I’m just jealous. Maybe I actually need to find a new hobby….you know, in all my free time.
Decorate at home– 11%. LOL, okay…..you get right on that. In all your free time with all your extra money. OK, I’m staring to get sarcastic now…..
Cut down on alcohol– 9%. Yeah, I should stop right here with my opinions.
I guess my point (which I almost forgot) is that, resolutions are stupid. But New Beginnings are not. When you’ve had a year like I just survived, you live, breathe and thrive over the possibilities of new beginnings. You begin to smother and feel like your lungs are shrinking when you ponder on what you’ve been through in the past twelve months. Your lungs begin to open again when you realize that a new year is spread out in front of you, like a blank canvas.
My blank canvas is HUGE….the biggest that can be found. And on that canvas, I’m going to paint with huge brushes. I’m going to use loud, bright, vibrant colors. I’m going to paint scenes of me and my daughter, laughing. Loud, deep belly laughs. Laughs like we missed out on in the past year. I’ll paint pictures of new people in my life, in which I plan to make new memories. I’ll paint pictures of my dear friends who love me and who have always been by my side. I’ll paint a picture of my Mother, supporting me and laughing with me. I’ll paint hearts and smiley faces and I’ll throw in some unicorns just for my daughter. It will be a beautiful canvas. It will represent a new year, a new life, and new beginnings.
I hope you will all paint amazing things on YOUR blank canvas. I wish you all great happiness, peace, love, and laughter that gets so out of control that you pee a little. That’s the best kind.
Believe it or not, being mid-July, our summer is almost over. With the hubs and I both being teachers, we return to school unbelievably early, and we’re sadly wrapping up our summer fun. We decided to take a last minute trip to the mountains this weekend. We love our north Georgia mountains. Beautiful hiking trails, rivers, scenery and my favorite…waterfalls. Super curvy roads that will get you just a tad queasy before you reach your destination. There’s something magical about the mountains here in Georgia, in that they seem to bring happiness to all who enter. Something you see a huge amount of is camping, and I’ve always loved to camp, while finding it quite intriguing. We, as humans, (most of us, anyway) seem to be obsessed with stuff. We must have a tremendous amount of stuff to make us happy. We desire large homes, lots of space, and lots of nice, nice stuff. Yet–there’s a fascination with abiding in a tiny area, camper or tent, in the woods with minimal luxuries, eating food cooked on a campfire, with the possibility of not even having Wi-Fi! Aren’t humans just the funniest?? I think it’s great. My mother and I spent many, many weeks camping in the north Georgia mountains. We had a little Shasta camper with a bright orange stripe down the side. Of course, this was in the 70’s and 80’s, so the lack of computers, cell phones, and Wi-Fi wasn’t a concern. As long as we had some good books, crossword puzzles, a deck of cards and our Scrabble board, we were good to go. Mom would always carry a load of fresh squash, and would light up the little stove inside the camper and fry slices of that squash to simple perfection. She’d hand them out the little screen door to me, where’d I’d sit and eat them like potato chips. The entire campground would smell like a country kitchen.
It seems that the laughs and memories made while camping are like none other. For many years, I had a scar on my left leg that brought me laughter every time I looked at it. As we were roasting marshmallows, Mom caught her marshmallow on fire, and thought that quickly waving it around in the air would make the flames go out. Instead, the flames grew bigger, and the marshmallow flew off the end of her stick and landed on my leg. It certainly wasn’t funny at the time, as I screamed so loud that the people in the next campsite ran over to see if they could assist us….but as my wound healed, it made quite a story.
On our trip this weekend, we visited the Georgia Mountain Fair in Hiawassee. It was so hot, we literally felt like our faces were melting off. But the people-watching was simply amazing. The laughter of people of all ages, as they crawled on to sketchy rides set up in a field, the giggles of children as they threw darts at balloons in hopes of winning a prize, and the sheer joy on the faces of all who were partaking in the funnel cakes and deep fried Oreos. Though I knew none of them personally, I’m assured that there were people there who had suffered great loss and tragedy, just like my family has, but for a few hours–even while melting in the heat–were having a ball. It made me wish we could just have “time outs” in life…where everyone has to stop what they are doing and just go to the fair. Grouchy, mean people who are determined to be miserable would no doubt end up giggling as they spun around and around in the whirly cars, hoping their stomach didn’t lose the huge lump of cotton candy they just devoured. Yeah, they’d probably go right back to being that grouchy person the next day, but a “time out” might just remind them that there’s still some fun to be had.
One little girl in particular really grabbed my attention, as I stood waiting for my hubs and daughter to take off on a whirly ride. The ride was circular, and the seats went around and around quite fast, which kept me from participating. I used to be able to ride anything I wanted, but my stomach began saying “no more” about two years ago. So, I’m now the Mom who stands on the sidelines holding everyone else’s lemonade while taking pictures. This little girl sat down in the tiny car with an older teenage boy who I assumed was her brother. She was probably about seven or eight, barely taller than the required height for the questionable ride. As the sweaty teenager controlling the ride walked around the circle of cars to make sure everyone was buckled in, the little girl started questioning her decision to participate. She started looking at her brother with a worried face, saying “I don’t think I can do this!” Though she didn’t cry, she was clearly scared. Her face contorted in fear as she kept repeating the phrase, “I don’t think I can do this!” Her brother reached over and covered her hand with his, as they were both holding tight to the safety bar, and said “you got this! And I’m right here beside you!” As the jerky ride took off, I lost sight of how she was holding up, but hoped that her fears turned to giggles. As the ride ended, I waited for my peeps to exit (knowing they loved every second), then waited to see how the little girl did. To my delight, she literally skipped down the metal exit ramp while yelling “that was AMAZING!!!” Once she reached the grassy area at the bottom of the ramp, she turned several cartwheels and ran to her parents who had been waiting not far from me.
That little girl went on to enjoy her day, and will never know how thought provoking I found her two minutes on that ride to be.
I’ve faced many scary moments in my life, when I suddenly felt like I was on a terrifying ride that was just too big for me….and I began to say “I don’t think I can do this.” I’m so thankful that I have a God who has always said “you got this! And I’m right here beside you!” just as the ride took off. Sometimes, I left the ride scared to death and nauseated, but sometimes I left turning cartwheels, just like that little girl. But either way, I left the ride knowing that He was right there with me. And life is definitely a ride….sometimes scary and fast, sometimes slow and dark, but always a bit uncertain.
So, as summer comes to an end (wiping tears…), I hope to be just like that little girl as I face a new school year. There will be struggles and times when I say “I don’t think I can do this.” But I bet I’ll end up turning more cartwheels than ever. 🙂
My daughter and I recently spent nice little afternoon together…some shopping and a late lunch. In the restaurant, we sat near a table of four older women…my guess would be that they were in their seventies, maybe early eighties. All four of them had big, tall, bright colored drinks with little umbrellas. I hope to God that all four of them weren’t drinking alcohol, because these women were a big enough handful sober. I’m certain that at least one of them was hard of hearing, as they all felt the need to yell. Even though they had been at their table before we arrived, they did not order until much later. Three of them ordered the exact same thing….grilled chicken served with cheddar mashed potatoes and steamed broccoli. The fourth woman just couldn’t decide what she wanted. She really wanted a burger, but she was certain that the restaurant would over cook it. She stated loudly, “if you leave it on there just a few seconds too long, it will taste like a rubber tire, and you know it!” After telling the waitress she needed more time, twice, she finally settled on Cajun jambalaya pasta….saying that it was probably gonna “tear her up”, but she’d take a chance.
We have no way of knowing who Earl is, but these woman were not happy with him. He was the topic of their conversation for at least 20 minutes. Earl had apparently told one of the women he’d fix something, and he still hadn’t fixed whatever it was he was supposed to fix, and boy–they were letting him have it. One woman stated that she blamed it on the new “hussy” that Earl had been hanging out with. Another women said, “well, it shouldn’t have anything to do with that hussy….he could have come and fixed it while she was at work. You know she works at Macy’s in the men’s department….and you KNOW how she flirts with all those men and talks them into buying all sorts of stuff they don’t even need.”
After a few more low blows at Earl, the indecisive woman who ordered the pasta asked for a new fork, stating that she was pretty sure she saw lipstick on the one she’d been given. We learned at this point that her name was Peggy, as her friend yelled “that’s YOUR lipstick, Peggy! You just used that fork!” They all thought this was real funny and got so tickled that one of them–not Peggy– got up and hobbled to the restroom, sort of keeping her legs together as she went.
My daughter and I were thoroughly enjoying this show, and giggled our way through our meal. We knew at one point that all four women were indeed drinking when they ordered another round, then passed each of their drinks around the table so everyone could taste each one….to decipher if they thought one was stronger than the other. Peggy was certain that her drink wasn’t as strong as the others….but, after much deliberation, decided not to say anything to the waitress.
As we were preparing to leave, we listened in a bit more, to hear that the conversation had turned back to Earl. The woman with the biggest, grayest hair shouted, “it should be against the law to be that stupid!” Another, whose back was to us, agreed with “he should have to pay a fine or serve jail time!” They all laughed so hard that the woman with the apparent bladder issue got back up and hobbled to the bathroom again.
Several things about this foursome of old friends made me happy. They seemed to have a bond that went back many years. I had a feeling that this loud gathering took place often, showing that they made an effort to schedule time together, which is more than I can say about myself. I loved their individuality. Unlike my own mother, who has a style of her own and never even thought about looking or acting her age, two of these ladies had what most would call a “typical look” of women that age–with the short, gray, permed-looking little hairdos (though one was exceedingly teased out), polyester pants with a button up print shirt, and sparkling white sneakers. One had hair dyed such a deep red that it bordered on fuchsia, with large navy blue hoop earrings. Peggy’s hair was super short….and dyed super blond. She wore a brightly colored muumuu dress, and wore the most make-up. The reason I was able to get such a good look at these ensembles was due to the fact that they all got up from the table at one point, and walked over to the window, pointing and carrying on loudly about something in the parking lot. It wasn’t clear, but I was hoping at this point, that they were watching to see if their designated driver was out there.
It must sound as though I sat and stared at these women throughout our whole meal, but I actually did not. They were just that noticeable, in a good and humorous way. I observed a lot in a little time, and left with a smile on my face. I thought about them throughout the day….wondering how long they sat there after we left, how many more tall and colorful drinks they ordered, how many more times they got so tickled that poufy hair white sneakers had to run back to the restroom.
I also hung on to the best statement I heard….”it should be against the law to be that stupid.” I have said things like that all my life, and it made me envision myself as one of the four in the not-that-far-away future. No doubt, I’d be the one with the near-fuchsia hair and hoop earrings. Most definitely.
So, in honor of these four women, whom I will probably never see again, I thought I’d write a few more laws in their honor. I’ve written about things like this before, so nothing new and exciting here….but just a few simple laws that, IF enforced, would no doubt make our world a better place.
So, our building block law– It’s against the law to be “that” stupid. Each district could decipher how stupid is “that” stupid.
JUDGE: Just HOW stupid was the defendant?
LAWYER: Your honor, he was “THAT” stupid.
As I tried to think of a few more laws that my fellow restaurant ladies would most likely approve, I decided that:
It should be against the law to sit in your car and wait on someone to back out from their parking space. The fine/offense is doubled if you start waiting on the spot before they even get IN their car…..like, when they are still loading their groceries into their car, and you are already waiting for their parking space. BAM….instant arrest.
It should be against the law for people to stand around in stores such as Target and Walmart and sneak up on you with a “hello there! how are you today?” and then immediately try to get you to sign up for Direct TV or rope you in to a time share. This probably IS against the law in some areas, but it sure isn’t at the Walmart I visited yesterday. I thought I’d never get out of there without a full Direct TV package and a time share in Sante Fe, New Mexico. I literally hid behind a rack of Atlanta Falcon’s t-shirts for three minutes until I felt like the coast was clear.
There should be a law against internet ads blowing up your screen, advertising something that you just looked at for seven seconds previously that day. I let my daughter look up a unicorn lake float yesterday, and this morning I couldn’t even see my Facebook for all the freaking unicorn lake floats all over the page. That’s STALKING. Leave me alone.
There should be a law, stating that all restaurants who include pictures of food on their menus, must make every item ordered look EXACTLY like it does in the picture on the menu. I’ve been let down way too many times in my life….excited to receive the food I just ordered, because it looked so pretty in the picture, only to see that the person who prepared it was obviously wearing a blindfold and didn’t even know how to cook.
I’ll conclude with a few that don’t involve morals, privacy, personal space or human emotion….but just simply shouldn’t be allowed because of down right stupidity.
*Wearing Ugg boots with shorts. Are you hot or are you cold? PICK ONE.
*Picking your nose in your car, like you think no one is seeing that crap.
*Being grumpy
*Spitting in public
*Saran wrap
*Back-to-school ads–ever. Just don’t.
*Wobbling tables in restaurants. Either fix them or throw them out. Quit stacking coasters under the bad leg. Just stop.
*Sandals worn over socks. Stop that crap.
So, if you know you’re doing something that’s just plain stupid, in honor of the four women I observed yesterday, in honor of your own dignity, and the future of our human race, just try to stop.
Wishing you a fun filled summer, peace and health. 🙂
Today my Mom got a special package in the mail. Her brother had mailed her a box of old cassette tapes he recently ran across. These were tapes that my grandmother (their mom) would make for my uncle when he was stationed at an Army base in Germany back in the seventies. She would talk to him hours on end, telling him all sorts of fun and random things, and when a tape was full she’d mail it to him. I would often be at her house while she was making a tape. She’d do everything from singing a song, telling him how she was planning to have chicken and dumpling for supper with a nice homemade lemon pie, to describing something funny that happened when she and my Mom went to the JC Penny outlet to look for Easter dresses. Those “something funny” stories were extremely common, as my grandmother and my mom left a trail of funny everywhere they went. Back in the seventies, this was a pretty clever technology…these cassette tapes, and I know my Uncle Lanier loved getting the tapes in the mail during his years in Germany. I can guarantee he was in for a good laugh with each one.
While at Moms house today, we listened to one of the tapes together. My grandmother, who I called “Nain Nain” (best pronunciation for whatever I was trying to mutter as a tiny baby…it just stuck as her name throughout the years) had made this particular tape on Christmas Eve of what we figured out was 1976. I was seven years old. Being an audio recording, we have to visualize the happenings in our heads as we listened, which was pretty easy. I can picture it now….both my grandparents would have been sitting on the sofa together. Always together, sweethearts from the time they married, at which time my grandmother was only 15 years old. Always sitting close together, often holding hands. My father would be in a chair, closest to my grandfather so they could easily talk, IF given the chance to get a word in. Mom and I would be on the floor, near the Christmas tree. The tree would have at least five packs of the silver sparkly “ice cycles” that every person who grew up in the 70s remembers. And they would have all been on the front side of the tree, as Mom let me do the decorating each year, and I still hadn’t accepted the concept that you decorate the whole tree….not just the front side.
Today, when Mom pressed play on her old tape player, the first voice I heard was that of Nain Nain. I cried. She sounded exactly as I remembered. She’s been gone for almost ten years now, but I hear her voice in my head every day. Especially every time I do something that I know she wouldn’t understand or approve of, I can hear her say “Thy LAWD” while shaking her head. Then she’d look at my Mother and say “reckon what she meant?” Even though she had the best sense of humor I’d ever known, if was often hidden in her clever ways of saying things….when you weren’t even sure she was trying to funny at all.
The cooking that came from this woman’s kitchen….I hesitate to even TRY to describe it, because I know that just about everyone thinks their granny was the best cook ever….especially here in the south where fried chicken and biscuits were just a built in part of any given Sunday. My Nain Nain’s cooking was so good, it still makes my mouth water to think about some of her specialties. That good old southern cooking where everything is cooked to absolute perfection, and you can’t eat without verbally expressing how delicious everything is. On a typical Sunday dinner, after I’d eaten so much, I didn’t think I’d physically be able to drive back to the church for five o’clock choir practice, she’d say “you’re not stopping are ya? How ’bout one more butter biscuit? I’ll get the honey. You didn’t eat enough.” After eating the additional biscuit that she talked me in to, cooked to homemade perfection and dripping in butter and honey, I’d back away from the table, hardly able to stand, unable to believe that she actually talked me in to one more biscuit. As I walked away, she’d say, “you’re not gaining weight, are you? I wouldn’t want you to gain a bunch of weight!” I’d wobble to the sofa for my Sunday afternoon food-induced nap, laughing. As a teenager, these naps would usually take up the rest of the afternoon. I’d often change back into my church clothes at her house before I took off in my 1980 Chevrolet Monza to get back to the church for that five o’clock choir practice. She’d watch me walk out, eyeing me from head to toe. I’d stop and wait before I left, for “the” comment. There was always a comment. If I had a slit in my dress, and the slightest bit of leg was showing, she’d say “ooooh, that’s pure sex, right there.” I’d blush as I kissed her goodbye.
As I listened to my Nain Nain’s voice on that tape this afternoon, she explained to Uncle Lanier how she had decided that she wasn’t going cooking much for Christmas Eve that particular year, because she had overcooked at Thanksgiving, and it was impossible to do anything with all the leftovers. So, this year she had limited Christmas Eve dinner to a baked turkey, dressing (what some of you folks call stuffing), corn, green beans, peas, two kinds of potatoes (cause you have to have the mashed potatoes to go with the peas), rolls, and a couple of desserts. She just wasn’t going to “mess” with anything else. She went on to tell Uncle Lanier that later on, she would take her tape recorder up to Tricia’s house (my Mom) and she’d record us as we all opened our Christmas gifts (this is what I was picturing in my mind…them on the sofa together, and the rest of us in our naturally assigned seats). Among these gifts was a huge box that Uncle Lanier (and Aunt Sheilah, plus little cousin Branson) had mailed her from Germany.
The tone of the tape quickly changed as you could tell we were now listening to the big gift opening celebration at my house. Nain Nain’s voice, now surrounded with ours, would narrate the events as we carried on. Everyone was talking at one time, a common event in my family, but projecting above everyone was the loud, fiercely high-pitched voice of me….seven year old Mary Jane. I sounded as southern as a child could sound. I was beyond excited about opening my gifts, as any kid would be, but showing it with a lot of really loud talking. “Woooo WEEEEE! I just love this nightgown! I love it! Ima gonna wear it ta-nite! Wow wee, looky at how many presents I still gotta open!” As Mom and I leaned in closer to the tape player this afternoon, we could very faintly hear the voices of my father and my Paw Paw, probably having a quiet conversation as we ladies kept our voices up at foghorn level. My little country voice would have fit well in the old Shake-n-Bake commercials….”it’s Shake an’ Bake! And I hey-elped!” On the tape, I suddenly started squealing at a pitch that would have hurt most hears, though my family probably thought nothing of it, as I had opened what I was screaming out to be “the beh-ust gi-uft evah!” It’s Shaun Cassidy! Ya got me the new Shaun Cassidy album! Oh Wow wee, it comes with a postah! A POSTAH!”
About this time, my husband walked in the room to find Mom and I listening to the tape. He was convinced that we had the recent Dolly Party movie on the TV–you know, her movie that recently came out depicting her childhood? But no–it was MY voice on the old cassette tape that he heard. He sat down to join us as we continued to listen to the fun family times of Christmas Eve 1976.
We went on and on, Nain Nain opening a box of mugs that Lanier had mailed from Germany….a total of four, but as she talked to her tape recorder, “Sheilah, two of them got broke in the mail but that ain’t your fault! We still have two good ones! One for each of us!” Then came the Hummel figurine, the bed spread and pillow shams, and then a present from Mom to Nain Nain–a beautiful etched glass bowl shaped like a basket. (it still sits in Mom’s house today). Nain Nain and my Mom were conversing about each and every gift. “Isn’t that just the cutest thing? Lawd, I LOVE that!” Nain Nain loved the wrapping paper Lanier and Sheilah had used on the many gifts from Germany. “Just look at that Germany wrapping paper!” A bit later, my Mom’s voice rang out, “you got me screwdrivers!” as my grandmother went on and on about how important it was for my Mom to have her own set of good quality screwdrivers, which–even though it wasn’t stated on the tape–I can guarantee you came from Sears and Roebuck. Later came a new weed eater, followed my many other extravagant goodies.
It was an abundant Christmas as usual, as the gift opening just went on and on. My grandparents spent an unbelievable amount of money on all of us each year, apologizing the whole time for not getting more. We were all spoiled by their love and generosity, and blessed beyond measure to have them in our lives.
The funny talk went on, with my Dolly-Parton-as-a-child voice hovering above everyone…. “this is just the beh-ust Christmas evah!”….until the tape came to an end. The click of the tape ending was sad, and I am happy that there are more to listen to as I visit Mom throughout the week.
There’s something about hearing the voice of someone you love long after they are gone from this earth. It’s an eerie, yet comforting feeling that makes you feel like it’s all going to be okay. There’s something about hearing your own voice as a child. That carefree, innocent version of yourself that’s just so excited about life. Life and Shaun Cassidy.
I imagine that Mom and I will wear these tapes out listening to them. I can’t imagine life without sweet memories. I will retire tonight looking forward to making more memories, and I might even try to find an old tape recorder around here somewhere. Wouldn’t that be fun? Forget all the fancy technology, and the fact that I could just use my phone to video. Just a good old fashioned audio recording….where you have to IMAGINE the visual part by REMEMBERING the wonderful times. That’s what good stuff is made of.
It’s been over a year since I’ve posted anything. NOT since I’ve written….but since I’ve posted. Much of what I felt like writing about over the past year to 16 months has been controversial….and I became a big fat chicken before clicking ‘publish.’ As a teacher, I often have to watch my words, keep opinions to myself, and remain neutral on certain topics…..just to keep the peace, keep potentially angry parents at bay, and keep my hand free and clear of a good slapping.
I will, however, use my time on this nice, nice Friday evening to share an observation I’ve made over this past school year. I’m here on this Friday evening….unable to do much more than this, due to the fact that I have that indescribable exhaustion that teachers develop this time of year. Whereas earlier in the year, a nice Friday night might bring about the desire to go out to dinner, catch a movie, or hang with friends. This time of year, we simply make it through the day knowing, that if we time things just right and make no stops on the drive home, we could possibly be passed out on the sofa by 3:45. You literally look at the clock every hour and comfort yourself with the fact that you CAN make it just a few more hours….possibly without slapping anyone, and that your reward will be a nice, nice four hour long nap. This time of year, you start questioning, even after 20+ years, if you are cut out for this job. You start to hit snooze more than the usual seven times per morning. You realize that you can actually get ready for work in eleven minutes. You couldn’t care less if your shoes match. You seriously consider trying to get in a 20 minute nap in the nearest closet rather than eating lunch. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t tried this one….within the past three days.
Teaching is hard. Kids are hard. But they are full of tiny opportunities to realize how amazing life truly is. They speak facts. Honest facts. And that is the observation I shall share this evening. Kids speak facts. They may not necessarily be nice, but they are truthful. And due to their innocent age, the not-so-nice facts that they sometimes speak are forgivable, often laughable, and sometimes hit you right in the gut.
Yesterday, a young student looked at me and said, “your hair is really poufy and you always wear a ring on your thumb.” Then they smiled and ran off. Simple observations. Two true facts they felt the need to share. Before they turned the corner, they stopped and yelled “you are pretty, Mrs. Beverly!” I cried.
Another student recently told me, “you look really tired.” It was a boy. Bless his heart. He’s just little, but I know his Mamma–at some point–will teach him to never EVER tell a woman she looks tired. But I loved it. It made me realize how truly tired I was. I was struggling. I needed a break. I immediately stopped what we were doing, went to the stereo, cranked up “Can’t Stop the Feeling” and we danced. I danced like a fool all over that room with 20-something giggling first graders. It was awesome. I felt less tired than I’d felt in weeks.
So, what if we, as adults, could make such simple observations in “real life.” Like this morning, when I pulled up beside a car at a red light. A car who had previously drove right through a stop sign to pull out in front of me. What if I could have simply rolled my window down and said “you’re an idiot for pulling out in front of me. I have a child in the car with me and you are a horrible driver.” True facts, which I felt the need to share.
Based on your day today, who would your person be? And what would your true facts be? What if we were allowed two true facts every day…and the person we shared our facts with didn’t get mad, didn’t cuss us out, hit us, cuss us, give us the finger, or even get offended. We just got to share our facts….for our own satisfaction. Would that be a big cup of awesome sauce or WHAT? Ah, it would be amazing, most definitely. However, I shy away from being slapped and cussed in public, so I have decided that I will strive to find a true fact, something I truly believe, and share it with someone daily. It’s amazing how hard this truly is. It makes me realize what I liar I’ve been in the past. “Oh, your new haircut looks great!”…..and I’m really thinking “Lord have mercy, did she PAY someone to cut her hair like that???” I’ve been struggling to find things I can say with 100% honesty. It’s been a truly humbling experience. I’m truly a kid at heart, and the things I want to say just aren’t going to go over well with most people.
I found one today. Yep, on a Friday at the end of the school year, and as previously stated– I simply wanted to book it home for a nap, I braved the grocery store for a few items. The woman working the checkout line was tired. A first grader would have told her she looked that way. But I noticed her blue eyes. They were the color of my husbands. I actually felt ridiculously nervous before I said it, and I put it off until the last minute. As I walked off with my cart, I looked back and told her, “You have beautiful eyes.” She froze and stared at me as her blue eyes welled up with tears. She thanked me and told me that her husband used to always tell her that. From her tone, I assumed he was now gone.
When I got to my car, my own eyes welled with tears. Honesty. It can be hilarious coming from the mouths of babes. It can hurt, offend, and make people angry, and it can make someone feel something they possibly haven’t felt in a long time. A good feeling. Something beautiful.
Try it. The one where you tell your relative their jokes aren’t funny, they need to stop smoking and their Members Only jacket needs to go….maybe keep that one to yourself.
The one where you tell you someone they are beautiful and you admire them….yeah, say that one out loud. 🙂
So, I’m fully aware that my blogs are mostly for me….with a few close friends who read, follow, and give me an occasional pat on the back when they like something I’ve amateurishly written. But yesterday I noticed that I have a follower in Australia. Australia!!! I am hot stuff now! No doubt some bloke clicked the wrong button at some point, but STILL! Check that crap out! Australia! Nonetheless, I mostly blog to vent my feelings about something that has irked me, amazed me, or blown my mind. Today, my topic is Idiots. I choose to capitalize the word for aesthetic purposes…NOT because the idiots deserve a proper title.
I’m feel compelled to share an Idiot story from this morning. So, to begin….I’ve had a head cold for about nine days. Just gross. I actually crafted a necklace from a tissue box and wore it around the house yesterday. I was especially sad that I had this cold during the huge snowstorm that we just experienced here in Georgia. After closing school early on Wednesday, then cancelling the full day on Friday, we all sat around and waited for the snow to grace our yards. After much excitement and expectation, late Friday afternoon, we finally got it. Two whole inches. With my tissues in hand and my face fully coated in Vicks Vapor Rub, I joined the family in crafting a nice, nice snowman. He stood a proud nine inches tall. That was all I could handle, so I took my sneezing self back in the house and sat by the window, waiting for the second round of snow that never came.
But I reckon I digress….back to the Idiots. Idiot Number One enters early this morning. I woke up around 2:00 am last night with an excruciating pain in my left ear. I know “excruciating” is a strong word….but it’s my ear, and let me tell you, it was just awful. I knew something was wrong. I never did go back to sleep, and by 7:00 am I had decided that I needed to see a doctor. I remember one of the worst cries I’ve ever seen my child cry was when she had a horrible ear ache. The 20 minute drive from our home to her pediatrician was the longest ride of our lives. The poor baby was in torture. There’s something about that inner ear pain that compares to nothing else. And I’m not anything to brag about when it comes to pain tolerance. On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d give myself like a six. I knew if my ear got much worse, it was going to be a “wake the husband up and throw the kid in the car cause everybody’s gotta take Mamma to the Quick Care cause she’s in too much pain to drive” moment. And nobody wanted that. So, I arrive at the Immediate Care facility at 7:50. I like to be an early bird….which I can only do when I’m by myself. If I have husband and kid in tow, forget about it. I had ten minutes to wait until they opened. I parked in the front spot, left the car running in the 24 degree weather, and did what every other American woman would have done during the ten minute wait. I checked Facebook on my phone. I’m sitting there looking at a funny cat meme posted by a friend, and another car pulls up beside me. I’m immediately disturbed by this. The entire parking lot is empty, and they choose to park beside me. But that doesn’t even give them the title of Idiot Number One. Just Annoying Person.
Idiot Number One actually came into play within sixty seconds of Annoying Person’s park job. He pulled up through the drop off area of the facility, put his car in park, got out and walked up to the still-locked doors. It was 7:58 am at this point. The Idiot was wearing a t-shirt with ripped off sleeves. Like he had made him a nice, nice home made tank top. Remember now, it was freaking 24 degrees outside. He banged on the door of the facility, screaming “It’s eight o’clock! Y’all ain’t open yet?” He repeated this phrase at least four times, ended with a mouthful of curse words, got back in his car, lit a cigarette, and sped away so fast he burned rubber….. leaving black skid marks on the ground. So, if Idiot Number One had been experiencing a true emergency, I don’t think he would have taken time for the cig. And I’m assuming that he lost his watch, or other means of telling time, when he lost his coat and all his shirts with sleeves. Right as he left those skid marks, the employee came to unlock the doors for what we would be her first two patients of the day–me and the close-parker.
Once inside, the nurse took me right back to a room where I told her of my ailments, and unfortunately, get on the scale. I really wish we could strip naked for that part….but I guess the awkwardness would be too much for the particular situation. So, after convincing myself that my coat, boots, and other clothing weighed 17 pounds, I followed the woman back to room number 2. This is, coincidentally, where I met Idiot Number Two. This Idiot has a medical degree. After thoroughly explaining my situation, and describing the ear pain that brought me to their facility this morning, he looked in my throat and both of my ears. He turned his back, washed his hands for a very long time, staring straight ahead at the cabinet in front of his face, as though he was trying to figure out what to say next. Finally, he turned to me and said, “Sorry you feel bad. Take some pain medication and you’ll be better within a week or so.” EXCUSE ME?? I asked “what did you see in my left ear? I’m certain it’s infected.” His response–“yeah, it looks pretty rough, but I don’t know that it’s infected. It might just be red cause of the fluid that’s in there.”
“Fluid? There’s fluid? Isn’t that bad?”
“Yeah, could be. But probably not. You say you’ve only had a cold for nine days….they often last up to two weeks. Check back with me if you don’t feel better soon.”
With my mouth hanging open like a baby bird waiting for a worm, the Idiot left the room. In my right mind I would have stepped out into the hall, found the first woman that took me to room number two, and asked if another doctor was on the premises. I would have demanded a second opinion. But this Idiot caused me to lose touch with my right mind. I couldn’t even speak….which, for those of you who know me, is a RARE thing.
All I could do was feel the pain in my ear, which was ten times worse now, because I wanted to cry. The pressure of the tears building up behind my eyes was somehow making my left ear hurt so much worse. I’m certain that I looked just like a two year old child who is about to cry….their bottom lip quivering with a look of sadness in their eyes that’s simply pitiful. I held the tears in for approximately sixty seconds, which is about how long it took me to get to my car. Then I let go. And I let go good. I called my husband and did the crying-talk through loud sobs. Not understanding a word I said, he panicked and thought I was calling to tell him I had wrecked the car.
After a good five minutes, he had calmed me down and encouraged me to go to another facility to get a second opinion. Five minutes away, I park at facility number two. With the luck of the morning, it didn’t open until 9:00, so I had about 25 minutes to wait. I sat there and looked at myself in the mirror, thinking about how horribly ugly and monkey-like I look after I cry. Some people can cry, and then five minutes later they look fine. I look all puffed up and swollen for hours. The bags that form under my eyes remind me of pictures I’ve seen of little baby monkeys. But I did what a great deal of women would have done to help their feelings. I put on lip gloss. I sat there for 24 minutes. At 8:59, I decide to start walking on up to the door….to be “that person” who is waiting, all monkey-looking, when they open the door. As I start to get out, I drop the lip gloss that I had just used, and reached down to the floor of the car to get it. As I rise up, a brown mini-van swoops into the handicap spot right by the door. A woman jumps out and sees me getting out of my car, and she trots….I’d say almost a jog, over to the door with a look on her face that says “I got here first.” Meet Idiot Number Three. As I walked up to join her at the door, she yells “Come on, Mamma! I got us up front!” I look around the parking lot to see if there’s a mass of people coming towards us….a crowd that might make this woman proud of beating to the door. But no–just me. This woman clearly saw that I was here before here….but I guess to her, it was a literal foot race. Her Mamma, who was about my age, gets out of the car and joins us. She looks at me like I’VE done something wrong, steps right in front of me, and walks inside as the employee unlocks the doors for us. I guess I could label her as Idiot Number Four, but I prefer to just keep Mamma and daughter together as a unit.
I follow them in, wait for them to sign in first, then take my turn at the desk. As I sit as far away from them as possible in the waiting room, they begin to discuss–quite loudly– how they are certain that the Mamma has the flu. They go on to discuss how neither of them have had a flu shot in 15 years, because they don’t trust “them people who make up the shots” and then begin talking about “Steve” who DIED from the flu last year. From their conversation, I’m assuming Steve was a family member, and from listening in on their words even more, which was very easy to do at the volume they were speaking, Steve was trying to get back with his ex-wife when he died. They didn’t have children because Steve was too obsessed with motorcycles. That’s all I heard of the conversation, because it was at this time that I decided to go to the restroom and scald my hands with hot water and soap, seeing as how I was just at the same counter, probably using the same ink pen as this woman who was just certain she had the flu.
I was happy to see that both Mamma and daughter were gone from the waiting room when I returned, and my name was called shortly afterwards. I had to weigh again, and facility number two’s scales weighed me in at four pounds less than facility number one. I immediately knew I was in the right place. I was led into an exam room, coincidentally room number two, again.
Within five minutes, a female doctor appeared. She was very friendly and listened as I told her the same story that I had shared with Idiot Number Two just a while earlier. “Let’s take a look” she says, as she begins to look in my right ear–the ear that did NOT hurt. “Wow–this is supposed to be your good ear, and it looks rough!” she says. She moves over to my left ear, and says “Oh baby, you must be in awful pain!” She called me baby. She was a southern woman. She cared. And she wasn’t an idiot.
So, turns out, my ear infection was so bad that she prescribed good, good drugs and insists that I get a shot in the hip before I leave to give me a jump start on feeling better. And those of you who’ve had those steroid/antibiotic shots in the hip know what they feel like….and you know how funny I was walking as I left that place. I kind of yelped out in pain when I got in my car to leave….that throbbing pain going through my hip. But I knew it was the hard stuff, starting to work, and it was a nice, nice feeling.
Noted Idiots here today will never know I wrote about them….unless perhaps one of my amazing followers realizes the parking lot tank top angry man was your Crazy Uncle, or you say, “Whoa–I’ve seen that same doctor, I know I have! I was bleeding from the eyeball and he told me to take an aspirin and call him in three weeks!” And good doctor, who gave me what I needed and treated me with respect–she’ll probably never know about this either. But that’s kinda the point. Even though it may not be posted in a blog by a crazy woman who needs to vent, YOUR actions leave impressions on people every day. Whether you are leaving them shaking their heads wondering what the hell is wrong with you, or whether you treat them (or refuse to treat them) in a way that changes their day and the days to come…..we all somehow leave those impressions.
If someone blogs about you today, will you be Idiot Number One? Or will you be the good guy? Food for thought! Now, let me go pop an antibiotic and write some lessons, cause I’m gonna feel like going to school tomorrow, after all!
Kickin' & Screamin' 