2012: Another Year Forward

Daily, I enter our lobby and salute company archives: Margaret Mitchell’s typewriter; Lewis Grizzard’s portrait (southern comic/newsman). Then I report to an advertising post. Maybe I’ll get to write more someday. Now, I pay bills; blog a bit.

Happy 2012!

I don’t do resolutions; however, Preacher Child (first-born) and Preacher’s Wife, (new daughter-in-law) host an intriguing gathering today.

Flower Child calls it the burning-lies-you-believe party. How it works: Record a lie on paper. Ex: God is mean; only has rules. Next: Burn lie; move on.

Resolve to believe truth; it will set you free: you don't have the power to change, but God wants good things for you and He can change you. (I copied this from Preacher Child’s Facebook page today – good kid.)

I’ve pondered lies-I-believe and decided: how do I sort out lies? If I (currently) believe it - it’s true, right? Time to drudge the past.

10 ‘Lies’ I Once Believed:

1. I’ll have lots of money when I grow up, just like my parents did.

2. I’ll always be in good physical shape.

3. I will find the perfect man.

4. I control whom my children play/hang out/text with, talk to, date/love/marry...

5. By age 40, I’ll be old and wise.

6. I won’t worry about the kids once they’re 18 years old.

7. My parents will always be there.

8. I should tell everyone like it is.

9. I can talk my way into/out of anything.

10. Tomorrow, next week/month/year I will (fill in the bank).

Things I know to be true - thanks to the “Village” for helping over the years...

1.     I was 6 - my uncle & mom laughed how they thought their parents were rich when they were kids. I noted that conversation, yet believed we had what we needed so my parents were rich. Now that I pay for college, mortgage, insurance, taxes... I understand the concept of budget. (Thanks, Dave Ramsey!)

2.     How often did older, rounder women claim to my young, size 2 self? “I was tiny, just like you!” I’d smile, yet vow silently: I’ll die if my Scarlett waist exceeds 18”. Thanks, Mimi! She settled it years ago: “Honey, you can have a body or a face, but you can’t have both when you’re old.” I like food; I choose face.

3.    Thank you, my Jewish Mom, who revealed Mr./Mrs. Right doesn’t exist. “We all have baggage. YOU have baggage, Bubala. Ask yourself: Can you work with the baggage?”

4.    Speaking of Mr. Right-for-me... he says: “Control is an illusion.” Amen, King, amen.

5.    Sheesh - the older I get, the less I know. Mensa friend mused: The wise seek wisdom; the fool has found it. Thanks, Miss Winda!!

6.    In 1988, the Lamaze teacher said: it’s not one day of labor & delivery we should worry about, it’s the next 25 years. I say 87. They marry, have kids, it’s more family & households to worry about, I mean love.

7.     Nov, 2000: Kids were with Buzz; I almost flew to Miami to hang out with a friend, who wisely reminded: Be with your parents, enjoy them yourself – they won’t always be there. It was the last Thanksgiving dinner mom cooked.

8.     In youth, my motto was say it loud; say it clear. #1 Sis-in-law, big sis I always needed instructed: Everybody doesn’t need to know everything.
     Susan! I couldn’t grow up without you.

9.    Talking. I do it less now. A manager debriefed after a sales call: “Girl! Hand the guy an order and SHUT YO’ MOUTH”. He and his wife are best friends to this day. Gracias, Glenn! (Now, stop playing and go sell your cigars!)

10.  Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya tomorrow!! You’re only a day away. Grandma shared:  tomorrow never comes. It took decades to understand the concept.

A favorite reminder from Tim Paskert, former colleague; now friend who creates faith-based movies & books. No more wishing my life away. He teaches: It’s about now. Every day is another step forward.

Thank you, Lord.

Happy Birthday, Mom

September 29^th – still a special day, birthday of someone missing at Preacher Child’s wedding…

Throughout my life – if Sweet Home Alabama or Spirit in the Sky played on the radio, if a family member struggled with cancer or passed away …

Mom instructed: Don’t resuscitate, don’t hook me to a machine or feed me with a tube. Let me go. Bury me in the cheapest pine box you can find - wear a red dress to my funeral.

Play music, serve good food, have a party ‘cause I’ll be with Jesus.

I imagined wearing that red dress as an old lady myself. Longevity runs deep. Great-grandma lived to 103; Grandma’s pushing 90 and runs circles around us with her new knee – stubborn as ever and game for adventure.

But there I was in church – dressed in red; barely in my 40’s.

Mom was my best friend. We spoke on the phone most every day, even before cell phones. I learned to make gravy over the phone, received parenting advice – heard what was up in Alabama with the birds, flowers, weather, cats, her 5^th graders, ladies in her Sunday School class, what dad made for dinner…. I miss those calls.

She was tiny: 4’ 11”and feisty, even throughout the last few days of her life this side of heaven -  battling brain cancer for 10 years.

3 days after surgery: I received a phone call from mom, thrilling! I‘d expected our calling days to be done.

She was incensed: “Did you know I had brain surgery? Does your father know about this?  Who’s this O’Malley character?” 

“He’s the neurosurgeon, Mama – he pretty much saved your life.”

 Mom was not impressed: “Well he’s a BRICK.” 

I reminded her how miraculous she was - working crossword puzzles in the hospital, reading books, scheduled to go home soon, exceeding expectations. She rebuked: “I’m NOT miraculous, people are PRAYING for me!”

(Note: She later changed her mind about the surgeon, named him “The Sainted Dr. O’Malley”.)

A couple of weeks later, at home on Christmas Day – during one of her last lucid moments before I ‘became the parent’...

Mom issued her best advice: “I’ve had a great life. I’m so proud of my children and wonderful grandchildren. I’m not angry with God - or questioning why this happened to me.  But Honey! Stop worrying about fat grams, drink more red wine and enjoy your life. “

Happy Birthday, Mom. We toast you today.

Preparing for College & Other Hazards of Motherhood

Was it multiple, tearful calls to Housing Authority? Threats to organize weekend shuttles to Athens from Georgia’s real party school in Valdosta, securing a repeat honor as 2012 Princeton Review’s #1 Party School in America?
Not proud of the Helicopter Mom flash, but I know when to be fiery.

No one said it was easy. I’m just glad they’re in a real dorm - smack in the middle of campus where freshmen belong.

Time for dorm shopping!

Shopping with Preacher & Party Child?
Piece of cake; they didn’t go.

We (King & myself) went to Target & Ikea, bought stuff; stored; unloaded into dorm rooms.

Color scheme of their comforters?
Party Child: “That’s STUPID! Who cares?”
Preacher Child: “Bah! Towels match the blanket and the rug!”

(Note: Preacher still uses them and has theories about spirituality & personal organization. Yes, Virginia: Time wins!)

College shopping with Flower Child?
Not so much. It was a time warp back to…

• 6th grade and outgrowing Limited Too/Justice. (Thank you, God, for Rue 21 & Papaya)
• Jeans shopping after Limited Too era. (King took her shopping; I love him forever.)
• Bra shopping (Painful at any age, no?)
• Intermediate Bathing suit shopping: Find 1-piece for church/drama camp; fabric & style appealing to a 13-yr old, pain!
• Advanced Bathing suit shopping: Your baby fills that bikini better than you’ve dreamed of in years. Revelation: She’s blooming and you’re wiser, yet fading a bit on the outside. PAIN!
• 8th grade dance semi-formal dress shopping.

Excluding Prom 2010 - we had a great run: Age 15 to a few hours ago.

Preacher Child gets married soon; met us at the mall for a tux fitting.
They argued in early years. He & Flower Child are best of friends now.
I warned, via text: baby sis - in a mood.

I cornered him at Old Navy, discreetly asked: “Seriously, is it her, or me?”

This seems innocent enough. However, I'm learning otherwise.
Women over the age of 40 shouldn't ask such questions, ever.
Ages 13-39? Blame perfectly, socially acceptable PMS.
After 40?
It’s “The Change”, regardless of which organs are still in your body.

I need hope. Is there another universal cause of behavior after “The Change”?

Are we finally wise and happy all the time, as God intended? Anyone?

I consulted Preacher: "Seriously, is it HER or me?"
“Oh, Mom, it’s probably a little of both.”
Ugh – I asked for that.

Yes, Virginia, There Is a Return Policy for Kids

I've learned when to stop inviting Karma and start asking friends about Holy Water!

We attended college orientation: Flower Child’s dorm assignment - messed up. Mix in her campers’ drama extreme last week (at Performing Arts Camp); fold with BFF & boy issue, doctor visit for throat swab…

I’ve suspended our College Myth-busters’ series for more wisdom from Mimi. Flower Child at the frat house caused a stir. I almost felt like a bad mom since I wasn’t THAT upset. Why not?

Preacher/Party Child have broken me in?

I sport Rose-colored glasses for Flower Child?

BOOM! Revelation as I prepared for a morning with sweet little babies at church, whose only you-know-what clearly appears in their diapers.

Mimi’s Return-Policy Prayer

Yes, that’s return policy on kids, not retail items. Some young mommies will never read this page again. Older mommies laugh, click, thank God theirs are responsible citizens despite themselves.

If you’ve had a fleeting moment, understanding child abuse – you wouldn’t abuse yours, just know why it could happen. This post is for you! I'll lead by example, sharing my moment:

Preacher Child was my first; how could I know it was colic? (Sorry, kids, no Internet back then!)   I knew: hadn’t washed my hair, enjoyed a hot meal in weeks. Baby flab drooped on my once-flat tummy. Worn out, I fantasized about driving him to mom’s; crossing the state line for a Waffle House and good night’s sleep.

Mimi is Buzz’s mom. For her prayer to be effective; not offensive, imagine a fancy lady. Others buy her groceries, walk her dog, and wash her car… Think 24/7 Mary Kay make-up and large hair, blonde, never out of place. She doesn’t own jeans or a t-shirt. She’s a teetotaler who says a lot without a word.        
(It’s a Southern art; I’ll never know.)

Mimi offered comfort when Preacher Child wouldn’t sleep                                             (She refers to Buzz’s big brother, circa ‘74)

“You know how horrible (my first born) was? He wrecked cars, partied, wouldn’t call, came home drunk whatever time he felt like, made me crazy. One night I was so SICK of losing sleep,

I prayed: “Lord, you gave me this child 17 years ago and he’s a little ($#!+)! I’m giving him right back to you!”

“Haven't lost a wink of sleep since!”

So there you have it – you don’t physically return the kids; you claim to whom they belong. Repeat the process throughout their lives, to relieve parenting pressure and promote a little more sleep.

Give it a try - beats a road trip to Alabama, promise.