Tag: love

Perfect

Some things don’t need fixing
they’re fine just the way they are,
like mornings in the mountains
And evenings by the fire.

We don’t get perfect lives,
or even perfect days,
but moments of perfection
to savor along the way.

The trick is to recognize
these moments when they come:
a baby’s smile, a lover’s touch,
and acknowledge their existence.

To chase perfection is to lose it,
hold on too tightly and it’s gone
just smile to yourself in acceptance
and tuck the memory away in your heart.

  

Meghan Trainor and John Legend

What a delicious song this is!http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=dHU71EsH0dU

Grand Children

How wonderful are
the children of my children?
They are grand, indeed.

Smart, sweet, and sassy;
loving, amusing, and kind.
Cute beyond belief.

I’d tell everyone
that the kids take after me,
but I’d be lying.

That’s me in the middle, holding our youngest grandchild and surrounded by my husband, kids, and grandkids.

Spending Time with a Ten Year Old Girl

My middle grandchild, McKayla, and I drove all over the Quad Cities yesterday. We picked up her new glasses in Moline, Illinois, ate lunch and painted pottery in Bettendorf, Iowa, shopped for vintage (her word) stuff in Port Byron and Rapids City, Illinois, and enjoyed ice cream in Davenport, Iowa, I think. Thank goodness for GPS!

I was so confused by the time we returned home that I needed a nap. She on the other hand was energized with the prospect of decorating the interior of the vintage dollhouse we found at Birdie Lu’s in Rapids City.

Shopping with McKayla is an adventure. At ten, she knows exactly what she wants and already has a style of her own. Everywhere we went she received compliments on her hair or her dress or her jacket. I’m 58. I’m still trying to develop a signature style beyond jeans, a t-shirt, and flip flops. And compliments are few and far between.

At the same time, she still enjoys her Barbies and doll houses and pretend play. At least we have those things in common. We also share similar tastes in music; although, she actually knows all the words to the songs playing on the radio; whereas, I am reduced to humming and mumbling the lyrics.

I don’t embarrass her yet, even though I count that as an important part of Grandparenting. No matter how hard I tried I didn’t even rate an eye roll. Maybe I’ve lost the skill.

At the end of our expedition McKayla gave me a huge hug and thanked me for giving her an amazing day. It was pretty amazing to me, as well. It isn’t often that someone as clueless as I am has the chance to hang out with pure awesomeness.

Spending Time with a Twelve Year Old Boy

I’m in the Quad Cities, an area that straddles the Mississippi River on both sides of the Illinois-Iowa state lines, visiting my daughter and her family this week. On this trip I thought it would be fun to spend a day one on one with each of the two older grandchildren. Garrett, my oldest grandson, had his day today.

Garrett is 12 and for his day he chose to see the movie Ant-Man, eat a cheeseburger at Red Robin, and shop for Legos. Then I gently persuaded him to let me buy him some jeans. Ok, I bribed him with the promise of an ice cream on our way home, but it worked.

The kid has hit a huge growth spurt this summer, and all of his pants look more like ladies’ capris. It’s not a good look on a 12-year-old boy whose voice is deeper than most grown men’s, but he’s fairly oblivious to style do’s and dont’s.

Over lunch it occurred to me that this funny, handsome, geeky kid probably will have no interest in a date with his Nana next summer. I’ll lose him to his guy friends soon, and he’ll be swooning over some girl before long.

But on this trip he told me about the video games he’s into and his plans to design games himself some day. We giggled over Antman’s antics and pecan praline ice cream. We argued over the virtues of Star Wars  versus Minecraft Legos. On this trip he was still a little boy.

38 Plus One Reasons Why

Last year at this point my blog was just a newborn. It has grown and so have I, physically, emotionally, and mentally.  

This was my post one year ago today, with an additional reason tacked on at the end.

On the eve of our 38th wedding anniversary
I thought it might be interesting to challenge myself to list 38 reasons I’m happy to be married to Studly Doright. 

1. He thinks I’m smart.

2. His sense of humor. It’s corny and quick and keeps me on my toes.

3. He’s a great mechanic. That ability has been ridiculously valuable throughout our 38 years together. No matter how broke we were we always had reliable transportation.

4. He is handsome. Much better looking than I deserve.

5. He’s honest in his dealings with others. His golf buddies refer to him as the Boy Scout. He never cheats. Never.

6. He can admit when he’s wrong.

7. He isn’t afraid to show emotion.

8. He loves our kids fiercely.

9. The grand kids have compared him to a jungle gym. And he would do anything in his power to make them happy.

10. He is loyal, sometimes to a fault.

11. He treats his mother like a queen.

12. He is generous and big-hearted.

13. His laugh. Oh, wow, his laugh. Sitting through a funny movie with Studly is one of the best mood lifters in the world. I highly recommend it.

14. He is a really good kisser.

15. He is an incredible leader.

16. Have I mentioned how smart he is?

17. He will dance with me if he has had enough to drink.

18. He is a good driver.

19. He taught me to ride a motorcycle without wringing my neck.

20. He likes to hold hands.

21. He does everything in his power to make sure I’m happy.

22. Studly loves our cats as much as I do.

23. He is consistent. That might sound boring, but he’s the perfect counterpoint to my Inconsistency.

24. Punctuality is important to him.

25. He makes kick ass obstacle courses.

26. He is a decent amateur auctioneer for our family reunion fund raisers. What he lacks in speed he makes up for in witty repartee.

27. He is really good at mental math. I never need a calculator when he’s around.

28. My parents loved him.

29. He insisted that Daddy move in with us so we could care for him after Mom passed away. The two years we had with Dad before he died were some of the best of our lives.

30. He never lets me take myself too seriously.

31. He doesn’t worry.

32. He respects my opinion and listens to my points of view.

33. He sees me as an equal partner in our marriage.

34. He can cook much better than I can.

35. He can laugh at himself.

36. Studly has a stellar work ethic.

37. He knows how to enjoy life.

38. And, he loves me. He really, really loves me.

39. No matter how crazy his work becomes, he never brings it home.

I made it! Truth is I could’ve gone on and on, but I probably lost most of my readers half way through. That’s ok. This one’s for my husband.

Peace, People.

A Good Talk

My mom wasn’t much for sharing feelings. We knew when she was angry. It was impossible not to know. We knew when she was happy because her smile lit up the room, but she didn’t tell people, even those closest to her, what was really going on inside her heart and mind. Maybe she talked to her sister. I hope so.

I, on the other hand, share way too much. If I’m happy I’ll tell you why. If I’m pissed off, you’ll know the reason, and then some. I even annoy myself sometimes.

When Mom was dying I flew down to stay with her and Dad at their apartment in Sweetwater, Texas. I’d just begun teaching that year in Great Bend, Kansas, and it wasn’t easy for me to get away, but my grandmother needed a break from caring for her dying daughter and it was my turn.

Can you tell it was something I did not want to do? I was in denial. Mom and Dad were, too, so we didn’t talk about death during the daylight hours. But at night, when Dad was asleep Mom and I talked. Now we never directly approached the subject; that just wasn’t going to happen. We danced around it, tiptoed, balanced on the edge, but anytime I came too close Mom’s face tightened up and the subject was changed.

We sat in the bathroom of their claustrophobic apartment and didn’t talk about death. 

I’d bought her a book. It was the children’s book by Robert Munsch, I’ll Love You Forever. I’d hoped it might break down some barriers and allow us to express our feelings before it was too late. She refused to read it.

“I’m afraid it will make me cry,” she said.

“Maybe that’s the point,” I said.

And that was the end of that.

She needed someone to come care for basic health care tasks, but a private nurse was out of their budget range. I suggested we contact hospice care. 

“But that means I’m dying,” said the woman whose bladder cancer had spread throughout her body and into her brain.  

“Maybe you are,” I said.

And that was the end of that.

She had a major seizure the week I was there, and was admitted to the hospital in Abilene. I should have stayed, but again, we were all in denial and I had a plane ticket back to my life in Great Bend. When I left, Mom was her old self, joking with the nursing staff and not talking about death.

She never recovered enough to leave the hospital, and when my Daddy called to say we needed to come we left as soon as we could get some loose ends tied up. 

As is often the case with those near death Mom roused herself the day we arrived at her bedside so she could interact with us, touching our hands and trying to reassure us. She called my daughter stubborn and we all had a good laugh, then she drifted off to sleep.

I sat with her that night and listened to her struggle to breathe. With her captive there in that hospital bed, attached to all the monitors, I finally got to tell her the things I’d wanted to say that she didn’t want to talk about.

“Mommy, I love you and I wish you weren’t dying. If I could I’d hold you in my arms and comfort you as you always comforted me.”

At one point Mom opened her eyes and tried to tell me something. It was important to her, but I couldn’t understand her speech right then. I called in a nurse and she tried to make Mom more comfortable, but she stopped trying to communicate after that. I’ll never know what she was trying to say to me that night because she passed away soon after.

I guess the point of this is, don’t wait to tell people what you feel. We’re all dying. It’s just a matter of time.

Peace, people.

Patchwork Heart

My heart has scattered,
Little pieces here and there.
First bits were claimed
Before I could name love,
When people were love.

Some parts were left behind
Before I was careful about
Giving them away; foolish girl.

Other pieces placed carefully
One a gift to my husband, then
Here son, here daughter
Take my heart; it is yours.
Their children claimed
My heart, as well, five more
Pieces given away.

I’d feared it was all gone,
But they’ve each given me
Parts of their own hearts.
This beautiful patchwork
Is what I cherish; it’s how I love.

  

Steps

Clutching her handbag tightly in her left hand, Mary Riley gripped the rail at the top of the steps outside St. Vincent’s with her right. For the hundredth time that winter she wondered why she hadn’t requested communion be brought to her home. And for the hundredth time she smiled to herself, knowing how much she looked forward to Father Mark’s homilies and the feeling of belonging she received from attending mass.

Although a chilly wind swept across the steps they were clear of snow and ice, yet Mary knew the three sets of four steps could be treacherous for one her age. Just last fall her friend Ruth had taken a tumble on the last two steps and broken a hip. That same Ruth who’d once raced her to the top of the steps so many years before had never recovered from her accident and they’d buried her two days before Thanksgiving.

Mary stopped to rest on the first landing from the top, looking back to see Father Mark visiting with a young couple. He gave her a wave when he saw her standing there. 

“Mary, do you need a hand?” he asked.

“No Father, I’ve got this. Just remember your promise.”

He smiled, “Of course, but we’ve got years yet.”

She hadn’t wanted to like this young priest. He’d come in and stirred things up after Father Thomas left the diocese ten years ago. But Father Mark’s heart had shown through and soon he had revitalized the old church, bringing in new families and making everyone think about social justice.  

Just last week she’d made him promise to officiate at her funeral, fearing that he’d be moved to another parish and forget all about her. If she and Robert had been blessed with a son she’d have liked him to be like Father Mark. 

Of course Robert might not have liked the priest’s liberal views; he’d always been so conservative. But he was practical, as well. After both their older girls had found themselves in a family way while still in high school he’d instructed Mary to take their youngest, Regina to the family planning clinic uptown. “They’re breeding like rabbits!” he’d ranted. 

She shook her head ruefully, thinking of how she’d changed after Robert’s passing. He’d died of a heart attack months before Father Thomas left and had never known the younger priest. 

Robert had been a good man, Mary knew, continuing her descent, if a bit controlling. She’d never have gotten so involved in Father Mark’s peace protests had Robert still been alive. What would Robert have made of her striding around in slacks, of all things, singing anti-war songs? 

At the second landing Mary leaned heavily on the railing. She could clearly picture standing there with Robert posing for pictures after their wedding. He’d been so strong and handsome, his black Irish charm devastating. It was right there he’d swept her up to carry her to his Buick. Of course she hadn’t weighed much back then, but oh! It still made her heart beat a little faster to think of him carrying her down those last few steps.

Ruth and the other girls had been quite envious. But then Ruth had gone off to university and before long had started teaching in public school. Ruth had never married and sometimes Mary had envied her friend’s freedom. 

“The grass is always greener,” she mused aloud.

Getting her third wind, Mary pushed against the railing and carefully placed her foot on the next step. There was a little scuffed out place there where she always feared losing her footing. Almost to the bottom, just three steps to go, she looked up, surprised to see her Robert standing at the bottom looking just like he had on the day they’d wed.  “Well,” Mary sighed.

She looked back up to see Father Mark still visiting with parishioners.  With a smile she acknowledged he’d be keeping his promise to her sooner than he’d thought.

“What’s the smile for, my Mary?” Robert asked.

“I’m just thinking you could’ve met me at the top of these steps,” she laughed.