Dear Mom....

Dear Mom.....

No, it wasn't raining.

No it wasn't winter.

Yes, you let me come in, and I think there really was a cookie in there somewhere. Probably a hug too.

I forgave you even before the hug, and now that I am a mom myself, I appreciate that not only did you teach me to love my children well, you also taught me to say I'm sorry when I make a mistake.

And you taught me that mommies are human too. That has made me a far far better parent than I would have been otherwise.

I love you. I want to be just like you when I grow up.

"Keep jumping!!"

Tonight the gents were in high spirits, wrestling and jumping and running around the living room and oh, the noise, Noise, Noise, NOISE!!!!

So.....Oh, wait. before I start: Mom, you might want to skip this one. Go read one of the other posts about how cute your grandkids are, or about all of the things I'm canning and baking, and give yourself a great big hug and pat on the back from me because I had such a great role model for parenting and cooking.

The rest of you, picture this: I'm about eight years old. Tall, skinny, that awful hair, big seventies glasses. I was an active eight-year-old, by the way. Thank goodness we lived on several acres. I used just about every inch of those acres to run, crawl, jump, gallop, dig, climb, wade, roll. My busy little body just couldn't sit still even when I was sitting still.

I loved to jump. One of my favorite tricks was to jump and touch the top of the door frames. There were grimy little handprints at the top, I'm certain of it.

Jump, jump, jump. That was me.

One night, I guess I jumped one too many times. Mom said she'd told me and told me to stop. Honestly, I hadn't a thought in my head, I was just--oops--jumping. Again.

Remember what it was like when you were eight and Mom had told you in that voice something along the lines of fortheumpteenthtimestopbeforemyheadexplodes? It was always a little bewildering and well, you felt kind of bad because you knew that Mom was probably right but you'd just forgotten and you really didn't mean to because you loved your mom and you really wanted her to be happy, but....you just didn't remember. (In the interests of keeping it oh, so real, I remember that look well because I've seen it on the faces of my own children from time to time.)

Mom, in that voice: "Go outside and jump until you can't jump any more. Right there outside where I can see you."

There I am in the near-dark, jumping a little half-heartedly. Surely Mom didn't really mean it. Jump a couple more times for show then stand there with a woebegone look on my face. Surely Mom will poke her head out the window and see how sorry I am, and comfort me and give me a cookie or some Koolaid.

Mom sticks her head out the kitchen window and yells, "Keep jumping!"

I tell this story not because I want you all to think bad things about Mom. I think it's a pretty funny story. I wasn't scarred for life, or even for fifteen minutes. Even at the time I realized that she was probably justified.

I tell the story because tonight I realized:

I. Know. Exactly. How. She. Felt.

That is all.







P.S. I know I said "That is all." But I have to add that I told the story to my own daughter as we cleaned the kitchen together, and we got a good giggle out of it.

I love you, Mom.

Where's Waldo, I mean, Mom?

I have this tag at the bottom of some of my blog posts. It's this one: "Making Fun of Mom." It's languishing away. We don't want that. (I'm using the word "we" a little loosely, here. For example, I'm pretty sure that in this case "we" doesn't include Mom. I'm sure she's delighted to give that little label a well-deserved rest.)

Remember my romantic anniversary post about my beautiful wedding?

You, know, the one crashed by Darth Maul?

Mom said to me, "You know, every time I heard that story, I always wondered: Where was I while this was happening?"

(P.S. Do you see her? Maybe there was a rack full of shoes back there. Shoes on sale.)

Random Notes

The Oregon Coast is just as beautiful as the eastern side of the mountains. My sisters and I visited Mom this weekend. We shopped a little, walked a little, read some, ate good food and fantastic bread, sewed and knitted. Mom gave me a hat. We laughed a lot. Who knew that my mother made fart jokes? When I was a kid I used to get in way big trouble for thinking farts were funny. Apparently you have to be an adult before you can share fart humor with others. I shared that one of the car games we'd played with the kids on our long car trip was "What's that smell?" also known as "He who smelt it, dealt it." (To be fair, once the smell really was a skunk.) My middle sister, who looks as though she'd never make a fart joke ever, shared that the average person farts fourteen times a day. Well, she primly said "passes gas." Whatever. When Mom came down the stairs a bit later with a sheepish look on her face and said, "Oops. Well, that's only five. What happens if I don't make my quota?" I hugged her and told her that it's an average. I had beans with lunch so I'd more than made up for her shortfall. So, yeah, it was a good weekend. I mean, we did other stuff too, but mostly we sat around and laughed about farts.

The weekend wasn't all fun and giggles. A dear friend's husband was badly injured. We spent a good part of the weekend worrying and grieving and praying. They've got a lot of support and strong faith to help them through this time. If you're so inclined, pray for healing and strength.

Loving husband and I celebrated our 7th wedding anniversary tonight. We ate dinner, went to the bookstore, had delicious dessert from our favorite bakery. I can't believe we've been married for seven whole years. It seems like just yesterday we were jetting off on our honeymoon. And yet, I barely remember my life without him. It's been a good seven years.

And....I still love having chickens.

Aren't they beautiful? I thought about putting a chicken poem up to go with the picture, but I can't find a chicken poem that I like. Drat that Google! I just wasted half an hour reading chicken poems. Some of them are pretty funny. But seriously, you'd think someone out there could have written one decent poem about a chicken that's just a little ridiculous and charming without being too cutesy. Kind of like chickens themselves. Maybe I'll write one myself. Well. Better not hold your breath for that one.

Oh, we talked about vomit this weekend too. Yup. Good times.

Read about Cristy's weekend here. She actually used the word "fart" on her blog. I'm telling her kids, in that neener-neener voice: "Your mom said faaa-aart."

And Meg, who would like to pretend that she was too mature to have talked about farts, here. You'd think her blog was supposed to be mostly about knitting or something. And yet, she mentions her "Fascinating Life" right in her blog title, and what's more fascinating than humorous body functions?

Peace to all of you.

Tuesday Ten: Those Darn Kids

If I've said it once, I've said it 500 Times....

1. "Close the door." Sheesh! I can understand having to keep reminding the 4- & 6-year-olds, but you'd think that by the time one is thirteen it would sink in that the door doesn't magically close.

2. "A cheerful willing helper is worth her weight in gold." This works best when you say it with a sappy grin, like my Mom did.

3. "I love your cute little face." Yeah, well. I think this one is pretty self-explanatory. "You are lovely" or "I like what you've done with your hair" has kind of replaced this one with the girls. But I still love their sweet faces.

4. "Is it honest? Is it kind? Is it fair?" I'll bet my kids mimic this one when they get older. "Remember when Mom (read: "annoying clueless Mom"-- sometimes the tone says it all) used to say..." Kind of like when my sisters and I get together and make fun of Mom. Only we say, in that nah-nah-nah voice: "A cheerful willing helper is worth her weight in gold." Bleah.

5. "I am not magic." I cannot simultaneously attend to all of the varied and multitudinous needs of five young people. Really. You will have to wait for thirty seconds for a refill of juice. Speaking more loudly, by the way, does not magically make me move more quickly.

6. "STOP HITTING YOUR BROTHER." And when I say "hitting" you may not quibble with me over the finer points of punching versus poking versus kicking versus "but-Mom-I-was-just-doing-this." Stop. Keep your hands to yourself or lose them. (Sigh...not really.)

7. "Close the door." I know, but it bears repeating. Obviously. Otherwise the damn door would be closed.

8. "Please let me be the Mom." I don't need an echo, thanks. Unless you want to be responsible for the laundry, dinner, and bedtime, please let me do the parenting and you be the sympathetic sibling. You can all go play by yourselves and complain about how mean I am-- sibling bonding. As long as you're quiet, I don't care.

9. Does a big *sigh* count?

10. "I love you."

Read what Cristy has said at least 500 times here.

Lesley, at Offerings to the Goddess of Domesticity, has to repeat herself too, and she's challenged some friends to make their own lists. Read her list here. While you're there, poke around her blog a little. She's got a lovely family.

Sisters revisited

Last night was Girl's Night Out with my sisters. It was a great time: We sat around and made fun of Mom. It's not nearly as much fun when she's not there to object, but we made do.

So....I thought how cute it would be to put a picture of the three of us on my blog before we went out. And I did. Then when I got home I started looking at the picture. What was I thinking posting that? There we all are, sitting under the tree. Aw, look at the sweet little baby! Oooo, look at the cute kid with the long hair in the cute barrettes. And...oh my goodness, what is wrong with that child's hair? And those giant glasses?

That's my childhood in a nutshell. People would meet my cute sisters. What a cute baby. Look at that petite shy little girl with the long braids. Oh dear... I hope that one's really smart or nice or something.

It's my mother's fault. (Hi Mom!) She got the bright idea that my thick, wavy, poofy hair would be just adorable in a Dorothy Hamill wedge, a hairstyle designed for straight glossy well-behaved hair. But wait, it gets better....it was always cut by a beginner from the beauty college. I believe I've mentioned before that my mother should be paying for me to go to therapy.

(I'd better send Mom an email telling her that I really don't mean this and that all we said last night was, "Gee, I wish Mom was here." It may or may not be true, but hopefully it will make her feel better. I'd promise to never make fun of her on my blog ever ever again, but I might break the promise, so best not to go there.)

I must add, to be fair, that my mother made the shirt I'm wearing in the picture. It was my favorite shirt. It had little white hearts on it, and they were raised and soft, little velvety Valentines on my shirt. I think my long-haired middle sister had a white one with red hearts. I thought about making fun of the shirt too, but I just couldn't do it. Like I said, I loved that shirt.

---

Read Sisters, part three on my Irie sis' blog, here.

At least my hair is manageable in that picture.

A Cheerful Willing Helper

Mother's Little Helper, Jessie Willcox Smith

Today I opened my mouth and my mother fell out.

A lovely lady grumped about doing her chores this morning and I said brightly, "A cheerful willing helper is worth her weight in gold!"

Rolling eyes. "Mooooo-ooooooooooooom."

(Note to my mom: Stop here. This is where you get to laugh and feel satisfied that your curse has been fulfilled. You know, the "hope-you-have-a-kid-who-blah-blah-blah-something-something"-- sorry, that's usually as far as I listened. Anyway, Mom, stop reading now. Call me and I'll tell you about cute things the kids have been doing or something.)

As lovely lady stomped off, I stood stunned and near tears. I couldn't believe I'd said that. Next thing you know, I'll be at the bottom of the stairs warbling "It's time to get up, It's time to get up this moooorning!" to the reveille tune at breakfast time. Now my children are going to make fun of me when they grow up, just like my sisters and I laugh at the dumb annoying things Mom said when we were kids!

Lest all of you out there in cyber-land feel sorry for my mother right now, picturing her weeping before her monitor at the thought that her beloved daughters that she so lovingly raised have been make fun of her behind her back....don't. First of all, she deserves it. I told her to stop reading, and more to the point, she actually used to chirp sunshiney crap like "A cheerful willing helper..." and "A stitch in time saves nine." Secondly, we don't make fun of her behind her back. We make fun of her to her face. By now she's developed the tough bristly hide of a warthog. And if she locks herself in the closet and cries later, well, like I said: She used to actually spout that stuff at us. She should be begging our forgiveness and paying our therapists instead of crying in the closet.

Hmmph. Now I've got that song in my head, the reveille one. I wonder what my kids will laugh about when they start talking about the things that their crazy ol' Mom used to do.

(I love you, Mom. I really want to be just like you when I grow up.)