by jphilo | May 27, 2011 | Family
My mom is not the person she was before Alzheimer’s started messing with her head. She can no longer:
- milk ten cows before getting on the bus to go to high school.
- stay up all night reading newly released novels like Gone With the Wind.
- match her big brothers bale for bale while hauling in the hay crop.
- reign as Iron Maiden of the Franklin School playground.
- bake a pie.
- move heavy furniture without a lick of help.
- remember the way to the cemetery where her husband is buried.
And yet, on Tuesday when Hiram and I drove Mom to that cemetery to decorate graves, what she is able to do remains a joyful and welcome comfort. She still can:
- read a novel a day.
- count out the exact change after taking us to lunch.
- appreciate the rare beauty of a perfect May day.
- find joy in the accomplishments of her grandchildren.
- tease her children relentlessly.
- remember how much her sister Ruth admired the trees in the cemetery where Dad is buried.
- Walk across bumpy grass to pay her respects at the graves of her husband and in-laws.
After arranging the flowers beside the headstone, I asked, “Would you like me to take a picture of you beside Dad’s grave?”
Mom glanced first at Dad’s name on the gravestone, then pointed to the grass in front of her own. Her eyes twinkled. “Would you like me to lay down and demonstrate the coming attraction?”
Hiram and I burst out laughing, and so did she. With big belly laughs that have lasted all week. Because my mom is still Dorothy Stratton. She’s still got her sense of humor.
She’s still got it.
by jphilo | May 20, 2011 | Family
Yesterday morning, I had a vivid just-before-waking dream. Our son, about three years old, snuggled in bed between Hiram and me.
He grinned when we called him the peanut butter in our family sandwich, giggled and squirmed when we tickled him. Along with his giggles, I heard the wheezy, asthmatic sound of his breathing – a condition called tracheomalacia which went along with his esophageal birth defect (EA/TEF) – something the doctors assured us he would outgrow as the cartilage around his bronchial tubes hardened.
I woke, disoriented and twenty-six years older than in my dream. I left our bed, where my husband, but no son, lay sleeping. I stumbled through our house, not the one we shared with our toddler son. I couldn’t shake the dream. It lingered all day long. The odd sound of our son’s breathing and the sweetness of his small, high voice and delighted giggles echoed in my memory. All day, I missed our child, ached for his small body crowding in between us, longed for his little boy, sweaty smell. More than once, tears came to my eyes as the realization that those years and those sounds, even the wheezy ones caused incessant worry, were gone forever.
Because the doctors were right. Our son outgrew the tracheomalacia around the time he started kindergarten. He left his wheezy gurgles behind, along with his fascination with dinosaur bones, his adoration for Mr. Rodgers and the Land of Make Believe, and his love of Legos. (Well, strike that last one. He still groves over Legos now and then.)
In a few days, our boy turns twenty-nine, and I rejoice in the man he has become. His face is whiskered, his step confident, his laugh deep, his voice resonant, his breathing quiet. He is a good man – loving, thoughtful, creative, and caring.
But he will never be three again,
never jump into bed between us again,
beg to be tickled again,
delight to be the peanut butter in our family sandwich again,
giggle with his wheezy gurgle again.
So this day, in the wake of a most vivid and lovely dream,
I am grieving for days that can never be again.
I am missing our little boy.
I am learning what it means to be a mom.
by jphilo | May 17, 2011 | Family
She did it! Our Annie graduated on Saturday – in 4 years and with no debt, so we are kicking up our heels and grateful, grateful, grateful.
What will she do with that literature degree? Well, she’s already finished up one young adult novel and is at work on a second. But everyone in this family knows writing books is not a way to get rich quick, though it is incredibly satisfying.
Of course, our Anne has more ideas up the wide, flowing sleeves of her graduation gown. She spends oodles of time sewing, knitting, tatting, and doing anything else she can think of with textiles. She even makes her own patterns and has perfected one for a high support, no underwire bra that full-figured women will love. The patterns can be purchased at her etsy site. You can also order custom made bras there.
BTW, for those of you who didn’t know Anne as a child, I am not making this up. For those of you who did know her in her dressing-Barbie dolls-in tissue-and-tape-creation years, followed by her Barbie-in-latex-glove-and-tape-bungie-jumping-creation years, this present day obsession comes as no surprise. Nor will it surprise you to know that she and her honey, though debt-free, are happily living on a pittance.
But you could surprise her by visiting her website and perhaps even ordering a bra. Now that she’d all graduated, there’s no risk of loose pages of her senior research papers being sewn into someone’s D cup. And there’s a high probability your order will be filled and shipped in record time – if you order before she and her hubby move to Bowling Green, Ohio in August.
So make this newly minted graduate’s day by placing an order. Or pass on the information to someone who might be interested. Or just congratulate her on her most recent right of passage. She’d love to hear from you!
by jphilo | May 6, 2011 | Family
This Mother’s Day, my temptation is to wax poetic about the joys of parenting adult children who are whole and healthy. And there are plenty.
Both are happily married.
Both like to call and chat, ask for advice, share recipes.
Both think I’m much smarter than when they were teenagers.
Both appreciate the value of being raised by two loving parents.
Both feel connected to a wide circle of extended family.
But through my work with parents of kids who have significant special needs, I’ve learned about moms for whom such musings are salt on their wounds. For many reasons.
Their children will never marry.
Their children can’t make a phone call or communicate.
Their children don’t know how smart their moms are.
They are raising their children alone.
Their extended family has deserted them.
My point is not to make mothers showered with blessings play them down or feel guilty. My point is to stir those of us so blessed, myself included, to shower struggling moms with blessings, too. So mosey on over to www.DifferentDream.com and read about some Omaha area moms whose generosity will make this Mother’s Day special for 25 single moms of medically fragile children.
It’s too late for you and me to do something that big this Mother’s Day, but it’s not too late to help one family. And it’s plenty early to prepare a flood of blessings for next Mother’s Day, don’t you think?
by jphilo | Apr 29, 2011 | Family
Roots may be Alex Haley’s claim to fame, but this spring I’m claiming the title for me and my house.
Why?
Because the cuttings from the family heritage geraniums I put in water more than a month ago have sprouted roots aplenty. This goofy gardener has four jars full of sassy green magic just waiting for the weather to warm up so they can be planted. And that’s not all!
During rooting season, I showered the future green giants with tender, loving care – changing their water weekly, removing dead leaves, and cutting off rotting stems. More than that, I paid attention to details like which slips rooted most easily, the attributes of the spots that rooted, and other scientific observations. Insights gleaned include the following:
- Tender, green stems root from joints where leaves have been stripped away.
- Hardened brown stems won’t root. Ever. At all. Period.
- If a long slip doesn’t sprout roots, cut a few inches off the bottom, strip a few more leaves away and give it another try. Following this method, my root rate was about 80%.
- Some slips won’t root, no matter what you do.
Pretty impressive, hmmm? I’m thinking a new career in agronomy is just around the corner. As soon my dislike of dirty hands, muddy shoes, weeding, hard work, and earthworms abate. In the meantime, I’m basking in the ancient approval of my ancestors.
My mother is proud of me.
My Grandma Josie would be proud of me.
So would her mother, Cora Rose Newell – the giver of the original geranium.
Partly for keeping family history alive. But mostly because I rooted 30 geranium slips which will save a good chunk of change when purchasing bedding plants in the next few weeks. Because the women in our family are a stingy clan. We are firmly rooted in the belief that the best things in life are free. Which means it’s time for a new project. How to make potting soil this spring instead of buying it from the store.
Just thinking of the potential savings makes me happy, happy, happy!
by jphilo | Apr 25, 2011 | Family
- You’re “baby” brother turns 52.
- You’ve made the family birthday cake so many times, that when you make it for your “baby” brother’s birthday, you barely need to look at the recipe.
- Your youngest niece is too old for Easter egg hunts.
- You don’t recognize the name of a singer mentioned by the younger generation when playing a game on Easter afternoon.
- You discover the singer, whose name you didn’t recognize, was big in the 1980s.
- You say “Surprise, surprise, surprise” while playing a game with the younger generation, and it means nothing to them.
- Their response to your description of “The Gomer Pyle Show” is a blank stare.
- You’re excited to show off the remodeled laundry room to the younger generation.
- They’re old enough to appreciate the newly remodeled laundry room.
- The last group of fourth graders you taught are high school seniors.
Where does the time go?
