by jphilo | May 9, 2013 | Three Thoughts for Thursday
- Though my parents were not of royal birth, princess was at the top of my what-do-you-want-to-be-when-you-grow-up list when I was a kid.
- People with childhood vocational aspirations similar to mine don’t understand the protests against the Barbie Dream House Mansion in Germany. If someone could explain it, we’d be most grateful.
- If you’re still trying to think of the perfect Mother’s Day gift, how about buying your mom a tiara and treating her like a princess all day long? That would totally work for me!
So what’s on your Mother’s Day shopping or wish list? Leave a comment!
by jphilo | May 9, 2011 | Reflections on the Past
The red tulip in our flowerbed this Mother’s Day unearthed a memory of my third grade teacher. She was an old maid, thin and tall, her face creased from decades of smoking, her clothes dark and musty, her face a perpetual frown.
Not a glimmer of anticipation cracked her crusty exterior as she explained the week’s art project one early May morning. “You’ll each draw the outline of one tulip on the front of your Mother’s Day card.” On the chalkboard, she demonstrated how to sketch a perfectly symmetrical, three-pronged tulip with our pencils, add a slim stem and one pointy leaf on either side of it.
Several of us dug in our desks for crayons so we could color in our drawings, as we’d done for every weekly art project all year long. “You won’t need your crayons. We’ll be painting them,” the teacher announced.
We looked at one another in eight-year-old, wide-eyed wonder. Painting? Had she said painting?
Now, that was the most exciting prospect in our classroom since we’d taken our first Iowa Tests of Basic Skills in February. On that day, after teacher read the directions for the vocabulary test, she said, “You need to know one more thing before taking the test. A peninsula is a body of land surrounded on three sides with water.” She pulled down the map of the United States. “Like Florida.” She pointed to the state. “Now, open your booklets and begin.”
We did as instructed. I was pleasantly surprised by question 3 – “What is a peninsula?” Me and everybody else did a whole lot of looking around in eight-year-old, wide-eyed wonder after we filled in the oval that corresponded to the answer, “A body of land surrounded on three sides with water.”
But painting was way cooler than realizing that you and everybody else in your class knew the right answer on an ITBS question. Painting had a messiness potential that completely overshadowed filling in the correct oval with a number two pencil. We were quivering with excitement.
The teacher nipped it in the bud. “Pass your cards to the front of the row. When I call your name, come to the back table to paint your tulip. While you wait for your turn, begin your phonics seatwork.”
So much for messiness potential.
When my turn finally came, I went to the painting table. It was covered with newspapers. My card sat beside two bowls of paint, one green and one red. The teacher frowned and said to paint the tulip red, the stem and leaves green, to stay between the lines, and to not drip the paint.
I dripped paint.
I tried to stay between the lines, but a loose bristle sent tiny scrolls every which way. Until the teacher said to stop. Then she used a tissue to remove the loose bristle. She rubbed red paint off her yellowed fingers and granted permission to proceed. I finished as quickly as I could, eager to get away from her accusing eyes and the unhappiness that dripped from her face, the discontent enveloping the table where we sat.
On Mother’s Day I gave the card to my mom. She admired it, oohed and aahed, and put it on the refrigerator. But I didn’t care if I never saw the card again.
Since that Mother’s Day red tulips have never been my favorite. Until this morning, when the tulip in my flowerbed unearthed this memory, along with a realization that escaped my notice for more than forty years.
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 | May 7, 2009 | Family
Earlier this week, the crabapple tree that guards our bedroom window began to flower. Yesterday, in the soft, warm breeze, it began to sluff off it’s blossoms petal by petal in a slow and lovely dance. They looped and twirled and floated along until the west wind set them, ever so gently, between the waiting blades of green, green grass.
I watched them dance, fresh and pink, and thought of my children. One May day years ago, Allen and Anne stood beneath the tree while Hiram shook the branches and petals rained upon their hair and shoulders. Our children danced, their hands raised high to catch the soft flood. Hiram’s mother, here for Mother’s Day, laughed as she snapped picture after picture. Finally the kids, tired and sweaty, flopped onto the greenish-pink, trampled grass.
The tree is dying, has been dying for years, was dying while Hiram shook the branches. All that’s left is one large limb, and we know that this year, after many seasons of procrastination, the tree must come down. “But wait,” I asked my husband, “until it blooms again, until after the petal dance.”
Yesterday, when the breeze arose, I took my mother-in-law’s place behind the camera and took picture after picture of the petal dance. If you look closely, beyond the wind-shaken branch, you can see them falling, – tiny, hazy, pink raindrops. And I think if you are still enough, patient enough, then perhaps you will see what I do: two precious children, arms raised high in a springtime dance, so happy, so young, so loved.
by jphilo | Mar 11, 2009 | Daily Life
My plan for the day was to postpone my walk and whine about the weather – 9 degrees when I got up this morning, and the temperature hasn’t moved up since – as much as possible, at least until I looked out the kitchen window and saw a flock of robins in the crab apple tree.
Hiram and the kids gave me a short Charlie Brown tree for Mother’s Day a few years back. Like today’s temperature, it hasn’t moved upward since they planted it. However, it blossomed beautifully last spring, and tiny fruit hung from the branches all winter long.
The sight of the birds brings back an old saying Mom used whenever I got whiny about her supper menu, and I got whiny plenty often. “Hunger is the best seasoning.” Apparently, calorie loss due to today’s cold snap improved the fruit’s flavor because the birds are all picking the branches clean.
Which reminds me, I shouldn’t postpone my walk any longer. Waiting for the temperature to improve is futile so it’s time to bundle up and be grateful that the wind died down and the sun is shining. Maybe the cold is a blessing in disguise, and I’ll burn off a few of my extra California calories – if I can keep my hands off the teeny, tiny crab apples. After I walk four miles in the cold, they’ll look delicious.
