"Here he comes again, your toast and water." The waitress smiled. What was with this man who'd been in 4 times in the past 2 weeks? Surely he did not come in for the food. His order was always the same, whole wheat toast and a glass of water. Fifty-three cents. He'd drop a dollar on the table before leaving. He asked to sit in her section each time, so she'd pretty much figured out that he came in just to see her.
Today she didn't feel much like being social. Her baby was sick. She couldn't afford to take time off. She dropped her off at daycare feeling guilty. Her daughter had cried when she pulled her out of bed and tried to dress her shivering body. Probably running a fever. She shook those thoughts from her head as she approached the table. She mustered up what she thought was a pleasant voice, "hi, how are you today? Toast and water?"
"No, I think all have a couple of eggs." Taken back, she asked, "how would you like those cooked?"
"Hmmm...I don't know. Just a couple of eggs."
Maybe if she'd been in another mindset, she would have put his order in with Over Easy written down. She herself despised eggs with any hint of yellow liquid. But maybe he didn't like scrambled and if someone had given her a runny egg she could not have gagged it down. She was an emotional wreck and was not in a place to make decisions for someone else.
"I have to tell the cook how you want your eggs."
"Alright, how about poached?" Poached? Poached? Ugh! She wanted to tell him that poached eggs were awful, that they took longer to cook, that waitresses hated waiting for poached eggs.
She smiled weakly. "Ok, I'll get that right out." He grinned back at her. She wondered who he was and why he seemed interested. It certainly wasn't her sweet disposition. She wanted to tell him, "I am married, I have a child, so please don't bother coming back." But truthfully, her marriage was over and she knew at some point she would be interested in dating again. For now, she had way too much stress to even think about it and nothing left emotionally to give. Besides, it wasn't as if he'd asked her out on a date. No, the only thing he'd done was frequent the diner. She had nothing to say to him.
"Here you go, hope you like your eggs." She slid the plate of poached eggs towards him.
"I was wondering. How would you like to go to Prescott? We could take my plane and fly up there for lunch."
(To be continued...)
Part Two
Friday, September 29, 2006
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Power Ranger
I don't know much about Power Rangers, but I do know one little boy who thinks he is one.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Again
She did it again. My 3rd child received another speeding ticket. Let's see, that makes 3 total. I admit, it was probably my fault. I was the one who sent her to pick up her sister that night. I thought she'd learned her lesson after the first ticket, and then the second. I foolishly believed that the money she spent on those tickets would mean something to her, as well as our trip to court. Apparently not.
What now? I figured I needed to do something as her right foot must be very heavy while driving. But wait. This child is 19 years old. I realize she still lives in our home, but my guess is if she hasn't figured out that driving too fast is not a good idea, that anything I might do to try to force the issue is probably a waste of time. When I was 19, I was married and parenting my firstborn. I was at the point in life where I was thinking about teaching my child right from wrong and why it was important to follow rules and laws. I think there comes a time in every parent's life where we need to step back and allow a child to make choices-even when they are not making wise ones. That doesn't mean we don't talk and discuss the issues. But it does mean I am going to allow her to continue on her merry way and speed if she so chooses. I cannot hold her hand, or ride along in her car and make sure she does everything my way, or even the right way. At some point, she has to be responsible for herself.
Sigh.
It is not easy to give freedom.
What now? I figured I needed to do something as her right foot must be very heavy while driving. But wait. This child is 19 years old. I realize she still lives in our home, but my guess is if she hasn't figured out that driving too fast is not a good idea, that anything I might do to try to force the issue is probably a waste of time. When I was 19, I was married and parenting my firstborn. I was at the point in life where I was thinking about teaching my child right from wrong and why it was important to follow rules and laws. I think there comes a time in every parent's life where we need to step back and allow a child to make choices-even when they are not making wise ones. That doesn't mean we don't talk and discuss the issues. But it does mean I am going to allow her to continue on her merry way and speed if she so chooses. I cannot hold her hand, or ride along in her car and make sure she does everything my way, or even the right way. At some point, she has to be responsible for herself.
Sigh.
It is not easy to give freedom.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Blunder
Oh, I completely forgot about my blunder this weekend. We experienced an unusually chilly day. Last week we found out our heater is no longer working. The beast is scheduled to be replaced in October. In the meantime, the basement was quit chilly. In my brilliance, I realized it was a perfect time to clean my downstairs oven. During summer months, my ovens are not run on the clean cycles. It is too hot. But what a great way to warm the downstairs during this cold snap.
Truthfully, I cannot remember when I last cleaned it. I rarely use this oven, so it doesn't get that dirty. (Well, it did look like someone had spilled a pizza in there.) I tried to switch the lever to the lock position so I could set the timer to clean. It wouldn't budge. Oh no, I must be doing something wrong. I no longer have a manual for this darn thing. It is older than dirt. I mean, seriously. It is Harvest Gold in color. That should tell you something. I don't think I could look this one up on the internet.
I was competely befuddled. Then I noticed atop the stove were the cleaning instructions. 1. Lock Oven. Grrr...that is what I was trying to do. Oh, there is a release button. It still did not work properly. 2. Raise glass door shield if your oven model is equipped with one. Well, I didn't have one of those, at least I'd never noticed on previous cleanings.
I opened the door to see where the latch was supposed to hook. It seemed jammed. I stuck a spoon in it, jimmied it a bit, and somehow the door locked. Woohoo! I set the timer for the start and stop time and off I went. I was very pleased with myself for finding a way to warm the downstairs. When it was finished, I'd open it up as soon as I could and that hot blast of air would permeate the entire downstairs.
Sometime later in the day, Michael mentioned to me that the oven door downstairs was broken. What? How could that be? But upon inspection, it certainly was broken. When I was messing with the door, I'd noticed what look like it could have been a shield. But for the life of me I could not imagine how this shield could be raised. There were no levers or buttons or secret compartments. Upon opening the door, though, there right in front of me were levers to raise the shield to keep the glass window from breaking. I feel pretty dumb now. Oh sure, the downstairs is warmer, but it would have warmed by today anyway. It is over 70 degrees and tomorrow it is forecast to be in the 80's. But there is a bright spot. I think it is time to say adios to my lovely Harvest Gold oven and hello to a nice stainless steel one.
Truthfully, I cannot remember when I last cleaned it. I rarely use this oven, so it doesn't get that dirty. (Well, it did look like someone had spilled a pizza in there.) I tried to switch the lever to the lock position so I could set the timer to clean. It wouldn't budge. Oh no, I must be doing something wrong. I no longer have a manual for this darn thing. It is older than dirt. I mean, seriously. It is Harvest Gold in color. That should tell you something. I don't think I could look this one up on the internet.
I was competely befuddled. Then I noticed atop the stove were the cleaning instructions. 1. Lock Oven. Grrr...that is what I was trying to do. Oh, there is a release button. It still did not work properly. 2. Raise glass door shield if your oven model is equipped with one. Well, I didn't have one of those, at least I'd never noticed on previous cleanings.
I opened the door to see where the latch was supposed to hook. It seemed jammed. I stuck a spoon in it, jimmied it a bit, and somehow the door locked. Woohoo! I set the timer for the start and stop time and off I went. I was very pleased with myself for finding a way to warm the downstairs. When it was finished, I'd open it up as soon as I could and that hot blast of air would permeate the entire downstairs.
Sometime later in the day, Michael mentioned to me that the oven door downstairs was broken. What? How could that be? But upon inspection, it certainly was broken. When I was messing with the door, I'd noticed what look like it could have been a shield. But for the life of me I could not imagine how this shield could be raised. There were no levers or buttons or secret compartments. Upon opening the door, though, there right in front of me were levers to raise the shield to keep the glass window from breaking. I feel pretty dumb now. Oh sure, the downstairs is warmer, but it would have warmed by today anyway. It is over 70 degrees and tomorrow it is forecast to be in the 80's. But there is a bright spot. I think it is time to say adios to my lovely Harvest Gold oven and hello to a nice stainless steel one.
Dates
Look at this little gem I found:
Why yes, it does say Sell By Feb 27. No, there isn't a year, but I'm pretty sure it was '06. Now in all fairness, I do have 2 refrigerators. The one downstairs is used mostly for keeping beverages cold, but also as an overflow when I have the main one stuffed. I do recall oh so long ago, a meal where I was sure I had sour cream. I searched and searched and never did find it. Well, I DID find it, but 7 month later. But this happens regularly at my house. Yes, if I was better organized this wouldn't happen with such frequency. Here is another example:
In case you can't make out what is in my pantry, I will tell you. On 6 different shelves you will find Rosarita Refried Beans. (And yes, having a large family it would be more cost efficient to buy the larger cans, but they don't fit neatly on these tiny shelves.) There isn't any organization, which translates into lost items.
If I had larger shelves I could label, alphabtize and really be organized. But in this pantry I have to put things where they fit. (Ok, no real excuse as to why the beans can't all be near one another, but I do like seeing the variety on each shelf.) Doesn't seem so boring.
Why yes, it does say Sell By Feb 27. No, there isn't a year, but I'm pretty sure it was '06. Now in all fairness, I do have 2 refrigerators. The one downstairs is used mostly for keeping beverages cold, but also as an overflow when I have the main one stuffed. I do recall oh so long ago, a meal where I was sure I had sour cream. I searched and searched and never did find it. Well, I DID find it, but 7 month later. But this happens regularly at my house. Yes, if I was better organized this wouldn't happen with such frequency. Here is another example:
In case you can't make out what is in my pantry, I will tell you. On 6 different shelves you will find Rosarita Refried Beans. (And yes, having a large family it would be more cost efficient to buy the larger cans, but they don't fit neatly on these tiny shelves.) There isn't any organization, which translates into lost items.
If I had larger shelves I could label, alphabtize and really be organized. But in this pantry I have to put things where they fit. (Ok, no real excuse as to why the beans can't all be near one another, but I do like seeing the variety on each shelf.) Doesn't seem so boring.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
With Child
I was reading a new-to-me blog by Ginnie the other day and a familiar one by the Questing Parson. Their memories brought back to life some of my own.
It was nearing Christmas and I was 32 weeks pregnant with my 3rd child. The hustle and bustle of the season was wearing on me. The focus was not on the true meaning of Christmas but the just busyness of a holiday. On that particular morning, I was up extra early. I was determined to have some quiet time before my children awoke. I needed that quiet.
Even though I shivered in the cold morning air, I opened the drapes to the big picture window. As early as it was, it appeared to be light outside. I stood there in amazement. Snow had fallen overnight and the grass and trees were blankets of white. The sun was not up yet, but the snow glistened in the moonlight. It was one of those moments I wanted to share with others but didn't dare move for fear of missing out on it.
After a bit, I cozied myself into an overstuffed chair by the window to spend some of that quiet. I asked the Lord to help me keep the stillness inside so I could reflect on the true meaning of Christmas. I began to think of the birth of Jesus. Was it a cold night when his mother gave birth outdoors in a stable? I wondered at her thoughts about her child as she neared the end of her pregnancy. Being with child myself, I knew the hours spent thinking of this baby. What would she look like, would she be all girl wearing lace socks and frilly dresses or would she be more of a tomboy preferring to stomp in puddles in mud-stained jeans?
How did Mary deal with thoughts of the awesome task before? She was to raise Jesus, the Son of God, God himself. Did she worry about the mistakes she'd make? No parent is perfect. Even if her little boy was without sin, that didn't mean being his parent was easy. She would have sleepless nights, her baby would cry. It was her responsibility to teach him right and wrong, to guide and direct him ultimately train him up and he would be the Savior of the world. I was completely overwhelmed at the thought of what it would be like to be the mother of Jesus. The task was daunting. Just as I was imagining my inability to perform this duty the words of Jesus flooded my mind:
"Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."
The gravity of it pressed in on me. I could not move, I could hardly breathe. My child, each one of my children, was no less important than Jesus himself. Being a mom and raising my children right was every bit as serious as it was for Mary to parent Jesus. I sat there for a good long while. I was only pregnant with my 3rd. I wasn't even aware that I would be blessed with 2 more precious children. At that moment, 3 was almost terrifying.
But then, just as the snow had blanketed and softened the outdoors, the Lord's presence enveloped me. I knew I was not alone in this task. I was partnered with God. He already knew everything about my unborn child and what she would need for her future. I would surely make mistakes, but by taking the quiet times with Him and silencing the noise around me, He would show me how to be the parent my children needed.
It was nearing Christmas and I was 32 weeks pregnant with my 3rd child. The hustle and bustle of the season was wearing on me. The focus was not on the true meaning of Christmas but the just busyness of a holiday. On that particular morning, I was up extra early. I was determined to have some quiet time before my children awoke. I needed that quiet.
Even though I shivered in the cold morning air, I opened the drapes to the big picture window. As early as it was, it appeared to be light outside. I stood there in amazement. Snow had fallen overnight and the grass and trees were blankets of white. The sun was not up yet, but the snow glistened in the moonlight. It was one of those moments I wanted to share with others but didn't dare move for fear of missing out on it.
After a bit, I cozied myself into an overstuffed chair by the window to spend some of that quiet. I asked the Lord to help me keep the stillness inside so I could reflect on the true meaning of Christmas. I began to think of the birth of Jesus. Was it a cold night when his mother gave birth outdoors in a stable? I wondered at her thoughts about her child as she neared the end of her pregnancy. Being with child myself, I knew the hours spent thinking of this baby. What would she look like, would she be all girl wearing lace socks and frilly dresses or would she be more of a tomboy preferring to stomp in puddles in mud-stained jeans?
How did Mary deal with thoughts of the awesome task before? She was to raise Jesus, the Son of God, God himself. Did she worry about the mistakes she'd make? No parent is perfect. Even if her little boy was without sin, that didn't mean being his parent was easy. She would have sleepless nights, her baby would cry. It was her responsibility to teach him right and wrong, to guide and direct him ultimately train him up and he would be the Savior of the world. I was completely overwhelmed at the thought of what it would be like to be the mother of Jesus. The task was daunting. Just as I was imagining my inability to perform this duty the words of Jesus flooded my mind:
"Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."
The gravity of it pressed in on me. I could not move, I could hardly breathe. My child, each one of my children, was no less important than Jesus himself. Being a mom and raising my children right was every bit as serious as it was for Mary to parent Jesus. I sat there for a good long while. I was only pregnant with my 3rd. I wasn't even aware that I would be blessed with 2 more precious children. At that moment, 3 was almost terrifying.
But then, just as the snow had blanketed and softened the outdoors, the Lord's presence enveloped me. I knew I was not alone in this task. I was partnered with God. He already knew everything about my unborn child and what she would need for her future. I would surely make mistakes, but by taking the quiet times with Him and silencing the noise around me, He would show me how to be the parent my children needed.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Clothes
Michael walked into the kitchen wearing one of the new shirts I'd bought for him.
"Did you wash this shirt?"
"Yes, I did." After I'd purchased this shirt for him, he informed me that he didn't care for it. Was he unhappy that I'd washed it so it was now unreturnable?
"Did you iron it?"
Well, I touched it up a bit with the iron. It is a wrinkle-free shirt so it didn't require much ironing. That is why I bought it." I was feeling the need to defend myself.
Michael laughed and held up a shiny, metal object for me to examine. "Well, I found this in the sleeve. I wonder how it survived being washed and you didn't see it when you ironed it."
Ah, it was one of those lovely little straight pins they put in men's shirts. I wracked my brain trying to remember if I'd ever purchased an article of clothing that came with so many little pins. Wait a minute, why do they do this with men's dress shirts? Why do they come in those plastic bags all neatly folded and pinned in place with stiff cardboard to help them keep their shape? I cannot think of any women's clothing that is kept as such. Folded and packaged shirts are not designed to be tried on while shopping. And then I got it. That was the whole point.
Men can walk into a store, know that they are a size 15 or whatever, (based on their neck size.) They stand in front of the display and all they need to do is pick out their desired color. Everything else is done for them. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but men come in all different shapes and sizes just like the ladies. So how in the world can they just pick up their size, never having tried it on and only have to deal with their choice of color and/or pattern? How convenient is that?
For those who don't know it, I am not a born-to-shop woman. Wouldn't life be grand if I could walk into a shop, have my pick of shirts based only on color/patter design and my neck size? I have no idea my neck size, but I cannot even imagine clothing manufacturers getting together and using the same sizing charts. I don't think it is possible. That is why the female gender has to try on their clothing before purchasing it. We have to hunt for our clothing, not unlike the cavemen of old who hunted for their daily food. Shopping is no easy task and trying on clothing in various sizes wastes so much time. I want my clothes folded in neat little bundles, laid out for me to pick the best color. I'll even wear the neckties that so many men complain about. Just give me perfect sizing no matter where I shop. I could learn to enjoy shopping and be in and out the way most men shop. I'll deal with the occasional missed pin that manages to escape unpacking, washing, drying, and even ironing. And if I get blood on my shirt from that forgotten pin and it is permanently stained, I won't mind going shopping for a new one.
"Did you wash this shirt?"
"Yes, I did." After I'd purchased this shirt for him, he informed me that he didn't care for it. Was he unhappy that I'd washed it so it was now unreturnable?
"Did you iron it?"
Well, I touched it up a bit with the iron. It is a wrinkle-free shirt so it didn't require much ironing. That is why I bought it." I was feeling the need to defend myself.
Michael laughed and held up a shiny, metal object for me to examine. "Well, I found this in the sleeve. I wonder how it survived being washed and you didn't see it when you ironed it."
Ah, it was one of those lovely little straight pins they put in men's shirts. I wracked my brain trying to remember if I'd ever purchased an article of clothing that came with so many little pins. Wait a minute, why do they do this with men's dress shirts? Why do they come in those plastic bags all neatly folded and pinned in place with stiff cardboard to help them keep their shape? I cannot think of any women's clothing that is kept as such. Folded and packaged shirts are not designed to be tried on while shopping. And then I got it. That was the whole point.
Men can walk into a store, know that they are a size 15 or whatever, (based on their neck size.) They stand in front of the display and all they need to do is pick out their desired color. Everything else is done for them. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but men come in all different shapes and sizes just like the ladies. So how in the world can they just pick up their size, never having tried it on and only have to deal with their choice of color and/or pattern? How convenient is that?
For those who don't know it, I am not a born-to-shop woman. Wouldn't life be grand if I could walk into a shop, have my pick of shirts based only on color/patter design and my neck size? I have no idea my neck size, but I cannot even imagine clothing manufacturers getting together and using the same sizing charts. I don't think it is possible. That is why the female gender has to try on their clothing before purchasing it. We have to hunt for our clothing, not unlike the cavemen of old who hunted for their daily food. Shopping is no easy task and trying on clothing in various sizes wastes so much time. I want my clothes folded in neat little bundles, laid out for me to pick the best color. I'll even wear the neckties that so many men complain about. Just give me perfect sizing no matter where I shop. I could learn to enjoy shopping and be in and out the way most men shop. I'll deal with the occasional missed pin that manages to escape unpacking, washing, drying, and even ironing. And if I get blood on my shirt from that forgotten pin and it is permanently stained, I won't mind going shopping for a new one.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Continued
(Continued from Sunday)
At the end of horseback riding I took Ethan out for a burger and fries. As we pulled up to Carl's Junior, he excitedly began to chatter and wave his arms. It was obvious that this was one of his favorite places. Inside I wondered if I should get him the kid's meal with chicken or a cheeseburger. I asked him as I normally would and briefly listened to his chatter, trying to decifer if he was actually saying something or just making happy noises. I ordered him the burger.
We found a place to sit and I opened up his food. He immediately began munching on french fries. Sometimes Ethan needs help with his food, but tonight it looked like he was going to manage just fine. I watched him. He seemed so very pleased, grinning as he looked around. It was as if he was wanting to tell others around us, "hey look, my Gramma took me out for french fries in her car, and I just got back from horseback riding, life is good!"
I noticed him watching me eat my cheeseburger. He then proceeded to pick up his and try to hold it the same way. When I'd take a bite, so would he. I took a sip of soda. He fumbled with his burger and grasped his cup and took a drink also. Cola dripped down his chin.
"Wipe your chin Ethan." I told him as I pressed a napkin to his face. He took hold of it and rubbed it back and forth.
"Looks like that's a good dinner." One of the workers was cleaning a table nearby. "What's your name? He inquired of Ethan. Ethan looked inquisitively at him and held out his burger as if to say, "you want a bite?"
So far, I haven't found a one-size-fits-all answer when strangers begin talking to Ethan. If I say "his name is Ethan" will he continue to ask him questions, waiting for a response? Do I blurt out, "he doesn't talk." and leave it at that? Does this person already recognize that this is not your typical child and doing their best to just be friendly or are they feeling incredibly awkward right now?
"Ethan's enjoying his dinner very much," I responded. At that moment Ethan began to rattle off his own dialog of words. The young man smiled and walked away. It was time to go.
Now came the hard part. It was my duty to take Ethan to the sitter's. My daughter didn't finish class until 10 p.m. If it hadn't been a weeknight, it wouldn't have been a problem to keep him at her apartment until then. But with the 1 1/2 hour drive back home, I wouldn't get there until at least 11:30 p.m. and it would be after midnight before I crawled into bed. This would have to do.
When we arrived, Ethan did not want to get out of the car. Inside the house, he began to cry and clung to me. I waited with him for 15 minutes, hoping he would settle down. The sitter said she had never seen him so upset. I didn't realize this was his first time back at the sitters since summer break. I couldn't do it. I carried him back to the car and drove away.
I spent the next few hours playing Power Rangers with him. He seemed so happy. Yes, it was late when I got home and the next morning I was tired. But it was all worth it seeing the joy in that boy's face and hearing his happy sounds.
At the end of horseback riding I took Ethan out for a burger and fries. As we pulled up to Carl's Junior, he excitedly began to chatter and wave his arms. It was obvious that this was one of his favorite places. Inside I wondered if I should get him the kid's meal with chicken or a cheeseburger. I asked him as I normally would and briefly listened to his chatter, trying to decifer if he was actually saying something or just making happy noises. I ordered him the burger.
We found a place to sit and I opened up his food. He immediately began munching on french fries. Sometimes Ethan needs help with his food, but tonight it looked like he was going to manage just fine. I watched him. He seemed so very pleased, grinning as he looked around. It was as if he was wanting to tell others around us, "hey look, my Gramma took me out for french fries in her car, and I just got back from horseback riding, life is good!"
I noticed him watching me eat my cheeseburger. He then proceeded to pick up his and try to hold it the same way. When I'd take a bite, so would he. I took a sip of soda. He fumbled with his burger and grasped his cup and took a drink also. Cola dripped down his chin.
"Wipe your chin Ethan." I told him as I pressed a napkin to his face. He took hold of it and rubbed it back and forth.
"Looks like that's a good dinner." One of the workers was cleaning a table nearby. "What's your name? He inquired of Ethan. Ethan looked inquisitively at him and held out his burger as if to say, "you want a bite?"
So far, I haven't found a one-size-fits-all answer when strangers begin talking to Ethan. If I say "his name is Ethan" will he continue to ask him questions, waiting for a response? Do I blurt out, "he doesn't talk." and leave it at that? Does this person already recognize that this is not your typical child and doing their best to just be friendly or are they feeling incredibly awkward right now?
"Ethan's enjoying his dinner very much," I responded. At that moment Ethan began to rattle off his own dialog of words. The young man smiled and walked away. It was time to go.
Now came the hard part. It was my duty to take Ethan to the sitter's. My daughter didn't finish class until 10 p.m. If it hadn't been a weeknight, it wouldn't have been a problem to keep him at her apartment until then. But with the 1 1/2 hour drive back home, I wouldn't get there until at least 11:30 p.m. and it would be after midnight before I crawled into bed. This would have to do.
When we arrived, Ethan did not want to get out of the car. Inside the house, he began to cry and clung to me. I waited with him for 15 minutes, hoping he would settle down. The sitter said she had never seen him so upset. I didn't realize this was his first time back at the sitters since summer break. I couldn't do it. I carried him back to the car and drove away.
I spent the next few hours playing Power Rangers with him. He seemed so happy. Yes, it was late when I got home and the next morning I was tired. But it was all worth it seeing the joy in that boy's face and hearing his happy sounds.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Great Day
I hopped in my little convertible and away I went. I questioned whether it would be wise to take my car, but I didn't have much choice. Nobody else was home, so my car would have to do.
It seemed like a long drive, but really an hour and half wasn't that bad. Besides, I enjoy driving in my car with the top down. Even on the highway at 75mph it is fun to drive. (Okay, maybe 80mph) Unfortunately, it was late in the afternoon and I hadn't anticipated the traffic, nor had I realized there would be so much construction. Since the car is not an automatic, it is much more of a challenge to read directions while driving. Something didn't seem right. I had turned off the highway going East, but the directions instructed I turn North. That is the direction I'd just come from. Was I really supposed to backtrack 6 miles??? That seemed like an extra 12 miles out of the way, but since I had no idea where I was going, I drove onward.
I checked my watch. I should have been there a half hour earlier. I was just thinking I was lost and might never get there when I saw the sign up ahead: Pikes Peak Therapeutic Riding Center. I pulled onto the dusty, dirt road.
I barely had a chance to say hello to my daughter before she had to leave. She had a class to attend. She said she'd leave the car seat by my car before her quick exit. I followed the path to the barn. Inside I saw 5 or 6 horses being led by volunteers. I searched the riders until I found him.
I knew he recognized me by the way he smiled. I think I was a distraction, because as they'd walk near the gate, he'd be looking around and not really paying attention to the instructions he was given.
An older gentleman stood nearby. He turned to me, "which one's yours?" I pointed to Ethan, "that's my grandson."
"The girl in the yellow shirt over there is my granddaughter," He spoke with such pride. I looked for the girl in yellow. At first I didn't see her. Then he continued. "She's been here since 6 this morning, so it's been a long day for her." It was almost 6 p.m. "But I've told her that she needs to give back. These kids riding the horses don't have the opportunities that she has and they need someone to help them. So she volunteers her time down here so the kids can ride.
Tears welled up in my eyes. I didn't know how to respond. I wanted to thank her. I wanted to thank him for his granddaughter's service and I was guessing he gave his time too. But I just stood there, overwhelmed at the generosity of this young lady. I finally found my voice again, "we all have something to give. Even these kids on the horses give. My grandson gives so much to me." He nodded. I think he understood.
I have been given a new perspective on life.
I have been given a reminder to never take anything for granted.
I have learned that true joy comes from the most unexpected places and that love can be understood in any language or no language at all.
It seemed like a long drive, but really an hour and half wasn't that bad. Besides, I enjoy driving in my car with the top down. Even on the highway at 75mph it is fun to drive. (Okay, maybe 80mph) Unfortunately, it was late in the afternoon and I hadn't anticipated the traffic, nor had I realized there would be so much construction. Since the car is not an automatic, it is much more of a challenge to read directions while driving. Something didn't seem right. I had turned off the highway going East, but the directions instructed I turn North. That is the direction I'd just come from. Was I really supposed to backtrack 6 miles??? That seemed like an extra 12 miles out of the way, but since I had no idea where I was going, I drove onward.
I checked my watch. I should have been there a half hour earlier. I was just thinking I was lost and might never get there when I saw the sign up ahead: Pikes Peak Therapeutic Riding Center. I pulled onto the dusty, dirt road.
I barely had a chance to say hello to my daughter before she had to leave. She had a class to attend. She said she'd leave the car seat by my car before her quick exit. I followed the path to the barn. Inside I saw 5 or 6 horses being led by volunteers. I searched the riders until I found him.
I knew he recognized me by the way he smiled. I think I was a distraction, because as they'd walk near the gate, he'd be looking around and not really paying attention to the instructions he was given.
An older gentleman stood nearby. He turned to me, "which one's yours?" I pointed to Ethan, "that's my grandson."
"The girl in the yellow shirt over there is my granddaughter," He spoke with such pride. I looked for the girl in yellow. At first I didn't see her. Then he continued. "She's been here since 6 this morning, so it's been a long day for her." It was almost 6 p.m. "But I've told her that she needs to give back. These kids riding the horses don't have the opportunities that she has and they need someone to help them. So she volunteers her time down here so the kids can ride.
Tears welled up in my eyes. I didn't know how to respond. I wanted to thank her. I wanted to thank him for his granddaughter's service and I was guessing he gave his time too. But I just stood there, overwhelmed at the generosity of this young lady. I finally found my voice again, "we all have something to give. Even these kids on the horses give. My grandson gives so much to me." He nodded. I think he understood.
I have been given a new perspective on life.
I have been given a reminder to never take anything for granted.
I have learned that true joy comes from the most unexpected places and that love can be understood in any language or no language at all.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Having Fun
The kids having fun:
My inlaws are here visiting this week. Now don't they look like they are having fun? We are having a great visit, I just wish they lived close so we could have fun year round.
My inlaws are here visiting this week. Now don't they look like they are having fun? We are having a great visit, I just wish they lived close so we could have fun year round.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Adventure Pants
I don't recall exactly when it happened. But sometime during second grade, Sarabeth dubbed her light tan overalls her "Adventure Pants."
I do remember whenever she went on a class field trip, I encouraged her to wear something comfortable. Maybe I suggested a pair of pants with pockets; the overalls had several. She owned 2 pairs of overalls, but the light tan ones were the ones chosen most often for field trips, thus began the term "Adventure Pants."
From the time Sarabeth was young, she was very intense about everything. This meant that if she saw me pack a chocolate cupcake in her lunch in the morning, it was the beginning of "the best day ever." The rest of her day was set to be perfect in spite of anything that might happen. Conversely, if she forgot her homework from the night before, the "worst day of her life" would begin. It didn't matter if her teacher even noticed. Her mind was prepared for everything to come tumbling down. She expected the teacher to stay angry with her all day and nothing could possibly go right.
The day she came home and proclaimed her overalls to be her Adventure Pants was a good day indeed. From there on out, the mornings she put them on became almost magical. It didn't matter that it wasn't a day for a field trip, or that she didn't have a chocolate cupcake in her lunch. Instead, she expected fun. Her mind was set for an interesting day. She had an expectation. She knew something new and delightful was just waiting for her around every corner. She looked for it in everything she did. She returned from school with stories of little blessings that made up her day. It was usually her "best day ever."
That summer, we put the Pants to rest, but pulled them out again in the Fall. It was quite a disappointment when she found they no longer fit. I tried passing them on to her younger sister, Hilary. But she would have none of it. There was no way she was going to wear Sarabeth's Adventure Pants. I think I got teary-eyed when I gave them away. I never told Sarabeth.
Wouldn't it be nice if we all had a pair of Adventure Pants? We could put them on in the morning. This would place us on the road to adventure. We would spend our day in anticipation of blessings. We would watch and wait for the excitement to begin. We would appreciate the smallest of joys we might otherwise have missed? Go put on your Adventure Pants. Have the best day ever!
I do remember whenever she went on a class field trip, I encouraged her to wear something comfortable. Maybe I suggested a pair of pants with pockets; the overalls had several. She owned 2 pairs of overalls, but the light tan ones were the ones chosen most often for field trips, thus began the term "Adventure Pants."
From the time Sarabeth was young, she was very intense about everything. This meant that if she saw me pack a chocolate cupcake in her lunch in the morning, it was the beginning of "the best day ever." The rest of her day was set to be perfect in spite of anything that might happen. Conversely, if she forgot her homework from the night before, the "worst day of her life" would begin. It didn't matter if her teacher even noticed. Her mind was prepared for everything to come tumbling down. She expected the teacher to stay angry with her all day and nothing could possibly go right.
The day she came home and proclaimed her overalls to be her Adventure Pants was a good day indeed. From there on out, the mornings she put them on became almost magical. It didn't matter that it wasn't a day for a field trip, or that she didn't have a chocolate cupcake in her lunch. Instead, she expected fun. Her mind was set for an interesting day. She had an expectation. She knew something new and delightful was just waiting for her around every corner. She looked for it in everything she did. She returned from school with stories of little blessings that made up her day. It was usually her "best day ever."
That summer, we put the Pants to rest, but pulled them out again in the Fall. It was quite a disappointment when she found they no longer fit. I tried passing them on to her younger sister, Hilary. But she would have none of it. There was no way she was going to wear Sarabeth's Adventure Pants. I think I got teary-eyed when I gave them away. I never told Sarabeth.
Wouldn't it be nice if we all had a pair of Adventure Pants? We could put them on in the morning. This would place us on the road to adventure. We would spend our day in anticipation of blessings. We would watch and wait for the excitement to begin. We would appreciate the smallest of joys we might otherwise have missed? Go put on your Adventure Pants. Have the best day ever!
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Lots Of Days
After 20 years, does it get any easier? Well, yes, yes it does. This is my 20th year, as a mom, sending my kids off for the first day of school. This is my 1st year of saying good-bye at the door. I didn't even have to get dressed. No waiting in morning traffic. No one's hair to fix. Nobody's shoes to find or put on their little feet. I only made 2 lunches. This is getting much easier.
Sigh. It won't be long and there will be no more 1st days of school. My children will all be grown and moved out of the house. It will be quiet. Maybe then I will appreciate the Fall. I might look forward to cooler morning temperatures, knowing I don't have to make a mad dash out of the house to get kids to school. It is possible that the changing colors will no longer represent the end of lazy summer days. The crunching of leaves underfoot won't be a reminder of the busy days and nights filled with homework, meetings, buying school supplies, and endless driving back-and-forth.
Instead, I will watch my own children as parents, begin the whole routine of raising their children.
Sigh. It won't be long and there will be no more 1st days of school. My children will all be grown and moved out of the house. It will be quiet. Maybe then I will appreciate the Fall. I might look forward to cooler morning temperatures, knowing I don't have to make a mad dash out of the house to get kids to school. It is possible that the changing colors will no longer represent the end of lazy summer days. The crunching of leaves underfoot won't be a reminder of the busy days and nights filled with homework, meetings, buying school supplies, and endless driving back-and-forth.
Instead, I will watch my own children as parents, begin the whole routine of raising their children.
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