Thinking About My Mother

(My mom with all of her children -- five lucky girls.)

Yesterday was Mothers Day.

I was sick and spent most of the afternoon in bed.

But I was greeted in the morning by cards from each of the children and Mr. C.

He thanked me for the complete investment I make and the work that I do.

But the thing I've thought about ever since I read his card was this phrase:

"Your version of motherhood is what we celebrate today.  The way that you do it and the way that you make our family feel." (emphasis added)

I guess I appreciated the stamp of approval on the way that I choose to do it, because each of us mothers so differently.  And, often, I think every one I know doesn't always measure up to the mother they wish they were. 

I found myself thinking about my mother yesterday, about the things I feel I specifically learned from her example.

To do my best.

To be honest -- in my decisions, in how I feel, in my interactions with others.  Don't cut corners.

When you clean, do it right.  (I remember her Saturday morning checking off the chores.)

Be fair.

To be courageous and true to yourself.

To not be afraid of other people or other ideas, but rather, to see the beauty in them.

Be frugal.  Evaluate needs and wants, and don't spend money recklessly.

Books are a lovely, magical, wonderful, warm place.  An escape.  Old friends.  Ideas and knowledge and improving yourself are worthwhile.

She gave us lots of room to be children and be imaginative.  When I sometimes start to feel guilty that I maybe should have been more involved with my children on any one day, I remember this about my mother.  

She's a good listening ear.

She'll cry with you when you're sad.

She celebrates the triumphs.

My mother is a classy woman,  but without pretense and certainly not showy.  I love these things about her so much.  The older I get, the more I appreciate her, and the more I see myself in her.  I love the generation of mothers that I've come from -- the legacy of mothering from other hands and other times and other homes.

All I know is that motherhood has been the great privilege of my life, and I feel profoundly grateful for my own mother, and other women who have been exemplars and role models for me.

Truly, it's a wonderful work.

Got a Hot Wheel?

My children are poring over a holiday issue of Martha Stewart Living.

As I was heading downstairs I heard one of them say, "Now we're getting to the Halloween stuff."

So excited over holiday decorating and the like.

They must be my kids. 

I was all set to post every day this week, but then had problems with my camera.

Ah, well...next week.

But something I learned this past week?

When you've got 5-year-old boys, your belt loops become parking stalls.

Being a Mom

It is a beautiful morning outside.

As I'm sitting here my little Meems is singing "Where is Thumkin?," a tribute to my mom.

To this day I still love watching my mom sing songs and do fingerplays with the kids.

Just one of many things I remember, like cold macaroni salad after an afternoon at the pool and walking home thru the park with long licorice ropes.

I love my mother.

She comes home in a month, and I can't wait!

My being-a-mom today?

school with the little Miss

folding a mountain of laundry

maybe some weeding

sidewalk chalk with the kids

and a round of Old Maid

read me some Stuart Little to the little people

sign up the kids for swimming lessons

firm up plans for next week

Hope you have a good Wednesday.

A Blessing to Come from Them

Yesterday as I was looking through pictures of Mia, I saw photos of my grandmothers.

If there is one thing I am grateful for, it is my Grandmas.  

It makes me emotional just thinking about it.

Years ago, I had noticed the text from a primary song that I hadn't learned as a child.

I put some handmade cards in the mail to my Grandmas with the words from the song, telling them how much I loved them.

"You give me a kiss,

You give me a hug, 

You smile when you see me too.

I wish ev'ry child in the whole wide world

Had a Grandmother just like you."

I love my grandmothers.  

The meals they've prepared, the laughs we've shared.

The hours of conversation.

Card playing.

Spiritual testimony-sharing experiences.

I remember talking with my Grandma, talking with her about storing food.

How we started with seven case-lot items when we bought this house, the meager beginnings of food put away.

And I said to her, "And I don't know how it has happened, but now that room is full, Grandma."

She interrupted me and said, "Prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it."

We stood in the hallway, eyes glistening and moist.

The time they've spent with my children.

Tying the quilt my grandmother made for me, side by side, in her bedroom, some probably eighteen years ago.

Grandma's game food with the football game on.

Pedicures.
Moments upon moments upon moments.

The love they give that no other person on earth can seem to match in quite the same way.

Truly, I thank God for my grandmothers.

It is a gift and an honor to come from them.

And yes, I do wish that every child could have grandmothers like mine.

Little Blue Eyes and Funny Dreams

The last few days I find myself looking again and again at my beautiful little girl.

Her hair is at the length I love right now.

She's my little shadow.

She's got these huge, beautiful blue eyes that she wishes were brown.

In the car yesterday, as we were leaving the grocery store, I said to her, "Mia, you have the most beautiful blue eyes."  (I'm always trying to reinforce that fact.)

And she responded, "But I wish I had brown eyes."

When I asked her why, she responded, "Because I want to be a mother."

"You can still be a mother with blue eyes."

"But when I get bigger, I'll have brown eyes."

I told her they'd stay blue.

Then we got into a discussion about colored contacts and how I always just use the plain ones because I don't want to change my eyes.

And then she said, "I don't want to change anything about my eyes, either."

And then, "Mom, can we stop talking about eyes?"

She has always wanted brown eyes.

I want her to see the stunning beauty that I see.

She takes my breath away much of the time.

As I start to notice a quiver of gray hair by my ears, she is blooming away.

I woke from a dream this morning that I wanted to keep dreaming.

We had been up at a mountain cabin and it had snowed several feet.

Mr. C. and others were clearing the road so that we'd be able to drive home.

I was driving along (you know how weird dreams are -- all details blend together) and thought I'd just turn around really quick.

We slid right off the road and were falling backwards, down and down.

In the moment, as we were falling, I was deciding how hurt I was going to get.

Did I want to be almost killed?

Coma for several months?

A miraculous incident where we all walked away unscathed?

How bad would it be?

I found myself thinking that life isn't like that.

We can control, in small degrees, things that happen to us.

Good choices usually lead to good results.

Preparation yields progress.

But the opposite of those is true too.

And then there's a lot that just happens.

And we can no more choose the consequences than we can control how badly we get hurt in a mountain snow car crash or the color of our eyes.

Reminds me of this quote by Martha Washington that I agree with, is awfully inspiring, and a swift kick in the pants, too at certain moments:

"I have learned from experience that the greater part of our happiness or misery depends on our dispositions and not on our circumstances."

Bikes

What a stud.

I remember loving the time on my bike as a kid.

Around and around our block.

Playing all kinds of games.

It was freedom and fast, and air whipping past through my hair.

As a kid, it felt like I could conquer the world.

At least, that's how I remember it.

Visiting the Greenhouse

I grew up going to the greenhouses with my dad to buy flowers.

And again, to buy vegetables.

I loved going: rows and rows of flowers, trees and shrubs.  Pulling a little red wagon down the skinny aisle between greenhouses lined with peonies and poppies and other perennials.  I loved peeping in each one to find flowers, vegetables, green plants -- and still do.  It brings with it the warm feeling of familiarity.  I loved working with my dad: mowing the lawn, planting the garden, working in the earth. Sometimes after a morning's work on a Saturday, we'd head down the street to the local drive-in where my mom got her daily refills of Diet Pepsi and he'd buy us a cheeseburger, fry and shake.  Or a grape soda.

Whatever my fancy was.

It's funny how you turn around and you have the little people running around.  I find myself wondering when it all happened, when those mornings with my father slipped away and I grew up and got my own yard.

Yesterday the children and I went with my dad to shop for flowers.

We go every year.

It's something I link so strongly with my father, time with him, tending and planting and looking for beauty.

I heart my dad.

He bought flowers for my birthday and let me choose out what I wanted.  

The children each wanted flowers of their favorite colors, too, and he let them each pick something out to go in the yard.

Isaiah walked with me, pushing my cart.

Dad had the other two.

He bought stuff for his yard; I had a cart for mine.

We admired their huge tomato plants and he got some to put in at his house so he'd have some early harvesting.

We talked about buying red, yellow, orange and green pepper plants soon and splitting the packs up between us so we could have some of each.

We came home and planted the purchases, trying to beat the storm that was coming, dark clouds overhead.

Tending earth links me to lovely memories.

I hope my children will have these same associations, and remember time with me there.

That they'll love the earth, and making their homes beautiful with signs of growth and green and color.

And that they'll know it's a link to their mother and grandfather and great-grandmother and on and on.

I hope they see the witness of God and His creations in this quiet work.

It was windy and wet out last night and this morning there are blossoms and elm seedlings strewn everywhere outside.

But I stood inside, looking out the windows, admiring each newly planted pot, each bloom of color, the bright green and white stripe of a new hosta.