Belated Father's Day Thoughts

My dad will be 71 this September and, I believe, he has lived longer than his own father. He remembers food coupons given out during WWII and toward the end of The Great Depression. He remembers when margarine came with a yellow dot in the center of it and kneading it to spread the color. He remembers how his neighbor used to hang chickens upside down in the backyard and then cut their heads off and prepare them for dinner. I know, a gruesome sight and I cannot even fathom my own little girl seeing that in our neighborhood. But, as my dad says when remembering these things from his childhood, "Things were different back then".

"Back then" seems a world away. My dad bought a car for like $30 when he was 14 or so, couldn't even drive the old thing. He remembers "sock hops" and riding the trolley downtown to see the movies or go dancing. To this day he is still puzzled by his mother's decision to take him out of a vocational high school when he was 16. My dad, who never enjoyed school, really enjoyed this one; it's where he learned wood working. I always assumed it was so he could go to work and help with the family income; but the tone in his voice indicates otherwise.

"Back then" it was cool to smoke cigarettes. So, at the age of 16, my dad began his 30 year pack a day habit. I remember when he quit, with my mom's help, and he attended my First Holy Communion. I was 7 and my father never came to church with us. My brother came up to me later and said, "Did you notice that Dad was in church today?" I was 7 and nervous and saw him there but didn't really think anything of it. I was told that he had quit smoking and thought that that very special day would be a good one to start his new life. He, himself, told me that he wanted to live long enough to walk me down the aisle on my wedding day.

My dad has good bill of health from his doctor's, but damage has been done. I worry, increasingly, about my father. Really, about me. My dad had a heart attack 7 years ago. He had part of his lung removed about 3 or 4 years ago. His hand shakes. These things are all unknown to my daughter. All she knows, all she really needs to know is that her Pop-pop loves her and she loves him like no one else.

My daughter is going through a phase where she needs some time to warm up to people. This is new to me and I don't like it. I am confident that it is mostly due to more teeth coming in, a more aware self, and a growing desire for independence. All this makes her moody for the first half hour she is in a place where there are more adults than kids. This past Father's Day, she was being her moody, clingy self at my family's cookout. Pop-pop, my dad, came in from the deck to greet his "BABY!" and she would not go to him. My daughter, who looks at family pictures and points to her grandfather and says with joy, "Pop-pop!"; my daughter, who randomly says "Pop-pop" before she goes to bed at night would not go to her favorite person in the whole wide world.

And it broke my heart.

I know it's a phase and she did go to him as usual as the day went on. But I couldn't help but think back to my First Holy Communion and the thought that my wedding day was a lifetime away and my dad would live forever. I couldn't help but notice that my dad could barely hold his plate to spoon some potato salad onto it because his hand shook so much. I couldn't help but notice that my dad was quieter than usual that day. Quiet like the night before Christmas 3 1/2 years ago when he sat at my table nearly silent and ended up going to the hospital at 5 a.m. with a collapsed lung.

We are going to Disney World this year to celebrate my parents' 50 years of marriage and I can't help but think . . . well, let's just say I will be enjoying every moment of this upcoming vacation, taking pictures and searing the memory of it into my brain. I've made room, you see, cleared out some clutter in my memory files and I've trained myself to be observant to the little things said and unsaid: A look, a laugh, an opinion, a smile, a thought, a . . . yes . . . a shake.

Thank you, Facebook.

My day started really well: Caught up on email and news, ate breakfast, drank a cup of coffee, unloaded and loaded the dishwasher, vacuumed, and battled a few ants all before Katie woke up and I brought her downstairs around 10:30 a.m.

As she played with her toys and ate a breakfast of cut up grapes and green beans, I cleaned the glass windows and doors and wiped down all the kitchen cabinets. Back to the green beans. I knew you were there. Yes, she actually chose the green beans from her basket of baby fruits and veggies. And yes, she ate the entire container. She's her daddy's daughter in this regard, both love their veggies.

After an episode of Backyardigans, a few books read, and some coloring, it was nap time. Off she went to her room (with my help) and then off I went to mop the kitchen floor. It really was a good day for cleaning. My mom called on the phone and I chatted with her about babysitting next week and I noticed my two cats pacing on the back screened in porch and staring intently on something on the patio.

I walked out to see what they saw; usually it's a chipmunk and I like watching them run around. But not this time. Oh no, it couldn't be something like a chipmunk. I saw

a snake! A long black snake with it's tail hidden behind the siding ON MY HOUSE!



I believe I screamed. My mother frantically asked what was the matter and I just kept saying over and over again: Oh my God! Oh my God! It's a snake! I have a snake on my patio! Oh my God!

I grabbed the camera and took a dozen photos of it for proof and identification purposes. Then, the thing turned around and slithered BACK UP UNDER THE SIDING ON MY HOUSE!



So I finished the call with my mom telling me to stay calm and assuring me that it was probably a simple garden snake, but leaving me a little worried about whether or not it would get into the house. Thanks, Mom.

I immediately sent out an email to my husband, my sisters-in-law and two friends who I knew would get a kick out this (the email to my husband was specifically to let him know what his husbandly duties were going to be when he came home from work). Then, the next thing I did, was update my status on Facebook and post some photos of the snake onto my profile asking for people to help confirm the type of snake and to give me some reassurance.

Facebook is absolutely amazing.

Within 43 minutes, I had my first response. Within one hour, I had three additional responses. Four people had identified the snake, sent me internet links, and contacted me. Did I mention that this happened within 60 minutes?

I am fascinated by this. I knew I would get some response eventually, but in less than an hour? A friend wrote to me that "Facebook is good for something (I had my doubts until now)."

Besides superpokin', playing Bingo, taking quizzes, sending hatching eggs, Facebook is actually good for something.

The consensus is that it is a black rat snake and is quite harmless.

Thank you, Facebook. Thank you.

-Posted by Linda

Search for Joy

I sat down to my Thursday paper and began reading the front section. Something that caught my attention was a commentary piece by Garrison Keillor about joy.

"The joyful child in the pool," Keillor writes of his daughter, "has been scorched too and has cried hard over playground slights and betrayals, but joy has the power to sweep misery away. This is true. Nobody 'gets over' anything; there is no closure; hearts stay broken for a long time. Love is a tumult, and it's a wonder anyone survives it. But you look out the window and imagine joy is waiting for you somewhere."

I started thinking of my own daughter and how I often describe her as my little force to be reckoned with. Indeed she is a powerful wonder to behold. At 20 months, she is the height of a 2-year-old, has the ability to observe a person doing something and then mimic it as best as she can, and is very autonomous. She holds her crayons, pens, and utensils like an adult. She pays close attention to detail and does not randomly scribble on paper. Anyone who watches her color will see that she makes small deliberate marks. Her latest creation consists of crayon scratches on each corner of the paper - not the middle, but on each corner.

But for all of this meticulousness, she is joy-filled. Immensely joy-filled. She finds joy in rose petals tossed on the lawn, a cat staying in her presence for more than 10 seconds, the wind blowing in her hair. She finds joy in a song on t.v. and will pull you onto the floor to dance with her. She finds joy in the presence of her father home after a long day at work. She is also a giver of joy and will greet anyone who is kind to her with a smile as wide as Montana. Her Aunt Lisa says that Katie "is amazing how she makes everyone feel like they are her favorite person in the whole world."

And then this got me thinking about me and how people have said to me that I am joy-filled. I am writing this to share the train of thought that chugged through my mind in the 10 minutes I sat thinking about the front section of the newspaper. I have, at times, felt guilty about being an at-home mom. I have, at times, felt I should bring some income into the family. I have, at times, felt like I should be doing something else. But then I remember when my nephew was born 10 years ago. I was 21 and I had thought about what I wanted to do with my own children and deciding then that I really wanted to be there for them, especially in the first 3 years of their life. I don't know why, but it became incredibly important to me.

So I have decided that I will be grateful that my dream has come true. I am able to do something I have wanted to do before I even had children of my own. How lucky to be in this position. Then I started thinking about memories that Katie will have because I have memories of my own young time with my at-home mother.

Which moments in these next few years will be burned onto her brain? Which moments of the past 20 months have already been burned? And then I started thinking about memory.

My earliest memory is of a toddler me, probably not much older than Katie, standing in my crib and crying so hard for my mother. I must have woken up from my nap and she was not coming when I called her. I remember my mother folding her arms around me and saying to me, "I'm sorry. I was out back hanging up laundry." I remember that as clear as though it had been recorded. My mother's arms held me tight and the memory fades into darkness.

I remember standing in the backyard with a sawed off baseball bat and my brother, Brian, teaching me how to swing and pitching balls to me.

I remember a moment in the kitchen waiting for my mother to hand me my kitty cup with orange juice and being so happy when she gave it to me.

I remember laying on top of my father as he watched t.v., my head on his body, listening to the gurgles of his tummy and feeling the rise and fall of his chest.

I remember sitting on my mother's lap in church. How I loved those moments: Her sweet scent lingering now in my nose . . . twirling her curls around my little fingers . . . placing my head on her breast and listening to her heartbeat while she listened to the Word of God.

And so I spend time showing Katie joy. At playgroup on Tuesday, Katie was in a kiddie pool with 5 other toddlers. She is the youngest. One little boy started to splash her and she started crying and indicating to me that she wanted out of the pool. I did not take her out. I got down on my knees, gave her a reassuring hug and told her to have fun. I turned to the little boy and said to him, "If you splash Katie, then Katie can splash you. Right?" After a brief look of puzzlement and a repeat of the statement, he smiled and agreed. So I took my sniffling daughter, turned her sideways and showed her how to play "splashies" by taking her foot and kicking the water. The little boy laughed and Katie laughed - until she got a few drops of water on her face. But she stayed in the pool for a bit longer and played with the alligator squirters .

Joy doesn't often come to you on a platter. I believe you have to train yourself to search for it. Garrison Keillor did not end his piece with "I hope joy comes to you." he specifically says, "I hope you find it." There is a lot of joy out there today and it is worth a little search.

I suppose that my parenting style has been geared to helping my daughter find joy. I am pleased that at such a young age, she is able to and I am proud that she shares her joy with others.

Sharing toys with others . . . that's a post for a different day.

-Posted by Linda

Itchy Shirt Search

ugh. Fatigue is setting in. Motivation is screeching to a halt. And I'm still looking for the poison ivy shirt. With every item of clothing that I pick out of the basket to place in the washing machine, I have to be getting closer to "the shirt".

You see, my husband helped a friend attempt to reclaim his backyard and has gotten a case of poison ivy rash. I have washed the shorts already, several times in fact, by themselves, in hot water. But, for reasons that remain unknown, I have not found the shirt. There is one more load of laundry in the basket and I am sure it is in that pile.

I'm getting itchy just thinking about it.

I have a few mosquito bites on my legs and they are being activated, as I like to say, by the mere thought that this shirt, in all of its poison ivy glory, is mingling with clothing. My clothing to be specific. When I find the shirt, I think I will throw it away.

Scratch, scratch, scratch. I do not have poison ivy. The bites are uniting with their flora brethren. My husband and I sit on the couch in the evening and both try to ignore the desire to scratch our legs off - marital bonding has gone awry.

This is ridiculous. I sat down with the intention of avoiding my goal of walking on the treadmill every day when Katie takes a nap. I was going to pour over this entry and apologize to no one in particular for not writing in the past few days. I was going to take my time and let the treadmill slip my mind. Instead, this poison ivy shirt search entry is making me so very itchy that I have to do something distracting.

Thank you, poison ivy shirt, for keeping me on track. I hope that you enjoy your reward. Go ahead, it's at the bottom of the bin; you just have to reach a little further.