So, it really is true.
Sometimes, I feel invisible. I reach out and touch myself just to make sure I still exist. I’m the roadie making sure everyone has just what they need. I’m the cab driver just getting them place to place. I’m the camel walking ahead or behind lugging racquets, jackets, back packs, water bottles and crayons. I’m known as someone’s Mom not by my real name or a title.
Sometimes, I feel mundane. No, maybe just too plain. I walk them to school in gym shorts and bright orange crocks. I wear capris so I can gracefully maneuver at the park. I am often wearing a t-shirt with stains from dirty hands. I don’t have time for accessories and my purse is too loaded to change. My comfortable shoes are tattered from keeping up. My make-up is minimal because my time was spent making their lunch and doing their hair. I don’t have the time, energy or money to keep up with the latest fashions.
And then it happened. My oldest insisted that I follow in family tradition of wearing a birthday hat for my celebration at a local restaurant. When I jokingly replied that I should wear my tiara, she whole heartedly agreed. This tiara was the very one that I wore on my wedding day some six years ago. It was sealed in a box at the top of my closet.
My daughters shrieked in delight as we opened the box. And there it was…as beautiful as the December day that I wore it last.
With the tiara in hand, I slipped away. Leaving my very hungry husband to load up the girls, I began to tear through my closet. I changed into a hip black ensemble, switched ear rings, found a perfect necklace, dabbed on some Channel, used my twice a year eye shadow and mascara and managed a quick up do-before securing the tiara on my head. I looked pretty and I felt pretty.
That night, I walked a little more poised. I smiled a bit more. I felt graceful. My husband and daughters kept staring at me. The restaurant patrons probably wandered what the tiara was all about, but it didn’t matter to me. Our youngest played the tambourine with the entertainer and my oldest showered me with home made cards and gifts collected from home. And my husband sat a little closer and held my hand.
Several years ago, a Mother explained to our group that the best remedy for those down, doubt yourself days was a tiara. She kept a tiara handy for those days and moments. She would wear it while cleaning, grocery shopping or at events with the kids. It reminder her that she was a queen-a different type of queen. The shoulders rolled back and the smile came forward. After all, you have to be happy when you are donning a beautiful tiara. The secret of the tiara…is on the inside not the outside.
So, it is really true. And I am keeping my tiara handy.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
I Just Didn’t Know
The good-byes are the hardest. We’ve done them with hundreds lingering on the tarmac exchanging letters, hugs, tears and last minute instructions while dreading that final moment. We’ve done them at home where one last children’s toy is repaired before loading the car. We’ve done them standing in the kitchen rinsing the last plate from breakfast when the dreaded knock on the door occurs.
We’ve done them at local airports with cars whizzing by, horns honking at us because they want the space and the traffic patrol urging us to move-on. We’ve done them hurriedly on the phone when the right words just wouldn’t come. We’ve done them standing before a congregation with hands and prayers bestowed upon us-with tears quietly streaming down our cheeks..
And each time, I stare at him trying to remember each and every detail of his face. I memorize his smile, the creases that frame his eyes when he smiles, his laugh and the last departing words. I always watch as he walks away and fades into the crowd.
I stand there alone with tears in my eyes, a lump in my gut and a hole in my soul. I offer a silent prayer for his safety. And then I plead in another for faith to replace my fear. I cry all the way home not knowing when – or if I will see or be with him again.
And then the good-bye is done. It is back to daily living. There is homework to do, school functions to attend, bills to pay, a garage to clean, toys that need new batteries, lunches to pack, household chores, hosting a daughter’s birthday party, weeds to pull, oil changes for the cars, grocery shopping, first aid for many cuts and bruises, and simply trying to keep up with the growing list of to do items usually tackled by two. I become, by definition, a single parent…and often, an overwhelmed one.
And, of course, there is always the car that break down, the home air conditioning or hot water unit that suddenly ceases, the dryer that won’t spin, the washer that leaks, the DVD player that becomes disabled, a relative’s emergency, the family of snakes that have taken up residence under the outside AC unit, an essential document that can’t be found anywhere and a smoke detector hung from twelve feet ceilings that seem to always go into power failure at 2am.
All of this, of course, while your husband is unavailable and thousands of miles away. You become adept at fixing things, asking for help or just learning to live with it until he returns. The chore list grows-and so do the weeds. You run late to outings and you run out of energy.
You try to be both for your children and quickly learn you can’t. You can’t fix things like him. You don’t play like he does. You can’t build magnificent things with a couple of pieces of wood, some nails and an old hammer. You don’t go to the park and play hide and seek and do trail walks. You’re not as good at piggy back rides and puzzles. You can’t ride the ocean waves with his skill and humor. The milk shakes are too thin. You don’t swim underwater and you can’t seem to get the bath games quite right. And you learn that this is okay. There is always a place – a space saved and waiting for him here.
And when their tears flow and their souls are wounded from simply missing their Dad, you know you can’t fix that either. All you can do is hug and hold them while saying, “Me too.” It hurts, really hurts – for all of us.
You see husbands and dads everywhere. You see them playing at parks, splashing at pools, walking hand in hand at school outings, sitting with their families at church, eating together at restaurants, mowing the yard and riding bikes to school. And we long for him…
The garage door doesn’t beep at 6:30 and there is no one for the girls to hug hello at the end of a long day and there is no one to share my thoughts or bed with at night. You go to bed alone with your heart empty and your mind racing. You sigh that you made it through another day and you pray he did too.
Along the way, there are friends that rush to help, friends that just question and friends that are just there – right when you need them. You cherish the words, “How can I help?” even though you rarely take anyone up on the offer. You say a prayer of thanks for the friend that insists on taking your kids for the day because she knows you need the break. You reserve your emotions about the friend who just doesn’t get it and never will. You cry about a kind note from another that came at the most needed moment.
You are politely excluded from couple outings or you go alone. Either way is lonely and not quite the same. You miss him-you need and want him there with you…just like everyone else.
During birthday parties or events with other families, you watch your daughters search for another Dad that may be willing to swing them in the air, toss them into the water or just play-like their Dad does. And when pseudo Dad sweeps her into his arms, you are grateful for this wonderful volunteer and amazing but brief moment of smiles.
There are the questions. The question from a five year old that asks, “If Dad is a soldier, does he kill people?”
Then there are the questions from friends asking about my stance on Bush, the war and the military. The question from someone you have just met asking if you even believe in war and if you think that the number of American casualties and cost are worth it. You’re asked where Bin Laden is and why we can’t catch him. You’re asked, “Why can’t we just leave Iraq and Afghanistan and let them settle it?”
War is so very, very complex…but for you it is simple. You support your husband. You support the missions and tasks he is assigned and his commitment to those. You support his love of God, family and country. You support that his concern for his own life is secondary to his commitment to secure peace and freedom for you, your children, family, and friends and for millions of Americans he doesn’t even know. His service is not about war but one of freedom.
You often hear, “You signed up for this…” but does anyone know what they really signed up for in life?
You didn’t know the absences would be so long or hurt that much. You didn’t know that you would be glued day after day to CNN hoping for something, anything that would offer you some information and insight. You didn’t know that you would shed so many tears for casualties never mentioned by name because you truly hurt for those families…and because it could have been him.
You didn’t know that not hearing from him for three days would keep you up at night just wondering if he is okay. You didn’t know that managing a household could be so overwhelming. You didn’t know that being without him could be so empty-so lonely. You didn’t know that your children could miss the simple things with him so much.
And you also didn’t know that you could love that deeply or unconditionally. You didn’t know that you could fix a faucet or a loose wheel on a bike. You didn’t know that you could manage the finances, handle family emergencies and attend parties and events alone.
You didn’t know that you would meet so many wonderful friends along the way. You didn’t know that you would have spiritual mentors that guided you back to your faith. You didn’t know that families would adopt yours at the holidays. You didn’t know that a stranger over hearing that your husband was deployed would pay for your meal and thank you for his service. You didn’t know that the many prayers and notes from others could offer such peace.
You didn’t know that your daughter’s teacher would take the extra time to listen and offer hugs in the moments of her sadness. You didn’t know that a friend would come get your daughters when you were sick and had no one to take over. You didn’t know that your daughters reciting the pledge of allegiance and parading a flag about your den could mean so much. You didn’t know that the Star Bangled Banner would make you cry, really cry.
You didn’t know that when you married this wonderful man that you and your family would be a part of his sacrifice as well. You didn’t know that this military life could be so painful, so joyful, so difficult and yet so meaningful. You just didn’t know.
We’ve done them at local airports with cars whizzing by, horns honking at us because they want the space and the traffic patrol urging us to move-on. We’ve done them hurriedly on the phone when the right words just wouldn’t come. We’ve done them standing before a congregation with hands and prayers bestowed upon us-with tears quietly streaming down our cheeks..
And each time, I stare at him trying to remember each and every detail of his face. I memorize his smile, the creases that frame his eyes when he smiles, his laugh and the last departing words. I always watch as he walks away and fades into the crowd.
I stand there alone with tears in my eyes, a lump in my gut and a hole in my soul. I offer a silent prayer for his safety. And then I plead in another for faith to replace my fear. I cry all the way home not knowing when – or if I will see or be with him again.
And then the good-bye is done. It is back to daily living. There is homework to do, school functions to attend, bills to pay, a garage to clean, toys that need new batteries, lunches to pack, household chores, hosting a daughter’s birthday party, weeds to pull, oil changes for the cars, grocery shopping, first aid for many cuts and bruises, and simply trying to keep up with the growing list of to do items usually tackled by two. I become, by definition, a single parent…and often, an overwhelmed one.
And, of course, there is always the car that break down, the home air conditioning or hot water unit that suddenly ceases, the dryer that won’t spin, the washer that leaks, the DVD player that becomes disabled, a relative’s emergency, the family of snakes that have taken up residence under the outside AC unit, an essential document that can’t be found anywhere and a smoke detector hung from twelve feet ceilings that seem to always go into power failure at 2am.
All of this, of course, while your husband is unavailable and thousands of miles away. You become adept at fixing things, asking for help or just learning to live with it until he returns. The chore list grows-and so do the weeds. You run late to outings and you run out of energy.
You try to be both for your children and quickly learn you can’t. You can’t fix things like him. You don’t play like he does. You can’t build magnificent things with a couple of pieces of wood, some nails and an old hammer. You don’t go to the park and play hide and seek and do trail walks. You’re not as good at piggy back rides and puzzles. You can’t ride the ocean waves with his skill and humor. The milk shakes are too thin. You don’t swim underwater and you can’t seem to get the bath games quite right. And you learn that this is okay. There is always a place – a space saved and waiting for him here.
And when their tears flow and their souls are wounded from simply missing their Dad, you know you can’t fix that either. All you can do is hug and hold them while saying, “Me too.” It hurts, really hurts – for all of us.
You see husbands and dads everywhere. You see them playing at parks, splashing at pools, walking hand in hand at school outings, sitting with their families at church, eating together at restaurants, mowing the yard and riding bikes to school. And we long for him…
The garage door doesn’t beep at 6:30 and there is no one for the girls to hug hello at the end of a long day and there is no one to share my thoughts or bed with at night. You go to bed alone with your heart empty and your mind racing. You sigh that you made it through another day and you pray he did too.
Along the way, there are friends that rush to help, friends that just question and friends that are just there – right when you need them. You cherish the words, “How can I help?” even though you rarely take anyone up on the offer. You say a prayer of thanks for the friend that insists on taking your kids for the day because she knows you need the break. You reserve your emotions about the friend who just doesn’t get it and never will. You cry about a kind note from another that came at the most needed moment.
You are politely excluded from couple outings or you go alone. Either way is lonely and not quite the same. You miss him-you need and want him there with you…just like everyone else.
During birthday parties or events with other families, you watch your daughters search for another Dad that may be willing to swing them in the air, toss them into the water or just play-like their Dad does. And when pseudo Dad sweeps her into his arms, you are grateful for this wonderful volunteer and amazing but brief moment of smiles.
There are the questions. The question from a five year old that asks, “If Dad is a soldier, does he kill people?”
Then there are the questions from friends asking about my stance on Bush, the war and the military. The question from someone you have just met asking if you even believe in war and if you think that the number of American casualties and cost are worth it. You’re asked where Bin Laden is and why we can’t catch him. You’re asked, “Why can’t we just leave Iraq and Afghanistan and let them settle it?”
War is so very, very complex…but for you it is simple. You support your husband. You support the missions and tasks he is assigned and his commitment to those. You support his love of God, family and country. You support that his concern for his own life is secondary to his commitment to secure peace and freedom for you, your children, family, and friends and for millions of Americans he doesn’t even know. His service is not about war but one of freedom.
You often hear, “You signed up for this…” but does anyone know what they really signed up for in life?
You didn’t know the absences would be so long or hurt that much. You didn’t know that you would be glued day after day to CNN hoping for something, anything that would offer you some information and insight. You didn’t know that you would shed so many tears for casualties never mentioned by name because you truly hurt for those families…and because it could have been him.
You didn’t know that not hearing from him for three days would keep you up at night just wondering if he is okay. You didn’t know that managing a household could be so overwhelming. You didn’t know that being without him could be so empty-so lonely. You didn’t know that your children could miss the simple things with him so much.
And you also didn’t know that you could love that deeply or unconditionally. You didn’t know that you could fix a faucet or a loose wheel on a bike. You didn’t know that you could manage the finances, handle family emergencies and attend parties and events alone.
You didn’t know that you would meet so many wonderful friends along the way. You didn’t know that you would have spiritual mentors that guided you back to your faith. You didn’t know that families would adopt yours at the holidays. You didn’t know that a stranger over hearing that your husband was deployed would pay for your meal and thank you for his service. You didn’t know that the many prayers and notes from others could offer such peace.
You didn’t know that your daughter’s teacher would take the extra time to listen and offer hugs in the moments of her sadness. You didn’t know that a friend would come get your daughters when you were sick and had no one to take over. You didn’t know that your daughters reciting the pledge of allegiance and parading a flag about your den could mean so much. You didn’t know that the Star Bangled Banner would make you cry, really cry.
You didn’t know that when you married this wonderful man that you and your family would be a part of his sacrifice as well. You didn’t know that this military life could be so painful, so joyful, so difficult and yet so meaningful. You just didn’t know.
Friday, October 10, 2008
I Missed It
I knew. I knew by the way his shoulders slumped and the contorted expression on his face. It said everything that he couldn’t.
As we neared on the sidewalk, he glanced at a neighbor leaving for work and said in a whisper, “Have a good day at the office.” She didn’t hear him and soon the car door slammed and she was off for work.
As he approached, I looked at him and with tears in my eyes, and said, “I am so sorry.”
His wife of some 26 years, took her last breath the evening before. It was her third battle with cancer and he said even in the end she fought bravely. She loved life and he loved her. He said he had cried so much that he simply had no tears left. His daughter was worried about him, but he assured her that he and his dog would be okay.
I hugged him several times with tears streaming down my face. I cried for his loss and mine. I apologized to him for my mistake.
You see, we have been neighbors for three years. They live across the street about five houses down. I would see him and his wife riding bikes and walking the dog and always politely wave-but I never even knew their names. Somehow the busyness of life just got in the way. I never knew them. I never took the time to know them. That changed some four weeks ago.
Hearing she was sick, I stopped and introduced myself to him, gave him all of our contact information and urged him to please call if we could help in any way. The girls and I made several surprise trips with her favorite ice creams, flowers or hand made cards. And he surprised us with some vegetables from the local farmer’s market on a Sunday.
I talked to her once several weeks ago. She was gracious, courageous and downright funny even in the middle of a fight for her life. Sadly, in all of the three years we were neighbors that would be our very first and very last conversation.
So- I was sorry. I was deeply saddened for him, his daughter, their family and friends. But…as I explained to him, I was sad for me. I missed it. I missed getting to know a gem that lived right here-so near and I missed it.
As we neared on the sidewalk, he glanced at a neighbor leaving for work and said in a whisper, “Have a good day at the office.” She didn’t hear him and soon the car door slammed and she was off for work.
As he approached, I looked at him and with tears in my eyes, and said, “I am so sorry.”
His wife of some 26 years, took her last breath the evening before. It was her third battle with cancer and he said even in the end she fought bravely. She loved life and he loved her. He said he had cried so much that he simply had no tears left. His daughter was worried about him, but he assured her that he and his dog would be okay.
I hugged him several times with tears streaming down my face. I cried for his loss and mine. I apologized to him for my mistake.
You see, we have been neighbors for three years. They live across the street about five houses down. I would see him and his wife riding bikes and walking the dog and always politely wave-but I never even knew their names. Somehow the busyness of life just got in the way. I never knew them. I never took the time to know them. That changed some four weeks ago.
Hearing she was sick, I stopped and introduced myself to him, gave him all of our contact information and urged him to please call if we could help in any way. The girls and I made several surprise trips with her favorite ice creams, flowers or hand made cards. And he surprised us with some vegetables from the local farmer’s market on a Sunday.
I talked to her once several weeks ago. She was gracious, courageous and downright funny even in the middle of a fight for her life. Sadly, in all of the three years we were neighbors that would be our very first and very last conversation.
So- I was sorry. I was deeply saddened for him, his daughter, their family and friends. But…as I explained to him, I was sad for me. I missed it. I missed getting to know a gem that lived right here-so near and I missed it.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
God Surely Smiled and So Did I
Following gymnastics and a quick dinner out, we were heading home. The girls and I were chatting about everything, anything and nothing at all. The clamor consisted of littering, the guy that was running too fast, the lady not wearing a bike helmet, something about turtles and the meaning of the yellow stoplight.
As we made the turn for the home stretch, I saw it. It was the most brilliant sunset I have seen in years. Backed against the Florida sky, were gray blue skies delicately trimmed in orange with rays of golden sunlight stretched between the clouds as if they were mountains. Today, God was surely smiling.
As I pointed it out to my daughters, the youngest remarked that a pair of fluffy clouds in this amazing display of artistry looked just like bears and sure enough – they really did.
The oldest remarked that we must hurry home. I sped up just a little- all while the car fell suddenly silent. Minutes later, we pulled into the drive way. My oldest jumped out of the car and raced to the door. As we made our way in, she quickly disappeared and then reappeared – with paper, markers and an easel in hand.
“I must draw it.” she informed me. “And-we must all sit together and watch it.” she added.
So, there we sat-the three of us at the end of our drive way just watching. My oldest asked, “How do I draw this?”
I replied softly, “Just draw what your heart and eyes see.”
So our oldest began drawing-examining the sky and making absolutely sure she captured the shape and colors of the delicate clouds with just the right marker. Even our cat, George, joined in as he positioned himself in the middle of the quiet crowd.
Ten minutes later, the sun was absent from the horizon and the once bold colors were silenced. I gathered up the supplies and glanced at the beautiful drawing done by a five year old.
As the two were chasing George about the grass, I smiled. Simple things, like a glorious sunset shared with two young daughters, are the most treasured moments. I long, I need more moments just like this one…
And sometimes, as a Mom, in the midst of hectic schedules, endless chatter and the race to maintain a routine, I may see them with my eyes- but often fail to see them, really see them with my heart.
And I am grateful that my oldest didn’t let this one- yet simple- but amazing- moment pass us by.
As we made the turn for the home stretch, I saw it. It was the most brilliant sunset I have seen in years. Backed against the Florida sky, were gray blue skies delicately trimmed in orange with rays of golden sunlight stretched between the clouds as if they were mountains. Today, God was surely smiling.
As I pointed it out to my daughters, the youngest remarked that a pair of fluffy clouds in this amazing display of artistry looked just like bears and sure enough – they really did.
The oldest remarked that we must hurry home. I sped up just a little- all while the car fell suddenly silent. Minutes later, we pulled into the drive way. My oldest jumped out of the car and raced to the door. As we made our way in, she quickly disappeared and then reappeared – with paper, markers and an easel in hand.
“I must draw it.” she informed me. “And-we must all sit together and watch it.” she added.
So, there we sat-the three of us at the end of our drive way just watching. My oldest asked, “How do I draw this?”
I replied softly, “Just draw what your heart and eyes see.”
So our oldest began drawing-examining the sky and making absolutely sure she captured the shape and colors of the delicate clouds with just the right marker. Even our cat, George, joined in as he positioned himself in the middle of the quiet crowd.
Ten minutes later, the sun was absent from the horizon and the once bold colors were silenced. I gathered up the supplies and glanced at the beautiful drawing done by a five year old.
As the two were chasing George about the grass, I smiled. Simple things, like a glorious sunset shared with two young daughters, are the most treasured moments. I long, I need more moments just like this one…
And sometimes, as a Mom, in the midst of hectic schedules, endless chatter and the race to maintain a routine, I may see them with my eyes- but often fail to see them, really see them with my heart.
And I am grateful that my oldest didn’t let this one- yet simple- but amazing- moment pass us by.
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