Monday Musings: Stop the World...I Want to Get Off

When I was a teen, my mom would take my sisters and me to visit my grandmother (mom's mom) in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, where she lived. We'd go for 3 or 4 days, and one of the evenings would be spent on the boardwalk, eating ice cream, saltwater taffy, and French fries, buying t-shirts, and riding the rides in the arcade/amusement area. 

I remember one year we all climbed on to a spinning ride that went really fast forward and sideways and then stopped to go the same way backwards. I rode in the same car as my mom, and, to my mortification, she made the controller stop the ride so she could get off...which meant I got off, too. I was totally ungracious to her and remained embarrassed and a bit miffed that she couldn't stay on for a few more minutes for most of the rest of the evening.

It wasn't until years later that I rode on a ride (one I'd ridden many many times before) and suddenly understood the feeling of sheer panic that can run through you without any warning. It's nonsensical to those who don't understand. There's no rhyme or reason for it, but it takes over and consumes your reasoning until you have to change where you are or what you're doing to even get a tiny handle on sanity again. 

I blame it on hormones.

Funny, right? Not really. Not even slightly. It can be internally terrifying until you ground yourself again.

Fast forward to my own motherhood. I have often complained lamented mentioned in other posts on here that I feel like I'm barely hanging on to this ride called "Life" that sweeps the kids away into adulthood. I often occasionally wish that it would slow down (or even pause) to let me catch my breath. It's an odd sensation, not unlike my poor mom wanting to get off the ride that was terrifying her, making her feel dizzy.

I am dizzy.

I don't know if it's because the beginning of a child's life seems painfully slow that the race to the adulthood seems to speed up exponentially.

There's a saying many older parents use: The days are long, but the years are short.

So how is it that we are a less than three weeks away from graduating our youngest child...and our last homeschool student? How have we managed to finish this chapter so fast? Was it fast? Or is my perspective just skewed by living nearly 55 years of life? I don't remember the years flying by when I was a teenager. In fact, most of the time, they seemed to drag by with all of us anticipating the next phase with the common impatience of youth.

Stuart asked me the other day: "What's next for you?"

It was a hard question to answer...and one that was met with a lot of emotions.

What IS next? 

It's not something I really considered. I've been a stay-at-home mom for so long now, I don't really know how to redefine myself yet.

I guess I wish the wasn't "the end" of our homeschool journey, not because I want to hold back our son...but because I have so much more I want to learn with him.

The days are long, but not long enough, and the years are most certainly too short.

Sigh.

Friday Funnies

 

The Beginning of the End

We are beginning the end of "at-home" firsts with our youngest kid, which is always an exciting y(et numbing) feeling, I think. 

Ethan had requested to get his learner's permit after his birthday last September, but life -- as it does that time of year -- got crazy busy. So after getting the medical portion of the paperwork signed off by our doctor on Monday, we made a plan to go and get it today, which we did.

.....

We probably picked the wrong time and day to go. It felt like the DMV scene in Zootopia. You know the one where the sloths do all the paperwork?

THREE hours later, and we were celebrating! He passed with flying colors.

We have another driver-in-the-making in our family. The last one to get his first permit. We celebrated with ice cream!

Wordless (mostly) Wednesday

Thanksgiving Thoughts

It has long been thought that we shouldn’t have just one day for being thankful. And, indeed, in reality we do not. We are thankful all year long in lots of ways. 

For me, this year’s holiday brings with it some grieving along with thanksgiving. I remember that this is the first Thanksgiving without my Uncle Bob and my friends, Norma and Kelly. I think of my Aunt Barbi and cousin Marshall and Norma’s brother and his family and Kelly’s husband and children. I can’t imagine how empty that chair once occupied by those loved ones will feel this year.

 

And this year will be our first without two of our kids joining us as they each celebrate with their significant other’s family. It’s absolutely right and good that they get to do that (I never had to do that because of Stuart’s family all being in England), but it still feels hard and heavy for me to handle. I know it will get easier as the years progress, but I’m still struggling at having a mostly empty nest.

 

Sometimes the grief hits me in waves of tears as I look at the photos of them when they were younger or watch videos of other people with their “littles.” Sometimes it’s just a numbness, making me go through the motions of existing. I remember reading about “empty nest syndrome” when I was a younger mom and thinking of how nice it would be to have some breathing room…

 

Breathing room. Ha. What I would give now for one more crushing pile-up hug from all of them. 

 

The very essence of motherhood is raising kids to let them go. It’s right and good and as it should be. Right after that final push of releasing them from my womb, we had but 18 years to love and raise them in the safety net of our family unit. I knew from the start it would be hard – both along the way and when it was time to let them go – I guess I didn’t realize just how hard it would be.

 

The problem for me, and many moms like me, is that I ended up building my life around my kids and their activities. They learned at home. We went on errands and adventures together. I did their laundry and bought their favorite foods and drinks. Sure, it got harder to keep up with all of it once they got older and scattered around the area. But it gave me a purpose, which I still very much have with our 16-year-old, but it’s just shrunken down to fit one kid now, instead of three. And when you’ve been stretched to keep up with three there’s a lot of extra room for rattling around with just one. And the dynamic changes.

 

All of this is not to say that I regret any of it. As I tell my kids now, I love them more than I ever loved them as little people because I’ve loved them longer now. I love them for who they were but also for who they are at this very moment.

 

In reflecting on the holiday and being without them, I can thank God for all the holidays we had together with them. I can thank God that they can celebrate as adults with more people who love them, that they can cook in their own homes and share good food together with more than just us. 

 

That is good and right and as it should be.

 

Happy Thanksgiving!

Take Time

Take Your Time...

When the world around you rushes,
pushes,
prods.

Take your time...

to grow up
to make friends
to find joy
to find love
to live life.

Saturday Sweethearts

A week from today, these two smiling cherubs will be graduating from college. Both will hold bachelor's degrees and both will be looking for jobs in their respective fields, essentially signaling to the world that they are indeed adults, they've made it, done it.

My job as their "mommy" is finished. I'll never stop being their mom, of course, but we are equals now, learnéd adults with professional degrees and, for them, new places to call home. In my mind and heart, they are still the little smiling faces in some of these photos. I never want them to go back to that because I'm madly in love with who they've become and who they're going to continue growing to be. But I sometimes wish for a few more moments with them at those stages, just to soak in their giggles and silliness and sweetness and love.

There are a thousand things I wish I could have done with them and for them. A million things I wish I could have taught them. A bazillion times I wish I'd listened better. Still in all, they're awesome human beings. And I praise God (not for the first time!) for allowing me to be their mother. 

 

Time Marches On

When I was going into 8^th grade, my family stayed with my aunt and uncle for the summer while our house was being built. It was an idyllic time, filled with warm, summery memories: learning to cook pancakes in my aunt’s ancient iron pans; swimming in my aunt’s new pool; and eating Herr’s potato chips with cream-cheese-and-chive dip while playing late-night monopoly games. 

 

In the back of my mind, there was always the faint reminder that we were starting at a new school in the fall. But I tried to push off the thought and live one day at a time. Still, it would creep into my mind and send butterflies fluttering around my stomach. I knew it was inevitable. (Time marches on without any need for permission from us. We can plead with it, beg it to stop or, at the very least, slow down…but it will always ignore us.)

 

Yet, it was okay. The new school became the old school and, before I knew it, I was graduating.

 

It’s the same way I’ve felt with my children. They grow at an alarming rate of speed – changing numbers in 365 days, maturing with life’s experiences and stretching towards the sky. 

 

I know that I’ve lamented this for most of the years that I’ve kept this blog (and most of the years that preceded that). But it’s like their childhoods were that same endless summer that would eventually – and inevitably – end up with them growing up and getting jobs and moving into their own places. I tried to push off the thought, like before, but the butterflies always returned.

 

And Time never blinks…not once. The quick passage doesn’t surprise it. It doesn’t concern it.

 

All the young moms on social media notice it. They know it will happen since they’ve been told it will happen; yet it still surprises them because it happens so quickly.

 

I once read something that said to really pay attention to the little things that pass: the last time they reach up to be held; the last time you help them take a bath or wash their hair; the last time you feed them; or rock them; or hold their hand on a walk…

 

But you know what? You can’t. You’re so busy moving along with them towards all of their new milestones and adventures that you don’t notice the passage of all these little moments.

 

Like the summer before I started 8^th grade. Eventually, it will be time to “start school.”

 

The older two kids are finishing at university this year...and living on their own...and, before long, looking for jobs.

Yet it still will be okay. 

Here's a Tip

Something to think about today…and I hope this goes viral. 

If you use a service like DoorDash, UberEats, Shipt, Instacart, etc., remember to TIP your delivery person. You aren’t using a service to save money…you are choosing it to save time. BUT you are taking someone else’s time – and gas; someone who is acting as your personal shopper or food deliverer. 

 

Yes, it’s a job. But the pay is paltry – not unlike wait staff in restaurant and hair stylists – and it still takes time, especially if that person tries their very hardest to do their best. Ten percent is a good starting point. Reward more for exceptionality.

 

I get it. I was a terrible tipper. I assumed that they made a decent wage (Google will tell you they do, but the pay formula is built on the assumption that they get tipped), and that they didn’t really need a tip unless they did an exceptional job. 

 

Like everyone else, I’m trying to save money on my groceries. If that’s the case, I need to drive to the store myself and pick up my groceries. Saving time using a personal shopper does not equate to saving money. For some, it might mean saving money spent on gas going to the store. But you are using the gas of another, and that’s not covered by their delivery service companies. 

 

Consider changing how you think about these services and tip your driver. I know it’s not mandatory, but it is an encouragement to those trying to earn real money through these jobs. We all enjoy the service we get…now let’s remember to pay fully for it.

 

Soul, It Is...Well

Six and a half years ago, in August 2016, I received some of the most devastating personal news of my life: I had breast cancer.

It was a surreal moment. My head spun and my heart raced. I didn't know what to say to the doctor on the other end of the phone call. I felt wordless.

But God, as He always does, put the exact right person in that position at exactly the right moment. The doctor who called wasn't the surgeon I'd been seeing. He was just the one on duty that day. He didn't know me, but he did understand cancer since he'd already had it, as well. He gave me space to process the news and then explained the type of cancer I had and the prognosis, which he noted was very good. If I had to have cancer, it was a "good" one to have, he said. He wasn't a fortune teller, psychic, or visionary -- just someone who understood from experience and his job.

The next month and a half was filled with appointments and plans. My surgery was scheduled for a few days after my birthday in mid-October.

I won't lie and say I wasn't nervous. But God placed the first verse and refrain from the old hymn, "It Is Well with My Soul," in my head and that helped me through that time. He reminded me of the words and the story behind them. And, because of that, I had a tremendous peace.

From Wikipedia: The hymn was written by Horatio Spafford after many traumatic events in his life. 

The first two were the death of his four-year-old son and the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, which ruined him financially (he had been a successful lawyer and had invested significantly in property in the area of Chicago that was extensively damaged by the great fire). His business interests were further hit by the economic downturn of 1873, at which time he had planned to travel to England with his family on the Ville du Havre for D. L. Moody's upcoming evangelistic campaigns. 

In a late change of plan, he sent the family ahead while he was delayed on business concerning zoning problems following the Great Chicago Fire. While crossing the Atlantic Ocean, the ship sank rapidly after a collision with a sea vessel, the Loch Line, and all four of Horatio's daughters died. His wife Anna survived and sent him the now famous telegram, "Saved alone …" 

Shortly afterwards, as Horatio traveled to meet his grieving wife, he was inspired to write these words as his ship passed near where his daughters had died.

When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to know
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Refrain
It is well, (it is well),
With my soul, (with my soul)
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

If a man who had lost so much could say that, I, with curable cancer, could repeat the same words. 

Praise God!

Goodbye, Old Friend

Written soon after he died nearly five years ago...shared now because we miss him...

And with a final wag, we bid goodbye to our precious Buster Brown, our first family pooch of nearly 16 years.

I am reminded of the story told through Marley and Me. The author, being a journalist, chronicled his dog's life through a column he wrote for the newspaper.

A dog's life.

Many live fewer years than our sweet dog. We were blessed. We know that and accept that gift with a huge amount of gratitude.

Often, after the loss of a pet, my husband expresses his sadness by saying he doesn't want any more pets...he wished he didn't have to feel such pain. But I always counter him with the fact that if we didn't have the pet we wouldn't have had the joy they brought.

Yes, it's hard. VERY hard. Sometimes it feels as if our hearts might break. But it's also beautiful.

A sweet friend reminded me that Buster lived "a long, loved life."

And he did. Always smiling. Always happy. Always grateful. (He wouldn't start eating without us patting him and saying, "You're welcome!")

I like to remember him that way.

Loved for a long time.

Saturday Sweethearts

Ethan with Jazzy and Jujubee (2019)

Hold my paw.

I don’t know if I can.

Why not?

I don’t feel brave enough.

 

You’re braver than you think.

 

I wish you didn’t have to go.

 

I need to go. I have bigger places – and God – to see.

 

I wish I’d done more for you.

 

You did your best.

 

But it wasn’t enough. I hope you haven’t suffered.

 

Hold my paw...

 

I hope you know I love you.

 

I’ve never doubted that.

 

I won’t ever forget you.

 

Memories fade…but we’ll see one another again. Me and all the others. And won’t that be glorious? Oh, so glorious...

....

 

Hop far, sweet bunny. And always remember I loved you. 

Rest peacefully, precious Jezzy. Kiss Jujubee for us.

 

….

 

The night is long…but the days are, oh, so short.

 

….

 

 

Sweet Sunday

How great the chasm that lay between us

How high the mountain, I could not climb

In desperation, I turned to Heaven

And I spoke Your name into the night

Then through the darkness

Your loving-kindness

Tore through the shadows of my soul

The work is finished, the end is written

Jesus Christ, my living hope

Who could imagine so great a mercy?

What heart could fathom such boundless grace?

The God of ages stepped down from glory

To wear my sin and bear my shame

The cross has spoken, I am forgiven

The King of kings calls me His own

Beautiful Savior, I'm Yours forever

Jesus Christ, my living hope

Hallelujah, praise the One who set me free

Hallelujah, death has lost its grip on me

You have broken every chain

There's salvation in Your name

Jesus Christ, my living hope

Hallelujah, praise the One who set me free

Hallelujah, death has lost its grip on me

You have broken every chain

There's salvation in Your name

Jesus Christ, my living hope

Then came the morning that sealed the promise

Your buried body began to breathe

Out of the silence, the Roaring Lion

Declared the grave has no claim on me

Then came the morning that sealed the promise

Your buried body began to breathe

Out of the silence, the Roaring Lion

Declared the grave has no claim on me

Jesus, Yours is the victory

Yours is the victory, Jesus

Hallelujah, praise the One who set me free

Hallelujah, death has lost its grip on me

You have broken every chain

There's salvation in Your name

Jesus Christ, my living hope

Hallelujah, praise the One who set me free

Hallelujah, death has lost its grip on me

You have broken every chain

There's salvation in Your name

Jesus Christ, my living hope

Jesus Christ, my living hope

Jesus Christ, You're my living hope

Jesus, my living hope

You're my living hope

The Bunny Bug

This is precious little Molly, my Himalayan Netherland Dwarf, who turns 6 years old on 7/13.

So 40 years ago, in June 1982, I got my first-ever rabbit — another sweet Himalayan Netherland Dwarf doe that I named Mittens, a.k.a. Mitsy-Bitsy. She was my world, my BFF, my confidante. 

I told her secrets of sadnesses and joys. I shared food with her and dressed her in hats and sweaters and took her for bike rides in my bicycle basket. When we went for walks, she rode around in the hood of my sweatshirts. 

She, in turn, gave me kisses, licked away my tears, and cuddled up close when I needed a hug. She gave me a litter of kits on Easter. She was the perfect first bunny for a girl who had desperately wanted her own pet. 

The “bunny-bug” had bitten me, and the rest is — as they say — history. 

Remembering...

Sometimes, when you think too much time has passed, you head back to something or someone familiar, and it all clicks back into place...at least for that moment. Like friends who haven't seen each other for decades and come back together like no time has passed, as if they both went home at the end of a day and returned in the morning. "As I was saying..." one might say, without missing a beat.

Sometimes.

Life has a strange way of taking us on twists and turns, uphill and downhill, back and forth. Memories flood our brains, holding us back or pushing us forward. 

We're all a product of those memories, our past times and events and happenings -- good and bad. How do we reckon with them? How do we not allow them to drag us down or pull us under?

It's a difficult process. Certainly doable. 

Children are mirrors of those memories. They go through ages and phases that we can somewhat remember, that become very clear when we watch our offspring go through them. Of course, their experiences are different. But the fuzzy recollection of our own experiences comes back into focus...at least for that moment.

And we remember. And the memories, like old friends, take us on journeys back to times that feel forgotten yet are still in the foreground. 

"As I was saying..." the memory says, without missing a beat.

Wordless Wednesday

 

In These Times

ALL Lives Matter.

I am not a racist.

The pigmentation in my skin does not make me one.

I am a human, as are you and all the others of various pigmentations around this globe.

Human.

Not a color in a crayon box. Not a race. Not a racist.

I am not blind to what is happening. It breaks my heart.

But I am not going to erase years of progress with the single act of a terrible human being – and all the acts of the cowards who merely videoed that act instead of stopping it.

The media has declared me a racist because I am “white.”

The media wants to divide us and make us angry and make us activists. Us versus them. They want me to believe deep in my heart I am racist merely because I was born “privileged” and “white.” (I'm merely the latter.) But saying that implies that there aren’t any people of other “colors” who are born into privilege? Isn’t that racist to imply that couldn’t happen based on the fact that they’re not white?

I’ve seen a lot of African Americans who are very well off – some are even quite wealthy. They’ve earned it. They’re privileged and so are their children. They are more than worthy of what they have. Many of the people I attended college with who are other ethnicities are well-educated and earning way more than me.

Does this make them “white” now? Since only “white” people can be privileged?

I am not racist deep in my heart. I love people. Just people. I don’t care what they look like, who they are, what their ancestry is. I might disagree with their actions or attitudes, but that’s not who they are as a person, and their pigmentation does not affect that.

I am not a slave owner. 

I am not and will not be mean to a person based on their “coloring.” 

I do not believe in paying people more or less than what their skills and talents are worth, especially not based on their race.

Despite what the media wants us to believe, we have made great strides against racism. Look around. It is a fair to say that the world has a plethora of "people of different pigmentations" working, living, and educating together. There are still places that have issues, but those are neighborhood issues. (See Chicago and Memorial Day Weekend.) The wrong acts of one person do not equal the sum of the rest of the population’s beliefs.

Go home. Gather your family. Pray for peace. Love your neighbor MORE than yourself. And stop telling me who I am. 

God made you and me who we are. And only He knows our hearts. 

Thoughts on Mother's Day

My kids are always asking me if I loved them more when they were little.

I love looking at their photos and talking about how sweet they were and sharing memories of funny or poignant moments with them.

I remember first teeth and them learning to walk and the way they marveled at just about anything new and exciting. They loved being outside and had a cute way of pronouncing things. I loved watching them learn to read and write and draw. I loved making things with them and celebrating countless birthdays, half-birthdays, and holidays with them. Easter eggs and Christmas visits to New York to see the Macy's Santa with the deli breath. "Picnics in the Park" on the Eve of Christmas Eve. Early morning trips to Chincoteague in the summer and the fall and the beginning of a brand new year. Singing children's songs and then '80s songs at the tops of our lungs. Knowing all the words to the Veggie Tales, especially the end theme song from QWERTY.

Career goals: Fashion designer, hotel designer/owner, architect, marine biologist, inventor.

I remember how earnest they were about certain things and how they tried very hard to understand a complex grown-up world with the simple mind of a child. How they tried to share their thoughts on politics or movie stars or books they read.

It's as though now they see that child as someone else instead of a younger and smaller version of themselves.

How could I love that child any more than I love the grown (or growing) version I see at present?

Perhaps the past really is a foreign country...and those little people in the photos and memories are merely the residents, long gone as the years progress.

No, dear children, I couldn't possibly love that little-person version of you more than I love you now...for you are that little person now a bit bigger. And I love that bigger person even more today than I did yesterday.

If I Take the Time

A memory:

When Ethan was five years old, he gave me a crumpled napkin that I assumed he wanted me to throw away.

I laughed and told him to throw it out.

He insisted that I open it that it was "a gift," he said.

I did and saw this inside.

"It's my love!" he said with a big smile.

And afterwards I realized that I nearly missed it in my haste to toss out what I thought was trash.

Sometimes we need to slowdown and enjoy these precious moments.

At Home in the City

My brain is ruminating...and so I must ramble a bit...

...

I have always enjoyed exploring the world.

I grew up moving around to different towns in different states, so my family spent a lot of time getting to know new places.

Because of that, being a tourist is easy in one of my favorite cities.

There are the usual places to see -- the Empire State Building, the Rockefeller Center, the Statue of Liberty, the Subway, the World Trade Center.

But my favorite way to see and feel and know the city is to find a coffee shop early in the morning, sit at a table in the window, and watch the world go by. It may seem a strange way to "sightsee," and yet it gives me a chance to see the heart of the city, what makes it truly beat: a mom walking her children to school; a businessman scurrying by, coffee in one hand, a briefcase in the other; teenage girls engrossed in their music and texts, laughing together as they walk to their classes; an older couple stumbling along hand-in-hand; a gaggle of schoolchildren scattering behind two harried teachers on their way to a museum; and more.

And if I sit long enough, I'll see the process repeated in reverse, each person on his or her way home, thinking about the happenings and memories of the day, each a protagonist in his or her own story.