Today I found myself being perfectly honest to a fault. I found myself saying things to my sister that were too honest. Is there such a thing as too honest? I believe in some instances there are. For instance, I honestly believe she has made some major mistakes in her life as of late and will continue to make them in the near future. Did I honestly need to tell her that today? I can now say, probably not. When we take it upon ourselves to lay honesty on another person we may need to stop and take measure of the other person's ability to handle your honesty. It would seem that even if your intentions are pure and your desire is to help a person who is dear to you to see potential harm coming there way, honesty may not be the best approach.
My sister is 7 years my elder, she was the teenager I looked up to, she was my guidepost. She did everything before I did. She wore a bra, kissed a boy, fell in love, married, had kids, and grew up before me. When I first felt the pang of a broken heart she reassured me that life would go on. When I had questions about being a mother she gave her advice freely. When I stumbled as a young bride she listened to my complaints and helped me gain the confidence I needed. She was there for me in my youth as I have tried to be there for her now. We have not always seen eye to eye as is to be expected, but we always disagreed in a gentle manor. Lately I have felt myself wanted to scream from the rooftops a cautionary warning to her. I want to grab her hand, yank her off the train that she is on and tell her exactly what I think. I have restrained myself, that is until today. Today I was honest to a fault. I said too much, more than she could handle. I yanked her so hard from that train that I fear I am part of the wreckage that I wanted so desperately to save her from.
So again I question honesty. Is it always the best policy? As I sit here writing this I don't know the answer. I only know that my words fell on deaf ears, my 'rescue' attempt was clumsy at best and my sister felt the sting of perfect honesty. How do the super heroes do it? They save the world, have an innate ability to make people see the err of their ways and never tear their capes while doing it. Honesty happens sometimes without being eloquent, gentle, or well received, and I fear I tore my cape today.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Our Perfect Dog Simba
Simba is a 13 year old Samoyed-Spitz mix that has been with our family since he was 3months old. When we first saw him at the shelter in North Carolina we knew he was the dog for us. He was jumping up and down yelping at us. I thought he was too nervous and questioned our choice, his eyes convinced me we had done the right thing. We filled out the necessary papers and waiting for the shelter to call us back. There were 3 people ahead of us on his request sheet. We were told if they changed their minds or didn't show up on adoption day he would be ours. I secretly prayed that the other families would change their minds. We drove to the shelter on adoption day, nervously chatting about 'our' dog. We would call him Simba. We had a collar and a name, surely he would be coming home with us. We entered the building and assumed our position on the line. It was an agonizing 15 minute wait. Finally, we reached the head of the line. We were greeted by a not-so-friendly clerk, who glanced at our paper-work, pulled out a stamp and said "check please". It was that simple, pay the man and he was ours. The other people on his adoption list had not come in that morning, so as fate would have it Simba was coming home with us.
We greeted him with such enthusiasm, you would have thought we just won the lottery. He was reluctant to come with us, but I had a plan. I had stashed a dog treat in my coat pocket for that initial meeting. Simba sniffed the treat but wasn't too quick to accept this offering from these strange humans. We led him to our car, helped him in and headed home. At the time my husband and I lived in an apartment in Charlotte, N.C. It was 3 flights of stairs up and Simba ran ahead of us, eager to see his new digs. It was a moment like no other we had experienced as a young couple before. We were a family, man, wife and dog. We giggled and made such a fuss over him in those first few hours, it was pure joy.
Over the next few weeks we undertook the task of training him to apartment living. We also had to train ourselves to be dog owners. We took turns taking him out in the middle of the night. This worked well at first, that is until we both were suffering from sleep deprivation. Eventually we trained him to go 'potty' before bedtime and we trained ourselves to remove his water bowl before 6 pm. We grew over the next few months into a power-dog couple. We took him to the car wash in our complex for baths every Friday. We made weekend trips to the local dog store to buy him a new treat or toy. We took him for drives in the rural countryside to see the cows. We bought our first house with him in mind. A house with a yard that he could play in was high on our list of priorities. We moved to a small town in South Carolina and took to the task of making a home.
It was during the years we spent in Clover that we all settled in as a family. Simba got to know the rhythms of our relationship and we got to expect an occasional lick on the face. We found ourselves putting little plastic sandwich bags on Simba's feet on the rare occasions that snow fell. You see Simba, the Samoyed, doesn't like the feel of snow on his paws. This, of course, is a contradiction to his breed who originally were sled dogs. We also came to learn that Simba is afraid of spiders. I wonder how much of that fear he learned from my husband. The two would run out of the room, husband yelling kill it, dog yelping 'help'. Hey what is wrong with this picture, isn't it supposed to be damsel in distress? It always amazed me at the fear a tiny spider could evoke in a dog that barked at everyone who came to our door. I never feared that an intruder would get passed Simba, but we might as well have put 'Welcome All Spiders' on our doormat.
We grew as a family with the arrival of our first child. Simba would sheepishly approach the bassinet and give a good sniff, then park himself at the nursery door to stand guard. He accepted this tiny new member of the pack without hesitation. He even stashed goodies in the cushions of the couch that he would offer up to the baby. It was a cute gesture, however disgusting the dried out shrimp looked. Again we found ourselves experiencing something new, being parents of the human sort. Simba had broken us in, trained us for this very moment. He stood tall like a peacock as if to say 'no problem mom and dad, glad to help".
We have since moved back North and have added 2 more children to the pack. Simba is old now and moves with hesitation. He no longer hides shrimp in the couch or requires plastic bags on his feet. Now he struggles down the back stairs to the snow covered yard, looking back at us as if to say "no problem mom and dad". I watch over him as he watched over our babies. He gave us such a gift as a young couple, the chance to be a family, we owe him so much. This may be the last Winter Simba struggles down the stairs, the last Spring he hides from spiders, but he will remain perfectly preserved in all the seasons of our hearts.
We greeted him with such enthusiasm, you would have thought we just won the lottery. He was reluctant to come with us, but I had a plan. I had stashed a dog treat in my coat pocket for that initial meeting. Simba sniffed the treat but wasn't too quick to accept this offering from these strange humans. We led him to our car, helped him in and headed home. At the time my husband and I lived in an apartment in Charlotte, N.C. It was 3 flights of stairs up and Simba ran ahead of us, eager to see his new digs. It was a moment like no other we had experienced as a young couple before. We were a family, man, wife and dog. We giggled and made such a fuss over him in those first few hours, it was pure joy.
Over the next few weeks we undertook the task of training him to apartment living. We also had to train ourselves to be dog owners. We took turns taking him out in the middle of the night. This worked well at first, that is until we both were suffering from sleep deprivation. Eventually we trained him to go 'potty' before bedtime and we trained ourselves to remove his water bowl before 6 pm. We grew over the next few months into a power-dog couple. We took him to the car wash in our complex for baths every Friday. We made weekend trips to the local dog store to buy him a new treat or toy. We took him for drives in the rural countryside to see the cows. We bought our first house with him in mind. A house with a yard that he could play in was high on our list of priorities. We moved to a small town in South Carolina and took to the task of making a home.
It was during the years we spent in Clover that we all settled in as a family. Simba got to know the rhythms of our relationship and we got to expect an occasional lick on the face. We found ourselves putting little plastic sandwich bags on Simba's feet on the rare occasions that snow fell. You see Simba, the Samoyed, doesn't like the feel of snow on his paws. This, of course, is a contradiction to his breed who originally were sled dogs. We also came to learn that Simba is afraid of spiders. I wonder how much of that fear he learned from my husband. The two would run out of the room, husband yelling kill it, dog yelping 'help'. Hey what is wrong with this picture, isn't it supposed to be damsel in distress? It always amazed me at the fear a tiny spider could evoke in a dog that barked at everyone who came to our door. I never feared that an intruder would get passed Simba, but we might as well have put 'Welcome All Spiders' on our doormat.
We grew as a family with the arrival of our first child. Simba would sheepishly approach the bassinet and give a good sniff, then park himself at the nursery door to stand guard. He accepted this tiny new member of the pack without hesitation. He even stashed goodies in the cushions of the couch that he would offer up to the baby. It was a cute gesture, however disgusting the dried out shrimp looked. Again we found ourselves experiencing something new, being parents of the human sort. Simba had broken us in, trained us for this very moment. He stood tall like a peacock as if to say 'no problem mom and dad, glad to help".
We have since moved back North and have added 2 more children to the pack. Simba is old now and moves with hesitation. He no longer hides shrimp in the couch or requires plastic bags on his feet. Now he struggles down the back stairs to the snow covered yard, looking back at us as if to say "no problem mom and dad". I watch over him as he watched over our babies. He gave us such a gift as a young couple, the chance to be a family, we owe him so much. This may be the last Winter Simba struggles down the stairs, the last Spring he hides from spiders, but he will remain perfectly preserved in all the seasons of our hearts.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Perfect Mix-up
The other day we had a bit of snow that covered our driveway and walkway. You could hear the roaring brigade of snow blowers in the neighborhood. You could also hear the quietness that surrounded our snowed-in house. You see my husband fears snow blowers. He believes that their sole purpose is to chop, mangle and eat his foot. As a result of this belief we shovel our way out. I should correct that statement, he shovels his way out as I refuse to feed his irrational belief in the flesh hungry snow blower. Occasionally I rely on the kindness of strangers (said in my head with a delightful southern accent) to dig me out.
We are lucky to have strong, fearless, rational neighbors with snow blowers who come to our rescue. They will see my husband struggling against the elements and clear the sidewalk for us as he tackles the driveway. A good neighborly exchange follows, the two have a male bonding moment and we all live happily ever after. So when it snowed this week I anticipated a similar routine. Husband, shovel in hand, attacks driveway. Husband gets wet and cold, flings shovel over left shoulder, enters house muttering under breath, snow wins. I went to take a nap as it was obvious the car was not moving from it's snowy prison. Defeated, my husband retired to his room to watch a game.
When I awoke from my winter's nap I was surprised to see the driveway had been cleared of snow, not by man and shovel but by roaring machine. I rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn't dreaming. How could this be? Did my husband have a change of heart and buy a snow blower? Just as I was about to find and question my husband he found me. He was telling me that the guy next door must have plowed the driveway. He was going on and on about the guy next door. The guy next door, whose name had obviously escaped my husband was now my husband's hero. We immediately found a bottle of red wine to send over as a thank you. My husband, after being reminded of our neighbor's name, brought the bottle over to offer his thanks. The exchange was quick, the wife accepted the wine and said she would pass our offering of gratitude on. Life continued and everyone lived happily ever after, so we thought.
It wasn't until I spoke with my sister a week later that I realized our folly. My brother-in-law wanted to know when he was getting his thank you. I searched my brain but couldn't remember what I had forgotten to thank him for. Well my sister took but a moment to inform me of my apparent slight. Apparently while I was napping and my husband stroked his bruised ego watching a game, my brother-in-law plowed our snow covered driveway. WHAT! I immediately told her she was mistaken, clearly the neighbor had done this random act of kindness. We delivered wine, really good wine. The token had been accepted, the thanks had gone to the appropriate recipient. Right? As it turned out the neighbor had indeed plowed our sidewalk but he had not turned his flesh eating, snow blowing machine onto our driveway. We had indeed sent accolades to the wrong guy. "Hey guy next door, my brother-in-law wants his wine back".
As I write this the snow has begun to fall again. The last remnant of blacktop has now disappeared. My husband's shovel is waiting for him by the garage door. The neighbor is probably anticipating a Chardonnay. My brother-in-law will forgive our perfect little mix-up and plow out my driveway; my husband will be thankful no one lost a foot. I will go to bed dreaming about having a perfectly grand snow blower of my own.
We are lucky to have strong, fearless, rational neighbors with snow blowers who come to our rescue. They will see my husband struggling against the elements and clear the sidewalk for us as he tackles the driveway. A good neighborly exchange follows, the two have a male bonding moment and we all live happily ever after. So when it snowed this week I anticipated a similar routine. Husband, shovel in hand, attacks driveway. Husband gets wet and cold, flings shovel over left shoulder, enters house muttering under breath, snow wins. I went to take a nap as it was obvious the car was not moving from it's snowy prison. Defeated, my husband retired to his room to watch a game.
When I awoke from my winter's nap I was surprised to see the driveway had been cleared of snow, not by man and shovel but by roaring machine. I rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn't dreaming. How could this be? Did my husband have a change of heart and buy a snow blower? Just as I was about to find and question my husband he found me. He was telling me that the guy next door must have plowed the driveway. He was going on and on about the guy next door. The guy next door, whose name had obviously escaped my husband was now my husband's hero. We immediately found a bottle of red wine to send over as a thank you. My husband, after being reminded of our neighbor's name, brought the bottle over to offer his thanks. The exchange was quick, the wife accepted the wine and said she would pass our offering of gratitude on. Life continued and everyone lived happily ever after, so we thought.
It wasn't until I spoke with my sister a week later that I realized our folly. My brother-in-law wanted to know when he was getting his thank you. I searched my brain but couldn't remember what I had forgotten to thank him for. Well my sister took but a moment to inform me of my apparent slight. Apparently while I was napping and my husband stroked his bruised ego watching a game, my brother-in-law plowed our snow covered driveway. WHAT! I immediately told her she was mistaken, clearly the neighbor had done this random act of kindness. We delivered wine, really good wine. The token had been accepted, the thanks had gone to the appropriate recipient. Right? As it turned out the neighbor had indeed plowed our sidewalk but he had not turned his flesh eating, snow blowing machine onto our driveway. We had indeed sent accolades to the wrong guy. "Hey guy next door, my brother-in-law wants his wine back".
As I write this the snow has begun to fall again. The last remnant of blacktop has now disappeared. My husband's shovel is waiting for him by the garage door. The neighbor is probably anticipating a Chardonnay. My brother-in-law will forgive our perfect little mix-up and plow out my driveway; my husband will be thankful no one lost a foot. I will go to bed dreaming about having a perfectly grand snow blower of my own.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Perfectly Breathtaking
When I look into the faces of my children I see perfection. Perfect little creations that for some unknown reason God decided to grace me with. For a very short moment my breath is taken away. Then I tremble. My mind races in a thousand different directions. Did I check all the homework? Are their clothes laid out for tomorrow? Did I do everything within my power to make the world; at least our little part of it; safe for them today? The weight of it almost causes me to crumble to my knees. Then my breath returns and the trembling stops and I see perfection again. I am confident that my job is done for tonight at least.
It is how my mind works. Always keeping three steps ahead of peril, heartache and dandruff, yes dandruff is a daily exercise. Does this rule my world? No. I have yet to meet a mother who doesn't lose her breath at least once a day over her children. It is what we do. We sustain life from the very moment they are conceived. I anticipate many breathless moments in my time, not all of them due to peril.
Many times I am left breathless at the mere sight of my children at play. I stand, dishtowel in hand, in awe of their simple kindnesses to one another. They are so artful at surprising you. Just when you think there is no hope for sibling reconciliation, they share a juice box and all is forgiven. They are wildly complex creatures, yet simply inspirational. They are humane, forgiving, loving, optimistic beings from which we could gain such wisdom. They are remnants of our former selves, reflections of our past purity. They are the best parts of us, the parts we sometimes shelve and forget to take down and dust.
They are my perfectly breathtaking little beings!
It is how my mind works. Always keeping three steps ahead of peril, heartache and dandruff, yes dandruff is a daily exercise. Does this rule my world? No. I have yet to meet a mother who doesn't lose her breath at least once a day over her children. It is what we do. We sustain life from the very moment they are conceived. I anticipate many breathless moments in my time, not all of them due to peril.
Many times I am left breathless at the mere sight of my children at play. I stand, dishtowel in hand, in awe of their simple kindnesses to one another. They are so artful at surprising you. Just when you think there is no hope for sibling reconciliation, they share a juice box and all is forgiven. They are wildly complex creatures, yet simply inspirational. They are humane, forgiving, loving, optimistic beings from which we could gain such wisdom. They are remnants of our former selves, reflections of our past purity. They are the best parts of us, the parts we sometimes shelve and forget to take down and dust.
They are my perfectly breathtaking little beings!
My First Blog
Well here it goes, my first blog. Of course I will attempt to do it perfectly and fail. But that is ok. I am sitting at my computer way past my bedtime. I can hear my children sleeping in their beds. Everyone is tucked in for a good winter's nap, that is except me.
The words call to me like a thief in the night. They come to steal my sweet slumber. They want to be heard, to be put down on paper. I would prefer they danced in my head a little while longer. I need to sleep, tomorrow is a school day for 2 out of 3 of the kids. I am going to regret the trade. The lost sleep for blogging and quieting down the words in my head.
Tonight my husband went off to watch the Super Bowl....I on the other hand made jokes about the Super Bowl being a giant toilet that flushed well. This did not go over very well with the football lovers. Alas my humor was lost. The evening was spent baking triple chocolate brownies that will be hand delivered to my children's teachers for Valentine's Day. Only 2 dozen survived the night. There had to be a sacrificial dozen for the house. I feared anarchy if I didn't give the tribe what they wanted.
Tomorrow I will continue on my pursuit of perfection and finish the goodie bags for my daughter's class party. Undoubtedly my efforts will be delayed by one or more crying children. I will take a breath, put the bags down and dry the tears, bandage the wound, feed the tummy that is rumbling and continue my day. I will crawl into bed with pen in hand (archaic I know) and perhaps write a few more lines in my book. Or maybe I will just close my eyes and let the images of the day call me to sleep.
Whatever it is it will be perfect.
The words call to me like a thief in the night. They come to steal my sweet slumber. They want to be heard, to be put down on paper. I would prefer they danced in my head a little while longer. I need to sleep, tomorrow is a school day for 2 out of 3 of the kids. I am going to regret the trade. The lost sleep for blogging and quieting down the words in my head.
Tonight my husband went off to watch the Super Bowl....I on the other hand made jokes about the Super Bowl being a giant toilet that flushed well. This did not go over very well with the football lovers. Alas my humor was lost. The evening was spent baking triple chocolate brownies that will be hand delivered to my children's teachers for Valentine's Day. Only 2 dozen survived the night. There had to be a sacrificial dozen for the house. I feared anarchy if I didn't give the tribe what they wanted.
Tomorrow I will continue on my pursuit of perfection and finish the goodie bags for my daughter's class party. Undoubtedly my efforts will be delayed by one or more crying children. I will take a breath, put the bags down and dry the tears, bandage the wound, feed the tummy that is rumbling and continue my day. I will crawl into bed with pen in hand (archaic I know) and perhaps write a few more lines in my book. Or maybe I will just close my eyes and let the images of the day call me to sleep.
Whatever it is it will be perfect.
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