Voice

Voice

    When is OK to voice an opinion?  Why are so many offended by opinions?  Why do opinions have to be wrong or right?  I recently had a difference of opinion with the way a situation was handled at Ashton’s school.  I chose not to take it the Principal because I didn’t want to be labeled as “that Mom”.  During a conversation with a friend that is a teacher, she suggested the Principal would not label me and felt that I should contact her with my concern - the valid concern in the situation.  You see, I have several concerns, but it’s a matter of opinion on which are valid.  However the situation in general is valid.  

    As our conversation continued, the teacher versus the parent came out.  I’m not saying this in a negative light.  At times, we all need a reality check when it comes to our children.  So often we have tunnel vision in regards to our children.  We want to be sure they have the best opportunities to succeed and we do not always see that there are two sides to the story.  It’s interesting and beneficial to hear the other side of the coin - especially when it comes to public schools.

    I’m not really sure why public schools have taken on the mentality of teacher versus parent.  I’m sure there are numerous factors that have impacted the stand off.  I’m not a certified teacher but I’m also not completely ignorant of the education system.  I have over 30 hours of undergrad courses in education and a few graduate level education courses.  I just completed a Masters degree in Youth Development Leadership.  But somehow, I got the impression that I’m not an educator so my concerns weren’t valid and I was just an opinionated parent.  I got the feeling that in the teacher versus parent stance, only one can be right.  It’s not the parent.

    In one breath, my friend was encouraging me to reach out to the principal.  In the next, she was telling me that I was the kind of parent that she hates to have in her class.  I won’t lie.  At first, I was very offended.  What exactly does that mean?  I took a few weeks to really think about what she was saying.  I know her well and I know she was not trying to be mean or undermine my concerns.  I really think it comes down to the teacher versus parent.  

    My friend was very supportive of my concerns till I said the Ashton’s teacher was not qualified to make the assumption she made.  That’s when the shift took place and the teacher versus parent stance started.  I didn’t say that to demean or de-qualify the teacher and her experience.  I simply meant that being a teacher - just as being a parent - does not qualify you to be a trained Psychologist.  We can all decide what we think the problem is, but the reality is, only a trained Doctor can make a medical and psychological diagnosis.  At the very least, I felt the teacher should have brought in the Guidance Counselor and/or the School Psychologist.  What she felt was simply an attention issue could have been seizures based on Ashton’s medical history.  As soon as I heard the teacher talking and she saw my face, she knew that she had overstepped her boundary.  

    Voicing this opinion really offended my teacher friend.  But isn’t it interesting that just from a ten minute conversation that she labeled me as the bad parent?  If she did that - as my friend - what would the principal do if I did contact her?  She ironically confirmed my initial concern - that I would be labeled.  So, what do we do as parents?  How do we voice our opinions and concerns and not have our children suffer because the school labels us as “that parent”? 

    In almost any private industry, constructive criticism is a standard in employee evaluation and customer service.  Yet, in the public schools, constructive criticism labels you and hurts your child.  

    What is even more interesting is that based on a ten minute conversation, I’m labeled as the kind of parent that she hates to have in her classroom.  Does that mean that she would also hate the time that I volunteer in the classroom?  The supplies that I buy to help the teacher?  The books that I buy for the classroom?  All that is welcome as long as it doesn’t come with a voice.

Beaches

Beaches

    I always thought that I was one of the luckiest kids in the world.  I grew up near the beach.  I don’t recall a moment when I didn’t love going to the beach.  It’s interesting to me how my love for the beach has evolved over my lifetime.  The beach is still one of my favorite places to be - it’s just my activities at the beach have changed quite a bit through the years.

    My Dad spent his entire career in the ocean.  He was a civilian diver for the Navy at the Charleston Naval base.  He will not step foot near the ocean now.  He cannot stand the beach.  I wonder if others that spend their careers near or in water feel the same way when they retire.  My guess is probably not.  My guess is that if you are a world champion surfer, the ocean is your home.  Of course, surfing is probably a lot more fun than repairing ships under water!  

    Lucky for me, my Mom loved the ocean also.  We were at the beach quite often when I was a kid.  Dad hunted or fished ... we swam like fish.  Most often we would visit Kiawah Island.  Kiawah is one of the most beautiful places in SC.  I still love to go there.    

    We always went with my cousins.  We would swim way out to a sand bar and dive for sand dollars.  It was like a gold mine.  You could bring home hundreds if you wanted.  I’ll never forget those sand dollars.  My cousin, Wayne, would paint pictures on them ... light houses, beach scenes, etc.  He is very talented.  I often wonder what happened to all the sand dollars he painted.  How did we manage to lose them over the years?  They were one of a kind.  

    Rarely did you find me on the beach.  I was always in the water swimming myself to complete exhaustion.  Not once did I get stung by a jelly fish or see a shark.  The ocean seemed quite friendly to me.  I guess around high school is when I first started seeing changes in how I enjoyed the ocean.  It was much less about swimming and having fun in the water and more about laying in the sand and walking the beach.  I would still get in the water, after all when it is over 100° you had to cool off somehow.  However, I started to become more keenly aware that I was really the bait in the water.  Somehow, being at the bottom of the food chain didn’t seem quite so appealing to me.  Therefore, I was less about swimming and more about tanning.  

    I would say that is still my stance on the beach now.  I will get in the water but only briefly to cool off.  And, my tanning has become much healthier with an umbrella & SPF50.  

    Time has not just changed my activities at the beach.  Time has changed the beach also.  I can’t recall the last time I found an intact sand dollar at the beach and the dunes are changing.  I wonder if my days of swimming were really affected by my fear of being eaten by a shark or by the lack of endless sand dollars?  Was my fun removed from the ocean and therefore led me to realize the millions of fish swimming between my legs?  Could it be that as my cousins either moved away or began college that my experiences at the beach started to change?  How does life get so busy that we forget to meet once a year and have fun?  Could it be that my changed attitude for the ocean is really a grieving process for the lost moments with my cousins?  

    Maybe what I really want is not necessarily swimming to exhaustion but rather the time together with my cousins.  To create new memories with them that include my “grown-up” family.  For my daughter to fondly recall playing on the beach with her cousins and playing card games with us grown-ups.  And while two of us no longer live near the beach, couldn’t we still create these memories once a year?  Wouldn’t that strengthen our bond?  

    The beach is our common ground.  It’s still there.  It didn’t leave us, we left it.  It still wants our company.  There are a million excuses why we don’t meet once a year ... but only one that matters.  We don’t make the time for each other.  If the beach can’t bring us together, what will?  

Daisies

Daisies

    I used to travel all over the US with my job.  It was always an adventure to say the least.  After my daughter was born, I began keeping a journal for her.  Each flight, I wrote to her.  I began the journal when she was about eight months old.  The first two years I kept the journal regularly as I traveled frequently.  When I left the job and the travel behind, I also became quite slack with writing to my daughter.  Recently, I picked up the journal and read the first few months of entries.

    I’ve said many times how influential my Grandparents were in my life.  I often feel that I don’t convey their personalities and memories to my daughter as true as they were for me.  How do I put into words the many wonderful things they did for me?  How do I recreate those feelings for her?

    In rural SC, most folks have wells for water.  It’s a common sight to see a well pump house in a yard of country homes.  In my memories I see a well with beautiful daisies surrounding it.  I think that daisies were the first flower that I remember loving.  I see them and the association is instant.  

    My Grandfather Duncan was a stern man.  He stood tall and intimidating.  I wasn’t his favorite grandchild.  He didn’t show love like my other grandparents.  But his love was felt none the less.  There are few times that I can recall moments with him where he really showed me his love.  

    I was a little girl ... maybe five or six.  I’m out in the pecan trees playing.  I see the daisies and I’m attracted to their pretty white flowers with the yellow center.  They are abundant and wild.  I decided to pick a flower and examine it more closely.  Not long after I pick it, Granddaddy Duncan walks around the corner.  He sits on the grass with me and tells me about the daisy flower.  He shows me how to pick each flower petal to find out if “someone loves me” or “loves me not”.  So, I go through the petals and luckily, Granddaddy did love me on the last petal.  

    I was 15 when my Granddaddy Duncan passed away with lung cancer.  It was the first time I had experienced the loss of someone close to me.  It was my first death that was handed to me by the brutal hands of cancer.  I think losing someone to cancer is a lot like daisy petals.  One petal they get the bad news.  One petal they decide to fight.  If “someone loves me”, one petal and they may beat cancer.  The next several petals are years waiting and praying that with each new year they are one petal closer to truly being cancer free.  Or if “someone loves me not”, one petal may be the news that treatments are not working.  The next several petals are telling your family your time is near.  Trying to keep comfortable and painless.  Till one day, that last petal falls off and it’s over.  

    That’s the thing about daisies ... even when all the petals fall off, there is still a bright yellow center.  So for me, the center is God’s way of reminding me that even though my petals are gone, he is not.  My Granddaddy Duncan’s life on earth may have ended, but he is home now.  He went from the last petal to the bright, yellow center and is now by God’s side.  

    I know that every time I look at a daisy, I think of him.  And, it’s in these small memories that I find myself sharing with Ashton bits and pieces of her wonderful great-grandparents.  On March 25, 2005, I wrote: “I bought you several presents while in Indy ... a cool pair of sandals with a daisy on them ... I love daisies.  They remind me of Grandaddy Duncan.  He was Grandma’s Dad.  He grew a bed of them by his well.  They were always pretty and I have a vivid image of them from my childhood.”  One day she will read this journal.  One day, she will have the same image in her head that I have in mine.  One day, she will think about him.  

    And, one day when she looks at a picture of him, she will think of beautiful daisies.  And from that moment on, his life will always be remembered when she picks a  daisy out of the yard.  And, when that last petal falls, she will know that she is loved.

Anniversary

Anniversary

    Merriam-Webster defines an anniversary as “the annual recurrence of a date marking a notable event”.  I think that in general when one mentions the word anniversary, most people often think of a wonderful memory of a first date or wedding.  I would guess that unless you had a tragic event in your life the word anniversary does not evoke a painful memory when first heard.  

    I was very fortunate in my life to have two wonderful Grandmothers.  Both of them were instrumental in my life and shaped the person that I am today.  I find myself thinking of their advice on numerous occasions.  I often think of how happy my Grandmother Alice would be to know that I have been able to use a sewing machine to make things that do resemble what I started out to make.  Or how my Grandmother Dorothy would be amazed that there are some dishes that I can master in a kitchen.  When I graduated with my Masters, I could not help but think of their encouragement as I went through undergrad.  Both of my Grandmothers never doubted my ability - even when I did.  As I walked across the stage, I could feel their presence shining down on me.  

    I’ve attended three funerals within the last month.  As we walked the cemetery of the latest funeral, we stopped at Franklin’s Grandmother’s grave.  The grave read, “November 29, 2005”.  Franklin’s brother said, “It’s hard to believe that it’s been five years since Nanny died”.  This takes me back a week to a conversation with my Mother.  During our normal conversation, my Mother starts crying.  I’m clueless ... she couldn’t possibly be crying about what we had just said.   

    I’m at my parents house.  I can see through the window pane streaks of sunlight.  I go back around 15 years.  Under the window is my twin bed.  It holds a white and green checked quilt with a few scattered squares of a design with a little girl with red hair.  My Grandmother Alice made the quilt for me.  I thought it was the prettiest quilt I had ever seen.  The quilt kept me warm and made me feel safe - kinda like my Grandmothers did.  

    As the sun peaks through the window, I realize my safety blanket is about to leave me.  No longer am I a little girl and I am abruptly faced with the reality that my Grandmothers are not immortal.  Their death is a sharp realization that I’m on my own.  I don’t have them to guide me.  I’m not quite ready to face this loss.  But will I ever be?

    Both of my Grandmothers died in the winter.  They both died in the same room.  Under the window where my twin bed used to be.  I vividly remember the day.  The long weekend that ensued and feeling like the life had been sucked out of me.  However, I can’t figure out why my Mother is crying.  I don’t recognize the anniversary of my Grandmother Dorothy’s death.  

    I think about my Grandmothers on a daily basis.  I seek their guidance by following their examples.  I cry out to them in my dreams.  I pray they protect my daughter.  Losing time with them is my greatest disappointment in life.  But I don’t think about their death.  I have not visited their graves.  I don’t know what this means.  

    One of my dearest friends from college lost his Father last year.  It was such a difficult time.  As a friend, my heart broke for him and his family.  As a daughter, my heart realized my own fears of losing my parents.  We are approaching a year since his Father passed away.  Will that day define his memories?  

    I like the word anniversary bringing a happy memory to mind.  I don’t want to think about the day my Grandmothers died.  I want to think about the many days that they lived.  Or am I just still somewhat in denial?  Could it be that if I don’t think about it, it makes it less of a reality?  I mean, I know they are not here physically.  I know they won’t come back to this life.  But I hold true to my belief that I will see them again in Heaven.  So, do I need to remember the day they died?  Can it just be a season for me?  Can I just know that in winter I lost them?  Can I just be happy keeping them alive in my daily life?  Is it disrespectful to not remember the anniversary of their death?  After all, it was only a physical death and their spirit is still alive in me, in my memories and in special moments with my daughter.  

    Their death was a notable event in my life.  But it’s not an anniversary to me.  Every time I hear Amazing Grace I see their faces.  Every time the peach trees bloom, I smell my Grandmother Dorothy’s peach cobbler.  Every time I feel lost and pray, I hear my Grandmother Alice’s gospel sermon.  Every time ... every time ... every time ... not a day goes by that I don’t think of them.  Some days I cry, others I laugh.  But for me, each day is an anniversary of my memories with them.  And that by far outweighs the anniversary of their deaths.    

Graduation

Graduation

    I recently received my Masters degree from Clemson.  I remember as an undergrad I didn’t care to walk the stage.  It seemed a boring task for me.  But I was first generation in my family to graduate from college and it was important for my parents that I walk.  With my Masters, it was different.  I’m more mature now and I really put 110% into the program.  I worked hard for two years, sacrificing many things, including my family, to graduate with a 3.88 out of 4.00.  (dang statistics ruining my 4.0!!)  I wanted to walk.  I wanted to walk for quite a few reasons.

    I wanted my daughter to see me walk across the stage.  She was about two weeks shy of seven when I walked the stage.  I wanted that image planted in her head.  She knew the amount of work I put into school.  There were many nights that she cried asking me to put the computer down and read to her.  The 20-page paper was due the next day, I couldn’t put the computer down.  There were many nights that I cried thinking I took on too much, I couldn’t possibly be successful.  There were many fights with my husband as he had to pick up the slack while I did school work.  I wanted her to see how the hard work paid off.  I wanted her to have that feeling of pride as she watched her mother cross the stage.  I wanted her to recognize the importance of education and life-long learning.

    I was part of an online graduate program.  My cohort had the opportunity to meet on campus twice throughout the program.  I am still amazed at the mutual respect and collaboration that was built over the last two years in the program.  I made very good friends that I know will always be a part of my life.  We all worked so hard and while not all of us could make the December graduation, for those of us that did, it was an amazing experience.  We worked really hard as a team and to share that moment with them was invaluable.  It was important for us to be together and walk.  

    I’ve been asked numerous times how it feels to be a graduate.  I’ve been thinking about this since November when I presented my Masters Research Project and received such positive feedback from my committee.  I think that is when it hit me that I did it.  I made it.  I was going to graduate.  I can’t really explain how it feels to be a graduate.  I try to put into words how I feel.  I can’t find the words.  Suddenly, I am quiet.  

    I’m sitting in the middle of Littlejohn Coliseum.  There are hundreds of students with black gowns and graduation caps on.  I’m thinking about my life since I left Clemson 13 years earlier.  I made a promise to myself that day in December 1997 that I would get a Masters degree.  I wanted that for myself.  I wanted to know that I could do it.  I wanted to know that I was smart enough.  

    I started graduate school at USC straight out of undergrad.  I didn’t really know what to do so why not?  But the problem with starting graduate school with no real plan is that it just becomes a huge liability on your time and wallet.  And, let’s face it, for someone whose blood runs orange, I couldn’t possibly have a degree from USC and be proud.  So, I stopped school and went on with my life.  Always searching for that one program that would be the one.  

    I made the decision to leave my career at the top of my game.  I had exceeded and maybe even shattered everyone’s expectations of what I could accomplish at the company.  I made the decision because the career, while completely amazing and fun, took me away from home on a regular basis and my baby was suffering.  It was during this time that I found my graduate program.  It was a perfect fit.  I was very interested in the curriculum, it was family friendly, and it was through Clemson.  Finally, 10 years after quitting graduate school, I was beginning a new graduate program with a purpose and a plan.  

    Here I sit, in the middle of the Coliseum, looking around me.  My excitement boiling over.  The realization that not only did I do it, I did it damn well.  I look through the crowd till I find my parents.  Then I spot Ashton & Franklin.  It has come full circle.  My little girl is in the crowd jumping up and down, waving to me.  She sees me.  She sees me.  She sees me.  It hits me.

    Every feeling I have right at this minute (pride, accomplishment, relief, etc), is nothing compared to the pride I see in her face looking at me.  She is proud of me.  

    What does it feel like to be a graduate?  I made a significant, positive impact on my daughter and it feels great!

Protection

Protection

    I remember the day the Challenger blew up.  I was watching it on TV while in middle school.  It was the first time anything like that had happened in schools.  I don’t recall initially realizing that it blew up but it was very clear from the teacher’s face that something was wrong.  Soon the Principal came over the loud speaker & instructed the teachers to turn off the TVs.  

    I often wonder why adults feel the need to protect children from tragic or sad events in life.  When does the child have the right to know the truth?  Why do parents get to make that decision?  I realize that some events, like 9/11, are hard to explain and could even scare small children, however in today’s information crazy society, children are going to find out regardless of whether you try to protect them - isn’t it better to tell them yourself so that you can answer their questions?    

    It is not always a tragic event that we try to protect children from though.  The simple act of sickness and death is often underplayed to children - even adult children - by parents.  I think back to my own experiences.  When my beloved Grandmother Alice was dying, I received a call from my Mom asking if I was coming home from Clemson for the weekend for my Dad’s birthday.  She never mentioned my Grandmother was dying.  I could have left on Thursday afternoon instead I left late Friday and got home late Friday night.  By the time I arrived home, she was unresponsive.  I never got to say Good-bye.  I was robbed of that moment because my parents felt I should be protected from the truth.  They thought I would be too upset to drive home.  Instead, I live daily with heartache knowing I never got to say good-bye.  

    My husband had the same experience.  When his Grandfather died, we didn’t receive a call till after 11AM - even though he had been rushed to the hospital at 7:30AM.  By the time we realized how grave it was, my husband didn’t have time to get to the hospital.  He didn’t get to say good-bye.  He’s a man.  He will never admit that it bothered him.  But I saw it in his eyes.  

    Is it a generational thing?  Do baby boomers feel they have to protect their children from bad news?  Were they protected as well?  Does the cycle continue through generations?  When do we decide that the cycle has to stop?  When do children get the right to make their own decision of whether they want to leave college or work to say good-bye to their grandparents?  

    Maybe for some they like being sheltered.  Maybe they don’t want to be around death and just prefer to say their good-byes silently in their hearts.  If only death were that easy.  One day we will all be faced with the decisions involved with death.  When that time comes, will we try to protect also?  

    I know that I have stopped the cycle in my family.  My Mom calls me now when the bird is missing and hasn’t returned to its nest.  Ok ... I am exaggerating ... but I made my point with my Mom.  She understands that I want the right to make that decision.  And, she has respected that and upheld her end of the bargain.

    I would say that protection causes more confusion for children than actual protection.  Children are quite intelligent and they can sense that something isn’t right.  They realize that adults are whispering and their eyes are red.  They can pick up that someone is missing from the room.  Can you imagine their confusion when they are told “Everything is ok.  Everything is ok.  Everything is ok.”?  It’s not ok.  Suddenly because they are told everything is fine, death becomes scary.  Death is inevitable.  There is no need to hide it from children.  They have the most unique and wonderful view of death.  Heaven is a glorious place for a child.  Their simplistic view can make all of us realize that death is really a beginning.

    Recently, a friend’s Grandmother passed away.  When she was explaining to her three year old what happened, the toddler said, “Mommy, don’t cry.  Granny can play with Bailey now in heaven!”  Bailey was their black lab that passed last year.  What a wonderful perspective!  

    We think we are protecting our children from death’s sad truth but the reality is we are robbing ourselves.  We are robbing ourselves from really seeing the true beauty in death - at that moment when it occurs.  We rob ourselves of remembering - at that moment - that there’s a sweet lab wagging his tail & jumping up & down because Granny just walked through the gates to play with him.  

    Remember this next time you feel you should protect a child from death.  Whether it is a loved one or a national tragedy, don’t rob yourself of the simplistic view of a child.  

Perspective

I actually wrote something else but after the week I had, I decided to post this instead.  I'll add the other blog next week.

Perspective

Isn’t it true that a situation can be so different when looking at it from a different perspective?  How often do you find yourself completely absorbed in your own situation only to turn the corner and see one that is by far much more compelling?  I had that experience this week.

Ashton had her seven-year well visit on Wednesday.  Right as her appointment was ending, the Doctor mentioned checking her cholesterol.  I thought that quite odd and he wavered on whether it was really necessary.  Then the dreaded words that I hate to hear, “I only really check it at this age if the parents have high cholesterol and there is a family history of heart disease”.  So, here we go down this long road of trying to outsmart our cursed family genes.  

I am still in amazement at how much I can worry about Ashton.  I realize that may seem strange but for someone that never thought she would have children, it still surprises me the angst that I feel for her health and future.  I realize, all too well, that life is not a guarantee and her good health now may not last forever.  I don’t want to sound all gloomy, I do look at the glass half full, but when you yourself have almost died, it’s hard not to think about tragedy.  

While Franklin is a relatively healthy guy, I on the other hand have had my fair share of medical experiments on my body.  So far, Ashton had defied the odds and made it to age seven completely healthy and by-passing the three surgeries I had by age seven.  I was starting to believe that she would be the lucky one that took after her Dad and not endure numerous medical problems.  Well ... at least she made it seven years.

So here I sit and think about what the test results will mean for Ashton.  It is not life-threatening but it could be, and likely will be, a life-long problem that she will have to manage.  From where I sit, this was a really stressful day.  I worry about what it means down the road for her.  I worry about how I will handle it without giving her a complex and thinking that something is wrong with her.  I worry about the research and how there is not very much in regards to healthy children with this problem.  What does that mean for her?  Is there reliable evidence of what our next steps should be?  From my perspective, this is a shocking blow for my healthy girl.

Waking up from a stressful night of little sleep, I turn on The Today Show.  I hear about a little girl that was diagnosed with a rare form of breast cancer at age three.  She had to have a mastectomy.  Talk about a change of perspective.  Thank you God for reminding me that even small problems in our health are not a reason to stop trusting you.  

Now I sit and think that while this could be a life-long problem for Ashton, it is manageable.  And managing it can prevent heart disease.  We can outsmart those family genes!  And, imagine the advancements in medicine that could occur in her lifetime!  All I really need to do is stay on top of it and evaluate it regularly so that we can make sure we are giving her the best chances of entering adulthood without problems.  

And I need to remember that I am fortunate and blessed with Ashton.  I need to remember to put my stress in perspective and channel it into prayers for others.    I need to remember to be thankful that even though there is a problem, it is manageable and not life-threatening.  It really could be so much worse.

While I realize that putting things into perspective should come naturally, often times it doesn’t.  I pray daily that God will help me keep His perspective in all that I do.  Most importantly, I pray that it is He that keeps my perspective in check and not waking up to hear of something much worse than my own problems.  I’m happy to report the little girl is doing well and has a very good chance of life-long health.  

I’ll end on that note.  

Robbed of Excitement

Robbed of Excitement

 Somehow, it seems almost overnight, my beautiful niece is on the verge of getting her drivers license.  I can see the excitement in her eyes, hear it in her voice.  I had that same excitement leading up to my 15th birthday.  

 Life has a funny way of robbing us of excitement sometimes.  Like now.  I want to be happy for her.  I want to be excited for her.  But I see pass the excitement.  I see a room with a curtain and a machine that has a bubble that moves up and down pumping oxygen into my body.  I see my Mother’s face.  

 When you are a teenager you don’t believe that anything can happen to you.  You most certainly have to be invincible.  The bad stuff only happens in the movies.  It’s not going to visit your doorstep.  

 But what if it does?  And how does it really affect your life?  I often visit two of my favorite places in SC: Charleston and Clemson.  Each being around two hours from my home.  Often times as I am driving I recognize that I am gripping the wheel so tight that my knuckles are almost white.  I have to take a deep breath and relax my hands.  It’s been 20 years and I still feel completely vulnerable in a car.

 Car accidents happen every day.  Some are minor and some bring complete devastation to a family.  Mine was devastation.  I’ve been a Mom for seven years now.  Often times I think back to that time.  Those first 72 hours.  How did my Mom survive?  I look at my little girl and can’t imagine the pain my Mother must have felt during each hour watching a machine breathing for me.  Waiting.  Waiting.  

 I survived.  I have a vivd scar to remind me daily of my survival.  But with that survival comes the robbery of excitement.  I mean, should I really whine about it?  After all, isn’t that a small price to pay for survival?  Could I sound any more greedy?

 Maybe.  Maybe not.  Maybe the feeling of being robbed is really a disguise.  Maybe, just maybe, it is because I know that my niece is not invincible.  Maybe it’s because I know that I can tell her that but I don’t know if she will hear it.  And, maybe, that is really what is stolen from me.  The fear.  The fear that she will not hear me.  

 When my daughter was born, I kissed her every time after I buckled her up.  It was my semi-conscious way of hoping that if something were to happen in the car, my last act to her would have been a kiss.  But my niece is almost two hours away from me.  I can’t kiss her every time she gets behind the wheel.  And, as I truly know, I don’t get to make the decision on her fate.  There is a much higher power that will call her home when He is ready.  

 So I wonder ... will I always have this fear?  Will it ever subside?  Will I ever truly feel like a survivor?  What lesson am I teaching my niece by letting fear control me?  Maybe the real lesson isn’t being robbed of sharing her excitement but rather not letting survival triumph.  Maybe the fear will subside if I can just know that it’s ok to be a survivor.

Memories

Memory

Often times I reminisce about different times in my life.  The friends I’ve made, the birthdays I’ve celebrated, the weddings ... you know those times.  Most often a song takes me back to that particular time.  As Kenny Chesney sings, “When I hear that song, I go back”.  

But are there other moments that take you back?  Are there memories etched in your mind that when you see something from them you go back?  I think about my childhood often.  I was very blessed and had a happy and safe childhood.  There are many memories that I fondly recall.  Some more than others.  Some show up when least expected.

Like when I first went to visit my husband’s Grandparents (Nanny & Papa) at their Lexington home.  They have beautiful pecan trees in their front and back yards.  I believe it was winter when I first visited so I didn’t think too much about the trees.  I know what a tree is, but aside from the obvious variations, I can’t tell you a pecan tree from an elm tree, especially in the dead of winter.  However, as the seasons changed and I visited more often, the first signs of Spring were the big pecan trees blooming with large green leaves.  

Suddenly, I was standing in the middle of two rows of towering pecan trees and I was around seven years old.  There were picnic tables with red plaid tablecloths.  Signs of Summer were all around.  It was hot and HUMID!  Balloons were tied to chairs.  There was a big box wrapped with a bow on top and a large cake that read, “Happy Birthday Grandaddy & Karen”.  I didn’t share the same birthday as my Grandfather but we were real close.  He was born on July 3 and I was born on July 4.  I always loved our shared birthday cakes.  

This particular birthday celebration was held at their property which adjoined my Great-Grandmother’s property.  The pecan orchid, if you will, was the buffer between the two properties.  Technically, I believe the property belonged to my Great-Grandmother, Granny Veno, as I called her.  However, as you know, with family property there is often no lines so to me as a child, the row of strong pecan trees was my imaginary line to cross over to Granny Veno’s place.  

For a small child, the trees were massive and fun to climb.  I can remember sitting on a branch and thinking what a great life I had.  I remember thinking that one day, I would bring my kids there ... wait ... who are we kidding ... I didn’t want kids till I literally had Ashton!  Anyways ... the pecans were the best.  We would gather them up and spend  hours cracking and shelling them for Granny Dorothy to put away.  Some days, I think we ate as many as we put away.  Nothing is better than a fresh pecan ... especially when you work so hard to get to it.

Isn’t that how we often think of birthdays?  As a child, we anxiously await each new year so that we can be one year older and one year closer to an adult.  One year closer to confirming that we really do know everything.  We mark each day off the calendar impatiently waiting till the big day!  Then, as an adult, we try really hard to ignore the fact that 25 is coming or that we’ve turned 30 and moved to a new check box on surveys.  Or for me last year, I turned 36 and moved into a different age category for races that I run.  Does that mean I might have a better chance of placing??  And, now 40 is looming closer than ever. 

So as I sit here in the dead of winter, 40 seems scary and unwelcome.  But I know that when Spring arrives and the pecan trees at Papa’s start to bloom, I will be reminded of the many wonderful times in my life.  Those moments that flash back during the middle of the day or that I tell my daughter about when she asks for a bed time story.  And, the one particular birthday when there was a big box with a bow on it when I was seven in the middle of two looming rows of pecan trees.  My sheer excitement and joy when I opened the box to find I was now the proud Mom of Faye Diana, my first Cabbage Patch doll.  

Oh she was a beauty.  Brown, curly hair with freckles.  She had a beautiful pink dress with pink bloomers.  My Grandmother Alice made the dress.  She was down with my Papa from Georgia for my birthday.  The doll was so special.  You see, my Grandmother Alice lived in Cleveland, GA which is home to Cabbage Patch General Hospital (where all the Cabbage Patch dolls are born).  She worked with Xavier Roberts  (creator of Cabbage Patch dolls) to make doll clothes for the showroom.  My Cabbage Patch doll is not stamped but has Xavier Roberts actual signature on it.  It was a dream come true for me at seven!  

I remember dancing through the pecan trees with Faye Diana so excited to show her my world.  We climbed trees and talked to the Moon.  We played games and she protected me at night while I slept.  I still have Faye Diana.  Ashton found her a few years ago.  She’s not allowed to play with her now but one day, she will have her.  And, with Faye Diana, comes the memory, the moment, of that glorious summer day in the middle of the pecan orchid where my dreams came true.

I love songs, love the memories they invoke.  But I think we often get so busy that we forget to take a few minutes to look around.  I urge you to do so next time you are out and about.  You never know what great moment will pop into your head and brighten your day.   

My Blog

I'm always late to jump on the latest trends in electronic communications.  Over the last two years I have been fine tuning my writing skills and finally feel like I can write something that may have interest to my friends and family.  So here goes ... hope you enjoy!