March 2010Why didn't I think of this years ago?
Friday, April 02, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Pea Soup, Liver, and Cornbread
I don't remember many birthday gifts I received as a child. A few that do stand out in my mind are a set of Snoopy bedsheets and a stuffed Snoopy for my 5th birthday, a Pink and Pretty Barbie for my 9th birthday, and my prized brown leather bomber jacket for my 16th. The following year I received a state of the art boom box complete with cassette dubbing capabilities, and if I am not mistaken, for my 18th birthday I received my first pair of real Keds, noteworthy only among aspiring fashionistas such as myself, which went nicely with my culottes and would serve as my Holy Land-trekking foot attire the following February.
I also don't remember having birthday parties except for my 5th, though there may have been others. Because my birthday is between Christmas and New Years, I never even got to partake of the grade school gloriousness of donning the coveted birthday crown and passing out cupcakes to my classmates. I guess teachers hadn't yet thought of the idea of choosing an alternate day to celebrate the birthdays which fell during school breaks, or at least none of mine had.
What I do remember about my childhood birthdays, however, was how important my mother made me, and each of us, feel on our special day. Birthdays at our house were a big deal!
The life of the birthday person was truly celebrated with luxuries that ranged from special foods of our choosing, to deciding how the day would be spent, to being excused from all normal menial chores, to the unveiling of our highly anticipated birthday cakes which my mother homemade and custom-decorated. This was one of her parenting specialties.
Honestly, I don't remember many of my cakes either, or many of the other details of the day, but for three consecutive years - ages 4, 5, and 6 - I do recall my mother's compliance with my menu request for pea soup, liver, and cornbread as my birthday dinner.
Because of the timing of my "holiday" birthday, there was huge potential risk for my receiving diminished special treatment, but this was never the case at home. The efforts my mother put into making things "special" have made an indelible impression on my memory.
To this day, when I take the first bite of a hot piece of cornbread slathered with butter or hold Snoopy's gaze for just a little too long, I feel a tightness in my chest and a lump in my throat. They are iconic images that evoke a strong sense of nostalgia and connection to my family of origin.
With four children of my own now, I have been striving to carry on this tradition and make it one of my own specialties to create enduring memories of simple luxuries and family connectedness, and not of extravagant hoopala that is all too quickly forgotten.
Yesterday my youngest celebrated his 3rd birthday. As I frosted his American flag/Thomas the Tank Engine cake - because that is what he had requested - it occurred to me that this was my 31st opportunity to make such a mark on the collective memory of my children. As I see them genuinely excited to celebrate the birth of their siblings and their gratitude over the smallest indulgences, along with the fanfare they create over our birthdays, I am pleased to say that teaching my children to celebrate birthdays is one thing I have done well in my parenting.
What are some of your fondest childhood birthday memories, and what are some of the birthday traditions you have established with your own children?
I also don't remember having birthday parties except for my 5th, though there may have been others. Because my birthday is between Christmas and New Years, I never even got to partake of the grade school gloriousness of donning the coveted birthday crown and passing out cupcakes to my classmates. I guess teachers hadn't yet thought of the idea of choosing an alternate day to celebrate the birthdays which fell during school breaks, or at least none of mine had.
What I do remember about my childhood birthdays, however, was how important my mother made me, and each of us, feel on our special day. Birthdays at our house were a big deal!
The life of the birthday person was truly celebrated with luxuries that ranged from special foods of our choosing, to deciding how the day would be spent, to being excused from all normal menial chores, to the unveiling of our highly anticipated birthday cakes which my mother homemade and custom-decorated. This was one of her parenting specialties.
Honestly, I don't remember many of my cakes either, or many of the other details of the day, but for three consecutive years - ages 4, 5, and 6 - I do recall my mother's compliance with my menu request for pea soup, liver, and cornbread as my birthday dinner.
Because of the timing of my "holiday" birthday, there was huge potential risk for my receiving diminished special treatment, but this was never the case at home. The efforts my mother put into making things "special" have made an indelible impression on my memory.
To this day, when I take the first bite of a hot piece of cornbread slathered with butter or hold Snoopy's gaze for just a little too long, I feel a tightness in my chest and a lump in my throat. They are iconic images that evoke a strong sense of nostalgia and connection to my family of origin.
With four children of my own now, I have been striving to carry on this tradition and make it one of my own specialties to create enduring memories of simple luxuries and family connectedness, and not of extravagant hoopala that is all too quickly forgotten.
Yesterday my youngest celebrated his 3rd birthday. As I frosted his American flag/Thomas the Tank Engine cake - because that is what he had requested - it occurred to me that this was my 31st opportunity to make such a mark on the collective memory of my children. As I see them genuinely excited to celebrate the birth of their siblings and their gratitude over the smallest indulgences, along with the fanfare they create over our birthdays, I am pleased to say that teaching my children to celebrate birthdays is one thing I have done well in my parenting.
What are some of your fondest childhood birthday memories, and what are some of the birthday traditions you have established with your own children?
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Be The Match Marrowthon: June 8-22, 2009
Use SYDNEY as a promo code so the number of people who join as a result of this message can be tracked. Kits are FREE until 46,000 new members have been added. You could be the ONE in 12 million match someone is searching for. YOU could save a life! It's FREE and PAINLESS! Please spread the word!
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Oh Gi Gosh!
It amazes me that my littlest lad is brave enough to climb the heights of the tallest slide unaccompanied, to balance on the arm of my computer chair and rock with no hands, or to mount the back of the loveseat in order to gain access to the thermostat and adjust it to his personal comfort level. This is the same boy who thinks nothing of stealthily climbing up the drawers of the kitchen cupboards to reach the countertop where the lunchboxes of his older siblings and father are lined up, partially packed for the next day and methodically unwrapping their contents to partake of just a bite or two of each. This is the boy who can watch his own blood being drawn without shedding a tear until the needle is removed. Yes, he's nearly fearless except for when it comes to being in the tub with his own floating sock fuzz. I don't know what his little eyes think they see, but at first sight of it he scales the wall in terror while shrieking his now famous line, "Oh gi GOSH!" which he uses frequently and appropriately in context! Ranking second to his fear of the killer sock fuzz is that of our Associate Pastor whose presence in our home once rendered him silent and motionless for a good 45 minutes. Oh gi GOSH!
This particular day he had just retrieved about half a container of takeout sweet and sour sauce from the trash and had his way with it in the living room. Actually I had just finished cleaning up at this point.
He's a little bit of what one might call a mold breaker when it comes to our children, but such a joy! When I am not cursing the current mess he is making, I thank God for him daily. He is healthy and even pleasant and polite sometimes. He consistently says AND signs "please" and "thank you," and rarely misses an opportunity to fold his chubby little paws to pray to "Ahsheesh," the God of the Jackson house.
I sure am glad he came to our house to live and not somebody else's...
This particular day he had just retrieved about half a container of takeout sweet and sour sauce from the trash and had his way with it in the living room. Actually I had just finished cleaning up at this point.
He's a little bit of what one might call a mold breaker when it comes to our children, but such a joy! When I am not cursing the current mess he is making, I thank God for him daily. He is healthy and even pleasant and polite sometimes. He consistently says AND signs "please" and "thank you," and rarely misses an opportunity to fold his chubby little paws to pray to "Ahsheesh," the God of the Jackson house.
I sure am glad he came to our house to live and not somebody else's...
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Pretend You're Happy When You're Blue
Today as I sat with a heart full of burdens, I was blessed by an unexpected visit from not one, but both of my parents. They were in town and stopped by hoping to catch an overdue visit with me, their "squeaky" little girl. As we talked about the happenings of the past week or two since we had last seen one another, my mother shared the details of my father's doctor's visit this afternoon. One point she had felt noteworthy enough to share with the doctor, and again with me, was that my father seems to be whistling and singing more these days than in recent months and years.
In one way it seems an odd thing to mention, but to those who know my father, his joyful jubilation through song and whistling was the essence of who he was. I say "was" because it hadn't even occurred to me that I hadn't heard either in a long, long time. Time and space and distance had separated the daily routine of our lives enough that I hadn't even missed it, much less questioned why it had ever stopped.
Growing up he always whistled while he worked. He would belt out songs of praise with great gusto as he split wood, hung drywall, made waffles on a Saturday morning, or prepared a sermon. Sometimes they were familiar hymns or Rick Fulton specials, but quite often they were songs that we had never even heard of, classics from his day, improvised with lyrics he made up for the ones he couldn't remember, or perhaps never even knew himself. For years I never knew that the second line to "Rain Drops Keep Falling on My Head" wasn't "I can't seem to get myself in bed".
After they left today, I sat and cried, but just a a little bit. It made me sad that a once so familiar and fond aspect of my childhood had almost been forgotten, yet overjoyed that it had not been lost forever. He can still whistle, and apparently still does. I am exceedingly glad for the joy that is still in his heart.
In an age and culture where it is so popular to criticize and question all methods used to parent you, I am reminded of all that my parents did right in raising me. Neither they, nor I, am perfect - not then and certainly not now, but I love them and I know that they love me.
After my tears had dried, I googled "Pretend You're Happy When You're Blue" and found the rest of the lyrics that I never remember hearing. I only remembered the title stanza followed by "The world is mine, it can be yours, my friend" soulfully crooned with the smooth, steady vibrato of my father's voice. I had never even realized it was sung by Nat King Cole.
Singing and whistling alone don't make a father good, but they were, and still are, an expression of emotion, and ultimately of his heart, that I will make certain I never forget...
Pretend you're happy when you're blue
It isn't very hard to do
And you'll find happiness without an end
Whenever you pretend
Remember anyone can dream
And nothing's bad as it may seem
The little things you haven't got
Could be a lot if you pretend
You'll find a love you can share
One you can call all your own
Just close your eyes, she'll be there
You'll never be alone
And if you sing this melody
You'll be pretending just like me
The world is mine, it can be yours, my friend
So why don't you pretend?
In one way it seems an odd thing to mention, but to those who know my father, his joyful jubilation through song and whistling was the essence of who he was. I say "was" because it hadn't even occurred to me that I hadn't heard either in a long, long time. Time and space and distance had separated the daily routine of our lives enough that I hadn't even missed it, much less questioned why it had ever stopped.
Growing up he always whistled while he worked. He would belt out songs of praise with great gusto as he split wood, hung drywall, made waffles on a Saturday morning, or prepared a sermon. Sometimes they were familiar hymns or Rick Fulton specials, but quite often they were songs that we had never even heard of, classics from his day, improvised with lyrics he made up for the ones he couldn't remember, or perhaps never even knew himself. For years I never knew that the second line to "Rain Drops Keep Falling on My Head" wasn't "I can't seem to get myself in bed".
After they left today, I sat and cried, but just a a little bit. It made me sad that a once so familiar and fond aspect of my childhood had almost been forgotten, yet overjoyed that it had not been lost forever. He can still whistle, and apparently still does. I am exceedingly glad for the joy that is still in his heart.
In an age and culture where it is so popular to criticize and question all methods used to parent you, I am reminded of all that my parents did right in raising me. Neither they, nor I, am perfect - not then and certainly not now, but I love them and I know that they love me.
After my tears had dried, I googled "Pretend You're Happy When You're Blue" and found the rest of the lyrics that I never remember hearing. I only remembered the title stanza followed by "The world is mine, it can be yours, my friend" soulfully crooned with the smooth, steady vibrato of my father's voice. I had never even realized it was sung by Nat King Cole.
Singing and whistling alone don't make a father good, but they were, and still are, an expression of emotion, and ultimately of his heart, that I will make certain I never forget...
Pretend you're happy when you're blue
It isn't very hard to do
And you'll find happiness without an end
Whenever you pretend
Remember anyone can dream
And nothing's bad as it may seem
The little things you haven't got
Could be a lot if you pretend
You'll find a love you can share
One you can call all your own
Just close your eyes, she'll be there
You'll never be alone
And if you sing this melody
You'll be pretending just like me
The world is mine, it can be yours, my friend
So why don't you pretend?
Thursday, February 12, 2009
2Fer
Because I have been slacking I am going to bless you all with two fabulous quotes from this week...
#1 "You can't polish a turd!"
#2 "One of the most unsung heroes of the human body is the flap of tissue known as Epiglottis.
I just thought of one more which technically makes this a 3fer...
#3 "I have too much snot in my esophagus." by Grant Morris, age 7, which gave rise to the discussion that resulted in the previous quote.
#1 "You can't polish a turd!"
#2 "One of the most unsung heroes of the human body is the flap of tissue known as Epiglottis.
I just thought of one more which technically makes this a 3fer...
#3 "I have too much snot in my esophagus." by Grant Morris, age 7, which gave rise to the discussion that resulted in the previous quote.
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