Be The Match Marrowthon: June 8-22, 2009

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Happy Birthday, David!

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...

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?

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.

Egg Blot Test

Tonight as I fried up some eggs on my skillet for breakfast supper, I was amused to see this shape staring back at me, but I am wondering if it is just my own little eyes who think they see what they think they see. Please share your impressions...

Phenomenon

Does anyone know what it is that happens to mattresses in the wee twilight hours of every Sunday morn in which they transform into the dreamiest slumbering surface imaginable, making it all but impossible for their occupants to rise in time to attend church?

If anyone knows, or has experienced this phenomenon also, please do let me know.

I am pleased to proclaim that I did make it to church this morning, and on time I might add, but mainly because I had nursery duty which carries nearly the weight of jury duty in our particular parish, otherwise I very well may have been swallowed up by my very own Serta.

TGFG

Thank goodness for Grandma's...

...Who turn "maybe later's" into reality right NOW...

...Who understand that while Mom's are busy complaining on their blogs,
kids just wanna have FUN!

The thought of nibbling a chocolate rodent is a little creepy,
but I am certainly NOT complaining about THAT!

Thanks, Mom!

Mommmmm

I know there will come a day when I will miss having every sentence I hear from dawn to dusk out of the mouth of my babes begin with "Mommmmm" and quickly followed with the blow of yet another request or demand, but right now I just can't imagine that day.

"Mom, LOOK...Mom, watch this...Mom, he kicked me in the butt...Mom, can we make cookies today, you said...Mom, will you sit with me?...Mom, can I sleep on your floor tonight?...Mom, maybe later if we...can we...after that if it's not snowing can you take us...maybe if Dad gets home in time can we...Mom, you said yesterday that if...so can we now....can we later...can we maybe...maybe if we do maybe can they come too...Mom, how come you never let anyone come over...Mom, why did you get her three and me only one...Mom, you never...MOMMMM you always...Mom, what are we having for dinner tonight...You KNOW I HATE that...Where do you think we will go on vacation this year?...Do you think we'll ever go to Disney again?...Mom, I don't think people like my drawings and people don't play with me at recess...Mom, what does this mean?...Can I go on the computer?...Mom, after he's done can I go on?...Mom, can I order a online...you said...how do I...will you show me...where is my...maybe after David goes to bed maybe can we go to the rec center...Mommmmm, what are we going to do today anyway...are we even going to do ANYTHING?!"

And this was all before I was out of bed this morning. Okay, not literally, but it felt like it.

Kool Aid

I love learning new words. Always have. I have subscribed to Webster.com's word of the day. I grew up with It Pays to Enrich Your Word Power. I keep a notepad handy when reading anything, and frequently make mental notes throughout my day of words and pop culture phrases to dissect and define at a later time. Trashy as it may be, a richly valuable resource I have repeatedly referred to is urbandictionary.com. Just yesterday I was baffled when I heard "kool aid" used in a context which sounded very much as if it meant someone's girlfriend. So quickly I hit the bookmarked site to discover that indeed...

Kool aid: In the deepest parts of the hood--can be meant as a metaphor for someone's personal business...A man's personal business. Specifically his girl.

"You best be steppin' off! Why you all up in my kool aid?"..."Back off my kool aid!"

I likely will never have occasion to use this gem, but at least now I know.

Name Game

"Boys in the United States with common names like Michael and David are less likely to commit crimes than those named Ernest or Ivan." (Full Article)

Good news for all the David's in our life, and our uncle Michael Jackson, but yeaaah...I'm concerned about my dad, Elmwood. And what about Evan? And what about my friend's brother whose name is David Michael Ernie? Can the two former good names redeem the latter? Is there any hope?

Jukebox Hero

You know you are old when you totally rock out to the Foreigner concert aired on public television on a Friday night and consider it quality entertainment.

"I am the ice cream man...running over little kids in my van!" ~As sung by Grant D. Morris to the tune of Iron Man by Black Sabbath

Street Swagger

Here's my entry for yesterday: There are some days in motherhood when I feel as if my brain cells are literally falling from my ears landing where'er they may all about my house, much like socks dropping from my armload of fresh, warm laundry as I walk from the dryer to my bed to fold it, dropping a few more each time I bend over to gather the lost pieces, but then there are days when I am SO stinkin' magnificently brilliant that I swear I must have some of Rhonda Randall's blood running through my veins...and then I remember that I kind of do!

Just giving a shout out to my Street peeps, but only the SMART ones...the less mentally endowed need not respond. =) Abram's and Hazen's shall be recognized another day. But raise your hand if you love Busch beer and NASCAR! Here, here!

Another element I would like to include in my blog this year, on the days I actually write, is a quote at the end of each entry: either something I have read or something that has been said in my presence that day. Thanks for the idea, DL. And maybe I will get better at posting on the day it happened rather than the morning after. Maybe.

"But I knew one thing: I knew silence, which like an exotic poison - odorless, tasteless - brings a subtle madness to the victim." ~The Story of a Marriage by Andrew Sean Greer

Distilled Goodness

U.S. News and World Report suggests keeping a simple diary as #20 in the "50 Ways to Improve Your Life in 2009" cover story.

"Distill your day's experiences into a single sentence each day. Call it a "clothes hanger" journal: It provides a framework on which to hang the larger raiments of memory. A few well-chosen words can transport you back to where you were days or years ago. And-if you're persistent-it can show you the shape of your life over time."

I absolutely adore this idea! Unfortunately since I am not and never will be a woman of few words, and because I have so much clutter littering my mental landscape, and because so much happens in a "typical" day this task seems overwhelmingly daunting.

So yesterday's distilled entry could have read something like this, "Detroit is a scary place and I am glad I do not have to live there or get accosted by the butch half of an African-American pregnant lesbian couple or the the socket wrench-wielding man at the stoplight."

If I could condense it further, and if I were a better word weaver, perhaps I could find a way to also include that I really enjoy days that my mother keeps David; I don't enjoy cleansing melted chocolate from the entire contents of my purse, including my iPod, in a public restroom; I wish someone would just confess to putting their fundraiser packet in the fridge in order to ensure it grabbed my attention fully; Enchilada soup isn't nearly as good in the crockpot; and that was a reeeeeeally good book I started reading before bed last night.

A Long Good-Bye

Today it's been a year. Already. It doesn't seem possible...and all those other cliches. What can even be said that hasn't been said? Thought that hasn't been thought? Felt that hasn't been felt? We love you, Mom, and miss you dearly!