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!