For 40 years, the holidays started for me the week before Thanksgiving. It was a short work week, and I’d start packing on Monday for my one-and-a-half-hour trip to Jonesboro, Arkansas from Memphis. I couldn’t wait to get in the car and drive over one of Memphis’ two bridges crossing the Mighty Mississippi River.
I’d carefully plan what to wear on Thanksgiving Day with the family, and to church on Sunday morning. Saturday night after Thanksgiving we would always celebrate my birthday with a big dinner of Mom’s homemade chicken & dumplings, my favorite.
When Jim and I married in 1986, we split our time between his family and mine for the holidays, which made it even more special. Different traditions only added to the festive feeling and I happen to love turkey and dressing.
When we had children, packing became more complex. If you’ve ever traveled with infants and toddlers, you know what I mean. And, of course, they had to be dressed perfectly for the holiday pictures. Through those years, the packing and anticipation of the trip became part of the fun of the holiday.
When we moved here to Jonesboro in July 2019, I gave little thought to the holidays and focused on getting settled and helping Jim get started in real estate.
In November, when the subject of Thanksgiving came up, it occurred to me that there would be no packing and driving, no bridge crossing, no overnight stays. It’s a short 15-minute drive to my sister’s house, so if I forget something I can easily drive home and get it.
When I expressed this to Jim, he replied by offering to drive me to Memphis so we could drive across the bridge. Sometimes men really don’t get it, y’all. But it was a nice thought.
Change is a constant. I don’t fear it, I welcome it, because it always brings new experiences to enjoy and new insights.
If you take a close look at “Santa,” you’ll notice a family resemblance. That’s because Jim wore the Santa suit at our neighborhood party. We were hoping the girls wouldn’t notice.
I think as we age, the changes in our lives help us adapt to the challenges. I miss the days of young children and smocked dresses. I miss staying up late to finish matching sister outfits for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.
But I no longer have the energy to stay up late — this one-time night owl is now regularly in bed by 11:00 p.m. I’m too tired at the end of a day to spend hours preparing a full dinner. I’m thankful that I no longer have to worry about diapers, carseats, strollers, and the like — at least not until and unless I have grandchildren.
My mom, at 86, can no longer make the homemade chicken & dumplings, so we’ll do something different for my birthday. I really don’t care as long as we’re all together. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss the gathering around Mom’s dining room table and those yummy dumplings.
Our youngest, Sara Ann, is coming in from Little Rock, so she will be the one packing the car and driving. Elizabeth, our oldest, is in San Diego and can’t make it home. I’m still not used to having a member of our family absent on Thanksgiving.
Tonight, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, we’ll stay in our own home, prop up our feet and watch TV like a regular weeknight. And maybe toast the holiday with a nice glass of wine.
Then tomorrow we’ll pack up Artie (our puppy), an appetizer, and homemade cranberry salad and drive 15 minutes to my sister’s. And it’ll be a great day, except I’ll miss Elizabeth something fierce.
This was shortly after I tried to dye my hair purple. IDK what I was thinking. These are two of the few dresses I didn’t make for the girls. But I love velvet, so I couldn’t resist. My girls with their young twin cousins
I attended a Catholic school in first and second grade, a perfectly fine school. However, in Jonesboro, Arkansas at that time it was the only private school, and 99 percent of all of the children went to the public schools in town. They were creatively named North, South, East, and West, and I desperately wished I could attend one of them. I hated being different.
Our Lady of Jonesboro Catholic School* was small, with only one class in each grade, taught by nuns from the adjacent convent. I can only describe myself as possibly the worst Catholic school student in history.
Each morning we went to chapel. Girls were required to wear a veil on their heads, and I was fascinated with the many different designs and colors available. My parents probably spent a fortune on them, because no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t keep up with a chapel veil to save my poor scatterbrained soul. Thankfully, our teacher, Sister Ann*, kept a supply of extras for girls who had no veils, but I’m pretty sure I depleted her stock a couple of times that year, which did nothing to endear me to Sister Ann.
Sister Ann just didn’t like me, no matter what I did — I’m pretty sure I knew that, even at six. She didn’t like that I couldn’t keep up with my chapel veil, and she didn’t like that I didn’t like milk.
After my first day of school at Our Lady of Jonesboro, I knew I was in trouble and that first grade was going to be a long year. Apparently Sister Ann thought it was very important for little first graders to drink their milk. All of it. And lunch came with one of those small milk cartons that sat squarely in the very special milk-carton-shaped space in the lunch tray. I still hate those things.
Sister Ann would stand at the cafeteria’s exit, next to the trash can where all of the good children threw their empty milk cartons. The good children would crumple the top of their milk cartons into the bottom, signifying to Sister Ann that it was empty. She would look at them and smile and nod as they threw away their empty cartons and ran out to play. Good, nice, milk-drinking children.
I knew I’d be in trouble if she caught me with a full milk carton, so I would wait and watch for her to become distracted, then bolt to the door, pitch the milk and leave. But more often than not I was stuck at the door with Sister Ann. She would pick up my milk carton, shake it, and send me back to my seat to drink my milk. No smile. No nod. I tried to bash in the top to make it look empty, but they don’t bash all that well when they are mostly full. Once I tried just telling Sister Ann that I didn’t like milk. I was sent back to my seat to drink it anyway.
I began to develop strategies for disposing of the milk. By the second week of school, it dominated my entire lunch, as I searched out other kids who might drink my extra milk. As my welcome wore out with one group, they would finally tell me they were sick of drinking my milk, so I would move on in search of true milk lovers. No time for socializing, I had work to do. I had to get rid of that milk.
Soon I got the idea to mix the milk in with uneaten food. This meant I had to leave food uneaten, so there were a lot of hungry afternoons in school. Spaghetti was especially good for soaking up extra milk, and the rolls looked good, but I only used them for milk sponges.
I realize how obsessive this sounds; but the fact that I remember these thought processes means I had far too much anxiety as a six-year-old. I spent my entire first grade year in dread of lunchtime. All morning I’d be sick with worry over how I would deal with the milk and avoid Sister Ann’s reprisal. Then after lunch I could relax, only to do it again the next day.
I’m not sure why I never told my parents about the milk anxiety; I’m sure they would have done something to help. They weren’t milk drinkers either, and my dad really didn’t think it was that good for you. But I didn’t tell, and I spent my first year of school unnecessarily miserable about lunch. I made few friends because I spent lunchtime table hopping to find takers for my milk. I probably didn’t learn a thing in the classes before lunch, preoccupied as I was by lunch anxiety.
I also remember feeling that I didn’t fit in; everyone else liked milk, why didn’t I? What was wrong with me? Sister Ann sure thought something was wrong. I remember wishing I could just like milk and be like everyone else. And I wished I could go to public school like everyone else, where I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be a Sister Ann.
I was thankful when the year ended, and even more thankful when my second grade teacher turned out not to be a nun, but a lovely woman named Mrs. Garfunkel* whom I admired greatly. And Mrs. Garfunkel didn’t care about milk.
This dumb little story tells me a lot about myself; it at least partially explains why I still feel like I never fit in anywhere. We never know the full extent of the demands we make on children, and the impact it can have. I’m not blaming Sister Ann for all of my issues, but in her stubborn insistence on my drinking milk, she planted a seed in me: that I was a screwup who couldn’t remember her chapel veil, and a bad girl because I didn’t like milk.
We never know what the children in our lives are miserable about and don’t tell us. But I think the lesson is that we need to be very careful that the hills we choose to die on are worth it. Sister Ann chose milk and chapel veils. And, partly because of her choice, there’s a 56-year-old woman who still doesn’t fit in. I wonder if she would think it was worth it.
*All names have been changed. This is not a smear piece, just some thoughts and insights I wish I’d had when my girls were six. Also, I have nothing against nuns, but Sister Ann was really just not a very nice woman.
Epilogue: I got smarter in the ensuing years. I didn’t like tomatoes either, and remember telling one of the counselors at church camp I was allergic to them. Much to my relief, they kept me far away from tomatoes the entire week. If I’d only known the word allergic in the first grade, my entire life might have been different.
As a life-long churchgoer, mother of two adult daughters (22 and 26) who were raised in church, I share my perspective on young pastors and all pastors who work with young people.
Most of the pastors who have influenced my girls have been young. Student pastors are always young, because that’s who junior high and high school students relate to. Which is great, because these leaders understand the kids’ music, their tastes, likes and dislikes.
There’s a down side.
Here are a few things that I’ve experienced with young pastors that I imagine (hope?) they must someday look back on with embarrassment. I’ve wanted to write this for years, but felt that I needed to be farther removed from the experiences.
Be careful how you speak about childrearing. If your kids are under five, you’re not an expert yet. You can talk about “training up” your children, which is great. And easy when they are five and you have total control. But don’t assume that your training up ensures that their choices will always reflect that training. I’ve got news for y’all — they often don’t. I know scores of parents (some pastors) whose children who have strayed far from the values they were raised with. Yes, you can and should train up your children, but don’t fool yourself into thinking that’s a guarantee. It isn’t.
Don’t judge parents whose children make poor choices. This doesn’t mean they didn’t do everything you’re doing right now with your precious two-year-old who already knows 10 Bible verses from memory. Just wait ’til you hit the teenage years and then let’s chat, OK?
Don’t talk down to parents. I once sat down with a youth minister – not a parent – who acted as if I knew nothing about teenagers. The fact that I had two of them in my home 24/7 apparently taught me nothing. Yes, I know you see a different side of them, but don’t discount what the parents know. After all, we’ve lived a little longer than you.
Don’t reinforce the idea that parents aren’t cool. Kids don’t always think their parents are as uncool as they let on. When you roll your eyes or make cracks about “uncool Mom & Dad,” you encourage disrespect. And I can guarantee that attitude will not facilitate a good relationship with your kids’ parents.
Don’t be unrealistic about spiritual fads. When my girls were in junior high and high school, the anti-dating movement was in full swing (Remember I Kissed Dating Goodbye?). While the young pastors ate this crap up with a spoon, most of us parents understood how ridiculous and unworkable it was. My girls’ dating lives began under this roof, under our watchful eyes, and with our approval and respect for the young men they brought home. I shudder to think of them going off to college never having dated. Also, one of them is happily married to her high school sweetheart now. So you never know.
Don’t be cliquish. I’ve watched kids who really needed mentors and leaders in faith be disenfranchised because they aren’t into basketball, football, or whatever the leader’s favorite sport is. Sure, it’s a great way to connect, but there are other ways than sports. Mathletes are just as important as quarterbacks.
Don’t belittle their interests. Both my daughters were cheerleaders and competed on the national stage. They enjoyed it, and we had some great family times traveling for cheer. One of my girls had a leader who told her that “Cheerleading is stupid, and you should quit.” Seriously.
Male pastors, stop talking about your “smoking hot wife.“ Seriously, is this how you’d want your daughter’s husband to refer to her? You know the message you’re sending when you say that? Pretty is important, girls, and boys, be sure your wife is pretty and value her for that more than anything. Why not talk about how capable and intelligent your wife is, and teach young boys to respect a woman for more than her looks?
I know this sounds negative, but, we’ve had — and been witness to — some pretty negative experiences with church and young people. Much of it comes from the arrogance of a young pastor fresh out of seminary who believes there really are new things under the sun.
Like a stupid urban legend or bell-bottom jeans, by the time a parent arrives at their kids’ teenage years, we’ve seen and heard a lot of this trendy nonsense come and go at least a couple of times. Let parents be a resource. Listen to them. Respect their wisdom and experience and be willing to learn from those who have been around the bends you haven’t yet arrived at.
This isn’t addressed to any particular young pastor; it’s a composite of the ones we’ve known over the years.
When you become a parent, you sign up for a life of mixed emotions.
You want them to sit up, but you know you’ll miss holding them.
You want them to walk, but you fear they’ll fall and hit their head.
You want them to go to school, but it means they will leave you. It means they’ll have 180 days away from you. And they might fall on the playground and skin their knees.
You want them to make friends, but it means someone else will influence them in ways you won’t anymore.
You want them to know what it’s like for a boy to make their heart beat faster, but you don’t want them to get their hearts broken.
You want them to enjoy their first kiss, but you don’t want it to go any further.
You want them to pursue their dreams, but your heart breaks at the thought of them leaving.
You want them to grow up, find their passion, but it’s so hard to let go.
Until you do.
Until you watch them fall in love. And the child that you held on your knee is in someone else’s arms and that’s their home now.
Or maybe they don’t fall in love, but they make a life for themselves far away and you watch them become who they were meant to be.
It’s strange when you realize you don’t know their wardrobe, you don’t know their friends, or what music they listen to in the car.
And even though somewhere that isn’t your house is home for them now, you can hardly contain your joy as you watch one make a home with their love — the same way you did all those years ago — and the other build the life she dreamed of and a promising career.
It’s a paradox that our greatest joy is both in holding them close and in letting them fly on their own. Yes, it’s ridiculously hard to let go. But it is so worth it.
My youngest baby is 21 today. It makes me a little misty eyed, I’m not gonna lie.
I tried to resist the motherly instincts last night when she told me she was going out at midnight to buy her first legal drink.
Me: Be careful. Are you taking Ethan (longtime boyfriend) with you? Her: Yep! Me: Well, have fun.
(Ethan is big and strong and not the sort of guy you want to mess with. And very protective.)
See how well that went?
Don’t get me wrong; I love having adult children. I love the adult conversations, and it makes me happy to see the great women they’ve both become. But it’s real, on-paper, legal confirmation that this phase of my life is over.
Which is awful and awesome. It’s the end of being needed in many ways, but it’s better to be wanted anyway.
Parenthood is a long journey, and I’m not sure you ever really reach a destination in the sense that the trip is over. But I’m loving where I am now.
I love the laughter, the fun, and the friendship. The adult relationship that isn’t based on dependence, but on love, commitment and many, many shared memories. The ease of being with people who know you inside and out, have seen you in a swimsuit and without makeup and still love you.
It’s been an incredible journey. The best/worst, most rewarding/hardest most heart-rending/touching journey of all, I think. I’ve made mistakes, but I’ve done my best and I have no regrets.
I’ve never made a quilt, but I think parenthood is how I imagine it would be, and someday I will make one. It’s a panoply of squares, each of which represents a smile, a hug or a tear, all joined together into one beautiful piece. If the last 24 years of my life are that quilt, I’m grateful for one so beautiful, that covers me when there is a chill and comforts me when I cry.
Here’s to you, girls, and to the next 24 years together.
I never try to hide my age; I’m proud of each and every year. I always say, no cancer survivor complains about growing older. I cherish and revel in my birthdays, because each one is another little triumph over the big C.
For those of you who dread getting older, you’re just too young and foolish to know what you’re missing.
This summer, on one of our St. Louis trips, we had pre-game drinks at this great bar called 360, that’s on the 26th floor of the Hyatt at the Ballpark, right across from Busch Stadium. It’s our favorite hotel in St. Louis. The view is spectacular, and, of couse, we loved looking down on the stadium as the Cardinals took batting practice (sadly, closed to the public). We may or may not have creeped on them with the big telephoto lens.
From the top, we could see the buildings, the graceful ones and the eyesores, but we couldn’t see the peeling paint, the cracks in the sidewalk, the litter, graffiti, or any other marks of a downtown urban neightborhood. Busch Stadium, the Gateway Arch, and the beautiful City Hall were easy to pick out, and we enjoyed the overview of a city with which we are only slightly familiar.
Aging is a little like that view from 26 floors up. You see the traffic jams, the road construction, and if you could yell loudly enough, you could tell the drivers below to avoid those streets. Instead, you watch them unwittingly strand themselves in traffic. The higher you climb, the farther out you can see, and the smaller the people and problems on the ground appear.
I love the view from 54. It’s hard to believe how much I dreaded the empty nest; I could not have been more wrong. I love the luxury of eating popcorn for dinner if we want to; making spontaneous plans and running off for weekend getaways with only the dogs to worry about.
But most of all, I love what I know. That money, clothes, houses, cars and other material things are not where it’s at. It’s about the experiences, the memories, and mostly the people.
I remember many moments from my younger days. With the exception of my wedding day, I don’t remember what I was wearing, how much I weighed, or what kind of car got me to my destination.
I remember faces. Voices. Hugs. Tears. Laughter. Love.
Life is short. Make memories.
It was about 104 degrees when I took the photo above. I hate that the sky is so blown out, but I was on the 26th floor, outside, shooting into — and rapidly wilting in — the late-afternoon sun. Jim would’ve shot it much better, but I like to hold the camera sometimes too.
Yes, it is possible to communicate with teenagers — in fact, I believe most of the time they really want to invite us into their world.
But what happens when they do?
When they want to share their ideas about music, clothes, activities, do we call it stupid or let them know how much better our way is?
Three ways to build bridges instead of walls with teenagers:
Get with text. For teens and young adults, their primary mode of communication is the text message. Yet all too few parents are willing to adopt this quick, efficient mode of communication. Instead they complain that it’s silly and ask, “Why don’t you just call?” Instead of dismissing it because it’s less familiar, join them. Many times my girls texted me in situations in which they’d never have called, when they were out with friends, or even dates. They would let me know where they were and just chat about how things are going.
Music. There has to be something you can find to like. When I was a teen (in the ‘70s), my parents hated all of the music I listened to except Simon and Garfunkel. My dad had derisive nicknames for rock and disco and constantly let me know how awful he thought it was. The only positive comment either of my parents ever made about my music was when I played Bridge Over Troubled Water for Daddy. He loved that song and I thought it was fabulous that he liked something I played for him. These days, much of what our kids listen to is remakes from the 70s. It’s so much fun to sing along and watch them wonder how I know the words.
Social Networking. Yes, they spend a lot of time on Facebook and, increasingly, Twitter. It’s not stupid and it’s not, except in extreme cases, a waste of time. They are preparing themselves to live in this technology-saturated world, they are learning to network and to embrace technology, which is a positive thing.
One question I get asked a lot as many parents begin to join Facebook, “Should I friend my kid?” I say no. Let them friend you. Don’t make it a requirement or an obligation. My policy has been not to friend folks my kids’ age, so they don’t feel obligated or uncomfortable, however I’ll certainly accept their requests if they friend me, which they generally have.
As for monitoring their postings on social networks, as long as they lived under my roof, I had the password or the account was closed. Complete and total access. No exceptions.
If you want to communicate with teens, you have to do it on their terms, come into their world. When they invite you in, be a good guest.
We don’t travel a lot and we don’t take many long vacations, so this last week has been a little wild and epically wonderful.
First, Jim and I took a quick trip to St. Louis for a Cardinal game. We drove up on Tuesday for that evening’s game, arrived early in the afternoon and had a couple of drinks at the 26th-floor bar at our hotel before walking across the street to Busch Stadium.
I still get emotional when I walk into Busch Stadium. Maybe it’s the sheer excitement of the in-person experience, the enormity of the World Series victory or the thrill of the crowd and the crack of the bat you don’t get from a TV broadcast. But I think it’s more than that. It takes me back to days when I sat next to my dad in the old Busch Stadium. He taught me to use the scorecard to keep up with every play, told me about his favorite player, Stan Musial and explained the finer points of the game as it unfolded.
We saw an incredible game, with a dream of a pitching matchup: Cardinal ace Adam Wainright vs. 2011 Cy Young winner Clayton Kershaw with the Los Angeles Dodgers. As much as I despise the heat, the 102-degree game time temperature didn’t matter. The game was exciting and the Cardinals won. We collapsed in our cool hotel room afterwards, enjoyed a good night’s sleep and drove home on Wednesday.
Back to reality, to the daily routine and the Cardinals on TV — that night in an even hotter game (104 at game time) that went into extra innings.
This weekend we took the girls and their boyfriends to the lake. It’s a lot of fun to have adult children and our girls and the guys they have chosen are all genuinely great young people that we enjoy spending time with. We spent the entire day on the boat, swimming, napping, relaxing and just enjoying the company of the ones we love most. We watched a beautiful sunset on the lake.
There was some action-packed inner tubing that unfortunately ended with a trip to the emergency room when Elizabeth perforated her eardrum. She’s been in a lot of pain and we weren’t able to go back out on the lake on Sunday, but the girls and I had a nice leisurely trip to Wal-Mart while the boys unloaded and covered the boat.
Left to right: JP, Elizabeth, Sara Ann, Ethan
Few things go as smoothly as planned. What I love about our family is that even when they don’t, we find a way to enjoy each other even in Wal-Mart.
Parents of young kids, take heart. Your best times with your kids are yet to come. One day we’re changing diapers, the next we’re sending them off to senior prom and the next we’re discussing real-life issues and challenges with people we’ve come to respect and admire for their intelligence and character. Enjoy every phase and don’t dread the next; there is goodness ahead.
Better yet, remember when you used an actual potato to play with Mr. Potato Head?
I do.
The older I get, the more nostalgic I become. Maybe it’s because I have increasingly more things to look back on.
What I didn’t remember is that, according to the folks at NowIKnow.com, Mr. Potato Head originally came with a pipe, which he donated to the American Cancer Society to help promote anti-smoking efforts.
In 1964, the plastic potato head was created as the pegs that allowed you to insert the pieces into potatoes and other fruits and vegetables were deemed too sharp for children.
I’m all for child safety, but, try as I might, I can’t remember ever hurting myself on a Mr. Potato Head peg.
Then again, I remember sitting on the armrest in the front seat of the family station wagon on the way to the grocery store. I never wore a helmet when I rode my bike and I never wore a seat belt.
How on earth did I survive these dangers and make it to the advanced age of 53?
A very long time ago, when I had a tiny baby, someone told me that successful parenting is a series of letting go moments. I didn’t believe it then. But now that I’ve lived it, I know it’s true.
I remember holding her, rocking her, inhaling the baby smells, feeling her little head nestling on my shoulder and thinking there was no way I was ever letting go.
Then one day I held her in my lap and felt her pull away, lean forward and try to sit up on her own. I let go and she sat up.
A few months later, I let her pull up on the coffee table and stand, sort of, on her own two feet.
Then she took a step, by herself, without my hand in hers.
After that, she learned to use the potty and sleep in a big-girl bed. She wanted to dress herself and she chose some interesting combinations of clothing. We took her to church in an outfit that didn’t match and we didn’t (much) care what anyone thought.
It seemed only moments later when I drove her to preschool, stopped the car and watched as she hopped out the door to go fingerpaint, run on the playground and listen to someone else read to her.
Soon she began Kindergarten — all day long. She learned to read and to write her name. And while she still wanted me to read to her occasionally, most of the time she wanted to read to her baby dolls and stuffed animals.
When it was time for the middle school dance, I couldn’t believe I was letting her go. To a dance? With a boy? But I helped her choose the perfect dress, watched her curl her hair and put on just a little blush, lip gloss, the tiniest bit of mascara and shoes with heels that were way too high. And she was beautiful.
Her freshman year, it was her first high school dance. She wore a long red dress and she looked way too grown up. But I let her go and after the dance, in the wee hours of the morning, she told me about her first kiss.
We taught her to drive cautiously and to concentrate on the road, knowing full well that when driver’s permit became license, away from our watchful eyes she would turn up the music and drive too fast and ride with boys. We were scared to death, but we watched her drive away.
All too soon we packed the car with her belongings and moved her into a tiny dorm room to live with another girl she barely knew. We helped her arrange her room, find a place for the mini-fridge and then I hugged her, afraid to let go, because I knew I was letting go for real this time.
A year or so later, we moved her into her first apartment. We bought a couch, a TV, a bed, gave her hand-me-downs from the attic, helped her hang pictures and cautioned her to always lock the door. Somewhere else became her home; now she comes to visit. When it’s time to go, she says, “I have to go home.”
One day, she’ll hold onto Jim’s arm as he escorts her down the aisle. She’ll let go and take the hand of a young man who loves her enough to never let go. Then someday she’ll become a mother and she’ll read this post and understand.
And that’s parenthood. It’s okay to let go. All of the growth is in the letting go.
Elizabeth finished the Atlanta Marathon with an unofficial (as of now) time of 4:40. She’s exhausted and hurting all over and on her way back to Memphis. Congratulations, sweetheart, we’re so happy for you! Here’s what she had to say about it on Twitter.
LOVED IT. Great feeling to finish. Marathons are awesome. If you're athletic at all DO IT. Something I'll always love. Can't wait til next 1
Elizabeth with her medal from the St. Jude Marathon
Just a few minutes ago, I got off the phone with Elizabeth, my oldest daughter, who in 2009 ran her first marathon. She called me just before getting in the car with friends to travel to Atlanta to run her second.
It was a very cold morning in December of 2009 as we sat in AutoZone Park to watch her cross the finish line. We had been there with her since the start and had waved to her at several points along the way. As excited as we were to share this day with her, I was completely unprepared for its emotional impact.
When she crossed the finish line, the tears of joy came as we watched her accomplish a feat that only one to two percent of Americans can claim. I admired her discipline, her commitment and the courage she found to finish nearly half of the race with a badly-sprained ankle.
But most of all, I admired her. The baby with blonde curls whose first wobbly steps thrilled me as much as her 26th mile.
I wish I could be in Atlanta this Sunday to see her cross another finish line. But my heart and my prayers will be with her. Run fast, my girl! We’re proud of you, not for the steps you run, but just … because.
Unremarkable. It means ordinary, lacking distinction. Not something we generally consider a compliment.
But medical terms are strange. A test result that is negative is usually a good thing; positive means you have whatever awful thing they are testing you for. So unremarkable is a medical compliment. As in, the biopsy done during my surgery is unremarkable. Which means I do not have cancer.
Yesterday was my follow-up appointment and my first time out of the house since the surgery. I was excited to actually see something past the end of my driveway. Jim took off work and Sara Ann came along too. I did my hair, put on makeup and a clean t-shirt with my warmup pants and off we went.
I had looked forward to that appointment as the day the doctor would tell me I can drive again and medically clear me to get on with my life. Unfortunately, I still don’t feel like driving, leaving the house was so exhausting I needed a nap afterward and I’m still very slow and weak. The patience I wrote about last week? Um, I still need to work on that.
So here are a few observations from week two:
Facebook is really, really awesome if you want to live vicariously through your friends.
Having surgery during baseball season was an excellent decision on my part. The Cardinals regaining first place would further enhance my recovery, I’m sure.
Hulu is my new best friend, Hell’s Kitchen is awesome and people who work in restaurants don’t get nearly enough appreciation. Especially if there’s a British guy yelling, cursing and constantly berating them.
There really is no limit to the height that dirty dishes or dirty clothes can be piled. This theory has now officially been scientifically tested. I’d have photos if I weren’t so embarrassed by our slovenliness.
As crappy as some people can be, the really good ones make up for it. And I seem to be blessed with a ridiculous number of the amazing kind of folk. The kind who bring you fabulous dinners for three solid weeks so you don’t have to think about what you’ll eat. And the one awesome friend who showed up with a bottle of wine and a 20-pack of Diet Coke “to fill all my beverage needs.” And then there’s the one who showed up today with delicious soup, right at the time I started getting hungry for lunch — and another who brought dinner and sat down for a glass of wine and conversation.
And it all started with my mom, the long-retired nurse who still has all the skillz. She came from Jonesboro the night before surgery and stayed with me 24/7 in the hospital. She knew exactly where to put the pillow when I rolled over so it would support my back. She slept so lightly that every movement of mine or squeak of the hospital bed had her asking what I needed. And she knew that her car would be less bumpy on the ride home than my SUV. She did laundry, cleaned house, fluffed my pillow, fetched my meds and took care of me. Some things never change.
And after all these years, I still find it humbling, comforting and … remarkable.
