A post in which I need a Vacation. May 26, 2012

I’m sitting at my desk texting my sister about women and mood swings as I write this.  It may have started with me calling her a bad name and telling her I loved her in the same sentence.  It’s 85, humid, and I’m grumpier than Rowan after, well, after anything which requires getting his nails cut or his hair washed.  (Do they EVER outgrow those anti-grooming issues?  I mean he’s had his nails done every week and his hair done twice a week for almost four years, for crying out loud!!!!  It’s not exactly a shock to him-he knows it coming.  Grrrrrr)  I figure it’s been a while, so let’s catch up, shall we?  I’ll start…

Grandma Jean’s service was a good one.  Lots of people came, and we laughed and cried, but mostly laughed.  Gram gave us a lot of things to laugh about.  I miss her like mad still, and probably always will.  What’s physically left of her now resides in a little blue and white box she used to keep trinkets in.  I keep it on my desk, and smile.

Rowan, thank the Lord, potty trained himself.  Finally.  He’s never had an accident and I’ve never had to remind him to go.  Plus, he’s only locked himself in a bathroom once!!  How proud am I?!  He’ll be four in August and is full of witty and clever stuff.  He likes his Gator, his bike, drawing, and a fart app that his friend America showed him.  And long walks on the beach.  And red wine with good conversation.

My Grandma Dorothy continues to astound at 93.  She’s just so full of determination and pluck it makes me want to vomit.  No, seriously though, she’s doing well.  Forgetful, and all that, but she’s got a boyfriend, a live-in maid and a personal chef, so complain she doesn’t!

I am…good.  I think.  I’m tired these days.  Just so much stuff has happened in the past few months.  Not so much big stuff, just a lot of little stuff that adds up, piles up, and then kind of takes over.  I’ve had bad days and good days.  Bad weeks and good weeks.  I suppose it all evens out in the end though.  Mostly I’m happy with the hand I’ve been dealt, and the parts I’m not so happy with, I’m working on changing or learning to take in stride.  I can’t be strong and happy every single second, and I think I’ve learned to be okay with that.

Our sleepy little town is coming alive next weekend!  The long-awaited, much anticipated, highly planned, and over-attended holiday of Farmer’s Day has finally arrived!  I say over-attended not only because thousands of people jam onto Main St. to watch the parade and dance(stand around and look at each other awkwardly)in the street dance(which really isn’t a street dance at all, because it takes place in the grocery store parking lot….which is also the local inn.  The grocery store, not the parking lot….I’m not kidding.), but also because, and get ready for this, seven, yes, count them, SEVEN of my relatives are coming into town for this.  Almost as many commas as I used in the last sentence!  My relatives, God bless them, apparently are so bored, that they leave their large cities and towns to come here.  To see tractors.  And women quilting while being pulled behind tractors.  Again, I’m not kidding.  I wouldn’t be so astounded by this, if this was their first Farmer’s Day event, because my family is an adventurous bunch, but it’s not.  Don’t feel bad for them…it’s their own fault.

Our summer is already filling fast-a fact I am grateful for.  (Keeps me off the streets and out of West Virginian gangs)  We’re dog sitting for a friend of mine with a BEAUTIFUL house by the river next month.  It’s going to be just Rowan and I for several days, which is a blessing.  He’s growing too fast for my liking, and I can’t shade him from the sun and food and water to stunt him while too many people are around.  Not funny?  Sorry…he really is growing up so stinking fast though, and now’s the time to soak up him and his giddy three year old ways though.  That’s not until June though, so we’ll fill in the gap between Farmer’s Day and that with hosting my niece, Alisa, for week.  She’s six, and this is her first real Summer vacation, so I thought I’d help her kick it off in style!  Yunno, by hanging out in the kiddie pool with Rowan, and having homemade Popsicles and….I guess that’s all there is to do here, but still…I’M excited about it anyway. 

We’re also planning a trip to visit my Aunt and Uncle and my cousin and his kid on July 4th.  They live right outside of Akron, and have zoos and parks and sidewalks.  (My gosh, SOMEONE GET ME OUT OF THIS TOWN, LIKE NOW!)  They’re about five hours away, which is just enough travel time to make us feel like we’ve actually gone somewhere, but not enough time in the car to make me leave my kid at a gas station because of the incessant whining.  Not funny again?  TOUGH!

So….how are you?

 

Mommy Interviews Rowan, age three and one half. April 22, 2012

This interview took place over tonight’s dinner at 5:30pm in our kitchen.

Mommy: What is your favorite toy?

Rowan: Ezra (his best friend)

Mommy: What is your favorite food?

Rowan: Pasta wheels with fredo.  (Alfredo)

Mommy: What is your favorite music?

Rowan:  All the stuff from Mamma Mia.

Mommy: What is your favorite movie?

Rowan: Annie, Mighty Machines, and Olivia.

Mommy: What is your favorite color?

Rowan: ORANGE!!!  Oh, and silver.  Probably yellow and turquoise too.  White.  Pink. 

Mommy: What is your favorite book?

Rowan: Olivie and Curious George.

Mommy: What is your favorite snack?

Rowan: Chips.  Pickle chips.

Mommy: What is your favorite thing to do?

Rowan: Read books with Bapa.

Mommy: What is your favorite drink?

Rowan: Vanilla Milk and Cranberry juice.

Mommy: Where is your favorite place to go?

Rowan:  Lowes.  That store is HUGE!  It’s a beauty.

So there you have it-Rowan in a nutshell.

The White Board April 20, 2012

Every day when Grandma Jean was in the nursing home, we’d have a dry-erase board for her visitors to tell her who had been there, how long they had stayed, what happened, when they were there and when they were coming back. It turned into a daily journal that she could see from her bed and, for the thousandth time realize that we hadn’t forgotten to come see her. 96% Of the notes were written by my mom and I. By far my mom did most of the work, but I was right behind her picking up the slack and do the tasks she didn’t want to do. Between the two of us we made sure that one of us were there every single day. Five months of everyday visits made for some fun times, (a LOT of sad times too)and that board saw a lot of love a lot of sarcasm, some jokes, and even a quote or two. At the end of those visits, we would write those mini-journal entries on her dry-erase board, prop them by her bed and then after the 30 minute routine of Jammie’s, wash-up, diaper, removal of the teeth and hearing aids, she’d get lifted into bed, and finally read the note, and question, comment, laugh, talk about her day,

That board played an important role in our communication. It opened up so my doors to conversations about the day, about my life. I remember learning more about life in the last six months of her life than ever before. She didn’t know what she was always saying, but a lot of slurred, “it’s a funny, funny world” would slip out. In between moments of total confusion came the short bursts of clarity, where she would tell me things about my son, various boyfriends I brought in, and my future. She would offer little peeks into her life growing up on the farm. I would always sum up what was said on the little white board.

Shortly after gram was gone, and I was siting alone on her recently empty bed, tears blurring the words below, I wrote this:

In a way it made my heart want to break in a trillion pieces, and at the same time, it was just enough to hold those pieces together.

Dear Gram, March 9, 2012

I said goodbye to you today, but you didn’t even hear me. Your eyes fluttered open, you briefly looked into my eyes, but not a hint of your previous twinkle was there. You turned your head, closed your eyes, and mumbled something that sounded like, “honey.” Your heart is still beating, and your lungs-they’re still filling and empting out air. It’s just your body though-nothing of YOU is there. I like to think that you’re already halfway to heaven, arms out to hug Grandpa. I sat with you for four hours today, just holding your hand, rubbing your back, and caressing your head. I will treasure those hours until I can see the REAL you again.

We’ll never meet again on this earth, Gram You’re not going to ever see Rowan grow up to be the strong, goofy man that you want him to become. You’ll never get to see me (God willing) get married. I wish with all my selfish heart that wasn’t how it has to be. The part of me that loves you like a grandaughter, a friend, a confidant, a mentor, and someone I would wish nothing but happiness to, wants you to go quickly and without pain. So, just so know, you can let go now. it’s ok. Go see Grandpa and your heavenly Father. We’ll miss you, but we’ll see you someday. You’ll always be with me-like a handprint on my heart.

So much of me is made up of what I learned from you. You always told me to never save things for a special occasion. EVERY day we are alive is a special occasion. Nothing in your house was sacred, we were allowed to touch, pick up, and even use the most expensive ironstone dishes you had. Regularly we served each other tea and spaghetti o’s in $500 dishes. Why? Because we were together and alive. No other reason was needed. Now, at 32 I practice that philosophy. There are no such thing as “the good dishes.’ If Rowan wants to use Christmas dishes in March, AWESOME! Our last day could be tomorrow, and me, for one, will never have the regret of not letting things go. I got that from you.

Books! And more BOOKS! Aside from the books that you wrote and actually published and sold, there were the ones you read to me. You taught me to love to read at the tender age of 4, and I haven’t stopped since. I love to hear about the stories of people I will never meet, of places I will never go-things I will never do. “Picture it.” you would say. “Pretend you were there. Be the character you have the most in common with. Get into the story and don’t come out.” From Steinbeck to Harper Lee to Alcott to Paulson to countless others, you cast me into these roles, giving me the tools to not just read about these characters, but to learn about them, sympathise with them, and learn from them. These are tools I will hang on to for the rest of my life. I got them from you.

The gift of time is the one I will treasure the most. You ALWAYS had time for me….for anybody really. Never once was I turned away because you had to do something else, like make dinner. You just pulled a chair up to the counter, handed me a spoon, told me to mix whatever it was you were making, and we talked. I suppose sometimes we just stood there in silence, working side-by-side. That’s ok though, because did you know you can absorb love? You can, just by being close…it works, trust me. At the end when we were both living at my parents house, you used to ask me to play scrabble with you, and I’d have to say, “I don’t have time right now, Rowan needs this or that….” You never once made me feel bad or guilty. You would cheerfully say, “Ok!” I always knew deep down though, that if the roles were reversed, you would have made that time for me. I’m sorry I didn’t. I’m sorry I didn’t always stop into your room to sit and talk and just be with you. I’m so, so sorry for that. I will always grieve for that time. For the time we did have together-for the years of growing up with you, learning so much about books, art, how this planet is made so beautifully, how to make the best meatball soup in the world, and how to love and forgive and laugh and give. Even though most of the time all you had to give was your time, that was enough. I learned that from you.

How could one possibly ever list everything we’ve learned from you? I know who I am today because I knew you. You were strong and brilliant and funny and a good friend. We got our ears pierced together. Me, a scared five year old…you a scared 54 year old. We held hands and laugh-cried through it. It was one of those moments I will NEVER forget and feel so happy for the five year old me to have that support, and for the 32 year old me to have those memories.

Watching my once so bubbly grandmother deteriorate these past few months has been excruciating. Watching the person I love start to fade and slip through my fingers has been enough to bring me to my knees. It’s also given me the chance to show just how much I love and respect and care for you. Visiting you every day I could (which has been pretty much every day), advocating for you, changing your diaper, helping you bathe, feeding you with a spoon, sitting through physical therapy with you, cuddling with you for hours, pouring through old photo albums. Those games of Scrabble I should have played with you earlier? I finally got those in. Here’s the real kicker: I lost every game-right up to the end.

I won the lottery when it came to grandmothers. You were every single thing a grandmother should be. You’ve loved, and taught, and scolded, and then loved some more. You gave and gave and gave and never wanted anything in return. I hope you felt the love I have showered on you these past few months, even if you couldn’t express it.

You’ve left a legacy, Gram. One of kindness and gentleness and love for our Saviour. So many people have benefited from the generosity of your heart, and even though I had to share you, it was worth it to see what you’ve done for others in your lifetime.

You may be here physically still, but I’ve started to let you slip away. It’s harder than I ever imagined it would be. I would never trade the lifetime of memories and lessons for these weeks of grieving. I think you were the most awesome person I’ve ever met. Thank you….for everything.

I love you, Gram. (Even though you always told me I have boy’s hands…good strong working hands. Hands that can do anything. I hated that as a kid. Now, as I go through the rest of my adulthood withouth you, I will always think of you when I look at my hands.)

Love, Tiffany

Pink Vs. Blue January 23, 2012

Rowan paints Alisa's nails.

My excuses for not blogging are few, but legit.  My computer was fried in a tragic water/breathing treatment/flailing legs accident that may or may not have involved a young child that belongs to me.  I’ve had to suffer all these months with ONLY an iPad (the horrors!!!!), and typing more than one sentence on an iPad requires time and effort.  Not only that, but an iPad doesn’t support the flash plugin, which means I can’t watch all the cute little videos of kitties and puppies that I would like to.  Out of the goodness of her heart, my mom leant me her laptop for a few minutes this morning, so after I watch 17 videos of fluffy baby animals, I’ll share a short story with you.

A little girl at Rowan’s “school-school” told him that, “Boys can’t wear nail polish!  It’s not manly…”  My guy held up a pink index finger and studied it with a furrowed brow.  He glanced up and waited for me to defend the pastel colors that his cousin so carefully and lovingly adorned him with.

I frowned, and considered started a gender debate with a four year old.  I’ve been around kids enough to know, though, that I will lose ANY debate with a four year old-let alone a controversial one.  The entire time I had been fumbling with an answer, Rowan had been letting the whole situation marinate in his innocent brain.

Carefully choosing his words, he tilted his head to the side, and asked, “….But Mommy, why do I have to be manly?  I’m still a little kid…”

I grinned and ran my fingers through my son’s long blond hair.  Apparently that was enough of an answer to satisfy everyone, and we got our coats on and went home.

The thought that pink is for girls and blue is for boys is a puzzling one to me.  I mean, here’s the history of the whole color debate, ala the internet: http://people.howstuffworks.com/gender-color.htm  (It’s an interesting read if you have the time.)  I’m more confused with why people are so concerned with it.  A very wise person once told me, “Pink is a boy’s color as long as a boy is wearing it.”  THIS makes sense to me!

I’ve never been one to care if my son plays with dolls, or wears jewelry, or dresses up in a tutu.  In fact, one of his favorite things is an antique doll that he found in my mom’s work room and named “Far Sally.”  He dotes on that doll; feeding her, changing her, playing with her, and occasionally seeing how high she can fly.

Do I think all this is weird or wrong or going to turn him into a sissy?  Not in the least!  I think it’s going to turn him into an amazing, caring, and sensitive man someday.

Red and Yellow, Black and White…..and Orange. October 10, 2011

“You’re turning green!” I teased Rowan after noticing his bare feet were stained from the freshly cut grass.  Instantly he started crying, not realizing I was kidding.  I pulled him onto my lap and assured him that his pigment was not changing.  Not one to miss a teaching moment, I opened the door to a conversation about race.

“I understand that turning green would probably be pretty scary, but it’s okay to be any color.  You’d still be Rowan, and I’d still love you no matter what color you were.  Did you know that there are lots of people who are a different colors than you and I?” I asked my sniffling son.

“What colors?” He wondered.

“Well, all sorts!  Black, white, tan, brown-dark and light-all kinds of colors!”

“Oh.”  He leaned back, and thought silently for a few moments.  ”I bet the mommy’s of the orange kids love them the best.  Orange is the best color of ALL the colors!  I hope I have an orange friend some day.  Or red.  Red is good too.”

Stifling a laugh, I sent him off to play.

Later, during our bedtime routine, I purposefully pulled a book off the shelf that features a Hispanic family and an African-American friend.  I asked Rowan if he remembered how I told him people come in all sorts of colors, and he did.  I asked him what he thought when he saw the pictures of the kids with darker skin.

“I think I really like the little boy’s wagon and he was nice to share.  I want to play with the girl too.  Did you see she has a scooter, Mom?!!!”

In his wonderfully  three year old style he stated what every human should know:  Skin color doesn’t matter.  Having good toys and being willing to share them does.

Fall September 7, 2011

It’s crisp today.  Or “sharp” as my newly three year old son put it.  I almost swooned as much as when I said there was a bite in the air, and he flung his arms around me and whimpered because he was afraid it was going to bite him.  I’ll spare you the anecdotes though, assuming you’re tired of hearing about how cute and wonderful my kid is.  (Though it’s true)

It’s early fall, and I’m happy.  Dare I even say content with where my life is?  That’s a real thing, right?  Being happy with where you are, who you are, and stuff and junk?  It reminds me of moving here almost two years ago, and hating it, and now pretty much loving it.  I have friends, Rowan has friends, heck, even our fish has friends.  (That’s a really funny story actually.  I bought Rowan’s fish two more friends, and it was apparently “buy one get on free” and I didn’t realize it, and it was two days before I noticed that there were four fish in the tank, and not three.  Okay, it’s more sad than funny, but at least I’ll know how many are left when they start dying off because I forget to put water softener in there.  Which I do a lot.  I’m a bad fish mom. )

Things are good.  Even though my car and I collided with a boulder last week, and now I have to pay the thousand dollar deductible, and I won’t have a car for a little while and my body is a bit sore.  As cliché as it sounds, it was a kick in the pants for me.  It made me grateful/happy/amazed that no one else was hurt, and I wasn’t hurt more.  Immediately after I stopped my car from wreaking havoc on Lewisburg, I just sat there, dazed, until two guys (who if I were going to judge based on appearance, would have been the kind of young kids to just pass by, staring, judging, and being a general pest to society.  But it’s the south and most people aren’t like that.  They help when they see someone is in need, and genuinely care.  That’s still a thing, right?  Genuine, nice people?) helped me out of my car and didn’t even laugh when I handed the police officer an oil change slip instead of my registration.  They helped the officer move the rock out of the road, and stayed until they were sure I was taken care of.  That accident, while a pain in the butt, did actually serve a purpose.  I’ve made some good changes, mostly in attitude, in the last couple of days, so much so that even Rowan has noticed.  We were playing fire engines on the floor, and he put his head on my leg and said, “we’re happy.”  (Sorry, one more anecdote)  I’m not stressing about stuff anymore.  Things like the future and other stupid stuff going on that I can’t control.  Even things that I can control I’m not stressing about because that’s dumb.  And if there is anything that I’ve learned from the past couple of years is that I’m not dumb.  My energy and time can be directed toward much better things.  Like weeding out my closet and putting out all of our fall clothes.  Giving some of Rowan’s old toys to the kid my sister watches and needs much more than Rowan or my basement does.  Oh, and going for bike rides and hikes and oh-my-goodness maybe going out once or twice WITHOUT my kid, and being a real-live-person that doesn’t have a short blond person fused to her hip.

So there you have it.  I’m good, alive, happy, and my only complaint is that my lips are really chapped because I still insist on sleeping with the air conditioner on because I like the white noise, and my uncle is visiting and is using the fan, and it makes the air really dry and cold.  Oh, and I could quite possibly have a problem with run-on sentences, though I think that’s highly unlikely because while I was not a great student because my head was in the clouds, and I only wanted to read the books I wanted to read, and not text books, or do homework, I was just naturally good at english and grammer, and stuff and junk like that.

Happy Birthday, Rowan! August 24, 2011

Three August 14, 2011

It’s the number of years my son has blessed my family with his presence.  It’s the number of years I’ve known the coolest kid on the planet, and it’s the number of years my heart has gone walking around outside of my body.  That bittersweet time of year has come again.  Rowan is celebrating another birthday, and I am cherishing every last second of his two year old-ish-ness.

The past year has been a great one.  Rowan has learned and taught and grown.  As have I.  He’s gone from a baby that said a few words here and there to a kid that tells elaborate stories about everything that he sees.  His sense of adventure is strong.  He’s smart and witty and curious and a total trouble maker.  He’s everything a little boy should be.

I can already tell that three is going to be a tough age.  We’ve reached a whole new level of sassy-ness and button pushing.  Rowan has started saying no just because I say yes.  When asked to put something on the table, he’ll put in on the floor.  He throws some mighty tantrums, but his hugs are worth a million bucks and totally make everything worth it.  My limits as a mom are going to be tested in the coming year, and while I know we’ll both survive, I pray neither of us are too traumatized.  ;)

My parents bought Rowan a play house for his birthday, which he won’t be getting until the 24th.  My dad and I hauled away four truck loads of brush to clear off an old foundation in our back yard.  (I think there used to be a garage there or something of that nature)  We’ll put the house on there once it’s totally cleaned off.  Rowan and I spent a lot of time yesterday and today shoveling the thick layers of dirt and sand that had piled up in the years Grandma has lived here.  It was filthy work, but somebody had to do it.  :)

Dad built a floor for the house, and we’ll put up a little fence around it, put some plants in the flower boxes, and he’ll have his own little property.  It’s going to be insanely cute.

About two weeks ago I found myself in the hospital with a puke bug, a migraine that wouldn’t quit, and a UTI.  After a couple of failed antibiotics, they found that I had a kidney infection, switched meds again, and I’m good as new.  I was down for the count for a while there, and hated every second of it.  My mom picked up a lot of my slack, leaving me feeling guilty and helpless.  Thankfully, I’ve regained my strength and energy and have returned to my normal (crazy) life.

Grandma is still going strong.  That is to say she’s still a little nuts, but she’s a healthy kind of nuts.  We’ve had a few bumps in the road, but she’s my grandma and I love her.  Overall everything is stable with this part of our lives.

These next two weeks are going to be jam-packed with lots of good stuff.  Between Rowan’s party, my Grandma Jean’s 91st birthday, Rowan’s actual birthday on the 24th, our vacation starting on the 26th, and my aunt and uncle visiting, it will be a blast.

Life is so unbelievably good.

Dear Rowan, August 6, 2011

Hey Rowan!  Rowan……Woohoo…..Roooooowan.  Remember me, your mother?  No?  i din’t think so.  That’s okay.  It only hurts a little bit, but I understand thtat the only people you really want to hang out with are that ones that don’t make you brush your teeth or clean  your room or eat your vegetables.  While you can’t fault someone for just doing their job, you can ingore them and pretend they don’t exist, especially when they are repetitively  calling your name in various levels of pitch.  In case you were lost by this point, it’s me.  Mommy, or “mom” as I am so reluctantly called.  I stand firm by the fact that I am  too  young to be called anything other that Mommy or mamma.

The past few days you have  been out and about-either playing with 12 year old Emily up the street, hanging out at your  friend’s house , or spending time with Baba at the go-cart, the playground by the river, or going out to lunch.   You’ve  been coming home everyday filthy, famished, and exhausted, and with stories that take so much time and breath to tell that you have to sit down RIGHT NOW! and probably split a Popsicle  and move outside to the porch where you have much more room to flair your arms with the wonder of the day.   As soon as we were settled on the front porch swing, the stories start, ones about trading bikes in the barn, to the cow having a calf, to going out to lunch, or having ice cream, but by the time you get to seeing the go carts, and  I was just about to get a proper hug out of you,  you remembered there was a worm in the driveway that had only been run over two full times, and a third would certainly seal the deal.  So my purple-lipped tornado of energy and purpose charged by, mounted his bike and repeatedly ran over that worm, until is was declared ”Dead and ready to eat.”

So as no need to interrupt such an important ritual , I’ll just watch from a distance, feeling my heart claw it’s way into my stomach every time you start to slip.  You correct  your position, and push on, riding off into the car port to start the next phase of your plan.

So until your chores are done, the worms are squished, and Bob the turtle had been picked up an put down so many times, he just stayed in his shell until you were was safety across the street tormenting a caterpillar, I’ll wait.

I joined you a few  moments later, but you were already involved with grilling with  Bape.  I’ll just say it now. I love you Sweet Potato. I’m looking forward to another day with you. ……even if you forget I’m  here.  :)

143

Love, Mommy