School Makes Me Puke!

     Tomorrow is the big day. The first day of first grade for my little guy. He has been as cool as a cucumber, oblivious to the fact that he is about to be regimented into the public school system. However, I am queasy.  Positively nauseous.

     You're probably thinking that this is some weepy, sentimental mommy thing. Nope. Not it. It is my firm belief that school makes me sick.

     It's not that I have anything against education.  I love learning.  I love teachers and think that they are grossly under appreciated and under compensated. It may be that I'm just allergic to organized education.

     I blame it all on my parents. My dad taught me how to read before I went to kindergarten. But that was nothing, he taught my older sister to recite, in order, all U.S Presidents when she was four. More than that, he also instilled in me a love of learning. So by the time I went to kindergarten, I could read while all the other kids were learning their letters.

     The teachers just didn't know what to do with me.  I remember Mrs. Gandy placing a pillow on the floor in the corner of the classroom with a stack of books. Fortunately for Mrs. Gandy I was a very dutiful, obedient, polite child and just sat there and read.  And read. And read.

2nd Grade
Still not thrilled with school,
 but at least I'm rocking an awesome corduroy vest!

     At the ripe old age of six this whole school thing had already let me down. I did not want to go to school. I did not like school. I was going to find a way to escape from this institutionalized nightmare.

    The night before first grade started I was having a puke fest.  This began a tradition that continued throughout elementary school. However, all the wretching did not earn me an extra day at home.  My mom, a.k.a. "the education police",sent me anyway.

     In middle school I abandoned the puking and ventured into bolder territory.  I simply locked myself in my room and refused to come out.  This worked until about 11 am when mom called dad at the office and had him return to the house to help her deal with me. You better believe I was out of that room before she put the phone down. And yes, she took me straight to school.

     All these years later I still have unresolved issues with school. Allen and I took Zane to his orientation last Friday.  The minute I stepped in the doors of that school my stomach lurched.  The smell.....the very same smell....THAT smell....what is that smell anyway?  The smell of old books, paste, and crayons (which smell an awful lot like body odor!) and, oh yes, FEAR. 

     We met again in that hallway on Friday, my fear and I. This time I won.  My stomach churned and my jaws watered, but it did not beat me this time.  As we were retreating leaving I was silently congratulating myself on a hard fought victory.  I had conquered my fears!  My victory was short lived though. Zane interrupted my personal cheering section by announcing that he was going to be sick.  He was totally telling the truth. 

     And all I could think was "That's my boy!"

       
 
    

Get Me To The Church On Time, part 2

We met Deborah at a Cracker Barrel near Social Circle, Georgia.  She was a charming southern belle, petite and friendly.  I was fine with the fact that my dad now had a girlfriend.  Even if it was a foreign thought.  "Dad has a girlfriend."  Still sounds kind of weird.  As odd as it seemed at the time I was happy for dad.  He wasn't so sad all the time.  He wasn't lonely anymore.

Dad called me in May and I instinctively knew what he was going to say.  I just knew.  And I was right.  And I was okay with it.  Okay.

In our visits since his announcement I don't hear my dad sobbing in his room at night.  Instead I find him often sitting on the floor of his bedroom talking on the phone to Deborah.  Talk about a role reversal.  I think I heard a literal giggle once which I mistook for a wimper and ran to see if he was okay.  Yep, he was fine.  Just giggling on the phone with his fiance'.

And now, here I am at dad's house helping clear away and make room for Deborah and her things.  This is the last time I will stay at dad's house.  The next time we visit it will be dad and Deborah's house. 

Mom's closet will now be Deborah's closet, filled with her clothes and shoes and stuff.  My mom's closet was always one of the most fascinating places to me.  Even as an adult I loved to look in mom's closet.  She had clear containers for everything, all labeled and lined up perfectly.  Her clothes always seemed so diminutive.  She always had to have her clothes altered to accommodate her petite frame.  There were always treasures in mom's closet.  Containers of brand new toothbrushes and toothpaste just waiting for the forgetful guest.  Little hotel soaps and shampoos.  Small gifts already wrapped in a little box labeled "Courtesies/Thank You Gifts".  There were also Hershey bars hidden away in there.  Anything I needed I could find in mom's closet.  But now it will be Deborah's closet.  Maybe she'll keep some of the toothbrushes in case I forget mine.

My daddy's getting married Saturday.  And I'm okay with that.  Mom and Dad loved each other deeply.  My dad loved my mom.  He still does.  Him getting married doesn't diminish that love or somehow make it less than it was. 

During my mom's first battle with cancer she talked to me about what dad would do if she didn't make it.  She said that dad would have to get married because he would need someone to take care of him.  And that's why I'm okay with all of this.  Dad has someone to take care of him.  There's less for me to worry about.  There's someone to make sure he goes to the doctor and doesn't eat expired food and makes sure that he washes his sheets on a regular basis and doesn't start collecting cats.

More than that I think it is a beautiful blessing that God has allowed one man to find love again.  Thank you mom for loving dad in a way that was evident to me and helped to shape my belief in love.  Thank you Deborah for loving my dad and helping to show me the resiliency of the human heart.

Get Me To The Church On Time

My daddy's getting married Saturday.  I'm "okay" with this statement.  For the past few months I've been asked by several people how I feel about it.  Well, I feel okay about it. I'm a little fearful of feeling too much beyond that.  I'm fearful of opening my heart to feel emotions deeper than just "okay".  If I let one emotion through then they all may start to  think they can just waltz right in whenever they want and start banging around in my heart again.

So here's a little background and recent history that may bring this into focus.  My mom passed away in February of 2010. She fought a short, second battle with cancer and then she was gone. One thing you must understand about my mother is that she was an angel.  She was a living, breathing, walking around in the flesh saint of God. Truly. Her motherly attributes were manifested in how she loved her children.  And other people's children for that matter.

She was adored.  She was beloved.  

Mom in the early 70's.

And then she was gone.

Everything was different.  Every memory and thought of my mom was accompanied by a very real physical desire to throw up. My siblings and I all tried to comfort one another in cycles of crying hysterically, awkward sibling hugs, crying quietly, telling a funny story to ease the thick tension, awkward sibling hugs, random physical comedy, crying hysterically.........



Mom and Dad

Dad was worse off.  My mother died in his arms on Valentine's Day. In those moments following her passing, dad held her while we stood around weeping.  He began to recount to us the story of how they met, fell in love, got married, endured hard times, pulled through rough patches, celebrated life and children and grandchildren. Mom was 17 when they married and dad was 21.  He often says that they grew up together through their marriage.

Dad's grief was evident and tangible. Perhaps having a degree in grief counseling propelled him to attack that grief full force.  And he did.  We worried about him at times.  He wrote to my mother every night in a journal. He still may write to her, I don't know.  At my last count he had filled over 20 journals with letters and musings written to my mother. 

There were other events that made us worry about dad.  He grieved openly, and sometimes loudly.
It was often difficult for me to know how to offer comfort and solace to this grown man.  My stalwart, wise, emotionally reserved father sobbing for hours in his room was not a situation I knew how to handle.

Then he began to turn a corner. The grief was still there, (it always will be) but where it once slashed and gored and mutilated it now throbs and gnaws and pulses.

On a visit to my dad's house earlier this year he said he wanted us to meet one of his friends. I was thinking that it was a compatriot, a buddy, a fellow widower that he had found to play chess with or visit Civil War battle sites with, or what ever it was that old guys like to do.

I was genuinely surprised when he said "It's a lady friend". And then we were off to meet her at a Cracker Barrell halfway between his house and hers.



To Be Continued...........