Mother's Day Digest

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The video says it all. My kids love me. It's been quite a day. (Thanks for the video, Ben. We know you'd never exaggerate...)

Mother's Day wasn't high on my list of potential happy occasions this year. Losing Jeremiah still weighs heavily on me, and the thought of my daughter-in-law having her first childless Mother's Day, one that should have been celebrated with a baby ready to turn six months old, took most of the steam from my sails.

None of our three sons would be here in Colorado for the day, and I won't get to see my Mom for two more weeks. I knew that there would be phone calls but other than that—a regular Sunday.

It's been said before: Oh, ye of little faith. It was still dark outside, and John was in the shower when I walked through the living room toward the coffee maker. The oversized square envelope on my recliner startled me. A card from my husband? He just doesn't do that on Mother's Day. John has always assured me, "You're not my mother." I sat and read one of the most touching cards I've ever received.

We arrived at church a little more than two hours early. That sounds hard to do, but once a month our church combines services, skipping our regular early service to meet at the late service. Today it ended up taking almost twice as long. It was moving, and we enjoy it, but came out starving. John and I went to lunch, forgetting that we'd wait in long lines on Mother's Day. So we left for church at 7:30 and got home at 3:30, eight hours later.

I do have to add one little thing from Ruth, my daughter-in-law in The Netherlands. Today on her blog she entertained us all with another funny story about her 4-year old daughter. Now that Ruth and Ben are the proud parents of three little ones, with a 2 year old daughter and 2 month old son, we get a lot of funny stories. Today Ruth wrote:

Ashley just said she wants me to have another boy again when my body heals. We asked if she likes boys better. She said, "No. Because girl, girl, boy, boy. And then girl, girl, boy, boy again until Mommy's an old lady!"

So now I'll either be up late doing the homework I had planned to catch up on for my online class, or I'll be up in the wee hours doing it. Does it matter? From John's card, to the calls from all three boys, and the unexpected email from Tighe with the book store gift card in it (he knows me so well) this has been a Mother's Day to write about. I wasn't expecting that.

Taking Little Kids to the Cemetery

For some reason I recently remembered when our three sons were small, and we drove from our old home in Ventura County, California, to the San Fernando Mission Cemetery where my dad is buried. (Daddy died at the start of my Junior year in high school.)

That day we brought along little spades and things for the kids, aged about 1, 4, and 8, to help as we pulled weeds and cleaned up around the headstone a bit. Of course we stopped and bought flowers before we arrived, and talked to the boys about where we were going, and why.

Ben, the youngest, was oblivious to anything but playing with the water and dirt. Tighe, as oldest, was fairly familiar with the routine. We didn't get to the cemetery too often, but he had heard stories about the grandpa who was buried there. He had come out with us more often than either of his brothers. He knew we would always leave flowers and a flag. My daddy had been military to his bones.

Jeremy was finally old enough to pay attention on this trip, though, and for the first time he questioned me.

"That's my grandpa under there?"

"Yes, Son."

More weeds were pulled as he thought about the concept. Jeremy was often serious and quiet.

"Is he going to grow again?"

"No, Honey."

He looked at me with one of those befuddled looks only a child can give a really dumb parent.

"Then why did you plant him?"

There are a few questions a parent just can't stop laughing long enough to answer.

Making Pottery Gifts with Elisha

Elisha's first day of maternity leave was yesterday, and we enjoyed it together while Jeremy was at work and John made his way through his "Daddy Do" list.

Actually, John did amazingly well, installing security lights, extra door locks, changing furnace filters and light bulbs on really high ceilings. Then he managed to change a vehicle light bulb that the service stations were going to charge the kids an hour of labor to "figure out," because their car is a Prius, and nobody knows how to work on them. They opened the compartment to change the bulb during an oil change and said the bulbs couldn't be reached. Oh, yeah. The mighty John figured it out and had it done in ten minutes.

Elisha took me to her favorite gift-making place. It's called Arts on Fire, and is a pottery shop here in Shreveport, where you paint the unfired pottery and then they fire it for you. Of course, it looks very dull and bland before it's fired, so it's hard to tell what color you're really painting, but she said that you get used to that. I think I still prefer plaster craft, which is basically the same thing, but it's done on pre-fired pottery where what you see is what you get.

Still, we had a great day. Elisha picked a gift for my mom's 90th birthday next month, and I painted a piggy bank for their baby. I wish I had thought to take more photos of the pig once I had finished painting it, but I forgot. It looks pretty boring the way it is now, but I added some little animal stencils and JTH, the baby's initials. He'll be the third JTH, by the way, following John Thomas and Jeremy Thomas. I love the name Jeremiah True.

I actually tried to talk John into Jeremiah when Jeremy was born, but John preferred the name Jeremy, and now I'm glad he did, since my first grandson will get the name I've always loved so much.

It was a wonderful day, full of painting and laughing. The owner is an interesting woman named Quincy. She gives just the right amount of help—whatever you need without telling you how she thinks it should be done. She's warm and friendly and handled the table full of pre-teen giggling girls having their first-time painting experience with only one mom to watch them with such ease I thought she'd been doing it for years.

Elisha filled me in. Quincy had never painted before, when the shop owner decided to sell out. One of her twin daughters loved to paint there, so she and her husband decided to buy the place. And that's how history is written, I guess. Our children introduce us to the some of the best paths in our lives.

Shreveport is having a Blues and Jazz Festival today, and we're going to try to get to that, as long as Elisha is feeling up to it. She's still sleeping right now, since with only 3-4 days left until the baby's delivery date, she's up and down all night visiting the euphemism down the hall. As all good babies know, it's important to find mama's bladder and rest there as soon as she gets to sleep. (Thanks for that, Jeremiah True... You're getting her prepared for the ups and downs of nighttime feedings.)

Laughing and Waiting in Shreveport

After five days in Dallas visiting John's cousins, we traveled on to Shreveport, Louisiana to see Jeremy and Elisha. Their son, Jeremiah True, our first grandson and third grandchild, is due on the 17th of this month. We've been having so much fun visiting and laughing together.

There are too many things parents have to buy when they're expecting a child—especially their first. People have been very generous, sending them gifts for this baby, but there were still many additional expenses for them, of course. I finally had to explain that the fun part of being Grandparents is that we don't have to buy anything. Whatever we get is the fun stuff that we decide we simply want to buy. Today we found nine Dr. Seuss books at Sam's Club. I had already checked prices on them at Amazon, and these came three for eleven something. The ones at Amazon would have been nearly triple that. What fun to fill a grandchild's book shelf. (Well, he still needs the shelf...)

Jeremy has to work tomorrow, so Elisha and I plan to go to her favorite craft store where they do ceramic painting. We're going to do a piggy bank for Jeremiah. I have a feeling John will stay at their house, working on his "Daddy Do" list. He's really been going through a bunch of fix-up projects for them. What a hero.

This has been a wonderful trip. Their home is warm and welcoming, and they're so cute in their excitement. I just love being here.

Paperback Swap Club—I Love It

Jeremy and Elisha called tonight, and were very excited about their first prenatal ultra sound. This grandma was pretty excited as well, of course. They're both working hard and pinching pennies. Any expectant parents who aren't are just irresponsible.

While we were talking, I mentioned John putting up a bigger mailbox

for me, to hold all the wonderful audio books I was getting through PBS, the Paperback Swap Club that's been saving my own budget so much by allowing me to trade books instead of buying them. Jeremy said he was getting ready to buy an audio book himself. I asked him what it was, and he said "Rich Dad, Poor Dad."

"Well, let me check the club listings." Within two minutes I had the audio book on its way to him, at no cost to either of us, from a helpful club member who had it on her shelf and no longer needed it. She'll pay the postage to mail it directly to him. I'll give her two credits, earned from mailing an audio book to someone else who wanted one of mine. The club keeps all the records so I don't have to do any of that. List price for the audio is $24.98.

Just then Elisha chimed in. "Find out if they've got Belly Laughs: The Naked Truth About Pregnancy and Childbirth." I asked if she wanted paperback, hardback or audio. She wanted paperback so she could throw it in her purse and carry it around easily. Again, within two minutes PBS came through for me. Another member had it on her shelf, and it was ordered for Elisha. Since it's a book, it cost one credit, and the member will mail it directly to Elisha for me. The list price for this book is $12.95.

That means they just saved about $38—if they could find them in one place. They could beat that price on Amazon, of course, but not get them free. Then there's shipping and handling charges, too, unless they're Amazon Prime members. I don't believe they are.

What a great way to share books, save money and make friends. It's amazing to me that I've met some really great people through the club. You find people with similar reading tastes and put them on your buddy list. Messages go back and forth almost as often as books. What a blessing this club has been for me. And the new mail box looks terrific. I hadn't realized how dented and old the other one was. Our mail carrier even called out to John and told him what a nice box it was. I think she was just relieved at the size. Some days I get seven or more audio books. They fit much better in the new big box.

A Lot of Love

Eventually there will be a slide show on the blog, but even that won't really convey just how special this late afternoon wedding was. I don't think I've ever seen a bride and groom so relaxed and just contented to be together enjoying each moment and every guest. The reception was handled the same way, and was just perfect. I'm still more than a little overwhelmed by the whole experience of watching my son get married. It was an amazing experience. Since I haven't yet processed all the feelings, I'll let some photos speak for me. The first two are professional shots. The rest are mine.

Those of you who prayed that they would make the trip safely, and worried when there were so many problems on their trip, I thank you for helping keep the faith that it would work out. For Tighe, Stacey, Uncle Ken, Aunt Kay and Uncle Joe, Uncle Pat and Aunt Betty, and those from Elisha's family who traveled so far to be with them on this special day, I want to say thank you for helping make this beginning so special for them.

Bride and groom with parents.

Jeremy's brother Tighe (best man) with his dad John.

Jeremy with his dad and brother Tighe, who was the best man.

Me and John, parents of the groom, before the ceremony.

Bride Elisha and Jeremy getting ready to enter the chapel.

The decorated car.

Elisha with her maids.

Jeremy—he's as proud and happy as he appears.

After the ceremony, before going to the reception, we drove to the Las Vegas sign for a few photos.

Pat and Betty at the reception. They're always fun...

One of Elisha's nephews fell asleep before the food was ready.

Not a traditional wedding cake, but we all enjoyed it...

And they fed each other with dignity and style.

If you'd like to see the videotape of the actual wedding ceremony, you can look online and enter the groom's name as Harrell, the bride's name as Fierro, and the wedding date as Dec. 27, 2009. Please note that we all obviously thought the cameras were turned off long before they were... Oh, well. We are what we are.

Congratulations, Jeremy and Elisha.

Wedding Update

It's been the sort of story people tell their children and grandchildren about. "You'll never believe how many things went wrong when your mother (grandmother) and I drove to our wedding..." with Uncle Tighe.

They were, indeed, supposed to arrive yesterday to spend Christmas day at Elisha's parents' home in Las Vegas, Nevada. It's now 10:20 p.m. the night before the wedding, and at last contact they're closing in on arrival--at about five miles per hour--while some kind of military checkpoint has been set up at a bridge near Hoover Dam to check each individual vehicle for some kind of potential threat.

They're exhausted. They're beyond hungry. They're also heading to Elisha's parents' home first, so we're going to bed soon with cell phone in hand. Just in case.

I do believe we'll have a wedding tomorrow. Of course, they still have to buy the wedding license first. The good news is that any couple that still wants to get married after a trip like they've just been through certainly isn't wearing blinders.

The Wedding Trip

While we had a wonderful Christmas here with Pat & Betty, there was more than plenty of drama for our son Jeremy and Elisa as they left Shreveport, Louisiana with Tighe, our oldest son and their best man. They pulled out around 3 p.m. Central time and hit traffic immediately, being Christmas Eve. They were heading for Las Vegas for the Little Chapel of the West, where Elisha's parents and all the guests are waiting to see them get married on Dec. 27th.

Jeremy said it seemed to take forever to reach Dallas, but when they arrived, they hit a wall of traffic. I'll correct this later if I'm way off the mark, but I believe it took them four hours to get through Dallas. Then things got really bad. The next morning they called from just outside Witchita Falls, where all the roads were closed due to weather related traffic accidents. They were sitting, doing nothing, and couldn't proceed in any direction. At that point it had taken them about nineteen hours to make a seven hour drive. Not good.

They finally got rolling and everything looked good. He called last night and said, "Mom, are you sitting down?" He sounded shaken, and I pictured crumpled fenders, the car in a ditch and an ambulance pulling away. Never ask your mother that question when she can't see if there's blood. Just spill the news. It's far less painless. The car overheated and broke down in New Mexico. Because it's a Prius, hybrid, only the dealership can "turn it back on" to see what's wrong, so even if it's just a hose, it's going to cost them several hundred dollars. (I feel a soap box moment coming on, but I'll save it for another day.)

Of course dealership is all the way in Albuquerque, 150 miles away. The tow truck can't pick them up until 7 a.m. That means a hotel had to be rented—very expensive in Santa Rosa. And once they get there, if the car can be fixed quickly, they still have a nine hour drive before the wedding. The wedding is tomorrow, so there's still a chance...

We'll be heading out to Las Vegas ourselves at 7:30 this morning, and keeping the faith for the best. We'll be praying, of course, and staying by the cell phones—thank goodness for technology! At least they're not out looking for a payphone...

Heading Out

There's a storm heading in across our route that's supposed to last three days, so we're heading out a couple days early. My brother Pat and his wife Betty advised us to keep an eye on the weather and be flexible, so I don't need to feel guilty—just rushed. It's not like I didn't see this coming. I've been watching the weather forecast change for the last week. It just didn't change in the direction that would give me an extra day to do laundry and pack.

Today I managed a run to the grocery store, to do the laundry, wrap all the gifts (for Christmas, Tighe's birthday, plus Jeremy and Elisha's wedding), and make another double batch of pecan tarts. I've got everything fairly well packed, and now I've just got the shrimp dip to make and the cooler to pack. My cameras, cell phone and headphones are charged. I know I'm forgetting something, but I don't know what it is. This always happens to me.

The final thing I want to say is thank you to my sister Ellen. We used to get together to bake Christmas goodies. Now that we live so far away, I have to do it by myself—with her recipes. They're all my favorites. It makes me miss you so much more than usual, Ellen. They are tradition, taste and memory blended together. I made enough to share with everyone who stops by for the wedding. (But if I never roll out another tiny little tart... well, until next time.) Recipe to follow soon.

Thanksgiving Dinner

Tomorrow we're going to the Cracker Barrel with our neighbor friend Doug for Thanksgiving Dinner. It will be the second time I can remember ever eating Thanksgiving Dinner in a restaurant. This time we're doing it because the expense of the big meal we want doesn't make sense when we're preparing for a trip to California for John to work at the Naval Base. The leftovers wouldn't be properly enjoyed. Also, a turkey for two isn't very cost efficient, and that's what we want. 

The last time we headed out to a restaurant for Thanksgiving Dinner, Jeremy had just turned three. I'm not sure why we decided to go out that year. Mentally calling roll, I remember Mom was alone, still a widow. Ellen and her John, with their two boys had John's parents with them. My John and I only had two sons then, and I believe Edith, our best family friend ever, was also with us. All together there must have been at least a dozen around that long table. Jeremy was the youngest, and very excited to be in a very good restaurant.

For some reason the waiter started right next to Jeremy and proceeded around the table, away from him. Not particularly used to being last—or being ignored—Jeremy began quietly enough. 

"I'd like a salad, mister."

"Be quiet, Jeremy. He'll get to you. Here, have a cracker," or some such motherly platitude would slip from my mouth after each each person was waited on, and Jeremy made a somewhat louder request for a salad. The young waiter never once looked at the boy. He never smiled or in any way broke that professional polish that comes from serving many years in a quality establishment.

After working his way around the table to it's final small occupant, he looked down and said solemnly, "Master Jeremy, would you care for a salad?"

Jeremy looked astonished. "Yes, please. How do you know my name?"

The gentleman looked very serious and said, "You just look like a Jeremy to me." Then he tempted him to order more than salad, which was more than I had been able to do. He got a very nice tip. More important to me, he helped make a memory, and was never forgotten.

Selfish With My Treasure

Rejoicing over the bit of snowfall here in Colorado, I was unaware that Southern California was once again losing homes to wildfires. The fires broke out in Montecito, six and a half miles from Santa Barbara. It's on the Ventura County side of the city, and as of this morning, well over one hundred homes have been lost. According to the fire department's press conference this morning, they're not even thinking about containment yet. Phrases like "not out of the woods" and "when the afternoon winds pick back up to around 70 mph" made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

Why did I call this blog "Selfish With My Treasure?" I raised three sons in Southern California. I talk to God a lot. Sometimes I call it prayer. More often, I think of it as conversation, even though I know I can't hear Him very well. I try to remember, at least most of the time, that what I want is not always the best thing that could happen. There have been times that I've gotten what I wanted and it hasn't been at all a good thing. Conversely, some of my most reluctant experiences—those I would have turned from if given a choice—have resulted in my deepest and most rewarding blessings.

One prayer I fervently sent heavenward while watching all three of my precious sons grow was, "Please, God, don't let them grow up wanting to be soldiers or fire fighters." I never qualified it. I never once, to the best of my memory, said anything remotely resembling "unless that is Your Will..." It was a selfish prayer, and a regular one. It was accompanied by another, for all the mothers who sent their sons and daughters out to battle the flames and wars for the rest of us. 

I have a fine imagination. I can string together words, envision a story, travel in my mind to places I've never been. I can't conceive, in all the vastness of this mind, a greater pain or emptiness than losing a child of any age. Selfish with my treasure? You bet. At least I recognize them for what they are—always have been. With every fire these days, with every news story of battles and war, my prayer now is, "Thank you for allowing my selfishness. Please protect the treasure of the less selfish mothers."

The Fig Tree

The day Jeremy came home from the hospital, John's parents and sister traveled quite a distance to see the new baby. Tighe was nearly four. He was proud of his little brother, and had been anxious to have us return home. There had been no signs of jealousy.

It's important to note that John is the only dad Tighe ever knew. His biological father never stuck around to meet him. John and I married just before Tighe's second birthday. He loved John's parents, and called them Grandma and Grandpa. 

When they arrived at our home, they brought along a fig tree. It was about three feet tall, and with great ceremony they planted it in our backyard. It was to celebrate this new life. I was very touched that they would think to do this for us. Then we went into the house, and Grandma and Grandpa took the baby. Grandma held the little boy on her lap and looked at her husband with tears in her eyes.

With Tighe standing right in front of her, hand on her knee as she held the baby, she said to Grandpa, "Isn't he beautiful! Our first grandchild!"

Tighe's face fell. My face froze. John left the room. Grandpa nodded and took the child from her. To them, this was blood of their blood—thus, their first grandchild. 

I'm not sure what I did. I was too mad to handle the situation properly, and soon realized that Tighe had slipped out of the room. Searching for him, I found his room empty. I finally found him in the yard. He had taken his little plastic hatchet and chopped down the fig tree, about three inches from the roots. 

John's sister found us outside by the tree. I was holding him, and we were both crying. The hatchet was lying by the splintered pieces of the tree. She sat down and took Tighe from me. "Babies are pretty useless for a few years anyway. I'll bet you have some cool toys. Can we go play?" she asked him.

Taking him by the hand, she led the way to his room, and they stayed there until the grandparents were ready to leave. It was never mentioned again, but I've always thought she was one of the biggest people I've ever met.

The 1992 American Legion World Series

We won. Jeremy and I watched it happen.

It wasn't as simple as that makes it sound. The first thing that happened was that the team left without us, and we knew that they'd keep in touch by phone after each game, and that was the best that we could expect. Then we got a phone call from one of the team mothers who had a travel agent friend. They had arranged a two-for-one special deal for team family members to fly to Fargo. Half price for one, I wanted to know? Nope. Two for one, and everyone else was paired up.

We had a family meeting, and I couldn't figure out how this would work. Ben immediately stepped up and said that Jeremy should be the one to go, since he was older. Ben was willing to stay home without a fuss. I shouldn't have been amazed, but that kid constantly showed me how a good person should act toward others. John had to work, so it was quickly decided that Jeremy and I would go together, and we left quickly. Even Tighe didn't know that we would be at his game.

We arrived in Fargo after Midnight, technically the day of the opening ceremony. Our team marched in with all the other teams from around our country and from as far away as Puerto Rico. Most of the teams had matching jackets and uniforms. We looked like the Bad News Bears. Our jerseys didn't all match. We had just come from a hot climate, and some of us didn't have long sleeves. It was bitter cold in Fargo that week.

Now remember that Tighe didn't know that Jeremy and I were among the ten thousand or so filling the stands that day. All the teams marched out to the field together to the sounds of music and the cheering of the crowds. Everyone was screaming, including Jeremy and me. I'm not that loud. I'm not. But suddenly, down on the field, we could see Tighe stiffen and start to scan the crowd. It took him awhile, but he finally found us. His look of shock was replaced with joy, and then he again put on his solemn game face. He knew he had family in the stands.

There were so many highlights of that week. Winning was the big one. The trophy the team flew home with was almost as big as another kid. Almost. Tighe was awarded the Bob Feller pitching award. The Bob Feller pitching award is presented annually to the pitcher in Regional and World Series competition who strikes out the most batters. You can still find his name on the internet and in the Baseball Hall of Fame. Someday I'll get to see that...

Another highlight that I'll just mention very briefly is being handed what I thought was a really delicious milk shake of some kind. After the second one, I got up to go to the restroom and almost couldn't walk. They were giving me Brandy Alexanders. I'll always have a fondness for that drink now, but a lot more caution. That was some team party — the team was elsewhere. This was the parents and coaches celebrating.

I guess when I think back on the entire experience, the three things that stand out in my mind most are my husband's willingness to fork over money we really didn't have so that Tighe could have family at this important competition; Ben's immediate willingness to stand aside to allow his brother Jeremy to go; and that moment when Tighe's face registered his joy in finding us in the stands. These are the moments that live in our hearts.

American Legion Baseball in Las Vegas

The whole family drove to Las Vegas to watch Tighe's American Legion team compete for the regional championships, and the right to attend the World Series. We got a room at Circus Circus, at special rates that were arranged through the team. Jeremy asked a very smart question for a fourteen year old while we were there. He wanted to know why he wasn't allowed to gamble his money on a slot machine, where he might have a chance of increasing his five dollars, but he was allowed to throw it away on the video games, where he had no chance of increasing his money. I never did have a good answer for him.

When we got to the game the first morning, someone came to the bleachers and told us that the temperature of the grass on the field at game time was 124°. That was at about 9:00 a.m., if I remember correctly. That was just the first game. By the time we won the series and went home, we were all sunburned and exhausted from the heat, but thoroughly overjoyed. Not only had Tighe's team won, but he had pitched beautifully. We also got to see my favorite ever professional baseball player, Mickey Hatcher.

Hatcher was sitting on a chair at field level watching the game. He was coaching a semi-pro team at that time. They would take the field for a game after we were done, and he was waiting for our game to conclude. When Tighe popped out of the dugout to point him out to me, I'm afraid I got so excited I might have embarrassed him. I yelled, "Hey, Mickey!" and waved. I think people were guessing I'd had heat stroke and thought I was at Disneyland talking to Mickey Mouse or something. Good grief, I never talk to celebrities. I guess my brain was fried.

I always felt that Hatcher embodied my convictions about sports being a balance between fun and effort. The more effort you make, the more fun you have and the better you do. If it becomes a chore, you don't do well. If you're having fun, you will be doing your best. And in Mickey's own words, "I didn't like to fail. I always believed that I was very competitive. You have to have that fighting mentality. . . . Even though I enjoyed it and had fun, I knew when the serious parts were.'' That sounds so much like what I was telling my kids. Mickey always played hard, and as a utility player, you never knew where on the field you would see him. He might be thrown in to pitch an inning, or he might be out in left field. He never said, "That's not my job." He was just glad to be playing.

So we packed up our car and headed home from Las Vegas after the final game, knowing that the World Series was too far away for us to drive to. It would be in Fargo, North Dakota, and buying plane tickets for the family would be out of the question. It seemed that the team would have to go without us. I was registered with a temp Service and looking for full time work, so hopefully money would start rolling in soon, but once it did, the time to do things like follow a team would no longer be there. That's the ultimate quandary. When we've had money to go places, we haven't had the time. We drove home, smelling of burn spray and baseball dust.

Camping With Jeremy

With no close second, the best camping trip I ever had was just Jeremy and me. We drove together to a young redwood forest in Northern California near Yountville. The year was 1992, and Jeremy was was not quite fifteen. We were there to see Tighe's American Legion baseball team compete in the State Championship games. I love baseball, and definitely remember the games, but some of the sweetest memories were of camping out with Jeremy. I couldn't have been treated better if I had been royalty.

Jeremy didn't have his learner's permit yet, so the 450 mile trip (each way) was driven entirely by me. If you know Jeremy, then you are well aware that as soon as the car starts up, if he's not behind the wheel, he's asleep. It tends to make for a long trip, if it's a long trip. He turned from slumbering companion to Super Son as soon as we pulled into the camp site, though. He pulled open the back of our little car, a Mercury Topaz, and pulled out four things: a chair, a bottle of wine, my guitar and a book. He set them up next to the campfire area, and told me that my entire job for the rest of our stay was to enjoy myself. I was to read, make music, and get us back and forth to the games. He'd take care of everything else—and he did.

He set up camp, got the fire going in the fire pit, and proceeded to make us the first of many wonderful meals. He cooked, he served, he cleaned up. We laughed and talked, and had a grand time together. Some of the things I'll never forget include the lady ranger that I (perhaps indiscreetly) described as having "Cojones." She was on some kind of power trip. I'm not sure what her problem was, but she just had a mean streak. Jeremy later got in a wee bit of trouble for using that expression in his Spanish class. When asked by the teacher where he had learned the term, he nicely told her, "From my mother." Thanks, kid.

Another indelible memory would have to be using the showers. One of the reasons we chose this campground was because there were showers. Most of the people attending the baseball tournament were staying at hotels. We didn't want to spend a week around hotel people as we got more and more campground rank. We just didn't realize that the showers only had cold water until we got in there. Jeremy went first and nearly froze, but he was nice enough to let me be surprised. I was.

I wonder if Jeremy remembers getting his first driving lesson at that campground, or that we ended up having to hide from that lady ranger afterwards. I think she wanted to see his permit.

And the baseball games? It would be worth mentioning that Tighe's team won the State Championship. Actually they did even better than that, but that's another day's blog. I'm still busy remembering camping with Jeremy.

My 45th Birthday

Let's set the stage for my 45th birthday. Tighe was a Freshman in college. Jeremy was in 9th grade, and Benjamin was in 5th grade. I came home from work to find all three boys in the kitchen together, fixing dinner. (Yes, all three are really good cooks, although Jeremy, as a chef, is magnificent in the kitchen.)

As I walked in, the first thing I noticed was a huge bouquet of flowers on the kitchen counter. They had signed their Dad's name to it, and he could have gotten credit for it, too, if he hadn't later come in and asked who had sent me the flowers. These are great kids. I had suspected the flowers were from them anyway.

The boys stopped cooking long enough to pass me around for hugs. They were all taller than I was, even then. Tighe got me last, and after a big hug he held me at arm's length.

"Happy birthday, Mom. How old are you today, anyway?"

"45," I said. I never have lied about my age. It seems I've just been comfortable to be whatever I am, and each year seems to get better anyway. I wouldn't go back to being a teenager for any amount of money, beauty, or anything else. Not a chance.

"Well, here's to the next 45!" Tighe said. Then he seemed to think about it. "That would make you 90!" he said, somehow horrified at the thought. "Would you even want to be 90?"

I didn't even have to think about that one. "I don't care how old I get, as long as I go at the same time as my brain."

Tighe pulled me back into his arms for a particularly tender hug. Over my shoulder he said to his brothers in a stage whisper, "Prepare yourselves, boys, she's fixing to leave us."

Back to Church

We might as well revisit kids in church. After all, I was the mother trying to decide whether or not to leave the movie theatre when my son Tighe genuflected and made the sign of the cross before entering the row of seats to see Peter Pan. It's not that he'd never seen a movie. We just went to the drive in theatre, and this was the matinee. People laughed. I was so glad when the lights finally went down. We'd been to church a lot, but to the indoor theatre never.

So now we'll go back in time to when I had three youngsters. It was Easter Sunday, and we had been persuaded to spend the holiday in Grandma Harrell's one bedroom mobile home at Lake Isabella. Ben was two, Jeremy almost six, and Tighe almost nine and a half. Grandma Harrell wasn't used to the noise of children, and it's not possible to keep three boys quiet in so little space. It was blistering hot, and crowded. Ben was a very picky eater, and that set Grandma off as well, but we were closing in on the end of the visit. Stress was high. I had wanted to go to early Mass, but Grandma wanted to do an egg hunt first, so we ended up going to the noon services across the lake.

Bad idea. First off, the kids had had too much of their Easter baskets by then, so they were squirming in their seats. They also hadn't had lunch yet. Not a good time to go to church. But the biggest problem was that it was a high Mass. Now, for those of you who are unfamiliar with the idea of a high Mass, let me give you an idea. If you're familiar with scriptures, each Mass will have two readings from the Bible. One will come from the Old Testament, and one from the New Testament. A high Mass, however, goes well beyond that. Everyone stands, and the Priest reads a section of scripture, then everyone says Amen and you sit. A short prayer is said, and everyone stands up again, and the Priest reads the next section from the Scripture. During the Easter High Mass, The entire Passion of Christ is read. It takes a long time. After about the sixth reading, as everyone began to sit down, Benjamin yelled out, in a very loud voice, "AMEN!" with the clear intent that this be the last time the Priest should be requiring him to say it.

Grandma Harrell was mortified. She glared at him. She glared at me. She never entered a church with us again. However, there was a little grey-haired grandmother in front of us whose shoulders shook for the rest of the service. She would no sooner get herself under control than a prayer would end with Amen, and she would again start to laugh and her shoulders would start to shake again. I took that as comfort. John's mother didn't think it was funny, but that little Granny in front of us sure did. I have to admit it would have been funnier to me then if it had been somebody else's kid.

Children in Church

Taking your children to church can be so exciting... You never really know what to expect. Many Catholic churches have a special place called "the crying room." Ah, the crying room. It's usually up in the front somewhere, separate from the congregation but glassed in, so you can see, but the children cannot be heard from the sanctuary.

It's a lovely thought, right? Sound comes into the crying room through speakers, and the crying children are all gathered together like an out-of-control children's choir. At least you're there, and nobody is having impure thoughts of murder while your children disrupt and you struggle to contain their exuberance and energy. With our sons coming nearly four years apart, it seemed like I had ever just graduated to the main body of the congregation, when I again had to be exiled to the crying room. There were two incidents that I want to memorialize here. Both were only funny in retrospect.

The first happened when Jeremy was tiny. Tighe had watched for months as the ushers would quietly come into the crying room with the collection basket for our offertory gifts. People would place their cash, checks, or envelopes in the basket, and then the usher would open the door and quietly leave again. Tighe liked the idea of having money so freely given. One day he figured if it was good enough for the ushers, he'd give it a try himself. When the ushers left the room, he picked up the little trash basket and followed them into the main congregation, and started going up and down the aisles, holding out the trash can and looking expectantly, waiting for money to be placed in his offering basket.

I didn't notice that he was gone right away, as I was dealing with Jeremy, but I could hear sudden laughter coming through the speakers and started looking around. Out through the glass I saw what was going on, and put Jeremy down, ready to go retrieve my wayward eldest, when the head usher beat me to it. He marched him back in the room and actually slammed the door shut as he left! He kept the trash can, too. He never smiled at me again. I was a failed mother. (His standards were very high.)

The second incident only disrupted the crying room, not the general congregation, but one man never came back to that service; at least, he never sat in the crying room again. I'm not sure why he sat in there, anyway. He never had any children with him. He was a big guy, and there's no really polite way to say this. He had a problem commonly known as plumber's crack. He would kneel down with his hips resting on the seat, leaning forward onto the front of the seat in front of him, and this wide crack would be displayed, disappearing into the drooping edge of his pants. We usually came in after he did, and I was careful to sit well forward of him. One Sunday, however, he was late. He rushed in and sank into the empty spot right in front of Jeremy. Just then the service began.

Jeremy wasn't even two yet, and inhibitions aren't strong at that age. We had almost made it to the end of the service. We were all kneeling down after Communion when Jeremy, with a loud "Wheee!" stuck his finger down the guy's crack. I had never before seen a man levitate. He was out of his seat, and out of that church faster than I would have believed possible.

Church lasted another fifteen minutes at the most, but I don't think there was a person in there who wasn't still laughing off and on when we left — except me. I do have more church stories, but we'll save them for another day, assuming the kids don't travel to Colorado to kill me first.

Exponential Curves

For those of you who didn't take Calculus, let me briefly explain the exponential curve. Each equal point on the curve is twice the distance of the point before it. How does this relate to ordinary life? For a mother, this means that while two children are twice the work of one, three are four times the work of one, or twice two. When the children are four years apart, or nearly, as ours were, it seems the curve increases.

Let me go back in time, even though this particular memory is uncomfortable and embarrassing for me. It's worth recalling, so it won't be lost in the mists of time. Someone, though I don't know who, once said that everyone has value, even if just to serve as a warning to others. Here's your warning.

I had just produced our third son: Benjamin. He was tiny. He was sleeping. I was recovering from a C-Section, and newly home from the hospital. John was at work, and it had seemed like a long day. Jeremy, not four yet, wanted to go outside to play, but we lived on the corner, and he wasn't allowed to go out unattended. Tighe, at seven and a half, knew about busy streets, and was permitted in the front yard with his friends. It sounded like he was having a grand time out there with a couple of friends. Jeremy was not happy, and was letting me know it.

Tighe was never forced to take along his brother, since I remembered the animosity of my sister when forced to include her "little sister," a whole 17 months younger than she was. This day, however, I needed to get dinner ready for John's imminent arrival, and didn't have any patience left for a frustrated little boy who refused to understand why he was excluded from the fun in the yard. I called Tighe in and told him that it wouldn't kill him to include Jeremy in the fun for awhile. He wasn't pleased. He wasn't amused. He wasn't gracious. He was, however, obedient. 

I listened at the door for a few minutes. I heard the teasing from Tighe and his friends, but felt it was moderate and that Jeremy could handle himself. After all, it was important to let the children deal with their own problems to a certain extent.

As I started dinner, the front door banged open, and Jeremy tearfully ran into the house, lifting his little face to me. "Tighe called me the F Word." 

"What?!?" I ran outside, not wanting to believe what I had heard. I marched over to Tighe. "Jeremy said you called him the F Word. Did you?" Tighe admitted that he did. I looked at his friends. Pointing at each, I ordered them home. "Go home — NOW!" I yelled. I grabbed Tighe by the shirt collar and dragged him into the house.

Some things are simply not acceptable. I had had a bad day. This was shocking and one thing too many. The fighting and sniping were bad enough, but this was simply unacceptable! I hauled Tighe over to the couch, stripped off his jeans and was on about the third smack on his bare bottom when John came rushing in the front door, hearing the screams. At this point, Tighe and Jeremy were both crying loudly. "What is going on here?" he demanded.

Before I could open my mouth, Jeremy yelled out, "Tighe called me a Freak, and Mama's killing him!"

I don't know if you've ever tried wiping red hand prints off an innocent child's bottom, but it can't be done. You also can't really explain to a not quite eight year old how you could make such a mistake. 

That night I learned an important lesson. When a child said he was called the B word or the S word or whatever, I always gave them permission to say the word completely "one time and only one time." 

That evening I skipped several points on my own personal exponential curve, with both feet dragging. I'm not sure I ever completely caught up. I never felt good enough, as a mother, as a house keeper, wife, or anything else. Well, almost anything else. The only area where I really knew I aced every test was the love quotient. I wouldn't have traded my kids for any others I had ever met. I still feel that way. I love my boys, and they are three blessings in my life that have been constant and heart felt. Through trials and triumphs, they live in my heart.

Some day they will understand (and perhaps having a daughter of his own now and another on the way, Benjamin might already have a glimmer of this truth) that I learned far more from them than they ever learned from me.