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.

Happy Half A Birthday

Three days after Christmas, my oldest son Tighe was born. That was a long time ago, of course, but I learned a few things about having a child so close to such a major holiday. The main thing was that even if you're very careful about making the birthday and the holiday totally separate, there's still a very long time before the next gift-giving day comes along.

Six months after his birthday, I got out my cake layer pans and made a special cake. I cut each one in half and layered them as a very tall half cake. We sang "Happy Half a birthday to you," etc. We gave him a gift and celebrated as if it were a natural celebration for every child. We did this until he started school, and did it for each of our three boys the same way, until they started school. They don't seem to remember it very well now, but at the time it was very special, and they looked forward to it.

Now I have a special friend whose daughter was born on December 30th last year. Her half a birthday is quickly approaching. One of my—well, I won't exactly call it a regret, but almost a disappointment in my life—is that I didn't have another son who could have fallen in love with this wonderful young woman. She honestly wasn't the right young lady for any of my sons, and fell in love with a man my husband and I really enjoy. However, I really wanted to keep her. I've done the best I could to make that happen in the only way I could. I keep in touch, and I make things for her daughter. She's not really my granddaughter, but she's grand.

Stacey and Ryan, I hope you always allow me to spoil your kids a bit. It's a privilege. Thanks for sending me a photo of Hanne in the little half a birthday outfit. If it was her whole birthday, I might have sent pants, too.

A Wonderful Mother's Day

Yesterday was Mother's Day. I guess that's not news to most, but for me it was just about the best Mother's Day I can remember. Maybe my memory is getting short, but perhaps it was just that the day seemed to roll along so sweetly. I got calls from Jeremy (in Louisiana) and Ben (in The Netherlands), but Tighe was here. It was the first time in years that one of my sons was with me on Mother's Day.

I made one of my favorite breakfast treats, French toast made with cinnamon bread, and scrambled eggs with onions and cheese. I got cards and flowers—not just flowers, but tulips. My daughter-in-law Ruth would appreciate that. She's always loved them best. I've given tulips many times, but never received them before. I'm still smiling.

I used my Koehler cousins' brat recipe for lunch, letting those good Johnsonville brats simmer along with sliced onions for a couple of hours in a dark unnamed brew. Yum. When they were done, their life expectancy was very short. (And no, you can't get drunk on them. The brew just adds to the flavor.)

Dinner was a family affair. We all worked on it. Tighe marinaded sesame chicken and cooked rice. John grilled the chicken on the barbeque. I did a medley of tempura vegetables and a pear and apple cole slaw for side dishes. It all came together beautifully. I need to add that sesame chicken to the things I cook. It was beyond excellent. Then Tighe made one of my favorite little extras, peanut butter cookies for dessert. I was definitely spoiled yesterday. I went to bed kind of early, feeling fat and sassy. 

The only sour note in the whole day was when Tighe turned his ankle. I felt doubly bad. Not only was he in pain, really having trouble walking, but he did it while cutting wood in our yard. He had gone out to our trimmed tree branches with the saw and cut them into fire pit sized pieces. We've had a couple of days of rain, and the ground and wood were fairly soft. He got down near the bottom of the branch pile, and the wood was no longer cutting well, so he decided to give it a couple of days to dry before tackling it again. Then he turned around to jump down a bit and his ankle rolled. It's huge and swollen. 

I'll have to spoil him tonight when he gets back from work. Maybe we should do this again next year... without the ankle pain. I vote yes.

Who Was That Masked Man?

Tighe just got here, and all my plans, except for some of the food preparation, have already gone by the wayside. He's had the phone to his ear since he arrived. It seems his boss started to panic almost as soon as he left town, picturing what would happen if he didn't come back. It was, of course, a consideration. 

Now there's an offer on the table that will most probably send Tighe back in the other direction in another day or two. Since there's another storm coming through the Rockies on Thursday, he figures he should leave Wednesday morning if he's going to go. There go our trips to visit the parks. No Cheyenne. No Budweiser tour. No museums, or Denver mint. No Easter Sunday together. (I know, my list grew during the night.)

Oh, well, such is life. And at least he'll be here for John's birthday tomorrow. Maybe we'll celebrate by going with John to buy his first ever "Cheap-o Senior Citizen's Fishing License" that he'll finally be old enough to buy. That would be an exciting way to spend part of the day. It's what John wants, anyway, and it will be his birthday. 

I'm trying to be philosophical about it. Yes, he's leaving and I'll miss him, but at least we'll have the phone back.

It's Good to be Mama

When I got up this morning, just knowing that our son Tighe was in the house filled me with energy and joy. What a great day this has been. I seem to have morphed into Mama mode. I want to take him everywhere, show him everything. I'm really pleased that he's seen so many deer and elk, and seems so fascinated with the area. 

There's so much to see here. First, I think we need to go to Rocky Mountain National Park and Estes Park. Naturally, we'll have to spend some time walking through Benson Sculpture Park. He's seen it from the road, but the snow was coming down pretty hard, and it's a lot of walking to do it right. We'll want to do it right. We'll need to show him Pinewood Lake, too. 

Baseball season is almost upon us. He's never been to Coors Stadium, or seen a Rockies Game live. We'll have to do that. Let's see. There's the Lone Tree Museum, Celestial Seasonings Tour. And then, of course, he has to be shown where the buffalo herds are, closer to the Wyoming border. As long as we're heading in that direction, it only makes sense to visit Cheyenne. Their historic tour is great.

I think I'll just keep him for awhile... as long as we don't discuss politics.

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.

Aesop's Fables

In the early 1980's, a video rental shop near us offered a special deal. You could rent a Video Player with a small color television and two videos for about ten dollars and keep it for a weekend. There are two times this could have been. It was right after I got out of the hospital, so it was either 1981 after Ben was born, and I was recovering from a C-Section, or two years later when I had another surgery.

John went down and picked up this bundle for the family's entertainment. He got an adult movie and a kid's movie. I remember what the adult movie was. We watched about a minute of it, and realized it wasn't what John thought it was. It went back in the bag quickly. Every once in awhile I tease John about the Dallas Pizza Girls Mystery.

The kid's movie was more our speed. It was Aesop's fables, and it was great. Tighe was about eight or ten, and we had never had a color television, so he was really enjoying the whole video rental idea. There would be a musical interlude, quite a good classical piece with the title of the fable coming up, then a quality cartoon of the fable. That would be followed by another musical interlude.

During one of the songs I said to Tighe, "Do you realize that these stories are all about 2500 years old?"

He looked at me with the sort of disgust that only a growing child can show to a parent, and in his infinite wisdom replied, "Get real, Mom. If they were that old, they'd be in black and white!"

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.

Addendum to the Las Vegas Games

The day of the first game, as we were sitting in the stands, one of the fathers who had flown in to Las Vegas for the American Legion Regional Championship Games that morning was nice enough to bring copies of the local newspaper from home with him. He brought three copies, one for his family, one for Tighe in the dugout, and one for me.

The newspaper captured a big photo of Tighe in uniform, ball cap slightly askew, smiling brightly. The article featured his pitching, and the interview they did with him was wonderful. At one point in the article, Tighe stated that he owed his success to his Mom. He said I was his best friend, and that I gave him the best advice ever when I said to play to have fun; that when he followed my advice he did well, but when he played just trying to do well, he didn't have fun, and he didn't do as well, either.

That game was a long one. He wasn't supposed to be pitching, but our starter got in big trouble quickly. They brought Tighe in with the bases loaded and already down several runs. He'd be able to tell you how many, but I don't remember. He pitched the rest of the game, even though it went into extra innings. I sat there holding that newspaper for the entire game. I kept rereading the wonderful things they had said about him, and the wonderful things he had said about me. (Actually, I still have that clipping.)

When he finally threw the last pitch, and our team got the victory, I was ready to talk to him, but I had to wait. First there were the reporters flooding the field. Then there was a line of little kids with their baseballs waiting for signatures from these young World Series game winners. Then they had to get their things out of the dugout. Tighe was always the last duck out of the pond, anyway. Finally he came up the steps. He stopped and looked at me. He looked at the newspaper, clutched in my hand. He came up and put his arms around me. He whispered in my ear.

"Don't believe everything you read in the newspaper."

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.

The Principal's Office

I was only called into the Principal's Office because of one of my sons once. It was pretty funny. I understand that's not usually the case, but this time it was. The principal and I were both laughing.

I got a call at home from the secretary at the elementary school. She asked me if I would please come in to speak with the principal about my eldest son. I asked if he was in trouble, and was told that he was, but not to worry. Just come in a few minutes early and speak to the principal before picking up my son. So in I went.

When I got there, I was surprised to find the gentleman laughing. He handed me a note in my son's careful printing. On double-lined paper, it said, "I send a bad word." Then there were a couple of spaces, and underneath, it said "Signed." Below that, "Mama" and "Dady" were penciled in with the same careful printing.

It seems he had been told to write the note, then take it home to have it signed by his parents. That's the way he brought it back to school, so his teacher had sent it on to the principal to handle. He figured I'd want to keep it as a souvenir, and he also wanted us to know that our son had used a four letter word for animal matter on the playground. Then he called the classroom and had them send in the boy. When the kid arrived and saw the two of us and the note, he was mortified. He was also really confused. How did they know his parents hadn't signed that note? He had a hard time understanding that.

This is the same kid who went to a Cub Scout meeting with two of his older cousins. When he wandered off by himself the Cub Scout Leader asked him who his mother was. "Mama," he said. "But what's her name?" he wanted to know. "Mama," he answered. "Well, what does your Daddy call her?" he then asked him. "Oh, well, he calls her Ma'am." About that time my sister came up and rescued the poor man. A child's mind is difficult to fathom.

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."

Smile When You Say That

In my family, you only tease people you love. I've always known I was well loved. I was certainly well teased.

One of my favorite memories would have to be the night when the three boys and I were watching a Lakers game together on television. They used to laugh at me because I always watched TV with a book on my lap. Whenever the commercials came on, I'd open the book and tune out for the duration of the paid messages. I never cared what was being advertised. I always felt my reading time was precious, although I managed to find more than most people I ever knew.

Have you ever been reading a book, or involved in something, and realized that somebody has asked you a question? That's what happened that particular evening. What makes it memorable is that I tried to figure out what the question was instead of saying, "Huh?"

I mentally rewound the tape in my head and figured out what I thought I had been asked. Their three faces were all looking at me quite intently when I looked up at them. I thought I knew what I had been asked, and fairly quickly came up with an answer... an apparently inappropriate answer. I was rewarded with three very blank faces.

Finally, Tighe looked at his brothers and calmly asked, "If Mom gets Alzheimer's, how will we know?"

I never did find out what the question was. The game started back up, and the subject was never revisited, although I never forgot Tighe's teasing remark, or let him forget it.

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.