Dear God,
No, my name is not Margaret, and I am not wondering if You're here. Honestly, I hold the belief not only are You here, You get Your giggles at my expense. I'm not saying I'm the only person that provides You with humor; I'm just saying I'm onto You.
Today, I'm writing about Your running joke, my daughter. Quite obviously, You heard me pray and plead for a healthy child during my pregnancy, and I thank You again and again. Ok, maybe just on Sundays, and only if Your other jokey gift, my son, gives me a tiny moment to reflect rather than chase him around the church (By the way, I know You are taking bets, despite the fact You have an unfair advantage, on how many curse words I will unleash during mass. Like I said, I'm onto You.). But anyway, I also know You heard my very quiet plea that I never voiced to anyone else that she please be smart, because God, You know how I feel about academics. And the thought of having a child without a love for education was horrifying to the point I simply could not contemplate.
I don't want You to think I'm not grateful for a very healthy daughter (we'll disregard the 3-day hospital stay when she was 12 months old, and the epic vomiting over spring break). But seriously, this child has the handwriting of a horse. And I'm not talking about the animated animals that have Palmer script. I am talking about a horse at the end of the Kentucky derby that has broken its leg and ready to be put down. It is that bad, and I don't see it getting any better. Recently, while struggling with what I believed to be her writing, I grasped for hope that she would love to read and have the same obsession for proper spelling as myself.
Har har. Very funny. Despite her love for books (thank You for making sure she got my genes for that one), You gave her her father's sheer hatred for spelling. It would appear these two share a unique dictionary that has yet to be shared with the public. Or anyone on this planet for that matter. I'm guessing, however, that YOU provided them with the sole copy. Any chance I might get a decoded version? I didn't think so.
I'll tell You what I don't find amusing--the fact that You gave her her father's aptitude for math, when You knew perfectly well it would be I who would have to help her with her math homework. Don't act like You didn't know I was going to inevitably quit my job and stay at home, and thus, take on that responsibility. After all, You are omni-whatever that word is that means You know everything. I appreciate the irony of the fact that despite my love for reading, I simply cannot master word problems in math. I mean, how can I possibly decipher what I'm supposed to solve? What do I care how long it would take Ted to reach Fred if Ted were traveling by train at 50mph, broke down 30 minutes later, caught a plane whilst Fred biked on a one-speed in the opposite direction for 3 hours, turned around by Vespa and then caught in a tornado? Seriously, I don't care. Beyond my lack of respect for algebra and trigonometry, why are first graders being asked to solve word problems in math?!!!! HOW HARD ARE YOU LAUGHING EVERY DAY AT 4pm?!!!!! Because let me tell You, as much as I disrespect math, the lack of faith my child has in me is becoming more and more obvious every day when we sit down to tackle her math assignment. Perhaps I should audit her class...
In closing, thank You for giving me such a beautiful gift that is my daughter. Feel free to take away the sass, drama and daily rolling of the eyes first in the morning when I pick out her clothes, and in the afternoon during homework time. I'm not sure how to close out a letter to You, so for now, let's just leave it at peace out.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Friday, September 2, 2011
What in the....???
By this time, I should not be surprised by much. However, people still manage to shock me, and that is saying a lot.
Random things as of late:
1. When a person who never calls you suddenly does, it's not to say "hello". Before answering that call, be prepared to throw away any plans you had that day.
2. Getting an email out of nowhere with the pretense of interest in my family's and my well-being, but really looking for gossip, still surprises and annoys me. It would be so much easier, and I'd respect it a lot more, if the person would just directly ask about that gossip.
3. It does not matter how far I went in my education. Ally will always think I cannot possibly understand the material she is studying at that point in time. Right now, I am apparently having issues with first grade.
4. I am convinced Ethan can poop on demand. Like right before I have to head out the door.
5. Virtually all disputes are due to silly misunderstandings, and that's actually very funny if you're not in the middle of the dispute. But that does not mean I will forgive my death-wishing neighbor for setting off fireworks last July 29 after 9pm when Ethan was trying to sleep. I think the kid is still suffering from PTSD from that incident.
6. After 17 years, I still don't know what Sam does at work. I'm pretty sure it involves fantasy football, rotisserie baseball, eating at Johnny's on Thursdays because it's 2-for-1 burgers, and the occasional trip out of town because "the client needs attention".
7. People are so much nicer to you when you give them a genuine smile and say "hello", and it also makes your day a lot nicer as well. This does NOT mean a kinder and nicer Anh because YOU should know better.
8. When someone complains about the price of gas or how much it cost to fill up their car, do they think they are alone? Do they feel like I got my gas for free or something???
This does not conclude the list by any means, because I am spending increasingly more time each day with "head-scratching" moments. I mean, really--am I in the Twilight Zone?!
Random things as of late:
1. When a person who never calls you suddenly does, it's not to say "hello". Before answering that call, be prepared to throw away any plans you had that day.
2. Getting an email out of nowhere with the pretense of interest in my family's and my well-being, but really looking for gossip, still surprises and annoys me. It would be so much easier, and I'd respect it a lot more, if the person would just directly ask about that gossip.
3. It does not matter how far I went in my education. Ally will always think I cannot possibly understand the material she is studying at that point in time. Right now, I am apparently having issues with first grade.
4. I am convinced Ethan can poop on demand. Like right before I have to head out the door.
5. Virtually all disputes are due to silly misunderstandings, and that's actually very funny if you're not in the middle of the dispute. But that does not mean I will forgive my death-wishing neighbor for setting off fireworks last July 29 after 9pm when Ethan was trying to sleep. I think the kid is still suffering from PTSD from that incident.
6. After 17 years, I still don't know what Sam does at work. I'm pretty sure it involves fantasy football, rotisserie baseball, eating at Johnny's on Thursdays because it's 2-for-1 burgers, and the occasional trip out of town because "the client needs attention".
7. People are so much nicer to you when you give them a genuine smile and say "hello", and it also makes your day a lot nicer as well. This does NOT mean a kinder and nicer Anh because YOU should know better.
8. When someone complains about the price of gas or how much it cost to fill up their car, do they think they are alone? Do they feel like I got my gas for free or something???
This does not conclude the list by any means, because I am spending increasingly more time each day with "head-scratching" moments. I mean, really--am I in the Twilight Zone?!
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
I think I'm starting to understand my children. Gasp!
I often wonder what goes through my chidren's minds when I am talking to them. I remember a "Far Side" cartoon where the dog only recognizes her name in a slew of reprimands from her owner, and lately, I have started to believe I can identify that expression in my chidren's faces.
In my professional/previous life, I dealt with possibly thousands of people from all over the world, all with different personalities and bringing unique flavors into my life. At one point in time, I lectured to 500 freshmen in a semester, once without a microphone. I could walk into a room, and command the attention and silence of a full auditorium. This is not a boast, but a simple fact. But never in my life did I dream that I would utter any of the following:
"Please do not step on your sister's head."
"I don't care that he hit you in the head with a bat. It is NOT okay to throw him to the ground."
"If you do not stop screaming, I will put you into the corner until Mardi Gras."
"No, we do not eat rubber bands, silly bands, or erasers."
"Whatever it is that you are thinking, don't."
And today, I almost heard my two year-old son say, after looking me square in the eye because I forbade him to roll them at me "Look woman, I will pretend to hear you because that is the only way to get you off of my back. But make no mistake. Someday, vengeance will be mine". I'm not sure what form that vengeance will take, but I have come to conclude that I will be spending the rest of my life sleeping with one eye open.
But you know what? I would not change it for the world. Because although I have been sleep-deprived for over six years, I feel I have been more acutely aware of my many blessings. And although I sound like a complete lunatic to many passersby at the store, I know in my heart that I am not alone amongst so many other parents. And although these little blessings appear to want to do me in, I will never forget to be grateful for them coming into our lives.
In my professional/previous life, I dealt with possibly thousands of people from all over the world, all with different personalities and bringing unique flavors into my life. At one point in time, I lectured to 500 freshmen in a semester, once without a microphone. I could walk into a room, and command the attention and silence of a full auditorium. This is not a boast, but a simple fact. But never in my life did I dream that I would utter any of the following:
"Please do not step on your sister's head."
"I don't care that he hit you in the head with a bat. It is NOT okay to throw him to the ground."
"If you do not stop screaming, I will put you into the corner until Mardi Gras."
"No, we do not eat rubber bands, silly bands, or erasers."
"Whatever it is that you are thinking, don't."
And today, I almost heard my two year-old son say, after looking me square in the eye because I forbade him to roll them at me "Look woman, I will pretend to hear you because that is the only way to get you off of my back. But make no mistake. Someday, vengeance will be mine". I'm not sure what form that vengeance will take, but I have come to conclude that I will be spending the rest of my life sleeping with one eye open.
But you know what? I would not change it for the world. Because although I have been sleep-deprived for over six years, I feel I have been more acutely aware of my many blessings. And although I sound like a complete lunatic to many passersby at the store, I know in my heart that I am not alone amongst so many other parents. And although these little blessings appear to want to do me in, I will never forget to be grateful for them coming into our lives.
Friday, July 22, 2011
One day when Dad was 35 years old.
It's so hot, and the humidity is even worse. But he doesn't notice it. He can't notice it. He doesn't want to, but he has to leave his oldest daughter and son in the hands of his aunt. His aunt with the constant scowl on her face every time she looks at his kids, sneering because their family is so poor and taking every opportunity to ridicule them. His heart torn, but his mind pulled in so many places he has to struggle to keep his thoughts straight, he looks at his kids.
Their eyes are wide, faces dirty from the ever-present red clay that sticks to their little faces, their mouths clamped shut to hold back their fear and sadness. They are trying so hard to be brave, but they know exactly what is not being said: He is leaving, and may not come back.
"I promise I'll be back. Just stay here, mind your great-aunt, and I'll be back. I promise. Take care of each other. I PROMISE I WILL COME BACK."
As he leaves, it is his unreal sense of survival and purpose that forces him forward, away from his children. The promise that he will retrieve his wife and other four children, the youngest only a few months old.
It's chaos. Everywhere. No break from the rushing, running, pushing, and always, the frantic look that there is not enough time. Not enough time to get everything and get away. Get away to where? It doesn't matter. Just away from HERE. Away from the constant roar of the jets flying overhead, the hum of Agent Orange spraying, the sudden drop of all the leaves, leaving all the trees naked, stripping away the coverage and only break from the merciless beating from the relentless sun. Away from the whistle that very shortly precedes the drop of a bomb, one of which intentionally or not, hit their neighbor a few months ago and obliterated him and his home right before their eyes, scattering his body parts without regard. And above all, away from the Viet Cong who show up out of nowhere, and people disappear. Or worse, taken away, beaten, and returned unrecognizable.
He runs as fast as he can back to his home to get what he can. He already knows, even though nobody will admit it, that the South will fall to the North. And he knows that having served with the secret police, he will be targeted, and his family will suffer even more than they already have. There is no other choice. They must leave. He runs, dodging people, motorcycles, bicyclists, and falling limbs and leaves. He ignores the screams that pierce the already loud chaotic din, signaling another person has been shot and killed. He can't breathe, but he keeps running.
After what seems like years, not hours, he is reunited with his wife and all six of their children. But there is no time to celebrate a reunion. They scramble onto one of many boats, all taking on far more people than they should. There is no room for personal belongings, but it doesn't matter because there are no worldly goods to speak of. He gets all six kids on the boat, and holds on tightly to their birth certificates and slim photo album. Because no matter where they end up, he wants them to be able to see pictures of the rest of their family who may not make it out. They are so hurried, frantic, but there is no fear. There is no time for fear.
The ship pulls away, and for the first time, he can breathe. When was the last time he took a breath? He can't remember. It seems every time they turn, a disaster or bad fortune befalls them. A brother killed, another brother dead from illness, children born every two years, the constant threat of being ripped from his family. And never enough to eat. Never enough to take away the constant look of hunger in his wife and children's faces, whose faces are sunken, dark, but know better than to complain about what can't be fixed. Constantly worrying if a wayward bomb or bullet doesn't take them, or the nasty beast, Starvation, will.
He breathes. He takes a deep breath, and looks back at his homeland. Despite the constant defoliage, the land is green and still quite beautiful. He looks back, sees the smoke, hears the tat-tat-tat of bullets, the screams and yells from the scurrying people, and he takes it in. Takes it in with a combined sense of relief and sadness that it is gone. Not certain what will happen next, but he knows it will not be the same. He takes that luxurious deep breath, and suddenly, they are all rocked with a violent explosion that knocks that precious breath he had just taken, ringing his ears, burning his face, and searing his eyes. Instinctively, he blinks and looks back at his wife and counts his children, and for one glorious second, revels in the fact they are all there. They are alive. Even though he knows he put them on the boat, it is reassuring to know they are there and not on the hill that just shattered.
No time to breathe. The boat is pulling up next to another filled with supplies. He looks at his family, realizing nobody has eaten since when? It's impressive how far the survival instinct will take you over the threshold of gripping hunger, or perhaps it is because they have become so accustomed to the emptiness. But here's a chance to fix that, even if only momentarily.
"Stay here. I will get us some food. Remember I promised I'd come back? It's the same, but this time, I'll have food."
He leaps onto the supply boat, fighting others for the scant supplies, shoving others to get what his family needs to survive just another day. Holding what he can in his arms, he shoves his way through the immovable crowd to get back to the other boat and to his family. The boat lurches, and his heart lurches with it. He falls backward, and the fear and desperate sadness that grips him now is more real than anything he has ever felt. Worse than when he was three feet away from hundreds of Viet Cong marching by his hiding spot. Worse than finding his brother's mutilated and rotting body and bringing it home to bury. Worse than anything he ever imagined or dreamed.
When the boat lurched, it took his heart, mind and senses with it. He tried to get to the front, but could only see the matching fear in his wife's and children's eyes as the boat he was in pulled away. Away from his family he loves so much, for whom he lived, for whom he worked until he could not move. Without whom, there is no sense to try and survive. Somehow, when this boat pulls away and rips him from his family and his will to continue, it pulls away with tremendous speed and force. No chance to say goodbye. No chance to say the simple "I love you." Only the broken promise.
Night falls and brings with it a storm. There is no calm, only emptiness. He can only hope and pray his family is safe. From his perspective, this boat is floating aimlessly, and there is no telling what will happen when the sun rises. And it doesn't matter. His family is gone. He tries very hard to not remember, because it hurts too much. But the images of his youngest, a darling little girl who has not been touched by the hideous realities of life, is just learning to babble and smile, keeps shoving into his mind. His oldest, a daughter only 10 years of age, but already cooking and taking care of her younger siblings like a little mother hen. The other four, each so special, so unique, so loved by him. And now, they are gone.
He is only 35 years old.
This is my Dad's story. My Dad whom I feel I only really got to know in recent years. My father, whose story is not so different from many refugees who escaped that horrible day in April 1975, but unique because he's my Dad. When he told me this story, his usual stoic expression was broken by the memories of that horrible day that he thought he'd lost all of us. My father, who has suffered so much at the hands of so many people, but has always held so strongly to his faith and his love for his family. I grew up, thinking he was the biggest, strongest man on this earth. After I left home, I realized that at 5'2", he wasn't so tall, and having barely tipped the scales over 100 pounds, not so big. But he's my Dad. My Dad whose quiet courage, strength, resolve and fierce love for his family will never be matched. In my heart and mind, he is the biggest, strongest and most admirable man that will ever live.
Their eyes are wide, faces dirty from the ever-present red clay that sticks to their little faces, their mouths clamped shut to hold back their fear and sadness. They are trying so hard to be brave, but they know exactly what is not being said: He is leaving, and may not come back.
"I promise I'll be back. Just stay here, mind your great-aunt, and I'll be back. I promise. Take care of each other. I PROMISE I WILL COME BACK."
As he leaves, it is his unreal sense of survival and purpose that forces him forward, away from his children. The promise that he will retrieve his wife and other four children, the youngest only a few months old.
It's chaos. Everywhere. No break from the rushing, running, pushing, and always, the frantic look that there is not enough time. Not enough time to get everything and get away. Get away to where? It doesn't matter. Just away from HERE. Away from the constant roar of the jets flying overhead, the hum of Agent Orange spraying, the sudden drop of all the leaves, leaving all the trees naked, stripping away the coverage and only break from the merciless beating from the relentless sun. Away from the whistle that very shortly precedes the drop of a bomb, one of which intentionally or not, hit their neighbor a few months ago and obliterated him and his home right before their eyes, scattering his body parts without regard. And above all, away from the Viet Cong who show up out of nowhere, and people disappear. Or worse, taken away, beaten, and returned unrecognizable.
He runs as fast as he can back to his home to get what he can. He already knows, even though nobody will admit it, that the South will fall to the North. And he knows that having served with the secret police, he will be targeted, and his family will suffer even more than they already have. There is no other choice. They must leave. He runs, dodging people, motorcycles, bicyclists, and falling limbs and leaves. He ignores the screams that pierce the already loud chaotic din, signaling another person has been shot and killed. He can't breathe, but he keeps running.
After what seems like years, not hours, he is reunited with his wife and all six of their children. But there is no time to celebrate a reunion. They scramble onto one of many boats, all taking on far more people than they should. There is no room for personal belongings, but it doesn't matter because there are no worldly goods to speak of. He gets all six kids on the boat, and holds on tightly to their birth certificates and slim photo album. Because no matter where they end up, he wants them to be able to see pictures of the rest of their family who may not make it out. They are so hurried, frantic, but there is no fear. There is no time for fear.
The ship pulls away, and for the first time, he can breathe. When was the last time he took a breath? He can't remember. It seems every time they turn, a disaster or bad fortune befalls them. A brother killed, another brother dead from illness, children born every two years, the constant threat of being ripped from his family. And never enough to eat. Never enough to take away the constant look of hunger in his wife and children's faces, whose faces are sunken, dark, but know better than to complain about what can't be fixed. Constantly worrying if a wayward bomb or bullet doesn't take them, or the nasty beast, Starvation, will.
He breathes. He takes a deep breath, and looks back at his homeland. Despite the constant defoliage, the land is green and still quite beautiful. He looks back, sees the smoke, hears the tat-tat-tat of bullets, the screams and yells from the scurrying people, and he takes it in. Takes it in with a combined sense of relief and sadness that it is gone. Not certain what will happen next, but he knows it will not be the same. He takes that luxurious deep breath, and suddenly, they are all rocked with a violent explosion that knocks that precious breath he had just taken, ringing his ears, burning his face, and searing his eyes. Instinctively, he blinks and looks back at his wife and counts his children, and for one glorious second, revels in the fact they are all there. They are alive. Even though he knows he put them on the boat, it is reassuring to know they are there and not on the hill that just shattered.
No time to breathe. The boat is pulling up next to another filled with supplies. He looks at his family, realizing nobody has eaten since when? It's impressive how far the survival instinct will take you over the threshold of gripping hunger, or perhaps it is because they have become so accustomed to the emptiness. But here's a chance to fix that, even if only momentarily.
"Stay here. I will get us some food. Remember I promised I'd come back? It's the same, but this time, I'll have food."
He leaps onto the supply boat, fighting others for the scant supplies, shoving others to get what his family needs to survive just another day. Holding what he can in his arms, he shoves his way through the immovable crowd to get back to the other boat and to his family. The boat lurches, and his heart lurches with it. He falls backward, and the fear and desperate sadness that grips him now is more real than anything he has ever felt. Worse than when he was three feet away from hundreds of Viet Cong marching by his hiding spot. Worse than finding his brother's mutilated and rotting body and bringing it home to bury. Worse than anything he ever imagined or dreamed.
When the boat lurched, it took his heart, mind and senses with it. He tried to get to the front, but could only see the matching fear in his wife's and children's eyes as the boat he was in pulled away. Away from his family he loves so much, for whom he lived, for whom he worked until he could not move. Without whom, there is no sense to try and survive. Somehow, when this boat pulls away and rips him from his family and his will to continue, it pulls away with tremendous speed and force. No chance to say goodbye. No chance to say the simple "I love you." Only the broken promise.
Night falls and brings with it a storm. There is no calm, only emptiness. He can only hope and pray his family is safe. From his perspective, this boat is floating aimlessly, and there is no telling what will happen when the sun rises. And it doesn't matter. His family is gone. He tries very hard to not remember, because it hurts too much. But the images of his youngest, a darling little girl who has not been touched by the hideous realities of life, is just learning to babble and smile, keeps shoving into his mind. His oldest, a daughter only 10 years of age, but already cooking and taking care of her younger siblings like a little mother hen. The other four, each so special, so unique, so loved by him. And now, they are gone.
He is only 35 years old.
This is my Dad's story. My Dad whom I feel I only really got to know in recent years. My father, whose story is not so different from many refugees who escaped that horrible day in April 1975, but unique because he's my Dad. When he told me this story, his usual stoic expression was broken by the memories of that horrible day that he thought he'd lost all of us. My father, who has suffered so much at the hands of so many people, but has always held so strongly to his faith and his love for his family. I grew up, thinking he was the biggest, strongest man on this earth. After I left home, I realized that at 5'2", he wasn't so tall, and having barely tipped the scales over 100 pounds, not so big. But he's my Dad. My Dad whose quiet courage, strength, resolve and fierce love for his family will never be matched. In my heart and mind, he is the biggest, strongest and most admirable man that will ever live.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
I love my schizophrenic husband
The pleas for baby #3 have now become ridiculous. Sides have been formed: Ally and Sam vs. Anh. No Ethan because all he cares about is, well, I don't really know because he still isn't talking (not to worry--progress is being made, and I now live in constant dread that soon, he will tell me off and NOT stop talking).
Ally is vying for a sister. Apparently, Ethan is too much for her to handle as well. I told her that we could not possibly guarantee a girl, and then what? "Mommy, don't you know? You just have to pray and pray and God will send us a baby sister." How do you explain reproductive roulette to a 5 year-old, even if that 5 year-old is a newly minted Kindergarten graduate? "Ally, sometimes God gets too busy and makes mistakes (mosquitoes and tomatoes are perfect examples of God's imperfection). Exasperated, she insisted "Just don't worry about that now. Let's just have a baby girl and we'll call her 'Cutie'!"
Ally is the only one on this planet (Sorry, Sam) that could change my once-firm position against having another baby. Defeated, I let Sam discuss the topic again without decapitating him. Yes, I am fully aware the cutting should be elsewhere to put an end to this discussion. But anyway, he was completely on Ally's side and helped her launch a full campaign to have (sob) another baby.
So, I proposed a plan: I will go away for a weekend without him and the kids. Upon my return on Sunday, if the house is clean, the kids are fed, clean and clothed, I will seriously consider having a (gulp) third child. I will give serious thought to the possibility of children out-numbering adults, and try to disregard all the pains of pregnancy and the newborn phase. Sigh. Very deep, sad and defeated sigh.
And then, Memorial Day weekend came upon us! Three days of non-stop company and fun with the kids!!!
Tuesday night, Sam had the appearance of a beaten man. Tired, worn-out, and at a complete loss as to what was causing such distress in his children's young lives. I took this opportunity to ask when I should plan my getaway?
"No more kids, Anh. We are done."
Uh huh! I thought I could make him see reason. It takes some manipulation, but nobody will ever accuse me of giving up easily.
Ally is vying for a sister. Apparently, Ethan is too much for her to handle as well. I told her that we could not possibly guarantee a girl, and then what? "Mommy, don't you know? You just have to pray and pray and God will send us a baby sister." How do you explain reproductive roulette to a 5 year-old, even if that 5 year-old is a newly minted Kindergarten graduate? "Ally, sometimes God gets too busy and makes mistakes (mosquitoes and tomatoes are perfect examples of God's imperfection). Exasperated, she insisted "Just don't worry about that now. Let's just have a baby girl and we'll call her 'Cutie'!"
Ally is the only one on this planet (Sorry, Sam) that could change my once-firm position against having another baby. Defeated, I let Sam discuss the topic again without decapitating him. Yes, I am fully aware the cutting should be elsewhere to put an end to this discussion. But anyway, he was completely on Ally's side and helped her launch a full campaign to have (sob) another baby.
So, I proposed a plan: I will go away for a weekend without him and the kids. Upon my return on Sunday, if the house is clean, the kids are fed, clean and clothed, I will seriously consider having a (gulp) third child. I will give serious thought to the possibility of children out-numbering adults, and try to disregard all the pains of pregnancy and the newborn phase. Sigh. Very deep, sad and defeated sigh.
And then, Memorial Day weekend came upon us! Three days of non-stop company and fun with the kids!!!
Tuesday night, Sam had the appearance of a beaten man. Tired, worn-out, and at a complete loss as to what was causing such distress in his children's young lives. I took this opportunity to ask when I should plan my getaway?
"No more kids, Anh. We are done."
Uh huh! I thought I could make him see reason. It takes some manipulation, but nobody will ever accuse me of giving up easily.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
My mother can see with vivid clarity. Everything.
It has been a crazy week, which makes for plenty of fodder for this blog.
Everyone who knows me knows I believe my mother is a living saint. A saint for having lived through what she has, and still maintain her sweet, kind, and patient disposition toward her family. Her fierce protection of her grandchildren, children and husband (probably in that order) are to be simultaneously admired and feared.
And you also know that I am not anything close to being a saint. So as much as I love my mother, I do get impatient with her and lose my temper too often. Enough that I live in dread that when I lose her, I will not be able to move forward with my life. That when that horrible day comes, my children will also lose their mother because I am certain I will not be able to recover from such a tremendous loss. So, that keeps me going, trying to be a better person. Be more patient. Be more like my mother.
For most of my life, I remember my mother's vision to be poor. Finally, when I was in junior high and in the throes of teenaged acne, she got glasses. At the table one afternoon, she put on her glasses and marveled at what she could see. Then she turned to me, and her brows furrowed. Then she stated "My goodness, you have a lot of zits on your forehead." End of commentary, and never commented on again. Until now.
Earlier this year, my mother was diagnosed with cataracts. After much discussion and convincing, she agreed to have surgery. Before her surgery, her vision was 20/125, which means she can see at 20 feet what a normal person can see at 125 feet. Pretty bad. Finally, she had the surgery on Wednesday with much trepidation on her part, my part, my sister's part, and just about everyone else we knew got the pleasure of hearing of our apprehensions. It was the first time she had had an IV, much less be admitted into a hospital, stripped down, and wheeled away on a bed.
But as we all know, the surgery is really quick and relatively simple. Not 24 hours post-surgery, her vision had improved to 20/40! She was so excited at the clarity of everything around her. She, and truth be told, and I were so pleased at how well she could see and navigate her way through everything. It really was like a new beginning for her--seeing the world through new eyes, the way God intended for her to appreciate all the colors to go with all the sounds and smells.
Then, she turned to me. Her brows furrowed. Again. "What is THAT on your FACE?!!!" Huh? What? What's on my face? "It's on your cheek, over your nose, and over your other cheek!" Ah, that would be my freckles. You know, the ones I've been sporting for about 30 years or so. Her response? "Oh. Well, that's not good."
And to think, that's just one eye. I just can't wait to see what other imperfections are revealed when BOTH eyes get to explore this "new" world.
Everyone who knows me knows I believe my mother is a living saint. A saint for having lived through what she has, and still maintain her sweet, kind, and patient disposition toward her family. Her fierce protection of her grandchildren, children and husband (probably in that order) are to be simultaneously admired and feared.
And you also know that I am not anything close to being a saint. So as much as I love my mother, I do get impatient with her and lose my temper too often. Enough that I live in dread that when I lose her, I will not be able to move forward with my life. That when that horrible day comes, my children will also lose their mother because I am certain I will not be able to recover from such a tremendous loss. So, that keeps me going, trying to be a better person. Be more patient. Be more like my mother.
For most of my life, I remember my mother's vision to be poor. Finally, when I was in junior high and in the throes of teenaged acne, she got glasses. At the table one afternoon, she put on her glasses and marveled at what she could see. Then she turned to me, and her brows furrowed. Then she stated "My goodness, you have a lot of zits on your forehead." End of commentary, and never commented on again. Until now.
Earlier this year, my mother was diagnosed with cataracts. After much discussion and convincing, she agreed to have surgery. Before her surgery, her vision was 20/125, which means she can see at 20 feet what a normal person can see at 125 feet. Pretty bad. Finally, she had the surgery on Wednesday with much trepidation on her part, my part, my sister's part, and just about everyone else we knew got the pleasure of hearing of our apprehensions. It was the first time she had had an IV, much less be admitted into a hospital, stripped down, and wheeled away on a bed.
But as we all know, the surgery is really quick and relatively simple. Not 24 hours post-surgery, her vision had improved to 20/40! She was so excited at the clarity of everything around her. She, and truth be told, and I were so pleased at how well she could see and navigate her way through everything. It really was like a new beginning for her--seeing the world through new eyes, the way God intended for her to appreciate all the colors to go with all the sounds and smells.
Then, she turned to me. Her brows furrowed. Again. "What is THAT on your FACE?!!!" Huh? What? What's on my face? "It's on your cheek, over your nose, and over your other cheek!" Ah, that would be my freckles. You know, the ones I've been sporting for about 30 years or so. Her response? "Oh. Well, that's not good."
And to think, that's just one eye. I just can't wait to see what other imperfections are revealed when BOTH eyes get to explore this "new" world.
My baby boy is growing up so fast. Too fast.
Was it really a little over two years ago that Ethan came home to us, so tiny?
Ally was so thrilled to have her baby brother at home, and we would have to watch to make sure she would not smother him with her affection.
At six months, he was a very happy and slobbery baby with two teeth.
A few months after he turned one, Sam brought his mini-me to the company picnic, who was not impressed.
The boy has been addicted to TV since he was a tiny infant. We call it his altar.
A big boy now, he tackled his trike while playing with bubbles this spring.
Although Ethan is two years old, he still does not speak intelligible words beyond "mama", "dada", and "uh oh". Rather, he makes a noise that seems to substitute for everything. We decided to enlist the help of Infant and Toddler Services of Johnson County, and he now works once a week with a speech therapist. In addition, we decided to send him to school once a week, hoping peer modeling would encourage his speech development. This past Tuesday was his first day; he was very happy and proud to show he's a big boy and can navigate the stairs to his classroom.
Then he realized Mommy and Ally may not stick around...
We snuck out of the classroom, and there were absolutely no tears from him. I immediately went back to the office, where they called his teacher to make sure he was still fine. Yes, he was fine. No, he did not cry.
Ally and I had no choice but to leave. On the drive back, I held it together. Then Ally whimpered "Mommy, I miss Ethan!" and the tears started streaming down her face. At this point, I should clarify that I cry on an average of once a year. It has been justifiably argued that I am much like the Tin Man, except I have no special desire to find a heart. When one of the kids cry, I ask them to re-evaluate the situation to determine the justification for their tears. From my perspective, there is generally very little reason for them to shed tears.
But seeing my sweet, compassionate little girl cry because she missed her baby brother was too much. I, too, started tearing up, and I did not reprimand her. How did our baby boy grow up so fast? How did my sweet little Ally get to be such a big girl? WHERE IN THE THE HELL DID THIS HEART COME FROM, AND WHO SNUCK IT IN?!!!
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