As we geared up for another school year, I had the annual talk with each of my daughters about her goals for the year.
About halfway into the conversation, Chaos said something that made me stop and think. She said, "'Priorities' is a pretty important word, huh?"
I'd never really expressed it that way. I'd thought in terms of the priorities themselves and the goals to which they related.
But, yeah, the more I thought about it, the more I came to realize I think 'Priority' is the most important concept in the world. More than any other factor, a person's priorities define that person's life. Once the priorities are established, it becomes a pretty straightforward matter to define goals in keeping with those priorities. One of the most important characteristics of priorities is that they are subject to change. As new priorities are defined, they need to be assessed in relation to the existing ones, and some old ones may need to be shelved, at least temporarily, to make room for the new ones.
Of course, when an individual fails to prioritize effectively, life will define the priorities, making that person a passenger in his or her own life.
The goals, too, need to be reasonable.
Most of life's biggest disappointments stem from poorly defined priorities and unreasonable goals.
A person can dream of being a singer with a #1 record. But that would be, at best, a hope. Not a goal. There are too many factors external to that person, things he or she can't control, that will determine whether that #1 record ever comes to be. But there are factors within that dream that can be established as reasonable goals:
1) I will take the necessary steps to ensure I have food and shelter while pursuing my goals.
a) I will prepare for a job as a/an whatever.
b) When I am done preparing, I will take a job as a/an whatever.
2) I will learn to sing well.
3) I will seek out and make use of opportunities to build a fan base and make music-industry contacts.
4) I will sing the kinds of songs large numbers of people want to buy, keeping in mind:
a) that may not be what I consider to be the most worthy music; and
b) tastes change, over time, so what's hot now may not be in another year's time.
5) I will take steps to prepare myself mentally and emotionally to deal effectively with these scenarios, should they come to pass:
a) the luck factor necessary to achieve #1 just doesn't happen for me; or
b) lightning strikes and I hit #1, which might mean:
1) I and my songs may be treated as commodities and I may have little privacy; and
2) there's a lot of pressure in being at #1 because, having been there, it stings to be #2... or #2000.
Someone who does all those things may be VERY fortunate and get a #1 record and be happy. Great.
Having begun such a list, though, a person may decide having a #1 record really wouldn't be that great, after all.
Maybe there will be a reprioritization and an adjustment of goals. Maybe #3 becomes:
3) I will sing the kinds of songs that make me feel most alive, keeping in mind:
a) that may not be the kind of music large numbers of people want to buy; and
b) my own taste may change, over time, and, if I have fans, I'll need to choose between:
1) singing what makes me happy, which could mean losing fans; or
2) keeping fans happy by singing the songs they love, even if I don't love them anymore.
I'll stop there because this could go on and on.
The point is, once a person stops and really thinks about what it is he or she most wants, it often turns out to be something else entirely.
It's a difficult balance to try to find, as a mother, helping a child keep his or her dreams alive while also providing much-needed doses of reality.
If I were allowed only one gift to each of my children, it would be the ability to set reasonable priority-based goals.
If I can give them that, they will own their lives, and they will create their own gifts.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Sunday, August 5, 2012
FaLaLa, Here We Come!
Every four years or so, we load into our cars for another epic journey.
Destination -> Florida. Or, as we often call it, FaLaLa, a carry-over from when Chaos was two and couldn't quite manage the pronunciation.
Specifically, we're Orlando-bound.
For us, four years is a good interval between Florida trips. It keeps the children from getting bored with the experience and allows us to explore other vacation spots. And it pretty much ensures that, each time we go to Orlando, there's something new to explore.
When people hear we're driving, they think I'm insane. And I probably am, but not because I drive to Florida with Chaos and Turmoil. For us, car trips are great family time. We play American Idol. Chaos and Turmoil always let me go to Hollywood. They'll bicker some and maybe jab each other with elbows but I'll turn up the Easy Listening radio station real loud and they'll act right just to get me to turn it off.
My son and his girlfriend will be traveling in his pickup but, unlike in the old days, I don't have to be paranoid we'll become horribly, irrevocably separated because now we can call each other.
The trip is just under 800 miles, about 12 hours of driving time.
We usually stop at South of the Border because... well, how can you not stop there when you're making that drive? I still remember those signs from when I was a little girl, Pedro counting down the miles. Sometimes we detour to Myrtle Beach. We might spend a little time on U.S. Routes 1 and 301 but, for the most part, we'll be flying on I-95. At some point, we'll stop for oranges. None of us really like them but it's Florida. Got to have oranges.
This time, we'll do Magic Kingdom, Sea World, and Universal and Islands of Adventure. We're skipping the water parks this time around because Chaos and Turmoil read on the internet that people go to the bathroom in pool- and water-park water. I don't know how long the ick factor will last but, for now, I'm going to enjoy a vacation without a day spent in sweltering, blistering heat, at a place where there is precisely nothing for me to do but get sunburnt and risk heat stroke while lugging around their clothes, shoes, towels, and whatever they've convinced me to buy them that day.
Turmoil has a dream. She doesn't want to know when we're going to Florida, this time. She wants to be surprised with the news once we're in the car.
Ummmm... yeahhhhhh.
I'm remembering four years ago. That was The Year of the Pods. I began packing about three weeks ahead of time, putting everything into mesh bags. I hung the bags from ceiling hooks in the dining room. What the hell, the plants on those hooks had died anyway. This kept everything accessible, just in case we needed to use something, but kept all those packed items firmly in the To-Go realm. Every day, the pod colony grew, and it looked kind of like something out of a horror movie when the lights were out. I loved that whole set-up. I felt so organized... so... so... Mom-like. I was really looking forward to The Return of the Pods.
But no. How can I give Turmoil her much-wanted surprise? I mean, she'd know something was up when the pods disappeared.
And I do want to give her that surprise.
It's silly, yes. But she's 10. She knows all about Santa and the Easter Bunny. There's not much magic left in her world. And I want to make magic for her.
So now I'm hiding the mesh bags all over the house. I probably should write down the locations. Otherwise it's going to be like that year an Easter egg went missing. It did turn up, a few months later. With my luck, the pod that goes missing will be the one containing the only swimsuit in the universe that camouflages my unsightly curves. At least the ones in the front. I'm afraid to look at the back and so I just tell myself it's as not-bad as the front. Now that I think about it, maybe I better pack that in my purse.
Anyway, things are getting really hectic as The Big Day draws near.
I'd hoped to get another book out this summer but I'm not sure it's going to happen. My werewolves aren't acting right and I just don't have enough time right now to beat them into submission.
Who am I kidding? My characters never act right. They're going to make me rewrite that whole damned book. I know they are. And just for that, I'm not going to let them go to FaLaLa.
Destination -> Florida. Or, as we often call it, FaLaLa, a carry-over from when Chaos was two and couldn't quite manage the pronunciation.
Specifically, we're Orlando-bound.
For us, four years is a good interval between Florida trips. It keeps the children from getting bored with the experience and allows us to explore other vacation spots. And it pretty much ensures that, each time we go to Orlando, there's something new to explore.
When people hear we're driving, they think I'm insane. And I probably am, but not because I drive to Florida with Chaos and Turmoil. For us, car trips are great family time. We play American Idol. Chaos and Turmoil always let me go to Hollywood. They'll bicker some and maybe jab each other with elbows but I'll turn up the Easy Listening radio station real loud and they'll act right just to get me to turn it off.
My son and his girlfriend will be traveling in his pickup but, unlike in the old days, I don't have to be paranoid we'll become horribly, irrevocably separated because now we can call each other.
The trip is just under 800 miles, about 12 hours of driving time.
We usually stop at South of the Border because... well, how can you not stop there when you're making that drive? I still remember those signs from when I was a little girl, Pedro counting down the miles. Sometimes we detour to Myrtle Beach. We might spend a little time on U.S. Routes 1 and 301 but, for the most part, we'll be flying on I-95. At some point, we'll stop for oranges. None of us really like them but it's Florida. Got to have oranges.
This time, we'll do Magic Kingdom, Sea World, and Universal and Islands of Adventure. We're skipping the water parks this time around because Chaos and Turmoil read on the internet that people go to the bathroom in pool- and water-park water. I don't know how long the ick factor will last but, for now, I'm going to enjoy a vacation without a day spent in sweltering, blistering heat, at a place where there is precisely nothing for me to do but get sunburnt and risk heat stroke while lugging around their clothes, shoes, towels, and whatever they've convinced me to buy them that day.
Turmoil has a dream. She doesn't want to know when we're going to Florida, this time. She wants to be surprised with the news once we're in the car.
Ummmm... yeahhhhhh.
I'm remembering four years ago. That was The Year of the Pods. I began packing about three weeks ahead of time, putting everything into mesh bags. I hung the bags from ceiling hooks in the dining room. What the hell, the plants on those hooks had died anyway. This kept everything accessible, just in case we needed to use something, but kept all those packed items firmly in the To-Go realm. Every day, the pod colony grew, and it looked kind of like something out of a horror movie when the lights were out. I loved that whole set-up. I felt so organized... so... so... Mom-like. I was really looking forward to The Return of the Pods.
But no. How can I give Turmoil her much-wanted surprise? I mean, she'd know something was up when the pods disappeared.
And I do want to give her that surprise.
It's silly, yes. But she's 10. She knows all about Santa and the Easter Bunny. There's not much magic left in her world. And I want to make magic for her.
So now I'm hiding the mesh bags all over the house. I probably should write down the locations. Otherwise it's going to be like that year an Easter egg went missing. It did turn up, a few months later. With my luck, the pod that goes missing will be the one containing the only swimsuit in the universe that camouflages my unsightly curves. At least the ones in the front. I'm afraid to look at the back and so I just tell myself it's as not-bad as the front. Now that I think about it, maybe I better pack that in my purse.
Anyway, things are getting really hectic as The Big Day draws near.
I'd hoped to get another book out this summer but I'm not sure it's going to happen. My werewolves aren't acting right and I just don't have enough time right now to beat them into submission.
Who am I kidding? My characters never act right. They're going to make me rewrite that whole damned book. I know they are. And just for that, I'm not going to let them go to FaLaLa.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
On Father's Day
My brother once said, "Let's face it. My dad was a scalawag."
Truer words have never been spoken. I, myself, would have said 'scallywag' but that's a choice of personal style.
We rarely saw Daddy and, when we did, pretty much everything was about him.
Did that mean we didn't love him? No. It mostly just meant every hope we ever had was tinged with the fear of disappointment. In those all-important formative years, my mind generalized his lack of dependability, causing it to color all my experiences.
I'm all grown up now. Master of my little domain. And still afraid to genuinely, truly, with all my heart, put my faith in anyone.
The most difficult times for me are the ones when I fear I've let down my children.
My husband didn't always understand that. He does now... at least, a little bit.
He used to be a scallywag. How did I let myself end up with one of those? I'm not really sure. Maybe I subconsciously thought it was the best I could do. And at least, when you know they're scallywags from the get-go, you don't get disappointed. There are all kinds of scientific studies on why girls with bad fathers grow up to be women with bad husbands, so my behavior at least can be statistically explained.
We've been married more than a decade now and something amazing happened along the way. My husband developed qualities I never thought I'd see in him.
Here's the truth, as difficult as it is for me to comprehend, much less outwardly express: The man is not a scallywag.
He can drive me crazy as few other people ever could. On any given day, he'll get on my nerves a half-dozen times. But, even as I grit my teeth, I know he's only getting on my nerves because he's there to do it.
When it comes to our children, he made the internal commitment, at some point along the way, to be engaged. And he's kept that commitment.
He's been there for last-minute white-shirt-needed-before-tonight's-chorus-concert excursions. He's frequently hunted and gathered at the grocery store and thrown together something edible and, occasionally, even tasty. He's done laundry. He doesn't hang or fold, so it all ends up wrinkly, but at least it's clean. He's hugged away tears and doctored scraped knees. He's taken little ones to school and gotten them home. He's sat through parent-teacher conferences and doctor appointments and sometimes even evidenced good sense. He's built a 3D topographical map of the state and got a B on it. He's played Simon during our American Idol rounds on long car drives. He's thrown steaks on the grill and lunch money into backpacks. He's dug holes so the children could bury beloved pets.
Granted, he's sometimes slow to act. He waits to see if I'll get there first. And he punctuates most of his activities with words I'd prefer the children not mimic. But, all in all, he's not so bad. And he could be much, much worse.
When my children look back on their shared childhood, he will be as much a part of their memories as I will. Because he cares enough to be there.
I'm doing what I can to ensure he has a good Father's Day. But he won't be expecting too much. Because he knows what all good fathers have figured out. Every day is Children's Day.
Truer words have never been spoken. I, myself, would have said 'scallywag' but that's a choice of personal style.
We rarely saw Daddy and, when we did, pretty much everything was about him.
Did that mean we didn't love him? No. It mostly just meant every hope we ever had was tinged with the fear of disappointment. In those all-important formative years, my mind generalized his lack of dependability, causing it to color all my experiences.
I'm all grown up now. Master of my little domain. And still afraid to genuinely, truly, with all my heart, put my faith in anyone.
The most difficult times for me are the ones when I fear I've let down my children.
My husband didn't always understand that. He does now... at least, a little bit.
He used to be a scallywag. How did I let myself end up with one of those? I'm not really sure. Maybe I subconsciously thought it was the best I could do. And at least, when you know they're scallywags from the get-go, you don't get disappointed. There are all kinds of scientific studies on why girls with bad fathers grow up to be women with bad husbands, so my behavior at least can be statistically explained.
We've been married more than a decade now and something amazing happened along the way. My husband developed qualities I never thought I'd see in him.
Here's the truth, as difficult as it is for me to comprehend, much less outwardly express: The man is not a scallywag.
He can drive me crazy as few other people ever could. On any given day, he'll get on my nerves a half-dozen times. But, even as I grit my teeth, I know he's only getting on my nerves because he's there to do it.
When it comes to our children, he made the internal commitment, at some point along the way, to be engaged. And he's kept that commitment.
He's been there for last-minute white-shirt-needed-before-tonight's-chorus-concert excursions. He's frequently hunted and gathered at the grocery store and thrown together something edible and, occasionally, even tasty. He's done laundry. He doesn't hang or fold, so it all ends up wrinkly, but at least it's clean. He's hugged away tears and doctored scraped knees. He's taken little ones to school and gotten them home. He's sat through parent-teacher conferences and doctor appointments and sometimes even evidenced good sense. He's built a 3D topographical map of the state and got a B on it. He's played Simon during our American Idol rounds on long car drives. He's thrown steaks on the grill and lunch money into backpacks. He's dug holes so the children could bury beloved pets.
Granted, he's sometimes slow to act. He waits to see if I'll get there first. And he punctuates most of his activities with words I'd prefer the children not mimic. But, all in all, he's not so bad. And he could be much, much worse.
When my children look back on their shared childhood, he will be as much a part of their memories as I will. Because he cares enough to be there.
I'm doing what I can to ensure he has a good Father's Day. But he won't be expecting too much. Because he knows what all good fathers have figured out. Every day is Children's Day.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
The Grand Illusion? Bring It On!
I think most everyone who grew up in The Age of Vinyl can name a few albums that serve the function of Life Soundtrack.
Two of mine--The Grand Illusion and Paradise Theatre--are by Styx.
I played those records incessantly when I was in my late teens, writing poems, stories and diary entries, and making sketches that would never be good enough to show to another living soul. The songs were the perfect companions, alternately providing background noise, comfort, hope, and inspiration. They were even there for me at the times I needed to wallow in the angst that is being young.
I still play those albums when I write. The songs can help me get in the right frame of mind to put words to screen. Like real people, my characters have Life Soundtracks, and (not surprisingly) The Grand Illusion and Paradise Theatre are universal favorites for them. Those songs help me feel what my own characters are feeling. From the gentle caress of "The Best of Times" to the larger-than-life roar of "Rockin' the Paradise" to the soaring majesty of "The Grand Illusion", I cherish those albums.
For years, I dreamed of seeing Styx live. I wanted to be there when they played those songs. The departure of Dennis DeYoung put me into a terrible funk. He was not only a wonderful singer but a great showman.
In the summer of 2007, I finally saw Styx live for the first time when the band toured with Def Leppard and Foreigner. Technically, Styx put on a great show. But it left me feeling a little disappointed, too. They didn't seem to be having any fun up there. I got the feeling they were there for the paycheck.
Fast-forward.
When I heard a few months ago that Styx would be coming around with Ted Nugent and REO Speedwagon, I almost didn't buy tickets. What if I ended up feeling more let-down? They're five years older... I'm five years older... we've all slowed down, right? But I decided to give Styx another chance because, well, that's what you do for your all-time favorite bands, right?
I saw Styx again this past Friday night. And I was blown away. All the life I'd hoped to see the first time was there, and then some. They were like kids in a garage getting their thrills--only with much better equipment. I like to think maybe they're all in a better place in life than they were a few years ago. Maybe they are... maybe they aren't. But what they presented to the audience was a big blast of Life Doesn't Get Any Better Than This. Whatever they did behind the scenes, it's working. It might be the very definition of The Grand Illusion. But it was just what I needed.
Styx lived up to my dreams Friday night and I will be forever glad I gave the band a second chance.
Other highlights of the night:
1) My husband and I were celebrating our eleventh anniversary that night. When REO Speedwagon did "Can't Fight This Feeling," he looked at me, grinning while he sang along. I was transported back through the years, to a time that song played on the radio early in our relationship and I heard him singing it under his breath. That was around the time I came to realize that, whether he liked it or not, he was doomed to love me. That poor man.
2) My oldest daughter is a new fan of Ted Nugent.
3) My youngest daughter didn't complain once about being bored.
Styx was awesome... and we were there.
I played those records incessantly when I was in my late teens, writing poems, stories and diary entries, and making sketches that would never be good enough to show to another living soul. The songs were the perfect companions, alternately providing background noise, comfort, hope, and inspiration. They were even there for me at the times I needed to wallow in the angst that is being young.
I still play those albums when I write. The songs can help me get in the right frame of mind to put words to screen. Like real people, my characters have Life Soundtracks, and (not surprisingly) The Grand Illusion and Paradise Theatre are universal favorites for them. Those songs help me feel what my own characters are feeling. From the gentle caress of "The Best of Times" to the larger-than-life roar of "Rockin' the Paradise" to the soaring majesty of "The Grand Illusion", I cherish those albums.
For years, I dreamed of seeing Styx live. I wanted to be there when they played those songs. The departure of Dennis DeYoung put me into a terrible funk. He was not only a wonderful singer but a great showman.
In the summer of 2007, I finally saw Styx live for the first time when the band toured with Def Leppard and Foreigner. Technically, Styx put on a great show. But it left me feeling a little disappointed, too. They didn't seem to be having any fun up there. I got the feeling they were there for the paycheck.
Fast-forward.
When I heard a few months ago that Styx would be coming around with Ted Nugent and REO Speedwagon, I almost didn't buy tickets. What if I ended up feeling more let-down? They're five years older... I'm five years older... we've all slowed down, right? But I decided to give Styx another chance because, well, that's what you do for your all-time favorite bands, right?
I saw Styx again this past Friday night. And I was blown away. All the life I'd hoped to see the first time was there, and then some. They were like kids in a garage getting their thrills--only with much better equipment. I like to think maybe they're all in a better place in life than they were a few years ago. Maybe they are... maybe they aren't. But what they presented to the audience was a big blast of Life Doesn't Get Any Better Than This. Whatever they did behind the scenes, it's working. It might be the very definition of The Grand Illusion. But it was just what I needed.
Styx lived up to my dreams Friday night and I will be forever glad I gave the band a second chance.
Other highlights of the night:
1) My husband and I were celebrating our eleventh anniversary that night. When REO Speedwagon did "Can't Fight This Feeling," he looked at me, grinning while he sang along. I was transported back through the years, to a time that song played on the radio early in our relationship and I heard him singing it under his breath. That was around the time I came to realize that, whether he liked it or not, he was doomed to love me. That poor man.
2) My oldest daughter is a new fan of Ted Nugent.
3) My youngest daughter didn't complain once about being bored.
Styx was awesome... and we were there.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
When Mama Smiles
We didn't have much, growing up. But, somehow, my mother always made sure we had what we needed. When she could, she got what we wanted. Looking back, I'm amazed at all she did. I don't know how she did it. But she did.
I remember laughing when she pushed me on the swing, as high as I wanted to go. She was my super-hero the day she retrieved my favorite Barbie knock-off from a safety-netted pool. I don't know how the doll got in there. But I do remember Mama lying down across that net, her face a mask of determination as she stretched so so so far to reach my doll. That was my first-ever experience of tears of despair turning to joy.
She read to us, The Jungle Book, and every character had a different voice and personality. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was my favorite.
She turned Monday nights into parties with popcorn and chocolate while we watched The Little House on the Prairie. She let us stay up late one night to watch The Attack of the Fifty-Foot Woman and then the TV went out, robbing us of the ending. She made up an ending for us, walking in biiiig strides across the living room while we laughed. I eventually saw the whole movie. Her version was better.
I remember the day we went shopping for my first-ever formal dress. I didn't think too much, then, about the things that might have been sacrificed to get me that dress. I have, though, in the years since. She knew, before I did, when we'd found just the right one.
What I remember more than anything, though, is Mama's smile. Even when things were bad in our lives, Mama's smile made it all feel better.
When I was a little girl, Mama came close to dying. When I saw her again, she was so frail. I looked at her, afraid to even touch her because she might not be real. And nothing would ever be the same. Then Mama smiled. And everything was better.
A few years ago, I came close to dying. My thoughts were all a rushing torrent of worry about what would happen to my family. In my mind, I saw Mama smile and I knew she would find a way to make things right for them all. The first thing I saw, when I woke, was my mother peeking at me through the window that looked in on my room. She lifted her hand in a tiny wave. And she smiled. What an amazing welcome back to the land of the living.
We live now as a big, happy extended family. Think of The Waltons only louder. There are arguments, now and then, and I wish there didn't have to be. But then, it's the loving each other that keeps us talking, even when the words are hard to say and to hear.
All the grandchildren call my mother 'Mammy,' not because she chose it, but because my son--the oldest--couldn't say 'Grammy' when he a baby. And so she will forever and ever be Mammy. Some of us spell it with an 'ie' on the end instead of the 'y.' Twenty-three years and we still haven't agreed on a spelling. But we know who she is.
This year, on Mother's Day, Mama's a hundred miles away, visiting my sister. But she'll be back soon. And it will be Mother's Day for us.
"I miss Mammy," my daughter said the other day.
"Me, too," I said.
"Yeah. She's got such a pretty smile."
The prettiest smile in all the world.
My daughter continued, "She makes me happy."
"Me, too."
We're the same, my daughter and me, waiting for Mammy to come home, because everything's always better when Mammy's a part of it. And I am so very grateful that my children know her, not as a far-off person who sends presents at Christmas, but as a living, breathing woman who loves them every day and who brightens their lives with her smile.
I thought, when I was young, my mother was magic.
Now I know she is. And not just for me. For all of us.
Happy Mother's Day, Mama.
We love you.
I remember laughing when she pushed me on the swing, as high as I wanted to go. She was my super-hero the day she retrieved my favorite Barbie knock-off from a safety-netted pool. I don't know how the doll got in there. But I do remember Mama lying down across that net, her face a mask of determination as she stretched so so so far to reach my doll. That was my first-ever experience of tears of despair turning to joy.
She read to us, The Jungle Book, and every character had a different voice and personality. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was my favorite.
She turned Monday nights into parties with popcorn and chocolate while we watched The Little House on the Prairie. She let us stay up late one night to watch The Attack of the Fifty-Foot Woman and then the TV went out, robbing us of the ending. She made up an ending for us, walking in biiiig strides across the living room while we laughed. I eventually saw the whole movie. Her version was better.
I remember the day we went shopping for my first-ever formal dress. I didn't think too much, then, about the things that might have been sacrificed to get me that dress. I have, though, in the years since. She knew, before I did, when we'd found just the right one.
What I remember more than anything, though, is Mama's smile. Even when things were bad in our lives, Mama's smile made it all feel better.
When I was a little girl, Mama came close to dying. When I saw her again, she was so frail. I looked at her, afraid to even touch her because she might not be real. And nothing would ever be the same. Then Mama smiled. And everything was better.
A few years ago, I came close to dying. My thoughts were all a rushing torrent of worry about what would happen to my family. In my mind, I saw Mama smile and I knew she would find a way to make things right for them all. The first thing I saw, when I woke, was my mother peeking at me through the window that looked in on my room. She lifted her hand in a tiny wave. And she smiled. What an amazing welcome back to the land of the living.
We live now as a big, happy extended family. Think of The Waltons only louder. There are arguments, now and then, and I wish there didn't have to be. But then, it's the loving each other that keeps us talking, even when the words are hard to say and to hear.
All the grandchildren call my mother 'Mammy,' not because she chose it, but because my son--the oldest--couldn't say 'Grammy' when he a baby. And so she will forever and ever be Mammy. Some of us spell it with an 'ie' on the end instead of the 'y.' Twenty-three years and we still haven't agreed on a spelling. But we know who she is.
This year, on Mother's Day, Mama's a hundred miles away, visiting my sister. But she'll be back soon. And it will be Mother's Day for us.
"I miss Mammy," my daughter said the other day.
"Me, too," I said.
"Yeah. She's got such a pretty smile."
The prettiest smile in all the world.
My daughter continued, "She makes me happy."
"Me, too."
We're the same, my daughter and me, waiting for Mammy to come home, because everything's always better when Mammy's a part of it. And I am so very grateful that my children know her, not as a far-off person who sends presents at Christmas, but as a living, breathing woman who loves them every day and who brightens their lives with her smile.
I thought, when I was young, my mother was magic.
Now I know she is. And not just for me. For all of us.
Happy Mother's Day, Mama.
We love you.
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