Posted in Seasonal Sunday

A rocky start

It was a rocky start. The baby crowned and then receded, not once but twice. I remember the discomfort as the doctor reached in to relieve her shoulder from the constraint of the umbilical cord. And then she was born.

She was healthy except for a few bruises on her face from her dramatic entrance to the world. There were people pressing on my abdomen and novocain shots in the most excruciating place, and stitching. And the mother thing didn’t kick in right away.

Then the nurses came in and out and the family swarmed and gave her the first bath and the first diaper change and the first swaddling. They put her to my breast and they watched to make sure it all worked the way it was supposed to. The doctor came and left.

When they told me it was time to go home, I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know why. I just needed another day or week or month.

Once the home care instructions were given, my bags packed, the papers signed, like a magic spell everyone disappeared. Nurses went off to dote on other patients. Family left for home. Her dad went to get the car and we were alone, she and me.

I turned her to face me on my lap. I looked in her puffy dark blue eyes and I asked her if she was ready to come home. I told her about the alphabet border I painted around the top of her bedroom wall; about the clothes and crib we had readied for her arrival. I explained that we had never done this before, and that I understood it was all new to her too. I promised that I would always be the best mom I could, and that sometimes it might not be good enough, but that I would always love her with all of my heart.

Suddenly and without warning I was ready to go home. Though she’ll never remember it, she gave to me the greatest gift of motherhood, and I’m ever grateful she saved it for just the two of us . . .

she and me.

 

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Posted in Friday Finds

Messages to our daughters

I can’t tell you how many different ways this makes me sad. While my daughters grew up, I dieted incessantly. I stepped on the scale daily — at least. I kept logs and charts on my weight, menus listing points and calories. It was not a body positive household. And the messages I learned were passed to me from my mother.

In their teens, as my schedule grew to include a career, there was less time for meal planning, point counting, and self-loathing. I finally learned to love my beautiful self. I can only hope they absorbed some of that message, too, and maybe even restored some of the damage.

As Mother’s Day approaches, it’s my wish that every mom can see herself as the beautiful life-giving Goddess she is. We should all see ourselves through the eyes of those who love us most. After you’ve watched the first Dove video, check out this one from Dove, too.

 

How do you describe yourself?

Peace . . .

Posted in Whimsical Wednesday

Grandpets are the new grandkids

With the younger generation waiting longer to start their families, people like me are having to wait longer to have grandchildren. I’m okay with it as long as they keep letting me call these creatures my grandpets. None have objected, but I do notice their sideways glances when I walk in announcing “Gramma’s here!”

And like any proud Gramma, I brought pictures….

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Thunderpaws was so named for the size of his tremendous feet. I like to call him T-Paws. He was such a good boy when he arrived, we were convinced he might have been perfect. That is, until he ate the carpet. Well, he might not be perfect after all, but he’s a very loving boy.

Thunderpaws has us all wrapped around his heart, which is at least as big as his paws!

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Frank is a clever little pup. He has his own social media account on Instagram as Frank The Tank but I call him Frankster the Prankster.

Last month he learned to drive. As far as I know he hasn’t had any accidents or moving violations, but he likes to stop at all the fire hydrants.

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Mufasa is my grand-rabbit. He might be named for the fluffy mane around his neck, or maybe because he’s a brave little bunny. My own dogs are leery of a running vacuum, but Mufasa hops over and sniffs the windy nozzle. He doesn’t seem to mind when his dog-cousin, T-Paws, comes to visit, either.

Admit it. That little bunny face made you smile.

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It’s not like I bring a lawn chair to watch their sports at the dog park, or take them out on their birthdays. Hey, I haven’t completely lost my marbles. But sometimes you have to make do with what you’ve got, and for now I’ve got grandpets.

Peace . . .

Posted in Meditative Monday

Monday, Monday; doo doo, doo doo-doo doo . . .

Monday again. You know you’re singing that song. Or maybe it’s Rainy Days and Mondays. Perhaps You Can Kiss Me on a Monday? Why are there so many songs about Monday? Where is my coffee? And why is it smiling?

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Every day of the week seems to have its own personality. Monday is grumpy. It’s the crabby receptionist at the front desk. If you can pay your dues and get past her, the rest is downhill.

Tuesday is awkward. It just doesn’t know how to be a real day at all. You forge forward, just happy to have gotten past Monday unscathed. No one ever wrote a song about Tuesday. That’s not entirely true, but can you name one without Googling it?

Wednesday is the middle child. You can’t quite see Friday, but you’re far enough in to have forgotten Monday. Wednesday shrugs off the worst of the week. Its happy-go lucky and you’re glad it shows up every week.

Thursday is serious. This is the day that you have to get things done, because Friday comes to town tomorrow, and you know you can’t get anything done with him around.

Friday is the party guy. He’s magnetic. Every day wants to be him. He shows up with a smile on his face and a six-pack under his arm. He lets you get away with things the other days of the week would never dream of.

Saturday is easy-going. Ask Saturday what it wants to do, and it’s going to say it doesn’t care; whatever you want to do. Free love and macrame. Work boots and blisters. Hammocks and wine. Errands and grilling out.

Sunday is unpredictable. You walk on eggshells around that one. She teeters between lazing around the house in pajamas and angrily preparing to meet Monday head on.

So today is Monday, and I’m gritting my teeth behind a fake smile, ready to meet her head on. I’m showered, dressed, fully present, and determined not to let her get me down. I’m going to greet her and however she responds is going to roll off me like water off a duck.

We can do this, people.

Peace . . .

 

Posted in Seasonal Sunday

Earth knows no desolation

“Earth knows no desolation. She smells regeneration in the moist breath of decay.”
– George Meredith, 1828-1909, English novelist and poet

Is there any better metaphor for faith than spring? Whether your faith rests in God, Nature, Love or Self. The proof that life emerges after strife —  indeed, because of it — is ever present in the warmth of spring.

Peace . . .

Posted in Tiny Awesome Tuesday

Barefoot in the Park

Typically, the pinnacle of my day is a very small thing. Like putting my toes in the grass for the first time since autumn.

I nearly missed the park, and when I saw it, I took the last turn into the parking lot. It was a one-way in the wrong direction, but the park was nearly abandoned and no one honked or even noticed. The breeze blew chilled across the icy lake, but the sun was warm between dark blue clouds. Ducks’ wings whistled overhead, and something splashed in the open water along the shore.

Drawn to connect, I smiled an impish grin. I looked left, right, then back, before I slipped off my first leather shoe. The other shoe and both socks followed. In seconds I was barefoot in the park; skin to skin with Mother Earth. The ground was cold and the moisture seeped up to make mud on my heels. But it felt real, like putting my face against the rain, or catching snowflakes on my tongue.

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It wasn’t too long before I was back in traffic headed home to make dinner.

But I was reminded that sometimes it’s the last turn in the wrong direction that brings us down the right path.

Peace . . .