Hairy Pits

As Mother's Day approaches, I can't help but think how lucky I am to have such a sweet daughter who fills me with such joy and happiness, while at the same time, contributes to my stress and humility.

I'll start with the sweet moments....

Rylee loves to give me random kisses, which are always so cute. The other day she runs in and kisses me on the leg, then runs out again.

"Rylee, what was that for?"
"Because I love you."

I thought that was sweet, but then I noticed that a 1-800-FLOWERS commercial was on saying, "Show your mom that you love her." I totally melted, as you can imagine.

On the weekends I let her sleep with me, and she often says, "Snuggle with me, Mama." She gets as close to me as she can without penetrating my skin. I'll start to sweat and cramp up, but I don't move her away...not until she is fast asleep.

She has the best personality and we laugh all the time, but I do know that I will have to work on some ladylike behavior before too long. She loves to toot on me, go to the bathroom in the yard, and lately, wants to stand up to urinate in the toilet. She's only four, I still have time...right?

As sweet as she is, she also often causes me a bit of stress. She knows when I say, "Mama is getting very upset" that she has crossed the line. Her biggest issue now is not answering me when I ask her something.

"Rylee, do you want a snack?"
Silence.
"RyRy, are you hungry?"
More silence.
"RYLEE, ANSWER ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Smiling, "What, Mama? I didn't hear you."

It's that smile, that little twinkle in her eye that says, "I got her" that just stresses me out. How can this cute little angel who likes to snuggle be so evil?

Then, there are the humbling moments, the moments that seem so sweet but turn so quickly. Rylee and I were playing together, having fun, and she says, "Oh, Mama, your lips smell like garbage." Or when I'm leaving for work and tell her how cute she looks and she says, "Well, you look like a boy." Or perhaps, just last night, when I was reaching over her to buckle her into the carseat, and she reaches up my arm sleeve to say,

"Mama, what is this?"
"It's my armpit."
"It's hairy!!!"

And that,people, is my sweet, stressful, and humbling offspring....

Butt Crack

I read a devotion yesterday titled, "Being a Mom That Matters". It really hit home for me because I know that I don't always give my all because I am so overwhelmed with all the things that need to get done throughout the day. I took their points to heart:

1. Be a mom that loves God - this is so important because Rylee will see who I depend on for strength, especially during difficult times. She will learn to also depend on God for wisdom, strength, etc by following my example.

2. Be a mom that prays continually - sometime I forget how important it is to cover my child with prayers continually. I pray coverage over her, for God to protect her from any physical, sexual or emotional abuse. These are scary times, and I want to make sure that her innocence is protected.

3. Be a mom who gives time - I've noticed that time is all she needs, whether I'm sitting next to her in a chair or I'm watching her play a computer game.

I've had some difficult nights putting her to bed because she calls me back to the room for a thousand various reasons, so I have tried a different routine that has seemed to work. After she crawls in bed, we read a book and then I pray.

Last night, while I started to pray, she began to gargle her water, thinking she was being funny. I tried to explain to her that praying is serious and that we don't play around when someone is praying. So this was our conversation:

"Rylee, it's not nice to make noises like that when someone is praying. We want to talk to Jesus and ask him to help us feel better. If you don't take the prayer seriously, then he may not answer it."

"But I want to see Jesus."

"You will one day, but right now, you can talk to him and ask him to help us start feeling better."

"But when will I see him?"

"One day you will see him when you get to Heaven."

"Up in the clouds? In Heaven?"

"Yes, but until then, you can talk to him anytime you want and pray to him."

"Like when I say a bad word?"

"Why would you say a bad word?"

"Like maybe when I say butt crack?", she says so seriously.

Shocked, I say, "Why would you say butt crack, Rylee?

"Well, sometimes James tells me that he's gonna crack me in the butt."

"Well, I suppose, you can tell Jesus that."

"Jesus, you know, got those stitches in him from those bad guys and then he got up again." (This is her translation of the crucifixion and resurrection).

"Yes, that's right."

"Good night, Mama."

If I had chosen not to give her the time, I wonder what I would've been doing in those 5 minutes that could've been more important than that...

Prom's da Bomb...

I attended Prom last night...as a chaperone, that is. I came to one conclusion during the night: I'm old. I'm very, very old.

First of all, the dresses were almost not considered dresses, more like half bathing suit and half evening gown. I was glad to see that sequins were back in, especially since my senior prom dress was a purple, sequined gown. However, mine did not have cut outs all over it, exposing my hip bone, belly button, or back. And the cleavage...my goodness, there was enough cleavage there to satisfy Hugh Hefner. I just imagined the girls trying on their dresses, walking out of the dressing room, and their moms saying, "Oh, now that's adorable!"

Second of all, there were a handful of ball caps at the prom. Yes, baseball caps. I will say, the guys at least chose caps that matched their dates' dresses. But what's kind of sad is the fact that the cap was a thought-out accesory; it was part of their attire.

Thirdly, I didn't recognize any of the songs the DJ played. I suppose "Ring Around the Rosey" and "One Two, Buckle My Shoe" has far removed me of any modern dance hits. The students knew them all and hollered (or holla'd) whenever the songs came on. Towards the end of the night, the DJ did play "Thriller", "Ice, Ice Baby" and "Fresh Prince of Bel Air", but I am sure this was a tactic to get the kids to start clearing out of the room.

Next, the dancing. I really can't call it that. It was more like vertical sex, vertical sex that sometimes existed in a train of students, backed up to each other. I really can't talk much about the "dancing" without becoming disturbed.

I suppose the days of the "Macarena" and the "Electric Slide" are over. I suppose the days of classy dresses and groomed guys are over.

However, there was one saving grace of the night. A boy asked his girlfriend to marry him while they were getting their pictures taken. She went around showing everyone her engagement ring. When a teacher asked the boy what his mother said, he replied, "Oh, she's happy. She says we can sleep together now."

(Did I mention the girl is preggers?)

Yes, I am old. I'm very, very old....

"Bend Over and Let Me See"

I've always been picky about things. My meat has to be cooked a certain way (burnt) and I've never really been fond of eating things off the bone. I know I can't be the only one who is sickened by that dark red vein of a chicken wing that pops back after your teeth have torn through the meaty flesh. Don't put me in charge of cooking chicken, because by the time I am done chiseling away at the white cartilage and blood spots, the chicken breast turns into a chicken nugget. Don't even get me started on those red blotches in lunch meat.

I've also never enjoyed touching fish. I've been fishing many, many times, and I love it. I really do, but only as long as someone else puts my minnow on the hook and takes the fish off the hook once I've caught it. There's just something about not knowing when it's about to wiggle that causes me some anxiety.

I failed Freshman Biology Lab because I just couldn't do it. I remember walking in the lab one day and saw my lab partners holding a rat we were to dissect. I courteously said my good-byes and walked right out. I just didn't see the purpose in knowing what was inside that incredibly ugly creature.

Then I became a mom....

Somehow the gross factor is intensified so much that it just doesn't matter anymore. I'm changing a diaper and notice I have poo smeared all over my hand, and I merely wipe it off. No flinching. No dry-heaving. I'm feeding my baby and she vomits milk all over me. No worries. I just change my shirt. And when did boogies not become gross anymore? I truly feel like a boogie collector.

"Mama!" Rylee calls from the bedroom at night.

"Yes, darling?"

"I have a boogie for you".

"Thank you," I say, while taking it and leaving the room.

Thank you? Did I just thank her for handing me a boogie? We went for a week with her calling me back to hand me her treasure two to three times a night. I wanted to just tell her, "Wipe it on the wall. I wash it off tomorrow", exasperated from walking back and forth each night. I did tell her one night, "Just flick it off!" But what was so funny is that I wasn't bothered by the boogie itself, just the fact that I had to walk across the house to get it. When did the boogie stop bothering me?

Perhaps when she started wiping her own behind after a good poo...

Well after she was potty trained, I still wiped her bottom after she dropped a big one. I just wanted to make sure she wasn't carrying around any fecal matter that would be displaced somewhere else later in the day. But, she's four now, and has been wiping on her own. However, I still ask her, "Did you wipe good enough?"

"Yes."

"Bend over and let me see."

I'm not really sure when looking at someone's booty hole become a natural part of my day, but nevertheless, it did. I don't ask her to bend over anymore, since I trust that she has adequate wiping skills, but it never fails that after she poos, she comes to me and drops her pants, bends over to the ground and shows me she's all clean. How do I respond to this?

"Good job, baby girl, the poo is all gone."

Then she pulls her pants up and we go on with our day....

Mary, Mary Quite Contrary, How Does Your Garden Grow?

Since my divorce, I have found myself in various situations that I had never had to handle alone: getting lost in Atlanta, putting together furniture (which all came with a million screws and whose directions were written by someone who likes to be vague), and cleaning and painting rooms in the house. I felt so accomplished when I had completed these tasks because I had done them...on my own. But then came the garden...

I have wanted a garden for a couple of years now, so once my divorce was final, I knew that was one project I would take on. In theory, it sounds pretty easy: dig the soil, drop the seeds, and water. However, I found that even though I could do those simple tasks, I still had to rely on someone to get some of it done. This was frustrating to me, since I had been handling things alone for a couple of months and finding that I could do everything on my own. But, I couldn't till the ground. It was too hard, not only to use the tiller, but to actually find one. There was a moment of defeat one night, and I remember just being sad. I had felt invincible until then: "I am woman, hear me roar!" But that night, a feeling of helplessness came over me. I couldn't do it all and, in the future, won't be able to do it all.

I just prayed, "Please, God, I need this garden. Please provide a tiller and a 'tiller-er'". A few days later, my prayers were answered and I had an 11x11 ft plot of dirt ready for vegetables. The work was hard (digging, hoeing, digging some more), but all the vegetables were in the ground.

The garden represents many things to me: independence, discipline, collaboration. But the garden is more symbolic. I want the vegetables to grow, but more importantly, I need them to grow. It represents beauty birthed from dirt and worms. It represents strong roots producing nourishment. It represents my life from which beauty will abound through muck and heartache.

I am excited to see the garden every day, to see what new growth has formed on the plants. As this new growth forms, I realize that new growth springs forth in my own life, as I adjust to the "garden" in which my seeds have been planted.

"Mama, where is God?"

I am still amazed when I see the innocence of a child in action. I usually talk about innocence with my students when we see objects in stories that are white and tend to represent the innocence of a particular character, etc, but when I "see" the innocence of a child, I feel so blessed. Sometimes I catch Rylee talking to "Mr. Dolphin" or "Mr. Turtle" only to realize that she is talking to a cloud shaped like those animals. She thinks the moon follows us to school in the morning, and from time to time, she whispers things to it as we drive along.

Without knowing it, Rylee has blessed me in so many ways throughout the last few months, and I think the raw innocence of childhood offers so many "lessons" that make me stop and contemplate. I have also realized just how much she observes and takes things in, which makes me more aware of how I react to situations.I have had several opportunities to talk to her about Jesus, because my choir songs have talked about "nails in his hands" and so forth, so being curious, she wants to know why. She has begun to call upon Jesus whenever she is hurt or if I have a headache, and her prayers are so simple, so innocent. (I did have to remind her that we don't yell at Jesus, we just call upon Him, when she was yelling to the sky, "JESUS, MAKE OUR VEGETABLES GROW!!!").

Rylee and I were on our way home yesterday when we had the most adorable conversation. She has a new "big girl" carseat, so she was sitting next to the window, which she can roll down all by herself now. With the wind blowing in her hair, she was looking up at the sky and asked,"Mama, where is God?"

"He's everywhere, sweetheart."

"Can I see Him?"

"You can't see Him, but you can see all the wonderful things He does for us and all the beautiful things He creates."

"Does He live in the sky?"

"Well, I guess you could say He's in the sky, but you know, you can talk to Him whenever you want to. What would you say to God?"

She was quiet for a moment and then closed her eyes and said, "God, I love you!"

What a sweet snapshot in time and a lovely reminder of how my "vague" answers were enough for her to believe that God lives everywhere, even though she can't see Him physically. The faith of my innocent child reminded me that even though I can't "see" the plan God has created, He will reveal it to me when it's time, and I have faith that He will do so.