Hello Old Friend

"Hello old friend." Not my favorite Jim Kirklandism but some how "Government cheese is good" (author's note- you have to hear this quote in the voice in which it was delivered--think slow deep southern baritone) doesn't seem appropriate. "Hello old friend" is how I feel about this blog and about this life. I have missed both. It has been a long journey over the last several months. Life, once always precarious in my mind then renewed to a sense of safety, has again revealed itself to be a teetering thought. In a whirlwind, this summer and fall have been turned upside down. The loss has been shattering as an adult but overwhelming through the eyes of a mother and wife of a grief stricken child. Loss is something I know a little about. It isn't new to me, it has been here before. I have carried it, worked it, moved it and come out the other side. More than once I have been here. I have been the child, the supporter, the bystander and the confidant. I know this routine, why does it shake me.

I know the hospitals, the diagnosis, the anger, the assumptions, the realizations. I know the planning, the funeral homes, the casseroles and the friends. I am solid--rock solid. I know the plans, the times, the phone numbers, and the protocol. I can organize the un-organizable, I can put things in place, I can make sure everyone is taken care of. All of this is my protection. It keeps me occupied. It was working so well until the questions started to come. Why is it that the questions of a three year old can bring you to your knees? Why can't we see people that we love right now? Why aren't they here? When will we see them? Why can't we go live with them now and be here just the same? Why has my own firm foundation been shaken this time?

My grief has been taken down a peg and intensified with each question. The re-living of the losses long ago feels fresh again. We all know we are not invincible, we have known that since we were young. Somehow as a parent the need to be invincible for your child is overwhelming. You sit up a little straighter when you are feeling down and they walk in a room, you let them know you will be there for them when they need you and when they don't. The same holds true no matter how old you are and how old your parents are. You need each other.

I have been the child abandoned and my new found reassurance of fragility sends me into fits of worry over the hopefully long haul. I never want to leave my child. I am not sick and God willing won't be. I don't anticipate any grave events to befall my life, but that is just it, no one does. This new loss has taken me there. Taken me to the fear I never knew, made the loss real and at the same time viewable from the other side. How must the dying parent have felt at the loss of their child or their family? How selfish of me not to have seen it before.

I have become my usual nervous self during this time. Unable to feel the good surrounding me, saturated by the fear. Then it came as a wave tonight. Who am I worried about? Obviously not the child that I once was or the child that now exists or the spouse that would grieve. My obsessions of health, my nervous energy, my racing mind, my unproductive self are over. To miss the life you have, you have to live it and be present and I intend to start doing that today. So on that note, good by old friends, may your lives be an example to the dawn I see today.

Spring Morning

I have always been a morning person. Most people view this as an odd trait but a trait that I draw pleasure from nonetheless. What could be better for an only child, happy in her own solitude, than to experience a world ready and waiting for no one but me. It is selfish, I will give you that, but it is fun. This morning I had that if only for a little while. It is hard to be the first person to wake up in a house with a two year old. This morning I had that pleasure. Only the dew, the squirrel in the bird feeder and my two fun loving dogs were there to accompany me on my back yard photo safari. Quite solitude and Gods beauty. What more could you ask for on a Saturday morning. For all you sleepy heads, I have taken some pictures to record what you miss when you sleep in. Enjoy.

Change of Subject

Derby Day has always been one of my favorite days of the year. It is a small glimpse of the pomp and circumstance of a different time. A magical and elusive promise of a potential crown. It can also be tragic. The kind of tragedy that trumps the favorite son is today’s story.

While we had no great plans of parties to cap our day, we did want to introduce a little piece of our tradition, so that it could be passed down. Much like memories of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, or the annual showing of The Wizard of Oz, I remember sitting around the TV with my family and watching the Derby every year. I look forward to it and identify strongly with it. I have never been to Churchill, nor do I ever expect to go, but I love the story. I grew up in a neighborhood where all the streets were named for Derby winners. I remember family parties where pie was served and strips of newspaper with horse’s names were placed in a bowl and selections were made. I wanted to introduce this to my daughter.

We headed for Pop-Pop's house, mainly because we hadn't been there in a while, but also to share the day. We arrived in time to critique a few hats and hear a few commentators make predictions. We shared a newspaper racing form and showed all the names to my daughter. Out of the blue, she chose a number and became entranced.

Number 5, the only filly, in a crowded house of men. Eight Belles, a beautiful horse with a name to match. How could any little girl not love her? The call to the post was made and the parade began. "That's my horse", was echoed again and again about the little filly. "She is going to run fast and She is going to win!"

"I hope so!" was our sentiment and we all chose a horse but silently agreed to cheer only for number 5.

The long race began and number 5 was in good position. "She is in a good place" we commented, "She may win this", we agreed. Down the stretch they came, and only the favorite son was in her way. Second was her place in history as the race ended.

"She did great!" We lamented as we often do when small daily feats are met. The camera followed the winner, who then pulled up in fright and threw his jockey. Spirited, they said, was the mark of the winner. Spooked was the true case.

What the favorite son had seen, was what we had thankfully missed. Number five was down. Eight Belles had met the end so feared by any race fan. The delicate nature only thoroughbreds possess also creates a true Achilles heel. Tiny ankles are necessary in a race horse but are not capable of being mended, once broken. Like Marathon, Eight Belles made it to the end and no further.

"That's my horse" the terribly astute pre-schooler lamented. "Why is only she down?"

"Let's go outside. It is pretty outside. Let's fly helicopter leaves outside. Let's get out of in front of the TV." Was an immediate adult response.

Then came the lone adult, who had missed it all.

"What is going on? Which horse is that?"

"Change the subject!"

"What?"

"Change the SUBJECT!" the chorus sang.

"Why?"

"It's my horse." the little voice replied, head down as she plodded outside.

All grown up

Daddy is stressed. It was all going along just fine and then bump. In the 2 and 3/4 years since we became parents nothing is constant except for the pattern of change. We will be going along just fine and then the bump trips us up. It is guaranteed to happen.

When she was 3 months old, she stayed up for hours on end one night with an incessant case of the giggles. She had figured out how to laugh. It was the first big change. She couldn't stop...she just laughed and laughed and laughed. What should have been seen as our first big leap into the great beyond scared me to death. I took her to my mom's and I called the pediatrician. The call went something like this..."yes, I have a three month old who won't sleep and is giggling in fits...is something wrong...should I bring her in?"

How crazy does that sound now. I couldn't give in and enjoy it. It wasn't how it had "always" in three months been.

When she was eleven months old, I wanted nothing more for her to walk and go to bed at a normal bedtime. All my other friends were able to get their kids down by 8 p.m., why did I have to do everything but stand on my head to get my kiddo down by eleven? I was really worried about milestones. Sure kids don't always walk until they are 13 or 14 months...but by God, this kid is advanced! See the way she held a book and seemed to "read" it!

She talked, laughed, seemed so smart and with it, so why shouldn't the physical follow. Then a week before her birthday the first steps came...and they haven't slowed down.

On the night after her first birthday, exhausted from the excitement and sugar bust she crashed at 8 p.m. and slept until 8 p.m. We literally went up and watched her breathe on multiple occasions. Yes, it was what we wanted, no it wasn't what we expected!

We are entering a similar phase. Very unexpectedly the "potty training in a day" worked. She is so proud and so are we. Accompanying this discovery has been the advent of panties and a new found interest in all things girly. She has always been a ham and a flirt but this is new. She picked out the fanciest dress she could find on Sunday for church and told her Daddy it was her wedding gown. She informed us on Monday that her friend, who happens to be a little boy, "loves" her but that she "loves" her other little friend more. She dances, sings and bats her eyes. She doesn't like dirt and she loves pink. Then out of the blue, just yesterday, she noticed my painted toes. "Mommy, Mommy--paint my toes too!" I obliged and she felt so pretty, that she had to pass it on!.

Daddy came home, and I rushed out. I got a call on my cell phone about 20 minutes later. "Did you think I wouldn't notice the polish...she isn't even three, you know!" Oh Daddy, buckle your seat belt, it's going to be a bumpy ride!

Exhausted

"How did you do it?" I innocently asked the mom with the 3 year old, 18 month old and one on the way. "How did you get them potty trained?"

"It was easy," she replied. "I had my daughter trained at 12 months, she has never had an accident and I did it all in 3 hours."

"What???," I said--needing desperately the secret.

"It's all in the book--you should check it out--really any child can be potty trained in a day," she said as easy as you please.

That is how it happened that this robber of sleep, book of hope and fear came into my possession.

I have been reading this granter of one day miracles since last July. I have attempted it lock stock and barrel twice on my own--to no avail and many wet floors and baby lax later. The book knows this will happen--that is why it tells you that if the primary caregiver "fails" at this task then the task needs to be given to someone else to do. All of that led to today. My mother said that she would give it a shot, along with my cousin’s help.

Being a true Baptist, I believe in miracles--especially the everyday variety. So while my mother and cousin were abiding by this book's rules--disregarding phone calls, not answering the door, speaking only to my child and only about the potty, I was trying to play catch up with my work. I put 100 miles on my car, updated listings, took new pictures, put up signs, crawled around in barns, climbed fences, avoided wildlife and measured houses. I was midway through when I got the call.

"Someone has something they want to tell you."

"I pee peeed in the potty Mommy!"

"Great!" I said, believing that miracles really do come true.

Of course I avoided the Pollyanna tendencies of my mother who then filled in a few blanks about how the tinkling began and how it ended. My baby was trained! It was done--or so I believed.

Now here is the problem the book doesn't address. What if you have a fairly bright child, who understands completely how to hold back and in fact how to let go--but who sees letting go as failure on her part. Even if the letting go happens on the potty and even if she is rewarded handsomely. It is still failure and in her little mind it must not occur.

That is where we are now...10 hours post pee a million miles to go and no end in sight. My child is clean and dry but she going to explode! I have begged, modeled behavior, and forced fluids all to no avail. According to this little girl in the fancy shoes, pee is her glass slipper and she ain't leaving it behind!

Lost Art

This is how it always starts. The bowl is never the same, the flour isn't a specific brand but this is how it begins. She pulls out this rusty old sifter, with holes in the mesh bigger than any lump in the flour and she pours. She sifts and sifts. It isn't like she adds leavening. She has always used self-rising flour. Somehow this process was passed down--regardless of the necessity and somehow it matters.

Next she always greases the pan with Crisco. Yes Pam is in the cabinet; no it will not produce a proper biscuit bottom. You know the stuff, crispy, almost fried and oh man that is good.

Here comes the salt. Why it isn't added into the sifter, I will never know. Also, as I mentioned, this is self-rising flour and really salt isn't necessary. At least that is what the back of the flour bag says. I am here to tell you it is. Next comes the Crisco and the lack of a measuring cup. I have watched her. I know full well she uses about double what any recipe calls for. That is what makes them flaky. They can barely hold country ham when sliced. Despite their delicate nature, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Notice the milk. It isn't buttermilk. I have never seen her use buttermilk. Even when it was on hand for cornbread, it never made it's way into the biscuits. Maybe she isn't truly southern (doubtful, don't you think) or maybe that is just the way her Mama did it but the tangy taste of buttermilk isn't one you will find here.

Next comes the most important ingredient...her hands. She works the dough just enough. She adds more milk and works some more. There is always flour left in the bottom of the bowl when she turns the wet, loose mixture onto her floured foil.

The next step forces me to hear "Patty Cake, Patty Cake" in my head. I don't know if it is my idealized version, or if she always used to sing it but seeing her pat that dough gives me an instant auditory memory.

When the dough is just right, not too thick, not too thin, she picks a cutter (most often a juice glass) and cuts. She cuts and folds cuts and folds until all that is left are the dough dodgers. These are my biscuits. Just for me. Imperfect in shape but distinct in my mind, I love them.

All of the biscuits make it into a hot oven and come out brown and beautiful. My whole life, when summer would come around and I would spend days and days outside my mom would always remark that I was "just brown as a little biscuit". Nothing sweeter was ever said and no higher compliment was ever given. In her eyes, I was the fruit of her labor and like her most famous dish, pure perfection.