In Kind

The man stood in the Target parking lot, a sign in his hands saying he lost his job and needed help feeding his family. They were there, too—a thin young woman holding a beautiful infant daughter, an orange flower blossoming from her halo of black curls. Because I'm cheap, I only gave them a dollar. Because I'm kind, I then drove to Starbucks and asked for two cups of ice water to take back to them. The barista gave me the water, grudgingly, but not without tossing in a tip: "You know, you're just feeding stray cats."

The family stuck with me as I headed up Cantrell toward home. I thought about how one unlucky break could be the difference between pulling up my nice curved driveway and holding up a sign in a sweltering parking lot. We aren't so different, his family and mine. Our luck could run out, too. I was thinking about this as I drove past The Toggery, an ultra fancy children's boutique a few minutes from home. They had a sign, too—big colorful letters promising their affluent clientele huge summer savings. What could it hurt to ask? I went in and told the saleswoman about the family. "Is there any chance you could donate anything for their baby?" The saleswoman asked me to wait while she disappeared into the back. When she returned, she was gently folding three complete outfits—dresses, bloomers, hats. Before she could slip them into the bag, another saleswoman walked up and handed her a gorgeous smocked dress to add to the gift. I expected to be shown the door. Instead, I was shown amazing kindness.

I'll probably never be the kind of person who shops at The Toggery, but I hope I never stop finding ways to share their spirit of generosity and kindness to people.



And maybe even a few stray cats.

I Remember Mama

In some families, sibling rivalry can be a real bother. (See: Cain and Abel.) In ours, it's pretty benign. We've never fought over men or competed in careers. We don't care who makes the most money or even who mom and dad like best at any given time. The sibling rivalry in our family revolves around just one small, yet critical matter: Who can give the gift that makes mom cry.

My sister, with the unfair advantage of incredible talent and generosity, usually wins. But not this year. This year, Mother's Day is mine.

This year, I have a secret weapon:

Once upon a time, Laura Brown was my teacher in an official capacity. She gave me things to read and things to write. She gave me guidance in the kindest of ways, with a gentle nudge or probing question, jotted in the margin of my paper in tiny lavender script. After the semester came to an end, I graduated from student to friend, but Laura continued to teach me. When I carelessly tossed a "funny" comment on my Facebook wall that got a cheap laugh at my mother's expense, Laura was there to gently nudge me again. "Honor your mother," she wrote in a private message."Be grateful that you still have her."

Just in time for Mother's Day, Laura came through for me again. Her new book, Everything That Makes You Mom: A Bouquet of Memories, is her best writing assignment yet. On each page, Laura shares a simple memory of her own mom doing one of a thousand simple mom things: shopping, visiting, playing, caring. Like a good teacher, Laura then offers a selection of writing prompts designed to stir our own mom memories and some space for us to share them. In the end, the gift we give our mother isn't a book, but the knowledge that we have been listening, we have been paying attention, we do remember.

Thank you, Laura, for a beautiful book that will make my mom cry.

And thank you, Mom, for a lifetime of memories that no single book can contain.

Land of Opportunity

My first two nephews were born in another state. I had to travel to be with them. I didn't mind. I liked them. A lot.

Eventually, they moved back to New York and we were able to spend more time together.

They liked me a lot, too.

But then I had to go and meet some sweet talking Southern man. For years, I'd harbored secret dreams of living in the South, where Spanish Moss drapes the trees instead of snow. I wasn't leaving for him so much as seizing my opportunity to get south of winter. Moving was bittersweet, but I knew my new life would be exciting.

Right after that part where it sucked.

My Going Away Party. Doesn't it look fun!?

Love looks like that sometimes.

But sometimes, it looks like this.  

Now it's his turn. My nephew just moved to Arkansas, not to be with me so much as to seize the opportunity to spread his wings and fly. I'm just a nice, soft safety net stretched out beneath him. 

Welcome to Arkansas, Will. I hope your adventure is everything you want it to be, and that the part where it sucks for those you left behind is very, very brief.

Love is a Battlefield

I was pretty holed up inside my own head as I cruised along Cantrell to retrieve my son from school. The day had been intense—over two hours in a high-rise conference room coaxing old memories out of their comfortable shadows. I've never been deposed before, never been asked to transform dusty memories into legal testimony in an ugly custody case. If you've never been commanded to do it, count yourself lucky; it's miserable work.

"Do you recall, in 2004, when So-and-so did such-and-such?"

Ma'am, I don't recall what color underwear I put on this morning.

I did my very best to answer the questions, one more intimate than the last, as honestly as possible, the weight of the task bearing down on me relentlessly. I didn't fully appreciate the enormity of it all going in, the pressure of having actual lives depend on my fading memory, but it became painfully clear. Hours later, I still can't shake the throb between my eyes.  Like I need help deepening that groove, thank you very much. It's not fair, really, to put such a burden on a person, to ask someone to shoulder the weight of your mistakes, forcing them to hold the dust pan as shards of your broken past are swept out of the darkest corners.

The lawyers dredged up every lurid detail they could think of—sex, money, the most personal of personal habits. 

"Were you aware that So-and-so did this-and-that?"

A shiver went down my spine as scenes of my own sordid past bubbled up in my memory. What if the spotlight was shining down on it? How would I be reflected in the mistakes of my youth? How would you?

It seemed they wouldn't stop until they asked every question they could think of.

Except one.

"What do you think is best for the children?"

As I allowed my car to roll along on autopilot, I slowly became conscious of a familiar voice on the radio: Pat Benatar, belting out an anthem from my youth. I haven't heard the song in years, but the events of the day gave it new meaning:

You're begging me to go
Then making me stay
Why do you hurt me so bad
It would help me to know
Do I stand in your way
Or am I the best thing you've had

Believe me
Believe me
I can't tell you why
But I'm trapped by your love
And I'm chained to your side


Love is a battlefield




Yes, yes it is.

Ebb and Flow

Our pool holds approximately 22,000 gallons. On a good day. But she's almost fifty years old now and she's starting to have a hard time holding her water. I'm coming up on fifty myself; I can empathize.



Original owners' inscription beneath diving board

Now don't confuse empathy with acceptance, because I'm here to tell you that I was not exactly feeling understanding when we discovered that the old girl had sprung a leak. Concerned doesn't quite cover it. Worried, maybe. Disconcerted.





As the gallons continued to mysteriously dribble out for weeks on end, concern turned to anxiety. The pool guy just kept scratching his head, unable to determine where our fault line was hiding. He was taking the kind of wait and see attitude only one whose name is in no way associated with the water bill can take.





By the time the pool was half empty, anxiety had morphed into full on obsession, a lie-awake-at-night frenzy of panic and fear. Our girl was silently bleeding out, and the doctor couldn't save her.

This was terrible. This was catastrophic! Could this be any worse?



The answer to that question was waiting for me in today's paper.



Photo by STEPHEN B. THORNTON

Exactly a year ago today, it wasn't receding water, but rising water that gripped the hearts and minds of every person in Arkansas and her surrounding states. Heavy rains inundated the Caddo and Little Missouri rivers, causing them to swell and rage, consuming the Albert Pike Recreational Area where men, women, and children slept. Best friends Candace Smith and Kerri Basinger were there, camping with their families. The flood took both of their husbands and four of their children, ages two, five, six, and eight. The water claimed twenty lives that night.


The pool guy will find our leaks and patch them. We'll lower a hose in the empty hole in our yard and let the water flow. It will all be made right with the simple act of signing a name on a check. My mother always says, "If money can fix it, it ain't a problem."

As usual, she's right.

Tonight, I get to curl up in bed with my husband on one side and child on the other. How is it possible that I needed reminding that nothing else really matters?

If a lingering worry does creep up tonight, I'll shoo it away, and replace it with a prayer for the families of the Albert Pike flood.

Cracks

I was nearly 40 when I got married. Some might have called me a spinster, but I preferred to think of myself as fashionably late. I'm late for everything, so why should this be any different. Since my name belonged to the only family I'd ever known, I decided to hang onto it. But I wanted it both ways, remaining a part of my old family and incorporating the new, so I tacked them on with a hyphen. It's a cumbersome mouthful to spit out, and a pain in the ass to spell over the phone when the receptionist can't quite figure it out. But I like the symbolism—a house united, two families become one.

One of my favorite people on earth is living the flip side of this story—a house divided, one family become two. I don't much like the negative term "broken home," but it's certainly apt in this case. Their family is broken—snapped like a twig over a knee, splintered ends flung to the farthest corners of the forest.

Having never been divorced, I find myself gorging on delicious righteous indignation, an all-you-can-eat-buffet of criticism. It's easy for me to harshly judge the choices they've made, never having faced them myself. But it's not easy to watch. When their family broke, my heart broke right along with it— not for the adults so much, but for the children, especially that child who is one of my favorite people on earth. I don't know what they're going through, or what it took for their lives to snap so utterly and irreparably in two. What I do know is that every time I want to point my damning finger and try to assign the blame, I should offer my hand instead, and try to assist the healing.

This family is broken, but the people in it aren't. When they landed on their opposite sides of the continent, they suffered injuries for sure—a few hairline fractures, a couple of cracks. But Leonard Cohen got it right, "There is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in."

photo credit Gabrielle Kai Photography

I'm One Lucky Mother

Facebook is overflowing with articles, poems, pictures, songs and salutes to moms today. But it was this one that really got me thinking.

A real woman always keeps her house clean and organized, the laundry basket is always empty. She’s always well dressed, hair done. She never swears and behaves gracefully in all situations and under all circumstances. She has more than enough patience to take care of her family, always has a smile on her lips, and a kind word for everyone. ... Post this in your status if you too suspect that you might be a man.

My house is clean and organized. My laundry basket is always empty. Additionally, my fridge and cupboards are filled regularly, my bills are paid on time, my checkbook is balanced meticulously, my coffee is ready minutes before I wake, and my meals are cooked and served with love.

In my house, the Mother's Day accolades aren't mine, they're his—





It doesn't make me less of a woman that I don't take care of these household chores. It makes him more of a man.

Especially when he wears that hat.

Shipping News

About a week ago, I made my usual frantic eleventh hour search for a birthday present for my mother. On the very first website, I found just the right thing. It was something she would really love. It was beautiful; it was meaningful; it was spiritual; it was useful. And, best of all, it was on sale!

I should have known it was dipped in fail.

I found it during my lunch hour at work. But since I'm not a real grown up, I didn't have a credit card with me and couldn't place the order. When I got home, I headed straight to the website, credit card at the ready. But my perfect present had vanished. I couldn't find it anywhere. The Internets ate it. I called the 800 number to see if a human being could help me find it, but apparently, I had imagined it. They deny it ever existed.

I should probably stop shooting up at work.

I searched a little more and found a suitable backup present. To assure that this one wouldn't disappear in a puff of cybersmoke, I got on the phone immediately to place my order. I'm naïve enough to believe that interacting with a real live customer service representative will guarantee success. If you need further proof of my shopping naïveté, when the woman asked for the name on the card, I said, "Oh, you can just say Mom."

"No," she explained patiently, as if speaking to a particularly dense mentally challenged child, "the name on the credit card."

Oh.

But today the good news came that I wasn't the only confused party in that conversation. The present just arrived.

At my house.

1500 miles from my mother's house.

A week after her birthday.

And now, not only did I pay shipping to get it to my house, I get to pay shipping again to get it to hers. There aren't many things I'm careful about, but not wasting money is top of the list.

See.





I was specific to the point of being obnoxious that this was a gift for my mother, who lives in Argyle, New York, not Little Rock, Arkansas. "Now you've got that address right, right?" I said. "It's not coming to Little Rock; it's going to New York. Right?"

Right.

Happy Birthday, Mom.



PS, Does anyone else find it ironic that the name of this company is Women of Faith?

. .

All I Really Need to Know I Learned from my Kindergartner

Most of my visits to the dentist are blissfully uneventful. In a strange way, I actually even enjoy them. A little. The office is staffed entirely by pleasant, attractive women. They hover around me, tending to my needs, caring for me. I guess I'm revealing a sexist bent, but I'm pretty sure women have an extra gene devoted solely to nurturing. (This, in a nutshell, is why I'm actively pestering my husband to let us get a sister wife.)

Twice a year, Misty cleans my teeth, chatting affably as she goes. I softly grunt my end of the conversation, relying on my eyes to express the appropriate emotion. The doctor makes a cameo appearance, staying just long enough to deliver the good news that diligent brushing and flossing have paid off again.

Except for this time.

This time, she actually had some work to do. One of my old fillings had given up the ghost and needed to be replaced by a crown. I wouldn't say I was scared exactly, but I did have to steel myself a bit as she headed into my mouth with a series of disconcerting objects. As the first needle pierced my gum, delivering its sting of Novocaine, I pictured my six-year-old.

And I thought — Just be as brave as him.







I wonder what he'll teach me next.
.
.

Felices Pascuas

We gathered together I don't know how many times, heads bowed, listening to Charlie humbly ask God to bless our meal. When he finished last Easter, we kept our heads down a little longer than usual. We weren't ready for it to be over. We all knew it was the last time.

Cancer. We had just found out.

Forty days later, he was gone.

Lillian, his bride of 60 years, has been amazing. My respect for her continues to grow each time I catch a glimpse of the enormous poise and strength that fills this tiny lady. She's faced their anniversary, his birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas and all the days in between with remarkable grace. But Easter was too much to ask.

So this year, we gathered together in a completely different way. Instead of a blessing, we placed our orders. Instead of a ham, we had enchiladas. Instead of tradition, we had change. But even though we did our best not to mention Charlie, he was still with us.

He always will be.



Happy Easter, wherever you are.
.
.