Time is on our side

Cousins

Nearly 20 years ago, I tried to steal my sister's son. Well, steal isn't quite the word. More accurately, I tried to save my sister's son, my nephew.

Nearly 20 years ago, my youngest sister was young, divorced, and had two sons—the youngest lived with her; the oldest, with his dad in the Pacific Northwest. Her life was, to put it mildly, a mess. She was in a drug-fueled relationship with an abusive maniac who thought nothing of beating the hell out of her, of shooting a gun right next to her head as he held her against a wall and threatened to kill her if she considered leaving him.

Which she didn't consider because, as such stories go, she loved him.

She loved her son, too, though, and knew the situation was a dangerous one for the little boy to be in, to witness. So she often asked me to babysit him. Which I did. Often. Little J stayed many a night at my house, ate many a meal with my family, was a welcome part of my family.

One particularly bad time, my sister asked me to have J stay at my house for the night, as Wacko Boyfriend was wackier than ever. She also asked that if she didn't call me at regular intervals through the night, that I come check on her. She wouldn't not go home for fear her boyfriend would come after her, so I had no choice but to agree.

My sister called once, then twice, as she was supposed to. Then no more calls. As my fear and panic became unbearable, I asked Jim to stay with the kids while I went to see if my sister was still alive.

When I arrived, the door of her apartment was slightly ajar. I knocked, I called out, I begged for my sister to answer. Which she didn't. I was scared to go inside, just in case her boyfriend was there with a gun to her head. I was scared to not go inside, just in case her boyfriend was there with a gun to her head. Or worse.

I couldn't bring myself to go in alone, though. So I knocked on the door of a neighboring apartment. An enormous black man who looked much like the linebackers I'd seen on TV answered. Inside were a few of his friends, also similarly large and scary-looking to this silly white girl begging for help in rescuing her sister. After a few fearful glances at one another, the big burly guys agreed to accompany me to my sister's apartment.

It was the scariest experience of my life. I was scared for my sister. Scared of the strangers I asked for help. Scared we'd all be ambushed by a freaking maniac if we went into the apartment.

We knocked. We slowly entered. We tentatively searched the apartment. We found no one.

Then, out the patio door, I saw my sister take off running and jump into a car with her boyfriend. I quickly thanked the linebackers, raced to my car, and took chase after my sister, believing she was being taken against her will.

When I finally caught up with them, my drugged-up sister pointed at me through the window and laughed as the car sped away. The joke was on me. A horrible, heartbreaking horror of a joke.

I returned home devastated, worried about what was happening to my sister. Most of all I was worried about what might eventually happen to my nephew. So when my sister called the next day, acting as if nothing had happened, as if she could just drop by and pick up her son, I told her I wasn't letting him go with her, that I was keeping him until she straightened her life out.

Surprisingly, there was no resistance from her.

Then, as Jim, my daughters, and I—along with my nephew—got ready for church, my sister pulled up in front of my house. With a cop. A cop who told me I had to give J to his mother. My sister wouldn't look at me, just stood by her car. The cop told me he understood how insane this was, but that legally I had to hand over my nephew. That his mother, as crazy as her situation—as she—apparently was, the boy was hers and I had no right to keep him. He knew it was wrong, the cop said, but it was the law.

I surrendered J to his mother. To my sister. Who had seemingly lost her mind.

Not long after that heartbreaking weekend, J's dad came to town to take custody of J. I honestly don't recall exactly how it all transpired, who had contacted him—such holes in my memory being the reason I could never write a memoir—but he came to save his son. Something I couldn't do. He had J's brother with him, kindly brought both boys to our house to tell us goodbye. Then he took them away.

We never saw either of the boys again.

Until yesterday.

My sister had thankfully pulled her life together several years after losing her boys. She got rid of the maniac boyfriend—after having three children with him. Three incredible children, all pretty much adults now, who are better off because their mom ran and hid and healed. Better off because, harsh as this sounds, their father died in a car accident before they knew the horrors of him.

My sister's contact with her two boys in the Pacific Northwest was sporadic and strained over the years, the pain and lies and misunderstandings too hard to overcome. Not long ago, though, they did overcome them. My sister finally visited, hugged, talked earnestly and honestly, offered apologies and explanations.

That was this past spring. This past weekend, the two boys came to visit their mom and half siblings. A party was held yesterday so as much extended family as could make it would also reconnect with the two boys. Two boys we hadn't seen in nearly twenty years. Two boys who had grown into bright, delightful, funny, interesting, and admirable young men.

I've not yet found the words to describe it. I won't even try.

I will, though, give thanks. Because although time—regardless of what anyone says—does not heal all wounds, it does lead to some level of forgiveness, some degree of grace, some appreciation for the time that is left.

I give thanks that forgiveness was offered. I give thanks for such grace. And, especially, I give thanks for the time that is left.

Today's question:

Who would you like to reconnect with in your extended (or immediate, even) family?

Reason No. 411 grandmas come in handy

One of the most important tasks of grandmothers is to support our adult children in their choices, their rules, and their lessons when it comes to raising their kids, our grandchildren.

Sometimes the need for such support comes in unexpected ways.

Megan called one day last week, starting the conversation with the typical "What are you doing?"

"Um, just working online," I told her. "What are you doing?"

"Well, Bubby and I are having a conversation. About poop," she said in her matter-of-fact teacher voice.

Ahh...I get it. She was talking in her this-is-a-lesson voice. She was on speaker phone. Bottom line: Bubby was listening.

So I resisted my immediate "WTF? Poop?" response, following instead with the requisite lilting, "Oh, really?"

"Yes," Megan continued. "We're talking about all the different places there is to poop. Bubby poops in the potty, like a big boy. Mommy and Daddy poop in the potty, too. Baby Mac poops in his diaper. And Roxy (the dog) poops outside. But when I told Bubby that kitties—that YOUR kitties—poop in the house, Bubby didn't believe me?" She ended on a high note of incredulity at Bubby's skepticism on the matter.

I'm no dummy. My daughter needed my support and I wasn't going to let her down. I immediately launched into authoritative grandma mode.

"Oh, but they do!" I responded loud and clear for Bubby's benefit. "Abby and Isabel both go poop in the house. In their litter box."

"That's yucky," Bubby responded.

"Some people don't want their kitties to go outside to go potty because a fox might get them, so they have their kitties go potty inside in a litter box."

"We wouldn't want a fox to eat the kitties, would we?" Megan asked Bubby.

Of course Bubby said no ... but it was clear the yuck factor was still a factor, especially the idea of the stink and the mess such activity might make.

"I clean their potties each week," I told Bubby. "And Abby and Isabel have litter boxes with lids on them, so they keep the stink in their potty. It makes it a private potty for them because kitties like privacy when they go potty. Maybe next time you're here, we'll watch as Abby and Isabel go into their private potties."

"Can you believe that?" Megan asked Bubby.

Bubby's response: "I don't even believe it!" in a chipper my-eyes-have-seen-the-light tone, doing his best to convince us he gets it, that he does indeed now believe what was once truly unbelievable to him.

Shew! Gramma successfully came through on the unexpected and unusual call for support.

After a bit more chit chat, the conversation wound down.

"You guys go now," I told them. "And maybe you should continue your discussion, maybe talk about where fish go potty."

As Megan said "goodbye," I heard Bubby in the background clearly inquire, "Where DO fish go poop, Mom?"

"Thanks, Mom," Megan added as she hung up the phone. Only I wasn't too clear on her tone. Was it one of sincere thanks for the support? Or one dripping with sarcasm at my suggestion for continuing the poop lesson?

It didn't matter. My grandchild's mind had been expanded. My daughter's lesson had been supported.

My grandma work was done for the day.

(My paparazzi work, on the other hand, continues, as I stalk Abby and Isabel with camera in hand in hopes of snapping them entering their private potties. I figure photos would be great reinforcement of the lesson for Bubby.)

Today's question:

What are your thoughts on cats? Where fish—or other animals—go potty, and life lessons learned? (Really, what question might you expect in relation to such a post?)

10 things I want(ed) to be when I grow up

Last week I had dinner with one of my favorite people, a dear friend who is very much like me on many things, but oh-so different from me on one very big thing. That big thing being parenting.

It's not that my friend and I have different parenting philosophies, it's that she isn't a parent at all, never wanted to be a parent, a mom. Ever. I, on the other hand, am a mom, have always wanted to be a mom. From the time I was a child, the position of Mom has been at the very top of my list of things I wanted to be when I grew up.

Being a mom wasn't the only thing on my list of things I want to be when I grow up, though. Here are more:

10 things I want(ed) to be when I grow up

A writer. I remember as far back as middle school, dreaming about being a writer. I became a writer, made a decent living for a short period of time as a writer, continue to be a writer.

A disc jockey. In elementary school, I worked on a presentation with a group, and we chose to present our findings on Mary McCleod Bethune radio style, with intermissions featuring snippets of music. The presentation made me realize I loved playing the part of DJ. Every now and then I still get a hankering to host a radio program ... featuring music, not news or blathering bumbleheads.

A cosmetologist. I wanted to be not just a hairstylist, but a cosmetologist. I went to school for it, was on my way to earning my license. Then I got pregnant, the chemicals weren't a good idea for the baby, and "Beauty School Dropout" became my theme song for a while. (Was soon thankful this dream was never realized!)

Interior designer. Again, started classes. Again, got pregnant ... and decided continuing school was too much for a mom with two little ones and an overworked husband.

Backup singer. I'd still like to be this. I don't want to be in the forefront, the glaring spotlight. But providing backing vocals for the star -- and maybe a solo during the bridge now and then -- would sure get my toes tapping, my hands clapping, and heart soaring.

Parenting magazine editor. Ann Pleshette-Murphy, editor of Parent magazine when my girls were little, was my idol. I've accomplished this one. Not to the degree of Ann, only on a regional parenting publication level, but accomplished just the same. 'Twas one of the highlights -- and much-missed positions -- of my writing/editing career.

Librarian. This was at the top of my list for many years, just below writer. Still is some days. Too bad a library science degree is required.

Bookstore owner. Plan B for sharing books, since a degree isn't required to sell them. Cash is required, though, and I never had it. Proof that things happen -- or don't happen -- for a reason, as I'd surely be suffering the plight of today's independent booksellers.

Pie shop owner. I make pretty good pie. I wanted to share it with others. I planned to call it Pie in the Sky. Or Pie Hopes. Again, no money -- and the rise of the cupcake -- brought those hopes to a fizzle. Although, I've been reading lately that pie is the new cupcake. Hmm ...

Restaurant owner. Witnessing hundreds of college classmates of Megan and Andrea, miles from home and craving Mom's cooking, got me seriously considering starting up a Homesick Restaurant featuring daily specials from mothers across the country (credit to Anne Tyler for the name). The girls graduated before I put the plan into action -- fortunately, as the location was seven hours away in a town I never planned to visit again once they were done with college.

Looking at this list, I see that nearly everything on it, attained or not, has contributed to or enhanced my position as Mom. Cosmetology class provided the tools for cutting and styling the hair of three little girls. Interior Design courses helped me in creating the desired ambiance in my home. DJing and backup singing? Well, I love and share music with my kids; always have, always will. The words I write and share -- whether magazine articles, books or blogs -- are often related to parenting in one way or another. Food fancies require no expanation, as that's what moms do: show their love through food.

Bottom line is this: I may not have done all I once dreamed of, but those dreams made a difference in the one that mattered most, the one that became a reality -- being a mom. And who knows? There's still plenty of time to achieve a few of those on my list I still find appealing.

Anyone up for leading a granny band? If you've got the vocal ability and nerves for centerstage, I'd be all over supporting you with a few doowops and handclaps from behind.

Photo credit: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What did you want to be when you grew up?

Battling my personal lemons

I keep seeing featured in the JCPenney ad the red loveseat Jim and I bought just after moving into our house. Because we have so many stairs, we needed a spot for his mom to sleep on the main level when she visited, and the loveseat was the perfect solution because it pulled out to a single bed but would look fine the rest of the time as a loveseat in the study.

Well, each time I see it in the ad I cringe because that loveseat is The. Most. Uncomfortable. Piece. Of. Furniture. Ever. At least in the "loveseat" configuration. (I've never slept on it as a bed; the few who have haven't complained).

Unfortunately that little loveseat expenditure is not the only unwise purchase we've ever made. Here are a few others:

Boxed gnocchi. One of my goals this year is to try out more recipes instead of relying on old standbys. What I've learned so far: boxed gnocchi = yucky. Jim agrees.

Our hot tub. We bought a hot tub at our old house and the girls used it more than we did. We left it when we sold our house because our new house has one. Jim's never been in it; I've only been in it once ... when I fell in it by accident. We clean it, fill it, keep it chemical-ed up -- we just never use it.

Cheri, starring Michelle Pfeiffer. This one's not technically a purchase as it was a Netflix movie rental, so it didn't really cost us any money. But it did cost us time -- and it was the biggest waste of our time ever.

My Reebok EasyTone walking shoes. Both my doctor and physical therapist call them a "gimmick" -- and attribute a portion of my current disc trouble to them.

Black & Decker appliances. Toasters, food processors, mixers, coffee pots. Many throughout the years. None worked correctly or for very long. Why did it take me years -- and lots of money -- to realize B&D may be good at making tools but they stink at small appliances?

Smooth-Away. Yeah, an infomercial sucked me in. I bought FOUR -- one for each of the girls and myself. (Well ... they were BOGO, for heaven's sake!). Never again.

Squiggles. I thought I'd amaze Bubby with the magical squirmy thing. I couldn't get it to squirm or squiggle ... but Bubby did enjoy dragging it around on its string as if it were a trained caterpillar.

Keurig 'My K-Cup' insert. Megan and Preston kindly bought us a Keurig for Christmas. We drink a lot of coffee and thought the insert would be nice for using our own coffee instead of the K-Cups. Um, no. We'll stick with the K-cups. (It does work well, though, for using a tea bag to brew a single cup of tea.)

Photo: flickr

Today's question:

What is on your list of unwise purchases?

My dreams for my grandson

These are my dreams for my grandson as he grows:

That he always shows gratitude, curiosity, strength, forgiveness.

That he exercises his body and mind in equal proportions.

That he laughs daily, with others, at himself.

That he loves himself, is proud of himself, treats himself kindly, compassionately.

That he shows kindness and compassion to others, to animals, to nature.

That he turns a deaf ear to intimidation and ignorance when it comes to thinking and doing what's good, what's right.

That he understands the value of patience, compromise, silence, restraint.

That he always loves learning ... and teaching.

That he uses his hands for hugging not hurting.

That he accepts responsibility.

That he does his part.

That he has -- and is -- a true and loyal friend.

That he makes time for silliness, pleasure, play.

That he appreciates and cultivates strong bonds with his siblings, from youth to old age.

That he embraces productivity and pursues careers that matter to him, to the world.

That always -- always -- people are more important to him than things.

That he keeps his word.

That home, family, tradition matter.

That he communicates -- in small ways, large ways and when it may not seem to matter ... but does.

That he never fails to see the beauty, the delightful, the admirable, the awesome.

That he never fails to see those less fortunate.

That he takes nothing for granted.

That his fears and nerves lead him to greatness not despair.

That he appreciates differences of opinion, culture, ideas.

That he has abundant supporters, cheering him on. When he can't hear them cheering, that he doesn't hesitate to cheer for himself.

That he finds a loving forever mate and together they create a loving forever family.

That he makes a positive difference in the world, be it as simple as a smile to a passing stranger or as complex as contributing to global change.

That he never breaks his mother's heart. Or his father's.

That he builds people up, not tear them down.

That he's slow to anger, quick to reason.

That he leads more than he follows, listens more than he speaks.

That his body, mind and soul stay strong, growing and bending but never breaking.

That he dances, sings, eats, enjoys, cries, giggles, dreams without worrying what others may think.

That he sets goals far and high and reaches them ... then goes beyond them.

That adversity makes him stronger not hopeless.

That he uses the words I will more often than I'll try or I can't.

That his heart is gentle and generous yet strong and resilient.

That he keeps an open mind.

That the words misogynist, racist, hateful, liar, addict, or bully are never used to describe him.

That he never, ever doubts he's loved.

That the love he gives in return is never in doubt.

That he travels.

That he dares.

That he excels.

That he lives.

That he depends on God's guidance, comfort, forgiveness, love always, in all ways.

That all who touch his life help make these dreams a reality.

More importantly, that he makes these dreams a reality. Plus every single dream of his own.

Holiday question of the day:

If you could give one gift that can't be wrapped -- the realization of a dream, goal, wish, trait -- to one person, what would you give and to whom would you give it?

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