my family has been vacationing in the same condominiums since before i was born, and among other amenities, the lost and found at this place has the BEST stuff!

my dad used to take us “shopping” in there for snorkeling equipment, various pool floats, and the occasional well-worn souvenir t-shirt from a crawfish boil in louisiana or a frat party at ole miss. we just never knew what we would find.

a few nights ago, while i was cooking dinner, i heard the bird trot off toward the door of the condo. i felt no need to chase him, since the door was closed, and i went about my business slicing a pear. after a couple of minutes, i asked the monkey if he had seen the bird, which, it turns out, he had not. so, the two of us stepped outside of our OPEN condo door (oops) and into the third story hallway just in time to greet the bird, happily situated in the arms of a teen-aged girl, with whom we were not yet acquainted.

“is this your child?” she asked.

“yes…” i answered, sheepishly.

she handed him over, and that was that.

the lost and found at this place has always had the BEST stuff!

yesterday, when the monkey and i drove through kosciusko, mississippi, i said to my three-year-old-turned-captive-audience, “monkey, your great grandfather was from kosciusko.” i said this with full awareness that if  i had told him that oprah is from kosciusko, he’d have the same reaction, which was, “oh.”

a couple of hours later, when we passed through jackson, i said, “monkey, your great grandmother was from jackson.”

 i explained that he was named for these very special mississippi-born relatives, and then, in order to spark some interest where there clearly was none, i began to launch into stories about my beloved maternal grandparents.

i told him all about the time they took my brother and me to el chico’s for dinner and the waiter dropped a giant beer on my granddaddy’s head. suddenly, there were gales of laughter coming from the back seat. i told him that my grandaddy once worked really hard to build a giant tent on the beach for our family to play in. being an avid tent connoisseur himself, the monkey’s eyes widened. i told him about my spend-the-night dates with these grandparents that involved pancakes in the morning and sharing the bed with my grandmother on the nights preceding. we would stay up late, and she would tell me stories about her life and her relatives and about my parents’ childhoods and courtship. i loved these stories.

so i don’t know why i was surprised when, on two different occasions and after the passage of hours, the monkey pushed the stop button on his video and said, “tell me some more stories about your grandma and grandaddy, mommy.” and so i did.

i have read to the monkey and practiced with him his letters and numbers. i have potty trained him and tried (rather unsuccessfully) to teach him to share. but yesterday, i had the distinct sense that i was passing along something more important than all of those things. so much of enduring and enjoying this harsh and beautiful world depends our our ability to appreciate and tell a good story.

i began to understand the power of story when i read about vicktor frankl’s holocaust experiences in man’s search for meaning. surrounded by death and defeat, frankl kept his spirit alive by crafting a redeeming a narrative about his purpose in the world and the manuscript he would live to publish. we can make sense of our lives any way we want to. we can construct that stories that inform us in any way we choose. this process is what frankl called, “the last of human freedoms.”

 i experimented with this when my husband was diagnosed with a chronic illness, and i found that indeed, we can keep our spirits alive by choosing narratives that infuse our lives with meaning and purpose.

so today i am remembering with great fondness the one who sparked in me the love of a good story. what a privilege it is to pass along the last of human freedoms to her little namesake.

[the source for this post can be found on the bibliography page located on the sidebar to your right.]

yesterday, the monkey and i spent all day like this…

so that we can spend all week like this:

we arrived in the florida panhandle just in time to pick up andy and his charge, the bird, who really prefers to fly. let the fun begin!

for the past few days, the monkey has required the following object for all afternoon naps and night time sleeping:

yes, this is an embroidery hoop.

another friend told me last night that she and her husband have remade their three-year-old daughter’s bed with items that blind them with tackiness. the powerfully ugly bedding, blanket, and matching night light are comparable to the sight of heaven for their little girl, who just spent a long-awaited and much-celebrated night in her own room.

and finally, another friend swears that the best $9.99 that she’s ever spent was for the purchase of this umbrella:

bed time for this child now includes the careful arrangement of said umbrella so as to create a sort of sleeping canopy.

what is it with these kids and their sleeping accoutrements?

what bizarre objects are necessary for bed time at your house?

my children have two different mothers. 

 i do not mean this in a biological sense. andy and i (and modern science) created both the monkey and the bird. the monkey’s love of words and the bird’s love of climbing are dead giveaways that both are indeed mine.

but somehow, in the two-and-a-half-year span between the two boys’ births, their mom changed from one gal to another. for example:

•  the monkey’s mom had a fabulous haircut on day of his birth while the bird’s mom had a tragic mullet*.
• the monkey’s mom had a policy against waking a sleeping baby. the bird’s mom will just waltz into his room, scoop him up from his crib, and load him into the car to fetch the monkey from school.
• the monkey was carefully dressed, multiple times per day, in new outfits that were painstakingly sewn and purchased just for him. in contrast, the bird wears hand-me-down pajamas almost exclusively, some of which no longer fit.
• the monkey’s mom hovered over him in awe while he slept and consulted stacks of books at all hours of the night in order to diagnose imagined  breathing abnormalities. the bird’s mom simply hovers over him in awe while he sleeps.
• the monkey’s mom was a little shy about breastfeeding in public. the bird’s mom was not. ever the maximizer of time, she even pumped in the car while running errands.

apparently, this motherhood metamorphosis is one of the few things about me that are normal. on this topic, ayelet waldman writes the following: 

“abraham [her youngest] and sophie [her oldest] had two entirely different mothers. sophie’s was young and eager, and found the whole preschool experience to be novel and exciting. abraham’s mother was old, her knees hurt when she sat cross-legged on the floor, and her cupboards were already bursting with the popsicle-stick-and-glitter-glue picture frames. she did only a halfway decent job of feigning excitement at yet one more” (149). 

waldman goes on to write that even her two middle children, who are much closer in age, have two entirely different mothers.

the monkey’s preschool teachers have taught him a little chant, which i suppose is necessary when dishing out snacks to wide-eyed, cupcake-hungry three-year-olds: “you get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit!” i’ve been amazed at the effectiveness of this silly song when its principle has gracefully transferred, in other settings, to the distribution of balloons, party favors, and toys.

so, when my boys are old enough to protest the injustice that results from the fact that they have two differerent mothers, i have my answer ready:

you get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit!

*the above picture of the aforementioned mullet marks the ONLY day of the entire preceding year on which it looked decent. my doctor even commented on its “rare form” when he came in to deliver the bird.

eight years ago, and after much contemplation, i slipped away from the house on a saturday and went alone to a nearby tattoo parlor to get my nosed pierced. my reasoning was informed, in part, by my own self-perception and my assumptions about how others perceived me, even as i knew that my accuracy on both accounts was probably questionable. but i was in the process of entering the ministry, a vocation that includes hazards such as inevitable affiliation with the church, an institution that simultaneously surprises me with goodness and makes me want to rip my hair out. in the deep south, surrounded by bible thumpers and those still reeling from subjection to this thumping, i was afraid to let my label as a minister define me. i wanted for people to look at my face — my nose, specifically — and think, “she’s not your ordinary minister.” i can’t say that the nosering has rescued me from eight years of stereotypes, as planned. what i know for sure is that i just like it.

the reaction to my new facial addition varied. my in-laws called me dennis rodman, which in my opinion, was hilarious! a friend cautiously asked me if i would still be wearing it once i became a mother. i answered her with an enthusiastic yes. the prospect of being a mom with a nose ring thrilled me almost as much as being a minister with a nosering.

but little did i know then that one day (in december of ’09, to be exact), my youngest child would close in on my face for a gummy-mouthed kiss and EAT my nosering. when my friend asked me if i would be a “nosering mama,” i did not forsee that such a designation would lead to utterances such as,

“hello… laurelwood pediatrics… we’ve got a bit of a problem here. you see, the bird has consumed a piece of facial jewelry.”

but eight years into this commitment, i pressed on. i never again saw that particular custom-made nosering, despite my best archaeological efforts. i resigned myself to wearing the cheap mall boutique noserings that lose their “stones” every two weeks. and then, as luck would have it, my friend and yoga teacher, margot, heard the “bird ate my nosering” story at a party and offered me her retired piece of bling — a beautiful rose gold beveled stud, custom made by the same jeweler who made my old one.

she gave it to me last night, and the new ring fits tightly, so as not to be gobbled up in fits of toddler affection.

the moral of the story is this: if you’re going to be a “nosering mama,” you’re going to have to babyproof your face.

i married a mama’s boy. this is mostly a benefit because andy’s ongoing affection and respect for his mother has translated into affection and respect for all of the women in his life and chiefly me. my mother-in-law gets drop-in visits, flowers, lunches, and phone calls. she receives some of the rewards for her efforts to raise a compassionate, good-natured human being. but i receive so many more. 

on the other hand, marriage to a mama’s boy has had a few drawbacks, especially at the beginning. for example, there was that time during our first christmas season when our respective families were adjusting traditions and plans to accommodate each other. i felt the need, somewhere in the midst of all of that, to call andy “a titty baby.” i meant it as a joke, but nobody found it to be funny.

now, the joke is on me.

yes, now i have two mama’s boys of my own. it is not guaranteed, of course, but if karma has its way, i will be a mother-in-law, myself, someday. someone else will receive most of the fruits of my current labor.

i suppose it’s good that the letting go happens gradually. in my increasing uncoolness, i will be dropping these boys off a few blocks from their school long before i am having thanksgiving dinner on friday morning so that all of my adult children can attend.

but for now, while i am still the main gal in my sons’ lives, i’m going to savor those sloppy kisses and curly hugs. and for the future, i’m going to take some cues from andy’s mother, who has gracefully shared her son with me since he was 17 years old.

[this post was inspired by a chapter in ayelet waldman’s book, bad mother, entitled, “my mother-in-law, myself.”]

our neighbors recently acquired new patio furniture, and my boys recently acquired a new playhouse (complete with curtains, wall art, cave-like hieroglyphics, and a “welcome mat” that is really a pile of blankets).

i think this is what games theorists call “a win-win!”

over the last six months, my strangest mommy fear has increased with every casual stroll through the dining room.

each glance at the “sorting table,” with all of its bizarre collections and carefully-placed containers, sends me into a dim vision of the  future, wherein i accidentally tune in to one of those hoarding television shows only to behold my poor adult son, meandering through a narrow path in his  junk-filled house.

easter basket appropriated for sock storage

i recently confessed to my college roommate that i am raising a future hoarder, and thankfully, she sent me this illuminating article  that states that sorting is a normal sign of cognitive advancement in toddlers. upon further investigation, i stumbled upon this article  that actually instructs parents of preschoolers to encourage sorting behavior in their children. apparently, the key is that the monkey sorts with great joy and gusto, not out of a misplaced sense of obligation.

this is all excellent news! but now what am i to do when i want to have company over for dinner?

wednesday was the monkey’s last day of his first school year. let’s recap some of his newly acquired knowledge, shall we? he has learned…

1. that god “just keeps on making him special.” nice process theology, son.
2. that when school’s out, it’s summer, and when it’s summer, you’d better find some shade.
3. that “addie and brice are dating. this means that addie is brice’s special friend, and brice is addie’s special friend.” [names changed to protect the socially advanced.]
4. to count for hours, cut out shapes, and observe the weather.
5. to mark certain occasions by bursting into song. for example, if someone reappears after being absent, it is customary to sing, ” we’re really glad you’re back… we’re really glad you’re back.”
6. how to draw self portraits:

now for the things that i have learned from the monkey’s first school year. i now know that…

1. good teachers make all the difference in the world. i would send the monkey to the planet neptune for school if i heard that ms. aimee and ms. ann would be there.
2. sharing the dropping-off and fetching responsibilities with my husband is a wonderful convenience.
3. it is okay that i am different from the other moms.
4. the first year of school is just as much about honing the immune systems of children and their entire families (including grandparents) as it is about honing kids’ cognitive skills.
5. the monkey can behave like a monster at home and a boy scout at school.
6. i am really not that different from the other moms.

in case you are worried that my poor child cannot see through all of the curly hair covering his face, we have remedied that problem with a handsome little haircut. now, since it’s summer, i’m going to find some shade.