Road Trip

Road trip! Sights! Sounds! Snacks! Years ago, a road trip meant real Coke, Cheetos, long talks, and lots of good music. Things have changed.

We still had real Coke and Cheetos, but conversation on an 8 hour road trip with a potty training three-year old isn't exactly thought provoking:

"Don't touch anything!" "Why are you touching the trash can? I said 'don't touch anything!'"

"Stand tall!" "Do NOT put your peep on the edge of the toilet." "Lift it up, lift it up!!!"

"Do NOT touch anything. I mean it."

I comfort myself with thoughts that little boys have been putting their man parts on the edge of public toilets for a hundred years--and have survived. Their mothers on the other hand give praise for Purell.

It seemed like a good idea to load The Wiggles on my iPod. It does not seem like such a good idea now.

I have a new appreciation for exactly how uncomfortable a car seat is for a skinny toddler bottom. After 15 of 16 hours, he woke up sobbing, "My boom boom hurts! Can you stop the car and put cream on it?!"

Poor guy.

I have never been so grateful to see a Ponca City exit sign. Poppie's house! Green grass! A playhouse! Soft toilet paper!

So, we made an unscheduled stop. 24 hours at Poppie's house. Hot dogs, hamburgers, chips, and pop. Bubbles in the backyard, and carpet that little boom booms can sit on without mommy's "We do NOT put our bare bottoms on hotel carpet!" Home away from home.

On an entirely different note, we went to a lovely wedding for an even lovelier couple. Young and in love, they make me hope for the same kind of day for my little boy someday too. (perhaps with the same charming commentary from the toddler gallery, "What they doin'? 'Dey gettin' married?")

I've always been afraid of storms. Even the little ones. When I was very young, I wanted to hide under my grandma's big oak table. I guess it was the sturdiest thing I could think of (besides my daddy).  Now I question every spring why I didn't install a shelter last fall. I never adopted the Oklahoma way. I don't stand in the driveway watching the churning clouds, and I don't anticipate stormy weather like it's a party.

Tuesday, I haunted the news coverage playing in my office while I tried to stay engaged on a conference call. I was stuck downtown while coverage of storms north of me predicted a turn toward my house. And toward my baby.

My baby is three. He is home with his darling nanny. Safe. Protected. Happy. And I am thankful. Grateful. Blessed.  Today, my heart breaks for another mommy.  I promised myself I wouldn't cry. That I wouldn't watch the press conference. That I wouldn't write this post. I am human. I am a mommy.

Until this morning, I didn't know if another three-year old Ryan was blond or brunette. I don't know if he liked Elmo or Cars. I don't know if he craved pasta or snow cones. I don't know if his hair smelled like Johnson's or coconut or if he liked to play outside more than anything in the world. And, I don't know his mommy or his daddy or his sister and brother. I have, in reality, zero connection to this family who has lost two children. I do know that a city weeps for them. Mommies unite in their grief and gather their babies closer.

Last night, I rocked my three-year old to sleep. He smelled like coconut shampoo and wet puppy. He likes Elmo, and Cars. I bought him a new race car last night. Just because I could. And we treated him to snow cone. Just because we could. Little things I take for granted but never will again. I was late for work today because he wanted me to hold him, and I very nearly stayed home just to snuggle. Because I can.

I struggle with my faith in a God whose power was shown so mightily two days ago. The power doesn't seem so mighty today. The sun is shining. The skies are clear. But I am reminded of a family who grieves. And I pray that the mighty power can give them comfort even as it took so much.

Storms will come again. And each time I will remember another Ryan. Forever three. Forever his mommy's baby.

Lessons

I like going to church. I learn things. I relearn things.  And,I reflect on the good (and bad) in my life. At least, I did before I started taking a toddler with me. I still learn things--but the things I learn sure have changed.

A sociology lesson: I have learned that if you teach a toddler lyrics to Rapper's Delight, he will make a joyful noise and burst into song: "At the ho-tel mo-tel Holiday Iiiinnnnnn!" My apologies to the nice lady sitting beside me; I hope she was a fan of the 80's. And I hope Jesus has a sense of humor. Surely he does. He was a toddler once too.

A biology lesson: A toddler does not have a teacup sized bladder. It's more like a thimble. And before church, he will consume the following: 16 ounces of orange juice; 2 sips of tea; and 45 goldfish crackers. He will have to tinkle during the readings. And the sermon. And the offering. He will announce from the rooftop (or chair top as the case is), "I don't wanna pee in my Huggie! Go, go, go!"

A Bible lesson: Love is patient, and love is kind.  But love takes on a whole new meaning at minute 47 of a church service with a three year old. I am patient when he refuses to let his daddy hold him and insists on mommy's lap for all 47 minutes. I am kind when he showers me with kisses. On the mouth. For just "that much" too long. And, I am more patient when I whisper, "We do not lick mommy's face. We are not a dog."

And so, when the Lord blesses me and keeps me, and when he makes his face shine upon me at the end of the service, I leave. Smarter, stickier, stinkier, and shaking hands with the nice lady who (thankfully) appears to have noticed only the sugar kisses and not "Rapper's Delight."

A short tale

The curiosity of a child: "Mommy, where is Boo's belly button?"

"Uhhhh, under her fur." Yes, I believe it is most certainly under her fur. I will now spend the next three weeks protecting Boo kitty from probing three-year old fingers as they dig for Boo's belly button.

Chips, Dip, and Hi-C

When I was four, I met a little girl with dark blond hair. We played in the sandbox together. When we were seven, I knocked out one of her teeth on the playground (by accident). When we were 8, I spent the night at her house when my mom had her appendix taken out. We stayed up all night--on a school night! And, when we were 10, I cried because I thought she wasn’t going to be my best friend anymore.  We had slumber parties--where there was very little slumber. She remembers why chips, dip, and Hi-C are a special treat. And, she still remembers that we had a secret language (Hoy!). 

She gave me my first taste of Nestle' Quick--and laughed with me when we realized she had mixed it with buttermilk. I questioned her love of raw tomatoes and watermelon. Somewhere in there, I envied her embroidery skills in Camp Fire meetings and laughed when she dressed up as the Jolly Green Giant for Halloween. We trick or treated as punk rockers, and squealed when the doorbell rang at her house--boys! From our class!

When we were 13, I transferred junior high schools.  After months at a school where no one said hello, I walked into a new counselor’s office in a new school, and there she was--open arms, giggles, and hugs I haven’t forgotten. We cried together when her mom suddenly died later that year. We sunburned our feet at White Water together. We passed notes and giggled about boys.

Our friendship took different paths. I missed her when I started spending more time with the music kids, and she found new friends too.

But, we never missed a birthday. When I turned 16, she was the one I wanted to spend the day with. Senior year, she had the best hair. Curly. Wavy. Naturally gorgeous. We hugged at high school graduation. We swam together after hours at the city pool with our boyfriends.  In college, she was the only person in the world who could get me on a dance floor, and she bought me my first bottle of wine (I promise we were 21!). She was there when I graduated from college, and I wouldn’t have missed her graduations for the world. I cried when she crossed the stage for that hard earned optometry degree.

She danced at my wedding, and I danced at hers. When I called to tell her I was pregnant with R.J., she cried because she was happy. And because she was pregnant too. Our babies are two days apart.

I hardly ever see her anymore. We send text messages. And e-mail. We commensurate. On mommy issues. And family. And boys. She’s an encourager, and she has a sense of humor that makes everything all better. She is raising a delightful toddler girl, and a precious tiny one too.

This weekend, I spent a rare afternoon on her sofa. We ate sandwiches and chips and dip. No Hi-C, but Tinkerbell plates and napkins made it a special treat. She listens, and she cares. Our lives have taken different paths. We rarely have time to visit. But, for a brief two hours on Saturday, I got to be 13. We giggled over darling baby girl clothes. I held her precious little one and kissed her little one’s precious cheeks. I marveled at this woman who is my best friend. A doctor. A mother. And a good one at that. She is beautiful--particularly with a three-year old at her feet and a two-month old in her lap. She is amazing. I miss her. (I love you Angie!)

Summer Strawberries

Several years ago, let's say three just to make it seem more normal than, say, seven years, I started looking at baby clothes. Not really shopping. Just looking. And occasionally buying. When I shopped for friends, I would on the exceptionally rare occasion see something and think, "This is so adorable, I will never find anything like it again," and in the cart it would go.

This seemed perfectly normal. Until I got pregnant. With a boy. I visited my baby stash and was neither surprised nor horrified to discover that I had no baby boy outfits in the bunch.

There's the ever so tiny lace trimmed white cardigan (that fits my cat Boo perfectly--just please don't ask how I know this).  There's a pink velour warm-up suit with kitten ears and a resounding "Meow!" appliqued across the front. And, there are blue 'jammies with darling little strawberries dancing across the front.

God knew what he was doing in giving me a boy first. I am more measured. More tempered in my approach to all things baby. Our carseat is a sensible gray/blue that doesn't show stains (God also gave talented ladies the skill to make pink carseat covers--just sayin'). And, I wouldn't change a thing about my boy. He is sweet and snuggly. He loves his mommy--I know because he tells me so. And, he lets me paint his toenails. But, I digress.

Strawberries. Dancing on little girl 'jammies. I don't know what it is about strawberries. Is it the Strawberry Shortcake dolls I so loved? (I still remember that cloying pink sweet plastic smell). My grandma's kitchen was decorated with strawberries. Maybe that's it. Or, maybe it's the promise of summer.

Last week, I learned I am having a baby girl. The strawberry 'jammies will not be wasted. And, I've wasted no time. There are pink onsies. And green ones with daisies. Ruffle-bottom sailor suits--in two sizes! And so today I sit inside on a sunny summer-ish day, professional, drafting protective orders and other "important" stuff--with happy thoughts of summer strawberries (and the little girl who will wear them).

On life, romance, and the happily ever after

I, along with millions, was awake at 4 a.m. last Thursday. On vacation. In a hotel. Without a toddler, and with full permission to sleep as long as I wanted. But, the promise of untarnished, polished shining romance kept me awake. A princess! A lace dress and a fancy dress uniform. A Rolls Royce, a carriage ride, and an Aston Martin--how could this marriage fail?  The perfectly orchestrated "first" kiss (as we all blissfully ignored the fact that the shiny couple had been shacked up for years). A million young girls sighed. And a million married women tried to remember when they had last felt that zing.

We grow up. We dress up. In our mother's costume jewelery. Dresses from the dress-up trunk. I went as a bride for Halloween. (I just wanted a pretty white dress). I never sat up late nights planning my wedding--and goodness knows that I didn't sit up late nights planning a marriage. Gads. How boring. How mundane. Alarm clock, work, crockpot, sleep.

My wedding was a princess wedding. I wouldn't change a thing. Princess dress. Fancy dress uniform. And 400 pink roses (I might exaggerate, but I really don't think so). We got married. And bought a red brick house in a red brick neighborhood. I bought a convertible. I sold my convertible and got a sensible mommy car. We got jobs. And the princess dress(es) went in the closet. The crockpot sits on the counter.

And so I, like so many others, escaped for an hour (or two or three) into a world where princesses don't use crockpots. And everyday warrants an Alexander McQueen (not Old Navy). Where husbands kiss their wives goodbye in a perfectly orchestrated moment of peace every morning. And where toddlers give their mommies a goodbye hug, not a goodbye bite.

The royal wedding is long over. The hats are in boxes in closets (thankfully so on some of them--yikes). And, the Queen's brooch is resting somewhere in a jewelry box. And somewhere, a happy couple embarks on a mission of marriage and the happily ever after. I hope the princess has a nice crockpot.