One For Matthew

My nephew Matthew is another one of the amazing blessings God has lavished on me. Several years ago my brother and his wife gave birth to a little girl. God, in His providence, knew what great beauty she would add to His Kingdom and lifted her up into His gentle arms much earlier than we would have liked. Before I was ready, my brother called with the news that they were expecting again. My stomach churned; would it be OK? Are we prepared for this -- the "not OK" as well as the "OK". So, I was a little self-absorbed... Along came Matthew. He is the bright sky after a dark and menacing storm. He is a joy to be around and an irresistible temptation to squeeze. Unfortunately, my brother and his family have never lived "just around the corner," so they send me pictures, we text at odd hours, and we maintain terrific cell phone plans. My brother has been kind enough to publicly list himself as my first and only "follower" of this blog, and has allegedly used it as a means of getting Matthew to go to sleep at night. Perhaps, I can appeal to his generation's budding insomniacs should I desire to promote "Brokentobreathless" more aggressively. Anyway, this one's for you, Matthew...

My brother and I were born eighteen months apart. It must have looked like our parents were on a roll there for a while, but Paul was born and they broke the mold (or were forced to destroy it by the Men In Black) We fought all the time, sometimes viciously which, in all honesty, I regret. My mother claims I would pluck him and smack him as he slept in his crib, if I thought no one was watching. I say, clearly he was asking for it. My brother has asked me, more than once, if I remember breaking a hairbrush over his head during a fight. I'd like to take this opportunity to say "I have no recollection of this event." And, if I was to one day remember it, I'm sure the evidence would show that he had it coming. I do, however recall one wicked fight in which he wanted to watch "Felix the Cat" and I wanted to watch "General Hospital." As any soap opera junkie will testify, "General Hospital" in the early '80's was "the one" to watch, and Felix? Well, let's just say Felix would garner the support of a few felines and a couple of dogs who thought they'd tuned in to Food Network.

Even our own cat had no sympathy for my brother. When Paul and I were young my father delivered a cat to our home, put it in our basement and never told my mother. In the afternoon I discovered it, and my poor mother promptly "shooshed" it out into the rain. The bewildered cat sat outside the door until Mom called Dad to relate her story and he, in turn, shared his. From that day on, "Blackie" (we were a very inventive lot) would lay siege to my brother, pinning him in a corner of the room, hissing, snarling and swiping each time he moved. If he twitched, it was likely his legs would be in the next ad for Neosporin. Paul would stand motionless, crying and whimpering until my frustrated mother would yell for him to "make a break for it." As he did, Blackie was hot on his heels, ready to swipe at the first opportunity. It would continue like that, sometimes from corner to corner, until my mom intervened or our ferocious feline tired of her "cat and mouse" game.

Blackie wasn't the only one who knew how to keep my brother in check. Paul was born in July. His summer birthday enabled my parents to come up with a creative way to celebrate (pet names were not our only niche) -- we would recognize Paul's special day with a birthday cake on the beach. I saw this little tradition as a way to assert some control via extortion. It didn't matter if the weather was hot and steamy or if we were bundled up to our necks, the threat of "no birthday party on the beach" was never far from reach. If my brother refused to get up and change the channel, it was "no birthday party on the beach." If he tried to eat the last pickled egg, it was "no birthday party on the beach." A couple of months ago, when he and his family were being relocated to a job ten hours away, I wanted to use "no birthday party on the beach", but felt that somehow it might have lost its edge. As we reminisced one day, about my early training for labor negotiations, my brother seemed a little resentful of my "strong arm" tactics. I had to remind him that, based on our parents' success rate of actually getting our family vehicle to make it to the beach, it was not manipulation, but psychic ability.

As Paul and I look back on our tiffs and our KO's, we laugh. Yes, he is gracious and forgiving enough to laugh with me. I can't help but notice how ironic it all is. My brother stands six feet or so to my five foot, four inch frame. When I reach up to hug him, my chunky little arms can't even make it around his broad shoulders. Despite his size, Paul has always been a "gentle giant", leaning on me for strength and in some cases, muscle. Based on our history, that may seem to be the irony, the close relationship we have despite our past and despite the miles between us. But the real irony is that in spite of all my bullying and posturing, Paul is truly the "bigger person." He has forgiven me for things I have struggled to forgive myself; he can love me and depend on me enough to ask my help, regardless of the way I treated him. He has become a much better person than I ever pretended to be.

And that, Matthwew is the truth about Daddy. Sleep well, my angel, sleep well.

Today's Word Is "Frustration"

Just because my life is glorious doesn't mean it's perfect. In fact, I like to say my life is "perfect in its imperfections." It's the failures and foibles that allow me to truly appreciate the blessings. That being said, today was relatively perfect and I will, one day, appreciate many blessings because of the glorious foibles of today.

This morning I left work with a plan. I had my grocery list and the "returns" from yesterday's Summer Clearance shopping spree, in the car and ready to go. First store -- Pop Tarts. Simple, right? After going directly to the cereal aisle, scanning end caps on the way, I was met with a plethera of the industrial size box of Pop Tarts -- not the ones on sale. OK, look for a sign. Negative. Perhaps I had my sale dates confused? Check the circular. Nope, we're good, but where are the Pop Tarts? Three trips down that aisle and one trip down each neighboring aisle... I give, I'll ask at Customer Service in the front of the store. "Oh, Hon, they're all the way in the back at the end of Aisle 10 in Frozen Foods." Two football fields away in Frozen Foods? Why didn't I think of that?

Store Number Two: The Returns. "You didn't pay for this." What do you mean I didn't pay for it? "It's not on your receipt. You never paid for this yesterday. I can't give you money back on something you never paid for in the first place." OK, well, just give me my money back for the things I did pay for, and you can have your free skort back, I only wanted to exchange it for size anyway. "Oh, well, it was our mistake, you can keep it." Can I get it in the right size? "No! I can't let you exchange items you never paid for!" ?????

The Last Stop. One sale item not found -- pajama pants. Seems a little strange to me, this is a grocery store, but they were adverstised. So, I canvas yet another grocery store, this time in search of pajama pants(?) No go. So, once again I approach the happy-looking clerk at this Service Desk. She thinks I am green and I have three heads, or at least that's how she looks at me. She pages "Mummem," or at least that's what it sounds like over the PA. "Mummem" flew past the desk on her broom, or at least that's how I remember it. "Aisle 7," she snaps when asked about my "food store PJ's". In Aisle 7 there wasn't an item of clothing to be found, barring the cheesecloth (I'm sure Madonna could fashion something fabulous). Three trips down that aisle, and off to check the adjacents... I found two men who, when asked today's sleepwear query looked at me with "that look." Not the three heads look, but "the husband look." This is the look that says, "Did you just ask me a question? Please, God, help me get this one right." As one of them scurried, presumably to find my PJ's, but probably to seek refuge from the IFS (That's Irate Female Shopper) the other stood Horseback Stance, waiting to subdue me should I lunge. A few trips down Aisle 6, and the "food store PJ's" were safely nestled in the cart between ground turkey and 1% milk! The only thing that stood between me and the front door was the register!

The self-checkout was spewing warnings and objections to the lady ahead of me. In the next line, an employee had the audacity to use her employee discount -- the register refused to accept and the light for "manager assistance" began to blink. The third and final line was spearheaded by a woman with a loaf of bread, a ninety-nine cent pack of gum, and a one hundred dollar bill. "Dan! Oh, Dan. Dan!! Can I get change for a hunnerd?" Look, if I give you change would that be OK? "Oh, no, Sweetie, we can't take change from customers like that." What if she and I exchange the hundred for change, and then she gives it to you? "Oh, here's Dan! Hi, Dan, I need change for this hunnerd. By the way, what time should I go on break? Well, you know, Margret has her break next..." Tick-tock, tick-tock.

Finally, daylight! I am met at the exit by someone professing to be a deaf-mute; he is "selling" 2 x 3 cards (They can't even spring for 3 x 5's?) to earn a living. I want to "sign" to him "Well, then get a job" to see if he really is deaf, but catch myself. More from frustration than charity, I slip him a dollar and squeeze past him.

At home, my jaw unclenches and my head stops pounding. I think of the guy "selling" the cards. Tough day at the office...irritating. The store only gives credit if you lose your receipt... annoying. The guy ahead of you at the light thinks left turn signals are forever... vexing. Can't hear, can't speak... that's frustration!

Planting a Yearning for Learning

I am a homeschooler. I have been for 14 years now. I homeschool for a number of reasons, but one of them is a love of learning. I love to learn, and when I try to figure the origin of that love, I believe it was my elementary school teachers. Now, Christine is way past elementary school, but I hope I did a good job of instilling the love of learning in her during those impressionable years. I know that as I approached high school my love for learning was waylaid by a love of hockey and a love of telephone conversation -- peers are very influential sources of diversion. I hope that by homeschooling, I can cut down on some of that diversion, maybe intensify and reduce her school day so interaction with her peers remains extracurricular and does not interfere with the learning process. I continue to be enthusiastic about learning -- devouring good books, watching educational programming, visiting historic and scientific locations -- in the hopes that my passion for educational will be contagious. Scott and I do the same thing with our younger children in a less formal manner. Free time is not always mindless entertainment or DIY experiences. Sometimes we play educational games, or games that rely on developing strategy and critical thinking skills. Sometimes we, as a family, visit museums, planetariums, or historic sites. No matter what we are doing, we try to make it fun and attractive, conveying the message that learning can be exciting.

Losing a Friend

Well, it was back to work today. Yeah, I wound up taking an extra day on account of my mental health -- I thought I would lose my mind if I went back to work! I expected the usual "How was your vacation?" queries. What I wasn't prepared for were the sympathies expressed by my coworkers regarding the death of my former mother-in-law. I was shocked that anyone even knew about it, much less cared. While we're not a close workgroup -- no going out for drinks, or office Christmas parties, or anything -- we are a small group that has been together for years and we have shared one another's highs and lows. In this case, it was certainly a "low".

My ex-husband's mother was unique, if nothing else. She had a heart of gold, tissue paper feelings, and an exterior that was tough as nails. She was part of my life during one of its lowest periods, and remained my friend throughout. She was sometimes painfully insecure, and tended to take things so personally she only got tougher -- on the outside. Inside, she could be a scared little girl seeking only to do for those she loved, that they might think she was "the best..." She had a mail order style business in which she was her best customer, buying for family and friends. When others playfully teased her she came right back at them with everything she had, but when she sensed hostility or criticism, she would cave like a wounded child. This wasn't a case of being able to dish it out without being able to take it, this was a woman who had endured years of abuse at her own hand as well as those of others. My heart went out to her; she was a living premonition of what I would have become had I not made some serious changes in my life. My desire was to walk with her the way she walked with me -- slowly, steadily -- so that, while I could never save her, perhaps I could show her that salvation was a possibility. Perhaps I could make her journey just a little less wearying.

It was not to be. Circumstances made it impossible for me to continue being her friend. I hadn't seen her for almost three years and, while I thought I had sufficiently grieved the loss of a friend when our relationship was dissolved, it was not enough. Her passing has left me a deluge of memories with no sign of stopping. I was unable to adequately say a final, public farewell, as I'd planned. So, I suppose this is it.
"Good Night, Ellie. I've missed you, I will miss you, and I will always love you."