A friend told me a story about her daughter coming home from college for Thanksgiving one year. She said upon her return, she noticed her daughter must have been taking some sort of psychology class as she was constantly “observing” her two younger siblings and how they interacted with their parents. Using her newly gained college acumen, she approached her mom and said, “There’s some really bad parenting going on here.” Ouch.
After hearing this, I thought of some of my not-so-stellar mom moments and a few not-so-bad moments mixed in…
The moment you realize…you’re at the shoe store and your child’s feet are a size 6 and they are wearing a size 3. Oops and Ouch.
The moment you realize…you washed your favorite shirt in a load of rags and now you’re cleaning the bathroom floor with it.
The moment you realize…you told your child (a little too loudly) not to “hold going to the bathroom” at a sleepover because he “WILL get a stomach ache”.
The moment you realize…you’ve just remade every bed in your home even though they were already “made” by your children.
The moment you realize…your parents were right when they said to always live within your means.
The moment you realize…your daughter has grown two inches, you’ve already hemmed her orchestra dress, and the concert is tonight.
The moment you realize…your parents were pretty cool to show up to every game, concert, 4-H event and so much more.
The moment you realize…you’re singing along loudly to the School House Rock CD in the car and no kids are present.
The moment you realize…your child has holes in his socks and he’s figured out the fold-and-tuck method to make them work.
The moment you realize…your child says, “Now that I’m in 3rd grade, can I call you Mom instead of Mama?” and you say “Um, No.”
The moment you realize…you are price matching at Publix.
The moment you realize…you’re at the orthodontist so often you get irritated when another parent is sitting in your seat. Rude.
The moment you realize…you won’t leave the house without a coupon.
The moment you realize…you want to make change for a $20 bill in the collection basket at church.
The moment you realize…you just yelled “Don’t forget to say your prayers!!” to your 7th grader who is standing at the bus stop with 10 other kids.
Perfection is overrated.
Spiritual Journey of the day – embrace all your imperfections.
As I get older, I’ve heard the line, “I’m becoming my mother” more and more from my friends. “Me too” I concur. The way she rolls her tortillas in just one direction, or nods off in her chair. The way she fights for her family above all and the way she pounds her chest in a mea culpa at mass.
Luckily I was blessed with a mom who nourished us with love and common sense. She measures her words like a baker uses a knife to smooth the flour across a measuring cup, precisely and without an ounce of overflow. If Mom says it, she means it. One of the many traits I’ve picked up from Mom is threading “dichos” or sayings in my conversations.
So on one of my recent visits home with my parents, I made a list of all the Spanish and some “Spanglish” sayings they use. The one new phrase that resonated with me was: “Son los años compadre.” This means: it’s the years, my friend. This is used to assuage their frustration when they can’t remember where they set their glasses or are disappointed because they are tired after doing a fraction of the yard work they used to do. So they sit on the patio exhausted and say “Son los años compadre” like a confession – an exhale – a declaration: we’re getting older, let’s have a seat in the shade, drink some Gatorade and rest.
Aging takes its toll on all of us. First thing in the morning my Dad will say, “Come on body! Join me!” My mom lovingly teases Dad about his arthritis in his hands as the tip of his index finger points south. “Watch Dad point,” she tells me chuckling…it’s always something on the ground he needs.”
Their routine continually changes, zipping around in the truck to run several errands, and detouring to yard sales just doesn’t happen anymore. They still spend much of the day working in the yard which they are so grateful for, yet the amount of work wanes with the years. “We feel like if the sun is out, we should be out,” says Dad. So they plant and prune, check on each other, feed the cranes, rearrange the woodpile, take apart anything that has metal and can be recycled, and breathe in the fresh air.
Once back inside, the aches and pains kick in, and through all the “Ay, yai, yai’s” I can hear Mom say, “Son los años compadre.”
Dad replies, “Yo se, pura ay, yai, yai.” (I know all I say is ay, yai, yai).
They have a good laugh, another glass of water, Pedialyte, or Boost, rest, and watch the hummingbirds buzz around like they used to and drink their fill of sweet water.
Quotes I love:
My father’s wit, and my mother’s tongue, assist me!
When it comes to taking care of our parents, we have a system. When I say “we” I really mean my sisters. One sister is the manager of us all and does a zillion tasks daily. The other two do a million things and I, call Mom and Dad a lot, yet it feels like not enough.
I am also in charge of…wait for it…calling the exterminator. This is crazy because growing up Mom and Dad would NEVER spend money on someone to kill bugs. In fact, when we were kids my oldest sister was hunting all over the yard for insects so she could pin them in a box for her entomology projects. So essentially, she was our exterminator. Of course we had a few stray mouse traps around. And no home in the 70’s and 80’s was complete without a fly swatter. Dad would walk around the house with that thing, swinging at flies, scooping them up, and saying, “Sorry guy”. Late at night, I remember grabbing that same swatter and hunting the relentless chirping South Valley crickets also.
Growing up I shared a room with my sister and if there was a spider sighting in our room, she was on a mission. The entire room was vacuumed top to bottom, furniture rearranged and the spider and its family was sucked into an Electrolux vacuum bag. I played it cool, and got out of my sister’s way. All I had to remember was which side of the bed to get up on in my nice, clean room.
But as the years passed, the bugs showed up more frequently when we visited and didn’t bother Mom and Dad) so I said, “I’ll take care of the exterminator!”
I took the job seriously and when hunting for the right bug guy or gal. I, of course, tried to find someone who spoke Spanish, mainly so Dad had someone to visit with while spraying poison around the house. I also had to make sure mom’s plants were not harmed in the process. All went well, but unfortunately, after the visit, I got a call from Dad, and nope! Antonio knew only a little Spanglish. “El Antonio no habla español,” Dad told me after his visit…” but a nice guy!
Darn it Antonio, couldn’t you fake it?! ——I had ONE JOB! 🙂
Per routine, Dad quizzed me on the cost. “What does that run?”
Then he usually shoots out a guess – “What? Like $50?”
I respond…”Más or menos…see not bad!”.
So the ants marched on, Dad got to visit with someone, Mom’s tomatoes and jalapeños were safe, and I made a small contribution from a distance. I’ll call them right now too.
I was scrolling through the first 200-plus(!) pages of a journal I kept when the kids were little, and happened upon a daily schedule I drafted for Cora and Dexter when they were one and two years old.
I drafted it in preparation for the arrival of our third member of the “Irish triplets”. I had folded the onesies, unpacked the sun-faded baby Bjorn, scoured the toilets, and read “I’m a big sister/brother” books ad nauseam. Our cozy 1,400-square-foot townhome in Falls Church, VA was dusted, decorated, and definitely ready for Zavier. I pretended I was ready like I do before big things happen, but the unknown was as terrifying as it was terrific.
Luckily, our dear neighbors agreed to take care of our kids while I got a “night off” – I was excited about the hospital in Arlington where our charming Dr. Crowther from England was waiting for us. Her posh, polite voice sounded like the queen was monitoring my contractions. “Looks all good so far…Nice weather innit? Back in a jiffy”.
Here’s a snippet of what I left the neighbors…looking back I was amazed at how I knew every moment of the kid’s day…
Back then…I was pretty detailed.
I knew Cora loved peas and Dexter would forcefully spit out his sweet potatoes. I knew their favorite water bottles (yellow with red lids), and I memorized all the best books on repeat: Go! Dog! Go! “One big dog going…” –UP! “One little dog going…” –DOWN!
Then I blinked.
Literally, blinked, and off they went to school one by one and other people started guiding and teaching them stuff. Outside influencers! All I knew was what I sent them to school with and the “suggested” supply lists were loaded with things like Clorox Wipes, pencil pouches, and Skittles aka “smart pills” for good behavior. Let’s just say the Skittles did not make it to school. I was THAT mom who sent stickers instead. Soon you are simply picking up and dropping them off, reminding, yelling, and then listening before bed. As parents, we know everything if they talk to us or ask way too many questions if they don’t. Little by little I knew less and less of their lives.
Now… I don’t even know the classes they take and just learned their majors. When anyone/Dad asks me excitedly “How many hours are the kids carrying this semester?” I take a guess “Probably fifteen”.
Dad is their biggest fan, “Fifteen?! Well, that’s enough! They are workers! And their grades, holy toledo! I was happy getting a C in accounting and these kids are getting A’s!”
Back then, I knew their moods:
Now…I get glimpses into their days…a sunrise, or a note to say they are exhausted or have poison ivy, back pain, or a paper due.
They say good night…
Send mascara recommendations…
And sometimes they even take care of me and I get sweet messages like this:
What I learned:
As our children grow up, it is like watching a Polaroid photo develop slowly…letting a little light in as it begins to show the outline of a shape on the paper. You shake and shake that photo then realize that is what you have left, what you are holding in your hands. But this is how this goes? Every day with someone for 18 solid years and this is the ending?
But it gets better and I remember what wonderful Gabriel Garcia Marquez said:
“Human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mother gives birth to them. Rather, life obliges them over and over to give birth to themselves.”
Since my son, Dexter was 16 months old, he loved laying his head on anything to rest. One day he raced over to where I was feeding his baby brother, Zavier. Dexter did the quick toddler stop and rested his head on my lap. At the moment, I had a burp cloth ready for after the feeding, but when I reached down to use it, my sweet Dexter’s head was resting on top of it, eyes drowsily shutting. He looked perfectly comfortable. So, as all good mothers do, I used my shirt to burp his brother. After that day and for years following, Dexter slept with, traveled, and kept it by his pillow every day.
The duck-printed cloth had been transformed into something special. Dexter’s “Burp”. That’s what we named his buddy. Luckily, when these particular burp cloths were given as a gift — it was a two-pack. So, thinking ahead, I squirreled away the “Back Up Burp” (another named piece of material), just in case “Burp” was lost. (Yes, I saw the movie “Mr. Mom” and knew we should ween him from a security blanket-type appendage. But, we can all agree that despite all the teasing from Lucy, Linus seemed to be just fine with his blue blanket in tow.)
Throughout the years, Burp got lost in the covers, and we’d hunt and shake blankets and pillows, always to find it tucked on the side of the bed, tossed to the floor, or swaddling his stuffed lamb. He found comfort in that little cloth. And quiet. And calm.
Dexter is bright. As a kid, he was the guy that would take apart the engine, and reassemble it flawlessly; find wood, whittle it down, and make whatever was on his mind. He would ask over and over for things his friends had, and finally, just made them himself. Like the trailer for his bike, lacrosse shaft, bow, arrow, quiver, rubber band bracelet loom, paracord bracelets, phyton-type necklace, bike ramp, small car, tent, longboard, holster, a belt fashioned from a bike tire, and, fidgets made from bike chains.
You see like most people, Dexter gets antsy. Call him a kinetic learner, busy, jumpy, or just a fun kid –or you can cram him into the nearly 12% bunch of 12–18-year-old boys who are diagnosed with ADHD. Whatever it is, he’s Dexter. Smart, amazing, and so cognizant of his need to strategize, move, and find comfort in who he is, that “burp” just became a part of him, and us.
As the years passed, Dexter got bigger, and Burp began to get thinner and more waif-like than a potato chip, so I decided I should swap out the old for the new. I was sure most parents and childhood experts would advise against it, perhaps saying I was encouraging a rare “cotton cloth co-dependent behavior.” Despite my thoughts, I reached into my “everything in my pockets at the end of the day” top drawer — pushed aside special rocks, matchbox cars, doll parts, and legos, and in the waaaay back, I pulled out a bright white cloth with yellow ducks ready for their turn in the pond. In its place, I tucked the now fowl-less cloth in the drawer. Truth be told, it was his ninth birthday. Yes, nine. Not months, years.
Fast forward three years — and after prayers one night Dexter holds out what looks like one of my dad’s handkerchiefs I used to iron — and asks, “Mama, will you please fix this?” I looked at Burp, looked back at Dexter, and said, “Of course I will.” After unknotting the frayed edges, soaking, and drying it, I began to sew. I was slowly piecing together each strand, noticing how much smaller it was and thinking about how much bigger Dexter was at the time. I finished and held it up as if it were a priceless quilt. I thought about the many memories in one piece of fabric, so much security, and love. I knew for a boy like Dexter who had been pining to grow up fast, buy the dreaded motorcycle, and play by adult rules, clinging to his childhood was just as important to him. So I thought, — I’ll mend, sew, stitch, and hold together as much of his boyhood as I can, for as long as possible. “Dexter, Burp is ready!” He came in quickly, said thank you, and zoomed out rubbing it on his face.
Mom and Dad have always referred to us, their daughters as, “The Girls”. Since I live the furthest from my dear parents I don’t get the daily dose of them, but thanks to my sisters, I get the gifts of stories and photos.
Here’s a sampling:
Every night around 7:00 pm EST I get a text from one of my sisters that says:
✅ Meds Done!
That means Mom has been called and has taken her medicine. My oldest sister usually calls Alexa with the camera where you can see/spy on the goings-on in the kitchen and will talk Mom through it. Thanks to my super caretaker sister, we have a perfectly designed medicine chart and color-coded dots on all the bottles to make it easier. When I call to help her, Mom will say jokingly, “Are you just going to watch us all day from that thing?”
Sometimes one of us will call the landline during “Meds for Mom” and Dad will answer hastily, so excited to connect everyone on the devices. “Hey! We’ve got Lucretia on the Alexa, say hi!” We all say hello in our sing-songy voices and then one of us says we’ll call back.
On Thursdays, I get a picture of a bountiful bunch of fruits and vegetables from the “Food Pharmacy” a program where local farms and my parent’s hospital arrange delivery of in-season produce for Senior Citizens. Something to look forward to and a healthy addition to their meals.
On Mondays, I get a report of how the Pilates class went for Mom. My sister tells us whether the cool teacher, Richard, was there or if the substitute, “lady” ran the class. The “lady” (as mom calls her) is not great or, in other words, she’s not Richard.
Note: I’ve learned change isn’t great for anyone over 75. This is why they still make agitators in washing machines, regular Coca-Cola, and ironing boards. Therefore, when a newbie tries to win the hearts of senior citizens who simply want to stretch their bodies and maybe throw in a plank or two, she better connect with them quickly. (Maybe she could talk about her love for clotheslines).
After Pilates, I get a picture like this from the Casino where Mom and Dad have breakfast with the “gang”, enjoy their free coffee, and then disperse throughout the casino to play their games of choice.
Here are Dad’s tips to make the most of their casino time: 1) Play only nickel slots 2) Each person starts with $10 3) Everyone takes turns and is supportive 4) If your $10 is dwindling, keep trying new machines with the remaining money 5) Leave immediately if you are winning big OR have spent the allotted allowance.
Finally, my favorite photos are when I see Mom and Dad doing the things they love like working outside or making chili…just like the good old days.
I’m so lucky to have “The Girls” and Mom and Dad and blessed with updates and glimpses into their day.
Thanks for joining me…I pray you and yours are connecting as often as makes you happy,
Today at my son’s game the pitcher’s mom arrived as her son finished warming up for the first pitch of the game. Flustered, she asked if she missed anything. My friend and I who are weathered moms and loaded with mom empathy, reassured her she was right on time and she didn’t miss a bit of her son pitching. Her shoulders dropped in relief as she looked up and saw her son throw the first pitch. The ball was hit and off it went over the center field fence. A home run. Oh s#$#! she said. We both said we were so sorry. Then she replied to the us and perhaps the universe, “It’s okay. That’s what happens, you just have to stay positive and get through the hard times. That’s what I tell my son.” Wow, she’s a calmer mom than I…she gathered her chair, leather bag with a baseball blanket sticking out, and her water bottle and headed off to cheer on her son. Clearly, not her first rodeo.
I mulled over the mom’s applause-worthy reaction and the role parents play as we wedge ourselves into our children’s activities, both financially and emotionally. Whether it’s a field or court, rink, track, or diamond, being a parent of an athlete is exhilarating and exhausting. Lord knows as hard as it is sometimes, we clearly don’t want to miss a moment of it, but sometimes we should probably consider stepping away to exhale.
Exhilarating for kids
Think about it. Sports are amazing for kids. The skill-building is endless. Teamwork, communication, winning losing, and having fun even through the rough moments. On my son’s team, they have to throw on their rain boots and transfer gallons of water off the baseball field tarp after a big rain…boom! Hard work! In the off-season, they show up at 5:30 every morning to workout as a team. Committment! Endless practice and extra hours at the batting cage build up their Dedication. They even print reminders on the back of their workout shirts like “Earn it!” or “Good Enough Needs Improvement!” just in case they forget they learned these priceless skills and must have them at the ready 24/7.
Exhausting for us
It’s all fun games until our kid is up to bat or on the blocks, that’s when the stress flows like the Ganges, but Mother Theresa is nowhere in sight to keep us grounded. Will they hit the ball? Will they reach for the wall first on the 100 freestyle? Will they return the serve? As parents we let ourselves live and die with every pitch, play, or punt. And how about the times when our kids sit on the bench? Or get disqualified? Or come in last? Or get replaced with a pinch hitter? Our hearts race and a steady stream of steam blows out of our ears.
As parents, we have no control…so will rituals help?
Call them superstitions, old wives’ tales, or a touch of Feng Shui, whatever the term, parents and any passionate fans have their reasons why they sit in a certain spot, wear a lucky shirt, or take the same route to the game. We truly think we are that powerful. Personally, I sometimes think filming our son while batting will lead him to strike out. Or if I yell something clever, like “Take a deep breath or Be aggressive!” That will send the ball soaring. But I have to do it every time if he hits or not at all if he doesn’t. I also know I will never wear my blue tank top with an American flag on it to a game because the last time I wore it, my son got hit in the eye with a ball. Call it crazy, or love, or ritualistic – mainly crazy.
There’s a funny story I read about a pitcher’s mom who, for years would pace behind bleachers, and cross her fingers while her son was on the mound. Once she actually kept her foot on a cooler for an entire game because her son’s team started losing when she took it off. She also was known to move people in the stands back to the seats they had when her team was winning or to new ones when they were losing. After all of the foot-holding on coolers and directing musical chairs, she finally decided the best way to truly relax at a game is to know you can’t do anything to change the lineup, the score, or the outcome of the game. It’s all up to the players and coaches- even though we don’t always agree with them.
I think back to when our kids were playing soccer and all the players took turns at goalie. Goalie. The last line of defense with a bunch of seven-year-olds charging for them. I could feel my heart race, my voice get louder, and my frantic pace speed up. Same if they pitch or have to kick a penalty shot or are the last leg of a race. Somehow, I make it about me. But these are not our games to play. They never are. We are their ride Home.
Parents, you are dismissed.
Sometimes we need to step off the sideline, climb down from the bleachers, fold up our chairs, and walk away. Some may feel living through their kids’ sporting events is an indicator of parental awesomeness. Gotta catch my son’s game, it’s waaay out in Canton. The bike race is at 7:00 am, and we’ll be leaving at 5:00 a.m! On a Saturday!
Author, Daniel Pink says “Compared to other parts of our children’s lives, sports are bizarrely parent-centric. We don’t gather in the back of algebra class and watch students solve quadratic equations. In music dance and theater, we don’t attend every single practice, lesson and rehearsal. We just show up for an occasional performance, keep our mouths shut and applaud like crazy when it’s over.” Imagine.
What I learned:
We throw out kids into “games of failure” like baseball and only want to see success. Any sign of struggle and we think we have to keep our children afloat, pushing bright orange water wings onto their arms. One for confidence and strength, the other for resilience and faith. But they float on without them and us.
Maybe if we remember sports are about the stories they tell and the friends they make and simply be their biggest fans in the crowd or from the car, waiting for them to tell you all about it. Good luck with that…
P.S.: To the level-headed pitcher’s mom – you should really stay. He did really well after the home run.
On February 29, 1936, my Madrina (Godmother), Eddie Laura was born.
Last leap day, February 29, 2020, I called her up on her landline to wish her a happy Leap Year Birthday. She had just turned 84 and she told me she loved her morning walks, going to mass, and her cozy home by the mountains.
One month later, her daughter called me and told me she passed away. It wasn’t COVID nor was she ailing.
She fell. She was alone. I was heartbroken.
As a tribute to her, I revised a piece I wrote in 2020 about her undying love for family, faith, friends, and well, poker.
This is my baby book given to me by my Godparents.
In Leap Year math terms, my Godmother had 21 true birthdays. So Leap Day was especially busy for her. Let’s just say if an angel got their wings every time her phone rang on her true birthday, the halo business would be booming. I was among her callers who sang the traditional Happy Birthday and a few lines of Las Mañanitas, her favorite birthday song.
When I spoke to her last, I updated her on the kids and our treks from swim meets to tennis matches, and then baseball games. In lockstep, she reminded me to enjoy every moment of their childhood, because it goes too fast. “What are their ages?” she asked. When I said, 17, 15, and 14, she jumped in and as if reading from a mom script, said, “Oh college is coming up, that’s expensive.” She continued, “It’s when they go away that’s hard.” I knew she was referring to the outrageous cost attached to college tuition, but I also knew from our previous conversations that her statement meant more. She was always very candid about being a mom and college approaching meant empty beds, smaller meals to cook, and homes that were way too quiet.
When we would chat, her sing-songy, NM accent reminded me of home and I mirrored it. My kids always say when I come back from Albuquerque I have a strong accent. I tell them it’s just English and Spanish finding their harmony. The beautiful words of Spanglish bring solidarity and trust to our New Mexican culture.
I listened to how Eddie Laura recalled life as a mom…stirring red chili on the stove, flipping tortillas on the comal, sewing, quilting, dancing, and caring for her four children. As she spoke, I could hear how quickly life’s pages turn. One moment, instead of going to baseball games or PTA meetings, you’re headed to airports to pick up your kids who are “just visiting”. I can’t help but think of how she felt that first Sunday morning at church when she didn’t have to look for a large section on a church pew, but instead, was able to slip in at the end of a row because she was alone.
She told me she prays for me every night and every morning. When she said it, I always felt my body relax. Somehow simply knowing that someone who leads with faith was putting in a good word with God for me – made me feel cloaked in love. To me, Eddie Laura was like one of those saints Catholics pray to for everything from gallstones to lost glasses. We know they have our backs. That was my Godmother. I knew her prayers for me were deep, no-nonsense, and true.
When cleaning out her home, my sister and her daughter found lots of little treasures around her home. Chief among them were poker winnings stashed inside a box of quilt pieces. Her daughter told us she always asked her mom how she did at the casino and Eddie Laura would reply, “I’ll never tell.” My Madrina knew what she held close, whether it was cash from playing Blackjack, memories from marrying her high school sweetheart, or the priceless days of raising her children. I was so blessed to have such a loving Godmother.
Feliz Cumpleaños Madrina may you be at peace up in heaven, perhaps dealing a hand of 7-card-stud on that massive Last Supper table. God Bless.
What I learned:
Chances of being born on a leap day are about one in 1,461, according to the BBC. In fact, some astrologers say leap-year babies may possess special talents and luck. I agree. When I look at the picture of the day I was baptized, I think about all my Godmother has taught me…
Cherish time with my family – knowing they will eventually live under different roofs; keep faith at the forefront; and hope our kids will thrive with credence, compassion, and kindness (and always find their way home — I added that one).
Tonight I dialed my parent’s cell phone to check in. As the youngest and furthest away from them I have few tasks other than feeling guilty that I am so far away. So tonight it was my job to make sure they ate their dinner. My sister had sent a picture of the roast, potatoes, and carrots she had left and all I had to do was remind them to eat. The first attempt to call ended with a lot of ringing and no response. Then I called the land line knowing out of nostalgia and habit, they usually pick this one up. Dad with a cheery, “Hola!” or “Howdy!” hoping whoever is calling has a lot of time to chat, or Mom with a stern “Hello” – an edge in her voice that says – I may be older, but don’t you dare try to scam me into giving you any personal information or money!
“¡Hola!” dad bellowed. “Luc-did you just call Mom’s little iPad? She was playing Solitaire and we heard it ringing.”
“I did!” I said loudly, joining Dad’s energetic banter.
“Can you call it again?” Dad asked. “Sure thing Dad”. “Thanks!” He said. I called again and there they were – well all I could see was the top of Mom’s freshly permed white hair and half of Dad’s face. But I loved it.
Dad started in, “Wow! Look at that picture! Nice and big! How did you call the iPad? Luc, can I pick up the cell phone and use that for the call too?” Dad was curious, always trying to figure out how things worked, and loving the fact that they could see a big picture. “It’s all connected” I explained. “All the devices will respond when someone calls if you’re using them.” He seemed satisfied with my not-so-technical answer and continued, “So what’s going on there? How’s your weather?”
I caught them up on the kids – the boys popped into the room to say hi to them and they commented on Zavier’s curly hair. Mom said, “You used to have hair like that Dad!” Dad chimed in, “When I HAD hair!” Then I pointed out Dexter’s new mustache. “He’s already shaving?” asked Dad. “He’s 19,” I told him. “Hmm, was I shaving at 19?” He asked himself.
We went back and forth for a bit and I asked if they ate. “Did we eat, Dad?” Mom asked. “We ate a late lunch.” He confirmed. “And you know mom, she eats 5,000 bowls of cereal in the morning. Then we eat a big lunch and snack for dinner.” Mom confirmed. “Yes, Lucretia, I guess we already ate.”
“Okay, well I’m in charge of reminding you to eat dinner. I have a picture of what you have to eat.” Dad jumped in, “What is it?” I pulled up the picture – “looks like roast, potatoes, and carrots…yum!”
“Okay,” Dad said, “Just tell the girls we ate. Maybe we’ll have some Cheerios.” Mom jumped in, “Yes! Dad just discovered he loves the Honey Nut Cheerios so now I have to share.” They went on to tell a story about a bent-up box of Cheerios they got at the Commissary for $2.00. My hubby Justin suggested they might want to “bend” some other boxes and try and get them at a discount also. Dad said he was thinking the same thing. Mom interjected saying, “Well we were planning on going to heaven, but I’m not sure about it if we will now.” We all chuckled and Mom said her stomach would be sore from all the laughing.
Always melancholy at the end of our conversations, I said – “Alright, don’t forget to eat! And Dad, take your medicine. (Dad tends to put all the medicine in his shirt pocket and carry them around all day, considering this his way of “taking them”.)
You need your multivitamin, your eye stuff, and the baby Aspirin. Always the jokester Dad said, “I can’t hear her anymore, can you Mom?”
“Daaaad! You stinker!” I said laughing.
We signed off, “Love you mija, time to light the fireplace.” Dad said.
“Love you, say hi to everyone,” Mom said calmly.
“Bye guys, I love you.” – I blew a kiss and made a loud kissing sound hoping somehow they felt my love for them coming through that little iPad that not only can be used for Solitaire but also talking to us. I’ll remind them again the next time they answer my call on it, as I always do. I sat back on the couch praying there would be many more calls ahead. Because every day is better after talking to them.
What I learned:
I share this story because this is my takeaway from the day. This conversation. Yes, out of the 1,440 minutes in one day, the 30 minutes on the phone with Mom and Dad will keep me optimistic and give me comfort knowing I have these two people still out there rooting for me, laughing with me, and even though they are forgetting to drink their Pedialyte and can’t remember their neighbor’s name, they still know who I am, their youngest gal. What a blessing they are.
It is so worth it to take the time to talk, listen, and share with people. Especially the ones who make you feel loved.
Also, take the time to pray. For yourself. For everyone. Pray for the family who just lost their son to a freak accident on the football field, pray for the second grader who just found out her little sister has leukemia, pray for the single mom who just lost her job and is starting from scratch, pray for the guy driving the Camaro who cut you off this morning, pray for those who appear to be happy but you just know that somewhere in their heart they are ailing.
Remember to take at least 30 minutes today (out of 1440) and exercise, pray, and connect.
Yesterday at the Easter Vigil mass, Monsignor walked around the Narthex saying, “darkness, darkness, darkness.” He tends to use these mantras often. Sometimes he’ll see a parishioner and repeat their name loudly, “Peter, Peter, Peter!” And follow up by completely enveloping them with strong, loving hugs.
No lights were on in the church, candles were being passed out and the pews filled up slowly. It was similar to the darkness of the closed-up tomb where Jesus’ body lay on Holy Saturday. The stone propped in front of it. Not a sliver of light entered. A dark void.
There are days we too sit in this utterly dark space. Unsure of what tomorrow will bring or why today was filled with angst. Holy Saturday is a reminder of our reality. The beginning and the end. The alpha and the omega. The darkness and the light.
My mom has always been able to walk in the dark. She knows the path, never stumbles, and has faith in her every step. There is strength in the darkness for mom. She is one of the strongest women I know. Speaks her mind and fears very little.
There is that time of evening when the dusk descends uneasy despair in me and I flip every light in the house on, dimmers way up. That middle moment when the darkness steals the light, taking me on journeys back to places and times when fear was at the helm so I push through and focus on the light.
In the book Learning to Walk in the Dark, by author, teacher, and Episcopal priest, Barbara Brown Taylor, she says, “Darkness is shorthand for anything that scares me–either because I am sure that I do not have the resources to survive it or because I do not want to find out.” In her book, she guides us on a journey to understanding darkness — and reminds us of all the times God shows up at night. Because God does.
Some evenings fear is consuming when the darkness arrives. Then I remember, fear is normal. Fear needs breath. Someone said, “Courage is fear that has said its prayers.”
So I embrace courage and say my prayers and thank God for another day and night.
I thank you for joining me on my Lenten journey and hope you will follow me as I tackle my next writing endeavor.
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