Happy birthday, Scoot. We miss you.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Mama Always Said...
As my sweet girl inches toward a year (she's eight and half months), I am feeling a little weepy. She is more than I ever dreamed she would be. No one ever told me I would feel this way, and I find it overwhelming. I am so full of emotion as I look back over the past year and a half that I have a hard time even writing this.
While I really loved the newborn stage of Claire's life (I know, weird), I am really digging the six to 12 month stage. She has developed a little sense of humor As of the past month, she finds the following things hilarious: tongues, people with glasses, slobbery smooches from her dog brother Murphy and dog cousins Buddy, Tucker and Malli, getting her diaper changed, dad's red Georgia hat and peekaboo. She has really become this little person with opinion, favorites and personality. While many parents see leaving the house with their child of any age as an exhausting burden, I have really begun to love our outings. As silly as it sounds, I feel like she is my friend. I love teaching her things, and I often catch myself saying the same little catchphrases to her over and over again.
A few weekends ago was Claire's christening. That, coupled with her eight month birthday led me to reflect on some of the things the mothers in my life have said that have stuck with me. Some of them are funny, some serious, but all of them have somehow shaped the mother I have become. Enjoy.
"Lawwwwwwwww..." - My mom, grandmother and aunt all say this when you are telling a story. It's similar to an "Oh my God," but without taking the Lord's name in vain.
"What's it to you, frog face?" - My mother-in-law's suggested response to particularly nosy questions.
"I think you look great. Just maybe a little more blush." - According to my mom, there is no problem that a little blush can't solve.
"Have you fed her prunes yet? Just wait." - My grandmother's warning. She was right.
"I just couldn't imagine helping my child with homework and then raising my shirt for a snack." - A mom who I have become friends with from a play group in response to a woman's comment that the international average age for weaning a child from breastfeeding is FIVE YEARS.
"I have a drink every day at five. There's nothing wrong with it. As long as your child is in the house with you, you're technically not drinking alone." - A mom friend
"Your baby sleeps through the night at eight weeks? You know that means she's going to be a serial killer, right?" - A former boss whose children were teenagers before they slept through the night.
"Why don't you just dip her pacifier in some of that gravy over there? I bet then she'd stop crying." Another pearl of wisdom from my grandmother. I am happy to report that to date and to my knowledge, Claire still has not had any gravy.
"It is hard work - even if sometimes the outside world doesn't see it that way. No one touts a stay at home mom on the Fortune 500 (ah, because we don't make a salary!) But it is exhausting being "on" 24/7, 365. I mean, when I was working at least I got to pee in peace! What I realize is that I've sort of lost my way a bit. I sort of lost the passion I had when I first started this journey. I want to feel that way again. So I made the decision last night, lying there in bed, to rededicate myself to my job. My job as a mother. All the good. All the bad. I want to be there for my children during these years - to be really present in their lives. Because before I know it they are going to be out of my home and off into their own world, doing their own thing, without much of a backwards glance." - a fellow blogger vowing to rededicate herself to her life as a stay at home mom
"She's bringing snuggly back. Yeah! Give her a bottle, and she'll have a snack. Yeah!" - To the tune of Justin Timberlake's song, "I'm Bringing Sexy Back." Ok, my husband said this, but it has defined our parenting style for months now. Parenting can be fun, you know.
"Give yourself a few months. You might be surprised to find that you have changed your mind." My mother-in-law's suggestion when I swore up and down that I would never have another child after having such a difficult pregnancy. I'll admit it. She was right.
"I am proud of you for so many reasons." My mom in an e-mail to me this week. Every child should know that his or her mom is proud of them.
"It's the hardest job you will ever love." Pretty much every mom
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
You Be My Friend
So, most of you know that my sister lives in Ghana. She is about three months from coming back to the States, and I am counting down like it's my job. My sister and I have been able to keep in pretty close touch with only brief communication lapses due to technology blips or extreme business. We spoke this past Monday. She was upset because she had left her job. She had a lot of strong feelings as to why she was leaving and for the children she had taught. It wasn't an easy decision, but it was best. From what I gathered from our conversations, her boss was a top notch a-hole who didn't like women, or any people for that matter. So, we chat on Monday. There's a lot of, "You're doing the right thing," "I am excited for the next phase of my life," "Can't wait for that welcome home party." I start to get totally amped that her return is in sight -- like I can mark it on this year's calendar. For those of you who have ever seen the Singing Bee with Joey Fatone, "IT'S THE FINAL COUNTDOWN!"
I go on with my day yesterday. About 3 am, I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. I stumbled out to the couch to see if the Fresh Prince of Bel Air might be on (it was), and and settle in for a night of insomnia. I must have dozed off because around 3 am, I wake up to my cell phone ringing. I notice that it's a Ghanaian phone number, but it's not my sister's number. I thought maybe she was calling from her husband's phone or something and had forgotten what time it was here. I answer the phone to a young gentlemen yelling, "Who is this? Where you call from?" I try to respond, but the caller's accent and the delay on the international call makes it impossible to find out anything. I hang up after about a minute, chalking this all up to a technological snafu. Not 30 seconds later, my phone rings again. Same voice. I hang up. As soon as a flipped my phone shut, thoughts of sheer terror course through my head. I begin to think that maybe something has happened to my sister and her husband. Last week's reports of two American soldiers being found dead in Ghana return to my consciousness. In my mind, something terrible is going on, and I panic. I begin a strict campaign of calling my sister every 15 minutes. 4:15 a.m. 4:30 a.m. 4:45 a.m. No answer. At 5:30 a.m., I know I have to get some sleep as my daughter holds no prisoners when it's time for her to wake up to eat -- any time from 6 to 7:30. I need sleep. I need to find my sister.
I wake up to Claire babbling at 6:30. I go pick her up. I call my sister. No answer. I decide to send an e-mail to both her and her husband, begging them to respond if they can. I basically am melting down. I am a victim of my own imagination. I don't even want to admit the things I was envisioning in my mind at this point. I worry that her ex-boss has done something, or that one of her students has stolen her phone or worse. I get another call from this Ghanaian man asking who I am and who I know in Ghana. I try to communicate without giving any information away that could hurt my sister in some way. He calls again. And again. He tells me he got my number from a text message but won't tell me what the message says. He must not understand me. In between his calls, I call my sister. Still nothing. It's 8 am now. I call my brother as he is feeding his sweet children breakfast. He stays calm, asking me all of the pertinent information. We agree not to call our mother. We don't want to worry her yet. I begin looking into calling the U.S. Embassy in Ghana.
The phone rings again. It is the Ghanaian man again, this time on a clearer connection. He asks me my name. He asks if I am American. Heart beating, I say yes. I am terrified he is about to tell me that he has my sister in his possession or worse yet, he has found her harmed. All I hear is, "I want to be your friend. You be my friend?" Then, I hear his friends gather around the phone to hear me, this American woman, speak. Yes, he wants to be my friend and for me to teach him English. He is a 17 year old living in Kumasi, the same place my sister lives. He was born in London, but was raised in Ghana. His English is thickly veiled in accent, and he cannot understand me. I guess he'd never met a Southern girl before.
Still worried, I call my sister again. Finally, she picks up. Clearly, my many calls have worried her. In unison, we say, "are you ok?" I sobbed. I mean, I let it go big time. She apologized over and over again, sorry to have ignored my earlier calls. Her husband's car had broken down, and they had been consumed with trying to get it working to get their friend back to the city. She assumed we'd talk later, but I kept calling, so she thought something must be wrong. In fact, I kept calling because I thought something must be wrong. All we can figure is that with Ghana's underdeveloped telecommunications network, a text message that I sent her somehow got to this guy's phone. She said it had happened to them before.
My Ghanaian friend has continued to call all. Every time I would pick up the phone, he would beg, "You be my friend." After leaving six of his phone calls unanswered this afternoon, I think he gave up. Oh well, I never was a good pen pal.
Normally, when I totally overreact about something, I get totally embarrassed and apologize a zillion times for being such a silly girl. I talk about what a drama queen I am and pass my overreaction off as being tired or hormonal or just crazy. With this, I was not ashamed. I was just thankful. I have never felt such a rush of relief come over me as when I hear her voice. Ok, maybe when I heard Claire cry for the first time, I was just as relieved, but seriously, they're pretty neck in neck.
Now, more than ever, with her having so little time left in Ghana, I just miss my sister. I miss talking about books with her and griping about our husbands, not that I ever do that...I miss finding items of my clothing missing from my closet, only to find that they somehow snuck into her suitcase and on an airplane to wherever she is going. I miss finding her bubble gum wrappers everywhere and knowing that no matter how messy my car is, hers will always be a lot messier. I miss helping each other pick out outfits and laughing like a child at her when she sings the Chiquita Banana song. I miss giving her things, knowing how much joy she finds in something new to her.
Thank God, my sister is ok. She is coming home.
I go on with my day yesterday. About 3 am, I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. I stumbled out to the couch to see if the Fresh Prince of Bel Air might be on (it was), and and settle in for a night of insomnia. I must have dozed off because around 3 am, I wake up to my cell phone ringing. I notice that it's a Ghanaian phone number, but it's not my sister's number. I thought maybe she was calling from her husband's phone or something and had forgotten what time it was here. I answer the phone to a young gentlemen yelling, "Who is this? Where you call from?" I try to respond, but the caller's accent and the delay on the international call makes it impossible to find out anything. I hang up after about a minute, chalking this all up to a technological snafu. Not 30 seconds later, my phone rings again. Same voice. I hang up. As soon as a flipped my phone shut, thoughts of sheer terror course through my head. I begin to think that maybe something has happened to my sister and her husband. Last week's reports of two American soldiers being found dead in Ghana return to my consciousness. In my mind, something terrible is going on, and I panic. I begin a strict campaign of calling my sister every 15 minutes. 4:15 a.m. 4:30 a.m. 4:45 a.m. No answer. At 5:30 a.m., I know I have to get some sleep as my daughter holds no prisoners when it's time for her to wake up to eat -- any time from 6 to 7:30. I need sleep. I need to find my sister.
I wake up to Claire babbling at 6:30. I go pick her up. I call my sister. No answer. I decide to send an e-mail to both her and her husband, begging them to respond if they can. I basically am melting down. I am a victim of my own imagination. I don't even want to admit the things I was envisioning in my mind at this point. I worry that her ex-boss has done something, or that one of her students has stolen her phone or worse. I get another call from this Ghanaian man asking who I am and who I know in Ghana. I try to communicate without giving any information away that could hurt my sister in some way. He calls again. And again. He tells me he got my number from a text message but won't tell me what the message says. He must not understand me. In between his calls, I call my sister. Still nothing. It's 8 am now. I call my brother as he is feeding his sweet children breakfast. He stays calm, asking me all of the pertinent information. We agree not to call our mother. We don't want to worry her yet. I begin looking into calling the U.S. Embassy in Ghana.
The phone rings again. It is the Ghanaian man again, this time on a clearer connection. He asks me my name. He asks if I am American. Heart beating, I say yes. I am terrified he is about to tell me that he has my sister in his possession or worse yet, he has found her harmed. All I hear is, "I want to be your friend. You be my friend?" Then, I hear his friends gather around the phone to hear me, this American woman, speak. Yes, he wants to be my friend and for me to teach him English. He is a 17 year old living in Kumasi, the same place my sister lives. He was born in London, but was raised in Ghana. His English is thickly veiled in accent, and he cannot understand me. I guess he'd never met a Southern girl before.
Still worried, I call my sister again. Finally, she picks up. Clearly, my many calls have worried her. In unison, we say, "are you ok?" I sobbed. I mean, I let it go big time. She apologized over and over again, sorry to have ignored my earlier calls. Her husband's car had broken down, and they had been consumed with trying to get it working to get their friend back to the city. She assumed we'd talk later, but I kept calling, so she thought something must be wrong. In fact, I kept calling because I thought something must be wrong. All we can figure is that with Ghana's underdeveloped telecommunications network, a text message that I sent her somehow got to this guy's phone. She said it had happened to them before.
My Ghanaian friend has continued to call all. Every time I would pick up the phone, he would beg, "You be my friend." After leaving six of his phone calls unanswered this afternoon, I think he gave up. Oh well, I never was a good pen pal.
Normally, when I totally overreact about something, I get totally embarrassed and apologize a zillion times for being such a silly girl. I talk about what a drama queen I am and pass my overreaction off as being tired or hormonal or just crazy. With this, I was not ashamed. I was just thankful. I have never felt such a rush of relief come over me as when I hear her voice. Ok, maybe when I heard Claire cry for the first time, I was just as relieved, but seriously, they're pretty neck in neck.
Now, more than ever, with her having so little time left in Ghana, I just miss my sister. I miss talking about books with her and griping about our husbands, not that I ever do that...I miss finding items of my clothing missing from my closet, only to find that they somehow snuck into her suitcase and on an airplane to wherever she is going. I miss finding her bubble gum wrappers everywhere and knowing that no matter how messy my car is, hers will always be a lot messier. I miss helping each other pick out outfits and laughing like a child at her when she sings the Chiquita Banana song. I miss giving her things, knowing how much joy she finds in something new to her.
Thank God, my sister is ok. She is coming home.
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