Knowing Yourself

I knew that if I took days off from posting on the blog, I would take time off from writing for my blog. I've written, but for different purposes.
I'm frustrated with myself for doing so (taking time away from Three Red Stones), but I'm also okay with it because I have had dreams with my mom alive and engaged in my daily life in my dreams since my little break! So again, I am not adding a story to Three Red Stones, but I am headed to my dreams to live for a few hours where my mom lives too. Hopefully the weather will be calm so that Duke can sleep and molars will take a break from breaking through so Addie can sleep. If they can sleep, I can too!

A Different Approach to Blogging on Three Red Stones

I am going to try something a little different this week. Instead of writing each day as its own writing, I am going to build on the learning, lesson, or reflection with supporting stories or examples throughout the week. This approach will give me an opportunity to hear other people’s versions or examples of a story or idea to build in to my writing.  That’s the plan, anyway.

So for today, I present this week’s working title and gist:

Orchestra of Life

                We each walk to our own beat. We match our beat to those around us, and some combinations work better together than others. The challenge is overcoming the loss of the metronome or lead drum and making beautiful music with a slightly different tune.

Thank You

Thank You

Dear Mom,

                Thank you being such a wonderful mother and role model. I learned so much from you that I cannot ever thank you enough. The stories that you shared about your childhood helped me appreciate you as a person, the age in which I grew up, and the decisions that you and Dad made for my siblings and me.

                When I see something that I think it stupid, I imagine you sitting in a restaurant with your mom and getting annoyed with “some dumb kid” for putting crackers in the salt shaker. This helps me remember to put myself in someone else’s shoes before judging too harshly because there may be a very good and legitimate reason for the behaviors I am judging as stupid. You would have really like my teammate’s approach to life… she starts every day by putting on baby oil because then she smells good and all of the challenges just slide right off! If I can become more consistent in putting these two ideas to work for me, I will be a much happier, more relaxed, and more enjoyable person.  

                The stories that you shared about my siblings and me as very young children helped me to appreciate the little things that my little one says. I offered Addie a special “Grammy plate” (one of the cute city plate sets that you bought for me because it made you think of me), and she started to reach for it and then said, “No thank you. I will just eat it from my hand.” I smiled and laughed softly because for some reason, her response made me think of Greg saying, “Me no like bongo beans!” Being able to hear something so sweet from my Addie girl’s mouth and thinking of Greg as a little tike so many years ago makes me happy.  

                Addie and I went to Brenda’s to dye Easter eggs with her mom, niece, and great-niece and nephews. It wasn’t the same as when we dyed eggs growing up. They have a tradition that I haven’t actually seen yet, but it somehow involves dozens of colorful eggs and tapping them against each other to see whose egg will last the longest. At the end of the day, Brenda sent me a photo of me helping Addie scoop an egg out of pink dye and I could really see you helping Becky or me in that photo. It made me happy and sad at the same time, which I’m finding more and more as life goes on without you.

                It’s time for bed, Mom, but I really want you to know that you touched so many lives in so many ways, and I thank you and Dad for raising me in a way that inspires me to touch lives in positive ways as well. I love you.

Love,

Lulu

Self Perception

Self Perception

                I look like my mom, and I have for quite some time. I’ve always been happy about this because she’s always been my role model, my hero.  I haven’t always been able to see that I look like my mom, and I haven’t always been happy with how I look, but as I look at some old photos, I can see why people immediately said something.

                In my early adolescent years, I went to work with my mom when she was working for doctors Hesky, Fisher, and Schaffer. (She chose Dr. Hesky to be her oncologist because of the impression his positive attitude left on her and patients at that time… His patients had a higher rate of recovery than others.) I loved watching my mom at work. She was so organized and so busy taking care of this, keeping that situation under control, and she interacted with everyone else in a positive, supportive, and fun way. Everyone loved her, and my eyes beamed with admiration.

                I remember following behind her, walking between a counter and a shelf lined with medical files. Being a shy person, I avoided eye contact with my mom’s co-workers, but I’d glance to put a face with the name. As my mom introduced me to people, person after person said, “You look just like your mom!” and, “Even your hair has the same colors as your mom’s!”  My mom’s response was, “Yeah, but her hair color is natural! I have to pay for my highlights!”

                Every now and then someone tells me that when I did this or that I looked exactly like my mom. I smile, say thank you, and wonder what I can do to look exactly like her again. I also laugh when Addie tells me that my hair is painted because of the one time I took her with me to Carolyn, the hairdresser my mom introduced me to, when Addie saw me getting my hair highlighted. 

It’s not What you Know, but Who you Know

It’s not What you Know, but Who you Know

                Several of my closest friends had babies around the time that I did, and like many parents, we decided that they should be the best of friends. This doesn’t always go as planned, and my siblings and I didn’t always see eye-to-eye with some of the kids we hung out with because they were the kids of our parents’ friends. Fortunately, my daughter and my friends’ kids adore each other, and the more time we spend together, the better friends they become. It’s really a win-win because I get to spend time with my friends while providing my sweet girl with social opportunities.

                Another fairly common occurrence is for parents to become friends with other parents because their kids are friends or play sports or other activities together. My mother-in-law has lots of close friends who have kids the same ages as her three sons. Parents don’t necessarily become friends with every other parent they meet this way, but it certainly is an effective way as an adult to find friends.

                I recently heard a sweet story about my grandmother (Joyce) and one of her closest friends, who has a daughter the same age as my mom.

                On her first day of kindergarten, little Karen Ballard (who was actually quite tall for her age) fixed her hair in two blonde pigtail braids (her mother didn’t know how to put these in), tied her black and white shoes, pulled on her little white sweater, and kissed her mother goodbye.

            “I’ll see you at lunchtime, Karen. Have a great morning!” Joyce said, and she waved at Karen until she could no longer see her.

            Within the hour, one of Joyce’s friends from the old neighborhood pulled into the driveway and knocked on the door. She ooohhhed and aaahhhed at all of the new appliances Joyce had and helped her figure out how to best display some of her husband’s artwork. They had a lovely morning together, and Joyce was delighted to see her daughter walk into the house at lunchtime with her own little friend.

            “Mother, this is Cindy. Would it be okay if she stayed for lunch?” Karen asked, gesturing to the freckle faced little girl standing by her side.

            “Well, I suppose that would be fine, but I will need to call your mother to make sure she doesn’t mind. What is your last name so that I may call your mother?”

            “Mantooth. My name is Cindy Mantooth.”

            Joyce’s friend, who had started pulling plates from the cupboard, turned at the sound of this name. “Mantooth? Well I’ll be! Is your mother Bonnie?” she asked. Cindy nodded and her curls bounced. “Joyce! I know this girl’s mother! What a small world!”

            After a moment of awing over this coincidence, Joyce called Bonnie to see about Cindy staying for lunch and explained who she was and that they had a mutual friend. Bonnie gave permission for Cindy to stay, and she joined them as they were cleaning up lunch dishes. Cindy and Karen headed out the door to finish their first day of kindergarten on that sunny September day in 1961, and Joyce and Bonnie have been close friends, having lunch together at least once a week ever since.

                My mom didn’t invite Cindy to her house that day thinking that her mother needed a new friend, but if she hadn’t invited her over, my grandmother may not have ever met this very dear friend of hers! 

Perspective

Perspective

Tonight, I reflect on perspective by sharing a story from my perspective. Dad, Becky, Mom, and the man at the tattoo parlor would probably tell the story differently.

                Some people can see things from many angles. Others can only see things their way. The ability to see multiple perspectives allows people to develop empathy and compassion, and I am thankful to my parents for teaching my siblings and me to do this.

                One of the most memorable examples of my parents having different perspectives was when my little sister became an only child (well, living at home). At 16-years-old, Becky hardly did more than sleep at that house in Arvada because she was so busy maintaining high grades in challenging A-West classes, serving as student body secretary (later to become senior class president!), scoring goals on the soccer team, staying teeny tiny and super fit with track and cross-country, cheerfully cashiering and expertly making sandwiches at Einstein Bagels, and hanging out with her first serious boyfriend. Like most 16-year-old girls, Becky had some major insecurity when it came to her body, so it came as a shock to my parents when she wanted to get her belly button pierced.

                “No,” my dad answered flatly. He imagined the male attention she would get, and he missed his little girl! One boyfriend for his youngest daughter was already more than he was particularly thrilled about, and he was sure that if she had a belly button ring, she would have to show it off and more boys would be knocking down the doors. “No.”

                Like any stubborn child who desperately wants something, when Becky heard no, she went to the other parent. My mom thought about what it was like to be an adolescent and how difficult it was as a teenage girl to appreciate one’s own beauty. My mom thought about Becky’s low self esteem and thought that if she got her belly button pierced, she would be more confident in herself because of the positive way she would be able to look at herself and the positive and adoring compliments her soccer, cross country, and track friends would shower her with. “Okay.”

                I was home for spring break at this time, so Mom, Becky, and I got in the red speed racer Accord and headed toward Old Town Arvada, where I had gotten my belly button pierced back in the day. When we got to the cute little shop, though, it was closed. Mom saw the disappointment on Becky’s face, turned the car around, and parked in front of a dark, rackety, rotting tattoo parlor. We sat in the car and looked at each other.

                “Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked. I was beginning to think that my mom had perhaps planned this to discourage Becky from this piercing, but Becky nodded and in we went.

                Now, reader, you should know a couple of things about little Becky Mayer. First, when she was five and getting her ears pierced, she screamed and cried so loud that my brothers and I could hear her on the other side of Villa Italia Mall! Second, her only experience with piercing was when she got her ears pierced and when Dan (second oldest) bought do-it-yourself piercing kits from Sally Beauty supply to pierce (against my Dad’s wishes) his ear. And third, Becky passes out when she is poked with needles, an unfortunate trait she picked up from my dad.

                So there we were, three women very clearly sheltered by the Arvada lifestyle we had lived for 16 years standing at the tall counter, face-to-face with a large, very tattooed man. “Can I help you?” the man asked. He was clearly better versed in dealing with sheltered Arvadians than we were in dealing with very tattooed men.

                “Do you pierce belly buttons?” my mom asked.

                His steel eyes stared at her. He blinked. “Naval piercing? Yeah. How many?” His eyes narrowed as they shifted from my mom to my sister to me and back to my mom.

                “One,” my mom said, and we both pointed at Becky. The man reached under the counter. I held my breath, sure he was going to pull out a weapon and make us all get something pierced.

                “You’ll have to sign the waiver since she ain’t 18,” he said as he slid the paper and a pen to my mom.

                He turned his back and when he faced us again, he was wearing rubber gloves and holding a very large needle and strange hook. I put an arm around Becky’s back, sure she was going to faint from just the sight of the gleaming silver. The man nodded toward a table like you would find at a doctor’s office, and Becky gulped as she climbed on. Mom and I stood on the table across from the man, thinking that if Becky looked at us and not at the dagger, she would do better.

                Thinking back at that moment with Becky looking at us, I’m surprised she went through with the piercing. I don’t have to say anything and people can know exactly what I am thinking or feeling because of the look on my face, and I either inherited or learned this “trick” from my mom! Becky was one brave teenager for getting her belly button pierced after seeing the place, meeting the man, and especially while staring into horror-stricken faces during the actual act!

                Everything went well, Becky didn’t pass out, and she didn’t scream or cry so loud that Old Town would have heard. She got what she wanted because she knew someone would see things her way. I don’t think my dad was ever particularly enthusiastic about her belly button piercing, but when she didn’t become a different teenage daughter, he decided it wasn’t the worst thing she could have pierced… but that’s a story for another day.

                For tonight, I think about the many perspectives that I try (sometimes successfully, sometimes less successfully) to consider each day. Mom and Dad were raised in different communities with different home situations, and they each had specific experiences with their families and friends that helped them grow into the parents they became. It makes sense that people with different upbringings would have different perspectives, but it has really only been since losing Mom that I have been able to appreciate the different perspectives my brothers, sister, and I have. After all, we have the same parents, lived in the same house, and shared the same home life and vacations. The differences in our perspectives are a result of our internalization of these shared experiences based on the perspectives we had at the time.

Easter Dresses

Easter Dresses

                Easter is an important holiday, particularly to Christians, people who like to spend time with family, candy-mongers, breakfast people, and people who enjoy hide and seek. For my family, Easter meant delicious brunch at Dardano’s with two neatly dressed boys and five girls in matching (or nearly matching) dresses that my grandma picked out from Joslins. The dresses were lacy and pretty, pale pink or blue with flowers.

                Getting these dresses was one of the highlights of the Easter season, and putting that Easter’s dress on right after hunting for Easter eggs (and sampling a few pieces of candy) was magical! I carried my white tights into my mom’s room where I would watch her put on her panty hose by scrunching each leg into the foot, and then she helped me with mine. The great thing about white tights is they didn’t get runs the way panty hose do! Once Becky and I put on our shiny shoes, I felt like royal sisters who were friends with Shirley Temple.

                My mom wanted to pass this tradition and royal feeling to her granddaughters, so she picked out Easter outfits to send to Kali in Hawaii. When Addie was a couple of months old, she, my mom and I went to Flat Irons Mall and made our way to Children’s Place. It was my first time in Children’s Place shopping for my own daughter, and my little bunny got lots of attention. We looked at pink dresses, black and white dresses, and dresses that came in 3-6 month as well as size 7 (so Kali and Addie could match).

                On Easter morning, Jeff headed off to a baseball game and I pulled on Addie’s little white tights by scrunching them at the feet and pulling them up her chubby little legs. She was adorable in her white dress with pale purple polka dots, matching diaper cover, bonnet, and shiny white shoes. My little Easter baby was ready for brunch!

--

                This is Addie’s third Easter, her second without Grammy. This is the second year I picked out a cute outfit that’s not a frilly dress. I’m not sure why, but her black and white checkered skirt and little white shirt with a painted pearl necklace are adorable and will do just fine. Maybe on Mother’s Day she will wear an old Easter dress of Aunt Becky’s. 

Picture This

Picture This

          We went through a phase with Addie where she did not want to smile at the camera, and if someone pointed one at her, she looked away or tried to hide. We’re over that. Now, if she sees a camera whether it is pointed at her or not, she smiles and says, “Cheese! Che—ee--ese! Che-ee—ee--ese!” I look at these and laugh, knowing that she will not love all of these “cheesy” pictures when she’s older, but they tell a story to me and bring back my memories of her at this age.

          That’s what happens when I come across old photos. I had forgotten about the many hiking trips we had gone on as a family, but coming across a photo, I remember the fun!

          With four kids, I imagine it was sometimes a challenge to keep everybody entertained and too busy to pick on the other three. We were up early on these Saturdays, much earlier than the 10:30 mandatory wakeup by my dad. There wasn’t a whole lot of conversation because most of us didn’t really wake up until after 10:30. Footwear was always an ordeal for me… I looked at my tennis shoes and knew that was the wise, sensible choice, but I saw my flip flops and knew they were what I really wanted to wear. I also knew, however, that if I chose the sandals, I would have to change them before we left because experience had told my parents not to take a child hiking in flip flops.

          We drove for what seemed like forever, and with each twist and turn in the road, my stomach felt a little less in my stomach and a little higher in my throat. If I took Dramamine before leaving the house, chances were I’d fall asleep before reaching the hiking destination. My parents dealt with this problem by often letting me have the front seat in the van, but the drive from Arvada to the outskirts of Boulder still felt long.

          We piled out of the car, my dad readjusted his backpack to make sure we had enough snacks, and then we distributed the canteens. We all liked the army green canteen even though it was the bulkiest to carry.

          The six of us started up the mountain. At first, I remained alongside my brothers, just to show that I could keep up with the boys, but when their conversations focused on boy-topics and teasing me, I sped up to analyze boulder location and lichen or found my way back to Becky and Mom. We admired trees and plants, and every now and then found a beautiful rock that would look great in a collection! The collections, of course, stayed at the top of the mountain so as not to remove them from nature where everyone could enjoy them.

          My dad waited at various scenic locations to get photos of us coming up over a hill, or posing in front of a bench with a beautiful mountain view behind. I recently found a photo in which the boys are styling and could have been in the Thomson TCAP video, and my mom, sister, and I are all looking at the camera with a Fire Ball in our cheeks like it was a completely insane time to snap a photo!

          We spent a lot of weekend days hiking, and I remember some of the more recent trips, but these trips from the 80s would be long forgotten if not for photographic evidence. These memories renewed by photos make me want to start hiking now, while I have only one child to keep track of so I will be prepared for more later on.

          So this is my plea to all of those camera-shy people out there! Don’t turn away from a camera because you don’t like how you’ll look to you… smile and think, “Cheese!!” for those who love you. 

Reflection

Reflection

                When Natalie first brought the writing challenge to the staff, I had mixed feelings. I’d love to really dedicate time each day for my own writing, but what will people think if they read them? Eventually, I bit the bullet and decided to give it a shot.

                One month of stories connected to my mom. One month reflecting on the fortunate childhood I had. One month giving written appreciation for the friendship between my mom and me.

                One month, and I still have so many stories I want to share, so I will continue. If I let a day slide by, it may become more, and then I will be upset with myself for not writing the stories that go through my head as I go through various daily activities. I have some hard stories to write, and when I started my blog, I planned to get to them toward the end of the month, but I have to wait until I am feeling emotionally strong.

                Tonight is not a night of a Mom story, but a night of refreshing my brainstorm list and making a plan on how to continue writing so that it is therapeutic and something for me.