My Porch Swing

2007-08-25T09:44:00.000-07:00

That day has finally arrived, it’s the last first day of school for my youngest child. The ending of her childhood will speed by at the rate of the 6:30 City of New Orleans that zips through our small town nightly. She will be as each of her sisters was, busy, busy, busy! Off to games, practice, work, all the demands and excitement a senior expects. We will be here, watching the blur of our beautiful daughter passing through, hoping for a few minutes of her time. And yet, even with the pull of our heart strings, there is a small sense of excitement growing. Soon, a new chapter begins for us.

2006-11-16T00:33:00.000-08:00

It’s a messy, dreary day. In fact it’s the third day of cold windy rain. Confirmation of how awful the day was came when a young graduate student arrived to church with not one, but two umbrellas. One was broken and couldn’t be easily folded. It took him several minutes of wresting with the spines before he could fold it enough to put in the trash. We joked about submitting it to the art department to see if he might be given a scholarship. I pointed out that his sculpture needed a name which he quickly christened “Northwest Wind”.

I continued to sit in the church entrance watching people blow in the door, thinking I would have preferred to stay home, curled up under my electric throw. In the midst of my misery, I remembered that in spite of the gray day, the sun had broken through for a short time and shown down on me in front of my computer. For there on my screen, with Google at my beck and call, I found that wonder of wonders, I was right and my vocabulary genius offspring was WRONG! Yes, my PBS Watching, National Geographic Reading, Spelling Champ, and walking Thesaurus, was, how shall I put this, at loss for the correct word.

I’m referring to a silly conversation we had earlier in the week, which began with the size of turkey to purchase for Thanksgiving. In the midst of chatting about how much may be left over we started talking about the thingy that hangs from a turkey’s neck. When she didn’t know what the thingy was called I ventured to suggest the term was a wattle, which she promptly pronounced she was sure that it wasn’t. But gobble, gobble, it is a wattle!

Now before you jump to the conclusion of a mother reveling in being right, like a turkey with his feathers fanned, let me share with you how the sunshine faded away. As I sat there feeling quite triumphant, the cartoon picture of a turkey caught my eye. At first I was looking at the wattle when my eye was drawn to his fat turkey legs and I remembered seeing a picture of myself once that made me think someone had photo shopped a turkey leg to my thigh. And now that I have reached a certain age, my neck is starting to resemble a wattle. Lord have mercy, at least my neck isn’t bright red! My moment of triumph came to a screeching stop. However those brief moments of basking in the sun were a wonderful reminder that there is always something to smile about!

2006-10-03T13:16:00.000-07:00

It has happened to me again, one of those defining moments as a mother, when you look at your child and realize there is something quite extraordinary about her you had little to do with and didn’t know it lay under the surface waiting to burst out like the buds of spring. This time I was standing in the choir at the funeral of a dear friend. I was watching the director and knew it was important I watch closely – there was something in her very presence that commanded I trust her to lead us through unfamiliar music and the difficult task of singing as we mourned. Slowly, I realized this person before me was my very own daughter and for the first time I experienced her completely as an individual, complete within herself, and no longer an extension of me.

I have five children, all of which have given me these moments of realization but my
second has surprised me in numerous ways throughout her life. There was her impish nature as an infant; sleep seemed to be her enemy. It wasn’t until she was three that I realized it was her curiosity that drove her constant movement and need to discover, always on the move to find something to learn.

I have often described how her behavior changed when she learned to read. She caught the concept so fast we were stunned by her ability. She developed a need for the written word whether it was a book, cereal box or scrap of paper to decipher. Her mind had finally found a way to move fast enough without using her legs to propel it. She found enough stimuli in the day to use up energy and let herself shut down at night. A book within her reach became the way to motivate her. She knew, if x was completed a book was waiting. Spelling was a game, what phonetic rule could cause her to pause and think? There I sat wondering, where had this come from? Her father and I have a love for reading but this innate ability to grasp phonetics was beyond us and not something you can teach. It was just there, within her.

Later, quite by accident, I began to see her musical talent. I wanted my children to learn the piano, which had more to do with what I had longed for as a child than any interest they had shown. And so the two oldest began piano lessons. As I sat by these two through the early days of practice, I could see how different their approach to learning was. The older one found the mechanics of playing fun. She liked thinking through what she needed to do to put a song together. From, the beginning it was more about the expression of music than the fundamentals for Resa. Being able to express herself through certain sounds gave her mind an outlet for her thoughts Still, seeing the talent developing in her, it wasn’t until Jr High that I discovered her voice. Her mother, who sat with her each week at church, didn’t realize what a beautiful voice she had.

She and her sister were involved in an area music competition for band and chorus. I didn’t know this was something parents attended until the morning they had to leave at 7:00 AM and my husband was getting information from them about times and places, etc. He attended the morning performances, mostly instrumental, drove the thirty miles home at lunch and insisted that I return with him. Still today, I wonder where the resistance came from. I had always been intent on attending everything they were in, why this particular day did it seem unnecessary? It turned out to be one of the times I truly appreciated my husband’s strong personality. As I sat in a stuffy, crowed class room my daughter brought me to tears with her song. It was a ballad that wasn’t familiar to me; I couldn’t even tell you the title of it today. But I came to know, there lay within this girl a talent that came from her very being, all her own, and one that I would never ignore again. It was a moment when I realized this was about her and doing whatever it took to help her develop this precious gift God had given her. There was a path before her that I could help her find, give her supplies for the journey, push her along; but eventually it would become her own energy and maturity that would propel her and I would be left behind.

Several months ago, a friend shared a picture from her daughter’s wedding with me. It was taken over the shoulder of the presiding priest and captured her daughter’s face as the focal point. In the background, slightly fuzzy was her mother. My friend commented how she thought this picture captured the natural transition in a child’s life, when the mother leaves the forefront and the child becomes the focal point. I remembered this comment as I stood in the choir watching my beautiful, gifted daughter leading the choir with such self assurance. Yes, that natural transition has happened. Perhaps others saw it sooner than I, but now I know, she is complete within herself and my role in her life has changed.

2006-08-18T12:14:00.000-07:00

Ten months. Ten months since our lives changed. Ten months of pain, healing, crying. Ten months missing the presence of someone we loved for ten years. Ten months watching this large bruise on my leg. At one time it stretched from the knee to the ankle. With various cuts, scratches, dirt and scabs. Small pieces of glass. I’ve watched these slowly disappear leaving scarring behind. Still, the bruise has remained, changing in form becoming smaller. I can now stretch my fingers the length and width of it, smaller but still present to remind me that our lives have changed that we have been shaken to the very core of who we are individually and as a family. Our faith tested again and again. Ten months of wondering how his parents are. Are they coping with their pain, are their hearts bruised as my leg? Still hard but softening around the edges. Is there scarring, reminders of the loss that seems impossible to believe? Ten months which have stretched each day longer. How can the ten happy years of growing to know and love someone seem to be no longer than the flutter of an eyelash compared to the eternity of the last ten months? Ten months, and now another begins.