I have known you before you were even born.
And I loved you before I ever met you.
I watched you grow from shy to confident,
from chubby to perfectly proportioned
(except your head is a wee big),
from stubborn to stubborner.
Do you still put yourself in the corner?
I watched your love grow,
your independence grow,
and your bangs grow out several times.
I love you when you are sick and sassy and silly.
Sometimes you are seriously silly.
Don’t you love being an oxymoron?
That’s a definite maybe.
Ha ha! Pretty awful, right?
You make me laugh and you laugh at my jokes.
That’s why I love you. You are laughing at my jokes?
I love you because you forged notes to your first grade teacher.
I love you because you modeled seven layers of your big girl panties
wearing a turquoise bow in your hair.
I love you because you invented a toilet paper holder with dental floss.
As a child you wouldn’t let different kinds of food touch on your plate,
or anyone sign your snow white cast on your broken arm.
As a child you would swing up to the moon and back again,
And dance dance dance.
And I loved you for all your little idiosyncrasies.
As an adult
I love your more for all your big ones.
I love that you still dance dance dance!
And if you stumble or fall you make it part of the dance.
You tell me things sometimes more than a mother should know.
You whisper secrets even though you know I can’t keep
them locked inside my head.
You share your worries and joys and oh-nos with me.
“Oops, I just threw up!”
You describe chunks or liquid. Brown or yellow.
Sharing is caring. And I love you for that.
I love you because you are creative.
Homemade cards and gifts, your specialty, are especially special.
You hang your clothes arranged by color neatly in your closets.
I love that Amber resides in there wrapped snuggly in a tattered blanket.
I love you because you have a cat named Rex.
You let me call him Rex-a-roni and sometimes he writes letters to Tank.
So many reasons to love a Tessa Bug.
You really are an asset gub.
And that’s one more reason I love you.
I was a teacher. Dad was a teacher.
Yoursisterashelleigh is a teacher, too.
Now you will stand behind a pink podium and change the world.
That is why I love you!
I love you because you work hard.
You love to learn.
You set goals. You accomplish them.
Yet you take time to color and stay in the lines.
And you cry when you get a tiger for Christmas.
You make up songs (not as good as mine).
And you sing off-key in public places.
I have always loved you.
Before, when you were just a tickle in my belly.
In between, when you were a pain in my neck.
Now, when you are my shining star.
Tessa, I am so proud of you.
I love you up to the moon and back again
And wish your wish:
Live happily ever after.
Happy Valentine’s Month!
loveyourmother
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
A Poem for Ashelleigh
Once upon a time on April 24, 1982
you were born and changed my life.
Then…
You told me you were pregnant.
You were three.
You were going to have a duck and name him Snoopy.
My independent child was so “fashion”.
You dressed yourself in a bathing suit, a turtleneck,
and cowboy boots.
As a kindergartener my budding young author wrote:
“I have a sister named Tessa.
She is a pain but I would not trade her for a dog.”
Your best friends were Bessie and Pooh.
You insisted that Bessie keep me company in the hospital overnight.
How could a child show more love?
You loved the beach.
Building castles and making cookies and shoes out of wet sand.
You loved Dad’s Polish braids,
and his homemade pizza and ice cream cake on birthdays.
Do you still wear your number sweatshirt?
My practical girl asked Santa for books and pencils and paper.
Scotch tape was a prize in your stocking.
“I do believe in Santa! I do! I do!”
My Mary Poppins, practically perfect:
Straight A student, awards, Renaissance girl,
athlete, scholarships, Newsweek Magazine,
Somerville Scholar. Graduate.
Once upon a time…
You grew up. You put on your big girl panties.
Fell in love. Moved to Charlotte. Married.
Told me you were pregnant.
Gave birth to a son (not a duck).
Once upon a time…
your life changed forever.
Change is good,
but aren’t you glad...
cowboy boots are still in style,
and sisters are nontransferable?
Dad will still make you pizza upon request.
Bessie and Pooh have met Cyrus McCormick
and reside contently in Alekzander’s nursery.
Santa and Chester visit every year.
Alligators live under tables in restaurants
And I still love you up to the moon and back again.
(But much bigger, like 28 years bigger.)
loveyourmother
happy valentine's month
you were born and changed my life.
Then…
You told me you were pregnant.
You were three.
You were going to have a duck and name him Snoopy.
My independent child was so “fashion”.
You dressed yourself in a bathing suit, a turtleneck,
and cowboy boots.
As a kindergartener my budding young author wrote:
“I have a sister named Tessa.
She is a pain but I would not trade her for a dog.”
Your best friends were Bessie and Pooh.
You insisted that Bessie keep me company in the hospital overnight.
How could a child show more love?
You loved the beach.
Building castles and making cookies and shoes out of wet sand.
You loved Dad’s Polish braids,
and his homemade pizza and ice cream cake on birthdays.
Do you still wear your number sweatshirt?
My practical girl asked Santa for books and pencils and paper.
Scotch tape was a prize in your stocking.
“I do believe in Santa! I do! I do!”
My Mary Poppins, practically perfect:
Straight A student, awards, Renaissance girl,
athlete, scholarships, Newsweek Magazine,
Somerville Scholar. Graduate.
Once upon a time…
You grew up. You put on your big girl panties.
Fell in love. Moved to Charlotte. Married.
Told me you were pregnant.
Gave birth to a son (not a duck).
Once upon a time…
your life changed forever.
Change is good,
but aren’t you glad...
cowboy boots are still in style,
and sisters are nontransferable?
Dad will still make you pizza upon request.
Bessie and Pooh have met Cyrus McCormick
and reside contently in Alekzander’s nursery.
Santa and Chester visit every year.
Alligators live under tables in restaurants
And I still love you up to the moon and back again.
(But much bigger, like 28 years bigger.)
loveyourmother
happy valentine's month
Friday, May 14, 2010
Freak Accident
I’m sure this has happened to others, but hopefully not to very many people. My husband ran me over with his truck. Has yours? This was before the bee stings, snakebite incident and the Rottweiller attack.
One hot and humid summer day Tony and I were removing a hideous eyesore from our yard: a handmade cinder block backyard grill. You’ve seen them before. They’re usually located in the south, on a country road, surrounded by grazing goats and a refrigerator setting on the front porch. Dripping with sweat we finished loading the blocks onto the bed of his truck. Tony got in the pick up with the AC roaring and the music blaring. I think his head was banging to Steppenwolf’s Born to be Wild. If you don’t know the words it begins: "Get your motor runnin’, Head out on the highway. Lookin’ for adventure…"
With the back end of the truck sagging, the right front tire got stuck on a rock.
Walking beside the truck, and pocessing super-human powers, I yelled, “I’ll move the rock!” I mistook his head bopping as a nod and bent down. For some reason I could not move the rock that was wedged under the tire of a truck piled high with concrete blocks. Then at the same time the tire caught, the truck inched forward and then the engine stalled. My hand was between a rock and a hard place. Literally.
I learned from the neighbors that voices carry, amplify and then echo across the lake. I did not want them to imagine what my husband was doing to me. Finally, Tony noticed I was missing from view. He rolled down the passenger’s side window and asked what I was doing down there.
He had to back up the truck, running my arm over again, to get me free. You know how cartoons characters have tire treads left on their body after getting run over? My arm looked exactly like that.
After we iced my arm, we anxiously awaited the ferry to arrive and take us across the river to what we thought was the nearest hospital. After the 20-minute ferry ride we drove the cinder blocks to the hospital, yet another 30 miles away. The doctor was ready to have Tony arrested after I told him my husband ran me over. Then he questioned Tony about taking so long to bring me to the ER.
Another happy ending…
No broken bones! I hope you are as fortunate if your husband accidently runs you over with his truck.
You do believe it was an accident, don't you?
One hot and humid summer day Tony and I were removing a hideous eyesore from our yard: a handmade cinder block backyard grill. You’ve seen them before. They’re usually located in the south, on a country road, surrounded by grazing goats and a refrigerator setting on the front porch. Dripping with sweat we finished loading the blocks onto the bed of his truck. Tony got in the pick up with the AC roaring and the music blaring. I think his head was banging to Steppenwolf’s Born to be Wild. If you don’t know the words it begins: "Get your motor runnin’, Head out on the highway. Lookin’ for adventure…"
With the back end of the truck sagging, the right front tire got stuck on a rock.
Walking beside the truck, and pocessing super-human powers, I yelled, “I’ll move the rock!” I mistook his head bopping as a nod and bent down. For some reason I could not move the rock that was wedged under the tire of a truck piled high with concrete blocks. Then at the same time the tire caught, the truck inched forward and then the engine stalled. My hand was between a rock and a hard place. Literally.
I did not scream when I was stuck.
I could not move the pick up truck.
I would not, could not yell out in pain
My sheer stupidity was to blame.
He had to back up the truck, running my arm over again, to get me free. You know how cartoons characters have tire treads left on their body after getting run over? My arm looked exactly like that.
After we iced my arm, we anxiously awaited the ferry to arrive and take us across the river to what we thought was the nearest hospital. After the 20-minute ferry ride we drove the cinder blocks to the hospital, yet another 30 miles away. The doctor was ready to have Tony arrested after I told him my husband ran me over. Then he questioned Tony about taking so long to bring me to the ER.
Another happy ending…
No broken bones! I hope you are as fortunate if your husband accidently runs you over with his truck.
You do believe it was an accident, don't you?
My C-A-T
This is Tank. Like all my animals, I rescued Tank from a shelter.
If you are considering getting a pet you should visit one near you. You could drop off a blanket, a bed, kitty litter or toys while you’re at it. Sometimes the shelters are cautious of food, because the animals are used to a special diet, and you don’t want to upset their tummies.
If the shelter doesn’t have exactly the pet you want try petfinder.com. On the site you can specify the type of animal, breed, age, and gender. There are thousands of homeless animals out there and there is no need to spend big bucks from a breeder or pet shop, because the rescue centers are overflowing.
Tank was in a shelter for nine months. His previous owners couldn’t afford to feed him any more. When I saw him it was love at first sight. Love at first sight happens to me a lot. Most people want to adopt a tiny kitten, and Tank is two years old and a big boy.
It only took Tank a few weeks to adjust to his new home and family, including two dogs. At first Tank hissed at the dogs, then ran and hid. Mattie and Harleigh were persistent about making friends and won his trust. Sometimes Tank bats them in the head or plays toll gate on the stairway, but the dogs’ tails keep wagging. Tank did laugh at the dogs’ summer haircuts. It was embarrassing enough, but the groomer had put pink bows in their hair. To apologize for making fun of them Tank shared the lizard he caught with Harleigh. But I saw Tank smile when the lizard, who was playing 'possum, jumped and Harleigh skid-daddled!
Dear Neffew RexRsauruzz,
Uzzz oooz me a lettR. Meez likz 2 getz mailz.
Will uzz rit?
sirkel yez or noz.
luvz,
TankRsauruzz
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Boots
I’ve changed from red patent leather shoes to cowboy boots. I wear my western boots year round. In all, I have ten pairs.
I have, I would, I could, wear them anywhere.
Remember the song from Sesame Street? “One of these things is not like the others…” You’re right! The polka dot boots do not belong. But those ugly rubber boots have had the most use and are a necessity. (Not that the cowboy boots are not.)
Last year, on July 9th to be most precise, I ventured out at dusk to retrieve a shovel. A friend had given me some plants, and even though we had guests staying with us for the weekend, I had to plant them right that minute. As I moved the wheelbarrow I felt a sting on the top of my flip-flopped foot. At that time, I thought I had stepped in yet another ground beehive. A few weeks earlier I was stung 19 times by a swarm of angry bees. I prepared myself for more stings, but I actually felt fortunate to be stung only once. When I looked down a snake was coiled at my feet. I stared at it, memorizing its markings, knowing that I should be able to identify the snake just in case it was poisonous.
When my feet became unglued I went back in the house and announced that a snake bit me. Our guests and my husband flew into action. Helen had a tourniquet tied around my ankle. Tony dashed through the garage grabbing an ax on the way; Charlie grabbed a broom. I calmly explained the snake’s GPS and joked that Charlie was going to sweep the snake to death.
My foot began to swell. Immediately. Immensely. My toes were the size of sausages by the time we got to Urgent Care. The doctor told Tony to take me to the Emergency Room. (We live about 25 miles from the nearest hospital.) By the time we arrived at the ER my leg, from the tips of my toes to my hip, was twice its normal size.
I identified the snake from the poster conveniently hung outside a treatment room as a Copperhead. FYI – They administer anti-venom only as a last resort. The side affects are as dangerous as the bite. After 9 hours of antibiotics, painkillers and monitoring I was sent home when the swelling finally stopped. The good news: I didn’t die. The bad news: I was in La-la Land for two weeks. Yeah, I saw you there. I was the lady with a fat chick’s leg. I was in pain and had to use crutches for about three weeks. And I was terrified to go outside for the rest of the summer.
My husband bought me those useful ugly rubber boots for protection against snakes.
He’s such a patient man and put up with my crazy ways and my whimsical attire for the past 33 years. But do you know he wouldn’t let me wear those polka dot boots to lunch at Hardee’s?
I do venture outside again, because I love to dig in the dirt. But you can be sure I wear my ugly polka dot boots.
I have, I would, I could, wear them anywhere.
Remember the song from Sesame Street? “One of these things is not like the others…” You’re right! The polka dot boots do not belong. But those ugly rubber boots have had the most use and are a necessity. (Not that the cowboy boots are not.)
Last year, on July 9th to be most precise, I ventured out at dusk to retrieve a shovel. A friend had given me some plants, and even though we had guests staying with us for the weekend, I had to plant them right that minute. As I moved the wheelbarrow I felt a sting on the top of my flip-flopped foot. At that time, I thought I had stepped in yet another ground beehive. A few weeks earlier I was stung 19 times by a swarm of angry bees. I prepared myself for more stings, but I actually felt fortunate to be stung only once. When I looked down a snake was coiled at my feet. I stared at it, memorizing its markings, knowing that I should be able to identify the snake just in case it was poisonous.
When my feet became unglued I went back in the house and announced that a snake bit me. Our guests and my husband flew into action. Helen had a tourniquet tied around my ankle. Tony dashed through the garage grabbing an ax on the way; Charlie grabbed a broom. I calmly explained the snake’s GPS and joked that Charlie was going to sweep the snake to death.
My foot began to swell. Immediately. Immensely. My toes were the size of sausages by the time we got to Urgent Care. The doctor told Tony to take me to the Emergency Room. (We live about 25 miles from the nearest hospital.) By the time we arrived at the ER my leg, from the tips of my toes to my hip, was twice its normal size.
I identified the snake from the poster conveniently hung outside a treatment room as a Copperhead. FYI – They administer anti-venom only as a last resort. The side affects are as dangerous as the bite. After 9 hours of antibiotics, painkillers and monitoring I was sent home when the swelling finally stopped. The good news: I didn’t die. The bad news: I was in La-la Land for two weeks. Yeah, I saw you there. I was the lady with a fat chick’s leg. I was in pain and had to use crutches for about three weeks. And I was terrified to go outside for the rest of the summer.
My husband bought me those useful ugly rubber boots for protection against snakes.
He’s such a patient man and put up with my crazy ways and my whimsical attire for the past 33 years. But do you know he wouldn’t let me wear those polka dot boots to lunch at Hardee’s?
I do venture outside again, because I love to dig in the dirt. But you can be sure I wear my ugly polka dot boots.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Closet Cleaning
From first grade until I graduated from high school I had to wear a uniform. A green jumper, a white blouse and knee socks from first to sixth grade. Since I remained the same size for those six years my jumper was shiny and thread bare. In seventh and eighth grade the girls donned a green plaid skirt instead of the jumper. In high school I wore blue plaid. Not very fashionable but it eliminated the dilemma of what outfit to wear five days a week. The only item not mandatory was shoes. Thus my obsession with shoes grew. What’s your excuse?
Remember in the 1950s babies were born with those stiff white high top shoes? Well in the 1960s every female child wore orthopedic Buster Brown T-strap shoes. For some reason, a tantrum most likely, my mother purchased red patent leather shoes for me. Now if you haven’t guessed I attended Catholic schools taught by nuns. Black patent leather shoes were forbidden. You know, the boys would see your underwear in their shiny reflection. Then they would be tempted by impure thoughts and go straight to Hell. Red? Not so much. The boys would spend some time in Purgatory.
I loved my festive fiery footwear with my green uniform. I looked like Christmas every day. And they had a really wonderful feature. I could buckle the strap over my ankle or the strap could swing back around your heel, so they would convert to slip-on pumps. My shoes were the only unique item in my wardrobe during elementary school and they made me feel special.
Now I have closets full of clothing and shoes. You will not find one thing plaid on the racks. But I still own a pair of red patent leather shoes that refused to go in the bag for Good Will.
Remember in the 1950s babies were born with those stiff white high top shoes? Well in the 1960s every female child wore orthopedic Buster Brown T-strap shoes. For some reason, a tantrum most likely, my mother purchased red patent leather shoes for me. Now if you haven’t guessed I attended Catholic schools taught by nuns. Black patent leather shoes were forbidden. You know, the boys would see your underwear in their shiny reflection. Then they would be tempted by impure thoughts and go straight to Hell. Red? Not so much. The boys would spend some time in Purgatory.
I loved my festive fiery footwear with my green uniform. I looked like Christmas every day. And they had a really wonderful feature. I could buckle the strap over my ankle or the strap could swing back around your heel, so they would convert to slip-on pumps. My shoes were the only unique item in my wardrobe during elementary school and they made me feel special.
Now I have closets full of clothing and shoes. You will not find one thing plaid on the racks. But I still own a pair of red patent leather shoes that refused to go in the bag for Good Will.
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