It's a huge joke in our family about mom and cardboard. If mom has cardboard, she could build a house with it, make furniture, level a table, the possibilities are endless. "Don't throw that box away! Mom might need it to build a city!" Cardboard and contact paper are like flour and sugar, the stables in life for Minnie Anderson.
When she moved into her new apartment a few years back, she proudly showed me the shelves she had made out of cardboard. What was intended to be a broom cabinet, was now a tall, narrow cabinet with three cardboard shelves. Lovely! I tried to act appropriately impressed. I should be impressed, I really should be.
Mom made my Barbie Doll furniture out of cardboard, covered with contact paper, and I was quite happy with the results. It was like going to Goodwill and finding rich people furniture at poor people prices. It never bothered me to have cardboard furniture for my dolls. If it bothered my dolls, I never heard them complain.
After Mom and I met with a representative from French's Mortuary to rearrange her pre-arranged funeral, I realized mom was going to be cremated in a cardboard box. I was at mom's house later in the day, and when Aunt Mary came over for coffee and a visit, I had to tell them how ironic and amusing it was to realize that mom was going to be cremated in a cardboard box. The three of us got a good laugh out of it.
You might think it odd, or at least disrespectful to laugh about something so serious, but it's not. When mom and I were shown the options of caskets used for cremation, I made sure to get her input in what she would prefer. Neither one of us could see the need to pay thousands of dollars for a casket that would be burned. Since there won't be a public viewing, no need to spend the money to impress people.
Having said that, I still could not go with the genuine cardboard casket. It looks like a long cardboard shipping box, and I just couldn't do that. What if Fed-Ex or UPS came to pick up a package, and they mistakenly took mom along with them? Who knows where she would end up! We decided on a spiffed up version of the shipping box. It's shaped like a casket, and here's the best part. It's covered with contact paper with a wood grain pattern.
On the way home, we were going over all that we had decided on. I asked mom if she was really okay with the choice of casket. "Oh sure. I would have just gone with that plain cardboard box. It's only going to burn anyway."
The representative was talking to us in a very professional way, soft voice, etc. He showed us several "urns" for the remains. Again, mom and I both said, "Why spend several hundred dollars on an urn that will be buried?" He told us that some people like to have the urns with their loved ones remains on the fire place mantel, or place of honor on a bookcase. I looked him right in the eye, and in a very sure way, and a high pitched voice said, "I'm not having any dead person perched on my mantel! Number 1, I don't have a mantel, and number two, she's not going to be perched on any of my bookcases. She's got a perfectly good burial plot at Sunset Memorial, she can rest in peace there." In his most professional way, and in his soft voice, he said, "That is certainly understandable." Poor guy. I'm sure he felt like Stephanie Plum and Grandma Mozar had escaped a Janet Evanovich book, and landed in his office. Mom just laughed and said she didn't care what I did with her ashes. I said, "Well, we know for sure where they won't be!"
As we were leaving his office, and he was softly reassuring us that the best of care would be given when their services were needed, Mom turned to him and asked, "Would you mind if I straighten that picture on the wall? It's been bothering me the entire time we've been talking." Yep, she'll be fine in the cardboard box, decorated with wood grain contact paper. I love my mom!
Monday, November 12, 2012
Friday, November 2, 2012
Poorly Rich
I often find myself wishing for things that will never be, like me being rich. I know, money is the root of all evil, but I feel evil towards the lack of no money. It's not that I want great and magnificent things. Just a little extra cushion in the bank account would make me feel rich, rich, rich.
It's times like yesterday when Shana had a hard day, had to replace a tire, was told another tire needed to be replaced, that I wish I was rich, rich, rich. It's times like today when I got the bright idea to clean the windows, and one broke. How? I have no idea. It just popped while I was holding it in my hand. If I were rich, rich, rich, I would replace all these dirty, leaky, breakable windows in this house that we call home.
I remembered I had a mini blind in the closet, so I could replace the broken one in the den. That's what started all of this. If you are going to replace the mini blind, then you need to clean the window. I should just sit and stare out the dirty windows all day, and not start projects that frustrate and make me feel poor.
I know I'm rich in other ways, and I appreciate all that richness. Still.....there are seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years......that a little bit of extra would go a long way. Like buying a plane ticket for Sarah so she can come home for Thanksgiving.
THE END
It's times like yesterday when Shana had a hard day, had to replace a tire, was told another tire needed to be replaced, that I wish I was rich, rich, rich. It's times like today when I got the bright idea to clean the windows, and one broke. How? I have no idea. It just popped while I was holding it in my hand. If I were rich, rich, rich, I would replace all these dirty, leaky, breakable windows in this house that we call home.
I remembered I had a mini blind in the closet, so I could replace the broken one in the den. That's what started all of this. If you are going to replace the mini blind, then you need to clean the window. I should just sit and stare out the dirty windows all day, and not start projects that frustrate and make me feel poor.
I know I'm rich in other ways, and I appreciate all that richness. Still.....there are seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years......that a little bit of extra would go a long way. Like buying a plane ticket for Sarah so she can come home for Thanksgiving.
THE END
Friday, October 26, 2012
Now I Understand
Seeing a Reader's Digest in large print used to be the joke of the month to me, but now it's something to be considered. With each passing day of age being added, I understand more and more the adage: With age comes with understanding.
I understand the need for large print books, or a page magnifier. I understand why I forget what I was looking for, or why I forget what I was going to say. I forget what I was looking for, and what I was going to say, because I've misplaced my short term memory, and can't remember where I left it.
I'm fairly certain that the person who created Rice Krispies was a person of a certain age. Otherwise, how would they ever understand the snap, crackle, pop? With age comes understanding, and it's often things we would rather not understand.
Laser? Oh I understand the desire to have hair lasered off. What I don't understand is why they use young, beautiful people for those ads? It's us old people, or people of a certain age, who should be on those billboards. They should be holding tweezers, and nose hair clippers, and razors, and, oh the list goes on. I don't want to understand why hair grows where it grows, and stops growing where it should grow.
I understand now that blank look an older person gives you when you stop to speak to them. I understand it's not a look of idiocy. It's a look of searching within for a name of the person standing in front of you. It's the blank look of searching through the memory files that are pretty much depleted of all things, except the memory of a sleepless night, because of all the aches and pains, and the worry of things that can't be fixed. And when they say, "Do I know you?" You gently explain to them that yes, you are their niece, their neighbor of 25 years, their child's best friend since grade school. Too bad at that time you don't have the understanding that comes with age, because you would be more understanding of the blank look you are seeing, and will one day be your look.
I understand why older people say, "Don't mumble." It's not about you mumbling, it's about them not hearing what you said to begin with, and it sounded like all your words ran together like a pile up on I-40. Speak louder, talk slower, and do not walk away from me while talking to me. I will only ask you what you said, or I will just ignore you completely, because if you can't talk without mumbling, or you can't talk louder, or if something in the other room is more important than talking to me, why I should I care if I heard you.
And having said all of that, I now understand why older people are thought of as grumpy. It makes me grumpy when I can't find my glasses, and then when I find them I can't remember why I needed them. It makes me grumpy to stand up and hear the snap, crackle, pop of aging bones, and know that they are my aging bones. It makes me grumpy to find hairs sprouting out of my chin. It makes me grumpy when I see someone who know me, and I can't remember them. It makes me grumpy when people mumble when they should be speaking clearly.
I'm aging, so with aging comes understanding.
I understand the need for large print books, or a page magnifier. I understand why I forget what I was looking for, or why I forget what I was going to say. I forget what I was looking for, and what I was going to say, because I've misplaced my short term memory, and can't remember where I left it.
I'm fairly certain that the person who created Rice Krispies was a person of a certain age. Otherwise, how would they ever understand the snap, crackle, pop? With age comes understanding, and it's often things we would rather not understand.
Laser? Oh I understand the desire to have hair lasered off. What I don't understand is why they use young, beautiful people for those ads? It's us old people, or people of a certain age, who should be on those billboards. They should be holding tweezers, and nose hair clippers, and razors, and, oh the list goes on. I don't want to understand why hair grows where it grows, and stops growing where it should grow.
I understand now that blank look an older person gives you when you stop to speak to them. I understand it's not a look of idiocy. It's a look of searching within for a name of the person standing in front of you. It's the blank look of searching through the memory files that are pretty much depleted of all things, except the memory of a sleepless night, because of all the aches and pains, and the worry of things that can't be fixed. And when they say, "Do I know you?" You gently explain to them that yes, you are their niece, their neighbor of 25 years, their child's best friend since grade school. Too bad at that time you don't have the understanding that comes with age, because you would be more understanding of the blank look you are seeing, and will one day be your look.
I understand why older people say, "Don't mumble." It's not about you mumbling, it's about them not hearing what you said to begin with, and it sounded like all your words ran together like a pile up on I-40. Speak louder, talk slower, and do not walk away from me while talking to me. I will only ask you what you said, or I will just ignore you completely, because if you can't talk without mumbling, or you can't talk louder, or if something in the other room is more important than talking to me, why I should I care if I heard you.
And having said all of that, I now understand why older people are thought of as grumpy. It makes me grumpy when I can't find my glasses, and then when I find them I can't remember why I needed them. It makes me grumpy to stand up and hear the snap, crackle, pop of aging bones, and know that they are my aging bones. It makes me grumpy to find hairs sprouting out of my chin. It makes me grumpy when I see someone who know me, and I can't remember them. It makes me grumpy when people mumble when they should be speaking clearly.
I'm aging, so with aging comes understanding.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
You Sound Northern
It always amuses me when someone says to me, "You have such a way with words and expressing things, would you write........for me?" Oh sure, I can write chapters and chapters of words and expressions ~ if you do, or say something that I think is dumb. Sarcasm flows directly from brain to fingers, and my fingers are flying across the keyboard. But to write something intelligent, something meaningful, something deep, something profound....NOPE, don't ask me.
My brain cramps up, the signal to my fingers makes them freeze just millimeters from the keyboard. Tell me something like....."You don't have an accent like I thought you would. You sound Northern." I will be chowing down on wall paper paste, and my fingers will be flying across the keyboard, because, because, because, "What do you mean I sound northern?" I meant to say chowing down on wall paper paste, because my friend who told me I sound northern said grits taste like wallpaper paste. Yes, she said that, even though she has never eaten wall paper paste. Me either, but I know grits are much, much better than wall paper paste. I know that because I am NOT northern. Grits are the glue that hold a southerner together while they wallpaper their entire house, and line their cupboards with the leftover paper.
See what I mean? Nothing intelligent, meaningful, deep or profound about what I just wrote, but boy can I write sarcasm. I did not just say, "Man, this wallpaper paste sure tastes a lot like grits. Maybe I'll put some sugar on it." Oh...now that's a new chapter in the book of sarcasm. Sugar and grits should not cohabitate in the same bowl. Cheese and grits in the same bowl. That's fine and dandy. Cheese, grits, a little bacon grease for flavor if real butter is not available...fine and dandy. NO SUGAR allowed with grits. Only someone who sounds like a northerner would do such a thing.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Genetics
Sometimes I absolutely detest genetics. If we have to cope with genetics, why can't we pick and choose which ones we will be blessed with? If I was going to have the genetics of either one of my maternal grandparents, why couldn't it have been Grandma's? Her quiet, gentle nature. Her loving tenderness.
Was it really that important to pick up the depression, the anger, the moodiness? Did I need those genetics to make me who I am? Wouldn't it have been better for this old world if I had been blessed with grandma's nature? Did the world really need another depressed, angry, moody person? Was sarcasm and meanness in short supply in October 1960?
I don't know what genetics I acquired from my dad, or his family. Maybe I should be blaming him, if we can actually blame the bearers of genetics. Someone told my mom that if you have a blood transfusion, it changes your genetic make up. STICK ME A NEEDLE AND DRAIN THIS BLOOD! Ah, I know that isn't true, but what if it were so? I might get something worse than what I deal with everyday.
Genetics are genetics, and glorious in so many ways. After all, who doesn't love to look into the mirror and see those droopy eyes, the frown that thrives on the unsuspecting face? You tell yourself today you will overcome the genetics that make you who you are, and then, and then, well...and then you don't.
Was it really that important to pick up the depression, the anger, the moodiness? Did I need those genetics to make me who I am? Wouldn't it have been better for this old world if I had been blessed with grandma's nature? Did the world really need another depressed, angry, moody person? Was sarcasm and meanness in short supply in October 1960?
I don't know what genetics I acquired from my dad, or his family. Maybe I should be blaming him, if we can actually blame the bearers of genetics. Someone told my mom that if you have a blood transfusion, it changes your genetic make up. STICK ME A NEEDLE AND DRAIN THIS BLOOD! Ah, I know that isn't true, but what if it were so? I might get something worse than what I deal with everyday.
Genetics are genetics, and glorious in so many ways. After all, who doesn't love to look into the mirror and see those droopy eyes, the frown that thrives on the unsuspecting face? You tell yourself today you will overcome the genetics that make you who you are, and then, and then, well...and then you don't.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Footprints
I love to hear Greyson running through the house. I hear those little chubby feet pitter patter from one end of the house to the other. Along with the pitter patter is the baby chatter. Wonderful sounds that are part of my day.
Those little feet leave footprints on the freshly mopped floor, and when he escapes from the bathtub without getting dried off, wet little footprints mark where he has been. Footprints that will be mopped up, dried up, and soon forgotten.
It's the footprints on my heart that will never go away. Grandkids open our hearts door, and just walk right in. Pitter, patter, pitter, patter, little things that matter.
Those little feet leave footprints on the freshly mopped floor, and when he escapes from the bathtub without getting dried off, wet little footprints mark where he has been. Footprints that will be mopped up, dried up, and soon forgotten.
It's the footprints on my heart that will never go away. Grandkids open our hearts door, and just walk right in. Pitter, patter, pitter, patter, little things that matter.
Words
That's it! That's final! I am going to write my own dictionary. It's either do that, or finally give in and acknowledge that some words I've known since childhood just are not words. At least not words that Mr Webster knew when he wrote the dictionary. Mr Webster never met my family apparently, because my family knows words that Mr Webster doesn't know.
We all know how the first dictionary was created. Mr and Mrs Webster just kept talking, one word leading to another, and soon they had a book of words. They defined them all, submitted them to a publisher, the book was printed, and today we still refer back to Websters Dictionary. The publisher, like the Websters, apparently didn't know my family either, because he/she left out a large quantity of words.
Some of these words that really are words, are not words that are recognized in the Scrabble and Words with Friends dictionaries. That just frustrates me, because these are words that I have known my entire life. Who do I need to talk to about getting these words in the book?
We all know how the first dictionary was created. Mr and Mrs Webster just kept talking, one word leading to another, and soon they had a book of words. They defined them all, submitted them to a publisher, the book was printed, and today we still refer back to Websters Dictionary. The publisher, like the Websters, apparently didn't know my family either, because he/she left out a large quantity of words.
Some of these words that really are words, are not words that are recognized in the Scrabble and Words with Friends dictionaries. That just frustrates me, because these are words that I have known my entire life. Who do I need to talk to about getting these words in the book?
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Oh mirror, mirror on the bathroom door, I stood before you, my image for to see. You reflected back at me, an image I thought was me. There you were upon the door, and there I was seeing me. I looked, and thought I saw a me that wasn't quite so bad. So I turned from you, and with confidence, went out the door. Oh what day it was. And all the while I thought I saw in you, a me that looked so good. I saw my friends and family, I laughed, and talked, and played. A smile upon my face, a confidence within myself that really felt so good, for after all, the me I saw reflected back me, looked pretty good, and so I went to face the day and see my friends and family. Today I saw photograph of the me that wasn't so.
Oh mirror, mirror on the bathroom door, YOU LIED TO ME. You reflected back to me, an image that wasn't so. You tricked my mind as you hung there, on the bathroom door. Mirror, Mirror on the door, I will never stand in front of you, and believe what you want me to see. Mirror, mirror on the bathroom door, YOU LIED TO ME!
Oh mirror, mirror on the bathroom door, YOU LIED TO ME. You reflected back to me, an image that wasn't so. You tricked my mind as you hung there, on the bathroom door. Mirror, Mirror on the door, I will never stand in front of you, and believe what you want me to see. Mirror, mirror on the bathroom door, YOU LIED TO ME!
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Being Brave is Overrated
I've said that I'm excited that Jacob is leaving for his second year of college, and I mean that. I'm proud of him and all he has accomplished. It's a great experience for him, and he is no longer my little boy, which has some sadness attached to it, but it's gratifying to see him grow and mature, and move on. After all, that's what we were raising him to do.
Having said all of that, saying I'm brave, that I'm good with him leaving again, the reality is, I'm not really all that brave about it. I discovered that this morning when I went into his room to take his laundry. His room is torn apart, and all of his furniture, books, DVD's, Games, stereo, posters, pictures, his life with us, is being packed up and will be moving out with him. I stood there with his laundry in my arms, looking at his life packed up in boxes and stacks, and realized...this is real. This isn't like last year when he moved into the dorm. He's going to a house, he's paying his own rent, his utilities, buying his groceries, cleaning his own house, (he better), and going to a job, and to college. He won't be coming back here as our son who lives with us. He will come to visit, and he will be a guest.
Needless to say, I cried. Yes, I'm glad for all the positive things happening for him, and I'm glad that he has grown into a man I can be proud of, but a large corner in my heart aches. I want to take my little Jakey Man into my arms and hold him. I want to take him in the van and have him say, "Mom can the van be a heckacockter? Can we fly in it to town?" I want to watch him ride his little bike without training wheels when he was only three. I want to see his bike helmet swim all over his head. I want to see him being little with his boots on the wrong feet. I want to look out the window and see him sitting on the slide, with his guitar in his hands, and singing some country song at the top of his lungs.
I'm brave though, so I will wipe away my tears, act like it's just another day, and carry a box or two out to Grey's truck, and when they pull out the driveway, I will laugh and wave, take a picture or two. Yep, I'm brave. Then when no one's looking I will weep an ocean, and then move on to the next episode of life with Lucretia.
Having said all of that, saying I'm brave, that I'm good with him leaving again, the reality is, I'm not really all that brave about it. I discovered that this morning when I went into his room to take his laundry. His room is torn apart, and all of his furniture, books, DVD's, Games, stereo, posters, pictures, his life with us, is being packed up and will be moving out with him. I stood there with his laundry in my arms, looking at his life packed up in boxes and stacks, and realized...this is real. This isn't like last year when he moved into the dorm. He's going to a house, he's paying his own rent, his utilities, buying his groceries, cleaning his own house, (he better), and going to a job, and to college. He won't be coming back here as our son who lives with us. He will come to visit, and he will be a guest.
Needless to say, I cried. Yes, I'm glad for all the positive things happening for him, and I'm glad that he has grown into a man I can be proud of, but a large corner in my heart aches. I want to take my little Jakey Man into my arms and hold him. I want to take him in the van and have him say, "Mom can the van be a heckacockter? Can we fly in it to town?" I want to watch him ride his little bike without training wheels when he was only three. I want to see his bike helmet swim all over his head. I want to see him being little with his boots on the wrong feet. I want to look out the window and see him sitting on the slide, with his guitar in his hands, and singing some country song at the top of his lungs.
I'm brave though, so I will wipe away my tears, act like it's just another day, and carry a box or two out to Grey's truck, and when they pull out the driveway, I will laugh and wave, take a picture or two. Yep, I'm brave. Then when no one's looking I will weep an ocean, and then move on to the next episode of life with Lucretia.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Memory Lane in the Form of Greyson Noble
These days with Greyson are a fast run down memory lane for me. It's like reliving Julia Bernice through her son. He is so much like her. I'm glad that he is, because Julie is the lost child of the three of mine. Not intentionally, but she was 18 months old when Jacob was born, so a lot of her babyhood and toddler events are lost in the depths of a mildly dysfunctional brain. My brain, that is.
When Greyson looks at me with that look of defiance, I see his mom. When he smiles that big huge, you just gotta love me, smile....I see his mom. When he cuddles up close with all his chubby cuteness, I see his mom. When I say, "Give me that." and he knows he is in trouble, he smiles that big old smile, and then fast crawls away from me. Just like his mom. When he is giving grandpa grief with his stubbornness, grandpa says, "Just like his mom, only he might be worse." He's not, we just forgot.
Greyson has a new phrase that I have been trying to figure out, and today I think I finally figured it out. He is saying....Have that. It sounds like AB DAT. He hears it constantly throughout the day, because he constantly has something he shouldn't. I will say, "Let me have that." and the race is on.
I'm glad he is letting me AB DAT memory of Julia.
When Greyson looks at me with that look of defiance, I see his mom. When he smiles that big huge, you just gotta love me, smile....I see his mom. When he cuddles up close with all his chubby cuteness, I see his mom. When I say, "Give me that." and he knows he is in trouble, he smiles that big old smile, and then fast crawls away from me. Just like his mom. When he is giving grandpa grief with his stubbornness, grandpa says, "Just like his mom, only he might be worse." He's not, we just forgot.
Greyson has a new phrase that I have been trying to figure out, and today I think I finally figured it out. He is saying....Have that. It sounds like AB DAT. He hears it constantly throughout the day, because he constantly has something he shouldn't. I will say, "Let me have that." and the race is on.
I'm glad he is letting me AB DAT memory of Julia.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Words With Friends
I've recently started playing Words with Friends, and I think the name of the game should be changed to Friends with Words. It seems to me that my friends have all the words and I just have 26 letters. I know that Mr Webster might remind me of his book of words, all created from 26 letters, but my brain has not retained all of those words apparently.
I have friends who can use various combinations of two letters, and Words with Friends consider those two letter combinations to be a word. Now really, are those words? I know some two letter combinations that are words. Words like at, it, si, no, on, be, or, etc. I try to branch out and use other combinations, and the Words with Friends police will flash a warning at me. "QR is not a word you idiot." To prove that I'm an idiot, I yell at the computer, "IT IS TOO. MY FRIEND JUST USED IT AND GOT 99 POINTS." INVALID says the computer back at me.
I feel like I'm in kindergarten wanting to be in high school. See Jane run. See Jane say hi to Spot. See Jane be dumb. I want to read the chapter books with all the big words, but I can't get through the big books with little words. While I'm fretting over this, my Friends with Words are making up two letter words and getting points of 28, 50, 999. I can't count that high. I'm still in kindergarten.
One of my Friends with Words told me that I should have used the Z on a DW space. DW? Isn't she a character in one of my children's books I used to read? I didn't like her in those books, and I don't like her in Words with Friends. I want to use the DW and the TW, but how can I when the letters I have to use are UUUZZZJ? I tried combinations of those letters in two's. Words with Friends police said they weren't words. Yelling that they are hasn't helped me one iota. Iota is a word, but will it come to me when I'm playing Words with Friends? NO, it will not.
It's just a game of words. That's what I keep telling myself, but I want to WIN, and I want to be a WINNER, and I want to use the DW and the TW in a section with a DL and a TL, and I want to get more than 2 points per word. I also want the Words with Friends police to STOP giving me those warnings about being INVALID. I'm going to get an inferiority complex.
Is INVALID a word that means it doesn't count, and can't be used, or is it a word that means I'm an INVALID who can't play Words with Friends? UGH! Hey, I wonder how many points I could get for using UGH? Probably 3 points, even though the face value of the letters are more than one point each.
I have friends who can use various combinations of two letters, and Words with Friends consider those two letter combinations to be a word. Now really, are those words? I know some two letter combinations that are words. Words like at, it, si, no, on, be, or, etc. I try to branch out and use other combinations, and the Words with Friends police will flash a warning at me. "QR is not a word you idiot." To prove that I'm an idiot, I yell at the computer, "IT IS TOO. MY FRIEND JUST USED IT AND GOT 99 POINTS." INVALID says the computer back at me.
I feel like I'm in kindergarten wanting to be in high school. See Jane run. See Jane say hi to Spot. See Jane be dumb. I want to read the chapter books with all the big words, but I can't get through the big books with little words. While I'm fretting over this, my Friends with Words are making up two letter words and getting points of 28, 50, 999. I can't count that high. I'm still in kindergarten.
One of my Friends with Words told me that I should have used the Z on a DW space. DW? Isn't she a character in one of my children's books I used to read? I didn't like her in those books, and I don't like her in Words with Friends. I want to use the DW and the TW, but how can I when the letters I have to use are UUUZZZJ? I tried combinations of those letters in two's. Words with Friends police said they weren't words. Yelling that they are hasn't helped me one iota. Iota is a word, but will it come to me when I'm playing Words with Friends? NO, it will not.
It's just a game of words. That's what I keep telling myself, but I want to WIN, and I want to be a WINNER, and I want to use the DW and the TW in a section with a DL and a TL, and I want to get more than 2 points per word. I also want the Words with Friends police to STOP giving me those warnings about being INVALID. I'm going to get an inferiority complex.
Is INVALID a word that means it doesn't count, and can't be used, or is it a word that means I'm an INVALID who can't play Words with Friends? UGH! Hey, I wonder how many points I could get for using UGH? Probably 3 points, even though the face value of the letters are more than one point each.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Fingerprints On My Heart
Yesterday I picked up the mail, and there was something to me from Sarah Olivia. A beautiful card, and enclosed, the poem about fingerprints and Sarah's little hand print. Circa: kindergarten? You all know the poem, it is true in every household. The mom is always cleaning fingerprints off the windows, the frig, the mirror, the wall, the furniture, and sometimes it gets discouraging. All those little fingerprints have been wiped away, and now Sarah is a woman, living far from home.
Yesterday as I read what she wrote, and knew that finally she was happy, it warmed my heart. A mother always rejoices when her children are happy. Sarah ended with, "I love you, I miss you and I wish you would come see me." As I read those words, I remembered times we had argued...times I misunderstood her, she misunderstood me. So many times I just wanted to throw in the towel, and admit to failure as a mom to Sarah. But there she wrote it in black and white...I love you....I miss you....I wish you would come see me.
All her little fingerprints are wiped from the surfaces. Her "thoughtful" drawings that she did just for me on the rental house wall, all painted over. The van windows wiped clean from her face print, she thought was so hilarious to put there, knowing all along I would yell at her. All wiped clean, gone from memory. The fingerprints on my heart, they remain. Her words, her touch, her smile, those are like fingerprints on my heart....they never go away.
Sarah Olivia, I love you....I miss you....I want to come and see you.
Yesterday as I read what she wrote, and knew that finally she was happy, it warmed my heart. A mother always rejoices when her children are happy. Sarah ended with, "I love you, I miss you and I wish you would come see me." As I read those words, I remembered times we had argued...times I misunderstood her, she misunderstood me. So many times I just wanted to throw in the towel, and admit to failure as a mom to Sarah. But there she wrote it in black and white...I love you....I miss you....I wish you would come see me.
All her little fingerprints are wiped from the surfaces. Her "thoughtful" drawings that she did just for me on the rental house wall, all painted over. The van windows wiped clean from her face print, she thought was so hilarious to put there, knowing all along I would yell at her. All wiped clean, gone from memory. The fingerprints on my heart, they remain. Her words, her touch, her smile, those are like fingerprints on my heart....they never go away.
Sarah Olivia, I love you....I miss you....I want to come and see you.
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