LIfe Lessons and Building Nests

A few years ago I was an office manager at an agricultural consulting firm. During the spring, our consultants would take soil samples from farmer’s fields to test them for lime content. Soil testing was dirty, mind-numbing, and tedious work. Because of the sheer volume of testing that had to be done, we would hire seasonal help to perform the tests. This particular story is about Charles, one such temp.

Charles came to our firm right after graduating from a prestigious college with a degree is molecular science. He was a Man of Science. Though he was really sweet, every time I was around him I got tongue tied and shy. I was just so impressed with everything about him; his credentials, his personality, his work ethic, even his appearance. The man was at least 6’ 5” tall! Testing bag after bag of soil in a hot, dusty barn didn’t seem to bother Charles at all. He was grateful to have a job, and he did his best to make sure he earned his paycheck. He was delightful, intelligent, and unassuming. But still! He was a Man of Science! Men of Science know stuff. Important stuff! That was enough to inspire a little bit of hero worship in me.

One afternoon I was enjoying a break from my desk by wandering outside for a few minutes. We were temporarily out of soil to test, and I saw that Michael, the owner of our company, was talking with Charles in the parking lot. When Michael left, Charles disappeared into the barn and came back out a moment later carrying a bucket. As I watched, he stooped over (and at his height, he really DID have to stoop) and started weeding our stone-covered parking lot.

I was appalled! What was he doing? Is this what Michael had told him to do until more soil came in to be tested? This was not the sort of work a Man of Science should be doing! This was busy work! This was menial labor! This was insulting! Pulling weeds, for heaven’s sake? I was horrified, indignant, and just plain miffed on his behalf.

Though I stewed, I noticed that Charles didn’t seem to share my sense of outrage. He was humming while he worked, perfectly content to being doing what he was doing. His humility and easy acceptance only made my harrumph worse. I went back to my desk convinced that Charles was a saint. Simply a saint!

Later that afternoon I made up an excuse to go outside and check on Charles and his progress. He was back in the lab, a truck load of soil samples having been delivered for him to test. There was a pile of weeds waiting to be tossed into the dumpster, and I decided I’d relieve him of that particular duty. It was the least I could do, I felt.

Before I could take a step toward the pile of weeds, the most remarkable thing happened. A robin swooped down to the pile, grabbed some of the weeds with its beak, and flew back to the rain gutter that bordered the barn. He dropped the weeds into the gutter, spent a few moments arranging them, and then flew back to get more to add to his collection. Back and forth he flew, taking what he needed to make his nest. He worked with amazing single-mindedness and purpose. I stood in absolute awe and watched a Life Lesson unfold before my very eyes.

The work that Charles had done, work that I had thought of as menial and demeaning, made it possible for that robin to build a nest. And that nest would someday soon provide a place of safety and shelter for his mate when she laid her eggs, and later raise her young.

I’m sure Charles already knew the lessons that I was learning all over again. Nothing is menial if done with the right heart. Nothing we do is without repercussion, good or bad. Humility is not weakness, it is a strength. Pride is a poor companion that benefits very few. Sometimes the most life-giving gifts are those done with very little fanfare.

Now I know stuff, too. Important stuff.

Life is Like a Box of....Exlax

With all due respect to Momma Gump, I have what I think is a more realistic analogy. Life is like a box of Exlax. It looks good. It even tastes okay. But you know with dead certainty that more often than not someone's going to need a good pooper scooper by the end of the day.

This post is dedicated to all those hard-working, devoted parents who are trying desperately to survive parenthood with their sanity intact, their credit rating out of the toilet, and their blood pressure levels in the safe zone. As if accomplishing those things weren't enough, chances are good that one or more of their children will be trying just as desperately to prove my Exlax analogy. If I were a betting woman, I'd put my money on Mom and Dad as the couple voted most likely to need the old pooper scooper.

Let's explore some of the evidence I have to back up my theory, shall we?

• My oldest daughter read me the riot act the other day for borrowing one of her necklaces without asking her permission. I had a little trouble feeling bad about this error in judgment on my part because my brain was fogged by the fact that she was wearing my red blouse while delivering her lecture about having respect for the belongings of others. You know the one I'm talking about? The red blouse I bought as a reward for myself for not killing her at birth? The same blouse she immediately claimed as hers when she saw it for the first time, reminding me that, "Muuuuther, you KNOW you don't look good in red. It washes out your color." Uh huh. She was actually HELPING me, you see. This is the same logic that has lost me innumerable pairs of shoes, scads of makeup, and even boxes of tampons. "Muuther, you shouldn't use tampons! You could come down with a nasty case of toxic shock syndrome, and at your age, you'd go just like 'that!'"
• I have an annoying little habit. I like to shave my legs and armpits with some regularity. So sue me. There are five razors in our shower stall. I'm old, and I confuse easily. Besides, they all look the same to me. And I was desperate. My arm pits either needed a shave or a braid. I opted for the shave. The next morning there was a note on the bathroom counter. "Muuuther, you used MY razor. ALL the razors in the shower are mine. I don't know where yours is. Please open the bag of disposable razors that I got you for Christmas and use one of them in the future." Five razors. She has FIVE razors. I have a disposable and a styptic pencil. I also have razor burn and "skippers" on my legs because I'm not allowed to use her shaving gel, either, but what does THAT matter, eh? Forgive me, Daughter, for I have sinned. Again.
• I can't wear my favorite perfume anymore. The Daughter has a dog with a VERY sensitive olfactory system. "He SIMPLY can't tolerate anything more strongly scented than Safeguard, Muuther." One whiff of my perfume, and he starts to heave and shudder and starts playing out a death scene that would make Shakespeare proud. I've pointed out to her that this is the same dog who cheerfully sniffs the butt of any creature he comes near, but she swears his "sensitivity" is legitimate. I've been warned that if I continue to use my perfume I'll be eligible for inclusion in the ASPCA's Most Wanted List. It doesn't matter one iota that this dog can produce enough noxious gas to clear out the living room, or even the entire house, with one expulsion of gas. Nooooo. That's "natural." That's "healthy." That's God-awful, that's what THAT is.
• Talking on the telephone is another problem. At least when I do it. Heaven forbid my talking on the telephone two rooms away should provide such a distraction that she can't concentrate on one of her 30+ weekly episodes of CSI! You know me. I'm just a barrel of distracting fun. Who in their right mind could easily pass up the opportunity to listen in to one of my phone conversations when I'm explaining my latest experiment with using hemorrhoid cream for eye puffiness? Then there's the problem with my breathing. I do it. That's the problem. "Muuuther, could you PLEASE stop making that racket while I'm trying to listen to the radio? Honestly, you should have that checked!" What? WHAT? The air goes in, the air goes out. How have I transgressed? As far as I can tell I don't wheeze. Nothing comes shooting out of my mouth or nose that shouldn't. And I SWEAR, if I feel the urge to snore, I quickly take myself off to my bedroom where I can do so without tumbling whole civilizations. Sheesh.
• She "needed" to borrow my car the other day. And the day before that. And the day before THAT. But the latest instance of borrowing was needed because she had to go pick up some dinner for herself at McDonald's. She had to go to McDonald's because the balanced, healthy meal that was prepared for her didn't suit her craving du jour. She had to go herself, rather than asking either her Dad or me to go FOR her, because her father was away, and I was on my near-death bed with a rotten cold. Go figure. She needed to borrow MY car because her snazzy little two-door Cougar doesn't have cup holders, and she didn't want to risk a spill on her leather upholstery. MY leather upholstery, however, isn't worthy of being protected from stains because I drive a big, honking SUV. The obvious correlation here is that I lost the last of my "cool" genes the moment I bought the Explorer and thus gave up my right to care about whether I sit in a pool of spilled sticky soda goo. Coolness has its privileges, and I abdicated mine.

I love my daughter. I really do. But sometimes I think that if I don't assert myself I'm just going to curl up into a withered ball of Muuther Putty and start dribbling when I try stand up to her petty tyranny. Sooo...

The other day while she was out of the house I gave her dog a teeny, eeny, weeny bite of an Exlax and let him "play" in her room for a few hours. When she discovers his indiscretion, I'll calmly hand her the pooper scooper and remind her that parenthood can really be a bitch sometimes.

And then I'll go downstairs and breathe REALLY loud, just because I can. :-D

Kiss Me in the Dining Room

My mom and I spent an enjoyable hour and a bit this afternoon visiting with my Honey Grandma, my maternal grandmother. I don't see her as often as she'd like, nor as often as I should, but when we do see each other it's a lovely, heart-warming time, and I always leave with another memory to file away and cherish for the time when she's no longer a part of my life.

Our conversation today hit on all the usual topics. Family, friends, the local gossip from the retirement community where she lives, and the various aches and pains making the rounds of her octogenarian friends. We took a couple of conversational side trips, as well. For instance, she was a bit appalled that they'd served sauerkraut with the pork roast for dinner. Apparently sauerkraut is too much a "working man's dish" to be worthy of the special honor of being included in Sunday Dinner.

Honey Grandma is truly one of the most grace-giving and loving women I've ever met. She would no sooner stir up trouble than she would kick a puppy. But the sauerkraut thing really sent her spinning for a few moments. As that particular conversation came to a close, she'd pretty much decided that the cook just didn't know any better, the poor dear. It helped that the sauerkraut had actually tasted very good. She'd adjust, she declared. It's a different world now, after all.

Talking with Honey Grandma is always a pleasure. She's a lovely soul with grace to spare, and an abundance of humility. Spending time with her, hearing her stories, is like opening a wonderful treasure chest of memories and adventures. It never matters that the stories are the same ones we've heard over and over again. They never get old. Her enjoyment in the storytelling is so obvious that it's an honor to sit at her feet and be her audience.

As our visit was drawing to an end, the floor attendant came to the door to let Honey Grandma know that her supper was being served in the dining room. She excused herself to use the restroom, and Mom and I got our coats together and prepared to walk Grandma to the dining room on our way out.

As we were making our way to the front door of her apartment, Honey Grandma, leaning on her walker, turned to look at us over her shoulder. She said, "Don't kiss me goodbye yet. Wait until we get to the dining room. Kiss me goodbye in the dining room." Mom and I looked at each other, and then at Honey Grandma, but she didn't say anything else on the subject.

When we got to the dining area she parked her walker and Mom and I escorted her to her assigned chair at her assigned table with her assigned dining companions. When she was settled she looked up and said, "Well, thank you for a lovely visit, Karen and Barbara Ann. " Then she whispered under her breath, "Now." Trying to keep the smile off my face, I dutifully leaned down and kissed her beautiful, soft cheek. With complete sincerity I said (loudly enough to be heard by her companions, of course) "I love you, Honey Grandma." The delight on her face was all the evidence I needed that I couldn't have given her a better gift. Then my Mom repeated the ritual of the goodbye kiss and promised to see her again in a few days.

As Mom and I were walking toward the elevator, we both heard Honey Grandma telling her dining companions, "That was my daughter and granddaughter, Barbara Ann and Karen. When Karen was a little girl..." There was such pride in her voice. Such love.

Such a little thing to ask. "Kiss me in the dining room." Let these people know that I'm still loved. Let them see that I have a special place in your lives. Let them understand that I haven't been forgotten.

Do you have someone who would appreciate being "kissed in the dining room?" Don't wait. Please, don't wait.

~~~~

(Honey Grandma is so named because my two brothers and I were her "Big Honey," "Medium Honey" [me], and "Little Honey." In an effort to keep the grandma's straight, she became Honey Grandma, while my paternal grandmother was Sugar Grandma, so named because she had a dog named Sugar.)

I Am Woman, Hear Me Whimper

(Some really neat and creative blog friends recently held a writing competition [Senior Thinking and Guarded Lily, among them - see my side bar for their addresses and go visit! You won't regret it. In fact, visit ALL my blog friends and see why they are some of my favorite people in the world!]. The qualification for the competition was that the story submitted had to center on something from childhood that changed you. I was jazzed to add my two cents when Mom got sick. That sort of derailed things, and I didn't have a chance to submit my own story. Here, belatedly, is my story of the event that changed my life, offered solely for your entertainment.)

Being a girl will eventually lead to being a woman. There's just no way to get around it, I'm afraid. Well, not without some serious surgery and intensive therapy, anyway. One of the best ways to make the transition from girl to woman is to find another girl and force her to make the journey with you. For me, that girl was Robin.

Part of being a woman is dealing with...well...women things. You know. High heels. Nylons. Shaving stuff. Boobs. Bras. Boys. And of course, the dreaded menstrual period. Now, Robin and I weren't complete twits. We knew what was eventually in store for us as far as our traitorous bodies were concerned. But no movie seen in the safety of the school room, no delicate "talk" from a loving mother, no information garnered from the bathroom walls left us feeling fully prepared for what promised to be one of life's more momentous occasions. We also realized that chances were really good that we weren't going to experience our "blossoming" at the same time. That was just scary.

I have to digress a little here so that you'll understand just what we were facing, my friends. I'm 43 years old. Thirty years ago women didn't talk about their periods. They whispered to each other behind their hands that they were soon going to "fall off," or that they were "having a visit from their 'little friend'." Women didn't ride bike, swim, or otherwise pretend that life was going to be anything but miserable for at least one week out of the month. When they weren't working, they stayed home and suffered silently, like the good martyrs they were. Then, too, they didn't have the mind-boggling array of feminine products we do today. The only things women knew about that had wings were birds. There were two choices. Sanitary pads the size of small throw pillows, threaded into and held in place with an elastic belt (the ugly cousin to a garter belt, I suppose) or tampons. Tampons came in one size with one style applicator, and from one manufacturer - Tampex. "Good girls" wore sanitary napkins, and "Wild Girls" put their hymens and reputations at risk and used tampons. Those were the facts of life Robin and I faced.

We reviewed our options. We did research regarding products on the market. We conducted interviews with older, already blossomed friends. None of those things helped ease the anxiety. We needed solid answers. We needed...Sharon.

Sharon was Robin's older sister. She was a fount of information on all sorts of really amazing topics. She taught us how to inhale when we smoked, how to buy bras that would guarantee maximum volume for our minimum breasts, and how to pour a beer without making a "head". It was only natural that we'd turn to her for advice. Sharon was 11 years older than us, and she was a bona fide "Wild Girl." We both wanted to BE Sharon when we grew up.

When we approached our guru about this, Sharon's sage advice was to skip the horror of wearing throw pillows between our legs and to begin as we intended to continue - using tampons. That was good enough for us! Sharon had spoken, and we were her eager disciples. Besides, she was going to spring for the box of tampons, sparing us the humiliation of a trip to the drug store where just EVERYONE would know that blossoming was in the offing.

With nary a cramp in sight yet, we decided to be proactive about the whole thing. Clearly, we needed a dry run. (No pun intended.) A practice session, if you will. That way the pressure would be off by the time our time came. Sharon provided the "goods," and Robin and I got to work.

Neither one of us was too keen on admitting to the other that we didn't know WHAT the heck we were doing. Our bodies were pretty much uncharted territories at this stage in our development. So it was with some relief, albeit unspoken, that we discovered the tampons came with directions. Even a diagram! It seemed only fair to share the instructions, so we divided them up. Robin took the diagram, and I took the written directions. How hard could this be, after all? Robin casually made her way to the bathroom, and I stayed in my bedroom, also pretending total confidence in my ability to do this thing.

It seemed like only moments later that Robin was knocking on the bedroom door, announcing that everything had worked according to plan and diagram and that she was now comfortably prepared to blossom. I, on the other hand, was experiencing some technical difficulties. Actually, what I was experiencing was PAIN!

Trying very hard not to panic, I tearfully explained to Robin that there was something seriously wrong with my body. I was sure I was deformed in some hideous way. My tampon wouldn't...move. Well, not much anyway. There wasn't any "gliding" going on, that's for darn sure! And when it DID move, it HURT. When Robin offered to come in and investigate, I insisted that she just push the diagram under the door so I could figure out what was going on.

According to the picture, I was doing everything right. But it was clear that something was terribly, TERRIBLY wrong. There was nothing else for it. I had to further explore. Grabbing a mirror from the bathroom closet, I set about discovering my anatomy. I've got to tell you, I saw things in that mirror that I never want to see again in my LIFE.

What I eventually discovered was that there are actually TWO openings in a woman's... well...down THERE. One opening is designed to take things IN, and the other is designed to...erm... not. I was trying to insert the tampon into "not" opening. That little realization shed a lot of light on why I was in pain at the moment.

Two openings. Who knew? Probably every freaking girl/woman in the world but me.

Okay, so it may not be the most noble story. It may not be the most moving story. But it certainly explains my fear of some of the intimate acts between a man and woman that earn really high scores on online kinky tests. In that way, it did indeed change my life. I'll never be a "Wild Child." Funnily enough, that doesn't bother me. ;-)

News from Around the Water Cooler

After a really frightening couple of days, Mom came home from the hospital on Monday afternoon. The official diagnosis is COPD (chronic obstructive pulmonary disease), and she will probably be on oxygen and inhalers for quite a while, if not the rest of her life. That's actually the good news. Had she not been found, she wouldn't be with us today. The doctor said she was within hours of dying of Carbon Dioxide poisoning.

During the process of trying to regulate her CO2 and blood oxygen levels there were several complications to be dealt with. There were some issues with her creatnin and potassium rising to unsafe levels, which indicated that her kidneys weren't working at capacity. A common way to treat renal failure is to try and kick start the kidneys by administering large doses of fluids. Unfortunately, they couldn't DO that because Mom suffers from congestive heart failure, and her heart wouldn't have been able to stand the strain of trying to deal with the extra fluid build up. Through the use of steroids, diuretics, antibiotics, oxygen and a lot of prayer things finally started to stabilize.

There has been no permanent brain damage due to lack of blood oxygen, her heart is as good as it can be, her kidneys are functioning, and her COPD is undercontrol for the time being. She will, of course, continue to be monitored very closely for the next several months.

As is usually the case for me, once Mom was stable it was my turn to have a bit of a melt down; just a small one, but enough to remind me that my own healing and season of mourning isn't nearly as completeas I thought it was. Sitting in that hospital room hour after hour, staring at the monitors that were our only guides regarding her wellness, or lack thereof, was a trip down memory lane that I simply wasn't prepared to take yet.

But there really weren't many alternatives, you know? Sometimes things happen that are simply beyond our ability to change, and all we can do is hang on to our sanity, faith, whatever, and stay the course until the ride is over.

That's about where I am mentally right now; simply putting one foot in front of the other with few expectations for good or ill. I'm in self protective mode, and that means I've pretty much found my niche in silence and distance. Not a particularly healthy way to deal, but it feels like my only alternative at the moment.

The pain of losing Dad, the ache of recently losing someone very dear to my heart, the fear of losing Mom, my own health issues that still need to be resolved, my worries about my daughters, about my marriage, about money issues - all those things - they're just stuff I've got to slog through until healing and health return to my heart and body. But I'll get there. I refuse to believe otherwise.

I'll have a more Karen-like blog entry soon, I promise. But I did want to update you on what's been happening. Thanks for caring, my friends. I appreciate you.