I was feeling a little downhearted, so I called my married daughter, Janette, to see if we could meet for lunch. She told me to pick her up in ten or fifteen minutes when she stopped bleeding. Bleeding? BLEEDING?
"What happened?"
"Mom, I was using my rotary cutter to cut quilt blocks and sliced a piece off the end of my index finger."
OK, I told myself. Don't panic. Just get there!
I arrived at her house and determined that doctors or stitches weren't needed. Whew! Then, we figured out how to get a band-aid to stick to the tip of her finger.
Crisis over, we drove to the nearby Sonic Drive-in with the rollerskating waiters and shaded picnic tables. Janette ordered for both of us . . . grilled cheese kids' meals with fries, a cookie and fruit slushies . . . and we talked about all the important stuff. Like her new responsibilities at work due to a promotion, clothes we needed, places where the clothes might be on sale and the questionable incidents at a recent wedding reception. Fries and girltalk . . . delicious!
Woops! Our 30-minute lunch had turned into 45, so we quickly dropped our napkins, straws and cups into the garbage and headed for the car. I drove her home, and we exchanged quick "I love you's."
At a stoplight, I noticed that "feeling a little downhearted" had been replaced by a warm assurance that reminded me of when I was the daughter, and my mom put a band-aid on my hurts.
I guess it's true. Life's a circle, and what goes around comes around.
Thanks for the band-aid, Janette . . . you're a great mom in the making!
Lunch with Janette
Parents Reap Payday Moments
Our newlywed son, Anthony, and his wife, Candice, invited their families to share Candice’s birthday celebration in their tiny apartment. It turned out to be one of those payday moments that parents fantasize about when their teenagers are driving them nuts.
First off, when I mention that their apartment is tiny, I mean TINY. By the time eleven people had arrived, everyone agreed it was a good thing we were friends and had used deodorant because there was a lot of shoulder rubbing going on.
Anthony had baked a chocolate cake in a 9x13 inch pan, decorated it with blue icing and written a "Happy Birthday" message in pastel M and M’s. He served it on a new set of dishes with matching stainless steel forks. No "cheap" paper products for THIS honorable crowd! He then offered us ice cold water from the new Britta water purifying pitcher, served in sparkling-clean glasses. Candice was regal as she accepted the baked delicacy and her birthday gifts seated upon an elegant lawn chair throne.
It wasn’t long until her younger brothers and sisters had done what younger brothers and sisters do best by scattering cake crumbs all over the carpet. The newlyweds quickly got their vacuum cleaner out . . . let’s see . . . I think this particular version is called a dust buster . . . and vacuumed up the crumbs. At which point the parents were bursting with joy to see how the happy couple reacted to the idea that THEIR home was being messed up by a bunch of little hooligans. And the best part . . . as we left the party and the mess behind, the newlyweds seemed more than happy, even anxious, to have us go so that they could get on with the process of being independently dependent on each other.
For parents who are still immersed in a world of vacuuming cake crumbs, washing dishes, wiping up spilled milk and wondering if any of the responsibility training will ever "sink in," just remember this. Payday moments are ahead!
Bridging the Teenage Years
Our sixteen-year-old daughter, Janette, is diligently working toward crossing the bridge into adulthood. According to the psychology books, an adult sees the "big picture" and understands that he or she isn’t the sun around which the universe revolves.
This summer, Janette has a job at a local frozen yogurt shop. Part of the job includes training sessions and going to bed at a reasonable hour so she can get to work on time. Here is a note, quoted exactly, that demonstrates some of the hurdles faced by parents AND teenagers during the transition years:
"Hey, Mom and Dad,
I have a training thing on Overland at 1:00 p.m. so it is IMPERATIVE that a car is here for my escortation to Overland! Also, PLEASE see that I am awake by 10:30 a.m. because I have lots to do before I leave for Overland at 12:30! Thank-you! Love always, Janette"
To be sure . . . she received the wake-up call on schedule, and the car was available at the appointed hour. She also received, free of charge, the lecture on going to bed at a decent hour so that she could avoid assigning duties to OTHER ADULTS that could be delegated to an alarm clock.
Janette did such a good job at the training sessions that in less than a month, her boss promoted her to the position of supervisor. As the supervisor of a frozen yogurt shop, Janette is qualified to make a ba-zillion delectable yogurt concoctions, manage the behavior of workers on her shift, keep a steady stream of customers happy at the drive-thru window, smile for seven hours through braces that were just readjusted, wash a sinkful of dishes and sterilize all the equipment for tomorrow’s business.
I’m impressed. I’m particularly impressed because I believe this is the same individual who has difficulty scrubbing the sink out in her bathroom once a week.
Everybody Loves Candice
It's easy to figure out why our son, Anthony, loves his fiance', Candice. She's young, beautiful, sweet, fun loving, smart, charming, generous, creative and cuddly. And . . . oh . . . her captivating blue eyes!
To tell you the truth, Anthony isn't the only one in our family who loves Candice. Take my husband, Dan. He loves Candice because ever since Candice came on the scene, Anthony has been smitten with the urge to do yardwork and help out around the house. To his credit, Anthony has cleaned the burners on the stove, scrubbed the lime deposits out of the tub, cut down six overgrown trees with the chain saw, chopped and stacked them into firewood, redirected our irrigation ditch with large rocks, mowed the lawn at least once a week and completely organized the upstairs . . . without being asked.
As much as Anthony and Dan love Candice, I think I love her the most. Last week, she drove into our driveway, dashed through the front door, stood at the bottom of the stairs, and called up to Anthony, "Honey . . . hurry up! We're going to be late! Are you coming?" In less than a minute, Anthony appeared . . . fully dressed, shaven, showered, combed and smelling like an expensive bottle of manly fragrance.
Do you have any idea how many times I've stood at the bottom of the stairs and called, "Anthony . . . hurry up! We're going to be late! Are you coming?" With little or no response? Trust me . . . you don't want to know.
Yes, friends. I love Candice most of all. Not only because of her beautiful blue eyes, her sweet nature and the way she has transformed Anthony into a model of ambition and domestic promise. I love her most of all because she wants to take over my job!
Graduation Day
By Renee Hawkley
(This article was first published in May, 1986, reprinted in Reader's Digest in May, 1989 and continues to be asked for.)
I never thought it would come to this.
Our oldest son is graduating from high school. The eighteen-year-old whirlwind is about to relocate.
One day soon, I will enter his "untouchable" room. I expect to find out once and for all what causes that persistent smell . . . an intriguing aroma best described as something between sweaty socks and peanut butter cups. I will rummage through the pile of whatever-it-is on his bed and unearth the pair of matching sheets. After laundering them, I'll put them back on the bed just like they looked in the catalog I ordered them from. I'll put the matching pillowcase on the pillow, breathe a grateful sigh that the blanket his Grandma Thomas hand-quilted for him is still intact, and align the lengthwise part of the bedspread with the lengthwise part of the bed.
I will go through the stuffed bottom drawer of the chest and count the candy-bar wrappers. I will marvel that its owner has never had a cavity.
I will hide the weight set in the closet and examine several gouges in the walls made by one sports apparatus or the other. Yes, I know. It was an accident, Mom. With any luck, my husband and I will be able to fix most of them with spackling compound and a can of paint.
I will vacuum corners, scrub walls, disinfect mopboards and shine windows. I will confiscate, eradicate and eliminate all dust-ball families that have been breeding with the gum wrappers and dirty combs under the bed.
Then I'll organize the stamp collection and baseball cards for storage. I'll gather all the camera parts and put them in their little compartments in the camera case. I'll bag pairs of holey sneakers for the garbage can. Then I'll close the door, fully expecting to open it later to the organized sight I left behind.
Ethan's First Poetry
Our sixth and youngest son, Ethan, was having a great time being a kid. He told me he wasn't planning to grow up, but it happened anyway. Recently, we drove him to Provo, Utah and dropped him off at the Missionary Training Center, where he will learn the Tagalog language and finish preparations to serve a two-year mission for the Church of Jesus Christ. From there, he will return to the Philippines, where he was born nineteen years ago while our family was stationed with the military on Clark Air Force Base.
Just like everyone, Ethan has special God-given talents and gifts to develop and share. One of his talents is a love for poetry.
As a young child, he strongly objected to being left home "alone" with his six older siblings and baby sister. I can't imagine why. He got into the habit of wrapping his arms tightly around my knees when I was getting ready to go, looking up at me with his big, brown eyes and begging me not to leave. I would try and explain to him that everything would be OK and that I would be back soon, but it didn't seem to comfort him.
One day, when he was about four years old, his attitude about me leaving changed as if by magic. When I approached him with the dreaded news that I was about to leave, he hugged me tightly around the knees, looked up at me, and calmly said, "Mommy, mommy . . . Do your best. Be careful. Don't do long time (meaning don't be gone long). Choose the right. I love you. You're pretty." Then he turned and went back to his play.
I was stunned. I immediately got a pen and wrote his words down, thinking I would never hear them again. But I was wrong. From that day, he repeated them every time I was about to leave, and each time, his words provided him with the reassurance that all would be well. Long after he outgrew the need to use this poignant sendoff, I had committed it to memory.
When we said our goodbyes in Provo, it was my turn to approach the moment of separation with the knowledge that all will be well and hug him . . . oh, so tightly . . . looking up into his big, brown eyes . . . and letting him go with the best counsel a mother could give.
"Ethan, Ethan . . . Do your best. Be careful. Don't do long time. Choose the right. I love you. You're handsome."