I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about Mamas lately. Not just because this weekend is Mother’s Day, but just because Mamas have been everywhere this year in my world. And not always in a nice, happy, sunshine and lollypops way either.
I have a couple of friends who lost their mothers over the past year. One suddenly, at an advanced age. One at a younger age, but after a very lengthy fight with pancreatic cancer. Both of these women humble me with the strength they have shown in getting through, well, not having a Mama anymore. I don’t know how I would handle that and I realize it’s a part of life for which I am woefully unequipped. However, it makes me so thankful that I don’t have to go through such a loss now, and hopefully for many, many years. So I will be thinking of them this weekend, as they will be thinking of their precious Mamas who will not be here for Mother’s Day.
Another of my very close friends became a mother last month, and then lost her son two short weeks later. And this will be her first Mother’s Day, yet she will be without her child. I wish I was eloquent enough to write something comforting and profound, but this girl does not have the words. So I will be thinking of my friend this weekend also, even though I don’t have any words to offer her.
And then there is the ever expanding group of women I know who will be celebrating EXPECTANT Mother’s Day, including a cousin I dearly love. I think being a mommy-to-be on Mother’s Day must be just indescribable. You’re already a mother, but all of the “reality mommy” stuff is ahead of you and I think the anticipation of knowing that next year you’ll have a baby on Mother’s Day would almost be too much for me to bear. I don’t see how people can just go about their daily lives and not explode with excitement. So I will be thinking of these ladies too, as they prepare to bring these new little people into the world for me to cuddle and read to and spoil.
And me? What will I be doing? I will be hanging out with my wonderful Mommy, who is wonderfully witty, intensely protective and unfailingly supportive. The woman who taught me how to swim and how not to drive. The woman who introduced me not only to unicorns and the Betsy-Tacy series, but also to the value of a good cup of coffee and a cigarette. The one, the only, my Mama.
So, I’ve been going to church. I even have The Todd going to church. Granted, he says he’s going for the IHOP meal we have with our folks (we all go together, like the Ingalls) after church, but I think he secretly enjoys it. I know for some of you church has always been a common occurrence, but this has not always been the deal around these parts.
As a small child, the fam was Methodist. I love the Methodist church for its rituals. Well, I guess they still have the same rituals…..but then it’s been over 20 years. I loved going up to the front of the church for communion – and they had communion with real bread, not those oyster crackers like the Baptists. And then we always sang the same hymn while people were walking to and from the front after their dose of grape juice. Grape juice still makes me feel all chaste and angelic. I used to get really excited when Dad would be an usher, because they all walked down the aisle in a double line and looked very stern and important. And I really, really like the Apostle’s Creed. The Apostle’s Creed almost makes me feel holy, much like a glass of grape juice. Although, I never really got the whole part about believing in the “holy Catholic church” being a Protestant and all.
Then, as teenagers, we switched to the Baptist Church, as they had a plethora of church activities for younguns. Mission trips, weekends at various Christian camps and trips to the beach. Most of these things involve a church bus. Singing contemporary praise songs in a prison is cool and all, but I don’t think that’s the main draw. You would be amazed at the things one can do on a church bus. Things like smuggling liquor across the Mexican Border. Liquor in bottles shaped like little men in sombreros.
You may have noticed that there is no faith mentioned in either of the above scenarios. In fact, I would go so far as to say the Baptist experience nearly killed any desire to remain in the world of organized religion. Boy howdy, you have not experienced a clique until you throw God into the mix. Cattiness gets a whole new flavor when mixed with righteous indignation.
Church attendance aside, my folks have a deep, yet very personal, faith. We as children knew about God and we knew Mom & Dad had a personal relationship with him, but it wasn’t something that was discussed. Mom would give us devotionals every Christmas that remained in unopened, pristine condition on my bookshelf for several years. If you are in need of a devotional book, let me tell you, I have it covered from age 12 to 30.
Oddly enough, when I was 15, a twisty series of events ended in a job in the nursery of a brand-spanking-new nondenominational church. It was the craziest thing I had ever seen. The church was held Sunday mornings in our old downtown theatre. Oh, and it was also multicultural, which I didn’t really think made much of a difference, but seemed to be the first thing people asked about when I told them where I worked. The entire childcare section consisted of three little rooms that had once housed the theatre offices. We would often find sneaky runaway kindergarteners in the balcony. So for the next several years I spent Wednesdays at the most traditional church possible and Sundays at this crazy experimental theatre church.
So this whole time, I kept running into the same problem. Being saved. Especially at the Baptist church, the whole dunking thing was a major deal. Now, as a Methodist, I had been baptized as a baby and confirmed in the fourth grade and, to me, this made me just as much of a Grade-A member of the God Squad as anybody else. Apparently this was not so, as I heard my youth minister talking to one of our Disciple Now leaders that he was worried about my soul. (See: Baptist Church and ruining one’s faith in organized religion) And these leaders kept telling us these stories about how they were stuck in the pit of despair due to (insert alcoholism, addiction, partying, depression, etc.) and they were on a rooftop screaming at God and all of a sudden this feeling of peace came over them and their life immediately changed. That’s a true story I heard at that Disciple Now session.
Dude, I must be missing out. Where was my awesome raging at God moment? I wanted a burning bush or something. But at the same time, I also felt very strongly that I was just as saved as they were.
And then I went to college and like many people drifted away from the church. I would think about going back to the church, but there were so many points to ponder. The rest of my family was still technically Baptist, and there was obviously no way in Hell (Get it? No way in Hell?) I would attend a service there ever again. Being soulless and un-dunked and pretty much lost and in the arms of the enemy and all, you know. I was technically Methodist, but that’s a pretty fancy church and I am a pretty casual person. God might not care what you look like but I was betting the Methodists might. And I didn’t really know anything about any other denominations. So for years I just quit thinking about it.
But then I remembered the little theatre church.
By this time, fifteen years later, the little theatre church was a big huge church. They even had a big pond…with ducks. Those three little office rooms had morphed from a nursery to two floors of full-fledged Sunday School classes. The church band had expanded from just a piano to an entire stage full of congregation members with a drum set, bongos, acoustic and electrical guitars, saxophone and flute. It was wild.
So I took a seat (With Mom, because I don’t even eat at McDonald’s alone, much less go in a whole room of people and pick a seat by myself. I knew there was a meet & greet coming and I didn’t want to be the “alone” person.) and sat back to see what God had to say. There was a preacher I was unfamiliar with and – y’all – he was incredible. I had never heard a sermon like that. He wasn’t dry and stiff. He didn’t hint that without a large donation I was headed for fire and brimstone. He didn’t make me feel that I would one day hear him tell someone he was worried about my soul. It was applicable! It was heartening! By golly, it was uplifting!
And, in all seriousness, as I have kept going, it’s made me want to do more, to be more. I finally opened those devotional books on my shelf. In fact, I open them every morning and every evening. And I have been surprised at the difference it has made in my life. I found my faith.
I mean, it’s not a burning bush….but I think I might be okay without one.
Sometimes, I think the Internet is a sick, sick thing that the devil has put here to suck up my brainpower. Like Wikipedia. Wikipedia is like crack for me. It’s the world’s longest game of “6 Degrees of Kevin Bacon.” Last week I watched Love Actually (for the 427th time) and looked up Emma Thompson in Wikipedia to see what other roles were listed. Before I knew it I had gotten mired in an entry dealing with the divide between church and state. No kidding.
So I have been trying to curb the wiki-ing, but other brain sucking diversions have sprung up to take its place. Have y’all seen nymbler.com? One of my preggers buddies, Nicole, is having a girl and we (well, okay, just ME) have been fascinated with Nymbler. Check it out.
I like baby names. I am obsessed with baby names. I could discuss baby names for hours. Days, perhaps. I am not remotely ashamed that I have a collection of baby name books dating back to when I was 13. I was very upset at the original name of my Cabbage Patch kid and sent in the adoption certificate to have it changed from Heidi to Carla, after a character in the 80’s cartoon Kidd Video. If you remember Kidd Video, you are my new best friend because even Baby Brother could only muster up a vague recollection.
Oddly enough, this obsession does not extend to actual babies, just their names.
(Dear friends: This does not mean I don’t like your babies. I love your babies. I just don’t love them with a sick and freaky obsession, for which you should be relieved.)
As you can imagine, this tends to drive my friends (all of whom seem to be pregnant right now) batty. Especially when I break out the baby name rules…..which, let me explain, are only MY rules. You choose your names as you wish, more power to you. You want to name your kid Bronx Mowgli, Ashlee Simpson, float your own boat. Maybe he can grow up and hang out with Kal-El Cage and Pilot Inspektor Lee. (Then again, if Jason Lee wanted to have babies with me, I would let him name them Inspektor Gadget, if only he would get rid of that Earl mustache.)
Who named your baby? Jamiedidit.
1. No nickname names. Call her Katie. But make the birth certificate say Katherine. Unless, of course, there is a tradition of some sort.
2. If you fight over a family name, whoever pops the kid out first wins.
3. Last name-first names are great. I think this is because NOBODY will ever be able to use my last name as a first name and I am jealous of the rest of you.
4. Nicknames (as long as you have a regular name for formal use) are even better. Baby Sister has a rocking nickname, and I am way jealous. There is nothing one can do with Jamie except amend it to James. I have a great-aunt named Winifred, which is way up there on the list of World’s Most Hideous Names, but the nickname she has is so rockstar awesome that I will most likely use it one day, and therefore will not tell you people about it.
5. British names are great. In the UK you can use the name Jemima (LOVE Jemima) and they think Beatrix Potter’s Puddle-Duck, not Pancake Syrup. For that matter, you can use Beatrix!
6. (The Golden Rule) Spell it conventionally, people. Let me tell you, I spent the first half of my life hoping there would be stuff with “Jamie” preprinted on it at tacky Florida souvenir shops, and it never happened. There was always JAIME, but no JAMIE. So I know you think all those funky Kaitlyn, Katelin, Caytlan, etc. spellings are cute, but then your kid will never get any fun personalized stuff because nobody will be able to spell her name.
Oh, and Nicole? Decided on “Amelia Claire.” Very classy, very perfect. I think I will call her Millie.
I have this mental list of things I absolutely refuse to do. Things like this random sample: skydive, return to Mexico, watch Old Yeller, ever attempt post-graduate studies and...go to the gym. One of these things has been removed from the list.
I went to the gym.
Exercise and I do not play well together. I never even had the “Get in Shape, Girl” playset. My only real attempt at any sort of athletic pursuit was a hellish couple of seasons in girls’ softball. My wonderful and equally daydreaming friend Amanda and I often split the position of catcher, and argued over who would remain in the dugout. But then I hit a pop-up into my own eye and was allowed to gracefully retire from my team.
I take that back……I also took dance lessons for years. Tap and jazz at the CEA with Miss Julia Hope and later Miss Jennie. I can work a step-ball-change and I can shuffle off to Buffalo, but the jazz skills are lacking. I did, at one time, join the junior jazz group of a different local dance/gymnastics center. For one sweet, shining moment I was a Tumbletown All-Star. And then I singlehandedly ruined our chances to win the Kiwanis Kapers due to my complete inability to perform the Bobby Brown. (Or the Roger Rabbit, whichever you prefer.) "Pump Up the Jam" still gives me a panic attack.
So, you see, physical prowess is not my strong suit.
Angie & Dr. Brenton are trying to change that. Angie is on this health kick, which I am really not excited about, as it removes her cube steak from my diet for the forseeable future. And she makes really good cube steak, with home-made mashed potatoes and everything.
So Angie starts talking about how she’s so excited about starting this thing called Zumba, and I thought she was playing bridge or something. I was so confused. I think I got it mixed up with Mah Jongg and I couldn’t figure out how that was at all healthy, because I thought it was some game named for the Chinese word for gossip.
Turns out Zumba is Latin dance aerobics. And Angie loves it. She loves it so much she’s already talking about starting Pilates, too. But her enthusiasm won me over, and I went to my first Zumba class this past Saturday.
I had this image in my head of becoming like a Southern Jane Fonda crossed with Salma Hayek, but I think I came out of the class a little more like Charo. But I finished it, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as I feared.
Maybe next week I can work my way up to being Suzanne Somers.
Time to redecorate around here! Baby Sister spent the day Saturday helping me tweak my home decor, so today the blog gets the same treatment! Maybe tomorrow you'll get a real post.
My Aunt Marian, doyenne of Poplar Creek, she of the 57 china patterns, is unsurprisingly very strict about her personal beauty regimen. Powder, mascara and lipstick, that’s it. But, it has to be from Estee Lauder. All Estee Lauder, all the time. Rosa Rosa for subdued events and a flashy fuchsia (I want to say it was Azalea Pink, but I am not sure.) just for general fabulousness. Ooh, boy, I just thought that bright hot pink lipstick was the most grown-up, sophisticated thing EVER when I was a kid. No matter that she had to put it on before entering and just after leaving ANYWHERE.
Come to think of it, this may have something to do with my need for dark lipstick. No, not fuchsia….I do dark, not bright. Plus, at the moment I am into this color I get at Walgreen’s which is from some el cheapo brand, but it’s called “Metallic Seduction” and makes me feel very old Hollywood every time I put it on. You know, every time I enter or leave anywhere. Oh, dear.
Somewhere around 75 or 80, when she finally started to wrinkle, AM jumped on the Estee moisturizer bandwagon. No more Oil of Olay for that girl! So, now she is an addict, and gets a little panicked when the supply is running low. Mom got the call from AM yesterday for the moisturizer run, for her first time. See, what you have to understand is that we don’t do expensive makeup. (See above on Walgreen’s.) I do have mad love for Clinique, because of my long affair with Black Honey Almost Lipstick that began when it swept the halls of Gardner Newman Middle School. But after one splurge on a $40 tub of Superdefense Anti-Aging Moisturizer (What can I say? I had just turned 30 and had a fistful of Christmas Bonus cash.) I forced myself to tone it back to Revlon. Which sucked, because that Superdefense rocked my newly tightened pores off.
Mom calls me and is astounded that she just paid $58 for the face lotion. ASTOUNDED. And it was the small size, so I’m pretty sure AM reamed her when Mom delivered the package, because the last time I made the face lotion trip, she had to have the big dog $115 version.
And, of course, there was the ever-popular free gift. This is where I have a bone to pick with Estee. Probably her own bone, because if she’s not dead that anti-aging line should be WAY more emphasized. It might even be worth the $115.
Estee, Estee, Estee. You need to drag your ass out of that grave, honey, because you have left your company in the hands of some reprobates.
I might not BUY expensive makeup, but I will rock a free gift like it’s nobody’s business, and Baby Sister and I have always been the beneficiaries of AM’s free gifts. We ESPECIALLY love your free gifts, because of 2 things: More than Mascara and that fun brown shimmery lipstick that ALWAYS appears in free gifts. You know, with that horrid Rosewood color that nobody (meaning me) looks good in?
Estee, I have to tell you, your folks are slipping. There was no fun brown shimmery lipstick! There wasn’t even any crappy Rosewood…….just a vile hot pink, although I am sure AM is enjoying that part. And – horror upon horror – what is this madness about taking away my beloved More than Mascara and substituting Projectionist? I call foul. At least you left the rocking awesome brush in there. I will not totally write you off until you take away that brush. Y’all can tell me all you want to about curved or contoured or tiny fancy mascara brushes. Nothing in the world will beat a travel size Estee brush. Holler if you hear me, ladies.
However, I was willing to forgive this because you included some fancy schmancy SPF 15 lotion. Which I mistakenly assumed would resemble my beloved Clinique Superdefense. I mean, you rich chick cosmetic moguls are all the same, right?
Let me tell you, Estee, I got out of the shower this morning, snatched on a robe, and ran…ran, I tell you, to try out my new face stuff. I dipped out a nice size daub and spread it on my newly washed cheeks. And do you know what my first thought was, Estee?
“My face smells like a perm!”
That’s right. I don’t know who is scenting your products these days, but you made my face smell like a bad day at Regis. When you sit down to eat your Mall Food Court Chick-Fil-A and you get a whiff of some banana-clipped hairdresser named Wanda (no offense, Wandas of the World) giving a permanent wave next to the Claire’s tennybopper outlet and that nasty funk stink ruins your meal.
Thanks, you nasty little minx. Next time I go free gift, I’m scoping out Elizabeth Arden. Take THAT.
I don’t have kids. My family is full of late procreators….and quite a few non-procreators as well, come to think of it. Grandmama was almost 40 when she had Dad in 1947. Dad held out until he was 30 until I was born. My cousin Billy was pushing 40 when he and his (rockstar awesome) wife Amanda had Jack. So I figure there’s no hurry, eh?
Instead of my own kids, I have quite a collection of other peoples’ kids who I dearly love. Years of babysitting will do that to you. Of course, a few of the older kids have now married and two even have their OWN children now. I’m only 31. I don’t know if I was the world’s youngest babysitter or if they just are early breeders.
Most of “my” kids are late-high-school /early-college age now, and I get a kick out of seeing who is cheering and who is playing baseball and who chooses to go where for college….and of course all the girls get a recommendation for Phi Mu if they Rush. And I love them all.
But today I’m giving a big, fat, bloggy hug to the One, the Only, my girl MaryLiz.
MaryLiz has been my best girl since I ran into her Mom (one of my former teachers) at the park when they were on a playdate along with her brother, Zach. I broke out the ol’ Mary Poppins umbrella and moved into their world. And much fun was had. MUCH fun. Swimming lessons, dance classes, soccer practices, boy scouts, birthday parties………oh, and Harry Potter. We are all about some Harry Potter.
Somehow, and I’m still not really sure how this happened, Zach has gotten halfway through college and ML is about to graduate from high school.
And I am still driving the same car. But anyway…..
ML told me not too long ago that she had earned the part of Carabosse in the local ballet production of Sleeping Beauty – probably in large part due to all the dance classes to which I drove her! (Just kidding, doll.) So I told her I would most definitely be there to watch.
So the Todd and I put on our grown-up panties and went to the ballet last Sunday afternoon.
Sidenote: One of the things I really enjoy about my little hometown is the importance we place on the arts. For a town of our size, we have a very influential little artistic community. We have two museums, a local ballet company, a local symphony and multiple choral groups. And that’s just under the aegis of the local society of the performing arts. There are also extremely well-executed programs coming from the local high schools, churches and the college. We are lucky, lucky folks.
Y’all. When ML just tossed out “Yeah, I’m dancing Carabosse.” I just figured it was just some role. Some average, everyday role. It turns out I should actually study up on my fairy tales rather than assume Walt Disney is checking his facts.
Because Carabosse? Yeah, that’s MALEFICIENT. My baby girl had the big, bad, villain role. You know what that means? She got the rocking costume too. Everybody else looked like Easter Peeps and ML was swooping all around them like Stevie Nicks with point shoes and a crown. It was very black and purple and veil-ish. She spun delightfully.
So props to my wonderful, beautiful girl. She was splendid. I was so proud of her I cried. The Todd was so impressed that he said…..well, he said a word that caused the lady in front of us to turn around and give us the fisheye.
So, Mary Liz, you were fabulous. I love you, beautiful girl!
