Miracles and Wonders

{I have struggled with posting this for several reasons, not the least of which is the fact that human language doesn't begin to cover the way I feel about my children. But I also want to be certain I am sensitive to other parents. I have friends who have dealt with the devastation of infertility, friends whose children grew in the wombs of other women, friends whose children have learning disabilities, friends whose children have special needs, friends whose children will always be children in a sense and a friend whose child may never make it into adulthood. I cannot imagine the journeys they are walking, but I see in each of those lives a miracle, a place that can be filled only by them and a world that is richer for their presence.}



Having babies was not the simple thing for me that it should have been, or that I at least thought it should have been. This isn't really a post about that, but it is useful background information.

In August of 1994, Little Runner Girl made her surprise debut, ten weeks ahead of schedule. {I have typed and retyped for the past 15 minutes and realized I am still not capable of talking about that time without crying. So I will just skip it.}

One of the complications of prematurity that Little Runner Girl suffered was a brain hemorrhage. This isn't unusual in preemies and it has a particular name (that I can't remember) that is usually shortened to initials. [In fact, nearly everything involving preemies is shortened to a set of initials. I don't know why. To save doctors from hearing parents mispronounce Latin? To make the words as small as the babies? To not freak the parents out anymore than they are already completely freaked out?] As brain hemorrhages go, it was fairly minor. One learns quickly in the NICU to be thankful for the minor version of the Very Scary Thing, because it could be oh-so-much worse. Still, it was a brain hemorrhage. Bleeding! In her brain! Aaaaagh!

One of Little Runner Girl's doctors told me that if she had any problems or complications due to the bleeding, they might not be apparent until she was older.

Life with a preemie is one long series of worries, especially early on and there were certainly more urgent problems facing my baby during her toddler and preschool years than her future GPA. I was semi-obsessive about checking her development even after the pediatrician felt she was progressing nicely. Even so, I never realized that I had been holding my metaphorical breath until the first time she took a standardized test. And I was blown away by the results.

The Saint swears she has reverse brain damage. She received national recognition for her score on the ACT test in 7th grade. Her standardized test scores are wildly above average for her age. And today, as we sat watching, our baby girl was named salutatorian of her 8th grade grade class. I think she is a miracle. I know, I know...I'm her mother and I am supposed to think that, but I really, really do think so. Not only have my worst fears not materialized, my wildest dreams for her are coming true. And I am so very, very thankful. And I'm proud, but not in a "look what I did" kind of way. Because I had nothing to do with this. We were given a gift, one we certainly did not deserve. In fact, I know other parents far more deserving of such a gift. There are no words to describe how blessed I feel to be chosen as this child's mother.

And here is the most important thing, despite the fact the Little Runner girl is being awarded for her intellect. In my heart of hearts, I always wanted my kids to be smart. I couldn't imagine it not mattering to me. But here is what I learned during those hours by the isolette, those hours of praying please, please, please just let her live I don't care if she can't ever walk, I don't care if she can never say Mama, just please, please, please don't take her from me. Nothing in the world will rearrange your priorities as quickly as not knowing whether your baby will live or die. I learned that none of the things I thought were important mattered. Smart or not, strong or not, good at school or struggling, running or never even walking...I loved her. I loved her then, I love her now and I will love her always, no matter what and completely beyond all reason. And I know that is easy for me to say from this side of that hill, but it truly is what is in my heart, the one I'm wearing on my sleeve.

Enjoy the children in your life, hug your babies if you can. They are all Miracles and Wonders.

Angel Kisses

This is totally random and I have no clue what made me think of it...
Years ago, when I was teaching preschool in New Mexico, I had an aide named Virginia. Virginia was a sweet girl with tons and tons of freckles.(And considering that I probably have more freckles on one arm than most people have on their entire bodies, I know what tons of freckles means.) One day a little girl asked Virginia what she called "all those spots" and Virginia told her they were angel kisses. At nap the little girl asked me to kiss her hand. I did and she said "NO, Miss Angel! Make kisses on me like on Miss Virginia!"

Definition

I've returned, my darlings. Did you miss me? No? Well, don't tell me. I need to hang on to my illusions.
So, the latest entry in my list of things I never expected to explain to an eleven year old boy:

While coloring Easter Eggs, Prince Charming dropped the same egg several times. Annoyed, he dropped the egg in a cup and said "This egg is such a douche bag!!!" Dead silence at the table, though I could tell my Daddy was about to have a stroke trying not to laugh. I said "Son, do you have any idea what a douche bag is?" "Ummm...no." So I explained (using the very accurate anatomical term hoo-hah) because I believe in being honest with my children. And because I knew it would be a long time before he used that word again after he knew what it meant.
Poor child!

Snack Time

As I was getting snack ready for the aftercare kids today, some of the older classes were walking down the hall to the parking lot. I don't why, but the preschoolers love to watch them leave, like it's the Primary Wing Parade or something. They wave and comment like they're expecting the big kids to throw candy.
Anyway, the kids are hungry by that time of the day and have snack on the brain. Today, a big kid said "Bye, Mrs. ______" to one of the teachers in the hall. Italy turned toward me with the most delighted look on her face and asked "Is her name really Mrs. McSnack!?"
Hmmm....she is really sweet.

How Bizarre!

I often say that my city has two degrees of separation instead of six and this week I had another of those moments. While taking attendance for track, I noticed a rather attractive man sitting in the bleachers. Grey hair, handsome face. He spoke to me and I turned to face him and Oh! My! Goodness! I knew this guy!
I was not kidding about the two degrees. My dad's best friend is distantly related to this guy. A friend of mine is his cousin. I was also vaguely aware that a girl on the track team was related to him, but I figured that was also a distant relationship. Ummm, no...this guy is her father. Her long absent, wild living, just moved back in with his mother father.
So? So. This guy also happens to be the title holder of My Worst Date Ever. Ever ever!

Once upon a time, I was a very silly fifteen year old girl and quite fond of Cute Boys. One day at church, my eyes wandered over to discover the cute grandson of a very prissy Church Lady. After church, he asked for my number and I was quite pleased to give it to him.
Our phone conversation that afternoon was slightly bizarre. As an adult, I can make the educated guess that he was probably stoned out of his mind. Even so, I agreed to go out with him for dinner "at a very nice restaurant".
My first memory of this date is the overwhelming, wretch inducing scent of Stetson. Dude had not only bathed in the stuff, he had apparently injected it directly into his blood stream. Ugh!
We headed for the "very nice restaurant" which turned out to be...Denny's. Or possibly IHOP. I don't actually remember, but I thought it was completely hilarious that he considered it a nice restaurant. Nothing wrong with Denny's or IHOP but they don't exactly scream romantic dinner to me.
At our table, Dude told the waitress I wouldn't need a menu. He ordered a salad for me because "that's what chicks eat". He ordered himself the pancake house version of a steak while I sat there in stunned silence. And then began a sight that has remained etched vividly into my memory for all of these years....
Dude had the most repulsive table manners I have ever seen in my life. To this day!!! I know, I know...you've seen some nasty manners. So have I. People, I eat lunch with 3-year olds at least four days a week. They could honestly have provided Dude with etiquette lessons. I have truly seen chimpanzees eat with better manners than this guy.
He wrapped one arm around his plate like he thought I'd steal it, hunched over like a caveman, held his fork like a shovel and proceeded to eat. And talk. Mouth wide open with food actually falling back onto his plate as well as SALIVA! And he grunted while he ate. GRUNTED! Like a hog at a trough.
It was absolutely so far beyond disgusting that words are inadequate. I did everything I could to avoid looking at him and ate absolutely nothing. And then Dude complimented me for not eating because "those anorexic chicks are sexy and you could stand to lose a few pounds". I may have weighed a whole 90 pounds at the time. Such a cow!
By this point, I had decided to feign bubonic plague or malaria or anything to get Dude to take me home already. Instead, he took me to his very nasty apartment "just for a minute" to meet his family. His family who did not actually live with him. Dude then informed me that he could tell I really wanted to be alone with him. He attempted to kiss me which I managed to avoid by sitting down rather quickly. Dude continued to blather on and on about himself. Suddenly he knelt down on one knee, said we were really great together and asked me to move in with him. Even better, I could drop out of school, get my GED and get a job waiting tables. At the ripe old age of 15! To make the offer extra sweet, he said I could live with him until I turned 18 and then we'd get married. Isn't that just every girl's fantasy?
My plague/malaria combination suddenly became urgently fatal so I walked outside and told him I really needed to go home. Immediately.
Dude drove me home, talking the entire time about our delightful future together. I made it to the front door in record time to avoid another kissing attempt, but he was right there with me. He grabbed my arm, leaned in to kiss me (so I thought) and LICKED me. Like some kind of mange infested dog. I so wish I was kidding.
And there you have it...my date with a complete nut job.
I intend to spend the rest of track season as far away from Dude as possible. And I'll be praying he has absolutely no recollection of me. Please! Please! Please!

Scenes from My Day

Today in preschool: Curly Locks and London were sitting next to each other, quietly coloring. Curly Locks is occasionally a bit of a drama queen and is certain to inform everyone if the world is not going according to her plans. The peace was suddenly disrupted by Curly Locks wailing as if her heart had been ripped from her chest. I rushed over to see what tragedy had befallen her. She looked at me, devastation written on her face and said "London took my crayon!" Oh dear! The horror!
I tried to look very stern while asking London to return the crayon. London, who was quite indignant, informed me she never touched the crayon. At which point Curly Locks chimed in, still slightly pouty, and said "Well. Well, maybe she looked at it!"

And in the category of Only in Arkansas: My fellow Target shoppers this evening included a spiral permed, peroxide bleached hillbilly with incredibly dirty children and a minor '80s era movie star.

Release

Under the category of Things I Never Thought I'd Do (a category which includes saying "No sword fighting in the house!" and explaining menstruation and not pestering your hormonal sister unless you want to die to a male child) comes signing model releases for my boy. Yes, he is adorable. Yes, his father takes wonderful, marketable photos. Yes, I enjoy the checks we receive from the sales of said photos. Even so, it's slightly bizarre to think of my boy as a "model". Just sayin'.