Confessions of a Bibliophile

WashingtonLibraryRoofDetailsmed — Harold Washington Library owl, image from wikipedia.org

I have a problem with books. I cannot resist them.

The library is a refuge. Not a hangout like in college.

No, I am at peace walking through the aisles alone. Shopping titles. Dining on tables of contents. Being held rapt between stacks.

When we’ve moved to new cities, one of the first places I search out is a good public library. It’s easier to find than a good church. Quickly becomes like a second home.

(Once discovered, a good church does too.)

The huge owls perched on the acroteria of the 10-story Harold Washington Library in Printer’s Row were my guardians during our years in Chicago. Wise, familiar faces watching me arrive and depart on the train.

Now the headquarters branch of the St. Louis County Library shelters my son and I on our weekly pilgrimages.

And the books—they may be composed of dead trees, but they are alive to me.

The trend is electronic. But I like to physically hold the books in my hands. Turn the pages. Bookmark them with receipts, scraps of paper, bits of string.

The books feel earthy, grounded, solid. I breathe in deep and detect traces of turned dirt and soaked roots.

Blame my habit on my mother who introduced me to the High Point Public Library in North Carolina when I was in elementary school.

Empowered me with my own card. Let me check out books about whatever I wanted to read: dinosaurs, UFOs, Mary Quant.

I remember the illustration of the lime green extraterrestrial giving me nightmares. I recall the section dedicated to electric blue in “Color by Quant.”

Indirectly, my mom taught me if I have a question, somewhere in a book there is an answer. Or, somewhere in a book there is an admission that there is no answer. At least not one we know yet.

Few goals in parenting are measurable in the short-term if at all. Instilling a love of books, however, cannot help but become apparent.

Early on I toted my child to the library. Empowered him with his own card. Let him check out whatever he wanted to read: dinosaurs, rodents, tsunamis, airplanes, Star Wars.

It didn’t take long for him to catch on.

Soon I couldn’t carry all he wanted to take home. We employed his little metal grocery cart. I figure this way he is responsible to carry his own load.

That’s what you learn at the library. To carry your own load. To be responsible for your own learning.

I still check out materials as well. Still gravitate toward non-fiction. Carry my own load. How? I don’t know when I consider the piles amassed at home.

It’s tragic really. I’ll never get to them all before they’re due.

There’s never enough time to read all the books. Same as there’s never enough time to spend with all the friends, plant all the flowers, cook all the recipes, sing all the songs, travel to all the places.

But I keep those piles of books on hand. They are close when in spare moments I can indulge in their words. Theirs is a load I carry with pleasure.

All the days ordained for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be. from Psalm 139:16 NIV

Today is where your book begins. The rest is still Unwritten…

Posted on September 14, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 25

Sweet Slice

“Half pound of Sweet Slice ham sliced thin, please.”

Our local grocery chain carries Boar’s Head lunch meats in some of their stores. We’re big fans.

It’s all good, but our favorite is the Sweet Slice. Tastes like Easter.

The clerk prepared my order and handed it to me, wrapped in butcher paper.

“Thanks,” I said. Then I looked at the label: Maple Glazed.

“Uh, this isn’t Sweet Slice. I ordered Sweet Slice ham.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to do it over?”

“No,” I said. “This is okay.” Hated to make her cut it again and waste the deliciousness of Maple Glazed. Like I said, it’s all good.

Life went on as usual. Packed the child’s lunch the next morning. Sent him out into the world. Picked him up at carpool.

Later safe at home, I popped open the lunchbox to discover a nearly untouched ham sandwich. There was evidence of a nibble.

“You didn’t eat your sandwich,” I said.

“Why didn’t you eat your sandwich?” said my husband.

“It’s the ham,” said the child. “I don’t like that kind.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “It’s Boar’s Head ham. It’s Maple Glazed not Sweet Slice, but…”

“It’s not the same,” he said. “Don’t want it.” And off he trotted to shuffle his Pokémon deck.

“How can he tell the difference between Sweet Slice and Maple Glazed?” I said.

“We’ve created a food snob,” said my husband, “with lunch meat.”

No more Maple Glazed, Black Forest, or Virginia ham. I won’t make the mistake of buying anything but Sweet Slice again. Unless I want to eat it by myself.

Have we created a food snob? An inflexible, entitled consumer? I don’t think so. He’s adaptable in other ways. Rolls with the punches and changes of life well.

Perhaps he simply likes his Sweet Slice ham. He’s tasted the good stuff. Met his muse. There’s no settling for less.

Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. This is just lunch meat. One day it will be weightier things.

He’ll be faced with what to study, what hobbies to pursue, where to work, who to befriend, who to unfriend, who to date (or marry!), who to worship.

Kathyskitchensign — Kathy's kitchen (Hi, Brad!)

There’s a lot we don’t get to choose. A lot of areas where we’re responsible to others. We have to compromise or sacrifice. Do what we’d rather not do.

But in the places we do get to choose, how extraordinary to choose the good stuff and pursue it wholeheartedly.

To pursue the good stuff, you have to recognize it. To recognize it, you have to know how it tastes.

And when it comes time to choose, you have to summon the courage to say no to the others, pick the Sweet Slice, and eat your fill.

Open your mouth and taste, open your eyes and see—
how good God is.
Blessed are you who run to Him. Psalm 34:8 The Message

Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell.

Disclaimer: I’m not being paid to promote Boar’s Head products. But I’m telling you, it’s some of the best lunch meat ever.

Posted on September 6, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 10

Who’s on First?

Tomorrow is my only child’s first day of first grade.

I could laugh. I could cry. I could ponder his early childhood. The day he was born. How fast he’s grown.

How much fun the years have been. How we waited so long for him and how we can’t imagine life without him now.

Lots of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and friends are thinking such things about their kids this time of year.

So, since many of you are already doing that, let’s do something different.

Let’s think about puppies. Cute, but it’s not working.

How about ice cream. No.

Asparagus. No.

Chips and salsa.

Oreos.

Steak?

No, no, no. Exit the food section.

Republican hopefuls for 2012. Ugh.

The Cardinals.

The weather.

Shoe shopping.

Fall sweaters.

Soap.

Bubbles.

Tears. Tears. Tears.

My friend Jenn calls this the emotional roller coaster of raising children.

Another friend Kaisa once offered this sage advice: Children are like the ocean. Go with it or you’ll drown.

So here we go. Forward march in the constant exercise of trust. God, help us. Here we go.

You will guard him and keep him in perfect and constant peace whose mind [both its inclination and its character] is stayed on You, because he commits himself to You, leans on You, and hopes confidently in You. Isaiah 26:3 AMP

Put yourself in a time out to savor the perfect back to school song. I Can Tell That We Are Gonna Be Friends by The White Stripes.

Posted on August 22, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 11

The Lost Art of Tying Shoes

pickmevelcroshoessm — strap-on-and-go velcro

Visiting with one of my professor friends last week when she asked if my six-year-old could tie his shoes yet.

“No,” I said. “And it’s because of that blasted velcro.”

She heartily agreed. Her child, the same age as my son, can’t tie his shoes either. They haven’t had to learn. All their shoes are strap-on-and-go velcro or pull-on-without-socks Crocs.

We reminisced like a couple of centenarians.

“We didn’t have the luxury of velcro.

“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know how to tie my shoes.”

“These kids nowadays have it so easy.”

We laughed at ourselves and decided the boys will learn before adulthood to tie their shoes. Probably before year’s end. Pulling the bunny ear through the hole seemed to come so naturally to us. It won’t mystify our children forever.

Four days later, I entered the Apple store with my husband and our helpless child who can’t tie his shoes.

It was time for a system update. Our PC was gasping its final cyber breaths. You PC people are cringing as you read this. Don’t blame me. It was the intuitive, irresistible brilliance of the iPhone that lured me back to Mac.

Our state was having a tax-free weekend so the store was packed. When our turn came, I proceeded to ask elementary questions of the young, hip salesperson like, “Well, how do I make my email come up when I click the button that looks like the postage stamp?” and “Can’t you download all that stuff for me?”

Then I remembered my child. He was no longer standing with us. Momma Bear panic kicked in. My head turned frantically in search of him. Where was my cub?

Within two seconds I had a visual. My cub had hooked himself up at an iPhone display where he was doing major damage on Angry Birds.

Happy as a clam. Oblivious to things like time and space and parents. Adeptly navigating the technology alone.

So he can’t tie his shoes. He’ll learn. Today there are bigger fish to fry.

“Forget the former things;
do not dwell on the past.
See, I am doing a new thing!
Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness
and streams in the wasteland.” Isaiah 43:18 NIV

Ever feel like the technology’s taking over? So did I. Back in 1983. Hang on to your time machine. We’re going old school. Very old school. Presenting the rock opera (my son loved watching this by the way) Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto.

Posted on August 10, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 16

Put Your Own Mask On First

pickmeroostercrpsm — this is not my rooster. we met this rooster in Historic Jamestown, VA.

It’s 6:00 a.m., Sunday morning. The little rooster has awakened with the sun. Blame it on his grandfather’s dominant dairy farmer genes summoning him to get up and milk the cows.

There are no milking cows at our house, but this Sunday we are due at the early 8:30 a.m. service for my husband to sing. Two and a half hours is plenty of time for three people to get ready for church.

My son wakes us, crawls into our bed, squirms, crawls out then disappears to play. His father is immovable, somehow skipped by the early-to-rise dairyman genetics. The time is now 6:30 a.m. I get up and begin the routine.

Shower. Try to wake my husband. Prepare breakfast for my child who is starving. Feed the dog. Try to wake my husband. Read a book to my child who is lonely and bored. Try to wake my husband.

The time is now 7:30 a.m. My husband gets out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom. My child is on his second breakfast. We giggle at the table as we hear his dad warming up his voice in the shower.

“Ah, ah, ahhhhh!” he sings. We giggle some more.

I let the dog out. Try to convince my child to get dressed. Check to see if the dog has done her business. Check to see if my child is anywhere near his clothes. Clean up from second breakfast. Let the dog in. Praise the dog. Hunt for my child who has disappeared again to play.

Get third breakfast out as my husband still needs to eat. Ask said husband to please help our child get dressed and ready. Clean up from third breakfast.

The time is now 8:00 a.m. The final stretch. Departure in 15 minutes. I run upstairs to get dressed and put on some makeup.

“But, Daaad!” says child. “I’m trying to read this book!”

“You have to get dressed NOW,” says husband. “We’re going to be late!”

I’m tempted to leave my mirror with a half painted face to intervene. But the wise words of the trusty flight attendant ring in my ears: Put your own mask on first, then assist those traveling with you to put on theirs.

pickmeslowchildrenatplaysm — slow children at play

If I don’t get ready, none of us is going to make it. I reach for the hair dryer to complete the blowout.

“Daaad!” says child. “I want my book! You are so mean, Dad!”

That’s it. Exit bathroom. Break up squabble. Comfort and dress child.

The time is now 8:15 a.m. My child and my husband are clean, polished, dressed and sitting in the truck waiting for me. I’m standing in the bathroom with unstyled hair and no shoes, wildly slapping on mascara.

Next week, come hell or high water, before anyone else eats, bathes, dresses, reads, or requires me in any other way imaginable, I’m getting ready first. One must get into the lifeboat before one has any hope of helping the others.

Indeed, the “right time” is now. Today is the day of salvation. from 2 Corinthians 6:2 NLT

Someone Saved My Life Tonight, sugar bear.

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Posted on August 8, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 15

Family Business

losttooth7.30.11sm — look, ma. no tooth!

This is a rare and unplanned Saturday post. It’s quick so don’t blink.

First, THE major development: the child lost his first tooth today. It’s been noticeably loose for almost two weeks and finally popped out this morning at breakfast. The toothless look becomes him. So do the freckles.

The other development: while playing on WordPress this afternoon, I discovered another widget. It’s that Facebook page link over there to the left. Click like to declare your like of everyday epistle.

That’s assuming you do like everyday epistle. If not, what are you doing here? Get off my blog!

Just kidding. Stay as long as you like and enjoy your weekend, folks.

Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin… from Zechariah 4:10 NLT

Posted on July 30, 2011July 10, 2012 by Aimee 4

Club MOB (Mothers of Boys)

This week my son had a little tiff with one of his classmates who happens to be a girl. They’ve been like cousins since preschool and usually get along swimmingly. By the way, she’s drop dead gorgeous. So what’s all the fuss?

“Mom, she says things that aren’t true about Pokémon,” said my son. “And she stuck her tongue out at me four times yesterday!”

“Honey, you’re still friends, and no one knows everything about Pokémon,” I said. “Girls are funny about things. Sometimes they’re moody for no reason.”

The moment those words left my lips, I felt like the cat who swallowed the parakeet. The employee who sold the company secrets for a song. Just call me B for Benedict Arnold.

One of my professor friends shared how she boldly espoused the feminist mantra when she taught women’s studies: there are no natural differences between boys and girls. Whatever differences appear are caused by nurture. By a society oppressive to women.

Then she had kids. A boy and a girl. And she’s softened her stance a bit.

I don’t blame her. She had to. It was either dial it down to preserve the integrity of her real life experience, or risk cracking up in front of her students while trying to tow the hard line with a straight face.

There are inherent differences between boys and girls—between men and women—that go beyond anatomy. Not every generalization applies to every person, but there are differences.

Once while visiting the nail salon, I glanced up to see the unbelievable. A mom having a manicure while holding a baby! Oh, it’s a girl.

Another time, three of us MOBs took our then preschool sons to lunch after soccer lessons. Our table was a raucous, rumbling good time. Were we disturbing other customers? Not our neighboring table. There sat three angelic little girls about the same age as our guys quietly drawing on activity pages with crayons.

And what may be the cruelest difference of all, the 75/25 rule. We MOBs learn quickly: 75 percent of the items in children’s clothing stores will be for girls and 25 percent will be for boys.

Only about half of those items you’d want your son to actually wear. If you see something you like, better buy it or the next MOB will snap it up faster than you can say Bakugan.

I don’t have anything against girls. I am a girl and I love being one. I love my nieces, my friends’ daughters, and my son’s friends who are girls. I hope my son marries a wonderful girl if that’s what God has for him.

But I’m one proud MOB too. I love my little boy through and through. And I wouldn’t trade him for all 849 trillion pink bows in the world.

So God created human beings in His own image, in the image of God He created them; male and female He created them. Genesis 1:27 NLT

My momma loves me. She Loves Me Like a Rock, by Paul Simon.

Nicoleetsy — image by freshartphotography.com

Nicole Diehl is a MOB times three. She’s also a veteran blogger at Here’s the Diehl, and recently she opened an Etsy shop by the same name.

What does she design and sell? Among other things, headbands for little girls of course. They’re the cutest things eva! Go to Here’s the Diehl on Etsy and see for yourself.

PS: Nicole donates 10 percent of her shop’s proceeds to Compassion International’s Child Survival Program.

Posted on July 29, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 23

Ahab and the Unfairness Doctrine

Waltons005sml — The Waltons, image used with permission from sitcomsonline.com

Much as I hate to admit it, we don’t have daily family devotions. We don’t live on Walton Mountain either. Great if you do. I confess we don’t.

But we do love God and the Bible at our house. We’ve shared Bible stories with our son since he was itty-bitty.

Noah’s ark was his favorite for a long time. I told him how God brought two of every animal to the ark, a mommy and a daddy. He wasn’t satisfied.

“And the babies,” he said in his tiny three-year-old voice. “The mommies and the daddies and the babies.”

“Well, the Bible says a mommy and a daddy of each animal,” I said.

“And the babies,” he said. I dropped it, granting him liberty. No sense arguing with a three-year-old. Certainly there were babies when they departed the ark.

He’s six now. The Bible stories he likes are the bloody, gory, fighting ones.

We were running early one morning, so at breakfast I said, “I’ll read you a Bible story. You pick!”

“Read about when Queen Jezebel died,” he said.

I turned to 1 Kings 21, the story of Naboth’s vineyard. How King Ahab wanted it for a vegetable garden, but Naboth wouldn’t sell it to him. How King Ahab pouted and refused to eat.

My son’s favorite phrase these days is It’s not fair! No matter what it is, if he doesn’t like it, we hear the refrain It’s not fair! My husband and I are about to pull our hair out over It’s not fair! No sense arguing with a six-year-old.

So that morning I read the story my son had picked: His wife Jezebel came in and asked him, “Why are you so sullen? Why won’t you eat?”

As my child listened and munched cereal, I smelled a teachable moment.

In the whiniest Ahab voice I could muster, I said: “Because I said to Naboth the Jezreelite, ‘Sell me your vineyard: or if you prefer, I will give you another vineyard in its place.’ But he said, ‘I will not give you my vineyard.'”

Then—God, forgive me and grant me liberty, I said: “It’s not fair! It’s not fair!”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see my son’s head pop up from his bowl.

I continued reading: Jezebel his wife said, “Is this how you act as king over Israel? Get up and eat! Cheer up. I’ll get you the vineyard of Naboth the Jezreelite.”

As it goes, Jezebel had Naboth killed, Ahab took his vineyard, and Elijah caught the king and queen red-handed. Elijah spelled out God’s judgment against them saying dogs would eat Jezebel’s body. Told you it was gory.

We turned to 2 Kings 9 where the prophesy came true: But when they went out to bury her, they found nothing except her skull, her feet and her hands.

My son was quiet.

“It came true,” I said, “because God does everything He says He will do.”

Then I dropped it. No sense arguing with that either.

As the rain and the snow
come down from heaven,
and do not return to it
without watering the earth
and making it bud and flourish,
so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater,
so is My Word that goes out from My mouth:
It will not return to Me empty,
but will accomplish what I desire
and achieve the purpose for which I sent it. Isaiah 55:10-11 NIV

Proudly presenting The Waltons Theme Song by Jerry Goldsmith. Loved that show. What a week and what a way to end it!

Posted on June 24, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee

Milk Wars

beautiful — Beautiful 685, image from Troxel Dairy Farm, IN

Competitive parenting has us taking sides against each other on everything, and marketers know it.

Before our kids are born we divide over natural, drug-assisted or C-section delivery. At the hospital or at home. Doula or doctor. Bottle or breastfeeding. Cloth or disposable diapers.

Rocking to sleep or crying it out. Nanny, sitter, daycare or stay-at-home. Ballet or soccer. Piano or tennis. Swimming or Mandarin. Public, private or homeschool. Religious or secular. Hot or cold lunch. Bus or carpool.

Sadly, we even divide over milk. Conventional or organic.

The Journal of the Academy of Nutrition and Dietetics published a study* concluding concluding there are “no biologically significant differences in quality, nutrients and hormones” between organic milk and conventional milk produced with or without rbST (recombinant bovine somatotrophin hormone). The conventional milk “had statisically lower bacterial counts,” a fact that may lead some to argue it’s safer.

So conventional and organic milk are compositionally the same. When you buy organic milk, you’re paying a premium for packaging that says so. Kind of like the alligator on a Lacoste shirt.

Buying organic for taste, convenience or preference is one thing. Buying it because you believe it’s safer is misguided.

It doesn’t stop with milk. In February 2011, STL Family Life published a post by a contributing writer. She saw the documentary Food, Inc., followed it up with Fast Food Nation, then, in her words, “freaked out” and decided to feed her family organic food only.

Jolly good for her. That’s her choice. Problem is, she implies all responsible parents should follow suit.

She writes buying organic food is more expensive, but cost is a poor excuse. She is willing to sacrifice things like a new car, video games, and real wrapping paper. In her words, making kids’ safety a priority is a parent’s “OBLIGATION.”

I agree our children’s safety is a priority, and the film disturbed me too. But I disagree with this mom’s implication that all conventionally-produced food is somehow unsafe or inferior.

My husband grew up on a dairy farm and has worked in agriculture his entire career. Last fall, we had the unique privilege of meeting filmmaker Rob Kenner, director and producer of Food, Inc., when he presented to a small group of agribusiness professionals.

We sat with Kenner at dinner. He’s a great guy—smart, savvy, admittedly liberal in his views. He made a sincere effort to show different sides of the issue in Food, Inc. But the large food and agricultural companies ignored his requests for an interview. As a result, their story was mostly left untold.

Can’t say I blame them for not talking to him. Sure wish they had though.

According to Box Office Mojo, Food, Inc. grossed $4,606,199. Not bad for a documentary.

The film was such a success, Kenner said environmentalist elite Prince Charles requested a private audience with him during a retreat to one of the castles. Think the royal family’s hurting for grocery money? Not on your Union Jack.

Kenner also talked of working on a second film about food for the same group of investors who backed the first Food, Inc. Cha-ching!

Meanwhile, millions of moms and dads stand before grocery store shelves and refrigeration units wringing their hands. Are they doing the right thing, buying conventionally-produced food and milk? Are they contributing to animal abuse and the destruction of the planet?

Are they bad parents? Are their children being short-changed? Do they really need all that clothing, shelter, education, transportation and wrapping paper? Maybe they should give it up to buy only organic food like responsible parents.

I mentioned my husband grew up on a dairy farm. His family named their cows and they had about 200. To this day he can tell you about cows’ individual personalities like teachers can tell you about former students.

childrenandcalf — image from Troxel Dairy Farm, IN

Good farmers don’t abuse their animals. They recognize those animals are their most valuable assets.

Good farmers love the land. They pursue the very best practices and technologies to produce the very best fruits, vegetables, grains and livestock. Seeing the healthy growth of their plants and animals is a primary force that drives them to farm.

Are there unscrupulous farmers? Yes there are. Same as there are unscrupulous butchers, bakers, candlestick makers, teachers, preachers and politicians. Should they be prosecuted? If they break the law, absolutely.

grandpa — image from http://PinkePost.com

Should we all throw up our hands, head for the hills, and buy nothing but organic? You are free to do so if you choose. This is America. But please don’t guilt, scare or legislate the rest of us into doing the same.

Personally, I like having choices in this free market of ours. I buy what looks and tastes best, what my family will eat, what meets our nutritional needs, what’s available and what we can afford—conventional or organic.

It’s my responsibility as a parent to put the food on the table. It’s not my responsibility to compete with other parents or be judged for what I serve.

Those who feel free to eat anything must not look down on those who don’t. And those who don’t eat certain foods must not condemn those who do, for God has accepted them. Romans 14:3 NLT

kissingcalves — image from Troxel Dairy Farm, IN

For your listening refreshment, order up a tall glass of No Milk Today by Herman’s Hermits.

*Reflects an updated link to the abstract of the study Survey of Retail Milk Composition as Affected by Label Claims Regarding Farm-Management Practices by John Vicini et al., published in the Journal of the Academy of Nutrition and Dietetics (1/2008).

Posted on June 20, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 79

Goodbye, Kindergarten

Today is my son’s last day of kindergarten. Momma Bear has mixed emotions.

On Tuesday you read he’d outgrown his shoes. Always been able to see him grow by his feet first. That sounds strange, but even as a baby, his feet grew first then the rest of him followed.

“Mom, my feet are as big as your hands!” he said as the salesperson measured.

Yes, those precious feet I once closed my palm around are now too big for me to grasp. Perhaps I can hold on to a toe a little while longer.

As if the end of kindergarten weren’t enough, yesterday we celebrated the retirement of my son’s junior kindergarten teacher. Helen taught for 29 years, the past 24 at our little school. Wow. She will be missed.

Today is also sixth grade graduation. A and C have been big brothers to my only child for the past three years. Now they move on to different schools.

“We can still see them,” said my son.

“Yes,” I said, “only not every day like we do now.”

Before we all burst into uncontrollable sobbing, let me share with you how I’ve kept my composure. The meltdown moments come, but they’d be much worse if it hadn’t been for one terrific party.

My son has many wonderful friends in his class, including three sets of twins. One set has an older brother graduating from high school this year. My husband and I attended his graduation celebration at The Sheldon last week.

The Sheldon is a concert venue, right? What an odd place for a graduation party. This was no ordinary party.

Alex is a phenomenally talented performer. In the fall, he will enter the country’s premier musical theatre program at the University of Michigan. Naturally, the stage played a starring role in this celebration.

He and 19 of his closest, most gifted friends performed Broadway hits for an audience of more than 200 people. Attendees were asked to make a donation of $10 or more for Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS to help improve the living conditions of folks diagnosed with AIDS.

These high school kids exhibited a maturity and stage presence that blew us away. And they raised $5,000.

Then at the after show party, Alex took the stage and sang Daughtry’s What About Now. Flawlessly. For his mother. Can you say American Idol?

Oh, yeah. Speaking of American Idol, Nikko Smith was the entertainment for the party. Old fogey that I am, had to whip out the iPhone and Google who he was.

As my husband and I walked to our truck to go home, I realized Alex is an adult. Much as we’re celebrating his accomplishments, we’re also celebrating his parents’ accomplishments. Our friends Robin and Joel have raised a responsible adult who has his own talents, interests, friends and future.

Sure, he still needs his parents and it’s obvious he loves them dearly. But they can send him out into the world, confident in his ability to pursue life.

I’m raising an adult too. I pray in the years ahead God reveals this one’s talents, interests, friends and future. It’s a big job, growing a person. Momma Bear’s up for the task. Feet first. Wouldn’t have it any other way.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future…” Jeremiah 29:11 NIV

In 10 years we'll be DRIVING this car.

Oodles of thanks to our son’s teachers, Michael and Mary, for such an amazing kindergarten year and for instilling this sweet song in our memories: Somewhere Over the Rainbow by Israel Kamakawiwo’ole.

Posted on June 2, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 4

Happy Meals with Office Graduates

happymealheadsml — McDonald's on my mind

Realized one morning in the car I had forgotten to pack a lunch for my son.

We were more than half way to school. Would he go hungry? Would he starve? What would he eat? The answer came like manna from heaven: McDonald’s.

“What if mommy picks up a Happy Meal for you and brings it to school?” I said. “We can eat together. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said, never one to turn down a Happy Meal or the fantastic plastic toy that comes with it. “Are the other moms and dads coming too?”

“No,” I said. “Just me.”

“Why aren’t the other moms and dads coming?” he said.

happymealcropsml — happy meal with friends

“Well, some moms and dads go to work in offices and can’t leave to come to school for lunch,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, “and you don’t even have an office.”

Ouch.

“No, mommy works at home,” I said. “I may have an office again one day. I used to have an office before you were born.”

“Yeah,” he said, “but you graduated.”

I love that kid. Here I was thinking how lame I am because I don’t have a real job. Here he was thinking his mom is somehow above it. Oh, that we women could take a cue from the kids.

You have a paying job? Great. You stay at home? Great. You do a little of both? Great. You have a spouse, a nanny, a sitter, a parent, or in-law who helps you? Double blessings of great. You a single parent making it on your own? God bless you. You don’t have children? That’s fine too.

Enough with the potshots already, ladies. No more casually tossing guilt bombs into each other’s backyards. We women do not have to be on opposing sides.

We’re all fighting the same battle for our families. To do our best by them and for them. Understandably that’s going to look different in different families.

The real question is, how’s it going for you and your family?

If everyone has what they need, if you are doing the best you can, if they know you love them and they love you, then I say it’s all good.

I bet they would agree with me over a Happy Meal.

Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing. 1 Thessalonians 5:11 NIV

No matter your situation, if you’re alive—which I know you are or you wouldn’t be reading this—then you’re in The Middle of the ride. Hang on. Everything, everything will be just fine.

Posted on May 10, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 6

Orchids and Stars for Mother’s Day

On Mother’s Day when I was a teenager, my mom insisted the whole family wear corsages. My dad, brother, sister, and I went to church looking like we were going to the prom.

I have no idea why she wanted this. Yes, there is a Mother’s Day tradition to wear a red carnation if your mother is alive and a white carnation if she has died.

But my mom was very much alive when she issued her decree. My grandmothers were both alive in those years too. There were no white carnations within 10 miles of our house.

No red carnations for us either. My mom was a mild nonconformist. She bought us flowers to match our outfits. Usually orchids.

It was the 80s, so we had lovely shades of ivory, mauve and violet orchids. Like I said, we might as well have been going to the prom. A Taiwanese garden prom.

I vaguely remember a wrist coursage one year when there was nowhere to pin a flower on my sundress. Still trying to repress that.

Why not Easter corsages? Why not Christmas? Why not carnations or roses or freesia, for goodness sake? Why, oh, why orchids?

I can only guess what was going through her mind. Maybe to her orchids were an expensive luxury reserved for the royal family. And there was no better occasion to display us than Mother’s Day.

She was beyond my best friend. After she died, I discovered she was my brother’s and sister’s best friend as well. She made each of us feel like we were the single star in her sky. Three stars circling one sun. She loved us each best.

Sometimes I catch myself thinking she can’t be gone. Thinking I’ll just pick up the phone and call her.

So what will I wear this year on Mother’s Day? A blinding white orchid on my head? A flashback wrist corsage?

I’ll wear a sweet little size six seersucker suit with hand-me-down brown bucks.

I’ll don a wide grin of baby teeth that are still hanging on, but will be long gone by this time next year.

And I’ll pin on a bright yellow star he made for me last Mother’s Day in Sunday School.

No orchids for me. One single star in my sky fits just fine.

Children are a gift from the Lord;
they are a reward from him. Psalm 127:3 NLT

Grab the tissues. A New Day Has Come. Happy Mother’s Day, everyone.

Posted on May 6, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 14

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