Mothers of Walmart

I came home from Walmart and told Ainsley to grab a stack of books. I planned to spend the next chunk of the afternoon curled up on the couch with my girl reading Cinderella and Dora, Sleeping Beauty and Pooh.

I'm not a follower of People of Walmart. Do I really need to feed disdain for another soul? No, I don't. Sadly, I manage to manufacture quite enough disdain on my own, thank you very much. No outsourcing necessary.

Today as I toured the aisles and filled in the gaps on our back-to-school lists, I mentally compiled a montage of Mothers of Walmart. I'm glad it will never appear on the net because it was sad.

Beyond sad.

Mean-spirited, really.

Bordering on cruel.

I could issue the usual disclaimers. I've been the grumpy mother, the frazzled mother, the biting mother. I've had children meltdown over a matchbox car in Kroger, disappear in Publix, vomit all over a cart in Walmart. Even when nothing newsworthy occurs, shopping with small children or many children or even a single, solitary, ornery child can be trying, trying, trying.

I know this.

Motherhood is hard.

Not Oh, I broke a fingernail hard. Not I've got way too much to do hard. No, it's I can't do this another five minutes let alone all night let alone for a lifetime kind of hard. Ragged edge, crying out to God, seeing our own limits with absolute clarity kind of hard.

My dear and brave friend Amy recently put into words what so many of us have experienced in the bleary, lonely hours of the night. I've been there and done that, and if having been there and done that has accomplished any good work in my soul, it's that I am far less prone to judge another mother who's on the edge.

But today.

Oh.

Oh.

Why speak to anyone like that much less a toddler?  A baby, really. Not whining, not grabbing, not shrieking, just being.

Just being.

And so I pray for these mothers, one in particular. And for those children. And for me. And for my children.

And I started to type "I realize reading books to my daughter won't fix all that ails the world around us" but then I stopped and I thought, "You know what? I actually think it will."

Missing You

Still alternating between astonishment and joy that my baby is five. My mind is nothing but cliche heaven. My mechanically gifted husband managed to fix our VCR the other day. (Yes, we own a VCR and VHS tapes). The kids have had a ball watching home movies of Kolbe learning to crawl and Tim learning to read.

I'm amazed at how dim it all grows -- the chubby cheeks and the sweet lisping voices, the beloved toys and the favorite books. I'm glad I recorded on video, and I appreciate what I've archived here.

While I'm enjoying my soon to be kindergartner, here's the baby I miss.

Bobby Jones Expressway

In my month-long sojourn North, there was one element of Augusta life I did not miss, not one little bit. The heat, you might guess? No, no, it wasn't the heat. The humidity? Nope.

The answer in three succinct words: Bobby Jones Expressway.

Please don't let the term "Expressway" confuse you. There's nothing quick or convenient about it. Bobby Jones may be the death of me, though I  hope this is not literally true.

Some people seem to carry a map in their heads and are able to find their way around town even when the usual routes are closed. I am not one of those people.

I blame it on the Land Ordinance of 1785.

I grew up outside Detroit. The suburbs of Detroit are laid out in a perfect grid, per the requirements of the aforementioned Land Ordinance. It's hard to get lost when the roads are Eight Mile Road, Nine Mile Road, Ten Mile Road, etc.. I don't know how high the numbers  go, but I worked at a camp on Thirty-Three Mile Road. Those roads meet at  precise and clean ninety degree angles with other major streets spaced precisely one mile apart.

Beautiful. Logical. Helpful to the geographically impaired among us.

The second set of roads are named, not numbered, so this requires a little memory work. But, still, if you say, "The restaurant's at Ten Mile and Southfield," everyone knows where it is and about how long it should take to get there.

Bobby Jones, the handy- dandy non-expressway  near our house is under perma-construction, emphasis on perma. Last year as we drove to swim team, I said again and again, "Just think, kids. Next year we won't have construction to contend with!"

Just call me Pollyanna.

Not only is is Not Done, it's far, far worse than last year as in they're working right here, right now, on our entrance ramp. Conditions were grim yesterday when four lanes converged into two; this morning one scrawny lane was open. The up side is that traffic was slowed to just about a crawl so merging into that one lane wasn't quite as terrifying as it was yesterday.

I don't drive well under pressure. Years ago I moved from Augusta to North Augusta. When you cross the Savannah River, you change states and if you change states, you change your driver's license. Note to self: If you should do this again, do not let the former license expire before securing the latter else You Will Have to Take A Driver's Test.

A Driver's Test.

At age 24.

Many people remember a driver's test at 16 and the terror, perhaps the shame, that went along with that. I do not remember these things because I never took a driver's test at 16. I should clarify that I did take a ten question written test prior to receiving an unrestricted license to drive. Michigan, it seems, was flat broke in 1980. Among the austerity measures taken was waiving the road test given to new drivers.

All this is to say that taking my one and only road test at 24 was nothing short of terrifying.

As I said, I don't drive well under pressure, and among the maneuvers I bungle when stressed, backing up tops the list. One day I pulled Dave's truck into a crowded church parking lot. I don't drive the truck if I can avoid it. It is large. I am small. I am very comfortable with my boring van. I find the truck unwieldy. Well, this Sunday found me attempting to fit a large truck into a small parking space. And next to my small parking space was parked a Gleaming Lexus whose owner had just exited the vehicle. He stood off to the side watching me maneuver Large Truck. And I thought, "How kind. He's here to help me out. You know, do the a little to the left, a little to the right thing and help me get Large Truck parked just right."

No, no.

He was just looking out for Gleaming Lexus.

And, lucky me, I was stuck doing my least favorite maneuver in my least favorite vehicle with an audience.

Head bang.

And I flashed back to my road test at age 24. I drove and turned and braked and used my turn signals and adjusted my mirrors and even rocked the parallel parking. And then the nice instructor told me to back up. Even in my trusty Nova without Gleaming Lexus and Glowering Owner staring me down, I broke out in a cold sweat. I threw it in reverse and backed up. Nice Instructor shook her head and began furiously scribbling notes on a clipboard.

I passed.

Thank you, good and gracious God, I passed.

Failing a road test at 24 would have been too much.

But that gut-wrenching panic of parking Behemoth Truck in front of Gleaming Lexus and Observant Owner, of taking a driver's test at 24, all of it comes back to me each time I merge onto Bobby Jones.

We returned home late from the pool last night. The road working crew was out in force, working late under bright lights. God bless them and protect them. It certainly isn't easy work. I will breathe a little easier when it's done.

Girl Meets Toy - Part II

And the Baby Turned Five

Ainsley's birthday party was upon us, so I was busily hanging curtains in John and Kolbe's room.

Don't analyze this.

Really, don't even try.

Would anyone be entering John and Kolbe's room during the party? Not if I could help it. No, no, no, no. John and Kolb'es room was designated The Repository of All The Things. By Things I mean the treadmill that we are finally getting rid of (but not before the party). And the computer that is housed in a public area. The fish tank we think we're in the process of restoring to use. And anything else I rendered superfluous when a legion of little girls (and by "legion", I actually mean six) came through my front door. John and Kolbe could enter their room at a low crawl and exit through the small window on the far left. The one sporting a new curtain. Dave stumbled into The Repository, surveyed the damage, and quipped, "Hmmm, I like what you've done in here."

You know, I am not an entertainer.

I wish I were. Really, I do.

I love the idea of just opening my door and being all gracious and inviting and relaxed. And I can do this. As long as you don't call the event A Party. Call it Hospitality and not Entertaining, and I do just fine. I have a long and checkered history with regard to Entertaining and probably am in need of prayers for healing. I think it dates back to Tim's First Communion which was a lethal combination of bad weather, little sleep, lots of guests, burnt ribs, wildly fluctuating hormones, and a late miscarriage in progress.

Seriously, a nightmare. Night. Mare.

But back to the birthday party . . . I made the birthday thing easier on myself by not sending out invitations but merely texting a few friends saying something like "I'm having a few girls over for Ainsley's birthday." Somehow erring on the side of Get Together versus Party kept my panic at bay.

I forced myself to remember the fact that they're five. No matter what I did, they'd love it, right? A little chocolate, a little fluff, balloons or bubbles, and we'd be good.

I headed over to Pinterest because that's what we do these days. Just when I think I've got the girly-girl thing moving in the right direction, Pinterest dispels this illusion once and for all. Myth busted, busted, busted. Really, head over there and search "little girl's tea party."

I dare you.

Cookies in the shape of lipstick.

Cupcakes garnished with -- and I'm not even making this up -- nail polish.

More tulle than the Spring Formal.

Dining rooms more lavish than a wedding reception I once attended at the Ritz Carlton.

Did these mothers paint their dining room chairs pink just for the party? Or did they rent them?

As for me, I washed the tea pots. I bought balloons. We had place cards -- Ainsley wrote them out. With red crayon. Does that count? We had tiaras and wands. True, they came from the dollar store. Do I still get credit? I think I do.

No matter.

I may be out of my league with all things fluffy, but we had a nice tea party, a very nice party indeed.

I made cucumber sandwiches. The girls went for the Goldfish and M and M's. They chose milk over tea. In a sad and cutting development, they were thoroughly unimpressed with the sugar cubes that I located after scouring store after store.

Three stores and $5 for 8 ounces of sugar cubes. It's all in the details, people.

But those girls giggled and blew their horns and ooohed and aaahed and were everything that is sweet and fun about little girls.

The baby is now five.

Quirky and funny and smart and full of life she is, my girl with the blue eyes and the yellow hair, the soft cheeks and the flair for the dramatic.

And I'm so glad, so very glad she's mine.

Love, love, love you, Ainsey Boo!

My Favorite Picture

Two Kids and a Snake

My annual visit to Pelee Island invariably tests whether or not I have overcome my phobia of snakes, and after this last trip, the answer is a firm and indisputable No!

I fancy that I've come a long way since that dark day in rural Kentucky when I was exploring an abandoned barn. Someone found a six foot long snake skin, and wouldn't you know, some helpful person causally mentioned that a snake doesn't stray far from where he left his skin.

I'm fairly certain that is nothing but bosh, but, let me tell you, it was enough to make me Freak Out.

Big Freak, Big, Big Freak.

But, over the years, mostly born out of determination not to pass every last one of my neuroses down to my children, I have made a concerted effort to chill with regard to snakes. I don't pick them up. I don't want them in my house. But I go into the reptile house at the zoo. I can look at them from afar. I don't freak when I see one in the road.

And then this trip.

My two sisters have lake houses on Pelee Island. Sister A -- we'll call her Frantic --doesn't like snakes anymore than I do. Sister B -- we'll call her Loony -- has a pathological fear of them.

Well, Loony, see, she is also horribly allergic to Poison Ivy. Gets it every year. Starts itching at the slightest brush. In an effort to rid her wooded property of Poison Ivy, she has dispensed generous amounts of something akin to Agent Orange, and though she still manages to get Poison Ivy every year, her property is all but snake free.

Meanwhile Frantic's property up the beach is a teeming mass of reptiles. Our two weeks in Canada brought some of the most beautiful weather we have ever enjoyed up north. Breezy, cool, gorgeous. On hot days, the snakes stay in the woods where. they. belong. On cool days, they head to the beach for a little sun. And if you should be bringing in a batch of towels or folding up the beach chairs, you might just step on one (or three).

(Note: The names have been changed to protect the guilty from the pesky Ministry of Natural Resources. Our Canadian neighbors take their snakes very seriously indeed.)

A few years back I was staying at Frantic's house and met a friend of hers, Ivy, who hails from South Africa. I commented on the plethora of snakes and wondered if they bothered her. No, turns out that Ivy grew up with a next door neighbor who rarely cut his lawn. His unkempt property attracted -- are you ready for this? -- Black Mambas. Yes, Ivy grew up avoiding one of the deadliest snakes on the planet. 

If that had been me, I guess a little Lake Erie Water Snake probably wouldn't ruin my day either.

The following photos were not staged. John and Ainsley encountered a rather large specimen on Frantic's beach and here I present evidence pulled straight from Genesis: God put enmity between the woman and the snake:

John meets Mr. Snake.

John harasses Mr. Snake.

Ainlsey throws up her hands and shrieks, "oh my!"

In the spirit of her mother and Aunts Frantic and Loony, Ainsley makes a mad dash.

But goes back later for a tentative look.