Cheeky Kiss

Ok, I think I like this blogging thing. Can you tell?

I have to tell you all, but mostly my mom, that I had my first mama "cheeky kiss" tonight. A "cheeky kiss" for those of you who do not know is when someone clasps your cheeks in their hands (preferably small, chubby, and soft hands) and kisses you square on the lips.

Jonathan is sick today. He was so pitiful, in fact, that after a solid nap and a cookie he still was not perking up. As I held my fussy one-and-a-half year old and wondered when he would return to his playful self, I realized that his skin was hot. In went the thermometer, quickly followed by some Tylenol and cuddle time.

He laid against my chest and repeated, "Bu, bu," until I read him Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You? and his Little Golden Book Bible. Finally he started wiggling and acting normal, but instead of crawling out of my lap he started playing with my face. He splayed out his fat little fingers and held my cheeks with his soft, hot baby hands. Pulling himself to me he puckered his lips like a fish and pecked me on the cheek. It was a warm and solid smacking noise and when he looked at me, smiling, I almost squealed in delight. This was my first cheeky kiss! I had been waiting for it... when my brother was a wee one he would do the same to my mom before bed with a well rehearsed (Dad taught him), "The sunrise is in your eyes, mom." I hoped my cheeky kisses would be forthcoming as well.

Jonathan wasn't finished though. To my giggles of happiness he giggled in return and clasped my face again, again with those sweet warm hands. This time when he puckered up he wiggled his face and tugged on mine until he was aiming squarely toward my lips. (Mind you, he never kisses me on the lips, he usually doesn't even aim quite well to my cheek.) After less than a moment's thought about the germs headed my direction, I felt him pop a little fishy kiss on my lips. Then I grabbed him to me and must have told him five times how precious he is.

I think he gave me a little dose of heaven just then.

Two AM

I try to make very few declarations concerning how I will raise my child(ren). This is due mostly to my knowledge that whatever statement I make will ultimately lead to a good dose of humility or guilt. Therefore I refuse to decide where my child will go to school in six years, I hesitate to insist he (they) will love horseback riding, and don't dare to promise we will take family vacations out of the country. I content myself with assuming only what he will (or defiantly will not) eat for lunch today. Nonetheless, I can recall on several occasions stating firmly that I will never take a toddler to Disney World.

Anyone under the age of 6 in Disney World is sweaty, crying, and so over-full of the sugary bribes to keep quiet and the sugary rewards for so doing that it seems a wonder any parent deems this shimmery amusement park a "privilege" of any sort. Let them call me a Scrooge, I do not like it and I will not partake of it, Sam I am.

Ha. Ha. Ha. Leave it to your pastor to come storming into your preconceived notions and replacing them with Truth. Ahem, leave it to your pastor's Boss. God made me laugh today, and not only at my stupid idea that Disney World is not a place for little children, but at the memories He recalled to prove it.

At a parenting conference put on by our church I listened as my pastor gave advice as to how to raise a family that is a team. He opened with the poignant truth that loving one's spouse is the starting point, the core. He further explained how you and your spouse work in tandem to affirm and raise a family that perseveres together to reach out to the community. One thing he highlighted was the importance of time spent together eating, attending each other's sports games and recitals, and ... vacationing.

Vacationing together, he said, is hard. Most likely the vacation will not go well. What brings the family together will not be the shared moment of marveling at Green Bay Stadium but the eye rolling laughter afterward that you didn't even get to see the inside because it was closed and the only pictures you took (of its entrance) as mementos are now lost because Dad, in his frustration, dropped the camera open and exposed the film on your driveway.

I remember our second trip to Disney World. I was twelve, my sister ten, and my brother two. We packed up the minivan and headed south from Maryland, driving because flying was simply too expensive. With the money saved on flights Dad had promised to take us to a "fun" hotel, maybe a Marriot instead of the Motel 6 we were accustomed to. Ginny and I were giddy--real hotels were like Christmas morning, and we couldn't wait to find ours. After eight or ten hours in the car Dad finally decided it was time for respite, and we began to look for a hotel in South Carolina. After one or two exits and still no vacancies, Dad was getting frustrated and Mom was getting more quiet. You see, there was a motorcycle rally passing us on I-95, and hundreds (maybe thousands?) of motorcyclists were trying to bed down just like us. Somewhere in Georgia the car went completely silent as Ginny closed her eyes or stared out the window, toddler Kyle dozed off blissfully as toddlers do, and I tried to let myself fall asleep uncomfortably against a cold window. Mom's head kept bobbing, and Dad had no exasperated words left to say. We all (well, barring Kyle) wondered if the money saved on flights had really been worth it.

No matter what I did to alter my position, the window did not grow less cold or more comfortable, but I knew better than to try and make conversation with my Dad. So I just stared at him, wondering how long he could stay awake and drive. Then I saw, in a pocket of moonlight, my mom's slender wrist reached across the space between her seat and Dad's. Her mouth was open in silent snoring, but her long fingers periodically squeezed his. I watched their quiet, determined tactic to keep Dad awake and felt like I was witnessing something private. I think that was when I felt like I could let my eldest sister guard down and finally close my eyes.

I remember Disney World being fun that year, and the scent of my Bath and Body Works honeysuckle lotion in our room at Dixie Landings. I remember being happy that we had five days there, instead of two, and taking the elevator to the top of a very high building for one of our fancier dinners in the park. None of my memories, though, are as vivid as the image of my parents' hands entwined in a tired, but committed and loving touch.

Belly Laughing

There is a rare joy in life that is usually shared over the dinner table with friends and wine. Red, if you partake in my house. Tonight I experienced this sweet sensation... a good belly laugh.

A friend of ours was over to dinner tonight, and this particular friend can always be counted on to either draw tears of laughter or snores of boredom. The result depends entirely upon whether he chooses to lecture us with history and religion detail or bless us with one of the many and odd stories from his daily life. You can guess which he chose tonight. His story went something like this...

"There is a gas station near my house where I frequently go to buy beer on the way home from work. Josephine, she's Mexican, works there and we exchange a few words every now and then. This evening I chanced to ask her how she was doing and she responded that she was pretty tired. 'My roommate tells me I sleep too much, but I work hard and I come home late. I usually get home around one am, drink a cup of coffee, and walk the dog. Then I go to bed.'"

At this point my friend raises his eyebrow and leans forward slightly, to intimate to us his skepticism as to the logic of this regular schedule. Clearly he wonders if, were she to be enlightened to the fact of caffeine in her chosen nightly beverage, she would sleep better and be more rested for work the next day. And of course there's the walking of the dog, a young woman in the middle of the night. I can see her, one elbow casually resting on the cash register while she animates her story with the other hand and speaks more to the door than to my friend, explaining the drudgery of her regimented existence. He continues,

"She tells me she's figured out the secret to a healthy lifestyle, which she indulges me with, "You have to do two things. Have fun at home and go to work. I used to party and stuff, but I'm too old for that now."

"I tell her certainly she can't be that old, she looks to be quite young. She replies with a question, which is a death trap for me, "How old do you think I am," and I tell her, "Thirty five."

"Oh, honey, you are too kind. I'm forty seven. But my grandmama lived to be one hundred and ten. She had a cigar every day, not cigarettes," as her eyebrows raise, "but cigars. And she drank wine," here he places one fist on the table as if serving himself a drink, "and beer," he serves himself another. "She had seven husbands, but none of them had no money, so we know she didn't kill 'em. The day she died she asked me to make her some breakfast, and when I came back she was dead, with a smile on her face and a cigar in her mouth. She had a good life."

So, the moral is, smoke heavily and drink abundantly. And marry poor husbands. And belly laugh.

taken by the lovely Elizabeth Grindrod, on the beach of Sanibel Island, FL.

Over the rainbows

Do you ever feel like delving into your beloved blogs is akin to Dorothy's trip color-ward? It seems mighty adventurous, progressive, thrilling, to be able to suddenly have access to stories that make you laugh, pictures that tie you to a faraway friend, and recipes that make your mouth water with the wondering if... if I could create that...

Could I create one? Whether I tantalize you with my typing or not I've decided to jump into the world of color, and this does not come without certain reservations. Nonetheless, these fears cannot stem the tide of an English-turned-Spanish major who never experienced the scintillation of a creative writing class. So I'll create my own.

The spark that launched my blog was the realization that my toddler, Jonathan, is objectively hilarious. His antics must be shared. Just yesterday he was dubbed endearingly by my husband "Dennis the Menace," and while his playful mischievousness would merit the term, it was actually the hair that did it. You see, I am what you may call "frugal". Perhaps miserly is a more appropriate term, because while I claim that my current refusal to use paper towels is for the environment, the truth is that I am inordinately proud of the twenty-some odd dollars I save every month or two. What does frugal have to do with hair? You connect the dots, and they will lead you to a haircut that I humbly describe to friends as the result of Momma Scissorhands being let loose on my child's locks. Combine Scissorhands with a few well-placed cowlicks, two days without a bath, and a long afternoon nap, and Jonathan woke up with the most fantastic bedhead I have ever seen. I am too entertained by my son's physical quirks to fix them, so I decided to take him out in public just as bed-headed as he could be.

I cannot count the comments I received. "Nice hair." "Ohhh, how cute." "Nice haircut, buddy." All of the mothers at the Children's Museum were walking past us, puffed out and proud hens, because their child had perfectly combed hair, unlike mine. I could almost hear them clucking. And I loved it.