Dallas Arboretum: A pictorial

Paulie took me to the Dallas Arboretum.  My favorite pic of the day.

Paulie and his newest best friend, who looks a lot like me, hanging buttocks and all.

Several 15 year olds were taking their quinceanera pics.  Even among the flowers, their colorful dresses stood out!

 

I wish you could feel this plant.  Think velvet!

One of the many great hallways. 

Mom

My mom is going to be 86 on her next birthday in June.  She is fragile and frail and .... wait.  That's me.

My mom can text on her cell phone.  My mom is taking yoga.  My mom runs a library for the residents in her living community.  My mom is my father's caregiver - he has Alzheimer's.  "Shirley takes good care of me," he recently told a visitor.  My mom occasionally cares for her great granddaughters who are a handful for anyone of any age.  I don't think there's anything my mom can't do. 

My mom is amazing!

My mom with her great grandsons and son and husband.

 

 

She's all boy!

I cringe every time I hear someone pronounce: “He’s all boy.”  Same as I hold my tongue when people use the word tomboy to describe a female child or adult.  These sentiments are way outdated.  Children are children.  Some boys and girls like to climb trees and play rough.  Some boys and girls like to sing and dance and play house.

I’ve had this aversion to these unnecessary adjectives since my son and two daughters were little.  My kids know how I feel and I believe they share my feeling.  Problem is, I am now a grandmother and don't really feel like holding my tongue anymore.  

I pledge, on this Mother’s Day, May 12, 2013, that I will no longer be silent.  It will be my cause to eradicate these over-used and inaccurate labels from the face of the earth.  To do so, I must bring out the big guns: humor and teasing - and, if called for, a touch of shaming. 

From now on: My son was a tomboy growing up.  He liked sports and messing around in the neighborhood creek and getting dirty and all that stuff.  My daughters were all boy, they liked sports and messing around in the neighborhood creek and getting dirty and all that stuff.

Here’s some recent pictures of my youngest granddaughter Finley, 18 months old.
  By the way, she LOVES bugs and mud and food and play and ... well, you get the idea.  She's all boy!

Finley with her wonderful mother, who, as a child, was all boy!

 

Birth order

The psychology of birth order has been around for decades.  It goes something like this: oldest child is the boss, middle child is neglected, and the youngest child is adored.

Generally speaking, birth order is spot on.  At least in our household.  We reared three children, loved them all equally, but for sure Andrea, oldest child, was the self-appointed leader; Jenny, middle, was neglected – at least during her early years; and, to this day, our youngest, John, can do no wrong.

This morning it occurred to me that the psychology of birth order was still alive and raging in our household.  It hit me after looking at recently taken pictures.  They all were of the newest member of our family: Sammie, our 6-month-old border collie.  Mika, the middle dog at 9 years, was visible in some of the frames, but only because of her proximity to the puppy.  Baxter, the oldest, is there, too.  In one photo she can be seen “leading” from her perch atop an outdoor cushioned chair. 

We haven’t always had three dogs.  It was about seven years ago that we first upped the number of canines in our home from two to three, just about the same time we were coincidentally empty nesting.  Were we replacing our children with dogs??  At least one neighbor thought so.  While walking all three dogs, he hollers, “Which one is Andrea?”

Have our dogs taken the children’s place?  In our hearts, no.  In our home, yes.  Ok, sorta in our hearts, too.

Below are some of my recent pics.

How adorable is she??

Bax: Perched and ready to lead, if necessary and/or awake.

Mika herding Addison.  Always.

   

GOOOOAALLLLLL!!!

 

Move over Mika, you're blocking Sammie.

Grandpa's helpers.

 

Dog house with a view.

 

Crushed in a good way

This week my family was crushed under the weight of good news.   

Yesterday we got the news that my son-in-law Jack was accepted into nursing school.  The process for application is grueling.  We stopped counting the number of hoops he jumped through.  Then there was the wait, all the while knowing he had just a 1 in 5 chance of making it in.  For the last couple of weeks he obsessively checked his email for THEE answer.  It finally came Thursday. He starts classes in August. 

A year ago our son John graduated from law school.  In July he took the bar exam and waited until November – FOUR months – to get the results.  He didn’t pass.  So, he took the bar exam a second time in February and waited THREE agonizing months for the results.  His job was on the line.  No pass, no job.  He found out on Monday he gets to keep his job.  He passed bar. 

It’s what they wanted, so we wanted it, too.  For them.  And for that reason, we all share in the glow of this good news.   I can tell you the crush of good news feels good. 

 

 John, left, and Jack.  We are so proud of you!!

Connected in a flash (of headlights)

Flashing headlights jolted me out of my driver's haze.  The one you fall into when covering the same ground day after day.   When you reach your destination, you wonder how you even got there because your mind was not behind the wheel, even though your body was.

First thought: Wow.  Is that a message?   For me?   You talkin' to me?

Second thought: I wonder if it's a speed trap warning?   Reflexively I ease my foot off the gas pedal.

Third thought (after spotting Mr. Police Officer aiming a radar gun at ME!):  It WAS a message.  For me.  Someone was trying to warn me to slow me down and it worked.  Without words.  Just the simplicity of flashing headlights.

Who was this masked crusuader?  This urban Robin Hood?  This male or female who thought enought about his or her fellow man or woman (gender nonspecific writing is exhausting) to send up a warning.

Whoever it was, we were connected for a nanosecond, which is one-billionth of a regular second so that is really a short and almost immeasurable amount of time.  But still, a connection that produced two important and measurable results: I was prevented from getting a ticket for speeding and I felt something.  I felt special.  I felt gratitude.  I felt connected.

It was a beautiful and greatly appreciated reminder of the magic of human connection.   And maybe even a reminder to pay attenion - body AND mind - to my driving.

My gateway drug

My addiction started early in life.  Around the age of 10. 

I had a flashback the other night while making a mini-smore.  I was placing chocolate chips on a wheat cracker when suddenly I was transported to my childhood kitchen.  I saw my younger self hoisting my younger self onto the kitchen counter.  I was in search of the bag of chocolate chips. 

In the back of the top shelf of the cupboard I could see the bag.  I knew it already had been opened, so taking a handful would not alert my mother.  And that is just what I did.  Stole chocolate chips. 

Did it stop there?  Oh no.  I became expert at getting in and out of that cupboard without notice.  They were so deliciously tiny, and it's not like my mom was counting them.... until she could actually count them.  My greed had been my undoing.

Who ate the chocolate chips?  My mom demanded to know the identity of the selfish, lowdown thief.  I had to confess.  Or was I outed by one of my brothers?  That detail I don't recall.  I swore I would never do it again (I did).  I now craved the chocolaty goodness.  Withdrawal was too painful.

The other night as I placed chocolate chips on my crackers and then mini-marshmallows on top of the chips, it occurred to me that these chips were my gateway drug.  I have tried all kinds of sweets over the years, but continue to come back to my gateway sugar: that beautiful and perfectly sweet chocolate chip.   Of course I no longer have to hoist myself onto the kitchen counter to reach my drug of choice.  I also have discovered other ways to ingest them, such as on salty wheat crackers with mini-marshmallows, then ever so slightly melted in the microwave.

And it all began on nice streets of Aberdeen, South Dakota.