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The Necessity of Escape

Love birds, aka "the swans" entwined on our resort bed

It had been five years since our last vacation by ourselves.  In August of 2005, we went to Ireland for a conference and left four days early so that we could travel around Cork and up to Dublin.  The day we left I found out that I was not pregnant.  We had put in one embryo, and the doctor just felt sure that this round of in vitro would give us our long-awaited baby.  Instead, I was able to have a pint of Guinness in my mother-land, home of my great grandfather.

While greatly disappointed, we attempted two more embryos the following month.  I became pregnant with one baby, and so began our foray into parenthood.  Once Big Boy was born we took him everywhere:  D.C. trips, fundraisers, caucus meetings, the beach, his daddy’s home state, and almost any restaurant. We loved having a child. We loved it so much, we decided to try our luck again, and our good fortune was beyond imagining:  triplets.   (Some people feel sorry for us, but I can assure everyone that I do not feel regret about having our brood.)

Still, one of the hardest aspects of becoming a parent of four children four and under (for awhile there two and under and three and under!) was the shift to all-consuming parenthood all the time. Our whole married life became absorbed and lost in the daily responsibilities of four small children. Add to that my struggles with heart failure and the loss of my work, a twenty-year vocation, which I had to set aside to care for children and my own health.   Then, add to that a husband who travels to D.C. almost every week.

This past year we finally traveled to Hot Springs and Fayetteville for one night each.  It was a nice little getaway, but I knew I needed more.  I basically harangued my good husband for months to go some place with me.

Cancun, Mexico

I was finally able to talk him into a package deal that a very nice travel agent suggested at an adult resort, all air, drinks, and food included.  We left on Tuesday and returned on Sunday after good food, great weather, lots of reading (Do I still remember how?), snorkeling, sleep and, well, some things just need to remain private.  (I will say that I overloaded the jacuzzi with bubbles that flew through our room, which may mean I’m more used to Mr. Bubble than romance.) Let’s just say that my sweet husband said that he actually thought he could stay another two days, this admission from a man who never wants to leave his kids, which is understandable when he’s away so much with his job.  He also said he thought it was the honeymoon we never had.  (See, we didn’t have much of a honeymoon.  It was combined with work and a family trip, but not much romance.)

On our patio in Cancun

I love my children.  I enjoy my children.  I don’t want to miss anything, but, I’ve come to appreciate how important it is to escape.  I need to get away and recharge my batteries.  I knew that, but I don’t think my husband was as convinced, until now.

We came back to the realities of parenthood, and to the beginning of a remodel project. We are enclosing our garage and adding a carport as well as doing some work in our backyard to make it more child-friendly.  We found a gas line right where the footings to the carport need to go.  Now we have a delay of probably a week.  We also came back to learn that our cable was out, due to the need for boxes that were never delivered.   I ended up with a high fever last night, and had chills. Victor had a fever the night before, probably via Big Boy who was not well earlier in the week. We’ve got to move furniture and the play room out of the garage over the next three days, and I’m not sure how that’s going to happen.  I’ve been getting everyone signed up for fall activities, and I hope I haven’t missed anything, but I probably have.   I’m already tired again.

But, I’m glad we got an opportunity to remember who we were before children.  I just wish my spouse would let that beach-time scruffy stubble grow after he gets out of Congress.  It’s so sexy and cute.  He’s not a daddy all the time, after all.  He’s the man I love and choose to run away with when he lets me.

Tags: Cancun, El Dorado Seaside Suites, honeymoon, lovebirds, Mexico

No one like a sister

Doting Auntie Gayle

Saturday night my family, all the Singletons, gathered at my sister’s home for her birthday, which happened to fall the day before she and her husband celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary.  (It was a great shindig at Trapnall Hall.  More on that in a minute.)  My brother-in-law Jerry hosted all of us and his family, most of whom were in from Louisiana, with barbeque.  We hadn’t seen that wing of the family in-laws since we had the Bob the Builder themed birthday party for him last year. (He loves building stuff, which is crazy since he’s an engineer.)

Unlike most sisters, I didn’t grow up with my only sister, Gayle.  My mom was 41 when I was born.  She got pregnant with me shortly after my sister married, at age 18.  A few months later, my sister got pregnant with her first child.  At the time, my sister was stunned and embarrassed by her mother’s predicament. Having children at middle age was not as common as it is now.  My mother explained herself saying, “Well, you always said you wanted a sister!” To which my sister, with great exasperation, said something like, “Not now!” After all, she was about to have the first grandchild!

I guess the timing of my birth didn’t get us off to a great start, but she has ever since allowed me to sashay through her life doing weird things like getting married more than once, becoming a pastor, and then having four kids late in life.  (When we found out that one of the two embryos we’d implanted had split into three, she teased me saying, “Well, you just had to outdo me by having one more than I did!  That’s just like you.”)  She also helped me will these children into existence, love them into existence.

Auntie Gayle and Big Boy at her party

Auntie Gayle and I had been talking about her anniversary for months.  I hadn’t done too much because the children of the couple usually host the party, but my nephews and niece were glad to let me interfere some.  It wouldn’t be right somehow if I didn’t insert myself a bit, just as I did when I arrived on the scene some 49 years ago.  They let me suggest a photographer and bring cookies shaped like their very own beloved pugs, Button and Zipper.  And, if that wasn’t enough, I also asked for some time to have a very talented friend serenade them with a few songs.  When Lawrence sang “Unforgettable,” and “L-O-V-E,” they glowed, and when he went with “What a Wonderful World,” a lot of us got misty.

And here’s the truth: there is no one in my life like my sister.  She has been my champion, my hero, my friend, my counselor, my spiritual sister, even a second mom, and jolly well tolerated my untraditional path even as she, in many ways, trod a very traditional one.

So I stood next to my niece on Sunday afternoon at the Golden Wedding Anniversary party while the photographer took pictures of the couple and they toasted each other and looked into each other’s eyes.  I leaned in and said, “Oh, this is just so sweet.”  Kelly agreed.

I tried really hard not to cry, but how can one not be moved by the sight of two people who have endured, raised three great kids, struggled with career choices, tackled change, grown together, and laughed a lot?

Standing there, watching this couple I know so well, for most of my life, I didn’t see the passage of time.  To me, they were suddenly young in a way that has nothing to do with the appearance of youth, but comes only from the joy of a blessed love.  Being a witness to my sister’s anniversary was almost as if I got to be an attendant at her wedding, only I know the end of the story:  that this marriage is going to do more than make it; it’s going to be very special to them and to all of us.

And the day after her anniversary, my sister spent the first day of her 51st year of marriage helping me with her little nephews after, of course, she had breakfast, coffee, and read the newspaper with Jerry.  As it should be.

P.S. We’ll be on a mommy-daddy vacation the rest of this week.  Thanks to all our helpers, family and friends, who are staying around the clock to care for our sweet boys. And, a shout out to Auntie Gayle: we’re thinking of you Wednesday.

A Nice Family Drive-In

“Scooter” is one of the owners of the reconstituted The Hop Drive-In on upper Cantrell Road, not far from my house.  He looks like he could give you a fat lip instead of a fat, fab burger, but he’s a pussy cat.  Says one of his elderly customers was a bit wary of his gauges, pierced parts, goatee and tattoos, yet she hardly misses a day of his yummy, fresh food and charming personality.

Mickey Dee’s (and its golden arches) is directly across the street from The Hop, a definite contrast to the retro red and white metal and glass building that looks like something from the Jetsons. The Hop advertises no frozen beef or fries.  And, Yes, they proclaim, Their ice cream is always frozen!   (I had the fries today, and they are fresh cut.  Whoa!)

The Hop in all its red and white glory

I rediscovered The Hop about a month ago. It’s been under new ownership.  Big Boy was having an earthshaking meltdown. We’d just left our Mommy and Me art class. We’d done a folk art piece of his prized snuggie, Lambchop, and we’d had a disagreement about the placement of the stars in the background of the piece and the tongue.  I wanted to see Lambchop’s pretty red ribbon tongue, but my little boy had other ideas; he wanted Lambchop’s tongue to be in, mostly concealed.  (Perhaps he had modesty concerns about a public Lambchop sticking out a very red tongue to the world.) Anyway, he was sobbing on the way home in our car when I suddenly pulled into The Hop.  I didn’t want to reward bad behavior, but I thought, “Geesh, a nice soft-serve cone could make me forget this horrid scene; maybe it will sooth the savage beast in the car seat behind me.”  I got two beautiful spiraling cones to go and handed one off to the guy with the tear-stained face.  Ahhhh.  It worked.  We both felt better.

There is no place to get soft serve as good as The Hop’s anywhere near my regular haunts.  There’s Sonic, but it doesn’t taste the same. It’s too white and leaves me with a feeling that it’s replacement ice cream, not quite real.  Besides, The Hop reminds me of a drive-in we had in North Little Rock when I was growing up.  It was called, “The Spot,” and you ordered the cone at the window, and the humid Arkansas summer day would attack it as promptly as you pulled it from the counter. I would my kids to know the longing for that kind of moment.  The first lick.

Today, I made a trek over to our little drive-in and got my vanilla cone for the road. I needed it before I went shopping.  My morning had been filled with household chores, including calls about the work we’re commencing on our home (we finally decided that we gotta enclose the garage) and stuff for the yard (it’s time for a rehab in the back).  I also had to make some appointments and reschedule a few because we’re leaving soon.

We’ll be gone next week.  We’ll be headed down south for a trip by ourselves, just Mommy and Daddy.  It’s been five years since we’ve traveled anywhere without children.  I told my husband that it was time, and it better be a trip with the word “ocean” in it, that kind of trip where you have some pretty umbrellas in a drink here and there, and you read a lot, and snooze a lot.  It’s also got to be a trip where you don’t need a lot of clothes.

So, that’s why I swung by The Hop.  I had to shore up my female self-confidence before I went shopping for a swimsuit. Cone (and fries) in hand, I got in the car and headed to Barbara Graves Intimate Fashions.  You get the picture.  Time for a new swimsuit.  Thankfully, before I left his window “Scooter” had already praised my glasses as particularly hip.

I’m not sure what this means, but I bought four suits.  It was probably my ice cream, my new-found confidence via our friendly drive-in, and that great sale at Barbara Graves right now.

Tags: Barbara Graves, Retro Restaurants, soft-serve ice cream, swimsuits, The Hop Drive-In

Reunions

I’m writing this blog while balancing my mac on my lap at a walk-in nail salon at the Rogue Valley Mall in Medford, Oregon, boyhood home of my husband.

It’s the first time I’ve been able to get a wireless signal since I’ve been here.   We’re staying with my husband’s Auntie Bee (that’s really what the family calls her) who is 86 and still goin’.  After we leave, with our load of boys, she swears she’ll be tired, but she’ll be happy–because we stayed with her and not in some motel.

Family travel these days is not easy for me, for any of us.  The morning we left, last Monday, I awoke at 2:30 a.m. and couldn’t go back to sleep, I believe, because all I could think about was the last four days of packing for the triplets, Big Boy and their daddy, not to mention myself.  Had I forgotten anything?  Did I have all the power cords?  Had I put enough toys in the diaper bag, my purse, or the checked luggage?  Would we get a van that we could make work?  (When you have four car seats, it’s nice to have 4 latch systems, but most vans don’t even have them.)  Did I get all the meds, particularly my anti-anxiety prescription?

If you are wondering, yes, we had some help.  We took our good friend and long-time helper, Nanny Rhonda, with us.  The babies can travel free, but they have to be in an adult lap.  We each held a baby during the flights from Little Rock to Denver, Denver to Portland, and Portland to Medford.  I’m the only adult who held a baby the entire trip who never slept.  I was so tired my heart felt fluttery.  Fortunately, Rhonda stayed all the following day before we released her to enjoy some time with her boyfriend, who joined her, and his parents, who still live nearby.

Thus far, seeing family has been great, even if the travel has been somewhat stressful for me, a person who likes her comforts.  (I’m 49 now and set in my ways.)  So I like my strong decaf House Blend Starbucks, and Auntie Bee likes her Yuban as light as tea.  I go only a few days without Mexican food at home.  I gave up meat loaf a long time ago, so Auntie Bee’s ham loaf is not my typical fare, although we all laugh about it.  Thank goodness my sister-in-law makes peanut butter cookies that ought to be packaged and sold at specialty shops.

Thus far we have seen the great aunts and uncle, who are 86, almost 95 and 92.   Big Boy and two of his brothers take their names from these assorted clans, so it’s a sentimental journey.  We’ve also spent time with young cousins, younger cousins and the older cousins.  I’m sitting here in the mall getting this pedicure for my husband’s high school reunion because one of the cousin’s wives kindly made an appointment for me and drove me here while my husband and her husband, the cousins, took the children to a park.

Yesterday my husband and I also went to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in nearby Ashland and saw a stage production of Jane Austen’s “Pride and Prejudice.”  There is no other Mr. Darcy, except Colin Firth, but for the stage, this production was stellar.  The Elizabeth Bennett was fantastic, as was her crazy mother.  The humor that is part of Austen’s description of 18th century manners and class was fully realized.  At some points, the audience howled its approval.  So nice to spend time with you again, Jane, and your timeless characters.  Afterward, we went home to a homemade dinner of lasagna and salad, courtesy my sister-in-law again, who must have been pooped after 4 hours with the kids.

I’ve also had a bit of reading time after Big Boy goes to sleep.  A friend gave me a a nook (the ebook from Barnes and Noble), and I’m reading “Eat, Pray, Love.”   Since I’m traveling, I thought the memoir might be a good selection, but, boy, are her travels different from mine.  When I read that the author’s sister described having a child like getting a tattoo on your face, I nodded. Yep, my husband and I once came to Oregon as silly old teenagers, even confessing our love for each other in Auntie Bee’s driveway one night not too long after we’d been dating.  Our whirlwind has never quit being a whirlwind.

Tonight we go spend time with my husband’s high school classmates.  I have no idea what people talk about who haven’t seen each other that long, maybe what colleges their kids go to?  I can proudly say that our oldest will be attending Fair Park Early Childhood Center for four-year-olds.

A trip of reunions, that’s what this visit is shaping up to be.  I’m hoping to hook up with a glass of champagne tonight.  It’s been too long.

A Wild Ride

When you're a toddler (and mother to four of 'em), it's a wild ride

I just turned 49.  That would not be so bad (You don’t really look it, people say), except that I’m too old for the drama of aging.

I seem to be approaching menopause.  I’ve been on progesterone this past week to see whether or not I will cycle. My doctor said a “check” in the box means that I’m not quite there, but need some hormone to get me there.  And, so, over the weekend, I had a stubborn headache, a cramp-esque feeling, and decided I generally hate limbo.  I’m not a wait and see person.

Did I mention I just turned 49?  That would not be so bad except that I have no waist.  The triplets did it in. It is hard to let go of a waist you’ve had for 47 years.  My heart wants me to make it quite clear, exceedingly clear, that I have no regrets in growing to approximately 200 pounds during pregnancy.  It gave me healthy kids.  Just this last Saturday I bought some large consignment items for my 19-monthers at Caroline’s and hit a 50-60% off some new togs at Cupcakes and Caterpillars. I bought size 4, mostly.  One of the consignment pieces was a jon-jon size 3.  My bruiser, Wyatt, who is a beautiful child, plays well alone, and is sensitive, fits in it perfectly.  (His only fault is his piercing, deafening shrieks when he wants his food, bottle or is very frustrated. He has offered these noises up since the NICU.)  I can only see Wy-Wy as a defensive back.  He’ll look at his opponents on the line, smile with those incredible dimples, then let out his trademark shriek, and hit ‘em so hard that they will run back to the dressing room.  No one will ever believe he weighed 4.10 at birth. But they will believe he was a shrieker in the NICU, and that the nurses said he would be some kind of trouble. When I look at him I know where my waist went.

And so on the week following my 49th my husband and I discussed the real possibility of a tummy tuck some time in the next year.  Did I mention I’m now 49?  Oh, yeah, well, I never thought I’d have plastic surgery, but after I eat, people think I’m pregnant.  Once, at The Children’s Place, the girl ringing up my purchases asked me when my next one was due.  I have to select my clothes quite carefully, and, even then, I just get tired of sucking in.  May I have another order of cheese dip?

Did I say anything about the year of my 49th?  I guess it’s not so bad, if you don’t mind your husband looking for a job.  He’s retiring from Congress as of January 1.  Five more months to find a job. Yeah, it’s not as easy as one might think.  What do you do with a guy who’s been a doctor, has a law degree, is a veteran, and has served in the House of Representatives?  Plus, he was a bachelor for 55 years.  (Training him has been and continues to be brutal. My sister is about to celebrate her 50th wedding anniversary, and she says it helps if you get ‘em young.) It’s not like there’s a lot of job descriptions tailored to his unusual qualifications.  “Oh, he’ll find something,” people tell me.  That eases my mind.

Last week I decided the heat’s been cooking my middle-aged brain.  I needed a change.  Although Wild River Country has been open 25 years, I’d never been there.  Several of us took the boys last week, and I made myself put on my old swim suit, the tankini I wore when I was 46.  I wished I had a new suit with a spanx implanted corset, but, alas, there was no time to shop for an alternative.  There’s no time for anything any more, particularly for me.  Nonetheless, I admit we had a great time, 4 kids and all. The sun was out.  The rock music blaring. The boys were mesmerized.  We did the tadpool, the wave, and the lightening slide (only the latter with Big Boy).

After I got home, we basked in the tiredness of the sun and water, the good tired you feel when you’ve played the way you played 40 years ago.  For some reason, all I could think about was Queen’s, “Fat Bottomed Girls,” (Grab a listen while you view the pics below. Boy, do I miss Freddie Mercury.)

I’m 49, and I jammed: me, my belly, and my babies. I might like 49.

The babies on the duck slide

If you think I'm showing my side view, forget it

Big Boy helping Sully

Tags: Caroline's, Cupcakes and Caterpillars, Fat Bottomed Girls, middle-aged parenting, Queen, spanx, The children's place, Wild River Country

The Dark Night

Big Boy, My Hero

I didn’t expect to revisit my childhood so intensely when I had kids, not that I was oblivious to my desire to do family and child-rearing a little differently when I had my own.   But, then, I have the luxury of doing parenting with more resources and time than my mom had, and probably a bit more wisdom and self-understanding than she had at her fingertips back in the late turbulent sixties.

After my parents divorced I had a particularly hard time sleeping alone.  I was always scared and begging for mom to read me a story or stay with me until I fell asleep.   As a single mom who worked inside and outside the home by necessity, she often caved in and let me sleep in her bed.

Now the shoe or, lucky me, slipper, is on my foot.  I, with the help of my husband, have created a Big Boy who wants one of us to “lay with me.” That means one of us is charged with getting in his twin bed and saying prayers after teeth are brushed, potty-ing is complete, and story time is done. He says he gets scared all alone upstairs after we go back down to finish up the final chores and watch some TV or read the paper.

In fairness to him, he was moved out of his room and had three new brothers in a very short span of time.  We got in this sucker’s night-time ritual after the triplets came.  I wouldn’t say that the indulgence wasn’t because we empathized with the sudden change in his life, which seemed to prompt more anxiety at night.  It was probably coincidentally a developmental change as well.  He was no longer a baby.  Monsters were real.

At first I felt guilty, the embarrassment of perhaps not being tough enough.  Those days are gone. Many a night, often bone-tired nights, I have come to experience childhood again by sitting (and “laying”) along side my Big Boy.   He lets me in on secrets.  He imparts his brand of wisdom as we share a bit of pillow talk.  He encourages me to kiss his snuggies (Lambchop and whoever else has been chosen for the bunk-in party).  He makes up stories and adventures, and I get to join him in play.  The last few days we’ve had puppet shows, made some clay art together, and put together a recycling truck several times, learning about how trash is collected and disposed of.

Last night, I made a big mistake.  We took him to see Disney’s new film, “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.”  I don’t know what I was thinking.  Producer Jerry Bruckheimer was in on it, so I should have known better:  it was way to0 scary.  After the action ramped up, he hid his eyes and declared, “Why did you bring me to this movie?”  Shamed, I told his daddy we were leaving.  We headed out and ran toward “Despicable Me,” a cute animated selection much more suitable to our 4-year-old’s tastes.  I can only excuse myself by saying that he seems older than his years, and I didn’t do my homework.  I forget this boy who’s wears sizes 5/6 and a man’s size one shoe is still asking me to lay down next to him each bedtime.

And, here’s the confession:  I enjoy that time.  One of my long-lost cherished memories hit me a few weeks ago, something that was so forgotten the experience left me so joyful I could not quit smiling.  It happened one night, when after a particularly hot day and bustling night-time routine, Big Boy said, “Let’s turn my pillow over, and get cool.”

How long had it been since I had practiced the time-honored, childhood tradition of turning one’s pillow over, feeling its coolness against my cheek.  The cottony-cool kiss was so familiar that I found myself thrilled that my son had discovered this secret and shared it with me again.

I turned 49 this week.  In many ways, I have forgotten the way I saw the world long ago.  But, on these dark summer nights, I’m letting a little boy teach me how to let the fairies whisper in my ear once more and categorize yucky old Jerry Bruckheimer as an enemy of innocence.  Stay away from my kids, my little knights, You!

Summer Lessons

Big Boy jumps off the diving board

I’m trying to keep Big Boy engaged in age-appropriate activities in spite of the reality that he has three little brothers who are not quite ready for his brand of play time.  He needs his own life. And, in fairness to him, he spends quite a bit of time waiting on us waiting on the needs of our triplets.

Thus, we began our swim lessons this past week with Ms. Linda (a.k.a. the “swim nazi”) again. Ms. Linda does thirty minutes of concentrated swim time, which includes jumping off the diving board, intro to diving (my words), back stroke, and “run and mix” (her words), which uses arms and legs to propel little kids forward.  Nothing fancy, but it gets ‘em there.

At the end of our final lesson today, Ms. Linda said “no more floaties.”  That sounded pretty nifty. I remembered how, last year, when the summer olympics were in full swing, I’d laughed when the announcers had described gold medalist Michael Phelps perfect swimming body:  Long arms and fingers, long torso, big feet.  Perfect for a swimmer.  I told my husband we’d better make sure that all four boys got lessons, since that’s the Snyder build.

Folk art version of Lambchop: by Mommy and Big Boy

In addition to swimming, we’ve also been hanging out at Ms. Cici’s, our art teacher’s.  We’ve been working on a piece of folk art.  Big Boy decided that we should capture the essence of his favorite toy, Lambchop, for our particular version.

Lambchop is very important in our home.  We sleep with her and travel with her.  Even the babies each have a Lambchop in their cribs.  After seeing “Toy Story 3,” Big Boy announced that he would not go to college without Lambchop, nor would he ever quit playing with her.  In fact, he might not, he announced emphatically, go to college, but just stay home with Lambchop instead.

I thought yesterday we’d come to blows over Lambchop’s red tongue during art class.  I wanted a pure red piece of ribbon for the tongue, but Big Boy chose a small piece of red and white fabric, quite hard to see. Several times, I tried to suggest that the small piece of fabric didn’t look big enough for Lambchop’s red tongue. Nothing worked. I did insist that we include stars on the background, which the art teacher helped us glue to the final piece.  Big Boy had a meltdown about the stars.  But I persisted: You got your tongue on Lambchop, and I want the stars.  It’s a compromise, I’d told him.  That didn’t seem to help much, as I slid the van door closed, him wailing, as Ms. Cici and I loaded the big plywood Lambchop in the front seat.

This morning, Big Boy surveyed the final rendering of Lambchop, presiding over our kitchen.  I suggested once again that the tongue was not quite what I’d hoped for, but he told me that it’s Lambchop’s mouth with her tongue in, not out.  Ok, I can see that, I said. Then, he smiled and said he actually liked the stars after all.

So, my oldest child, just four-years-old, had a different vision of his friend Lambchop.  I guess that means we’re going to see little things and big things from varying perspectives.

No more floaties, either.

Such will be the future with my oldest.

Don’t Knock. We’re Busy.

Mommy and Daddy are on 24-hour anniversary furlough

Close Calls

Snake in the grass, more than a metaphor

Found relaxing under kid-toys, all too near the garage door

As a mother of four, I’ve learned I can’t keep my eyes on everyone all the time, particularly when those four are boys, and particularly when three of them are 18 months and running down the street like savages. Would that I had eyes in the back of my head.

Yesterday, Aubrey Thomas, as we like to call him–because the addition of that second name implies we better get his attention before he’s sending us postcards from Algiers–had wandered close to the street.  I was preoccupied, trying to wrestle the water hose back around its maddeningly cantankerous storage reel. We’d just finished playing with our water toys in the sprinkler. It’s almost July in Arkansas, after all.

My helper yelled at our bold toddler from behind me, screeching his two names in quick succession, meaning I turned and bolted toward him.  He’d stopped and was yelling down the street.  As I began to chastise him, I followed his line of sight and discovered he was trying to get the attention of our wandering English Cocker Spaniel, Dottie.  She’d gone astray in sniffing up every wild and furry aroma she could sink her muzzle into. He was only trying to call her back, “Aggle, gargle, gaya.”

I hate these kind-of close calls.

The morning we were packing to leave for D.C. my husband hit the garage door opener.  He began to move some outdoor toys cluttered where the driveway and doors meet.  I heard him call my name. He asked me to come in the garage, then yelled, “Betsy, there’s a snake in here.”  I was prepared for a little green snake, not a chubby black coil as thick as my water hose.  He proceeded to try to lift it out of the garage area with the end of a broom.  The unexpected move was unwanted:  this guy was not happy and not ready for his morning stroll on the end of a house-cleaning tool.  True, he was not poisonous, but he was all too happy to show us his teeth with a loud, disgusted hiss.

Most of the time, one of us will hit the opener, and the boys will run, in that blind-stagger-drunken toddler move, toward the great outdoors.  All I could think of was what if one of the boys had discovered him first.  Aubrey Thomas–of course–has already been bitten by a neighbor’s elderly dog who roamed into our yard.  (Aubs mistakenly assumed all dogs are like ours: ready to receive massive hugs from diminutive people.)

I hate close calls.

Mommy and the boys at air and space

While in D.C. recently, we visited the National Air and Space Museum.  After a couple of hours we visited the food court, had lunch and a break.  To distract Sully my helper gave him the cap off a small bottle of Mickey D’s milk.  We walked back in the museum, me pushing Sully in the single stroller ahead of my helper and the other guys.

Suddenly, a woman, panicked, stopped me and said, “Your baby’s choking!”  I looked at Sully.  He was red-faced.  I whacked him on the back twice.  My helper reached into his mouth and felt the milk cap and retrieved it.  My heart was beyond racing.  The woman didn’t linger.  Her family was already headed up the escalator.  I kept calling back to her with my hand over my heart, “Thank you.  Thank you.”

I hate close calls.

These are nothing events, however.  I’ve come to realize that.  Close calls are not actual events. I thought about that today as I listened to a report about the woman who was seriously injured last weekend when she and her six-month-old baby were hit by a falling tree limb in Central Park in NYC. The husband was taking a picture of his wife and child when the branch fell. Devastatingly, the baby didn’t survive.

In trying to discern the cause, Mayor Michael Bloomberg said, “This may have just been an act of God.”

No, Mayor, as a trained theologian (SMU, M.Div. ‘91), I can tell you, it’s not an act of God.  That may be the language the insurance folks use, but, for anyone with any decent grasp of the caution one must use in uttering a solitary word about God, particularly in attributing tragedies to God, well, you’re way off.  God is not the author of suffering, not in my world.  Yes, accidents do happen in a free-wheeling universe, but they are not by the hand of God.  Sadly, falling limbs may be more symptomatic of very old trees in Central Park that needed more clean-up and trimming.  That’s an act of the city, Mayor.

I cannot possibly imagine what this mother, who lost her child in a most freakish and tragic manner, is going through.

I can try to imagine, but I’m only the victim of close calls.

Watch Out, Paula Deen!

I had never heard of Paula Deen until I had my first child.

I was home recuperating from a c-section with a 9.7 baby boy, also known in this blog as Big Boy. I was 44 and trying to breast feed for the first time.  While the whole birth experience was the most incredible one of my life, I was struggling with a new baby and a husband flying out to D.C. each Monday.

Early on, my sister came to hold and help.  For some reason we had the television on in my bedroom during lunch.  I think she’d made me a sandwich.  As we were visiting, she informed me we were watching “Paula Deen.”  She went on to describe Paula as “one of us,” a real southern cook who uses lots of “butta.”  From that day on, I was comforted by Paula’s presence and watched her every now and again while I was on maternity leave, although I discovered there wasn’t a lot of time for TV watching with a new baby.

I think I found Paula comforting because my older sister is our family’s Paula Deen.  She’s a southern cook through and through.  I grew up on her homemade pizza, gooey cake desserts,copper pennies, cheese dip, fried chicken, peach and cream cheese Jello, and casseroles.  Although she’s adapted her food staples these days to fit contemporary tastes, she is still a true southern cook. Every time I make Liza Ashley’s (“Thirty Years at the Mansion”) pound cake, I have to call her and tell her how good it is.  Only someone like my sister can appreciate how fabulous it is to make pound cake in an era of low-fat living.  (Please be assured that, given my heart issues, I make pound cake only a few times a year!)

So, imagine my delight when the Little Rock Mammas had a booth at Verizon a couple of weeks ago for the women’s show.  The show was advertised here and featured, Guess who?  Paula Deen!

I rounded up one of my sisters-in-law (I’m so sorry the other one was out of town!) and my sister.  I insisted they come down to the show.  I had purchased copies of Paula’s new book “Paula Deen’s Savannah Style.” The book signing was limited to one per person, so they had to be there in person.

As we approached the table, we saw Paula, her husband Michael, and her designing partner and co-author of the book, Brandon Branch. My sister was pinching herself.

My sister-in-law went first, and then I handed Paula my book.  I was trying to take pictures and enjoy the moment when my sister leaned over, presented her book and said to Paula, “I haven’t been this excited since I went to see Elvis in 1957!”  For those of you who are real young, Elvis Presley came to LR in 1957 before he was big-time.

Paula proceeded to smile, put her hand to her heart and tell my sister that she had seen him too.  I overheard her say something like, “Oh yes, I got to see him in 1973….”  As they exchanged sighs and stories about the one and only pelvis-thrusting Elvis, a naughty rocker from their younger years, my sister’s opinion that Paula is “one of us” was mostly confirmed.

Paula is a great cook, make no mistake.  She’s also one of the girls (“Y’all, I’m sooo excited….”) During her monologue she teases about her quirks, embraces a diverse staff, and laughs at and with her self-effacing husband. She is the best of the new South, still full of sass and “butta,” yet it appears there’s no room for petty prejudice on her team.  I like that about her.  I’m not anywhere near the creative cook my sister and Paula Deen are.  But I do like sass, “butta,” and a table where everyone has a place and is welcome.

Even though I can’t boast a new recipe, I’m hoping y’all will enjoy our pictures from the event.  I’ve also added a recent one of Wyatt, our biggest food-loving child.   I think he might end up giving Paula a run for her money.

Michael Groover with wife Paula Deen

Paula Deen recalls seeing Elvis in 1973. Seated to her right is designer Brandon Branch, who co-authored "Paula Deen's Savannah Style."

Paula Deen (left) and my sister, Gayle Gardner, dishin' about Elvis.

At 18-months, one of our preemie triplets, Wyatt, weighs 32ish pounds and, clearly, loves eatin'. Here's hoping he loves cooking!

Tags: 30 Years at the Mansion, Elvis, Paula Deen