If you think he likes his middle name, think again, and I learned just this year he's not crazy about his first name. Don't know how he feels about Schiess.
Andrew is 38 today. He went to lunch with his mother today. Her treat. She loves this boy, although she knows he is a man. He is her third son, fourth and middle child. And, of course, there's a story in that data. I'll leave it to him to tell.
Here's how Andrew's mother sees him. A good person, with goodness in him. That is not redundant. His goodness is manifested in the way he treats others with kindness. She thinks he is a good dad and a good husband to Michelle.
He is honest. He is intelligent and quite well-read.
And he is quick of wit. His brother Wayne says he is the quickest of all my children. (This declaration may get comments.)
I, Andrew's mother, have written elsewhere and elsewhen about the special bond I feel with Andrew because of his first difficult year, when for several months his poor stupid mother was starving him, not intentionally. But to her credit--my credit--she reversed that sad and destructive spiral. Good for her, and good for Andrew and thanks to him for his sweet temperament and endless patience.
Happiest of birthdays, Andrew.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Lola (Second Try) because yesterday it didn't show up in the blog
Monday, March 2, 2009
The day has had its moments. Lola punctured her hand with the Phillips head tip of a drill. She called in tears. It hurt—a deep wound—and it frightened her. If Dad were here, she said, I could just ask him to come over and look at it and he would know what to do.
It’s true. But I went. She had washed it and bled it and poured hydrogen peroxide in it. Those were all the right things to do. Then we tried to know if she should get a tetanus shot. Ask-a-nurse says yes. Jeff says no. I’m inclined to agree with him because Lola is nursing the baby and doesn’t know what effect the shot might have on him. I worry, of course, because I’m her mother and do not want her to take any chances. If
Six years ago. It was a nasty puncture. It hurt me to see it. And I know that her dad's death the month before made the wound seem worse, more painful, more frightening. If there were lines between the injury and the sadness we were feeling already, they got blurred. It was just a sad little drama that day in the living room of her house.
We made a shaky decision, trying to look beyond our worry and the what ifs we had spoken of. No tetanus shot. It turned out well. Lola has a mark in that web between the thumb and first finger, but she suffered no permanent ill effects of the injury.
This is The Widow's Chronicle, after all, and there is nothing in my life that is not part of it.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Spring Cometh
I know it because the crows are back. They've been shouting all week, claiming their territory. Which happens to be my territory, actually. I'm almost sure I was here before the crows, at least these crows. I hollered at two of them yesterday who walked cockily around my lawn pulling up worms. They didn't budge, acted like I was the intruder.
I mention this because of my finches, of course. I have seen no sign of them and worry they'll not be back. They did not come last year because of the crows. (I wrote of it then.) The flickers are here and the house sparrows. I've seen a few quail about and a robin or two. But I can't call them mine. I do call the finches mine. They used my wreath as their home for 17 years--a new wreath every year, of course--and allowed me watch the entire business of their lives.
Obviously, I miss the finches. It's partly because I always think of Wayne when they come back and set up household on my front porch. They were a nice little springtime gift for the two of us. Their absence leaves a hole in the season I don't how to fill.
It's a truth that we humans search for meaning and usually make meaning out of the incidents of our lives, and so I look at this small drama and wonder at its significance. Perhaps it's a signal that underlines the advice a widow often gives herself: move on. Whatever that means. Perhaps there is no significance.
The reality is that the crows are here, a daily irritant. They're hard to ignore because they are always visible and rarely silent, a real in-your-face bird. But, after all, they provide me with grumble material. I guess there's something to be said for that.
I mention this because of my finches, of course. I have seen no sign of them and worry they'll not be back. They did not come last year because of the crows. (I wrote of it then.) The flickers are here and the house sparrows. I've seen a few quail about and a robin or two. But I can't call them mine. I do call the finches mine. They used my wreath as their home for 17 years--a new wreath every year, of course--and allowed me watch the entire business of their lives.
Obviously, I miss the finches. It's partly because I always think of Wayne when they come back and set up household on my front porch. They were a nice little springtime gift for the two of us. Their absence leaves a hole in the season I don't how to fill.
It's a truth that we humans search for meaning and usually make meaning out of the incidents of our lives, and so I look at this small drama and wonder at its significance. Perhaps it's a signal that underlines the advice a widow often gives herself: move on. Whatever that means. Perhaps there is no significance.
The reality is that the crows are here, a daily irritant. They're hard to ignore because they are always visible and rarely silent, a real in-your-face bird. But, after all, they provide me with grumble material. I guess there's something to be said for that.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Monday night . . .
my grandson Charlie and his little brother John were here for dinner. Their parents came, too. After dinner, the boys went upstairs while the rest of us sat at the table talking. Before long some noise from upstairs sent their dad running. Then some noise from him sent their mom. I called up and asked, "Is Charlie all right?" but got no answer.
Just as I was about to go up, their mother came down, and she was laughing. Here's the story:
Charlie had "bonked" John, he told his dad, and then, because he knows that bonking John is something he should not do, Charlie put himself in Time Out. On my bed.
Soon he had to use the toilet. But he was in Time Out, and obviously he knows what that means, so he felt that he should not get off my bed for any reason. That is why he had been calling for help, for a parent or someone with authority to come and officially set him free.
His dad arrived a little too late. Charlie had wet my bed.
That is the story, and I felt it should be told. For a few moments I was concerned that someone involved in it, like Charlie maybe, might one day be upset that I had used actual names. I tried initials and found that just annoying. Changing the names didn't seem right either. So there you have it.
As for the incident, I'll leave it to you to analyze for yourself.
For me, it is pure pleasure that I have grandchildren who think this way.
Just as I was about to go up, their mother came down, and she was laughing. Here's the story:
Charlie had "bonked" John, he told his dad, and then, because he knows that bonking John is something he should not do, Charlie put himself in Time Out. On my bed.
Soon he had to use the toilet. But he was in Time Out, and obviously he knows what that means, so he felt that he should not get off my bed for any reason. That is why he had been calling for help, for a parent or someone with authority to come and officially set him free.
His dad arrived a little too late. Charlie had wet my bed.
That is the story, and I felt it should be told. For a few moments I was concerned that someone involved in it, like Charlie maybe, might one day be upset that I had used actual names. I tried initials and found that just annoying. Changing the names didn't seem right either. So there you have it.
As for the incident, I'll leave it to you to analyze for yourself.
For me, it is pure pleasure that I have grandchildren who think this way.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
It Has Come About
My Lola has moved away.
For 14 years she was my neighbor down the street.
Forever she is my daughter, my beautiful wonderful first girl.
I miss her already.
For 14 years she was my neighbor down the street.
Forever she is my daughter, my beautiful wonderful first girl.
I miss her already.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Misc.
1. So now there's Facebook. I'm not on it. I don't have 110 people from my past wanting to be my friend, providing me with their daily status report, forcing me to say, "It's too many already. I can't let this one in." I do not say Facebook is a bad thing. Some days a person could get a little egolift knowing 110 people feel friendly toward her. But there's only so much time in a day.
Most, maybe all, of my children and their spouses are Facebookers. Many of my grandchildren, too. And when I tell them my mother always said, "Fools' names, like fools' faces, are often seen in public places," it is in no way meant to disparage their Facebookishness.
Here's what I have learned about it. My children are protective of me--or of themselves. They do not want me to Facebook myself. They grumble about the number of people who turn up wanting to be friends. Okay, I say, no big deal. But then they turn to me and say, "Mom, you don't want to be on Facebook. You learn too much about people. Stuff you don't want to know." And the "you" is not only the generic "you." It's me.
I have been on Facebook, spent some few minutes there a time or a dozen. They have no worries. I will not "join."
2. I recommend a 20-minute nap. Even if you don't sleep, you get up able and willing to do the thing you earlier knew you should do but didn't want to and couldn't make yourself. Namely, treadmilling.* I suppose I must now confess that I've only tried this 20-minute nap thing once, today. Still . . .
3. Robert Schuman's Spring Symphony is good for treadmilling.*
4. It matters how tight you tie your shoe laces. A certain tight tightness may be fine for just walking around, doing stuff. But on the treadmill the leg with the really tight shoe lace begins to hurt before very many minutes have passed, hurt like a shin splint.
5. My grandson Patrick moved most of his stuff in here today. At least I think/hope it's most; the room is not huge. He'll live here for the rest of his senior year in high school because his mom and brothers are finally moving down to Nevada to join Jeff. I also met Keely (not sure of the spelling), Patrick's girl friend, and it is clear they like each other. They're quite cute. Patrick has learned to drive and will have his license this week, I think.
I have a few stipulations. I want him to find me when he gets home from school every day and tell me something of his day. I want him to keep the room orderly, to turn off lights, turn off the stove, and spend 15 minutes with me one evening a week reading a scripture or Ensign article. There are already rules in place--from his mother--about checking with me before bringing Keely here, to make sure I'm here, too.
I do not know about food, what kind, who's preparing it, etc.
*6. It's 2009. We can make verbs from nouns. Hence, treadmilling. It makes more sense than to say treading the mill, which I am not doing anyway when I'm on the treadmill, and it's more economical than to say getting on or walking on the treadmill.
7. Strange but true. You have never heard of something, like celiac disease. Then you hear of it and suddenly you hear of it a lot and meet people who have it or who know someone whose child has it and you wish you'd never heard of it.
Most, maybe all, of my children and their spouses are Facebookers. Many of my grandchildren, too. And when I tell them my mother always said, "Fools' names, like fools' faces, are often seen in public places," it is in no way meant to disparage their Facebookishness.
Here's what I have learned about it. My children are protective of me--or of themselves. They do not want me to Facebook myself. They grumble about the number of people who turn up wanting to be friends. Okay, I say, no big deal. But then they turn to me and say, "Mom, you don't want to be on Facebook. You learn too much about people. Stuff you don't want to know." And the "you" is not only the generic "you." It's me.
I have been on Facebook, spent some few minutes there a time or a dozen. They have no worries. I will not "join."
2. I recommend a 20-minute nap. Even if you don't sleep, you get up able and willing to do the thing you earlier knew you should do but didn't want to and couldn't make yourself. Namely, treadmilling.* I suppose I must now confess that I've only tried this 20-minute nap thing once, today. Still . . .
3. Robert Schuman's Spring Symphony is good for treadmilling.*
4. It matters how tight you tie your shoe laces. A certain tight tightness may be fine for just walking around, doing stuff. But on the treadmill the leg with the really tight shoe lace begins to hurt before very many minutes have passed, hurt like a shin splint.
5. My grandson Patrick moved most of his stuff in here today. At least I think/hope it's most; the room is not huge. He'll live here for the rest of his senior year in high school because his mom and brothers are finally moving down to Nevada to join Jeff. I also met Keely (not sure of the spelling), Patrick's girl friend, and it is clear they like each other. They're quite cute. Patrick has learned to drive and will have his license this week, I think.
I have a few stipulations. I want him to find me when he gets home from school every day and tell me something of his day. I want him to keep the room orderly, to turn off lights, turn off the stove, and spend 15 minutes with me one evening a week reading a scripture or Ensign article. There are already rules in place--from his mother--about checking with me before bringing Keely here, to make sure I'm here, too.
I do not know about food, what kind, who's preparing it, etc.
*6. It's 2009. We can make verbs from nouns. Hence, treadmilling. It makes more sense than to say treading the mill, which I am not doing anyway when I'm on the treadmill, and it's more economical than to say getting on or walking on the treadmill.
7. Strange but true. You have never heard of something, like celiac disease. Then you hear of it and suddenly you hear of it a lot and meet people who have it or who know someone whose child has it and you wish you'd never heard of it.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Worth It
Our grandson Charlie is a big boy now. He's three years and a few months old and can do many things on his own.
For instance, he now knows when he needs to use the toilet and can do so independently. (It's a joy.) So at my house last week he told his mom he needed to go, and she said go, and he went into my little downstairs bathroom, and soon called out excitedly for his mom to come there.
Oh dear, we thought, and she ran. When she got there she found he was fine, the bathroom was fine, but clearly he was excited.
"Mama," he said, "Grandma has a clock in her bathroom! I didn't imagine that."
I loved it. And so I ask again, too many clocks for what?
For instance, he now knows when he needs to use the toilet and can do so independently. (It's a joy.) So at my house last week he told his mom he needed to go, and she said go, and he went into my little downstairs bathroom, and soon called out excitedly for his mom to come there.
Oh dear, we thought, and she ran. When she got there she found he was fine, the bathroom was fine, but clearly he was excited.
"Mama," he said, "Grandma has a clock in her bathroom! I didn't imagine that."
I loved it. And so I ask again, too many clocks for what?
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