Ode To A Summer Day

Bowl of cheerios, splash of milk
Spoonful of sugar on top.
Sunday paper, World Cup soccer,
Barefoot trip out back to check the garden
Buzzing flies, and fans and
Is the air cranked high enough?
Shower, sundress, sandals.
Let me brush your hair.
Fine, fine, you do it.
Earrings, Bibles, White car! Load ‘em up!
Country roads past corn and cows and beans
Gravel parking lot, smiling faces
Warm embraces
I love you Lord with all my heart
With all my soul
With all my mind
And with all my strength.
I believe in warm hearts and active hands.
Leftover Thai lunch, downtown library trip
Letter to Lemony Snicket
Sunday rest and a Cormac McCarthy afternoon.
Painting masterpieces with Uncle Dave’s homemade wooden palette.
Chicken on the grill,
Broccoli rice casserole with EXTRA cheese.
American Girl Board Game
Washing clothes, an eternity of dirty dishes.
Sudsy bath, watermelon shampoo hair charades
Giraffe!? Triceratops! No I’m Elvis!
Snuggly blankets, shiny teeth Bible story,
Bedtime.

The Magnetism of Imagination

Kris Kringle: You know what the imagination is?
Susan Walker: Oh, sure. That's when you see things, but they're not really there.
Kris Kringle: Well, that can be caused by other things, too.

There’s a lovely scene in Miracle on 34th Street where Kris Kringle is teaching little Susie Walker the power of the imagination. He describes traveling to a fabulous nation…the Imagi-Nation. For whatever reason, my mind replays that particular grainy black & white film sequence often. Perhaps my subconscious sends this visual reminder constantly because I so constantly become imprisoned by reality. Imprisoned is a harsh word, maybe bound is more appropriate. My reality is wonderful…I’m speaking more about the trivial items that overlap to become the Great Busyness that is the life of wife and mother. The laundry, the dishes, the meals, the bills, the homework, the appointments, the practices and games. When do we lose sight of imagination? That great place where reality blurs and anything is possible. When/why does it begin to fade from a flame to a flicker? In correlation to age perhaps. Does one’s imagination decrease in direct proportion to one’s increase in years?
I propose the age correlation, because many children dwell happily within the great nation of Imagi-Nation. I marvel at the creativity of the Bug and the Pea. Most every moment of every day is not as it appears to the naked eye. What may seem as two little girls sorting seashells may actually be an underwater tea party for mermaids. What may look like a torn shoebox may actually be the habitat for an obscure desert creature. I’m constantly picking up stray washcloths from the kids’ rooms – or should I say baby doll blankets, birds’ nests, Barbie dresses? Pipe cleaners molded in the shape of doll clothes hangers, stuffed animal collars, fishing pole hooks.
During a recent layover, the girls entertained themselves with a single sheet of paper. The Bug discovered a wadded up flier in the bottom of her backpack. The Pea helped her tear apart pieces until they had (they claimed) a kingdom of paper dolls. When it was time to board the flight, the Bug stashed the royalty and subjects into her pocket. Once the kids found their seats, the kingdom magically reappeared on a mountaintop (a.k.a. airline pillow). Dreaming during the daytime – where you can manipulate the outcome.
“Help! I’m hanging upside down from the claws of a dragon in the tippy top room of the castle tower!”
“I’ll save you with my Popsicle stick sword and double secret flying power juice box potion!”
In the Imagi-Nation, you are always right, no matter what. Naysayers scoff: Giraffes DON’T live on clouds! (Well, they do in the Imagi-Nation) You’re NOT the President! (Well, you are in the Imagi-Nation) That’s NOT hot lava seeping in through the ceiling tiles! (Well, you get the picture.)
Perhaps when you’re around children a great deal, parts of a dormant creative mind begin to awaken. In the midst of a play date, you can’t help but be pulled toward the magnetism of the Imagi-Nation. Even as I type, the Court Jester (well, elf) rehearses for the Royal Cat while the Pirate Ballerina challenges Superhero Ladybug to a Dance-Off.
A giant dose of imagination is good for the soul.

Birthdays, Baths & The Endearment "Baby"

So we headed to Lexington for the annual June birthday extravaganza. My grandmother’s birthday is the same week as my daughter’s, (and the same day as my Papaw’s) so if we’re in the same town at the time, we celebrate together. The girls and I stopped at my folks’ house last Thursday. We ordered P.F.Chang’s carry-out (nothing says Happy Birthday like a vat of hot & sour soup, fried rice and lo mein…but I digress…) and Nanny joined us for dinner. Mom had a strawberry birthday cake as our centerpiece with huge candles “85” and “9.” I love that Nanny and The Bug sit side by side and blow out candles on the same cake. The Pea sat on the kitchen stool clad in the Native American outfit Mom sewed to wear on Halloween when Dave and I were in elementary school. (Because clearly, a ratty haired Pocahontas-Wanna-Be will be easily explained when showing precious birthday snapshots of years gone by.) “Sweet Baby, what happened to your party dress?” I ask the Pea. “Dunno. I’m not a Baby, Mamma.” Anyhooo…. After the party I helped the Pea suds up in a hot bath and wash the tangles out of her hair. She stepped out of the tub and I wrapped her up in a soft, fuzzy towel. I paused for a moment, with my arms around her in an embrace. Savoring the clean shampoo and babywash smells combined with the fresh detergent scent of the towel. “Sweet Pea,” I said, “You know you will ALWAYS be my baby, even when you are 85 years old.”
“Mamma,” replied the Pea, “When I’m 85, you’ll be dead.”
And the lovely moment came to a screeching halt thanks to my precious, but literal child. Good times.
 

In Which We Journey Overseas

A few weeks before my 16th birthday, my family moved to a different city. All that I felt I knew (and, in my teenage mind, I figured I knew quite a lot) was about to disappear in exchange for the unknown. The World’s Greatest Dad (mine) gave me a dose of perspective. “During my visits to our new city,” he said, “I’ve noticed the kids there wear clothes similar to the ones you wear. I’ve also noticed that the high school looks very similar to the one you’re used to.” He wasn’t being condescending, or patronizing in any way. He was merely reassuring me, regardless of city, people are people. I’m not sure why I assumed the kids in the “new city” would be so very different from me that I would live the rest of my days curled up in the fetal position in a closet. Nevertheless, the fear seemed rational at the time and hearing that “people are people” made everything all right.
If I win the lottery, there will be lots of traveling in my family’s future. But for now, we travel when we can. This mostly translates to weekend adventures/day trips to various Kentucky towns. But regardless of whether we’re in London, Kentucky or London, England, I always find that folks are more the same than different. A question to the cosmos: I wonder if there would be more intrastate/interstate/worldwide traveling if people understood this truth?
Financial matters aside, I wonder if one of the reasons people like to stay home (in their house or town) is because they are afraid of other people. Not scared that other people will hurt them physically in a dark alley abroad, (although I’m sure some envision that scenario). But afraid other people will be too different. So different that communication will be impossible. (Their clothes and shoes won’t be right, their hair will be all wrong, no one will understand.) They are afraid where they are going … will be so very different from where they have come from that they will stick out. They will not blend, but will be the center of attention. And perhaps being the center of attention is the worst possible outcome.
Being in the spotlight, flaws are revealed. As if there weren’t enough inadequacies to hide inside your dwelling place, now you are thrust naked out into the world for all to judge with a microscope. And why would anyone WANT that? So perhaps people choose to stay put, where they have some semblance of a comfort level with their choices. Where they blend into the background.
I’ve often heard other countries’ residents see Americans as rude, entitled, egocentric. And when I take a step back, and try to view my family as a Londoner might, for example, it’s very easy to see why. Comparatively, we are a very loud, “I want what I want right now,” “My way is the right way,” kind of family. I’ll use the Bug and the Pea as an example of how Americans might be perceived overseas. I joke that my children are ‘high maintenance’ and ‘ornery.’ Truth be told, either one of them would give you the very clothes off their back in a moment’s notice with no complaints. They are kind to a fault and consider the worst travesty to find someone who does not feel welcome or included. At which point they befriend the poor soul.
All this being said, after staying awake practically 24 hours on planes through the US to England, the Bug and the Pea were still chipper. Each carried their own backpack while pulling their own pilot suitcase. They walked in front where we could see them. The two can navigate an airport as well as I can. The driver, J, who met us at London Gatwick was all smiles. The Bug and the Pea introduced themselves and struck up a conversation immediately. J looked a bit surprised and made a cheerful comment about “a child with a teenager’s attitude.” I’d read in one travel guide European children are to speak when spoken to, but otherwise remain quiet. Especially when traveling on the underground or trains.
I’m sure our Chilean driver thought my parenting skills atrocious – allowing two small children to initiate conversations. The moment we got in the car and buckled up, the Pea asked, “Why do you drive the wrong way?” I cringed at this egocentric remark. J laughed politely, but I’m sure he was insulted as the Pea assumed Americans drove the RIGHT way, so Londoners must drive the wrong way. As we maneuvered about London on our way to the flat, J explained a bit about the neighborhoods we passed. He described this particular section as the most posh area in London, to which the Bug replies, “These houses are so tiny!” I’m certain J was wondering where exactly WE lived in the States where the POSHest area in London was tiny. Knowing how the Bug thinks, I’m certain she was curious about these gorgeous houses, hundreds of years old, placed so close together in a sprawling city. She was used to our home, constructed 7 years ago, in suburbia. She viewed our Chilean driver as an immediate friend with whom she could converse, and was oblivious to how her remarks could be viewed as anything other than friendly. She didn’t view barriers, she felt comfortable, she was curious about the differences.
Small children seem to realize people are people. They are not confined by adult restrictions, barriers, fears. Differences are not to be shied away from, but to be embraced and explored. When my girls spot other children on a playground, they are drawn like magnets. “I’m going to make a new friend, Mommy” says the Pea. Bosnian? Ukranian? Hispanic? No worries if her friend-to-be speaks English or not. Play has a language all its own, marked by smiles and laughter.
The Bug and the Pea made several new friends as we traveled. Whether sitting on the ferry, standing in line for the Underground or Metro, waiting to ascend the Eiffel Tower. The kids were an inspiration, especially to us grown ups, to explore and embrace other cultures beyond our neighborhood. No barriers, no restrictions, lots of smiles and laughter and the hopes of new friendships. As my beret-clad Bug was traipsing down Champs d’Elysees, she noticed the hard hat worn by city worker below in the sewer system. She leaned down and chirped, “Bon Jour!” He looked up with a grin, “Bon jour mademoiselle.” People are people, lots of differences, mostly the same.