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.

OMG

“Too Cool!” I said.
“Moooooooooom,” gasped The Pea in disgust. “We don’t say ‘too cool’ anymore. That’s SO last year. Or even two years ago, like when I was five!”
“Good to know,” I said.
“Now we say OMG.”
“OMG? What’s that?” I asked, as if oblivious to the year 2010.
“It’s Oh My Goodness, MOM, and it means the same thing as ‘too cool’” replied the Pea.
“Ah.” I said.
“Now let’s practice, you try it Mom.”
“OMG!” I gasped in true Valley Girl Gag Me With A Spoon fashion. (I am a child from the ‘80s).
“Mom, I’m not trying to be rude, but you sound like a brat. Let’s try one more time.”
“O.M.G.” I said, in my best non-brat, yet too cool voice.
“Not bad, but it needs work….”

(Cue Theme From Mission Impossible...)

Helmet on head, roller skates on feet, it’s not just housesitting—it’s a secret intelligence operation. Skate, skate, skate down the avenue. Always alert, always aware. The Bug is in disguise: grey T-shirt, black shorts. (Team Lightning plays tonight, a convenient front…) Clandestine mission: obtain correspondence from secured container.
This is a team effort. The Pea holds the key. (And I’m not speaking metaphorically, she’s literally clutching the mailbox key.)
The Bug surveys the area for approaching vehicles. The coast is clear. She waves on the Pea with their double-secret thumbs up “Let’s Cross the Street Now” signal. They arrive at the designated drop spot. The Bug stands watch, the Pea tries the key. The Bug waits and watches. The Bug wonders what’s taking so long. The Bug glances back toward her partner. The Bug flips the key over. The Pea tries once more. Jackpot.
Thankfully, with four hands between them, they balance confidential financial paperwork, strategic travel documents, and pizza flyers. Skate, skate, skate back to the secret lair – marked clearly with sidewalk chalk on the driveway.
Correspondence and key deposited on doorstep for lower rung agent (read into this: Me) to place on countertop indoors.
Mission Completion.

Clanging On Pans & Shouting Out Windows

Shout joyfully before the LORD, the King. (Psalm 98:6) My children are very deliberate in their praise to God. The Bug will often write prayers, or compose songs of praise. Once when I was changing her bed sheets, I came across some paper… torn from a spiral notebook, complete with the scraggly edges… where she had written out prayers of forgiveness, and guidance and petition. It’s not uncommon for me to find her surrounding by overturned pots and pans. She beats on her drum set, chanting whatever words of praise happen to enter her mind at the moment.
The Pea is forthright, as well. Sometimes, during evening tuck-in, we’ll finish reading a story and she’ll say, “Mamma, I feel like we need to worship, NOW.” At which point she leads a song of praise, or prayer or both as we sit on her bed in our pajamas. (Knowing full well, if we do not worship, the Pea will not be able to fall asleep). It’s something she HAS to do. She can’t keep silent, she needs to worship.
Recently, I’ve been reading the gospels concerning Jesus’ return to Jerusalem, betrayal, trials and crucifixion and resurrection. When He entered Jerusalem, riding on a donkey, a crowd of followers began to praise God in a loud voice. The Pharisees (the religious leaders who were more concerned about following various rituals/laws than they were about loving their God and neighbors) called out, “Teacher, rebuke your disciples!!” But Jesus answered them, “I tell you that if these should keep silent, the stones would immediately cry out.” (Luke 19:40) As we were driving along, the Pea mid-conversation, said, “Mamma, I need to roll down the window!” I thought she wanted some fresh air. She rolled down the window and shouted out, at the top of her lungs, “I love you Jesus! I love you God! I love your creation!” and then she rolled the window back up. “Mamma, it’s just something I HAD to do, right now.”
Oh that I would be so filled with wonder of God that I can’t help but shout my joy before the LORD…

One Minute More a.k.a. Tucking In My Firstborn

One Minute More

I know she’s asleep
Long day of third grade
Soccer practice
Chicken nugget supper
Sidewalk chalk with neighbor kids
“Bath time!”
Scramble inside, head upstairs
Trail of muddy clothes
Sudsy bath bubbles
Strawberry shampoo
Warm hooded towel
Hand-me down Jammies
“Brush your teeth!”
My night to tuck in The Bug
Bible verse and bedtime story
Sleep tight
Kiss on cheek, covers under chin
She’s fast asleep
Time for me to head downstairs
Not yet
One more look
One more intoxicating moment
One minute more

The Fertile Crescent & A Calling

Dear Ms. Harper,
It’s Teacher Appreciation Week. My daughter, the Bug, checked out a book on Egypt from the library. Last night she was reading to me about papyrus. I flashed back to Language Arts/ Social Studies at Meyzeek Middle School. I mean, it was like I was THERE. It took my breath away. Remember when we were studying Mesopotamia, and the Tigris and Euphrates, the Fertile Crescent? And you had us construct a book out of construction paper for a child to read? We were to include a map, information on scribes, papyrus. OH MY STARS did I work on that book. I cut and pasted and wrote in my best handwriting. I bound the pages together by looping light blue yarn through punched out holes on the spine. I took my creation up to the front of the class, where you were seated on a stool watching your flock. You smiled and told me I had found my calling. You said I was going to be an author someday, and you wanted the first autographed copy of my book. Truth be told, I replay that moment often in my mind.
Until then, I’d never thought of writing as a calling. I mean, I’ve loved to write since I could scribble on an empty page. In second grade, I devoured The Chronicles of Narnia and wondered if someday I could create a book for a child to get lost in? Mom and Dad (my biggest fans) were forever giving me notebooks, steno pads, journals (still do!) to write in. I carried them everywhere. (A trait –big smile-- I've apparently passed on to the Bug, who refuses to leave the house without at least one notebook.)
Anyway, I’m not sure if you still live in Louisville. But I want you to know that I am working hard on writing a story that will be published someday. And when it is, I’ll look you up! Because I'll be setting aside a special copy:
For Ms. Harper, Who Helped Me Hear My Calling.
Happy Teacher Appreciation Week!
I appreciate you more than you know,
Leigh Peyton