Bring out your dead

For some readers, this will come as no surprise; for others, my enchantment with cemeteries may seem a bit macabre.  Yes, cemeteries.  The place where we bury our dead.  I'm not exactly sure when my fascination started, but for as long as I can remember, cemeteries have held a mystic appeal to me.  Where else can you find such pure silence and serenity?  What better place to walk and reflect--not only about yourself but also about the very souls surrounding you?

As a child, I remember wandering through the above-ground cemeteries of New Orleans on vacation with my mom and visiting family plots throughout northeast Texas.  In high school, a dear friend of mine introduced me to Glenwood Cemetery in Houston, which continues to cast its spell on me even today.  In college, I conducted linguistics research in Central Texas cemeteries, looking at the assimilation of the German language in Texas.  Even on our honeymoon, I dragged Jelly through St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 in New Orleans to peek at the tomb of voodoo mistress Marie Louveau.  Fascination may even be an understatement.

Last week I stumbled across Reeves United Methodist Church in Pittsburg, Texas, where I introduced my children to the tranquil nature of cemeteries.

There I stood--forty miles from the nearest Starbucks--listening to a woodpecker in the tree above.  I imagined what Sundays must have been like at this little church in the late 1800's.  I could almost hear the laughter as I pictured kids running around after Sunday services while their parents shook hands and caught up on country gossip. The cemetery behind the church held just as much allure, but one thing continued to bother me.
  

It was the children.  There were so many.  Eight children from one family, six from another, three here, two there.  So many children.  What happened between 1900 and 1908? Smallpox? Yellow fever? Influenza? These are the questions I ask while I wander the crooked rows of crumbling stones. 

And these are the questions of my children:
"Is this where we go to die?"
"Where are their heads?"
"What happens if we dig them up?"
"Does God come here?"
"What does it mean to die?"
"Why are some graves outside the fence?" (Try explaining slavery and racism to a six-year-old.)
"Can I pick the daffodils?"

And I'm glad my kids are with me.  I'm glad they aren't afraid to stand here amid the grayness of death.  I'm glad they aren't afraid to ask questions about life, death, and daffodils.  I'm glad that the laughter of so many little children buried there echo in my three as they play amongst the stones.  Their souls must have been smiling...I know mine was.   

Let's Rodeo!

One of the highlights of living in Houston is the annual livestock show and rodeo.  Every year Texans dress up in their best cowboy boots and Wranglers and trek into the world that is rodeo.  Houston socialites don bedazzled blue jeans and rhinestone belt buckles for a month-long celebration of chuckwagons and cowboys.  Ag students from across the state show off their livestock for a shot at thousands of dollars in scholarship funds.  Needless to say, rodeo is no small event in this town.

When my dad and I decided to take the kids to the rodeo last weekend, I admit I was a bit nervous.  The rodeo is big--and my kids are small.  Like most parents, I worry about one of them wandering off, getting tired and cranky, or falling off the ferris wheel.  Spending ten hours playing zone defense with the three of them is enough to test even the Supernanny's patience. 

So off we went, hoping for the best but secretly preparing for the worst.  Imagine my surprise when eight hours later, these smiles were still there:

The day passed without any major meltdowns, and I don't think I heard "Can we go now?" even once.  Nobody fought over who got to sit next to mommy or who got to hold the lemonade or who got to sit in the front seat of the airplane ride.  Yes, there were bribes of ice cream and cotton candy, but even those were filled with sparks of serendipity. 

Just as Jackbug and I arrived at the cotton candy stand, the national anthem began playing.  Naturally, I stopped to pay respect to our flag and country.  And I waited.  I waited for the tugging on my shirt and for the whiny little voice to remind me that we were here for cotton candy.  I waited for the two-syllable "Mo-om" that drives me so crazy.  But it never came.  Instead I looked down at my three-year-old to find him standing quietly, hand over his heart, looking up at me with (what I like to think) was pride in his eyes.  And my heart smiled. 

Maybe it was because I expected such craziness that the day seemed so successful.  Maybe it was the novelty of seeing bull riding and bronc busting up close and personal.  Maybe it was the carnival rides and cotton candy.

Or maybe--just maybe--the day was such a success because I'm doing something right. 

Unanswered Prayers

When I was younger, I prayed a lot.  I prayed for help on tests, for certain boys to notice me, and for my mother to fall asleep before I sneaked in the house thirty minutes late.  Don't get me wrong--I prayed for the good stuff, too.  I wanted everyone happy and healthy and blessed, but the concept of prayer as a conversation with God was still pretty foreign to me.  Prayer was convenient when reality wasn't.

Fast forward to my mid-twenties, and you'd find my knees scarred from the many hours I spent on them in prayer.  My reality forced me to pray and pray like my life depended on it.  But something still wasn't right.  Every morning I woke up to the same life, same issues, same sadness.  It never dawned on me at the time that I was praying for all the wrong things.
 
Some people believe everything happens for a reason.  We may not initially know why, but once the fog begins to lift, our trials start to make sense.  So it is with me.  A friend once told me that God always answers our prayers, but sometimes the answer is no.  Unfortunately, we sometimes keep on praying time and again for what God has no intention of giving us.  We can only offer our thanks once the fog clears.

A couple of days ago I glanced at the calendar and smiled.  It would have been my ninth wedding anniversary (with someone else) had God given in and done as I asked.  Little did I know, my prayers were being answered the whole time.  I just didn't want to listen.  And for that, I am eternally grateful.

I don't do sick

I don't believe in being sick.  I might not feel well.  I might have allergies.  I may even have picked up a bug.  But I am not sick.  Don't mind that I cannot speak a full sentence without erupting into a coughing fit, and ignore the wads of tissue shoved into my pockets.  I'm told 37.9 degrees Celsius isn't really a fever.  (My kids screwed up the settings on our thermometer months ago.)  It's completely normal for me to spend my days in and out of sleep on my sofa while my children entertain themselves with permanent markers and lip gloss.  Really, I am not sick.

I'm a mom.  I don't get sick days, especially when Jelly can't come home to relieve me.  (For those of you not in the Air Force, Jelly is my husband's call sign. I'll explain another time.) Let's just say my allergies have been on high alert the last few days, but I'm on the mend.  I even ventured out into the real world tonight to pick up groceries.  I couldn't bring myself to serve pizza and/or macaroni and cheese one more time, so I placed my order online for curbside pickup from Rice Epicurean Market.  (By the way, I highly recommend this service, and it's free.)  I don't shop for groceries with all three of my kids in tow even when I'm feeling good, so this was a big step for me.

I don't do sick.  Maybe it's because I was sick quite a bit as a child.  Nothing particularly serious...just enough to warrant missing school for weeks at a time and to prompt my pediatrician to propose a toast at my wedding.  I know how miserable it is to be sick, so I decided a long time ago that it wasn't for me.

Unfortunately, I don't let anyone else do sick either (unless you're my child).  Ask my husband.  He'll be the first to tell you that I am the world's worst nurse.  If you're sick under my care, you take your meds and get in bed.  When I ask if there's anything I can get you, I don't really want an answer.  I just want you to sleep and wake up healthy.

The last time Jelly was sick happened the week before he left for Iraq.  He'd just received six immunizations for anthrax and other military-type stuff, and all those tiny little antibodies didn't mix well.  So I gave him some Motrin and put him to bed.  (For the record, I did go out at midnight and pick up a prescription for Tamiflu just in case this was H1N1.  I'd hate for him to go DNIF right before he deploys, right?)  The next day, he asks for chicken soup.  Seriously?  Does Lipton Cup-O-Soup count?  Turns out, it does.

So now I sit and type at one in the morning because I slept sixteen hours today.  I think I might just grab a brownie and watch some late-night tv. I'll just ignore the fact that I can't taste the chocolaty goodness, nor can I hear the tv because of my clogged ears. You see, I am not sick.

Then again, maybe I'll just take my meds and go to bed. 
 

On your mark...

 I did it.  I jumped in head first and started a blog.  No real topic, no real theme...just my daily ramblings about the tortures and joys of raising three children with a husband deployed seven thousand miles away.  Did I mention the children are only six, four, and three?  And hubs is deployed for a year?  As you might imagine, the opportunities are endless.  

Even as I've tried to write these first few sentences, I've already placed the boys in time out for sneaking out the play-doh and discovered that someone placed a call on my cell phone about two hours ago.  (Sorry, Mari!) 

 

Just this last sentence allowed for the creation of a new game: 

 

 

While I can't (on most days) promise profound parenting wisdom or offer you cute little ways to recycle milk cartons, I can pretty much guarantee a smile or a laugh or a twinkle in the eye. There will be times when all is right in the world, and there will be others when the earth falls off its axis.  So if you're up for the rewards that this blog will bring, please hop on board.  I only ask that you remember--just like in parenting, I'm learning as I go.