Chewymom

I have to make a confession. I told a whopper.

I didn’t intend to.

Ya know how little boys grown up men are when they go fishing? Me neither, because we don’t fish. But I’ve heard stories. Men come home from a fishing trip and say, “It was thiiiis big!” as they stretch their arms out wider and wider.

Or they say, “It was two feet long,” when in fact it was really only, say, one-and-a-half.

Okay, remember how I said I ran two miles the other day? Well, I did it again yesterday, only this time I had the correct watch on, and I ran it in 21 minutes. Which for me is not possible. At all. The last time I ran a 5k, and I’ll grant you it was several years ago, I think I was doing about a 14 minute mile. Or worse. No way I just up and ran a 10.5 minute mile.

So I emailed the cross country coach again to verify the distance. He replied back that it was about two miles. Hmmmm….

So today the gates that are normally shut to traffic on the golf-course road I ran, happened to be open. And I happened to drive the course.

One-and-one-half miles, almost exactly.

So I didn’t mean to exaggerate–to tell a fish-tale–but I did. I ran 1.5 miles two days ago. And again yesterday.

I’m still pleased as punch, even if my fish was a little smaller than previously stated!

I hope the alien stays.

Yesterday, I was my usual self. I nagged my husband, I fussed at my kids, I had a couple of semi-frozen margaritas at a Cinco de Mayo party, along with a big slice of lemon pie. All typical. Except that I normally don’t have access to margaritas, semi-frozen or otherwise. I did a little cleaning, which is not normal. And I was generally grumpy. More normal than I would care to admit.

Today I woke up and had my coffee and studied for my final a little bit. And then I set out for the walk I had put in my calendar to force myself to do it. I have been doing a Couch-to-5-K program. Well, technically I’m on week two, so I’ve done it for one week. I walked 1-1/2 miles around to where I usually start my run-walk. Today I was supposed to run 90 seconds, then walk 90 seconds. I reached down to set my watch to beep every 90 seconds, and dang it! I had put on the wrong watch. This one doesn’t beep, nor is it easy to see.

Plan B was to run for 100 paces, then see how long it had taken me. So I counted out 100 paces, and realized I was only at 40 seconds. So I decided to run 100 more paces for a total of pretty close to 90 seconds, then I would walk 200 paces. Only, when I got through my second 100 paces of running, I felt good, so I thought–and I think this is the place where the alien actually invaded my body–that I would just keep running 100 paces, and then 100 more, until I wanted to stop.

Only I kept feeling good.

And I kept running.

All the way to the other gate, which is precisely two miles, or so I’m told by the high school cross country coach.

Y’all, I ran two miles! Out of nowhere! And it wasn’t that hard!

Tomorrow, I’ll be riding in an electric scooter at the grocery store, because my legs, they will rebel. And the alien will likely have left my body once it figures out that it has mistaken me for a person who can, well, run.

But for today, I rather enjoyed the alien.

And for the record, I think my nagging may have been at an all-time low today, too.

Folks, I’m surrounded by cats. We have four as pets, along with two dogs. Thankfully so far we have not ventured into the reptile and rodent category of pets, unless you include Mr. Darcy, who still is not much bigger than a large squirrel. And is currently entertaining himself in the usual way–pulling Max’s tail, and then running for cover and then starting the process all over again.

Cats are so different than dogs. My cats busy themselves doing their own thing. They will sometimes follow me from room to room, but they keep a safe distance. I can coax them to come if I walk into the laundry room and rattle their food bowl. Occasionally a couple of them will approach me to be petted. Of course, Serafina still prefers to sleep practically on my face for at least part of the night, and to purr and sharpen her claws on my back. She is not normal. But the others are typical cats–keeping their distance, waiting for me to offer them something, and then going on with their own busy lives of sleeping and grooming.
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And lately that has felt like my life. You knew this post wasn’t just going to be about cats! Do you ever feel that way? Maybe it is the life of a busy woman–wife, friend, mother, lover. Right now it feels like I am surrounded by cats–people who go on about their own lives, which are legitimately busy, and who come around at feeding time. Or whatever. It feels like I have to dangle a carrot–er some catnip, in keeping with my theme–like I have to offer something others want before they come around. I feel this need to always have the right catnip on hand, and I have an intense fear that if I run out, the cats will no longer want to come around. And it isn’t that I’m surrounded by bad cats people. They’re just busy people, like me, overwhelmed with their own lives, and probably feeling rather like they, too, are surrounded by cats.

Sometimes I just want a Mr. Darcy. Someone who adores me. Who follows me around, waiting to see what I need or what I want. Who waits for the moment that I sit down so he can just hop in my lap and lick my face like he hasn’t seen me in a week, when in fact it has only been about five minutes. I want to be pursued from room to room in my life.
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I want the Hound of Heaven! And that is Jesus. He pursues me when I am weary, sad, tired, running from Him. He is not a Mr. Darcy who loves on me for a while, but who is then distracted by more entertaining things like Max’s tail! No, his focus is all on me, and he does not rest until he has found me and brought me back before the father. And actually, even then he does not rest, because he knows I will again and again need to pursued and loved relentlessly.

This morning I am praying for the strength and love to continue to be a cat-herder. And I can only do it because ultimately, a hound is after me.

Brig is convinced that he is famous. He has been on tv (in the background), in the paper (lots of people in our town are in the paper), and he hopes to someday be on Ellen. He sees no problem with calling Ellen up and inviting himself to be a guest on her show because she is famous just like he is. They understand each other.

Delusions of grandeur.

So, a couple of weeks ago, his Special Olympics swim coach called me and asked me if Brig would participate in the Torch Run this year. The police officers in our city run the torch from City Hall to Walmart, where they gather on top of the Walmart and solicit donations for Special Olympics. I said, “SURE!” knowing Brig would love an excuse to miss a little bit of school.

I showed up yesterday morning at 8:00 at City Hall, expecting to drop Brig off and leave. I had a busy day with it being Ben’s birthday and all. There were little things like driver’s licenses to get and birthday cakes to buy. When Brig and I walked over to the small crowd gathering I realized that Brig wasn’t one of the Special Olympics runners. He was the runner. The torch bearer, in fact.

Meaning he spoke to the mayor. Had his picture made in front of the sign. Started the race with all of the police officers following him (many of whom he knew, because he is famous, of course).

So the race started, Brig enjoyed the attention, and I left. And a couple of hours later, his swim team coach called and said, “Tune in to xyz radio station! They’re about to interview Brig!” I was in the drive-up line at a local coffee shop, and I tuned it in, and just as the man asked for my order, here came Brig’s voice over the airwaves, not just of our city but of the whole surrounding area, because this was a station out of Huntsville! Surreal. I had called Chewydad who ran out to his car with a tape recorder and managed to record the interview. Click on the arrow to hear it (they talk to another person in the middle, but if you keep listening, they talk to Brig again at the end).
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 Brig on the Radio [2:41m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

That night we tuned in to the local television news because I had noticed some video cameras present when Brig started the run. He wasn’t on, so we headed on out for dinner to celebrate Ben’s birthday. As we were finishing our meal, a friend called and said, “I just saw Brig on the news! They said his name and age and everything!” Dang it–we missed it! We’re working on getting a copy of the report.

So this morning I am awake before the rest of the family, except for Sam who has always had an internal alarm for 0-dark-thirty. I walked out to get the paper, opened it up, and found Brig on the front page!

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Hey Ellen, Brig is awaiting your call.

Dear Ben,

Today you are sixteen, and I am terribly excited! I finally have the driving help I have waited for for years! After I take you to hopefully pass your driver’s exam, I will send you off into the world in the old 1994 Honda Accord. With fear and trembling.

I know that over the next days, weeks, months, I will annoy you to pieces.

I will say things like, “Be sure you drive the speed limit!”

Which really means, “I am really afraid that if you get a ticket, I won’t be able to afford the insurance any more!”

And, “Don’t get distracted by the radio or a/c.”

Meaning, “People make sudden moves in front of you. If you aren’t aware, you could rear-end someone. And get hurt. And I really, really don’t want you to get hurt.”

I’ll also say, “Never talk on your cell phone and NEVER text while driving!”

And in my head I’m thinking, “If you have a wreck while using your cell phone and someone is injured, you could be doing jail time.”

I’m sure I’ll nag, “Watch out for school zones!”

Meaning, “Whatever you do, don’t hit a kid! Talk about ruining lives…his, yours….”

And I’ll ask, “When will you be home?”

Meaning, “I worry when my little chickies aren’t all safe in the nest. Hurry back so I can breathe a sigh of relief and go to sleep at night.”

And I’ll definitely say, “NEVER drink and drive.”

Meaning, “NEVER drink and drive.”

And I’m sure I’ll say, “Be careful.”

Which means, “I love you.”

I’m sure I’ll say all sorts of other things, and they’ll all annoy you. You will roll your eyes. You will think I don’t trust you or that I assume that you are a bad driver.

It isn’t that, dear Ben. I’m just being your mom, trying to adjust to your new freedoms. I’m frightened and worried, and I’m not so good at this letting go thing. So bear with me. And be careful. Okay?

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We had been living in north Alabama for about a year when we decided to move about 15 miles west into the town where we had become “plugged in.” We had joined a church, joined three soccer teams, lined up two piano lessons, and given birth to a baby girl in that town, and the only thing tying us to the town where we lived was the proximity to Chewydad’s work.

Whenever I was over in the next town, which was approximately five times per week, I would drive around to see what was on the market. There was this one house that I fell in love with. It was brick, next door to a family we knew, and oh the neighborhood! It had been built around an elementary school. Literally. The school sat on a rectangle of property which included a big field and some woods. And the homes were built on the four streets surrounding the school, so that they all faced the school–like a little square. This house sat on the street along one of the sides of the school.

It had been on the house a very long time. It was way over priced, and a contract had recently fallen through because some mold was discovered in the master bedroom closet. Although it was out of our price range, I began to wonder if we might be able to get the house for half of its asking price. A close friend of mine said, “I’m going to pray for that! We’ll pray that the house will sell for $150,000 instead of its asking price of $300,000!”

I did not quite have the faith of my friend, but I prayed along with her, because after I saw the interior of the house, I adored it. Brick kitchen floor, unusual layout, numerous gathering rooms, a back yard large enough to add a pool, and right across from the school!

As time went on, I debated whether this was the house for us, and my friend said, “Pray for some big sign!” Now, I’m a little leery of that sort of thing, being a good Presbyterian and all. Still, I secretly prayed that if God really wanted us to have that house, he would let me see a purple bus. That was just bizarre enough that it couldn’t happen unless God wanted it to.

Time went on, we continued to look at other houses, and we got a little nervous about the work that might be needed in that house. Another house on the square around the school came on the market, and this one was in our price range. We made an offer, and miraculously sold our house in the other town rather quickly.

On the day of our final walk through, just before closing, our realtor happened to mention that the house we had loved had a contract. For $150,000. My heart sank. We had prayed that it would sell for that very amount! But I wanted it for ME! I puzzled over why in the world we had never made an offer, and I consoled myself with the fact that it did need a lot of work.

I busied myself with my own new house and did not give much thought to the other house. Until I was driving to the local pharmacy located about two miles from our new house. And noticed a retirement home with a fleet of purple buses. I nearly fell over. It had been perfectly and easily within God’s ability to show me a purple bus on one of my daily trips to this town. And yet he kept them hidden from my sight. And meanwhile, he answered my prayers that the house would sell for 1/2 of its asking price.

We watched as the family that bought the house spent a lot of money upgrading and fixing things up–the yard, the roof, the bathrooms the mold. And then something happened and they couldn’t pay the bills. The house went under foreclosure. And we learned that there were major structural problems. Another family got a bargain, fixed the structural issues, ripped out walls, and completely redid the house. It is beautiful now!

And every time I drive past it, I feel a twinge. But it isn’t really a twinge of sadness as it is a twinge of amazement that God had somehow used the desires of my heart, along with the encouragement of a friend to direct me to pray for two specific things. And he had answered the one with a yes–that it would sell for 1/2, and the other with a no–that I would see a purple bus. He was very specific about how my prayers were answered, and in fact, he had been guiding my exact driving paths through the city in the months prior to us making an offer on the house we bought in order to allow me to NOT see the purple buses. And the combination of those things is an affirmation of God’s love and his care of such tiny, specific details in my life.

I have been a fan of Horny Toad clothes since I got my first black dress made by them about five years ago. I have only bought their clothes through retail stores, and today I got a catalog directly from them. As I flipped through, I came across a page in the center that tells about a program called Planet Access Training, which is a non-profit life-skills training group in Chicago. Horny Toad has partnered with PAC, and they even send their employees on vacations with adults with developmental disabilities through the Search for Adventure travel program.

On page 31 of my catalog was printed the following letter, which I loved:

To all Toads,
Thanks to you guys I just spent an incredible week out in Gunnison, CO at the Powderhorn Dude Ranch. It was so beautiful out there–a perfect place to get away fro cell pones and computers. The best thing about the week by far, was the group from Search.
Getting to know Ed, Richard, Mark, Jim, Allie and Jen made the week. It’s hard to put into words how much fun we had. I don’t know if I’ve ever laughed so much!
We kept busy all week. We rafted down the Gunnison, rode horses, went 4-wheelin,’ hiked, took a pontoon boat down the Black Canyon gorge, squared danced and played a few hands of Blackjack. Those guys had the time of their lived, as did I.
I don’t know how to describe it other than to use Ed’s words. He’s an older guy who’s pretty quiet. He has difficulty seeing but he’s willing to try everything. He does a mean Elvis, too. I was helping him walk back from horseback riding and he started laughing to himself. I asked, “What’s so funny Ed?” His response was, “I just can’t believe how blessed I am.”
That says it all for me. Thanks for making that happen for Ed, and for me. It’s a week we’ll never forget.
Sarah McDonald

If you are looking for cool outdoor clothing, please be sure to check out Horny Toad! This is a business I’m happy to support!

My parents were married back in 1949. I was their first-born in 1966. You do the math. Yep, seventeen childless years, many spent trying to have a baby. A while back I did some reading up on Clomid, and I realized based on the timing of its release, that my mom was probably on that when she conceived me. I know she took something. (Interestingly, Clomid was initially supposed to be a birth control pill. Imagine the surprise of the women and their doctors who thought THAT!)

I don’t remember being rebellious as a preschooler. When I was 4-1/2 and my brother was born, my grandmother came to stay with us to help out. The story goes that I got irritated with my grandmother who would NOT meet my breakfast demands, and I put my little hands on my then-little-hips and declared, “YOU’RE JUST TRYING YOURSELF THIS MORNING!” Maybe not rebellious, but I certainly had a smart mouth!

When I was in first grade, my teacher had been a student of my father’s. Great. That meant I got away with nothing, because she occasionally came over for dinner. Not that I was a bad kid–actually the thought of getting in trouble horrified me, and when Anne and I were caught talking, and Miss Majors practically slung our desks, with us in them, in opposite directions across the room…well, I never forgot that and was traumatized for years. Not because of the slinging, but just because I, the perfectly obedient Chewymom, had gotten into trouble.

Outwardly I was a model student, but inwardly a rebel. I guess. My dad was a leftward-leaning Political Science professor. It was 1972, and the previously-mentioned first-grade class held a mock election. Nixon vs McGovern. You can guess who all the talk in my house was about. McGovern. So who did I vote for? Nixon.

Now, what first grader goes completely against her parents? Huh?

Okay, so along comes the Christmas season, and we were decorating pine cones with little tiny figures–you know, shepherds, angels, wise men, Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus. The teacher had a few extra packages without a baby Jesus for the Jewish people in the class. So I piped up, “I’m Jewish!” Right. My teacher, who you will remember knew my parents fairly well, went along with it all, even though mean ole Jennifer declared, “SHE’S LYING!!” My parents never said a word to me when I came home with a Christmas decoration sans baby Jesus, even though my teacher had to have told them.

My childhood was littered with examples of me telling whoppers, talking back, thinking my parents must be aliens, and just generally wondering who I was and how I got stuck in this weird family. I have no doubt my mother wondered the same thing, minus the weird family part.

In fourth grade our elementary school was merged with another one, and as a result we had a whole slew of kids we had never met before. One of them was Jamie. Jamie and her sister were the first people I ever knew of who were adopted.

“A-HA!” A light bulb went off in my head. “That’s it! I’m adopted!” My parents were significantly older, and horrifyingly more old-fashioned, than any of my friends’ parents. Except for Tiffany and Linda, but they had siblings in high school, so their parents were supposed to be old. I seemed to have NOTHING in common with my parents, either. I still loved conservative politicians. I had a thirst for spiritual understanding that seemed to not be matched by my parents’ boredom with church. I liked the pop/rock station Z-93, while my parents preferred elevator music. I wanted to watch cool stuff like Gilligan’s Island and Brady Bunch, and my parents were obsessed over 60 Minutes and Walter Cronkite. Obviously I was completely unrelated to these people. I wondered what my “real” parents must be like–certainly they’d understand me better. They’d vote for a Republican, and for goodness sake, they’d watch decent TV!

For the record, here I am 30-something years later, and I can assure you that I was not, in fact, adopted. If I were, I would not hear my mother’s voice coming out of my mouth on a daily basis, saying things I SWORE never to say to my kids like, “If you don’t hurry up, you’re going to be late!” And “Stop that or you’ll be grounded.” Or “Did you remember to brush your teeth?” Or “Your room is a wreck!” Literally in her voice and with her inflections. Eerie.

And besides, I gave birth to my twin, ironically at about the same age as my mother gave birth to me. And I fully expect for Sally to look at me in a few years, as though she is looking at an alien, and be certain that she did NOT come out of my body. Whether it is rebellion, a strong-will, or just thinking completely outside the box, she and I do not see eye to eye on many things, just as I did not with my mother. We butt heads and argue, and yes she is only five. And she would never dare to get in trouble at school–not a single popsicle stick has been pulled this entire year.

Next fall, I fully expect for her to vote for McCain and come home with a Muslim crescent moon decoration in her Christmas ornaments.

And if my mother were still alive, she would lift her hands and sing “GLORY, HALLELUJAH!” knowing that her prayers have been answered, because I finally have a child just like me.