I lack sleep, little girls staying up three hours past their bedtimes trying on leotards and baby oil, waking up twice in the middle of the night crying for lost binkies.
I lack space, never having a moment sans children, even my own bed not serving as a refuge against little bodies climbing in and taking over.
I lack patience, sometimes not finding the calm within me to deal with disrespect or disobedience, my last nerve chewed on and spit out by 7:00 p.m.
I lack ideas, not knowing the next fool-proof technique to get little kids to pick up their toys, having exhausted all the creative options I could find.
But, sometimes, I take a minute to look around at the round faces breathing heavy, listen to the raspy snores escaping tiny mouths, feel the thick bedding wrapping a cocoon of warmth around healthy bodies, and I realize
I lack nothing.
Participating today in Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. What do you lack? And come back tomorrow to share your own Journey!
I was scurrying about the kitchen, straightening up the mounds of paper that never seemed to leave, displaying the orange card that they had made for him. Red and purple paper hearts adorned the front, preschool-writing of big letters forming names across the inside. And I grabbed children one by one brushing hair and checking faces for Daddy’s arrival.
It was Valentine’s Day, and he would take our daughters for a special date, I, our son. We had decided long ago that Valentine’s Day was not a holiday worthy of our money, yet it served as the perfect excuse for some special one-on-one time with our children. Even still, I held my breath every year, wondering if he had thought of me, too.
I really didn’t want him to spend his money–Valentine’s Day was too commercial and silly–but since the days of flowers for no reason and little notes left on my windshield in the morning were long gone, I secretly hoped for a handmade card describing all the reasons he loved me. Maybe even a single flower to place in a vase atop our kitchen table.
But definitely NOT what he showed up with the year before.
We had been married almost eight years at the time–how long did he need before he truly knew me?
The kids responded like Pavlov’s dogs to the familiar sound of the garage door creaking to open and waited for their Daddy to come through the kitchen door. And as he came through the door, we all immediately noticed the red carnations he had for each of us. Within 15 seconds, each child had broken his or her own stem, and Matt quickly got to work trying to tape back together the broken flowers.
But my eyes didn’t leave the small package he had set on the counter.
Once flowers were mended and pictures were taken, I moved my way to read the package on the counter. My eyes immediately caught the word ‘Chocolate.’
To most, that one word would cause happy endorphins to spread throughout the body. But I’m not most.
There are many weird things about me, and I will accept that not liking chocolate is one of them. I cannot ever remember ordering a piece of chocolate cake nor a time when I didn’t choose the vanilla ice cream. The thought of eating a whole Hershey’s bar makes me feel sick, and if I wanted to find solace in food, I’d choose pizza.
There are a few notable exceptions, and if one really knew me, one might know them. I do like brownies; however, if you slap some fudge on top of them, they are now worthless to me. I like peanut M&Ms, but that’s because the peanut is the focus. I like chocolate syrup atop an ice cream sundae, and I don’t mind the chocolate ice cream, as long as vanilla is the predominant flavor.
I really don’t expect anyone to know those specific details…
…but I did expect that my husband of almost eight years would have enough sense to not show up with a box of chocolates. Even if it is Valentine’s Day. Even if every other woman in America would eat them.
As I looked at the box on the counter, I wondered if one year later my husband still didn’t know me. My eyes continued to scan the whole title, reading the words ‘Chocolate Covered Pretzels.’ While they were an improvement from the box of chocolates from last year, I still didn’t get it.
“I thought you’d like the sweet with the salty.”
I just stared at him for a minute.
“You know, it’s not a prerequisite for the holiday that a person has to eat chocolate,” I said shaking my head at him.
He laughed as we began to put coats on little kids excited for date night. And as we moved to our separate cars, I picked out the perfect gift for Matt next year–a big bowl of eggplant with some french fries stuck in the middle.
Writing in response to the prompt, “If you really knew me, you’d know that…” for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. What is something that we’d know about you if we really knew you?
And I’d love for you to come back tomorrow and link up your own post for ‘Journeys.” You can use any topic, as long as it pertains to a spiritual journey that you are currently taking.
The black Lincoln limousine picked me up from the airport, and I looked out the window as the rain fell down on the dark street. It may or may not have been raining, but I have a horrible memory, and that’s how I have chosen to remember this event. Besides, rain is befitting of the occasion.
I had left an Air Force training to attend the funeral of my grandmother. The company for which my father works was kind enough to offer to send a limousine to pick me up at the airport, which was an hour or so away, so that my father could stay at the wake with the rest of his family. I felt strange having someone I didn’t know drive me, especially since the limo wasn’t like the limo I rode in for prom. I was in a regular Lincoln Town car, with only the front seat separating me from this man I didn’t know.
I looked out the window most of the drive on that gloomy night until we pulled in front of the funeral home. I was met by my father and taken inside the dark room where my grandmother lay. She didn’t look like herself–her face was bloated–and I felt uncomfortable seeing a face that didn’t look how I remembered it. And sadness and guilt filled me as I regretted not finding a way to travel to New Jersey to see Grandma while she was sick.
But in the midst of the grief that all were experiencing in the room, a trickle of joy had spread. When I moved to the back to join my mother, she was surrounded by most of her family. All of her sisters had come to comfort her in the loss of her mother-in-law, and two of these sisters had been absent from her life for around ten years, a split in the family severing the relationship.
I don’t know what caused the break in their relationship; I don’t know if they do, either, but my grandmother’s death brought them all together for reconciliation. My parents from Georgia, my sister and her husband from Kentucky, my relatives from New Jersey and Vermont, and me from training in Ohio, all together. And because of my grandmother’s death and this reconciliation, I was able to share with most of my family the news that I was carrying life within my own belly, a true blessing for me as I had not been able to share with any loved ones up until this point. I couldn’t even hold my own husband as I read the words ‘pregnant’ on the little stick in my Air Force lodging room.
After the wake, we made our way through the rain to grab some pizza. I had to chuckle at my father and my uncle–it doesn’t matter where we are or why we are there, they will find the best pizza joint in town. As we walked in the small restaurant, my uncle offered his loud New Jersey greeting, and I smiled to notice that he had already made friends with the owner and knew what food to recommend. It was good to know that even the death of their mother wouldn’t stop them from enjoying a good pizza.
I remember sitting around the long, rectangular table, my mom and her sisters together, my dad’s brother and his family interspersed throughout, my own sister and her husband there. And there was joy. Joy over pizza and pasta. Joy in the midst of grief and death. Joy in the midst of new life and nausea. Joy in the midst of fragile relationships.
And while my memory is foggy of the details like the exact meals we were eating or the clothes everyone was wearing, there is one detail I will never forget: my mother’s smile.
After dinner, we walked into the wet parking lot, our family talking, laughing, saying its ‘goodbyes,’ and my mother and one of her sisters stopped. They turned to each other and embraced. I remember watching this embrace, two grown women pulling each other tight, determined to not let go as they had done several years ago. My aunt’s eyes were squeezed shut, tears leaking out. But my mother–I just remember her smile.
Her mouth was closed, but her smile stretched across her face, and I could see that this hug, this reconciliation literally made her whole body feel better. In this hug she regained hold of part of her family that she had thought she had lost. As they rubbed each others’ backs, they smoothed out the discord that had haunted this family, and as their tears fell, they washed clean and started anew.
photo via photobucket
We left dinner and got into our different cars, making our way to the hotel to prepare for the next day. I don’t remember the ride there or where we stayed, but I imagine my dad was processing through his own emotions. But my mom–I know she radiated joy at this chance for new life.
When did you have a family meal that you will never forget? Have you ever had a moment of reconciliation that changed your life?
Come back tomorrow for ‘Journeys’–I’m no longer supplying a topic, so you can write on any spiritual journey that you are taking. Click on the tab above for more information. And lastly, I decided to try out this ‘NetworkedBlogs’ thing, so if you’d like click the ‘follow’ button on the right side of my blog. You’ll get an update to your Facebook account when I publish a new post. Have a great day!
My family didn’t make it into the city very much, as my parents weren’t fans of crowds and traffic. We watched the ’96 Olympics from the T.V., and I can’t remember ever spending a weekend viewing Atlanta attractions. However, there was one exception: a baseball game.
I grew up hearing my father’s stories of baseball history and his favorite players. The Yankees were his team, and their rich tradition was one I loved to hear him share. From my father I learned of Joe DiMaggio’s hitting streak and his help with the war effort. I heard stories of DiMaggio’s undying love for his ex-wife Marilyn Monroe that caused him to lay flowers on her grave every day for years. The baseball players from years ago have stories that just can’t be duplicated.
When my family moved to Georgia 25 or so years ago, my dad needed a team to root for, so we became fans of the Atlanta Braves. To say they were horrible when I was a little girl doesn’t even cut it, but my father always said that anyone could root for a winner. We weren’t going to be fair-weather fans, and we cheered for the Braves when they were in last place. During the summer, our T.V. nights were spent watching baseball on TBS, and the love of baseball even brought us to Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium from time to time.
While my dad loves watching the game, he has his own history playing. He got a taste of his dream when he tried out in Yankee Stadium, but he wasn’t called to pitch for them. The Chicago White Sox had his name. They picked him for their farm team, but when dad threw out his arm, there was nothing more he could do. The fastball was his pitch, and not having the expert medical care that athletes have today, that injury ended his career.
And for years, the closest my dad came to passing on his knowledge was at a few seasons of my sister’s softball games. I spent ten years living my own sports dream as a gymnast, and so my dad cheered on stuck beam series and high-flying double-backs. The season of the fastball and homerun were no longer a part of his personal life.
Until he was given a grandson.
When Caleb walks to the on-deck circle, I know my father gets a little flurry of excitement. He gets to share some of his knowledge of the game with someone who can finally use it. But I have to wonder, as he looks on across the field, if it’s hard to cheer for the Mets after all his years as a die-hard Yankee fan.
Somehow, I don’t think it’s going to be a problem.
What love of sports does your family carry? And don’t forget to come back tomorrow and link up your own Journeys post on gentleness!
One year ago today, I was scrubbing base boards and stressing over the combination of new carpet and three children under the age of four. I was staying up way too late trying to get in those last minute chores after a full day of being a momma. One year ago, we were preparing to put our house up for sale.
In a quest to lessen my husband’s near three-hour roundtrip commute, we took on the stress of selling a home in this lousy housing market. And my writing, which was very infrequent at the time, reflected my stress. And all the stress? It was pointless–the house didn’t sell.
When I look back at my writing from a year ago, I’m struck by the similarities between my life then and my life now. I was knocking myself out in pursuit of a goal that was unattainable. We were dissatisfied with the lack of time we got to spend together as a whole family, and we wanted our situation to change. I wasn’t happy with the person I was on the inside, and while I was giving my house a good spring cleaning, I was dusting over the neglected areas of my soul, as well.
Today, I’m still knocking myself out. I try to do everything–spend meaningful time with my children all of their waking hours, present a spotless home, create home-cooked meals every night–and my goal, while admirable, really isn’t attainable, at least not given the ages of my kids or the fact that my husband’s commute hasn’t changed. If anything, we see each other even less than one year ago, and I’m more dissatisfied with this fact than I was in 2010. And as far as the spiritual–I’m still finding more and more areas of myself that displease me.
And I’ve come to the realization that, while circumstances may change, life doesn’t. Every season of life will have its own challenges, and while they may seem small when looking back, they feel huge during that time. When I read how nervous I was about my ability to keep up a presentable house, I want to laugh. Who cares? But I did at the time. And looking back, I’m able to see that I did the best I could, but moving wasn’t meant to be. Life continued, and we make do.
Likewise, I’ll look back in a year on my writing from now, which is much more frequent, and I’m sure I’ll shake my head at the insignificant things that caused me to stress. I’ll wish that I could go back and visit my past self and whisper, “This too shall pass.”
So I have a goal–to take each day as it comes and live it fully; to acknowledge my feelings without allowing them to overrule my logic; to continue to laugh at myself and my follies; to rest in the grace of God; and to live in the present, not waiting for better days to come. Different days will come, but they will bring their own struggles. I want to be ready to meet them.
Come back tomorrow for this week’s journey on goodness. I’d love for you to share your perspective by linking up your own post!
We hadn’t gone on an official date before, at least, not that I remember, just the two of us without a sister tagging along. Time alone is difficult and precious to come by, but Valentine’s Day afforded the perfect night for dates with Daddy and the girls and Mommy and her little man.
And a little man you were. I chuckled inside every time my little 4-year-old acted more like 40.
“Do you have enough gas?”
“Yes, sweetheart. We have a full tank.”
And off we drove to Zaxby’s, apparently a sacrifice on your part, your daddy bribing you with candy while I was in the bathroom. We had moved up a slight step from Burger King.
With each bite of my chicken finger, I couldn’t help but study your face. Your sweet smile, your perfect eyes and long lashes. You’re my little boy who isn’t quite as little, anymore.
And you were happy and hungry. Our date was prolonged as you requested more food, and we talked about preschool and your day as you wiped the grease off your fingers onto the booth in which you sat.
You helped yourself to three quarters in my wallet and bought bouncy balls out of the dispenser, one for you and your two sisters. And your night was made.
My night was made a little later.
It wasn’t when you came back to your seat and noticed Mommy was without a toy. You helped yourself to my money again and bought me a necklace, a silver star hanging on a silver string that took us 15 minutes to get out of the cheap, plastic ball in which it came. You eagerly waited the rest of the night (and part of the next day, too) to place that necklace in my jewelry box.
No, you made my night, this already perfect night, on the car ride home. After we crossed the parking lot, hand in hand, you climbed over a pile of fast food bags toward your booster seat.
“Why is Daddy’s car so messy?”
“I don’t know. I guess it just doesn’t bother him the way it does you and me.”
“Why does he just throw his stuff all over the floor?…I guess he must be really busy.”
I smiled.
“Mom, I don’t want icing on my birthday cake.”
I was caught off guard by the quick transition and the request to limit the sugar on your cake.
“I don’t want the icing–I don’t like it. You can just make me a cookie cake, but no icing.”
But I don’t like icing.
I took in your words and savored them, for they gave us another connection to share as mother and son. In some ways you are like me–you worry, and people hurting breaks your heart–but we have many differences. Yet, my little man who can smell sugar in the air, has been caught with his hand in the cookie jar more times than I can count, doesn’t like icing like his mommy, either.
And for some strange reason, my heart warmed as I tucked that little detail into the storerooms of my heart.
My memory isn’t very good, but I won’t forget our first date, at least now that I’ve written about it. And while your memory is amazing, one day this date might slip from your mind, as first loves and heartaches fill the spot where it once sat.
Yet, my hope is that as you go from birthday party to party, scraping icing off the top of your cake, something inside of you will tug at your heart, reminding you of your Mommy.
And don’t forget to come back tomorrow! Have you looked up the definition for ‘forbearance,’ yet? That’s our topic for this week’s ‘Journeys.’ Click on the tab at the top of this page for more information.
I have never shared this story with anyone, but it’s time….
It was the middle of the night, and Caleb was in bed with us. Perhaps, he had just finished nursing, or maybe he was having a tough night sleeping–I’m not sure–but I am very sure about the events that followed and my rookie-parent reaction.
The black of night filled our room, and the only noise was the heavy breathing of Matt as he slept. Caleb was nuzzled in close to me, resting quietly. Until, BLLAAACCH!!!
And out of nowhere, this precious little boy, around five months old at the time, threw up three times his body weight. Matt and I shot up in bed instantly. The noise–it was horrible. I swear I watched our baby’s head spin around seven times before the vomit left his mouth, gasped as I heard a splash when the throw up hit our bed.
This experience was our first with a child and vomit, and, thankfully, I had just read an article the day before from one of those parenting magazines that I won’t name (because I can’t remember). I never skipped an issue that came to my ‘Inbox’ telling me what my child should be doing at this stage in his development. I read all the articles on vaccines and child safety, and I studied which foods I could introduce to my baby when. I trusted this source. So when this magazine instructed me to have my child seen immediately if he began throwing up and was less than six months old, I took the advice seriously. And I did what any parent would do…
…I called 9-1-1.
That’s right; I hopped out of bed, handing the baby to my husband, picked up the phone in the middle of the night, and dialed the phone number reserved for emergencies. After all, this event was an emergency. My baby had thrown up, and the magazine said he needed to be seen immediately. And the only way he could be seen immediately was if I called the paramedics to rescue him.
My saving grace was that we used Vonage, an internet phone system. We had set it up when we lived in Oklahoma so that we could have free long-distance while we lived away from our family. A plus side of this service was that when we moved back to Georgia, we didn’t have to change our number. Apparently, however, our emergency services were tied to the state in which we first ordered Vonage. When I called 9-1-1, a dispatcher in Oklahoma answered.
“9-1-1, What’s your emergency (or something like that)?”
“My son just threw up, and he’s only five months old!”
Surely upon hearing my son’s age, the dispatcher would signal all the emergency personnel in the area. And in the process of explaining my emergency, we began to realize that we did not live in the same area.
During the confusion of explaining where I lived and figuring out where the dispatcher was, a cloud began to lift from my mind. I noticed the dispatcher did not seem overly concerned that my son threw up, and I decided I did not need an ambulance sent from Oklahoma. The dispatcher asked, “Is your son okay?” and through my foggy memory, I believe he offered to connect me to the correct 9-1-1 in Georgia.
I looked over at Caleb in bed with my husband, his little baby head no longer spinning, and I came to my senses: “No, we don’t need an ambulance. Thank you, Sir, but we are going to take him to get checked out.”
And, no, I did not mean in the morning. That’s right; we put on clothes, strapped that little baby in his car seat, and we drove to the emergency room in the middle of the night. After all, our baby threw up once.
Apparently, I had not yet learned about the ‘after hours’ phone line. I had never heard of such a thing, having never called my own doctor’s office after they closed. After all, if I were sick in the evening, I would just call them in the morning.
And if I were too sick to wait until the morning, I would go to the emergency room.
I didn’t realize that my child’s pediatrician had an ‘after hours’ phone line to give parent’s advice in the middle of the night. I didn’t realize they had anticipated how crazy parents, especially new parents, can act. Had I known, I probably wouldn’t have called freakin’ 9-1-1 because my son threw up once! And I probably wouldn’t have waited in the emergency room for three hours because my son threw up once…and not again the whole time we waited.
Four years later, I still don’t understand why the doctor in the ER didn’t seem more alarmed. I told him Caleb threw up at least an entire bottle’s worth of breast milk, but he didn’t believe me. He said it was probably only an ounce. I reminded him that Caleb was only five months old; he didn’t seem too concerned. But the magazine said that he needed to be seen immediately….
So we left the ER that morning with baby and anti-nausea pill in hand. But I never gave it to him. After all, he only threw up once.
The Rookie Parents
What’s the craziest thing you ever did as a new parent? Surely, I’m not the only freak!
And don’t forget to link up your own post tomorrow! This week’s journey is on love. Click on the ‘Journeys’ tab at the top of the page for more information. I look forward to reading your posts tomorrow!
Throughout the week, I racked my brain trying to think of a story to write for this week’s Writer’s Workshop. As I lugged wet clothes out of the washer, I paused to think of the last time I laughed.In the midst of reading about the missing Knuffle Bunny, my mind would wander to think of a time when I was wrong.
Sure, I could think of a couple of times when I had laughed recently, but most were in response to a silly expression one of the kids made or an amazingly correct use of sarcasm by my four-year-old. I’m not sure I could recreate the moment where anyone else would laugh, too.
And then there were the times when I was wrong….hmm…I was struggling with this one a little bit. I was sure there was something–I have a terrible memory–but I kept drawing a blank.
The funny thing is, I immediately thought of at least ten instances when Matt was wrong. I thought of the time(s) when he made us late to church because he thought he could wake up 30 minutes before we had to leave; those days with a newborn in my arms and a 17-month-old running around my ankles and some words uttered 9 months earlier that this situation would not happen; and finally, no matter what he says, I know that the thermostat and/or heater is broken–if the tip of my nose is frozen, and my hands are numb, it is not 70 degrees in the house!
But the last time I was wrong? I got nothing.
So at dinner, I decided to confront Matt with my problem:
“I really want to do that Writer’s Workshop this Thursday, but I can’t think of anything for any of the topics.”
“Really? Well, what are the topics?”
“There was something about prenuptial agreements, but I didn’t want to touch that one…when was the last time I laughed really hard?”
“Modern Family.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to write about a T.V. show.”
Matt proceeded to reenact the dialogue that had me laughing a few nights previous.
“You know, there was the topic about the last time I was wrong. I’d write about that, but I just can’t think of anything.”
There was a pause as Matt looked at me with a straight face. His blue eyes began to twinkle.
And then I laughed.
After seeing the left side of his lip curl into a smile and then hear the snicker escape from his own mouth, there was nothing left I could do but join him.
Visit Mama Kat for more stories of laughter or women who can admit when they’re wrong. And don’t forget to get your post ready for tomorrow’s Journey on forgiveness! For more information, click on the Journeys tab at the top of the page.
Before I begin, I will apologize for this post. While I liked the posts I wrote this week, they left me a little depressed. I guess that’s what happens when one’s baby gets put in a cast! As a result, I decided to use one of Mama Kat’s writing prompts as a chance to lighten the mood.
4.) Read the quote and let it inspire your post: “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel”. -Maya Angelou
Caleb held the door for his sisters as they walked into the bright room. Sun streamed through the blinds on the back window. As they approached the desk, a woman stood and smiled.
“I’ll tell Elizabeth you are here.”
One minute later, Elizabeth wheeled their mother into the room; she was obviously expecting their arrival. “Look, Mrs. Davis,” she said cheerily. “You have visitors.”
“Hi, Mom,” Chloe said sweetly, bending down to kiss her mother on the cheek.
The old woman’s expression did not change, a straight line for lips, her eyes gray.
The brother and sister followed suit, and Caleb thanked Elizabeth while taking the handles of the wheelchair from her. As he pushed his mother into the den area, Hannah Grace walked over to blinds and closed the set to the left of the room. The family made their way to the familiar couch, passing the old man who had taken up his regular residence in the chair in front of the T.V.
The children smiled as they passed him, nodding ‘hello,’ while the old woman let out a barely audible, “hmmpf.” Caleb turned his mother’s wheelchair to fit in between the couches, and the three children sat.
“So, Mom,” Caleb began. “How are you feeling today?”
The old woman didn’t answer.
“Has Elizabeth taken you for any walks lately?” Hannah Grace inquired. “The weather has warmed up quite a bit.”
“Yeah, Mom,” Caleb agreed. “Everyone came out for Tyler’s baseball game yesterday, and it was such a nice day. He won his game, you know.”
“He did so well,” Chloe added. “The day was perfect for the game. The drizzle held off until just as we were leaving.”
Mrs. Davis offered a slight laugh, and the children looked at one another and smiled, hopeful for the interaction they craved from their mother.
“I told him it would rain,” she said quietly.
“I don’t think we talked about the game…” Caleb trailed off as his mother continued.
“He didn’t listen. He never did.”
“Who didn’t listen, Mom?” Chloe wondered if she remembered, if she could connect the dots in the memory forming.
“The trees were beautiful. Spanish moss covered our heads. But we ran, oh how we ran!” She laughed at the picture in her mind.
photo by alchemist474 at photobucket.com
“He wanted to walk–where did he want to go?” She paused for a moment. “I don’t know,” she muttered quickly, “but we had to walk, and he didn’t know where he was going!” She looked at everyone and smiled.
“We walked and walked and had to turn around…oh!” She laughed again.
“Did it rain?” Chloe asked?
“What?”
“Did it rain, Mom?” Hannah Grace continued. “You said before that you told him it would rain.”
“Oh. It lightninged!” A glimmer returned to her eyes. “We ran and ran because we thought the rain would pour on us.”
“Did it?” Caleb leaned forward, smiling.
Mrs. Davis looked down, searching for the answer. She didn’t know.
“We ran, and I thought we were going to get struck by lightning, and we laughed, even though I was a little afraid. He never ran so fast. I don’t think he ever ran much.” Her eyes were moist.
“Now wait a minute!”
Everyone looked up sharply, not expecting an interruption. The man in front of the T.V. stood up.
“I’ve run plenty! And I wasn’t slow!” The man was offended.
The children looked at one another, shocked that this was happening.
The old woman just stared, searching her memory. And then,
“Oh, please! You run one race, and now you think you’re an athlete!”
“Jennifer, your memory is fuzzy. I ran plenty, so don’t make me out to be some incompetent fool!”
“I’m going to get Elizabeth,” Hannah Grace said as she moved through the couches.
Chloe moved over and rested her hands on her mother’s shoulders.
“Now, Mom, try not to get too worked up. Dad, you need to take it easy; let’s see what else she can remember.”
“I can remember that your father is a fool!” Mrs. Davis yelled. “Who makes his wife walk miles in a lightning storm?!”
“It wasn’t lightning when we left, and we had a good time, Jennifer. We were together…” he trailed off.
“Yes, it was a good time,” she agreed softly.
Mr. Davis walked over from where he had been yelling across the room.
“You remember?” he asked, making his way to his wife.
“Yes,” she answered, as he took her hands in his. “Yes.”
Hannah Grace was back with Elizabeth, the other two siblings, tears streaming down their faces.
“Mrs. Davis, let me get you a glass of water,” Elizabeth offered.
“Elizabeth, move out of the way, please,” the old woman stated with authority. “Matt, let’s go. Take me to my room.”
“Mom, wait,” Hannah Grace said. “Let’s talk a little more; let’s visit.”
“I will see you kids later. Push me, Matt; let’s go!”
The old man grabbed her wheelchair, winking as he passed by his children.
“But…wait…Mom…Dad…” the children didn’t know what to do next, as they were left alone in the den.
Mr. Davis wheeled Mrs. Davis down the hall, and gently pushed open the second to last door on the right. He parked her wheelchair next to her bed.
Mrs. Davis raised a shaking hand to her grey locks, pinned in a bun, and let her long, straggly hair fall to her shoulders. Mr. Davis reached in her wheelchair and grabbed underneath her legs and behind her back, heaving her onto the bed. Both took out their dentures and placed them side by side on the night stand.
And they embraced.
And for the first time in a very long time, they remembered what it was like to make love. Or at least to try.
What? Too much? My apologies to Nicholas Sparks and anyone who now wants to throw up. If you’d like to read any more short stories about “The Crazy Old Bat” without sex, click here.
For a more thought-provoking post, please return tomorrow ready to link up your own post for Journeys responding to the following verse: “But Jesus called the children to him and said, ‘Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.'” (Luke 18:16, New International Version, 2010).
It’s amazing what I’ve learned about myself by discovering what I’m not. And most of the things I’m not, I’ve learned from watching my husband.
Before we were even engaged, my future husband helped me on this process of self-discovery. I had my first job teaching students American literature, and I had decided I wanted to buy a desk and bookshelf. I hate shopping, so I had planned to find a desk that I liked at the first store I went into and then go home.
Matt, however, had a better idea. He took me to every store that carried desks in the entire state of Georgia, causing my eyes to blur and stomach to feel nauseous. And in the end, I bought a desk from the first store I went into. But as Matt so wisely stated, now I could be sure that I had the desk I really wanted.
Matt is always informed. Whereas I decide I want something and get it right then and there, Matt whips out his computer or phone, looks up all the reviews, compares prices between this site and that, orders a background check on the store owners, etc.
When I said we needed to get our chimney inspected, I found a coupon in one of our mailers and called that number. Matt, however, e-mailed me the number of an inspector he had found online after reading 10,000 reviews.
When Matt and I were going out of town so that I could attend a conference and have a night away together in the process, I showed Matt the list of hotels provided by the conference. Matt looked up every hotel on that list and off, spent three days equating the walking distance from the hotel to the convention center divided by the driving time to local restaurants times the access to Wi-Fi…so we could stay in the room for a total of nine hours.
Matt researches everything. When he was preparing to leave for a business trip, he Google-searched how to iron and pack a shirt–apparently Martha Stewart knows more about this topic than I. When I said the meat in the refrigerator was fine, Matt had to ask the online community how long meat stays fresh. And before beginning his workout routine, Matt read an entire book on the subject and cross-referenced all the sources in the back to determine what actually was the most effective way to get healthy.
I kidded with Matt that if he spent half as much time working out as he did reading about it, he would already look like this man.
While Matt’s propensity to rely on the internet before making a decision can drive me a little crazy, I have to admit that I always feel better about our decisions knowing Matt’s thoroughly investigated them. I trust him and his judgment, and I appreciate that he cares enough about the choices we make to ensure we’re making the right choices.
There is one choice that he didn’t fully investigate, though…
…me.
He didn’t realize how nasty I can act when I’m tired. He didn’t know how a countertop strewn with papers can turn his wife into a raving lunatic. He didn’t imagine how ugly his bride could appear without makeup and sleep.
And, yet, if he’s suffered from buyer’s remorse, he’s never tried to return the original for a better model. Matt’s committed to this purchase, and for that, I will always love him.
I’m joining Mama Kat today for her Writer’s Workshop.
And don’t forget to join me tomorrow and link up with your ownjourney on faith!
Jennifer Vignola Davis 
