Tag Archives: love

Oct16

We Were Once Just Little White Girls

Posted on October 16, 2013 by heavysighsandsmiles

Yesterday, I was presented with one of the most wonderful and uniquely poignant Birthday gifts I have ever received. The gift was special for several reasons. First of all, it wasn’t my Birthday. Secondly, it was a quirky sentimental gift that holds memories from what now seems like a lifetime ago. Thirdly, (is thirdly a word, it doesn’t sound correct)…anyway, thirdly, out of the 7 billion people roaming the planet there is only one other soul who understands the reason I spontaneously laughed and cried and laughed some more when I received the gift and that person is my sister, Kim. She is also the giver of the gift, the keeper of my secrets, and the sharer of my earliest memories.
I am sure by now the suspense is KILLING you! I received a vintage 1972 Mattel Tuff Stuff toy shopping cart in mint condition (original plastic food included)!!! I am not excited about receiving this gift because I am a collector of toys or have an affinity for miniature shopping carts. The wellspring of emotions is from a childhood shared by two little girls, who embarked on thousands of adventures together (without ever leaving the backyard) and literally put 288,000 miles on a 1972 Mattel Tuff Stuff toy shopping cart, while never once using it for pretend shopping!

Note: Please don’t be abashed by the title of this blog. Although my sister and I were actually once little Caucasian girls that is not context in which I am using the ‘White’ word. Our maiden name is White and thus my referral to being little White girls.
Perhaps the greatest thing about childhood is having someone you love completely in which to share it. In this instance, I am truly fortunate. But the truth is, I didn’t always feel this way. In fact, Kim’s birth was the first devastating thing to happen to me. Although I had nine months to prepare for the “Coming of Kim”, her arrival hit me hard and fast. You see, I had this really great gig as an only child. My mom had suffered several miscarriages and had tried unsuccessfully for years to have a child. Not to brag or anything, but I was an answer to her prayers. Mom describes the first few years of my life as me being the center of her universe and what’s not to love about being the center of someone’s universe?? Oh, wait, I know, when someone comes along and shoves you into orbit!!! This, in my mind, was exactly what Kim did to me by being born!!!
Eventually, however, after all the fussing and cooing over the new baby died down and my two attempts at trying to get rid of her (only one resulted in an actual trip to the hospital and stitches to her lip) failed, I gradually accepted the fact that I was going have to learn to live with her. Once she grew out of the adorable infant stage and was actual kid-size, things started to turn around. She wasn’t perfect, but I think I have established that was pretty much a two-way street. So, to be fair, here are some things that made me a not-so-perfect sister growing up:
I was mean and I cheated at every game we played.
I cut the pigtails off of her doll
I tricked her into doing my chores, regularly.
I used my high-octane imagination to terrorize her (i.e. the light from the smoke detector was actually an eye that watched everything she did and the hip-waders in our parents’ closet contained a ghost
I made her pee in a trashcan and then told on her
When playing hide-and-seek, I wouldn’t look for her and she would stay hidden FOREVER
I burnt her nose with a yellow Starburst that I had melted in the microwave
To clarify, Kim had some quirks as well:
She didn’t talk until she was full into toddler-hood and then when she did start talking, there wasn’t a human alive who could understand her gibberish
Her innate gullibility made her exceptionally pliable
Regardless of how much I insisted and offered descriptions, she was never ever able to see my imaginary friend, Jody.
She killed my fish when I was at camp claiming “they were cold so I put hot water in their bowl and they all turned upside down”.
Differences and squabbles aside, the endless hours of escapades as playmates are the summation of nearly every happy childhood memory I had buried like a time capsule in my heart. The shopping cart opened the door to the memory of our yesterdays and like a string of dominos tipping one into the next, came the stories of two little girls wiling away days brimming with imagination. The orange handle of the shopping cart was quickly discarded and we used a crushed velvet 70s green pillow in the cart, so we could ride in comfort. And ride we did. The shopping cart was used as a horse drawn carriage for when we were the Ingalls family and needed to go to the Olson’s Mercantile for some sugar or yard goods. It was a school bus for taking and dropping off each other when we played school. It also served as a get-a-way car, a race car, a crop harvester, an ambulance, a cage for our cat, and also the actual way E.T. was able to get home.
We may have only been little White girls, but we accomplished BIG things. We turned a full-size canopy bed into an ocean fishing vessel and successfully fended off Orca the Killer Whale. We won consecutive gold medals in the driveway and the kitchen for ice skating, while wearing our matching tennis shoe roller-skates. Each of us pulled through several anthrax outbreaks, without any help from Doc Baker (we had many Little House on the Prairie inspired adventures). We rode bikes, ran barefoot, played stickball and made a clubhouse out of anything we could find. There wasn’t anything we couldn’t tackle together. We were legends in our own minds.
The fun I had sharing a childhood with my sister is by far one of the gems in my life, but it pales in comparison to the bond we forged during the not-so-fun times. When we lost a pet or a loved one or one of us got our butt beat (usually me) there wasn’t another person capable of providing the other comfort except I for her and she for me. Probably the most difficult time was when our parents divorced and our world shifted. Everything familiar and comfortable and safe was skewed. Everything ,that is, except for one common denominator…I was still hers and she was still mine and whatever we faced during that time we faced it together.
Thank you, Kim, for this exceptional gift. Thank you for knowing my fears, short-comings, quirks and glitches and loving me anyway. Thank you for helping me to slay giant killer whales and nursing me through the fevers of anthrax. Thank you for supporting my dreams, drying my tears and letting me wear your underpants during emergencies. I am blessed to have shared a childhood with someone so remarkable (and resilient). We can never return to the time of innocence where we were content in being just little White girls, but as the seasons of our life continue to change, you are and forever will be, my sister.

Aug17

Revelations of a Mzungu’s Heart-Do You Hear What I Hear?

Posted on August 17, 2013 by heavysighsandsmiles

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Revelations of a Mzungu’s Heart-Do You Hear What I Hear?

The sights, sounds, and smells of my debut trip to Uganda have been permanently woven into the filaments of my soul. While I am so glad to be back within the confines of my familiar life and to shower in warm water and drink Diet Pepsi at its optimum drinking temperature, there still remains a large chunk of my heart firmly tethered to the people I left behind in Africa. A month has now passed since my return and nearly every day I am startled out of my mundane life by an emotional longing to reach across 8000 miles and pick up a hungry child, hold the strong hand of a Ugandan woman, or pray with those whose enduring faith makes mine a wet paper towel in comparison. I often find myself resisting the urge to slip into the comfort of my complacent attitude and rejoin the rat race of chasing down the so-called American Dream. In those moments, of retreat into the stillness of reflection and I simply ask myself, “Do you hear what I hear?”
While I jumped at the chance to go to Africa, my mom was resistant-VERY RESISTANT. Let’s just say Mom really likes her creature comforts and when she was told about some of the amenities awaiting her in a far-away land (geckos, cold showers, mosquitoes carrying malaria, etc.) she balked. Being a woman of immense spiritual fortitude, she felt she was supposed to go to Africa and so she put on her big girl panties, applied her lipstick, packed her hairdryer and we started our adventure together. To help establish a baseline of how completely removed Mom was from the idea of going to Africa, the following are actual quotes my mother made during the informational meetings leading up to our departure and shortly after our arrival in Africa:

Group Introductions-
Me: Hello. My name is Karri Thurman. I am a registered nurse and I am from Missouri and this will be my first mission trip.
Mom: My name is Judy. I am from Paragould, Arkansas. I attend the Rock church in Jonesboro. I don’t want to go to Africa, but God is making me.”

Mom: “I understand you said that we do not need to bring makeup and the heat will just melt it off?”
Group Leader: “Yes. That is correct.”
Mom (to me under her breath): “I don’t know what kind of makeup they use, but I think mine will withstand the heat. If it melts, I will reapply.”

Group Leader: “While working in the churches, orphanages, and slums we will wear skirts.”
Mom: “What kind of shoes do we wear?”
Group Leader: “Because we will be walking a lot and in unsanitary conditions, tennis shoes or Crocs.”
Mom (in her appalled voice): “You want me to wear tennis shoes with a skirt?!?” To me under her breath: “I will not be wearing tennis shoes with a skirt and Crocs are hideous.”

Group Leader: “Upon our arrival in Africa and during our stay there will be police and military armed with machine guns. It is against the law to take a picture of any law enforcement official or military personnel.”
Mom: “Will I be able to use my hairdryer there?”

Group Leader: We will stop on the way to the orphanage and pick up the goat we are taking them as a gift.
Mom (later): “I was going to ask if I could hold the goat on the way to the orphanage to prove that I am not prissy, but I was afraid she would say yes.”

Our first night in Uganda crawling under our mosquito net after nearly two days of travel and little sleep, seeking much needed rest:
Mom: Good Lord, what have I done? Why am I here???
Note: Refrain from asking God direct questions beginning with the word ‘why’ unless you are completely prepared to have your world rocked.

Each day our 16-member team served in orphanages, medical/dental clinics, churches and villages and each moment our hearts were permanently altered by the people we encountered. The days were long, exhausting and emotionally taxing. Many of us were experiencing for the first time a degree of poverty and deprivation that surpasses the confines of our imaginations. Had it not been for the gracious, welcoming, sincere gratitude from the people we were serving, I believe the enormity of need would have completely crushed my soul. Another missionary, Katie Davis, describes it like “emptying the ocean with an eye dropper” (Davis 2011). My grandpa would probably describe it less eloquently as “pissing on a forest fire”, but both analogies are completely accurate. Each night we would return weary and exhausted to our compound and as we shared with each other our individual experiences, it was a little like riding an emotional rollercoaster for days on end. Astonishingly, that which should have left me emotionally and physically depleted, actually rejuvenated my spirit. The song in my heart was changing, but I had no way of knowing the spiritual symphony that was building inside of me orchestrated entirely by a band of outcast orphans that have never heard a spoken word, laughter, or a single note of a melody.

Arriving at the Deaf Elite Education Center was a game changer and for Mom, it was if God himself had parted the clouds and said, “This is why you are here”. Traveling to the school our team was briefed on how the deaf are perceived in Uganda and our hearts were already stirring when we arrived. The deaf are referred to as ‘Kasiru’, which translates into ‘fool’ or ‘stupid’. A deaf child born into a family is seen as a curse and they are often rejected by their families and communities. After spending the first part our day teaching and playing games with hearing children in another school, I was very apprehensive about what we had to offer these children who could not hear us. I was correct. Compared to what we received from these children, our humble offerings were but a pittance.

The children live and go to school at the center, as most have been thrown away by their families. One young boy had been kept tied to a tree like a dog. Another was thrown into a fire pit and sustained burns to a large percentage of his body. A young lady, whose limbs were bent and twisted from years of early neglect and malnutrition, had arrived at the center unable to walk, talk or feed herself. One might think that we would encounter a sad, fumbling, uneducated group of children. Instead, we were received by polite, bright, funny, and talented young people. They danced for us, sang for us, anointed us all with our very own sign language name! They were simply incredible.

It is difficult to put into words the actual environment that these children were thriving in and capture the scant conditions. The floors are dirt, aside from a few with concrete. The rooms where the children sleep are about as big as a walk-in closet with bunks stacked three high with two to a bunk. There is no water, no electricity, no bathroom, and many days, not enough food. The staff work for room and board and receive no wages for the care and education they provide.
In the gospels we are taught that “whatever you do for the least of these brothers, you do for me.” In this country we had seen the sick, poor, and hungry; but it was here, in this tiny corner of the slums, we held the ‘least of these’ in our arms. Where there should have been despair, they showed us hope. Where there should have been bitterness, they radiated joy. Where there should have been death, they showed us the very essence of life. In addition, we saw in living color, what kind of miracles happen when there are those precious souls willing to ultimately ‘do for the least of these’ all day every day. It was a testament of faith anchored in love like I have never before witnessed and it was powerful.

When we left the deaf children that evening, my mom cried the entire trip back to our compound and long after we pulled our mosquito net around us for the night. I could hear her sobbing and praying and I knew that God was answering her “why am I here” question. I also know that neither of us would ever be the same. On the days I feel myself starting to sweat the small stuff again (car trouble, bills, work stresses, etc.), I ask myself that simple question; “Do you hear what I hear?” I am remembering the sounds of the laughter, the clapping, and the singing and also of my mom crying in the night. It is then I am reminded of how important it is to live life out loud, even if not everyone can hear it. Sometimes the greatest words are spoken in silence.

Jun2

I’m The Short Mom with the Bleeding Tongue!

Posted on June 2, 2013 by heavysighsandsmiles

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I’m The Short Mom with the Bleeding Tongue!

It is hard to believe that the month of May is in the books and not only did I fail to write anything share-worthy, I allowed Mother’s Day to pass without a written tribute to all the awesome MOMS in the world. As I welcome the new month, I am now staring down the barrel of Father’s Day. Experience should have taught me to seize the opportunity to compose from the heart about the fathers in my life, before letting myself run out of June, but that would be just too darn tidy for my taste. Instead, I thought I would share the circumstances behind a few of the pages from the Mother’s Day card Sophi made for me.

PAGE 1: My Mom…..She is short

Right out of the shoot, she points out the obvious-I am short. It is true. I live among giants. I cannot reach things on the high shelves, I cannot touch the ceiling (with or without jumping) and if we have a family basketball game the offspring who has me on his/her team wants an automatic 10-point spot for the disadvantage. Note: In the event a serial killer breaks into our house with serious murderous intent, I am little enough hide in the dryer (score 1 for Mom). Following up my lack of stature, she gives me props for being funny. This could be viewed as a stand-alone compliment had she not concluded the page by using my own favorite word to describe ME! Catawampus as a descriptor and referencing my obsession with the very real, albeit elusive, chupacabra lend suspension to whether the folks in the ‘she is funny’ drawing are laughing with me or at me.

PAGE 2: Brave but not Fearless….

The ‘brave’ picture depicts an event where my mouth simply had overridden any common sense. Sophi’s basketball team was set to play next on a court where an older age group of girls was playing. The gym was packed with spectators for the teams playing as wells as the teams waiting to play. The man from one of the teams (probably a parent) became enraged about a call and started yelling at the referee. He was ejected from the game and as men, women and small children watched, he made a huge production of walking across the court shouting obscenities as he went. He managed to drop the F-bomb about a dozen times during his pilgrimage to the gym doors. I was enraged and in the wake of his door-rattling exit I exclaimed, “Who does he think he is?” and then I gave chase. He was lumbering down the hallway and I yelled after him, “Hey! Who do you think you are? These are KIDS! You can’t talk like that in front of these kids! We aren’t going to tolerate it!” He stopped and I stopped. He wheeled around and headed toward me (he was WAY bigger than I thought and kept getting bigger the closer we got to each other). With his big ugly finger pointed at me he yelled, “Lady, you need to step off!” Note: In that instant, I made a mental note that he just screamed the “F” word numerous times in front of a gym full of people and yet he tells me I need to ‘step off’. I accepted his watered down challenge and pointed my finger right back at him and countered, “No, YOU need to step off!” Someone from our team had alerted our coach (who happens to be my husband, Kevin) that I might have bitten off more than I could chew and he quickly found his way to my showdown with the big goon in the hallway. Kevin rounded the corner (all 6’7” and 250 pounds of him) and what do you know??? Mr. Foul Mouth Buffoon Man decided he should step off after all. Note: Kevin was not impressed with my bravery, but I was thankful for his intervention.

Sophi is correct, I am not fearless. I am terrified of coyotes, medium to big sized spiders, sharks and crocodiles. Swinging bridges, snapping turtles, the dentist and the big red bull in Uncle Bob’s field also make me a little weak in the knees.

PAGE 3: She is Strong Inside and Out

This page made me smile. The truth is, I often need help getting the lid of the jelly jar! I can’t do a pull-up and I am virtually useless in a tug-of-war game. It makes me proud that Sophi thinks I am strong on the inside. Sometimes I feel I am drowning in worry, mostly about things I cannot control. I equate inner strength with confidence bolstered by unshakable faith-niether are personal strong suits. Most days I can sport a great game-face, but I want all my kids to know that I have a long way to go in the ‘strength’ department–on the inside and out.

PAGE 4: She is Selfless. Always Thinking of Others First.

I think most moms fall into this category. It is the nature of the job. I actually feel fortunate that Sophi summarized my parenting efforts so positively, considering that times that I have failed miserably as a mom. I am EXTREMEMLY grateful for her omitting these memorable (and slightly damaging Mom moments):

Sophi fell off a zip swing and complained of her wrist hurting. A WEEK later I took her to the doctor and she had a fracture.
When Riley was six, she complained at bedtime that she had a carrot stuck in her throat. I thought she was being ridiculous. I looked, gave her a drink, looked again; NO CARROT. After calling me to her room several times with the ‘carrot story’ I was getting aggravated. I told her that she didn’t have a carrot stuck in her throat and she needed to go to sleep. She abruptly sat up in bed and coughed and hacked and even stuck her finger in her throat and sure enough…she produced a sizable sliver of carrot.
I informed Evan on more than once occasion that he is the reason that mommy hamsters eat their young

She’s Never Afraid to Speak Her Mind

I am pretty sure there are a thousand examples behind this statement that my children would like to strike from their memories. I own the fact there have been many times when what was on my mind should not have ever passed through my lips. In all honesty, what was on my mind probably shouldn’t have even been in my mind at all. Some of the best advice I have ever gotten was from my own sweet mother. When my oldest daughter was born, the first couple years of her life it was basically just the two of us. Riley was just a tot when Kevin and I were married and as a daddy goes, he didn’t miss a beat. However, the day came when he corrected Riley for something and my mama bear claws came out and I unleashed a fury like no other. Still raging, I called my mom to explain how Kevin had crossed the line by getting onto Riley. This was my mother’s response:
“You listen to me and you listen good. You don’t care if he is a daddy to her in every other way. It’s okay that he puts a roof over her head, food on the table, tucks her in and reads her stories. It’s fine with you that he plays with her, is proud of her and loves her like his own. If that man is going to be her daddy, you are going to have to stay out of the way and let him be her daddy all-the-way. Do you hear what I am saying? You listen close, because you have trouble with this….If she needs disciplined, you lock yourself in the closet and you bite your tongue ‘til it bleeds, but you stay out of it. Otherwise, it isn’t going to work.”

As a mom, it is sometimes required to fearlessly speak one’s mind, but equally important to sometimes bite one’s tongue ‘til it bleeds. Hopefully one day, this mom will learn the difference!

Jan2

Growing Up April Fresh and Squeaky Clean

Posted on January 2, 2013 by heavysighsandsmiles

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Growing Up April Fresh and Squeaky Clean

My mom is the Chuck Norris of clean. Two completely random and separate interactions with my dear sisters reminded me of the ultra-shiny-hand-washed-hung-dry-neatly-pressed-streak-free bond we share. In a recent conversation about Santa’s reindeer with my sister, Kim, (this is not even close to being in the top 100 of strange conversations we have had) we discovered that we both grew up feeling sorry for the reindeer Comet. We were operating under the assumption that all the other reindeer had been given cool names and he was named after an ordinary household cleanser. Neither could relate a fanciful flying reindeer to a spectacular celestial light streaking through the night sky. We both, however, could relate to the extraordinary things Mom could do with an ordinary household cleanser. A few days following our reindeer conversation, my younger sister, Emily, posted this Facebook status:

It seemed fitting that I should pay homage to the pint-sized woman who can scrub an entire house from top to bottom, do seven loads of laundry (a load consists of washed dried folded/hung/pressed and put away) and put a streak-free shine on Mr. Clean’s bald head all before his feet hit the floor in the morning. Lessons we have learned from Mother Judy:

1. “A little bit of sprayin’ and a whole lot of wipin’” Mom’s motto she applied to little hands trying to be helpers and then later to big hands just doing a half-assed job on assigned chores. Pledge furniture polish was the easiest to overuse, but the phrase was also regularly applied to Windex, SoftScrub, shoe polish, Spot Shot, and a variety of multipurpose cleaners. Approximately 99.9% (see addendum below) of all household cleaning chores carried out by her offspring were subsequently deemed “pretty good” and then totally redone by the Queen of Clean.

2. Clean with the spirit of a ninja warrior. All members of our family have been subjected to the svelte ways of Mom in motion. While enjoying an ice-cold beverage, one must only lose physical/visual contact with the glass for a split second for her to strike. In the time required to blink, the glass has been dumped, rinsed, and tucked into the dishwasher. The ninja technique also is applied to bowls of cereal, half-eaten sandwiches, partially read newspapers and unmade beds left unattended for early morning trips to the bathroom.

3. Mom and a toothbrush are a force to be reckoned with. Many tough jobs have been tackled by mom and a toothbrush. Grout, tiles, floors, stoves, etc. have been subjected to her fury against the grime. However, one cannot fully grasp the mightiness of Mom welding this seemingly harmless tool, except those of us who have stood before her having failed the “oral hygiene inspection”. The kind, docile creature transforms into a self-appointed Cavity Creep assassin. Having to endure a tooth-brushing session at the hands of this well-meaning fanatic is comparable to what I imagine it would be like to have your mouth (teeth, gums, and tongue) scrubbed thoroughly with a Brillo-pad.

4. A dusty car might as well be a rusty car. My car is an extension of my family’s hectic life and usually contains all of or a combination of the following: basketballs, socks, sweatshirts, electronics, snacks, lip gloss, bottled water, crumbs, textbooks, book bags, golf clubs, work stuff, and hair and makeup accessories. My mom’s car contains floor mats and a garage door opener. Not only is the inside of her car in showroom condition, but should a layer of dust accumulate on the outside of the car, she takes the time to “dust” the body of the vehicle. Riding in my car makes my mom nervous.

5. If it cannot be cleaned, it must be destroyed. The large ranch-style home we lived in when my little sister Emily was born had very nice dark brown carpeting. Although the carpeting had been recently installed by the previous owners of the house and was in tip-top shape, it was a source of loathing for Mom. While most people would appreciate a floor covering that didn’t readily show dirt, this trait was an unforgivable flaw in her eyes. No amount of cleaning, scrubbing, or vacuuming would squelch Mom’s distrust of what the brown carpeting was hiding. Plans to replace the carpet were put-off by my step-dad and Mom’s patience was wearing thin. As growing babies do, Emily began scooting around on the floor to explore the world around her and that was a game changer. Emily’s tiny white socks were dingy where she had scooted on the floor. The tiny defiled socks were proof positive that Mom’s suspicions were not unfounded and she took matters into her own hands-literally. Early on a Saturday morning, I awoke to quite a commotion. Mom, with a crowbar, box cutter and her tiny little hands was ripping the carpet up, leaving only the purple padding. While making her feel MUCH better, the stunt ended in a lengthy stalemate with my step-dad. Several weeks passed in the pristine house with the purple padding on the floor, before my step-dad relented and had new carpeting installed.

Clean facts worthy of sharing:

Mom was chastised by her beloved dog’s veterinarian for giving the pooch a bath EVERY SINGLE DAY! (Please see photo of the dog’s reaction when she retrieves his tub from the laundry room)
Hopper hiding at bath time.
When lice broke out in my sister’s elementary class, she washed the girl’s hair with the medicated shampoo so many times that her scalp started to crack and bleed. Bedding was burned.
The obsession with cleaning often spills out in how Mom communicates. Actual quote: “I don’t think he is the shiniest tool in the shed.”
While bathing us, Mom used to put our shoestrings in the bathtub with us. The only things worse than dirty shoestrings were dirty shoes. She polished white tennis shoes each night.
Mom’s doomsday preparation list would include: bleach, SpotShot, Windex, a dust mop and a broom.

Unfortunately, for Mom, her OCD cleaning gene is recessive…very recessive. She had three chances to see her affinity for the super clean manifest itself in the lives of her offspring and none of us have it. We seem to have picked up some of her habits and at times we get a little cranky when the laundry piles up or we fall behind on the household chores. However, I can (and do) go to bed with the throw pillows in disarray and the kitchen floor un-swept. After cooking a delicious meal, Kim can have a martini before the kitchen is clean and is perfectly content to allow someone else to clean it, while she has a martini. Emily’s movements can often be tracked from the time she enters the house by the things she leaves along the way…shoes…purse….scarf and I am 100% certain she has never dusted the outside of her car.

I used to stress over thinking Mom was going to be disappointed in me, if she discovered toothpaste not rinsed out of the sinks or that the load of clothes I have in the washer has to be washed again because I forgot to put it in the dryer (yesterday or possibly the day before that). How could this super woman who can clean, work, teach, workout, and meet the needs of so many people around her feel anything other than shame in having a daughter like me??? It would be just like my pint-sized dynamo of a mother to give me an out; to magnify my perceived domestic shortcomings as strengths which she lacked. In fact, that is exactly what she did.

It wasn’t long after the birth of my youngest child that I attended a mother-daughter dinner, where my mom was the speaker for the evening. As a dynamic speaker and teacher in women’s Christian ministry, I was prepared for an uplifting and powerful message from Mom. I was not expecting to hear her share the following story with the audience:

I am so lucky to have my oldest daughter, Karri, here with me tonight. I am even luckier to have her as my daughter. It is hard to believe that she is a mother of three children now and she is an amazing mom. (I am now thinking, where is she going with this? I sometimes suck on Sophi’s pacifier when she drops it on the ground and stick it back in her mouth. There is nothing amazing about that). In fact, I wish that I could have been more like the mom she is when she was growing up. She became a mother when she was fairly young. I remember one particular day when I stopped by her little rental house and I went in the front door and there were toys scattered all over the living room. I continued through the house and on the kitchen table there were two bowls where she and my granddaughter, Riley, had eaten cereal. (Great, she is up there on that stage telling them what a lousy housekeeper I am). The laundry room had several piles of clothes needing to be laundered. Where do you think I found her? She was in the backyard, sitting in a tiny sandbox building sandcastles with her daughter. You see, ladies, there will always be things to pick up, laundry that needs washed and dishes to do, but there are only so many moments in which we can build sand castles. I wish I had built more sandcastles.

Addendum: After consulting with my sisters, I was informed that my estimate of 99.9% of the chores were redone by Mom is incorrect and the actual amount was 110%.

01/01/2013
Spending New Year’s Day stripping wallpaper and cleaning in Emily’s new home.

Working and rockin’ her skinny jeans

Nov12

Impact Moments

Posted on November 12, 2012 by heavysighsandsmiles

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Baby Riley

The majority of moments allotted to me thus far have passed without greatly influencing the overall direction of my life or altering the composition of my heart. There are, however, those moments impacting with such force the reverberation pulses in every moment thereafter. Some are positive in nature, other seemingly devastating, but all are life-changing. November 12, 2014, marks the 23^nd anniversary of one of the most powerful impact moments of my life…the day my daughter, Riley, was born.

As a nineteen year old college student with a propensity for making poor life choices, discovering I was pregnant certainly didn’t seem like a positive impact moment. I was terrified. I was aware of my less than stellar track record for taking care of myself, which made me feel completely sorry for the Tic-Tac-sized fetus attached to the wall of my uterus. I wasn’t even good at playing house when I was little and got into trouble for cutting the piggy-tails off my sister’s dolls. There was no way I was going to be able to take care of an actual human baby! I was screwed, but not nearly as screwed as the little he or she inside of me for drawing the short straw and getting me for a mother.

The next 8 months I read everything I could get my hands on regarding prenatal care, breastfeeding, childbirth and parenting. I followed the doctor’s orders to the letter and set my sights on giving this baby a better mother than the person I had been up to this point. As my due date approached, I had started to worry about the pain of actually having the baby. I asked my mom if it hurt to have a baby and she said, “I will tell you exactly what your grandma told me when I asked her that question when I was pregnant with you. She said: would it hurt to shit a square wagon wheel?” The wisdom passed down through the generations of women in my family is priceless and, as I was about to learn, amazingly accurate.

Milestones

Because I was not covered under my parent’s insurance for maternity service, I saw the doctors through the local Health Department. During my 24 week checkup I was informed that I would either have to pay $400.00 before my next visit or sign a waiver declining the use of an epidural. The amount of emotional and financial headaches I had caused my parents over my 19 years on the planet loomed in the back of my mind, but so did my grandma’s square wagon wheel analogy. In the end, I couldn’t ask my parents for the money and I signed the waiver, which seemed like a very, very considerate gesture on my part. In hindsight, however, it was a VERY, VERY, incredibly STUPID move on my part.

Riley and Daddy (and the Devil dog)

Where do mommies-to-be go, when they can’t stand the thought of being pregnant one more second? They walk (waddle) around Wal-Mart, of course. I think Wal-Mart might even hold breakout sessions at the OB/GYN conferences around the nation encouraging doctors to advise women that strolling the aisles at Wal-Mart is scientifically proven to induce labor. In my case, that is exactly what happened. I was with my best friend, Cheri, and we were walking through the store. She absently put her hand on stomach and she said, “Oh my God! You are having a contraction!” My stomach was tight, but it didn’t hurt so it wasn’t computing with me. I said, “No I’m not.” She insisted, “Yes you are! That’s exactly what my Aunt Tina’s belly felt like when she had a contraction.” Since her Aunt Tina had just had a baby a few months earlier, I figured she knew more than I did about birthin’ babies. As it turns out Cheri was spot on with her diagnosis-I was in labor and ol’ Grandma also hit the nail on the head- it hurts like hell to shit a square wagon wheel!!!!

Monkey Moment

After laboring more than sixteen hours I had finally achieved a whopping 4 on the dilatation scale. The lady who was laboring on the other side of the curtain (OMG…they actually used to put two women in labor in the same room) had arrived a few hours after me and was already dilated to an 8. I was exhausted and hurting and I yelled, “Are you kidding? I hate that bitch?” My sweet angelic mother promptly poked her head around the curtain and said, “I am sorry. She is so tired she doesn’t mean it.” I loudly clarified, “YES I DO MEAN IT!” A few hours later, I hadn’t progressed much further and the contractions were excruciating. During the quiet moments between contractions, my mom asked my nurse to please see about getting me an epidural. I wanted to explain my noble decision of waiving the epidural, but I was beyond fatigued and the nurse had to explain to Mom the epidural “fee upfront” policy. My mother started frantically looking around for her purse, “I will write you a check. Just get the kid an epidural!!” My mom’s attempts to circumvent hospital policy were politely denied and she cried at my bedside through each contraction.

First Grade

My labor was approaching its 29^th hour and my stubborn cervix finally made it to the required 10 centimeters and I was cleared for transfer to the delivery room. I actually passed my former labor room roommate pushing her baby in the hallway as I was being wheeled to the delivery room. She was fortunate I was too physically and emotionally tapped out to verbally accost her. If I had any preconceived notions that things were going to soon be over, I was wrong. I pushed and pushed and pushed and pushed. The clock was ticking ever closer to midnight and my mom was determined that I was going to have my baby before November 12^th became November 13^th. November 12^th is Mom’s Birthday. An intern assisting my doctor with the delivery tried to show pictures of his kids to one of the nurses and he ventured too close to me and I grabbed him by the tie and said, “Everyone in the hospital has seen those f@#@king pictures. Put them away!!” Between contractions I decided to take off my oxygen mask, remove the monitors strapped around my enormous belly and tried to climb off the table announcing, “I can’t do this anymore. I am going home.” My mom grabbed me by the arm and demanded, “You get up on this bed and you have this baby right now!! It’s almost not my Birthday anymore!!” And so it was; I pushed and pushed and the doctor and the intern pulled and pulled and at 11:51pm on her grandma’s birthday, our Riley was born.

Dance

The first time I held her was an impact moment of epic proportions. The 8 pounds and 2 ounces of bald, cone-headed, swollen baby held the key to my heart. I was smitten. She has been uniquely Riley from that moment forward and a source of immeasurable joy in my life. It is hard to believe that 22 years have passed since the day Riley came into my life and I can’t begin to quantify the blessing being her mother has brought to my life. Here are just a few of the things I love about Riley and some of the things I have learned by being her mom:

She was bald for so long everyone thought she was a boy. I started to pray that she would get hair and when she finally did get hair, it was carrot orange, with a mind of its own. I learned that I need to be very specific when I pray. Riley has AWESOME hair now!!! Her crazy hair days were worth it.
Riley has an innate nature to see people’s needs and meet them. This was apparent at a very young age, when she came home from third grade and asked if we could get some shoes for a little girl in her class. She said the girl always takes her shoes off under her desk and Riley had asked her why and the girl told her that the shoes were too small and hurt her feet. In addition, Riley asked her teacher not to tell the girl where the shoes came from because she didn’t want to embarrass her. I would love to say this was something that I had taught her, but it is something she has always had inside her and a beautiful part of who she is.
She loves things that sparkle, makeup, clothes, 80s music, and naps.
She often doesn’t get the joke, but when she does, laughs the longest. She has an awesome laugh.
She is smart, capable, and fiercely independent. She struggles with making up her mind, but when she does….better get out of the way!
When she was nine, she tried to convince me that she shouldn’t eat in the school cafeteria: “They serve artificial corn. It doesn’t come from a can or a cob.”
She is the official grammar police of the universe.

On the day she was born, if I had taken every hope I had for her future, it would hardly measure up to the young woman she has grown up to be. Thank you, Riley, for being the daughter that surpassed everything my heart could desire. I love you infinity.

Riley Landing after Skydiving

Riley

Nov5

Full Disclosure–Not Quite

Posted on November 5, 2012 by heavysighsandsmiles

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One of my best friends, Leslie, was trying to talk me into running a 5K with her this weekend and since I haven’t been running much in recent months, I was resistant to the idea. During the course of her appeal, she used the phrase ‘in the spirit of full disclosure’ when revealing details of the event that she knew wouldn’t entice me to participate. I always appreciate Leslie’s tendency to give me all the facts, even when she knows they may push me in another direction. Against my better judgment, I agreed to run. When you are as out of shape as I am, not to mention the slowest living land mammal on the planet, even a short race like a 5K provides a lot of time to think. I began to ponder the very reason I was trying to pound out 3 miles and some change with no preparation, when my brain got tripped up on the ‘in the spirit of full disclosure’ phrase that Les had tossed me a few days prior. Trying to distract myself from my current situation, I began silently deliberating the concept of ‘full disclosure’.

It was at a very young age that I came to terms with the harsh reality that lying wasn’t going to be tolerated by my parents. Punishment for lying was swift and severe and thus, I learned to compensate. I almost always gave the unaltered facts, but I routinely eliminated the pesky details that I knew would interfere with my parent’s overall perception of a situation. I often needed an accomplice, and this was almost always my younger sister, Kim. I rarely asked her to lie for me; I just encouraged her not to talk. I wasn’t above lying, but lying was complicated and often exhausting. She was seven and I was ten, the first time she fully understood her role.

Atari® game system had finally found its way into our living and I had asked for one thing for Christmas-FROGGER. It was about a month before Christmas and I began to use the 45 minutes Kim and I were home alone after school to explore the forbidden areas of our house for our gifts. It didn’t take long until I discovered a neatly wrapped box in the far corner of a high shelf in my parent’s closet. Even though the identity of the box was hidden under Christmas paper, I knew instantly that I had struck amphibian video game gold. Unwrapping one end of the box, I slid it out of the paper cocoon and headed for the game console. Kim watched as I attempted to guide my little frog across the busy highway, over the logs in the swift river to the safety of the lily pad. We laughed when the frog was reduced to the state-of-the-art graphic red “X”, when I failed to avoid getting the little guy out of the way of a car. When it was getting close to the time for Mom to come home, I put the game back in its box, slid it into the wrapping paper, carefully wrapped the end and returned it to its hiding place in the closet.

Kim was worried that we would get caught and be in trouble. I told her, “If Mom comes home and asks you ‘Did Karri find the FROGGER game in my closet and play it?’ you can tell her I did. Otherwise, just don’t say anything.” We repeated the scenario of unwrapping-playing-rewrapping for the next several weeks without incident. Occasionally, I would even let her have a turn, just to reinforce that we were on the same team and to ensure that she had been a willing participant if things were to go awry. Christmas morning arrived and I excitedly received the gift in a state of excitement that was only worthy of a complete surprise. My parents were astounded at my uncanny ability to safely beat level after level of the game, but after weeks of practice, I had gotten pretty good. Mom watched and said, “I cannot believe how good you are at this! It’s amazing!” I held my breath and I looked at Kim and let the silence of our secret hang for a moment between us. I knew the spirit of full disclosure was fully behind us, when she reached for the joystick and asked, “Can I try?”

When we reached our teenage years, Kim was starting to see through some of my BS tactics and because I was often a total bitch of a big sister to her, she started to become a hostile accomplice. There were other times when she would keep silent until I pushed her to the breaking point and she would gladly toss me right under the bus. One such instance actually involved a bus- the school bus, which I LOATHED. As a freshman in high school, I suddenly became completely repulsed by the very idea of riding the bus to school. It was totally uncool and I would intentionally miss the bus, so that my parents were forced to drive me to school. Each morning became a battle of wits and wills to get me on the bus. It became a source of such contention that I was regularly being punished for not catching the bus and my attitude became increasingly sour.

My mom and step-dad were, needless to say, astounded when one morning they found me up, clothes on, hair curled, and ready and willing to head out and meet the bus! My delightful attitude in resigning myself to utilizing the public school transportation was a welcome change. Day after day, I would be up and ready and making no complaints. Once they were convinced that it was not a fluke, they started expressing their gratitude. “Karri we really appreciate you not making a federal case out of riding the bus” and “You must be growing up, because you finally understand how much it helps us out when you ride the bus to school”. One evening my grandma was eating dinner with us. She had been witness to some of the bus battles and Mom proudly bragged about my “new attitude” about riding the bus. There we all were at the table, with Mom gushing about how nice it was to have stress-free mornings since I had turned over a new leaf. Grandma even chimed in about being glad that I was helping my mom out by being sweet about riding the bus. I was soaking up the accolades, when Kim had finally had enough, “She is not riding the bus because you want her to and because it helps you!!! It has nothing to do with being good, or sweet or anything like that! The ONLY reason that she gets up and ready and catches the bus is because she discovered that the hot junior football player that lives down the road rides the bus!!!” My little sister–busting me out in the spirit of full disclosure.

A couple of years later, my step-dad asked a business associate/friend of his to give me part-time job as a checker in his grocery store. I reluctantly complied with the new job requirement and went after school and Saturdays to fulfill my checker obligations. A few months passed and I managed to learn the difference between a russet potato and a baker’s brown. I was polite, mostly punctual, and liked earning a little of my own money. All was fine and well until one Saturday afternoon a group of my friends stopped by to offer me the extra ticket they had to a Cardinal baseball game. I asked the manager if I could take off and go to the game and he said I couldn’t. So I quit. I went to the game and had a blast. Two weeks later my step dad came home three kinds of pissed off at me. He had casually inquired from his friend how I was doing on the job and was informed that I had quit two weeks prior. My boss–busting me out in the spirit of full disclosure.

It has been a long-time coming for me to fully embrace the spirit of full disclosure. Understanding the damages that relationships can incur under the auspices of revealing only the details which are easy to swallow has been a motivating factor in the way I choose to interact with others. There are many qualities in myself that I wish I could hide, many choices I have made that I wish I could omit and I am confident there are many more mistakes I am going to make. Striving to be my authentic self is something that has made my life fuller and my relationships stronger. Remembering what a brat I was is a reminder to ask my children VERY specific questions.

NOTE: Thanks to Leslie, I finished the race. Like an ironic revelation in the spirit of full disclosure, it revealed that I am pathetically out of shape. Thanks, Les!

Carla, Leslie, and Me

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