By Michelle Bond
I can’t help but wonder how my husband is able to do much of anything. He must simply be exhausted and suffering with great fatigue. After all, he hung the moon; and, that’s no small feat. At least, that is what our daughter thinks of her dad. Her daddy can fix, mend, console, and most importantly, rescue. I write so often about the escapades of being a “Super-Mother”; but, truth be told, I, and many other “Super Mothers,” could not do it without our counter-parts, (Cue super hero music…Da tad a da) take a bow, “Super-Dad! “ With Father’s Day right around the corner, I want to salute all the dad’s who, at one time or another, hung the moon, too.
Try hard to picture this; admittedly, a bit of a stretch; but, just try: It’s 6:00p.m.. “Super Mother” has not had a shower, while two kids are screaming and the house is less than Martha Stewart ready. Dinner is not even on the horizon. What ever will she do? (Cue super hero music… da tad a da) “Super-Dad” sweeps in after a day’s work and rescues his little princess. They can be found in the garage playing pirates on the boat, while simultaneously having rescued “Super Mother!” (Sighs of relief abound) “Super-Dad” must cultivate this power early and well, as the skill of rescuing will be used their whole lives. I can only imagine the first time our daughter or son’s little hearts are broken. Assuredly, the “Super-Dad” will jump in for the rescue and pick up the tiny pieces offering comfort only a daddy can give.
At every up and down, twist and turn, the “Super-Dad” is also a “Super Husband”. He can fix just about everything. (TV remote, DVD, and front of the house I hit with the car) The “Super Dad” does not shy away from household projects or “honey-do” lists, no matter how tedious. The “Super-Mother” has a hard job; but, admittedly, the “honey-do” list is usually a compilation of things that are either too labor-intensive, too gross, or things that other people get paid good money to do.
The “Super-Dad” is in tune with things that may not be picked up by “Super-Mother’s” radar. For example, I cared about Christian’s circumcision; but, Sam, REALLY, REALLY, CARED. I mean, cross-examine the doctor cared. See how SUPER he is! I did not even think to ask, “So, Doctor, just how many of these procedures have you done? Um, have you ever slipped, or anything? You know, cut off too much?”
The "Super-Dad" introduces children to the experiences that the Super-Mother does not want to be “Super” enough to do. Take for example, “Stickymud”. According to, The New Post-Toddler’s Dictionary: “Stickymud” is a dark grey, sticky, slimy, disgusting, substance that is left behind in the inter-coastal waterways at low tide. On occasions, our “Super-Dad” packs up the princess and goes “exploring” in the stickymud for anything that moves and lives in said, “Stickymud”. Upon their return, both resemble animals that commonly “wallow” to stay cool. (Garden hoses come in handy often with the “Super-Dad.”) He also exposes our children to the finer creatures on earth, like worms, sand fleas, spiders, frogs, crabs, fish, and all kids of insects. He adheres to the strict, time honored tradition of father-daughter fishing that mandates, and I quote: “Once a fish is on your line, quickly hand your rod to the daughter. Exclaim, ‘You got a fish, now reel it in’ and celebrate accordingly.” Subsequently, this also works when fishing with grown daughter and son-in-law. In the future, I also know that I will not be “Super” enough to pull out baby teeth, rub some dirt on a wound and call it healed, and say “shake-it-off” after a collision at baseball practice.
“Super-Dad” is also a super dancer. Especially to reggae hits, shaking maracas, with his princess, and wearing a sombrero. Now THAT’S super! This one must be in The Manbook chapter on parenting little girls. (The Manbook: A lore book that is given to each man at puberty. It gives common reactions, solutions, and dictates proper man behavior, as to keep all men ‘on the same page’) I can remember many a day that my dad would put on music, blaring, and dance a happy jig. (Or, maybe a happy jive) Whatever it was, it’s all leading to the same place. One day, each “Super-Dad” of a little girl, knows that he will have to go beyond his own supply, ask his Heavenly Father for the strength, and have that famed “Father Daughter dance.” My selection for that dance was, “What a Wonderful World”, by Louis Armstrong. I chose this, not because it’s a beautiful song; but, because as a child, I can remember my dad not only dancing to this, but also singing right along to it in his best Louis voice. Based on this, I think I’ll save the sombrero, maracas and Carnival’s Greatest Reggae Hits. We may need them for the wedding reception.
“Super-Dad” to a son must pass on the secrets of being “Super-Dad” and impart the contents of The Manbook. He must teach his son to, shake it off, rub some dirt on it and get back out there, pick up his socks, and put the toilet set back down. (Okay, the last two were for the future wife) Most importantly, he will have to pass on the tools to become the man that our Heavenly Father wants him to be.
I feel Dad’s in our society are not honored enough. Yet, they are so important. No! They are more than important, they are SUPER important! They are strength, love, consistency, compassion, provision and most importantly, help to shape their children’s view and understanding of our Heavenly Father. Now, what could be more SUPER than that? Thanks, Super-Dad! Happy Father’s Day; and, try to rest those arms. You’ll need your strength for hanging that moon!
Sources:
My Dad
Sam
Tom Gallagher for "rub some dirt on it, and get back in there."
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
A Farewell to an Unwelcome Visitor
“Born Free!” Spinning, and dancing through a field of daffodils, singing, “The hills are alive”. No, not a Massengil commercial. Instead, the inward feeling of finally being flu free after 15 days of captivity. Both nostrils operating with the ease of a Hoover, I deeply inhale, and know, that I, and the entire population of our house, are now immune! A sweet reward for weeks of stair-stepped illness and doctor’s visits. “Buh Bye, thanks for coming. Don’t let the tissue hit you on the way out”. Flu strand H1N7, consider yourself owned!
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Salute to the MOOK
I am THAT mom; and, I have THAT kid. You know, the mom with the unruly three-and-half year old that displays completely abhorrent behavior in social situations. Thereby, allowing other mothers to internally pat themselves on the back for having nurtured such well mannered two year old children. I walked around feeling like this for about four weeks after a few playgroups where Caroline was the oldest child. Disapproving, smug, glances were exchanged so often, the I really felt like I had been banished to mommy “time-out”.
This continued until I branched out and had a solo play date with a friend whose daughter is a little older than Caroline. My heart completely changed when the girls came in crying and tattling. My friend looked at the girls and said, “Girls, unless there is blood, don’t come in here. Go work it out yourselves”. Guess what? They did. The clouds parted, angels sang, beams of radiant light filled the room, harps were playing. Okay, maybe not that drastic; but, I did have an epiphany in parenting. Moms of older kids rock! For my purpose here, I will refer to them as “MOOK.” On subsequent play dates, the same thing happened again. It had not occurred to me that Caroline was actually a completely normal three-year-old; and, that she had moved away from parallel play to interacting with her friends. That’s right, hang up the phone. No need to call DFAC, I may not be the worst mom on earth!
I recognized my mom, grandmother, and aunts, as resources; but, low and behold, I have a whole library of mom-knowledge right around me. My Tuesday morning Bible study is chalk full of useful “MOOK” knowledge. Monday MOPS, brimming with “MOOK”. The conversations sometimes go like this: “Oh, my goodness, the other day, Caroline did….” The “MOOK” can quickly retort, “You think that’s bad? When little Jimmy was that age…” Sweet comfort and Grace. I am not saying I want a “Get out of parenting free” card. I just truly enjoy the grace that comes with experience in parenting. Therefore, today, I want to send an appreciative, “I salute you, “MOOK” of the world”. I’m taking myself out of “mommy time out!”
This continued until I branched out and had a solo play date with a friend whose daughter is a little older than Caroline. My heart completely changed when the girls came in crying and tattling. My friend looked at the girls and said, “Girls, unless there is blood, don’t come in here. Go work it out yourselves”. Guess what? They did. The clouds parted, angels sang, beams of radiant light filled the room, harps were playing. Okay, maybe not that drastic; but, I did have an epiphany in parenting. Moms of older kids rock! For my purpose here, I will refer to them as “MOOK.” On subsequent play dates, the same thing happened again. It had not occurred to me that Caroline was actually a completely normal three-year-old; and, that she had moved away from parallel play to interacting with her friends. That’s right, hang up the phone. No need to call DFAC, I may not be the worst mom on earth!
I recognized my mom, grandmother, and aunts, as resources; but, low and behold, I have a whole library of mom-knowledge right around me. My Tuesday morning Bible study is chalk full of useful “MOOK” knowledge. Monday MOPS, brimming with “MOOK”. The conversations sometimes go like this: “Oh, my goodness, the other day, Caroline did….” The “MOOK” can quickly retort, “You think that’s bad? When little Jimmy was that age…” Sweet comfort and Grace. I am not saying I want a “Get out of parenting free” card. I just truly enjoy the grace that comes with experience in parenting. Therefore, today, I want to send an appreciative, “I salute you, “MOOK” of the world”. I’m taking myself out of “mommy time out!”
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Happy Mother's Day
By: Michelle Bond
It’s 8:30. The sound of gently crashing waves fills the room, while the splendor of morning light illuminates my precious family walking into the bedroom with home-made breakfast in bed. “Good morning beautiful. Happy Mother’s Day.” This is followed by some alone time at the beach reading a book, and topped off with a romantic, husband-made dinner! This was my husband’s picture of how Mother’s Day at the Beach was going to go.
It’s 5:15. The pungent odor of Vicks Vapor Rub fills the room. A phlegm-filled, barking three-year old presenting a Kleenex bouquet held together by, well, I don’t really want to know ,barks me into consciousness. Honestly, we knew Caroline had the flu before we left; but, she had already had it for two days. How long could it last? I’ll let you know when it’s over.
Team Bond springs into action. The condo becomes a quarantined zone filled with Kleenex tumbleweeds, rootin’ tootin’, soap, wielding slingers; and, our National Anthem become, (In synchronization please) “WASH YOUR HANDS!” Caroline became fluent in the “whine dialect” common among sick children everywhere.
By five O’ clock, Sam was trying to make dinner. One sick child barked orders from the back room while the other child cried out of general annoyance at his lack of attention that day. A magical symphony of whine, cry, whine, cry, cry, cry, whine, set the dinner ambiance.
The kids are finally in bed, Sam looks at me and says, “Wow, that was a terrible Mother’s Day. I am so sorry, honey.” No WAY !
At the end of the day, it’s always about perspective. I had the blessing of celebrating a true “Father’s Day” with Sam. It was a stretch with two of us. I am so thankful that Sam was there to help. From my perspective, all I could do was smile at what Sam had planned and the reality of the day . I took time at the five o’ clock chaos and was able to laugh; and, I though to my self, ” This truly IS, A REAL, Mother’s Day, and I am blessed!
It’s 8:30. The sound of gently crashing waves fills the room, while the splendor of morning light illuminates my precious family walking into the bedroom with home-made breakfast in bed. “Good morning beautiful. Happy Mother’s Day.” This is followed by some alone time at the beach reading a book, and topped off with a romantic, husband-made dinner! This was my husband’s picture of how Mother’s Day at the Beach was going to go.
It’s 5:15. The pungent odor of Vicks Vapor Rub fills the room. A phlegm-filled, barking three-year old presenting a Kleenex bouquet held together by, well, I don’t really want to know ,barks me into consciousness. Honestly, we knew Caroline had the flu before we left; but, she had already had it for two days. How long could it last? I’ll let you know when it’s over.
Team Bond springs into action. The condo becomes a quarantined zone filled with Kleenex tumbleweeds, rootin’ tootin’, soap, wielding slingers; and, our National Anthem become, (In synchronization please) “WASH YOUR HANDS!” Caroline became fluent in the “whine dialect” common among sick children everywhere.
By five O’ clock, Sam was trying to make dinner. One sick child barked orders from the back room while the other child cried out of general annoyance at his lack of attention that day. A magical symphony of whine, cry, whine, cry, cry, cry, whine, set the dinner ambiance.
The kids are finally in bed, Sam looks at me and says, “Wow, that was a terrible Mother’s Day. I am so sorry, honey.” No WAY !
At the end of the day, it’s always about perspective. I had the blessing of celebrating a true “Father’s Day” with Sam. It was a stretch with two of us. I am so thankful that Sam was there to help. From my perspective, all I could do was smile at what Sam had planned and the reality of the day . I took time at the five o’ clock chaos and was able to laugh; and, I though to my self, ” This truly IS, A REAL, Mother’s Day, and I am blessed!
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Super Uterus
By: Michelle Bond
Growing up, I was a double X swimming in sea of Y chromosomes. Except for my mother, I had no other ally in the war of hormones. I suppose I always knew, or at least suspected, despite our numerical outnumbering, my chromosomal assignment gave a, somehow, unfair advantage over our X challenged counterparts.
You see, I discovered early, that with a uterus, came great power. Consider this, when no one else could find the mayonnaise in the refrigerator (cue superhero music), da tad a da, Super Uterus to the rescue. When the house needed that superficial speed-cleaning due to unexpected dinner guests, of course invited by an X chromosome, da ta da da, SuperUterus to the rescue. When the urine that had been sprayed all over the toilet needed to be chipped off… Super Uterus to the rescue.
I trained under the strict mentorship of my mother and developed my Super Uterus powers well. But, there are a few tasks that seemed to elude me; things that defy all logic and science. With clarity that can only be matched by Lisa Marie Presley waking up with Michael Jackson and saying, “who the hell did I marry?” I too, had an epiphany. My super uterus had never given birth: then, and only then, would I gain access to the more powerful …. da ta da da… Super-Mother Powers!
This is why I was elated when I found out I would be having a baby! Not only would my husband and I get to welcome a new life into the world; but, I would finally obtain my Super-Mother Powers.
And obtain them I did! In true Marvel comic manner, I grappled with labor like superman toiling with the Joker. (Only, SuperMan never pushed a watermelon out of a hole the size of a golf ball). Unbeknownst to me, I soon gained a job description that could read: Wanted: someone to love, bathe, feed, wash, clean up after, change excrement soaked rags for, be spit up on with numerous bodily fluids, wake up at all hours of the night to soothe, rock, shush, and lull back to sleep, entertain, be a model for, teach them everything they need to know to survive, imprint their brain cells for future learning, worry about qualifications as mother, wife, and woman, worry about SIDS, accidents, your milk not coming in, worry about breastfeeding seeming like anything OTHER than “the most natural thing in the world” , worry that your baby is developmentally fine, worry about dealing with their spiritual life, Kindergartener, school, dating, make-up, boys, sex, marriage, all within the first day. Duties also include general housekeeping, accounts payable, accounts receivable, book keeping, Cooking, purchasing, some light medical duties, and occasional gardening.
Then, the hardest part comes: giving all of this worry away to the real father and not losing the wife and woman that was there before you were “the mother.” This job requires you to give a lot of grace to yourself. A wise mother once told me, “there has never been a perfect mother; there has only been one perfect person; and you did not just give birth to the second.”
In this spirit of grace, coupled with my SuperUterus and SuperMother powers, I know that soon I will come to understand and master the art of taking a wadded up sheet, miraculously throwing it onto a bed, and have it perfectly lain and wrinkle free with just a flick of the wrist. I am currently cultivating my super vision that lets me see all of the objects on the floor, including animal vomit and feces that eluded all other residents of the house prior. And though my optometry bill may go up considerably with the addition of the new eyes placed strategically in the back of my head, this is an inconvenience I welcome with lenses cloth open. Finally, my transition is complete as I began to produce all-purpose cleaner from my saliva glands around September of this year. With just a lick of the thumb, household, child, and husband are completely spot-cleaned. At some point in my life, about a year ago, I decided to answer the afore mentioned advertisement: Oddly enough, back then, and today, that advertisement above can be rephrased: Wanted: couple to give loving home to, and have lives enriched by, a huge blessing.
Growing up, I was a double X swimming in sea of Y chromosomes. Except for my mother, I had no other ally in the war of hormones. I suppose I always knew, or at least suspected, despite our numerical outnumbering, my chromosomal assignment gave a, somehow, unfair advantage over our X challenged counterparts.
You see, I discovered early, that with a uterus, came great power. Consider this, when no one else could find the mayonnaise in the refrigerator (cue superhero music), da tad a da, Super Uterus to the rescue. When the house needed that superficial speed-cleaning due to unexpected dinner guests, of course invited by an X chromosome, da ta da da, SuperUterus to the rescue. When the urine that had been sprayed all over the toilet needed to be chipped off… Super Uterus to the rescue.
I trained under the strict mentorship of my mother and developed my Super Uterus powers well. But, there are a few tasks that seemed to elude me; things that defy all logic and science. With clarity that can only be matched by Lisa Marie Presley waking up with Michael Jackson and saying, “who the hell did I marry?” I too, had an epiphany. My super uterus had never given birth: then, and only then, would I gain access to the more powerful …. da ta da da… Super-Mother Powers!
This is why I was elated when I found out I would be having a baby! Not only would my husband and I get to welcome a new life into the world; but, I would finally obtain my Super-Mother Powers.
And obtain them I did! In true Marvel comic manner, I grappled with labor like superman toiling with the Joker. (Only, SuperMan never pushed a watermelon out of a hole the size of a golf ball). Unbeknownst to me, I soon gained a job description that could read: Wanted: someone to love, bathe, feed, wash, clean up after, change excrement soaked rags for, be spit up on with numerous bodily fluids, wake up at all hours of the night to soothe, rock, shush, and lull back to sleep, entertain, be a model for, teach them everything they need to know to survive, imprint their brain cells for future learning, worry about qualifications as mother, wife, and woman, worry about SIDS, accidents, your milk not coming in, worry about breastfeeding seeming like anything OTHER than “the most natural thing in the world” , worry that your baby is developmentally fine, worry about dealing with their spiritual life, Kindergartener, school, dating, make-up, boys, sex, marriage, all within the first day. Duties also include general housekeeping, accounts payable, accounts receivable, book keeping, Cooking, purchasing, some light medical duties, and occasional gardening.
Then, the hardest part comes: giving all of this worry away to the real father and not losing the wife and woman that was there before you were “the mother.” This job requires you to give a lot of grace to yourself. A wise mother once told me, “there has never been a perfect mother; there has only been one perfect person; and you did not just give birth to the second.”
In this spirit of grace, coupled with my SuperUterus and SuperMother powers, I know that soon I will come to understand and master the art of taking a wadded up sheet, miraculously throwing it onto a bed, and have it perfectly lain and wrinkle free with just a flick of the wrist. I am currently cultivating my super vision that lets me see all of the objects on the floor, including animal vomit and feces that eluded all other residents of the house prior. And though my optometry bill may go up considerably with the addition of the new eyes placed strategically in the back of my head, this is an inconvenience I welcome with lenses cloth open. Finally, my transition is complete as I began to produce all-purpose cleaner from my saliva glands around September of this year. With just a lick of the thumb, household, child, and husband are completely spot-cleaned. At some point in my life, about a year ago, I decided to answer the afore mentioned advertisement: Oddly enough, back then, and today, that advertisement above can be rephrased: Wanted: couple to give loving home to, and have lives enriched by, a huge blessing.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
The Magic Kingdom
By: Michelle Bond
It was an average Tuesday. The Sun was shining, and Caroline and I were not doing much of anything when the phone rang. On the other line was Pa Pa. (AKA my Dad). This was not unusual. To tell the truth, it’s odd for my Dad not to call a few times during the week to check in with, “The Princess and the Princesses’s mommy.” The basic conversation went like this: “So, what are you and the princess doing today? Well, Dad, not much of anything. Do you and the princess want to meet me at Disney World?” I had no idea my Dad was even in Florida, much less at Disney. Pa Pa was there doing something with automation of a new ride at Epcot; and, he had some extra time that day.
Caroline was ALMOST three years old. This is important because admission is free under the age of three. (Actually, if she could pass for it, she would still be under three) It is also important because this is the beginning of the age that little girls ALL want to be princesses. In fact, Caroline will still wake up in the morning and put on a princess dress and wear it until we have to leave the house. When we return, she’ll put it back on.
I packed up the princess, did not tell her where we were going or who would be there, and set out for the child abuse capital of the world… Disney. (If you take a family with little kids, make them travel together in the car, park 50 miles away from the entrance, then pay $75 a ticket, wait in a huge line just to take a ferry or monorail to even get into the park, and mix them all together, it’s a recipe for disaster.. or at least a few, “STOP CRYING! YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE FUN. NO! WE ARE GOING TO HAVE FUN!”)
We parked, got the stroller out, waited in line for the tram, took the tram to ticketing, waited in line for a ticket, and then waited in line for the ferry. This next part would make any price admission well-worth-while. You cannot see the castle until the ferry maneuvers around a small bend. Then, the castle appears in the distance. Literally, screaming with delight, Caroline, shouted, “SEE, MOMMY, SEE.. IT’S CINDEBRELLA’S CASTLE.” A few people looked and feigned smiles; but, as we drew closer, she would not stop yelling this. The feigned smiles turned into glares of, “control your child” Apparently, there is a socially acceptable amount of public joy actually allowed to be express; and, Caroline had surpassed it.
We arrived at the MAGIC KINGDOM. As one massive herd , we giddy-uped and mooooved off the ferry. So here we were. A mom and her almost three-year-old daughter, thousands of other people, and we were supposed to “meet-up” with Pa Pa. I had not really thought out the logic of this until we broke from the herd at the Kingdom entrance.
Here is where our story gains it’s point. Suddenly, Caroline began to yell more excitedly than when she first glimpsed “Cindebrella’s Castle”. Absolute delight was in her voice. She shouted, “Pa Pa” over and over while waiving her arms as if to fly over to him. (Again, at a socially unacceptable level) We quickly strolled over so she could embrace her Pa Pa. The rest of the day, truly, was magical. She still talks about the castle, Mickey Mouse, and ice cream; but, the most magical part of the trip was who we were with, not where we were.
I have noticed that this stage in her little life has her heart very happy and feeling blessed by the PEOPLE God has provided. She never wakes up and says, “Mom, can we go to Disney today?” She does, however, wake up and ask if we can see Kaci, or if Gi Gi or Pa Pa or a barrage of other family and friends. I challenge you to find a more magical, wonderous place to take a small child than Disney World, and yet, all of that was overshadowed by a special person in her life. In the simplest terms, she is the most delighting by what most of us take for granted…. Each other.
It was an average Tuesday. The Sun was shining, and Caroline and I were not doing much of anything when the phone rang. On the other line was Pa Pa. (AKA my Dad). This was not unusual. To tell the truth, it’s odd for my Dad not to call a few times during the week to check in with, “The Princess and the Princesses’s mommy.” The basic conversation went like this: “So, what are you and the princess doing today? Well, Dad, not much of anything. Do you and the princess want to meet me at Disney World?” I had no idea my Dad was even in Florida, much less at Disney. Pa Pa was there doing something with automation of a new ride at Epcot; and, he had some extra time that day.
Caroline was ALMOST three years old. This is important because admission is free under the age of three. (Actually, if she could pass for it, she would still be under three) It is also important because this is the beginning of the age that little girls ALL want to be princesses. In fact, Caroline will still wake up in the morning and put on a princess dress and wear it until we have to leave the house. When we return, she’ll put it back on.
I packed up the princess, did not tell her where we were going or who would be there, and set out for the child abuse capital of the world… Disney. (If you take a family with little kids, make them travel together in the car, park 50 miles away from the entrance, then pay $75 a ticket, wait in a huge line just to take a ferry or monorail to even get into the park, and mix them all together, it’s a recipe for disaster.. or at least a few, “STOP CRYING! YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE FUN. NO! WE ARE GOING TO HAVE FUN!”)
We parked, got the stroller out, waited in line for the tram, took the tram to ticketing, waited in line for a ticket, and then waited in line for the ferry. This next part would make any price admission well-worth-while. You cannot see the castle until the ferry maneuvers around a small bend. Then, the castle appears in the distance. Literally, screaming with delight, Caroline, shouted, “SEE, MOMMY, SEE.. IT’S CINDEBRELLA’S CASTLE.” A few people looked and feigned smiles; but, as we drew closer, she would not stop yelling this. The feigned smiles turned into glares of, “control your child” Apparently, there is a socially acceptable amount of public joy actually allowed to be express; and, Caroline had surpassed it.
We arrived at the MAGIC KINGDOM. As one massive herd , we giddy-uped and mooooved off the ferry. So here we were. A mom and her almost three-year-old daughter, thousands of other people, and we were supposed to “meet-up” with Pa Pa. I had not really thought out the logic of this until we broke from the herd at the Kingdom entrance.
Here is where our story gains it’s point. Suddenly, Caroline began to yell more excitedly than when she first glimpsed “Cindebrella’s Castle”. Absolute delight was in her voice. She shouted, “Pa Pa” over and over while waiving her arms as if to fly over to him. (Again, at a socially unacceptable level) We quickly strolled over so she could embrace her Pa Pa. The rest of the day, truly, was magical. She still talks about the castle, Mickey Mouse, and ice cream; but, the most magical part of the trip was who we were with, not where we were.
I have noticed that this stage in her little life has her heart very happy and feeling blessed by the PEOPLE God has provided. She never wakes up and says, “Mom, can we go to Disney today?” She does, however, wake up and ask if we can see Kaci, or if Gi Gi or Pa Pa or a barrage of other family and friends. I challenge you to find a more magical, wonderous place to take a small child than Disney World, and yet, all of that was overshadowed by a special person in her life. In the simplest terms, she is the most delighting by what most of us take for granted…. Each other.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
St. Augustine 32092
By: Michelle Bond
I have a confession to make. I have a problem with a slight addiction. I must place part of the blame of this ongoing addiction on Sam, who has been, the enabling boyfriend, then fiancé, and finally, the enabling husband. I have had this addiction since about middle school but, grew to uncontrolled levels my sophomore year at UGA.
It was Thursday night, Sam was over, and we had homework to do; but, innocently and “accidentally”, the channel on the TV changed to Beverly Hills 90210. As long as the channel was ALREADY ON 90210, we supposed we could watch it together. And so, the addiction continued with said enabler. There it is, Sam and I LOVE teeny bopper television shows!
After 90210 ended, (A really sad day for all) we leached onto Dawson’s Creek. (Which subsequentl ended) We made our way over to Summerland (Lasted only one season), then, The OC (Also a sad ending) and have landed on Friday Night Lights. We have considered that there is a possibility that our viewer ship is the kiss of death to any show; but, we have ignored it.
I bring this up because both Sam and I recognize that there were parents on each of these shows; but, until last night, we have always identified with the teenagers or college students on the show. I suppose we all want to think we stay somewhere around college age forever; but, last night, the inner “momma bear” and “papa bear” in us both jumped out and strangled the inner teen.
On Friday Night Lights last night, the Coach/ father walks in on his teen daughter having sex with her boyfriend. (Audible gasps from the living room couch) Both Sam and I had the very same reaction. We suffered through this anguish with the Mother and Father characters, and began to mutter things like, “Oh, man,” and, “not our daughter”. This was followed by a discussion of “what if that was our daughter”. There it is: we identified with the parents for the first time. Not the kids; but, the old, boring, un-cool, jumped-off the fashion train, 80’s rock listening, parents.
Now what? Do we get papers in the mail certifying us as “old, boring, and un-cool?” Actually, there is no need to get papers. We lost all cool points the day we uttered, “because I said so” to our toddler. While WE may not have identified with the parents in the shows, our child, and hopefully, our children, will identify us with the parent. Truth be told, we really don’t want to be teenagers again, and we certainly have no business being our kid’s friend. So, the scene on last night’s show was not one of new revelation; but, confirmation that our hearts, really are in the right place to raise children. Teenagers are a different story; but, at least we’ll have a great library of teeny bopper shows to draw inspiration from.
I have a confession to make. I have a problem with a slight addiction. I must place part of the blame of this ongoing addiction on Sam, who has been, the enabling boyfriend, then fiancé, and finally, the enabling husband. I have had this addiction since about middle school but, grew to uncontrolled levels my sophomore year at UGA.
It was Thursday night, Sam was over, and we had homework to do; but, innocently and “accidentally”, the channel on the TV changed to Beverly Hills 90210. As long as the channel was ALREADY ON 90210, we supposed we could watch it together. And so, the addiction continued with said enabler. There it is, Sam and I LOVE teeny bopper television shows!
After 90210 ended, (A really sad day for all) we leached onto Dawson’s Creek. (Which subsequentl ended) We made our way over to Summerland (Lasted only one season), then, The OC (Also a sad ending) and have landed on Friday Night Lights. We have considered that there is a possibility that our viewer ship is the kiss of death to any show; but, we have ignored it.
I bring this up because both Sam and I recognize that there were parents on each of these shows; but, until last night, we have always identified with the teenagers or college students on the show. I suppose we all want to think we stay somewhere around college age forever; but, last night, the inner “momma bear” and “papa bear” in us both jumped out and strangled the inner teen.
On Friday Night Lights last night, the Coach/ father walks in on his teen daughter having sex with her boyfriend. (Audible gasps from the living room couch) Both Sam and I had the very same reaction. We suffered through this anguish with the Mother and Father characters, and began to mutter things like, “Oh, man,” and, “not our daughter”. This was followed by a discussion of “what if that was our daughter”. There it is: we identified with the parents for the first time. Not the kids; but, the old, boring, un-cool, jumped-off the fashion train, 80’s rock listening, parents.
Now what? Do we get papers in the mail certifying us as “old, boring, and un-cool?” Actually, there is no need to get papers. We lost all cool points the day we uttered, “because I said so” to our toddler. While WE may not have identified with the parents in the shows, our child, and hopefully, our children, will identify us with the parent. Truth be told, we really don’t want to be teenagers again, and we certainly have no business being our kid’s friend. So, the scene on last night’s show was not one of new revelation; but, confirmation that our hearts, really are in the right place to raise children. Teenagers are a different story; but, at least we’ll have a great library of teeny bopper shows to draw inspiration from.
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