Works-for-Me Wednesday: Help for Hanger Horns

Don't you hate it when you put on a shirt and you've got hanger horns, those unsightly lumps on your shoulders where the hanger has stretched out the fabric? Here's a quick fix: squirt them down with a wrinkle release product, then smooth out the lump. It works best if you're actually wearing the shirt when you do this.

For more Works-for-Me Wednesday tips, visit Shannon at Rocks in My Dryer.

I Remember

Three years ago today was the beginning of the descent which marked the final three weeks of my mother's life. She was in poor health for years and there were many times when we didn't think she would make it. Somehow she maintained a tremulous hold on this world, though in the final months her mind had moved on to thoughts of the next.

That morning I dropped the kids off for co-op classes and made my weekly grocery run. I called my mother from the store and no one answered; I didn't think much about it because she took a long bath in the morning and wouldn't have gotten the phone. I dropped the kids off at home at lunch time and left for a hair appointment that I would not keep. My dad had left a message on my cell phone because he couldn't reach Mother. I called him, and he asked if I could drop by and check on her.

As I was driving the eight miles between our house and my parents', a fear came over me of what I would find there. I called my husband at work and explained the situation. I spoke to him again just before I reached the house and he told me that he and two of his co-workers were praying, and to call him as soon as I knew something.

I have a key to the front door and I let myself inside, while the dog barked upstairs behind the closed bedroom door. That must have been the longest flight of stairs I've ever climbed. When I opened the door, I saw my mother lying in the bed, eyes closed. At first I didn't think she was alive. She was breathing but totally unresponsive, although I spoke to her and shook her gently (she was so tiny and fragile).

I couldn't reach my dad on his cell phone. He is a piano technician and my mother kept his schedule. The appointment book was lying on the bed, so I called the school where he was tuning. Because of the distance, it took him about an hour to get there.

I didn't call an ambulance. We all knew my mother's feelings: she never wanted to go back in the hospital or into a nursing home. She weighed 80-something pounds. The last time I had called an ambulance for her, it had hurt her so much to be lifted and carried.

As a little girl, I called my mom Mommy; somewhere along the way, my sister and I began to call her Mother. A few years ago my mother remarked on the fact that my dad was still Daddy, but she was Mother. I know it bothered her. I sat by her bed and pleaded, "Mommy, I'm here, please wake up," over and over, while my heart broke and what I had feared and dreaded for so long became reality.

Amazingly, she awoke the awoke the next morning, surrounded by family and friends who had kept vigil all day and night. I think her spirit just couldn't handle the pain of her poor broken body anymore and had retreated, encasing itself, cocoon-like. We called hospice that day, enabling her to live her final three weeks with some dignity in the privacy of her own home, on her own terms.

Those three weeks were surreal; every day was different and ranged from extreme highs to extreme lows. My sister and I and my five-month-old baby moved in with my parents, while my two oldest sons handled things at home. My husband worked but spent nights with me, realizing that I needed the emotional support. Our homeschool group delivered meals to our house, while our church and the neighbors supplied my parents' home.

During those three weeks, my mother was able to say goodbye to friends and family. There were visitors almost every day. One friend dropped everything and drove 750 miles to spend a few days with us; a cousin did the same thing, from an even farther distance. There was such an outpouring of love. Everyone involved knew that this was the end. There was nothing left unspoken, no regret over sentiment unexpressed.

My mom passed on from this world almost three weeks to minute after I found her that day. It was my 38th birthday; she was only 57 years old. If I'm able, I hope to record more memories of her over the next few weeks.

Confessions of a Compulsive Meddler Do-Gooder

When I graduated from high school I wanted to become a psychiatrist. Generally, I'm a person people feel safe sharing their secrets with, a never-met-a-stranger type, the kind who start conversations in the check-out line or the waiting room. Although sometimes naive and a little heavier on book smarts than common sense, I tend to be a problem solver by nature.

Sometimes my desire to fix things creates interesting results, like when other customers at Ross ask me questions. Since I'm the one picking up and rehanging clothes from off the floor while the actual employees sit by the dressing room and look disdainfully at shoppers who emerge from the dressing room for the third time without finding a pair of jeans that fit (a hypothetical situation, of course), it's an honest mistake.

Yesterday my fix-it tendencies combined with general lack of social inhibition almost got the best of me. I was in the parking lot at Wal-Mart when I saw a couple pull their cart, loaded with a brand new Sanyo TV, up to their car. First the man tried to load the TV in the back seat, but it was just too big. Then he tried the trunk. No dice. That's when I thought, "Wait! I can help!" My van, the 15-passenger model most often seen as church buses or cargo vans, can haul a sleeper sofa or a queen-size mattress, box springs, frame, and headboard.

At this point the man rips open the box and his wife starts pulling out the Styrofoam packing. Before you know it the TV has been loaded in the back seat, the box is left behind in the cart, and they drive away. That's when I started getting tickled thinking about my first impulse: that "I can fix it" moment. Can you just imagine me going up to these people saying, "I know you don't know me, but would you like me to load up your nice new TV--the one you just purchased with your tax refund--and transport it to your secluded home on the outskirts of town surrounded by woods and large barking dogs? Trust me. I'm here to help."

I think I need a keeper.

this time I'm serious

After just announcing my standing as "Unchallenged Winner of the Influential No Award Award," I received a comment tonight telling me that my recent post, The Greatest Job in the World, has been nominated for a Hot Stuff Award at GNMParents, and that voting closes this Thursday. Cool, huh?

I want to state for the record that my "Unchallenged Winner of the Influential No Award Award" was 100% poking fun at myself and not at the nominees and winners of any of the recent blogging contests. Some of those people are my dearest blogging buddies, whom I wouldn't offend for the world. Also, No Cool Story--who should receive some kind of award for most consistently creative use of Photoshop--wrote such a sweet post and went to the trouble of making those cute little buttons; I just had to have one. I admit that there was one afternoon where every blog I visited had a post announcing their nominations and I thought, "Gee, I'm obviously not doing very well at this blogging thing." Then I thought, "Hello! I'm a 40-year-old woman with 8 kids! What's with the 8th grade moment I'm having here?" and that was the end of it.

The reason I posted almost nothing last week was twofold: first, I was still sick (I actually went to a walk-in clinic Saturday, thinking I might have strep throat; I don't); second, I saw in my sitemeter that someone had come here after doing a blog search for teen@ge boy$ (I'm scrambling this as well as I can to avoid getting a hit for that one again). I linked recently to an article with parenting advice for moms of teen sons, although the title used the word "boys" instead of "sons." I didn't click on any links, but the other blogs that the person pulled up with those search terms sounded like every mother's worst nightmare. It so sickened and upset me that I actually had a moment where I wanted to delete this blog. I checked the time and saw that this "visitor" left as soon as he arrived--obviously my little mommy blog was not what he was interested in--but I couldn't shake that horrible feeling. Tonight I changed the title on the post.

Also, I've been doing a lot of soul searching lately. That post I'll write about my mother, while going through a box of Kleenex, is still on the horizon. She was one of those people who told you exactly what she thought in no.uncertain.terms (while I stood there cringing and thinking, "Did she really say that?"). You know what? Almost universally, that quality seems to be what people loved and miss the most about her: her honesty tempered with dry wit (for those who didn't know her--if I had to compare her to a blogger, I would choose Antique Mommy, hands down). I've been told that I'm very diplomatic, which is a nice way of saying I'm tactful; I am very much the peacemaker. The thing is, there's a lot of my mother lurking beneath the surface. I just keep a lid on it for the most part.

What does that mean in terms of this blog? Looking back over the last couple of weeks, I'd say I'm posting about the things that mean the most to me: motherhood, my mother, family roots, beloved family members. I'm also unapologetically sharing a little more about who I am and what I'm all about. I started this blog because I wanted my kids to be able to look back and see what their mom had to say, a sort of memory-keeper for the next generation. Up until today, my kids would have looked and said, "Oh, puleeze! It doesn't even mention that she listens to the B@ren@ked L@dies 24 HOURS A DAY!" [Maybe that's a slight exaggeration. I don't play them during school or when I'm asleep.]

Maybe my readership will dwindle to my cousin in NYC, my aunt who just got internet access, and my cousin in Texas, since these topics could have limited appeal. That's okay. You know what my greatest bloggy moments have been lately? My cousin emailed to say how she cried over my Where I'm From, and both my aunt (my mom's sister) and my Great-Aunt Mayme called to tell me how much they enjoyed and laughed about the Aunt Mayme post. Aunt Mayme even recalled another cooking story: tossing one of her homemade biscuits to someone and cutting their forehead.

Stick around if you're up for more about the glamorous world of motherhood and my crazy/sweet/funny family!

What's Floatin' My Boat

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Introducing Aunt Mayme

I enjoy reading stories that fellow bloggers have posted about ladies in their families; Melanie's and Antique Mommy's come to mind. In honor of her upcoming 95th birthday, I would like to introduce you to an amazing woman, my Great-Aunt Mayme.

After the death of my grandmother in August, Aunt Mayme is the last of a family of nine children. She never married, but has been a mother-figure to lots of nieces and nephews. Her sister, Aunt Thelma, passed away a few years ago at the age of 96. She was sharp as a tack, not a trace of senility. She could talk current events or Braves' stats better than I can. I'm not sure if we would notice senility in Aunt Mayme. My mother said that when I was little I would say, "Mayme goofy!" She sees the world in her own, unique way.

Aunt Mayme on Longevity

What's Aunt Mayme's secret for health and longevity? No doctors, no medicines, and a steady diet of romance novels. When she and my aunt moved across town a few years ago, one of my friends said, "Poor Aunt Mayme--she'll have to find new doctors!" What she didn't realize is that Aunt Mayme doesn't go to the doctor. I think she broke a bone several years ago and saw one then. It was so long ago I don't remember. She lives at home, takes no prescriptions (and almost no over-the-counter, either), and inhales romance novels. She barely even has gray hair. Look at the picture--it's never been colored! She finally has accepted some limitations: she stays home if it's too cold or rainy; has meals-on-wheels delivered for lunch; and no longer cooks, which might be for the best and leads me to my next topic...

Aunt Mayme on Cooking

Although there have been some fine Southern cooks in the family, Aunt Mayme is the only one who has been paid to cook. For years she was employed in a high school cafeteria. I don't know if serving up too many tasty burgers scrambled the culinary center of her brain, but many of her dishes are heavier on creativity than edibility.

Examples include: peach cobbler made with eggnog; lemon pie with no lemon flavoring (she realized she was out of lemon juice but made and served the pie at a church lunch anyway); and a cheesecake made with cream cheese with chives. My granddad, who passed away in 1991, once said, "Cancer hasn't taken me, my heart hasn't failed me yet, but I'm afraid Mayme's cooking might just get me." She is, however, gifted with a to-die-for coconut pie that makes grown men swoon.

Aunt Mayme on Life

Aunt Mayme's life has epitomized that of a servant. She's never had a husband or children of her own, so she lavishes her love and attention on siblings, nieces and nephews, friends, neighbors, and her church family. She is the first one to call on your birthday, checks in on you no matter what but especially if you're sick, and keeps track of family members far and wide. Every summer she makes a 1500-mile round-trip to her home state where she rotates among an assortment of family members, convinced that this will be the last trip of its kind, but always tickled pink to be doing it again. In spite of her age, she has an uncanny knack for empathizing with children. Instead of enjoying the leisure she's entitled to in her old age (although anyone who knows her would never call her old to her face), Aunt Mayme feels useless since she's no longer able to do for others.

What she doesn't realize is that she blesses and inspires us by her very presence.

Look, I Won!

As you can see, I've had a blog break this week. I'm emerging momentarily to announce this exciting news: I WON! WOO HOO!

Thank you, No Cool Story - you rock!

Blast from the Past

This is a neat meme that has been going around. Here's the deal: pull four posts from your archives which fit the following categories. I have some new blogging friends, so I thought I would link to some older posts:

Funny:
My Classy Kids. The title says it all.

Serious:
Solving the Crisis in Homeschooling. Straight talk for parents.

Ugly:
Ikea Adventure. Adventures in motherhood, IKEA-style.

All About Me:
Take your pick: 100 Things or New Year's Meditations.

I'm tagging anyone who wants to play!

Where I'm From

I read about this "Where I'm From" contest today at Owlhaven. Entries are due by noon tomorrow. I actually wrote this when I first started blogging, so it's emerging from the archives. There is a prize for most referrals, so if you visit Owlhaven, in the regular comments section of this post say “Hi, I’m here from Mommy Dearest!” I know this isn't much notice for a writing contest, but I think you will enjoy this if you have the time. I still remember the evening I wrote this; it was like a walk down memory lane.

Where I'm From

I am from softballs, from Furr’s Cafeteria and ice cream with little wooden spoons.

I am from hiding in the laundry hamper, duck when a car comes, pet mice, kittens, blue glass bathroom knobs, “made in occupied Japan” figurines, and pink shag carpet. From Lollie, Panda, and Robbie.

I am from the Caudles’ attic and Grandmother Warden’s front porch swing.

I am from the mimosa tree with the concrete patch in the middle, the weeping willow and the magnolia, window boxes with red geraniums.

I am from family loyalty and ringing in New Year’s Eve on the curbside with the tambourine, from Aunt Thelma and Aunt Mayme, Grandmother and Granddad Piles, and Grandmother and Pappy. I am from real hot chocolate and homemade chocolate covered cherries on Christmas Eve.

I am from my father’s honesty and my mother’s wisdom.

From “don’t eat ice cream and go outside,” and “more can be bought.”

I am from the Old Baptists and salvation by grace. I am from annual meetings, foot washing, lunch at church, and Amazing Grace.

I'm from the South – “American by birth, but Southern by the grace of God,” biscuits dipped in sorghum and butter, cornbread in a cast iron skillet, hot brownies covered in melted butter, Mrs. Butterworth, and JIF.

From marking the “day of terror” on calendars with Blake; Skip-Bo, Taboo, and Trivial Pursuit at the kitchen table; softball tournaments; Laura falling over with her blanket; Barbies with Jamie; playing HORSE with Daddy, Blake, and Steve.

I am from Daddy’s guitar and watching him sing with Mother for hours at a time. I am from Brown-Eyed Girl, Hang on Sloopy, and Teenager in Love.

I am from Fort Smith, from Jasper and Eureka Springs and Weleetka, from riding behind Daddy on the back of a motorcycle. I am from a family with roots that time or distance can’t sever.

Everybody needs a hero

A couple of months ago while we were doing school, a piece of paper turned up on the table. I didn't pay much attention to it at first, then I noticed the handwriting. It was an assignment my oldest son had written in high school, although I don't remember ever having read it. It's about my mother. The paper must have been tucked into a book that my 15-year-old is now using. My oldest son graduated and moved out a year and a half ago and my mother passed away nearly three years ago. I don't know why I'm trusting blogger to save this for me; I'm just afraid of losing it:

What unlikely hero have you known in your life?

I would say my Grandmother "Gran." She has had metal jaws put in her and between silicone and teflon it has torn her life apart. She was an amazing singer in her teens and throughout college, she attended voice lessons and singing schools regularly, this was her "devotion" so to speak. When she was in her late twenties she had jaw surgery and had metal jaws put in and has had multiple surgeries on her jaws prior to the incident. My Gran now lives in an almost constant state of pain and is taking enough medicine for her pain to kill me probably, but she tries. She loves all her grandchildren and both her daughters, and she is fun enough that I look forward to going over to her house and "hanging out" with her. She inspires me and no pain I ever go through ever compares to her, which teaches me to be more content and try not to overestimate my own pain.

My Grandmother is an "unlikely hero" to me and I love her more than she knows.

I know this opens some questions for people who didn't know my mother. I think there's probably a long post requiring a lot of Kleenex (for me) in my near future about my her, so I'll save it. Let's just say that while DuPont has come under scrutiny for the health risks associated with exposure to Teflon in their cookware, you don't often hear that they were also using it in implants in humans without testing it's effects in advance. My mother had Teflon-coated metal jaws for years. The Teflon flaked off, just like in a skillet, and her body was full of it, even after having those jaws replaced.

My mother was my hero, too. What everyday heroes do you have in your life?

Happy (belated) Birthday, baby!

I almost did something that I haven't done since starting this blog: miss a child's birthday. Although at an interesting age (remember, he inspired this post?) he's a super-sweet and helpful son. Somehow, I even talked him into sitting in my lap during prayers tonight, even though the child weighs 80-something pounds. It's nice to humor the old mom every once in a while.

Happy 12th, baby!

The Greatest Job in the World

I have what some might call a fancy education. I took six years to get a four-year degree, and also married and had my first child during that time. In the months leading up to graduation, friends, family, and professors asked what I planned to do with my education. I realized, however, that more than any job, I wanted another baby. Ten months after graduation I gave birth to my second son and never looked back.

While my education helped prepare me for eventually schooling my own children, I never imagined the joys and the heartache--the gamut of emotions from sheer terror to pure bliss--inherent in the greatest job in the world. Today, just an average day, I experienced several of those moments that define motherhood.

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Every mother who has had both a toddler and a set of stairs knows that awful sound: the thud, followed by wailing. I heard it today and I ran across the house, scared of what I would find. Lily was lying at the bottom of the stairs, scared and hurt. I sat and held her until she stopped crying, while she marked my black shirt with iridescent trails of mucous, a visible badge of motherhood. Then she snuggled in close and popped her little thumb in her mouth, content. I know it won't always be so, but I was blessed with a moment when I was all she needed to make everything better.

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Sabra, my 10-year-old daughter, had Keepers at Home today. Sabra loves Keepers, and I'm excited she has the opportunity to learn many skills that I do not possess. I try to learn along with her, but it's interesting sometimes. Rather than a domestic goddess, Keepers at Home seems to transform me into a domestic doofus.

Today was no different as we worked on our current project, sewing a tiered skirt. I was helping Sabra at my painfully slow pace while the other mothers and daughters seemed to fly through the steps. Then it hit me: Sabra doesn't seem to notice or care that I'm not as skilled as many of the other moms. She looks at me with the adoring eyes of a daughter toward her mother, confident that I can guide her. The blind devotion of a child is truly a sacred trust, and I was humbled and honored by it.

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After a long afternoon of Keepers and band lessons, we headed for Moe's, where on Tuesday nights we can pay for 3 adults (hubby and I plus 15-year-old son) and feed the 6 that are 12-and-under for free. The kids always want quarters for the machines. My husband told me that our 5-year-old son, Clayton, had gotten a heart ring for his prize. When asked if he was going to give it to me for Valentine's Day, Clayton had said, "Maybe, or maybe Miss Fran." Miss Fran is our dear friend who is truly a Pied Piper. Our children adore her and I've told her that even when hers are grown and gone, my younger ones will still want to spend the night at her house.

While we ate, I noticed two ladies seated close to us who seemed to observe our clan. This is not uncommon for us; that many kids attract attention. I'm not a mind-reader, but it's obvious a lot of people don't understand why anyone would have such a large family, and their attitude is not always kind. As they left, one of the ladies leaned down and spoke in my ear: "Your family is adorable. Simply precious!" I'm sure I will never see her again, but her words will not soon be forgotten. As we were leaving, Clayton smiled his heart-melting smile, one any mother of a young son knows, and said, "Happy Valentine's Day," as he placed the ring in my hand.

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When I read Proverbs 31, describing that seemingly unattainable model of female perfection, the verse that always jumps out at me is #28: "Her children arise up, and call her blessed..." That's the one I want--the one I can't attain on my own, the one that has to be given to me, undeserving though I am (much like salvation). Today I was beheld as comforter; teacher; object of blind faith, love, and affection. Though I seek to bless my children's precious lives, the truth is that they bless me immeasurably. I thank God for entrusting us with their care and putting the desire within me for motherhood, the greatest job in the world.

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This post has been submitted for consideration in the Write-Away contest for February.

spaghetti, anyone?

In spite of being sick, I just had to get out and go to church yesterday. We ordained two of my favorite men in the world (from my favorite families) as deacons. They are so special to us that they were both pallbearers at my mother's funeral. I just tried not to get too close to or breathe on anyone. My make-up was lovely; since my cold has moved into both eyes, leaving them glued together in the morning and swollen and red during the day, I was afraid to apply make-up in the usual way, not wanting to contaminate and have to throw away a perfectly good tube of mascara. If there's one thing I learned from my mother it was this: even if you feel like hell, you put yourself together the best you can. Work with what you've got, honey! So I applied eye make-up and mascara with my fingers (you're not going to find make-up tips for this anywhere since no one in their right mind would recommend it), put on my glasses (don't want to have to toss a pair of contacts, either), and thoroughly washed all my make-up brushes. I stayed home sick today, but I'm awfully glad I was there yesterday.

On the way home, my seven-year-old daughter (currently sporting an absence of front teeth) asked me a question I hear quite often, "Mommy, what do you want me to draw?"

I mentally riffled through my usual suggestions, but a girl can only draw so many butterflies, flowers, and babies. My eyes turned to the monstrosity of metal and concrete overhead, and I said, "Spaghetti junction."

Dead silence from the back seat, and then, "Uh..., could I just draw spaghetti?"

Savoring the moment...

Because I have literally spent the entire day sick in bed, I am now, possibly for the first and last time ever, completely caught up on my bloglines. I am going to shut down this computer quickly before anyone posts something and blows it. I may not have strewn comments every I visited along the way (and I hate doing that), but I was there. Feel the love, people!

thoughts from my sick bed

I'm sick and I feel really lousy. I can't believe it's after 3 p.m. and I'm still in my pajamas. The great blessing is that our county called off school because of the weather, which means 3 out of 4 of today's activities have been canceled (and hopefully Hubby Dearest will be home in time to handle that 8 p.m. basketball practice). I'm having trouble adjusting to the fact that I can blog guilt-free, because nobody really expects much out of me right now. It's a little unnerving, since like most mommies I'm highly guilt-motivated. My kids are watching The Rookie, while I sit in bed with the laptop and cross my fingers that the two youngest ones' naps last a little longer. . .

Being sick means catching up on my bloglines and thinking (because how many hours a day can a person sleep?). For some reason, I've been thinking about how my mother always said that she wouldn't want to go back and be my age again, no matter what it was -- 20, 25, 30, 35, whatever. You have to understand that my mother was seriously ill and in enormous pain for many years before her passing in 2004. I would think, "But if you were 25, you would feel better," and other such things, but she always insisted that she wouldn't want to go back. And that's what I've pondered.

I think of my own life and realize that I share my mother's view. In my early 20's I was in great shape; I did 90 -minute workout classes and even attended fitness boot camps. Would I go back to that time in my life if I could? No. There have been times in my adult life when I've been wrinkle-free, or had more free time, or more money in the bank. Would I go back to those times? Not a chance.

In spite of any perks we may have experienced at various points along the way, we know that at all times we were and are sinners, depraved, and prone to botch things up. There are lows to go along with those highs, and although hopefully we learn from them, few would want them to repeat.

Mostly, I think my mother lived with a closer knowledge of her own mortality than I've ever had cause to experience. She lived a life of pain with grace because she knew this life was transitory and there was something far sweeter waiting for her. Every day was one step closer to meeting her Savior and that perfect peace, each passing day a victory.