Watch Out for the Buzz

Some of my best childhood memories revolve around times I spent helping my dad tend to his much-loved vegetable garden. Whether we were tilling or weeding or staking tomato plants or picking the various veggies, Daddy had a way of always making the work seem more like fun than work. I remember how he would whistle and sing, and I'll never forget the stories he told ... he was the best storyteller ever. Yep, I loved, loved, loved being in the garden with Daddy until one fateful day when I was 12 years old ... the day when something happened that left an indelible scar on both of us ... the day when the hurt and pain that occurred forever changed the way we felt about picking okra ... that day ... that fateful day when a gigantic wasp flew out of one of the okra blooms and stung me.

Now I'm sure you're wondering how in the world something as minor as a wasp sting could have such a powerful and lasting impact on Daddy and me, and under normal wasp stinging conditions I would understand your questioning of the validity of my claims. But that day was far, far, far from any normal wasp stinging day ... that day, the wasp stung me on the ... well ... the wasp stung me right on the ... ummm ... the wasp stung me right smack dab on the ... well ... right on the end of my breast. You know ... right on the part of my breast that rhymes with the word ripple. And yes, it hurt like nothing had ever hurt in my entire life. And to add overwhelming embarrassment to injury, Mom wasn't home so it was Daddy who had to ... well ... it was Daddy who had to remove the stinger. I'm fairly certain that was the most awkward and embarrassing moment I ever experienced with my dad ... sheesh, my poor dear old Daddy. The things parents do for their children ... sheesh, sheesh, sheesh.

Bet you can never guess what happened to me this past Sunday while I was mowing the yard ... yep, I got stung by a wasp. I'm sure my neighbors thought I really had gone off the deep end from the way I yelped just before I took off running and screaming into my house. And nope, I didn't get stung on my boob this time ... this time, the devilish little creature stung me on the front of my neck, and I think it may have hurt even more than getting stung on the word that rhymes with ripple all those years ago. And of course I have a super fancy event to attend on Friday evening ... of course I do now that I have what looks to be a cross between a hickey and a giant zit on the front of my neck. Seriously awesome, eh? Please allow me to answer that ... ummm ... not freaking hardly awesome in any way, shape, form or fashion.

So here's the thing ... I know I'm probably supposed to find deep hidden meaning or significance to getting stung by the wasp on Sunday, but I've got nothing. Nothing except a sore neck and more than a dollop of embarrassment. Oh wait a sec ... I get it ... my most recent encounter with a wasp is to teach me not to be vain or conceited about my outward appearance, but rather to have an ever-present spirit of humility and to understand that true beauty comes from within. Nope ... not working tonight ... I've got a wasp sting the size of a major metropolitan city right in the middle of my neck and it makes me nauseous when I look in the mirror. Maybe when it's all healed, I'll get the deeply meaningful lesson of the sting, but for now ... for now, I need an ice pack, some anti-itch cream and a good night's sleep.

Watch out for the buzz, friends ... 

Arthur Harold

There were times when my son Matt was young when I seriously wondered if he would ever outgrow his over-the-top, all-consuming, bordering on needing to see a child head doctor obsession with Christmas. I know he was my first kid, which meant I had nothing to compare my son's completely weirded-out year-round Christmas infatuation, but come on ... he plugged and unplugged Christmas candles at my mom's house while he danced around them singing Silent Night. That's enough to send any new parent straight to "there's something seriously wrong with my kid" land for sure. And if you add in my dear Mr. Mattie wearing a makeshift Santa outfit complete with black boots, furry white beard made of cotton balls and red stocking cap all summer long when we lived in South Florida ... and ... if you add in his insistence that his stuffed animals were really reindeer in disguise ... and ... if you add in him listening to Christmas carols on his Fisher Price tape recorder every single day for months on end ... well ... suffice it to say I'm still surprised that he grew up to become a professor instead of a toymaker.

Before my granddaughter C.J. was born, I purchased two Hallmark recordable story books for her ... you know, the ones where you record yourself reading the book. Over the years, Matt's obsession for all things Christmas was replaced by an even more extensive and consuming infatuation for all things Charlie Brown and the Peanuts gang ... yep, he really is a Ph.D. professor now, believe it or not. But back to the recordable books for C.J. ... one of the two I bought and subsequently recorded was "A Charlie Brown Christmas," per Dr. Mattie's request, of course. And guess who listens to her Ghee reading "A Charlie Brown Christmas" every day year-round? Yep, little Boo is most definitely her father's daughter ... she flipping loves that book. I like to believe it's my voice reading the story that keeps her coming back day in and day out to the Charlie Brown gang ... okay ... maybe it's the combination of hearing my voice and being genius enough to combine her dad's love for Christmas and his love for Charlie Brown into one nice neat package. 

A couple of weeks before I went to visit them in Canada, Becca sent me a video clip of C.J. singing ... yep, a Christmas carol. Since Matt no longer listens to Christmas music year-round, he and Becca couldn't figure out where in the world C.J. could have heard the song. It wasn't until she was listening to "A Charlie Brown Christmas" for the millionth time that they put it all together. At the end of the book, the Peanuts gang gathers and sings the first verse of "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing," and that's where my super intelligent genius granddaughter learned the words to the song ... well ... her version of the words anyway. I cracked up the first time I heard her singing at the top of her lungs ... "Arthur Harold angels sing ..." oh, yes, you can bet I laughed until I cried at her rendition of the old carol. For the rest of my life, I will never again hear that Christmas song without thinking about Arthur and Harold and my adorable granddaughter.

As I mentioned in my previous post, my volume of hate mail has had a huge upswing over the last few days because of what I wrote in the post "Ears to Hear." Though I try really, really, really hard not to let the mean people get to me, I don't always succeed in that endeavor. And before you write in to tell me not to read the hateful and mean messages, I never know they are hateful and mean until I'm already reading them. I've written previously about how there's no way I can ever read all the emails I receive, but I try to read as many as I can. I choose the ones I read at random ... I just click and open and read. I don't have a system or a formula or some kind of high-tech software that chooses for me. It's a completely random process ... just click and open and read. Many of the ones I read are positive, encouraging and supportive while others ... geez ... others are just plain old downright mean, and their intent is to kick me down and hurt me. And quite honestly, some of the things people say to me ... well, I'd never in a gazillion years say them to another human being. Heck, some of those things people say to me I wouldn't say to a bug, much less to a person.

After reading some particularly vicious messages last night, I made a decision ... a decision that is already helping to soothe and comfort that big old kick in the gut that comes from the hate and negativity. I decided that each time I open an email or a private message on Facebook that is not nice, I'm going to sing "Arthur Harold" at the top of my lungs. Yep, that's right ... whenever I open a message that's filled with hate, I'm breaking out the Arthur and the Harold and I'm going to sing my heart out. You see, here's the thing ... when I sing the C.J. version of the song, it reminds me of precious granddaughter. It reminds me that she and her sister will love me ... no matter what ... for the rest of my life. They don't give a rat's rear end about anything other than I'm their Ghee and I love them with all my heart. And when they are old enough to care, they will still not give a rat's rear end about anything other than I'm their Ghee and I love them with all my heart. They really are geniuses, you know, and all the rest of us could learn a whole hell of a lot from them ... you bet your rat's rear end we could ... you bet your rat's rear end we could indeed.

"Arthur Harold angels sing ..."

Knotted Panties

It took only minutes after arriving at Matt and Becca's house in Canada a few weeks ago for me to realize that I had forgotten one of the first rules of talking with a toddler ... they are sponges and will repeat every single word they hear. See here's the thing ... the word crap doesn't sound nearly as bad when I say it as it does when a 2-year-old darling little girl says it. Yep, that's right, I hadn't been there an hour before I said, "Oh, crap, Boo, I dropped my camera!" when it slipped out of my hand and landed on the ground while we were out for a walk. And yep, I was completely and totally mortified when my sweet and innocent little C.J. immediately sat down and pulled off her shoe, threw it on the ground and loudly exclaimed, "Oh, crap, Ghee, I drop my shoe!" As hard as I tried not to laugh ... no, really, I tried super hard not to laugh ... I couldn't help myself ... she was just so stinking cute in her attempt to imitate me. Her cuteness soon turned into sheer panic for me as she said, "Oh, crap, Ghee!" at least a million times as we walked ... okay, maybe she only said it like five times but it felt like a million as I tried to explain that Ghee shouldn't have said that word and neither should Boo. Geez ... I'm so glad I didn't say a different word ... ummm ... not that I ever would mind you, but dropping a camera ... I mean ... not that I ever would say a different word that contains four letters. Sponges, I tell you ... they are sponges ... 'nuff said.

A couple of days ago I wrote a post titled "Ears to Hear" ... a post about the emotions and feelings I had as we filmed Nate Phelps and his brother Mark chatting in front of Westboro Baptist Church. Read that sentence again ... the post was about my own emotions and feelings as I saw Westboro up close and personal for the first time. The post wasn't about being gay or about promoting gay rights or espousing the gay lifestyle. The post wasn't about returning hate for hate. The post wasn't about the Bible or God or anything spiritual for that matter. Again ... the post was about my own emotions and feelings as I saw and felt Westboro up close and personal for the first time. The post was about the horrible, devastating, life-altering effects of child abuse and vitriolic hate. The post was about the strength and courage of Nate and Mark Phelps and how far they have come. The post was about loving ... the post was about listening ... the post was about living.

For reasons I will never understand, that post has stirred up some controversy. I'm not saying controversy is a bad thing ... for me, controversy often forces me to search my own heart as I seek to discover the truth. What bugs me about this particular round of controversy is that it really has nothing to do with what I wrote ... really ... seriously ... nothing to do with the words I wrote. Whether it's the public comments on the post itself or the emails and private messages I've received, I can't for the life of me figure out how or why what I wrote in "Ears to Hear" ended up becoming the basis for yet another round of not very nice commentary concerning my relationship with God and my sexuality. Nope ... I just don't understand that one at all, and I've been trying for the last two days to convince myself not to respond at all. I do that way more than any of you know, by the way ... keep quiet and not respond, that is ... way, way, way more than you will ever, ever know. Obviously, since I'm writing this post, I have failed in my attempt to remain silent this time around ... oh well, it's not the first time, nor will it be the last time, I've been deemed a failure. Again, I say ... oh well. Get ready, cause here it comes ...

To those who hurl Bible verses as if launching a burning arrow with the intent to set me ablaze ... verses which more often than not are taken completely out of context, I might add ... you need to do some more reading. There are a multitude of verses that talk about love and compassion and kindness ... a gigantically hugely staggering multitude of verses that command us to love God and one another ... verses that instruct us to show compassion to every single person we encounter on the journey of life ... verses that dictate that we be kind to our fellow man. There are far, far, far more verses concerning our need to support one another, encourage one another, lift one another up and carry one another's burdens than there are about homosexuality. Before you shoot those verses at me or anyone else, you need to do some more reading, friends ... you need to do a heck of a lot more reading before you get your panties all tied up in the big old gigantic knot of judgment and condemnation. I'll do you one better ... some of you need to be much, much, much more concerned about the knotted, twisted panties of your hearts than you do about my relationship with God or my sexuality. 

Now I'm sure you're wondering what in the world all of this has to do with my sweet little granddaughter being a sponge for everything she sees and hears, so please allow me to explain ...

Children aren't the only ones who soak in what they hear ... they aren't the only ones who try to emulate what they hear ... they aren't the only ones who end up getting punished because they repeated what they heard someone else say. Go ahead ... think about it ... think long and hard about it before you attack, before you spew hate, before you condemn, before you try to use God's Word as a weapon. Why? Because there are sponges all around you every single day of your life ... sponges young and old who are listening to everything you say. 

"Love is very patient and kind, never jealous or envious, never boastful or proud, never haughty or selfish or rude. Love does not demand its own way. It is not irritable or touchy. It does not hold grudges and will hardly even notice when others do it wrong. It is never glad about injustice, but rejoices whenever truth wins out. If you love someone, you will be loyal no matter what the cost. You will always believe in him (or her), always expect the best of him (or her), and always stand your ground in defending him (or her). There are three things that remain - faith, hope and love - and the greatest of these is love." 1 Corinthians 13: 4-7, 13.

Those words are from the Bible, you know ... the very same Bible so many choose to use as a weapon against those whom they judge and condemn. No offense, but I think I prefer the Bible that comes from a place of love rather than hate ... I think I do indeed.

Oh, crap ... are you wearing knotted panties?

Ears to Hear

The ancient Greek philosopher Epictetus said, "We have two ears and one mouth so that we can listen twice as much as we speak." That statement is simply ... well ... it's simply profound. Just think how much better the world would be if more people actually listened more than they speak. My guess is there would be far less hate and much more love if we would all give it a try ... listening more and speaking less, that is. Heck, I'd be willing to bet my last cent that if everyone would commit to trying it for only a month, the changes that would take place would be truly phenomenal.

For my Facebook status last Sunday, I wrote these words ... "Sometimes life really is stranger than fiction. Spending the afternoon with Nate Phelps and his brother Mark as we filmed in front of Westboro Baptist Church and the Equality House definitely qualifies as one of those times." If you would have told me I would have ever in a million years been standing on the street right in front of the place where Fred Phelps first began his campaign of hate, I would have told you that you were seriously in need of finding a life-saving head doctor of your very own. And, as Sunday afternoon proved, I would have owed you a giant apology because you would have been absolutely correct in your prediction.

I had been fretting and stewing and worrying all day about the effect that returning to Westboro could possibly have on Nate and his brother Mark. I was especially concerned for Mark ... it's been 40 years since he stood on that street ... 40 years since he saw the house he grew up in ... 40 years since he and Nate walked the steps they took on Sunday together. When I first met Mark, I was struck by the physical differences between the two brothers ... Nate is a giant of a man (at least to a tiny person like me), while Mark is more diminutive in stature. However, when it comes to the size of their hearts and the goodness contained within them, I'd say they are pretty evenly matched ... they are without question two of the bravest, most courageous, giving, loving, compassionate men I've ever known. I couldn't help but marvel at their strength as they turned and looked at the place where they suffered so much pain, the place where they were severely beaten and abused year after year after year.

For all my fretting and stewing and worrying about Nate and Mark, I never once thought about how being in such close proximity to Westboro for the first time might affect me personally. The moment I stepped out of the car, a feeling of terror swept through me like none I can ever remember ... my palms were sweating, my heart was pounding and my stomach was churning. The guys couldn't see or hear me because they were already moving down the street in step with the camera, but I was whispering, "Please keep us safe ... please keep us safe ... please keep us safe." I didn't need the reinforcement of the vile and shameful signs that were posted in various places to remind me of the vitriolic hatred that resides on the other side of the fence ... I could feel it oozing from the building and crawling across the lawn, its icy tentacles trying desperately to wrap themselves around my heart and soul.

As I willed my legs to walk, I realized it wasn't the sight of Westboro or the various signs scattered about the property that terrified me, it was the silence of Westboro that caused the terror to engulf me. It was the silence that sliced through my heart like a knife, the silence that often accompanies child abuse. I closed my eyes as I thought about Nate and Mark being hit over and over and over again with the mattock handle their father used to beat them. "Did they scream out in pain?" I wondered. "Did they beg for mercy? Did they plead for their lives or did they pray that death would take them?" My ears pounded with the sounds of hatred that Fred Phelps spewed forth from the pulpit of the church ... my heart ached with the thought of him beating and beating and beating his children.

The ancient Greek philosopher Epictetus said, "We have two ears and one mouth so that we can listen twice as much as we speak." That statement is simply ... well ... it's simply profound, friends ... simply profound indeed.

Eyes to See

The last few days have been filled with non-stop activity, and I do mean non-stop ... in a good way, though, in a very good way. On Saturday, I was honored to speak for the first time with Nate Phelps, son of Fred Phelps who was the former pastor of the Westboro Baptist Church. We spoke at the Center for Spiritual Living for an event called God and Gays. Sunday, I stood in front of Westboro Baptist Church and Equality House in Topeka, Kansas, and watched as my son Brad and producer Jason filmed the incredibly powerful conversations that took place between Nate and his brother Mark as they shared stories of the abuse and terror that occurred within the walls of the "church" that was also their home. Yesterday began with a lengthy meeting with several producers from a television network about our documentary, followed by driving through torrential rain to reach an old abandoned church next to a cemetery where we spent several hours filming interviews with Mark and Nate. All three days were days I would never have imagined I would experience in my lifetime ... all three days gave all new meaning to the word surreal for me.

To try and relate all the poignant and touching moments of the last few days might well be impossible ... in fact, there were so many of those moments, I'm certain it will take my brain a while to process them. I fully intended to write about one of those moments in particular this evening, but ... but ... but ... I just spent the last three hours stretched out on my couch watching the Royals win game three of the ALCS in their seemingly unstoppable march toward the World Series. And now I'm way too tired to write about something so profound ... I'm struggling to keep my eyes open as I type. So tonight I'm going to bed, but I promise I'll write the post tomorrow I had intended to write tonight. But until then, I want to leave you with something you can ponder upon ... something you can mull over ... something you can chew on for a bit.

You can't see with your eyes closed, friends ... not even what's right in front of you.

Hello? Are You There?

It's hard for me to comprehend that so many folks not only read my posts but that so many of you take time from your busy lives to write and ask if I'm okay when I don't post for a few days. I'm truly humbled by your faithful readership and the depth of your concern for my well-being. Those of you who know me well know that quite often my lack of posting is a pretty good indicator that I'm ... fine ... and those of you who know me well know that fine means I'm really not fine at all. However, please let me assure you that's not the case this week ... concerning my lack of posting, that is. I'm speaking tomorrow for the first time with Nate Phelps, and I'm more nervous than I've ever been about speaking. 

If you're in the KC area, come on by if you'd like. Feel free to bring along some sugar-free Jello and Cool Whip or a jar of peanut butter just in case I need a wee bit of nourishment. It may be next week before I have the chance to post again as we're doing a lot of filming over the weekend for the documentary. In the meantime, take care of each other ... smile at each other ... hug each other ... be kind ... be kind ... be kind ... to each other.

Down the Hatch

For those of you who may be in doubt as to the truth of my granddaughter C.J.'s astounding level of intelligence (remember, she's only 2 1/2 years old), I'd like to offer up yet another example which validates my continued assertion that she is indeed a genius. When I visited Matt, Becca and C.J. last Christmas, my then not quite 2-year-old granddaughter became extremely interested in the pills I had to take each day along with the various pill boxes in which I kept them. She quickly associated my daily meds with the vitamin tablet she took each day and deemed my assortment of pills "Ghee's vitamins." Mind you it's been a full nine months since my visit last Christmas, but the first thing C.J. said when I placed my pill containers on the kitchen shelf was, "Ghee, those are your vitamins." The fact that she remembered that nine months later is amazing in and of itself, but it was what she announced to me a couple of days later that completely blew my mind.

Matt and Becca had already finished eating and left the table so it was just the two of us. Each time I opened up the compartment for my breakfast, lunch or dinner meds, C.J. would ask to see my vitamins. And then she counted how many were in the palm of my hand. And then at breakfast on my third day in Canada, she matter of factly said, "Ghee, you not take da bwack pill at breakfast, just da white ones and da lellow one and da blue and white one. You take da bwack pill at wunch and dinner but not at breakfast." Not only had she been counting the number of pills in my hand each time I took them, my granddaughter had noted which pills I take at each meal ... did I mention that she's only 2 1/2? And did I mention that she's a genius? Thinking that perhaps she only knew when I took the black pill because it looks so different from the other meds, I asked her what colors my lunch and dinner pills were ... and she told me. I was completely and utterly blown away ... completely, entirely, totally and utterly blown away. I had no idea that my little grandgal was paying such close attention to my medications ... I had no idea that my little grandgal was paying such close attention to me. 

If you've been reading along with me over the last couple of years, you are well aware of my lack of enthusiasm concerning taking certain medications. For those of you who are new to my blog, please allow me to explain ... I refused to take antidepressants for a long time for far too many reasons to share in tonight's post. And the truth is that I still wrestle from time to time with having to take those particular medications ... again, for far too many reasons to share in tonight's post. But even as I type those words, I can hear the sweet voice of my precious little C.J. say each time we sat down for a meal ... "Ghee, take your vitamins now. Ghee!! It's time a take your vitamins!" Even my 2 1/2-year-old granddaughter recognized that it was important for me to take my meds ... out of the mouths of babes, eh?

Today I was trying my best to get out of doing something ... something I know is important in my journey toward being okay and confident in who I am ... something that often takes every ounce of strength I have within me to do. I was trying my best to get out of doing that particular something when a friend reminded me that doing the something I didn't want to do is part of my prescription for helping me reach the place of "okayness." I'm sure my friend didn't know how deeply profound her words were ... words I haven't been able to shake from my mind since the moment she said them. I'm equally as sure that my little C.J. had no way of knowing that her insistence that I take my vitamins would resonate so strongly with me after I left.

"Ghee, take your vitamins ... Ghee, it's time a take your vitamins."

"It's part of the prescription, so you need to do it."
  
 I think I get the message ... I think I do indeed.

It's Okay

Trying to choose my favorite moment with my granddaughters over the last couple of weeks is like trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack ... there were simply too many adorable and funny and touching moments. Cute baby smiles from little Amelie or her tiny head resting on my shoulder or her chubby legs kicking like crazy when I changed her diaper or the sound of her hiccups when her tummy was full of milk ... those moments were so sweet and so precious that I couldn't possibly choose just one to claim as my favorite. Coraline and her hilarious snort laughing when I would tickle her or say something she deemed giggle worthy or the sound of her singing at the top of her lungs or her riding the runner bike or putting me in time out or swiping all my coins for her piggy bank or the feel of her hand in mine as we crossed a street or the smell of her hair when she snuggled close to me as I read book after book after book to her ... there's no way I could ever say one moment with her was better than any other because every second I spent with her was truly amazing.

I must say there was one thing my little Boo said to me multiple times during my stay that totally melted my heart every single time she said it ... "It's okay, Ghee." Whether I was truly in pain because she had just done a full body slam on my lower back or I was pretending to be hurt when her imaginary dragon Tick had breathed fire on my neck ... whether I really was tearing up from the sadness of knowing my time with her was far too short or I was fake crying when we played princess stuff ... not a word, friends, not one word about me playing princess stuff ... true pain or pretend, real tears or fake, Coraline would pat me and hug me and say, "It's okay, Ghee." Though I am certain that her desire to comfort or console me was genuine, it didn't mean that she stopped jumping on my back or Tick ceased his fire-breathing shenanigans or my sadness of only seeing her for a few days disappeared or I was released from all things princess. What her sweet pats and hugs and "It's okay, Ghee" words did do was make me wish with all my might that my darling Coraline would never have to experience pain or hurt or sadness or loneliness ... it made me wish that she would forever be okay.

By the time I got home last night, I was bone tired; in fact, I was so tired when my flight departed from Edmonton in the early morning hours that I promptly fell asleep after the plane was airborne ... yep, you read that correctly, I slept on the plane and the guy sitting next to me woke me up when we landed. Ollie and Julie were extremely happy to see me, so much so that they were content to hit the sack with me much earlier than we normally do and sleep in way past the time we normally rise. Today was spent doing all the stuff you have to do when you return home after a lengthy time away ... unpacking, mowing the yard, going through a big stack of mail, paying bills and doing laundry. While those aren't things I usually enjoy doing, today I was thankful for things to keep both my body and my mind busy so I didn't spend a good portion of my day crying like I did yesterday. Every time that ache of missing my granddaughters started creeping through my heart, I would whisper the words, "It's okay, Ghee ... it's okay."

Stepping away from the daily routine of life from time to time is good for the soul ... it's often a time of reevaluating what is important and what really matters most, at least it is for me anyway. Sometimes that's a difficult thing to do ... stepping away, reevaluating, taking an honest look at where I am or why I am or who I am or how I am. I've done a lot of thinking and contemplating over the last couple of weeks (when I wasn't swaying and singing to baby Amelie or playing princess stuff with Coraline) ... a whole, whole, whole lot, and I'm sure that some of my ponderings will eventually make their way into a future post or two or twenty. But for tonight ... for tonight, I think I'll just remind myself of the wise words of an extra-special two-year-old ... 

"It's okay, Ghee ... it's okay."

May There Always Be

So I'm sitting in the airport in Edmonton trying my best to stop crying. There is one good thing about being weepy when I go through customs, though ... the agents give me tissues and don't ask me very many questions. I've found that most people are really pretty nice when they know someone's heart is breaking. All I can think about this morning is my little Coraline waking up and wanting to know where her Ghee is and little Amelie missing my singing and swaying when her tummy hurts. Geez ... the older those kiddos get, the harder these goodbyes will be. 

Matt and Becca spend a ton of time reading and singing to their girls, and they have, as many parents of young children do, certain routines they follow when it's naptime or bedtime. I've got a bunch of notes jotted down to help me remember some of the funny, sweet, tender and downright hilarious things I'll share in the coming days, but without question one of my favorites involved Coraline's naptime. 

Just in case I hadn't already picked up on the required things that accompanied her naptime ritual, she filled me in again on the day Matt and Becca went to Calgary and Boo and I spent the day together. Making sure she had her special blanket, her book of choice had been read, she was tucked in the right way, her back was sufficiently scratched, Violet was playing soft music, the ladybug was displaying purple stars, and the song ... the extra special song had been sung. Each time I put her to bed while I was there, I couldn't help but think of her Daddy when he was a little boy ... sniffle, sniffle, sniffle.

The naptime song is May There Always Be Sunshine ... with a whole bunch of additional Coraline-selected May There Always Be ... mom, dad, puppies, blue skies, Amelie .... and Ghee ... she always said, "may there always be Ghee." Someday, when she's all grown up, I'm going to tell my sweet baby girl that Ghee is here because of her ... there is Ghee because there is Coraline.

Time to get on the plane ... tears and all.

For the First Time in Forever

Before you even think it, I'm well aware that my previous entry was about the lesson I learned from the lyrics of a song from the Disney movie Frozen and that the title of this post is also the title of a song from the same movie. I may be old, but I haven't quite lost all my marbles just yet. I have, however, heard my sweet granddaughter C.J. belting out the words to both of those songs several times each day for the last eight days, and I did watch the movie with her (and maybe a few YouTube clips, too), so that's why I've got Frozen and its music stuck inside my brain. And because I'm in Canada ... everyone knows Canada and Frozen just seem to go together ... duh.

I got an email from someone yesterday asking me why I haven't blogged on this trip to Canada like I did during my two previous visits, and I couldn't help but chuckle when I read it. Obviously, the person who wrote to ask me about my lack of blogging over the last eight days has completely forgotten what life in a house with a toddler and 10-week-old baby is like ... busy, busy, busy. As I've helped my son and daughter-in-law feed and bathe and rock and jostle and read to and play with and entertain my two granddaughters since I've been here, I've found myself wondering how in the world I ever managed to take care of my three kiddos on my own. I think perhaps that the parenting of young children is proof that God gives us the strength we need at exactly the time we need it, eh? I've had a ton of "for the first time in forever" moments since I've been here in Canada visiting Matt, Becca, Coraline and Amelie ... moments I can only hope I will remember for as long as I live. But today two of those moments brought memories crashing into my mind and tears welling up in my eyes ... one moment with Coraline and one with Amelie.

Following a morning of train rides and visiting Matt at the university, reading Little Red Riding Hood and taking a long nap (Boo, not me!), Coraline and I went for a chilly late afternoon walk so we could meet Matt as he rode his bike home from work. My eldest granddaughter is absolutely adorable as she pushes her doll stroller down the sidewalk ... the doll stroller which today carried Gigi the stuffed dalmatian I gave her when I arrived. As we walked along, I said, "Boo, I'm sure going to miss you when I have to go back to my house on Saturday." Coraline abruptly stopped pushing the doll stroller to turn and gaze up at me with those piercing blue eyes of hers and said, "I will miss you, Ghee. I not want you to go to your house. I want you to stay wif Boo." 

Sweet baby Amelie is having some stomach problems, and I've spent a significant amount of time over the last few days rocking, singing, swaying and/or jiggling her ... basically anything it takes to soothe her. This evening she was especially fussy, and I walked back and forth through the house singing to her while I patted her rear. I didn't dare move her when she finally fell asleep on my shoulder, and I'm not sure exactly how long I held her. As I walked and patted and sang and walked and patted and sang and walked and patted and sang, I breathed in the scent of her baby hair and marveled at the perfection of her tiny face.

For the first time in forever ... when Boo told me today she would miss me, I understood how difficult it was for my mom to live so far away from my children. For the first time in forever ... I understood how tough it was for my kiddos to be separated by so many miles from my mom. For the first time in forever ... as I patted little Amelie's rear and sang to her, I understood that the countless nights I reached over the crib rail to pat her dad's rear so many years ago was unconditional love in its purest human form. For the first time in forever.

For the first time in forever ... don't waste a single moment, friends ... don't waste a single moment.

"For the first time in forever, there'll be magic, there'll be fun."