Inchling

Eighteen and a half years ago I gave birth to a healthy 7 lb 12 ounce baby girl. Well, that sweet baby graduated from high school this week. I know it sounds cliche, but really, where has the time gone? And who gave her permission to grow up?

But she has grown up so nicely. She's beautiful and talented, and wow she's a good kid. She deserves the best the world has to offer, and I hope that it comes her way.

When I brought my precious little infant home, my other three children looked so big and she looked so very tiny. I started calling her Inchling, a name that has stuck even eighteen and a half years later. Congratulations on graduating, Inchling. I love you to the depths of my soul and back again.

turn off

So school's finally out and I can turn off my brain. All my hard work paid off with an electronic report card of five pretty A's. And now I get a short three-week break before I return for summer semester. So what do you suppose I did to start off my break? Here, I'll give you a hint:

Yup. I got in my car and went for a long weekend visit to see my grandbaby. We had so much fun, but we kept getting into trouble. One night Grandma was helping this Little Miss take a bath. She was so excited to have a new bath supervisor that she went into party mode. Tub toys were flying everywhere, and the floor got a bit wet. She thought that was so funny that she started a new game called "Grandma, see if you can catch the soaking wet wash cloth when I madly throw it around." Pretty soon the floor was in possession of about a third of her bath water. But she was laughing so hard! How could I resist that belly laugh? Pretty soon Mommy came in to investigate, and Grandma got in trouble. "Grandma, you're banned from bath duty!"

Then one morning, Grandma was being just plain lazy and didn't get up the minute the Little Miss did. She knelt down next to me and said something like, "Grandma's makeup bag." This is what resulted:

Then her mommy came to check on her. "Grandma! What's this?"

"Uh . . . waterproof mascara?"

Well, all great fun has to come to an end, and pretty soon it was time for me to go home. My daughter always sings a song to the Little Miss at bedtime, and the last night when it was time for bed, she had a special request. "Grandma sing song?" I was honored to be chosen as a guest soloist in her bedtime ritual. She lay down in her bed with her blanky, white, sheepie, and bear and looked up at me as I sang.

About two-thirds through my solo, she said, "Turn off." 

I paused. "Turn off what, Sweetie?"

"Turn off song. Mommy sing song."

(sigh) I guess I'll stick to English as my major.

 P.S. This sweet Little Miss will soon be big sister to a new baby in July and cousin to a new baby in November. Yay!

i love books

I love books. I love to smell books. Whenever I pick up a book or a magazine, I have to smell it. In fact, I have one textbook that is good for only one thing: smelling. I love to hold books. I love everything about books. Books! Books! Books! And as you might guess, I love to read. Reading opens up the world. There is so much to read, so much to learn.

I taught all of my children to read before or during preschool. One of my girls was reading by the time she was three. She thought life was really unfair that her two older sisters could cuddle up with a nice little book and read, and she couldn't, so she insisted that I teach her to read. When my youngest daughter was learning to read, I routinely babysat a friend of hers. This little girl thought she was really getting gypped because she could only sit and listen while my daughter read. So, of course, I taught her to read too. Her mother now blames me for her daughter's love affair with books and learning--a burden of blame I will gladly shoulder.

And so you see, naturally I think everyone should learn and love to read. Miley turns three next month. Do you think I've carried this a little too far?

happy valentine's day!!

Have you ever had a bus pull up to your house? No. I mean have you ever had a bus pull up to your house and unload kids into your living room? Bet you haven't. Well, that's exactly what happened this morning. A busload of good lookin' kids unloaded into my living room and sang to me.

Best Valentine's day ever. Ever.

Thanks, DHS Madrigals!

P.S. I don't think I have a career in videography waiting for me.

merry christmas!!

On Christmas Eve my children all used to gather together in one bedroom and sleep together. They stayed up late, laughing and giggling, and just generally getting excited for Christmas the next day. Then in the morning, they stomped around upstairs to wake their parents up nice and early. This tradition was repeated year after year, with minor changes. When they got older, they started setting an alarm clock to be certain to get up early. I snuck in the room and turned it off, but they were very clever children. They set more than one alarm clock, and I never quite found them all.

Another important part of this tradition was the ringing of the bell. See, after the children had been banished to their sleepover, Santa Claus knew that all were tucked in for the night, and so he (or possibly she) came and delivered presents. Then he tromped past their bedroom door with a bell and rang it wildly proclaiming, "Ho, Ho, Ho!! Merry Christmas!!" to the (not so) sleepy occupants within. Even after my girls grew beyond the believing stage, good ol' Santa still tromped past their door with that bell. They did begin to note that Santa's voice had an unusually high pitch, and Santa had to try to go bass to correct that anomaly.

There was the year that my baby was the only remaining believer, and she was scared spitless of that jolly fat man in his red suit. After Santa stomped around merrily declaring his season's greetings, he stomped away, opened the deck door, said goodbye, and disappeared into the night. Conveniently enough, I was close on hand, and I opened the door to ask if they had heard that Santa was there. As the door opened, my poor little girl was scrambling as fast as her little arms and legs could carry her into the arms of her oldest sister. She had the most petrified expression I think I've ever seen. Aw, the memories.

Well, that tradition has carried through the years without fail. As they got older, the sleeping arrangements changed. Married kids brought their spouses and everyone began the night together, waiting for the sound of Santa's jolly voice. Then the married kids would clear out, the others would vow to stay, and then one by one they would slink off to more comfortable arrangements (their own beds).

Last week we had our mini Christmas while everyone could actually be together. We went through all of our regular Christmas traditions and held our own little mini-Christmas a week and a half early. We had the most wonderful time. It was delightful to have my sweet year-old granddaughter around, ripping at paper with her childlike awe. Then she lovingly and adoringly laid her head on the things she loved best. Fabulous memories.

Which brings us to last night, Christmas Eve 2010. Santa laid out the presents, but the child in residence hadn't gone to bed yet. In fact, the child's boyfriend was still hanging out. They were busy having a midnight snack. So Santa forgot all about the bell ringing tradition and trotted off to bed. Not twenty minutes into this long winter nap, a very strange thing happened. The ringing of the bell!!!! accompanied by a truly male voice saying, "Ho, Ho, Ho!! Merry Christmas!!" I was like a little girl. I began to giggle, and in my head I saw visions of Santa Claus. I could see him tromping down my hall, proclaiming his season's greetings. It was truly a magical moment, a moment of child-like glee. I bounced from my bed and into the hallway, but alas Santa had made off into the winter night already. My daughter and her boyfriend were all that remained in the hallway, and they rushed toward me: "Did you hear? Did you hear? Santa was here!!"

It was always so much fun for me to do the tromping and the ringing and the proclaiming, but this year, I found out how absolutely much fun, how absolutely magical it is to be on the inside receiving the magic.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!!!

the caretaker

My daughter had some minor surgery this past week, and I went up for the weekend to take care of her and my granddaughter. Of course, in true Soodle fashion, she came home and acted as if nothing had happened. The doctor told her to go home and rest with an icepack, but did she? No. The only way that would have happened would be if I had first conked her over the head and knocked her completely out. It was sort of like the time when she got her wisdom teeth out. The doctor told her to go home and rest and not to eat anything crunchy for the day, you know, stick to soft stuff like mashed potatoes. I guess she heard potato and added chip to it because the first thing into her mouth was a chip, and it was pretty much downhill from there.

So anyway, I was up for the weekend to "help." This is where I'm supposed to complain about how hard it is to keep up with a one year old, how much work they are, how much trouble they are, and all that jazz. I think the following pictures will explain just exactly how overworked I felt.

I miss you sweet thing.

mowing the lawn

I mowed the lawn this morning. It has been a really long time since I mowed a lawn, and it took me way back. I was sneaking up on teenhood. My father had just had a heart attack and was in the hospital. His condition was stable, but to a kid, stable was just another word for “not very well.” My dad owned a landscaping/mowing business. Well, to be precise, he had a job with the Union Pacific Railroad, and on the side, he ran a one-man landscaping business. So when he landed in the hospital for weeks, that left his business unattended. It just wouldn’t do to have those people take their business elsewhere so my mother and I attended to mowing lawns. Day after day, I threw all my strength into that work, pushing that lawnmower up and down, up and down. See, in my little head, I somehow felt like I was making an unspoken deal with God, a plea really. I figured if I worked really hard, then God would make my dad well. I worked so hard that one day my mom suddenly made me stop and rest. Apparently, my flushed cheeks and rapid breathing scared her. It was in vain to try to keep me down, though, and I was soon back at it, making that lawnmower save my dad. Well, he did survive that heart attack and was soon convalescing at home.

I hadn’t really thought much about this until this morning. And there I was pushing a lawn mower up and down, up and down again. My dad has been gone a long time now, twenty-four years. As I pushed that lawn mower around today I thought about him, the kind of man he was, how hard he worked, how much he loved, how life treated him. Then my mind drifted to my life, how hard I work, how much I love, how life treats me. I’m a planner, and I had such plans and goals, such vision of how life would proceed. Then Life took over and didn’t stick to the plan, didn’t follow the outline I had so carefully crafted.

After I finished mowing and put the lawnmower away, I grabbed some trimming shears and trimmed away the dead roses from the rosebush. Then I carefully picked a nice open rose, which seemed to be my life to this point; and I picked a barely blooming rose, perhaps my life ahead. I stood looking at that nicely mown lawn, the nice straight lines, and I breathed in the scent of freshly mown lawn. And I felt like I had really accomplished something, and it was more than just mowing the lawn.