Crimes of the Mother

For a short time when I was a little girl, my family lived in New Jersey. I loved the junkyard across the street with a small creek running through it. I was forever bringing home "treasures" to share with my mom, who diplomatically tried to tell me to take the item back to the junk pile. Deer were often spied in our backyard, though not by me, by my older sister. Unless she was making it up to annoy me. "The deer was JUST there a second ago..."

We weren't in New Jersey for very long before we moved back to Ohio, but I have one vivid holiday memory from that time period. I think I was about 5 or 6 years old, and we were driving to Pennsylvania to visit my Uncle and Aunt. I was sick with the stomach flu, which must have made the drive especially fun for the rest of the family. I recall hearing my mom tell my dad to put me in the car with my pajamas on, and he made me get dressed instead. I was miserable. 

By the time we got to Pennsylvania, I felt much better. Good enough, in fact, to swipe a little box from beneath the Christmas tree and open it up. There were a pair of earrings, sparkling up from the white velvet. Just the treasure a little girl would want to find. Until she realized that she'd done something terribly wrong. So I hid the earrings outside the door, in the snow, and went back to playing with my sister. Naturally, my parents and my Aunt and Uncle called me out and I got quite a scolding for my thievery. 

Now that I'm a mother, I'm expecting my own child to repeat some of my mistakes, and I'm trying to remember to go easy on his first offenses. So far, his gaffes have been so full of innocence that I've had to fight against the urge to laugh or smile when they're reported to me, though I often fail. Lately we've had some difficult discussions at home as Henry struggles with goofs he's committed at school and his powerful desire that I not find out about them. Even the principal says she's caught herself grinning as she's trying to correct Henry's behavior. If trying not to laugh is my biggest challenge, I'm a lucky parent. 

Check back with me when my son is a teenager. See if I'm still trying not to laugh. 

Over the River and Through the Woods

When did it get to be mid-November?

Suddenly I need to create a Thanksgiving menu, figure out whether my husband is working on that Thursday, decide if I'm baking pies this year or visiting Baker's Square...so much to do. This holiday crept up on me, despite my excitement at this time of year. Excited, yes, but ready? Not so much. 

When I was a child, Thanksgiving was usually spent at my grandparents' home in Cincinnati. Arriving at the house, we would enter through the breezeway, like a little room connecting the garage and the kitchen. On the breezeway would be pies cooling, fresh from the oven. Cherry, pumpkin and apple are the pies that I recall. Once inside, my uncle and aunt would greet us, and I'd hear football coming from the family room. There was always lots of activity in the kitchen, of course, and we were immediately called on to do our part. I love the pictures of my sister, brother, and me wearing too-big aprons and standing on chairs to reach the kitchen counter. 

Dinner always meant crowded plates and a crowded dining room. I remember gaping at my uncle's plate, which was so full of food I thought it would topple over. Lots of stuffing and crescent rolls, gravy, turkey, and cranberries. Once the feast was over, it was time to clean the kitchen, which was always a bit dramatic. I don't ever recall seeing a man anywhere near the kitchen for clean-up duty, and as we hid in the family room, Grandma would come in to ask if anyone was going to help clean up. Which meant us kids. Since I only have one son, if I tried this technique with him, he'd be lost in the kitchen after a major holiday dinner. Maybe when he's older I can revive this tradition (she said sarcastically...)

Later in the evening, coffee and pie were on the table, and my sister and I were brushing our aunt's long hair while the adults talked. I have such warm memories of these holidays. Now, we live hundreds of miles from our families, so Thanksgiving is usually a very quiet day with just the three of us. Occasionally, family will make the trip to join us for the long weekend, and then our little house is full to bursting. These are fun times, too, though its always a relief to hear the solitude after having a houseful of company. 

The day after the big turkey, we put the small Christmas tree up in my son's room and hang the ornaments. I would have loved having my very own tree in my very own room when I was a little girl! This year, I might attempt hanging lights on the house. Its all part of making some memories for my child, like those I have from my own childhood. 

Hope

I am still reeling, weeping, shouting, and shaking my head in near-disbelief. The man who spoke at the 2004 Democratic National Convention and who brought me to tears, the man who I said would be our first Black president, has indeed become president. With nary a misstep, with a sober, careful campaign, and with dignity unmatched by any candidate in recent years, Obama is our next president. I am moved almost beyond words.

So, I'll let others speak for me. For they do it so much better than I, this expression of joy with such eloquence. 

A man interviewed on NPR said, "Rosa sat so Martin could walk. Martin walked so Obama could run. Obama runs so our children can fly." 

A columnist in The New York Times described challenging her children to back up their opinions when it came to politics, or any other topic for that matter. "Don't tell, show," she said. She writes this week about trying to find a way to impress upon our children how very magnificent it is that our first African-American president has been elected. 

On national television, Colin Powell choked up as he described the emotions felt when he knew Obama had secured the vote. A careful, elegant, and well-respected United States secretary of state brought me to tears, as I listened to him talk about this historic event. 

In the comments section of a major daily newspaper, the mom of a bi-racial child told of the remark her daughter made as she watched the election results with her parents: "Mom, he's brown like me!" Oh, did I weep.

On election day, as I drove to school to pick up my son, a bald eagle landed in a tree directly above my car. I parked immediately and got out, to gape at this magical, evocative creature, on this, the most important political day of my life. After a few moments, he gently flew away. After I had my son in the car, a half hour later, and as we drove toward the polling place, we saw the eagle again, soaring right ahead of us. I excitedly pointed him out to my son and we shared the joy of the moment. What a day to see an eagle! On this of all days. Then as we parked at the polling location, we once again saw the eagle flying overhead. "Mom, he led us to the voting place!," my son exclaimed.

There are no words, kiddo. There are no words.