A Big Pat on the Head for the Little Lady

There is a man who frequently writes letters to the editor of our weekly hometown newspaper. He is a very nice man, has a very nice wife and several large, but very nice dogs. He writes with some authority. If you didn't know better you'd think he was well informend and reasonable.

But I know better. I'm willing to bet that if you had the stomach to listen to Rush Limbaugh for a few weeks you could predict what Mr. Letter Writer is going to ponder next. I'd like to try it but I'm afraid the top of my head might fly off from the increase in blood pressure.

I recently wrote a letter of my own to editor in response to one of his diatribes blaming the democrats for the President's inability to win the war. You see, I have a stake in the war. He is my second born son, Joe, who is a Major in the Marine Corps. He's in Al Anbar provence until later this spring.

I'm proud of my son. He's a good Marine, a good husband, a good dad, a good son. He's funny and good looking and he's had my heart since the day he was born. I questioned his decision to join the Marine Corps after college but he knew himself better than I knew him and he made the right choice.

When I've voiced my opinion about the war lately both Mr. Letter Writer and a commenter on my blog have figuratively patted me on the head and said in so many words........You just don't understand little lady. Well, big fellas, I think I understand pretty well. My experience is as a mom, not a soldier. I've never carried a weapon, never served my country, never even considered it. But I raised my kids alone after thier dad died. I've lobbied for better treatment of the handicapped. I've managed my own business. I've survived the loss of my oldest son.

Get the picture? I can do anything. I read and listen and stay informed. I can process information and understand it with the best of them. I don't need your condesension.

Matty

It's October again and I can't believe how quickly the last year has passed. This time last October my familiy surrounded my son Matthew as he lived his last few days. He had been sick for a long time and we knew he was on his way to a better place, but we didn't know how to live without him.

A year later, I'm still not sure. Matt's life was complicated and challenging and he was often a large pain in the ass, but that was never his intention. The thing about Matt was that he was always so sure of himself and his place in the world. When he was a little child he liked to visit with elderly neighbors. He explained he needed to go see them because, "They'll be so glad to see me." He was right. They were glad to see him.

When he was seven and eight and nine he was sure he would play for the Mariners some day. He didn't notice the ever widening gap between what he could do physically and what his classmates and peers could accomplish. The gap grew even wider when he started having strokes in his early twenties. His balance was bad and he couln't see very well but his confidence didn't waver.

For me, Matt was a lesson in the eternal presence of love. He loved me with the devotion of a three year old. I was his mom and that was enough. I wasn't even close to a perfect mom. I'm not that patient, or kind or self sacrificing, but Matt loved me in a most childish and perfect way. No judgement. No stipulations.

Yup. I was privleged to know the love of my imperfect son. I won't forget. It's still with me. I love you too, Matt.

It's Not A Diet

That's what they all say. It's not a diet. It's a change in lifestyle. This time I'm trying the Southbeach Diet and I'm doing well with it. I really want bread with my peanut butter but I feel so good without the bread that I'm willing to keep eating the veggies.

For the last ten years I've gradually gained weight. A lot of weight. I've gained more since my son died last year. I'm out of control. I'm embarassed to go out in public with my husband. He's a really nice looking man, young for his age, and he's lost a few pounds in the last couple of months.

I never planned on being a fat girl. I was always the smallest person in school, at camp, at college, in my family. I liked being small. I liked having small feet and a small waist. It's how I saw myself. I was fairly athletic too. I'm prett coordinated and flexible but you'd never know it now. It's all covered up by sixty pounds of extra me.

My daughter is getting married next summer and I'd really like to look nice at her wedding so let the games begin. I want my kids and grandkids to be proud of me, not embarassed because I'm bulging. Bring on the vegies.

Rachael's Birthday

My oldest grandaughter has been on my mind all day today. Maybe it's because she is turning twelve on Monday. She's a beautiful, smart and absolutely pleasing girl. I keep thinking of the day she was born, a day that held several revelations for me. One was about her mom. Before Rachael was born I didn't realize what a generous and trusting person her mom was.

There she was after just giving birth, looking lovely and not nervous at all about being a first time mom. Some new moms are afraid to let everyone hold thier new infants but Rachael's mom seemed comfortable letting us each have a turn.

We watched as the nurse tended to the baby, each one of us wanting to grab her but I had the inside track. The nurse was an old friend of mine and she wrapped Rachael up tight and handed her to me. I looked at that tiny little face and knew there had never been a more lovely child.

I wasn't an official family member then. I was Rachael's grandpa's long time girlfriend. But Rachael changed that. Loving Rachael made me a family member. Her parents probably never knew how much it meant to me the next Christmas when they gave an ornament that read "to Grandma Cathy. I love you. Rachael."

We have eleven grandkids now and they are all beautiful and smart and full of life and they all call me Grandma, except for Jack who is two and a half and calls me Gaga. I have to admit that most of them like Grandpa best but since I like him best too I can understand.

Happy Birthday, Rachael. I still think you are lovely and I'm so proud of you.

Gratitude Journal

Since I opened my bookstore I haven't been able to watch Oprah in the afternoons. I've admired Oprah for a long time but there are times when she has really annoyed me. One of those annoyances came from my perception that if a mother and daughter were in conflict on her show, Oprah always takes the side of the daughter regaradless of the situation. She's been a duaghter but she's never lost a fortnight's sleep over a child's illness or a daughter leaving home and moving across the country. When everyone else was cheering and congratulating Oprah for her tough interview with James Frey, I thought she seemed self righteous and condesending.

All of that aside I am thankful to Oprah for introducing me to the concept of the gratitude journal. It was pretty easy to find things to be grateful for because my life has been blessed by my children, my husband's children and all those grandkids. Gratitude has it all over music when it comes to soothing the savage beast. Even in the darkest hours I can conjure up reasons to be grateful.

At Oprah's urging I started writing down a few things I was thankful for every day and eventually a pattern emerged. I would write down things like the how beautiful the river was that morning on my drive to Longview or how warm my dog is when he's cuddled up next to me while I read or watch TV. I'd list good health, good weather, good conversation, my ability to observe and write. You get the picture. It's so easy.

Eventually I realized that there was one entry that I wrote every day. Sometimes twice a day. I am grateful for my husband. Every day I am grateful that my partner is such a gentle, funny, generous, intelligent man. I get to spend my life with the man whose face I'm always glad to see. I don't even care that the grandkids seem to like him best. I like him best too.

I knew I loved him and he loved me but I didn't realize how importand he was in my life until his name popped up every day for a year in my journal.

So thanks Oprah for a fine idea. And thank God for all of his blessings, especially the one I married.

Blessed Are the Peacemakers

One of my favorite poems is "The Second Coming" by William Butler Yeats. It's a brilliant piece wirtten at a time of conflict and despair. I like the poem because I can read it and know that every generation at some time or another feels like things couldn't get worse. It gives me confort when I'm thinking the same thing.

The first stanza contains the most quoted lines:
The best lack all conviction while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Ain't it the truth? Our leaders have led us into an impossible war with all of the passionate intensity and conviction imaginable. They didn't listen to advisors who said it was a bad idea. There was no plan for management or withdrawl. I am as astonished at this foolishness as I was when Nixon was elected President. How could this happen? We may have been misunderstood by the rest of the world in the past. But now I think they understand all too well. We've become the aggressor without a plan.

The other night Bill Maher suggested we should give Iraq back to Saadam Hussein. He's a bad guy but he had knowledge we didn't. He held his country together by fear. Not an admirable method, but an effective one. Maher was kidding, of course, but he had a point.

I have eleven grandchildren. The oldest is almost twelve. She doesn't deserve to inherit a world at war. She deserves leaders with a little less conviction and a lot more reason. Those eleven beautiful children deserve a promising futrure in a country where they can grow and thrive and give the best to their children and grandchildren.

The answer is not to despair but to pay attention. Get involved. Stir things up a little. Write your representatives. Believe me, all of this goes against my peacemaking nature. I've never carried a sign in protest and I've avoided conflict my entire life but I can't be quiet about theis insantiy any longer.

The last part of my plan is to pray. You don't have to join the 700 Club or procalim your faith to strangers. Just take a few quiet momnents to contemplate q peaceful world and pray for your vision to come to fruition. It can't hurt.

"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of god."

Betty, Coretta, My Daughters and Me

To say that I admire the women of my mother's generation is an understatement. They were the girls born in the twenties, raised during the Depression, worked in factories during World War II, and raised families for the next twenty years. From my point of view as a child, they were competent and mostly happy but appearances are deceiving.

My mom was widowed when she was thirty. In 1954 it wasn't the norm to raise children alone. She was the only mom on our block who worked outside the home. She worked every day and never saw me making a fool out of myself as a cheerleader. Neither did she attend school programs held in the afternoon. She was happiest baking on Saturday and going to her parents' home on Sundays for dinner and conversation with her mother. There was no family leave, no job sharing, no equal work for equal pay.

I'm reminded this week of the courage of women who were of Mom's generation. Betty Friedan wrote "The Feminine Mystique" in the late fifties and became the hero of several generations of young women seeking their own potential. She spoke of her own mother's unhappiness and lack of choices as inspiration for her work. Friedan died last week but her spirit carries on.

I caught a snippet of a talk Oprah Winfrey gave last week about Coretta Scott King. She closed by describing Mrs. King's efforts to make the world a better place for Afircan American women than the one her own mother faced. I was surprised by how those words touched me. Mrs. King personified dignity, as far as I'm concerned. Her example as a wonam of courage and tenacity will live on as well.

The mother-daughter relationship is profound and complicated. Hopefully, we are inspired by our mothers, whether we aspire to be like them or to be nothing like them. I ache for my mother's sad life but I'm powerless to change it. I can only make choices in my life, aspire to dignity and honesty and meaning.

I'm a daughter, a mother to two daugters, and a grandmother to a baby girl. My daughters are college graduates and support themselves. I'm so proud of them that tears are coming as I write. I fully expect them to make lives for themselves even though I've never supported myself or lived alone in my life. Okay, I'm a hypocrite but my trust in them is well placed. I have the advantage of knowing their great-grandmothers who were strong and loving women.

I celebrate five generations of women. It's an honor to be the link between those who came before and those who were born to me and my children.