Mamas, don't let your cowboys grow up to be babies.

In case you are too young to understand the reference in my title, it's a spin on the old country song, "Mammas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys" which warns mothers of letting their boys grow up to be tough, stubborn, lonely cowboys who like smoky pool rooms, old trucks and guitars. Through the years I have noticed it seems that many well-meaning moms have taken this song to heart and have instead pampered the dickens out of their little cowboys and cowgirls and have let them grow up to be, well, babies.

We all look at our new babies, girls and boys, those beautiful little faces, those miniature helpless bodies, and we vow to love and protect them, hug them and hold them, as long as they'll let us. We want them to feel safe, secure and loved so we show them our love and protection through our acts of service, gifts and affection. Because we love them so much we want to make life easier and more comfortable for them. We don't want them to feel physical pain and emotional hurt and we don't want them to suffer. We don't want them to do without the things they desire. As they grow we continue to see the faces of our sweet babies - in their toddler, child, teenager and young adult faces - and we continue to shower them with our acts of motherly love.

But sometimes we go overboard and continue to give and do, even when they can get and do on their own. Instead of protecting and loving them we coddle them. We do everything for them, we give everything to them, we protect them from everything. We cook, clean, pick up after them, run them around town, indulge their every whim, buy or give them everything they want, need and ask for.

And guess what? Most kids who are coddled grow up to be adults who expect to be coddled. They are often spoiled, lazy, self-centered and rude. They make bad roommates, spouses, coworkers and adult children. They don't know how to take care of themselves, let alone another person, or cook, clean, find jobs, or pay their bills. They don't know how to take responsibility for their own actions and they don't know how to do for others. They expect the world to be handed to them instead of working for it...because that's all they know.

In my experience as a parent, step-parent and college academic/career advisor I have seen evidence that parents who provide the opportunities for their children to learn how to take care of themselves, to struggle a bit, to get frustrated, to work hard, to feel loss, etc., create the most well-adjusted, responsible and productive young adults. On the other hand, those who attempt to make life less difficult for their kids actually make life more difficult for them, and themselves, in the long run. While we are doing everything for them, giving them everything, we aren't letting them learn how to do it themselves. Then when they can't do it for themselves we have to continue to do it for them. We basically disable them with our misguided love.

Don't get me wrong, everyone deserves a little pampering or a reward every once in a while, but when we constantly pamper our kids, or constantly over reward them, we teach them to expect that kind of life without working for it. Unfortunately what they get from us has little meaning to them because they get it all the time, or too easily, without any effort on their part.

Kids need to learn to take care of themselves and not to expect others to take care of their every want, and they need to learn the skills it takes to fulfill their own needs. They need to know what it feels like to struggle and sacrifice something in order to obtain something they want. They need to learn how to solve problems on their own and pull themselves out of a hole. They need the room to make mistakes, feel the consequences of their mistakes, and figure out how to correct what ever it is they did wrong. That's how they learn and grow to be responsible adults. I think we, as parents, do them a disservice when we try to make life too easy for them or when we try to protect them from pain -- pain of not having, pain of losing something, pain of trying hard but still not getting it.

We should always give our babies, then children, then teens, then young adults what they need, but not everything they want. They need love, they need security, they need shelter and food, they need access to an academic and social education, etc. At different ages and stages of development they will need different things from us and the larger world. As they grow their ability to meet those needs on their own should gradually develop and our response to their needs should diminish. As responsible parents we should learn what they are capable of doing on their own at a given age and adjust what we give and do for them appropriately. We should also teach them the difference between their wants and needs and who is responsible for meeting both at different stages of their lives.

Our children will always need our love. We can best show our love by allowing them to grow up to be independent, responsible, productive adults, and we can only do that if we quit treating them like babies. Believe me, their partners will thank you someday.

A must see!

I don't have time to blog today but I want to share a picture I took yesterday of my friend Lisa's business in New Paris, just 2 miles from where I work. I aspire to be Lisa! She has more energy than any woman I know and she has mad gardening skills!

Losing my Religion

"Do you believe in God?” my nine year old step-daughter asked me out of the blue the other day.

Her question startled me because I was deep in thought at the moment -- also I just happened to be thinking about my beliefs about God and religion. I wondered if she could read my mind or if I had spoken my thoughts out loud. I looked at her suspiciously and replied in a hesitant tone, "Why do you ask?"

"Well do you know anyone who doesn't believe in God?" She was sitting at the kitchen table coloring.

"Sure, I know some people who don't," was my matter of fact answer.

"Really? Who?"

"Well, religion is a very personal thing so I won't say. I feel we should respect other people's privacy when it comes to personal choices like that."

"Oh, Ok. Hey, I think these markers are old because they don't work very well. You got me these when we first met, didn't you? They must have dried up."

Her train of thought had moved on, while my mind was derailed for the moment, stuck on this topic of religion, God and Laura knowing my thoughts - a jumbled mass of questions and ideas swirled in my head as I stood washing dishes. I don't know if I read or heard something which sparked my thought process (maybe Laura read or heard the same thing) or what, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. So, since writing helps me process my thoughts and get them out of my head to make room for other things, I figured I should write my next blog post about what I was thinking. I hope I don't offend anyone with what I write. Like I said, I feel religion is a very personal thing and all people are entitled to their opinions about it.

I realize now I never answered my daughter, but yes, I believe in God. Well I believe in some form of God. Maybe that's not quite the right way of stating that. I believe that there is some kind of energy that connects us all, connects everything in the Universe, something that is greater than we are, that flows through us, surrounds us, inspires us, impacts us, is impacted by our actions. Is this God a great, omnipotent being in the sky, or in heaven, looking down at us and controlling us, making plans for us, and judging us? No, I don't think so. Well maybe sometimes I think so. It's what I'm supposed to believe, right? That's what I learned in Bible School, Sunday School, Catechism, adult Bible study, church, etc., from the Lutherans, the United Church of Christ, the Quakers and from many of the books I've read about the subject. Oh heck, I don't know. Sometimes I put a "face" to this energy and call it Mother Nature. Sometimes I call it God. Sometimes I just call it "That Greater Force". Sometimes I don't call it anything because I don't think I need to label it or figure out what it really is - it's there, or not there, whether or not I believe in it or label it.

Yet I consider myself a person of faith, very spiritual, and yes, I even consider myself a Christian. Well not always. Oh I don't know. I do believe Jesus lived and spoke his beautifully simple words full of love and forgiveness, I believe he died for our sins, and I try to follow His words. But then I see how many people who say they are Christians don't really follow Christ's words and I get confused about what Christianity is, or isn't. I get turned off by it all. Also I see many non-Christians acting more like Jesus than many Christians do, then I wonder if all my questioning means I'm not really a Christian or my faith isn't strong enough.

I do know that I'm not the kind of Christian my former friend is. Lisa, who was vain, self-centered and promiscuous as a teen, and who committed adultery several times as an adult, became a German Baptist about 10 years ago because she needed very strict religion-based rules to keep her from making more bad decisions. Those are her words. Now she feels everyone else should follow those same very strict rules, or God's Law, as she puts it, "or else".

Shortly after my divorce Lisa came to my house to comfort me, but instead spent the whole evening sitting in my dining room telling me that my lifestyle was wrong and against God's Law. A women is not supposed to work outside the home, she is not supposed to wear revealing clothing (meaning slacks and tops which don't hide her shape), she should keep her hair covered at all times and wear no make up, and she should follow the Bible strictly, especially the New Testament books. I listened politely, nodded when appropriate, and then hugged her goodbye, as she said "God Bless You"(as I said "What a nut" in my head). I was very surprised when she knocked on my door 10 minutes later and said to me, with great concern on her face, "I got as far as the corner when God told me to come back to tell you something. He was very disturbed to know you intend to date and possibly remarry someday. If you do you will be committing adultery because Paul said a woman shall not marry again, although a man can. I felt compelled to tell you that because I want to see you in heaven someday."

I coolly thanked her, closed the door, and said "What a nut!", out loud this time. A few weeks later I received a note from her with the same message. She wasn't going to see me in heaven if I remarried someday. I ignored the note but when I married Craig, about a year later, I wrote a brief letter to Lisa to let her know I had remarried and moved to a new address. I also added "This marriage means two people who know the pain of great loss and loneliness will now have a loving, committed partner in life. It also means a young child who so desperately wants and needs a mother will now have one. But if your God considers this loving, committed and honest union, this new family, to be a sin, then I don't want anything to do with that kind of God."

I know I've lost a friend. I'm not sure if I've lost my religion, or if I am just in one of those questioning phases, but God didn't strike me dead, at least. What I do know is this:

I feel closer to "God" on my morning walks than sitting in a church. I can understand why others might want a church, big or small, and the fellowship of a congregation, and a preacher leading them in service, but I prefer my own mode of worship, with the music of nature to inspire me, and appreciate it when others don’t try to force me into theirs. For me, organized religion is too political, and that political energy creates a barrier between me and that “higher power”.

The words "God Bless You", unless it's in response to a sneeze, irritates me to no end, but if you think you have a right to tell God who and what to bless, the more power to you.

Although I have judged Lisa and figure she's a nut, I really have no right to judge others, as others have no right to judge me, or at least tell me what God has planned for me. God will be the final judge in the end. However, it seems like many Christians I know are also the most judgmental people I know. Not all, but many.

It’s difficult for me to blindly follow, literally, the words in a book that was written by many men, in bits and pieces, thousands of years ago, gathered over centuries from many conflicting sources, compiled, translated, revised, taken out of context, translated and revised again, and used for political gain. Ever hear of the game “Telephone”? Helloooo? Think about a game of Telephone that spans 2000+ years, several languages, several cultures, historical context we have no capacity to comprehend, political and religious turmoil, and the ego of man. And we are supposed to base our lives on this?

So what do these thoughts I'm having say about my faith? Have I lost my religion? Do others have these same questions? Who is to judge?

And She Smiled - a poem in remembrance

And she smiled.

She smiled a smile that I had never seen on her face before, an embarrassed smile, a smile with a blush, the blush of first love.

They played like puppies and cuddled like kittens, and she loved him.

She smiled, and she laughed, and she became a woman.

And he smiled.

He smiled while he loved her, adored her, and gave her his heart.

He pleased her with flowers and balloons, penguins and bears, love letters and turtles.

And they smiled, that smile of deep love.

They smiled, they loved, they swam, they explored, they danced, they slept, they drove, they played, they learned, they watched, they laughed, they called, they talked, they cared, they dreamed, they planned, they fought, they cried, and they parted.

But as they parted they smiled, looking into each others' eyes, a smile of hopeful love.

And she called me and said “Mom he died”.

And she cried.

We cried.

We cried for the loss of his smile, his voice, his laughter, his love for her.

We cried for the loss of their loving future.

I cried for the loss of her smile, the smile of first love, deep love, and hopeful love.

I cried for the loss of my daughter, the woman she had become, so happy in her love for him and his love for her.

I cried for the loss of the strength and the love of life he had given her.

And we remembered.

We remembered how he had made her smile, had made her laugh, had brought her out of her turtle’s shell.

We remembered how he had made her stronger, made her brighter.

We remembered his love, his laugh, his smile.

And we knew.

We knew he would want her to stay strong, stay bright, to be the woman he had helped her become, with his love, his laughter and his smile.

We knew he wouldn’t want her to lose what he had given her through his love.

And we knew he would want her to smile.

And she said “Mom he lived and we loved”.

And we smiled.

And now, again, she loves, and she smiles...

Learning to Let Go

"Don't you dare put another sticker up your nose!" or "Stop stuffing your orange peels between the couch cushions!" are commands not many of us ever imagine we'll have to utter, but we do because we are parents (or aunts and uncles).   And there are questions we don't think we should ever have to ask, like "Are you sure that was just a fart? Do you think you had better go check?" or "Why in the world would you spread chocolate pudding all over your sister's head?", but we do. Heavy sigh. 

Kids do things and say things that make adults shake their heads in wonderment.  Their little minds just view the world and process things differently than ours, and they haven't developed those social filters yet that keep them from blurting out their random thoughts or doing things which are not logical (to adults). As a result they say and do the funniest, cutest or just plain strangest things that make us adults say "Huh?", and sometimes "Duh" if we think about it for a moment and realize where they are coming from.

When my oldest daughter Stephanie, who was 2 1/2 when I gave birth to her sister, came to visit us in the hospital, I presented her with a new baby doll so she could take care of her own baby while I cared for baby Sara.  She loved her new baby and named her Andro Dandro without much thought.  She ogled over Sara for a minute then grabbed Andro Dandro, sat down in the big rocking chair, wrinkled her brow as she looked at the little plastic baby bottle (which she quickly set aside), pulled the eyelet hem of her purple dress up to her neck, placed the doll's face to her bare chest, then proudly "nursed" her like I was nursing Sara.  My sister-in-law pursed her lips and rolled her eyes, but I thought it was the cutest thing ever and it made perfect sense to me.

Stephanie was pretty verbal when she was little so I was able to get good insight into what she was thinking in that cute little overly-worried head of hers.  I could tell by her many questions she was always watching, listening, and thinking, thinking, thinking, worrying, worrying, worrying.  Her big brown eyes showed it.  But although she spoke early she didn't speak clearly when she asked me those revealing questions.  "Is it going to fundow, wain and whightning tonight?", she would ask me every night as I tucked her in. She wouldn't settle into bed until I reassured her it was not going to thunder, rain or lightening, and if it did I was there to keep her safe.

Oh, I just got it...Andro was really Andrew, or maybe Andrea! 

When she was 3 1/2 we planned to move to a larger house and I could tell the pending move worried her.  One day she asked in her whiny voice, "Why aw we moving to dat udow house, Mommy?"

"Because it's bigger," I replied.

She looked thoughtful for a moment then asked, "But wiw I stiw be abow to weach the doe-knobs?"

It still makes me laugh to think about the image she must have had of a "bigger house", with her looking up at a much too tall door and the door knob way out of reach, like a shrunken Alice in Wonderland. 

But this one I don't quite get. I remember once reading on my front porch while my girls, who were about 6 and 8 1/2 years old at the time, played together in the other room. They were being a little too quiet, other than giggles -- first both of them giggling, then just one of them -- so I knew something was up but I was too engrossed in my novel to get up and look.  A few minutes later Stephanie came to me snickering, with a Polaroid photo of her sister Sara staring wide-eyed at the camera and sitting on the floor, with her arms and legs tied tightly with a jump rope, and her mouth gagged. Stephanie had written on the bottom of the photo, "Wanted Dead or Alive". I calmly handed the snapshot back to her and said, "Why do you need a Wanted poster if you already have her?"

"Oh yeah," she replied, disappointed, but then she shrugged and started to turn, with an evil smile forming on her cute little mouth.  I listened closely to make sure she untied Sara, then went back to reading.

Sara was the philosopher when she was little and would say things that didn't make me question so much what she was thinking as much as what I was thinking.  Early on it was her habit to observe adults and then make comments on their behavior.  One time she listened as her father and I bickered because he had thrown my panty hose (this was a long time ago) in the wash with clothing that had Velcro closures (this was a long time ago) and they come out a mass of snags and runs. I couldn't believe he would be so stupid as to wash my pantyhose in the wash with those clothes; he couldn't believe I could be so petty about him washing them.  As we continued to squabble about it Sara followed me, pulling at my shirt, saying "Mommy, but Mommy...".  Finally I stopped and impatiently said, "Sara, what do you want?!"

She looked up at me with her big blue eyes and said "What's more important, a husband or pantyhose?"

A six year old's comment stopped me in my tracks and took my breath away.  Even now, 15 years later, when I or someone else bitches about something petty, I stop and think of those wise words.  "Out of the mouths of babes", as they say.

One time we were eating dinner and I said to my then husband, "Oh, I should probably tell you because I'm sure someone saw us and will tell you, and then you will wonder why I didn't say anything, but I ran into Brad in the parking lot of the grocery store and we talked awhile."

Right away Steph, in her worried tone piped in, "Brad, who is Brad?"

"My high school boyfriend," I replied.

Before her father could speak she quickly jumped back in, while throwing him a worried look, "But I thought he lived far away!"

"He does.  He's back in the area for a job interview."

"Oh great," said their dad, finally getting a turn to speak. "So I suppose you told him you hope he gets the job so you can see more of him?" he huffed and rolled his eyes.

Sara picked up on that one way too fast and said, as she was ready to take a bite of her hotdog, "See more of him, you mean like see his whacker?"

I thought their dad was going to choke on his hotdog.  "Sara, where did you ever hear that word?", I gasped, but the more we questioned her, and tried hard not to laugh about it, the more she said, eventually relating the hotdog she was eating to what she had heard from the boys at the babysitter's about "whackers".

My girls are now 21 and 23 and I miss their little girl voices and their funny ways all too much and all too often. I sure wish I could see those little faces again and hold their tiny bodies in my arms. I know I'm very fortunate to live with another little girl now, one who keeps me in stitches with her hilarious comments and actions, but often I can't help but be sad that my Sara and Stephanie are grown and on their own.  Sometimes when I'm with them I get a blurry glimpse of the adorable little girls they used to be, but mostly I get a clear view of the strong, beautiful women they are becoming. It's just part of being a parent -- putting all you have into raising your children up, then learning to let them go. It makes my heart hurt.

That Other Woman

Recently I have been wondering what they call that gap, that space that lies between the person that we are and the person we aspire to be.  I'm sure psychologists have a name for it but I don't know it yet.  I wonder too what they call the difference between how we perceive ourselves and how others perceive us. My daughter Sara said she learned about this topic in one of her psychology classes and she remembered those gaps relate somehow to depression, which I wasn't surprised to hear. It is funny how we can comprehend things or believe in things even when we don't know the proper names for them or understand the theories behind them.

Sometimes I feel that space between who I want to be and who I am is really small, just a tiny margin, but sometimes I am reminded the gap is huge and the woman I aspire to be is just a blurry mirage somewhere in the distance. The larger the gap the more I beat myself up for not doing what I feel I should be doing in order to become the woman I want to be: not walking enough, cooking more, spending enough time with the kids, saving enough money, doing more for others, being more patient, being more "successful" in my career, painting more, cleaning more, being more adventurous, traveling more -- and I never coupon, Zumba, knit, compost, garden, bake my own bread, run a 5k, etc., etc.  You know, all those things the other women on facebook do.

Some mornings I wake up and take stock of reality, or someone -- a friend, a co-worker, a spouse -- points out something that makes me realize my self-perception doesn't quite match the reality of my actions, and the width of that space is undeniable. It's difficult to realize that you are not what you thought you were, or that space between what you aspire to be and what you are is growing by leaps and bounds.  That is disillusionment.  We have an illusion of ourselves or life in general then realize what we believed isn't true. I think I understand why that would cause depression.

I know all too well you can't just hope to reach a goal, you have to do something to reach the goal -- you have to make a choice to move forward and make an effort to get there. But I am continually reminded that sometimes no matter how hard we try, no matter how much we plan, no matter how much we want it, sometimes things that are out of our control impact the outcome of our efforts.  We simply can't control everything and everyone around us.  We make choices, we make plans, we make a strong effort, but things happen or other people do things that we didn't anticipate. Sometimes our timing is off, or the universe's timing is off, or that greater force--or God--has other plans, and there is another delay in reaching our goal.

That delay often gets me anxious and frustrated. It makes me feel like I didn't try hard enough or I didn't want it bad enough.  It makes me feel like I failed...again.

Often, though, I am reminded that it's not reaching that long sought after goal or set of goals that brings me true happiness.  Really it's all the big and little surprises, the unexpected joys and sorrows, the obstacles and challenges--all the things I didn't plan and anticipate--that make life worth living.

When I least expect it, when I didn't have plans for it, a special person, or several special people, come into my life and give me a new purpose, one I never imagine existed before.  My priorities change. My plans change.  The outcome of all my efforts change and I feel a huge shift in how I feel about myself and my vision for my future. At first, and every once in a while, that shift feels really uncomfortable and I don't know how to deal with it; but, as it feels more comfortable (or maybe I am more accepting of the discomfort), more natural, I realize perhaps that woman I thought I should be, or I was trying to be, isn't at all the woman I am meant to be.

The Whirlwind Romance

Our kids laugh at us because we text each other so often. We have since we started dating.  Before little Laura  realized Craig and I were "girlfriend and boyfriend", when she still thought I was her personal playmate and just another one of the women in their life who was helping out, she teased him about texting me.  "Who are you texting Daddy, Juuuuulieeee?"

His teenage daughter Alyssa rolls her eyes and says "Teenagers are supposed to text, Dad, not old people!"  Those young whipper snappers always think every new fangled contraption was invented for them.

My daughters, Sara and Stephanie, used to complain that I got more texts than they did -- and I had a silly smile on my face when I texted him.  "Are you sexting Mom?" they would ask, in mock disgust.  Ok, maybe it was real disgust.

Even now we text each other several times during the workday and sometimes when we're sitting in the same room together.  I guess it's our way of "whispering sweet nothings" in the only way we can with an 8 year old, teenager, and at least one young adult in the house with us at any given time.

From the beginning Craig saved my texts to reread when we were too busy with our separate lives to spend time together, as he sat on the porch gazing at the stars. He came by his romantic tendencies honestly -- his father recently showed me the letters his young girlfriend, Craig's mother, wrote to him when he was away in the Navy, almost 60 years ago. 

Craig is always telling me I should write the story of how we fell in love, or what I call our "whirlwind romance", and that story would have to include texting because that's how busy people have to communicate...even us old people.

I call our romance a whirlwind romance not only because we dated for such a short time before getting married, but also because it involved a real whirlwind. Craig humors me and says the whirlwind must have been a sign of some sort; I believe that it was, of course. Here is an "excerpt" from our romantic story -- maybe part of a book I want to write someday.

-------

He texted me to ask what I was doing. "Making banana bread", I texted back as I smiled because he was thinking of me. 

"I love banana bread!" he responded.

"I'll save some for you", I quickly typed with my thumbs as I tried to remember how different dating was before cell phones and texting. Things had changed in the 30 years since I had last dated.

"How about bringing me some? I'm out at the park cleaning up the softball diamond, getting things ready for the season. I'm hungry and I could use a break," he texted back a few minutes later, with full punctuation and caps, as I was learning was his habit. 

I smiled again because he wanted to see me. We had been dating for only a few weeks and he always seemed eager to hear from me or to make plans to see me, whether for just a few minutes or several hours. Often in the evenings he texted to say he was doing the dreaded laundry or dishes, he was waiting to to pick up his oldest daughter at softball practice, or he had just tucked his little girl into bed.  He texted me to ask how my day was going or if I was enjoying the sunshine at lunch. We shared details of our work days, our evening meals, and our errands, in between our few planned dates.  It was so nice to hear that "beep" during the day, or just as I lay down at night, which let me know someone special had me on his mind.

I pulled into the park and saw his SUV under a tree on the other side of the parking lot, but since I couldn't tell if there were other open spaces near it, I parked in the first available parking space. Near the path leading to the diamond I saw him watching for me and he smiled and waved as he recognized me. I got out of my car with my foil packet of banana bread -- just one piece so he would have to come over to my house if he wanted more. I was a little bit self conscious as I walked toward him but when I saw the pleasure on his face I felt more relaxed. The park around me blurred and sounds of the kids playing muffled; all there was for me at that moment was that smiling man walking toward me with sunshine on his face and cool breeze blowing his hair.   

I think he touched my arm and kissed my cheek as we met, but I don't remember for sure. We walked close together, our arms touching, toward his SUV that was parked in a small island of grass in the circle drive. He opened the driver's side door and put the banana bread inside, and then hesitated before motioning into the vehicle with a nod of his head and a lift of his eyebrow.

I replied, "This is fine, it's nice out here", as I leaned against the fender. He shut the car door then moved close to me, touching my hand and wrapping one finger around my little finger as he leaned next to me. He turned his head, grinned and stared at me but didn't say anything, so I said "What?", but he simply replied with a "What?" of his own, then turned his body toward me, still leaning on the car. 

Not knowing what to say, I mentioned the weather, of course.  "It sure feels like spring. The sun is warm but the air is still cool." He agreed, as we looked around us at the island of grass that was beginning to waken and turn green after the long winter.

"I'm so glad the winter is over", he said, still staring at me.

We stood talking, and now holding hands not just fingers, as people both of us knew, or one of us knew, walked around their cars to load up their cleaning supplies, lawn-care equipment, and softball bats. When they saw us standing there together, holding hands, their faces registered a look of surprise, then confusion, then a huge eye-twinkling smile.  Very few people in town knew we were dating, and many had no idea I had been divorced for 6 months (alone much longer), but most had been "looking out" for him and his family since his wife passed away a year and a half earlier. I'm sure some who saw us, especially those who don't know what it is like to be alone for so long, or who don't understand loss like we do, thought it was a little soon for either of us to be dating.

"People can see us, you know," I said as he leaned closer to me.

"I don't care", he replied, still looking into my eyes, with a quick glance to my mouth. "I'm proud to show off my beautiful girlfriend. And to be fair I did try to get you into my car, you know, hoping I might get a kiss."

"Oh, so I'm officially your girlfriend? I feel a little old to be called girlfriend."

He smiled and said softly, "If you want to be my girlfriend."  

"Hmmm, I'll have to think about that...oh, look at that!" I changed the subject as I pointed around him to the left of us, to a pile of dried, decaying leaves that had lifted a few inches off the ground to slowly blow round and round in a circle. "It's a little whirlwind".

He looked at where I was pointing and the two of us quietly watched as more leaves, twigs, dust and dirt joined the small whirlwind as it picked up speed and circled in front of us, following the curve of the gravel drive. We watched in awe as it completed the semi-circle, twirling round and round, and lifted off the ground to the right of us, then blew off with a gust into the sky.

We looked at each other with our eyes wide and laughed. "Whoa", I said, "That was strange! Have you ever seen one like that? Usually they just blow for a few seconds then die off, but that one just kept going around us, like our own personal whirlwind. Think it meant something?"

"I think it means we're supposed to be together," he said as he pulled me close.

"Yes, I would like to be your girlfriend," I answered. 

Toilet Paper & Divorce

A single roll of toilet paper will forever represent my failed marriage.

We surprised each other and ourselves by how easily we divided our belongings and agreed on what he should take with him when he left the family to set up his new household. A few days before he moved, we went through the kitchen cabinets to divide our dishes, cookware, utensils and storage containers.  I pulled things out one by one and said things like, "Your aunt gave these snack plates to me as a wedding shower gift, but you should take them, since they were from your family and you are more likely to use them, being on your own, and all." Or, "You gave that cookware set to me for our 23rd anniversary, so I think I should keep it -- all the pieces -- since it was a gift", and he agreed. Or, "This is a box of extra pieces of silverware we received as a wedding gift.  We haven't used them much so you might as well have them, instead of buying new ones."  My eyes swelled with tears and my voice caught in my throat, as I handed the box to him.

And I told him he should take the big screen TV because he was the one who wanted to buy it so badly and he paid dearly for it. I also told him to take the living room sofa, chair and ottoman since he liked them so much (and slept on them so well) -- and he didn't mind they hadn't been cleaned in seven years.  I never thought they were very comfortable, and if one of us had to buy new ones I really didn't mind doing so (especially if he was going to help me pay for them).

Even on the day he moved, as he packed the moving truck and asked if he could take things, we discussed each item and made the decision together, calmly and adult like -- until I walked into the bathroom. When I saw the box filled with his toiletries, along with two rolls of toilet paper, I almost came unglued.  I looked in the cabinet where I stored the extra TP and saw -- GASP-- just two rolls left!  In the whole time we had been married, I don't think I had ever allowed us to get down to just two rolls of toilet paper.  

As he walked past me to get something else out of the closet I said in disbelief, "You are taking my toilet paper?"

He stopped in his tracks and looked at me with wide eyes -- married women know the look -- and replied meekly, "I don't have any at the new apartment”.

"You are going to live right across the street from a giant grocery store that sells thousands of rolls of toilet paper cheaper than I can buy it here in town, and you are going to take myyyyyy toilet paper?", I exclaimed with frustration in my voice and my hand on my hip (married men know the pose). "It's bad enough that you…“  I bit my tongue then continued, “you aren't going to inconvenience me like that!"

He replied, now rolling his eyes and shaking his head, "I just thought one roll would be okay."

"One roll?"  I gasped, now with both hands on my hips and my foot tapping. "There are two rolls in the box!  You said one roll, but there are two rolls, don't you see?", I said, then pointed to the box.

He looked at me in disbelief and said, "Okay, I'll take just one roll!  I can't believe you would argue with me over a roll of toilet paper! Okay, I'll take one roll!"

"Okay", I said, and quickly walked away, trying not to look at the other boxes he had packed.

A little while later I heard him tell our daughter and her boyfriend I argued with him about a roll of toilet paper, that it was just like me to argue over something stupid like that. Then he shut the door on the back of the moving truck, jumped into the driver‘s seat and adjusted the rear view mirror, although I noticed he didn‘t look into it as he drove off.

Later that day, a friend stopped by to see how I was doing and I calmly told her how the only thing we argued over was one roll of toilet paper.  We talked about it, we laughed and she comforted me.

The next morning, when I opened the back door to step out onto the deck, there was a gift bag sitting next to the door. I removed the card, opened it and read,

"I just wanted to give you a little "pick-me-up" as well as a little "security".  Keep it in a safe place so you'll never run out.  May it also be a reminder that you have MANY people who will be there for you in times of need.  It may be difficult, but all you have to do is pick up the phone and call!" It was signed by my dear friend.

Inside the bag was a double roll of toilet paper, one of the most meaningful gifts I've ever received.  The next time I see my friend I will have to tell her I have already used the toilet paper and I am not as worried about running out as I used to be.

Her Message

It had been a particularly stressful week, early in our marriage, and I couldn‘t sleep.  I was still trying to get used to living in a different home, with furniture, dishes, cookware, linens, books, and photographs that had belonged to another woman, a woman who was no longer living. I was still trying to get used to taking care of three kids that were not mine -- a 7 year old, a 16 year old and a 21 year old who had recently dropped out of school and had moved back home, while missing my own daughters who were away at college.  I was still trying to get used to living with my new husband, a man I had known for only a year -- different habits, different temperament, different tastes in food, different family members, different friends, different past, different goals for the future. I had just lost my job -- the 3rd one in 3 years --  and I worried about money and the future.  I didn’t feel like I was dealing with all my changes and challenges very well and it showed in how I responded to the kids and my husband when any new stress emerged.  I worried that I might not be able to fulfill my new roll well, that I might disappoint my new family, or cause them more stress. I was afraid my stress was turning into distress. 

So I couldn’t sleep, during a particularly stressful night, during this particularly stressful week.  After I tossed and turned for quite a while I worried about waking him, so I went out to sit on the couch, in the family room, in a house which didn’t yet feel like mine.  I sat and stared into the dark and felt terribly alone, terribly out of place, missing my girls, missing my cat who would have comforted me if I was living in my old home, missing my things, worrying about the future, and I said out loud “Oh Lord, what do I do? How do I get through this?”

Instantly I felt very thirsty. Not just thirsty --  incredibly thirsty. I got up and went to the kitchen, the kitchen which still felt to me like her kitchen, and reached into the cabinet to get a glass, one of the only glasses there that was mine, and turned to the sink to get water. As I stood there waiting for the water to run cool I noticed something sticking out of a little drawer in the oak roll top breadbox next to the sink.  I turned on the light over the sink and saw it was a piece of colored tape from a food package I had opened earlier that day, as I made a meal for her family.  It was stuck to the inside of the drawer, sticking up like one of those Post-it tabs you use to mark an important place in a book.  As I drank my glass of water I contemplated the tape and was puzzled as to how it came to be sticking out of the drawer. I grabbed it and pulled but it was stuck pretty tight; someone would have had to have opened the drawer and stuck it there intentionally, I thought, but why? 

Then all of a sudden I knew I was supposed to open that drawer. There was something there I was meant to see.   I had only opened it once or twice since I had lived there, to find birthday candles (that’s another story I will share another time), batteries, or a rubber band, and each time I felt like I was snooping in someone else’s belongings. Feeling like I was opening an old jewelry box in my grandmother’s attic, I slowly opened the drawer and began to look through the contents.  Those batteries: were they used or new? Those random birthday candles: I wonder for whose birthday she bought them? A key: was it her key and to what did it belong? A broken piece from a child’s toy: did she put it there with plans to fix the toy on another day? I moved all the odds and ends aside and what I found was a chain attached to a glass cross lying face down, with tiny flowers pressed between the pieces of glass.  I picked up the cross, turned it over and read the quote printed in the crux of the cross: “With Faith, Live One Day at a Time”.