Getting Yelled at by Grandma

I find it ironic that--just hours before my grandma yelled at me for the first (and only) time--I had taken a photo of a billboard for the Milton Hershey school: "Where Kisses Make Dreams Come True."  Jim, Cade, and I had spent the day at Hershey Park with my Aunt Ellie and her family, who had moved into the downstairs apartment of Grandma's house in order to keep an eye on her.  We returned from Hershey Park to find Grandma had forgotten that my family and I were staying with her in her upstairs apartment; she had locked us out.  We called and woke her up, and she came to the door yelling: "I'm so mad I could just spit!"

I was devastated.  This was in the first half of 2008.  On my next trip north, in early 2009, Grandma had relocated to an assisted-living facility.  I was pregnant with Clementine: miserable with the weight of her and sick from gestational diabetes.  I stayed at Grandma's house (where my mom and her sisters were cleaning out cupboards), and I couldn't get Jim's truck up her icy hill; my Uncle Danny had to come back and assist.  I have these random, vivid memories of checking my blood sugar outside the assisted-living facility, of barely managing to hold it together when--for the first time--it was clear that Grandma didn't know me, of bawling my eyes out when I climbed back into the freezing-cold truck, of comfort bingeing on a Filet-O-Fish and french fries from McDonald's on the drive home and subsequently feeling my sickest, yet: like I might just slip into a diabetic coma.

It's interesting to me how a hundred people can know one person and each love her for different reasons.  The grandma I grew up knowing was very authentic and comfortable with herself.  Nothing tended to go perfectly for her; things broke, tore, and caught on fire, and the animals always seemed to break loose when she was around.  But she always just kind of laughed through it, and--I guess after raising seven kids--she'd become this person who really didn't give much of a rip about anything unimportant.  She didn't wear make-up, bother much with her hair, or wear dressy clothes or shoes.  She was a decent housekeeper, but she didn't care if everything was put away just so, and she didn't seem to mind a little dust, especially on the high shelves.  She loved Grandad but found him irritating, often, and didn't mind his knowing it.  She was never a morning person.  She talked frankly on all subjects (including taboo ones) and especially enjoyed reminiscing about family experiences, which she remembered in great detail.  She loved to write letters, talk on the phone, embroider and sew for others, and make hospital and nursing-home visits.  She wasn't the best cook in the world, but she made killer cheesy eggs.  She went to church.  She loved all people, especially babies and children.  She ran around with my other grandma.  She liked me for exactly who I was. 

I am so disappointed that Alzheimer's Disease is stealing Grandma from me, bit by bit.  None of us lives forever, and she's ninety-two; still, I hate losing her.  I sit with her and try not to cry when I tell her: "I remember brushing your hair when I was a little girl, before you cut it short," or, "I remember staying the night and falling asleep talking to you in the dark." (This happened over and over, even after Cade was born.)  It rips my heart out to have become a stranger to this person who really, really knew me.  But I am drawn to her like a moth to a flame because--although I have been completely erased from her memory--she still loves Jesus and all people, especially babies and children.  I am drawn to her because there are bittersweet lessons to be learned at her side.  They involve being hospitable to strangers (some of whom, mysteriously, seem to know her?)...also how Jesus is unforgettable for so much longer than certain relatives and friends, even the ones she bathed and took to Vacation Bible School.  So I make the trip when I can (even though it wrecks me, inside, for weeks afterward), and I say things like: "I remember digging through your pocketbook during church."

She raises her eyebrows and asks: "Oh, really? What was in there?"

I shrug and answer: "Chewing gum.  Peppermints.  Kleenex."

She says: "Well, there probably wasn't much money in there.  I never had much of that."

And I think: no.  But you had so much and gave so much, and I love you more than I could ever say, and--even though you're right here beside me--I miss you like crazy.

Grandma B. with Aunt Joyce, Uncle Ronnie, Uncle Danny, and Uncle Richard. This was before Uncle Tom, Mom, and Aunt Ellie were born. Late 40's.



Grandma B. and Me - 1977ish

Grandma B. with Cade - 2000

Grandma B. with Mom and My Daughters - 2010

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

Mister Rogers Photo from My Fridge

My former Composition II (argument and rhetoric) students will tell you: I just love Mister Rogers, who played a pivotal role in the most dynamic lesson I've ever planned or delivered.  But first--close to thirty years before I brought him into my classroom--my mother used Mister Rogers to teach me a different lesson.  This is how it went:

I was, like, three years old. Maybe four.  Five days a week, my mother paid me to watch Mister Rogers' Neighborhood so I wouldn't be underfoot while she prepared dinner.  On this particular day--for whatever reason--I wasn't about it.  My mother announced, in her sing-songy manner: "Brandy (because I was, indeed, Brandy with a "y" in those days), it's time to watch Mister Rogers!"

I answered: "No. I don't want to."

My mother, never one to become easily discouraged, trilled, ever-so-sweetly: "Don't be silly. Of course you want to watch Mister Rogers."

I replied: "No. I don't. I don't want to watch Mister Rogers today."

At this point, my mother's tone changed just a weensy bit, and she asserted gently: "Now, Brandy, you know Mommy needs to make dinner.  You stop this and sit down and watch Mister Rogers.  You love Mister Rogers!"

I looked at my mother, stomped my foot, and yelled: "NO! I don't want to watch Mister Rogers! I hate Mister Rogers! I hate him! I hate him! I hate him!"

And my mother--with perfect calm (albeit a squint to her eyes and a slightly sharp edge to her voice)--responded like this: "Brandy Renee.  Do you know that Mister Rogers just heard everything you said?  Look at him there, on the tv screen.  Think how hard it must be for him to keep talking after hearing you say you hate him.  You should be ashamed of yourself!  He's always so nice to you, and you have been so mean to him!" 

I burst into tears and set to making things right with Mister Rogers.  My mother left the room to prepare dinner.  I spent the next several years believing I could communicate with people through the television, and I was never again unkind to Mister Rogers.

Now you know, ladies and gentleman, why I am so messed up.

But seriously: Mister Rogers was a good guy, and you'll never find evidence that he was anything other than the gentle man we all watched on PBS.  I keep his photo on my refrigerator, and I try to look at it, every day, with fresh eyes.  When the question "What would Jesus do?" intimidates me, the question "What would Mister Rogers do?" feels comfortable in the way I imagine his zippered, cardigan sweaters did.  (They were knitted by his mother, by the way.)  And--while I have a long way to go in living my life like Mister Rogers did (let alone like Jesus did)--I can tell you, honestly: the desire is there.

Mister Rogers cared about being a good neighbor.  So did Jesus, who said (in Matthew 22:39): "Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself."  I thought of both Mister Rogers and Jesus, today, because I dropped in, unannounced, on two different neighbors and came home with three pies.  My neighbors have plowed my driveway; cared for Clementine in the nursery of my church and parking lot of my pediatricians' office; fed my cats and collected my mail; and shown up at my doorstep with coupons, deviled eggs, clothes for my children, and desserts.  When Clementine was nine months old, and I started sharing the news that Jim (whom we all knew was about to lose his job) and I were pregnant, again, most of our loved ones were (understandably) concerned and responded with: "Really?," "Oh my," "Wow," or, "Ok then."  But not my neighbor Virginia Ann.  She squealed so loudly that she startled me, and I nearly fell off my chair!  And I think her sheer delight in that moment--when it felt like the world might just cave in--was the best gift she's ever given me. 

I have lived in many places where I did not even know my neighbors, let alone love them.  Mister Rogers would be proud of these people, and I am happy to use up this space in saying: thank you, Jesus, for my neighbors.

Crappy Old Kansas

On bad days, I feel sorry for myself because I'm an eight-hour drive from my parents and brother's family and a four-hour drive from most of my other relatives...and because I can't do anything about it (joint-custodial relationship of Cade, blah blah blah).   Holidays, often, are pretty much the same as Saturdays except with brown-sugar ham.  I mean, brown-sugar ham is nice and all, but I feel like I'm missing out in being so far away from my family.  (I'm not yet at the Caroline Ingalls point of [to her husband Charles]: "My home is where you are. And you and the children are my family."  To be honest, I'd like to smack Caroline right about now.)  Holidays can be especially depressing when Cade's with his dad.  I just...UGH!...feel like someone has kicked me in the gut, sometimes, when Cade's away. 

And I could go on and on.  Actually, maybe I will for awhile.  You're not a captive audience, so I don't feel sorry for you.  You can close this mess down whenever you want.

My family hardly ever visits me here.  I'm pretty sure that--in 2010--the only people biologically linked to me who have been to my house are my mom, my cousin-sister Andrea, and my Aunt Ellie's family.  I'm guessing everyone else is thinking that I'm the one who moved away from home, so I'm the one who should travel in order to make visits possible.  That's somewhat fair.  I don't mind doing, say, seventy-five percent of the traveling.  But at what point do the family members to whom I am close (excluding my grandma, who gets a permanent, free pass) think: wow, Brandee is making a real effort to maintain our relationship, and she has little kids, so I think I'll travel this time?  I would yell at some of them, but--honest to Pete--I'm so happy to see them when I get to wherever they live that I temporarily forget all my bad feelings.  It's when Jim, the girls, and I are eating brown-sugar ham by ourselves that I have the trouble.

On the up side.  1) I have family members with whom I actually want to spend time.  Lots and lots of them, since my mom is one of seven children, and my dad is one of five.  2) It's not like I NEVER see my family members.  (It feels like never sometimes, but it's not never.)  Poor Caroline Ingalls: when she let Charles drag her hind end across the country, she wasn't sure if she would EVER see her people again!  3) The cousin-sister and cousin-niece live only forty-five minutes away.  I get to see them a little more often than most of the other people in my family.  (Note to self: I should make more of an effort, there.)  4) Jim and I have some darling friends in Powhatan who go out of their way to include us in their family experiences.  Pretty cool of them.

I was watching The Wizard of Oz with Clementine (who might be more obsessed with it than I) again, today, and I got to thinking: that Dorothy!  At the end of the movie, she trades her Technicolor Oz of besties, glittery shoes, and fascinating opportunities for crappy old, black-and-white Kansas.  She's killed the enemies in Oz, but Miss Gulch is still riding her sad bicycle somewhere around Auntie Em's and Uncle Henry's farmhouse; you know she is!  She'll be coming back for Toto!  And as soon as everyone at Dorothy's bedside sees that she really is ok, they're going to go back to ignoring her while they count chickens and tend hogs.  So why in the world does she go back to Kansas?  Easy: because her family is there.

*sigh* I have the sense that I'm in Oz, longing for Kansas.

So, anyway, if you're in my family, try not to get too angry with me because of this blog post.  Just come visit me, sometime!  I am longing for your company and will be so, so happy to see you. I will bake you cookies: any kind you want!  I will sing, dance, whatever it takes to entertain you!  And--if you can't manage the drive--can you, like, call me sometime?

Man.  That would be so awesome.

You'll Shoot Your Eye Out

How The Christmas Story is this?...

Cade, who will turn eleven in January, had been talking for a couple of weeks about Airsoft wars in the woods behind his dad's house, and I (thinking along the lines of NERF guns) had been, for the most part, tuning him out.  If anything, I had been excited that my "nice nerdy" had been getting some fresh air, hanging out with other kids, and doing something besides reading and playing video games.  But, today, he came home with a black-and-blue thumbnail and explained that someone had shot him with an Airsoft gun from a distance of about two feet.  I got immediately on the Internet to research.

What I learned is that anyone who expects to be shot with an Airsoft gun should wear (at a bare minimum) protective eye gear.  Airsoft ammunition can be damaging if it hits the bare eye or an eye covered by a lens.  A prescription eyeglass lens, like Cade's, or a sunglasses lens can break if struck, and the shattered material can damage the eye.  A shooter should make every effort to avoid hitting someone in the face, in general, also to maintain a safe shooting distance of at least ten feet.  Beyond the requirement that Airsoft guns have orange tips when sold commercially, there do not seem to be any federal laws related to Airsoft guns in the United States, although some states, cities, and population centers have laws related to the weapons' purchase and use.  Not to put too fine a point on it: I want Cade to have both adult supervision and goggles if people are going to shoot Airsoft guns near (or at!) him.

After many Cade tears, many Cade sighs, a couple of Cade stomps, a conversation between Jim and me, a conversation between Cade's dad and me, a conversation between Cade and his dad, a conversation between Cade and Jim, and several conversations between Cade and me, my growing boy is now sleeping peacefully in his bed.  Perhaps the most tragic part of the story is that--when I had told Cade I knew what he wanted for Christmas more than he did and thought his surprise gift would be his favorite--I had been referring to a keyboard, while he had started envisioning an Airsoft gun under our Christmas tree.  Thus, his hopes were dashed when I assured him, tonight, that neither Mommy nor Santa will be giving him an Airsoft gun for Christmas.  (Mommy will make sure that neither Daddy nor anyone else gives him one, either, but I decided not to say that part out loud.)

Even when my child is saying stupid things like: "But, Mom, I like being shot with Airsoft guns because it hurts, and that makes the war seem real and makes me want to hide behind things," and, "You are making things more dangerous for me by not buying me an Airsoft gun to use to defend myself," it is hard to watch his big beautiful, greenish eyes fill with tears.  But then I remember that this is a matter of my child maintaining eyeballs with which to cry.  I told him tonight that I am responsible for his health in every regard: physical, sexual, emotional, and mental, and that there were two words for what was happening between us: good parenting.

So *sigh* Mommy gets to be the bad guy one more time.  Awesome.

It Was Like a Trip to The Dentist

I spent part of Tuesday evening discussing Hebrews 4, which I found, and still find, particularly hard to understand.  It's like--no matter how many times I read the chapter (and regardless of which translation of the Bible I use) or how many commentaries I read on it--something isn't quite clicking.  I realize that my being exhausted contributes to the problem.  The irony in this is that Hebrews 4 is to a large extent on the subject of rest: God's resting on the seventh day, the rest of sabbath, the lost opportunity to rest for those under Joshua's leadership, the possibility of rest at the end of our lives, and maybe? rest in a peaceful state even as we journey through life.  

On Wednesday, both of the babies fell asleep (a miracle in and of itself), and I was in the bathroom leafing through the September 2010 issue of O (Go ahead and laugh if you must!) when I came across "Lying Low," which caught my attention because, in it, Martha Beck says a great deal about--you guessed it!--rest! Granted, she doesn't have the authoritative voice of Paul or whoever actually wrote Hebrews, but she's a whole lot easier to understand, and she has some pretty good points.  I particularly like it when she writes: "If nothing's working for you, if you feel as though you're pushing forward against the grain, the most productive and proactive thing you can do is nothing.  Nature is turning you inward, to gain power through peace, rather than outward to gain power through activity."

I finished the article, left the bathroom, and decided that--even though I felt like He had been trying to impart something for a couple of days--God wasn't making much sense to me.  So I decided to listen to Martha Beck, and I curled up under a fleece blanket on my couch and slept, hard, for thirty minutes until the phone rang and Clementine started yelling, from upstairs: "Mom! Down! Diapers! Mom! Milk!"

The interesting thing is that--after my power nap--I had kind of a cathartic moment related to some of the mess that's been in my head (more on that, later) and what to do about it (more on that, later, too).  It was almost as though--after days of hearing His voice as if it were only slightly clearer than that of an adult character in a Peanuts movie (mwah mwah mwah)--I could comprehend at least part of what God was trying to say.

Yesterday (Thursday) I felt a little better than I did on Wednesday, which was a little better than I felt on Tuesday and quite a bit better than I felt on Monday: less like everyone hates me. I have the plan that God gave me, and, yesterday, I began to execute it.  It pertains to other people.  Oh, and yesterday my Word for the Day (gratefulness.org) was from Mother Teresa: "If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other."  That feels like a piece of my puzzle.

I don't know if I can make it all come together in words the way it has on the inside, in a more wordless way.  As an aside--when I grasp truth from God--it feels in my heart the same way the piece of plastic (containing the x-ray film) used to feel in my mouth when I bit down on it during a trip to the dentist: substantial, basic but complex, discerning and informative.  Anyway, it goes something like this: rest is the goal.  It is in various states of rest that we experience peace, receive direction from God in how to serve others (and the serving brings its own peace to our lives), recharge, and experience God's mercy.  Hebrews 4 reminds us that our Mediator is no stranger to our struggles and is therefore able to help us with perfect empathy. 

And so I come back to this: I am not alone.  God loves me.  He has a plan for my life and will not allow me to become lost, friendless, in a dark pocket of my brain.

2605 Whiteclift Drive and 8202 Shelley Road

Just to be honest, I've found it a bit challenging to get my Christmas on with two babies, especially because the younger is attached to me (often literally, and I don't pump). Somehow, I decided the Tacky Lights Tour would be just the thing to alleviate my melancholy this evening. Only Clementine shared my enthusiasm about leaving the house, but I was encouraged by her excited donning of fuzzy pink hat and dancy sing-songing: "Go! Go! Go!" And the other family members didn't protest very long, or loudly.

The five of us hit eight stops on the Tour, which turned out to be the perfect number for our family. Each stop was magical in its own way, but two impacted me in particular. The first of these was 2605 Whiteclift Drive. The homeowners Dabrishus had prepared a very nice, detailed letter explaining that--after over a decade--this will be their last year to participate in Tacky Lights. Two of their three children (helpers) are in college out of state, and the third is a busy, high-school athlete. The homeowners are offering all of their lights for sale in a kind of "silent auction."

The second stop to impact me was 8202 Shelley Road, where we watched lights dance to music playing on 99.5 FM. Homeowners Shuler and Hatcher had food-bank donation boxes in their yard, as well as an "In Loving Memory" sign. The sign explained that their son Ralph--who had helped design and build their lightshow--passed away in October, and that they are participating in Tacky Lights this year only because that's what Ralph would want.

So. I expected to be dazzled by lights this evening, and I was. What I didn't expect was to come away from the Tacky Lights Tour with a greater appreciation of the season, and I refer not to the Christmas season, but to the life season.

This season of my life is not conducive to Christmas shopping; ice skating; preparing and sending two-hundred Christmas cards (or visiting the post office, in general); wrapping presents; decorating with anything that can deliver an electric shock, tip over, or be broken; drinking egg nog with liquor in it (which is the only kind I would bother drinking) or coffee with Saint Brendan's in it; sitting by the fireplace; attending a Christmas play or concert; etc. etc. ET FREAKIN' CETERA. And--trust me--I could go on and on, because I've felt a measure of disappointment over each and every thing I cannot do with ease, or at all, this Christmas season.

But these babies will grow into people who can live out my temporarily-lost traditions with me, and how wonderful will that be?! And the day will come when they're away at college, and how badly will I miss them?! And the day will come that I am separated from them by death (mine, I pray, and not theirs), and how [fill in the blank: I don't even want to try to figure it out] will that be?!

For now, they're so precious just the way they are: MeMe drawling out, with delight, "Baaaaby Jeeeesus!" as though she's from the Deep South, and Charleigh just trying to focus her big, round eyes.

So listen up, Folks. The Tacky Lights masters of 2605 Whiteclift Drive and 8202 Shelley Road might be the ONLY people who receive Christmas cards from Brandee Shafer in 2010, but, truly, I can't wait to prepare and send them! And may God bless the Dabrishus and Shuler-Hatcher families in their respective Christmas and life seasons!

A Day in My Life

The last two weeks or so have been interesting. No sooner did I become comfortable with Baby Charleigh than my body decided it could get pregnant again. Don't misunderstand: I'm not pregnant again, but my body has recovered from its ordeal and is functioning, again, as though waiting to get pregnant. As is typical for me when my body resumes its normal pattern, my hair has begun falling out by the fistful. What is atypical for me is that I have been in the dumps day after day...even though nothing overly negative has happened, and despite my rational mind's knowing that I have everything in the world for which to be profoundly grateful.

The good news is that--while I am bluesy--I am really enjoying the babies. I enjoyed them even today, which involved an average amount of breastmilk but an excessive amount of poop and puke. At one point, Charleigh threw up so much that I had to bathe her and change her clothes, wash the bouncy-seat cover, and wipe up the kitchen floor. Still, she didn't seem particularly "sick" to me, and I decided that the babies and I should meet Jim for dinner.

On the drive to Short Pump, I heard a vomiting sound behind me. I assumed, initially, that Charleigh was making the noise but discovered upon glancing into the rear-view mirror that Clementine had just thrown up an unchewed orange slice, a fist-sized portion of Kraft macaroni and cheese, and half a peanut-butter sandwich. I pulled over into a bank parking lot, wiped her and her car seat off best I could, and changed her clothes. As I proceeded to the restaurant (wearing make-up but smelling like puke), I realized that--in a zombie-like state--I had changed three dirty diapers for Clementine earlier in the day, which involved way more poop than usual.

Dinner was nice enough, and the drive home was quiet. I felt a little bit cheerier than I had, earlier, and my mind turned with gratitude toward the conversations I'd had on this Thursday: with a friend gifted in pastoral care, a good friend from high school, a close friend from college, my mom, and my husband. I realized with a start that I'd talked with all these but not with God! I started praying aloud, and there was a point in my prayer at which I said something about being a light...after which little MeMe (whom I'd assumed was asleep) chimed in: "Light! Light! Light!"

And what more is there, really? Nothing is easy, nothing is perfect, and there were three more dirty diapers after the "point of light" in my evening. (Two belonged to Clementine, who required a bath and Pedialyte for what is obviously diarrhea.) Charleigh is even now, at 2:37 AM, cooing, making baby pig noises, and staring at me with big, bright eyes. But I love them--and my boy, who went to sleep under his dad's roof, tonight--with a love that overwhelms and shatters me. I would not trade places with anyone in this big, old world because the hormonally-wrecked person writing this is the only one who gets to be their mom. There are people who really love me and make time for me...even in my moodiness. And God is right here and awake with me at 2:48 AM, although Charleigh has finally drifted off to sleep.

Sweet dreams.