Ren Van de Kamp

Ren presenting a project in one of her classes this year. Doesn't she look so Breeish in that apron?

If you know me personally you know that I was quite the spoiled child growing up. And if you don’t know me personally but have read even a few of my posts, you are probably clued in by now, as well.

Before I continue let me clarify what I mean and what I don’t mean by spoiled. The kind of spoiling my parents did was not with $$$. Unlike many kids today (including a certain lad of five I know) who feel entitled to something each and every time their dear mom or dad has to drop by some market for a gallon of milk, I wasn’t treated to toys or candy every time we went walked through the doors of the Big K or TG&Y. By the way, I realize I have clearly dated myself with the stores mentioned above. If you are younger than 30 you are probably thinking, “What the heck is a TG&Y? Some kind of yogurt shop?”.

I was spoiled another way. Because hers was a hard childhood, my mom wanted to make sure mine was easy. And it was! (In my mind I just sounded like Forrest Gump saying that.) She did absolutely everything for me. I rarely, if ever, made a bed or dusted or helped with cooking. My closets and drawers were magical places where pairs of socks and jeans routinely replaced themselves. I cannot recall even one time that I was without several clean changes of clothes. Come to think of it, I don’t even think I ever saw the bottom of any drawer in my dresser. And the same held true for towels. Never did I have to use an old, damp towel. Not only were there always plenty on hand, they were IRONED.

I did help with the dishes once. I was about 16 and my father was unhappy that I never offered to help out and seemed unappreciative of all my mom’s hard work. So, he was determined one evening that I would wash the supper dishes. As I recall, he even stood over me (or close by) with a certain leather strap, aka The Belt, in hand. Swallowing hard and bravely forcing my hand into the DIRTY DISH WATER, I pulled up what I thought to be the rag and there, draped over my dainty, clearly not-meant-for-manual-labor fingers, was a slimy tomato slice. I have been told that my eyes rolled back in my head and I passed out on the spot! If you want a clearer mental picture of how this would have looked just watch/remember the scene in Stand By Me where Gordie finds the leech. I was never again asked or made to do the dishes.

Yes, I led a charmed life. And it was fabulous! But then I went and got hitched. And for a while, I was found to be somewhat lacking in the domestication department.

Luckily for Ren, I am not as loving and caring a woman as my mother was. She cleans her own room and bathroom, helps with laundry, and is not afraid to fix something to eat should hunger pains strike.

One of our favorite shows to watch together is Desperate Housewives and a favorite thing to do while watching is to laugh about which character(s) we are most alike. Ren loves Gabby’s style but has said she would one day like to be like Bree, minus the dysfunctional family. Seems, according to my daughter, I am a mixture of Susan (who doesn’t cook) and Lynette (easily exasperated with her husband and offspring) and, give it a year or two, Ms. McCluskey.

Have a great weekend, everyone. I am Tyla and I am in the market for a housekeeper. Just kidding. But it would be awesome if I had someone to do my floors. I can pay in peanuts, with cashews thrown in for those willing to do baseboards.

The First Best Day of My Life

Dear Ren,

Fifteen years ago today I met someone most dear. You. You came in the form of pink, fleshy softness with a perfectly round head and purple feet and will one day be the person who decides in which nursing home I should live. I hope we’re on good terms then :>).

You have brought me joy and a certain amount of agnst, typical for moms and daughters, over these years. But mostly joy. And happiness. And laughter. Even the story of your birth is partly humorous to those who know me and my low level tolerance for pain. I should have known then you would be quite the cut-up. So today I will share it with you, just in case one day you want to know all the little details. And keep in mind, your momma’s a wuss. No, I’m not proud of that fact, but it’s who I am.

Let me start by saying you were planned. And when I say planned I mean really planned, as in charts and thermometers planned. It’s almost as if we hand picked you from the millions of possible yous you could have been.

The week before your ETA I asked my ob-gyn if it would be possible to be induced on your exact due date and she agreed, so September 25 it was. Honestly, had I waited and let nature take its course you would probably be celebrating your birthday in October.

The night of the 24th your dad and I talked about the fact that we were likely spending our last worry-free night. We've since found out that we were correct in that thought.

A few hours later, though, I was up early getting ready to head to the hospital. I arrived, checked in, and within a short time was in my bed sitting up all nice and pretty with a smile on my face. The first nurse to arrive remarked that I must be one of the moms being induced that day. “Why, yes I am. But how did you know,” I asked. She answered that, “most women who come in already in labor don’t take time to fix their hair and put on makeup.” Oh.

My preliminary impression of being induced was this...you go in, they give you a medicine in drip-form through an IV, and this causes your body to, within a matter of an hour or two tops, birth a baby. No fuss! No muss!

My postliminary impression of being induced was this...you go in, they give you medicine via an IV, and this causes your body, a body that is not ready to have a baby, to go into hyper drive with contractions trying to force something out that is, again, not ready to come out. And along with this you also get to experience such wonderful things as enemas (described to a naive you as “just some nice warm water in a bag.”) and internal monitors put in place by a lady with a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt.

The baby-inducing drug started to flow into my system at approximately eight o’clock that morning. By eight-thirty I was no longer sitting up all nice and pretty with a smile on my face. My body, which before now had not even hinted at contracting, not even via those fake Braxton Hicks' ones, was squeezing and contorting and flexing, making me feel like one big spasm. I was in my drug-induced labor and was experiencing what they called “back labor”. And it hurt! Bad! A little Demerol was given to “take the edge off.” The edge remained. I was beginning to wonder if the tales of epidurals and spinal blocks were all some big hoax. Where were these miracles of science that would allow me to give birth and at the same time play a hand of cards with friends or take walks down the hall in my bathrobe holding hands with your dad?

After much writhing and grinding and weeping and gnashing I begged for relief. “Pleeeease, won’t you just do that thing where I don’t feel anything from my ankles up,” I beseeched. It seems that doctors do not like to give epidurals until one’s cervix has dilated somewhere in the range of 4 or 5 centimeters. “Well, we’ll have to examine you again.” Nurse Mitt returns and up she goes. This is the verbal exchange that followed.

Nurse Mitt: (grunts) “Huh”

Me: (in exasperation) What am I? Seven? Eight? Nine?

Nurse Mitt: (very dryly) Honey, you might be one and a half.

But, you know what? I got that epidural anyway. While it seems that doctors do prefer to wait before giving it, it also seems they prefer not to hear whiney patients even more. Well let me tell you, it was the most beautiful feeling I had ever known. I could then just sit there all nice and pretty with a big smile on my face and watch that little line on the monitor go up and down with nary a care.

Then your heart rate started doing some funny things. This was the most scared I was throughout the entire experience. You seemed to be in distress and there was nothing I could do to help you. Luckily, it was just the internal monitor needing a little adjustment. Around this same time I noticed I was beginning to feel pain again. And it wasn’t long before the writhing and grinding and weeping and gnashing returned.

This time the doctor herself entered for an examination. Her findings? You were too big a baby to enter the natural way. You would need to be delivered through a Caesarean section. And at that point I was given a whopping dose of some other miracle drug and, just like that, no pain again.

After being transferred onto another bed I was wheeled into the operating room, accompanied by your dad, of course. I had the sweetest nurse anesthetist and his soft, kind voice helped me remain calm as they were putting up a blue curtainy thing in front of my face to keep me from seeing anything too frightening or bloody. At some point my doctor asked if I “felt that.” When I answered “no” she said we were ready to begin. The only thing I felt throughout the entire C-section was a bit of tugging just before you made your grand entrance.

You entered this world at 4:29 p.m. that Marvelous Monday weighing in at six pounds fourteen ounces (turns out you weren't such a big baby after all). After a brief initial examination and cleaning you were wrapped in a blanket and handed to your daddy. He brought you to my side and I was able to see you for the first time. You were beautiful. The two things I remember from our first meeting was a reddish-colored birthmark far back on the right side of your face and dark blue eyes (which later turned to brown). Your dad only let me look for a minute and then he walked you to the nursery for a more thorough cleaning. Along the way eager relatives tried to get a peek at you but all they saw were your little purple feet. Your daddy had covered your face with the blanket to keep anyone from seeing you just yet, as you still had a little blood around your nose. You know how your dad likes to keep up appearances and all.

One of your first frowns.

Within a short time you were on display through the nursery window for all the world to see. And we knew you were a performer from the start. You practically rolled over that first day!

On Wednesday, it was time to take you home. Our house would no longer be the home for a couple, but rather a family. For this, your first outing, you wore the same outfit I wore on my trip home - a little, white two-piece sleep-set with green trim monogrammed with the words Take Me Home. This same outfit has since been worn by your brother too. One of these days I hope you will have the chance to dress your own little boy or girl in it for their homegoing.

Happy birthday, my sweet girl. Thank you for giving me the first best day of my life. I love you.

I'm glad we were able to take you home.

P.S. This post is linking up as a participant in Kevin and Layla's Favorite Blog Posts of 2010 Party over at the Lettered Cottage. It's one of my three most favorite posts I wrote in my first year to blog.

Aren't They Just Grand?

That's me in my Pa Vernon's lap, along with Momma Beatrice and cousins Debbie, Tonya, and Suzanne.

Yesterday was Grandparents Day. I forgot. Until yesterday afternoon. My mother reminded me. A sweet boy at church welcomed her with a “Happy Grandparents Day” greeting and one great big hug. It wasn’t John-Heath. We weren’t there. At church. On Grandparents Day. Because I forgot.

Actually, we rarely miss the worship service at church. I am the piano player and that makes it a little harder to skip. Our absence is somewhat more noticeable, as is our usual late entrance. My father implores me each and every Saturday to attend Sunday School. “Now get up in time to be at Sunday School tomorrow," he will say. My response is, “Well.” (I know well is not an actual response, and I'm not sure where I picked that word up, but I have a terrible, terrible habit of using it as the acknowledgement to a request). My dad’s response to my response is, “Don’t just say ‘well’. Get up and Come.” I know I should get back in the routine of going to Sunday School and I do enjoy it when we go. We send John-Heath. I’m hoping that counts for something.

Anyway, back to Grandparents Day. My kids adore my parents and my parents adore them. We cannot head south to go anywhere that John-Heath is not begging to stop by and see them. And, of course, Ren would always rather stay at their house than go out with us on weekends. For their part, my parents make sure they come by to see the kids every other day or so. And usually they come bearing some type of gift. Truthfully, I believe my parents love my children more than they love me. I guess all grandparents feel this way. So I think it’s understood that no special day is needed for them to realize the bond they share and that everyday to my kids is a grandparents day. Or I’m hoping they understand this. Of course, based on the fact that my mother made a point to tell me the story of the little boy hugging her at church in honor of this holiday, I may be wrong.

As for me, I was blessed with some really great grands. My maternal grandparents both passed away by the time I was 8. Even so, I have fond memories of being with them. My mother’s mother died a few months before I was born but my step-grandmother, Momma Beatrice, doted on me as if I were her own. I remember once going out on a cold day and gathering up snow to make some “snow cream”, which, let me tell you, was a real treat to a four-year-old. And, if memory serves me correctly, she added food coloring to the cream to make it even more special. After making sure my coat and little purple gloves were securely on we were off. In good weather she and Pa Vernon, who was a quiet man, led me around on their mule Kit. I’m not sure if any pictures were ever taken of this but I would certainly love to have one of me on top of that old mule with my grandparents holding the lead line.

My dad’s parents were with me longer. Mammy Sophie (her name was actually spelled Sophia, but we pronounced it Sophie - like the Meryl Streep movie) passed away a couple months before I turned 18 and I had Pa Frazier until my 30th year. Mammy was about four years older than Pa and I always thought that must have been quite the scandal in their time. My cousin even wrote a family poem alluding to it once.

Now, mammy was a good woman and loved me I have no doubt. However, she didn’t dote on me as my other grandmother did. My nephew Shane (my sister’s son) got all the attention there. But I don’t remember this causing much jealousy or hurt feelings. He lived just down the road from them and was with them all the time so they practically helped raise him. Besides, with nine other grandchildren and a handful of great-grandchildren around it’s not like I was the only one in that boat.

I remember my mammy’s voice. It was a sweet, kindly one. She was not in good health and did not get out much so most of her time was spent sitting in her chair in the kitchen wearing little, unembellished cotton dusters. From her spot she could see the television and was within reach of the phone. And quite often she would call in the afternoon to check on us and see how everyone was doing. Once, as a teen, I remember answering the phone on my dad’s desk. It was mammy. I am pretty sure I rolled my eyes and/or silently huffed this particular day because I didn’t have time to talk to my grandmother, or any adult for that matter. I was on the way to my bedroom to do something super-duper important like watch MTV or reconfigure my twist-bead necklaces. Throughout the years I spoke with my grandmother by phone on numerous occasions, but this is the only time I remember. And the times I remember it, which are frequent, are always accompanied by this thought - what I wouldn’t give to hear her on the other end of the line just one more time.

Pa Frazier? Well, I have never known a man as kind as he (my daddy is a very close second). I don’t think he ever possessed a mean bone in his body. And could he cook!!! His specialty was fried chicken and biscuits. Again, as a teen, I wasn’t so very appreciative of these things. I did appreciate his humor and his stories, though. Pa liked to tease and had an easy laugh. I think the only one in the family who did not appreciate this was Ren. She was still very young and didn’t think it so funny when he would poke his cane toward her. During most visits she would stay backed up between some adult’s legs with a scowl on her face. When he passed away and we were at the graveyard preparing to say our final goodbyes, Ren, who was four at the time, saw a tombstone close by shaped like a semi-truck. To her it looked like a train. To my dismay she quickly mounted it and, in a very loud voice, let out a “Choo-Choo.” Now, at such a solemn moment I was quite naturally mortified by this behavior and quickly snatched her off her granite perch. But at the same time I remember thinking I bet Pa would have gotten a kick out of it.

If you are lucky enough to still have dear parents and grandparents in your life cherish each moment with them. For the time will come when their phone calls will be no more.

Nightlights

One of my favorite sights in the whole wide world on a warm summer night is a field full of fireflies, or as we Southerners call them, lightning bugs. Of course, I suppose it’s possible that people in other parts of the country call them that too. Do they? Am I regionally profiling by thinking of “lightning bugs” as a Southern word? If so, my apologies. Well, unfortunately, whatever the name, it has been a bad year for them around here.

As we live on a farm there is no shortage of tall grass in which they could exist. Last year, it seemed we were treated to a light show each and every evening we turned in the drive after dark. The fields surrounding our house were full of them. Sometimes there were so many you just knew Disney was behind the production. You know, like nature's rendition of Fantasmic.

Sadly, we have been without many of our little friends for much of this summer. I wonder if the weather has had something to do with it. It has been sooo very hot this year. I guess the little things figure we don’t need any more heat generated and so their fannies remain off.

When Ren was a baby I was given a cassette of sweet little bedtime lullabies. Each song was precious but one about some little lightning bugs became my favorite right away and was the one I always sang to her. Over the years I have thought about that little song many times, trying, in vain, to remember its exact lyrics. When John-Heath was a baby I was disappointed that I could not sing it to him as I had done for Renny.

I had searched off and on the past few years for this lullaby about fireflies. I only knew a few of the words, and as it turns out I had remembered them wrong. So I was searching for non-existent lyrics. Luckily, one night not long ago I finally stumbled upon it. I quickly downloaded it and intend on ordering the CD as soon as possible.

So for the time being, in lieu of rocking babies or watching light shows, I’ll just have to listen here to a little song saved on my computer and think of one baby girl and thousands of tiny nightlights.

Look at their lights flashing off an on

Hovering over the backyard lawn.

Playing the games little fireflies play.

I wonder where they've been hiding all day.

Little nightlights - merrily making their night flights.

Shining like diamonds outside your window.

Where do they go in the sunshine?

Little nightlights.

Baby, you shine like a diamond too.

Nobody lights up my world like you.

There on your pillow your little face glows.

Do you know that you remind me of those?

Little nightlights - merrily making their night flights.

Shining like diamonds outside your window.

Where do they go in the sunshine?

Little nightlights.

By the way, a firefly's light is cold, not hot. Therefore, my theory on their disappearance needs some work.

My Little Boy

It has been just over a week since John-Heath hit his head and began having facial spasms. Fortunately, today has been a very mild day of these. I have noticed him twitching very few times. We still have an appointment with the pediatric neurologist this Wednesday but I am very hopeful that whatever he is experiencing is temporary and will be short-lived. I am thankful! Someone sent me the following in an email and I think it is very true...

The will of God will never take you where the grace of God will not protect you.

What the Future Holds

This past Saturday began quite normally. We were all up and piddling around. Ren and I decided to go watch Weston, my great-nephew, play pee-wee basketball - his first year. He was a carbon copy of his dad from many years ago on the bench across the gym, skinny legs and all.

Ren had made plans during the game to go to an all-you-could-eat chocolate buffet (BYOM - bring your own milk) with a friend later that evening. So, since we had some time before she was to leave I thought it would be a good idea for John-Heath to get in a nap.

When attempting to lay down he struck his head rather hard on the bed's headboard. He cried and cried but after several of mommy's kisses he was better and took a short nap.

About an hour after his nap we noticed him having some mild facial twitches which looked like heavy blinking. This lasted throughout the evening. By Sunday afternoon the twiches had turned more into spasms, drawing his cheeks up and forcing his mouth open into an odd little smile. A call to the on-call doctor was not vey helpful.

A trip to the pediatrician on Monday led to a CT later that afternoon to check for any bleeding, etc. that could be causing his problem. Fortunately, the scan was clear. Unfortunately, this just led to more questions. If the bump on the head was not causing the spasms, then what was? A side note...he was not to be easily scanned. He had never seen a CT machine before and I neglected to prepare him for this. He became very scared and had to be papoosed for the pictures to be taken. Nikki Morris, a long-time family friend, and the other lady were so patient with him and didn't act a bit annoyed by all his crying.

That was a rough day. His spasms were really bad. They would occur so frequently, usually in triplicates, he could hardly watch cartoons or play with his trains. He also began rubbing his eyes every time he had a twich or spasm. We noticed they seemed to be worse when he was fairly still - watching t.v., being read to, playing with his trains, etc. If he was running around and more active they did not seem as bad.

Of course, John and I spent the rest of the evening on an off the internet googling any variation of his symptoms. This was not a wise thing to do and only served to add to the worry, rather than relieve it. There are so many things out there - from magnesium deficiencies or simple childhood tics that many young people temporarily experience to Tourette's Syndrome and the like.

Thankfully, today has been better. He has still had several twitches (including some in his right hand, arm, and leg while sleeping) but the severe facials spasms have not happened as often. We put him in an Epson Salt bath this morning just in case his magnesium level is low. We had read where this can help bodily twitches.

Family and good friends that know are praying that it will turn out to be nothing serious or long-term. I know there are parents who face much more grim situations every day and that I am still very blessed. But, as I wrote to a friend, I just feel so helpless when I see his little face contort like it does and knowing that something could be going on inside him that he can't control and neither can I.