Musical Mothering

 

 

This July, I will have been a Mom for 14 years.  I’m starting to figure this job out!  One thing is certain:  I could not have made it this far without all the help from Maggie’s Other Mothers (they know who they are), chardonnay, and music.

 

Don’t misunderstand me.  I have really bad taste in music.  But so does Maggie, and this is how we bonded from the start.  In the year 2000, Maggie loved the boy bands.  I remember listening to NSYNC and dancing with Maggie.  Well, I danced and she wiggled inside my tummy.    

 

Once she was outside my tummy, we danced to some Christina Aguilera (before she was Xtina) – our favorite song was Come On Over.  I held my little bald baby girl and we bounced while I sang my version “come on over, come on over Mag-gie!” 

 

When she could stand by herself I introduced Mag to Janet Jackson.  Maggie held onto the kitchen counter and tastefully bounced to Nasty Boys.  I am such a good influence. 

 

Mercifully, I was not her only influence.  When she was two, Maggie started saying “I-BEE-CUSE” after dinner.  I had to call her Other Mother/babysitter Kay to find out what in the world my daughter was saying. 

 

Kay had taught her to say “may I be excused?” when she was finished eating.  I think this balanced out what I had taught her – that Let’s Go Crazy is the perfect song to crank up real loud and play repeatedly while you run in circles through the house in your diaper.

 

When Maggie had matured sufficiently and was emotionally ready, I introduced her to Britney.  (She was four years old).  Our favorite song was Toxic.  Mag knew all the words.  She explained to me that when Britney sang “You’re dangerous - I’m lovin’ it” that Britney was talking about traffic.  Because bad traffic can be so dangerous.  We listened to this song so often, Maggie suggested my sister name her first-born child Toxic. 

 

From age 4 to 11, the music was a whirl of Justin Timberlake, Britney, Maroon Five, Britney, Adele, Nelly Furtado, Shakira, and Britney.  On the first day of 6^th grade we were both extremely uptight.  Ok, I was extremely uptight.  Mag was fine.  I was about to drop my BABY off at this big awful school.  We played Lady Gaga.  And it soothed us both.

 

I realize I only have 4 more years of music with Maggie.  Ok, I know there will be music after that too, but it won’t be the same, because I won’t control the Ipod. 

I have so much more music to play for Maggie.  Mag needs to hear and see Milli Vanilli.  She needs to know that just because a man looks nice and is a good dancer does not mean he has true talent.  Maggie needs to know she can choose her own music and dance her own dance.  Just because everyone else is drinking margaritas and lining up to do the Macarena doesn’t mean she has to. 

I need the music to help me explain true love.  I’ve already made Maggie listen to Fleetwood Mac sing The Chain and explained to her that the two vocalists loved each other and hated each other at the same time.  I’ve explained that while those vocalists sounded pretty great at the time, true love sounds nothing like that.  True love sounds like her daddy singing Blue-Eyed Girl to me, even though the song is actually called Brown-Eyed Girl. 

 

I need the music to remind her to come home.  Even though Mag will go off to college someday and might follow JLo’s lead – dating a series of dumb-but-sexy back up dancers, she can always come home.  Even if she makes bad decisions like changing her name to a symbol and later realizes she has made this bad decision and then decides to change her name back to a non-symbol, everyone will forgive her, especially me.  And she can come home.

 

If I know anything, I know that even though Maggie is now potty trained, even if she now knows Britney was not talking about traffic, and that Nasty Boys might not have been an appropriate song for a dancing toddler - she will always listen to music with me. 

 

And if the timing is right, and no one is looking, we might put on Let’s Go Crazy and run around the house in circles.  

a series of stylists

I am not a loyal stylist customer.  It’s not that I am overly critical of past work performed on my fine, yet also coarse, rapidly graying hair.  I have enjoyed wonderful hair miracles.  It’s just that I am impatient and impulsive.  My roots don’t grow in gradually like yours do.  Mine suddenly appear!  An inch deep!  And it requires an immediate remedy.  Also, if I notice a friend has a bounce in her step due to her perfectly applied high/low lights, I am instantly envious and want to meet her stylist.  This afternoon, please! 

If it cannot be done today, then I have, on a few occasions, attempted an-at home remedy with disastrous results. 

Whether I have cheated on my stylist with another stylist or with a box of Clairol, it is so uncomfortable admitting what I have done.  I am tempted to fib (I was at my parents’ house so I went to see my Mom’s stylist . . you were unavailable . . .I was bedridden for many weeks and in desperation was left to my own hair color devices  . . ). 

Like most cheaters, I am a bad liar.

Being this disloyalty has its perks:  I’ve been to about every kind of salon imaginable.  I’ve been to the super fancy ones with the high price tags, the small town ones with the ladies getting a curl-and-set, the salons where the only service performed is a dry haircut and the stylist has a bright blue Mohawk, and the “cool” salons meant for young beautiful people. 

I am uncomfortable at the cool salons.  If the waiting area is super-sleek and has magazines I do not recognize, I break out into a sweat and start noticing the lint on my suit, the scuffs on my courtroom heels, my cuticles.  I sometimes return to the cool places despite my discomfort because, well, the cool stylists know the famous people!  They have attended fancy trade shows or worked in a New York salon, and they have the best stories.  Like the time a has-been 80s Rock Star insisted on having his frosting applied at the crack of dawn so his fans wouldn’t know.  I love that story in particular because my cool stylist remarked “As if any of us knew him?  I was like, our Moms aren’t here.  You are not even relevant.”

Real life happens in salons.  Right in front of you eyes.  Round up seven or eight women and a few men, dress them in the latest fashion and place them in front of mirrors.  Now add a steady stream of customers and listen.  You will learn who has a new boyfriend, who is giving the owner the silent treatment or who just had “elective” surgery instead of paying her credit card bill.  This openness will prompt you to share your news, sometimes in a moment of spontaneous candor.  This is why my friend/stylist Paris was one of the first people to know I was pregnant with my first-born. 

If you prefer, you can just sit there quietly and check your emails or read a book, and that is ok too. 

A good stylist not only knows how to cut, color and style hair, she is an unlicensed counselor.  It is no surprise the stylist relationship is special.  There is something so personal about allowing someone to touch your hair.  Whether it is a new stylist, an old stylist, a salon in a detached garage, or a place worthy of a photo shoot, a stylist is performing an act of kindness.  She is making it better.  She is concentrating on you.  She is improving you.  In a matter of minutes a diagnosis is made, the patient is heard, and there is a treatment plan. 

I think most stylists know their value extends beyond the strands of our hair.  Like, when my friend/stylist Dawn made a house-call for the purpose of artfully styling what was once a long full mane, but was falling out in large swaths following merciless cancer treatment.  Dawn gave what she could, but she also received.  She was able to help.  In some way, she was making it better.    

Or take my mother-in-law (my Other Mother), a retired stylist.  Holly worked for decades in a local bank.  But, before her banking days, she obtained what was then likely called a Cosmetology License.  Holly held on to what she learned and kept her scissors sharp.  For years she cut her husband Houston’s hair.  Sometime in 2004, Holly cut his namesake’s hair too. 

Little Houston had a tangle of blond curls at the back of his neck.  Though his Mom thought they should stay put (forever if possible), it was time for them to go.  So Holly cut little Houston’s curls.  And for the next eight years, she continued to give him haircuts.  I imagine (because I am not there) that the routine is the same:  Holly notices her grandson needs a haircut, has him sit on a stool, wraps the smock around his neck, and starts snipping.  I suspect she takes a little longer than necessary.  Because for several minutes that boy is finally still.         

A Very Peggy Christmas

There is no Christmas like a Peggy Christmas.  I think about it every year, because I have adopted Peggy’s Christmas rules.  Like, each kid will have an equal number of gifts under the tree.  Even if you have to wrap a box of Nestle’s hot chocolate to “equalize” things. 

As soon as Thanksgiving was over, Peggy would start getting excited about Christmas.  She sang “It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas!”  and did a little prance/dance while she sang it.  Peggy BLASTED Handel’s Messiah through the house while she rolled logs of cheese biscuit dough for freezing and beautified the house with floral arrangements she designed herself:

Yes that is a framed picture of Robert E. Lee.  Don't judge.
 

Stringing lights on the Christmas tree was an ordeal.  Lots of screaming at Dad and us until we all just left the room so she could just do it “her damn self.”  Gifts accumulated in old white boxes under her bed.  These boxes were re-used for a decade – our names scratched off and new names assigned.  My favorite part about the boxes under her bed is that they remained unwrapped until right before Christmas.  So, if I had a big date or a party to go to, Peggy would typically sigh and say “alright I’ll be right back!” and would return with a pretty sweater meant for Christmas, but gifted early because the time was right.  Peggy procrastinated wrapping the presents because she found a slow accumulation under the tree revolting.  It was best to just sling them all out there at once and get the hyper-consumer humiliation over swiftly.  Also, she hated wrapping presents.  Which is why some of them were only sort of wrapped.

Peggy’s tendency to overdo gifting extended beyond our family.  Does your church have an Angel Tree?  Ours did, and we would review the sad paper-angels together.  “Denise” wants a pair of size 12 jeans.  Her sons, ages 4 and 5, would like new underpants and a t-shirt.  Peggy could not stand for this.  So we would pile in the carpeted van and haul off to the Wal Mart where Peg would select entire wardrobes, gadgetry, towels, makeup and whatever toys were “in” at the time.  These angel families were treated like extended members of the Lawton family.  I will never forget the year she bought a microwave oven. 

 

But back to us.  So you do not worry whether the Lawtons were conducting a FoxNews War on Christmas, we knew the Reason for the Season in Peggy’s house.  We talked about the beautiful story at length.  Nativities were all over the house.  (Nativities were so important to Peg that when Ginny and I got married we both were gifted with nativity sets worthy of a church narthex).

She sang hymns all the time – off key, but still.  Scripture verses were taped up all over the house in weird places, like behind the cabinet door where you go to fetch the trash bags.  She was so pleased when I agreed to sing Oh Holy Night as a duet in the Christmas Eve Service.  When I asked her how I sounded, she said “nasal.”       

Christmas cards.  Peggy sent them. Grouped us together and tried to get us to smile: 

 

Y’all, say CHICKENSHIT!

Will, don’t smile like that.

 

We are going to do this ONE MORE TIME!  Will, smile like a normal person.  Say BOOGERS!

 

 

DAMMIT WILL!! THIS IS OUR CHRISTMAS CARD PICTURE.  SMILE!!!

 

Santa mysteriously knew what I wanted every year.  I don’t know how he knew because I don’t remember asking.  The year I "adopted" a Cabbage Patch doll was magical, as my doll was so pretty.  She looked like this:

And she happened to have been assigned the EXACT SAME NAME as my childhood imaginary friend:  Alice Alicee.  It was on her birth certificate.

Gin got a Cabbage Patch Doll too that year, but I think Peggy was trying to teach Gin a lesson in diversity, or vocational possibilities, as her adoptee was a Hispanic- American Circus Conductor:

 

The next year Santa tried again, because the Cabbage Patch dolls were still the rage.  I think Gin got this doll the next year:

For some reason Gin always felt jilted after Christmas.  I don’t know if it was because my stocking was a custom made felt piece of art and hers, well, had glitter on it . .

Gin may have always felt jilted because her presents were usually a "cousin" of my presents.  The same Barbie, but not as cute.  The same sweater, but in a weird color.  A keyboard the year after Gin quit piano lessons. 

To be fair to Peg, Ginny brought most of this on herself because she didn’t really LIKE anything.  Other times of the year, Peg would give us each $10 to spend in the toy store.  Will would go straight to the Star Wars junk.  I always got a Barbie.  Gin would scan the aisles, not sure if I want that, not sure if I need that, not sure.  She really liked the year Santa brought her a weaving loom.

The truth was, Christmas was most always for Will.  In the weeks leading up to Christmas, Peggy would tell us “this is Will’s Christmas.”  She was trying to justify purchasing not one of the insanely expensive Star Wars spaceships, but all three.

I don’t remember Gin and I being particularly jealous.  His toys were always so interesting.

Huh.  Wonder what Will got?

 

It’s not as if Peggy favored him.  It was just, he was WILL.  Look at the most adorable child in your household.  Now imagine that your child is 10 times more adorable than that even.  This was Will.

Notice this is not the same Christmas as the one above.  This is a DIFFERENT Christmas, with three DIFFERENT Star Wars spaceships.

Also, from the time he was TINY Will completely understood Christmas.  At least the Santa/Presents part.  He made so many requests, Peggy kept a little booklet in her bedside table so she could keep up with it all.  When Will entered the living room on Christmas morning, he didn’t dive like in to his gifts like Gin and I did.  Instead, he behaved like the manager of a store stockroom. Are all of these items in place and properly constructed?  Are there any important items missing?

I will complete the buttoning of my footed pajamas at a later time.

Ginny says her best Christmas ever was the year Will got his go-cart.

After the explosion of wrapping paper, Peggy always made us waffles.  She pronounced it Wall-Fuls. 

 

Peggy is making Wal-Ful mix in a salad bowl.  That's popcorn on top of the fridge.  In a doctor's family, you get lots of prescription drug samples year round, and duplicate tins of popcorn that say "Valium" on the top at Christmas.

 

And Noni was there.  Peggy’s mom wasn’t like other grandmothers.  You know how your grandmother bakes wonderful enticing goodies every Christmas?  You know how she spoiled you with gifts and special ornaments?  Yes, Noni was not like that.  Noni pretty much tolerated us at Christmas.   

I miss my Noni tolerating me.

It has been over a decade since she has been with us, and Peggy still gets sad every year.  Actually, the time where Peggy gets sad about her Momma starts sooner every year.  Like this year, when she asked me “you know how blue I get this time of year?” I really had to think about it, because the nearest holiday was Labor Day.

So Peggy Christmas ended the same every year.  Back in the van, everyone holding a paperback novel, and off to the movies.  (The novels were important because we got to the movies too early).  Once the movie was over, back to the house to eat the chocolate pound cake with fudge icing.  Peggy’s pound cake did not have an empty circular center, because she filled that hole up with fudge.  This was as it should be.

I think this is the first year I won’t see Peggy for Christmas.  She’s at Gin’s house.  But I will honor her.  I am going to sing some hymns later.  My kids will enjoy an obnoxious explosion of gifts.  I have wrapped a box of Nestle’s hot chocolate.  I said some swear words trying to make a Christmas card.

And if I get my way, tomorrow we will go to a movie.

Peggy on Puberty

Starting at about age 11 and finishing up at age 14, Peggy and I journeyed through a land called Puberty. She had always said I could talk to her. I knew at any time I could climb up and sit with her as she read in bed. The talks we had on that pencil-post mahogany bed were deep.

I could share anything. I could ask anything. It is why I consider a pencil post mahogany bed THE Mommy bed. And it is why I have one myself.

This is what I looked like in 5th grade.

Problem was, other girls looked ever-so-slightly more advanced. And because I am competitive on every level, I needed to know I was slightly advanced too.

What I am talking about is a training bra. I knew I needed one. Carey had one. Allison had one. Meg had one. I needed one.

A training bra is comprised of two flat cotton triangles. These triangles serve NO purpose except to offer visible straps at the shoulders and across the back. The back straps made a THWACK sound when the 5th grade boys pulled them and set them free.

So I climbed up in Peggy’s bed to inquire about purchasing a Training Bra. I had formed my argument. In true legal fashion, I offered my best argument first.

Mom. I need a bra.

Peggy put down her book and sort of chewed the corner of her mouth, stifling a smile.

Ashby, why do you need a bra?

Mom, I need a bra in PE.

Ashby, why do you need a bra in PE??

Because when I run track during PE, my breasts bounce.




5th Grade - with my cousins, breasts bouncing.


Peggy gazed at me a moment.

Show me how they bounce.

Having no other choice but to offer a demonstration, I folded my legs up under my bottom and bounced on Mom’s bed, hoping that my bouncing breasts could be visible from outside my tshirt – proof that I needed a training bra!

If you are willing to do that, by all means, let’s get you a training bra.

More 5th grade, more cousins, more bouncing breasts.

Months later, I noticed something. Underneath the skin of my left nipple, there was a mass. A swollen mass. A hard, tender swollen nickel-sized mass. Underneath the right nipple, there was nothing.

Oh boy. I had to tell Mom. This could not be good.

Peggy is at her best in a crisis and she knew a crisis when she saw one. There was a cancerous tumor under her daughter’s left nipple! We had to call in the experts immediately. An appointment was immediately scheduled with the pediatrician. I sat there as the pediatrician poked on my left-sided tumor.

Mrs. Lawton, your daughter is developing Breast Buds.

But it is only on one side!!! Are you sure it is not cancer?!!! We need to biopsy it NOW.

No Mrs. Lawton, we do not need to biopsy it, it is a Breast Bud. The right breast will catch up.

How completely mortifying. Me, a doctor’s kid. Me, PEGGY’S kid! Requiring a pediatrician’s left breast-bud diagnosis.

Oh. It’s been so long I don’t remember it. So they don’t come in at the same time? Oh. How interesting. Oh.


Well, in that case, I think we should call her “Buddy.”

Peggy called me Buddy for the next few years.

In 6th grade (11-12) things were so confusing. The breast buds were in full force. In addition to my training bra, I knew I needed a lavender ESPRIT sweatshirt if I wanted to be cool. Peggy argued with me at the Belk’s counter once about the importance of lavender– but ultimately conceded.

She helpfully told the Belk’s cashier why she let me make this important choice:

Afterall, Buddy is shaving her legs.




Lavender Sweatshirts.


Even though I was shaving my legs and wearing cotton triangles over my (now) two breast buds, I kinda still wanted to be a kid! In fact, Peggy gave me a Barbie doll for Christmas when I was in the 6th grade!

I wanted to sit at the grownup table, but I also wanted to play on the swingset~

This hormone warfare did not last long. By the beginning of 7th grade, I knew that I was definitely no longer a little girl. I was a little woman who curled her Sun-In hair, wore acid washed jeans, and pouted relentlessly.

I knew I was important. I knew my opinion counted. I knew everything. And I especially knew that my mother was monumentally embarrassing.

I will make my own decisions, By God. I am mature. I will have a mature haircut and an unwavering devotion to scarves:



Wearing a scarf at an extended family visit.



Unfortunate haircut.  Patented pout.

Millie Lewis "modeling" class - and more scarves.

It was about this time that Peggy felt the need to ask me about pubic hair.

Buddy, do you have any pubic hair?

Mom.

Well, I know you must have a few.

Mom.

Like 8 or 9 of them at least . . .

Mom!

Do you know which one grew in first??

Mom, GROSS!

Could you pull it out? The first one I mean.

Oh. My. God. MOM!

I want to put it in the scrapbook.

God, Mom. SHUT UP!!

For posterity.

Mom, go away and leave me ALONE!

You’re right, you probably don’t remember which one was first. Just pull any of them and we will pretend it was the first one.

If the changes in my body and Peggy’s teasing weren’t enough, my appearance was about to undergo another drastic change. I had determined the 30 year old lawyer haircut was not suitable for a 14 year old. So I grew my hair out.

And as it grew, I noticed it was incredibly, obscenely, CURLY. No one in my family had curly hair. I had never had curly hair. Why did I have curly hair now??? It was so distressing. Because what was “in” was bobbed hair turned under at the ends and your bangs curled in the shape of a flower.

Lovely.

It distressed me greatly. I would ask God – why is my hair so curly?? When I received no heavenly response, I asked my mother.

why – sniff – why is my hair so curly???

Well, I have been giving this a lot of thought.

Oh lord.

I’ve been thinking.

God Mom.

I’ve decided that all the hair on your body is connected. It runs throughout your body.

Mom, shut up.

No, I’m serious. I really think that the hair on your head travels through your chest and tummy and down and down and it is even connected to your pubic hair. They are all the same hairs.

God Mom, forget it! I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

And what happened is this: when you entered PUBERTY there was all this tension. Remember how tense you have been?? You have been a holy terror. I was thinking you must have internal tension.

SHUT UP.

Well the tension was in your body too! And when you sprouted hair down there . . . . the tension in your body was SO GREAT . . . that the hair on your head, well it grew in CURLY.

Not funny.

I have vowed not to do this to my daughter. She is in 6th grade. I have promised my husband that puberty is not fodder for comedic relief. No matter how nasty this child is to me during the next few years, I will not tease her. I will guide her to womanhood with dignity. I do NOT call her Buddy.

Except the other day we were in a restaurant.

See my Buddy, she ordered a Mr. Pibb. And because I like to eat lunch without a drink poured in my lap, I intend to have my children drink out of Styrofoam lidded cups until they go to college.

It was a delightful lunch. Buddy had the shrimp feta pizza and I had the greek wrap. She needed a Mr. Pibb refill. The waiter was compliant with all DHEC regulations – he did not remove the lid of Buddy’s Styrofoam cup with his grubby hands.

Instead he said:

Sweetie, can you take your top off for me?



I tried to behave. I did. Before I could look at my IPhone for the 74th time, I blurted out:



Mag, he just asked you to take your top off!

Mom.

Mag, he knows about the BOOBIES!!

MOM!!

9th grade dance, with a Barbie beforehand.

Merry Christmas?

Merry Christmas?

I am trying to have a hap-hap-happy Christmas. And I cannot understand why I am not. All of the necessary elements are there – family, food, presents . . . Baby Jesus. But I swear I have been depressed and anxious all month. Why?

        1.     Gluten?
Is Gluten the reason for my season? Just read an article about gluten and how it causes all manner of ailments. Maybe my gluten-filled diet has my cells all inflamed and my bowels all inflammatory and my mouth all defamatory and derogatory.

I have a strong urge to tell everyone to leave me the hell alone.

The problem is, some of the people who I want to tell to leave me the hell alone are actually PAYING ME to listen to them. Also, many of the people who I want to tell to leave me the hell alone are related to me.

And then if the people actually do leave me alone, I am instantly panicky. Where did everybody go? Does no one love me? Why hasn't my sister called me? When is my husband getting home?

Clearly, the Gluten diet makes you anxious with people and also without them.

2.     WalMart?

WalMart is depressing this time of year. When you're in there, your eyes zip zip zip from item to item. Impulse buys abound. Don't buy the WalMart peppermint bark. You will eat it all and you will hate yourself and that won't help the BabyJesusBirthdayBlues.

You go to WalMart to buy fun stuff like presents for your nieces and nephews. Problem is regular life goes on in spite of the holidays so you also have to buy monotony – Qtips. Coffee.

Watching the Barbie doll slide down the conveyor belt right next to the string cheese is depressing. They should have a different line for people who are giddy after picking out an X Box game. Giddy people should not have to stand next to people buying dog food. It's just not right.

     3.     Warfare?

The same battles are fought every year.  First, the TV battles. Did so-and-so refer to the tree as a Holiday Tree and not a Christmas Tree?!? Who is helping us fight this war on Christmas? That pretty blond on Fox is all upset about this, which makes me anxious. What will it take to make that lady happy?

Then, the battle for TIME. How am I going to get it all done? How am I going to see all the necessary people and wrap all the necessary gifts? How am I going to earn a living during all this so we can pay off the credit card? How am I going to get the GirlKid to her party and the BoyKid to his party and be sure they have a clean shirt on and no boogers on their faces before each party?

How am I going to make the anonymous lady happy? The lady whose name is on the Angel Tree at church and has told me nothing about herself except she is a Size Medium? Does this lady have a favorite color? Does she appreciate a heavy sweater or does she find them too itchy? Does she like perfume? What about earrings . . . would she like some earrings?

4.     Bumping into a Person?

While I am spinning in place, lamenting the fact that only one Christmas tree was erected this year, and that I really am not ever going to put one in the kitchen for all the kids' artsy ornaments, and wondering if I have enough shirt boxes, enough stocking stuffers, enough time to look presentable so the ONE PICTURE TAKEN OF ME EACH YEAR IS DECENT . . . I typically bump into a person.

This person's name differs from year to year, but their expression is the same. The person is sad.  This person knows loss. A kind of loss I have been up close to and seen with my own eyes, but have not yet felt on a devastating scale. This person's Christmas will include ALL of the necessary elements, food - - classic movies - - ugly sweaters - - candles - - but they won't be stressed about it. They will just be sad.

Someone will be missing. Someone who got on their nerves every year, who invaded their personal space and talked too much. Maybe someone who created drama, or created poundcake. This someone may have been "hard to buy for." This someone may have snored in a way that echoed through the entire house. This someone took so much TIME and energy. This someone required whole milk and not 2%. This someone was helpful, suggesting ways to clean the microwave, rearrange the living room, or understand current events.

This someone is gone.

And the person who misses their someone really just wants that someone around, even if it takes TIME . . . especially if it takes time.

A Christmas Prayer

 

God, help me.

Help me remember to thank Peggy.

Help me remember to hug my husband.

And my kids God.

Oh God, my kids are noisy and smelly. They break stuff.

God they are so spoiled rotten. (Their Daddy has ruined them).

God help me, help me, help me enjoy all of my someones this Christmas.

Thank you for the someones.

And thank you in advance for January.

I do so love January.

Especially the January magazines God.

Thank you for all the DeClutter and Get Organized Themed January issues.

The photos of those organized cabinets and closets are like salve to my scattered, over-decorated and war-torn Holiday Christmas mind.

You know how much I like to throw stuff out.

And it will be good.

Amen

Meet Virginia

Ginny is coming to see me!  (Full name Virginia Wyman Lawton Wood, or Mrs. Charles Edward Wood V).  To me, she’s just Gin.

She’s bringing her husband and all those kids they have, but I am mainly excited to see my Gin.

It wasn’t always this way.  Baby sisters can be a little annoying during those first 25 (or 30) years. 

There was fighting.  Physical fighting.  Gin could make her arms turn in a pinwheel formation and leave bruises.  I was not above throwing things at her.  The last time was about 5 years ago.  I threw her suitcase at her.  It was entirely justified.  I was MAD.  (Because she was ready to go home to NC and I wasn’t ready for her to leave).

Gin made up rhymes to tell me things, like that it was time for supper:

            Ashby.  Clap Clap.

            It’s time.  Clap Clap Clap.

            For supper.  Snap.

She was always in my stuff.  And she was tiny, so she could scoot places and sneak up on you. 

There was always so much CONVERSATION.  Gin has energy, and she has lots to say.  But she’s a listener too.  So much so that when it is my turn to talk, it is perfectly ok for me to say “I have two things to tell you, so be quiet a minute.”

She’s one of the few people brave enough to tell me when I’m wrong.  Gin knows if I ask her “Am I wrong?” I really want to know the answer.

She makes me laugh.  We laugh about life.  We laugh at our husbands.  We talk about babyshit.  We talk about middleschoolgirlshit.  She has always made me laugh:



I had something to do with this because I recognize my hands.



Gin’s a grown woman now.  But she still needs my protection.  And I’ve always wanted to protect her.

I helped her fix her bangs into a perfect flower.

I taught her the 9^th grade cheerleading tryout dance before tryouts (she had to pretend that she did not know it already).

I made her do our High School pageant together.  I was a senior and she was a freshman.  We sang a duet for our talent – The Rose.  We held fake red roses.  Before our talent performance, I told Gin she better hug me when it is over and act like she loves me.

She did.

Now we talk several times a day.  The time Peggy used to beg for  - it’s here.  Peggy used to cry and say “Y’all please quit fighting!  Y’all are supposed to be BEST FRIENDS.  When y’all get old you are going to need each other!!”

God, she could be so annoying.

Now we say I Love You every day.  And no one makes us say it either.

My gorgeous sister and her first girlbaby:  Frances Ashby Wood