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Caddy for Sale

It’s always shocking to find a note from the Coroner’s office stuck to your front door. I can only feign relief that I wasn’t home when the cops showed up to leave their dirty little message.  Opening the door to two somber policemen conjures up thought of loved ones dying in a fiery freeway accident or sudden heart failure.  Can’t they come up with a nicer way to tell people their loved ones have kicked the bucket?  (Ahhh, but that’s a topic for another day!)  It turns out; they were investigating a ’66 powder blue Cadillac that had been parked in an unnamed parking lot for too long.  They figured the owner had died and it was time to gently break the news to the relatives… either that, or confront the perpetrators who had knocked off the poor sucker.  It just so happens that I know the owner of said Caddy, and though he is alive and well, he may be a victim of domestic assault by the time I get my hands on him.

My darling husband acquired this monster car (which measures longer than a Suburban to give you a good visual) about ten years ago, for the pure whim of taking a road trip to Vegas.  It has stayed with him (like a venereal disease) over the years and has traveled with him from home to home. And though he rarely drives it, it gets occasional use at weddings and for random photo shoots.  His claim to fame is using the caddy for a swimsuit calendar.  Somewhere behind the hot models is his beaming face behind the wheel. He reminds me that we both brought baggage to the marriage, I have two adorable children and he brought the beast…I mean the Cadillac. Fortunately, he has grown to love my kids but I have not felt any furthermore affinity for the gas guzzler that is now parked in my driveway.

Yes, in an effort to avoid towing, the Caddy came home and there it sits like a ginormous eyesore.  Last night I told him an anonymous caller had complained to the association about the obnoxious car in our driveway.  It took him a few seconds before he choked on his cashews and started chortling. Each night as I lay my head down on my pillow, I dream of it being stolen.  Then again, after they fill up the tank with gas and die of shock, they will probably bring it right back, washed and cleaned and ready for the next photo-op. 

66’ Convertible Caddy for Sale.  All offers considered. Please contact Scrappy!

*Note*  I first posted this eighteen months ago.  What the heck people?  I want my garage back now!

 

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Mac n Cheese

It’s a sweet vignette-one of those touching Super Bowl commercial moments that brings a tear to the eye.

Daddy is trying to help baby Kolby eat her mac and cheese with a spoon and he is pulling out of his hat all the good tricks.

He is doing the locomotive move, “Choo, choo…here comes the train.”

Then the buzzing bee, disguised as a spoon move, “Buzz, buzz (spoon darts around baby’s face until she opens her mouth), here comes the bee.”

But baby is having none of it.  She screams in a howl of fury and tightens up her little pink bow mouth.

“I do it,” baby shrieks like a pterodactyl.

Daddy cajoles, “I have been eating a lot longer than you have and I can help.”

Baby stares him down defiantly. It’s the scary toddler stare- “Blue Steel” in diapers.

Daddy walks away defeated.

Baby picks up the spoon and giggles, and then throws some macaroni over her head like a crazed baby high on power and processed cheese.

Then he gives me the look. The parenthood is so freaking hard look. And I laugh and laugh and laugh some more.

Final Score: Baby Kolby -1, Daddy-0

I laugh because I can relate all too well. But mostly I laugh because it’s a picture of how I am with God, a maniacal baby hopped up on mac and cheese battling a loving father who is trying to guide me into all truth.

Every single day I fight between surrender and selfishness. Between “I do it!” and “Lord, you are in control.”

I think God shows me these vivid pictures of faith to highlight my own silly/stubborn streak and to illustrate His unending and radical love for me.

My son asked me the other day how I hear from God.

“Well Kyle, ” I said with a smile and a knowing laugh, “sometimes I hear His voice in cheesy noodles. You just have to listen.” 

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The “Manceremony”

My son entered the holiday season yet a boy, but will return to school this New Year a man.  And so last night, we celebrated his coming of age with a “Manceremony.”

It was only a few days ago that my twelve-year-old son with the warbled voice, the distinct Jr. High aloofness, and all the awkwardness of a “boy of a certain age,” roamed the halls of our home.  Now, a man with a deep voice, facial hair and a buff physique has stolen my chubby cheeked angel. 

He turned and smiled at me last night, and in the dim light of the fire, I caught the distinct outline of a mustache on my baby, I mean man-child. 

He is almost a teen-ager now, though we have avoided that word in our home.  I have chosen to reject all the rebelliousness and disrespect that comes along with that verbiage.  My husband and I have decided to give the first-born instead, a “man” blessing, and skip the teen stage altogether.  Clearly this is an experiment, one that may or may not work, but we are hopeful, though possibly naïve, for the years to come.

So in honor of his impending need to shave, I pulled out the champagne glasses for the whole family, excluding the baby, filled them with apple juice, and we toasted to the end of one season and the beginning of the next.  With a nervous laugh, my son lifted his glass.  I could see his emotions ranging from uncomfortable to proud, but he was obviously appreciative that we recognized his maturation and took it seriously.

And so, I will store up the memories of his childhood deep within my heart; his incessant curiosity, the cherubic blond curls, and his chubby little arms reaching out for a hug.  It’s hard to let go of my tiny football player and embrace this new creature who wears cologne and attracts stares from women of all ages.

 I feel unprepared and truly inadequate for this next stage of motherhood.  We, both my son and I, stand at the edge of an uncertain future.  Like the cusp of a roller-coaster, just about to crest over the highest peak, either I choose to lift my arms up high and enjoy the ride or close my eyes and scream for dear life.

Today we worked out at the gym, lifting weights side by side.  And though I am teaching him proper form, he is pushing me on to new limits. Our relationship is changing, as I both embrace and simultaneously release my son into this dance of growing up.

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Intuition and Pet Prayers

my dog, a labrador retriever
Image via Wikipedia

I wrote an article the other day on prayers for pet funerals. 

Really Sam?  Pet funerals?

Yes, I know…cheesy with an extra slice (but there is no shame in trying to make a few bucks)

Ok, maybe a little shame. I would post a link to the article but my editor sent it back for revision.  No comments please.

But the point is, the next day my dad calls me and tells me his dog died.

Freaky, right?

So, now in a matter of a few weeks I get to tell the kids their favorite animal kicked the bucket, right on the heels of losing their great-uncle.

The sad part is my daughter will cry over the dog. A lot.  Maggie was a beautiful blond Labrador and everybody knows that labs are the best kind of dog.

And I will have to tell my daughter, because she will ask, about pets and heaven.

And then I will have to lie. 

Because I don’t believe pets go to heaven, although I do think there are animals in heaven.

One day at work, we spent a whole afternoon debating this very topic.  And I learned that there are passionate and crazed people who think I am wrong. 

Like death threat wrong. 

But I am sticking to my guns, and on the off-chance that I am mistaken, I am more than willing to stand corrected; because honestly, I really miss Wilbur, my old childhood dog that I lost as a teen.

It sure would make this conversation easier if I was wrong.

Maybe my freaky intuition will give me some profound words to say.

Then again… sometimes there are no words.

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