A Tattered Picture Book

I'm going to apologize, in advance, for posting a long rhyme instead of a short one. But this rhyme has been awhile in the making. The event that inspired the rhyme happened in July. The illustrations were noodled a few weeks ago (during a lull between phone calls). It was only recently I started thinking about the rhyme itself. This seems to happen every time Great Auntie enters the picture.

She (like me) is NOT a woman of few words.

Now. Let me tell you the story behind "A Tattered Picture Book".

One morning in July, I made my weekly trek to the laundromat. It was great timing on my part – I only had to compete with 1 person for the large capacity washing machines. Having once washed loads of dirty diapers and kids' clothing, I graciously conceded the biggest machines to the young mother who was accompanied by her small daughter and infant-in-stroller (along with SEVERAL baskets of dirty laundry).

While Young Mom took care of the dirty clothes, her little daughter took care of the baby. The girl had a stack of picture books and was reading the books – one by one – to her little brother. The baby did what babies do: kicked his legs and waved his arms ... chortled and gurgled ... stuck his fist in his mouth ... hollered occasionally ... and grabbed at whatever toy was close enough for his tiny fingers to grab hold of and stick in his mouth or wave in the air.

Big Sister (who looked as if she might be only 5 or 6), would periodically hold the book up close to the baby's face and then pull it away the minute Baby decided the book might be good to grab and gnaw upon. Once in awhile, she'd put the book down and stick her head into the carriage (and make big sister goo-goo noises at the baby to make him laugh).

Mom proved what kids have always suspected (but only Mothers know for sure) – she had 3 eyes. Two kept an eagle eye on the kids and this strange old woman (me, the only other person in the laundromat). The third eye was for the laundry which, as any Mother could tell you after having at least 1 child in diapers (and most certainly after 2), can be done with one eye closed and/or in one's sleep.

Finally, the little girl noticed me and showed me the book she was reading. So we talked for a little bit. And all the while, Big Sister kept 1 eye on the baby and 1 eye on me (i.e., early training in case 1 day she needs 3 eyes). During our conversation, Baby kept his eyes on his big sister (while doing what babies always do: smiled, chortled, gurgled, hollered, kicked, etc).

Then I said to the little girl, "Oh my. That baby certainly loves you and knows you love him!"

Big Sister calmly replied, "I know. And do you know who else loves the baby?"

I smiled a little, anticipating the answer of "Mommy", "Daddy", "Grandpa", "Grandma" or perhaps even "Great Auntie" (or the family pet). So I responded with, "No. Who else loves the baby?"

She gazed at me for a moment and in that matter-of-fact tone (used only by small children who believe certain adults are in dire need of being taught some wisdom), Big Sister said,

"God loves the baby."

There's not much that can make me speechless. I thought for a few seconds as the little girl looked at me, waiting for my reply. And for once, I found myself capable of being a woman of few words:

"I know, honey. God loves the baby as much as God loves you."

The little girl dismissed me with a sweet smile and went back to reading a picture book to her baby brother.

As for the Young Mother of this story? Well, she had never stopped keeping watch over her beloved children – and the laundry still got done.

Don't Ask!

When I was kid, and asked (by my Mother) about my school day, I tended to say very little. Once the school day had passed, I was ready to get on with the NEXT part of my day – which involved doing homework or going outside to play or finding a quiet spot to read (and avoid doing after-school chores).

And while my day may have been filled with an abundance of good things (and things not so good), I needed some down time. 

From the moment I stepped off the school bus and walked into the house, my brain was churning with all sorts of ideas, remembered conversations, imagined (and real) slights and reminders of the many tasks that needed to be done (and by when). By the time, my Mother greeted me as I walked into the kitchen, I absolutely did not want to be charitable and engage in yet ANOTHER conversation.

I needed to clear my head ... needed time to be alone ... needed time to simply enjoy the peace of not being surrounded by a lot of people.

But when my need to share (what was on my mind or in my heart) was great – I watched and waited for the right time to approach my mom. I wanted to be sure I had her full attention – when she was not distracted by the demands of maintaining a home, being a wife, answering the call of a neighbor or attending to the needs of my siblings.

Fortunately, I had a mom who seemed to intuitively know when I was "ready" to talk.

Sometimes those conversations occurred when we were alone in the car ... preparing the evening dinner ... doing laundry. These were special moments for me ... the times when I had my mom all to myself ... when I didn't have to share her with anyone ... when I knew that I was her most important priority.

And then I talked.

But sometimes my readiness to "talk" erupted right at bedtime, as Mom tucked the covers under my chin, gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek, and brushed the hair off my forehead. She'd remind me to say my prayers and end our bedtime ritual with, "I love you honey. Have sweet dreams tonight".

And then, when I began to talk about all the important things (both the good and the bad) ... 

Mom listened.

I often think of the children who have no one to listen.

No Worry Squirrel

A few weeks ago, I happened to look at the tree in my back yard. A squirrel was running from branch to branch. He (or she) would occasionally stop and sit ... nibble on leaves, bark or seeds. Then the squirrel would start to run again, leaping from one branch to another and following a trail that only a squirrel could know.

This was normal behavior for the squirrels who visited my yard. 

Yet on THIS particular day, Squirrel hung completely upside down, clinging to the tree with his (or her) back legs and paws – stretching his (or her) upper body out into the air. 

Completely unsupported ... paws reaching out ...

I had to wonder whether the critter was engaged in a squirrel version of gymnastics, trying to get the attention of a buddy, taking a moment to enjoy the breeze or simply airing out his (or her) armpits.

THEN I contemplated the ease by which a squirrel traveled through the trees ... leaped from limb to limb ... navigated trails on land and over rooftops.

And for a moment (being somewhat fanciful in my thinking), I asked myself ...

"Does the Squirrel ever worry?"

Now I will admit to being no stranger to "worry" – which is likely why I worried (just a little bit) about Squirrel falling off the tree and landing on his head. And I confess there were seasons in my life in which "worry" greeted me when I awoke ... stayed with me throughout my days ... consumed my thoughts as I went to sleep. 

Oh my. The hours and days that were squandered by "worry!"