Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, I started kindergarten at a small private Christian school in East Dallas at the age of four.  I have an October birthday and at that time parents could choose whether or not to put their child in “early” or “late.”  I turned five just about six weeks later but I was always the youngest.  It never bothered me and I never had any issues going through school.  However, I was tortured at that little private sect of a school.  They locked me out of the schoolroom and stole my Mickey Mouse necklace which my Uncle Johnny brought me back from Disneyland — a place I have yet to go.  My father was a painter and he painted that entire school plus the playground so that I was able to attend, but I was just miserable.  Public school was different way back then and in the second grade my folks allowed me to switch.  So I am basically a public school educated girl who put herself through SMU on academic scholarship.  I believe it is human nature to want more for your child than you had … at least if one comes from a normal, functioning family I believe it is.  When we were interviewing for private school for our little one I was more nervous than when I applied for college!  I had an easy time in school but my husband did not.  Where would our daughter fall?  We had only applied to one school (when I’m told people apply to four or five) and fortunately she got in.  My husband and I, both lovers of academics, truly wish that we could go back and attend this school ourselves!  Not only is it incredibly colorful, one can tell from a tour there is an innate, inherent desire for learning.  It is contagious for those who have a thirst for knowledge.  All I know is I am incredibly grateful she was accepted.  They attend chapel four times a week, which I love.  For those of you for separation of church and state, I respect that.  It is just not what we wanted for our daughter.  It is not a Catholic school, rather it is our denomination, which is Episcopalian — or, as I am oft to joke, “Whiskeypalian.”  I must confess I am not a fan of single-sex education, as I do not feel that reflects the real world.  In fact, I have read multiple studies where girls cave once they’re in college and they actually encounter males.  The real world is made up of both males and females, and I do not view their segregation as an advantage.  But that’s just me.  Anyway, she made it!  I took this picture from her introduction to the playground for “littles” which goes from Pre-K through Kindgergarten.  I told her to enjoy being the oldest, because she would be using the other playground from first all the way through the eighth grade.  The American comedian Darrel Hammond has said:

“Play is under attack in our nation’s schools – and shrinking recess periods are only part of the problem.  Homework is increasing.  Cities are building new schools without playgrounds.  Safety concerns are prompting bans of tag, soccer, and even running on the schoolyard.”

I certainly hope all schools will realize the importance of music, art, and physical activity.  At present I am just so proud our little one made it into kindergarten to start her new school!

Sometime after my husband and I were married I discovered an old rocker that was set aside by a neighbor on the curb for bulk trash.  I remember stopping my car and, upon further examination, proclaiming it was still good.  This did not please my husband, who was then assigned the task of hauling the glider all the way back to our house.  This glider remained in working order until we got our new fence installed.  Recently, when my husband sat on it, there was a terrible rending sound and I hollered he should get up immediately.  It nearly caved in!  However, it was really a simple matter to repaint the metal and replace the wood.  Only this time we chose a much more sturdy natural cedar which we varnished with a treater against the elements.  And just look at it now!  It is such an indescribable amount of joy for me and it cost a very modest amount to have redone.  When did we become such a disposable society?  I guess because my folks grew up during the Great Depression it was ingrained upon me NOT to waste — ever.  I love our “free” glider so much, which we restored for pennies on the dollar.  It resides under our redbud tree overlooking our koi pond.  And it is so relaxing to sit and listen to the waterfalls while watching our fish swimming languidly, fanning their beautiful long tails through the water.  The American author Neil Strauss said:

“Almost everyone who reaches a plateau where he or she is happy and comfortable says it’s because of finding balance between work, relaxation, exercise, socialising and family – plus some alone time to do something contemplative, creative, or educational.”

I think I may have stumbled upon this inadvertently … and it is on the bench.

When our little one was born she was perfect.  And I can say that truthfully because she got a ten on her APGAR test.  I did not even know what that was at the time but it was the first thing I proudly announced, after her birth statistics.  I came across this picture and could not resist posting.  Every once in a while when our little one sweeps her long, jet black eyelashes down, I literally get a glimpse of my late father in her.  I have written before that a couple of weeks after she was born she developed this “birthmark.”  It never bothered any of us although we were constantly having to explain it.  I had fluoride stains on my two front teeth that made me self-conscious all of my life.  Despite modeling and being in the Miss Texas U.S.A. pageant it is a great insecurity I still feel today.  The stains are now gone but the scars still remain.  My husband and I did not want that for our little girl.  The final straw for me was when a grown woman pointed straight at her and exclaimed, “EW, WHAT IS THAT?!” and then I watched my tiny one slowly lift her hand up to her cheek.  She does not remember it because she was I guess about two and a half but I certainly do.  So we made the decision to give her two laser treatments and have it removed.  The American basketball coach and multiple championship winner John Wooden once said, “Just do the best you can.  No one can do more than that.”  My daddy used to say something very similar.  It is ironic that I have not pierced her ears because I wanted her to make her own decision and yet I chose to make this incredibly important decision for her.  I really tried to do what I thought was best.  She has said she still wishes she had it.  I told her regardless of whether she can still see it or not it will always be there … a paw print on my heart.

Mother’s Day:  as a female, what does that mean?  Celbebrating your mother or being one yourself?  At some point is it both?  This day has been a silent, painful struggle for me for two reasons:  1)  I had an “older” mother who was 38 when I was born and 2)  I was an even older mother at 41 when our daughter was born.  Thankfully I think most churches have done away with the “honors” of youngest mothers, mothers with most children, etc.  I believe they had no idea how incredibly painful it was for women struggling against infertility.  To celebrate the woman with the most children for the woman who could not have any is a kind of pain I truly would not wish upon my worst enemy.  I may have said before I was only blessed a couple of Mother’s Days where I had both my mother and my daughter.  To say they were precious would be an understatement.  Now I struggle with the heartache of missing my mother while finally experiencing the joy of having my own daughter, her namesake.  HOW I wish my mother could have been with her longer on this earth.  I marvel at the similarities between them.  She is so much like my mother that it seriously freaks both my husband and me out.  Our daughter wants her Chapstick (lipstick), her purse, and wears different jewelry before she goes out.  She says the same phrases there is no way she could have ever heard from my mother.  My husband and I have remarked that going out with her is just like going out with my mother when she was alive.  My mother was a gentle but strong force in my life.  I strive to be the same for my daughter.  The sixteenth President of the United States, Abraham Lincoln, said, “All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.”

Growing up in an apartment, there are some things I discovered on my own never to gripe about or take for granted.  For instance:  painting, yard work, or planting.  It’s funny what people complain about when they do not fully realize what they have.  I suppose I might have been the same way, too but those were not the circumstances under which I grew up.  And, as incredibly difficult as they were, it served to shape and mold me into the person I am today.  My husband and I are just about identical in thought which I have always found somewhat fascinating and unusual given our very disparate backgrounds.  One of the things I want most for my child is to fully understand the difference between fortunate and unfortunate.  Fortunate is not a trip to Europe:  fortunate is healthy parents and food on the table.  I believe she gets her inherent kindness from both of us and I feel it is my job to make sure she understands that the definition of “fortunate” varies greatly.  In some countries — and on Indian reservations right here in the United States — that means access to clean drinking water and electricity.  Many native peoples STILL do not have these; and this is not supposed to be a “third world” county.  My husband and I have been blessed, thanks to my mother-in-law and step-father-in-law’s help, to have our house for over ten years now.  It is the first and only house I have ever had.  I STILL cannot get used to the sensation of not having loud music thumping through the walls, being able to actually see out of a window from the kitchen, and having my own piece of land where I can plant.  We have colored walls, ceiling fans, a wood-burning fireplace, a screened porch, and two stories — all the things I always wished for growing up.  I do not want our little one taking any of these things for granted.  Sadly, in Dallas it is far too easy to get caught up in whose house is more huge, who drives what car, etc.  I was the one “poor” kid surrounded by affluency in an elite city chorus when I was a child.  I was so ashamed of my father’s car I begged him to drop me off where the other girls wouldn’t see me.  I have one vivid memory, though, of us taking a break at the water fountain and this girl had her hair in gorgeous French braids — something I’d always wanted.  Another girl complimented her and she looked very sad as she said her nanny did it.  I realized then how fortunate I really was.  For ten years we have not had our own fence for one whole side of our house; the side which borders the only neighbors we have.  The fence along the alley was starting to waggle precariously like a child’s baby teeth and our old wooden fence was just single board pine and only six feet tall.  One can build up to eight feet without a permit.  My husband was the one who really wanted us to have this and we were able to go the two feet higher and have a sturdier cedar with a crown.  Since we do not have a big yard I feared it would close us in but, on the contrary, I feel liberated.  The American poet Robert Frost once quipped, “Don’t ever take a fence down until you know why it was put up.”  Seeing it all taken down like this I realized how incredibly important it was to finally have our own fence.  At last I feel we have some measure of privacy as well as security and it looks beautiful — plus I know it truly belongs to us.

I was wandering through the Parish Hall at my little one’s school when suddenly I stopped right in my tracks.  There were tables lined up full of the same type of art work, only each one varied.  They say that’s the beauty of art; two people can paint the same thing and they can both come out completely different.  Someone had thoughtfully made official looking art tags with the child’s name and a set price for all at the bottom of each piece.  I found myself scanning the rows until my eyes lit upon my baby’s work.  Like a mad art collector at a Sotheby’s auction, I knew I had to have it.  Of course there was no competition.  I looked around and conveniently found a woman manning the proverbial fort armed with a four square iPhone credit card acceptor.  I snatched mine up and could not pay fast enough.  Asking how the kids did it, the woman said the art teacher called it bubble art with paint and straws.  Suddenly I had a flashback to the week earlier when I wondered why my little one came home with blue and orange fingernails; mystery solved.  I believe I have mentioned before that when I was little I never could get why something I’d made meant so much to my parents.  Now, with a mother’s eyes, I understand.  The American writer and retired pediatric surgeon, Bernie Siegel, once said:

“Feelings aroused by the touch of someone’s hand, the sound of music, the smell of a flower, a beautiful sunset, a work of art, love, laughter, hope and faith – all work on both the unconscious and the conscious aspects of the self, and they have physiological consequences as well.”

Then it occurred to me — THAT is what makes art so priceless to someone.  And I was very fortunate to have my masterpiece.

The first time we went to a Renaissance festival I tried not to people watch with my mouth agape while silently pronouncing everyone there absolutely, totally, certifiably nuts.  Folks were dressed up trekking about the woods saying, “Milord” and “Milady” with American/”English” accents.  The funny thing was I think I heard a bit of cockney in there.  One guy was sprawled out on the grass playing a lute.  “Nobility” was spotted carrying their own “jewel encrusted” chalices filled with mead and ale.  There were women carrying great baskets of fresh flowers for sale.  Nearby fire blazed from a glassblower’s shop.  “I need to use ye old bathrooms” my husband quipped and snickered into my ear as I pointed him toward a giant sign that read, “Privies.”  It dawned on me then that these lunatics were all traipsing around in heavy velvet, actual armor, and stifling robes in NO AIR CONDITIONING.  This wasn’t the Renaissance; this was medieval!  The American political satirist P.J. O’Rourke said, “Not much was really invented during the Renaissance, if you don’t count modern civilization.”  And then I noticed these pretty garlands of flowers adorned with long, flowing silk ribbons and suddenly I found myself wanting one.  I chose a delicate orange with yellow silk ribbons and saw it had a shorter green ribbon as well.  It took me awhile to realize that the green ribbon was the one to be used to tie behind your head which held the garland in place.  Once it was around my hair I felt beautiful, feminine, and inexplicably serene.  Then Burk found a stall selling pet dragons and he didn’t bat an eye at purchasing one for himself even though most were being perused by kids.  I found it was a bit like Halloween combined with time travel.  With so many people all using the same manner of speech, wearing period dress, and practicing antiquated customs it sort of altered reality.  But it worked best if one actually played along.  I wondered to myself when I’d lost my love for being a just a touch weird and not caring what others thought.  This year we returned and that morning on impulse I pulled out my five year old’s Princess Merida dress, which she had never worn.  It was sentimental to me because it was the first real movie we ever took her to and a great role model for her which also echoed some of her heritage.  To say that my husband doesn’t “do” dress up would be an incredible understatement.  Ironically, he’s not cool; I think he’s just VERY reserved.  Rummaging around in my closet, I tried to find something that might pass as vaguely Renaissancesque.  I came out with a gypsy duster and hoped it would suffice.  To my great surprise, Burk’s dragon from several years ago appeared out of nowhere and rested on his wrist.  “You know,” I said cautiously, “if you just wore all black you could go as a dragon tamer maybe.”  This did not seem to bother him and off we went.  Our little one was the only girl in the whole 16th century English village to have chosen to dress as Merida.  Disney’s Princess Merida is Scottish and well-known for her incredible skills in archery, sword-fighting, and riding like the wind on her horse.  Her dress was very much appreciated and even caught the notice of the Queen, Catherine of Aragon, the first wife of King Henry VIII.  She was crossing a bridge followed by her retinue when I found myself immediately sinking into a deep curtsey (I kid you not) followed by, “Your Majesty.”  Impressed and nodding her approval, her dark eyes lit upon my child.  “Are you Merida?” she asked with more than a hint of appreciation in her voice.  “Yes, ma’am,” my little one replied.  “Well then you simply MUST be made an official princess,” she decreed and my baby doll just looked at her frozen with wide-eyed wonder.  Signaling to one of her ladies-in-waiting, a salt shaker was produced full of purple and gold glitter.  She was then officially decreed a princess and was greeted all around with a resounding cheer of “huzzah!”  And then, as they continued on, each one bowed to her and said, “Your Highness.”  I don’t care how silly it seems, I was so incredibly proud of her.  And she was coronated wearing my garland of roses in her hair.

It is only May and already it’s proving to be another Texas scorcher.  My little one attends a private preschool and this was a rare “free dress” day.  I love the uniforms for two major reasons:  the first is when I was in school, uniforms were not required and I wore the same clothes a lot.  And I got made fun of for that a lot.  Dallas is home, but sadly she is not without her longstanding flaws.  She is a shallow, hypermaterialistic city and in the ’80’s it reached new heights.  The second reason I love school uniforms is that there will be no drama over what to wear.  Here, just put this on; the end.  But however darling the jumpers may be, they are hotter than a, um, well never mind.  They’re hotter than, well they are just extremely hot!  Much like kiddos are expected to play out in freezing temperatures up north, Texas kiddos are expected to go outside and pray the water fountain’s working.  My little one’s teacher snapped this and I loved it.  She doesn’t have my mother’s true red hair, but she sure does look auburn here.  So does her little face, which turns all red exactly like mine does and my mother’s did.  She came home happy despite the heat because I’d dressed her in her a thin, pink shirt with kitty faces on it.  The Dallas born actress Piper Perabo said, “In Texas it’s always hot, dry, sunny, not a cloud in the sky.”  As I ran to hug my little one, red and sweaty from her second recess, she said, “Whew, Mama it’s hot!”  I looked down at her ruddy complexion and then touched her pert little nose as I said,  “As hot as a cat on a hot tin roof.”

My little one had another birthday party to attend.  It was at a popular place where several other kiddos in her class had held their birthday parties — including my own when she turned five.  But this time I did not want to sit on the bench like a responsible parent.  I found out it was OK for adults to go as long as they wore socks like everyone else.  I tried not to let my age or my weight bother me and I just decided to have fun with my little girl.  Rather than embarrassing her as I’d feared, the other kids started asking if I would go down the slides with them — to the point where my only child got jealous.  I was not elegant or gracious but you know what?  I had a great time!  One husband remarked I was the biggest kid there.  When I was little they didn’t have places like this.  And those slides seem WAY higher than two stories once you’ve climbed up!  I can only imagine how they must feel to littles.  I have found as I age that life is short.  I have spent too much time wondering what others may think of me and/or trying to please someone else.  Now I just don’t give a damn.  The result was that my child told me after it was all over she was so glad I played with her and that a few of the other kids said they wished I was their mom.  The Indian children’s right’s advocate Kailash Satyarthi said, “Childhood means simplicity.  Look at the world with the child’s eye — it is very beautiful.”  I was not the thinnest there and I’m pretty sure I was the oldest.  But I just let go of everything and had fun with my little one.  And I do believe I was the parent who had the best time.

When I was little I was always perplexed as to why my parents were so proud of the things I did.  Winning the school Spelling Bee I get.  Playing Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz” I get.  Writing and publishing two books I get.  But they would be equally as proud of whatever craft I brought home which, frankly, was not great.  Cut several decades later to my little girl.  My goodness minutes after she was born I was on Facebook so proud that my baby was only one of two in over fifteen years (according to the nurse) to score a perfect ten on her Apgar test!  I did not even know what that was.  But WOW was I ever proud!  I never had the talent for painting like my mother did.  She used to ride the streetcar barefoot as a ten year old and take art lessons at Fair Park in downtown Dallas.  Can you imagine a child doing that today?!  She used models from Audubon books and had a true gift.  I, on the other hand, never really knew how to draw.  A couple of years ago I went to a paint (and drink) class where I attempted my first ever painting — the Dallas skyline.  One building looks distinctly phallic, but nevertheless I tried.  On this day my little one attended her first “paint party” and this was the piece chosen.  I loved it and of course I think it is a masterpiece!  It now proudly hangs in her room, and I had her sign and date it at the bottom for posterity.  I do not know if it is discernible from this picture, but she chose to make all her gumballs pink.  Of course that is the beauty of the class — everyone’s painting is completely unique.  The American clergyman Henry Ward Beecher once said, “Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures.”  I thought that was really profound.  I had never thought of art in terms of the artist.  Now I see things with a different eye.