Perhaps February 1st is an odd time to write about New Year’s Resolutions.  So often this is when most of us have lapsed with ours or have just dropped out all together.  I tend to be a feast or famine type of person.  Last year I ran every single day for five months until I broke my shoulder.  Since then I haven’t exercised at all until I began Taekwondo last month after having finally been released from physical therapy.  The Grandmaster at the Taekwondo institute where my daughter and I study has everyone write their New Year’s Resolutions on a board which they will break at the end of the year.  My little one is barely five and she was proud to write her name and present it to her instructor.  I was so touched by it I took this picture and sent it to the family.  Her paternal great-grandmother (GG) said Maris was so precious, and that if she did these all of her life she would be happy.  I have repeatedly told her to always be kind, because many times in my life I have experienced meanness, as I’m sure we all have.  Maybe she remembers how much I loved my mother and how much I helped her; I’m not sure how she came up with number two.  The third is all her, as she truly wants to be friends with everyone.  I thought about my own resolutions and I am trying to accept myself the days I fail, but to keep up with the intent.  The Merriam-Webster dictionary gives definitions for “resolution” as “the act of determining” and “firmness of resolve.”  This made me realize we must first determine what it is we want to accomplish and then maintain a firmness of resolve in setting about doing it.  The 16th President of the United States, Abraham Lincoln, said, “Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any other.”  I hope my little one and I will be mindful of this throughout this next year and resolve to succeed in our resolutions.

I am not a spur of the moment person.  I like plans.  I like making plans.  As I get older, despite having this as a lifelong trait, I realize it can sometimes be a detriment.  My mother was awful with spontenaity and I confess my husband is not much better.  We are blessed to have laid-back friends who are the opposite of us in this way.  Thanks to them inviting us over on the spur of the moment, what would have been a regular Sunday night turned into something restorative and fun.  While our little girls colored, snacking on strawberries and Pirates’ Booty, we actually had grown up time.  It was wonderful!  So wonderful in fact we didn’t want to separate them for dinner.  Then I discovered Pizza Hut has gluten free pizza!  And so we all had a little party of sorts.  My friend’s husband and I savored cigars outside while our girls raced around the lawn laughing with abandon.  The American singer Jim Morrison said, “A friend is someone who gives you total freedom to be yourself.”  And that is exactly what our friends allow us to do.  My husband got to have some guy time with someone whom he enjoys; I got some girl time with someone I enjoy, and our kiddos hugged and played.  We realized they have known each other over half of their young lives now.  How blessed we are to have found a little family in our neighborhood that has someone for each of us.  Personally, I think that is an incredible rarity.  The girls did not squabble as children often do and they cheered each other on in true sisterhood.  We all had varying adult beverages of our choosing and I even got to launch into a talk about cigar terminology:  ring gauges, names, brands, lengths, wrappers, fillers, ways to cut or punch them, ways to light them, the different ways they are rolled, etc.  Just when I thought I had exhausted the subject I looked down, snapped this picture, and said with appreciation, “What an ash.”

I never understood taking healthy newborns away from their mothers and placing them in glass boxes behind glass walls in separate rooms.  Thankfully hospitals have realized the antiquated notion does not benefit either baby or mother, and now they stay together unless there is a health concern.  For me, this extended into our lives after we brought our baby home.  I kept her in her bassinet next to me and it made night feedings way more convenient.  As a child, I was terrified of sleeping in the dark.  My parents tried EVERYTHING but just could not get me to sleep alone.  The same has proven true with my daughter.  It amazes me as to why a supposedly open minded family member is so preoccupied with this.  I have a lot of friends from varying cultures whose children sleep with them.  To me sleep is a loving, special time and I know my five year old is not going to stay in our room with us forever.  Thanks to her sleeping with me I have been able to almost instantly monitor when she has had fever, trouble breathing with her asthma, and have even been able to soothe her after bad dreams.  I have also been surprised by how many people secretly have confessed their kids sleep with them, too.  I do not understand the judgemental taboo that seems to wrap itself around this issue.  There is a time and a place for everything, if you understand my meaning.  My little one and I sleep better with each other right now; one day that will not be the case.  Until then, I am going to be there for her and savor her sweet sighs, her little arms wrapped around me, and our impromptu girls’ talks that happen sometimes in the middle of the night.  We giggle because Daddy just sleeps through it all.  The French poet, novelist, and dramatist Victor Hugo said, “A mother’s arms are made of tenderness and children sleep soundly in them.”  And with that, I am telling my little one “sweet dreams.”

I am very big into nice smelling scents.  I realize some people prefer no fragrance at all and I respect that; I try not to wear my perfume too strongly when I go out.  Invariably someone will compliment me on it though and I will be horrified because since I have worn it for so many years I can no longer smell it.  So I worry and ask if it’s too much.  Dear Lord I will NEVER forget the days of women drenching themselves in Giorgio in the ’80s.  I found the scent so overbearing I literally could not stand it and would just hold my breath until the elevator doors opened.  I knew then I never wanted to be that person!  But I’m not going to lie, I love a good scent.  I tend to adore white florals (I realize some of you may be gagging right now.)  In junior high I remember getting Jungle Gardenia from the grocery store and thinking I was quite grown up.  And, I’m not going to throw it under the proverbial bus, I would still like it.  Roses are sacred to me because my Grandmother Maris always smelled delicately of Rose Milk.  Of course everyone’s body chemistry is different and what smells intoxicating on one person may smell horrid on another.  For years I wore Alfred Sung before the original Carolina Herrera came along.  It is becoming harder and harder to find; I’ll bet I’ve worn it for 20 years.  It is my “signature fragrance” and my husband loves it.  I FINALLY got him to start wearing cologne.  But I have gotten off topic.  My mother instilled in me an appreciation for scented soap (which she got from her mother) years before they were so commonplace.  I can remember the fancy bars of soap with something written on them we always had in our soap dish.  I believe bars of soap of any sort are now on the decline.  I confess I prefer the pump soap — mostly because I feel it’s more sanitary — but I no longer get anything with “scrubbers” (microbeads) as they are a detriment to the environment.  However I also prefer different scents in different places around the house.  For instance, a lemon scent might be great for the kitchen but I would enjoy something softer for the bathrooms.  All of which leads me to this:  sometimes it’s the little things.  I discovered this cleverly packaged soap the other day and loved the scent.  I do keep my red wine in the kitchen and often add it to what I’m cooking.  I have tried transferring soap into nicer glass containers but look how cute this is!  Apparently the “bottle” is being discontinued so I decided to stock up.  I will use the extras as spares if one should ever go out.  The Russian born American novelist Vladimir Nabokov once said, “Nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it.”  So go ahead — hit the bottle.

I have often said if it weren’t for the cleaning ladies I would lose my mind.  I am blessed to have a husband, a daughter, animal companions, a house, a job, and this blog.  I do not know how others do I it but I simply cannot maintain it all and cook as well.  God bless these two women:  in our home they endure being kissed by giant wolfies, “helped” by cats, they clean my little one’s bathroom with the door shut so her mice stay safe, endure shedding of hair, a yappy Shih Tzu, and more.  And every week they do it with smiles and good grace.  They are like family and my little one loves it when she gets to see them.  In addition to everything else, they get to work with a constant stream of steady chatter from my five year old when she’s home.  They have cleaned things that are meaningful to me as carefully as if it were their own.  I always try to have toys off the floor because I don’t want to send them over the edge.  So I was surprised when they sent me this picture after they had left our house the other day.  As you can see my little one decided to “decorate” their bucket with her prized stickers.  Their text came back with hearts and smiley faces on it.  The Chinese recycling entrepreneur and philanthropist Chen Guangbiao said, “If you have only a glass of water, then one person can drink.  If you have a bucket, a whole family can benefit.”  I hope to live my life accordingly; mindful of others.  These women are another blessing I value in my life; they always work hard and have always been kind.  And that is just a drop in the bucket.

At the start of this year, I decided to try my daughter in a Korean Taekwando institute, where the Grandmaster is a 9th degree black belt.  It differed from her first school, which was a more western mixed martial arts style.  This is straight up old school.  I told them my barely five year old had already earned a black belt but I truly think they thought I did not know what I was talking about.  So I watched my petite little girl in a beginning class decimate everyone, including an eight year old boy.  It was a little intimidating watching and not knowing the same style or the language, as I had started taking lessons at the previous school myself.  Pretty soon they had all the other students sit down.  The two instructors signaled for her to come to the front where they showed her how to kneel.  It wasn’t a western praying in church sort of kneel; rather it was one where she was required to sit back on her heels.  From that position they set up two bricks with a board in between and proceeded to show her how to strike it with her hand.  Previously she had broken boards with an ax kick, a side kick, and an elbow strike, all of which had the benefit of utilizing some momentum.  This strike had practically none.  It was sort of like hitting a nail with a hammer.  She got it on her third try with a resounding “YA!” and I was later told by the Grandmaster this was not the class for her.  So they tried her at the next level, with bigger kids and where she was the only girl.  I worried how she would fare.  It was much more complicated and she knew nothing of what they were doing.  After studying her the Grandmaster, who looks like a gentle grandfather, said she positively glows when she is out there.  He placed her in the advanced class but at a lower rank because of the vast difference in schools.  So imagine my pride when she was awarded this stripe after her fifth class!  I could not believe it.  I do not understand why so many believe the study of martial arts to be violent when in fact it is the antithesis.  I decided to begin again myself at this place but I lost my yellow belt ranking and I am starting over at the white belt level.  I do not know how far I can go, as it emphasizes head high kicks and spins, but I am going to try.  They told me to be patient and to enjoy the journey.  The American broadcast journalist Soledad O’Brien said:

“I’ve learned that fear limits you and your vision.  It serves as blinders to what may be just a few steps down the road for you.  The journey is valuable, but believing in your talents, your abilities, and your self-worth can empower you to walk down an even brighter path.  Transforming fear into freedom – how great is that?”

And so begins our journeys of a different stripe.

I picked up a quirk from my daddy and it is a weird compulsion I cannot seem to stop.  Daddy had a slight obsession with tracking his gas mileage.  He would run the tank down low before filling back up.  Once Mama and I were about a hour outside of Santa Fe and I’d missed the last stop for gasoline.  I decided to press on despite having essentially no fuel.  About 45 minutes later I started to freak out.  “We’re not going to make it!” I hollered.  “We’ll be stranded in the desert with no one to help us!”  In the midst of my panicked monologue I glanced over and noticed my little mother was beginning to look nervous as we watched the sun dropping down below the mountains.  Being non gun toting Texans, I contemplated leaving Mama with our tire iron if I had to walk the 20 or so miles for gas.  I really had been almost out when we’d left Cline’s Corners.  I decided to take my anxiety internal, so as not to frighten my mother worse.  And then, incredulously, a shiny new gas station appeared like a mirage sparkling in the desert.  We were saved!  It had not been there the year before.  I began mentally comparing it with the Biblical story of Hanukkah, where the wicks of the menorah miraculously burned for eight days even though there was only enough for one day’s lighting.  I am serious — I probably had nine miles left an hour prior and was too stubborn to turn around and get gas, thinking pressing on would be OK.  The American former football player, coach, and analyst Lou Holtz said, “God looks after children, animals and idiots.”  I fear I fell into the third category on that day and I am STILL thankful we made it into town just fine.  It taught me, though, NEVER again to run on empty.

For years growing up mean kids would tell me I was adopted.  They told me so much one day I asked my folks; I could see their hurt.  My Choctaw/German father had jet black hair, deep blue eyes, and dark red skin.  My Scots Irish/French mother had vivid red hair, very fair skin, and light brown eyes.  I had blondish hair and greenish eyes with a skin shade that could tan incredibly well or get really pale.  I was actually a cross between my parents but when I was young I couldn’t see it.  As I got older everyone told me I looked just like my mother, but with my father’s eyes.  When we first had our child she looked just like me, with golden hair and lighter eyes.  Then one day I looked into her little face and I saw my beloved husband’s own dark eyes looking back at me.  It was a bit unnerving; eyes I knew so well on someone else.  For years I have joked it was like my mother and my husband had a baby.  Now, for the first time, I am hearing, “She looks just like you!” and it has made me so proud.  I think my family’s genes are carrying into the next generation.  Just as I looked just like my mother but with my father’s eyes; my little one is looking just like me but with her father’s eyes.  The American author Joan D. Vinge said:

“We are all born with a unique genetic blueprint, which lays out the basic characteristics of our personality as well as our physical health and appearance…  And yet, we all know that life experiences do change us.”

I want my little one to be a Mini-Me but with far greater experiences than I got to have as a child.  And I do hope she grows to know and love the Lord, just as my parents taught me.  So far she has a love for animals, church, singing, and French so I’d say I’m off to a great start … with my Mini-Me.

I never did like dolls growing up, or Barbies either.  I TRIED to like them; I just could never get into them.  My little one likes dolls but loves stuffed toy animals, just as I did.  She also likes cars.  Ironically, my when my husband was young he played with his cousin’s doll house because he liked the miniature models.  He will still stop and examine any model he sees:  whether it’s a building going up, a battlefield of some sort, or a replica of anything historical.  Anyway, our little one asked for a doll for Christmas — that pooped.  Her daddy and I thought that was too disgusting.  And then I found this sweet, precious little thing.  It was the same brand our baby doll wanted only all this one could do was suck her thumb.  My heart constricted when I saw her.  Something about the mostly no hair and enormous eyes reminded me instantly of when my baby was a baby.  I cradled her in my arms through the box and even found a kitten for her on the way out.  When my husband saw her he melted immediately.  “It looks just like her when she was a tiny little baby!” he exclaimed and actually took the doll from me.  We were both lost in our own thoughts … five years whirling before our eyes.  “It’s kind of heartbreaking, isn’t it?” I asked and he just nodded.  When our little one got her on Christmas day she loved her and her doll’s kitten.  She named her Rose and said she was going to have a little girl just like her with the same name when she grew up.  Yet another Marian connection my child has unwittingly made.  I have noticed as other toys litter the house my husband and I have kept an eye on her.  She is never discarded, upside down, or on the floor.  It’s so silly for two grown adults to love a doll.  And yet, we do.  I keep thinking of one of my favorite Bette Midler songs:

         “Baby Mine”

Baby mine, don’t you cry.
Baby mine, dry your eyes.
Rest your head close to my heart,
Never to part, baby of mine.

Little one, when you play,
Pay no heed what they say.
Let your eyes sparkle and shine,
Never a tear, baby of mine.

If they knew all about you,
They’d end up loving you too.
All those same people who scold you,
What they’d give just for the right to hold you.

From your head down to your toes,
You’re not much, goodness knows.
But, you’re so precious to me,
Sweet as can be, baby of mine.

I was working at a client’s house tonight when I noticed this kitchen towel.  It was so timely it made me laugh.  I don’t know of any parent who wants their child to misbehave, particularly in public.  People without kids can be very judgy and regardless, anything the parent does becomes fodder for public scrutiny.  We were going to the movies earlier when my little one came running up to me in the mall.  Her face was a varied shade of reddish/purple, she had been crying, and now she was just hollering.  Have you ever heard the acoustics in a mall??  It’s why I used to love to sing there.  At two, tantrums are sometimes unavoidable; at five I say no way.  In the ’70’s my father would have just started spanking.  I remember once being spanked all the way down the escalator in the mall when I was just about my little one’s age.  I can still feel the humiliation to this day.  Meanwhile my current humiliation was my only child jumping up and down as we approached, ironically, the escalator.  “I WANT A BALLOON!  I WANT A BALLOON!” she chanted as her light up shoes blinked blindingly in time with her rhythmic demands.  Her father and I met eyes over her head.  I was horrified and he looked harried.  “I told her to ask you,” my poor beloved said.  “Absolutely not,” I replied.  “We are about to see a movie that cost a lot of money and then we are going out to eat.  That is enough.”  All this was being played out in front of the ticket taker which only added to my embarrassment.  More hopping and screaming ensued.  “Now listen!” I heard someone from behind me quietly say.  “Your parents are here, trying to take you to a nice movie!  You ought to be grateful; instead you’re acting like a spoiled brat!  You should tell your parents ‘thank you’ instead of demanding a balloon.”  I turned around and it was the young woman who was working to take the tickets.  I turned back to see my little one’s tears instantly dissolve, only to be replaced with a stunned look of shock which spread across her now white face.  “Can you tell her, ‘Yes ma’am?'” I asked and she immediately said it.  Then I turned once again to the woman and hugged her.  Maybe under a different circumstance I would have taken her head off.  But somehow I just knew she was speaking from the heart and with experience.  Only people who have struggled would have worded it the way she did and I recognized it instantly.  We rarely got to go to the movies EVER while I was growing up.  Plus her daddy dropped an obscene $12 for her to have a balloon animal the last time we went.  Treats should not be regular occurrences.  I thanked the young woman and she said sometimes it just took hearing it from someone else.  Then, as I suspected, she revealed she had children of her own.  I do not know if I would have been able to say what she did to someone whom I did not know, particularly at her age, but I admired her for it and was grateful nonetheless.  The same mortification I felt all those years ago going down the escalator I think my little one felt going up it.  I wonder if this was one of those times that will remain in her memory as she goes through life.  I love this quote by the American motivational author and speaker Zig Ziglar who said, “Your attitude, not your aptitude, will determine your altitude.”  My little one went from focusing on a negative (not having the balloon and how “deprived” she was) to seeing the positives (like going to the movies and being together as a family.)  Meanwhile, my beloved and I decided to get doubles at the bar which we were able to bring into the theater.  After all, everyone’s entitled to an occasional meltdown.