Category: Laugh

What was I thinking?

I’d like to be the ideal mother, but I’m too busy raising my kids. ~ unknown

Because my children are grown and have turned us into Eddie Albert and Eva Gabor – Stephen is a Texan and Courtney is in New York which means we will forever be torn between the two and could do our own remake of Green Acres – it’s not often that the four of us are together.  This past Christmas we were fortunate enough for that to happen.  Sitting around the dinner table that day, Stephen asked me a question that caught me off guard.

“What made you decide to have kids?  Were you bored and just needed something to do?  I mean, really, what were you thinking?”

Wow.  The truth is simple – we both wanted kids and it seemed the natural thing to do, and no, we weren’t thinking.  We weren’t thinking at all.

If I had any idea that being a mom would be so painful, that it’s a decision to forever have your heart exposed and subject to immense agony, if I had KNOWN?  I wouldn’t have chosen it.

There, I said it.

I would have done it differently.

If I had known that I would be wiping snot off a child’s nose onto my shirt while standing in line at the grocery store, I would have done it differently.

If someone had told me that childbirth would be the EASIEST part of being a parent, I would have done it differently.

If I had been able to see into the future and see the struggles my children would face, I would have done it differently.

If I had known that my children would grow up and vote for a Democrat, I would have done it differently.

There are times when I feel responsible for bringing two children into the world that have had to face life with a debilitating disease and had I known, I would never have subjected anyone to that kind of pain.

But my life would have been empty.  And the world would have missed out on having my kids in their midst.

If I had known that my son would shoot fireworks from his bedroom window and I would have to cover my face while I disciplined him so that he wouldn’t know I was laughing, I wouldn’t change a thing.

If I had known that the little girl who colored on my walls would grow up and make her mark on the world in New York City hundreds of miles from home, I wouldn’t change a thing.

If I had been able to see into the future and know that my heart would burst with pride every time I looked into their faces, I wouldn’t change a thing.

If I had known that my children would grow up and think for themselves and make their own decisions and LEAVE ME to go out and see the world and make their own homes, as adults, hundreds and hundreds of miles away from ME?  I wouldn’t change a thing.

Because my children are happy, my heart is full.  Because I have something to SHOW for how I spent the last 25 years of my life.  I have finally begun to experience a return on my investment and IT. IS. GOOD.

Being a mom is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.  And I wouldn’t change a thing.

Save Me

A few days ago I had a craving for cinnamon rolls.  Not just any cinnamon rolls, either.  Grandma Blackwell’s cinnamon rolls.

I made half a batch – somehow I thought I could justify the calories if I only made a few.  After waiting for them to finish baking, I put one on a plate and carried it upstairs to enjoy while I was reading the newspaper.

Peeling away the outside of the cinnamon roll, I managed to eat it all except that one last bite.  You know the bite I’m talking about.  The one in the center of the roll with all the butter and sugar and cinnamon and yummy gooeyness – the Crème de la Crème, the pick of the litter. THE LAST BITE.

Engrossed in reading the latest breaking news about Sandra Bullock’s new baby (hey, I never said I was reading the Wall Street Journal) I reached for THE BITE.  But it wasn’t there.  IT WAS GONE.

And then I saw it.  Lola, my daughter’s cat, the cat from the mean streets of the Big Apple, had apparently been eyeing that last bite too.  Without making a sound, she had climbed onto the nightstand and she was eating THE LAST BITE.  Oh, the agony!

Whose big idea was it to save the best for last anyway?  Why couldn’t I have just bypassed the layers of goodness and gone straight to the center of GREATNESS?

Save the good dishes for guests.  Save those leopard pumps for a special occasion.  Save the last dance.

Not me.  Not anymore.  In fact, the next time I go out to dinner, I will eat dessert first and I will NOT save room for an entrée.  I will let my husband use the fancy towel (singular, I just have one for display) instead of the faded, threadbare ones he is accustomed to.  I will not save coupons because I never remember to bring them to the store anyway.  I WILL NOT.

Pay attention.  The next time you see me I will not only be wearing the leopard pumps but this body will be sucked, shoved, and squeezed into my good Spanx, not the one that is 2 sizes too small with holes made from pulling and tugging.

And considering the calories I WON’T be saving, looks like it’s going to be a GOOD girdle lifestyle for me from now on.

Do you Spanx?

It’s an age old problem most women struggle with daily. Body image. And as I get older, image is not just about looking as good as we can, it’s about the ability to wear cute clothes without having to tuck in the extra fat.

Gravity is bad enough…my bust line and waist line are one and the same, therefore I refer to it as my BAISTLINE.

Gone are the days of flat stomachs, perky boobs and anything whatsoever in my “trunk” let alone junk. Hail damaged legs are not attractive. Now that it’s taboo to have a pantie line, I refuse to wear something resembling a swatch of fabric sewn to elastic – I just don’t see the point.

Thank goodness for Spanx. At least, thank goodness once you get them on.

Before Spanx came out, I did try to fit into other body shapers, but that didn’t work out so well. Maybe my logic is the problem, but when I decided it was time to suck in and smooth out all these lumps, bumps and extra weight, regardless of what I weighed or what size I was, I figured the smaller the body shaper, the smaller I would appear.

I’ll attempt to paint the picture. Poor Courtney was with me. She must have been 12 or 13 at the time, so the very thought of shopping with me for any undergarment was mortifying. But I made her come into the dressing room with me anyway. The first problem arose when I attempted to pull the darn thing up over my thighs. Never did I consider where the extra fat was supposed to go once it was on – but let’s just say, it “overflowed.”

Now I’ve got it halfway up my thighs, but I needed Courtney’s help to pull it over the pounds of excess blubber. Together we managed to get it about mid hip level, but then it was stuck. Obviously it wasn’t going to work, and it was cutting off circulation to my lower extremities, so it had to come off. By now the two of us are laughing hysterically, thus losing any strength we may have had. After several attempts, including me standing on the chair in the dressing room and having her attach herself to the girdle, literally suspended in air, the silly thing came off. I don’t think Courtney has ever been the same since that day and suffers from emotional scars, vowing never again to enter a changing room with me.

Years pass and Spanx arrives on the scene. Oprah brags about wearing them, so, as usual, if Oprah says something is necessary we mortal beings succumb to pressure. As though wearing something Oprah wears will make us HER.

I started with the kind that cover the stomach down to the mid-thigh. And though my stomach was flatter and the potholes on my legs appeared smooth, it kept rolling down when I moved, which meant I could look okay, but movement was out of the question. And where in the world was the extra flesh now but grotesquely oozing out from under my arms and the middle of my back. Not attractive. Trust me.

Out comes the perfect all-in-one bodysuit version of Spanx. Without it, I would have no clothes I could wear since I’ve gained a bit of weight since I took the spill down the stairs. The fall resulted in several broken bones in my arm and elbow, so I’m basically only able to use my good arm. Getting into the bodysuit takes 3 arms. My good one, and the two very strong arms of my husband.

I can manage to get it halfway up, but again, the fat spillage is overwhelming so I need someone, namely my husband, to tuck the excess and to pull upward HARD. Once we get it over my thighs and successfully push and tuck the mounds of fat that have spilled out, then comes the final transformation. I put my good arm in the armhole and pull the strap over my shoulder, then Tom maneuvers my hand through the other strap. It’s probably quite comical if anyone were ever to see us. The process takes a good 5-10 minutes, and by the time it’s on, not only am I sweating, but now I have to use the bathroom.

Why didn’t I go before I put it on? Because I didn’t need to. But since the fat is now tucked and shoved and forced into this “body armor” (as my husband calls it), it’s putting pressure on my bladder. But the makers of Spanx knew nature would call, so they include a very small opening so we can answer that call without completely undressing.

The only problem is getting one’s self into the correct position so as not to miss the opening. The odds are not in one’s favor. As for me, I’m in the 30% range.

But it’s on, and things are smooth. Losing weight is easier because eating is out of the question, which makes me think I should wear it all the time because then I eventually wouldn’t need it…but Tom would miss out on the joy he gets from laughing at my expense. I’m fortunate to have a wonderful husband who faces the humility I impose on him with dignity. In between bouts of laughter that is.

But one night after he had to pry it off my body for me, since taking it off is almost as tough as getting it on, he brought up a good point. What about the guy who has been fooled into thinking that the woman he loves is a petite size 2, only to discover that without Spanx, she’s…not? He says it’s wrong, deceptive, and misleading. I on the other hand, think of it as being no different than wearing make-up, covering the gray roots of your hair, or wearing 3″ heels.

Those, however, do not impede your ability to use the toilet. And in spite of that fact, I will continue my loyalty and devotion to smoother tummies and firmer thighs. Besides, after 25 years of marriage, the Spanx process adds a little spark to our lives, and remember, it only take a spark to get a fire going.

Note: No pictures were used in this topic of me wearing Spanx, or the processes used to get into or out of my Spanx. Some things are better left to the imagination.

Daughter

There is absolutely nothing that compares to having a daughter. Although I missed out on a relationship with my own mother, I’ve tried to create that bond with Courtney, my precious girl.

It wasn’t always easy. She was so very STUBBORN. Even before the doctor removed her from my womb, she was crying, demanding attention. I think she screamed the first six months of her life, but it seemed like it would never end. Her brother, Stephen, though only 2 years older than she, even asked me at one point if the doctor could “put her back in and pull out a brother.” Little did I know that the personality that God had given her when she was conceived would be my biggest challenge as her mother.

My favorite memory of the many, many times she insisted on her way was when I caught her creating “art” in the hallway. Stephen had done the same thing when he was about her age, but a simple scolding and telling him how disappointed his dad would be was all that was needed to stop him. Courtney was a different story. Upon discovery, I found her very focused on her work. But when I told her to stop, threatening to spank her (yes, in those days, spanking was an option) instead of stopping, she ran from me, dragging the colored marker along the way.

At the age of 2, Courtney was making her mark on my walls. My job – to mold her (and channel her creativity away from my walls onto paper) without breaking her spirit. She was so insistent on her own way, and daily had to be “reminded” that in life, there are rules.

I used to go to bed at night and cry over the many times during the day I had to discipline her. Exhausted, I felt a combination of guilt and responsibility. I knew I had to win the battle, yet had to choose which battles to fight.

There were days I thought she would one day grow up to despise me, when all I wanted was for her to be the woman she was created to be. I made mistakes. I yelled. I even crossed the line and read her diary when she was a teen, desperate to know her, to mother her, and to keep her from making wrong choices as I had done.

It is so hard to believe that she is no longer a child, but a woman. A woman I respect, admire, and am proud of. I want to be her when I grow up.

All those disputes over silly things have proven that in spite of my many flaws as her mother, she has embraced the gifts given to her. That stubborn facet of her personality is the pillar that gives her courage to face challenges and adversity.

Her stubbornness paid off in December, 2005 when she received not only the acceptance letter granting her admission to New York University, but a full tuition scholarship. I had never been so proud, and yet so sad at the same time.

Leaving her in that dorm room in New York that September day, 2006, was probably one of the hardest days of my life. I cried, and cried, and cried. Ugly cry. Crying so much my own husband didn’t want to sit next to me on the plane ride back to Oklahoma. My baby had grown up overnight, and now she was 1500 miles away…

I absolutely, completely, and unabashedly love my Courtney. I live my life through her. The opportunities she has been given by being at NYU are priceless. Missing her is something that I’ve grown accustomed to, but there are times when the tears fall and I want to hold her, to hug her, to tuck her in at night and know that she’s safe.

That stubbornness that God gave her, that caused me so much grief, has paid off. Without that, she would never be able to make it in the Big Apple, and as they say, if she can make it there, she can make it anywhere.

Just like that day when she was little more than 2 years old, she is making her mark on the world. So many gifts. Graphics, design, music, movies – you name it – when it comes to entertainment media, she’s the expert. But when she writes, when she puts words together, when she takes the 26 letters of the alphabet and creates a journalistic masterpiece, she amazes me. She inspires me to be better.

Courtney Hopkins. Remember it. Someday, somehow, that name will be synonymous with greatness. And I am so proud to call her daughter, friend, and most of all, my inspiration.