Bigger Picture Moment: No Jewel As Perfect

Somewhere among folds of laundry, or perhaps lodged behind a hidden crevice, my favorite ring -- the one that is just slightly too big -- is lost.

This is not my favorite ring that I switch out with my huge collection of other rings whenever the mood strikes me.  This is my favorite ring that never leaves my finger, and even if it did, I'd have nothing to replace it with because I don't have many rings.  It's left an invisible weight on my finger.  The phantom ring left in its place, though, is no comfort.

I could swear it just slipped off.  Just now, while I was sorting piles of delicates and towels.  While I smoothed the bed sheets and fluffed the pillows. While I pulled my hand from my pocket.  While I dug in my purse. 

But in truth it could have been gone for days, meaning the only reason my finger feels the memory of its weight so distinctly is because I am thinking about it so much.  I think, therefore, it's true.

In whatever spare moments I could find, I've sifted through our home, one item -- one inch -- at a time, coming up empty-handed.  Empty-fingered.  And I'm sad.  That ring is special to me in ways that most of my belongings are not.  It has meaning.  It holds memories.  It encapsulates a little bit of time.

------------

As a relatively new couple, Justin and I were stereotypically in love.  The air around us could have been perfumed with stink, and the places we visited could have been garbage-filled; we wouldn't have noticed, so goofily in-love were we.  We were desperate for one another, and still very young. 

Walking around the mall at Christmas one year, we held hands and melted into each other's eyes every so often.  We passed a jewelry store.  There was a little-bitty diamond ring there.  As tiny as a flea, and with almost as much tenacity as one, it jumped into my imagination and held on tight. 

I wanted a diamond ring, and there was no way I could presume to ask my new love to get it for me.  A diamond ring needed to be heartfelt, not begged.  It needed to mean something, not be a simple gift.  But somehow, the look in my puppy dog eyes or my sugar-coatedly hopeful smile convinced Justin of my wish. 

Just as one glance at my face gave away my wish to have Justin give me a ring, one glance at his face tattled the moment he'd decided to buy me that ring. 

I knew he'd give me a ring for Christmas. 

Later that day, away from the intoxication of Justin's presence, I thought.  I knew we hadn't been together very long.  I knew a diamond ring -- no matter how tiny -- was a symbol to the world.  I knew what my dad would think about it... 

And I panicked.  Suddenly, nothing seemed worse to me than a diamond ring from the boy I'd been dating for less than 6 months.  He couldn't give me a ring -- because I knew he was the man I wanted to marry.  I wanted a diamond ring from him to be nothing short of COMMITMENT, and it wasn't time for that yet.  Or if it was, I didn't want it to be in response to my hinting eyes at a jewelry store. 

The next time I saw him, I blurted out an awkward statement: I think looking at a diamond ring might have been a mistake and I don't want you to get it for me no matter what I SEEMED to be saying and I love you and want a diamond ring to be somewhere in our future but please please please don't get me one now! 

Understandably, Justin was baffled.  But more than that, he was a little flustered.  Because you see, unknown to me, he'd already bought the ring. 

That very day, he returned it to the jewelry store.  No questions asked.  No diamonds lurked in my immediate future, and I could breathe again. 

Christmas came; I received a small, velvet box from Justin.  Inside it, predictably, was a ring. 



source

But not the diamond ring.  This ring was something better.  A deep blue star sapphire, wrapped in delicate arms of gold.  It was beautiful, and it fit my personality perfectly.  Lovely but not sparkly, simple but interesting. 

Plus -- and best of all -- it wasn't a diamond. 

This ring was the first piece of jewelry given to me by my future husband, and I adored it.

------------

I miss my ring.  I have this certainty lodged in my heart that tells me I'll (of course!) find it.  It's got to be in the house somewhere, and I've got to happen across it sometime.  Right?

Only...what if it fell off outside the house?  While playing with the girls in the back yard?  While pulling my arms away from Lauren as I handed her over to her preschool teacher?  While lifting my purse at the dentist's office? 

What then?  What if I don't ever find it, I wonder?

As I write this, I peek across the couch to where Justin is sitting.  Unfailingly, un-lose-ably, with love and humor and affection and responsibility -- he's next to me.

I have the man who gave me the ring. 

What more could I possibly need?



Where did you find the Bigger Picture this week?  Share it with us today at Melissa's place!

You Are Cordially Invited...

WHO: You and all of your friends!

WHAT: The Write Pink! Breast Cancer Awareness Carnival Hosted by Bigger Picture Blogs.

WHEN: October 1st - October 29th.

WHERE: Undercover Mother, Peanut Butter In My Hair, This Heavenly Life, and Bigger Picture Blogs.

WHY: To tell our stories for Breast Cancer Awareness! We'll be hosting giveaways, guest writers, and opportunities for YOU to tell your story during the month. We'll be joining with Army of Women to provide research which will one day lead to discovering a cure.

HOW: Want to get involved?  There will be 5 link-ups throughout the month for you to share your thoughts, stories, and experiences of Breast Cancer regarding Education, Prevention, Support, and Survival.  Want to be the first in line? Go to Army of Women and take the pledge with us. Dedicate your blog post on October 1st to Army of Women and their March to One Million. Our voices are more powerful when they band together.

Need more incentive?



Our first Giveaway Item!


Everyone who takes the pledge with us and links her post will be entered for a chance to win this beautiful bracelet from the oh-so-generous Ellie.

{Not a blogger? No worries! This part's for you.}Just for signing up with Army of Women (and sending your registration email to pbinmyhair@gmail.com), you’ll be entered to win a fabulous Lil' Blue Boo women’s Special Edition Dragon Viscose tee-shirt in hot pink and black.

So grab our beautiful button (right over there, in the side bar), tweet it out (#WritePink!), and spread the word.

We'll be Writing Pink -- From the Head, Heart, and Feet. Please say you'll join us!

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The Donut Shop of My Dreams

I don't think I'm admitting any big secret when I say that I love donuts. My friends know this; my family knows this; you probably know this.

So it should surprise none of us that I nearly teared up with joy and pride when Mia suggested we go out for donuts last Saturday morning. Her voice was that of an angel proclaiming the meaning of life when she asked, and who says no to an angel? Not This Heavenly Mama, that's for sure.

It's fascinating to me that though I struggle to leave the house before 9AM on any given day -- we're rushed and disheveled and frantic in our chronic lateness -- we can successfully navigate all areas of morning preparations and joyfully be out the door by 8:23 on donut day. Donuts are a mighty incentive for quick-moving children. (And...ahem...mothers.) We piled into the car, a family of sugar-lovers (and the unreasonably strong-willed, sugar-denying father) bent on finding the perfect donut shop.

Just up the road from us, there are several to choose from. Supposedly, all donuts from these shops are within the same parameters of deliciousness, so we had to make our choice based on something different: ambiance.

Well, I needed ambiance. The rest of the inhabitants of the car were only interested in the color of their sprinkles, so it was left to me to demand the perfect atmosphere in which to consume fried dough.

We approached the first, closest shop and Justin slowed the car. "No!" I ordered, panicked. "I don't like this place. It seems so...sterile inside. All white and spare and...boring." Justin drove on peacefully. He must not have been in any sort of heckling mood (darn it...) so he ignored my 'sterile' comment. If he'd been in top form, he'd have pointed out that cleanliness, sterility, in restaurants is usually to be admired, not scorned. He also would've questioned my sanity in passing by a perfectly acceptable donut shop -- I've never turned down donuts before, and this seemed startlingly close to a refusal.

When we passed the second donut shop without comment, I think he started growing suspicious. "Uh, how far do you want to go for donuts, babe?" He wasn't worried -- after all, he wasn't interested in donuts and it was a nice, cool morning for a drive through town -- but he knows the patience of our two back-seat-whiners can be somewhat short. As I shrugged my shoulders (I was enjoying the drive, too -- not yet blinded by the need for donuts), he continued. "There's a new place over by the university that people say is pretty good. But it's all the way across town..."

University...young and hip?...new...stylish?...people say...reputation?...all the way...

I agreed. I'd never seen this donut shop, but it had to be better than the boring, old shops by our house. Justin knows me well enough that the fact I was searching for a pretty donut shop seemed perfectly commonplace.  On we drove, through Saturday morning traffic, searching for the best donut venue in town.

And you guys, we found it.  This place...this donut shop...was heavenly.  Beautifully furnished with comfy couches and simple armchairs at the front, sturdy dining tables further back.  Exposed beams lent it an air of careless comfort.  Its walls were in rich taupe and mossy green, accentuated with black-framed art and accessories, deep brown ceramic tile.  The place was gorgeous. 

Oh, and the glass-domed counters full of donuts were bright and sparkling under the smiling faces of the employees.  The donut shop of my dreams.

But get this: they also sold cupcakes.  Sadly, I only ordered donuts (which were perfectly made -- crisp outer edges, sink-y bite, not too sweet, just right), but those cupcakes...oh.  If it hadn't been 8:30 in the morning, I'd have had a cupcake.  And okay.  If I'd been alone (no matter the time), I'd have had two. 

Would it surprise anyone to know that I decided to live there?  Yes, I decided to never leave.  Nothing could compel me to go.

My companions chose otherwise.  Especially my male companion -- he of "I'll just have a cappuccino, please" willpower.  I walked away under extreme duress, whispering to the building's brick facade, "I'll come back to you...I'll come back." 

And next time, I'm bringing my toothbrush and some pajamas. 

True story.

Weekly Column: The Power Of Playfulness

My toddler is standing alone, engrossed with her very favorite toy ever: a tiny Cinderella doll with tiny, rubbery, interchangeable clothing.

And I’m about to tell her that she has to put it away so we can sit down for dinner. I can see how this will turn out, even before it really begins.

I’ll tell her to put the toy away and to come to the kitchen. She’ll scream, running away from me as fast as her rebellious legs can carry her, and hide behind the rocking chair. Taking the bait, I’ll give chase, raising my voice with indignation; she will do as she’s told. Hearing the authority in my voice, she’ll begin to cry, breaking down into a sobbing tantrum, kicking her legs and flailing as I get closer. I’ll haul her out of her hiding place; she’ll chuck the doll across the room, narrowly missing my head; we’ll make our way to the dinner table, where now – coincidentally – the meal will begin in a frighteningly unstable fashion.

I’ll be sweaty and frustrated, and she’ll be defiant and grumpy. The evening suddenly doesn’t look like much fun at all.

But rewind.

I’m going to do this a different way.

I’m going to sidestep the inevitable tantrum – hopefully – by being silly instead. It’ll take a minute for my grown-up mind to switch gears into dramatic play, but I think it just might work…

“Oh, honey!” I croon with as much drama as I can muster. “Cinderella’s been dancing all day, I bet she’s getting terribly hungry by now!” My little girl’s eyes might squint as she tries to figure out my motive, but she’ll probably soak up my sudden involvement. “Do you hear her tummy growling? RRRRROOOOWWWWRRRRR! My goodness, she could eat a horse!”

By now, my toddler will be playing along, speaking in her best Cinderella voice. “I’m so hungwy!” she simpers. “What I’m going to eat!?”

“Well let’s see,” I’ll wonder. “What does a princess eat?” Tapping my chin theatrically, I’ll think of something: “Of COURSE! She needs fruit! We have just the thing!” I’ll dart into the other room, my toddler on my heels, to dig around in her sister’s bucket of toy food. We’ll set up a platter of felt apples, strawberries, and bananas, and Cinderella will dig right in.

“Whew! She’ll feel better soon!” I’ll sigh in relief. “But…oh, no! I hear your tummy rumbling, too! We’d better get you to YOUR food! Hurry! Hurry!” We’ll dash off into the kitchen, laughing at the roaring noises our tummies are making as we settle into our chairs.

And the doll will be forgotten.

Making something into a game is the easiest way I know of to subvert a possible tantrum. Every situation won’t call for silliness and hidden instructions, but sometimes it’s helpful to remember that FUN makes things easier for a toddler to handle. And while it feels more immediate to say “Put that away, and come eat,” the ensuing battle, argument, or tantrum makes it much more trouble than it’s worth.

I’m certain my kids will grow up understanding that when I tell them something, I expect my rules to be followed. But I’m also certain that I’m going to pick my battles on when to force obedience, versus when to make obedience into something fun and silly.

Plus, there’s no better way to release the pressure of a long day, than to play a little game of pretend with your adorable child.

The happy side-effects of an agreeable toddler are just a lucky benefit.


[Online version here.]

7 Quick Takes Friday, #79

1.  Mia: Mama, can you print another princess picture to color?
Me: Sure baby, as soon as I finish making dinner.

5 minutes later...

Mia: Mama, you didn't get my picture to color!  You said you would!
Me: I also said you'd have to wait for a few minutes....
Mia: But you're done now! 
Me: Ummm...no I'm not....
Mia: You ARE!  I just heard your brain, and it was saying "Okay, I'm done now."
Me: You heard...my brain?
Mia: Uh-huh.
Me: Well...what's my brain saying now?
Mia: It's saying "Oh, yeah!  I AM done!"



2.  Lauren: Look mama, I got a booger!
Me: Oh, uh...wow.  Here, let me...
Lauren: I'ma EAT my booger!
Me: NOOOOOOO!!!!
Lauren: *pops finger in her mouth*  BLECHGAGYACKBLECHSPATBLEAGH!!!
Me: I told you so.



3.  Justin: What's for dinner tonight?
Me: Pork chops.
Justin: Hm.  Ahhh...and what else?  Anything?
Me: Um, rice?  Vegetables?  It'll be good, I promise!
Justin: Hm.  Okay.  Are there any leftovers I could have instead?
Me: I'm going to hang up on you now...

later that evening....

Justin: *shoving bite after bite of delicious pork chops into his greedy mouth*  Ohmygosh...this is so, so, so good.  Mmmm.  Oh, yeah.
Me: I told you so.



4.  Here's the pork chop recipe, which, amazingly enough, I made up myself.  *brushes fake lint off cyber-shoulders*  I was in the mood for fall-flavored food, and this was perfect.

4 boneless pork chops, at least 1/2 inch thick
one half onion, sliced
one apple, peeled and thinly sliced
2 Tbsp butter
1/2 cup brown sugar

Sear pork chops in olive oil on high heat (don't cook all the way through, just brown the outside) and remove from pan.  In the same pan, melt butter, adding onions and apples.  Sprinkle sugar over onion mixture, and top with pork chops.  Cover pan and place into 350 degree oven for about an hour.  (I lost track of time, but it was somewhere between 50 and 60 minutes.)  Serve pork chops topped with caramelized onion mixture, unless your kids refuse, promising to withstand starvation instead.  Then, serve pork chops plain.  They'll still be tender and flavorful.



5.  Can I just mention that breastmilk will never be discovered to have insect parts within its contents?


6.  What premiers are you looking forward to this season?  I have to admit that I haven't even been watching enough television to know what's available, or when.  Justin and I have been watching reruns of Smallville on DVD, and it fulfills all of my dramatic, far-fetched, beautiful-people needs for the moment.  But in case I get burned out, what should we be watching?



7.  Here's what I'm excited about: Next week's forecast calls for temperatures in the 60's and 70's -- I might die of over-enjoyment. 

(Fall, you are the best.  I love you.  I always will.  Do you want to go steady with me?)


Head over to Conversion Diary for more Quick Takes, and have a gorgeous fall weekend!

Bigger Picture Moment: Like A River

Why does it seem like my Bigger Picture epiphanies all come to me after terrible, low days?  (I want to write of silly happiness, but...life is sometimes messy.) If it takes a bad day to make me see straight, I guess I'll try to make the best out of it, and actually learn from it.  Here goes nothing.

On Tuesday, I believe I ran across my worst day of parenting thus far. 

The day began innocently enough, with an overflowing dirty diaper which had been slept in and rolled around upon all night by my toddler.  How she could rest in that mess boggles my mind.  But, no matter.  It wasn't anyone's fault; it was easily cleaned up, and thankfully without the payback of diaper rash to hinder our day. 

And that was one of the high points of our day.  The overflowing poop was a high point.  It almost makes me cry to see that in writing.  Because if poop was a highlight, the lowlights must have been like a black hole. 

We had some fun activities planned -- baking banana bread and writing pen-pal letters -- which never quite materialized.  Oh, we made the banana bread, and yes, had some fun doing so.  But it burned during the time it took me to break up an argument about whose turn it was to throw all the pillows off the couch. 

Early on, it became clear to me that our resident 2.5-year-old was having a record-breaking day of tantrums and whining and joyful rebellion.  She was insanely badly behaved, by my standards.  I couldn't get a grip on my patience, and therefore every little thing that went wrong quickly became disastrous. 

Because I started yelling. 

I hate yelling.  It only makes things worse, which has never been more true than it was that day.  I stomped around, threatening physical punishment (Which is just as bad as actually using physical punishment in that it accomplishes the same thing: control through fear.  Which I don't want to do.  Sigh.)

We ended the day with my sweet little (terror of a) toddler whispering as I left her dark bedroom: And tomorrow you won't be mad again?

I made no promises.

That night, though, I prayed.  I prayed so deeply that I forgot what I was praying about, and it became more of a conversational monologue.  I prayed for patience and understanding and creativity to get through the next day.  Nothing beyond that.  Only one day at a time.

But mostly, I begged forgiveness for losing myself so fully to the anger I'd let run unchecked through my day.  I don't want my kids to be raised by a rampant, yelling mother.  I don't want them to cower before me or behave because they're afraid of what I'll do in punishment.  I do want obedience.  But not like this.

The next morning, the tension in my neck had abated to a dull restlessness.  I had high hopes.  I prayed again, still hoping for some spiritual guidance to reach down from the heavens to bestow upon me the gift of patience and clear-headedness. 

Instead, the morning was completely regular: fits and games, tantrums and peace, spread intermittently all around us. 

But here was something different: there was a song running through my head, unbidden.  It snuck in and made itself at home. 

Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.  Let there be peace on earth, a peace that was meant to be....

On it ran, singing its words through my mind, ringing soundly over one simple phrase.  Let it begin with me. 

Peace. 

I want it.  And it can only begin with me.  In my home, under my watchful eye.  It begins with being patient with my children.  It begins with not losing control of my temper when their choices are out of my control. 

It begins with me.  It travels to my children, and to their friends, and to their teachers, and to the entire world.  That sounds like too large of a bite to take, but break it down, look at it carefully, and...

It's about the tone of my voice.  It's about the fall of my foot.  It's about the look in my eyes. 

Peace. 

Let it begin with me.



Link your Bigger Picture Moment at Hyacynth's place this week -- we'd love to read your moments; big or small, all are welcome.  I'll be hosting next week, so keep the Bigger Picture in mind until then!

The Perks Of Having A Pinky-Wrapped Grandpa

Perhaps one of the best parts about having your Grandpa return from a week-long vacation to the beach is that he'll be so overjoyed to spend every moment with you, he'll be easily convinced to do....

Just about anything...

Your girly little heart desires.

And it just so happens that he makes a fantastic toenail polisher.

Snapshot: Bedtime

The late sun was throwing orange swaths of light across the bedroom; western windows gathering heat.  The girls were damp and wild, clean and energetic, fresh from bathtime.  Jumping over each other and using their designated outside-only voices, their noise was deafening.  As if they'd saved their last, craziest ounces of energy for final last hail mary play before lights out.

We placed calming hands on arms, cheeks, backs, soothing them into a temporary quietude long enough for teeth and hair to be brushed.  As a team, we work well together; him taming the toddler, me pacifying the preschooler -- He chases Lauren as she darts away, squealing.  I explain to Mia the necessity behind flossing.  It works. 

Outside, the sun dipped below the edge of the valley.  Golden warmth hiding for night.  Cool blue replacement sky.

The girls were herded down the hallway into Mia's room for stories.  Bumbling chatterboxes.  Mia's green-shaded lamp spilled more than enough light by which to read one of our favorite bedtime books.  That night, it was less of a slow, easy story, and more of a shake-your-sillies-out game.  This book, this encyclopedia of wiggles, is usually saved for mid-afternoon entertainment.  Every movement-accompanied rhyme in the book is beloved, but the one that's always repeated, always begged for, is a classic.

Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes.  The unforgettable.

Standing as giddy little soldiers, Mia and Lauren were ready.  Breathless as they waited.  As mom and dad, we could've had the privilege of being the callers of the dance, rather than the participants, but because we couldn't stand to sit idly by as our children had all the fun, we danced, too.

Heeeeead and shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes, Heeeeead and....

But Mia was displeased.  Wait!  Just wait, guys!  This is too fast for me, I can't keep up when you do it so fast!  You HAVE to slow down!  By the end of her speech, her lip was wobbling and her foot was stamping; she loathes feeling inadequate.  It brings out her tears...much like a disappointment being added to her already slaphappy over-tiredness would do.  We promised to slow down, and began again.

Heeeeead and shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes, Heeeeead and shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes, eyes and ears and...

Lauren wailed.  Fingers buried in her eyes, mouth open in an unfair moan, she cried.  No, you hafta go even faster!  No eyes and ears, just even even faster!  Her tears spilled over her eyelids; complaints spilled over her lips.  Another girl lost to the land of the ridiculously tired children.  Thankfully, we were only 5 minutes away from the cure.  We pressed on, singing faster and faster until the girls were heaped in a giggling mess of tangled limbs. 

Justin and I peeled the punch-drunk girls off of one another, placing them in their respective beds as they yawned out pleas for more.  More dancing, more rhyming (presumably, more broken-down crying...). 

But by then, the singing, dancing parents were done giving the girls one last goof-off. 

Minutes later, their rooms were quiet.  Over-tired caved under dreams.  Darkened windows promised silence. 

Weekly Column: Boredom Isn't All Bad

It’s inevitable.

Almost every day, the kids get bored. Their toys aren’t exciting, it’s too hot or messy to go outside, and – worst of all – their unfeeling mother has turned off the TV.

A few months or years ago when boredom would erupt in our house, a few things could be guaranteed: flaring tempers, crying children, an irritated mom, and no more fun. And when all those things came together, we certainly weren’t bored anymore, but we were too busy being angry to enjoy the reprieve.

To remedy the irritation, I was pro-active; I avoided boredom at all costs. If there was nothing to do, I drove into town looking for something to do. Stores, parks, libraries, friends’ houses – anywhere to hide from boredom.

But there’s a problem with that. By never allowing my kids to get bored, I was robbing them of their ability to entertain themselves. I was taking away all chances for them to discover a way out of their boredom.

I’ve come to believe that boredom can be a huge building block in helping our children grow and learn. Experiencing a lack of stimulation, thinking about a way to relieve it, and then accomplishing that relief can build paths for creativity and imagination. At the same time, it’s difficult to let our kids experience the frustration that comes with trying to solve their own boredom.

We hear a whine; we want to make it stop, so we intervene with ideas or instructions. We hear desperation; we want to make it disappear, so we fill their time with activity. But what would happen if we didn’t intervene? What would happen if we didn’t fill their time?

Something like this recent morning at our house, perhaps:

My preschooler had already colored 6 pictures, and it wasn’t yet 9AM. My toddler had emptied the bookshelf in her bedroom, and had wandered into her sister’s room, hoping for better entertainment there.

While they were occupied, I cleaned up the previous night’s dishes and thought about the day ahead of us. It was free and clear. Nothing planned, and nothing needed. Just a day; slow and quiet. Before long, my big girl had had enough of coloring – she was bored -- and wanted to know what we were doing next. My answer (“Nothing!”) didn’t please her. She went off in search of her sister, full of dramatic world-weariness.

“Mo-ooooom!” she yelled when she found her sister. “Sissy dumped out ALL my books! She HAS to clean it up!”

In defense, my toddler yelled back, and an argument was underway. No sooner had that argument stopped than another one began, this time about who got to read a favorite book. I could see that the bickering had started – a staple of unhindered boredom. I stepped in between them, and laid down a rule.

“If you can’t find a way to play together with that book,” I warned, “nobody gets to have it. So you’d better figure out how to share it.”

Luckily, they made it work. My 4-year-old told the story while her sister turned the pages. From there, inspiration hit. A sailboat like one in the story would be such fun to have….

The girls ran off together, overturning a tub of stuffed animals, creating their sailboat. They pulled each-other around the house, screaming about waves and wind, pretending with all their might. Then, they became pirates, and needed swords. Then, there was a damsel in distress. Then, they needed to dress-up…

Monotony had turned into creativity. Dullness, into imagination.

All with the help of a little bit of boredom.

 
[Online version here.]

Ballet Day

Mia had her very first ballet lesson earlier this week, and it all went perfectly.  She was beyond excited that morning, jumping into the bathtub without complaint, then skipping around in her leotard and tights.  She held her head straight as I pulled her wet hair into an off-center bun. 

And away we went.  With not only one, but two ballerinas.  Because sweet Lauren needed to be included in the day's excitement as well. 

After showing Mia to her classroom, Lauren and I sat in the waiting room, watching the Mia's every move being piped to us via closed-circuit TV. 

I've asked Mia several times over the past few years if she wanted to take ballet lessons, and the answer has always been the same: No.  She didn't know how to be a ballerina, so she wouldn't take the lessons.  I tried to convince her that none of the little girls in her class would know what they were doing yet -- that was the point of the classes -- but still, she refused.  Until sometime last month.  I don't know what the change was, and I'd worried that she would sit alone quietly in the lessons without participating until she grew more comfortable. 

But she definitely didn't sit alone quietly. She leaped and twirled and pranced and swept and bowed.  With much drama and poise.  And imperfection.  But she did everything, just like her classmates. I was so proud of her willingness to try. 

Lauren was too -- proud and maybe a little bit envious.  She kept trying to sneak down the hallway to Mia's studio, grinning when she was caught, then rushing to copy the dancing girls' moves on the TV screen.

It was a good, good day.

Friday Flashback: My SECOND First Car

The fact that I remember the exact place I was standing when I caught sight of my fake first car probably explains why I remember nothing about my reaction to my real first car: The horror of that day overshadowed the entire year, I believe. 

But the car I ended up driving was, by far, much more worthy of remembrance.  A red, 1990 Ford Mustang 5.0, just like this one.

Source

Oh, it was a beauty.  The problem was, it was a car beloved by teenage boys everywhere, and I lacked the proper respect for it.  Or so I hear.  For one thing, I had no idea what '5.0' meant, but boys did -- and they stared at me like I had superhuman strength until I stepped out of the vehicle in my tasteful loafers and cardigan.  (Oh, and braces.  Don't forget the braces.)  (And the violin case.  Sigh.)  (Was there ever any hope?)

I really did love the growl of the Mustang's apparently-manly engine.  It was just a bit too much for me to handle.  I mean, I did okay when the car was in motion -- it was really easy to reach 60 mph without even noticing , but that didn't bother me any, what with all the speed blowing through my hair -- but the trouble came when I needed to take off from a dead stop.  Then, things got dicey.  For the first several months of driving my very own car, here's how my takeoffs happened:

Sarah puts the car in gear, removes her foot from the brake, and lets the engine's power pull her forward or backward -- with no help from the gas pedal -- until she reaches the point from which she will need to actually begin driving.  Say, the stop sign at the edge of a parking lot.  She takes a deep breath, holds the air in her lungs just long enough to deaden the knowledge that she's about to be embarrassed, and flexes her hands around the steering wheel.  Poor Sarah's heart has nearly stopped with the lack of oxygen now, so she slowly -- carefully -- tenderly -- places her foot on the gas pedal.  And before she knows what side is up, Sarah's peeled out of the parking lot or driveway, spewing gravel or burned rubber bits in her wake.  Her face matches her paint job, and she gets the heck outta dodge before anyone notices. 

Except, people always noticed.  Especially in a high-school parking lot full of mingling teenagers which was where I was most often flustered right into an involuntary peel-out.  I got several nasty glares from girls who assumed I was showing off, as well as several rolled eyes from my brother's crowd who knew I was just dumb enough to not know how to handle a 5.0.  (Again -- whatever that means.)  I also got whistles and clapping hands from the boys who appreciated a good roaring engine and squealing set of tires. 

This also meant I was never good at sneaking away from home.  My daddy was a genius, apparently. 

Still, my Mustang and I had some good times.  We listened to the local pop music station as we zoomed around town, we hauled friends to sleepovers (and the occasional unmentionable party...), we were the perfect couple. 

But it wasn't meant to last, you see.  There was one fateful night...a dark road...a late curfew...a wandering deer...

And my beloved car was mauled.  I drove it for a few more months, with one mismatched front quarter-panel (is that a real thing?  I'm not sure.) and a healthy respect for deer.  (A respect that equaled fear.  I had nightmares of deer for years after that, harmlessly docile as they are, and my dad witnessed a serious breakdown one day as he was teaching me to drive my new stick-shift on an icy parking lot when a small herd of deer snuck out of the forest around us.  I think I hyperventilated for a minute.  Then, I think my dad hyperventilated when my tears wouldn't stop.)

My brother and his friend shoe-polished my car windows after that night with a cryptic reminder: Deer are for girls.  HORSES are for men. 

Yes, my Mustang would probably have been more muscled into excitement with a boy at its helm, but I'm certain it couldn't have been any more loved.  Burned rubber and all.



Do you think the Mustang made up for the terror of my 'other' first car?  How did your first car finally merit replacement?

(I feel like when I ask those questions, I'm typing reading comprehension questions at the end of a worksheet.  Like, 'What portion of the story foreshadowed the death of the Mustang?' and 'Do you think Sarah secretly enjoyed the peeling-out? Why or why not?' Heh.)

Bigger Picture Moment: I'm A Big Girl Now

At this very moment, most of my extended family is at the beach.  Cousins, aunts, uncles, parents -- they all traveled together to Gulf Shores for one giant family vacation, and I'm still here.  Listening to a windy thunderstorm growl around our house in the middle of nowhere.

I'm not mad that we didn't get to go with them.  I know it would have been fun, but being adults as we are (when did that happen?), we had to stay behind for real-life reasons.  I understand.  It's just...

I had been looking forward to watching the girls as they got their first glimpse of the ocean.  As they dug in sand and got knocked down by waves and breathed the salty air.  I knew we might not get to go, but I'd hoped so hard otherwise that I was certain my direct thinking would make it happen.  Plus, I've been enjoying our slight touch of freedom now that both our girls are old enough to travel without much difficulty.  Neither am I pregnant and unwieldy, nor tied down by a newborn's needs.  We are wholly able to go and do as we please right now -- except for that 'real-life' obligation which kept us behind this time.

But that's what I'm clinging to: this time.  We can go on other vacations.  Better, we can do it whenever we choose, within the boundaries of what works with our lives. 

The fact is that while we have adult obligations now, we also have adult choices and capabilities.  We can make our own vacations!  We can go where we want!  We don't have to wait for our extended family to propose something in order to do fun things!  We can make our own, separate family memories, because that's what we are: a complete family.  Not dependent on anyone else's actions or plans to live our lives to the fullest. 

Which we hope to begin doing as soon as we can clear our calendars.

Where's the best place you've been for a family vacation?  Where should we use our newly realized freedom first?  And does anybody else besides us feel like they're too inexperienced to be planning family vacations without the input of their parents?!



We invite you to join us in finding the Bigger Picture amidst the hectic, everyday craziness in your week.  Share your link and spread the love by viewing and commenting on other Bigger Picture Moments at Bigger Picture Blogs.  (The link-up is having technical difficulties -- post your link at Melissa's until the problem is resolved!)  

Melodrama Suits Us

The spider was huge -- baseball sized.  Like a tarantula that had lost a few pounds of flesh but kept its long legs and terrifying fuzz of hair.  (Propped as it was under the porch railing, I don't even know how I noticed it -- Spidey sense?)  I backed away instinctively, but before I could gain the safety of my car's interior, I noticed something worth noticing.  A blob.  An undulating blob.  Creeping closer than my survival instincts would have liked, I peered at the blob while avoiding the vicious glare of the giant spider.  She eyed my advance with apparent bloodlust and a tremor of fear shuddered over my skin. 

The tremor grew into a soul-shriek when I recognized the quivering blob's source of locomotion: babies.  Millions of baby spiders had crawled free from the egg-sack I was just seeing, hidden as it was until I'd come within a few feet of the dark corner.  They'd congregated into a small nest of writhing, seething, creeping arachnidity.  (Like humanity, see?  Try to keep up...)  Their mother -- the enormous creature who'd spawned a million more just like herself -- twitched the first bend of one hairy leg in my direction.

The darker blob is the seething mass of newborn spiders.  Cringe.

I jumped back, flailing my suddenly jelly-filled arms (but not before snapping a carefully aligned picture with my trusty spider-hunting camera), trying to reconcile my thirst for knowledge with my desire to beat the the thing senseless with my all-consuming need to run away screaming.  Three things to reconcile in such a short span of seconds left me breathless, and I decided to call for backup. 

My cousin -- a hunting, fishing, fearless, man's man -- agreed to 'take care' of the situation for me.  I couldn't live knowing that those million tiny spiders would soon grow into a million giant spiders, just like their mama, and propel themselves around the house to torment my family.  Later, I dialed my husband's number, grateful that I'd spared him, and by proxy, myself, any more involvement in this nasty business. 

But I'd vastly underestimated him.  He was angry.  Hurt that I'd not trusted his own toughness enough to remove the threat of Lady Eight-Legs and all her million infants. 

I tried to explain to him over the phone, but he didn't want to listen.  Babe, I whined, I only didn't ask you to do it because... because... it's just... sometimes you're as likely to PLAY with the spider as kill it, and then it gets away.  Plus, I didn't know if you'd actually KILL the babies so much as...take them across the street and find them a nice rock to cling to in the woods. 

And my suspicion had been correct.  Well, he huffed on the other end of the line, who's the better person here, the one saving lives or the one KILLING lives?  He went on about the harmlessness of spiders -- FALSEHOODS! LIES!! -- and how if I'd really wanted him to, he'd have killed them all in one quick smash.  And really, then you'd have a bunch of murders on YOUR hands.  And you know what they say about killing a spider, don't you?  Other spiders come out to avenge their lost relation.  They crawl up your bedsheets at night and reach for....

CLICK. 

I hung up the phone.  I knew my limits and hearing a grisly tale of vengeful spiders coming to take me away in the middle of the night would have been more than I could stand to hear and still maintain my sanity.  As it was, I was already brushing at imaginary creepy crawlers on my neckline and across the arches of my feet. 

RRRING.

I considered the chances of this being anyone but my mean-spirited husband, and answered without saying hello.  If you're going to say one more word about the things a spider will do to me in my sleep, I rushed, I'm not going to listen.  There was a longer pause than I thought there should be before I heard his low chuckle. 

I gave him a chance to redeem himself.  It's no big deal, he bluffed, it probably wouldn't hurt when they...

CLICK.

I hung up on him again.

RRRING.

This time I let it ring until the answering machine picked up.  I wasn't going to listen to nightmarish tales of murder by spider-fangs.  But I knew what his next step would be, so I listened carefully with the phone by my side, waiting for his move in this impolite game.  The answering machine picked up and his oh-so-funny voice bled through the room.  Sometimes they'll even lift up your eyelids until...

BEEP.

I turned him off.  Game, set, match.  Someday my husband will realize what he's up against, and then,

he'll just...

bring home a pet tarantula or something to keep me in line. 

Welcome To The Ugly Car Club!

Oh, friends.  I may have been expecting a big ole' laughing pity-party last week when I posted the story of my first car. 

I may have expected to hear that my own first car was -- by far -- the worst first vehicle to ever have graced a teenager's driveway, even if it was only a joke of an unveiling. 

But I didn't expect to laugh so much when you all told me about the cars you've had.  And there were some doozies.  Let's get started, shall we?  (With pictures I found all over the internet, not actually from my readers' past.  I'm not that nosy.  Usually.)

First up, Catholic Mutt had a gas-guzzling Plymouth Reliant.  I was super excited to hear this, because one of my best friends in high school drove a Reliant.  Hers was brownish-yellowish-bronzish, and she covered it in girl-power bumper stickers.  The old Reliant...

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Elizabeth had a Buick Skylark (about which her family made some impolite comparisons!):

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Now, I was a little jealous of Stacia's first car: an '88 Maxima.  But it wasn't the car that made me jealous, it was the unabashed love she had for her vehicle.  That, and the awesome nickname her car wore: Veronica Maxima.  Is that the coolest name ever, or what?!

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My friend Jill showed a similar love of her first car, and often threatens her husband with purchasing one just for kicks.  And while many men would be happy to own a 'classic', I'm not sure Jill's husband would agree that a 1985 Dodge Omni classifies as...classic.  What do you think?  Is this car cool?

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Katie's first car touched a nerve with me.  It was a 1984 Mercury Topaz.  Red.  And that is the exact kind of car I was hoping for when my dad took me to those used-car lots.  Something small and unobtrusive.  Neither so noticeable for its hideousness, nor very stand-out-ish for its perfection.  But I didn't get a Topaz.  Sigh.

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Jamie had a wash-free car -- a tan Ford Thunderbird -- but I don't know the year!  Was this about right, Jamie?  I wouldn't have been ashamed of this car, either.  My Uncle Buck car could have fit 3 Thunderbirds in its undercarriage alone...

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Oh, Lori.  Lori, Lori, Lori.  I didn't think too badly of your first car (even knowing of its un-openable passenger door) until I scrounged up a representative photo.  You poor girl...your parents owe you big time!  But, I guess, to look on the bright side, a car like this Plymouth Gran Fury has GOT to build character:

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Hyacynth's car was from the 90's -- a clear case of someone trying to prove her superiority above all the vastly older 1980's cars... -- and it seemed pretty straightforward.  A 1995 Pontiac Bonneville.  But she made me laugh, oh so hard.  Because her car's nickname?   The name her friends gave to her car?  Was Bonerville.  Oh, I die...I just DIE!

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I almost want to skip over Emily's first car.  It's far too pretty and presentable to show up on our list of ugly cars...but in the interest of fairness (and to prove that we underlings can be friends with officer's wives), I'll allow an exception.  Emily is wonderful even if her car was pretty!  Feast your eyes on this little beauty: a 1998 Honda Civic. 

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Another too-lovely vehicle to grace our list of clunkers is my friend Katie's car. (Get a blog already, Katie!)  She drove a brand new, 1995 Mazda Protege.  A car my hooptie would have dwarfed and then stomped upon.  Which would have been a waste, given the beauty of the Protege.  Very cool car, Katie; now scram!  Before we leak some of our ugliness onto you!

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What a bunch of cars we had, huh?  And don't worry -- I'll reveal my real first car this week.  It's not bad -- it's actually pretty cool.  Far too cool for the likes of me, as my brother repeatedly assured me.

But for one last parting shot...would you like to know what my handsome husband used to pick up ladies with?  The car he counted on to secure his awesomeness and supplement his already excessive good-looks?
A 1989 Oldsmobile Cutlass Sierra. 

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My poor, gorgeous husband.  My Uncle Buck car would have gassed his Cutlass out before they could have even made it past first base.  But it would have been a close race.

All The Different Characters Of The Rainbow

I don't want to compare my kids, but I do want to notice them.  So the following is not about judgement on who's easy or who's difficult or who's creative or who's quiet or....you get the point...and more of an embracing of the wonderful spectrum of different colors my daughters shine on the world.

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We were at a restaurant for dinner.  With just the four of us, trips out to eat can be fairly straight forward -- one on one supervision, you know? -- and this trip was especially easy.  We colored the activity sheet menus, talked about our neighboring tables full of interesting people, and waited rather patiently.  Our food came just as the girls' patience was waning, and our meal began peacefully. 

Mia and Lauren were both hungry, both ready, both capable of feeding themselves, but that's about all I can say for their similarities.

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MIA: She sits straight and careful, watching us all eat.  She delicately picks up a piece of chicken, examining all four sides of the 1cm-square bite, and brings it to her mouth.  She chews.  Slowly.  Until laughter at another table catches her attention and she stops chewing altogether.  She stares and thinks, quietly, until the laughter dies down; she begins chewing again.  A full minute has passed since she first tasted the chicken. Another full minute passes before her mouth is empty again. She gazes at her plate like it can tell her the secret password for solving a multitude of the world's problems.  She pinches her thumb and forefinger together to pick out one specific strand of spaghetti, raising it in front of her and inspecting it for any signs of wayward sauce (which has been brought separately due to her aversion).  With her free hand, she finds her fork and, so intently, begins to wrap the single length of pasta around the fork's metal fingers.  This takes some time.  Much time.  The pasta slips and loops and falls away before she can lodge it onto the fork, wrapped securely like a tiny nest.  With both hands now, she draws the fork to her lips, finally taking the bite she's been preparing for minutes upon minutes.  Her meal continues at this pace, never quickening, never fully attending the bites she should be chewing, until she's satisfied.

Lauren: She leans as far over her plate as her wooden high-chair will allow.  Her fork is gripped in one hand and she is furiously scooping at her pasta.  Dragging her utensil through the food, she opens her mouth as wide as it will go to accept the overflowing bite.  She is fast.  Pieces of spaghetti cling to the edge of her plate, hoping to be pushed onto the table where they may hide from her terroristic methods.  But they have no hope: she finds them, grabs them with her whole fist, and buries them in her mouth as her fork continues its warpath.  Chicken is speared and rejected; she only wants pasta.  Broccoli is chewed and tolerated; she wants to get back to the pasta.  Soon, her hunger begins to wane, and she can pay more attention to the details.  She picks up a long piece of pasta, holds it high over her head, leans back, and dips the end of it into her mouth; she is a fish and the spaghetti is a lure.  Then, she has an idea, from God knows where.  "Uh-oh! My phone's ringin'!"  She lays the pasta beside her ear, directs it over her cheek and towards her lips, where she begins speaking into it.  "Hi!" she nearly yells.  "How you doin'?  I'm doin' good!  Bye!"  She revels in the attention of our laughter, repeating her pasta-phone call several more times.  We are glad we've not ordered sauce.

Mia: She laughs at her sister and shakes her head with us adults.  Her plate is a nearly pristine replica of what was brought to her at the start of the meal.  Piles of chicken, broccoli, and pasta are still neatly categorized.  She's been eating though, and has had enough.  She picks up her after-dinner chocolate (the traditional Olive Garden fare: Andes mints in silver wrappers) and lovingly unwraps it.  She takes a bite; she savors it; she takes another.  We discuss how delicious the combination of mint and chocolate can be.  She laughs at Lauren across the table, still talking on her pasta-phone.

Lauren: She's done now.  Her last forced bite of chicken has been swallowed, her last spaghetti-conversation has been finished, and she's ready for her treat.  Justin helps her unwrap the chocolate, and she chomps down with gusto.  Abruptly, her eyes narrow.  Her brow furrows, and her lips pop open; this must be a trick?!  SHE DOESN'T LIKE MINT!  She swallows forcibly, reaching for a cup of water and glaring at the leftover half of candy.  Thoughtfully, she turns it over; only one side is green....the other side is pure, unadulterated chocolate.  She begins licking that side.  She picks at it, hoping to salvage her treat.  Her lips and nose are covered in chocolate now. She is a mess as she gives up and discards the mint with a promise of a better treat at home. 

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The rainbow of colors these two girls emit are so vastly different, so uniquely interesting.  Not better or worse or more or less.  Just different.  And beautifully blinding.  And funny.  So funny.

Weekly Column: Nap-Free Doesn't Mean Rest-Free

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who napped. In the middle of every day, she laid down her sweet head and closed her eyes, resting up for the afternoon and evening ahead. She slept peacefully. She slept deeply. She slept consistently.


And now she sleeps no more.

At almost 5 years old, my preschooler is no longer a napper. For the past year, her naps have been growing less and less certain. If she happened to fall asleep, she might be wired until 9 o’clock that night, ruining my hopes of a normal bedtime. But if she didn’t have time to rest, she became crabby by dinner.

The transition was confusing and ended up in many weeks of no-win options, but it did eventually work itself out. Unfortunately, though, it worked out into No More Naps. Part of me is comfortable with this development; as a growing girl, she needs more stimulation during the day, meaning she can still thrive with nothing more than an early bed time. But the other part of me – the exhausted part – clings to the memory of mid-day naps.

Not only were those naps restful for my child, they were also restful for me. They gave me time to sit still in silence, work uninterrupted, or even take a nap myself. To say I’ve mourned the loss of her nap is no lie – but I’ve also come to some other, more positive conclusions.

Just because she won’t sleep doesn’t mean some downtime in the middle of the day is unnecessary. Our mornings are packed with errands, activities, appointments, and adventure. Our afternoons and evenings are busy with chores, meals, and rough-housing with daddy. With so much on her little plate, my preschooler certainly benefits from a time of rest. But I had to figure out some guidelines for making a mandatory rest period a reality.

First, we approach it like a regular nap time. We make her bedroom cool and dim, quiet and cozy. We read a few stories and take a potty break. Then, into her room she goes, with the door shut firmly behind her.

While in her ‘quiet rest time’, she has a wealth of choices alongside a few strict rules.

Rule Number 1: No exiting the room. Everything she needs should already be there.

Rule Number 2: If she gets too loud, she has to lie in bed for the remainder of the rest time and forfeit some beloved evening activity or treat.

Rule Number 3: Mom doesn’t help with anything during rest time; if she can’t accomplish the task on her own, she’ll just have to keep trying or wait until wake-up time.

To make the time go more smoothly, I try to place a few quiet options in her room: matching games, dolls with tiny accessories which are usually hidden out of the toddler’s reach, coloring sheets and markers, favorite storybooks, or special toys that have been stashed away for whatever reason. But she can play with anything in her room, as long as it’s quiet enough. I make sure she can read her digital clock, and when it shows 3:00, she knows ‘quiet rest time’ is over.

The magical part is that sometimes, she does fall asleep. If she’s particularly worn out, she might crawl into bed to play with some Barbies and just go down for the count. The point is that she’s getting a stretch of quiet, unstructured time to re-group, without me forcing her into an unnecessary nap.

And I still get to cling to my own – highly necessary – mid-day rest.

 
[Online version here.]

Friday Flashback: My First Car

It must have been summertime, and I was all of 15 and 5/6 years old. 

I can imagine my skin glowing with the perpetual tan I had in those days, as well as something else: expectation.  The promise of something waiting around the next corner.  The expectation of something good.  It must have radiated from me like confidence or carelessness did from other teens.   

That summer, I'd been car shopping a few times with my dad.  Used car lots on warm mornings, country lots south of town, towered over by oak trees and strewn about with acorns.  Dad haggled and perfected his poker-face while I hopped and begged around cute little cars, giving all his carefully planned bluffs away.  Leaving one of the lots, I just knew I'd get the car I wanted.  It seemed all tied up in a pretty bow, waiting for me to drive it off into the freedom of an unexplored sunset.  Well, once I turned 16, that is.  A few more months...

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At home, some days or weeks later, I moped with all the boredom I could muster, knowing something was going on.  Something I wasn't supposed to know about -- so I played along. 

In the way of memories, this one is fuzzy around its edges.  Who called for me to look out the living room window?  Who was standing by my side as I let the hopeful smile break across my face?  Who else was in the room with me as I looked down into our driveway?  I don't know. 

But I know a few things:  I fully expected there to be a cute little car in the driveway, one that would chariot me away into my expectancy.  I also fully expected to have seen it before.  I knew by my dad's face that he was happy.  (There -- he must have been one of the people in the room.  I imagine my mom.  My brother.  Some friends?)  I also expected to be pleased, but in the back of my head I had politeness in mind, too; I would show gratitude and thankfulness, first thing, even if it wasn't exactly what I'd wanted. 

Peeking over the window ledge, I searched the driveway for my chariot.  What I found was something like this:

If you're thinking I'm stretching the truth, you're right.  It didn't look exactly like this.  Mine was yellow.  Ish. 

A 1979 (or thereabouts) Mercury Marquis Brougham.  An Uncle Buck car. 

My smile froze on my face, strained.  Tears suddenly ached in the back of my throat.  For the very first time I could remember, I was speechless.  I'd been prepared to be thankful, effusive, excited, even if some of that had to be presented falsely.  I knew what a gift it was for my parents to have been able to buy me my first car.  I knew I was lucky.

I also knew I was devastated. 

What happened next might have been this:

My tears overflowed at the same time as my laughter -- nervous and jittery.  I waited for someone to bust out laughing with me, teasing me about how gullible I was to have fallen for this joke, but nobody did.  They watched me carefully, smiling and wondering at my laughter.  Was it stunned laughter?  (Yes.)  Joyful laughter?  (No.)  Confused laughter?  (Absolutely.)

Or what happened next might have been this:

I stood silently for minutes upon minutes, trying to keep my face hidden from the onlookers.  I couldn't trust my reaction to be positive, so I just stared out the window.  Without turning my head, I spoke with a hoarse voice: What?  The question conveyed an innocent sense of being in the dark about what I was actually seeing.  What could mean, Whose car is this, mine? or Are you playing a trick on me? or What response is appropriate here? or When will I wake up from this nightmare? 

I don't actually know what happened though.  I think I lost consciousness as I considered my future: pulling up to the high school parking lot as students lined the sidewalk while I tried to park the behemoth; sitting at stoplights, blushing, while classmates in sleek, shiny vehicles laughed at the rumble coming from my beast; wishing I could wreck the car and use the money -- however little -- to buy a very nice bicycle. 

What seemed like hours -- maybe it actually was -- may have been only minutes.  I stared.  I tilted my head to make sense of what I saw.  I had a discussion with my brother's friend (oh -- someone else to witness my personal hell) about how it would all be okay.  My parents left the room while I stared, leaving me alone to process this car that was mine.  My car. 

In the midst of my dumbfounded staring, someone returned to stand beside me.  Mom, dad, or brother, I don't recall.  Nor do I recall the words they used to tell me that this car was not, actually, mine. 

It was a joke.

A mean joke, but a joke nonetheless.

Now, I cried.  Sobbed and shook and sniffled.  Hugged and thanked and begged.  Promised and apologized and hoped.  I would be thankful for any car I was allowed to have...as long as I didn't have to have that one.  That long, low, crumbling, rusting, belching, ugly, old thing. 

It wasn't my car after all.  It was a junker.  Something from which my dad was going to salvage a part. 

Cruel.  Unusual.  Funny in hindsight.  Kind of.  But only if I squint and hold my breath and remember how much I love my parents.

Tell me about your first car...or the thing that was presented as your first car that was not actually your first car but which you remember as your first car.  What did you drive as a tender 16-year-old?