Valentine’s DayI placed a hesitant hand on the smooth metal door handle of the Hallmark store and pulled it open to the sound of tinkling bells. Ruby hearts hanging from the door jamb brushed the top of my head as I stepped inside and headed for the Valentine section, an explosion of pinks and reds. Crowded with last minute lovers like myself, we had to jockey for position as we searched for the perfect card. Studying people’s expressions with secretive sideways glances, I longed to hear the running commentary inside their heads. I have always been a last minute Valentine shopper because I dread it. I can only bring myself to buy something simple that says “I love you’. All of the other cards in the store are stupid. With every card I read, I have to add one more sarcastic sentence in my mind. Or at the very least, a clarifier. I can’t leave it alone. It’s very stressful. After a quarter of a century of marriage few of them ring true. Can we all please admit that many of these sentiments are, at the very least, stretching the imagination? I have long considered designing a line of Valentine cards the are grouped according to the number of years you have been married. I long for little ditties like this: Loving each other has been a long, hard road, but I still think you are cute. Or: Can’t wait to celebrate our love at Donovan’s Steak house because we got a $150.00 coupon from your client. Or: Let’s stay up past 9:00 PM and make out for eight minutes straight. Love is damn tricky. An enigma. So much has been written about it that I dare not add to the rubble. But if I had to, if Cupid put a gun to my head, I wouldn’t waste time composing an essay as it would never capture the layers, the nuances. I would take a thousand noble words and nestle them in pairs with their less than noble opposites. Then I would shake them in my cupped hands like dice and toss the whole collection off of Juliet’s balcony and watch them scatter and bounce on the cobblestone streets of Verona until they landed in a mish-mash mural of the language of love. Maybe I would even take a photo of it and sell it to Hallmark for next year’s selection. “Excuse me,” I said to a young woman with a sparkly diamond ring. She smelled of lavender and caressed a card like it held the whereabouts of the Holy Grail. “Just reaching for this one.” I grabbed one depicting a romantic table set for two. It unearthed a memory. My husband and I became engaged at Papa Pirozki’s in Atlanta on the anniversary of Pearl Harbor. Who chooses to propose to his bride in a Russian restaurant on December 7th? Looking back, I think he had a subconscious yearning to personalize the Cold War, to plant it as a seed in our relationship. Though the rest of the world was evolving beyond such ideology, it was apparent that he was some sort of fan. I hadn’t expected it to be a night unlike all other nights as we were rekindling a relationship that had been on a long hiatus. Neither of us expected the marriage proposal to play out the way it did. But maybe that was a good thing. Perhaps it’s the couples who do everything according to the Prince and Princess Handbook who don’t survive when the magic wears thin. In retrospect, I think it was better to start this union with our gloves on, in a boxer’s stance. One needs to understand strategy and battle maneuvers. It is vital to appreciate humor and build camaraderie in the unexpected foxhole. These are the necessary skills that keep a marriage alive. Flowers and chocolate are useless. I remember sitting alone enjoying the candlelight and crystal that adorned our table for two as I held a thumb-sized glass of fruited vodka, icy and thick with raspberries. I loved the way the color matched my fingernails, the stark contrast of them against the white linens reminded me of the raspberry and cream popsicles I ate as a child. Feeling relaxed and elegant I took tiny sips as I gazed around, nodding to other couples nearby who were beginning to notice that my date had disappeared. I wondered what was taking him so long as he had excused himself to go chat up the chef, whom he said was an acquaintance. A black door to the kitchen swung open and Tim burst back into the room, all smiles. At 6’8” he wasn’t known for quiet entrances. “Ivan’s going to send out a few freebies. Said he’d take care of us.” Tim plopped into his chair and smoothed his blonde hair into place. He downed his fruity vodka like it was Kool-aide and motioned for the waiter to bring us another round of drinks. “Great,” I said picturing all sorts of exotic Russian delights appearing on plates that were once served to the Romanovs. “So how do you know this guy?” “Met him at a radio event. He’s from uhm,” Tim snapped his long fingers as he recalled the information, “Moscow. Yea, that’s it. Moscow.” “What was the event?” “Does it matter?” “No.” “So what’s with all the questions?” “It was only one question. Why are you getting agitated?” “I’m not agitated.” He picked up the second fruity vodka and downed it. “Would you finish your first drink already?” “Fine.” I threw it back like a pro. Then I picked up the second one and saluted him. “Let’s just relax and enjoy this. We only have two days before I fly back. I missed you.” He took a deep breath and exhaled through flared nostrils. I put my hand over his drumming fingers. Something was up. “Are you okay?” I asked. A young waiter with Ricky Riccardo hair swooped over, handed us menus and then gave a run-down of the night’s specials. We each chose an entrée and Tim asked for another round of drinks. “Tim. Maybe we should slow down on the drinks.” “No.” “Fine.” What was wrong with him ? It seemed as if he had left his usual joking demeanor in the kitchen with Ivan. I threw back my second drink in one gulp and choked daintily into my napkin. We could take a cab home. “So how are things at the airline?” Tim asked as he took a piece of bread from a silver bowl. Thrilled to have some normal conversation, I started into an elaborate story about a new dad who tried to change his baby’s diaper on a fold down, jump seat. As I got to the part where the dad laid the baby on her back while he held the jump seat down with his knee, Ricky Riccardo came back and placed a small salad in front of me. “Zees is from Ivan,” he announced as he stood back from the table. I nodded to him and smiled. “Thank you.” “No problem.” He beamed as he retreated to the water station. It was ugliest, driest looking salad I had ever seen so I pushed it to the side as I continued my story. Tim stared at the salad and then back at me. “That’s your salad,” he said. “There’s no dressing. And what is this stuff? It’s not even lettuce. It’s cabbage or who knows what?” “Have some salad.” His voice held an edge. “I don’t want the salad.” I calmly stated, the words evenly spaced and heavy on my tongue. “Eat the salad,” he whispered through clenched teeth. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow. I gave him my most powerful defiant stare. “Eat - the - damned - salad.” “Fine.” I pulled the salad over and started to pick at it with my fork suddenly feeling other people’s eyes upon me. I looked around and noticed them, whispering in hushed tones. “What is up with you?” I could barely conceal by growing rage. “I thought we were going to have fun.” Blood was pumping through my veins, banging in my ears. I took a bite of one of the bitter greens and held up my fork as I chewed it. “This is disgusting. I thought Ivan was your friend.” Then I saw it. A velvet box of midnight blue half hidden under shreds of carrot and radicchio. Panic gripped me like a giant hand and squeezed tight. No, no, no. I did not want this to happen here. This was not what I had choreographed in my ten-year-old heart as I picked at my chenille bedspread on sleepless nights. I could see our waiter going from table to table alerting the others to our impending moment. “Honey,” Tim leaned on his elbows and bore into me with blinking eyes, "Stop blinking your eyes like that. Take the box out of the salad." “I don’t want to.” “Open the box, Susan.” “People are staring.” I attempted another defiant stare but it was difficult to pull off with tears plopping onto the table. “Open - the - damn - box.” Though I don’t remember willing them to do so, my shaking fingers pushed away the vegetables and picked up the small velvet cube. All eyes in the restaurant were on us. I opened the box and a diamond solitaire caught the candlelight. I looked up at Tim and stared as his lips moved without sound. I glanced at the staring eyes to the left and then I glanced at the staring eyes to the right, distorted faces like funhouse mirrors. “Well?” Tim asked with a face so vulnerable and earnest that I suddenly couldn’t imagine a life without him. “Will you marry me?” “Yes.” The room ruptured into cheers as Tim handed me a third vodka and held up his. And we burst into laughter, toasted each other and cheered along with them. The whole experience did not play out the way either of us had imagined. It was not the traditional down on one knee sort of proposal on the beach at sunset, nor was the ring magically unveiled on a covered silver dish as he had hoped. It was clumsy, unexpected, and filled with nervous emotion on both sides. It was real and heartfelt and awkwardly expressed the way marriage often looks on a daily basis. In retrospect it was the perfect engagement. “Must be a funny card,” Ms. I Smell Like Lavender commented as I giggled to myself. “Just brought back some memories,” I sighed as I put the card back in its place, “But it’s not the one I’m going to buy.” “I think I’m going to get this one,” she confided as she held up a photo of a sunrise on which was printed ‘Every sunrise means another day of loving you’. I forced myself not to add a sardonic comment and ruin her choice. She opened the card and pointed to a wall of poetry five inches long. “This poem says it all for me.” “How many years?” “One. Well almost,” she said with a shy smile. “You?” “Twenty-four.” “Wow. So, what’s the secret? What have you learned?” I plucked a simple white card with a simple red heart and opened it for her to see. “This is the card I get for him every year. Because after awhile, you learn that these are the only three words that matter.”
Category: Moments That Matter
Part 2Sr. Kenneth Mary lived in the convent across the street from the school on the corner of Munn St. and Cottage Pl. When I passed it, I would walk quickly. It may have been a plain brick building, but it held mystery. It made my palms sweat. We had all seen Sr. Kenneth and the other Sisters of Charity go in and come out from to time, but for the life of us, we could not figure out what went on in there. Rumor had it that the sisters were on lockdown between the hours of 4:00 PM and 7:00 AM. They weren’t allowed to leave, and they never ate. Maybe they were allowed to sleep but they wore their full habits. Just trying to picture Sr. Kenneth in a flannel nightgown made us queasy. Not once did I ever see one of the Sisters around town, and believe me, I looked for them. Besides teaching us perfect penmanship, Sr. Kenneth loved tests. Not just spelling and math, though you could tell she thought they were thrilling by the way her voice went up an octave when she gave directions. She loved to trick us with tests of courage and moral rectitude, and we wouldn’t know she was doing it until someone was busted. The first time she pulled it on us was after a morning recess. She sat quietly behind her desk with a stenographer's notebook and a Bic pen. The rule was that we were to come in and fold our arms on our desk and put our heads down until the class was calm. Then she would give us the next direction. On this seemingly regular Thursday morning, we came in and put our heads down, but she didn’t say a word. The silence dragged on to an alarming extent, at least five minutes. Though no one was bold enough to raise his/her head to see what was amiss, I could see frantic eyeballs rolling in every direction. What was going on here? Kathy, a sweet girl with brown pigtails to my left, began to whisper to those of us within earshot that she had a few of those chocolate “Ice Cube” candies left over from her snack. She swore that they tasted really cold. The more she whispered the more I wanted to taste one to see if it really was as frosty as something that comes from a freezer. As Sr. Kenneth sat staring opaquely from her chair, Kathy began to slip them to her friends. My mother never bought such frivolous things for our lunch bags, so I slipped my hand across the aisle in a stealth-like fashion making sure that the rest of my body and head did not move. Kathy placed the Ice Cube, wrapped in shiny gold foil, in my hand. Continuing my stealth move to my lap, I promptly unwrapped the candy and slipped into my mouth as I fake coughed the way I had seen my brother Timmy do when he would sneak ribbon candy from a bowl at my grandmother’s house. Just as I silently declared that there was nothing even remotely cold about this chocolate, Sr. Kenneth announced, “If I call your name please stand.” “Kathy.” “Maureen.” “John.” “MIchael” “Susan.” One by one we stood, shaking and swallowing. Then she went on to deliver a lengthy sermon about the importance of trust and rule following and the reality of evil and its whispers all around us. Kathy and I exchanged shocked looks. Evil? The only whisper I had heard was Kathy’s. Then later that afternoon, Sr. Kenneth entered after lunch in an even more morose mood, if that was even possible. When an hour of The Palmer Method ceased to enliven her, she asked us to sit with our hands folded at our desks. There was nothing odd about that as this was our “go to” posture between subjects. After this morning’s humiliation I sat up straight and placed my palms together in the holiest way possible, lining up my fingers perfectly with those on the other hand the way she showed us. I didn’t move a muscle and refused to listen to any evil whispers that might be swirling about. After a few long, silent minutes she asked, “Is there anyone in the class that can tell time?” I had no idea how to read a clock, but when a dozen other hands shot up I joined them. Heck, I wanted to be seen as savvy and advanced. I wanted to redeem myself. There was no clock on our wall, and it wasn’t like she was asking anyone to prove it. She looked around the room slowly, searching the faces of the proud few of us time-tellers and said, “Susan, why don’t you go out to the hallway, see what time it is, and come back in and tell us.” “Okay,” I whispered. I stood up, gulped, smoothed my blue plaid jumper, pulled up my navy knee socks and started up the aisle. Faces of classmates loomed and smiled, growing distorted like those in a funhouse mirror. I was screwed, again. There was nothing I could do but leave the classroom and figure it out. I slipped out the door and leaned against the wall, afraid to move. I had never been in the hallway alone, and, suddenly it was the biggest space I had ever seen. Pale green walls the color of mucous punctuated here and there by varnished wood doors. Only a few steps to my left was THE OFFICE. I’d never been in there either, and I hoped I never would. My brother Todd had told me all sorts of scary tales about the principal, Sr. Maria Michael. She had something he called “a hairy eyeball” that she was always giving him. Todd spent a fair share of time in this hallway ‘gathering’ himself before Mrs. Docken would let him come back into their second grade classroom. As a matter of fact I knew he was sitting behind the last door on the left right now. The clock was a huge white orb that clung to the wall near the ceiling, its thin black arms like those of a traffic cop when he signals the lanes in front of him to stop. I looked around in a panic. Though I knew that time was ticking away, I had no idea how to name it. The whole class was waiting for me to come back and enlighten them. If I said the wrong thing, I would be doomed forever. I searched the hall for help. Nothing, not a soul. My heart pounded in my ears, I stepped toward the wall clock as if closer proximity would reveal the answer. I watched the second hand travel. I bent my head back and looked to the ceiling so the tears in my eyes could pool at the corners rather than roll down my cheeks. Things were not going well for me in First Grade either. I had such high hopes when I started. And then, just as I was about to pull the classroom door open in shame, an angel appeared. An honest to goodness eighth grader on her way to THE OFFICE with a note. “Excuse me,” I asked timidly, my voice but a squeak in the vast emptiness. “Can you tell me what time it is?” She stopped, her kindness like a welcome mist in the desert, and said, “Why, it’s twelve past one.” “Thank you,” I replied as I watched her sashay past me and disappear in a blonde swish into THE OFFICE. Obviously, my holy hands had not been for naught. I dried my tears with the hem of my jumper and opened the classroom door. Then I stepped before the class and announced, “Twelve past one.” Sr. Kenneth looked at me over her spectacles, checked her watch and said, “Thirteen past. But close enough. Fine work.” “Thank you.” These were the moments that made God real to a six year old. I walked back down the row, careful not to appear too proud, and resumed my seated position. Left hand against the right, lining up the fingers in the holiest way possible. ************************************************************************************************************************* Dear Readers: After this post I will be posting all Moments in Montclair pieces on my other WP blog called Moments that Matter. Please come over and join my mailing list if you'd like to continue receiving them. I am composing them for fun, nostalgia, and as a way to force myself to create memoir pieces that my children will both treasure and, as one of my present students said to me last week, read back to me at the end of my life when I may not be able to remember the rich and blessed life I have lead. (Her statement stopped our whole class in our tracks. In a good way.) The stories of our lives are important to share. In this busy world, it is a priceless gift to carve out the time to record them. This blog gives me a deadline. One tale every two weeks. Anyone can do that. I hope to inspire all of you to do the same. Please feel free to share your nostalgia with us as well! Susan~
More Moments in MontclairMy older brother, Todd, wrote a book one year and gave it to the family for Christmas. It is a treasure. A small, unassuming book titled Moments in Montclair, it lists various memories of our childhood in random order. I can’t read it without laughing myself to tears or crying myself into a fit of giggles. I don’t assume that our childhood was any better or more magical than anyone else’s but I do know that the mere fact that I grew up with five brothers and no sisters provided much entertainment, physical activity, and subterfuge. In honor of my family, whom I continue to adore beyond words, I am feeling pulled to those years more than ever. Perhaps it is because my own children are now off on their own, or perhaps I am feeling that summertime nostalgia that hits me this time of year. And part of me would like to do put my reminiscing down on paper so that when I am moved into a nursing home, hopefully some time far in the future, I can whip it out and read it to the kindly nurses and candy stripers who feign interest or, in the dim light of evening they can read it to me. My childhood spanned the 1960’s and 1970’s. Our family of eight shared a modest four bedroom house in Montclair, NJ. It was pre-computer, pre-cell phone, pre-everything digital. Looking back, I would argue that this “Pre Era” had a power all its own. A magic that surpassed anything one can purchase at Best Buy or the Apple Store. It was an era that demanded creativity and initiative, when kids had to work issues out on their own and parents rarely stormed the principal’s office except to agree that their kid was a schmuck. As an experiment I am going to write a short memory every other Monday. Please feel free to share this backward journey with me as it just may stir up wonderful memories of your own. Comments and personal sharing are encouraged and welcomed! Let the trip begin~
Our House Looked Like a Yellow Version of ThisLet me introduce you to my family: My dad’s name is Harry. Back then, we referred to him amongst ourselves as H-Bomb since he was a force to be reckoned with. The quintessential Wonder Years Dad, he left every morning in a slate grey suit carrying a briefcase and drove to a place called Kearfott. We had no idea where that was or what happened there, but it was important. He returned precisely at 6:00 PM. The air in the house changed when he walked through the door. Our steps became lighter, our words more carefully chosen. Six PM was the time to straighten up, set the table, and get washed up for dinner. He’s the one who taught us all to “have a little class for God’s sakes.” Lois, our mother, won a Shirley Temple contest when she was five years old for two reasons: she looked like Shirly Temple and she sang Red Sails in the Sunset on the radio. None of us could get over this. Who else had a mother who sang on the radio? In our eyes she had experience with fame. She also was voted Homecoming Queen in High School and went on to become a nurse in a white hat. Luckily none of this went to her head. First and foremost she was our MOM. A whirling dervish of cooking, cleaning, washing, shopping, nursing, and confidant when we needed one. For one half hour a day she sat and read The Star Ledger with an open-faced PB&J. No one was allowed to to talk to her during that time unless there was blood involved. David was the oldest. The only one of us too cool to have a nickname, unless you regard ‘Dave’ as a nickname. He was the Greg Brady of the family only more mysterious. He wore his hair down over his eyes to the horror of my father, had his own pool cue in a narrow faux leather protective case that zipped, and dated an older women who had a driver’s license. My parents cleaned out the attic so he could have his own space. I can still feel the delight of parting the hippie beads that hung in the doorway to enter his groovy pad. A bit of an artist, he hammered numerous nails into the paneled wall and created a mural of string art that remains to this day. Timothy, Timmy, Timbo, Tim was the opposite of Dave. He was the all-American kid who loved sports and girls. He played football, hockey, and baseball during various seasons but boxed and wrestled with David all year long. Sometimes my dad would order them into the backyard to “figure things out”. Once I had to disturb my mother during her half-hour break because blood was involved. I think this all had something to do with David getting his own space. Todd, Toddio, Toddio Potatio, Odd Todd Half Turtle and Half Frog, was a year older than me. He was our Eddie Haskell with wiry blond hair and an innocent face. If there was something amiss, if we could smell smoke, hear firecrackers, or hear a friendly game ending in an explosion of “not fair’s!” Todd was usually involved. After he got in trouble he would always invite us into his bedroom to tell us about it and then laugh as hard as he could. Susan, Susan Boosan, Sue, is me. I was the only girl and thus the only one with my own room. No one thought this was fair except for me. The only thing that I thought was NOT fair was that I was not allowed to put a lock on the door. My parents assured us that we needed to learn to respect other’s property and privacy by exercising self control. That never happened. I was the perfect follower. When you are surrounded by brothers who are ready at any moment to give you red ears, a dead arm, a charlie horse, an indian rub, a purple nurple, or pin you down so they can drip saliva over your face, you learn to do what you are told and not to tattle under any circumstances. The only place I could exert any power was during board games when the rules were written on plain white paper so no one could take over by making up his/her own rules on the spot. We went through three Trouble games one year because we wore out the pop-o-matic dice popper. Eventually we had to move to Hand’s Down. Kevin, Kev, Kevvy Baby, Devon, Devonport Chesterfield, was two years behind me. He was the brother who always (and still does) make us all laugh. He was emotional, funny, and the constant brunt of Todd’s mischief. He had the misfortune of being born with a huge freckle on his cheek that we all claimed was a beauty mark. The teasing was relentless and that premature dead front tooth the color of a stormy sky didn’t help matters for him. Joseph, Joe, Hobart, Hoey, Hoey Joey Come and Mow My Lawn, was born when I was seven. Cute and docile, he was our real life doll that we loved and stuffed into various costumes. He was especially useful at Christmas that first year when we put on a play about the Nativity in our basement. For the first five years of his life he probably thought he had two mothers. He was the first one I was able to boss around. But I did it with love. With five older siblings, Joe grew to be good natured, creative and wise beyond his years with the diplomatic savvy of the leader of the UN. Outside of Todd and Kevin’s salamanders, geckos, gerbils, guinea pigs, fish and rabbits, we had two dogs and cat at various times... but we’ll get to them later.
A Mother's SilhouetteI awoke for a moment in late afternoon, the hospital room spare and efficient. I looked over and saw my mother sitting with a rosary in her hand, a cool dark silhouette before a window fiercely illuminated by the hot desert sun. “You don’t have to talk,” she said noticing I was stirring. “I’m just going to sit here.” Thank you. It’s exactly what I needed. An immense, familiar peace filled me, her profile eliciting early memories as I continued to drift in and out of sleep, my body ridding itself of the anesthesia from an early morning surgery. I dreamed of sitting tall beside her as she drove the white station wagon with two sure hands on the wheel down bright summer streets, and squinting up from my canvas raft to see that she still sat in the striped beach chair in case I needed her to rescue me from the crashing waves. Then I was suddenly spinning on the old brown naugahyde covered stool in the kitchen as she prepared dinner, her black wavy hair in sharp contrast to the fading glare of a snowy afternoon through windows over the kitchen sink. I felt the weight of her as she perched on the edge of my bed saying prayers with me, the hall light streaming behind her into my room cloaked in night. Her slight frame in the living room window as I pulled up to the house in an old blue Ford with my first boyfriend. All of these memories, backlit, glowing. A mother’s silhouette. Anchoring, soothing, solid. As an adult, going about the daily routines, I had forgotten about the calming, restorative effect of having my mother simply sit in my presence. I looked to her as I always have. My mirror, my friend, my ever present reminder-er that my hair cut is all wrong and my weight is too low. All these years she has been the constant in my life. Now sneaking around the edges of my heart is the knowledge that she will someday be gone. It is an unbearable knowing. Where will she be when I need her? Who will be backlit for me then? The ability to have children may end, but mothering endures. It is a singular and beautiful calling to become the silhouette to God’s light here on this earth. In this room, helpless and still, I saw clearly that my position in the chain of motherhood would remain unchanged. A child doesn’t stop needing his or her mother simply because he or she is turning fifty, and a mother’s instinct to love her children never ends. My thoughts turned to my son and daughter, young adults trying to find their way and make sense of their circumstances. I wonder if my silhouette holds the same power. If I was there when they needed to peer from their own darkness and look toward the light. If I understood when they were young that love shines brightest during the simple moments of mothering that become so routine that we perform them without thought. I look forward with a new understanding to the many years I have left with them. Even if that means just sitting in a chair in a shadowy room by a sunny window, a chance to remind them of the immense, familiar peace of a mother’s love in this often harsh world. I awakened again, my head pounding. She was there in a second with ice chips and a cool cloth. “Do you want me to turn off the ceiling light?” she asked as she leaned over me. “No, leave it on,” I replied adding one more image to my my treasure box of silhouettes. Sheets smoothed, pillows adjusted she stood searching for some other detail to attend. “Thanks, Mom.” I said as I felt the tug of sleep once more. “I’ll just sit over here,” she whispered. “You don’t have to talk.”
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After circling the block three times in my navy blue mini-van, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that Matthew had finally calmed himself, Lorazepam class. Buy Lorazepam without prescription, He gazed at the tree-lined street, one pudgy index finger tracing circles on the window as the other twirled a chunk of sweaty blonde hair into a knot. I exhaled with relief knowing that the dreaded Phase One of Every Car Trip was complete, buy Lorazepam from canada. Weeks earlier I had resigned myself to the reality that every excursion would begin with a wrestling match that would result in my pushing against his rigid little body of steel with all of my might to get him to bend to a point that I could buckle his car seat, Buy Lorazepam Without Prescription. Lorazepam forum, Without fail, it would leave us both out of sorts and screaming, Lorazepam mg. Lorazepam steet value, Heading toward the grocery store I put in his favorite tape, the one where his name had been electronically inserted into every song. Both of our moods lifted as we sang together about Matthew going to the moon on a magic rocket ship, rx free Lorazepam, Cheap Lorazepam no rx, and Matthew sailing the high seas with pirates.
The third song was about to begin when he called my name, purchase Lorazepam online no prescription. Get Lorazepam, “Mom?”
“Is stupid a bad word?”
I turned and gave him the exaggerated head nod and wide eyed stern look, “Yes! Stupid is a terrible word, Lorazepam pics. You should never call someone that.”
“What about shut up?”
“Shut up Buy Lorazepam Without Prescription, is awful! An insult to the person you are talking to. Never, ever say shut up.” I saw him pondering my words, his blue eyes shifting left and right as he thought about what I was saying. It felt so good being able to impart manners and social skills to my little guy. Mother of the Year, that’s who I was. Buy no prescription Lorazepam online, “What about jerk?”
My jaw dropped with another dramatic expression of horror as I looked back at him again. “That could be one of the worst words of all time.”
“Where are you getting these words?”
“I don’t know.”
“They’re all bad, real brand Lorazepam online. Where can i cheapest Lorazepam online, They hurt people’s feelings, and we don’t use them in this family.” I turned off the music for the remainder of the trip so my motherly wisdom could sink in. Finally, Lorazepam overnight, Canada, mexico, india, he was listening to me. I hadn’t connected with him on such a level in days. We were forming his conscience together. He would grow to be a fine man, where to buy Lorazepam. A priest, or the president, Buy Lorazepam Without Prescription. Lorazepam long term, We pulled into the Safeway parking lot and he climbed into the cart without incident, an event so rare it made me grab the handle with sure hands and whistle while I pushed him up and down the aisles, low dose Lorazepam. Lorazepam treatment, I even took my time for a change, scanning the shelves for new products and the usual staples, Lorazepam australia, uk, us, usa. Lorazepam samples, When I rolled the cart down the cereal aisle, I could sense a mood shift, Lorazepam without prescription. Lorazepam from canadian pharmacy, “Can we get Captain Crunch?”
“You know the doctor said no sugar cereals.”
His hands tightened around the cart’s handle until his knuckles and fingernails turned white. “I want Captain Crunch.”
“We’re getting Crispix.”
His heels pounded a slow, tribal rhythm against the cart, online buying Lorazepam hcl. Buy Lorazepam Without Prescription, “I-hate-Crispix.”
“You love Crispix.”
His kicking picked up speed and the sound of the vibrating metal turned heads toward us. Lorazepam pharmacy, Our empty aisle was now crowded with carts. Where did these other shoppers come from, is Lorazepam safe.
“I want Captain Crunch! Captain Crunch. CAPTAIN CRUNCH!”
“WE’RE GETTING CRISPIX.”
“I WAANNT CAPTAINNN CRUUNNCH!”
Like a freeze frame in an action movie, time stood still as I looked up and down the aisle. Staring eyes to the left. Staring eyes to the right. Everyone was unabashedly waiting to see how Mother of the Year was going to handle this.
I took a deep breath to regroup, flashed my best fake smile to my growing audience, and dropped my voice to a gravelly whisper, “With that attitude we are not getting Captain Crunch or anything else today, Mister. We are going home right now.”
Matthew looked me straight in the eye, and at the top of his little lungs he screamed with the utmost confidence, “SHUT UP, YOU STUPID JERK!”
My mouth dropped in unison with all of the other mothers in the aisle. Shocked that he would string together all of the worst words he knew against me, I pulled his rigid, screaming body from the cart, and carried him over my shoulder, like a writhing sack of potatoes, toward the door.
Humiliated that all of the other mothers saw me as a failure, I gave them a final glance. Imagine my relief when I saw them clapping with looks of sympathy and understanding as Matthew screamed unintelligible sounds and pounded his fists into my back.
“Go Mom!” were the last two words I heard as I stepped outside, thankful that my cheering section wasn’t coming with me to witness the upcoming wrestling match at the car seat.
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I turned, Ambien mg, Ambien used for, instinctively, to call to the kids, canada, mexico, india, Buy Ambien from canada, Hey guys, come see the butterfly! But the physical turning of my head pulled me to the present. Katie was twenty-three years old and two states away teaching fourth graders, Ambien dose, Real brand Ambien online, and Matthew was sitting in a college classroom in Ohio. I don’t think either one could hear me, comprar en línea Ambien, comprar Ambien baratos.
There was a time when such a sighting would incite a frenzy of motion. Two sets of feet would come running from the playroom and the three of us would note, in whispered tones, the butterfly’s every move, Buy Ambien Without Prescription. Online buy Ambien without a prescription, Matt would point and try to bang on the window and Katie would scold him like the big sister she was, imparting wisdom like she was the expert of How to watch a butterfly without scaring it away, Ambien dangers. Ambien pictures, And there we’d stand, noses pressed against glass, Ambien use. Ambien overnight, “Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?”
“Duh, Katie, buy no prescription Ambien online, Ambien alternatives, it doesn’t have any babies with it. It’s a boy.”
“Look, Ambien treatment, Ambien maximum dosage, it’s sitting on the top branch!”
“What if it falls?”
“Can we catch it?”
“Where does it live?”
Then off it would flutter, its magic along with it, Ambien class, Ambien online cod, though the moment would live on though rudimentary etchings of crayon on white printer paper and countless remember whens before bedtime. Buy Ambien Without Prescription, I miss sharing those moments of innocence. My heart still calls out to my two babies when these everyday delights are revealed to me at odd hours. I have a feeling it always will, purchase Ambien. Order Ambien no prescription, It catches me off guard, this new stillness, after Ambien. Where can i cheapest Ambien online, This empty house of mine, the now quiet car rides, get Ambien, Ambien wiki, the lazy almost reckless way I can saunter through the market. I am realizing that emptiness is not always solitary, where can i buy Ambien online. I am startled to discover that these quiet spaces are inhabited by ghosts, Buy Ambien Without Prescription. Ambien results, This strange new phenomenon is putting me on edge. I am being visited by my children at their various ages. They haunt me, purchase Ambien for sale, Buy Ambien online no prescription, these younger versions, like they are trapped in time and I am separated from them by a clear glass wall. A blond head with a coloring book at church, order Ambien from United States pharmacy, Ambien forum, a giggle of silliness that erupts from a toddler at the mall, tanned skin and baggy swim trunks digging a hole to China at the water’s edge, and a pre-teen with gleaming braces and a long pony tail. Katie and Matthew’s faces are everywhere, their voices fill my head.
I know I am grieving the end of an era. Grief always involves mysteries of one sort or another. Buy Ambien Without Prescription, Our two children have grown up. And these little sightings I can handle, explain away as the musings of a mom who’s moving on. But there is a presence of two other beings that I can’t explain. Two blurred faces who have recently begun to roam the halls of my house and sit on the edge of my bed.
After almost sixteen years, long past the days when I accepted that two of our babies had not made it to term, I am wondering, once again, who they would have been. How their lives would have blessed us and the world. They would be in high school with boyfriends and girlfriends and displays of acne that would curse their days.
This shocks me. To tell you the truth, I never would have guessed it. Miscarriages happen all the time. A natural process, the doctor had assured me, making perfect sense. Of course it was a disappointment, but I was young. I’d have more babies, she promised.
But she was wrong, Buy Ambien Without Prescription. We didn’t. Years passed and we didn’t have a number three; no number four. I cried my tears and then, one balmy Spring day, I surrendered. We accepted and stopped trying. That was that, or so I had thought.
It can’t be coincidence that the door has sprung open to these memories at the same time I am grieving the empty nest. There are four spirits wandering in this house, not two. How can it be that I am just now considering that? Of course it impacts a universe when a pregnancy ends in miscarriage. There are souls involved, and the souls of children claim their mothers with a bond stronger than time or distance. This thought comforts me, two little ones who will always remain.
I dry my hands on a kitchen towel and fold it just so, knowing that it will not end up in a heap on the floor or secretly used to wipe peanut butter crumbs off the corners of a teen aged mouth. The Monarch flutters past the window again, and then a second one joins it. I study them as they hop from leaf to leaf, unaware of me and the two little noses pressed to the glass.
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Soon there will be a conversation that will resemble this:
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“I see that.”
“Aren’t they cute?”
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“Oh, Phentermine australia, uk, us, usa, they’ll be gone before Christmas, Honey. I can promise you that.”
Then, on an ordinary December evening, Phentermine from canadian pharmacy, I will get the inner nod. This will be the night. Perhaps Matt will have a volleyball practice, Phentermine recreational, or Tim detained by a client dinner. Whatever the happenstance, I will be presented with an evening alone.
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I’ll start at “A” and work my way through a vast list of entries. And each precious name holds a life story that will capture me for a long moment. As I write a note, Phentermine no prescription, I will fear that it feels trite, Herbal Phentermine, like I have written it a thousand times already…but it is a wish, pure and powerful to all of those whom I have loved.
God’s peace to you, Phentermine blogs. Buy Phentermine Without Prescription,
...to the girl I met at seven. The deck of cards we kept handy in back pockets along with the chalk for hopscotch in the street. I can still hear your laugh and count the freckles on your nose. Is Phentermine safe, God’s peace to you as you search for meaning in a city of lights and trolley cars upon great hills.
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