-
Come Look With Me
I am Elaine. I’m married to Canadian Man, have eleven incredible people who call me “mom” and a passel of delightful grandchildren. I deeply love them all. I confess, however, I probably forgot each of my dear kiddos at some point at church, at work, at Walmart. Like the time I had the clippers out one evening giving 3 boys the summer buzz cut. The phone shrilled on the wall. I reached to grab the bright orange receiver and squeezed it between shoulder and ear, clippers continuing their noisy trek, stick-straight dark clumps plopping to the yellow linoleum. “Hello?” I uttered. “Mom, why aren’t you here?” Memory flooded through my…
-
Un-apologetically Forty-two
I was 42 when I birthed the youngest of the tribe. I guess 42 is no spring chicken, but gosh, it isn’t that old. At least that’s what I thought when I ran to Walmart for diapers with Baby Zee, the latest model, only 2 weeks old. Sleep deprived, healing from a c-section, struggling to keep the laundry pile to a modest sized mountain and the other kids fed probably didn’t leave me looking like Princess Diana. But I did comb my hair; I’m pretty sure I did. Baby Zee was not Gerber Baby, of benevolent disposition and accommodating ways. She had her moments, and that day she was complaining.…
-
Yes, I Do Know All Their Names
The line is long at the airport this morning. Warmer destinations are luring Minnesota folk from a mid-winter glacial freeze, and dogged travelers are shuffling toward the ticket counter at the pace of a slow eating toddler. I’m on my way with a couple daughters to eagerly anticipated R & R on a sunny beach in Florida. “Good thing we got here early!” comments a voice behind me. I take in the young gal with a blonde pixie cut and cat’s-eye glasses–perhaps a college student on spring break? I smile back and agree that early is good. She discovers I have eleven children. Then she learns about my collection of…
-
The Washing Machine Eats Socks
We all know washing machines eat socks. Not pairs of socks. The trusty Maytag seems to prefer only one of the pair. I don’t know if he (she?) can discern between right and left and has a partiality toward left socks. Or perhaps it’s the right socks that are seasoned just right. It has been something I’ve pondered in the dark night when the rocking chair creaks back and forth, back and forth, my baby almost slumbering. Why in the world would I be cogitating about socks? They were the annoying fly, the irritating blister; they wouldn’t give me any peace. I collected unmatched socks in a basket. There were…
