It's a Matter of Perspective

Not long after Margret died, I was talking to a young man of my acquaintance. He said he was sorry for my loss.

Then he thought for a bit, sizing me up, and said I was going to think he was a bad person, but if it were him, he would be rejoicing at being released from the equivalent of a prison sentence.

Perspective.

It's just a matter of perspective.

I don't think he's a bad person, just deprived of the right perspective. All he could see is the down side. Only having met Margret briefly, and on a day when she wasn't feeling up to her usual cheer, he couldn't know the up side.

I knew how loving Margret was, how empathetic. He never had a day with her when she was about four years old as I did. I was sad about something, and she came over and hugged me, and laid her head on my lap. She let me know that whatever was wrong, she was there for me, and loved me. I had not said a word about the wrong thing, I was not crying, she just knew, and wanted to make it right as best she could.

He never knew how strongly she cared about her sisters, and how much they cared about her. Or how loyal she was to her friends.

It's his loss.

What's that Name?

Leonardo Alessandro Giulielmo Patritsio Armand Luigi... and then the last name.

That would be some mouthful for a little child to remember, to recite, to write down in Kindergarden, First Grade or Second Grade. Would he have to write the entire list of his given names every day on every school paper, or would the school pick two for him to use? There are many forms that have space for a first name and a middle initial, with no provision for those folks who have extra names to deal with. I suppose you could ask for an additional sheet of paper, write all those extra names on that, and staple or paper clip the extra paper to the original form. Hmm, what would the clerks and beaureaucrats do with all that extra name?

And what would you call him for short?

That's what Margret's Dad wanted to name her if she had, by chance, been born male. He wanted to honor a group of his uncles, and didn't want any of them to feel left out. Most people would be honored to have a child named after them. Most people would not feel particularly slighted if a newborn was NOT named after them. Margret's Dad didn't want to take any chances with the feelings of his uncles. They were, each and every one of them, his favorite uncle. Well, maybe Uncle Armand was a little more favorite than the rest at times, with all the favors he did for his nephew, but I'd be willing to keep that a secret.

I consider us all fortunate that I persuaded him that he could name the boy children, and he would let me name any female children we might have, because his first two choices for girl names were Kitchenchaira and Baldeagella.

Yes, dear, those names certainly would be unique. No, dear, I would not want to be the girl child bearing those names. *shudder* Who in their right mind** would name their daughter after a piece of furniture?

I can understand naming a child after a favorite bird, but wouldn't Bluebird, or Oriole, or Jay, or Robin, or even Wren or Sparrow be more fitting? I could almost live with Osprey. Twist my arm a little and I might agree to Kite. But, please, please, please not Baldeagella!

Then there she was, and I named her after my two best friends from college, Margret and Gail.

Ta DA! World meet Margret Gail!

When I was pregnant with our second child, I was fairly sure she was going to be a girl. Just so happens that I was right. Her Dad was so sure I was correct that he didn't pick out any boy names. (silly man) So what happens if I was wrong and we had a son? Dad said we'd call him Boy, and when he reached the age of 16 he could decide what he wanted to be called, and we would then change his name legally. Then B was born and I was very very relieved. She is named after my aunt, on whose birthday she was born, and also after the crafty aunt of she after whom Margret was named.

What was Dad going to name C had she, by chance, been born male? He would have honored the Italian anatomist Bartolomeo Eustachio, by giving that name to his offspring, in full. And he would have called that lad Bart for short. This was long before the Simpsons, but I wonder what effect that would have had. Can you imagine raising Bart Simpson? Nope. No way.

C was eventually born female, I gave a sigh of relief and named her after her Dad's favorite aunt, and gave her a variation of the name of a distant aunt on my Dad's side of the family for her middle name.

Their dad left the picture (he took off hitch hiking with another woman) while I was pregnant with the youngest, D. I didn't offer him the option of choosing a name for a boy. At that point I preferred not to talk to him at all. I chose her name all by myself. She bears as her first name the name of the mother of one of my best friends while growing up. I often wished this woman were my mother, instead of my own mom. She was smart, pretty, a good cook, industrious, calm and even handed. My mother was also smart, pretty, a good cook and industrious, but I wouldn't call her calm, and her capriciousness sometimes made me wish I could run away and join the circus. I also gave D the name of my favorite high school teacher, and my mother's first name.

My name? I was named after both grandmothers, Mom's mother first, and Dad's mother second. I didn't like my middle name until I learned that it had originally belonged to my delightful grandmother. Then I only liked the name because it belonged to her.

** I confess to moments when I wondered about that part, too.

Somebody Loves Me, and a little philosophy

I've been trying to write some difficult things, and it is not coming easily.

I write. I cry. I get up and pace. I grab a tissue and wipe my eyes. I blow my nose. I sit back down to write some more. Repeat.

I'm not finished. I am not satisfied with what I've written. I need to write this down, but for now, it isn't working. The story isn't coming out the way I want to see it. These words are the same words I use every day, but this day they don't sound like the idea I am trying to convey.

I save the drafts, and go looking through my collection of photographs. I find some that make me smile. And more. I smile through my tears. My tears dry up. I'm smiling. I know the tears will be back, but for this moment, I'm remembering how much fun we had together, and I'm smiling.

I decide that I want to share a happy moment with you today, instead of something serious and painful. Yes, there were a lot of serious moments in my life with Margret, but the happy moments were more plentiful, far more plentiful. I loved her very much, and she loved me. I love her still. Now I have to decide which one of all these happy memories it will be. Eeny, meeny, minie, moe. . . . THIS one!



It's Valentine's Day and a big white truck pulls up to the curb. The driver rings the bell and knocks on the door. "I have a delivery for Margret," says the driver, handing over two floral express boxes. I sign for them, because Margret is out right now, volunteering.


One box contains iris reticulatus and tulips.


I run water into the glass vase that comes with them, add the packet of flower preservative and stir, then arrange the flowers.



The other box contains bright red roses and babies breath.


Following directions, I arrange the flowers in their vase after cutting off the bottommost bit of stem.

Margret comes home from volunteering to see the boxes, read the address, and say, "Somebody loves me!"

Then we read the card together and she wanted me to send the flowers back. The flowers came from Margret's dad, the ex-husband who lives a dozen states away. During their growing up years, he almost never sent cards or presents to the girls for birthdays or holidays. Sometimes he would pick up the telephone to wish one a happy birthday, but he wasn't consistent. B would run and hide under the bed rather than talk to him on the phone. C would talk to him, but when she did, there was a sort of wariness in her demeanor. I can't remember him calling to talk to D, but that might just be my memory.

I suspect he was hoping to make up for some of joy he missed out on.

*sigh* This memory was not perfectly happy, but what event is entirely joy, entirely pain, entirely one thing or the other? Isn't it sadness versus sunshine that makes life brighter? Doesn't the contrast between tears and joy make a happy moment happier?

If you ever figure it out, please let me know.

Laundry, Then and Now

Way back when my daughters were about two, four, six and eight, there were three identical marigold sweaters. Identical, that is, except for size. Those three sweaters started life with tags in the neck that told which one was a size 4, which was size 6 and which was a 6X. Tags tickle, or itch, or otherwise bother the wearer, and those wearers removed the annoying tags.

At that time we took our washables to the laundromat. Mom dealt with the washing, drying, sorting and folding, and turned the clean items over to their owners at home to put away.

On one laundry expedition, it turned out that only two of the three marigold sweaters came along, and without tags I was at a loss to know which sweater belonged to which child. When I asked the children I had three claimants for two sweaters! (cut to the fight scene) I had to check in the dresser drawers to see which claimant was mistaken.

I really disliked sorting and folding clothes, and wondered if the girls could do it, and without squabbling.

I purchased plastic crates from a nearby restaurant/lounge whose owner was using them to support the stage. Now each girl had a laundry basket of her own.

I gathered the girls and explained what I had in mind:

Just like BIG GIRLS do when they grow up and go off to college, the girls would be doing their own laundry. Each one would be responsible for putting her dirty clothes in the basket. Each would be responsible to make sure that ALL of them got their laundry baskets safely down the stairs and into the car on laundry day.

At the laundromat, each would be responsible for staking out a washer, and putting her clothes in it. I would distribute money for the washers, and teach them how much detergent and fabric softener to use. When the washer finished, each would be responsible for staking out a dryer and getting her clothes into it. The laundromat had wire frame carts for moving clothes from washer to dryer, so I encouraged responsible use of these carts. I would distribute money as needed for dryers. Then each girl would be responsible for folding her clothes back into her basket, and seeing that her clean clothes got into the car for the ride home.

Once we returned home and got the clean laundry inside, each girl would be responsible for putting her clean things away in their proper places.

Amazingly enough, the littlest one was the most enthusiastic about the plan. I think it was the thought of being like the BIG GIRLS, and doing what the BIG GIRLS do that pleased her. The middle two gave me looks like, "Mom is trying to put something over on us." Margret was cheerfully agreeable.

Digression:
Speaking of BIG GIRLS and laundry, when I went off to college, some of the other ladies who shared my floor in the dorm were clueless when it came to wash. They'd never been involved in producing clean clothes at home, other than opening a drawer or closet and taking the desired item.

Some learned by trial and error. They learned lessons like:

You need to separate things-you-want-to-stay-white from things-that-might-bleed-unwanted-color if you don't want your white undies and tshirts to be pink or green or grey.

You need to wash delicate lacy things separate from jeans, and separate from other clothes with big toothed zippers or hooks.

You need to read the label to see if an item can be machine washed at all. -
One girl machine washed a Dry Clean Only garment. The result looked nothing like the original. She cried.
Another had a lovely wool sweater that her gran had knitted for her. She machine washed it in hot water because she'd spilled coffee on it, and then tossed it in the dryer. She ended up with a felted sweater that might fit a large doll or a small four year old, whose texture reminded me of steel wool. (Joke: if I give you the steel wool, will you knit me a Porsche?)

Others asked for help. "I don't know HOW to do laundry," wailed one, "what do I DO?" Usually one of the other girls would come to the rescue.
End Digression

Over the course of six months, approximately, the girls learned to wash, dry, fold, store and generally care for their own clothes. They learned to turn a crate over and stand on it to reach into the depths of a washer to get wet clothes out. They learned how one girl could stake out a dryer, and hold it while another brought wet clothes over. They learned to work together to get the job done. They learned ingenuity.

Margret took ingenuity one step beyond. She loved to talk to the other patrons of the laundromat. She didn't especially like to fold clothes. She would often pick out a grandmotherly sort, chat with her, and persuade her to fold all the clothes. If I stepped in and suggested that Margret needed to fold her own clothes or she would not get enough practice, the grandmotherly sort invariably said, "Oh, that's ok, I don't mind folding." If I insisted, Margret pouted a bit, then folded her own things.

When we got a washer and dryer of our own, we arranged for each person to have a particular day to use the washer. Negotiation was allowed if someone wanted to swap days, or do a little laundry on the same day as someone else.

When the girls went off to college, I got to hear disbelieving stories of fellow students who had never used a washer. Those made me grin.

Not Much Money? Make Do

As a single mom I didn't have a lot of money to spend on "stuff" for my 4 girls. I usually made things, or did things with them, even though I had to work. They all had chores, and were responsible for getting their laundry together and down to the car when we made a laundromat run. I even had them *gasp* fold their own clothes. In spite of all the perceived lacks, my girls have grown up, and turned out well.

What amazed me was a conversation one daughter (C) shared that she'd had with a best friend (G) from Jr high. Both of G's parents worked, and gave her lots of "stuff", but never spent much time with her. Back then, C envied all the neat stuff G had. G loved to visit our house, whether C was home or not. G told C she wished I was her mom, because I spent time with my girls, and taught them neat things. Her mom was always to tired or busy to spend any time with her. It was an eye opener for C.

C also explained why she and another sister were so often invited to birthday parties. Not so much because they were popular, but because the ~presents~ were so popular. C gave as example a large zippered pencil pouch I made from upholstery vinyl scraps. I put some pencils, some pens, a small scissors, an eraser and a little stapler kit inside. She told me all her friends wanted one. *chuckle* The friends all envied her homemade book covers, too.

Oh, and the word "No" meant just that. I hear kids in the grocery store whining to Mom that they want this, they want that. At that time I had a very fixed budget. If the girls wanted something they saw at the grocery, and I said No, then all the whining in the world would not shift me. So they didn't whine. On the other hand, if I thought the wanted item was reasonable, I'd say "yes, but you have to choose things to put back that equal its cost." (real world math lesson here) Then they had to negotiate among themselves what to put back, and the choice had to be unanimous, although I had final say whether the swap happened. One time C wanted a box of sugary name brand cereal, and suggested putting back my instant coffee. I looked at her and asked, "Do you ~really~ want to deal with me in the morning when I've had no coffee?" She promptly left my coffee alone, and chose something else to negotiate.
They were disappointed in the cereal. It wasn't as good as they thought it would be, it was gone in two days, and they missed the items whose place it took.

Since we were on such a tight budget, we very seldom went out to eat, but about once a month, on Saturday morning, I'd let them eat out, in my kitchen. I made up hand written menus with "My Eatery" at the top, and listed all the possible breakfasts I was willing to make that morning. I set out place mats, water glasses and silverware rolled up in a napkin. I gathered the girls at the table, (picture them as 4, 6, 8 and 10) handed the menus around and announced, "I am your server this morning. Our specials this morning are.... May I get you something to drink now?"
I'd get their drinks, (they could order coffee, and get a grown up teacup a quarter filled with coffee and three quarters milk. Likewise with tea.) and take their orders, and treat them like grown up ladies. I know this was a hit with them, because in later years they told me so.

You Know You are The Parent...

Tammy, of Praying for Parker, put up a list of how you know you are the parent of a child with special needs here

I thought I'd put the rest of my list here, since as soon as I clicked Submit Comment over there, I thought of half a dozen more things to add.

You know you are the parent of a child with special needs when:

You are pulling a sled with your one year old, your three year old and your five year old, all giggling... the five year old is in the middle with the one year old held snugly in her lap, and the three year old behind her holding on tight to make sure they don't fall off...
and a stranger walks up to you and says, What darling twins you have! And the baby is adorable!

A new doctor asks you where you took your medical studies.

At appointments where a form wants you to list the medications your child is currently taking, you have your child pull out a file card, laminated in clear packing tape, that she carries on her person at all times, and ask the receptionist, "Can you make a copy of this to attach to the form? It'll take less time, and you'll be able to read it much easier than if I copy it out longhand." And you have them copy both sides because the other side has her name, and 'current as of...' with the most recent revised date.

Your child forgets to take her purse with her to her program one day. You spent all day half hysterical because what if there was an accident, and your child was not able to tell the paramedics about her special needs and what drugs NOT to give her? You decide to sign up for Medic Alert, and the relief you feel when you clasp the bracelet around daughter's wrist is all out of proportion to that small action.

You call your doctor on a weekend, and leave a message with the answering service. Twenty minutes later your phone rings. It's one of the partners, and he says, "Tell me what's up." You list the symptoms, cough productive of green sputum, temp of 99.2F, lethargy, whinyness and say you think your child needs an antibiotic before this progresses to bronchitis. The doctor asks you what antibiotic your child responds best to, and then after you tell him, says, "I'll call it right in."

You know the phone number of your pharmacy by heart. And know the phone number of your PCP office by heart too.

You call your primary care doctor, sounding worried, and the conversation goes like this:
Me, "I don't like the way her cough sounds. She needs to be seen today, can you get her in?"
Nurse, "How soon can you get here?"
Me, "We can be there in twenty-five minutes."
Nurse, "We'll squeeze you in. See you when you get here."
*note* Our primary care doctor has Sick Call in the afternoon, to take care of people who need to be seen the same day. You have to take whatever doctor is available, but that's ok because all the doctors in the practice know your child. Sometimes Sick Call is full and you have to wait until the next day, but if it's really urgent they'll squeeze you in.

Your child lies dying, much too young, and for a moment, amidst the terrible pain of it all, you mind is filled with thankfulness that the doctors were able to help her hold on until her sisters could get here from the opposite coast, and from another state far away, so your daughters can all be together again for a little while longer.