THE SLEEPOVER

Ahhhh, weekends. A time to veg-out, catch up on all the shows on my DVR (really Ben...Courtney? ) and of course, re-connect with the hubs.

Weekends.Rock. Some more than others...



Last weekend was a 180 decibel weekend. The Dickman and I were knee deep in noisy G-babes while their sainted Mama enjoyed a short getaway.

I always look forward to getting those tasty little nuggets all to myself, but this time was different. This was the first time 20-month old Michael had spent a night away from his Mama. And let me tell you folks...Michael reeeeeeeally loves his Mama.

I knew I had to bring my A-Game. For two days I would be responsible for keeping three small people alive, fed and clothed. And hopefully, happy.

I prepared carefully for the 48-hour marathon, stocking my kitchen with gluten-free cookies, loading up on hiney wipers and making sure the 5-Hour Energy drinks and hemorrhoid cream were placed carefully out of reach of curious little hands.

----------

My just-turned-four-year old Mattman required the least amount of energy. This little guy spends a lot of time inside his own adventurous head. Pin a belt onto his shorts for a tail, and he becomes an elusive tiger prowling stealthily through the house. Tie a towel around his neck and he instantly becomes a crime-fighting super hero, leaping tall ottomans in a single bound.

Mattman spent most of the weekend reminding me what a big guy he is, now that he is four. He informed me that his 'privates' were bigger as well, cause he could now reach the toilet without standing on my feet. I am crazy about this boy.

Five-going-on-17-year old Mandie Lee is a bit more high maintenance. But ridiculously cute. So cute she should have her own Disney Show. Really.

In spite of all that cuteness, there is just no getting around the fact that She.Is.A.Girl. Complete with all the drama and eye-rolling that comes with the double-X chromosome. It is hilarious to catch this pint-sized powerhouse rolling her eyes at me as though I could possibly be irritating her - much like I used to irritate her Daddy.

Mandie Lee is magnificent. She is a big sister, entertainment director, and star diva all rolled into colorful leggings and sparkly shoes. I couldn't love her more if I tried.

And then there's Michael...melt me to my toes Michael. An angel baby with his Daddy's face and his Mama's sweetness. Perfection in footie pajamas. Even though he is the smallest, he is in fact the black hole that sucks up all the energy. He opened my kitchen cabinets and refrigerator door no less than eleventy million times and hid bottles of canola oil and jars of jelly all over my house. I could not take my eyes off this tiny tornado for a second. We even played peek-a-boo while I was on the toilet.

When I wasn't wiping hineys or filling sippy cups, I spent the weekend totally enchanted by these three little munchkins.

[Okay, there was that one tense moment when Matthew felt the need to let me know that I have a 'really big belly'. But seriously, who can trust the judgement of a kid who draws stick people sporting HUGE heads with teeny arms. He clearly has a skewed perspective of body proportion. Besides, I had just eaten half a pan of Rice Krispie Treats which totally bloated me up.]

I did feel a little sorry for him when we headed out in 17 degree weather and discovered that while he had remembered to pack seven of his favorite stuffed animals...Mattman had forgotten to pack a pair of pants.

----------

I was prepared for baby Michael to miss his Mama. As it turned out, Mandie Lee was the melancholy one. When I tucked her into bed Saturday evening her eyes filled with tears and she said, “I really miss my Mommy.” I wrapped my arms around her and told her that was a sure sign she was growing up.

I said, “Your brothers are too little to understand time. They don't realize it's been awhile since they've seen their Mom, or wonder how long it will be until she comes back. They only think about Right Now. But you are older and wiser. You are learning that two days can be a very long time when you're away from someone you love.”

“So...I'm getting smarter?” Mandie asked.

“Yes you are.”

“And getting smarter makes me miss my Mommy more?” she reasoned.

“Yes, it does, love. That's exactly how it works.”

----------

Michael began coughing in the wee hours of Sunday morning. I picked him up and tucked him into bed beside me. A short time later, as the sun began peeking through my bedroom curtains, I felt his small hand roughly patting my face. “Mama?” he asked.

“No baby, it's MiMi.”

“O-tay. I wuv yoo, MiMi.”

My heart exploded like the sun, into a bajillion pieces. And at that precise moment, every single piece belonged to the baby snuggled in my arms.

----------

After they left I headed over to see my own Mama.

She opened the door to her pretty little apartment and I pulled her into a hug. I breathed in the smell of her, reveling in the feel of her familiar hands patting me comfortingly on the back. She didn't notice that I held on a little longer than usual, but waited patiently for me to settle onto the sofa, seeming to understand that what I needed was a good dose of Mama.

“I'm so mad at Whitney Houston...” she began.

For the next 20 minutes, I listened to all the words she had saved up to share with me, nodding and uh-huh-ing when she paused for a breath. All the while aware of the painful squeezing going on in my heart.

Maybe it was seeing Mandie Lee miss her Mama...I'm not sure. But an awareness came over me that this was what I would someday miss the most. The simple joy of sitting at my Mama's feet and sharing life – from the mundane to the extraordinary. It was all I could do to finish our conversation and get back into my car before the tears began to flow.

Because I, too, am smart enough to understand the concept of time.

I whispered a prayer, a plea..."Thank you God for my Mama. Please let me keep her for a long, long time. Please, please, please, pretty please."

Then I wiped the tears from my eyes, and put the car in reverse.

As I drove away, a piece of Rice Krispie Treat fell out of my hair and into my lap...

...and I couldn't help but smile.

“I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.” ~ Mother Teresa

All Dogs Go To Heaven. Some Go To Aruba.

My friends are often surprised to learn that I'm not really an animal person, but it's the truth. In all honesty, I have not really had a mutually satisfying relationship with an animal since I murdered my pet duck, Butterball.

My Daddy gifted me with the little bit of yellow fluff as an Easter present when I was 6 years old. And I literally loved that duck to death. I held him (her?) so much that he/she died from it. I was devastated beyond belief.

To try and console me, my family gathered together in our backyard to give Butterball a proper send-off. He/she was lovingly placed in a brightly decorated shoebox lined with fluffy cotton and buried in a shallow grave marked with a pitiful cross made of twigs.

The following day, I remember wishing I was brave enough to exhume Butterball's casket for a quick peek inside to ensure he/she had found his/her way to heaven. But I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I kept remembering how my brother Dale had made the mistake of digging up a bird we had buried in similar fashion. When he opened up the shoebox, the bird was still there. Dale went crying to Mom, who told him that God was just very busy and had not had time to pick up the dead bird. So my brother carefully reburied the bird, waited a more respectable amount of time, and dug it up once again. This time the shoebox was empty. [I've always figured my Mom was somehow in cahoots with God on that deal. I'm just smart that way.]

So even though I determined at a very early age not to give my heart away to anything that had more than two legs, there has always been a steady stream of four-legged beasts coming in and out of my life.

The first dog I can remember Daddy bringing home was Tar Baby. She was an enormous, sad-faced basset hound who produced copious amounts of saliva and ate our neighbor's chickens. I steered clear of Tar Baby and was admittedly relieved when she went to live on a farm with some chicken-less friends.

My memories of Lightnin' the Wienie Dog are brief. Months after coming into our home, she lived up to her name and disappeared - quick as that - into the West Texas mesquites, never to be seen again.

Shortly after we moved to Borger, my sweet Daddy walked into the house with a fat little Dachshund named Sugar. I don't know if Daddy just had a broken picker when it came to dogs, but with Sugar he hit an all time low. That sassy hound turned out to be the neighborhood slut and a pathetic mother, to boot. I don't remember exactly what happened to Sugar, but I'm pretty sure my Mom sent her off to a doggie convent to find salvation.

Then there was Tuffy. Apparently Daddy had finally reached his limit with dysfunctonal b*tches (so to speak) and shelled out good money for a beautiful, sinewy, testosterone-laden Boston Bull Terrier. My Dad and brothers loved Tuffy. Mom and I merely endured him. I swear this dog was hell-bent on embarrassing me. Not only did he fart around my male suitors (silent, toxic ones that made everyone in the room shift uncomfortably and avoid eye contact with each other), he also loved to chew the crotch out of my panties. Nothing mortified me more than coming home from a nice romantic date, only to find my favorite panties laying in shreds on the front porch. Needless to say, Tuffy lived fast and died young.

For my 18th birthday, my parents gave me my Very Own Dog. A precious little fur ball named Bo. She was a teacup poodle, and I really did my best to bond with her. I would hide her in my shoulder bag and sneak her into class with me at Frank Phillips College. But as Bo got bigger, my attention span for her grew smaller. Before I knew it, Bo and my Daddy had fallen deeply in love. So had I. I got married a few years later, and left Daddy and Bo behind.

And then I discovered babies. Baby boys, to be exact. Two of them.

Just like dogs, they needed to be fed daily and produced ridiculous amounts of poop. But they were oh so much more fun to take care of. I had absolutely no hesitation in giving my heart away to these wonderful creatures.

Funny thing about boys...they go together with dogs like the Lone Ranger & Tonto, Mario & Luigi, Donny & Marie. As my sons grew bigger, their requests for a puppy dog became more frequent, as did my constant refusals.

While I felt somewhat capable of keeping two small boys and a goldfish alive, the thought of having to be responsible for One More Thing held little appeal for me. Even if it was something that didn't require stretch marks.

But with their Dad's help, they finally wore me down.

We decided to get Lucas a rescue puppy for his 9th birthday, thinking that it would help to teach him responsibility. He picked out a beautiful dog and named him Max. Two days after we brought Max home, I discovered deep scratches all over Luke's arms. After changing his story several times, he finally admitted the wounds were from Max. When Dickie took Max to get his shots, the vet expressed concern to learn we had gotten the dog for our son's pet. It was our turn for concern when we were informed that Max was half Siberian Husky and half Doberman. Not exactly the warm and fuzzy lap dog we had envisioned.

Max was given to a friend who later used him as a ferocious guard dog. We returned to the dog shelter and adopted Sam, a sweet mix of Dachshund and Beagle.

Sam, I learned to love. We all did. She was sweet and loyal and brave. And though Sam definitely favored Dickie and the boys over me, she and I had our moments of shared estrogenal awareness. I, alone, understood why Sam would bury a perfectly fine piece of pizza in the back yard. Some things can only be explained by PMS.

We had Sam for 17 years. When it came time to put her down, I was the one who took her to the vet. I did it because I thought I would be able to handle it better than my tender-hearted guys. Boy, was I wrong.

Telling her goodbye...looking into her sweet,trusting brown eyes for the last time...absolutely gutted me. I came home and cried for two days. Nobody was more surprised than me to learn just how much of my heart Sam had managed to take with her when she left.

Because of Sam, I understand why it's so hard to let our favorite dogs go.

The reason is simple: it's because of the way they love us unconditionally. Even if we're tired, even when we're cranky, their love for us never changes. It is a rare love, almost impossible to replicate in human form. We could learn a lot from our dogs.

Because of Sam, I was able to understand my friend's pain when her dog became critically ill, right before we planned to leave together on a cruise.

**********

Oddly enough, Vicki was never was much of an animal person either.

Although extremely loving and giving, Vicki's Circle of Trust is very limited. She lost her Daddy when she was only sixteen, learning too young how much it hurts to love someone and have them leave you behind.

It took me by surprise when I visited her about 15 years ago and found her to be completely smitten by a four-legged creature named Bailey. Vicki, the OCD housekeeper. Vickie the Ice Princess. Her heart had been melted by a mere rag-a-muffin of a dog.

**********

Vicki and I met in Florida on Friday to leave for our cruise and she sadly told me about Bailey's illness.

“I almost didn't come. My Bailey Boo-Boo is dying...I don't know if she will be there when I get home.”

“She will wait for you,” I said, hoping to encourage my my friend, feeling more thankful than guilty that she had chosen me over Bailey.

As soon as she got up Saturday morning, she called home to check on Bailey. Her husband reported that the little dog was in constant pain and had stopped eating. He told Vicki he couldn't stand to watch her suffer and was going to take her to the vet to be put down.

Vicki understood, but was devastated to realize that her dog would not be at home to greet her when she returned. I hugged her tightly, this woman who had asked for so little in life, who had fought so hard for what she did have. And because she has been a part of me for as long as I remember...I truly felt her pain in my heart. We cried together for the little dog that had been her companion for 15 years.

“I wanted to be there for her. I needed be the last person she saw before she died, so she would know how much I loved her.”

I understood. There was a part of me that felt bad for taking Vicki away from her last moments with her beloved Bailey Boo Boo. But because I've learned not to believe in coincidence, I truly felt that Vicki was exactly where she needed to be.

I listened as my heartbroken friend gave final instructions to her sweet husband. “...please make sure you wrap her up in the blue blanket...that one was her favorite.”

**********

Now, Bailey Boo...I know you can't read. Even so, I just wanted to write and tell you thanks. I know that you could've gone straight to heaven on that Saturday in January, but you didn't. Instead of heading 'up', you detoured east to spend a few more days with your girl, Vicki.

You were there in every miraculous Caribbean sunset. You were watching hungrily as Vicki cleaned the meat off those ribs at the island barbecue.

I know you had to laugh the day you saw her come really close to paying big bucks for a pair of diamond earrings, only to see her get pissed off at being charged fifty cents to use the restroom.

And just so you know, it was totally my fault that she went postal on that party bus in Aruba.

Seriously, how much did you smile your little doggie smile when you caught your 'straight-laced' mistress on the dance floor shaking her groove thang with me, or River Dancing down the hall to our cabin, or taking pictures of our fugly feet?

But when it really mattered --- on those misty mornings when Vicki sat alone on the balcony grieving for you, remembering you as she gazed towards the endless sea --- I know she felt your presence out there, somewhere.

Bailey Boo, I'm sure by now you've happily bounded your way through that golden doggie door in the sky. But I just wanted you to know how much it meant to our girl that you stopped to say goodbye.

Catch you on the other side...

Bailey Latham 1-21-12

For the soul of every living thing is in the hand of God ~ Job 12:10

MY EYES WERE GETTING HEAVY....

I have always been intrigued by hypnosis, though never enough to participate. Mostly because I never wanted to know for sure whether or not I had been abducted by aliens for egg harvest.

But also because I have a deep-seated fear of the hypnotist turning me into a pole dancer then dropping dead with a heart attack before waking me up.

So how could it be that I ended up somewhere in the middle of the ocean on a Princess cruise ship looking like this, bless my heart:


Please allow me to explain.

Last week, my girlfriend and I left our husbands and all our worldly cares (redundant, perhaps?) landlocked at home with a fridge full of cold leftovers while we embarked on a 7-day Concerts at Sea Cruise aboard the Grand Princess.


It was our second day aboard the fantastical ship - meaning we were already well on our way into a food coma - and we had just come from a relaxing spa treatment. [If you’ve never had a beautiful British girl give you a foot massage, hot towel facial and scalp massage, you haven’t truly lived. There's something about a British accent that makes everything better. But I digress...]

After spending many lost minutes wondering aimlessly through building after building, my friend Vicki and I eventually found our way into the sparsely populated Princess Theater.

An energetic Hypnotist bounded onto the stage and immediately began looking for suckers...uh, volunteers. After several minutes, only two brave shipmates had responded. The rest of the audience shifted uncomfortably in our seats and avoided eye contact with the dude onstage.

AND THEN, he went on to explain how he didn’t believe in embarrassing his subjects and that IN FACT, his subjects would leave the stage feeling better than they ever had...that ONE HOUR of hypnosis is equal to EIGHT HOURS OF THE MOST RESTFUL SLEEP EVER.

Suddenly, the chairs on the stage were filled. Imagine my surprise when I realized one of the chairs had been filled with my very own butt. But then again, I would turn tricks for the promise of eight hours of restful sleep.

Before I knew it, a friendly stranger with beady little eyes was convincing me that my own eyes were indeed getting heavy. I quickly fell into that soothing, floaty place you go to right before falling completely asleep. I could still hear the Hypnotist’s lulling voice, but the audience had totally faded from my awareness. I had absolutely no perception of time.

I can recall about 50% of what happened onstage as a fuzzy, abstract memory. Vicki filled in the rest, amid hoots of laughter and complete with photographs. Unbelievably flattering photographs...

“ON THE COUNT OF THREE YOU WILL BE COMPLETELY RELAXED.”

“YOUR PLANE HAS JUST LANDED AFTER A REALLY LONG FLIGHT AND YOU ARE EXHAUSTED. YOU FINALLY GET TO STRETCH...A GREAT BIG RELAXING STRETCH.”

"THE PERSON SITTING NEXT TO YOU IS SOMEONE YOU CARE DEEPLY FOR. GIVE THEM A GREAT BIG HUG TO SHOW THEM JUST HOW MUCH YOU CARE.”


"YOU ARE NOW LOOKING AT THE FUNNIEST THING YOU HAVE EVER SEEN. YOU CAN’T STOP LAUGHING.”(When he asked me what I was looking at, I told him "Velvet Elvis". And that's all I have to say about that.)


“YOU ARE A ROCKSTAR ONSTAGE AT A HUGE ROCK CONCERT. ON THE COUNT OF THREE, YOU WILL BE BEGIN PLAYING YOUR INSTRUMENT.” ************ Eat your heart out, Sheila E. ************


“YOUR CONCERT IS OVER. YOU DID A GREAT JOB, ROCKSTARS. TIME TO GET UP AND TAKE A BOW.”

I would love to report that after only one 45-minute session, my inner rockstar was truly released. I would love to tell you that I was looked upon as a rockstar for the rest of the cruise...total strangers clamoring to get their pictures taken with me...gorgeous men asking me to sign their pecs and whatnot.

But you've seen the pictures, and they pretty much speak for themselves. For the next five days, everywhere I went I had to endure snickers and whispers of “there’s the crazy lady that thought she was a rockstar”.

Hah. If they only knew about my mad tambourine skills. Which I totally would’ve shown them, if I had not left that last little piece of my dignity on the stage.

I made Vicki swear that I wouldn’t go all Britney Spears again if someone yelled out “Bananas” or some other random word cue. She promised me it wouldn’t happen.

I’m not so sure. Since I’ve been home I keep finding myself wearing sunglasses indoors and fighting a strong desire to shave my head and beat the crap out of cars with an umbrella.

I haven't worked up enough nerve to look in the mirror to see whether or not I'm sporting a tramp stamp.

In Love With Hope...

Possibly one of my biggest design flaws (not counting thunder thighs) is that I truly imagine the world can be perfect.

Logically speaking, I should know better.

I mean, it's not like I don't notice the brokenness around me. I see it every time I turn on the television or read news updates on my computer. I see the irrefutable evidence while driving through my city. I've experienced it within in my own family, within my own heart.

Yet I can't seem to stop myself from imagining that if we all just tried a little harder, loved a little deeper, prayed a little more, then all the suffering would go away. Little children would never have sad eyes. Friends would never be lonely. Sons and daughters would not march off to war. Families would never break apart. Our minds and our bodies would always be healthy.

And then the first of the month rolls around, and my rose-colored glasses are ripped right off my face.

***
Every 30 days I spend time with some very special patients. These are not typical physical therapy patients, in that they are not expected to make significant progress in functional ability. Ever. All are far enough along in their varied disabilities that functional recovery would require nothing short of a miracle. They are referred to by insurance as "maintenance" patients.

Every 30 days – whether I need it or not - I get a heartbreaking reminder that there will always be suffering and brokenness among the oh-so-mortal people who inhabit this oh-so-mortal planet.

And every 30 days, I am humbly reminded of just how perfectly God uses broken people to inspire our broken world. To inspire me.

***
One of my favorite patients (ever!) is a man I will refer to as Joe. He is a total quadriplegic due to the debilitating effects of a progressive neuromuscular disease and has been primarily bed-bound for the past 15 years or so. Joe is able to operate a wheelchair by using an adapted chin mechanism. His chin, his eyes and his mouth are the only parts of his body Joe can move.

As you might imagine, speech is very difficult for him. Joe's vocal cords have become so weakened that he can barely be heard above a whisper. Much of our conversation involves lip reading on my part. And since I suck at lip reading, I very often try to jump ahead of him and wrongly anticipate and interpret his words. He is forevermore patient with me, smiles, and repeats his words over and over until I finally get what he has to say.

And boy, has this guy got a lot to say.

As the owner of a brilliantly quick mind and a wicked sense of humor, he is overflowing with conversation each time we meet. Every time I see him, he has a list of questions that he has saved up for me regarding his disease or a particular topic of interest. These exchanges have somehow morphed into a bit of a game between us. Instead of giving him complete answers to his questions, I always leave him with ‘homework’ to discover the answers on his own and report to me upon my next visit.

I usually forget the topic, but Joe never does.

***
As I walked into his room last week, he couldn't wait to tell me how many muscles comprise the hamstrings and took a great deal of time to painstakingly name each one. I sagely nodded my head, hoping he wouldn't guess that not only had I forgotten about the homework, I had also forgotten the name of that pesky Semimembranosus.

After we had stumbled our way through the hamstrings discussion, I removed Joe's Dallas Cowboys slippers and began exercising his withered legs. I soon noticed that he had grown uncharacteristically quiet.

“What’s up, Joe? Are you feeling bad today?” I asked.

“No. I’m ... okay.” He whispered. “It's Mom. She ... she has ... cancer. Must have ... surgery.”

[Joe receives daily provider care and lives at home with his Mom. Together they have forged a dynamic duo that not only triumphs over Joe's disabilities, but has also carried each other through the recent loss of his Dad.]

“I'm sorry, Joe. I'll put your Mom in my prayers. Are you scared?”

“Yes, I ...” was all Joe could manage before his face crumpled and his eyes filled with tears. He tried to speak again, but conversation became more and more difficult.

I sat down beside him on the bed, straining with everything in me to understand his trembling whispers.

“She ... she ... she doesn’t. Deserve. She doesn’t deserve this.” He finally replied.

“No, Joe. She absolutely does not. And you don’t deserve it either. Life really sucks, sometimes. But you know what, Joe? Everything is going to be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, then it’s not the end. We just have to hang on, buddy.”

“I ... like ... that. Will ... do that.” Joe said, with a shadow of a smile.

“And you know what? Maybe old Nostradamus and those Mayans will be right and the world really will end this year.”

“Be ... okay ... with me.” Joe said, really smiling now. “Ready for ... a new ... body.”

“Ah, Joe. Won’t that be great? I mean, yeah, I'll be out of a job - not much demand for physical therapists in heaven - but I'm good with that. I plan on spending my days floating on the clouds and eating red M&Ms. And watching you run, of course.”

Joe rested for awhile, obviously deep in thought. I felt overwhelmed with sadness at the unfairness of life. And more than a wee bit angry. Angry that even with a buttload of faith, sometimes life really does seem to be TOO hard. TOO sad. TOO much.

“Thanks ... for prayers” he whispered.

“You’ve always had my prayers.” I replied. “I just need to pray harder for your Mom.”

***
And so I have.

Certainly not because I know God will do what I want Him to do. I pray because I trust God to do what is right.

It's not about getting heaven to do my will. It's about aligning myself to God's will.

And God's will for me is clear.

Clearly, He doesn't want me to get lost in my imaginings of a perfect, unbroken world.

And clearly, He is not a big fan of my snazzy rose-colored glasses. He never ceases to knock those glasses off and force me to look deeply into the eyes of suffering. But in doing so, I learn to trust Him more. God is clever that way.

He's selfish, too. Because God doesn't just want all my faith and all my trust. He also wants me to put all my hope in Him. Somehow He knows - God knows - that if I miss seeing the brokenness, then I will miss the hope.

****
Joe understands hope. His body failed him years ago. Yet he has always trusted that Jesus will not.

I bent to hug him before I left. “Keep the faith,” I whispered in his ear. “God is good.”

“He ... is.”

As I turned to leave, I heard Joe finish his sentence:

“... my ... Everything.”

***************************************************

I asked God for strength that I might achieve.
I was made weak that I might learn humbly to obey.
I asked God for health that I might do greater things.
I was given infirmity that I might do better things.
I asked for riches that I might be happy.
I was given poverty that I might be wise.
I asked for power that I might have the praise of men.
I was given weakness that I might feel the need of God.
I asked for all things that I might enjoy life.
I was given life that I might enjoy all things.
I got nothing that I asked for,
But everything I had hoped for.
Almost despite myself,
My unspoken prayers were answered.
I am among all men most richly blessed.

THE CREED FOR THE DISABLED (Written by a Confederate Soldier)

WHAT CHRISTMAS MEANS TO ME -or- Why I Love My Brother-in-Law

Nobody does Christmas like my loud and boisterous Cooper-Haney family. Our celebrations are chock full of traditions and extravagant food. (We’re full of crap, too, which makes the revelry all that much more fun.)

This is the third year for our newest tradition – a hearty game of Dirty Santa for the Big Kids. With a $10 gift limit and an obnoxiously creative group of dysfunctional adults, the gifts always range from the ridiculous to the sublime...from Dusty’s thrift store hairless baby dolls to Dale’s handcrafted truck testicles:


As fate would have it, my dear sainted Mom was the schmuck who ended up with the gonads. She lifted them out of the brightly decorated Christmas sack and held them aloft with a questioning look on her face. There was a moment of collective silence before I loudly asked, “Okay…who gave Mom a set of nuts?” Nobody fessed up. Nobody had to because my older brother Dale was doubled over with guilty laughter.

He somehow convinced our sweet, trusting Mom that they were homemade ‘nunchucks’ --- a Chinese weapon of destruction. She was clearly intrigued by the idea and began to swing the ‘weapon’ round and round, for practice. We finally had to tell her the truth, out of fear that she would be toting them all over town for protection.

Dale has a special knack for creating Dirty Santa gifts. He was also responsible for this masterpiece…


I have never known anything but a Christmas that was bursting at the seams with family and fun, yet I have never done a single thing to deserve such a bounty of love. Could never do enough to be so deserving.

Sure, our family makes a concerted effort to stay close and will do whatever is required to maintain the ties that bind. But really, doesn’t it mostly come down to just plain ol’ dumb luck of the draw?

I know that Jesus doesn’t love me one bit more than the neighbor down the road with a foreclosure sign in his yard or the abused single mom seeking refuge in a homeless shelter. I will never understand the imbalance of undeserved blessings. I can only stay humble in my gratitude and diligent about paying it forward.

When I was younger I naively believed that everyone’s Christmas was just as fun and blessed as mine. It took a melancholy young lad named Dickie to make me realize just how charmed my Christmases truly are.

I was 14 years old when I shared my first Christmas with Dickie. I couldn’t possibly tell you what gifts we exchanged those forty (seriously?!) years ago. I’ve forgotten the gifts, but I clearly remember the uncharacteristic sadness that overcame him during the holidays. Although he never spoke of it, I knew his Dad had died suddenly of a heart attack when Dickie was only 10 years old. It became a familiar pattern during our dating years, Dickie becoming quiet and withdrawn during Christmas, only to breathe an obvious sigh of relief on December 26th and the return to normalcy.

It was many years later that he shared with me the story of his family’s first Christmas without his Dad.


His Mom was still very much in a state of depression, and Dickie and his brother Jackie were both acutely aware of their bleak financial situation. Even so, his Mom made an effort to acknowledge the holiday with a little aluminum Christmas tree bearing two wrapped packages underneath. As the still-grieving family gathered together Christmas Eve to unwrap their gifts, the 10-year old boy was beyond disappointed to find he had received nothing more than a tacky pair of argyle socks. Although his wish list of possibilities was very short, it had never included the possibility of ugly socks. What he had really wished for was a pair of super spy x-ray glasses.

The forlorn young boy feigned sleepiness to escape and hurried upstairs to his room, wanting nothing more than to put the unbearably sad evening behind him. He turned out his light and crawled into bed, knowing full well it was hopeless to wait up for a Santa that would never come.

As he lay silently staring at the ceiling, he was startled by the sound of heavy footsteps clomping up the stairs, accompanied by a booming “HO HO HO!” He sat straight up in bed as his 15-year old brother burst into his room and turned on the lights.

"HO HO HO! Here’s your Christmas presents little boy!” said Jackie to his younger brother as he threw an old white duffel bag onto the bed.

Dickie scrambled to open up the bag. As he shook out the contents his eyes grew brighter and brighter and his buck-toothed smile grew wider. An army canteen on a belt. A white sailor’s hat.

“But, Jack! This is your best stuff… stuff I’m not supposed to touch.” Dickie said to his beaming brother.

“Nah. I don’t need ‘em anymore. Merry Christmas, brother. I love you.”

Dickie told me that he fell asleep that Christmas Eve with a heart open to the possibility of hope that everything would be okay.

And that was precisely when I fell in love with Jackie Dean Haney. (Actually, he had me at "HO HO HO"...)


The Dickman is now firmly entrenched in our Christmas traditions and plays an integral role. There is no greater anticipation than wondering what gastronomical sensation he will contribute to our yearly dessert contest. Although it’s almost impossible to top his previous wins of Snicker Balls (took forever to chew) and Peanut Butter Pie (took forever to swallow), he always manages to wreck my kitchen while serving up another unforgettable Christmas memory. Unforgettable.


Still, through all the years of craziness and chaos that we call our annual Cooper-Haney Christmas Extravaganza, I occasionally catch Dickie exchanging a brief, knowing glance with his brother Jackie. A silently poignant remembrance of Christmas Past, with a shared appreciation for the Beautiful Mess of Christmas Present.

Which for me, is the crux of Christmas...this brief season of heightened emotions. Those dual threads of sorrow and hope, which weave in and out through our lives, are never more tangible than during the holidays. Sadness for what is lost and an unquenchable hope for what is to come, tightly twisted together much like the brightly striped candy canes of Christmas.

So why is it that instead of slowing down long enough to acknowledge the unnamed yearnings evoked by Christmas, we allow ourselves to be distracted by irrelevant silliness like self-righteous religious posturing and the semantics of political correctness? Why do we allow ourselves to be pulled into the frenzied mass of mace-carrying shoppers furiously swiping maxed out credit cards in overcrowded malls filled with cynically outsourced Santas?

When really, what we should do is simply just...stop. Stop trying so hard to bring on the ‘merry’, and pause long enough to give a respectful nod to the melancholy. I strongly believe we can’t appreciate one without the other. Isn’t hope the only cure for sorrow...isn't giving the very best way to deal with loss?

My understanding of the true meaning of Christmas came with the realization that Santa doesn’t always appear as a fat jolly man in a funny red suit. He might even appear as pimple-faced teen aged boy carrying a duffel bag. And Christmas gifts don’t have to be shiny or new to be the Best Gift Ever.

Haven’t we learned through the years that long after the presents are forgotten, what we hold on to are the memories shared with our loved ones, and the hopeful possibilities of the New Year to come?

“And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet
ice cold in the snow,
stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so?
It came without ribbons. It came without tags.
It came without packages, boxes or bags.
And he puzzled and puzzled ’till his puzzler was sore.
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before.
What if Christmas, he thought,
doesn’t come from a store.
What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.”
~ Dr. Seuss ~

TRES AMIGOS IN RIO ROJO

(To the tune of "Walking in a Winter Wonderland")

Taco Villa Green Burrito,
Gassier than the Tahoe.
A beautiful sight,
We're happy tonight.
Walking in a winter wonderland.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


Missed the sign, we were talking.
Who knew officer was stalking?
A small price to pay for such a fun day,
Walking in a winter wonderland.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In the cabin we can don our lounge wear.
Lock the door and keep the world away.


I’ll say: Who’s ya sista?
They'll say: You are.
Come sit with us and all will be okay.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


Later on, we'll perspire.
Hotflashing by the fire.
(Built that fire with our hands. Ha...who needs a man?)
Walking in a winter wonderland.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


Drove all the way to Questa for our grills.
We three chicks be bad as we can be.
First World problems wouldn't be a big deal,
If we all had an OWNER'S CLOSET key.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Hidey holes and fried chicken.
Pimento cheese, finger-licking.
We ate and we played, the Dream Catcher way...


Making memories in a winter wonderland.

Merry Christmas to My Outlaw Mom

My Mama is an outlaw. Her crime? Defacing books.

Let me count the ways.

When I was growing up, Mom used to keep a small Bible laying on the edge of the tub for reading at the end of her long, hard day. The only problem was that after taking care of three precocious kids and a demanding husband, she very often fell into exhausted sleep while reading, only to awaken at the sudden splash as her Bible fell into the water. There was always something so comforting and endearing about seeing that misshapen and distorted Bible sitting on the edge of our tub.

The truth about my Mama is this: she leaps feet first into every book she opens. The characters become her friends, if not her family. I don’t know how many times I have called her and she has said, “I gotta get off this phone and finish this book. Except I don’t want it to end because the man in this book is so much like your Daddy.” – or – “The mother in this book is just like you Robin, she doesn’t take any crap off anybody!”

You see, reading is not a passive exercise for my Mom. It is a passionate, emotion-filled journey that requires nothing less than her total focus and interaction, which includes cracking book spines and dog-earing pages. But that's not even the worst of her offenses. (I hope the book police aren’t reading this blog or heaven forbid, any of those silent monks who hand-scribe books in cold, damp monastery basements.) Because - forgive her Baby Jesus - my Mom writes in the margins of her favorite books.

Inherit a book from My Mom the Book Vandal and you will find a graffiti trail of her innermost thoughts scrawled with guiltless abandonment on random pages.

In her defense, she was led into this life of crime by her own Mother, my Flodie.

Flodie was a voracious reader who developed the habit of inscribing a distinctive, properly cursive ‘F’ inside the cover of every book she read. She would also give her handwritten opinion of a book with either: 'Very Good', 'Good', or 'So-So'. Furthermore, Flodie demanded that her daughters also initial each book, so everyone would be in the loop. My Mom would initial a simple 'dc' with beautiful flourishes, while my sweet Aunt Betty Bob would initial 'BBM'. I never see that initial without hearing my Mom's laughter as she taunted her sister with “Big Bowel Movement”. (My Mom and I are just classy that way.)

Growing up surrounded by all these book vandals had quite the opposite effect on me. In compensation for my feloneous matriarichal mentors, I chose to break the cycle by willfully obeying all the rules of Book Etiquette 101: I used bookmarks. I never opened a book to the point of spine-cracking. I never used a book as a coaster for my sweaty glass of sweet tea. I always put my book down before I got sleepy in the tub. And most importantly…I never ever wrote in the margins.

And then one day, my Flodie was gone.

We sifted through her belongings, hoping desperately to find something important...something meaningful and comforting. But it was shocking how little of herself she had left behind for us to hold on to. I kept a hairbrush with strands of her beautiful silver hair. I kept a tube of her favorite ‘lips’. And I kept her Bible...her tattered, well-worn Bible. It wasn’t just a Bible she read, it was clearly the Bible she used. I’ve found loads of comfort and wisdom in the pages of that Bible. And an unexpected treasure of a neatly folded tissue tucked between pages in the Book of Luke...

But for Mom and myself, the gifts that kept on giving were the boxes of books we found with Flodie’s initials and particular stamps of approval. Upon Flodie’s arrival in heaven, I spent days pouring over those books...holding each one in my hands...hoping her beautiful hands had touched the very same places as mine...knowing her mind and heart had absorbed the very same words. I was so grateful for the healing, for the sense of connection.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

I sat down to visit with my Mom the other day and as always, I asked about the latest book she was reading.

“Oh, Robin. I found it. It made me cry.”

“Found what?” I asked in complete bafflement.

“I found the passage you outlined in this book. You know...where you wrote 'My Mama' in the margin”.

“Oh, wow, Mom. I did that ages ago. Will you read it to me, please?”

She did not pick up the book. She picked up her journal.

She said “I copied this in my own little book so I wouldn’t have to hunt for it. I’ve read it a million times. Here it is..."

“I feel my Mom touch my arm. And then I am in her arms, where I have always fit, listening to that incredible heart of hers beat beneath my cheek. Suddenly I can feel her strength, as if resilience was something one can gift to another. “

She looked back up at me with tears in her eyes, my own filled to overflowing.

“Isn't that just perfect, Mom? It says exactly what you are to me. And Mom? Other than Bibles or textbooks, that’s the first time I’ve ever written in the margin.”

Three generations of book outlaws. My Mama was so proud.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

NOTE TO MY MAMA:

Merry Christmas to my BFF. I hope you enjoy my little collection of stories. I hope you scrawl your beautiful graffiti in the margin of every single page. And I hope when you are finished, you will turn to the front cover and write 'Very Good', or at least 'Good'. Anything but 'So-So'. Because we all know, life's too short to read ‘So-So’ books.

Love you much,

Robin In Da Hood