Making Memories
Some may think spending the day with a child is doing 'nothing much.' Here's why it's the most important thing in the world.
By Tonna Canfield
Reprinted with permission from Chicken Soup for the Soul.
After eating breakfast, my little girl says, "Mommy, will you watch this show with me?" I look at the breakfast dishes in the sink and then at her big brown eyes.
"Okay," I say, and we snuggle together on the couch and watch her favorite show.
After the show, we put together a puzzle and I head for the kitchen to wash those dirty dishes when the phone rings. "Hi," my friend says, "What have you been doing?"
"Well," I say, "watching my little one's favorite show with her and putting together a puzzle."
"Oh," she says, "so you're not busy today."
No, I think to myself, just busy making memories.
After lunch, Erica says, "Mommy, please play a game with me." Now I am looking at not only the breakfast dishes but also the lunch dishes piled in the sink. But again, I look at those big brown eyes and I remember how special it felt when my mom played games with me when I was a little girl.
"Sounds like fun," I answer, "but just one game." We play her favorite game, and I can tell she is delighting in every moment.
When the game ends, she says, "Please read me a story."
"Okay," I say, "but just one."
After reading her favorite story, I head for the kitchen to tackle those dishes. With the dishes now done, I start to fix supper. My willing little helper comes eagerly to the kitchen to help me with my task. I'm running behind and thinking about how much faster I could do this if my sweet little one would just go play or watch a video, but her willingness to help and her eagerness to learn how to do what her mommy is doing melts my heart, and I say, "Okay, you can help," knowing it will probably take twice as long.
As supper is about ready, my husband comes home from work and asks, "What did you do today?"
I answer, "Let's see, we watched her favorite show and we played a game and read a book. I did the dishes and vacuumed; then with my little helper, I fixed supper."
"Great," he says, "I'm glad you didn't have a busy day today."
But I was busy, I think to myself, busy making memories.
After supper, Erica says, "Let's bake cookies."
"Okay," I say, "let's bake cookies."
After baking cookies, once again I am staring at a mountain of dishes from supper and cookie baking, but with the smell of warm cookies consuming the house, I pour us a glass of cold milk and fill a plate with warm cookies and take them to the table. We gather around the table eating cookies, drinking milk, talking and making memories.
No sooner have I tackled those dishes than my little sweetie comes tugging at my shirt, saying, "Could we take a walk?"
"Okay," I say, "let's take a walk." The second time around the block I'm thinking about the mountain of laundry that I need to get started on and the dust encompassing our home; but I feel the warmth of her hand in mine and the sweetness of our conversation as she enjoys my undivided attention, and I decide at least once more around the block sounds like a good idea.
When we get home, my husband asks, "Where have you been?"
"We've been making memories," I say.
A load in the wash and, my little girl all bathed and in her gown, the tiredness begins to creep in as she says, "Let's fix each other's hair."
I'm so tired! my mind is saying, but I hear my mouth saying, "Okay, let's brush each other's hair." With that task complete, she jumps up excitedly, "Let's paint each other's nails! Please!" So she paints my toenails, and I paint her fingernails, and we read a book while waiting for our nails to dry. I have to turn the pages, of course, because her fingernails are still drying.
We put away the book and say our prayers. My husband peeks his head in the door, "What are my girls doing?" he asks.
"Making memories," I answer.
"Mommy," she says, "will you lay with me until I fall asleep?"
"Yes," I say, but inside I'm thinking, I hope she falls asleep quickly so I can get up; I have so much to do.
About that time, two precious little arms encircle my neck as she whispers, "Mommy, nobody but God loves you as much as I do." I feel the tears roll down my cheeks as I thank God for the day we spent making memories.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Starting an Inspiration Practice
Starting an Inspiration Practice
Five ways to live each day 'in Spirit.'
By Wayne Dyer
Excerpted from "Inspiration: Your Ultimate Calling," with permission of Hay House, Inc.
These daily practices will help you move toward Spirit in your thoughts and actions.
1. Commit to at least one daily experience where you share something of yourself with no expectation of being acknowledged or thanked. For example, before I begin my daily routine of exercise, meditation, or writing, I go to my desk and choose my gift for that day. Sometimes it’s just a phone call to a stranger who’s written to me, or perhaps I order flowers or send a book or present to someone who has helped me in a local store. On one occasion I wrote to the president of the university I graduated from to start a scholarship fund, on another day I took a calendar to the yard man, on another I sent a check to Habitat for Humanity, and on another I sent three rolls of postage stamps to my son who’d just started his own business. It doesn’t matter if this activity is big or small—it’s a way to begin the day in-Spirit.
2. Become conscious of all thoughts that aren’t aligned with your Source. The moment you catch yourself excluding someone or having a judgmental thought, say the words “in-Spirit” to yourself. Then make a silent effort to shift that thought to match up with Source energy.
3. In the morning before you’re fully awake, and again as you’re going to sleep, take one or two minutes of what I call “quiet time with God.” Be in a state of appreciation and say aloud, “I want to feel good.”
4. Remind yourself of this statement: My life is bigger than I am. Print it out and post it strategically in your home, car, or workplace. The “I” is your ego identification. Your life is Spirit flowing through you unhindered by ego—it’s what you showed up here to actualize—and is infinite. The “I” that identifies you is a fleeting snippet.
5. Dedicate your life to something that reflects an awareness of your Divinity. You are greatness personified, a resident genius, and a creative master—regardless of anyone’s opinion. Make a silent dedication to encourage and express your Divine nature.
Excerpted from 'Inspiration: Your Ultimate Calling,' with permission of Hay House, Inc.. Copyright (c) 2006 by Dr. Wayne W. Dyer
Five ways to live each day 'in Spirit.'
By Wayne Dyer
Excerpted from "Inspiration: Your Ultimate Calling," with permission of Hay House, Inc.
These daily practices will help you move toward Spirit in your thoughts and actions.
1. Commit to at least one daily experience where you share something of yourself with no expectation of being acknowledged or thanked. For example, before I begin my daily routine of exercise, meditation, or writing, I go to my desk and choose my gift for that day. Sometimes it’s just a phone call to a stranger who’s written to me, or perhaps I order flowers or send a book or present to someone who has helped me in a local store. On one occasion I wrote to the president of the university I graduated from to start a scholarship fund, on another day I took a calendar to the yard man, on another I sent a check to Habitat for Humanity, and on another I sent three rolls of postage stamps to my son who’d just started his own business. It doesn’t matter if this activity is big or small—it’s a way to begin the day in-Spirit.
2. Become conscious of all thoughts that aren’t aligned with your Source. The moment you catch yourself excluding someone or having a judgmental thought, say the words “in-Spirit” to yourself. Then make a silent effort to shift that thought to match up with Source energy.
3. In the morning before you’re fully awake, and again as you’re going to sleep, take one or two minutes of what I call “quiet time with God.” Be in a state of appreciation and say aloud, “I want to feel good.”
4. Remind yourself of this statement: My life is bigger than I am. Print it out and post it strategically in your home, car, or workplace. The “I” is your ego identification. Your life is Spirit flowing through you unhindered by ego—it’s what you showed up here to actualize—and is infinite. The “I” that identifies you is a fleeting snippet.
5. Dedicate your life to something that reflects an awareness of your Divinity. You are greatness personified, a resident genius, and a creative master—regardless of anyone’s opinion. Make a silent dedication to encourage and express your Divine nature.
Excerpted from 'Inspiration: Your Ultimate Calling,' with permission of Hay House, Inc.. Copyright (c) 2006 by Dr. Wayne W. Dyer
Growing Strawberries Again
Growing Strawberries Again
The bittersweet memories of summer fruits...and motherhood.
By Deborah Caldwell
When I was a girl, my family had a strawberry patch. On early summer mornings, my mother sent me to the back yard to weed the patch and pick the berries. I’d sit there weeding and eating, flapping the bugs away and feeling the chilly dirt.
My mother was a terrific gardener. In addition to strawberries, we grew zucchini, lettuce, rhubarb, beans, and enormous tomatoes. One year we planted and harvested a row of corn. Another year we put in raspberry bushes.
But the strawberries were special.
They ripened in June, and that’s when we celebrated nearly every family event: my mother’s birthday, my parents’ anniversary, Father’s Day, my birthday, and my brother’s birthday. The ripening strawberries were part of the festivities.
For some reason, my birthday was the occasion when strawberries took center stage. As a little girl, I ordered a strawberry cake for my parties. In later years, my mother made strawberry pie for my birthday. It was a simple but miraculous treat: delicate crust, ripe strawberries laced with a small amount of sugar, and homemade whipped cream.
As my mother aged, she became ill with depression. The depression cloaked her, and then it cloaked our house. As the years went by, spring became unbearable. People prone to depression are often sickest in the spring—as the rest of the world awakens to new life, and as the flowers bloom and the strawberries ripen, sad people are frozen in winter.
The family celebrations became a burden. We still had strawberry pie for my birthday, but we bought it from a local bakery. The years went on, and my mother became angry, abusive and cruel. She taunted me and my sister and brother, told us we were “bad kids,” and refused to pay attention to our activities and accomplishments. She would fly into a rage and storm out of the house, or throw our clothes out the front door. She threatened my father with a knife. She told us repeatedly she hated us, was afraid of us, and hated herself.
By the time I was a teenager, my mother would often check herself into a hospital sometime after Mother’s Day to weather the rest of the spring. Later, when I was a young adult, her suicide attempts would frequently happen in the spring.
Each year, I dreaded Mother’s Day. Most years she would either refuse gifts or, if she opened them, she would give them back in a huff. Sometimes she would retreat to her bedroom in anger or despair. There were no Mother’s Day cards at the store to describe adequately the disappointment, betrayal, and grief I felt about the loss of the mother I had once known.
Around that time, the strawberry patch died. My mother told me strawberry plants only bear fruit for a certain number of years, and so they must be replenished. But my mother stopped planting new, young strawberries. Eventually, the plants stopped bearing fruit.
We three children grew up, went away to college and got married. My mother’s depression deepened. There were no more strawberry pies.
One day, when I was home to visit, I happened to walk into my parents’ bedroom to look for something on their desk. Sitting atop of a pile of papers was the start of a poem, in my mother’s precise grammar school teacher handwriting. The title was “The Strawberry Years Are Gone.”
At the time, it struck me as maudlin and ridiculous. After all, my mother had become a shrew. I hated her for what she had become and what she was doing to us.
By the time I was in my mid-30s, we were all out of the house, and my parents had divorced. My mother was utterly alone. Her hair turned white and began to thin. She was only in her 50s.
But sometimes she would surprise me. Once, when I was having trouble with my elder son, who was in the Terrible Twos, she suggested I put him on a step stool at the kitchen sink and let him play in the water. It worked. She delighted in news that I was planting flowers. She wanted to know what I was cooking for dinner.
Then, 2 ½ years ago, my mother suddenly died of a massive heart attack.
I didn’t miss her, exactly, at first. There was no denying she was a very difficult person. I felt relief that I wouldn’t have to rush to any more emergency rooms, wouldn’t have to worry about her, wouldn’t have to listen to her angry tirades.
Still, she emerged. Like most people in mourning, I felt her presence or saw her shadow or thought I caught a glimpse of her. I would talk to her in my head as I bathed the children or watched them play. I would tell the boys stories of Mistress Mistletoe, a little fairy she made up for me, long before the depression caught hold.
And I felt her in peculiar ways as well. For at least a year after her death, I’d be looking for some work of literature or reference at home and suddenly discover a funny little book she’d sent me—something I’d completely forgotten. One was a collection of quotes about motherhood that she’d mailed when my elder boy was 20 months old. She wrote inside the front cover: “My love to a very special mother—my very own daughter...How I love you! Always, Mom.”
Last year, my husband and I bought a rambling old house with a back yard in need of attention. This is our first spring here, and although I never have enough time, I am desperate to garden. My boys love digging in the mud, pulling weeds and planting flowers with me.
The other day I took my younger son to Home Depot to buy lawn bags and fertilizer and all the things you need for spring gardening. As we browsed through azalea bushes and pansies, weed clippers and grass seed--I spotted strawberry plants.
Touching the familiar three-sprigged leaves, I peeked underneath to see the white buds. I imagined a sunny strawberry patch at the end of the yard. I imagined my boys stealing outside to fill themselves with the reddest, ripest, juiciest berries. I imagined a strawberry pie.
“We’re going to grow strawberries,” I said to my little boy.
And I gently placed the box of new plants in my cart.
The bittersweet memories of summer fruits...and motherhood.
By Deborah Caldwell
When I was a girl, my family had a strawberry patch. On early summer mornings, my mother sent me to the back yard to weed the patch and pick the berries. I’d sit there weeding and eating, flapping the bugs away and feeling the chilly dirt.
My mother was a terrific gardener. In addition to strawberries, we grew zucchini, lettuce, rhubarb, beans, and enormous tomatoes. One year we planted and harvested a row of corn. Another year we put in raspberry bushes.
But the strawberries were special.
They ripened in June, and that’s when we celebrated nearly every family event: my mother’s birthday, my parents’ anniversary, Father’s Day, my birthday, and my brother’s birthday. The ripening strawberries were part of the festivities.
For some reason, my birthday was the occasion when strawberries took center stage. As a little girl, I ordered a strawberry cake for my parties. In later years, my mother made strawberry pie for my birthday. It was a simple but miraculous treat: delicate crust, ripe strawberries laced with a small amount of sugar, and homemade whipped cream.
As my mother aged, she became ill with depression. The depression cloaked her, and then it cloaked our house. As the years went by, spring became unbearable. People prone to depression are often sickest in the spring—as the rest of the world awakens to new life, and as the flowers bloom and the strawberries ripen, sad people are frozen in winter.
The family celebrations became a burden. We still had strawberry pie for my birthday, but we bought it from a local bakery. The years went on, and my mother became angry, abusive and cruel. She taunted me and my sister and brother, told us we were “bad kids,” and refused to pay attention to our activities and accomplishments. She would fly into a rage and storm out of the house, or throw our clothes out the front door. She threatened my father with a knife. She told us repeatedly she hated us, was afraid of us, and hated herself.
By the time I was a teenager, my mother would often check herself into a hospital sometime after Mother’s Day to weather the rest of the spring. Later, when I was a young adult, her suicide attempts would frequently happen in the spring.
Each year, I dreaded Mother’s Day. Most years she would either refuse gifts or, if she opened them, she would give them back in a huff. Sometimes she would retreat to her bedroom in anger or despair. There were no Mother’s Day cards at the store to describe adequately the disappointment, betrayal, and grief I felt about the loss of the mother I had once known.
Around that time, the strawberry patch died. My mother told me strawberry plants only bear fruit for a certain number of years, and so they must be replenished. But my mother stopped planting new, young strawberries. Eventually, the plants stopped bearing fruit.
We three children grew up, went away to college and got married. My mother’s depression deepened. There were no more strawberry pies.
One day, when I was home to visit, I happened to walk into my parents’ bedroom to look for something on their desk. Sitting atop of a pile of papers was the start of a poem, in my mother’s precise grammar school teacher handwriting. The title was “The Strawberry Years Are Gone.”
At the time, it struck me as maudlin and ridiculous. After all, my mother had become a shrew. I hated her for what she had become and what she was doing to us.
By the time I was in my mid-30s, we were all out of the house, and my parents had divorced. My mother was utterly alone. Her hair turned white and began to thin. She was only in her 50s.
But sometimes she would surprise me. Once, when I was having trouble with my elder son, who was in the Terrible Twos, she suggested I put him on a step stool at the kitchen sink and let him play in the water. It worked. She delighted in news that I was planting flowers. She wanted to know what I was cooking for dinner.
Then, 2 ½ years ago, my mother suddenly died of a massive heart attack.
I didn’t miss her, exactly, at first. There was no denying she was a very difficult person. I felt relief that I wouldn’t have to rush to any more emergency rooms, wouldn’t have to worry about her, wouldn’t have to listen to her angry tirades.
Still, she emerged. Like most people in mourning, I felt her presence or saw her shadow or thought I caught a glimpse of her. I would talk to her in my head as I bathed the children or watched them play. I would tell the boys stories of Mistress Mistletoe, a little fairy she made up for me, long before the depression caught hold.
And I felt her in peculiar ways as well. For at least a year after her death, I’d be looking for some work of literature or reference at home and suddenly discover a funny little book she’d sent me—something I’d completely forgotten. One was a collection of quotes about motherhood that she’d mailed when my elder boy was 20 months old. She wrote inside the front cover: “My love to a very special mother—my very own daughter...How I love you! Always, Mom.”
Last year, my husband and I bought a rambling old house with a back yard in need of attention. This is our first spring here, and although I never have enough time, I am desperate to garden. My boys love digging in the mud, pulling weeds and planting flowers with me.
The other day I took my younger son to Home Depot to buy lawn bags and fertilizer and all the things you need for spring gardening. As we browsed through azalea bushes and pansies, weed clippers and grass seed--I spotted strawberry plants.
Touching the familiar three-sprigged leaves, I peeked underneath to see the white buds. I imagined a sunny strawberry patch at the end of the yard. I imagined my boys stealing outside to fill themselves with the reddest, ripest, juiciest berries. I imagined a strawberry pie.
“We’re going to grow strawberries,” I said to my little boy.
And I gently placed the box of new plants in my cart.
Today's Quote
I trust that everything happens for a reason, even when we're not wise enough to see it.
-Oprah Winfrey
-Oprah Winfrey
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