argh

As I sit here, I see the kids I watch playing. Only I don't know that you could qualify what they do as playing. They're destroying my playroom and I know it. No amount of structured time can keep my playroom safe. I don't think I have a single toy left that works to it's fullest extent, thanks to these kids. No, I don't have boys, I have two little girls that I swear come through here like a twister.

We've finished breakfast and after the disaster that was, I need to hide. Apparently, there's no way I can win here. We had oatmeal, so I tried to feed the youngest in order to keep her clothes and my dining room clean. Oh no, she wouldn't have that so she fed herself. I covered her in a bib so big it would've kept Hunter clean then I went into the kitchen to pour their drinks. Mistake number one! Never, ever turn your back on an eating toddler. No, she didn't choke but I about died when I came back into the room. Her clothes are clean, thanks to the bib, but the area around her was a disaster. What's her older sister doing? Cheering her on.

As I deposit the now screaming one year old back into the playroom I wonder what I could've been thinking by opening a daycare. On my hands and knees scooping oatmeal off the floor, I once again whisper a silent prayer of thanks that I can't have anymore kids. Lately, it seems, I'm just overwhelmed by it all. I don't know if it's the kids or me.

I love children and I've always wanted to work with them. But I come home at the end of the day so worn out by the time spent with just two little girls. I don't remember feeling this way in high school after school, work and band practice. I was up and going earlier and kept going much later. I was surrounded by many more children than this. Why is it I can't handle two little girls?

Part of that answer I know, they get away with what they want at home. I'm not bashing the woman who raises them, she's a foster mom and it takes something to raise someone else's children. Still, they think they can do as they wish and be as disrespectful as possible without any kind of consequence. So, when I have to put one in time out or get them down off a toy they shouldn't be climbing on, the breakdown is that much worse because they can do whatever at home.

My Aunt and I were talking the other night and she reminded me that my Grandmother, her mother, ran a daycare from their home. My mom's mom was also a child care provider so I guess it runs in the family. I didn't get to know my Grandmother Hargrove as alzheimers took her before I was old enough to even walk. So, I don't know how she did it. My Grandmother Summers on the other hand, we lived with her, I got to watch her with her babysitting kids as she called them.

This morning as I'm thanking God for my inability to have more kids, (I love my kids but I don't want to start over at the beginning) I'm trying to remember what my Grandmother would do. Granted, I remember her spanking us more than once and I'm pretty sure the regular babysitting kids got their fair share too, we weren't special. Still, there has to be something. Closing my eyes, I remember her ushering us into the basement to play. It seems we just had more room in that old ranch house. Maybe it's because to me that was home but, I'll figure something out. There has to be some way.

My Grandmother

From time to time I have dreams about my Grandmother Summers. We spent all of the childhood we had, with her. I guess that's maybe why I feel so strongly attached to her house. It seemed like my safe house. I always knew what the rules were and I always knew she was there watching over me.

In most of my dreams she is gone. I guess the reality of that is strong enough in my mind that I can no longer dream her back into being. Many of my dreams result in my waking up with tears on my face. I can never quite remember them, but I know there was something of here there.

Last night's dream was similar in that, no matter how hard I try, I really can't remember it. The one thing I do remember is standing in her house and realizing that losing a Grandparent is one of those things you never completely get over. Not particularly when you have the close relationship we had.

There are things about her I remember like it was yesterday. I remember her hands, pinching at my clothes as I lay across her lap in her chair. Her laugh still comes to mind and I can see her smile when I close my eyes. If given the opportunity, I could map out every detail of her house and her things, right down to where her jewelry sat on her dresser in a box I was barely old enough to touch the last time I saw her.

Last night's dream was different in that, even after waking up, I couldn't shake the sadness of it all. Still now, hours after, I feel it weighing on me. Part of me knows it's the time of year for it. You see, 19 years ago this week she was gone, in the blink of an eye. I never got to say goodbye and for that I am part saddened and part grateful. Let me make it clear, I loved and still love my Grandmother. But, the state she was in during her final hours is not a way I ever want to remember her, so I'm glad I didn't go into the hospital room and see her under all the tubes and equipment. Still, I wish I had been able to hold her hand once more and know.

It is now though, 19 years later, as I said and this time of year always brings sadness. I lost both of my Grandparents 6 years apart in the same week. Now, I'm preparing to lose another. I know it's only a matter of time before I get the call that we've lost my mom's dad. I ache for the relationship we didn't have, as we weren't close to him. And, I feel relief in knowing that when he goes there will be no more suffering or confusion on his part, as he suffers with dementia.

Maybe, that's why my Grandmother has paid me a visit. Perhaps it's not because of the memory of what was but it's to prepare me for what's ahead. Could it be that after all these years, she's coming to welcome my Grandfather home? I guess only time will tell. But, time can not take away the knowledge that she watches over me, always.

Memories of the House That Built Me

It's funny the things you remember as you look back. I can remember my Grandmother's kitchen table. There was one in the dining room but I never really sat at it for meals. We always ate in the kitchen. In the center of that kitchen table was a big ceramic chicken...yes, chicken. It was in two pieces and when you lifter the top half, it opened to any manner of things. I remember mail being stuffed inside the big chicken. There were envelopes in there that had never been opened, still, she knew what was inside each one. From time to time I can remember her digging through there swearing because she knew, the paper she wanted was inside. The table wouldn't look like anything special to anyone but family though. It was just another farmhouse kitchen table. That sturdy, wooden table was where we ate breakfast, lunch and dinner. My Grandfather would land in his seat at the table before going anywhere else in the house.

It's the little details though that make the table special. Like sitting with my Grandmother while she snapped beans. Or sitting there in timeout when I'd gotten in trouble and I always managed to find trouble. There were many nights I remember sitting at that table with a cup of water after a bad dream. Most of all though, it was under that table that I got my first kiss, if you can call it that. I was 5 years old and had spent too many nap times watching Soaps with Grandma instead of napping. The things a 5 year old picks up would amaze anyone. The little boy my age did the same thing. Now that we were in Kindergarten, we didn't have to nap, so we watched Soaps. It was those Soaps that taught us about Drive In movies and what you did at a drive in. So, there we sat, under the table, pretending we were in a car at the drive in. He leaned over and kissed me and that's when we heard my Grandmother get up out of her chair. Even though a wall seperated us from her in the living room, we were sure she had seen us. I don't know if we'd ever moved faster. He hit his head on the table trying to get up and I got in trouble because she thought I'd pushed him into it. So, there I sat once again, at time out, at that kitchen table.

Like I said, it's the little things. There are so many little things, that I couldn't put them all in one post or I'd have a novel.

The House That Built Me

I find myself frequently singing the Miranda Lambert song, The House That Built Me. For those of you who know the song, I'm sure there's a house that comes to mind when you hear it. Oddly enough, the house I think of isn't one of my Mom's houses, it was my Grandmother's. To this day I can describe the house in detail. I know every nook and cranny of the house and I haven't been in it for almost 19 years. It makes me wonder when I realize this is a house I've been away from longer than I was ever inside. I have trouble putting into words sometimes what it is about the house that makes it so special. Granted, it was where my Grandparents lived as long as I can remember, but then, my Grandmother was gone the week before I turned 10. Still, when I listen to the song and close my eyes, I see the house.

Last year, Nancy and I went back to WV for the 4th of July. While there we went to Frederick to visit our other Grandparents and just kind of wandered around areas we'd lived. During one such trip we decided to go to the house my Grandmother lived in. I can remember the surprise on Nancy's face when I knew where exactly to turn to get there. The names of the roads were burned in my head. I knew where to turn and where to stop. The house however, wasn't the same. It's now a business. My Grandfather's garage, that always filled us with wonder, is now open for business.

I can remember barely being able to walk through the garage. He had all manner of items inside that he insisted could be used for something though my Grandmother saw them just as junk. Inside, mainly, he held two of his favorite things. There was a huge antique John Deere tractor. It was so large more than one person could stand (yes stand) inside it at the instrument panel. The big wagon wheels of the tractor were always my favorite part though and on the few events we would ride it in a parade, I'd make sure the wheels had been whiped down and were shining. The other big item hiding in that garage was an old antique truck. To my recollection, I don't believe I ever saw him drive it. As a matter of fact, I don't remember the engine ever starting, no matter how much he tinkered with it. However, I very much remember hitting the horn as often as I could possibly get away with. It had one of those horns that make an "ahhhhooooooooooogah" noise and as kids we loved it. When I was 16 and both my Grandparents were already gone, I managed to get an old truck just like that one. I bought it from a neighbor with the crazy idea that I was going to drive one like Pap had. After learning that a lack of power steering and anti-lock breaks made it impossible, I sold the truck and decided to keep only my memories. I was better off driving Pap's truck from it's solid seat in the overstuffed garage.

There's more I remember about the house and I'll write about it more later but for now, I'm done. Which house is the House That Built You?