Daughters

I, obviously, do not know much about raising boys. I was blessed with three biological daughters and God graciously blessed me with a 4th (more about her later) when I was nearly 50. Though I don't claim to be any sort of an expert on raising girls, I at least am familiar with the process. Boys? Not so much. I've lived with a lot of people over the years. When I was still married, we often took in people who seemed to have no where else to go and some of them were boys. I remember Rick. He had dreadlocks (this was long before it was acceptable for a white kid) and he had to be ordered to take a shower. He lived in an apartment down the street from us and his mom had thrown him out. He turned out to be very sweet to my young daughters. Last I heard, he was married, had kids of his own, and had a degree in horticulture or something close to that. I don't imagine he has to be told to shower anymore. Then there was Greg, who thought it was O.K. to have a leak in his waterbed and not do anything about it or even mention it, for weeks. He also boiled an artichoke until all the water was gone from the pan and the artichoke had self-combusted. But I digress....back to girls.

I don't think my house had more than the average amount of drama considering there were three girls living in it. I do remember that the drama tended to occur in the middle of the night. I can't count the number of nights that I sat up with a daughter until one or two in the morning hashing out life's difficulties and crying together. If you have sons, do they sleep? In my experience, men sleep at night no matter what. But my girls waited until I was just about to go to bed. It was then, when the house was completely quiet, that hurts, fears, worries, hopes, and dreams demanded to be let out. And so we would talk. I honestly never cared that I was exhausted the next day. I've done a lot of things wrong as a parent but this I can say - if you need an ear at any time during the night, I'm your gal. And it was a privilege to sit on a bed in the dark and listen. Well, of course, if you know me, you know that I also dispensed a lot of unasked for advice during midnight discussions. I've lost some of my stamina and staying power now that I am 60 but I can still rise to the occasion if necessary. Just because my daughters are all grown doesn't mean that they've stopped having late night crises once in a while.

Tammera, my 4th daughter, joined our family when she about 15 years old. Melissa was a year or so older and it wasn't long before they were acting like they'd been sisters all their lives. They would sit up all night watching T.V. and talking and laughing and eating. But then a few days later they'd annoy each other and not talk for a while. Tammera and I settled into our relationship slowly. I wasn't sure what she wanted from me and I am not the most exuberant, enthusiastic person. I didn't want to crowd her but at the same time, I was all she had in the mother department. It was a delicate dance for a few years. But gradually, biological lines blurred. I hardly remember life without her. She learned to drive, had her first boyfriend, renewed her trust in people, and grew as a Christian all under our roof. I had been content with three daughters but I was so honored that God gave me another. Then came the day when Tammera walked in one night and said to me, "Mom, I enlisted in the Air Force!" And just like that, the separation began and our relationship changed. She was going to see the world but she ended up in Tucson.  ☺ That young girl that came to me years ago, somewhat guarded and defensive and wounded, is now a fabulous young woman with a husband, two children and another on the way. I haven't seen her in over a year. She and her family were here when my mom died but we haven't seen each other since. She is arriving in six hours!! She and my precious grandchildren, Audrey and Asher, are flying in for a 3 week visit. I'm grateful that her husband, Eli, didn't mind. He has to stay in Tucson and work but understanding Tammera's deep desire to come home again, he is graciously going to "bach it" for a while. I cannot wait to see them all. It is always such a joy to me to have all my girls together and all the cousins happily creating chaos. I'm thrilled that three of my daughters are here in Paso but there is always an empty space. That space is going to be filled up for the next three weeks! Yea!!

Trauma in Shapewear

This is serious business, ladies, so pay attention. It also is a bit personal but I figured someone has to talk about it so it might as well be me.  I had, what can only be described as, an extremely traumatic experience the other day. I share it here in the hopes of saving someone else though I am wondering if it was just me or if anyone else has suffered through a similar fiasco.

I was shopping in Kohl's because, as you might guess, I had a coupon. I had wandered around fairly successfully and decided to end in "Intimates". Anybody that knows me well knows that I love P.J.'s. I'd live in them if I could so I am always checking out the sale racks for some new "after work wear". As I was heading for the pajamas, I noticed a display marked  "Shapewear". Hmmm...I've been having issues of late with the dreaded back fat. If I didn't have to wear a bra I'd have a much smoother shape in the back but inevitably, a saggier one in the front. Since going to work or church braless isn't an option for me (any more ☺), I thought I might benefit from a trip through the Shapewear department. I saw some camisoles and the brand name was Flexees. Doesn't that sound easy to wear? I grabbed a couple and headed for the dressing room. If you are interested in seeing just how innocent these creations of the devil look, here it is...



I took my shirt off and began to casually slip the cami over my head. By the way, I won't tell you what size I was trying on but suffice it to say, it was not a Small or a Medium. Now, the fact that I began having trouble moving this item down past my chin should have been a red flag. However, I ignored the warning and gallantly soldiered on. I mean, I am nothing if not persistent. O.K. Got it down to my upper chest and attempted to get an arm through. Again, major red flag! Again, I continued. I finally had both arms through and now, the tricky little item was rolled into a narrow little tube and was threatening to cut off all circulation to the "girls". Eventually, I managed to get it untangled and pulled down over my stomach. I began to suffocate. I could not take a full breath so I had to resort to short, shallow breaths reminiscent of the Lamaze breathing I was taught years ago for childbirth. That sort of breathing was ineffective while I was in labor and it was just as ineffective for surviving encapsulation by "power mesh". I realized that I needed to get this thing off me and reconsider this whole mission.

Easier said than done. I attempted to pull the cami up and managed to get it to just under the boobs, again in a tight little roll. I felt faint stirrings of panic but had no choice but to move forward. With a tremendous amount of tugging, I got it to about the middle of my boobs. I was so thankful that there were no hidden cameras in that dressing room. However, no matter what I tried, I could not get it to move any further. Finally, in desperation, I took my left arm and shoved it down through the roll that was the cami. I got it pushed down to about my elbow. I may not have thought this through very well. My left hand was now positioned over my right hip and my elbow was cocked at a weird angle, almost as if I was trying to take something out of a pocket on my right side with my left hand. I quickly ascertained that my arm was pinned. As in stuck. Tight. I was now feeling more than just stirrings of panic. I twisted and turned and twitched and thrust but all to no avail. Oh my gosh! I was going to have to pull the fire alarm lever and have a paramedic cut me out of the dang thing! Could I possibly be any more humiliated? I made one, last, dramatic upward arm motion and miraculously, I was free!! I gasped for air and praised God that I was no longer in the clutches of the "feminine, flattering" camisole. I think it was alive but it played dead sort of like an opossum. It is still there, in the Kohl's Intimate Department, waiting for it's next victim.

I, meanwhile, have decided to ignore the back fat issue for now.