Mother vs. mothering

I've never met Michelle Duggar, although I've certainly heard and seen enough of her during the eight years I've lived in Arkansas.

She wants to have 18 children and keep right on getting pregnant? Fine. That's her decision.

What annoys me is the insistence that she be repeatedly honored on Mother's Day. This year, the Today show took the brood shopping for mom. And the Peabody Hotel put together a lavish luncheon and gave the group a lesson in duck-marching.

In 2004, the state of Arkansas named her Young Mother of the Year, with the then-governor posing with her for a photo.

My issue is this:

Michelle is honored because of the number of children she's borne. Yes, she's most definitely a successful breeder. But is a high number of children truly a testament to one's mothering abilities?

What about the single mom who's raising three kids on her own? What about the mothers who adopt children caught up in the foster care system? Are they not worthy of recognition?

Lastly, what about the women who long for a child, the women who must, each year, watch the Michelle being honored for her ability to get pregnant over and over again?

It's been said many times that "mother" is a verb, not a noun.

So shouldn't the honors be bestowed on those who are mothering — whether its one child or 10 — rather than on a woman who is known for being 18 times a mother?

She was tiny, but big of heart

My paternal grandmother's real name was Louise, but everyone called her Tiny.

She lived in East Tennessee, surrounded by mountains and lore. From the time I was old enough to speak, she instructed me to call her Grandmother — quite a mouthful for a little kid. Perhaps it was her height, or lack thereof, along with the permanent nickname, that made formal titles so important to her. Perhaps it was her mountain upbringing. Perhaps it was the fact that she never made it past 8th grade.

It was the only thing she ever asked of us, however, so we didn't mind.

Grandmother's sentences always ended with an endearment, usually "hon" or "darlin'" She doted on us, and spent much of her time in her tiny kitchen, ensuring that our favorite foods made it to the table.

My grandmother lived in a doublewide trailer that overflowed with newspapers and magazines. She may not have graduated from high school, but she was a voracious reader who spent hours writing letters to the editor and clipping stories that captured her fancy. Although she lived in an area known for its number of Republicans, my grandmother was a devout Democrat until her death.

My grandfather, Delbert, had only a third-grade education, but he was an enterprising soul. He ran a limo service to and from the Johnson City airport. He owned a rambling mail route that took him through the Smokies and into North Carolina. Grandfather was known for giving rides to the mountain folk who needed to go to town. They waited for him at the post offices along his route.

My grandfather died when I was only 8, so I have few memories of him. A childhood bout with polio left him with a distinct limp. He smoked heavily and loved to tease us. Though poor, he was a generous man, even helping out his in-laws, who had objected mightily to his marriage to their daughter.

After his death, my grandmother lived in that trailer for years. My grandfather's mail route, now run by a neighbor, still provided some income. And my dad sent her monthly checks.

She raised two of my cousins after my uncle and his first wife divorced. Sometimes, over the years, they slipped and called her Mother.

Grandmother was a putterer. Even when her beloved soaps were on, she remained in motion. This drove my mother batty.

"I always feel like I should be up doing something too," she would say to my dad. "Doesn't your mother ever sit down?"

My grandmother was terrified of flying. Even so, she made numerous trips to our Texas home over the years. When I was 17, she came to stay with us while my mom and dad took a trip to Japan. She sat up all night, watching the news, petrified their plane would crash and she wouldn't know it.

When I was in college, Grandmother moved into an assisted living complex in Erwin. She liked her independence and even as she approached 80, remained active. The setting was perfect — she still lived alone, but help was nearby if she needed it.

The cancer diagnosis caught us off-guard. How could this be? She still was a little thinner, but still puttering.

The cancer proved aggressive. Within months, she required live-in care. My cousin, who also lived in Erwin, stayed with her. My dad went up for several weeks at a time. Then my uncle.

Shortly after my uncle left, my cousin had to take Grandmother to the hospital. Grandmother made it clear that she didn't want a feeding tube. If it was time, it was time. She rallied, however, after a few days on an IV. Even so, the doctor said hospice care would be necessary.

Among her many instructions, Grandmother insisted that she didn't want to be a burden on her family, that she would go into a nursing home first. After some arguing, my dad, cousin and uncle reluctantly complied.

We were all there the day Grandmother entered the hospice wing of the home. My sisters and I spent the afternoon with her, helping her to and from the bathroom. Always tiny, Grandmother was now a bundle of bones. I probably could have carried her in and out.

We decorated the room, trying to make the sterile space more homelike by bringing in lamps and pictures. I remember looking at Grandmother, so small and lost in that narrow hospital bed, and then darting from the room to cry in the bathroom.

After returning home, I asked Hubs to print the pictures taken at her 80th birthday. One was a shot of all the family, taken outside my cousin's home. I wanted her to remember that happy weekend, one of the last times we would see her healthy.

The doctor predicted a swift death. For the next several weeks, my dad went back and forth between Texas and Tennessee. Meanwhile, Grandmother became incoherent. She thought was living in a beauty parlor. She was angry with her hairdresser. Couldn't they find her a better salon?

Her doctor said the cancer had spread to her brain.

Dad told us not to call anymore, that Grandmother wouldn't want us to remember her this way. One week later, in the spring of 2001, my phone rang in the early-morning hours.

I knew, before I answered, that she was gone.

I've seen my dad cry twice in my lifetime — once when he found out his dad had passed away suddenly and again at my grandmother's visitation. After the funeral, I took home the boxes of her newspaper clippings. Some of them were mine.

My grandmother knew only one of her great-grandchildren, my cousin's son. The rest arrived after her death, a fact that tears at me still.

Just two more years, and she would have held my first-born.

I tell myself she knows, somehow, of my children's existence, and I imagine her her cradling each of them, saying what she said to each of us so many times:

You take care now. I love you, Hon.

Oh, the shame

So on my way home from Mommy's Day Out, I was blowing through radio stations in my usual fashion when I heard this catchy, totally danceable song.

Wow. I need to put this on my Shuffle. What a great workout song. Wait a minute. Am I on the freaking Disney station? That voice ... sounds familiar.

Yes, my friends, I was rocking out to ... I can hardly bear to admit this, but really, I didn't know ...

... that it was Miley.

shhhhh

Even worse, Hubs caught me adding it to my playlist. My humiliation is complete.

Mother's Day Out

The restaurant was bustling. Active toddlers fleeing from harried parents in pursuit. Moms and Dads sopping up spills. Shrieks of indignation from the unlucky few unable to escape from a high chair or booster seat.

A waiter appeared at my table in the bar.

"Left the family at home?" he asked.

I grinned. "All of them."

He surveyed the chaos and laughed. "Now this is the way to celebrate Mother's Day," he said.

I turned another page of my book.

"I totally agree."

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

The kids made construction-paper gifts for me all weekend. I got two lovely cards from my stepkids. And then I spent the ENTIRE afternoon ALONE.

Bliss.

Who would attend a HS reunion that required a swimsuit?

Anyone?

I'm not seeing any raised hands.

My 20-year high school reunion is this summer. I'm one of the idiots who responded to email inquiries and now find myself accidentally on the planning committee.

*sigh*

When discussions first began, my high school BFFs, Nicole and Mary, and I exchanged a flurry of emails. Finally, Nicole got to the heart of the matter.

She sent this email.

SUBJECT: Time for the truth

Are y'all fat?

And we all agreed that years, babies, etc... have helped us pack on a few too many pounds.

Enter K. She's always been skinny, to the point of looking emaciated (snark, snark, snark, yeah, I know) and snotty. She was a popular girl. An unfriendly one.

Nicole, Mary and I fell into the alternative cool group. We were brainy, but cute. Nerdy but funny. We were nice to people, all people.

K. -- she was smart. Thin. But ever so snooty.

She is also on the reunion planning committee.

We are having three events -- a casual drinks night on a Friday; the main event on a Saturday; and a family day on Sunday.

After having discussed the importance of not making this cost-prohibitive, K. promptly suggested the VERY pricey waterpark.

As my friend Mary, who doesn't have children, put it: I'm curious about other people's kids, but not curious enough to pay $40 for the experience.

I responded: Yeah, I agree. I'm also not inclined to throw down $100-plus dollars so that my former classmates can see me STUFFED INTO A SWIMSUIT!

Egads. Seriously, who would want to subject themselves to that? And quite honestly, I don't want to see these people from my past in various stages of undress either.

Our newspaper once decided to have the company picnic at a waterpark.

Attendance was much lower that year.

Duh.

Why I took my kids to the site of a tornado's destruction

On Friday, Arkansas suffered another round of tornadoes. Seven people, including three children, died.

Hubs, as usual, was out in the midst of it. Shortly after the storms, he found a family who had lost their house. They already were struggling -- the dad lost his job when the Feb. 5 tornadoes destroyed a boat factory, where he was a welder. His best friend died in that one.

This family, like many others in that part of the state, had taken a double whammy.

Hubs told me about the family. "It's a story," he assured me. I absolutely agreed.

So on Sunday, we loaded our kids into the car and headed up to that part of the state.

"Are we bad parents for taking them along?" I asked Hubs. "You know how Tootie has fixated on tornadoes this spring."

"I think they'll be OK," he said. But his tone indicated his own uncertainty.

We drove down a long rutted driveway, up to a pile of splintered rubble.

The family told me all about how the two tornadoes had taken everything they'd worked so hard for. The most harrowing part of their story, however, was the mother's description of how she nearly lost her 17-month-old girl. The second tornado very nearly sucked the toddler from her arms. This woman had already suffered two miscarriages -- one of the lost babies was her little girl's twin.

As the pair tumbled through the air, debris battered the mother. When I interviewed her, she had two black eyes. Bruises and scratches covered her arms and legs. She told me how she would be damned before she let anything take her baby.

My daughter heard much of this interview. And now she's old enough to understand such
things.

As the mother and I talked, Hubs shot photos while the E-man toddled along after him.

"Where's the house?" my boy kept asking, unable to accept that the wreckage in front of him could possibly be the remains of someone's home.

"That WAS the house," his sister said. "The tornado got it."

"Oh," the E-man said, clearly unconvinced.





That baby you see in her daddy's arms had only two scrapes on her. Clearly, she was buffered by a mommy's love.

My daughter saw that, heard how this mother had saved her baby. And while Tootie remains scared of tornadoes, she was reassured to meet people who had lived through one.

I monitor my kids' television-watching closely. They watch Noggin or their DVDs, and that's about it.

But this -- this was real. Bad things happen. But good people step in to help. I wanted so much for her to understand this.

And today. Was. Wonderful.

I took phone calls and emails all morning from readers who wanted to help this family. When people respond that way to your story -- well, yes, it was worth it.

The family is getting donations. And my children, I hope, realized that one day they might be in a position to do the same for someone in need. I want to nurture empathy in them. I want them to understand that while we can't give them everything their friends have, they already have way more than others.

Was it wrong to take our kids to the site? Maybe some parents would think so. But I am so glad we did it. They saw the devastation, yes. But they also witnessed a family's strength. They realized that it is our obligation to help in whatever way we can.

How I met the man who inflicts antiques on me

OK, the hookup story --

I moved to Arkansas with a boyfriend in tow. We had broken up, due to his ... hmmm... commitment issues (fear and loathing of marriage and children), but reunited shortly before I took the job here.

So he came too, although I refused to live with him again.

That relationship was limping along when I first went on assignment with Hubs, a divorced photographer 14 years older than me. I thought he was hilarious. And, even better, he didn't find my story ideas odd or complain about some of the weird things I made him do. (like spending an entire day looking for a crime scene that the cops didn't want us to find ((we did).)

Most of our assignments involved daylong roadtrips, so we spent quite a bit of time together.

Soon, he started hanging out with my little group of friends. (Yes, the boyfriend was part of that group.)

One night, after my friend Amy and I indulged in one too many of a restaurant's local version of a hurricane, I began running my foot up and down Hubs' leg. My boyfriend was at the table. At first, Hubs thought perhaps I had the wrong leg. But when I leered drunkenly at him, he realized I did indeed have the right target. He would say later, "I thought it might be best to take this up another time."

And he fled.

A week later, our little group -- minus my anti-social boyfriend -- went dancing at a bar called -- I kid you not -- The Electric Cowboy. (When I first moved to Arkansas, The Electric Cowboy was still BJ's Starstudded Honkytonk, a favorite hangout of Paula Jones. Yes, that Paula.)

Anyway, Hubs and I took on a waltz. He is a fabulous dancer. And thus I was smitten.

I was wearing this.




Yes, it's vinyl. Don't laugh. I thought it was incredibly cute at the time. Eek. Everyone is grateful that I am no longer single as my taste has somewhat improved. OK, well, it has -- a little.

Three or four hours later, we were parked in front of my friend Traci's apartment after dropping off Amy, who was unable to drive all the way to her own place. Amy went inside and Hubs and I resumed making out. All was lovely until I accidentally sat on the horn, which blared loud and long. We laughed, then Hubs drove me home.

The next morning, Amy called. "So how was it? Is he a good kisser? He looks like the type who would be a good kisser. And don't lie to me because Traci and I looked outside when we heard the horn. We. Saw. You."

I confessed and swore her to secrecy. Remember, (even though I clearly didn't) I still had a boyfriend.

Who also worked in the newsroom.

Slightly awkward for all involved, no?

There was much sneaking around for several weeks, including a trip to Eureka Springs to see Willie Nelson in concert. Let it be noted here that I never could have pulled that off if I hadn't been dating a totally indifferent boyfriend. I'm not trying to justify what I did, but ... OK, well, yes I am.

Anyway.

I finally broke up with the boyfriend. By this time, the entire newsroom knew that Hubs and I were involved. You just try to be sneaky in a place filled with nosy reporters. It cannot be done.

Six months later, Hubs and I were planning a trip to Big Bend National Park, when suddenly, somehow, we found ourselves also planning a wedding there.

I called my parents the next day. "Mom, Hubs and I are getting married in four weeks at Big Bend. If you want to come, you're more than welcome. But we're doing this alone, out on a trail, with no other guests."

My parents, two sisters and brother-in-law showed up. As they were ALL taking pictures, no one actually watched the ceremony, but no biggie.

Only a few people in the newsroom knew what we were doing, so when we got back, there was much gasping and laughing. Ex-boyfriend had long since moved away. Last I heard, he was backkpacking through Thailand.

So there it is, the story of our whirlwind courtship and marriage.

It's been seven years, and we've made it back to Big Bend six times since then. We hope to head there again next fall.

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

Karma got me again. Remember when I recently wrote about how I wanted to dump all of Hubs' useless clutter on his ex-wife's doorstep?

Well, tonight my stepkids came over for dinner. With a hideous antique chair that the ex claims once belonged to Hubs. She sent it over "because she thought Hubs might want it back."

Beaten at my own game before it started.