When she was in the 1′st grade, Leslie’s teacher informed me that she was sick and tired of seeing Luv peas printed around her school papers. I patiently explained that it was not a particularly cared for vegetable but was simply a 6 year old pacifist who couldn’t spell worth a damn.
Once, when she was in the 2′nd grade, it happened that Open House preceded Mothers Day by just a few days. The teacher had the kids work on a top secret project which involved drawing a likeness of their mothers….”Now remember children, let’s all lock up our mouths and throw away the key!”
For a week, every time I passed her bedroom, she was sprawled out on her floor surrounded by broken crayons and crumpled up papers, working on her project.
Back in the 70′s, there lived a woman. A woman who was brave, sometimes outlandish, always brilliant, funny, respected, gorgeous and talented.
She was a mom. She was a wife. She volunteered. She modeled. She was a bit of a local TV celebrity.
She was feisty, passionate and strong willed.
I remember one time when she was a guest on a morning TV show. She was part of a panel debating services available to children with autism, with whom she volunteered a great deal of her time. I guess she felt pretty strongly because it was the only time I think they ever had to bleep out a morning show guest!
She was also very depressed. So much so that she took her own life. But when she was with us, she was a writer. A wonderful, courageous writer. She framed each publisher’s rejection letter like they were badges of honer - coaxing her forward.
Here’s to you Mom. You are a published writer.
Two years ago something disheartening happened that made me feel “Old.” Horrified, I heard the following words come out of my mouth:
“I am just so sick of the commercialization of Christmas.” And so it was. I had officially crossed over into bitter old woman land.
But I was the one who sent handmade holiday cards! The one who started humming carols the day after Halloween! The one who snuck into work early and left little gifts on each employee’s desk.
And now I had become what I perceived to be the bummer-ba-humbug-grown up. Is this just one of the many joys growing older had in store for me?
I only wanted us to be happy during the holidays .