Mommy's Piggy Tales: Week 3: First Lessons

My mom took me out of the room and told me to stop crying and throwing a fit. I had gotten the silver candy-filled cupcake paper; I couldn't have the gold ballerina candle holder, too, if Kim had already chosen it. I should be nice to my friends or she'd send them home.

It still didn't seem fair to me that I couldn't have it all at my own 6th birthday party.

Trying to blow out the candles, with brother's help,

but before cake, there were sandwiches.

That summer had been hard enough already. My 3-year-old brother was being a streaking pest & had broken one of my favorite dolls. I had to take swimming lessons, and when we were told to scoop up water in our hands, I thought we were supposed to drink it, not blow bubbles. My dad thought I was being a poor winner and an even worse loser, so to teach me a lesson, he would soundly beat me at every game of checkers or Candyland until I acted like a good sport.

Then there were the pet problems. My first pet before we moved here was Les; they say I called him that when we got him because there would be "one less puppy" in the litter. A little German Shepherd becomes a big dog, and we had to get rid of him because he was always jumping all over us little kids & knocking us down. So they got us a hamster; the first one bit, and its replacement Curly, was put down before the year was out. I won a goldfish at the fair; it jumped out of the small bowl & died. We had the runt beagle from Papa P., and I called him Happy, 'cause as a new puppy he looked happy, even though he kept getting shoved out of the doghouse. Eating kid-table-droppings, he was now a big dog, too, and was always digging under the fence & out, so we had to send him back to Papa. Mom got us a long-haired dachshund; I called her Daisy, I guess after the comic strip dog, but I really didn't like her. She had bad breath. I wanted a rabbit. Or a cat. According to Dad, no way.

I tried running away from home to my Babchu up in Birmingham. I took all of my favorite things in my blocks bag, and my friend Kelly, too. We didn't get far. The trucks on the highway scared her. All I got out of that short trip was whipped, grounded, tired, a hole dragged into my blocks bag and my favorite toys & books scuffed. I did not get to live happily ever after with my grandmother.

First grade was full of a lot of "that's just the way life is, it ain't fair, get over it" lessons. I couldn't be queen, even on my birthday. If you scramble an egg, you have to wash the pan. If you sit on top of the swing-set & accidentally disturb a wasp's nest, you will get stung. Not good.

Class spring photo- that's me 1st row, 4th girl from right.

Yes, Mrs. Woody was that tall.

I went from a small private kindergarten, to a large public school on the other side of Brunswick. Something my mom would call "busing." I remember it being dark in the winter when I'd get on the bus. I didn't know anyone in Mrs. Woody's class; Michelle was in another classroom, as was Kelly.

I was shy and awkward; I had no clue how to make friends, unless someone approached me. Add to that, I was a bit naive. Or credulous. For example, two years ago when I first met Michelle, I think I asked her if she was a boy or a girl. Well, why not? Her hair was shorter than mine (which was short, since mine had just gotten long enough for spiky little piggy tails,) she was the first kid my age I'd seen with glasses, her play-clothes weren't frilly, and she was climbing trees with her big brother. I think it was her brother who might have said that she was "Michael," when I misheard her name. I was very embarrassed when Mommy told me I was wrong, that Michelle was a girl. And though my friends were sweet, they had their mean-girl sides and I went along with them. There was another girl in the neighborhood who seemed different; they didn't play with her, and the other girls plotted ways to trick her, like trying to give her a glass of muddy water. But when the other girls weren't around, I wanted to play with her; she seemed nice, it was just her mom who seemed mean. I didn't understand. Sometimes, my friends didn't want to play with me, either.

Fall photo, age 6

So, I'd spend time before school in the library, even though it was big & not at all the friendly place like the book mobile. I'd spend recess, not with the other girls playing jump rope, but with the boys who wouldn't let me play cars but would let me make "roads" though the pine straw. Sometimes I'd spend recess by myself out by the fence trying to count VW Things while I'd sing to myself about "twoallbeefpattiesspecialsaucelettucecheesepicklesonionsonasesameseedbun," or "Hold the pickle, hold the lettuce, special orders don't upset us, all we ask is that you let us serve it your way." Not sure how I spent lunch, but it must not have been fun. If I found a quarter while waiting for the bus to take me home, I'd turn in into the school office because that's what you do if you find something that isn't yours. Gullible, that's me.

I don't remember playing much. I read a lot. I was an advanced reader, so I didn't take many lessons with my class, but was taught with a girl from another class. If there was any testing, like vision & hearing, mine was done separately. I even took a test that no one else in my class took; it was fun-- lots of word questions and puzzles. Years later, my dad would tell me it was an IQ test.

Yep, I was turning out to be different, and I was starting to notice. I tried to fit in.

Homemade Halloween costumes, brother as leopard, me as bunny.

(See, great pjs for brother.)

My mom made me a bunny costume for Halloween, and it was designed to be pjs, too. I loved it! No one else did. I was also called chicken for not going up to the "haunted house."

My parents asked me if I wanted a bike for Christmas, and I really did. They helped me pick out a beautiful bright blue one, and took me for an extra trip to Santa to add that to my list. Christmas morning I looked for it, but didn't see it, so I figured he left it for me in Birmingham. My parents had to show it to me behind the Christmas tree. All Christmas vacation, I rode it with its training wheels. One weekend in January, my dad helped me ride without training wheels, and I fell and scraped my knee. I was chicken. I did not get back on that bike. So I couldn't ride bikes with my friends.

Christmas morning, I'm looking everywhere for that bike

BUT behind the tree over by my mom....

I was waiting to lose my fourth tooth, while everyone else was going on eight. And I was scared to let anyone else wiggle them.

My dad would have get-togethers with a a co-worker who had kids the same age as us. One rainy weekend, we all went down to the Jacksonville Zoo. They put all 4 of us kids in the same car. All I remember was it was a long trip and the dads watching the orangutan. And missing the school field trip to see the high school put on the play "Treasure Island." No the zoo didn't making me miss out, but the chicken pox did. My mom SWEARS that the other kids had recovered & she didn't mean for us to catch it. (I haven't asked my dad.) So my classmates got to catch doubloons, and I got tepid baths and cold spray-downs with calamine lotion. I didn't even get pity or presents; that was for my brother who had dots even in his hair & his ears & his mouth & his eyes. Easter was kinda off that year, too.

Then the naval base shut down; Kim & Kelly had to move before the end of the school year. I hardly got to say good-bye. But I guess that was OK. My dad was given a new store assignment, too, and we moved to Warner Robins that summer before my 7th birthday.

Life is hard for a little kid.

Mommy's Piggy Tales: Week 2: A Child's Garden (part 2 of 2)

We moved to Brunswick, Georgia, two weeks before I turned 4. Oh, boy! Oh, boy! Sort of. Mom says I didn't quickly cotton to our previous move to Valdosta, and I vaguely recall being defiant during the latest packing up (with at least one spanking...)

Age 4, and finally some hair

But now we were here and I got MY OWN ROOM! And then my mommy & daddy got some new bedroom furniture, so I got their full size bed, their dresser & the vanity. These had been my mommy's things as a teenager, and now they were mine. Sure, I had to let my brother have the wonderful toy box Daddy built, but I was a big girl now. With a big bed! Not a bad birthday present at all. I could still visit the toy box; it was great to hide in one of the two bins, or to sit way up on the top shelf.

Another great thing about Brunswick was I had friends. Three girls my age lived across the street from me: Kim & Kelli P., and Michelle B. We were all enrolled in St. David's Kindergarten for the fall. Kim was a year older than her sister Kelli, but Kelli, Michelle & I were all in the same class as four-year-olds, then as five-year-olds.

4yo Class, me center in green & white, Michelle behind me, Kelli second from left

I think I liked school very quickly. I got to color and paint and learn how to use scissors. I made a beautiful picture for my mommy called "The Land of Love." The two happy people were shaped like hearts and they were walking on a grass of hearts under a sky of hearts. My mommy framed it; it hung up for years in our kitchen.

School was playground with swings & eating those little yellow flowers that tasted sour like dill pickles (and getting hit in the head with a swing while picking a flower to nibble. Didn't do that again.)

5 and bright-eyed

School was writing. School was reading and books. The book-mobile would come by and I'd eagerly check out new books. My parents had to join a book-of-the-month club to keep up with me. I loved to read. I was self-taught. I don't remember learning how to read-- it'd just always been there.

School was trying new things and deciding I didn't like them, like climbing to the top of the monkey bars & getting stuck. Or try, try again learning to tie my shoes using shoes, lacing exercises and my Dressy Bessie doll. (That was a red-letter day; I bugged Mommy while she was folding laundry just so I could show her.)

Even at the beach, you have to wear a hat & coat in winter

School was music on Mondays, show & tell on Tuesdays, a bible story in the chapel on Wednesdays, art on Thursday and special things like films or the book-mobile on Fridays.

School was birthday parties & cupcakes during snack time, but only after Fr. Lantz tried three times with his magic flower to find out who was having a birthday. Of course, it was never me. Having a summer birthday became a big disappointment to me that way.

5yo class graduation, I'm second from left

But time away from school was wonderful, too. Times were simpler; a five-year-old could cross the street by herself to visit a friend. We all played together a lot. If it rained, the storm drains would back-up and our gutters became wading pools. Living is Brunswick was life in a coastal town. I saw the beach for the first time and was awed by it: all that water to play in, shells and driftwood to collect, big live oaks with branches so big and so low to be benches by the dunes, salt marshes filled with wildlife. In my own back yard, I would catch basking green anoles just to watch them change color; I'd giggle if their tiny mouths clamped on my fingers, and feel very badly if their tails broke off when escaping.

One weekend, my daddy found a turtle in the storm ditch behind our house; this was exciting and I was allowed to bring it to kindergarten for show & tell. I did just as I was told: only pick it up in the middle of the back. So.... we didn't know it was a snapping turtle that could reach all the way back there. Baby snapping turtle. No stitches on my finger, but the doctor gave me my DTP booster earlier than scheduled. (No! Not ANOTHER shot!) And yet after all that, I was sad that they had to let my turtle go.

Brunswick was where I fell in love with "nature." It's good to be young and in love.

Mommy's Piggy Tales: Week 2: Baby Steps (part 1 of 2)

Before I was born, my dad worked 3 jobs: police department, Sears & the National Guard. By the time I was born, he'd been getting enough hours & sales to quit the police department (much to my mom's relief), but he still had his commitments to the Guard. The weekend drills weren't bad. Summer camp was a pistol. His first years of camp, he talked his store manager into letting my mom cover his store hours to keep his position open, since he was part-time & they didn't have to. He was full-time by the time I turned one, so he could use vacation time while on Guard duty. But there's nothing he could use to cover Guard duty, so he missed my first birthday. My mom drove the two of us to Birmingham to celebrate with my dad's mom & the cousins on that side of the family. It was comforting to her, since dad was off at camp, and it was comforting to Grandmama, since Paw-paw had died not so long ago.

Almost 1!

(My dad didn't miss Neil Armstrong's walk on the moon. The convoy had been tuning into radio stations all the way to camp in south Georgia, and when it was announced that he was expected to leave the capsule within the hour, the whole convoy pulled over at a local elementary school along the route. Back then, who would break into a school in the summer? So my dad found an unlatched window, crawled in and plugged in the TV they'd brought; then everyone circled up to watch. Don't worry, my dad made sure every window & door was latched when they left.)

My mom remembers my little mispronunciations like "jabberjoy" for trapezoid while we played with the Tupperware shape-sorter ball. She also remembers I made a great little piggy "Oink." (Don't forget, I was chubby-- wonder who taught me that noise.) I remember getting my Fisher-Price stacking rings stuck on my feet & couldn't find my mom to help get them off. (DLG has done the exact same thing.)

Mostly, I don't have many memories until I was about 3 and life got different. My dad was promoted at Sears and was sent to Valdosta, Georgia, to learn how to be a store Controller (kind of like the head-accountant.) I have memories of playing in our back yard & sitting in the notch of the crabapple tree to watch the harvester in the field over the fence beyond the dirt road, and walking down that road with my Babchu to find real strawberries to pick & eat. I remember watching Romper Room with my daddy, and hiding behind his chair once, and Ms. Nancy didn't see me to call my name out through her magic mirror. I remember playing with my baby doll, giving her a bath & washing her hair in my baby pool. I remember a friend named Stephanie & using my baby slide & play chairs as a train. I remember a big box of Childcraft books arriving just for me. I remember my daddy & uncles deciding to turn the yard into a golf course by trying out the new post-hole digger, and them lifting me over the neighbor's garden-wire fence to fetch the golf balls that looked like little whiffle balls. I remember my daddy making me a humongous toy box and framing it in the living room. I remember my mommy using a baby-gate to keep me out of the office while she made fancy candle holders for Christmas presents by gluing old jars & plates together & painting them red.

Play-Doh & me (We still have the shakers.)

Then there was my brother. He arrived while we were living in Valdosta. My mom says that even though they'd wanted a lot of kids, they really hadn't wanted him born then & there. I think they'd either wanted us even closer in age than 3 years (which would have had us sharing the same birthplace,) or they'd hoped that he wouldn't happen until after my dad had finished his training and had been assigned a store. But he was born 3 months before my 3rd birthday. I remember I was excited. I remember I was brought to visit my mom while was I wearing my footie pjs. I remember we shared a room & he cried. A lot. And loudly.

Not quite 3, but not quite a big sister.

My brother, I am told, was late like me. And then even later, and the doctor didn't act very concerned-- even though my mom had been having contractions and had begun dilating. Grandmama had arrived (for a second time) to look after me, so my mom was able to go to her appointment alone. When the exam was over & the the doctor had left the room, my mom stood up and began gushing blood. It took a while for her to get a nurse to come back in, and then for the doctor to come back in. He decided that she needed to go to the hospital to have the baby, gave her a towel to wear under her clothes, and had her drive herself to the hospital a mile away. She barely made it in time for a very emergency, very rough C-section. She had placenta preveria & no one had a clue. Not even the doctor. In 1970, she & my brother came very close to bleeding to death. To this day, I still find it hard to believe that no one had a clue, even after she began dilating; as an adult, I'm very angry that what seems to me as carelessness could have cost me my mother & my brother.

Beth (3 1/2) and Billy (7 months)

But that was then. And then I was a little girl who was very glad to have a baby brother, even if he was loud. And I didn't even mind that he got sick around Thanksgiving & had to go to the hospital again; that just meant I had my Grandmama again and she served up pancakes & orange juice for breakfast, let me play with Play-Doh and made me a pretty doll just like the ones she was making for her church bazaar. We little ones only know ourselves. Sometimes that is the better part of remembering.

Just the Aww-shuck-est

MLB is at VBS this week. They have been asked to keep a keen eye peeled for "God Sightings."

I asked him what he thought a "God Sighting" would be, and he said, "Flowers. I think every flower must have God in it, so every time I see a flower, I'll see God."

I thought that was very sweet. (It could also be the example that he was given at VBS-- he has a good memory like that.)

I told him that I thought a good "God Sighting" for me was my two kids, and I gave him a hug. MLB just laughed, then said, "I think every time God sees DLG, He laughs! He thinks she's funny, and she makes Him laugh!"

We all do, honey. God sees all of us and laughs & laughs & laughs. In the best way.

Trash: a Friday Favorites.

Hillary over at The Other Mama is taking at least a summer vacation from being ring-master of the FF carnival, but I like having a weekly assignment, so after my own vacation, I'm back. (Yes, I know, as a true blogger-buddy, I should offer to host the carnival during her sabbatical, but... 1) I'm still clueless about most blog-techie stuff, 2) I don't like homework and as an adult I take comfort in the idea that any cop-outs likely won't go on my permanent record, 3) which all says, why rush head-long into an opportunity for failure. I know: wimp. Let me get a year of blogging under my belt. I'm currently a size 20, so there's not a lot of room there yet.)

Anyway, back to the trash talking. I like the options I have to recycle.

Once a year I round up a bunch of gently used but no longer needed personal stuff for my church's annual yard sale.

I also use my plastic bags for the yard sale. Sometimes. Right now they're mostly used for poopy diapers.

I have plans to resume using my non-meat kitchen waste, including coffee grounds, in my compost pile this summer. (Kinda' got off track last year.)

All of my aluminum cans go to my church; can proceeds fund our youth who help with the liturgy-- alter servers, children's choir & children's bell choir. But before I bag up my cans, I pull off the pop-top tabs; these are collected for St. Jude's Children's Hospital which is helping a young child in our parish, and has also opened a center in Huntsville Hospital's pediatric unit.

Recently, I've started pulling out my #1 & #2 plastic bottles & sending them over to my dad in Decatur. Habitat for Humanity of Morgan County has started collecting aluminum cans and plastic bottles to recycle for funds to build houses. My dad is on the financial review panel for applicants, and he's thrilled to put his trash to good use. I think he said they've already funded one house & are starting a second. Even better, as far as he knows, all shape #1 & #2 containers are accepted, even wide-mouthed ones like peanut butter jars. I don't know if they found someone to buy all shapes, or if they just make it easy on their donors & sort out the wide-mouthed ones to trash. I'd like to think they're all recycled. Huntsville municipal's recycling contractor only accepts for recycling the narrow-necked bottles like for milk, shampoo & colas.

Allied Waste Management still gets my steel cans and my newspapers (although I could save up my papers for any of the animal rescue groups.) I also crush down all of my cardboard and sort my glass to take once a month out to the facility itself. Breaking down the cardboard itself saves a lot of space in our trash can. It hardly fills up during the week. If we lived some place that had per-tilt collections fees (I spent a year in Batavia, Ill., which did,) then we'd only need to put our can on the curb once a month. Except the can contains all sorts of rancid poopy diapers.

If our household trash wasn't already burned to power the steam plant for Redstone Arsenal, I'd contact the Army to see if they were interested in using those poopy diapers as bio-degradable munitions.

I love this town.

Mommy's Piggy Tales: Week 1: Begin

I was born in the "Summer of Love." Not that my parents were paying attention. July is very hot in South Alabama, and it's even harder to be interested in anything when mommy is 9 months along & daddy has just wrapped up summer camp with the National Guard. If their minds were anywhere other than on my imminent arrival, they were out in space-- either following the events at The Cape, or checking out a new series called Star Trek.

I was almost the baby that wasn't. My poor mom suffered endometriosis something horrible. Migraines, cramps, nausea: you name it, she got it once a month. She and dad had hopes of starting a family right after they got married in 1961. Didn't everyone? But month after month, year after year, no baby. Finally a doctor not only believed that my mom was suffering once a month instead of being "hysterical," he gave it a name & told her that all of the cramping had twisted her ovaries out of place so that all her good efforts were being launched out into the space of her abdomen. Well. So a little surgery to get those ovoids tacked back in place, a short recovery period, and then me.

My birth story, as written by my mom in my baby book: "I entered the hospital at 10:00 a.m. on July 31. They took me to the third floor where they have the labor and delivery rooms. They prepared me and broke my water. They gave me two shots which put me to sleep until about 3:30. All this time your daddy was in the waiting room. He must have been very tired because he only had an hour's sleep that night, because we were timing my pains. At about four o'clock, they took me to the delivery room and put me on the delivery table. You were a big baby and the doctor had to use forceps to pull you out. You looked so plump and pretty. And you cried your little head off. You were born at 4:22 p.m. Your color at first was a pale blue but when you started breathing on your own you changed to a pretty white. I think you were born with the fattest, prettiest cheeks I've ever seen. I was allowed to see and hold you for the first time at 9:00 p.m."

The unmentioned, less poetic parts of story: That to this day my dad will not play canasta because he & my mom stayed up all night playing it while they timed out the contractions. (I don't know if he willingly stayed up with anticipation, kindly did so because he loved my mother, or was threatened with his life if he dared fall asleep. They don't say, except that he won't play canasta.) That my birthday was a busy day; my poor mom wasn't even assigned a room when she arrived-- they just parked her in a hall with a privacy curtain until a delivery room opened up. That she even had to have a substitute doctor! Dr. Tankersley couldn't catch with his hands all bandaged; summer cookout, new sliding glass door, forgot something in the kitchen, you get the idea.... but he did supervise the sub Dr. Russell.

Elizabeth Veronica, born July 31, 4:22 p.m., 8 lbs. 3 oz., 20 inches

I am named after my mom's two grandmothers who helped raise her; Granny Elizabeth was her own dad's mother and Babchu Veronica was her mom's mother.

My dad tells this story about how awed he was with me. He found me tiny. He found he could cradle my head in the palm of his hand and my bottom would just reach the crook of his elbow. It was one of those tender moments that photographers love. Good thing there was wasn't one. I ruined the moment by having a poopy diaper, and you know those don't stay contained in a cloth diaper that just gapes off of a newborn. Dad describes it as slimy-green running all over his arm & down his elbow. Eww. Thanks, dad.

There are few picture of me as a baby; remember, this is the late 60's. Even home photos took money & time. But there's a few of me screaming in the bath tub. (Funny, I adore long baths.) A few with different relatives. My cousin has unearthed a few from my baptism that I'd never seen until last year, so obviously my parents had their hands full of me & not camera that day. There's even a few of me pulling up on furniture. But every picture you see of me over the age of a month show a roly-poly chubbette with mere dimples where my knees & ankles should be. Let's just say that breastfeeding wasn't supported in the 60's either. We'll never know what/how it happened, but the doctor told my mom that she wasn't making enough milk and that I wasn't regaining my weight as quickly as he wanted me to. So by the age of 2 weeks, I was off the breast and on a barley & milk filled bottle. Jars of Gerber were only 2 days behind. I couldn't sit up and I was eating "solids." To this day my dad calls me Lardbottom. Thanks, dad.

(Lest you think my dad heartless, I am a daddy's girl. And he really adores me. He's just a guy, but even guys can cry. One year, we all were watching some old home movies my dad had made, and we found one he'd forgotten about. It was of me and HIS father. Papa S. was sitting on a bed with a 3-month-old me, and he was getting me to follow his car keys with my eyes and head. The forceps marks were slow to fade and Papa S. was worried about little me. I was his fourth grandchild, but he was worried. Seeing that scene again, this time knowing that his own father would be dead less than 6 months after that..... it's one of the few times I've seen my father cry. The next time would be at my high school graduation.)

I look at my "firsts," and I see my daughter: smiling at 5 weeks and general seeming happy, really wanting to sit up and trying so hard by 3 months, crawling by 5 months, pulling up to stand by 6 months, clapping and cruising on furniture at 8 months, walking a week before my first birthday. Liking eating. Not having much hair at all that first year (or two.)

Maybe, having her around is a part of why I want to write these "tales." In many ways, my story could be her story. She'll be her own person, sure, but it doesn't hurt to remind myself just what I may be getting in to.