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Forty Smackeroos

A dollar is a dollar, right? My son is learning about money in school, all the ways to add up to a dollar. One hundred pennies, four quarters, ten dimes...you know the routine. He's being taught that money is one of those things that has a finite definition. Except there's more for him to learn--like when the economy stinks or inflation is high and it really isn't worth as much as it used to be.

And then there's another kind of value I've been thinking about--relative value. We might all agree that a dollar is equal to four quarters. But my dollar may be worth more to me than your dollar is to you. That mom over there may shell out handfuls of dollars for her kid to go try to win a rubber duck out of that dumb claw machine, and I may think--what a waste of money! No one ever wins at these things. But then again, I don't know what kind of day she's had, and that may be the best five minutes (okay, three) that she's spent in peace all day long.

Yesterday, I went to Dick's and bought my son a new bat bag for baseball. Because he needed one and the zipper was broken on the old one. But I bought a new backpack-style baseball bag, which was forty smackeroos. I hesitated--but then went ahead and got it because I knew that was the cool new style the other boys had and that he'd like, and he did really need one.

To me, forty dollars was a lot for a bat bag. Then I told my husband I'd coughed up that much for it and he said, "Oh that's not bad at all." We live in different worlds. A bat bag means something different to the two of them than it does to me. However, I did get to be the best mommy in the whole world for about ten seconds, and that has a value of its own, doesn't it?

I also watch The Real Housewives (only when there's nothing else on and I can't find the remote, by the way) and of course for anyone out there who will also admit to watching it, you know a new season of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills has just started. Every time I flip on that show, and it shows the ladies shopping, or pans across a closet twice the size of my bedroom with an entire wall dedicated to Christian Louboutin shoes, it makes me just a little envious--I mean, ill.

But look at their perception of value. Forty dollars is more than I really wanted to spend on a bat bag, and certainly $1500 is more than I care to spend on a pair of shoes. And these ladies have a wall of them. Does a dollar--ten dimes, one hundred pennies--mean the same thing to those girls as it does to me? And who, in turn, can look at my life and say--wow, she spent forty bucks on a bat bag. I could feed my family for a week on that. I send less than that to World Vision to sponsor a child in India for a month.

I guess a dollar isn't just a dollar. Our sense of value is a living thing--it changes, fed by our environment and bred by our upbringing. What was worth a quarter to me as a kid--that rubber duck in the machine--isn't even worth that to me now. In my twenties I would have thought it was a joke that I would have $1500 available to me at all, much less to spend on a washer and dryer. It was a lot more money then, and new appliances just didn't have the appeal they do now. Even if I didn't get the shiny red front loaders. <sigh> 

Every dollar I spend--every moment I spend--needs to be met with a critical eye: What is this worth to me? To the person I'm spending it on? There is value to my money, so sayeth the government (for the moment). And there is value to my time, to my efforts, to my love, even to my thoughts. What am I wasting on things I don't really  need or want?

Forty bucks for a bat bag may be more than I wanted to pay. But it was met with a big grin and true appreciation. And it will likely be used for several years--very practical. But the real value of that bat bag isn't the dollar amount--it means I get to watch my little boy play baseball, and even pitch for the first time this week.

And that of course, is priceless.

Don't You Forget About Me

The first time I saw New York City was from my sister’s 1983 Nissan Maxima, wedged in the middle of the backseat between my parents. At age twelve or so—and really at any age—your first encounter with the city is overwhelming, exciting, fascinating. I leaned my head back and looked straight up out the back window, because it was the only way I could see the tops of these buildings, for which the word skyscraper seemed insufficient.

Then I got to see New York from the other angle—the top, looking down, at about 110 floors up on the observatory level of the World Trade Center. I still remember the shaking doors of the elevator, because the little metal box that I was standing in (along with a large group of other wide-eyed tourists with fanny packs and Nikes) accelerated so quickly. I was excited and awestruck--but it never occurred to me to be afraid. We were there buying discount tickets to Broadway shows, seeing the sights of the city that never sleeps—the most immortal town I could ever think of—at a time when my whole life was spread before me.

On September 11, 2001, I was 30 years old. At that time, my generation hadn’t personally experienced anything of this level of devastation, like those before us who had lived through World Wars, or Vietnam. Our psyches were molded through the fabulous Eighties, when bigger was better and we were taught by example that life was all about money and success and ourselves. John Hughes taught us that the underdog could win, the awkward girl could get the guy with the Porsche, the nerdy boy could get a pair of girl’s underpants. But what did we—raised on Dynasty and designer jeans—know about being underdogs?

And then, within a couple of hours on a Tuesday morning, we were reminded what it was like to be picked on. To be beaten up. To find out we weren’t immortal after all. And, like a John Hughes film, we banded together—nerds, jocks, princesses and all—and leaned on each other. Because everyone knew someone—someone who was supposed to be there, or had just been there.  Or, in the worst of all cases, someone who was there. Maybe even going to buy tickets for a Broadway show, or seeing the sights.

The morning of September 11, 2001, found me sitting alone in my pajamas in front of the television, crying to my husband on the phone, who was already safely at his own office here in our small Southern town. I remember the unceasing news coverage, the second-guessing. My breath catching in my chest as the buildings collapsed.

But when I think back about that day, and the days that followed, I overwhelmingly remember the profound silence. Standing in the front yard talking to my neighbor about how strange it seemed, how quiet the world was, because there were no airplanes flying. Feeling in my heart that our world had changed. And it wasn’t just the lack of planes overhead on a sunny day in September.

Not long after that, my world changed again. Our eldest son was born in the fall of 2002, part of the post 9/11-baby-boom. (To this day, his class at elementary school is larger than the class before and after.) There’s nothing in this world that will make you feel less immortal than bringing life into this world. Suddenly every table has a pointed corner, every knife a razor sharp edge, every car driving dangerously too fast and too close. And that’s just on your own street.

Ten years later, I guess I’m more in touch with my mortality than ever. My father has Alzheimer’s. My son’s preschool friend has fought leukemia. People around me have died, and cheated death, and had their lives irrevocably changed by circumstance. I did not lose anyone close to me on September 11, as others did. But it changed me, thank God. Because I don’t want to be the same person I was before September 11, 2001. But I want to remember this day as more than just a day that something bad happened to a lot of really good people.

I pray that I—that we--remember every day that we are not immortal. But not with fear of what might happen; instead, with joy, for every moment we have with the wonderful people around us. I pray that we remember how we came together, not just as a country, but as friends and neighbors. As fellow underdogs, every one of us struggling and learning and striving to get through this life the best we can.

Because we are all the jock, the princess, the outcast, the nerd. We are a country full of labels that, every once in a while, remembers how to set those labels aside and just be people.

Bring Back the Farrah.

I think you should know this about me up front: I have no feather in my hair. Frankly, I fear the feather. What terrifies me most about it is the potential of being called out by teenagers in public places because of my feather.

"Oh. My. Gawd. Did you see that, like, really old mom with the feather extension in her hair?" Eyes roll. Fingers are pointed. A gaggle of teenage girls busts out into not-so-subtle laughter.

There are certain trends I can hang with. I can rock a pair of straight jeans, but I won't go so far as the skin-tight camel-toe-inflicting skinny jeans. Unless they begin making them to come up to your ribcage, in which case existing muffin tops then become a discount boob job.

Any trend that I've already worn once and originated in another decade of my life probably does not need to go back on my body--which rules out a good portion of the '80s, as well as most of what is in stores right now. But thank God, that means I will never "get" to wear legwarmers again. Phew.

I wouldn't mind big hair coming back, just a little. I'm good with hot rollers. And high hair is kind of like a good pair of heels--who needs to lose weight when you can just gain height?

But the truth is that trends are for a younger generation. Because it is only fair--might I say even constitutional?--that we all have the right to ridiculous looking pictures of ourselves holding up a red solo cup, half-falling on an equally style-deprived friend next to us, grinning like an idiot. How else would we identify that picture as being from our college years, if it wasn't for the stone-washed jeans and striped rugby shirt? Okay, so there is that guy being held upside down drinking from the keg in the background, but really--that could be anywhere in your 20s.

Why is it that women try so hard to follow these trends when we should be way beyond the following stage of life? You don't see grown men with the Bieber. "According to market trends, we are right on course." Pause for a hair flip. "Profits for the next quarter are slated to be up ten percent." Turns to show power point and hikes up dress pants which are creatively belted to begin just at the bottom of his suit jacket.

But we girls--er, women--are hanging on to this stuff by a bra strap, which we would have been horrified to show when we ourselves were teenagers, but now could care less about. Oh, except for that phase when we all wore lace shirts. And lace fingerless gloves. And lace leggings. Is it possible Madonna was getting a kickback from the lace industry? But I digress. Case in point: Roseanne Barr has a feather. Can you say, ewwww? Even I would join the teenage girls on that one. Way to ruin it for the really cool girls, like Hilary Duff.

Meanwhile, maybe I'll work on bringing back a different trend. Instead of a feather in my hair, let's just go back another decade and bring back feathered hair. The Farrah. Now THAT was a good look. And I can get my hot rollers back out.

Empty Nest Syndrome

 
Just outside our front door, in the little nook where the column meets the porch overhang, a little gray and brown bird has built a nest. I think she’s a pretty smart bird, actually—her nest is shaded from the heat and the sun, hidden from predators, except for our dog, Max, who has been known to wait expectantly under it. I have shooed Max off several times and I’m sure she wonders why I’m making her get off her own porch, which is her right in the doggie constitution or something. I don’t think she completely knows what’s up there, just that she can’t get at it and it makes noise. And, like the other random things in our yard, it might be tasty. And yes, Max is a girl. Just to confuse you.

I’ve been watching the nest for several weeks now through the transom above our door, and we’ve even changed our traffic patterns to give the poor mama bird some peace. She diligently sat on that nest, and then just a couple of weeks ago I noticed she was gone and that there was movement. We had baby birds! I felt like passing out birdseed cigars or something.

We’ve been watching these babies grow, lose their downy fluff. I have ownership in them; it worries me when I only see three heads peeking up instead of four. We’ve seen mama bird regurgitate worms and such for them, their wobbly heads popping straight up and their mouths opening as soon as they hear her coming.  I have been threatening to pad the concrete underneath the nest just in case anyone falls when it is time to learn to fly.

So, silly as it may seem, I’m preparing myself for the day that I look up and the nest is empty, and instead of cradling four fluffy baby birds, it is just a mess of sticks and dirt. I know they’re not mine—they’re birds. They’re barely even mama bird’s birds. She’ll just have another bunch next summer, I’m sure. It isn’t like she’s going to sit around the empty nest saying, “They don’t call; they don’t write!”

I could go on but I don’t think anyone really needs me to draw any parallels here. And besides, I have to go regurgitate worms—er, I mean, make lunch—for my boys.

Surprise

Everyone has a little bit of Oprah in us--we don't like surprises. And that's really what happens when things don't turn out the way we planned. Like marriage, life is for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, for sickness and in health.

Because surprises are that way. They aren't always the "good" surprises, like fancy parties where all our favorite people come and they all bring you great gifts that you really want. We don't get to always pick the happy ending, or get to live our kids' lives for them so they don't make the bad choices we did.

There's an 89-year-old gentleman who made a rather large prediction about today that sort of didn't pan out. He probably has no groceries in the fridge for tomorrow's breakfast because he wasn't planning on needing any. And I actually feel sorry for the guy--he made a prediction that the world was kaput today, down to a very specific time, and at some point the poor man is going to have to answer the phone and lots of folks are going to want him to give commentary on what didn't happen the way he'd planned.

The surprise party he was looking for today was not the one he wanted.

I was reminded today at a baby shower about my first major run-in with that lesson. I went from being a completely organized, together, focused person to having a newborn. Which, of course means, I went from having control over my life to having no control whatsoever. Surprise! For the first year, or two (or perhaps more) years of my son's life, I had a lot of issues with that no-control thing. I kept trying to get it back (which explains a lot of the 430 previous lessons on control that God's been teaching me).

I also saw a movie this evening--Something Borrowed--which was a sweet movie, with a couple of great actors as main characters. But at some point, the movie didn't turn out the way I thought it should. It didn't come together the way I really wanted it to as a viewer. Ironically, the movie was about the path not taken--what happens when the path you choose doesn't come together like you think it should have.

Meanwhile, as I have proclaimed to the world, I am writing a novel.  (If I say this to enough people, then said people will see me and say "How's the novel going?" Which is like having a workout partner, but for writing. If nothing else I will keep writing out of sheer guilt.) But my initial idea for how this book is going to end is probably not how anyone thinks it should be. Honestly, if I were a reader, it might even tick me off when I read it. As I writer, I kind of like that aspect--something that will keep the reader talking about it after it is over. Hopefully not in the "They killed a tree for that?" kind of way.

Life absolutely, positively does not turn out the way you plan. Expectations are fragile, and will be shattered, daily. It doesn't matter whether you have a baby, watch a movie, predict the rapture, or write a book. Sometimes what happens instead is perhaps what you would consider worse, sometimes better. Mostly just different. Learning to roll with that change is what makes life interesting. It's what keeps you talking about the book when you're done reading, blogging about the movie when it's over, and waking up every day to see what's going to happen next--especially if you have kids.

Because you never know when that next surprise is around the corner. And sometimes, it is as simple as having to go to IHOP because the fridge is unexpectedly empty.

Baby Steps

My very first blog post says something pithy like, "Writers write."  Yes, they do.  And apparently they also do laundry, shuttle kids to baseball games, pack lunches and waste time on Facebook. 

I started this blog so that I would write.  Because, quite simply, I wanted to be a writer.  So, I blogged every day for the first bit.  Really, I did.  Hard to believe it now, isn't it, when I'm doing well to get in a couple of columns a month? 

My brilliant author friend Bonnie noted in her recent Fiction Matters blog post that what writers actually like to do is everything but write.  They (We) like to talk about writing, talk about books, perhaps (and I take liberties here) even talk about what's for dinner. 

My personal take is that I like the idea of having created rather than the process of actually creating.  I think this translates to other things--wouldn't it be nice to have the newborn without having the nine months of morning sickness, sleepless nights and ill-fitting maternity clothes?

But then I remember, that means I would have missed the feeling of the lives that have grown inside me.  Even now, when I am quite positive that we are done having children around this casa, it does make me a little sad to realize I won't have that feeling of a baby's first movements again.  Granted by month 9, when his or her little skull is resting quite uncomfortably on your bladder, maybe that feeling is more bitter than sweet.  But there are so many wonderful things that do come with the process of creating--feelings, nuances and of course, the ability to take a nap in the middle of the afternoon or eat a pint of Ben & Jerry's with downright encouragement from others rather than disdain.

In writing, as with life, I suppose it is indeed the journey and not just the destination--which in this case we hope to be the top of the New York Times Best-Seller list.  So although I cannot promise to completely eschew Facebook, I will do my best not to let my pretty little head be distracted by all the sparkly things it offers.  The things that take me away from that thing that I profess to love--writing--are worthy of my disdain. Especially laundry.  Oooh, and cleaning toilets--really disdainful.

I have a story in my head and no private catered island on which to hunker down and write.  It's just going to have to be squished in between baseball games and grocery shopping. I am not the first to do so, neither will I be the last.  An island of my own may be too much to ask for, but a room of my own has to start in my head--at least til I make that first million.

To the 26 people who do faithfully read here at WordMom, thanks so much for the encouragement.  I'll need it.  And if you have a private island to loan out, I would gladly accept that as well.  I'll even name a character after you.

 

 

Any Old Ritz Cracker Casserole in a Storm

It's another stormy day here in Dixie Alley. 

Don't know where that is?  I didn't either til a friend mentioned that I was in Tornado Alley--and like a mom whose just been told her kid is both ugly AND deviant, I completely rebelled against that label. 

So I went to the source of all knowledge, Google, which sent me to the Great and Powerful Oz of the Internet, Wikipedia.  And thus, all was revealed.  I apparently live in Dixie Alley, which is much like Tornado Alley, except it sounds better and if your trailer park gets hit in a storm, we bring you fried food, gravy and biscuits.  Or a casserole topped with French's French Fried Onions or Ritz Crackers.

These blustery days of spring would likely be even too much for dear Pooh Bear, whom I believe I just saw flying past my window holding tight to Piglet's hand.  They are predictable, and yet, unpredictable.  We can watch them creeping towards us like some great colorful amoeba on the radar screen.  Trained professionals show us the hooks in the storm, tell us what time to the minute that the storm will be in our area, and even call out our streets by name. 

But in the end, it's random.  Of the thousands of folks crowded in basements, bathrooms and various other safe places at any given moment, most of them may never see the real storm.  And often those who do never saw it coming.

What do we want out of life?  Do we want to live on edge, in a state of constant awareness, amidst our cases of bottled water and canned foods?  Because you know, canned gravy just isn't the same.  Any Southerner will tell you that.

Even though I am often a big glowing ball of anxiety, I think I'd rather enjoy the sound of the rain than stay fearful of the storm.  It's a fine line I walk, because in all honesty--I do drive a Volvo.  I like knowing that a consistent paycheck is coming every week.  I buy the same shirt in three colors--and those colors are usually white, black and my wild card, green.  Maybe blue if I'm feeling crazy. 

At the same time, I am learning--some days, against my will--to take life as it comes.  Blustery day, tornadoes and all.  If I spend all my time worrying about the future, I'm missing out on some pretty amazing present.  So, being the organizer I am, I have now chosen to spend only 18.6% of my time worrying about the future.  Except that I have kids so 18.5% of that time is actually spent worrying about THEIR future.

It's a big scary world out there, and we don't need Piglet to tell us that.  All we can predict is that things will be unpredictable.  Know where your safe place is in case you need it.  Drive a Volvo.  You can never have too many white shirts.  And don't forget to stock up on Ritz crackers in case you have a friend in need.

 

Wasting Away Again in Staycationland

It's spring break here in beautiful, budding Franklin, Tennessee, which means that nearly all of our county is in the Destin, Florida, area at this moment.  And those who aren't are staycationing at any child-friendly locale in the city.  Who knew that Chuck E. Cheese was our answer to the beach?

So the kids get a break.  And we moms, well, we don't so much get a break.  But those of us who are staycationing (translation: too cheap to travel, which is completely understandable at $3.50 a gallon) have a challenge on our hands.  What to do with our time?

I picked up a copy of Family Fun magazine yesterday which immediately gave me a complex.  I realized that my children were missing out on the good things in life because we were not making marionettes out of construction paper or cookies shaped like flip flops using sour gummies. 

Will they be in therapy one day?  Or should I just maintain my viewpoint that Family Fun magazine is of the devil?  Get thee behind me, Family Fun magazine.  Kids--go outside and play with sticks and dirt like mommy used to do when she was little.  If you really want Family Fun, I'll add water to the sticks and dirt. Pa Ingalls built an entire house this way out on the prairie--surely it should keep you entertained for an afternoon!

Spring Break is like a test drive for summer.  To abruptly mix metaphors, we're putting our toes in the water, and while it feels good, we moms may not quite be ready for a swim just yet.  There's just so much pressure for kids to be doing something.  Going to space camp.  Learning to ride sidesaddle.  Becoming an Olympic gymnast.

And if they're off doing something, then we have to be doing something, too.  We covet this free time sans children so that we can "get things done."  Ewww.  Now that sounds like fun, doesn't it?

So this Spring Break, we're dipping our toes in the pond of the art of doing nothing.  Ahhhhh.  See how nice and lukewarm that feels?  So relaxing. We are otherwise doing what is known as Wasting Time.  I capitalize those words because I feel they are Very Important (see how that works?).

Even if we weren't so cheap that we were staycationing, we'd be somewhere like Disney World (which our family adores), stressing ourselves out over getting to the park early enough to stand in line for an hour for It's a Small World.  No one should ever stand in line an hour for It's A Small World.

Our brains are pushed to the limit with all the stuff we want to be doing, that we think we need to be doing.  Sit down on the couch for 15 minutes and you feel guilty, don't you?  You are wasting valuable time-wasting-time by thinking about all the laundry you should be doing or the bathrooms waiting to be cleaned.

Shirk those duties, I say!  Sit, and sit in peace.  Enjoy the moment.  You have now been given permission to waste time, which is really all anyone's looking for.

It's called Spring BREAK.  Use it.  Because come mid-July, when everyone's desperate, you'll be digging out those marionette instructions and seeing if there are any last minute slots still open at sidesaddle camp.

That Was Easy

I have a Kevin-Bacon-type of friend (you know, a six degrees of separation thing) who has written a new novel that's coming out in June.  My fabulous group of book clubbers has agreed that we'll all read it, and it feels a little like we won the Oprah lottery because we get to read it before it's in stores.  Or Kindles, or Nooks, or Sony Readers. 

Marybeth (and I call her by her first name because I kind-of-sort-of know her and it makes me sound important) has written a novel titled She Makes It Look Easy.  I haven't even read it yet, but just the title has me thinking.

Do you know anyone like that...who makes it look easy? 

These people who make cake pops.  These people make it look easy.  I barely make a cake with a mix and yet there are people, people who do not own bakeries, that are shaping cake into balls, drizzling them with fancy fixings and putting them on lollipop sticks.  I don't need this kind of baking intimidation.

The women who have coordinated ensembles at the book fair when you schlep in the door in jeans and a t-shirt--they make it look easy.  They make it look like some people have time, energy and the mental capacity to match something that doesn't go with blue jeans or black pants.  And by some people, I mean people of the female persuasion who have time to get their eyebrows waxed.  This, my friends, is why I have bangs.

People who cook a well-rounded dinner for their families every evening.  And enjoy it.  Or even remember to put something in the crock pot in the morning.  Or perhaps, put meat in the refrigerator to defrost and actually cook it before it is time to just give up and throw it in the trash a week later.  Luckily my children love Smart Start cereal and apples.  By necessity, perhaps, but they do.

Those people make it look easy. So I'm easily intimidated, perhaps.  But I don't think it is just me.  Right?

I think we all have some sort of line where we look around and, no matter how well we're holding it together and how cute our new skirt is, we think someone else has got it a lot more together than we do.  I honestly consider myself pretty together about 85% of the time.  But 10% of the time, I'm a hot mess.  And the last 5% I just stay in bed all day and watch Bravo reruns of The Real Housewives.  Because next to them, my life looks super easy.

Beth Moore wrote a great book called So Long, Insecurity.  I wrote about it a while back--and I remember thinking that no matter how much I thought I wasn't insecure, there is a tiny part of me somewhere in there that really is.  A part of me that reverts to 9th grade, when everyone else just seemed cooler than me, didn't wear goofy tinted glasses and had that Sun-In glow to their hair. 

Even now, I'm preparing for a meeting with some authority figures (I won't say who) and I am trying to mentally conquer feeling like I'm the one who is 8-years-old, while they are the grown-ups, and I might just get in trouble (with a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for Pretty Sad, don't you think?).

She Makes It Look Easy.  I'm looking forward to reading this novel and seeing what happens.  Because I know what happens in real life--we do the best we can but spend a ridiculous amount of time comparing ourselves to someone else, or wishing we had what they had.

The grass is always greener, the saying goes, but you never know how much fertilizer the girl across the fence is using, you know?  And some girls--well, my Southern self says Bless their hearts, they just need more fertilizer than others.

In other words, I don't really care if my cake is shaped in ball or stuck on a stick, as long as it is chocolate and goes well with a big glass of milk and a Real Housewives marathon. 

Tiger Blood and Mrs. Betty's Legacy

Charlie Sheen's kids may be too young to understand Daddy's crazy rantings and ravings now, but one day they will.  Rest assured there will be a place in the history books (or more accurately, the internet) where we can always go to relive these 'special moments' he's sharing with the world.

He arrived on this earth with a unique legacy--the child of a Hollywood star, coupled with the talent and connections to step into that world.  There aren't a lot of folks who can claim that kind of leg up.  Sure, if your dad was an orthodontist, you might get free braces.  But the triumverate of fame, fortune and genetic talent are pretty rare.

Everyone stumbles; everyone screws up.  We all do things we aren't proud of.  But when you believe your own press--or tweets--and you get so full of yourself that you think the choices you make have no consequences?  I continue to feel sorry for these kids--4 under the age of 5--who, please, dear Lord, are hopefully oblivious to the legacy he's leaving for them.  Maybe they'll inherit the genetic talent, and a few bucks--if anyone is really interested in him making Major League 3.

In complete contrast to the antics playing out in every form of media imaginable with Mr. Sheen, I had the privilege of going to an amazing memorial service this week to celebrate the life of a woman whose legacy will long outlast her.  To my knowledge she never starred in a television show and made $2 million dollars an episode.  But ultimately her value far outweighs and outlasts that of the brightest Hollywood star.

It has me thinking about the kind of legacy I want to leave.  How do I want to be remembered--but more importantly, what kind of person do I want to be in the here and now when I can enjoy it?  Sure, they can all gather around the jello salad in the fellowship hall when I'm gone, and talk about how sad it is to see me go (or at least I hope they will).  But wouldn't it nice to have more?

Mrs. Betty was the matriarch at my childhood church.  She was one of a crew of ladies who raised me, and a passel of other kids who used that church as their second home. (It isn't often I have the opportunity to use the word 'passel', but it is appropriate in this case). 

 Because before kids had their schedules packed with travel teams, lessons, camps and playdates--family social lives, at least where I grew up, revolved around the church.  You might have a stray dance lesson here or there, but for the most part, if the doors were open and there was an ice cream social going on, that's where you'd be.

So more than a few generations of kids grew up under the tutelage of Mrs. Betty, and whatever other parents happened to see you sneak behind the pews to do something you probably shouldn't be doing.  There was never any differentiation between their kids and you; no one worried about whether or not they should reprimand another child.  Of course they should. 

So while Mrs. Betty raised her own crew of boys, she also rocked generations of babies in the nursery and returned them to their parents smelling of her perfume.  She hosted the youth group at her house even when she didn't have a teenager. 

And get this.  You moms will know how crazy this sounds.  She and Mr. George had a pool, and all you had to do on any given summer day was call and ask if you could come over swimming. And she would say, "Well, sure!  Come on!"  You could swim all day at Mrs. Betty's pool, and she'd even feed you.  

What?  She'd have children to her house to play when she DIDN'T HAVE TO?  And FEED THEM?  Now granted, I'm not sure Capri Suns were around yet and it was the time of ten-cent Kool-Aid packets, but still.  What kind of craziness can come from such a thing?

A legacy.  A legacy of love and kindness and giving.  And in turn, a legacy of gratitude, from the packed-out church full of people who came to show their thanks to Mrs. Betty this week.  Generations were raised by Mrs. Betty, and others like her, who are willing to give of themselves beyond what is expected.

Let's just say that Charlie Sheen doesn't even have a clue what Tiger Blood is.  Mrs. Betty--now that lady had some Tiger Blood.  Who cares if you have a million Twitter followers waiting to see you fall?  Legacy means having a community who grows up watching you share and give of yourself, and live out Christ's love every day, and who can then point to that example and say what I do:

That's the kind of legacy I want to leave.