I remember...my dad's lunch box

I was thinking earlier today about my dad's old lunch box. I'm not sure what made me think of this but I haven't thought of it for a long time and I'm kind of surprised that such a mundane item made such an impression on me. But it did.

When I was younger, my dad packed his metal lunch box and took it to work every day. I have no idea what he packed because he abhors leftovers (much like myself). Nevertheless, I remember that lunch box sitting on the counter waiting for my dad to take it with him in the morning when he left for work.

I remember the lunch box being one of those old fashioned dome lunch boxes that are reminiscent of something a construction worker would take to work. I don't remember what color it was, but if I close my eyes, I can remember how the cool metal felt when you held it and the noise the handle made when you picked it up or set it down. Funny how the memory works.

So I've been wondering why I remember this and why it matters. Here's what I think:

The lunch box represents (to me) how hard working my parents are. From early on in my childhood, I have seen through their example the importance of hard work. Nothing was handed to my parents on a silver platter, they had to work hard for everything they now have. They had goals they had made for themselves and their family, then they did whatever it took to reach those goals.

When my parents built the house they are living in now, my dad worked his full-time job during the day, then a second job at night. My mom has told me how, through the years, managing money sometimes meant being creative with the bills and other expenses associated with raising 4 children. During the early years, my parents would take us out to eat once a month--McDonalds for an inexpensive Big Mac.

Thinking of my dad taking his lunch to work with him in that old box, reminds me how important it is to pray hard--then work hard. Just doing one in the equation doesn't work as well. They taught me that.

I hope I can show my children how important hard work is. Whether that means working hard in the home, the garden, at church, or at a job. Children notice those things, and learn from them.

Even if my parents had not told me verbally the importance of hard work (though they did), they showed me. And that has taught me more than any words ever could.

I remember...my birthday gift

Today was my 31st birthday.

It's funny how when you get older, the day seems less and less special. It's sad really how that happens.

I have never been one of those that feels bad on my birthday about aging. Who has time for that? I appreciate the years I have been given, every one. However, instead of a grand party like I may have had when I was five, I was home with the boys all day (with the exception of a quick trip to Walmart).

So, other than the phone calls from family and the million messages on facebook, the day was pretty ordinary. However, something so sweet happened that I wanted to use that as my memory for today.

I was in the bathroom getting ready for the day while the boys were in the other room playing together. I could hear Rylan talking to Aaden and playing with some uncooked Spaghetti noodles (don't ask). I started to pay attention to what Rylan was saying and I heard this:

"Okay, Aaden, this is mom's birthday surprise and when she comes out we yell 'SURPRISE!!', but it's a secret". It was so sweet that he thought of something like that all on his own.

So to give them a head's up, I hollered: "Okay, my make-up's done, I guess I'm ready to come out of the bathroom!"

When I walked into the front room Rylan yelled, "SURPRISE MOM! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" and they were both standing there grinning as wide as could be. Next to them, Rylan (I'm sure with plenty of unwanted help from his little brother) had arranged a design for me with the uncooked spaghetti noodles. It may have been the best birthday gift I have ever gotten.

Thanks my sweet babies.

I remember...blessing Rylan in a dress

Rylan with Grandpa Tubaugh
I figured I better write this down now because inevitably my son Rylan will ask me why on earth he got blessed in a dress and how I could do that do him. I know it's coming. But I feel justified in my answer so I'll share the reasoning.

First of all, it wasn't a dress. It was a "Christening Gown". You know what I mean. Those antique gowns that all babies wore for Christenings regardless of gender.

Now, my mother-in-law had her father's Christening gown and it is beautiful. Really beautiful. And this was Rylan's great-grandpa who is, from what I hear, an awesome awesome man. So when Elaine offered the gown to me to bless Rylan in, I jumped at the chance. I am such a sentimental person, especially when it come to family and lineage and all that.

So Rylan did in fact wear a beautiful dress at his blessing. He didn't seem to mind at the time. And even if he get's annoyed at me in the future, I feel I have a pretty good argument. It was such a special and unique thing to be able to do. So there it is.

I remember...Getting thrown by my dad

When I was younger my dad and mom would always tuck us in at night. Actually, they tucked us in at night pretty much all the way through high school.

Now getting "tucked in" morphed through the years (age appropriately) but began with the following routine: play (dad) /story (mom), covers up, kiss, and the habitual saying "Goodnight...sleep tight...don't let the bedbugs bite".

I remember this happening pretty much every night. And my parents could not escape the responsibility because if one of them didn't want to do it, Jon and I would continue to yell, "Mom/Dad, come tuck me in" every 3 minutes until they showed up to perform their duties.

As we got older, the routine began to change and items gradually started to drop off. Dad would stop playing with us (i.e. riling us up), we would read books to ourselves, and then the physical tuck-ins became rare. I'm talking about into high school though. But even then, it was a rare night when I didn't hear at bedtime a voice from mom and dad yelling: "'Night Diddy! Sleep Tight!" It was very comforting and I actually had forgotten about that until I started writing this.

Anyway, this post is specifically about the "play" responsibility that dad had with us. I'm not sure if this was done with Keri and Jamie as I only remember Jon being there. But I'm almost positive they lived through the same experiences.

When dad would come to our bedtime play, his arsenal of fun included two items:

1. Tickle them until they cry and beg for mercy.
2. Throw them onto their beds from such a distance that bathroom breaks
were needed regularly.

So the first one: When my dad tickled, it hurt. Bad. But you couldn't help but laugh. Which egged him on. So he did it more. And it hurt more. Bad. He had this insane knack for getting one of his fingers right between the ribs and jabbing at it. Seriously, we were laughing, crying, and begging him to stop all at the same time. Then when he'd stop, we'd beg for more. It was craziness. I simultaneously cringe and laugh whenever I think of it.

Number 2: This is the one I was thinking about earlier today that inspired this whole post. Dad would pick us up and stand near the bed. He would repeat the phrase: "One for the money, Two for the show, Three to get ready, and Four to GOOOOO!" The whole time he was swinging us back and forth and at "GOOOO" he would let go and we would go whizzing through the air and land on our bed, bounce about 5 times from the impact, then instantly stand up to go again.

Man, that was so much fun. I kinda wish I could do it again. I'm sure that my muscular Seth could actually do it, but it could never recreate the feeling I had with dad doing it. As a kid, it just felt like you were flying so far for so long, and of course we really weren't.

Ahhh, I loved those before bed rituals.

P.S. I know the picture of my dad has nothing to do with putting children to bed or playing with him but I included it because: a. It is a hilarious picture of him. b. this is how I remember him during the earlier times of this memory, so I thought it would work.

I remember...witnessing a miracle of nature

Now, that title might seem a bit extreme as you read on. But as I was experiencing it, it truly was a miracle. That 2 minutes in time that I just happened to be outside and watched it all happen--that was a miracle.

It all started when we were doing some much needed yard work. There is a bush on the side of our house that needed to be trimmed extensively. So my husband got his electric hedge trimmer out and started trimming down, taking off about 2 feet from the top and 1/2 a foot from each side.

When he got done, he called me to come over and take a look at what he had found. I peered into the branches and saw a small birds nest with the tiniest little sweet birds I have ever seen. Just so small. They couldn't open their eyes yet but if the nest got jostled just the littlest bit, those little sweeties would stretch their neck as high as could be and open their beaks expecting that movement surely meant mom was home with some yummy treats.

Oh, those birds held such a soft spot in my heart for the next few days. We discovered that they were Cardinals as there were two protective cardinals taking turns at the nest.

Every morning, I would sneak out the house and peak on them. Then at night when the kids went to bed, I'd go say my goodnights. Every time I saw them, they were different. First their eyes open, then their feathers, then the chirping. Only a few short days and they already seemed so big.

The next day was a frazzled one for me. The two boys were rambunctious, the house was a mess that I just could not keep up on, and I was studying for a pretty intense final. By the time the kids were in bed, I thought I should keep studying, but I knew I needed a little break. My first thought was to lay down on the couch and watch some meaningless TV show that required no mental thought from my end.

But then the thought occurred to me that I hadn't been outside once today. Not even to get the mail. It's hard to believe a person could do that, but it does in fact happen. So I picked my body up off the comfortable and tempting couch and I walked outside.

Aaaahhhhh. Instantly, I was glad to be outside and smell "real" air. I walked over to see my little birdies and say hello. When I looked in the nest, they were gone. My heart sank so low. My first morbid thought was that they had fallen out of the tree. They were soooo tiny and just barely got their feathers like 2 seconds ago.

So for five minutes I looked everywhere around that tree and to my relief, found no injured baby birds.

Nevertheless, my babies were gone. They had given me such happiness every day for the last 4 days. How could I ever live without them? They were special.

So in my melancholy state I walked towards the back of our house and sat in a rocking chair under our big (and I mean big) Oak tree. After about 30 seconds of sitting there feeling sorry for myself, I heard a bunch of chirping noise. It sounded like their was a bird war going on right above my head.

When I looked up to see the commotion, I couldn't really believe what I was seeing. There were two adult red cardinals chirping (barking really) at this squirrel. I didn't intervene at all. I really wanted to watch as nature took its course. The squirrel was frozen. The cardinals just kept up their crazy assault until the squirrel ran away and even then, one of the birds flew after him.

I knew there was only one reason for those birds to be acting like that. They had their babies close. Sure enough, I looked down towards the base of the tree and one puny bird with barely any feathers on him was clinging to that tree. He gave a little "yip" and I watched as the first Cardinal flew right to him. A few seconds later, the second adult cardinal came.

One Cardinal started chirping at the baby and it was like watching a mother tell her child all he needed to know. After she "talked" to him, she flew about 3 feet away and then right back and got in his face and chirped a bit more. Then she flew that same 3 feet and waited. The tiny bird did just what his mom wanted him to and he worked those fuzzy miniature wings so hard and he traveled that 3 feet. The whole time the second cardinal was watching from a distance.

The little bird got excited and kept flying in short bursts across the neighbors lawn and then flew up into a tree. The parent birds flew in right behind him. I was so proud at that moment.

Now, many may read this story and think, "so what, you saw a bird learn to fly". But it was so much more than that to me. It really touched home on such a personal level. And I cannot even pinpoint what has influenced me the most about this. But here are some of my thoughts.

1. If I would have laid on my couch to watch reruns of ghost whisperer, I would have missed the whole thing entirely.

2. If I would have walked outside and just sat without paying any attention to my surroundings, I would have missed that opportunity to see what I did.

3. There was something about the whole experience that just touches me so deeply. I think it's the whole natural process of things. The way those cardinals built a perfect little nest and then laid the perfect little eggs. How they watched over them until they were born. How one would look for food while the other protected the nest. How when they KNEW they were ready, they took them out and taught them, showed them, and finally, let them go on their own. But even then, after the little guys wings were working pretty good, they all left as a family into a new tree. The whole experience spoke directly to my heart, especially as a mother. I think that's the goal as a mother. Teach the children what to do, show them how to do it, and trust that they will, having faith that those birdies will fly---even if it takes a few tries.