A change of heart

I was a chubby kid.  In my mind, I was fat.  My sister tried to make me feel better by saying, "You're not fat.  You're pleasantly plump." Oddly, that didn't help much.

Throughout childhood, my best friends were my cousins.  They were thin.  We spent hours playing together and most of the time we got along swimmingly.  But, once in a while, after we had spent too much time together, things would turn ugly.

In typical childhood fashion, we would resort to name calling.  They would call me, "fatty," and I would put my hands on my hips and  retaliate by yelling, "Well, I'd rather be fat than so skinny I'd blow away in the wind."

Yep, that was a clever rebuttal but secretly I wanted to be the "skinny" one in the name calling game.

Fatty and two skinnies

I grew up and remained one of the bigger girls.  My sister and I have often laughed about the fact that we both jumped from a size 6X to an 11.  My dad liked to say, "You're just a big girl," as if that big bone theory made it all better.

As I approached my 50th birthday, I also approached a number on the scale I hadn't seen since I was an expectant mother.   I had to make a change.  I started exercising for the first time in my life. Surprisingly, I started to understand what people meant by that annoying comment, "Exercising makes you feel better."   I actually feel better physically and mentally.

These days my cousins and I laugh about the good old days and compliment each other's hair styles and outfits.  Gone are the insults of our youth.  Yet, I am reminded of the name calling game every year about this time when the county fair comes to town.

I go to the fair every year.   I love it.   I love the mother cow and her two-day old calf, the lopped-eared bunnies, the prize winning jams and cakes, the pig races, the blue ribbon quilts, the fried foods, and laughing hysterically on the Tilt-A-Whirl with my children.

Simply put, I love everything about the fair except one thing... the clown in the dunking booth.  You know the one.  He hurls insults at people as they walk by so they will stop and try to knock him into the water by hitting a target with a baseball.  Every year, I try to sneak around the crowd so he can't see me.  I fear his name calling.

The only time I have ever stopped anywhere near him was when my husband took a try at him and quickly dropped him in the water with one swift pitch.  I watched proudly from afar so I wouldn't catch one of his insults.

This year, I went to the fair with my children.  We enjoyed all the things I love.  We petted the animals in Old McDonald's Farm, we perused the homemade quilts and baked goods, we ate deep fried Oreos, and we laughed hysterically on the Tilt-A-Whirl.  But as we were leaving, we had to walk by the dreaded dunking booth.

And that's when I heard him yell in his horrible, annoying voice, "Hey skinny."

Who me? Was he talking to me?

I slowed my pace a little and turned my head slightly toward him and he yelled again, "Yea, I'm talking to you, skinny." I walked on by and turned to my daughter and she confirmed, "He was talking to you."

I've had a change of heart about that game.  I may just spend the next year working on my pitching skills.  Turns out, the best compliment I've ever received was actually an insult from my new best friend, the clown in the dunking booth at the fair.

I like you now.

Birthday of a blog

When I was 10-years old, the thought of turning 52-years-old never entered my mind.  The following year, the idea became a mild obsession.

Apparently, it is common for girls to believe they will die at the same age as their mothers.  My mother died at age 51 when I was 11 years old.  In my mind, I would do the same.  I was wrong.  Today is my 52nd birthday.

I’ve lived my life much like my mother.    I grew up, I went to college, I got a job, I got married, and then I left the working world to raise my children full time.   Now, my children are grown and suddenly I have lost my purpose.  My daily life has changed.

I am no longer needed as their chauffeur, clothes shopper, cook, laundry coordinator, teacher conference representative, appointment setter or birthday party planner.   At 52, I am faced with finding a new job, a new purpose.  And since I didn’t get the chance to see what my mother would have done, I am left without a road map.

So I ask myself, what am I good at?

I’ve been known to tell a good story.  They sound very Forrest Gumpy since they usually start with, “my mama always said.”

I am also good at offering advice to my children, husband and friends.  Once a friend even compared me to the Dalhi Lama.  (Most fun compliment ever.)

Additionally, I am proficient at complaining.  The heat, the cold, the wait, the attitude, someone driving too slow, someone driving too fast, texting habits, bad food…  complaining is my specialty. 

And finally, I am a good writer.  Of letters that is… the old-fashioned ones that are hand delivered by the mailman.  

My family and friends have often encouraged me to write a book.  I have appreciated the suggestion since they must believe I have a reason to write one but it’s far too intimidating.  Since writing a book is out, they have encouraged me to write a blog.

Therefore, to commemorate the day I thought I would never see, I am stepping out of my box and starting a blog filled with what I do best...  looking at life and putting in my two cents; sharing the morals of “my” stories; and complaining about the things that bother me most (aka, bees in my bonnet). Happy Birthday blog!

Oh yes, I have another talent … the EtchASketch.

Me stepping out of my box

A promise is a promise

My favorite little dolls as a kid were called “Little Kiddles.”  They were to me what Polly Pockets were to my daughter.  They were about two inches tall and made of rubber.

I only had two… Lola the sailor girl who came with a white, rubber sailor hat and her own red and yellow sail boat.  The other was a little brown-haired girl whose name I cannot remember who drove a cute, yellow convertible.   

Lola and her little friend had such fun.  They would try to fit in the little brown-haired girl's car for a day of shopping.  Or, cram in Lola's sailboat for a day on the water.   Lola always sported her sweet sailor hat when she would take a sail on her boat. 

One day, my brother asked me to borrow Lola’s hat.  He had a school assignment to transform an egg into any type of character he desired.  He chose a sailor.  Lola’s hat would make his “sailor egg” complete. 

Being the selfish child that I was, I said no.  He begged and begged but I still said, no.  He promised he wouldn’t lose it.  I still said, no.  Finally, my mother convinced me to let him borrow the hat.   In other words, she made me let him use it.

That was the last I ever saw Lola’s hat.  She became just a sailor girl on a boat with no sassy hat.

About the same time, my mother bought a little bag of bee patches to cover a hole in one of my shirts.  She often used patches to cover holes in my clothes since I was quite particular about what I would wear.  It was much easier to patch a shirt that I loved than try to find a new shirt I would be willing to wear.

She didn’t use the last bee patch in the bag.  I asked her if I could have it.  She replied, “No, you might lose it.”  I begged her to give me the patch much like my brother had begged me for Lola’s hat.

I promised I would never lose it.  She finally relented and handed over the patch.  Days passed and I never figured out what to do with the patch so I put it in my jewelry box for safekeeping. 

Years passed and I never used the bee patch.  Instead, I simply kept it in my jewelry box. 

Today, everyday when I open my jewelry box I see the patch.  I never lost it as my mother predicted.  I promised I wouldn’t. 

As I raised my children, I made promises only when I knew I would keep them.  In our house, a promise is a promise.  I often say, when I’m gone, my daughter gets my jewelry and my son can have the bee patch.  I think that’s fair.

Most valuable bee patch

Moral of the story: Keep your promises and your childhood treasures.