Happy Mother's Day

Mother's Day. It was always the time of the year that the iris bloomed.  After the winter season, it was the one of first glimpses of flowers in the yard.  We always had a big bouquet of purple and yellow blooms on the table. My mother grew up in a time where you planted things that came back year after year, usually bulbs given to you by a friend or relative. There were no greenhouse flowers, there were heritage blooms.  

Everybody loved my mom.  She was a “cool mom” before moms were cool.  Now I don’t mean she was a mom that wore teenager clothing or tried to hang out with us or be youthful, she was just herself and that was…cool.  She was older than a lot of my friend's moms, and she worked, so that meant I learned how to cook at a fairly young age. This was good, because she was a great cook and taught me many kitchen tricks. In the summers she canned a lot, and in the winters she baked. She had a self-deprecating humor, and loved to collect things.  She was never unaccompanied by my daddy, so it is almost hard for me to speak of her in the singular.  They were from a time when married couples did not do things without the other. Anyone who was in our world at the time I was growing up knows they were never far away from where I was. They were a fixture at our house after I married, at all our get-togethers, and kidnapped my girls at every occasion.  But growing up in the Miller house was different than a lot of others.

My name was chosen long before I was born.  Clif was born 13 years before me, and the name Donna (after my mother's sister) had been chosen “in case” he was a girl.  The middle name, "Lynelle", is Mother and Daddy's names combined--Lloyd and Wanelle. Jim came along a couple of years later, and the name had to wait. Well, many years and one more brother  (Ken) later, I appeared…the little princess in all their lives.  (Know that as I write this, I am laughing. They will begrudgingly agree, however.) I was a fluff of hair ribbons, lacy socks, pretty dresses and curls. I have early memories of the three of them treating me like a little doll when I was small.  When I got older, Kenny and I had our moments of war, but I was still his little sister, and he was very protective of me.

My mom was not a super attentive mother, no matter what my princess title required.  Once I was old enough to run outside, I think a “free range” parenting label would fit better. I climbed trees, made mud pies, and played trucks with the boys.  I cut Tide boxes and clipped them to my bicycle spokes with clothes pins so it would make noise.  I went to my dad’s shop and drove small tractors up and down FM 281, much to the neighbor’s horror. Most days I am sure I smelled like a boy when I came in, after a long day blowing up gourds with firecrackers, playing pirate in the old combines behind the shop, and laying in the grass looking at the stars until the mosquitoes ate me up. In my books, that was mothering at its best. 

I was blessed with my own little curtain climbers many years later.  “Mothering” had changed, but I think they will both agree I was not a helicopter mother either.  I must say though, I know for a fact that the lessons and values taught me by my mother have been passed on. Mother taught me how to sew, cook, balance a checkbook, recycle something from almost anything,  how to laugh at yourself, and most of all, how to be independent.  I know I have succeeded in passing that knowledge on to my two little monkeys, who are now the most amazing, beautiful young women I know. They are smart, funny, capable women who know how to work and achieve great things.  Mother has been gone since 1999, but her knowledge is still alive and well through them.

You know, we don’t get a manual when we have kids. We are just all out there, being the best moms we know how to be. For some that means being a helicopter. For others, that might mean not being in their child’s lives at all. But at the end of the day, IT IS OUR BEST.  Thank you, Shelly and Shana, for being everything a mother could ever ask for. I thank God constantly for his blessing of you on our life. I pray he bless you both with the same.

Happy Mother’s Day to all my friends and family. Appreciate your mom every day, whether she is still with you or not—she did her best.

And here are my little nuggets.

Peace, friends.

The Bathrobe

Anyone who knows me well will tell you I am pretty thrifty when it comes to personal belongings.  I have always stowed away my decorative items for a while, only to pull them back out and use them again in a couple of years. I have always only kept one set of sheets for each bed, I wash them and put them back on.  I have cookware that I got as wedding gifts that I still use on a daily basis. I keep clothing and wear it until it is worn out.

This brings up my bathrobe. Just how worn out is worn out?  It is still a very plush blue velour, and is very snuggly (which is the most important requirement for a bathrobe). The only sign of wear is at the neck—from being hung on a hook in my closet. For over 35 years. Ok, ok, I realize this might strike you as a bit odd, to keep something for that long—but I have to reiterate—it is still good!  It has always been able to perform its bathrobe duties-- covered me when I was cold, dried me when I was wet—it worked.  Since the styles don’t really change, I had not really put much thought into a new one. I ordered it from J.C. Penny’s in Dalhart from the catalog counter because I could get a “tall”, and I knew the sleeves would be long enough. I can’t remember the exact date, but I think around 1976. It’s a wonder it wasn’t avocado green instead of blue. Or had peace sign  or “Keep On Truckin” patches sewn on it.

So I start thinking about what this bathrobe has been through. It wrapped me as a newlywed on a cold winter’s night. It tried to cover all of me during my two pregnancies, but my baby belly peeped out the front.  It was a welcome comfort home after a couple of surgeries.  It has been dripped on, drug through, and dipped in almost everything imaginable. It has ventured outside on a few occasions, but I can honestly say it never took a car ride (I never was that robe-wearing mom driving her kids to school). It’s had a million food items on it—syrup, bacon grease, mayo, mustard, and for some odd reason, I always ended up with pancake batter on the sleeves. And yes, I dipped the belt in the toilet water more than once.

So I decided it was time to retire the old girl. She has stood with me, and done everything I have asked. I have replaced her with a cheery pink one, but it doesn’t feel as soft. The hubby said, “Now, you ARE going to get rid of the old one, aren’t you?” and I honestly had to take a breath before I said yes.  I am not a keeper, I donate pretty much anything I am not using, but I think he knew I would have a difficult time letting go of this old girl. How long will the pink one last? Who knows, but my money is on the fact that it will not even touch how long the blue one lasted. And yes, my money is also on the fact that the belt will get baptized in the toilet water.