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Aidan is closing in on 18. Last night, we were talking about the trend of brand-new adults running out to get their first tattoos the moment they’re legal. When I turned 18, the big thing was to buy lottery tickets and avoid committing felonies. Now, it’s all about the ink.
Occasionally, she has brought up the subject, perhaps gauging our level of support or horror. Aidan mentions tattoos are okay “if they mean something significant” and I point out to her that what seems significant at 18 is rarely what will be significant at 25 or 40. They are a lifelong sentence, short of using laser beams. Everyone knows laser beams should be reserved for Death Stars, for maniacal villains to mount on the noggins of sharks, and for Pink Floyd laser shows at the Planetarium. No tattoo, no reason to sizzle yo’self.
During last night’s conversation, I asked her what she found significant. What “means something?” Nothing sprung to mind (perhaps nothing she wanted to share?). So, I proposed Mrs. Potts and Chip from Disney’s Beauty and Beast. When she was 4 or 5-years-old, she got small plastic versions in a Happy Meal and carried them around everywhere she went. She still has Mrs. Potts sitting on her desk. Chip is MIA. Everyone thought that was a great idea but Aidan. Then, the suggestions—complete with illustrations—came rolling in.
Teddy drew this guy. It’s a monster to put on her face. She appreciated the sentiment, but a monster tattoo on her face could be a barrier to future employment. As a mom, I am a fan of future employment. Teddy said he is not worried about future employment. Proof? He’s going to have Chick Hicks tattooed on his nose someday.
 by Teddy, age 4 Beatrix was drawing cute animals and offered this tiger for her only sister’s consideration. It’s pretty adorable and Hello Kitty-esque.
 by Beatrix, age 8 But by far the favorite of the night were Joel’s multiple suggestions revolving around ferrets. Aidan has never liked ferrets. Why he came up with ferrets is anyone’s guess, but they became a theme.
His first was a ferret surrounded by a heart. This was for her upper arm. “I don’t even like ferrets!” she wailed.
 by Joel, age 11 The second was very meta. Post-modern, even. Joel’s idea was a ferret with a tattoo of a ferret with a tattoo of a ferret with a tattoo of a ferret. Such an impressive piece would have to go on her back to appreciate the full effect. If you think the movie Inception is trippy, imagine infinite ferrets on ferrets splotched on your child’s back forevermore. Don’t contemplate if someone got a tattoo of someone with ferrets tattooed on ferrets tattooed on ferrets.
 by Leonardo DiCaprio*, age 47* (*rumor) Finally, he suggested a small ferret hugging her big toe. This would only be seen by a few people. He couldn’t explain why a ferret would hug a big toe. I’m not even sure if you can tattoo the skin on the bottom of feet, but it’s a beautiful idea, no? If I ever get a tattoo, this will be the front runner.
 Fire up the laser! It means something.
1. I was 7 1/2 months pregnant with Aidan. My husband didn’t get anything for me. Later, he explained I wasn’t a “real” mother yet. My feelings were really hurt. When a waiter at a Mother’s Day buffet gave a carnation to me, I felt vindicated. Wherever you are, carnation guy, thank you.
2. Unbeknownst to me, I was pregnant with Ryley. Aidan was 10 months old. I wore a pretty floral dress and felt so proud of Aidan. Funny. Mother’s Day seemed to be more about my child and I was fine with that.
3. I remember nothing. I had an infant and a toddler.
4. I remember nothing. I had an infant, a toddler, and I was pregnant with Sam.
*5. I remember nothing. I had a preschooler, a toddler, and an infant. Oh, and I was pregnant with Tommy.
*6. I remember nothing. I had two preschoolers, a toddler, and an infant.
*7. I remember nothing. I had a kindergartner, two preschoolers, a toddler, and I was pregnant with Joel.
*8. I remember nothing. I had a first grader, two preschoolers, a toddler, and an infant.
9. I remember everything. I had a second grader, a kindergartner, a preschooler, two toddlers, and we took them all to Red Robin for lunch where one of the kids, who was answering the questions of a waitress (shocked by our family size), said “There was another baby, but it died.” Had we used hashtags back in the wilds of 2005: #Downer. Then, we drove up to Lookout Mountain to see Buffalo Bill’s grave. We bought two pounds of fudge at the curio shop. Unknown to us, Joel spent the ride home eating one pound of white chocolate fudge and he threw up in the driveway when we got home.
A new era began. We’ll call it the BIB years, also known as Breakfast in Bed.
10. Breakfast in bed. I had a third grader, a first grader, a kindergartner, a preschooler, a toddler, and I was pregnant with Beatrix.
11. Breakfast in bed. Just add a year to each kid and note Beatrix was about 8 months old.
12. Breakfast in bed. Again with the adding the year. I was about 30 seconds pregnant with Archie.
13. Breakfast in bed. Catching up on the math: We had sixth, fourth, third, and first grade kids along with a preschooler, a toddler, and an infant.
14. Breakfast in bed. We had five kids in school, two at home, and Teddy on the way.
15. Breakfast in bed. Hashtag blur. 8th, 6th, 5th, 3rd, 1st, and three little ones.
16. Breakfast in bed. Aidan was in high school! Beatrix was in kindergarten. I was pregnant with Ollie.
17. Breakfast in bed. I was a mom of a complete family. Nine kids! We went to a park in Centennial. I was sitting under the shaded picnic area when a family walked in, claimed the table next to ours, and unfurled a tablecloth. They cracked out some wine glasses. The dad uncorked a bottle of red while the mom set up china plates and silverware. They opened a cooler and took out the most amazing-smelling collection of Asian foods and sushis and spread them around. The family dined like Kings while I sat there awkwardly pretending to not notice.
18. It snowed as I ate my donuts…in bed. I lamented a change I felt brewing.
I have no idea what this 19th Mother’s Day will bring. Hopefully, some BIB. Maybe some wine at a park or a pound of fudge to eat on a twisty mountain road? I’m counting on some sort of school-made surprise involving a handprint. I love that stuff.
Mostly, I look at my bunch year after year after year and marvel how they’ve grown since the previous second Sunday in May. It’s not odd that I remember how old the kids were or who was riding around in my belly because they’re the reason for the season.
They also inspired me to look at my own mom and my mother-in-law in a deeper and more appreciative light. What kinds of Mother’s Days did they have? My mom shared one that stood out in her memory. I wish I had done more for my own mom when I was still a kid. I didn’t understand. I don’t wish my kids did more for me. I just wish they knew how beautiful it is to be in my spot. Here I am, lucky enough to have my children and to have both our mothers. I have a day when I can sling them all together in one beautiful bouquet.
* I seem to remember a chaotic lunch at Olive Garden one of these years, but I can’t pinpoint which.
For two years, I was proud to be a contributor at A Deeper Story. I wrote alongside many amazing authors, writers, and poets, often wondering how on earth I got so lucky. I often felt unworthy. They were the Alice Coopers to my Wayne.
Nish Wiseth, the founder and chief editor, has decided the time has come to move on, so she is closing up shop. I’ve decided to re-post my work from there here. Every Saturday, a new-to-Lifenut post I wrote for A Deeper Story will appear here (with Nish’s blessing and encouragement). These posts often focus on issues of faith, culture, church, and how they intersect through story. I am very fond of these posts and don’t want them disappearing. Folding them into Lifenut is like folding chocolate chips into cookie dough.
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The Witches’ Lilacs
(originally published March 6, 2014)
My grandmother told me witches lived in the ruins of an abandoned apartment building near her home. She went on daily walks around her neighborhood, so I believed her. She knew everything. Every house had a number and she had the corresponding footnote. She knew the names of the dogs who barked at fences and gates. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she knew the name of each floating goose at the park lake few blocks away. She could have pointed at a small, scraggle of a bird paddling away from the flock, and said, “He’s Lawrence.” I was young enough to shout, “Hi, Lawrence!” in his direction and fold him into the list of my forever friends.
The day I heard about the witches, she herded me around one corner, around another, and then we stopped in front of a mostly-vacant lot. The only thing left of the structure was a basement with a few thick white crumbling walls standing above ground. Lilac bushes in full bloom grew in clusters around the walls.
“Witches,’ she whispered, ‘live there.”
I made a note to never go there, which was probably my grandma’s goal. She was unconventional, like Lawrence the Goose.
I considered the building and the lilacs and what I knew of witches. It didn’t seem like a witching sort of place, aside from the decay and loneliness. Yes, maybe witches could live there, but the lilacs seemed outlandishly out of place. They grew in my great-grandmother’s yard on the other side of the state. She was no witch. She went to the Baptist church. A van picked her up at her house every Sunday morning. When she prayed over Thanksgiving turkey, Christmas roast beef, Easter ham, and Fourth of July potato chips, her voice trembled with love for her Lord. It shook. Her voice never shook when she talked about John Wayne, perfect meringue, or bowling. My mom pointed it out once, telling me to pay attention to great-grandmother’s voice the next time I heard her pray. I learned the word, reverence.
So, instead of hearing what she prayed, I listened to how she prayed. Reverence! It was different from a Sunday school teacher’s prayer before punch and cookies. It was nothing like my dad’s rote dinner blessing or my secret plea when I was alone in bed at night: “Please, don’t let our house burn down like The Walton’s. Amen.”
Did God like shaking prayers better than regular prayers? I formed that impression because everyone always wanted her to pray when we gathered together. The food was surely blessed and so were we. Nobody ever got sick or choked and our bodies grew. When I was a bit older, it slipped that calf brains were often part of Easter morning breakfast, mixed with scrambled eggs. The prayers of a good, reverent woman explained why I didn’t keel over, stone cold dead because I ate the brains of a baby cow. It was the only explanation.
I considered the lilacs growing in the witches’ lot. They could grow everywhere, even where it was ugly and scary? Eventually, I learned you could snip lilac shoots and replant them into any little bit of earth and they’d grow with a decent measure of sun and water. They don’t mind skirting the steady, the whispering, the silent, the barren, or even the crumbling and decrepit as long as they are fed. Loveliness sprouts despite, making the ruins fade until all you see, standing on a sidewalk, is a reminder of something really good. The hard lonely ruins don’t diminish the beauty of what’s wild and providential. Rather, thriving evidence of provision makes ruins into a shining palace. Reverence isn’t in a voice, a skyward look, or in perfectly folded hands. The wind swells and swirls as dainty purple blossoms rock in clinging bunches. Funny. Lilacs all smell the same when they’re in full, glorious bloom.
No, grandma. Witches can’t live there.
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