Home Grown

 

                  

Sparkly sliver and glistening crystal water goblets going clink when the ice water is  poured. Linen napkins are creased deliberately and a delicate orchid anchors the table-center. Fragrant teas being poured through strainers into china cups awaiting sugar cubes and a host of accompaniments on which to feast our eyes and palates. Tea at the Ritz, a rare but favorite treat for me and my daughters. This year we celebrate the birthday of Diana as she turns the page to begin her twenty-fourth year. (For all who know  well that I do not do numbers, let me clarify that I am perfectly aware that she turned twenty-three.) 

We speak of many things. Female gibberish about the outrageous costume on the young lady at the next table, the precious family of four generation tea-takers including a child's doll clustered at the fireplace setting, and the carefree ease with which some of the guests seem to weave in and out of what we consider an almost surreal adventure. As we are prone to do on birthdays in our family, one of the sisters asks Diana to reflect on a highlight from the previous year and to share goals for the year ahead. When I inquire about favorite childhood birthday memories, Diana playfully responds, "The ones when you were home." Gales of laughter erupt from my daughters, but I hesitate before I can join the spontaneity of the teasing.

Birthdays are a big deal at our house. We begin the countdown at least a week ahead. Is there anything else you still want to do as a ten year old? This is your last Thursday to be eleven. Presents are not a spectacle, but the celebrant choosing the menu and cake-flavor with your picture-fan front and center are the order for the day. So, how could this child pull up the birthdays of my absence as those most memorable? 

Eventually I laugh. Harrumph. (You know how mothers are.) Indeed, I did miss two birthdays out of the twenty-three. Once, when I took the oldest sister to England to visit the school she would attend after high school and another when in Hawaii while Dennis attended a conference. This child, by the way, had a stash of little surprises to open every hour on the hour to assuage my guilt complex. 

Nonetheless, I was grateful for the message and for the track record. Grateful to have been able to be home with my children. Grateful that they noticed when I wasn't there. Grateful that even though I missed the mark in many ways, I heard the Lord's prompting that my presence was important. Sometimes, on those "Alexander and the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad, day" days I would quip that I could be wearing high heels and carrying a brief case and threatened to put my crew on the next yellow bus that came down the street. But they  knew I was joking. I was home, where I wanted to be even on "those days".

My own mother was my mentor through example more than words. During my growing up years in the Leave it to Beaver era, she was ironing when I returned from school or gathering the wash from the line or baking apple dumplings, all in her black, straight skirt, white blouse and high (as in spiked) heels. I remember a season when Mother was asked to be the Welcome Wagon lady in our small Midwest community. That meant she was given a car  to drive to  greet  newcomers, to acknowledge a baby's birth or to congratulate first-time homeowners. She was responsible for recruiting local merchants who donated their wares that comprised the welcome-basket she gifted to recipients she visited on one or two days per week. As I went off to school one morning I asked if she would be home when I returned. Mind you, my daddy's office was in the home, so one of my parents was ever-present. When mother replied to the affirmative, I told her I was glad...that I liked it when she was there when I got home from school. Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe new people stopped moving into our little burg or maybe the dealership that loaned her the car needed it back. Anyway, Mother peeled the welcome-wagon decals off the side of the loaned vehicle and I never knew her to make another call after that day. She knew it meant something to me when she was home when I got there.

There are mothers who wait years for that affirmation, or calculate that when their kids hit their teens, their presence does not matter. Nancy, my friend, waited in  the kitchen each afternoon for that moment her son returned each day from high school. For four years, she busied herself with something--just anything--to be there when he walked through the room, never making eye contact or saying a word to her.  Still she made it a point to be home, to let her interest and love and concern speak what his teenage, rebellious state did not want to hear in words. It would be years later when, in a crowded room, she overheard her thirty year old son telling the group of young parents gathered how much it had meant to him that his mom was always home when he returned from school.

To be ever-present as a mom is not necessarily a virtue. But to be fully present, consistently engaged and genuinely interested are gifts long-remembered. It is not only quality but quantity. Kids thrive on  both.

                                

And so, li'l missy....recently turned "mrs" I am so grateful to have shared this birthday with you. Soon you will be off to Wisconsin with your beloved to start a new chapter of your lives together. And whenever you are and wherever I am, you will always be "home in my heart" on this day.