Hovering

Every once and awhile, the occasion arises where my 6 year old must walk to school on his own. We live within visual distance of the school, and most days he is accompanied by the older kids in my daycare, but because of absence, illness or other circumstances, there are days when he stands on the front step with a hint of fear in his voice as he sets out on his own. "Mommy, will you watch me?"

He really wants to be brave. He knows it is not REALLY that far, and he walks it every day...just not alone. I am unable to leave because of my younger charges, so I assure him that I will watch him from the porch until he is 'safe' with the crossing guard at the corner. This gives him the confidence he needs to set out with boldness.

As his mother, and the victim of a 'hovering' mother, I too am a little nervous. My own mother has read every crime statistic ever posted and is not shy about clipping articles and slipping them into my belongings, and pointing out every danger that lurks around the corner. Babies can drown in a teaspoon full of water. Children can choke on everything from Lego's to hot dog parts and peanut butter. I cringe every time the new issue of Reader's Digest comes out and she flips to the 'Drama in Real Life', because some of those ridiculous adventures have hampered my ambitions to walk through the parking lot of the local WalMart...for fear I'll be attacked by a rogue lynx. (Make sure you check UNDER your vehicle as well as on top of it, in case it slashes at your ankles first to take you down!)

Our town has swollen from 500 to 750 in the 37 years I've lived here, so it's not like we're talking inner city living when it comes to crime and danger. About 15 years ago, there was a little girl abducted and killed in the town 10 miles away, so we know we can never consider ourselves truly safe, but the chances he will be snatched are slim. I always feel better when the big kids go with him. I don't feel compelled to keep my eyes glued to him until he reaches the corner.

Does God feel this way about us too? He is always aware of where we are, but when we are walking with Christian brothers and sisters who hold us accountable, does He feel more comfortable in letting us walk alone? Does He fret and worry and cross His arms while biting His fingernails as we skip through puddles and drag our bookbags? All I know is that I am glad He's watching. I'm glad I have that assurance that if the stranger with the candy pulls up, He will be right there to save me!

Love your Fuzz Off

This photo was taken by a photographer from Chicago who has an amazing site...check it out.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/chicagoeye/ When I saw it, I was at first shocked and horrified. I thought of those 'Chucky' dolls from the 80's movies. I admit, I never watched them because I just KNEW they'd give me nightmares. Lee's caption to this photo explains that these dolls belong to his daughters. That took away some of the horror.

When you realize that they got this way because of LOVE, it makes it a little better. Okay- maybe their brother had something to do with the eyes, but when something endures a lifetime of hugging, kissing, tea parties, hospital visits, trips to the unknown and all the other 'duties' of a comfort object, it starts to show. What little girl didn't have a doll whose hair was either missing or in an impossible knot on top of her head from being drug around by the 'caveman' child who owned her?

For me it was 'Bluey'. It's funny...I didn't know how to spell it. I never had to put his name in print before. He (why did I attach a male gender to it too?) was there for me. All throughout my childhood, he was a part of my life. I took him everywhere, and he always made it all better. He was nothing more than a blue piece of thermal material with satin around his outside, but he couldn't have been more important to my growing up years.

At age 5 or so, my mother decided that Bluey was too hard to keep track of when we traveled to various relative's homes, so she decided to divide him up and give each household a piece so I would never be without. She sneakily executed this procedure long after she thought I was asleep, but I walked in on her and with all of my 5 year old drama announced , "You've murdered Bluey!" There she sat, scissors in hand, unable to deny her crime. I was devastated.

I had big plans for Bluey. He would adorn the kitchen curtain rod when I got older. I was going to have a valance made out of him so I wouldn't face the ridicule of those who might think it was childish to hang onto something such as that. I hadn't ironed out the details of how I was going to hide the fact that he had his fuzz all loved off, and was, in fact, worn right through in areas, but those were minor details. He wasn't blue any more since my mother had washed him so many times his color had faded to practically white. My main concern is that he would never be away from me.

My mother had just ended that dream. With a few swipes of the butchering shears, I no longer had my friend. Oh- I had pieces of him, but what was one little hunk compared to the full body armor he provided me in times of trouble?

If I were the type to seek psychological counseling, I might also sight the example of Mrs. Matooga. I don't remember her well, just that she was an old friend of my grandmother who thought that Bluey and thumb sucking were WAY outdated for a child my age. She tortured me by actually trying to take Bluey from me and telling me that my stomach would rot if I continued to suck my thumb. The tug of war she engaged in with me, and her harsh, spitty words have scarred me for life. I would seek refuge behind the big chair in Grandma's living room when she was around. I've never gotten over it.

Some people appreciate the importance of things such as these. My maternal grandfather was one of them. Until his death, he kept my piece of Bluey that had been designated to his home, and after his death, my grandmother framed it with a poem. I carried my own piece as my 'something blue' for my wedding to John 7 years ago. He was tolerant of that seemingly childish act. Just the other day, I pulled out my piece and held it to my face and was immersed in years of memories, love, tragedies avoided and comfort.

We all need physical comfort in some form. For me it was Bluey. For Lee's girls, it may have been those well worn dolls. To the outside eye, they are gross and hideous, and may even smell, but to the ones who love them, they are a lifetime of memories and love. In my struggle to convince myself that inner beauty is the most important, I try to remember to see myself as those who love me see me. They dont' see my battle wounds and scars. They see who I have been to them. They love me as God loves me. Thank goodness!