"Thanks For The Memories"
by Deborah Dee Simmons

    It was a Sunday morning and John and I were enjoying a late breakfast at Lansingıs Cracker Barrel when the hostess seated them across the aisle from us.  The mother was probably in her mid-twenties and her three children, a daughter and two sons, each an inch or two taller than their younger sibling, appeared to be about two, three, and four years old, respectively.  The little girl was dressed in a pink knit top with matching leggings and had her motherıs eyes.  The two boys sported traditional ³little boy² haircuts and wore tiny blue jeans.  After much grunting and wiggling around, they managed to remove their coats, hats, and mittens and finally settled into their appointed chairs.  The little girl was seated next to her mother and the two boys sat opposite them.

  I wondered if the young woman was married, divorced, or widowed.  It appeared that no other adult was  expected to join them and no one did.   They sat there, just the four of them, waiting for their meal.  The kids did what kids always do when they wait--they alternately squirmed, pouted, giggled, protested, yelped, punched one another, sat quietly and occasionally slurped through the straw of their plastic-lidded drink cup.  In response, their mother nodded, patted, cuddled, scolded, laughed, corrected, hugged, or sighed. She seemed to sigh a lot.  And she looked tired.

  The memories came flooding back and for a while, I was adrift in a bittersweet sea of images--glimpses into my busy life so many years ago. The children and I were sitting in Bob Evans or McDonald's or on really special occasions, Bill Knappıs.  Derek, the man of the family at the time, was only four years old; Darice was three, Dennae was barely two.   They, too, wiggled and squirmed, argued among themselves one minute, then giggled companionably the next, and took turns as each otherıs worst enemy, best friend, and co-conspirator.  I alternately laughed, scolded, wiped off, mopped up, corrected, played along, snuggled, giggled and sighed.  And like the young mom, I remember sighing a lot, too--and being tired, so very tired.  I often wondered if I would ever not be.    

  I wanted to catch the young momıs eye and smile at her encouragingly, to compliment her on the behavior of her sweet children and her wisdom in bringing them in that morning to mingle with the rest of us.  I wanted to praise her for bringing them to a ³sit down² restaurant, for loving them enough to teach them manners, for being their protector, their teacher, and the one to whom they turn for approval, correction, love and support.  I wanted to reassure her that her life will get easier, that someday she wonıt be so tired, and that she will always sigh--but not always out of weariness.  Sometimes, it will just be the sad realization that time is fleeting and (to quote from a poem Iıve written)....

³...that life and time, like water flow,
their passage hindered not....
by harried days and busy nights,
and worries best forgot....

  I wanted to warn her that those tiny, squirming youngsters will grow tall in the blink of an eye; urge her to commit to memory todayıs sights and sounds and sensations; and reassure her that mornings like these, spent in the company of the most special people in her life, will weave a blanket of precious memories to warm
her in the years to come.  

  Most of all, I wanted my tiny children back.  I wanted to see restaurant placemats turned into colorful, crayon-covered masterpieces, to pour catsup on French fries and wipe up spills, to cut hamburgers in half and feel sticky little mouths giving me syrupy kisses. I wanted to tuck chubby hands into fuzzy mittens, button up bulky coats and tug on uncooperative boots.  I wanted to hug my childrenıs tiny shoulders and glory in the caress of their soft hair against my cheek once more.  And for a little while, I lost myself in a rush of sweet memories.

  It was time to leave.  I took one last, lingering look as the four of them continued to unwittingly reenact my past.  I wanted to thank them for bringing back those precious recollections.  I wanted to--but I didnıt.

  If you ask me...I should have.

Copyright İ 2000 by Deborah Dee Simmons
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"Lessons in Love"

By Deborah Dee Simmons

After seven years of marriage, my first husband left in search of greener
pastures.  (The one he found just happened to have another woman grazing in
it.)  Despite my initial shock, I was blessed with the joy and comfort of
our three children to get me through the rough times.  Derek was four years
old, Darice was three and Dennae was just two.  I was a stay-at-home mom
with no income in sight, the house payment was three months behind, and the
phone had been shut off.  Things did not look good, but I wouldn't trade a
second of those years for all the cash in the world.

Daily life became a juggling act.  Should we have water--or heat?  Food or
power?  A car or a house to live in?  Just warding off nakedness was a never
ending struggle.  This dreary beginning, however, turned into a long period
of gradual self-growth, increasing happiness, and welcome peace of
mind--despite the unrelenting poverty.  I found full-time employment in a
local bank and then took a higher-paying position with the local school
district (where I work to this day), but it still wasn't enough to make life
truly comfortable.  So the children and I worked at it.

I am very grateful that I was able to squeak by without ever seeking the
assistance of welfare programs.  God was extremely good to us.  Without His
love and guidance, I would have crumbled into my heap of dirty laundry and
dissolved into tears.  I did that a lot, anyway, but I know His Hand was in
everything I touched, every day we lived, every aspect of our lives.  He
knew what He was doing.  (Good thing, too, because I sure didn't.)  I can
still remember the prayer I said aloud beside my children's beds every
single night:  "Dear God, please bless my three little children and their
babies [assorted dolls, stuffed animals and precious animal-like beings they
had won at the fair], keep them safe from harm at all times and let them
know how much I love them and need them forever and ever......"

Life was good back then, but some days were even better than others.  The
Christmas season was an especially magical time, as you can well imagine,
and the children and I had wonderful Christmas mornings--and not just in the
sense that there were gifts to open.  There were loving family members with
whom to celebrate, delicious food to enjoy, long-standing customs to
observe, a healthy dose of Santa magic to delight in and lots of meaningful
spiritual tradition to commemorate the occasion.  Derek, Darice and Dennae
were aware that Christmas was not just about Santa Claus and presents; it
was all about the birth of Jesus Christ and the salvation of the entire
world for all eternity.  They knew, but they still believed in Santa.  And
that was okay.

With all my other responsibilities, by the time Christmas Eve rolled around,
I was bushed.  But the hard part still loomed before me.  Somehow, before
5:00 a.m. the following morning, I had to unearth each carefully hidden
gift, drag them downstairs undetected, assemble, sort, wrap and label each
one of them.  I had a simple rule of thumb: if it was wrapped, it was from
Mommy; if it was unwrapped, Santa had brought it.  That was the rule.  Hard
and fast.  No two ways about it.

I started out with the best of intentions.  Experience had taught me to
color-code the children's gifts so I would know, without looking at the tag,
which gift belonged to which child come Christmas morning.  I wrapped the
gifts for Dennae, my youngest, in the most juvenile wrapping paper--often
splashed with big pictures of Santa or reindeer.  Derricks paper was
slightly more sophisticated, perhaps a Christmas tree or angel scene, and
Derek's was the most masculine--bold green and red stripes, for example.
Keep in mind I didn't have a lot of money to throw around on wrapping paper,
so finding a thrifty three-pack with the right combination of themes was
quite a challenge.  But I was up to it.  After all, I was Mom and this was
Christmas and my kids were counting on me.

Armed with three rolls of paper, a big bag of the cheapest multicolored
stick-on bows I could find, scotch tape, scissors, assorted gift tags, a pen
and a mug of hot chocolate, I plopped myself down in the middle of the
living room floor.  I was ready.  Each of the children's gifts had been
hidden in grocery sacks or black plastic garbage bags.  To anyone peeking in
the window, it would appear I was sitting in the middle of a landfill.  I
leaned over, selected a gift from one of the bags and began to wrap.
Slowly.  Carefully.  Meticulously.  The first ones were beautiful.  The
wrapping paper was cut with precision, they were taped neatly and evenly,
and each gift was topped with a color-coordinated bow (placed carefully on
the package so as to yield the greatest aesthetic impact).  Following the
wrapping of each gift, which typically took about ten minutes, I would
search out just the right name tag for that particular present and that
particular child (you know, juvenile, slightly more sophisticated or
masculine), pick up my pen, and compose a beautiful sentiment.

"To Derek, my dear, super-duper son and oldest child, with love and hugs
for a very, Merry Christmas, Mommy."

"To Darice, my sweet daughter, with lots of huggies and kissies.  Merry,
Merry Christmas, honey bun.  Mommy."

To my baby, Dennae, without whom the sun would never rise.  With love and
smackaroonies, babykins.  Santa says hello!  Love you, punkinhead.  Mommy."

About three gifts into the process, I began to reevaluate my procedures.  It
didn't take long to realize I had bought an awful lot (albeit inexpensive)
gifts and I would be there until New Year's Eve if I didn't change my ways.

Needless to say, I changed.  By the end of the night (which was about 3:00
a.m., by the way), my methods began to relax--imperceptibly, at first.  It
wasn't long, however, before I restructured completely.  Four hours later,
my method had been reduced to grabbing the roll of paper, ripping off a
piece with my teeth, slinging it around the gift, slapping on a piece of
tape, and skipping the bow entirely.  Gift tags were history.  Derek, Darice
and Dennae became D-1, D-2, and D-3 and  love, Mom deteriorated into
nothing more than a scrawled M. Both scribblings were placed directly on
the wrapping paper--any place I could find a light spot.  (Santa's beard was
a popular site.)  Frankly, I just didn't give a rip anymore.  The closer it
grew toward morning, the more gifts Santa was credited with bringing.  If it
looked like it was going to be difficult to wrap (or if I had to move from
the cross-legged position in which I had become immobilized), I willingly
gave Santa the credit.

Paralyzing pain and all, though, I wouldn't trade one aching second of that
time.  The look of wonder on their glowing faces the next morning made it
all worthwhile.  Their excited cries and earnest hugs and sloppy kisses
proved to me that it didn't matter if the gifts were department
store-expensive or dimestore-cheap, the real name brand item or a
knockoff version, wrapped in gold foil or stuffed in a shoe box.  The
words I love you, Mommy! and I knew Santa would remember! can make up for an
awful lot of blood, sweat and tears.  Every last bit, in fact.

One of the greatest compliments I ever received was a remark that Darice
(you know, the slightly more sophisticated one) made to me a few months ago
when we were discussing her childhood.

"You know, Mom," she said, "Back then, I never knew we were poor."
That's because we weren't.

Copyright İ 2000 by Deborah Dee Simmons

Deborah Dee Simmons
dsimmons@remc8.k12.mi.us

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