Dance Mom

When I entered the living room, the two were sitting side by side; eyes affixed to the television. They hardly noticed my entrance.  

“Do you think Chloe will be at the top of the pyramid this week?” My husband asked.

“She deserves it, but I bet Abby will pick Nia just to see what Christi does.”  

I looked at the two of them sitting there watching the Abby Lee Dance Company’s weekly drama. I wondered when my husband went from Mr. soccer, tennis, and volleyball coach extraordinaire to dance mom? I started to ask the two of them what they wanted for dinner but was immediately shushed into silence.  

“Fine,” I said, “I’ll just make my own dinner, and you two can starve.”  

They continued watching their show, transfixed by Abby’s pyramid of rising and falling stars and the drama mommas contending for top billing with their daughters.  

“Girl, you could dance circles around Kendall!” My husband joked with Lulu.

“Daaad, you’re just saying that!” Lulu rolled her eyes at her father.

Taking in this scene, I suddenly felt so left out! Isn’t it supposed to be ME that’s the dance mom? Aren’t I supposed to fill this vital role of living vicariously through my daughter’s life? I wondered when I moved to the outside, and my husband moved to the inside of Lulu’s life.

It really happened slowly. I kept getting sicker and sicker and unable to do everything I used to do. I had trouble going places due to my constant stomach problems and frequent need for a nearby bathroom. Add to that a knee that enjoyed giving out on me on the stairs and in the grocery store, necessitating my turning over the everyday reigns to my husband.  

When I went into the hospital for the third time in three months, I think a part of me just gave up inside. I guess it was then that Bill became the dance mom, and I just faded out of the picture.  

I don’t give my husband half the credit he deserves. He took up the slack and never complained when others might have cracked under pressure. Over these past months, he has taken over the laundry, the cleaning, and the shopping. He’s run all the errands and has run me from one doctor to the other. He has nursed me and my knee - catering to my every need. He has cared for Lulu, too - again, never complaining or making me feel bad.

He didn’t have to make me feel bad; I was doing a great job of that all by myself. In fact, I have elevated “pity party” to a whole new level. While he was breaking a sweat running hither and thither, I was breaking down in my bed, crying over my inability to get anything done.  

“Lulu, Where’s Dad?” I’d yell from my bedroom. Then I’d hear the tractor going and know he was mowing the five acres. Later, I’d ask Lulu the same question, and she’d say he’s grocery shopping for gluten-free food for me or doing laundry.  

So, what did I do for this man during these troubled times? I complained, of course! I complained that he and I had no “quality time” together. I said I missed him. Missed him! Of course, I missed him! He didn’t stay still for more than five seconds, and when he finally crawled into bed at the end of the day, he passed out from exhaustion.  

Today, I was finally able to drive Lulu to dance. Sitting in the waiting room it occurred to me that I was sitting in the waiting room! I wasn’t looking frantically for a bathroom to run to, and if the need arose for me to run to the bathroom, I’d be able to at least walk using my new knee. These little victories were all significant in my life.

I can never repay my husband for being a great dance mom. I know that words would never be adequate to express to him how much I appreciate his loyalty to me during these difficult months. All I know is that I am blessed to have someone who loves me through my grouchy, pitiful, complaining, nagging self. He loves me despite me.  

It hasn’t been easy. I know that my husband has given up so much of his time willingly and freely to care for me. I know that he took the vow, “in sickness and in health,” earnestly, and I am eternally grateful. We just celebrated 29 years of marriage with a walk in the park, which I couldn’t do just a few weeks ago because I could still not put weight on my knee. Many of those 29 years were not walks in the park, but we muddled through somehow. Isn’t that what marriage is all about? You muddle through the rough spots and learn to appreciate and love each other.  

I know I am on the road to recovery now. As I go down this road, I want the number one dance mom by my side. I pray he wants to be by my side, too - always and forever. 

Walter

I have the best job in the world!  Almost every day at work something happens that feeds my soul and renews my spirit.  Even on the days when I drag myself heavy burdened through the door, I most certainly leave lighter. 

I leave lighter because my burdens are lifted by joy and laughter.  Peace infuses the atmosphere and lifts up everyone who enters.  It is as if smiles are contagious and delight is the infection.

Yesterday, I was late to work because I had a meeting to attend first.  When I walked through the door, I felt like a celebrity.  Everyone came up and hugged me as if I was returning from a month long absence.  Walter looked at me with his laughing eyes and beatific smile, “I missed you, Miss Betty!” He said as he gave me a big bear hug. 

Walter is black as the ace of spades with a smile that lights up the room with its brilliance.  I often joke that we’d certainly be able to find Walter in a blackout.  It’s true - few smiles could match the intensity of Walter’s radiance. 

One might question what Walter has to smile about.  He has little to his name.  With his bent frame, he relies on his walker to assist his slow movements.  He is considered “developmentally disabled” - a label that has defined and marred his life.  Yet, despite these limitations, Walter is always cheerful. His good humor is contagious to everyone who has the pleasure to be in his company. He especially lights up when I enter the room.  His greeting and my response are always the same:

“I love YOU, Miss Betty!” Walter says as his enthusiastic smile fills the room with radiant joy. 

“I love you, too, Walter!” is always my response.

For a time, there was a sadness - an empty vacancy that hung in the air at the workshop.  I was told by the volunteers that things just weren’t the same.  I was out for about three weeks due to knee surgery.  Walter seemed to miss me most - according to the volunteers, even his smile lost some of its sparkle. 

He didn’t despair, though.  He prayed.  His humble and trusting prayer was a simple request to bring me healing so that I could return to the workshop.  Then, one day, I came through the door with a walker - just like Walters.  His face immediately lit up.

Of course, the first words out of his mouth were: “I love YOU, Miss Betty!”

I hugged him, taking his calloused hand in mine.  “I love you too, Walter.” 

“I prayed for you, Miss Betty.”  He tells me in his resolute voice.  “I knew you’d get better!”

He holds on tight as if his grip on me is the only thing keeping me from melting away.  In his grip I sense a special connection between us.  Kindred spirits perhaps from some bygone soul bond.

“Thank you, Walter for your prayers.”  My words sound so inadequate as I speak them.

I knew that Walter’s prayers were the prayers of a humble childlike spirit - the kind of prayers that God longs to hear from all of us.  I knew, too, that it wasn’t just Walter’s prayers that brought me back to the helm of the workshop.  It was the prayers of all my Exceptional Entrepreneurs and my volunteers to whom I am forever grateful. 

As I survey my surroundings, I see Josh painstakingly painting his flowers with such intensity that he appears oblivious to the commotion of the workshop.  He looks up momentarily from his painting and gives me a wave and a smile as if to say, “I’m so glad you’re back.” 

Tina and Terri (sisters) are by my side awaiting instructions - I call them my shadows.  Allison is gluing beads on vinyl fish, Jason is sewing on the industrial machine, Tito is watering worms, Chris is feeding worms and Ricky is vacuuming.  To the casual observer, it appears like a regular workplace, but there is nothing regular about this workplace.  None of the Exceptional Entrepreneurs could get a job elsewhere so they’ve come here.  Here they are all busy and productive.  Here, everyone is happy.

“Walter, you better get back to work.  You have orders to fill”  I tell him as I take a seat and Terri magically appears with a pillow for me to prop up my sore knee.

Walter takes up his loom and returns to his patient work making potholders to sell for $2.00 each.  He works with steady intent knowing that each potholder has a special person anticipating the finished creation.  And, indeed, each potholder is sold daily as Walter rides his three-wheeled bike through his neighborhood peddling his wares. 

Walter is a simple man with a pure heart.  He is the embodiment of all the special people who work at the Exceptional Entrepreneurs workshop. It is a place of great joy and great love and great peace. 

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.  Matthew 5: 8-9

Fearless

Late my first night in the hospital, in the flickering lights and the rat-a-tat-tat of dripping IV fluids, I pondered many things: Rat-a-tat; fear; rat-a-tat; loneliness; rat-a-tat; family; rat-a-tat bills; rat-a-tat illness… the endless chorus sung in my brain in tandem with the midnight light show.

The second night, a man’s agonizing voice from the adjoining room added to the chorus.  His obscenity laced screams shattered the relative tranquility of my IV laced music and bounced, rattled and rolled through my brain for hours.  Sleepless, scared and exhausted, I succumbed to the fact that, tethered to an IV pole, it would be impossible for me to chase down sleep. 

Instead, I prayed for the pitifully tortured man in the next room; something akin to a captive praying for his captors.  This man was robbing me of the one thing I desperately sought – sleep.  And yet, I prayed for him instead of the prayer I would have normally said which would have gone something like this:

“Dear God, please make that man shut up so I can sleep!” 

Not this time.  This time, I thought long and hard about the agony I was hearing in the stranger’s voice.  I didn’t know what the poor man was experiencing and I truly hoped that he’d find peace.  So, that is what I prayed; that God would bring peace to the man’s soul.   I don’t know when the screaming stopped except to say that I didn’t notice it anymore because God had reawakened me in a way that I would not have expected to happen in a hospital room.

If my hospital room could talk I believe it would speak volumes of fear.  I didn’t want to add that kind of karma this go-around.  So, in the still of the night under the muted glow of red and green lights, I prayed another simple prayer.  I gave thanks for the room.  I gave thanks for my bed and for the doctors and for all the people who cared about me.  Then, I asked God to erase the fear from my hospital room and from my soul. 

What now?  I wondered.  Does God, like Mr. Clean, have a magic eraser?  Can He just wipe it over my bed and expunge the oozing fear I was sensing both in my room and inside of me?  When will He answer this prayer; days, weeks, months, years?

Knowing that sleep would still elude me, I turned on the television hoping the white noise might provide some quietude.  I really wasn’t paying much attention to the man on the television, Dr. Wayne Dyer speaking about his book, I Can See Clearly Now.  His voice droned in the background while I tossed and turned trying to get comfortable. 

Every so often, one word from the television would break into my consciousness…fearless.  That word, fearless, seemed to dance in the air of the hospital room, so I decided to pay attention for a moment to what Dr. Dyer was saying.  It was then that I realized that perhaps God was trying to answer my prayer right here, right now through this very television show.  Dr. Dyer was speaking of the freedom that comes from living courageously and boldly.  I took it one step further; living fearlessly means living through your soul.  In other words, you don’t look at life through seeing eyes but through a knowing soul. 

Wow! That was quick.  I’m certain that God just answered my prayer because I would never have thought of this stuff myself.

Isn’t it true that everyone has a soul that longs to be freed?  Yet, we keep it captured by fear; fear of the future, fear of losing someone or something, fear of failing, fear of falling…endless fear.  On the contrary, living fearlessly means living soulfully. 

All this contemplating was beginning to hurt my brain! 

Ok, God, since you have brought me full circle from a somewhat sleepy brain to a wide-awake screaming brain on steroids – tell me just how it is that I live a fearless soulful life!

Take your inventory…that came from the guy on the television.  Think about everything that keeps you fearful and stuck. 

The first “think” on my list was my marriage.  I had to acknowledge that my self-talk went something like this; “Why would my husband still love me when I am constantly sick, tired and unable to do all the things we used to love to do together?”   I had to be brutally honest with myself because I knew that honesty was the only way I’d get to the root of my soul.  If I wasn’t honest, it would be like weeding a garden and leaving just a few weeds behind.  Sooner than you think, the weeds will multiply.  Weeds beget weeds and negative thinking begets negative thinking. 

I went from my marriage to my family to my friends and my work.  By 3 AM, I figured I had it all covered.  I was wrong.  I left out me.  I looked at the circle of my influence, but I failed to look at the center of this circle – the heart if you will; the soul.

My soul has been sick for a long time.  In a sense, I believe it mimicked my physical illness.  The word “disease” describes an absence of “ease” in one’s life.  That is how my life has been – uneasy.  I’ve allowed my soul to become infected along with my body causing fear to creep in little by little like a thief in the night robbing me of my soul eyes.

Sometime, during my wee hour contemplation, my darkened room was visited by a single glimmer of light bouncing off the walls.  I became fascinated by what looked like a flitting firefly. 

Where the heck is that light coming from?

I scoured the room in search of the source.  I got out of bed, grabbed my IV pole and walked the entire room.  The light appeared to be following me.  Perhaps a half hour went by before I found the source of the light.  It was reflecting off a little glass angel that I had hung on my IV pole.  The pole was next to an air vent causing the angel to sway back a forth in front of the IV lights.  

Okay, God, now you have my full attention! I spoke into the darkness.

The angel was a gift from one of my volunteers at the Exceptional Entrepreneurs program that I manage for special needs adults.  Seeing the angel’s light made me think of how the light of my exceptional entrepreneurs shines every moment of every day that I am with them.  They are earth’s angels! 

At that moment, the tormented man’s screams shattered the calm of my room.  “What the f… are you doing to me? He shrieked.  Get your f…ing hand off me!” 

My thoughts instantly exploded and crashed into shards of brain rubble.  All I could do was think about the suffering man in the room next to me.  I thought about how terrified he sounded under the bluster of his profanity laced tirade and I wished there was something I could do for him.

“There is something you could do for him.” Came a quiet voice on a wave of calm that settled my brain.

“What?” I replied as if it was perfectly normal to be talking to a voice in the gloom of my room.

“You could help him and many others by spreading some cheer.”

Okay, I felt really stupid now as I asked the voice, “How?”

“Have your earth’s angels deliver their flowers to people in need – no charge, no strings attached.  Just deliver the flowers to brighten someone’s day.”

I wanted to ask more questions but I sensed that the source of the voice had left my room or at least had said all that needed to be said.   I instantly felt a sense of peace and serenity come over me as I thought about the prospect of my special needs folks delivering flowers to people in need.

I don’t think it was my rational brain that birthed this idea.  I think it was my soul; my fearless soul speaking to me.  Such a simple idea: Deliver our vinyl record “forever flowers” free of charge to nursing homes, hospitals, shut-ins; whomever.  Bring some hope and joy to anyone who just needs to know that there are angels among us and there is nothing to fear.

It may be a long time before my soulsight returns completely.  But this I know, it will require that I muster the courage to live fearlessly every day.  So, as soon as I leave this hospital I am going to honor God by following Him fearlessly into this new venture.   I can’t wait to see the faces of my special needs exceptional entrepreneurs as they bring a moment of joy into someone’s life.  I can’t wait to see the reactions of the people to whom we will deliver our flowers. 

It is my fervent prayer that each flower will bring a simple peace to those who receive them.

No doubts, no worries, no uncertainty…fearless.

Wash, Rinse, Repeat

I can’t read the shampoo bottle anymore because I don’t shower with my reading glasses on. That is unless I forget that they are on top of my head when I get in the shower - but I digress.  If I recall correctly, the directions on the shampoo bottle used to say: wash, rinse, repeat. 

When I was in the shower this morning washing, rinsing and repeating it occurred to me that life is like a shampoo bottle.  Stay with me here - I am going somewhere with this, I’m just not sure how long it will take before I get there. 

Think about it for a minute; Don’t we all travel through life doing some of the same things over and over again while expecting different results?  For example, I continually nag my husband about little things that aggravate me to no end (the list is endless).  I nag, he doesn’t stop and I nag again.  He doesn't stop again!  Wash, rinse, repeat.

I tell my daughter to clean her room.  She cleans her room halfheartedly and I tell her to clean her room again.  She cleans her room halfheartedly again.  Wash rinse, repeat.

When I’m driving in the car I have a tendency to yell and scream at the slow driver in front of me.  No matter how much I yell and scream, the slow driver continues to go slow or slower.  I yell some more and they slow down even more.  Wash rinse, repeat.

I ran out of shampoo this morning just as I was about to repeat.  I don’t usually wax philosophical in the shower, but running out of shampoo made me think about the fact that I really didn’t need to repeat.  Come to think of it, wouldn’t it be really nice if I could stop washing, rinsing and repeating in life? 

How great would it be to stop nagging my husband?  What would he do?  How would he react if he slurped his cereal and I didn’t say a word?   I’ll have to try that.  I wonder what my daughter would do if she came home to find all the clothes she leaves on the floor missing from her room.  No arguing.  No comment.  Just missing clothes. 

What if I stopped yelling at the slow drivers?  Would my blood pressure go down?  Would my day be calmer?  I wonder? 

Just for the heck of it, I got my reading glasses out and read the directions on the shampoo bottle.  This is what it says now: Massage through wet hair and rinse well.  Follow with conditioner.  When did the directions change???

Here I’ve been washing, rinsing and repeating my whole life when I could have been massaging and conditioning!  The conditioner bottle says: Enjoy the revitalizing scent of clean ocean air as gentle conditioners bring out the natural beauty of your hair. 

Okay, so I’m going to use the directions on the shampoo/conditioner bottle to come up with my new directions for life: Revitalize and reinvigorate your life by not washing, rinsing and repeating.  Instead, gently condition your soul which will bring out your natural beauty.

Mona and Me

I have an old horse, Mona.  We don’t know her exact horse age (around 33-36 years old).  In people years Mona would be somewhere between 90 and 105. We call her bony Mony because she is skin and bones and refuses to put on any weight.  Mona still gets around well considering her age.  Occasionally, she might even gallop (really a slow trot) in the pasture.   I was watching her in the pasture today and I had to laugh when she took off after one of the other horses.  Every time Mona’s back legs hit the ground she backfired.  It sounded like she had a pellet gun strapped to her behind. 

As I watched Mona, it reminded me of, well, me!  I get out of bed in the morning and the walking farts practically propel me to the bathroom.  It’s not just the farting problem that plaques old biddies like me and Mona.  Come to think of it, I wonder if anyone has ever done a study on whether old female horses have bladder control issues?  I’ve never seen Mona laugh, but I bet she’d pee herself if she did!   I don’t think it’s just me that has these problems.  Some of my closest friends have admitted that they are considering buying stock in bladder control products.  No one wants to admit to the farting problem but I know it exists because I’ve walked behind a group of old people and it sounds like the orchestra trumpet section warming up.  If it’s not old age, then it must be heredity because my much older sister seems to have some exhaust issues as well. 

Just the other day we were leaving a restaurant when my 250 lb. brother-in-law, John, took a dive off a short step.   He didn’t see the step and went flailing into another table of diners.  I cannot find the words to describe the look of terror on their faces as John was hurling himself headfirst into their salads.  It was a scary scene – to say the least.  John’s fall was broken by a quick thinking man at the table who attempted to catch him.  Luckily, the man was able to maintain some semblance of control and did not end up under John as he face planted on the ground.  Thankfully, the only thing John injured was his pride.  After assuring the manager that John wasn’t going to sue the restaurant, we made a discreet exit.

By the time we got to the sidewalk, my sister, Lorraine, and I had started to laugh (we just couldn’t help ourselves).  My daughter, Lulu, gave me a sharp look and told me I’d better stop laughing right away.

  “Mom!” she reprimanded, “You know what happens when you laugh too hard!” 

Well, as soon as Lulu reminded me of my laughing problem, my sister started hiccupping which made us all laugh harder.  We looked like a bunch of drunks who couldn’t hold our liquor as we laughed our way to the parking lot.  When we reached the parking lot, my sister started farting.  Every laugh and hiccup was followed by a fart.  This, of course, caused me to laugh even more.   I just couldn’t stop myself and, despite wrapping my legs in knots, I peed my pants.  It was humiliating!  There we stood - Lorraine laughing, farting and hiccupping and me laughing and peeing while Lulu and John looked desperate to escape the whole scene.  They quickly took off for the car leaving Lorraine and I in the middle of the parking lot unable to move for fear of farting and peeing even more.  Thankfully, no one was around to witness this humiliation.

John must have felt bad for us because he pulled the car up and asked if we needed a ride.  Lulu had put plastic over the back seat so I could sit.  Lorraine and I managed to throw ourselves in the car – still laughing.  Lulu looked mortified and John sarcastically commented that he was glad we all had a good laugh at his expense. 

“Hey, Lulu.”  I said, “Do you think Mona pees herself when she laughs?” 

“Mommmmm!”  Lulu rolled her eyes. “You’re embarrassing!” 

Maybe I am embarrassing.  Maybe I do have a few plumbing issues.  But, at least I can laugh about it.  I can laugh all I want and fart and pee as much as I want because I have an AARP card and I’ve done my time.  Come to think of it, Mona and I have a lot in common.  I bet if I trotted around the pasture, I’d sound like a pellet gun too.  And, frankly, I don’t give a damn!

Txt Me

All we do these days is txt. We hardly ever speak to each other on the phone or in person. I txted my daughter the other day and felt like I was writing in a forin language: OMW. See u soon. Luv u. 

Wht has happnd to the English language? My daughter used to be a great spller. Now, she needs help spelling simple wrds. I cant imagine why ths has happened to her. It seems all her friends hav the same prblm. 

She is takng the FCAT writing test this week, and she is nervous that she wont pass. I tld her to txt me whn she's done and let me no how she did. IDK, but im sure she'll do just fine.