As I Celebrated The Queen’s 23rd Birthday (from 2015)

Dear 20 year old me,

Congratulations on your new baby girl. Her head full of wild hair will be just the first of many things that makes you ooh and ahh over her.

I want to tell you so many things you don’t know.  But it wouldn’t matter any more than telling a sheet of copper that eventually it would become a vessel.  The copper must go through the cutting and pounding and heat before it becomes what it was meant to be.

And so shall you. 

I know you’re uncertain about so many things, and feeling you’ve been flung into a parallel universe where you recognize no one or anything.  That’s ok.  You’ll make it through.  Even in the whirlwind of hospital stays and sicknesses and surgeries, you’ll still be sniffing her head, gnawing on her roly-poly thighs, buying frilly girly outfits in addition to the occasional baseball onesie, and snuggling her so tightly you feel you’re trying to absorb her.

Enjoy it.

Even at the hospital.

Enjoy HER. 

You’ll meet doctors and nurses and teachers and aides and parents and people at gas stations who will make you cry tears of joy because of their unusual kindnesses.

You’ll also meet jerks. 

But fortunately, the number of those who speak and act kindly will outnumber those who don’t.  So please….try not to carry too long hateful words or deeds.  They occupy too much space in your mind, and you for sure don’t want them growing the root of bitterness in your heart.

Your baby girl needs a peaceful you.

She needs a joy-filled Mom, who will eventually be called “Omma”.

Don’t fret over typical milestones.  Your baby girl will set her own time schedule.  Some things she’ll do on her time, some things she’ll simply not do. 

Trust me.  There will come a day where you won’t care about what she’s not able to do, and fully and completely rejoice in the things she can do.

And you’ll make a fool of yourself in parking lots.

“My 7 year old just signed “more, please”!  She put 2 signed words together!  She did it!  She did it!”

The lady returning her cart will smile, you’ll get in your car and cry.

Happy happy happy. 

You’ll pray like mad that God will heal her.  Oh, young me, I get what you’re saying.  But “she” doesn’t need healing.  Yes, you’ll want her healthy.  But her make-up, the DNA that has created this magnificent being and the God Who designed her, fashioned her in a beautiful way.  “She” doesn’t need healing.  She is who she is.  Her abilities.  Her “dis”abilities.  Her different abilities. 

One day you’ll realize—when someone comments that you’d probably give your left arm to make her “normal”–that no, you wouldn’t change a thing about her.  She’s perfectly and wonderfully made, and you love her just the way she is.

And you’ll realize what a milestone that is for YOU.

And then you’ll cry.

Again.  

20 year old me, I just want to say that you’re going to be overwhelmed when you get your baby home.

Overwhelmed with love.

With compassion.

With empathy. 

Your vision will change.  You’ll see everything through a filter, a filter that was created the moment you birthed her.  You’ll consider where others may be, because you know where you are.  You’ll be drawn to other babies who have g-tubes or AFOs or oxygen tanks.  Your heart will be tugged as you see moms carrying their bundles of differently-created, tiny humans and immediately sense a familial connection. 

Your endurance will be tested and proven.  Your patience will be stretched and strengthened.  Your heart will grow softer and your skin will grow thicker.  You’ll see God move in ways that your limited, human mind could never have imagined. 

So this vessel into which you’re being shaped, be sure it’s continually filled with the oil of compassion and hope and joy and encouragement. There will be occasions where you’ll begin feeling depleted, but if you remain open, I promise, you will be refilled.  (2 Corinthians 1:4)

Put your nose on your baby’s head and inhale deeply.  Sniff that sweet, infant scent.  Etch the aroma of her “cake breath” into your memory.  Nibble her toes.  Rock her a little longer.  Kiss those fat cheeks. 

Twenty-three years will pass more quickly than you realize.

newbornqueen
The Queen at 2 days old

All About The Details–I Get It Honest

I awaken and smell coffee.  Ahh…the joys of spending the night at my parents’ house.  I roll out of bed and head to the kitchen.  Not only is coffee freshly-brewed, but my mug is filled with hot water so that when I pour that first cup of joe, it doesn’t cool quickly from being poured into a cold cup.  A solid night’s sleep.  Hot coffee.  A breakfast spread that rivals any famous buffet-style restaurant. Mom and her attention to detail.

Having been reared by “the hostess with the mostest” as she’s been called, I guess it’s no surprise that I welcome guests in my home.  As a matter of fact, I love having overnight guests, especially when I have a few days to plan. If you’re staying at my house overnight, there are a few things you can expect when you go to bed (again, provided I’ve had a couple days to prepare!)

My Details

A bed with freshly-washed sheets and blankets.  Oh, how I love to make a bed!  I start with an excellent quality set of sheets—600+ thread count, and they have to be 100% cotton.  The top sheet is put on thread-side up so when it’s folded down, the print and/or the decorative piping is seen.  The corners must be mitered, too.  If the sheets are wrinkled, I’ll iron them.  Ok, I ironed them—one time.  Now I immediately retrieve them from the dryer so wrinkles can’t set in, and if there are a couple, I’ll simply iron the top part of the flat sheet (the part that’s seen when folded down.)

Extra pillows. If you don’t have new pillows for your guests, now is the time to purchase some.  They’re fairly inexpensive depending on where you buy them, and if they’re used only for guests, they won’t wear as quickly.

Extra blankets. Even in the summer, extra blankets are sometimes necessary for guests.  They could be cold-natured, or the air conditioner may have it particularly cool in the bedroom.  Better to have something and not need it than need something and not have it.  Wash them, fold them neatly, and let your guests know where they can be found.

Nightlights. Obvious reasons here.  A middle-of-the-night visit to the restroom or the kitchen for water shouldn’t be risky.  Light their way.

Guest towels and washcloths. I have a couple sets just for guests.  They’re washed, towels are folded in thirds, then placed on the table in the guest room.  (On any given day, my linen closet could look like a mini-tornado went through it.  Providing towels & washcloths upon arrival generally eliminates the possibility of their witnessing the aftermath.)

Travel-sized amenities.  Shampoo, body wash, toothpaste, lotion, deodorants (men’s and women’s,) and a couple full-sized toothbrushes are in a basket on the nightstand.

Room-darkening curtains.  This is especially important if the window(s) is east/southeast facing.  (If they prefer to be awakened by the morning sun, they can keep the curtains open, of course.) 

In the morning, after a (hopefully) restful night’s sleep, I’ll prepare breakfast, which is my favorite meal to fix.  After all, it always includes coffee and usually includes bacon.  What’s not to love?  I’ll ask the guests the night before what their preferences are, then cook accordingly in the morning.  Gravy, biscuits, eggs, sausage, bacon, baked cheese grits, hash browns, and blueberry waffles are some of my specialties.  When the guests sit down to eat, there are a few things they can expect.

Preferences & Offerings

If they’ve chosen waffles, they’re going to have real butter and hot syrup.  The thought of pouring cold syrup on margarine-laden waffles horrifies me.  If I won’t eat it, I don’t expect my guests to, either.

Should biscuits & gravy be their preference, I’ll make homemade gravy and <gasp> frozen biscuits. I used to make homemade biscuits because the canned ones were just, well, not palatable to me.  With homemade, it took about 45 minutes and there was flour all over the counter top.  When I discovered Pillsbury’s frozen biscuits I never looked back.  They’re the closest thing to homemade one can buy!  (The only gripe I have is their packaging—I wish they came in a zipper-seal bag.  You’ll have to use your own freezer bags if you buy them.)  And since I’m a native West Virginian, if gravy is served, there will be apple butter on the table, too.

Thick-cut bacon.  I’ve discovered that anything not specified “thick-cut” is in fact “see through” and shrivels up to nothing.  Unless it’s Neese’s brand.  See next preference.

Neese’s sausage.  Full disclosure here—I’m a texture eater.  I used to never eat sausage because I would always bite into gristle <fullbodyshiver>.  That is, until I tried Neese’s.  I’ve been using it for about 20 years and not once have I ever eaten their sausage and bitten into gristle.  I recommend it to everyone.  They are a family owned business with a small-ish delivery area, but they can ship to anywhere in the United States.  Yes, it’s that good.  http://www.neesesausage.com/ *

Orange juice in frosted glasses. I’m quite particular when it comes to my OJ.  It cannot be “orange drink”, it cannot have pulp, and it has to be frosty cold.  I know some prefer pulp—I just never buy it that way (texture thing again.)  I buy the brand whose oranges all come from the USA.

Coffee. I drink mine strong and black, but when we have guests, I make sure to have creamer (not powdered) and artificial sweetener in addition to sugar.  I love serving it in my grandmother’s china, too.  There’s something about seeing her cups & saucers on my table that makes me wax nostalgic & feel all homey & warm.

And finally, a pepper grinder on the table.  Freshly-ground is the way to go if you like pepper.  I love it on eggs, hash browns, gravy, grits…well, pretty much everything.

This isn’t an exhaustive list of the details I’m particular about, nor am I able to do this with every houseguest.  But when I have time to plan, this is what I enjoy offering.  I’ve witnessed my Mom’s gift of hospitality.  All of my life I’ve seen her go above and beyond to make sure anyone and everyone who comes through her door feels welcomed and loved.  Perhaps hospitality is a gift—and I inherited it.  Perhaps it is a skill—and I learned it.  All I know is I’m thankful I had (and still have) such a great example in my Mom.

Now, if I could just cook like she does…

 

 

 

 

 

 

*I received no compensation for sharing this link.

The Queen’s Bath Time

All I could see of her face was forehead to chin, cheekbone to cheekbone.  The Queen had her spa bath tonight and she was literally up to her ears in bubbles.  The lavender-scented Epsom salt bubble bath, a cup of baking soda, and a towel over top of her as she soaks is what sets these baths apart from her typical ones. 

And she loves them.

Stillness settles over her as she lay back, my arms underneath her to increase the sensation of buoyancy.  Slowly I sway her—back…forth…back….forth—the rhythm seeming to command weightiness to her eyelids.  My mind swooped back to the times I bathed her in the kitchen sink when she was a baby.  All the way up to the age of 2 ½ she couldn’t support herself while sitting, so I’d cradle her with one arm while bathing her with the other.  Amazing how dexterous we moms are with our babies.  I’d wash her fine, curly hair with Johnson’s No More Tears, then hold up a mirror for her to see the white mass of bubbles piled on top of her head.  Each time, I’d try to make it higher, higher, to see how tall it’d go before it would plop over. A yawn covers her face. 

Back….forth….back….forth.  The water cocoon and heavy towel brings tranquility.  Daily, her muscles are worked 3 times as hard as anyone else’s in similar situations.  A typical task is hard work for her.  An expenditure of energy.  Her bath time is therapy. The swaying continues as I quietly sing, “Hush little baby don’t say a word……Omma’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…”  My left arm is under her at the small of her back, my right hand cradles the back of her head.  “….and if that mockingbird won’t sing, Omma’s gonna buy you a diamond ring….” 

Forty minutes have passed–I feel the water starting to cool. I situate her where her head is out of the water, and she’s covered from her neck to her toes.  She remains quiet.  I scoop up a palm full of bubbles and put them on her face to make a white beard and she asks for the mirror (yes, she has a non-specific one for bath time, which started with the kitchen sink baths.)  She cracks up at the sight.  Twenty-four years I’ve done this.  Just as I begin thinking nothing has changed, I realize it has.  I reach for the razor and uncover her left leg, shave it, then repeat the process with her right.  My baby.  And I am shaving her legs.  She’s wearing a bubble beard, a plastic fish floats in the water, and I’m shaving her legs.

Some may see it as a confusing mish-mash of baby toys and grown up necessities.  I see it as a blessed blend of all things I’ve been chosen to do.  Keep her clean.  Let her have fun.  Help her relax.  Be silly with her.  Why wouldn’t I?  Why shouldn’t I? 

I walk her to her bedroom, the too-big feet on her puppy-printed pajamas flopping in front of her which gives her a gait like a cat walking in wet grass.  Her honey-gold hair has been blown dry, and is “so shiny and ‘poofy’” as Adday proclaimed.  (We 80’s peeps see that as a compliment, don’t we?)  She grabs her Meer, I sit beside her and begin our bedtime prayers.  I whisper her secrets in her ear (something else I’ve done since Aug. 3, 1992,) and am nearly overcome with nostalgia.   Oh, how blessed I’ve been to do this for 24 years.  291 months to be precise.  Bath time replete with bubbles, fish that squirt water, bubble beards and shampoo crowns.  My baby.  She is freshly bathed.  Smells of lavender.  And has smooth legs.

Blessed, indeed.

Almost Heaven, West Virginia

 

The Move

October 19, 1987 was the most traumatic day in my life up to that point. For 4 weeks after the event I was sick on my stomach, I was depressed, I had bouts of crying. No one could console me. No words brought comfort. Life as I knew it had ended and I felt I was doomed to a life of melancholic existence. What happened?

I moved away from West Virginia.

I vividly remember when I was told about the upcoming M-Day (moving day.) It was a hot July afternoon, I was at my friend Regina’s house (down from the old Finks Cafeteria for those of you familiar with the area,) and Mom called and said that Dad was taking a job in Virginia. I just knew she was joking, for my parents would never uproot me in my junior year of high school. After all, the world did revolve around my 16 year-old life. But alas, she was serious, and to be honest, I remember nothing else after putting the phone down.

I knew the move was a possibility as I’d heard my parents discussing it. I forewarned Dad that if he moved me from Princeton, I would start dating a guy named Spike who rode a Harley and I’d get a tattoo on my nether region. When the move was confirmed, I made a note to self: Look for Harley-riding guys named Spike (with a clause that I’d not told Dad about—he had to have finished school and was also a career man with great morals, ethics and values and loved his parents.)

The move came and went. I traded phone calls and letters with all my friends back home. I anticipated visits with eagerness, but I finally settled in to my new life, my new house, my new high school. I made friends easily and even found myself liking where I was. One thing was for sure, however…..West Virginia would always be my home.

Why West Virginia?

So what is it about the state of West Virginia? Is it the beautiful majestic mountains? No, Tennessee has mountains. North Carolina has mountains. Is it the fact it has 4 seasons in all their grandeur? No, where I live now has them, as do many other areas. Is it the pretty license plates, the unique accents, the tasty mountain cuisine where almost everything is flavored with bacon grease and the pinto bean is a food group? No on all accounts. What is it then? It’s the people.

The state of West Virginia is like one big homestead. Those who make fun of us West Virginians by saying we’re all kin are partially right. While we are not inbreeds (oh how ignorant some can be) we are all a family. All one has to do to experience the familial commonality is visit another state, run into someone from West Virginia while waiting in line at the Burger Chef, and mention that you, too, hail from the beloved state. Inevitably you’ll discover that your great-great Aunt Hazel used to babysit their cousin, who still proudly wears the title of Miss Rhododendron 1951. You’ll also be graced with the information that gout sometimes causes Miss Rhododendron “take to the bed” and she’s not been able to make her famous fried apple pies in quite some time because of it. It’s almost a guarantee that you’ll leave the burger joint with an address and phone number scribbled on a napkin stained with ketchup.

My love for West Virginia is what caused me to dress all my wedding attendants in WVU jerseys. And pay an ungodly amount for a WVU cake topper with the flowers the bride is holding painted Old Gold and Blue. And have “Take Me Home Country Roads” played as our recessional song. Just look at—and think about—these lyrics:

*Almost heaven, West Virginia
Blue Ridge mountains, Shenandoah river
Life is old there, older than the trees
Younger than the mountains, blowing like a breeze
Country roads, take me home
To the place, I belong
West Virginia, mountain momma
Take me home, country roads
All my memories, gather ’round her
Miners lady, stranger to blue water
Dark and dusty, painted on the sky
Misty taste of moonshine, teardrop in my eye
Country roads, take me home
To the place, I belong
West Virginia, mountain momma
Take me home, country roads
I hear her voice, in the mornin’ hour she calls me
The radio reminds me of my home far away
And drivin’ down the road I get a feeling
That I should have been home yesterday, yesterday
Country roads, take me home
To the place, I belong
West Virginia, mountain momma
Take me home, country roads

Is there a true West Virginian out there who can listen to this song without getting teary eyed? Without singing it at the top of one’s lungs? Impossible, I say!

I have wondered if my sentimentality is only because I no longer live there. Robbie, my husband who is also a “transplant”, has the same love for our state. We’re both in agreement that there are no people like West Virginia people.

How do you feel?

I’d love to hear from those who have never left West Virginia—do you feel this way? And those who were born there yet have moved away, do you miss it? Have you found this same loyalty to which I refer? Oh yes, and is there anyone….anyone who can sing along with Mr. Denver and not drop a tear?

I do feel I should have been home yesterday….yesterday….

 

Photo by Teresa Catron
Hokes Mill Covered Bridge, Greenbrier County
Photo by Teresa Catron
Camp Creek, WV
Photo by Teresa Catron
460 West, Mercer County
Photo by Teresa Catron
Beckley, WV Exhibition Mine
Photo by Teresa Catron
Pinnacle Rock, Mercer County
Photo by Teresa Catron
Bramwell, Mercer County
Photo by Teresa Catron
Pinnacle Rock State Park, Mercer County

*”Take Me Home, Country Roads” was written by Bill Danoff, Taffy Nivert, and John Denver

All images © 2008-2016 Teresa Catron