Mom's Letter

This letter was written by my Mother to my grandparents (Dad's side). She was just 2 months post surgery for a brain tumor, which they were not able to fully remove and unknowingly, just 7 months from her earthly death. The tumor was located in the portion of the brain which controls speech so her words were not always exactly right and often sounded juvenile but her messages ever clear. Her faith ever strong.

I am writing it exactly how she wrote. I realize its meaningless to anyone that did not know her but faith and eternal hope in God's Word, truth and promises shines through. I hope you find that message here and in your own life.

(Bob was her husband)

9/27/88

Dear Meme & Grandpa:

Bob and I arrived Monday 9/12/88 at Arlington Hts Ill, Bob's daughters Liz house. I was feeling fine Till Friday. 9/16 I got sick. Bob called the hospital and they sent an ambulance, I got to the hosp. right away. I felted so bad, hosp. kept me Till Mon. 9/149. Val, took me to her place in Michigan. I feel O.K. the doctor in Ill. told Val how many medicine I have to take, and I might get sick again. So far I have bee feeling good.

Melissa is coming this weekend, 9/30 after I see her I pray to see her baby but I keep praying to wait. I don't mind to go to heaven, I know I will go there.

Bob, is stating at his daughter's house in Ill. He is helping her because she got her baby the same day I got sick 9/16. I don't Mind him stating there . Val & Sam is taking GOOD care of me. And for Bob to see me its only 5 hours drive to Val's house.

Val's house is so beautiful and BIG. I hope some day you will see her house.

Thank you for the food you gave us, its so good to open the jars.

I'm so busy every day trying to write to everyone. When I die I told Val I don't want flowers on my funeral, I will be in heaven and can't see them. I rather she GET money from people and send to my church. They need a need church so bad. The money give to my church is better than flowers. Sorry I can't write right my Brain is lower.

I was so happy to see you people.

LORD JESUS BLESS YOU.

LOVE
Ramona

Unhappy Endings

I hate the end to most things. I mean you don't understand --- I haaaaate endings!!! How much to I hate them?

Books are the worst. I love to read but no matter how happy the ending of a story may be, I'm very sad when it’s over. In fact, I might even mourn the "loss of the characters" for a few days. I just can't get them out of my mind -and I wonder what happened next. While I'm deeply engrossed in a book, the characters become my friends and I live and travel in all the settings in the book. When its time for me to go back home permanently, I get sad.

I don't mind when a TV show ends but I hate when a TV series ends. Despite the fact I had never ever seen one episode of it, I was sad for days and days when Friends ended. I didn't even watch the show, how stupid is that? I feel that way when most series end. Having grown up with a Dad that was a huge M*A*S*H fan, I became a fan myself but when the series ended, I refused to watch the very last episode and in fact to this day, I've never seen it. I would just be too sad. I like to pretend the series is still going on, the war in Korea is still being fought and Hawkeye, Radar, Major Burns and all the rest are still there. I'm still in denial that Johnny Carson isn't the host of the Tonight Show, I believe Bewitch is still twinkling her nose and making magic, I know somewhere out there Al's Diner still exists and the Happy Days characters are hanging out there, the Huxtables still live in Brooklyn, Doug and Carrie are still screaming at each other in Queens & Deborah and Ray are still being terrorized by Marie & Frank.

Movies are much the same for me. I want to know more of the story. More! Tell me more!!! Did Scarlet and Rhett every get back together? I NEED TO KNOW!!!!!

Its not just stories; I hate the end to everything -- when my Starbucks latte is down to a sip or two, I get a little sad and upset with myself I didn't make it last longer. When I'm taking my last bite of a meal, I might even tear up a tiny bit, "You mean -- that's it until the next meal?" How sad is that? Vacations are almost not even enjoyable to me because when it gets down to the last day, I almost don myself in complete black and mourn the rest of the day. When I scrapbook with my best scrapbooking buddies, around 11pm I could cry because it’s almost time to pack up. I want to stay longer and chat and scrapbook and sniff my papers!

I even hate the end to a day, especially a good day. As soon as it starts getting dark I start to say good-bye to the day --and parting always makes me so sorrowful. There's nothing sweet about it.

When Jerry retired from the military I was sad for months, if not years. I miss the Army like I'd miss an old friend. When Jerry and I were in DC recently and visited a few Army posts, I was at home again! It felt like, "Hello, Army! Where have you been? I missed you so much. Let's get all caught up now."

You know what else I hate? Empty towns, buildings and houses; I hate when a town dries up because an industry leaves. I hate when old glorious homes are abandoned. Recently I read a devotional that mentioned an old Silver mining town in Colorado once booming with people and profitable businesses, its now abandoned and long forgotten --and I couldn't even concentrate on the rest of the devotion as I sat picturing that old western town --wondering where all the people had gone. I hate old rail road tracks where trains never come to anymore, too.

Graduations make me sad. I realize its a celebration and new things are opening up for the grad, but its still closing a door, a chapter and that means one thing had ended and for that, I am terribly sad. This spring I'll be sad to say our final good-bye to Northmont High School as our youngest walks across the stage to accept his diploma. We'll bid farewell to Miami University too, and I'm sure there will be tears. *sigh*

You must think I'm a terribly sad person and in a way, that is very true. I mean, I'm not Eeyore walking around with my head down and droopy ears but most times even though I can laugh and have fun, there will be a corner of sadness in my heart. I can't help it. I HATE endings and yet, I live with them. I mean, I can step into a fantasy world and imagine all my favorite TV characters still on set but I know reality too. And I eventually forget about all those characters in a book and it’s not long before I'm over that too.

I can move on -- mostly but you see -- there's one ending I just can't grapple. There's one ending that torments my soul --forever. There's one ending that makes me the most sad and even now, over 35 years later in some cases, my still heart aches because

I just can't bear the ending of a marriage. I mourn it every time, like a death in the family. I never get over it. I can never stop being sad about it. Though I know there are cases in which divorce is warranted, I think those are so few and far in between.

I know, how dare I say such a thing, right? What do I know?

I just know.

And I'm sad.

Where Did She Go

Where did she go, the baby I once had
I went to her crib and walked away sad

For the tiny baby that had my heart in a furl
Has now been replaced by a little girl

And I loved that girl and watched her play
Hoping a little girl she always would stay

But I soon discovered her dolls were no more
For now she has stepped through yet another door

And before me I saw a young woman at heart
Hoping with this one, I never would part

Then one day I discovered she needed no longer
My hand to hold her--and I had to get stronger

To let her walk away into a life of her own
For my baby girl is ever so grown

I see in her eyes such spirit for living
Her heart ever open, her soul ever giving

To the future before her, unknowing and new
So I step to the side, as us mothers must do

Before me a I see a woman I adore
My pride ever swelling more and more

Though my arms ever empty and my hands ever still
My baby ever growing, my heart gets its fill

Of the love of a baby, my girl and my daughter
Watching her learn lessons life has now taught her

And the journey of this mother's heart
That sometimes can get stuck back at the start

Because I sit and I wonder, where did she go
The baby I held, that needed me so

The crib so long gone and the dolls packed away
A baby and girl she could not stay

And it all went before me ever so fast
Dashing through the present, making a past

Where did she go, the baby I once had
I went to her crib and walked away sad

The One That Broke The Mold

My Dad is one of two children, he has an older sister. My mother was the oldest of seven, with five brothers and one sister.

Mom's sister has one child. Girl. Mom's oldest brother no children. Next brother FOUR Girls. Next brother THREE Girls. Next brother THREE Girls. And baby brother THREE Girls.

So my Dad's sister had one child. Girl. Then my Dad had his first child. Girl. Then I came along *takes bow*. Girl. Then the third child was born. Girl. Later when my Dad remarried and adopted my step-sibling. Girl.

Years later we started the next generation. My sister Val had her first baby. Girl. My cousin Marsha had her first child too. Girl. Val had another baby. Girl. Marsha had another baby. Girl. I get in the mix and I have my first child. Girl. I have child number two. Girl. Val has child number three. Girl.

So just in case you lost count, let me recap that for you:

Mom's side of the family, my generation - 16 Girls. Next generation - FIVE Girls (so far).

Dad's side of the family, my generations - 5 Girls. Next generation - SEVEN Girls (so far).

That's a whole-lotta pink!!!!!!

And then . . . one quiet Sunday afternoon in 1991, on the 8th day of the month after hours of labor and pain and pushing ---- a nurse exclaimed to me, "IT'S A BOY! MOM, YOU HAVE A BOY!" And thus, Zachary Earl Newsome was born into our family and breaking the mold, the Dodges finally have a boy of their very own. A BOY!

So you're thinking I was ever so happy to have a boy, huh? Not really. You see, I didn't believe them. They rushed my baby over to the table to clean him up and do whatever it is they do and all I keep thinking is, "Dodge girls don't know how to have boys. It has to be a girl. They must have made a mistake."

It wasn't long before they brought my tiny new born babe to me --er, I mean the new born babe was 9 pounds 1 ounce so what I mean is --it wasn't long before they brought my sort-of tiny new born babe over to me, wrapped ever so snugly in a new born baby blankie and they laid that babe on my chest and said, "Mom, would you like to nurse him?" HIM? Why do they keep calling my baby a boy? Don't they mean HER? You see, probably mostly delirious from you know --that whole giving birth thing and the fact that I had already convinced myself Dodge girls couldn't have boys, I was absolutely convinced they, you know -- trained medical professionals, made a mistake and I actually had a girl. So instead of gazing at my new born baby and trying to nurse the hungry little thing, I tore the blanket off of him and low and behold -- boy parts! Boy parts?

Now what do I do?

That was my first thought, as if every moment of parenting I had ever done was now all null and void because I had a boy.

I snuggled my baby boy close to me and I assured him I'd figure it out.

My first lesson --diaper changing and no, I never did get any misguided squirts but I did quickly learn there was a lot more to cleaning up a boy baby than a girl baby. And I soon learned too that boy babies were much louder than girl babies and boys liked to climb and jump and "fly". And I learned how to buy a cup for football and I learned that playing in mud wasn't such a bad thing and riding your bike in the rain was okay too. I learned that old towels make great super hero capes and green plastic army men hurt when you step on them barefooted. I learned that the highlight of the week can be when the trash truck comes-- so when we'd hear it we had to run outside to watch it. I learned that Legos were endless hours of entertainment and not so much what you could build but what you could destroy. I learned that Batman was cooler than Superman and what a baseball T was. When my boy "discovered himself" and thought he had swallowed some marbles, I learned how to explain "boy parts" to him. I learned that snuggling a baby boy was just as warm and wonderful as snuggling a baby girl. I learned that buckets made great Army Man helmets. I learned how to use Cheerios as "targets" for you know, aiming practice in the toilet, not around the toilet. I learned how to shop for men clothes and explain to my boy how to ask a girl on a date. I learned how to feed a ferocious growing-boy appetite. I learned not to have a heart attack each time I'd come home and found my boy roaming around on our roof top. I learned to breath amidst the clouds of Axe body spray emanating from the bathroom . . . . but what I mostly learned is that a boy has his way of wrapping himself around a mother's heart. I love and adore my girly-girls and nothing compares to our "Beauty Shop Nights" but this boy, my one and only son --is my Prince.

Eighteen years later I'm still learning how to mother a boy, a boy that has turned into a man, ever so charming he is.

Happy 18th Birthday, Son!

Our Hero

One very early morning Jerry went for a 5 mile walk, as he so often does. Not long after he left I remembered a few things I needed from the store and decided to hit Kroger before the morning crowd shuffled in. As I drove down the street I saw Jerry walking and at first I didn't think it was him. You see, he was walking much slower than I would have expected him to be. His shoulders were rounded over and forward as opposed to the tall erect stance I was so accustom to seeing. Is that my Jerry? My Jerry? You see, when I first met Jerry I would often watch him do PT (Physical Training). He was fast as lightening, tall and strong. This man I saw walking could be Jerry but what happened to that man I married? Where did he go?

As I sat there watching him walk it occurred to me where he had been. Yes, that was my Jerry walking down the street and this is where he has "gone".

Those shoulders have seated our children at a parade or crowded event or just to answer the child's question, "Daddy, let me see if I can touch the sky." The little heads of our children rested upon those shoulders while the child slept or cried or had a moment of sadness. Upon those shoulders rested the straps to a rucksack, a backpack soldier style, with 50 pounds or more of gear packed into it. And those shoulders carried that weight for miles and miles of training and marching during 23 years of service to this United States of America. Those shoulders have carried the weight of our family upon it during financial crisis, marital woes and those bumps in the roads that come with raising children. All the care and concern of this family rest upon those shoulders and many nights I have gone to bed able to rest and sleep in peace because I knew those shoulders were broad and strong enough to bear the weight. Many of my tears ended up on those shoulders as I laid my head upon them and poured out my heart.

Upon that back our children took horsey rides or climbed the "tower". Upon that back slung and M16 rifle on its way to a firing range or road march for a faithful 23 years.. One time, upon that back was our Grandfather Clock when we moved it into our German apartment and in Hercules fashion, that man took that clock upon his back and walked it down a flight of stairs into our garden apartment. Laying upon that back, that man spent hours beneath our cars to change the oil, breaks, filters --whatever it took to make those cars go and be safe. Upon that back was the brunt of the weight of our furniture when we were moving to a new location or just at the whim of this wife, who wanted to change a room around. Most recently, upon that back the weight of furniture belonging to our college senior daughter and her roommate moving into their first apartment.

Those muscular arms caught my attention many years ago and even yet today I find myself gazing in wonderment at them. Those muscular arms wrapped around me millions of times in sweet tenderness and affection. Those muscular arms were "monkey bars" to our little ones has they'd hang off of them and squeal like a monkey. Those muscular arms seems to hold the power of a giant and yet, in sweet tenderness, held our new born babes. Those muscular arms at one time could carry all three children at the same time --just scoop them up ever so effortless. Those muscular arms dug holes and trenches to put up a new fence or build a deck or drywall our basement into a useful family room. Those muscular arms picked up our sickly teenage daughter and swiftly and gently laid her into the back of our van as we transported her to the ER. Those muscular arms held out into the air as our children fearless jumped from the side of a pool into the safety of those muscular arms. Those muscular arms wrestled our boy for many many hours on our floors and yet knew how and when to hold back and how and when to exert more force. Those muscular arms stood at a free throw line over and over and over again showing our son how to shoot a basketball. Those muscular arms once held up layers and layers of tulle on a prom dress while I stood underneath them to steam out each layer. Those muscular arms threw our babies into the air while they screamed with delight and drooled upon that man's face. Those muscular arms lifted and carried Army equipment in order to accomplish a mission.

Those strong hands took young soldiers by the hand, literally and figuratively and trained them to be fit for active duty. Those strong hands swatted the behind of our sometimes disobedient children. Those strong hands would rescue a crying baby from their crib and tenderly ask, "What's all that fuss about?" Those strong hands played peek-a-boo over and over to giggling babies. Those strong hands signed many and many and many checks to pay the bills and give to our family the things we needed and wanted. Those strong hands handed over hundreds of dollars to our growing teens so they can go out with friends, shop or put some gas in their cars. Those strong hands took little tiny baby spoons and scooped up baby food into our little ones' mouths. Those strong hands took care of car repairs, plumping repairs, house repairs and yard work. Those strong hands tied ties around our boy's neck and those strong hands taught our children how to loop their shoe laces into perfectly tight bows. Those strong hands wrapped themselves around an M16 rifle hand grip, M60 machine gun and other military weaponry aiming and firing with the utmost precision and expertise. Those strong hands held patriotic salute to our nation's flag, our symbol of the freedom he served and fought to protect. Those strong hands once held my small hand within them and slipped onto my finger a golden wedding band. Those strong hands gripped themselves around ropes repelling down from a hovering helicopter. Those strong hands once refused to sign divorce papers I had served him and pushing them away said, "This marriage isn't over."

Those Infantry feet marched and marched and marched until they were bruised, bleeding and blistered. Those Infantry feet jumped out of air planes and landed squarely on the ground. Those Infantry feet support this family and walked us through Germany, Georgia, Hawaii, Kansas and Ohio. Those Infantry feet paced up and down the floor trying to sooth fussy little babies. Those Infantry feet ran up and down basketball courts with our son, stood on the sidelines of band competitions and basketball games and soccer games and stood in proud ovation to a musical performance. Those Infantry feet donned combat boots for 23 years, never ceasing to walk the walk of a soldier.

And those shoulders could stand tall and erect as that man often declared, "I'm a child of The King!" And that strong back wore the full armor of God declaring to Satan, "Not me and not my family --your time is wasted here." Those arms and hands held high in glorious submission and praise to a Savior that showered grace and mercy on this Newsome family time and time and time again. And those Infantry feet -- every single night without fail those Infantry feet make those strong knees bow at our bedside as that man pours out the petitions of his heart, praises to our Lord and brings each and every one of our names before his God; Melissa, Amanda, Monica and Zachary.

And to that this Army wife says --

Thank you! You are still our tall strong hero.

It Feels Like -- THIS

When I had small children all under foot, I used to look at moms whose children were teenagers or grown up and wonder how that feels. I used to long for the days when I could go to the store without first buckling three toddling babes into car seats and seat belts. I wondered what that kind of freedom felt like. And now I know.

It feels like:

Joy - I'm so proud of the adults my children are growing into. Sometimes when I see them my hearts sings. Its such a privilege to be their Mom.

Sorrow - I miss my babies. I miss having all control. I miss tucking them in at night and knowing there they'll stay til the morning. I miss their wonderment & their chubby toddler fingers trying to master a fine motor skill. I miss baby voices and laughter. I miss them being able to sit on my lap and hug my neck. I miss my babies.

Fear: Are they making wise choices when they're away from home? Are they safe? Do they miss me? Have they forgotten me? Are they so glad to be away from home?

Excitement - Where will they end up living? What job or careers will they land? Will they get married? Have children? Its so exciting to watch these things unfold before my very eyes.

Anticipation - I can't wait to help plan a wedding or help them find their first home. I can't wait to see who they will marry. I can't wait to have grandchildren and spoil them rotten. I can't wait to see each of them be an Aunt or Uncle ---

Rediscovery - I sit in my home with no particular place to go; no football games or band events, no picking up or dropping off, no slumber parties or movie nights or playing beauty shop. I sit in my home and look over and see a man who resembles a young soldier I used to know --a man that was dashing and handsome and one that drank in the very words I would speak. I look over at that man and wonder where he's been the last 20 years --lost in between birthdays and school events, growing pains and spankings, AWANA, lawn mowing and car fixing, football and basketball, band and high school, graduations and tuition . . . Somewhere in all of that, my young soldier got lost but I look at him now and think, "Wow, who are you? Would you like to go on a date with me?"

Wonder - I don't know where we go from here. Like every other parenting step, in these years I take one day at a time, one child at a time, one event at a time . . and I do the best I can. What it feels like to be the Mom of these grown up children is exactly the same as it feels to be the Mom of little tiny babies and yet, its completly different too.

New Blog

I'm moving my blog. The Army story continues here . . .

http://melissasmilitarymoments.blogspot.com/

Mothers

An Army Blogging Break to say, I'm so thankful for my children and being their mother is truly the most honoring & exciting experience I have ever had. I'm blessed beyond measure.

Any amount of love my heart is capable of flows from a merciful God that demonstrated his love for us when his son died on the cross. We love Him because He first loved us. Second to that are the lessons of life and loving I learned from two very godly strong women; my mother and my grandmother, Meme. They are both home with the Lord now. My heart is ever so thankful for having the privilege of knowing and loving them both.

Happy Mother's Day!

Setenta

There's a place I like to go and hide
It's a place that's locked down deep inside

It's a trip I don't very often take
It's a journey I only sometimes make

In payment for the gladness and joy to be had
I render my tears and walk away sad

So I wait for my heart to tell me when I can go
And I enter with caution, my steps ever slow

I find the key and unlock the place
That holds the memory of my mother's face

By closing my eyes I simply can find
I'm a child again -- my adult years behind

Ever so anxiously I wait to see
The beauty of her -- the one that once held me

The torrent of memories come pouring in fast
Of the most endearing times of my childhood past

She's every bit the person I remember her to be
And never once is she not smiling at me

We visit the places we used to like best
Like Randhurst and Dunkin and all the rest

I linger there with her and wish I could stay
As a child who never wants to end her own play

Then I remember the woman I've grown up to be
I reach in my pocket fumbling for the key

I look up to kiss her and tell her good-bye
But she's no longer there --I'm left wondering why

She left me so suddenly and I wasn't aware
For the rest of my days, she wouldn't be there

But the present is beckoning me to come back
So I crawl from my past through the tiniest crack

I seal up the space and lock it up tight
And look for the darkness that's black as the night

My tears fill my eyes until I can't see
But I feel her presence like she's still here with me

I reach out to touch her --Mom, is that you?
I knew you'd not leave me, that you missed me too

My eyes are much clearer for now I can see
That's not my mother there before me

But the essence of her that once held me close
Is alive in the children I simply love most

The ones that grew in me a mother's heart
Are the ones that will bring me back to the start

For now I know what it's like to be
The beauty of her -- the one that once held me

The Best & Worst Day Ever!

Having three children especially close in age, it is a rare thing to have a quantity of one-on-one time with each child. Though I love family time and being with all of my children, you learn the most precious things about your child in solitaire moments.

Yesterday, after a long winter break, I took Monica back to Kent. Though we've made this trip together on several occasions, this was the first time she didn't sleep most of the drive up there. For three solid hours, we chatted without interruption about the most random subjects. We talked about our likes and dislikes in movie stars, music, interesting facts about our family members, my childhood, my Mom (she often slips into our conversations), funny family stories, Jerry's cooking . . . . . It was a delightful trip.

When we got to Kent, we were fortunate enough to score a wheeled bin right away so it only took one trip to get Monica's things up to her 7th floor room. She was quick to show me all of the new things she added to her room since my last visit there in September. I helped her unpack a few things and then our hungry stomachs were demanding food.

With no particular agenda for the day, we took our time driving through downtown Kent, taking notice of stores or places that would come in handy in the future. We drove to the Alpha Phi house but didn't get to go in. At least now I know where it is. We ended up at Panera for lunch and both were disappointed when they were out of the bread for our favorite sandwiches, which seems to be happening more and more at Panera! Annoying! Lunch was more conversation and discussions - -though this time, Monica was a little preoccupied with text messages.

For some reason, we can't seem to take our girls to school without a trip to Walmart -- so we headed off to Walmart. Monica needed a few things but mostly we browsed and compared this new rather large Walmart to the one we frequent at home. After a small purchase was made, we headed back to Monica's room.

I sensed Monica was not yet ready for me to leave and quite frankly, I was not ready to say good-bye either. I stayed in her room for about an hour and we just chatted some more -- accomplished nothing along the lines of unpacking or organizing Monica's things. I wanted to stay longer but knowing I had to work the next morning and unsure of the northern Ohio weather for the evening, I did not want to be on the road too late. Monica walked me down to the van and since I parked a little far away from her dorm and she did not wear a coat, I drove her back to her door. I was glad for the excuse to have her linger with me a little while longer -saying good-bye this time was as impossible as it was the first day we took her to Kent -- maybe even a bit worse.

All I could think about was how wonderful it was having her home for break -- even with her crazy Golden Girls obsession. I knew coming home from work each day was going to seem empty without her there to greet me.

With the snow and a lot of traffic due to students coming back, the parking lot was a mess which prevented any lingering good-byes. Like the first time we dropped her off, I tried to watch Monica walk back to her dorm but with all of the people and boxes being moved in, I lost sight of her. As I turned the corner to leave, I tried to catch a last glimpse of her but it was too late . . she was already in the building and on her way back up to the 7th floor of Wright Hall.

As I drove off campus I wondered if my heart was going to ache this much every time the girls went back to school after a break. It seemed the drive home was going to be very sad, lonely and long. I began to busy my mind with all of the dinner options I had before me - -eating on the road is sometimes my favorite thing to do. I was trying to decide between actual food or just a Starbucks treat -- or both. I wondered if I should sit and eat alone, which I really don't mind doing, or just hit a drive-thru and eat on the road. I was a little happy I didn't have someone with me that when asked what they wanted to eat the reply would be, "I don't care, what do you want?" Then proceed to turn down every suggestion I had. I needed to stop and get gas and decided I'd give the salty windows a good cleaning while I did. With no further planning left to do, I let my thoughts wander --until they were back at Kent.

I wished I was sitting at home watching an episode of the Golden Girls with Monica. The day had been so perfect - -Monica and I talked so freely and had no disagreements on where to go or what to do. We were not rushed for time or had any appointments to get to - -the day was ours to enjoy and I did, immensely. I called Jerry to let him know I was on my way back and the approximate time to expect me home. Zach was asking for me earlier, which made me a bit more anxious to get home.

About an hour into the drive, Monica called me to ask me something about her schedule. We talked, and talked ---

And we talked.

And if you know anything about me, you know how much I hate talking on the phone so it was quite a feat that we stayed on the phone for an entire two hours. We hung up when I was about to exit to Englewood. The day and the phone conversation is probably the most I have ever talked to Monica at one time. As we hung up, I realized how much I enjoyed Monica that day. I realized what a rare thing it was, having uninterrupted time alone with one of my children -- I wish I had more opportunities to do that with each child of mine. I was so immersed in the conversation I never did stop to eat or feel hungry despite only having had one meal that day.

As I neared home, I braced myself for the empty feeling the house was going to have, both Amanda and Monica now being back at school. Both Zach and Jerry pretended to be asleep when I walked in - -despite me pretending to be hurt and needing their assistance. They shared with me an article about Zach that was in the local paper -- he was selected Player of the Week last week. We talked for a little bit but when the conversations were done and the guys left the room, I grabbed the remote control . . . .

and I frantically searched for an episode of Golden Girls.

Basketball Mom

Is is just me or do other basetball Moms sit in the stands during a game and think of their sons:

As the team parades out in a single file line, I recall those chubby 2 year old legs stomping around the house like a soldier, "hut 2, 3, 4 -- hut 2, 3, 4 . . . ."

When he runs down the court, I suddenly get flashbacks of his first toddling steps.

When he shoots the ball, I suddently get flashbacks of him standing in front of a 4 foot Little Tikes basketball hoop - -and barely able to reach the goal.

I wonder -- How did he grow to 6'5" when it was just yesterday, I was holding him in my arms.

He grabs the ball from an opponent and I clearly remember the numerous times he'd grab a toy from one of his sisters.

He runs. He shoots. He jumps. He plays. They know him. They shout his name. They cheer him on. To this place and this crowd, he is Zachary Newsome, #32, 6'5" Junior, Forward for Northmont Varsity Basketball. I know him too. I cheer him on. I'm so proud but when I look out on the court, I don't see a 6'5" Varsity player. There, rebounding and scoring I see a player and to me he's simply . . . .

My Boy.