Triple Threat

Posted in 2012 by Janette Burhans

There are three sure-fire ways to get my attention.

1. Offer me something nice.
~ A sincere compliment, quality time together, a token of affection.
2. Alert me to impending danger.
~ Natural disaster, salmonella outbreak, gunfire.
3. Direct negative energy/attention at my children. [No subtext needed.]

You might think #2 would create the biggest stir, but you would be wrong. Nothing makes my adrenaline surge faster or my claws extend further than #3. Combine 2&3 and we’re talking the big bang of responses.

Most parents I know would gladly take the brunt of their offspring’s fear, doubt, and pain. If only we could protect them from the outside forces that wear away at their spirit and hamper their joy. If only there could be a moratorium on the weapons of judgment and criticism. It’s bad enough dealing with the cracks in your own armor. Not being able to shield your own children is exponentially more difficult.

Welcome to The Greatest Show on Earth! Ringling Brothers has nothing on raising a family, though a circus is a good analogy to parenting. You are alternately trainer, performer, and janitor. There is constant preparation and numerous blunders, often under a tight schedule. You will be stunned silent in appreciative amazement. You will throw your hands up in disbelief. You will experience jaw-dropping, hair-raising panic. There are narrow escapes, aerial acrobatics, juggling acts, clowning around, and colossal messes. Add the animals (your pets), and you’ve got the full Bigtop. All that work, and often just for peanuts.

Why does anyone do it?? Simple. There is nothing as gratifying as seeing your child smile, or watching their wide-eyed wonder as they take in the amazing newness of their expanding world. No sound sweeter than the joyous lilt of their laughter, or their innocent coos of affection. No feeling better than the gentle squeeze of their tiny bearcub hug, or the velvety softness of their little hand tucked inside yours. No emotions greater than parental pride and fear. Your heart will swell and your eyes will tear — when they soar, and when they fall.

When asked as a youngster what I wanted to be when I grew up, my given answer changed many times. But the primary role I envisioned and relished internally — becoming a mother — never did. It was an overwhelming, unwavering desire for me. I’d like to think there are many components that inspire and fulfill me, but I believe maternalism is what truly defines me. [Note: In no way am I indicating that every woman needs a child to be complete, only stating that’s how I’m hard-wired.] Lots of teenage girls try-on marriage by scribbling Mrs “” — insert Hollywood hotties like “Reynolds” (Burt, back in my day; Ryan, presently), or “Stamos” (the one and only John; he’s multi-generational), or the local high school hunk. I’m not sure how many write out lists of baby names, as I did. And Mom, that oddly-shaped towel you occasionally found under the bed? Uh, that was my baby bump. Kinda embarrassing, but sometimes I liked to pretend I had a bun in the oven (when in the privacy of my own room, of course). That should illustrate just how popular motherhood was with me. Oh, and probably why I wasn’t more popular. Haha, JK. 🙂

You would think someone who breathed all-things-baby would have volumes of SuperMom highlight reels. Oddly enough, alot of my clearest, isolated memories are the smallest percentage of parenting moments — the difficulties and disappointments (in myself, not my children). I know without a doubt nurturing my babies was exceedingly pleasurable to me. All of the combined, overall memories are nothing but warm fuzzies. Yet it’s the minuscule moments where I gave myself low marks on the parenting scale that grace the covers of my mental photo albums. The logic of this alludes me. If 95% of the time I felt comfortable and confident in my maternal abilities, why isn’t it those happy, heady moments that remain in full clarity? Maybe because struggles are more powerful than standards. Or maybe because the burden of self-proclaimed failures wore so heavily on my heart. I literally loved my kids more than I loved myself (still do; always will). During a turbulent marriage, they were the hope on my horizon, my paradise present, the light & warmth on my dark side of the moon.

If you have raised children (your own or someone else’s), you’ve stood on the precipice of blissful insanity. It’s ushered in with nine months of nausea, swollen limbs, and stretch marks. Relief comes in the form of a marathon session of stabbing pain, whilst shitting a watermelon. This culminates in years of sleep deprivation, and non-stop nursing & maid services. And that’s the easy part. Watching them suffer life’s injustices, holding them close and then letting them go… that’s hard. Having them become independent, contributing members of society is a normal and desired outcome. It’s still tough to watch, knowing how cruel and unforgiving the world can be. Even if you’ve prepared them well, you know there are things beyond your control and outside their comfort level.

This has been a struggle for me, learning to let go. But as I’ve touched on before, change is inevitable; no amount of strength or struggling will stop it. So I’m learning to parent differently. I’m on the sidelines now, instead of center field, ready to intercede should there be an injury or stoppage of play. It’s my job to patch them up and send them back into the huddle; pat them reassuringly on the back with a ‘go get em, tiger’. The truth is, they wouldn’t have team spirit or a fondness for the game if I hadn’t instilled it in them. I really don’t want them secluded out of bounds with me, missing the action. I don’t want to be a no-show because I’m unwilling to take a secondary role. I want to support them. I want them to have a winning attitude, not a perfect record. No matter what, I’ll still be their biggest fan and cheerleader. And advocate. Hecklers, be warned… you mess with Mama Hen, you WILL get the beak!!

Children are living legacies. Walking, talking evidence of the goodness you worked to instill in them, as well as the pitfalls you attempted to steer them around. I’ve made alot of mistakes in my life, but I’ve also done a fair amount right. I have not one, not two, but three amazing progeny with enviable qualities and oodles of potential. They are loved, supported, and appreciated, for who they are, and for who they’ve made me.

It’s common to crave fewer responsibilities and a respite from the day-to-day craziness of parenting while you’re in the thick of it. It can get bumpy and it does get loud. Make some ‘me time’, whenever you can. And remind yourself: If you think the noise your children make now is difficult to bear, consider the deafening silence after they go. Peace isn’t quiet and calm. It is being surrounded by guppies & puppies, toddlers & teens, laundry & lunchboxes, and flourishing in the chaos.

Pinkitude: (The selection was too rich to choose just one)

“When you have brought up kids, there are memories you store directly in your tear ducts.” ~ Robert Brault

“There are two lasting bequests we can give our children. One is roots. The other is wings.” ~ Hodding Carter, Jr.

“Parents are not interested in justice; they are interested in quiet.” ~ Bill Cosby

‘Pen’sively Yours, PP

28Apr2011

Royal Couple

Posted in 2011 by Janette Burhans

Westminster Abbey becomes Marital Shabby.
Designer Gown becomes Thorn of Crowns.
Happily Ever After becomes Unmitigated Disaster.

Whether you’re a blue blood or an ordinary O+, relationships are work, and there are no guarantees.

Only hours away from Kate Middleton and Prince William taking their historic trip down the aisle, the world is abuzz with fascination, anticipation, and expectation. And of course the pessimists who are laying bets on how long the union will last (and the impetus behind my mock headlines above).

What are the odds of falling in love with a Prince? Perhaps we should start smaller. What are the odds of you finding your ideal mate (ie: someone you could fall in love with/spend the rest of your life with)? There are lots of different formulas and theories out there, but this one seems most prevalent: 1 in 100.

Here’s the breakdown. Out of every 100 people you meet, you’d likely consider talking to/exchanging contact info with 25 of them. Of those 25, you’d likely consider 5 interesting/desirable enough to date. Of those 5 you date, you would probably fall in love with 1. When you consider the thousands of people one encounters in a lifetime, that’s a solid base of 10 possible love matches. (These odds increase or decrease depending on your amount of sociability — be that at work, school, or play.)

Falling in love is easy. Feeling attracted to someone, enamored with their speech and actions, desirous of their time and attention, missing them when you’re apart — these are heady feelings that heighten your excitement and desire. Staying in like is hard. Seeing someone at their worst, in spirit and deed, bearing the brunt of their shortcomings first-hand, watching traits transition from adorable to annoying. These are realities that are unpleasant and wear on you. They require tolerance, understanding, and adjustment. That means work and effort and creativity.

Sidebar: Even the wording paints a negative picture — “fall in love”. It’s a trip, a stumble, unplanned & accidental. No one likes staying on the ground after biting it, it’s embarrassing. And it’s that much worse if we got hurt doing it. We are wired to get back up, brush ourselves off, and hold our heads high. We really need a new expression. I vote for “Ascend to love” or “Skip in love”. Deliberate, desirable trajectories with positive connotations.

The real marker isn’t the feeling itself, rather it’s initial intensity. Ever become so hungry you feel like you could eat everything in sight? You start out ravenous, the packet of crackers left by the patron at the next table makes you salivate. Ordering is a challenge, because everything sounds good. You make your selections quickly, easily swayed by sights and smells. The food arrives and you dig in. Mmm, has anything ever tasted so wonderful? Despite valiant efforts, eventually you become sated and put the fork down. The more you take in before stopping, the more unappealing the remaining spread is. Now just looking at this once enticing feast turns you off. Did the food change? No, your desire for it did. I’m not saying relationships equate to meals. They are night and day, the former having far greater ramifications and intricacies than the latter. I was just making the comparative to strength of feelings, how they change over time, and how those peaks and valleys sway us.

Familiarity breeds contempt. Normal can become boring. It’s difficult to live with someone, day in and day out, see all their flaws and weaknesses, and look at them with pure unadulterated lust. Lust doesn’t judge; it isn’t comfortable or mundane. It is extraordinary and overwhelms you with drive and passion. Nothing that powerful can be sustained at that level over a long period of time. In other words, it’s normal to look at your mate over time and not feel a white-hot searing in your loins. Actually, it’s damn good. People would never get anything done if they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Those hands provide great pleasure, but they also have to put food on the table, clothes on your back, checks in the mail, maintain your home and car(s), raise your children, and care for your sick and injured.

Love is a flame burning bright. But the winds of change and sands of time will regularly blow through, dimming or dousing that fire. The real credit goes to the unheralded candle. There can be no lighting or relighting without that steadfast pillar of support. Metaphorically speaking, the flame is Love; the candle is Like. Wax and wane. It is the spark and light that we’re drawn to, but they will only continue to burn if the foundation beneath remains strong and unyielding.

Intensity and novelty fade away, but in a good relationship, they are replaced by comfort, respect, admiration, and mutual memories. The trick is finding a way to dress up the dull & undesirable. Finding cuteness in quirks, and goodness in goofs. Never forget what made you fall in love with that person, because you need that booster pack when times get tough. If you and your mate can look past each others foibles and weaknesses, and still long to be by each others side, that is Nicholas Sparks gold. Don’t squander your fortune, or keep it locked up like Fort Knox. Dole it out in staggered increments throughout your life, and be rich in the way that matters most.

Pinkitude:
“Desire creates havoc when it is the only thing between two people, or when it is what’s missing.”
~ Mignon McLaughlin

Impassioned by the pen,
Platinum Pink

8Mar2011

Heroine Addict

Posted in 2011 by Janette Burhans

Hall of Famers, Academy Award Winners, Olympic Medalists: Revered and honored for personal bests.

Unsung Heroes: No statues, exhibits, or parades.
Simply doin’ it for others since time immemorial.

Someone of inestimable worth, who makes your load lighter, your smile brighter, your worries fewer, your existence easier. Someone who would give you their last dime, the shirt off their back, the food on their plate. Someone who’s umbrella is big enough for everyone to be under, usually at the expense of them getting wet. Someone who does without any expectation of recognition or reward. This person’s joy is found in pleasing others. Their wants and needs always take a backseat.

Those who know me, know I come from a very family-centric environment. That my father, praise-worthy and near perfect in my eyes, passed away more than a decade ago. That despite this major life change, despite the vestiges of mourning that remain today, my mother continues to be the involved, engaged, maternally devoted woman she has always been. Hero worship? You betcha. Of the pure, unadulterated kind.

I could write for hour after hour, day upon day, and never have a full accounting of my mother’s giviloquy [PP-created word; definition: a passage describing one’s profound and massive generosity]. Her empathy knows no bounds. A few weeks ago, she fell and suffered a serious injury. Waiting in the hospital emergency room, in extreme pain (from what would be diagnosed as a completely shattered shoulder), she observed a woman holding a toddler. A visible frown crossed her face, accompanied by an audible ‘aww’. This baby wasn’t crying and appeared fine. He may not have even been the patient in the group, but her heart went out to him. And his mother. Her heart goes out to the world, yet amazingly, is still strong enough to feel the ache of loss and the swell of love.

She has elevated selflessness to a true art form. With nothing but a blank canvas and primary palette, she has produced a string of masterpieces. Her compositions appear lit from within, whether day or night, summer or winter. Any shadows are those under her eyes, as she’ll donate sleeping hours to the project without a second thought. The landscape is seemingly endless, with an uncanny sense of it running off the edges. Any boundaries are those she put in place to ward off harm. The colors proffer and please, whisking you away in playful abandon. Any darkness is that on her skin and clothes, since she will work unceasingly even if her limbs bruise and her garments stain. At first glance, the finished product looks perfect, seemingly flawless. But if you look closely, beneath numerous layers, you will see the tiny cuts and tears she painstakingly labored to cover. Like so many iconic visionaries, she can’t possibly know all of the hearts she’s touched and lives she’s changed, and her value continually increases with the passage of time.

Growing up, ours was the house everyone flocked to. My friends were always thrilled to come over, I assumed, because I was so lovable [**cough** ego check **cough**]. Turns out they were drawn to my mother’s magnetic energy and contagious aplomb. People seek her warmth and wisdom, and hope for a morsel of her magnanimous spirit and nurturing attention. Not to mention her chicken schnitzel and pilaf. The lady gives good oven. 😉

Sidebar: James Beard, Julia Childs, and Rachel Ray have nothing on mom. In her prime, on any of the reality cooking shows of today, she’d have blown the lid off the soup pot. Iron Chef, meet Diamond Skillet. Cake Boss, meet Cheesecake CEO. Stomach, meet Alka Seltzer. Prepare to hurt so good.

I’ve never encountered a single person who didn’t have shining accolades for my mother. This always gave me a warm fuzzy, immediately followed by a belly drop. It was sobering thinking I’d never live up to her standards. I don’t mean what she expected of me; I could do the bare minimum (at times did) and still get a “That’s great, honey. I’m proud of you.” I mean her collective roles as a person — wife, mother, grandmother, sister, aunt, daughter — comparatively against mine. By my barometer, my measuring stick, I will always fall way short of her mark. She is a wonderment, a prodigy, a powerful benevolence who’s efforts are both timely and timeless. The truth is, if I’m even one-tenth of the person she’s been, a watered-down version to her full strength one, I am high quality. I have to be the best I can be, not the best she can. It’s apples to applesauce.

Don’t ever think it’s frivolous or redundant to make verbal declarations, based on the assumption that a person already knows how you feel. Better double the dose than not enough. I would shout it from the mountaintops, sing it to the world, engrave it on granite over and over for all of eternity and consider that a welcome fate…

I love you, Mom.

You are the reason I know happiness, the unnamed credit behind my successes, the safety net beneath my failures, the answer to questions I never asked. Goodness personified, graciousness magnified, beauty defined. I’ve profited from your sacrifices, flourished under your protection, bathed in your attentiveness. I am filled with appreciation, devotion, and awe. You are a living, breathing blueprint of how to raise a family. Give them wings, teach them to fly, encourage them to explore, catch them when they fall, forgive them when they flub, and always keep a warm, welcoming nest they can migrate home to.

Endless thanks and steadfast praise aren’t nearly enough, but I humbly offer them to you, anyway. History has shown me you’ll multiply their worth, and somehow, defying all logic and explanation, find extra change to give back to me.

Pinkitude:
“Hundreds of dewdrops to greet the dawn,
Hundreds of butterflies on the lawn,
Hundreds of bees in the purple clover,
But only one mother the wide world over.” ~ George Cooper

Impassioned by the pen,
Platinum Pink

The truth is, if I’m even one-tenth of the person she’s been, a watered-down version to her full strength one, I am high quality.

21Dec2010

Christmas Rap

Posted in The Saga Continues by Janette Burhans

It all starts with Black Friday.

Holiday soldiers hit the trenches and practice their Black Op skills. The mad rush for presents and parking spaces is on. There are countless trips to the food store, oven-side vigils, caroling and decorating, backaches and blisters. Tempers rise while temperatures fall. Tis the season for tithing and skyping and credit card swiping.

The mall decorations have been out since October, but I’m not fully festivous until I deck my own halls, which is usually the weekend after T-giving. I love all holidays, as evidenced by a mental scrapbook overflowing with joyous occasions surrounded by family, friends, and more food than you can shake a stick at.

Sidebar: I’d just like to say, that’s a weird expression. When I’m too much of anything, the last thing I’d want to do is shake, whether it be the pepper mill (too much food), the aspirin bottle (too much booze), or the alarm clock (too tired). Here’s another weird one: “That a boy”/”That a girl”. Typically offered as praise for an accomplishment, it rings pretty hollow. Think about it: you’ve just done something amazing, and you’re credited for your gender being what it is?
“Ooh, great job! Might I just say you’re still a male (or female)” …
“Stop, you’re making me blush.” Lame.

My holidays now are much different than when I was growing up, as is the case for most people. I for one have not gone quietly into that good night. I try clinging to routine like a child to it’s beloved blankie. It may have outlived its’ usefulness and there are probably newer ones more appealing and practical, but it’s mine… and I still want it!! (“We’ve been though alot together, haven’t we silky?”)

My wise mother once told me, “The only constant in life is change itself”. A constant pain in my ass, is what it is. Change is difficult. It’s really hard to leave the familiar behind, and forge into a brave new world. Tradition only becomes so after several cycles. Much like a favorite pair of jeans require repeated wearings to get that well-worn glove-like fit, tea needs to steep to become rich and full-bodied, and wine must age to reach it’s peak flavor. Humans are creatures of habit, and habit has to be formed over time. It’s not instant.

Technology has spoiled us with abbreviated wait times, on everything from getting a letter to cooking a meal. Have you ever clicked the ‘send & receive’ button in your email several times because you know you’ve got something coming but it hasn’t hit your inbox yet? Do you pace in front of the microwave while you wait for your instant oatmeal to cook? We’re talking seconds people… still, feels like an eternity when you’re in anticipation mode.

Sidebar 2: I seriously could not live without the nuker. Best. Invention. Ever. In fact, here’s my xmas present to ole Mikey, in poetic form. (I thought about socks, but I know from experience he doesn’t do well with them. Just ask my kids.)

I thank thee, for all the cooking thy’ve done
in daylight or moonlight, you always run
though you might burn popcorn or soggy a bun
In my eyes you’ll always be second-to-none.

I hope you don’t think I’m getting too deep
but your speedy efficiency has made people weep
they say good food doesn’t come cheap
but we always get psyched when you 3… 2… 1… *beep*!

Waiting to find comfort in something is work, and who wants more work during the holidays? I’ll just take my eggnog and sit in the corner, dreaming of bygone Christmas mornings and New Year’s eves. Until I’m interrupted with a
“Mom, can you ______?” Life gives me a swift kick in the pants, and — aside from the spilled eggnog — I am filled with appreciation and understanding.

If things never changed, I would never have had children. I would never have known the unparalleled pleasure of experiencing the holidays through their eyes. Seeing my Easter bunnies juggle colorful baskets of eggs while their eager little legs tripped over each other. Watching three little blurs race around the tree, charged with excitement as they spied which packages had their name. Noting precious faces light up as they stepped into costume and truly ‘became‘ a Power Ranger or a Disney princess or a superhero. Going bleary-eyed from putting names and Hershey’s kisses on dozens of flimsy paper valentines. Staying up half the night to make a classroom-full of cupcakes because my little forget-me-tot didn’t convey they were needed until 10 pm the night before. These things changed me in the most profound and lasting ways.

In fact, for every joyous, special memory I have from my childhood, I can think of at least two that trumped it during motherhood. Even the trying, frustrating moments come rushing back, ready to unwrap like the beautiful gifts they are. Fights over who got the best candy, or who got to choose the nightly movie, or who got to sit up front with me in the car — all become treasures of immeasurable worth. The realization that my parents went through the same thing comforts and excites me, knowing I’ll get to experience a whole new level of euphoria as a grandmother.

Honor tradition and welcome change. The people and places and routines might shift, but the memories and associated joy forever remain. Change affords you a past, a present, and a future; form, with shadow and light. It’s the composition that gives your life richness and depth and perspective. A work of art that is not yet finished, yet somehow complete.

Merry Christmas ~ Happy Hanukkah ~
Happy Kwanzaa!

May peace, joy, goodness, and love
fill your hearts and homes.

Pinkitude:
“Traditions are the guideposts driven deep in our subconscious minds. The most powerful ones are those we can’t even describe and aren’t even aware of.” ~ Ellen Goodman

Impassioned by the pen,
Platinum Pink

7Oct2010

Lineage Lottery

Posted in The Saga Continues by Janette Burhans

It’s a classic story.

Boy meets Girl. Boy likes Girl, so cleverly befriends Girl’s brother.
Boy gains access to Girl by being a family pal.

Boy wins Girl. (Boy is a catch so Girl wins too.)
Boy and Girl marry, and produce five much-wanted children.

Thus begins the story of my life. Parental pay dirt. I hit it — BIG TIME.

There are the caricatured ends of the spectrum: woefully inadequate (Peter Griffin), and exemplary icon (Carol Brady). Most people I know related to the Quahog pop but wished for the blended family matriarch. I realize how lucky I am when I say, for me, fact trumped fiction. I got better than the Hollywood version; mine was impervious to recasts and writer strikes, and no one ever yelled ‘cut’.

My parents gave me life, but more importantly, they made it worth living. They taught me basic virtues: the value of a dollar, the importance of knowledge, the power of forgiveness, the meaning of trust. But I learned more from the unspoken lessons than the formally taught ones. Like how to listen without judging, accept without prejudice, give without expectation, love without condition. I can’t remember a time in my youth when I felt alone or neglected. My childhood was a continual source of giggles, gladness, and generosity.

I was a good daughter. Not because I feared punishment (though it most certainly would have been given as appropriate), but because I never wanted to disappoint my parents. I wanted to reflect their successes and earn their superlatives. I wanted that gratifying pat on the back, that rewarding gleam in the eye. I craved their approval, for the simple reason that they made it the most appealing thing in the world.

My mother has always been openly demonstrative; a never-ending source of hugs, kisses, and expressed adoration. We never had to look far for affection or attention — it was always in arms reach (her arms to be exact). Frankly I don’t know how she did all that she did, and made it look effortless too. Here’s what her resume might have looked like:

Maid — clean, straighten, scrub, dust, mop, shop, wash, press, fold.
Cook — three squares a day (all from scratch), often for guests (husband’s business associates, neighbors, extended family, friends).
Mother [aka: Teacher/Peacekeeper/Nursemaid/Taxi Driver] — engage children in play, help with homework, drive to & from activities, referee sibling rivalries, make doctor visits, keep vigil at the bedsides of the sick.
Wife — travel (plan, pack/unpack), socialize (dinners, shows, work functions), hostess @ home parties (prep, participate, clean-up).
Part-time Temp — various office duties, as needed.
NOTE: Sleep optional. Or standing up.

Seriously, Mom, I’m mystified — how the Helen Keller did you do it??

My father was a rare breed. Imposing but endearing; loving but laid-back. He was the disciplinarian, though usually the extent of that was a stern look (it was all the threat we needed). The few rare times we really pushed my mother’s buttons, she used the old ‘don’t make me call your father at work‘ ploy. It worked then, though it’s laughable now that we ever believed she’d actually disturb him at the office with our petty bickering.

“Yes, I need to speak to you now. I don’t care if you’re in an important meeting, the girls are misbehaving.”

Dad was extremely devoted to family. An entrepreneur who built a thriving business from the ground up, he often put in long days. But when he left the office, he came straight home to us. We had our evening meal together, and talk was family-centric. He never brought his work or worries to the dinner table; that time was devoted to recharging as a nuclear unit. Same goes for weekends and vacations; we were always the constant in that equation. He wasn’t the touchy-feely type, but it was crystal clear that he viewed raising us as his privilege and priority.

I had one of those lame autograph books that was considered groovy as a kid in the 70’s. It zipped-to-close, and contained a rainbow of different colored pages. I wanted it filled from cover to cover, and friends and family were bestowed the dubious honor. The notations were a collage of silly, sweet, and sentimental, and have faded much like the aged paper they were written on. All but my father’s short and simple entry, which to this day remains emblazoned in my memory.

I can see with photographic clarity the angles of his pen strokes as he wrote:

“To My Easter Bunny — No matter how old you get, you will always be my baby.”
That’s it. No poems; no professions of pride for my displayed talents, above-average intellect, or studious nature. I didn’t realize how much those words meant to me, until I was no longer a baby. Until I was thrust into the hardships of adult life, of marrying too young and dealing with difficulties in a household he wasn’t the head of. His statement was simply about our inherent ties. It didn’t matter how smart, artistic, or industrious I was, or what I might become. Only that I was, and I was his. That expression of our unbreakable bond — independent of any act, ambition, or accomplishment — was the most powerful message he could have delivered.

I spent many years under his enviable tutelage. At times making him proud, other times disappointed. But he (and mia madre) loved me and provided for me with unwaivering dedication, regardless of my status. His last days were spent in a hospital, following a bypass surgery from which he never regained consciousness. I remember signing his ‘recovery’ pillow (given to heart patients to hold against their chest when they’re made to expectorate). I have no idea what I wrote, only that he would be pressing my words close to his heart. I wanted my feelings to offer a cushion of comfort, much like he had always provided for me.

He never got to do that, but I know he knows just how much he meant to me. He knows that my autograph to him would read: “To My Miracle Father: No matter the space and time between us, you will always be my hero.”

Girl continues to be joyous, upbeat, kind and giving. Girl never wore her sadness as a sign of mourning (though she surely felt/still feels it). Girl moved on to the business of living. Loving, caring for, and celebrating with the beautiful family she & Boy created. Boy will always be a part of her, as he lives inside her, within us, and amidst all of our joint memories.

I hope everyone at some point gets to experience that kind of love… A connection so strong and so deep you never really think about it, until something or someone contrasts against it, making the colors pop. If it wasn’t how you grew up, it could be how you raise your own brood, or what defines your romantic partnership, or the crux of your friendships. Luck only takes you so far. It may hold your pot of gold, but you’re responsible for finding the rainbow it resides beneath.

Pinkitude:
“The best inheritance a parent can give a child is a few minutes of their time each day.”
~ M. Grundler

Impassioned by the pen,
Platinum Pink

16Apr2010

Baby Steps

Posted in In The Beginning by Janette Burhans

Rock-a-Bye, Bloggy….

Just a tiny little thing, nestled in a remote corner of the world, self-soothed by an ink binky.

It’s kind of nice being obscure. If I trip and fall, there aren’t many people to laugh and point. Not that I’d blame them. Even though I manage to choke out an “Are you okay?”, I’m guilty of stifling giggles when I witness another person’s missteps. Why is someone falling so damn funny? As a wise observer once said, “You assume people are supposed to know how to walk”. Ah, the simplicity of it all.

Speaking of simple… I’ve been writing since I could first hold a crayon. It’s second nature to me. For some reason, displaying it in a formal environment for the general public has been fear-inducing. The butterflies-in-stomach, feels-like-you-swallowed-cotton variety. I needed some virtual pressure to get me going. Thankfully, I’ve been well trained in Shove Love.

I have a sister, about a year older than me. When I was learning to walk, she was already a seasoned pro. Watching me being egged on to do something she’d clearly mastered must have been frustrating for her. All that fanfare over nothing. The chorus of “C’mon honey, you can do it”, got to her, so she assisted me — with a firm push from the back. Of course instead of moving forward, I fell flat; turning on the waterworks amidst the pride-bruising guffaws. Interesting after affect: attention shifted to her, and I was highly motivated to get it back. I think more important than avoiding another face plant, I wanted to show my glib sib (and the family in audience) that I could accomplish the great feet (homonym intended).

This powering through became a habitual pattern. I’m not claiming abuse. Far from it. I’m referring to being spurred on by my sister’s tenacity and if-you-don’t-do-it-I-have-ways-to-make-you posturing. From child to teen to young adult, I engaged in a running series of half-hearted or non-committal attempts, often succeeding only after my sister’s incentivized prodding, and usually through stubborn tears. While immersed in it, I felt like she was too tough on me. Now I realize her cleverly-packaged encouragement was truly a gift.

I don’t need her to propel me forward any more, at least not in the physical sense. The mental conditioning that resulted from years of her influential coercions makes me do things I might not feel ready to do. It pitches me into action, and inevitably, the realization that I can do it. Sometimes that last inch is the greatest distance to travel.

Regardless of the stimuli, whether you are externally or internally driven — Just Do It. The worst that could happen is you fall on your face. Or ass. Everyone gets a chuckle, and you get up; more experienced, more determined, and that much closer to your mark.

Or… maybe your sister is sitting somewhere, erupting in maniacal har-de-hars. You were her human experiment, and your malleability has given her countless pleasure. She is the puppet master supreme, still pulling your strings… Nah. She really does just want me to succeed.

Pinkitude:
“Success means doing the best we can with what we have.
It is the doing, not the getting; the trying, not the triumph.” ~ Zig Ziglar

Platinum Pink

Blonde highlights, without the salon price tag.

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