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A Child's Tears Are The Best Therapy

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Today’s the day. For the past two weeks, I’ve been clearing my afternoon calendar and sticking reminders all over my house and office. It may seem piddling to most people. I mean, it’s not like I’ve got an appointment to interview the president or a date to accept a Pulitzer Prize. However, I need only remember the tears in my son’s eyes last year to know there’s n o room for compromise. I have to be there. And I can’t, I just can’t, be late! Oct. 4 is the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi , patron saint of animals, which means Father Bill Swengros once again will bless the children’s pets at St. Stephen Catholic School. And it’s extremely important to my 11-year-old son, Ian, that his Yorkie, Cookie, be sprinkled with holy water from the aspergillum (the holy water sprinkler thingamajiggy) and be duly blessed by Father Bill. Personally, I don’t think dunking Cookie in an entire vat of holy water is going to improve her disposition. While she may appear deceptively cute, s...
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All I Want For Christmas

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My son keeps asking me what I want for Christmas. I suspect my husband is egging my son on behind the scenes. My husband is clueless when it comes to gift buying. When I tell Ian that I already received the ultimate Christmas present 12 years ago, he just gives me that look that says, “Aw, shucks, you have to say that because you’re my mom.” Children have no idea what a gift they are. Every family has its ups and downs, and, frankly, this has been one of those down years in our family. At the time we should have been celebrating my son’s 12 th birthday in August, his grandpa, my husband’s dad, went into Brandon Regional Hospital for gall bladder surgery. In the process, doctors discovered he had a serious heart problem and his routine surgery became a three-week hospital stay followed by the announcement that he could no longer live on his own, that he would have to stay with us. On the same day grandpa was having surgery, we received a call from a hospital in Burbank...
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A Big-League Pitcher’s True Legacy

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Most of the third-graders attending last week’s funeral never heard of “Knucksie,” Houston Astros President Tal Smith’s nickname for major-league pitcher Joe Niekro. And they might not have realized that the rather prominent diamond ring Joe wore represented the fact that he pitched in a World Series. To them, he was just classmate J.J.’s dad, a big guy with a booming voice, a ready smile and a quick joke. Maybe he liked baseball a little more than some dads. But aren’t lots of dads sports fanatics? “Hey, mom,” my son informed me one day after school. “Did you know that J.J.’s dad is on a baseball card?” As I glanced over at the students dressed in matching red St. Stephen Catholic School uniform shirts seated amidst a church filled with current and former major league ball players, coaches and managers, I saluted the Rev. Mike Jurran for focusing on the man, not the career in his eulogy as so much of the national media had done since Joe’s sudden death Oct. 27. Joe’s ol...
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A Prayer for My Dad

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Along with about 20 other sons and daughters, I spent a chunk of my Sunday afternoon standing in the greeting card aisle at Walgreens in Bloomingdale perusing the selection of Father’s Day offerings. Like always, I welled up at the sentimental Hallmark Celebration offerings and made a fool of myself laughing out loud at the company’s Shoebox cards. The guy standing next to me looked as if he was ready to call 911 so I tried explaining to him why I was busting a gut. I showed him the cartoon on the card. “You see there’s a father and son at the beach looking at this dead seagull and the kid asks the dad what happened to the bird. The father tells him that it died and went to heaven. And the kid looks down at the dead bird and asks his dad, ‘Did God throw him back down?’” I burst into laughter all over again. The fellow customer just looked at me and walked away, leaving me to marvel at the subjectivity of humor. Obviously the person who wrote the greeting card and that person’s...
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The Importance Of Being Bunny

The Importance Of Being Bunny She's not much to look at. Her nubby fur is faded and she's showing the effects of too many close encounters with projectile vomit and juice spills. Her seams have come loose and she's developed a "belly button" from my son unconsciously dipping his finger into her tummy while he sleeps. Yes, Bunny's definitely seen better days. But, as far as I'm concerned, she's the most beautiful stuffed bunny ever created and she’s priceless.. She’s priceless now, that is, but I bought Bunny for $12.99 on a whim during my seventh month of pregnancy. The crib awaiting my son's arrival was already overflowing with stuffed animals. But I couldn't resist the pink stuffed bunny when I spotted her at a local department store. She reminded me of the stuffed bunny I'd had as a child -- soft, floppy and cuddly. I placed her in the crib next to an assortment of teddy bears, an expensive walking giraffe from FAO Sch...
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Lead Them And They’ll Find Their Way

Poor Dr. Jeremy Poole. I can still see the stunned look on his face as I sobbed and hugged him. He’d just informed me that I was pregnant. I’d been told my chances of having a child were slim to none due old scar tissue so I didn’t even try to contain my emotions when Dr. Poole made his surprising announcement 13 years ago. I was 35 years old; my husband 41. We were pretty much resigned to life without a child. We chalked my pregnancy up to nothing short of a miracle. Because of my age, doctors recommended I undergo amniocentesis. We agreed only to prepare ourselves for any problems we might encounter when our child was born. It didn’t matter if our child was born with Down syndrome or any other birth defect. We were prepared to treasure this child regardless of any special needs. This child was a blessing. However, we did agree on some guidelines to raising him. We vowed to never pressure him to be an all-star baseball player or straight-A student. After all, intellig...
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The Meaning Of 'In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida' And Other '60s Revelations

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It was one of those spur-of-the-moment decisions. I'd heard an announcement on the radio for Hippie Fest the day before. It'd been a tough couple of months. What better way to unwind than to escape into the '60s and '70s, and reminisce with Eric Burdon of the Animals, Terry Sylvester of the Hollies, Felix Cavaliere of the Rascals, Joey Molland of Badfinger, Denny Laine of the Moody Blues, Melanie, Country Joe McDonald and some of the original members of Iron Butterfly? The venue was perfect: Cypress Gardens ' outdoor theater. For an extra 15 bucks you can get reserved seats so, as my husband put it, we could count the wrinkles on Denny Laine's face from where we were sitting. No one was more excited about Hippie Fest than my 11-year-old son, Ian. He didn't glance twice at the Cypress Gardens thrill rides in his eagerness to get to the concert. I can't sing or play a note but I love music, and I've exposed my son to an eclectic as...
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