But honestly at this point, I think it would be better for my child if I was.

*   *   *

Today we went to the rehearsal at a local church for my daughter’s piano recital on Sunday.

The Lord gifted my daughter with an ear for music. This is good because I am tone deaf. No. That is really being way too complimentary about my musical skills.

She can play quite well.  But, she doesn’t practice.

Oh, she practices some. But not like she should.

A good mother would step in and make her play at least 30 minutes a day.

I am not a good mother. I’m happy when she sits down and I hear cheery melodies floating through the air. I never keep track of the time.

She got up today and played both her songs.

There was a little bit of stumbling.

She came rushing over to me after she was done.

“Can we go?”

No. I explained we needed to wait till the end. Then I said,

“Hannah you just need to practice more.”

Her reply,

“I can’t play on that piano. That’s not like our piano. It’s too clean.”

The more she explained, the more it made perfect sense.

The chips and dings in, pencil marks on and chocolate-stains ringing our ivory keys are her markers. They are how she recognizes the notes.

This church’s piano is pristine.

And it freaks her out.

I get it. Imperfect to touch. Weeds in my garden, dirty dishes in the sink and toothpaste splattered on the bathroom mirror.

It’s hard for me to play in perfect peace where things are sterile, not real.

What do you think? Is it easier to play on imperfect keys?

Of course this post never would have been written if I could afford to have someone clean my house six days a week.

Where She Went, BlogHer’s Book Club latest great read, is Gayle Forman’s past-paced sequel to her New York Times Bestseller If I Stay. Once again her story focuses on Adam Wilde and Mia. A rock star and Julliard-trained super cellist with a deeply emotional history and love between them who reconnect for a night in New York City after a three year separation.

The story is told through Adam’s eyes. The reader experiences a ringside seat for his journey from playing small intimate venues to stadiums filled with crowds chanting his name. It follows the meteoric rise of Wilde’s band Shooting Star after the release of their album Collateral Damage. An album compiled with songs written by an angst-filled Adam after Mia left him and Oregon for New York.

Though I did not read the first installment — If I Stay yet, I had no problem with the background of the story that led to Adam’s promise to Mia made at her hospital bed three years prior.

Adam tells her: “If you stay, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll quit the band; go with you to New York. But if you need me to go away, I’ll do that too. .. And that would suck, but I’ll do it. I can lose you like that, if I don’t lose you today. I’ll let you go. If you stay.”

Don’t want to write much more — no plot spoilers for you –  but if you’re looking for an absorbing read this summer, add this to your list.

It’s a bit chick lit and a bit romance. And every bit and bite works.

The book trailer…

As a nine year old that seemed as foreign as eating octopus for dinner.

I’m linking up with MamaKat and choosing prompt number  1.)  Share a story from fourth grade.

I was trying to remember fourth grade.

I remembered where Mrs. Dollar’s classroom was in the framework of Audubon Park Elementary.

I remembered where my desk was in that classroom.

That’s about it. With one notable exception that happened on the last day of school.

Mrs. Dollar was retiring. Someone (probably some room mom) had us raise money to buy her a rose for every year.

Roses. What’s the big deal?

Well, when they arrived  — the one thing I remember (of the entire year) is how her face softened into absolute joy when she saw that bouquet.

Her creased face looked less agitated and pleased with the whole ragtag lot of us.

She carried them outside and we all pointed our little Instamatics with no flashbulbs (for everyone brought a camera for the last day) at her smiling ear-to-ear face holding that spray of 40 long stems.

Mrs. Dollar with her glasses forever hanging on a chain around her neck holding those roses in the grassy area between the fourth grade hall and the library. In Florida, the hallways were all open. At least back then in the ancient of times.

We made her happy.

That’s what I remember.

What about you?

Any recollection of 4th grade?”

And with that rain, the garden did grow.

That meant I needed to play God again with the okra.

I love okra.

Well, I love fried okra and so do my children. So when my transplants from the store dried up and blew away, I dropped a row of okra seeds into the dirt.

Up those seeds sprung.

And now comes a task every farmer must do.

Thin out the seedlings.

Shhhh.

Yes, it was time.

I don’t know why this causes me angst. Which one should I pull. There are dozens and dozens.

I need to pull at least 10 seedlings for every one kept.

I can’t help thinking…is this how God does things? Get in there and pull up a few.

It’s so arbitrary.

So I came at it from a different angle.

Rather than thinking of individual okra, I thought of the OKRA.

As in my crop.

For the good of the entire crop all but a few must be weeded out.

Yes, I did my job and now the remaining plants have room to grow.

I’ll probably have to weed out a few more in a week or so.

I’m really too emotional to be a farmer.

But my love of fried okra prevailed and I made the tough calls.

Actually it got easier as I went along. A lot easier.

How is your garden growing this 15th of May?

My mother and I have different strengths but our core is the same.

We are both creative; she is slide rule and drafting board creative.

I am pile-the-drafting-board-high-with-projects-I-want-to-try creative. And forget about ever finding the slide rule.

I love her dearly and this Monday Listicles mention 10 of the many things I learned from her.

10.  Fried catfish and grits are perfectly acceptable for breakfast.

9.    Take your make-up off every night before bed.

(No matter what Lady Gaga does.)

8.     Take your children to church.

I’ve relaxed on the dress code with this. But I do insist on shoes. No use perpetuating a small Southern town stereotype.

7.   Love is shown by action — not necessarily words or physical affection.

My mother is not big on hugs or saying I love you — but she worked like a horse helping me fix up all the various old houses we’ve lived in.

6.   No sacrifice is too great for your children. Self goes second.

She gave up a career as a promising commercial office interior designer in pre-Disney Orlando when she got married. I love looking at her color drafts of projects. They look straight out a set design for Mad Men.

5.   Keep scissors and a hammer handy.

4.   Hanging wallpaper is a possibility.

She is a great paper hanger. She convinced me to try and I know that I can keep an old plaster wall from falling if necessary.

3.   Worry.

Taken most of my life to try to unlearn this one.

2.   Take time alone with God everyday.

1.    Honor your mother.

I loved my maternal grandmother. She was soft-spoken and kind. I wish I had been able to spend more time with her as a child.

Yes, from my mother’s  example I believe;

Accolades and things are fleeting — what matters is how you conduct yourself in front of your children for anything worthwhile is mostly caught rather than taught.

What are some things you learned from your mum?

That meant long flowing solid jewel gowns, neatly cinched tuxedos and cameras of every brand, nation, size and price range all over town.

I am still needing my camera repaired (on tomorrow to-do list) but that didn’t stop me.

Yes, all over the county, parents were taking pictures of their children, their dates and their friends.

My son and his lovely date.

Laura Margaret’s ball shoes. Inside joke to those on Twitter. (Well, maybe just between us but who cares?)

Obligatory shot with parents. I brought candied carrots to the dinner and spilled it all over me as I was carrying it. My husband said that’s why he fell in love with me.

Not sure but he’s right — but that’s me.

And that’s also me, the mother of a graduating high school senior.

Yes, the parents took pictures. And more pictures.

Parents are forever taking pictures of their children. A fuzzy newborn in the hospital, a first step, a piano rectial or football game. Violin concert, 4-H show.

Yes, once and forever we are the paparazzi to our children.

Only now, these last few photographs of high school moments have such significance.

Maybe they all did? All those pictures snapped for 18 years.

It’s just now we’re so much more aware of the fleeting nature of the moment we are trying to hang onto.

Now we’ll be forever on the outside looking in.

Right?

Alright.

I’ll get it over with. Don’t want anyone thinking I posted a less-than-flattering candid of them.

So here goes.

Now that all the gasps of horror have once again turned to thoughts of “wow, she really ought to wear a little concealer to these things,” I shall proceed with my report.

This race was put on with the help of the local Lions Club to benefit Young Life.

Our family was spread out all over the board. Two were doing the Fun Run, two ran the 5K and you know who did the 10K. Hint ~ concealer.

I showed up once again with my phone.

(Because I’ve yet to get my camera fixed and Prom’s tonight. UGH. But I digress.)

My youngest and I walked up to the start just as the 5k was getting under way.

My husband finishing up.

The kids wildly cheering Pop home.

So proud of him. I think this is the farthest he’s run without walking since law school. Or at least that’s what he said.

And if that isn’t enough inspiration for you look at these two ladies.

Both these great looking gals are 67. Shirley didn’t start running till after turning 40 and I think Linda — later in life than that.

I know Shirley from a story I did chronicling her first triathlon at age 64. Shirley ran the 10k today.

Linda ran both the 5K and the 10K and was headed to another race this afternoon. And that’s a usual Saturday for her. She told me it’s better than sitting in front of the computer all day.

Well said.

So turn off the computer and find a race to run next Saturday.

What’s your excuse?  Or what’s your favorite local race?

My sister aced Queen Bee Multitasker.

I’m taking Remedial Homemaking for the tenth time.

*  *  *

All I wanted was some iced tea.

Running around this morning with a deadline today, an appointment in an hour, a trashed house (usually happens re deadline), I filled up the kettle and placed it on the burner.

I raced to get more clothes into the washer, returned a few emails, headed back into the kitchen and

HOLY MELTING PLASTIC.

It was the smell that hit me first.

WARNING: The following image might be too graphic for small children and Martha Stewart.

Well, and any executive with Bissell.

UGH.

How do these things happen? We average a new vacuum cleaner every six months.

They are usually killed by a stray Lego, inhaling enough black dog and cat hair to knit an afghan or vacuuming up the dirt from an overturned 10 gallon planter.

This tops everything.

How could I be so careless? I washed out the cups yesterday and must have absentmindedly set them on the stove top. I turned on the same burner I do every time and….

Now I’m going to have to stop all I’m doing and buy a new vacuum when this one is two months old.

But this is a story of redemption.

Or of how my left brain grew two sizes today.

It came to me out of the blue. The motor still works. I just have to buy two new parts.

I didn’t panic.

I solved a domestic problem.

I got online and found the Bissell replacements.

Here’s the best part. I googled a coupon and got 10 percent off and free shipping. 

That never happens in my pay-full-price-because-you-are-a-creative-wreck world.

See.

And the best part is that the new parts are due to arrive May 22.

No need to try and vacuum for a week and a half. (So if any of you stop over, consider yourself warned.)

What about you? What major appliance have you killed lately?

We played a little tennis — I did a little work.

Then I found this little lucky fellow watching over my keyboard.

We went home.

And found no power.

This was our light.

This was my next door neighbor.

They never lose power.

Trees get blown to here and yon in horrific storms and they never lose power.

I decided it was not worth trying to cook.

There wasn’t power a few blocks away.

Yes, there wasn’t power for ten square miles.

But….

And after eating entirely too much pizza from the stress of no electricity, the power did come back on.

So I opened up my laptop to do a little work.

Look who I found a few hours since we left the park.

All is well.

You go bopping along 30 years of life and then someone puts a newborn in your arms.

This same baby you felt kicking and scratching inside of you a day ago.

Hello baby.

What am I supposed to do with you?

Once again I’m linking up with MamaKat’s Writer’s Workshop and I’m choosing  prompt number 1) Share a parenting moment where you really began to realize what this mothering thing is all about.

*   *   *

I had this baby.

I figured out how to feed him and change him.

Image credit

I never could figure out to keep him from looking like a dead baby bird in his car seat. (Looking back, I think it was because I kept the seat at too steep an angle for his little weak neck to stay upright.)

I was mostly going through the motions.

Oh, I loved him. But I felt as a baby sitter, a caretaker — wondering when some professional wearing a green smock would put a hypodermic needle in my body (still carrying 10 plus pregnancy pounds) and shoot me with the Mommy virus.

Then one day I was leaving Kroger pushing my new little charge/dead baby bird in the cart to the car.

SCREEEEECCCCHH.

A car whipped around a corner and down the aisle of cars lined as Dominoes.

“SLOW DOWN!” thundered out of the depth of my quaking torso.

I hated that boy driving that car. If my eyes shot out lightening bolts, he would be a pile of grey ash.

What just happened?

An awareness started oozing all through my body feeling all warm and tingly as if someone had just injected me with dye for a MRI.

How care that young fool race around in a 2000 lb. death mobile endangering my child!

My child.

Not the cute, wrinkly producer of dirty diapers. Not the crying, scrunched-up red face. Not the baby bird with the broken neck.

My son who I cared whether he lived or died more than I ever thought humanly possible to think about myself much less another being.

Yep.

That’s when I knew I was a mom.

How about you?