Attention Readers,

Due to a funding cut I was forced to let my virtual editor (Chad) go, and because of said funding cut—I blame congress—I sometimes send out my little emails with boo-boos.  For example using

the word “again” when I meant to type “ago.”  Please see this week’s email Death by Coloring—first sentence.

Although “ago” can feel like “again” they would not by synonyms—(i.e. words that kind-a, sort-a mean the same thing if you look them up in the dictionary).  Typing “again” for the word “ago” could be blamed on a short attention span,  poor parenting, or rickets.  I prefer to blame global warming.

So there you have it.  I make mistakes.  I make mistakes often.  And sometimes I even 1.) notice my mistakes and 2.) admit my mistakes.

So sign me,

Aggrieved in Florida, or is it aggravated?  (Linda L. Zern, Email Writer and Mistake Maker.)

Dear Moms and Dads,

    Two weekends again we went to hear the son of dear friends of ours give his final “talk” (i.e. speech) in his church before he left home for two years to serve a full time mission for our church.  For those of you not of our faith, our sons leaving home to serve a two-year full time mission is expected but not required.  They leave, generally, at nineteen and return, generally, around their twenty-first birthday’s—generally.  In our church (i.e. culture) a young man’s mission is something of a right of passage, a way of saying, “Today, I am a man.”

     Christopher (the soon to be missionary) gave a wonderful talk.  He was articulate.  He was passionate.  He spoke with the power and authority of a nineteen-year old who’s had a mom and dad that were paying attention.  And when he concluded his talk he said the words that every mother in every religion, creed, breed, and mental state longs to hear.  He said, “I know that I was unbearable (i.e. a bonehead) at times.  Thanks for hanging in there.”  I wept.

    And then I looked over at my one-year old grandson, Conner.  He had taken off his shoes and socks and was sucking his own toes.  I glanced at my daughter who was trying to locate Conner’s missing shoes and socks, and I thought, “Man, it’s a long time from the toe sucking days to the ‘Sorry for being such a bonehead days.’”  A long, long time.

    Conner turned one in February.  He weighed (last count) twenty-four pounds.  He is almost as tall as his three-year old sister.  He can walk.  He can dance.  He can shimmy up the front of the kitchen stove.  And he has discovered the fine art of stirring up trouble.  He’s got all the makings of a first class bonehead.

    If you get into my daughter’s car with our two adorable grandchildren in the backseat, whatever you do, don’t turn around—no matter what you hear, no matter what you think you hear—DO NOT TURN AROUND.  If you do choose to turn around you’ll either be turned to salt or you’ll feel compelled to try and confiscate Conner’s bottle.   At which point Conner will pretend to hand you his bottle, and when you try to take it he’ll turn it upside down and give it a hefty  shake.  Milk will then drip, dribble, and splash absolutely everywhere.  You will yell.  He will laugh.  When you try to get stern and commanding and lunge for the offending bottle, Conner will kick your hand away, hide his bottle in his car seat, and continue laughing like a boy who knows the value of a good brew-ha-ha. 

    You should see the backseat of that car.  It looks like a milk cow exploded back there.  Conner is one. 

    Zoe, our three-year old granddaughter, on the other hand tries hard to do the right thing.  Her problem is that what she enjoys doing she enjoys to the point of obsession.  Let me put it this way, Zoe colors like a drunk drinks—until there isn’t a drop of ink left in a single marker in the entire state of Florida.  She keeps going until the crayons start to melt in her hand, until all the black line drawings of frolicsome little kittens sitting in adorable baskets of yarn are—FINISHED.  And you’d better be prepared to color too or else. 

    “Let’s color Ya-Ya,” Zoe says, handing me a fistful of washable magic markers and a five hundred page coloring book about frogs.

    “But honey, Ya-Ya’s tired.  Ya-Ya doesn’t want to color.”

    “Ya-Ya, you need to color!” She says as she arranges her markers in a semi-circle around us.  There is no escape; I am trapped.

    “But Zoe, my arthritis is kicking up and Ya-Ya’s fingers hurt,” I say, holding up my great-grandmother’s lumpy, boney fingers that somehow have become my fingers.

    And then in a voice straight from an exorcism Zoe growls, “COLOR, YA-YA!”

    And so I color, hoping that if my family finds my dried up little Ya-Ya bones in a pile somewhere with a pair of crossed magic markers across my chest they will know that I went down coloring until I cramped up and died.

    It’s a long time between the days of milk dribbles and melted crayons to the day when they step away from us—at last—and say, “Today, I am grown.”  A long time to be wise and loving, tender and fair, and those days will pass faster than days have a right to pass in this lifetime or any other. 

    I try to tell this to my daughter but she’s too busy trying to keep Conner from sucking the ink out of Zoe’s washable magic markers, so I just sit back and wait for the day when I’ll sit in a pew at church and listen to my grandson say, “Man, was I a bonehead.  Thanks for hanging in there.”  And then I’ll nod and wink and wish him, “God’s speed.”

With Joy in the Journey,

Linda (The Ya-Ya) Zern

   
 

            

          

Linda L. Zern (Me Again)

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