Message from Roo



So about a  month ago life arranged itself so that my husband had the children and I was out doing my thing . . . by myself. Let’s make a note of that . . . by myself. There was no one under five feet tall with me. In fact, there was no one over five feet tall either. It was a momentous occasion.

Anyway, when I returned home I checked our phone messages and there was a message from G . . . short and sweet and to the point.

“I love you, Mom.”

No mincing words here.

This message was followed by a message from Roo. Through the fuzz and static of a poor cell connection I hear her sweet, high-pitched little voice telling me the following:

“I just wanted to let you know that I love you too, Mom and the – the one before this one was from G. This one’s from R. I lo- I mostly just love you – when y – uh – you are actually not crabby ’cause I think I mostly just like happy people. I just wanted to let you know that, Mom. Bye!”

That last sentence was so perky and upbeat it is beyond my limited descriptive ability.

You know I’m saving that message forever . . . and you know I listen to it at least once a week.  We’re supposed switch phone companies next month. I can’t let that happen. I’d lose the message.

In fact, if we ever move I’m keeping our phone number and voicemail so I can listen to it and laugh when she’s 14 and 25 and 46 and 59.

Blue Eyes

Dear Roo,

I found out I was pregnant with you on Daddy’s and my 2nd wedding anniversary. That day also happened to be Daddy’s 33rd birthday. We lived in a tiny house with one very tiny bathroom. The conversation went something like this:

Me:  “Happy Birthday, honey!”

Daddy: “Thanks.”

Me: Pause. Pee on a stick. Wait.

Me:  “Uh, honey, I think I’m pregnant . . . “

In hindsite I probably should have waited until Daddy was out of the shower to make the announcement so I could see his reaction. As it was all I got was . . .

(Silence.) Prolooooonged silence.

Me again:  “Honey?”

and again:  “Hello?”

He knew we were trying to get pregnant. He just had no idea it would happen the first time we tried. He was in shock.

That’s ok. Telling Auntie K made up for it. She was beside herself . . . there were happy shrieks, a lot of talking, maybe some happy tears . . . now that I think about it I probably should have waited to tell her in person, too. That way maybe I would have understood at least part of what she said.

But I digress.

I spent approximately 282 days pregnant. Give or take. I know because I kept track of the weeks – and then the days – on the shower wall with finger paint.

And then my water broke.

And then we got to bring home this:

The best prize EVER!

(Some details of the event may have been censored to preserve my dignity and keep Daddy from having to relive the trauma of labor and delivery.)

Ooooo – may baby girl! Where is that box of tissue?!?

And you grew and you smiled and you slept (occasionally) and you screamed (a lot) and your eyes were that common newborn dark blue.

But here’s the freaky thing.

They stayed blue.


Not once, not one single blessed time during the 282 days you were jumping around in my uterus; not once during all the “I wonder what she will look like?” conversations; not one single time ever did I imagine that my olive drab eyes and Daddy’s hazel eyes would produce a blue-eyed child.

But they did.

Courtesy of two of your greats, Gran Gran and John. One from Daddy, one from me.

And lest your brown-eyed brother think I’m glorifying blue eyes I had no (read zero, zip, zilch) preference or hope about eye color. I assumed your eyes would be a lovely shade of either green or brown.

I was wrong. 

Instead, I’m left in awe of genetics.

Fearfully and wonderfully made.

I love you to your bones, Roo Roo.


P.S. We told Grannie Pie and Pawpaw you were on the way in the airport parking lot when they came up to visit that September. We pronounced Grammie a grandmother with flowers.

The Outbacks

That is not a typo.
We are not discussing Australia or restaurant chains.
We’re here to chat about this:
This is a Subaru Outback®.
In the city in which I reside people drive vehicles falling into one of four categories:
1) Trucks (of various shapes, sizes and horsepower)
2) SUVs
3) Subaru Outbacks®
4) Everything else
Of those Subaru Outbacks® at least half of them are some shade of green. Based on my sound scientific research and clever mathematical analysis this means that there are probably around 40,000 green Subaru Outbacks® in this lovely little town.
Give or take a few.
The only time they are outnumbered by anything besides people is between May and September when the geese visit and leave little presents on every square inch of green public use space they can find.
But I digress . . .
This is what happens when you live in a town with 40,000 green Subaru Outbacks® . . .
When you decide to meet friends in the parking lot after work to head out for 5 o’clock hors d’oeuvres and a glass of wine they say to you, “I’ll meet you at my car – just look for the Outback®.” They don’t even have to say Subaru™ because when the word “outback” is spoken here no one has visions of kangaroos and koala bears just all-wheel drive and bike racks.
“Gee, that’s helpful,” you think. Narrows it down to slightly less than 100 cars in a parking lot that holds 375.
Being aware themselves that there are tens of thousands of Outbacks® in town they considerately add, “It’s a green one.”
Really? Well that narrows it down to about fifty. Shouldn’t take much more than an hour to locate your friend. By then you’ll need more than a glass of wine.
All of this being said, it wasn’t surprising to me when I discovered the parents of my daughter’s new-found kindergarten friend drive a (drumroll, please) . . . green Subaru Outback®.
Ah . . . but little did I know.
This green Subaru Outback® would be easy to spot in a parking lot – or on the highway – or anywhere.
Do you see what I see?
Notice the charming window decorations?
I have to admit . . .  I was tickled to see little stickers plastered all over those windows. Not only would I forever be able to find our new friends on the road and wave madly across six lanes of traffic, I was pretty sure we’d get along just fine.
Not only do we both have small children.
Not only do we both have pediatricians who hand out stickers.
But our outlook on life is strikingly similar . . . at least from the back seat of our respective vehicle.
See . . .
Their view:
Their window
Our view:
These are the things on which friendships are built.
Never prone to exaggeration,

Next Newer Entries