Thursday, May 28, 2015

No More Dishes in the Sink by Andrea

In three months, when I come home after a long day of work, I will not have to say, “Why are there DISHES IN THIS SINK!?” The thought of this conjures up dueling emotions within me.  My feelings about and reaction to dirty dishes in the sink (or anywhere for that matter) is closely akin to Joan Crawford’s feelings, as portrayed in Mommie Dearest, about wire hangers.  I have made this disdain no secret for all of my life!  Yet, my children sometimes find it challenging to honor my request to alleviate the pain that comes with this major pet peeve.  So, I do a little happy dance when the thought of lowered blood pressure and no more flared nostrils comes across my mind.  Alas, the feeling is fleeting.  Within moments, a wave of melancholy washes over me, for as intense as my feelings are about unwashed dishes, my joy grows a thousand-fold when my children walk through the door.  The idea that I will come home to a daily reminder of my children's absence saddens me far more than the potential for fewer (internal) explosions excites me.  
In the fall, my last two chickadees will leave the nest.  No gentle nudging or pushing required of them.  They have spread their virtual wings and are poised to fly away come August.  One to the great big city of Austin, less than 30 minutes away sans traffic.  The other to the enormous concrete jungle and a footloose and fancy-free freshman year at the University of Texas at Dallas.  I thought I had traversed the emotions that naturally appear when one’s youngest offspring is preparing to graduate.  We saw this coming last year when Daughter Number Two decided to do a year of community college at home rather than traipsing all the way to Lubbock. The excitement of two staying at home for one more year, quickly gave way to double despair when we redid the math.  Two would then be leaving in August 2015.  The nest would be empty all at once.  I curse the day.  I guess I haven’t worked through my feelings because I get a little pit in my belly as I try to imagine a house with no children, without my children.
So there will be no dirty dishes in the sink, but there will also be no talkative, silly, bantering teenagers.  No stories of what happened in class or goings-on from high school or community college for the day.  No loud, opinionated discussions of current events and ideas. I will come home and my lovelies will not be here for me to ask “How was your day?”and to be inundated with the delightful minutia of class discussions, antics and observations from their respective schools.  I will not be asked impossible questions such as “Do you know what the rational value of 39 would be if you squared it and multiplied by the exponential factor of 42 divided by pi?”  (That’s what the youngest’s inquiries sound like to my old ears!  She’s been a genius her whole life and we are just trying to live in her world).  No nerd talk of obscure details related to world history, psychology, etymology.  These are just a few of the regular topics covered as we wash dirty dishes and the like.
This dailyness of life for more than 26 years has made us what we are.  My husband and I have never, ever been without kids.  I brought one into the relationship.  We are the best of friends and relish each other’s company, but we’ve parented a decade longer than we have not.  The silence alone could do us in.  Yes, we will have each other and our friends.  We still have to work (probably until the kingdom comes to cover the cost of three children in college all at once).  We will be busy, I’m sure.  We even have a grandbaby on the way so surely, he’ll take up plenty of our time- even if it just talking about him and cooing at him on Face Time.  It’s not a matter of what we’ll do with all the hours we will get back since we won’t have parent meetings, school and athletic events to regularly attend, appointments or quick shopping trips to buy needed items.  It’s about transitioning into a brand-new chapter of our life.  We saw it coming, but really there was no way to prepare our hearts for it fully.  Sure, this year has been a transition in and of itself.  Everyone drives themselves to where they need to go for the most part.  We give out money left and right and the children make plans and go off with their people.
Daughter Number Two is rarely at home during the weekdays due to work, school and service. Number Three has been swamped with adding the finishing touches to an epic senior year.  Nonetheless, they are here.  Evidence of their presence abounds- like dirty dishes in the sink, backpacks and tennis shoes on their bedroom floors, the constant hum of the washer and dryer, the TV set to Netflix.  When I come home, I look for them even when I know they aren’t here.  The dishes make me crazy, yet by them I can tell a lot about the days my girls might be having.  Even before I talk to them.  I can tell when they woke up, if they left the house on time, how long they’ll be gone.  From the trails they leave behind, I get an inkling as to their frame of mind at departure and the mood they will likely be in upon their return (a happy mood as long as I don’t go all Joan Crawford on them).
We aren’t the first and definitely not the last parents to watch their progeny go out to make a mark on the world.  It’s not the first time we’ve had our own fledglings venture out into the wilderness.  But there’s something about the last one, and in our case the last two.  In a few short months, I will have to develop new instincts and skills to detect their moods, needs, health and wellness.  We all will have to evolve into new ways of being and connecting with one another.  We can learn.  We will adapt.  We will survive.  And so will our little chickadees.  

Thursday, May 21, 2015

Another Milestone


My son just graduated from college. I want to say that now I am the mother of a grown man, but I realize he has been an old man and a little boy, all at once, since the day he was born.  He looked like an old man when he first arrived but soon turned into this chubby cheeked, roly-poly baby.  He had an “office” at three, which by his own account was very well equipped, but had to work real hard on keeping his pants dry.  He wanted to get married to the first pretty girl he met at preschool but then scratched her face when she wouldn’t let him kiss her.  He won over the grumpy middle school teachers by walking up to them, shaking their hands and saying hello, even though he was sent to detention for running in the hallways.  He got his first job at twelve, but took forever to agree to hold the fork and knife in the “correct” hands.  I count on his old man wisdom more than he knows. And I hope the little boy that lives inside him keeps him happy and joyful forever.  

Thursday, May 14, 2015

Not Such a Failure After All

The pain in my throat made it very difficult to swallow as I tried my hardest not to cry.  We were on our way home and the ambiance in the car was cheerful and lighthearted to everyone but me.  We had a lot of fun things going on during the weekend, and it was Friday, which meant that the mood was relaxed.  I knew it was going to happen.  The dam could only hold so much against the pressure that was coming at it, and I put on my sunglasses to mask the eruption that was about to happen.  Had we been outside it wouldn’t have mattered.  The rain coming down could have camouflaged the tears that were now streaming down my face. 
            How could it be?  Another failure.  Another check on my long list of insecurities and inadequacies.  I knew that I would be great at this new position because it involved something I cared so passionately about.  Was I wrong?  That was the question that circled around in my head after the call that left me wondering, what is wrong with me.  Why am I not good enough?  When am I ever going to catch a break?
            The harsh rain only added to my frustration, as the traffic now became worse.  All I wanted to do was get home, cover myself with a blanket and hide.  Another wave of tears made its way to the corners of my eyes, but were stopped before the downpour.  I felt a warm, gentle touch on my arm.  I looked over at my son who was watching me with a concerned look on his face.  I hadn’t realized that the sunglasses could only hide so much of my disappointment, and he was witnessing something other than the strong momma I liked to portray in front of them.
            “Mom, are you okay?” he said genuinely worried.
            “Yes, I am fine,” I said in a convincing voice. 
He kept looking at me, and then said, “Mom, God has a plan for everything. It’s going to be okay.”

            My little man had no clue about what was going on.  He only saw that his mom was upset about something, and used the words I have used so many times with him.
            Sometimes things don’t always work out.  I know this.  I’m a teacher and a mother.  Unpredictability is kind of part of the job description for both.  But I had taken the “failure” and turned it into an attack against myself.  I saw it as a problem, and made a list of things that were wrong with me, instead of trusting that God has a plan, like I had prayed just that very morning.    Life isn’t always going to give us what we want, and it’s essential to me that my kids know how important it is to keep moving forward after a setback.  Hearing those words come out of my son’s mouth made me feel like not quite so much a failure, and even though the sun didn’t shine much the rest of the weekend, it didn’t rain on us at all.

~Esmeralda

            

Thursday, May 7, 2015

The ABCs of Me by Carolyn

I loved Andrea's post so much that I am shamelessly copying it! In fact, both of us can thank our co-writer Susan, for showing us the very cool book, Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, by one of my favorite authors, Amy Krouse Rosenthal. It's one of those books that you look at and think, "Why didn't I think of writing a book like this?" The author has simply written a snippet about her life for each letter of the alphabet, but the result is quite entertaining. What a deal!

So here is a beginning for my personal encyclopedia:

A is for Angry Resting Face.


From the Urban Dictionary: Angry Resting Face (ARF) - Term used to describe the angry-looking facial expression that one instinctively makes when s/he is resting, zoned out, or not actively engaged in a conversation. Someone with an angry resting face may be unfairly perceived as cold or aloof. An effective remedy for an ARF is to learn to "smile with your eyes." 

A colleague taught us about this a few years ago. I was extremely relieved to hear that it was a real thing, because I have been accused all my life of being angry, or grouchy, or sad, or worse, when I am not. That is just the way my face is. I have tried to develop an HRF (Happy Resting Face), but it just does not work. We who suffer with ARF deserve your pity, not your scorn.  :)




B is for baby. Maybe I should have saved this for "G", as in grandbaby, but I wanted to get it in here as soon as possible. People always tell you that there is nothing like being a grandparent. This is true. The joy of snuggling with your own little hunk of love, knowing you do not have to get up in the middle of the night with the little bugger is complete and utter bliss.


C is for CeCe. One of the most important decisions of your life is what you want to be called by your grandchildren. It is of supreme importance. You should start worrying about it as soon as possible. I have been weighing my options for quite some time, hoping I would eventually need to have something ready. I'm happy to report I now have the need for a grandmother name (see entry under "B is for baby" or "J is for Jude"). I have contemplated Grammy C and CeCe and various other options, but ultimately I know it will be up to my first-born grandchild to choose my name. I just hope he doesn't decide to call me MeMaw or MooMoo or something equally horrid!




D is for dogs. If you are a faithful reader of our blog, you may know that I have dogs. Three of them, in fact. What was I thinking? But that is a different story (see Life Lesson #7 from July 15, 2014). Here is what I like about having dogs: they love me, they do not talk back, they (typically) do not generate dirty laundry or dirty dishes, they love to cuddle, they let me pick what to watch on TV, and they are occasionally very entertaining. What I do not like about having dogs: they chew up EVERYTHING within reach, they track mud and various other unidentified debris into the house, they like to dig in trash cans and pull out all the contents thereof, they jump up on me in a frenzy of overwhelming affection, and they do not understand the concept of sleeping late on weekends. As with everything else in life, you take the bad with the good. They are part of my life.


E is for elementary school. I am a teacher. I briefly dabbled in middle school and high school earlier in my career, but my heart belongs in elementary school. I remember having a conversation about that a few years ago with my long-time friend who taught middle school. I said one of the reasons I much preferred working in an elementary school was that I got hugs from the kids there. Totally shocked and disgusted, she said, "And you LIKE that?" Yes, I do. Research tells us that hugs make you happier, healthier, and more relaxed. Who wouldn't like that? I work with wonderful, giving colleagues and have the privilege of touching young lives. It just doesn't get any better than that.

F is for food. I really, really like food. That is all.

G is for grandmother. Yes, I am one now, but that is not what I want to talk about here. My father's mother was called Mawgaw, which is my sister's fault (see entry under "C is for CeCe"), My sister was the first-born grandchild and apparently couldn't say "Grandma" correctly. I feel sure I would have done a better job of it if I had been the one in charge of naming the family matriarch. Be that as it may, Mawgaw was an incredible woman. She was love personified. She hugged and kissed and generally loved on us every possible moment. She didn't cook fancy dishes, but the food she made was absolutely wonderful! Hot yeast rolls, juicy and tender pot roast, sweet, flaky blackberry cobbler . . . every bite was full of love. She was tough as nails - she worked every day alongside my grandfather on their cattle ranch, planted and tended and harvested a  huge truck garden every year, canned and preserved the produce, managed the roadside fruit/pecan stand, cooked three meals a day, and ran the house as well. But she was also tender-hearted and felt the pain of everyone around her. I remember one time when I had hurt myself as a child (which happened regularly), she was pouring out sympathy on me, hugging and kissing, and lamenting my wound as grandmothers are supposed to do. My mother said, "Sarah, quit being nice to her; it just makes her cry harder!" Mawgaw was also generous to a fault and always assumed the best of everyone. She was an amazing woman. I miss her every day. I hope I can be as good a grandmother to my grandchildren as she was to me.

G is also for geocaching. This is a pastime I discovered a while back. It consists of using GPS coordinates to search for and (hopefully) locate "caches" hidden by other geocachers. Very fun. Unfortunately, I don't get to do it very often - lately, my only involvement in geocaching has been talking other people into trying it! I hope to get back to it soon - the excitement of recording my geocaching name and date-of-find on the list inside a cache is calling to me.

H is for hospital. I was born in Lampasas, Texas, in the Rollins-Brook Hospital. At that time, the hospital had 13 rooms. It was, strangely enough, a source of pride to me for many years that I was born in such a teeny-tiny facility. Sadly, the hospital was enlarged greatly several years ago. I was, and still am, bummed about that.

I is for . . . you guessed it, Ireland. I am homesick for a place I have never lived. I'm not sure how that is possible, but 'tis true. The moment I set foot on Irish soil, I knew it would become a part of who I am.
                “There’s music in the Irish names—
                 Kilkenny . . . Tipperary . . .
                 There’s beauty in the countryside,
                 From Cork to Londonderry,
                 And whoever makes his earthly home
                 Close to the Irish sod
                 Has found a bit of Heaven
                 And walks hand in hand with God.”



J is for Jude. Yes, I managed to work my grandson in here again.
But really, how can I resist those toes?



J is also for Jessica, who married my older son, became my daughter-in-law and daughter-in-my-heart, and co-produced my grandchild. What a deal!







K is for Kenneth. K is for Kyle. Just want to say to expectant parents out there - don't give your children names that begin with the same letter. Didn't you hate it when your mother called you the wrong name, so you swore you would never do that to YOUR children? You probably will, and giving them names that begin with the same letter increases that probability approximately 68%! This will irritate your children greatly. Need I say that I love both of them with my whole heart? They have been, and continue to be, the joy of my life and my greatest accomplishment.

L is for libraries. You probably already know I am a book lover and voracious reader. Could there be anything more captivating and comforting than a whole room full of books? I could cheerfully pass hour after hour snuggled in a comfy chair with a good book or two or three. After all, there is "no furniture so charming as books" (Rev. Sydney Smith, 1808-1895).

M is for mother. I lost my mother when I was 26; she was only 50. She was my dear friend, my trustworthy confidant and wise advisor, a dependable haven of love and security and tenderness when I was sad or confused or troubled. She has been gone twenty-nine years now: I have been without her loving presence in my life for longer than I had it. I still feel the void.

N is for nose. A very prosaic entry, I know, but nonetheless important to me. I do not know where I got my nose. It is not my father's nose, my mother's nose, nor is it like any of their parents' or siblings' noses. It is a confounding mystery. It appears that God stuck it on willy-nilly, without regard for family resemblance. If I had been given the choice, it is not the nose I would have picked, but there it is anyway, smack-dab in the middle of my face.

O is for Oregon. About three summers ago, my sister and I went on a trip to the Pacific Northwest with our father. It is an area of the country we knew he would like to visit, as he greatly enjoys the beauties of nature. Oregon is, of course, jam-packed with evergreen trees. Tourists flock there in droves to see them. The trees are awe-inspiring, indeed, soaring up into the sky, towering over everything. However, too much of a good thing is apparently too much. After a couple of days of driving along the winding country roads surrounded by the sturdy trunks and lush, green branches of those lovely giants, Dad complained, "I wish these trees weren't here. They are blocking the view." Oh my.

P is for poetry. One of the joys of my life in recent years has been "teaching" poetry to kids. A few years ago Susan, my co-coach, and I decided to delve into teaching poetry in a way that would preserve its joy. We have had a lot of fun with it ever since. This past school year I had the pleasure of introducing Jennifer's second graders to poetry - they caught my enthusiasm for it so thoroughly that they begged me never to stop bringing them new poems!



Q is for Queen Bee. My sister and I have often observed to each other that we were apparently born as worker bees, rather than queen bees. You know, those women that sit on the couch and look glamorous while the rest of us skitter around cooking, cleaning, and generally taking care of all the grunt work. Sometimes I wish I had been born a queen bee instead of a worker bee, but I guess it's a little late for that.  Buzz, buzz.

R is for redheads. That's something else I wish I had been born as. (Poor grammar, but you get the idea.) My father and his mother were both redheads before they went gray. I have always wished for red hair. When that clearly was not going to happen for me, I wished that one of my children would have red hair. That didn't come true either. Maybe Jude's hair will turn red . . .

S is for sister. I only have one, but I am so glad she is the one I have! I would not always have been able to say that truthfully. Candace was not very nice to me when we were growing up, as is the way of older siblings. If you ever meet her, be sure to ask her about the time she closed me up in the attic!

S is also for shoes. All of us have a weakness - mine is shoes. After all, shoe love is true love!

T is for Texas. Born and raised. And don't you forget it.

U is for university.  Anyone who knows me probably also knows that I love Texas A&M University. Proud Aggie,  class of '79. 
I know, that was a long time ago.  

V is for vagabond. I think I would like to be one. At least for a little while. But I also know it is important to me to have a home to come back to.

W is for widow. I am one. Never wanted to be (at least not seriously). Never imagined I would be. I occasionally griped at my husband for not spending enough time with me. He would reply, "We have forever to spend together, precious." Forever was not long enough. Give your spouse a hug and kiss every day and treasure your time together.

X is for an "unknown quantity". Lots of people think they have me figured out. They don't. Can any of us really know anyone else? 

Y is for yen and yang. Balance is best. I'm still trying to find it.

Z is for zzzzzzs. I love sleep. I have always loved sleep. My mother used to joke that I was born just in time to take a nap before lunch! 





Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Entries from the Encyclopedia of Me by Andrea




Andrea
My middle name.  
If you look it up in a book of baby names, you’ll find it means “womanly”.  That’s because in the early years of women’s liberation, the common meaning “a man’s woman” was rejected in favor of the more powerful and independent description. Okay, then. I am woman. Hear me roar!

I am from South Carolina where my name, at least the pronunciation, is not very common.  There, I always have to pronounce it.  Always have to spell it.  
Scene:  Local Starbucks or sandwich shop in the great Palmetto State
Me (smiling sweetly):  It’s Andrea.
Them (pausing):  Um, can you say that again?
Me (happy to help): “Andrea”... like /Andre/ with an /Uh/, spelled like Andrea /Ann-dree-uh/.
Them (with a quizzical look):  Can you spell that?  

When I place an order in a coffee shop or restaurant here in Texas, I feel like Norm from the old television show Cheers. Everybody knows my name! In fact, the server taking my order probably has my name.  It seems I meet an Andrea every week. I even know a man with the name.  He and his son both. He is not even Italian. From uncommon to a dime a dozen. Pick what you choose, Punchinella.


Books…
  • I will read again and again: Watership Down, Little Women, A Voice in the Wind, The Language of Flowers, Tuesdays with Morrie, The Color Purple
  • I will never read: The Help, Gone with the Wind, The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy,  Twilight,  Fifty Shades of Grey (These are not my cup of coffee... I’m not judging you!)
  • no one will ever believe I read because I cannot believe it: How to Read a Book (original publication from 1940), Pilgrim’s Progress (in modern English), a book entitled Stretching (obviously, to learn how to stretch)

**A few little secrets about my reading life: I read anywhere from 3-5 books in the same time period. I have been known to sort of, maybe read while I drive (as I am slowly pulling up to approach the stoplight or am sitting at the light, not while I actively drive). I have no fewer than 20 books right now waiting to be read. And I honestly think I'm going to get them all read, like, soon. We all have problems. Crazy reading habits are one of my 99.

Coffee
People use the word love quite flippantly.  I will not be so trite. My feelings for coffee are real.  I delight in it.  I cherish it.  I am devoted to it.  And get this, it’s not about the caffeine.  I drink decaf. (Yes, I know there is still some caffeine in decaf.  It’s a nominal amount. Dr. Google will confirm my facts if you still doubt.) I cannot imagine my life without it.  I tried once in the last 15 years to quit coffee.  I cannot even remember why.  I was a young, foolish girl.  I quickly got over that terrible lapse in judgment.  The best cup (by cup, I mean a lot of cups) of coffee I have ever had in my life happened just a couple of months ago in New Orleans.  The Big Easy is serious about its coffee.  On almost every corner sits a coffee shop.  One can even get a good-from-the-first-sip cup at a corner store or gas station.  I inhaled my first coffee & chicory cafe au lait at the aptly named Cafe Avenue on St. Charles Avenue. A truly divine concoction such as the likes I shall never taste until I return. I tried to make it at home. It works for now. Over four days, I made my way around The Coffee Crescent City - from Cafe Beignet, to Morning Call ending at the world famous Cafe du Monde.  Cafe au lait and beignets. Glory to glory!  I thought I had died and gone to coffee heaven.  
Wait, will there be coffee in heaven?  I can.not.even. imagine heaven’s coffee. Ooooh-la-la!  Surely, there is coffee in heaven.  The Bible says He brews many, many times.  (Hehe. Get it?)

Damien
I birthed the first of my tribe at 16 years old. (Yes, it was scandalous. And we all lived to tell about.)  He came one week late.  Labor was 29 hours- start to finish.  Did I mention I was 16? That’s too long for a seasoned mother. Born with a little trouble breathing and totally yellow, from head to toe, with severe jaundice, he was whisked away from me and spent his first eight days of life under lights with tiny, newborn sunglasses velcroed to the side of his head. (Yes, the dents on his temples eventually went away. Now that I think about it, those dents might explain a lot about his teen years.)


At almost 21 inches and 8 lbs 1 oz, he was the Hulk of the NICU.  Unfortunately, the tables turned, and he is the shortest of his siblings (and his wife). He always comments that he is the cute one whenever someone points out this fact. Good thing he didn't develop a Napoleon complex. No, he's not that short.  He says cuteness is his claim to fame.  He and his wife will give us our first grandchild this fall.  A little boy. I pray everyday the little guy is as exceptional as his daddy- that he will be their true claim to fame.   #myfavoriteson
They're pretty cute, right?


Ernie
My first name.  
I think my mother and godmother thought it would be “unique”, “cute” and “fun”. Just like the person I’d grow up to be...badumbum. My godmother’s name is Ernestine nicknamed Ernie.  Sesame Street had made its debut three years earlier.  You see where I’m going with this?  Naming a little girl Ernie in 1972 made perfect sense, right?  It would be trendy.  The start of girls with old men boy names.  Except... for the first 18 years of my life, new people and familiar people peppered greetings with such teasing as “Hey, Ernie!  Where’s Bert?” or “Did your parents want a boy?” or “Were you named after your father?”  

Most of the time these questions came from adults.  They should know better.  Childhood can be tough enough.  As I simultaneously tried to find and recreate myself senior year of high school, I dropped Ernie and introduced myself as Andrea.  The name change didn't really work for the old people who'd known me... from birth.  To this day, as soon as I cross the South Carolina border, I am Ernie--- said as slow and drawn out as pouring molasses. “Eeeearn-knee”


Pluckers with our favorite server! Teriyaki wings and fries.  Every. time.
Food
I am not a big eater, but I love to cook.  Let me rephrase that.  I used to love to cook. I used to make fabulous, sit-down, themed dinners.  Now, I’m tired, and my kids are almost adults and hardly ever at home. My husband is quite gracious.  He acts like Costco chicken, canned beans and microwaved white rice make a gourmet meal.  Sometimes, he eats cereal.  Just a few short years ago, I would not have dreamed of letting my man eat cereal for dinner! (Before you wag your finger, ladies, he cooks, too. We are an equal opportunity household.)  A cool part of having almost grown children, who can feed themselves using their own money, is my hubby and I can now afford to go to my favorite restaurant almost every Friday to eat my favorite food on the planet- chicken wings.  And because I’m a teacher, we get a free appetizer, too!  #perks

Greene Girls
Emary (18), Abrea (20), Alisa (17)

Three daughters.  Abrea, Emary and Alisa.  Different as earth, wind and fire, but they have been a package deal since 1997 when the trio was complete.  Friends and family used to apologize (sort of) for not knowing who was whom. Once, I overheard a philosophical young boy of about 5 years old say to his mother as we walked by, “Those girls look like time.”  Curious, I stopped as I heard his mom inquire as to what he meant.  He replied, “They look like the same person at different times (meaning ages).”  
They are stairsteps. Thirty-three months from first to third. When they were younger, if seated, most people thought they were triplets.  In fact, Emary and Alisa are the same age for 6 days each year. Don’t judge us. 

Many years ago, the 4 year-old daughter of friends lamented as her parents admonished her to call the girls each by name, “But they all look the same.  I am not sure which is which.”  To solve her dilemma, she dubbed them collectively “The Greene Girls”.  No matter which she wanted to address, she’d say “Greene Girl”. The name stuck.  Just about everyone uses it still in much the same way.  The girls are seen as a unit.  Though as different as night and day and twilight,  they really are three Greene peas in a pod.  Exactly the kind of love connection among my girls for which I prayed.


Husband and I
He (a poem)

He and I
He makes a superb pot of coffee
And fixes my cup exactly the way I like.  
He takes care of me 
And everybody.  
He holds my hand.  
And opens my door.
He is my best friend, my treasure from heaven.
And after him, God broke the mold  
He is one of a kind 
And perfectly mine.