Smart Mom

Written for Momaha.com

This past week my six year-old son Coulter, attended Camp Invention. First up on the lesson books? Atoms. As parents we were encouraged to follow through at home with the question of the day which was “What three parts make up an atom?”


“Uhm. I don’t remember,” Coulter said. “O.K.,” I replied. “Can you think of just one?” Later, after reminding him how much money we had spent on this camp he decided he knew the answer. Atoms were made up of gas, liquid and solid.

I’m guessing this is where most moms (or at least those of us who never took chemistry and aren’t even sure if chemistry is the class in which atoms are covered,) would probably have confirmed this, say, with one click of the internet. But my son is usually a good listener and besides, gas, liquid and solid sounded pretty smart to me.

The next morning we reviewed. Gas, liquid and solid we all repeated. I signed him in and walked out, and that’s when I overheard a dad say “O.K., son, now remember, it’s protons, electrons and neutrons.” Well, darn.

I’m not a science mom and given the fact that Coulter’s favorite part of camp has been singing about the inventor of diapers to the tune of Justin Beiber’s “Baby,” I’m going to take a wild hunch and say he’s probably not a science kid. He’s also doesn’t get too excited about experimenting. On crazy outfit day, he chose a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt with a picture of a baseball player. Yes, mixing baseball and basketball is really crazy. But, who knows maybe he could be a science kid. Maybe it’s in there and I just haven’t been smart enough to bring it out.

Yesterday, thanks to the wonders of Facebook, I discovered that a dear college friend was visiting Nebraska. We met for dinner and caught up on 15 years of marriage and jobs and parenting. She home schools her children and when I asked if they had school during the summer she replied, “Yes, but it’s different. We do a lot of science because it’s so easy to get outside and discover nature.” “Oh, sure,” I replied. “So easy.” (What? The grass turns green. The flowers bloom. Bees pollinate. There’s more?)

No, I’m not a science Mom. I’m also not a history Mom. I once told Coulter who was looking at a history book that George Washington was our 1st president, which obviously is true but after a closer look at the picture, the lesson of the day should have been about sailing the ocean blue in something-something 42.

Some days I struggle with the fact that I’m not a super-smart mom, but I am a loving mom; I’m a passionate, supportive, cheerleader, hug you till you can’t breathe mom, and I’m also a mom who’s smart enough to know that even if the greatest take-away from Camp Invention 2011 has less to do with atoms and more to do with diapers, it was still money well spent.

There She Was....A Long, Long Time Ago (must be sung!)

O.K., so I think most of my readers know this, but on the off chance that you don't, I'm going to "out" myself. In 1995 I competed in the Miss America Pageant as Miss Nebraska. Or, as Coulter puts it, "My mom was Miss Nebraska last year." Last year. Yes, let's just go with that. You may wonder how a girl born, raised and educated in Arkansas becomes Miss Nebraska and well, that's a story for another day so I will just leave you to wonder, but obviously it can (and did) happen and I left many in Atlantic City thinking that Nebraskans have Southern accents (which, is not exactly that far-fetched, especially if you've visited way-Western Nebraska.) Anyway, while far from the home-town favorite, I was quickly welcomed, and became an "adopted Nebraskan." North Platte became a second home. And the people of North Platte as well as Miss Nebraska volunteers from all over the state became family.

This past weekend was the Miss Nebraska Pageant and if we are family, then I guess you could call this our family reunion; complete with your favorite cousins, the crazy Aunt who pinches your cheeks and the Uncle who drinks too much and hugs just a little too tight.

I love returning home to North Platte. It holds precious memories, including, but not limited to the time a complete stranger ate a pork chop off my plate at the official "Pork Chop Breakfast". Recently, though, I've developed a love-hate relationship with going back for the pageant. Much like I have a love-hate relationship with wearing a swimsuit. I love going swimming. I hate wearing the suit. This weekend should be about the big, crazy family that you adore (even the hugging uncle) but it's bittersweet because quite frankly, the whole thing makes me feel O.L.D. "Formers" as we're called, walk the stage and re-live the glory of it all as we're announced at the beginning of the program and the whole thing is depressing because first of all, no-one really cares to see us and second of all, with each year there seem to be less formers "in front" of me. This year I was the fourth oldest. Ugh. But it's not really (or I should say, only) the walking that makes me feel old (although I really do not like the walking. I didn't like it 16 years ago and I don't like it today.Give me a microphone; give me a piano; give me just about anything (o.k., well, not a baton) and it will be preferable to walking.) But no, it's not the walking, and it's not even the contestants who could be my daughters; it's all the well-meaning relatives.

"Oh my gosh! (read: genuine surprise) You look beautiful." (Meta message: Oh my gosh! 1995? I can't believe we still recognize you.")

"Oh, how nice to see you! You haven't changed a bit!" (Meta message: I am so surprised you haven't gotten fat! Wait, didn't you used to be fat?")

I know what you're thinking (just be grateful) and yet I know there will be a small group of you who understand what I'm saying. Yes, I am grateful for the words of affirmation; I just don't necessarily believe them. And there's a part of me that laughs because it seems that my Miss Nebraska family, especially my more distant relatives, just seem so darned surprised that I'm still hangin' in there!


But my Mother tells me that you can't make other people responsible for how you feel; that no-one can make you "feel" anything (which, well, let's just say is ironic considering that the Catholics (and their so-called Catholic guilt) ain't got nothin' on my Mother.) But, since I know she's right, I must recognize that I was in a funk even before arriving in North Platte. Just prior to leaving for the Miss Nebraska weekend, I had been out for a bike ride. I had my hair up in a ponytail (a detail I only mention because from the back it might give you the impression that I'm not 38.) Anyway, a group of young boys in a truck approached from behind. They rolled down their window and were making noise (please don't ask me to explain) when they caught up to me at a stop sign. The boy closest to the window leaned his head out and, for the first time, saw my face. Evidently it didn't match my back-side (and by back-side I'm referring of course to my pony tail) because at that point the boys just burst out laughing and drove off. Once I realized what had happened, I too burst out laughing. Had they not seen the toddler seat on the back?

Later that same day, and totally unrelated to my bike ride, I was admiring my daughter, complete with scabs and scratches and rashes and sunburns, and a face full of left-over Nutella, and I said , "Emma Claire, you're so pretty." (And she is.) And she said, "M-oooomm, I don't want to be pretty. I want to be awesome."

Well, how silly of me. Of course she has greater purpose than just being pretty. Did I teach her that? No. Wait. It would seem she just taught me, that above being pretty or skinny or even young; we are called to be excellent (the grown up and I'm thinking more biblical word for awesome!) and so today, as a girl raised in the South where being pretty is, well, pretty important and we say things like "Pretty is as pretty does;" today, as a girl whose identity was wrapped up in pageant officials' opinions for far too many years; today that girl feels pretty awesome (and not at all old.) I guess that's what a pretty awesome 2 year old (not to mention a cute ponytail) can do for a girl!

Thank you Lord Jesus for the precious spirit and humble heart of a two year old. Help me to move past my own insecurities and nurture her awesome aspirations! And now I'd better get back to the job of Mothering. Seems that while Emma Claire claims to have no desire to be pretty, she has in fact made her way into my make-up drawer and, in her words, is "getting ready."  Oh. My. Gosh! Is that my new, anti-aging, retinol, line erasing, decade removing cream mixed all over your face with pink lipstick?

Perhaps we're not finished with pageants after all.

Annabelle's House

A couple of weeks ago, Emma Claire and I made our way to the Municipal Building (at least that's what I think it's called) to transfer utilities into our name. When I gave the clerk our new address, she beam, "Oh, you're moving into Annabelle's house." Uhm, o.k. I thought. This is a really small town.

I didn't think about it at first, but after we signed the dissertation of documents (including one that confirms you are the same person as other names used during your lifetime. Can you imagine how long that took me?) Myra Hale. Myra Katherine Hale. M.K. Hale. M.K. Hale Fritz. M.K. Fritz. Katherine Fritz (not sure about that one.) Myra Fritz. Myra Katherine Fritz. And finally, Myra Katherine Hale Fritz. Yes, a form for each one. Anyway, I didn't think about it at first, but after they handed us that key, I've given a great deal of thought to Ms. Annabelle.

Annabelle's house was built in 1973 and walking inside makes you feel as though you've entered the set of the Brady Bunch. Orange shag carpet. Orange sinks. Dark, dark (unbelievably dark) cabinets and paneling, and green and orange parrot curtains, and what I can only imagine to be original paint and carpeting in the upstairs bedrooms. But while I have been very anxious to bring some modern life to Teakwood Drive, I've also become increasingly sensitive that with every rip of the carpet and every stroke of the paintbrush we are tearing away bits and bits of Annabelle's history; her history in this home with family and friends. And even though I have never had the pleasure of meeting Ms. Annabelle; here, (from talking walls and chatty neighbors) is what I know.

I know she liked orange. Oh my gosh, did the lady like orange. I know she played bridge (and has a fancy cart/moving wet bar/card table and chairs to prove it.) I know she liked to entertain because in her custom made cabinetry there is a full length cabinet made especially to accommodate the leaves from her dining room table. I know she liked music and she either taught lessons or had a child who took for many years, for her closets were full of Hanon and Czerny and not just the average Bastien piano books. I know from Ross, (the 5th grader next door who seems to know everything) that lightening hit the front bush and that's why there's a gaping whole in it. I know that Annabelle picked up "helicopters" one-by-one from her yard. She was a perfectionist about her yard. I know (also from Ross, but confirmed from other neighbors who aren't 10) that her daughter was murdered 17 years ago and not too long after, she buried her son. He died while out for a run. I know that she is a Christian as evidenced by her Bibles and hymnals (many of which ended up in the trash because she had no living children to claim them,) and the "God is My Security System" sticker that faces out from the front window. I think I would have liked Ms. Annabelle; and certainly would have respected her, because if walls could talk they would tell me that of all the tragedy she faced, she never lost her faith.

Annabelle has dementia and she will never know the family that has taken up residence in the house that she built, but if I could meet her, I would want her to know that the Fritz's will take care of her house; they will take care of her yard (although picking up all the helicopters might be a stretch.) They will plant flowers and keep the grass green. They will play the piano and  fill the halls with music and the book stands with Bibles and hymnals. The will ride bikes down the street and swing at the nearby park. They will laugh and play and grow. They will fill Ms. Annabelle's house with love and kindness. And knowing all of this, I'm hoping that she will forgive us, later this week, when we bid a fond adieu to the orange kitchen sink, and, well the "God is Our Security System" sticker.  I know He is our Protector and I know He's hers as well. God Speed, Ms. Annabelle!