Tag Archives for " Margaret "

Giggles lost, Hope found.

Published originally on March 15, 2009

Margaret, our animal whisperer (the one of our three who knows the daily schedule of Animal Planet™ far too well), has loved animals since she began identifying them in her picture books. So, considering her gift for persuasion, along with her blond curls and blue eyes, it’s to our credit that Jay and I held out until her 11th birthday to get her a pet of her own.

Giggles the guinea pig joined our family five weeks ago. And five weeks ago, our Margaret fell in love.

She cooed to Giggles snuggling under her chin, “You are just the cutest; yes you are.” Giggles talked back in guinea pigese, proving she had been aptly named. Margaret giggled back. “I love you, Giggles!”

Yesterday morning, Margaret mentioned to me that Giggles was acting unusual. But it was Jay who became concerned around 3:00 when he found her unwilling to eat and lethargic. We realized that her cage was spotless—meaning that she had not pottied in 24 hours (not a good thing for a rodent who usually potties every 15 minutes or so. . .). She was making a bizarre squeaking sound, didn’t want to be held, and was struggling to breathe.

Margaret and I rushed her to the vet, Margaret—holding the box that held her beloved and covering her ears so she wouldn’t hear the sound that told us something was terribly wrong. At the office, the pet nurse tried to get her temperature but needed some help so she stepped out of the room to call for help. While we were alone in the room, Giggles revived a bit and Margaret took her. “That’s my girl, you’re going to be okay, aren’t you?”

At that moment, Giggles fell over limp. I took Giggles immediately and dashed to call in the vet. Margaret ran out of the room. The vet—an amazing woman—began working to save our little guinea. After about 15 mins of trying, the doc told me she was gone. Then, it was my job to tell Margaret.

Margaret was looking at books right outside the office (it’s located in PetSmart™). I touched her shoulder. She turned to look at me. Walking away from me as fast as she could, she said, “No, no, no, no, no. . .” I caught her. She crumpled in my arms. “No, no, no, no.”

On the way home, she was inconsolable, “I’ll never get another guinea pig. I don’t want anything that’s going to die.” She wept, nearly hyperventilating from sobbing. “I should have known, Mommy, I should have known.”

“You can’t know everything, baby.”

Tears still streamed down her cheeks as she hiccupped out her words. “But she was my daughter. I should have known.”

“It surely feels that way, doesn’t it?" I longed to help her feel better but knew I couldn't. I said, instead, what she already knew, "Nothing in the world hurts as bad as losing someone you love. Nothing.”

“I’m never getting another guinea pig.”

“You don’t have to decide that now.”

“Can we read when we get home?” (Margaret and I still read together like we did when she was a preschooler. It’s an indulgence we both enjoy.)

“We can do whatever you want.”

“Then can we read on your bed?”

“You bet.”

We came home, cuddled up with her lovies and our book. Margaret’s sobbed on. “Just read, Mommy, I need to get my mind off it.” I read.

Meanwhile, Jay had been out running errands—he left to go when we left for the vet. I had called him to tell him the sad news, but he had not gotten back by the time we arrived. About a chapter into our book, Jay came home.

“Hey Noodle-bug,” he said softly, using our pet name for her.

She turned her sad, weepy face to him. He held his cupped hands out to her. Instantly she scrambled up from the bed, brightening back into our Margaret. From the palms of her Daddy’s hands popped a furry little face. She reached for her new guinea, smiling, cuddling it to her. “Her name is Lemon Square,” she told us, shrugging the tears from her cheeks, “And I’m going to take such good care of her.”

A little girl, transformed from heartbroken to hope-filled, because a Daddy who loved her more than she can understand gave her the gift of new life: That’s grace. That’s love. That’s Good News.

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My Daughter the Joy Bringer

Margaret, my youngest child (born earlier this week), turned 18 today. In honor of her birthday, I thought I’d share 18 reasons why we Lawrimores call her our Joy Bringer.

  1. Her preschool teachers called her Giggle Box and rightly so: Margaret’s laugh is contagious and irresistible. Still.
  2. She laughs at the comics. Who does that? I only know one other person who laughs so readily at the funny papers: my grandfather’s Joy Bringer (I call her Mother). And when Margaret laughs, so do we.
  3. Margaret thinks Horton Hears the Who, Tangled, and most any Pixar flick is hilariously delightful. I used the present tense on purpose here. The most recent animated flick she’s seen is still in theaters.
  4. She laughs at things no one else even notices. Just seeing a tractor trailer sans trailer makes her smile. But you know how that same kind of tractor will sometimes pull an identical tractor (facing the opposite way) behind it? The sight of that devolves Margaret into uncontrollable giggles that don’t end until the duo is long gone. It’s hysterical.
  5. Margaret’s imagination knows no bounds. When she was about six, she came strutting through the kitchen, hand on hip, looking around as if she’d lost something. “Mommy, have you seen a little mouse run through here?” (I assured her I had not.) Apparently this invisible mouse had escaped her imaginary classroom and was facing serious consequences.
  6. Further evidence of her imagination? The fact that throughout her elementary school years, Margaret’s stuffed animals had full and meaningful lives. She’d come home from school and go straight back to her room to find out about the day’s activities, then report their shenanigans to me. Oh the stories she told . . . .
  7. She loves real animals too. From 2-year-old Margaret pointing out “soft woowee wambs” to high school senior Margaret drawing our attention to animal rights causes, her love of all God’s creatures is a joy.
  8. And I mean ALL God’s creatures. When she was younger, no one would kill a bug in her presence for fear of retribution (see #11 below). Just recently, I found her standing at an open door saying, “Go ahead little stink bug! You have to go outside!”
  9. Giving Margaret a gift is enormously self-rewarding. Whether it’s a pair of fancy new stilettos or a handmade trinket, when you give a gift to Margaret, you are repaid with a picture of absolute joy. Seriously. People give her things just to see the expression on her face.
  10. Margaret is protective of her loved ones. When she was three, there were some girls picking on her older sister. Having had enough, she pranced over, blankie draped across her shoulders, reared back and kicked the offender saying, “Don’t mess with my sissie!” Her siblings were mortified at this blatantly disobedient behavior, but Margaret was unfazed. She flounced away with a sneaky smile creeping over her face and a self-satisfied twinkle in her eye.
  11. No question about it: Margaret has a temper. This quality has certainly not been all joy over the years, but there have been times . . . . like when preschooler Margaret, having lost a board game, would throw the thing up in the air, raining cards and tokens down on the entire family. It was annoying, sure; but watching that 3ft tall fireball careening down the hallway, pink blankie flying behind her, yellow curls bouncing . . . well it was totally worth it. We’ve not stopped laughing at that sight yet.
  12. Margaret is happy for her friends when they succeed, even if she fails. Take for example every single all-county band audition prior to this year. She would try out, and not make it. Year after year after year. When she didn’t make it, she’d be painfully disappointed. Soon enough though, I learned to do what was counter-intuitive: I ask her if any of her friends had made it. She would perk up and say, “Yes! So-and-So got first chair! Isn’t that awesome?” Yep. That’s totally awesome.
  13. She is blindly persistent. Me, when I fail, I generally take that as evidence I was never meant to do it in the first place. Not Margaret. She keeps trying out, auditioning, applying, interviewing. Seeing Margaret pick herself up and try again and again gives me a deep, soul-filling joy.
  14. Her hair. That child’s hair brings joy to pure strangers: “Your hair! It’s so . . . it’s just . . . Wow.” With that hair she won the genetic lottery. It’s golden ringlets of delight.
  15. Margaret is a great friend. Even though she is as introverted as she could be and still live among humans, she has made true and lasting friends whom she treasures. Listening to her with her friends is one of the great joys of my life.
  16. She’s strong willed. Like her temper, this is not always a delight. But it can be a beautiful thing. Like when she stands up for friends or refuses to abide injustice. Margaret with a cause is a joy to behold.
  17. She loves deeply; when she was younger, she illustrated that in unique but precious ways. Back in those days, my husband would be gone at least one weekend a month for guard duty. She hated it and decided that since Daddy never left without giving her a hug, she would just refuse to hug him; that way he couldn’t leave. When her older brother went to Kindergarten (in an effort to help her work through her own feelings), I asked Margaret what she thought someone should do if their older sibling was going to school the next year. She just shook her head and said sadly, “They should go in their room and cry and cry and cry.” A year or so later when her sister was hospitalized, Margaret slept with a picture of her night after night. She loves like she laughs, completely and without reserve.
    daughter

    Margaret at 18 months.

  18. Margaret Aileen Lawrimore is a mama’s girl. Strangers and friends alike said this derisively when she was a baby. (Not me. I rather preferred it.) But it has brought me unspeakable joy that even now—at the height of adolescence—Margaret seems to like me. I’m amazed when any high school kid likes to spend time with me. When that child is my own? I can barely fathom the gift of it.

We named our third child Margaret because, though she was beloved, she was not exactly planned. “Margaret” means “pearl.” Some of her earliest conversations included, “My name is Mawgwet, cuz I a tweasure of gwaaaaate pwice!” She is indeed. She is our Joy Bringer.

 

Parenting I want the scar

Parenting: I Want the Scar

Because she was a big-girl, she didn't need Mommy to walk her into the classroom. She preferred, instead, to ride in Daddy's car with her older brother and sister. Moments after they pulled away, I wrote this piece about the angst of parenting: letting go. I thought a re-run was appropriate on this her 17th birthday.

The last few weeks, everything has been about Margaret: the new clothes, the new shoes, the perfect lunchbox and backpack. I’ve smiled and encouraged. I’ve been positive and reassuring. Yep, kindergarten is a good thing and I am truly excited for Margaret.

So today is the day. She has climbed into the back seat with her two older siblings, thrilled to be riding to school with Daddy and the big kids.

“No more pictures Mommy! I’m ready to go!”

And she is ready.

“Have a great day!” I shout as I wave goodbye to the car that has already started down the road.

My voice breaks and I turn to go inside. I move in slow motion, distracted by a physical pain I can’t place. I stop, trying to find the source of the sting. Awareness dawns. It’s this moment. It’s this moment when white knuckles unclench and heart strings snap. Dull and pulsing, sharp and piercing: it’s surreal. I make my way inside to the familiar.

The moments before this one have been wonderful. I loved having babies. I loved the late night feedings. I loved the terrible twos. (I called them the terrific twos.) I loved preschool. I loved the cute things my children said in their innocence, like Margaret insisting she would “stay her shoes on.” I loved that. I loved the way my little ones laughed—at anything. I loved the spontaneous hugs. I loved the dependence.

In the infant days, people often said with a note of annoyance, “Margaret is such a Mommy’s girl. She won’t go to anyone else.” I’d smile and say, contentedly, “Yeah. . .I know. . .” I loved that. The preschool years have been delightful. I don’t want them to end.

Before today, I tried to think of a way to slow things down. I could delay her going to kindergarten a year. I could homeschool. But, in the end, I realized that no matter what I did, these years would still be over; she would still be five years old; she would still be growing up.

So here I am alone, in a quiet, empty house, trying to put words to this ache. But maybe I can’t. Perhaps when the heart takes over the brain, the feeling just won’t be expressed. “This,” the heart says, “this you must feel. You cannot write it or say it, touch it or mold it. You must be here, inside this broken place to understand it.”

Oh puh-lease. Already I challenge myself. Aren’t you over-sentimentalizing again? Maybe. I don’t know. I just know that my words, always so faithful to me, fail me now. And I know that my heart hurts so much that surely it must be broken in there.

I wonder how the healing will take place. Will the skin of one area of my life bridge the gap and connect with the skin of another? And will this healing leave some evidence of itself? I hope so. I want something from this rich, precious time of my life to remain visible. I want a scar.

So I gather photos and artwork, mementoes that once I had little ones. These who are now so independent, were once not so much so. I did the right thing! I remind myself. They are independent; they are confident. Still, I want my heart to show that it isn’t easy to do the right thing. I want the scar.

 

stink bug solution

Stink Bug Solution

Photo Credit Emma Weiss Photography
http://www.emmaweissphotos.com/

Me (getting tissue to get a stink bug off the wall): "I hate these stupid things!"

Margaret, alarmed: "Don't kill it!"

Me (thinking she was trying to avoid the post-mortem stench): "I'm going to flush it."

Margaret, further alarmed but now also aghast: "That will still KILL it."

Me (also now aghast): "Then you get rid of it.

Margaret to stink bug, with paper in hand, holding it up to the wall as a bridge: "Come here, that's right, there you go!" [Goes outside to free the thing and returns, grinning triumphant.]

(So that's one way to solve the problem. But if you don't have a stink bug pro-lifer in your home, consider this suggestion from Virginia Tech.)

Charlie the Beagle

Charlie at the Coffee Shop

July 13, 2013

There are few things I find as satisfying as sitting outside a coffee shop writing. The only thing that makes it better? Having company.

Today, my daughter Margaret and I are at Starbucks™ in Asheville. She is doing summer homework and I am doing a bit of writing. We have a lot to do. Luckily, we have some help.

image

Sitting down to do a little summer homework at the coffee shop.

"Come on Margaret! I'm not doing this by myself you know."

"Come on Margaret! I'm not doing this by myself you know."

"Read this part!"

"Read this part!"

"Hand me that highlighter."

"Hand me that highlighter."

"Summer homework is just delicious!"

"Summer homework is just delicious!"

"Time for some refreshment."

"Time for some refreshment."
Enjoy your weekend friends!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Frozen Filling

Published May 27, 2013

margaret laughingb-001

“Hang on a second, Margaret, I just need to fill this ice tray. In fact, why don't you watch how I do this?” I turned on the tap, held the tray under the running water, turned the water back off, and returned the tray to the freezer.

“Done. And in a few hours, that will become ice!” (My youngest daughter should have known this by now—she's 15 after all.)

Before you ask, let me explain. We don't have an ice maker. Our house is older and though we've tried a couple of times, we just can't get an icemaker to function properly. Years ago, we gave up and reverted to good, old-fashioned, ice trays.

Now, I love ice in my drinks.  I've said many times, “If you get me a cup of ice, you'll be my favorite child!” This rule applies to my own children, nieces and nephews, kids at church, and, okay, perfect strangers. I like my ice. And so does Margaret. Only Margaret is in the habit of returning empty or nearly empty trays to the freezer without refilling them. This, I'll admit, is a tiny little problem in the realm of parenting. But still.

Margaret watched my ice-tray-refilling lesson with bored disinterest. “Okay,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, her eyes already starting to giggle, “But I've found that if you just put the trays back empty, they eventually refill themselves.”

 

Kindergarten Teaching: Heart Enough to Share

Written June 2003 in honor of Mrs. Lois Jones' retirement from kindergarten teaching.

My youngest daughter on Kindergarten Celebration Day in 2004

My youngest daughter on Kindergarten Celebration Day in 2004

In the spring of 1999 my husband and I had a five-year old, a three-year old, and a one year old.  After reviewing every possible option from Home School to Charter School and beyond, we chose Oakley Elementary School for our children. In just a few months, our oldest was going to Kindergarten. Now, I'm quite certain it would have been easier to peel away my skin and send it off with a backpack than to do what I had to do. I had so many questions, so many concerns. I read everything I could find on preparing a child for Kindergarten. But in the end, having chased every possible thought around my brain and back again, I decided to give up, and give in. “Lord,” I prayed. “I have done the best I can to find some peace in this thing and I'm just not finding it. So you just fix it. Find the teacher for my child. I give up.”

“Dear Parent: Your child will be in Mrs. Jones class. School starts Tuesday, August 10, 1999. . .” The letter came after I'd prayed for weeks for the perfect teacher for my child. Now I know my prayers were answered in Lois Jones.

Two years later, I walked my son, Baker, to her classroom and just last fall, my youngest daughter, Margaret, was assigned to Mrs. Jones class.

Margaret & Mrs. Jones on Margaret's last day at Oakley Elementary

Margaret & Mrs. Jones on Margaret's last day at Oakley Elementary

She has given my three children a wonderful beginning to their education. I am infinitely grateful for that. But, in truth, that’s not what I appreciate the most about Mrs. Lois Jones. What I want to thank her for today, is not for what she did for my children academically, but for what she did for their hearts.

See, I left my Heart with her. And she gave her heart back to them. She has taught them, sure. But she has loved them. And know this: Mrs. Jones does not play favorites. She loves them ALL! I've witnessed her teaching for the past five years. She’s been here influencing children for much longer than that. And each one of my children, and every other child she has taught, has a little bit of Lois Jones' heart tucked inside their own.

Like this post? Here a some others you might enjoy:

it's a shoe thing

It's a Shoe Thing

Shopping for Easter attire, I explained to my 15-year-old daughter, "You don't need shoes, Margaret. No matter what dress you choose, I'm sure one of your gazillion pairs of shoes will match it."

"But Mommy!" Margaret said, convicted, "You just don't realize how many pairs of shoes I don't have!"

Storms? Bombs? Whatever.

The message started with "Everyone is okay;" so naturally, I knew immediately that something was wrong. Indeed, today, Margaret's first day of high school, someone called in a bomb threat to the school. I heard the news via the call alert system.

I wasn't worried, just annoyed. Wasted time and misplaced anxiety: not exactly my favorite things. I thought about my two high schoolers--particularly Margaret who I still refer to as "My Little Girl"--sitting in the gym with 1200 other students, hot, confused, uninformed. As I pieced together the scenario, I recalled an earlier crisis that occurred in Margaret's last year at Oakley Elementary School. I blogged about it here: http://www.aileengoeson.com/?p=123

So, no worries. It's all good.