Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri
Katy is represented by
Rachelle Gardner at
WordServe Literary
Read more Katy at
LateBoomer.net
Recent Posts
- Soul Train
- Live Out Your Dream And Discard The Box
- Tears In A Bottle
- From The Young Mom I Once Was, To You
- I Can’t Help Falling
- What A Difference Ten Years Makes
- The Next Best Thing To Robert Redford
- The Memory Keeper’s Daughter
- Where Have All The Years Gone
- Fun With Kiki Cullen
- Stuck On Mom
- Ten Years Later, Our Girls From Northern Ireland Remembered
- The Thrift of Grief
- Job Security
- The Party’s Over
Syndicate
E me at katy @ ngenius.com
Love Is In The Air!
If romance is your thing, the Raymonds are your people, especially this week.
Two years ago tonight, on the twenty-eighth anniversary of the day Doug asked me to marry him, our oldest son Scott married the girl we now think of as our second daughter, Brooke. I blogged about their engagement and about their wedding, too, but I don’t think I’ve posted any pics of this beautiful couple.
We took the two of them out for lunch today. When I had a few seconds alone with Brooke, I hugged her and whispered, “Thank you for marrying our son.”
I don’t know if she realized that she blushed, but she did. Maybe she doesn’t know quite how much we adore her, how much we believe that she is the perfect girl for Scott, how grateful we are that they found each other.
“It’s gone so fast,” she said. “And yet it seems like we’ve known each other forever. We’re very, very happy…”
I can’t express how wonderful she made me feel. You’ll just have to take my word for it.
Scott and Brooke, we love you with everything in us. Happy Second Anniversary!
“I have no greater joy than this, to hear of my children walking in the truth.” 3 John 1:4
Seasons
It shocks me that in any given season—this summer, for instance—we can experience enough change to make it feel like we’ve gone through several years’ worth of transitions.
Did I mention that three weeks ago, Carrie moved back in with us? She’s taken a job in the Kansas City school district, where she’ll be teaching first-grade-aged little girls with serious physical and mental handicaps. She hasn’t lived with us—or even in Kansas City—for six years, so we all wondered how we’d handle this change.
After all, Doug and I have been empty-nesters for a whole year now and believe me, we’ve enjoyed it. But having that girl back under our roof has been a beautiful thing, a joy I’m glad we didn’t miss. Granted, she won’t be here long. She’s engaged to be married to an amazing man, and already her heart is with him.
It’s a good thing we’re so happy with the temporarily fuller nest, though, because any minute another kid will come home to roost. Kevin’s broken up housekeeping with the gazillion guys he’s been living with, moved all his stuff back into our joint, and tonight he’ll be sleeping in his old room.
Granted, he’ll only be here until September 1, when he leaves for Switzerland—when we’ll have to make yet another adjustment to life without our buddy nearby.
But for ten whole days, we’ll have two of the kiddos with us, just like in the old days, before the speed of change almost caught up with the speed of light.
Message to our oldest son Scott and his wonderful wife Brooke: If you want to crash this Partay at the Raymond’s, there’s no time like the present!
From empty nest to full house, for probably the last time ever. We’re relishing the days in this oh, so short season.
Gotta run. I think I hear a kid at the door now!
Roses In The Rocks
Eight dozen altogether, ninety-six roses placed by strong, gentle hands into the craggy rocks.
Made to look as though they’d sprung up there spontaneously in the summer twilight, as though planted by God Himself, in the rough but discernable shape of a tender heart.
And with the roses, a diamond ring, and the promise of forever transcending both the frailty of the rose and the permanence of the rock.
In the center of the heart of blooms, three words scribbled in the dirt. “I love you…” Longer than the rocks or the roses, the center will hold.
He loves you, our little girl, our beautiful grown up baby woman.
Our Carrie. Your Marc.
Love him with all your heart.
It’s The Meme Thing!
I’ve been tagged by not one but two lovely ladies for the same meme. OK. “Same” and “meme” are slightly redundant, since in French meme means same, but there it is!
I decided not to do memes several years ago, so I guess I’ll stick to my guns this time. But I want you to know about two of my favorite bloggers, in case somehow you’ve missed them until now.
Check out my buddy Mary DeMuth, author of several books, who shares French-inspired fun and writing tips at relevantblog.
And Bonnie Bruno, also a published author and online friend, posts deep thoughts and fantastic photos at macromoments.
Enjoy my blogging taggers! They are some of the best you’ll read.
Recap
Wow! The bon voyage party for Kevin was a huge success! Many, many thanks to all of you who made it even more fun by joining in my impromptu comment shower. Kev got a big kick out of it, not to mention a cool $150.
I never know what to expect when I throw a bash at the Raymond house. We invited everyone on both sides of the family, which—if all the invitees were to show up—is around 50 people. After a minor slowdown in family growth, things are kicking into high gear again—all the kids in my children’s gen are getting married and my mother now has four great-grandchildren. To think Mom was an only child, and now is matriarch to around 45 of us.
Besides family, Kev put out an open invite to his friends. He expected ten or so. I’d say forty of them showed up! What a fantastic group of young adults. I love every darn one of them.
In other news, today is Day Sixty And Still Counting Without Starbucks. In our world, that means we’ve prevented the spending of $480! I’m sorry, but that’s starting to sound like real money.
Today, however, I did spend $15 that wasn’t completely essential. I have been desperately craving a snow cone maker all summer long. My blender will NOT crush ice, and I have wonderful DaVinci and other calorie free syrups that I wanted to use in crushed-ice-intensive treats. I’d decided that when Walmart put theirs on sale, I’d pick one up, which I did today for $12.
I also had a CVS coupon for $5 off a $5 purchase. I’ve needed a couple lipsticks pretty badly, if anyone can ever really “need” lipstick. Loreal was BOGO, regularly priced $8 each. So I picked up two, and only had to add $3 to my coupon.
Fifteen bucks in two months. That’s how much I personally have spent on items I didn’t have to purchase. Now, you should understand that funding a going-away party for a son we’ll be separated from for ten months is in my mind an essential espense. If it’s about relationships, I’ll spend money.
Evidently, I can also be induced to spend if it’s about wearing a nice shade of lipstick while imbibing a homemade snow cone.
Everyone has a price, eh?
Kevvie’s Comment Shower!
Some of you (Waving at Bridget and Michael Number Two!) will remember the crazy day I threw a comment shower for my darling daughter Carrie, to raise money for her missions trip to Haiti.
No dollars belonging to any of my readers were harmed in the throwing of that shower. Rather, for each and every well wish left for Carrie, her dad and I donated a buck to the cause.
Now, dear people, I have another needy child. His responsibility this summer, besides supporting himself, has been to raise the funds for a laptop, round-trip tickets for his journey to Switzerland where he will complete (over the next ten months) a Bachelors in Business Administration in hospitality management, and enough money for miscellaneous expenses for the year.
I think “misc” is coming up a bit short, but the real purpose of this comment shower is to show our 21-year-old son a little bit of that blogging love and encouragement for which you are all so famous.
So pour it on, fallible readers!!!
We’re having a big old-fashioned bon voyage party tomorrow night, and I’ll present him with one dollar for every comment received before then. As happened with Carrie, though, I may have to put a limit on it if our bank account squeals too loudly.
Until then, have fun and show Kevin the love!
Coffee Date
Do you remember the old days, when you and your spouse or a friend would “go out for coffee”? I’m not talking about meeting at Fourbucks (or Fivebucks, depending on which city you’re in), or any place that offers what I’ll call designer coffee.
I’m talking about Denny’s or Tippins (formerly known as Pippins) or Sambo’s (yes, the REALLY old days…) or some local diner that served the best java around. Have you kept up with prices for a plain old cup of joe?
We always order coffee if we eat dinner out, but I never look at the price. The last time I knew the price of a cup of coffee was…well, a long time ago.
You may have gathered that we’re not eating out these days. Of course, there are rare exceptions, which we embrace joyfully. But I can cook, and so I do. What a concept, huh? (By the way, just because I can cook it, doesn’t mean I consume it. Thus, I am now down 18 pounds!)
We’ve gone to Panera’s twice in the two months since we gave up Starbucks. Each time, we spent a total of $3, for two bottomless cups. It was nice. They have free wifi, of course, but we didn’t take the laptop. These were DATES, people! The whole point is to make eyes at each other over cups of steaming brew!
So, I figured $1.50 per cup was the going rate. Not too shabby, in my opinion. But my even cheaper side kept kicking in, prompting me to look for the better bargain. We found it at the local dive of a grocery store that has the best meat sales anywhere. Doug went with me one day recently, and lo and behold the door of the joint had a sign taped to it which read “12 oz. freshly brewed coffee—9 cents!”
We felt particularly frugal that day, so we split one.
Last night, I really needed to make a run to Sam’s. I’m completely over the little problem I used to have, the one which prevented me from ever exiting their premises without spending a minimum of $300. SO OVER IT. Doug decided to come with me, as our goal was to purchase the multiple items we need to throw Kevin a going-away party this Friday night. (Boo-hoo!)
We thought we’d make a lovely date out of it by first going to Mimi’s for coffee. Not lattes or espressos, just plain old coffee. We had a great time, until the bill came. $4 for two cups! Then, of course, we needed to leave a tip, making the tab a cool $5. That smarts!
You can imagine my chagrin when we crossed the street, walked into Sam’s, and immediately came upon what seems to be a permanently installed coffee kiosk. They’ve set up shop right there in the main aisle not to sell the new brand that Sam’s is hawking, but to GIVE IT AWAY as a form of advertising.
I purchased some decaf coffee beans because they were attractively priced. Doug thoroughly enjoyed his free cup of coffee on the dregs of his overpriced Mimi’s indulgence.
Of these four coffee experiences, I choose Panera’s as the winner. Not too expensive, not without at least a touch of ambiance, don’t have to leave a tip. Hey, I’m cheap, but that doesn’t mean I want a 9 cent coffee date in the meat market!
Last night, while Doug and I were each back at work on our respective computers in separate rooms, I got mail. I clicked on it, and here’s what I found:
Katy-
Any coffee is great when I am sitting across from you.
I love you!
Doug
My husband makes a budget coffee date taste better than Starbucks ever could.
Street
Starbucks has an offical guess why their shares dropped nearly ten percent in after hours trading last night.
But we know better, don’t we?
The word has finally hit the street: Doug and Katy Raymond aren’t coming back.
BWWAA-HAA-HAAAAAAA!
Targeted Observation
Here’s something else I’ve discovered: When I’m wrapped up in a consumption-based lifestyle, a casual shopping trip—even if I don’t have any needs or any particular wants—is always justifiable.
Why? Because I’m a consumer, that’s why! And there might be something “out there” with my name (or my husband’s name, depending on who the card was issued to…) on it, waiting to hear the pitter patter of my little feet as I make my way across the crowded store to the purses, or jewelry, or shoes, or books, or whatever.
In other words, the trip justifies the time. If my identity largely depends upon the hunting and gathering of more stuff, then it is my consumeristic DUTY to shop—even if it turns out to be only window shopping. There’s no denying, though, that when I’m in accumulation mode, nothing feels like more of a let-down than coming home empty-handed. It makes me feel like a slacker.
On the other hand, when I determine not to be an uber-consumer, but to truly only purchase that which I can describe as necessary, something crazy happens. If I wander into, let’s say, Target, because, let’s pretend, they have the cutest pair of leather big-toe-peeking-out-like-the-forties dress shoes EVER for $19.99 and I HAVE to see them up close and personal—well.
If I’ve already decided not to buy shoes because I really don’t need shoes, and then I spend upwards of 30 minutes looking at shoes, including three aisles of cute clearance priced shoes which I don’t need even if they ARE $4.39, I end up feeling like I’ve just LOST a half hour of my life that I could have spent, oh, I don’t know—finishing my novel.
So, then, to sum up: For me, it’s not just about not buying stuff I don’t need with money that has another more important claim on it. It’s also about not spending time behaving like a consumer, when my time also has a more important claim on it.
I am a slow learner, folks. But I’m allowing myself to learn a few things I’ve never been open to until now.
What I do with my money and with my time expresses my core values, unless perhaps my consumerism has stunted my development—like crack to a twelve-year-old—so that I don’t actually have any important values at all.
Sometimes I think we hunt, gather, work long hours to pay for, pay off, sort, maintain, store, and ultimately sell in a garage sale all this stuff in order to avoid facing what really matters, both in this short life and in the next very, very long one.
Or maybe it’s just me.
Follow
I’m pretty sure that Doug and I have unlimited credit available at our disposal.
When you get to be our age, if you’ve managed your financial life reasonably well, you too will be allowed (and encouraged!) to owe everyone and their mother upwards of eleventy gazillion bucks.
Gee. Aren’t we special?
I’ve mentioned that we’re cutting back on hundreds of non-essentials so that we can funnel a ton of funds into Kevin’s last year of college. What I haven’t exactly made clear is we don’t have to do this.
There is NO WAY we have to curtail our “lifestyle” in order to finance his education! We’ve got 0% offers out the wazoo, several more arriving EACH DAY. We could easily—oh, so easily—put the whole amount on a card, putz around with the payments for 12 months, and then transfer the remaining balance (which would be large, if our lifestyle remained intact) to a new 0% offer. Lather, rinse, repeat.
But after a while, it just feels wrong. Not the 0% offers. Not even the lather, rinse, repeat. But the lifestyle. The entitlement mentality.
Don’t misunderstand. I am so grateful for everything God’s given us. Doug owns and operates a successful web design firm (http://www.ngenius.com), and we both love the opportunity to work based from our home.
But this experiment we’ve undertaken to trim expenses, cut fat, plug leaks, and spend more responsibly has really opened our eyes. In the past month, we’ve spent a grand total of $22 on any type of restaurant food—eat-in or take-out. Plus a total of $6 for two separate coffee dates at Panera’s, where the wifi’s free even if nobody knows your name. The enjoyment that we got out of spending that $28 consciously was so much greater than if we’d spent ten times that amount without a second thought.
We feel closer than we’ve felt in a long time. Our shared determination and common goal to stop living so high on the big, fat hog—even though we can—has fired our imaginations until now we’re curious with wondering just what God might have planned for us next.
Sometimes, it’s so much fun to be followers.
Bejeebers
“Did you hear that?” I’d been drifting off to sleep when the knocking happened. Who would be arriving at our house at nearly midnight?
Doug was wide awake reading next to me. “Katy, you’ve got your good ear pressed down on the pillow. And I didn’t hear a thing.”
Okay, he’s not always the most reliable witness on the block. He’s got some minor hearing loss himself, conveniently if I remember right in the frequency in which I speak. Also, if the cars are making weird noises, he insists it’s my imagination. Granted, I am largely unable to discern the direction a noise is originating from, but I can still tell if something’s about to blow. He can’t. But I digress.
I must have been in that weird almost-asleep dreamy state where it’s easy to get confused about what’s real and what’s not. I chalked up the knocking to something akin to the Big Jerk that often happens right before you make sleep official.
He turned off the light soon after he assured me no one was at the door, and fell promptly to sleep. I nearly did, too. But then I felt certain that the fan across the room must have been set to oscillate, because on a rather regular basis, the sound of it would diminish and then return. I got out of the bed to stop its movement and—you guessed it—the fan was stationary.
The really weird thing was that as I’d be nearly asleep again, and somehow in the haze of semi-consciousness aware that the fan’s noise was diminishing, I would hear a new sound effect to take the place of the earlier knocking.
Over the course of four hours or so—until 3 am—I heard drills, jackhammers, whooshes, taps, you name it, noises not based in reality and all with my supposedly hearing ear. And always with a corresponding sensation that, for those few seconds each episode lasted, I wasn’t hearing what I should have been hearing—the fan.
I’ve had these sensations before, at some point during my brain tumor odyssey—which ultimately resulted in the removal of the tumor and complete deafness in my other ear (the one I started thinking of this morning as my “good ear”!). But this time, I don’t have a hearing ear with which to bounce off the strange symptoms in the affected ear, if that makes sense. I’m aurally more challenged than I was seven years ago. It feels a little harder to separate fact from fiction, because the once-accurate guages have been permanently miscalibrated.
I’ve got to go back through my old journals to remember: When I manufactured these noises before, did the symptoms begin after the night I went suddenly and completely deaf? During the time I was on steroids in an attempt to recover my hearing? While I was waiting for brain surgery? Or after the tumor was removed?
I’ve put a lot of stuff out of my mind. That’s how we deal, you know?
But last night scared the bejeebers out of me. Something about it felt oh, so eerily familiar.
And not in a good way.
Extracts Of Essences
Man, I’ve got the dieting bull by the horns this time.
I’ve discovered some tasty sauces, syrups, salad dressings, and fruit spreads, all with zero calories, zero fat, zero carbs and, of course, no sugar. I’m into fuzzy math as a general rule, but even I know that if you can replace some high-numbered foods with some zero-numbered foods, and still feel satisfied, you’ve freed up some calories for more of something else.
My latest miracle discovery is “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter” zero-everything spray. Have you tried this stuff? Put a few squirts of it on your broccoli and you’ll forget all about that Land O’ Lakes stick on the butter plate.
I call it my Eau du Butter. Just the essence and none of the substance, thank you very much.
Doug’s been making us omelettes in the morning. To his, he adds the works. To mine, he adds Whiff of Onion, Aura of Cheese, and Dust of Bacon Bit.
I didn’t mean to get so chintzy on the bacon bits, just so you know. We’d gotten to the bottom of the little bag, and I didn’t have time to go to the store for a couple more days. I had no choice but to ingest bacon bits in amounts that can only be described as dust.
All these extracts, essences, whiffs, auras, and dustings are working their fairy magic. I’m down 15.5, and yes, I’m counting.
Teach Your Children Well
When you get older, sleep becomes a commodity that can’t be depended upon.
I’ve been awake since three o’clock. A booming sound, one Doug and I never did identify, awakened both of us from a sound sleep. He made a quick tour of the house to make sure nothing critical was about to blow and then came back to bed.
Within thirty seconds of his head hitting the pillow, he’d returned to a blissful rest. Within five minutes, I was bawling like a baby.
What could make me weep like a crazy lady at that hour of the night? Thankfulness, that’s what.
For some reason that’s completely beyond me, I began to remember how my mother would wake me up each morning, starting with the first day of Kindergarten. She’d call up the stairs, in a sing-song of a tune I can still imitate, “Katy…Miss Prendergast is calling…”
I’d sit straight up in bed with a huge smile on my face, because it wasn’t Saturday or Sunday—it was a school day! Then I’d hop up, put on my white blouse with the Peter Pan collar, my navy blue jumper, and my saddle oxfords and run downstairs for breakfast.
Mom would hand me my plaid bookbag and if she had a note she needed to send to Miss Prendergast, she’d attach it to the bib of my uniform with a safety pin and I’d be all set. I’d skip the three blocks to St. Elizabeth’s Catholic School and there she’d be waiting for me—my favorite teacher in the world. Not a day of Kindergarten ended without me wrapping my tiny arms around one of Miss Prendergast’s thighs and her bending down to kiss me good-bye.
I wept last night just thinking about it.
During the summer months, Mom didn’t sing me awake. But come September, 1960, she started singing the second verse of the same sweet song. “Katy…Sister Sheila Ann is calling…” Sweet Jesus, how I loved Sister Sheila Ann!
She only had one strong word to speak to me in the entire first grade. It broke my heart when she corrected me that day, because I knew that somehow she’d been misled on that one subject, and oh, how I hated to think she wasn’t quite perfect. It was in October, and the maple tree right outside the classroom window had burst upon my senses with its sheer brilliance. I could not control my little six-year-old self. All I could do was stare in rapture.
“Katy McKenna,” Sister Sheila Ann said, “eyes to the front of the room! Stop staring out that window!”
Even then I knew that in her soul of souls, she didn’t mean it. She wanted with all of her being to be staring out that window, too. She just couldn’t admit it, because she was all grown up.
I wept last night just thinking about it.
“Katy…Miss Walterbach is calling…” She of the full-skirted shirtwaist dresses with the narrow belts around her tiny waist. I adored her.
“Katy…Miss Byrne is calling…” Her blistering auburn hair burned as brightly as her name. I worried that she’d fall in love and marry a man whose last name was Ash or Dirt. She shone. I worshipped her.
“Katy…Mrs. Shook is calling…” She was eight months pregnant that November, when the janitor rolled the TV in on a cart and we all watched as they told us our President was dead. Her whole body shook as she wailed and I was so afraid she’d lose the president and her baby on the same day. I needed her.
“Katy…Sister Kathleen Ann is calling…” She told my parents that their daughter had a gift, that they needed to make sure college was in my future. Me? A gift? I stopped feeling invisible. I appreciated her.
“Katy…Sister Rose Ellen is calling…” She was the most beautiful nun I’d ever seen. She didn’t let me slide, she pushed me to do my best. I wanted to be just like her.
I wept tears of joy last night, thinking about these women. God blessed me with teachers from heaven for seven years in a row. The difference they made in my life? It’s hard to explain, but I’ll never forget them so that says something, doesn’t it?
Sometimes it’s pure bliss to give up a little sleep, remembering.
The Beauty Of Budding Bloggers
My lovely friend Mary DeMuth (whose book “Pioneer Parenting” we had a great time discussing here on fallible) is hosting the current Carnival of Beauty. Our topic is “The Beauty of Blogging.”
I couldn’t resist adding adding my two dollars worth. Okay, you caught me. Two cents worth. Yeah, we’re still cutting back! :)
Blogging doesn’t sound very beautiful on the surface, does it? It’s kind of like when I told my mother years ago that we’d enrolled my kids in Maranatha Academy.
“Mara-WHAT?” she asked. “How am I going to live THIS down?”
She had a point. Some words are probably best left unsaid, if only because they sound so, well…you know.
So about the time my third kid was beginning his illustrious high school career at Maranatha (which as some of you will know is Greek for “Come, Lord Jesus!”—an action we implored Him to take before we plunked down that high tuition), I became a blogger.
This was nearly six years ago, before the word blogger was common among men, before the giants among bloggers began to roam the earth, back when you could still build a decent readership if only because there were so few of us around.
“You’re a WHAT?” my mother asked. “I can’t believe it. How will I explain this to my friends?”
She worked it out. She called me a “blobber,” and no one who knew me very well argued with her.
But who knew that a budding blobber, a middle-aged chick seeking an outlet for a bunch of stuff she still wanted to say, would be caught up among some of the most beautiful women (and men, of course…) in the known cybersphere?
Honestly, blogging started (for me) as a way to relieve my poor husband from a small measure of his listening duties. He is a dedicated man, but everyone’s read those scary stats about how many words a woman has to put out there every 24 hours. Let’s just say I’m not your average woman, either. Something had to give or the man wouldn’t have been able to bear up under the strain.
The beauty of blogging is that it gives us a place to bloom. If we’re writers, or aspiring writers, we try our hands at techniques, testing them on patient readers who challenge us to think it through a bit more deeply, convey it with more finesse. If we’re readers, we marvel at the growth, change, and life experience that our favorite bloggers gain over the weeks and months.
To me, the most beautiful thing about blogging is the free exchange of comments. Commenters build community. And while I didn’t begin blogging imagining that I’d make a whole bunch of new friends, that is exactly what’s happened.
I’m still a budding blogger. And a budding author. I don’t think I’d have even begun to attempt writing a novel without all the encouragement I’ve received through blogging. It’s a beautiful thing.
Almost as beautiful as Maranatha.
Impressed
Erma Bombeck, my favorite female humor writer ever, once penned a line which etched its way into my memory so deeply that I can call it into service at the drop of a funny book. She talked about how, after becoming a successful author, she continued to give her children “the poverty they so richly deserve.”
I’m certain Erma didn’t deny her teenagers the basics. She fed and clothed them, educated them, and got them to the dentist and doctor on a regular basis. She and her husband took the family to church and I’ll bet they had some nice vacations, too.
But then what? I’m imagining that Erma didn’t spend every waking hour trying to “make memories” for her children, determined that each day brought forth some expensive trinket from Best Buy or the Apple Store, something they’d remember forever. I’m betting Christmas didn’t blow all her book royalties, either, because somehow I think she understood that a child’s memories can’t be purchased—not at any price.
If you were to describe your best childhood memories, how many of them center around a hefty price tag on a designer label? I’m guessing none.
Why does riding on the open tail-gate of Grandpa’s Rambler with my two sisters—our feet dangling through the corn and our laughter echoing over the acres—still give me a free thrill every time I remember it? Besides the fact that little Mary Baillie fell out and we had to drive back and pick her up?
Maybe it’s because no stupid parental (or grand-parental) mixed motives involving new money and a desire to keep up with those darned Joneses conspired to create a false sense of values in which to force selective memories of supposed quality time upon us unwitting kids.
In other words, my folks were broke.
It never occurred to my parents to try to make memories for us. And yet we have them—and good ones. Happily for moms and dads back in the day, no one really believed that memories could be purchased, that if you just plunked the plastic down harder today than you did yesterday, you’d leave a better, richer memory in your child’s mind than the less-than-stellar one you made before.
I’ve come across two articles in the past 24 hours that express what I’m trying to say far better than I can. Read this one first, and then follow it with the most refreshing piece you’ll read this summer, by my friend Lisa Samson.
Then tell us what you think. Were your best memories purchased?
Or did they arrive penniless but friendly, carrying an empty mayonnaise jar with holes poked in the lid, eager to help you catch those elusive fireflies one hot July night?
