Mom Story 01

My parents are in town for a visit. Way overdue.

At dinner tonight, Mom told us yet another story. She has a million. She gets herself into more embarrassing situations than any five other people. Easily past her legal limit, anyway.

This time...my parents took my daughter to the movies this week. Mom was getting popcorn or something while the others took their seats in the middle of an aisle.

Mom approached the aisle with movie foodstuffs in one hand and a suitcase-like purse in the other. In her path: a nice young couple at the end of the aisle.

As she approaches to pass, she turns sideways, glances down and says (all true, I swear it), "I'm sorry...but I don't want to bang you."

Oh, the power of a missing word.

The guy looks up and says, "We don't want you to bang us, either."

I told my daughter the story this evening (Mom was too embarrassed to tell her) and she said, "So that's why that couple was laughing."

Like I said, a million stories. And most funnier than this. I'll start passing 'em along.

The Importance Of Little Things

Bad news, campers. The mouse died...and just four days after my daughter carried it into our home.

Unfortunately, she was also the one to discover its passing. She had spent the night with a friend -- it was the first time in three days (and nights) that she had stopped caring for it personally. In her absence, my wife took over the mouse baby chores. We spent time online, we spoke with experts, we did everything we could. And the little guy really was making progress. Or, at least, he appeared to be.

Well, my wife and I layed down for a nice (and rare) weekend nap. While we were sleeping, my daughter came home, checked on her mouse and found him dead. It had to have just happened and the pain of it crushed her heart. She began sobbing. My wife joined in. My older son took it like a stoic (though he told me later he cried). And I got to be the guy. While they were dealing with the tough emotional stuff, my Dad duty involved taking the mouse into the other room, wrapping it in one of my son's orphaned socks, and then quietly burying it in the backyard. My kids said they didn't want a funeral. They just wanted the pain to go away.

So how do you explain to a child why God enables us to care for such tiny, innocent creatures only to have them die?

Weirdly, I thought of Mother Theresa. Honestly, I did.

In the worst slums of Calcutta, the poor, sick and shunned are abandoned to die in great heaping piles of garbage. They are human detritus, les misérables, if you will. And they live and exist under the societal radars of most or our world's great cities.

In Calcutta, though, one tiny Albanian woman abandoned everything she knew to live among and serve those wretched people. And she did so for fifty or more years. Agnes (her birth name) believed her greatest calling was simply to help such people -- persons she considered more important than herself in the eyes of God -- to find peace in their final days. She assisted them in leaving their lives with the dignity they deserve as God's children, regardless of faith, skin color or class.

Pope John Paul II had this to say about Agnes:

"She served all human beings by promoting their dignity and respect, and made those who had been defeated by life feel the tenderness of God.''

In its last days on Earth, our mouse found an Agnes in my little girl. She fed it. She made it warm. And she loved it. And when it finally passed -- much later, I imagine, than it would have without my daughter's intervention -- the mouse died with food in its belly and a warm home over its head.

That's the Jesus stuff Agnes lived out loud. And while I wish like crazy my kids wouldn't have to hurt like they did, I can't help but be proud that they're already putting their hearts out there on the edge, right where they most count. In fact, I wonder why I'm not doing more of the same. The Kingdom of God is more than mice, after all.

I guess all good things have to start somewhere.

"Little things are indeed little," said Agnes. "But to be faithful in little things is a great thing. (God) will use you to accomplish great things on the condition that you believe much more in His love than in your own weakness."

Amen to you Agnes. The world misses you. And Godspeed to you little mouse. May your life have mattered. And may our lives matter more for having touched yours.

Heebie Jeebies

Pammy at Lollygaggin asked a great question: what gives you the heebie jeebies.

A lot of folks mention mice -- and since we now have a pet mouse that's too small to chew, it's pretty obvious they don't bug me (no pun intended). Nor do spiders...snakes...sharks...allegators or anything else I've heard.

Wanna know what absolutely wiggifies me? Or as Pammy put it...what makes my butt pinch?

These things. They're uber-naturally fast, scary flitting little turds. They come at you quicker than you can squeal like a girl and leap for tall furniture. They also cling to walls -- so tall furniture is only a psychological comfort at best.

I hate them, hate them, hate them. God, in his infinite wisdom, must have a purpose and a plan for having created them. But I can't help but wondering if it was a dare.

If you see one in your basement or garage, do me a favor. Climb back down from on top of whatever tall object you find yourself perched...and squish it good. Squish it good for me.

NEWSFLASH: Blogger Called Odd

What's with all the hooplah over Polly's pics? She has an ASSUMED identity. Of course it's fake. I have to think she's laughing at how seriously people are taking all this.

As a general rule, though...aren't we all a little off-kilter to be blogging, anyway? We're honestly shocked about this issue? C'mon, really?

Cast yours if you want, but I'll be keeping my "first stone" in my pocket where it belongs.

Besides, I still like her -- whatever/whoever she is.

Mini Mouse

You know you're in trouble when your thirteen year old daughter walks into the house with a weird look on her face, is holding something in her fist against her tummy, and says to you, "Mom, Dad...don't be mad."

In point-five seconds, your brain plays a rapid-fire slideshow of a million different reasons you might be mad. And I usually come up with a few pretty good ones. This time, though, they were all wrong.

While at church for a youth group meeting, my daughter found a baby mouse inside a little-used piece of furniture that was being stored. Yep, she brought it home. And it's teeny. Itty bitty teeny. So small it looks like a fleshy kidney bean. (Note: this picture is not the actual mouse. Ours is a bit darker.)

So we did a little research to see how to keep it alive and she ended up staying up all night taking care of it. A mouse. All night. Good to know she has strong maternal instincts, I guess. I would like well-cared for grandkids some day, after all.

The name is still up for grabs.

UPDATE:

Mouse and mousey mommy are both doing fine. The name: "Moose A. Moose". Did I mention my daughter is on the creative side?

The little guy is in a little carrying case on my desk. Right now. It's not-quite-national take your daughter and her pet rodent to work day.

Posting A Pic

It appears you have to create a post, attach a picture and then point to that picture in order to put a picture in your profile (on the top right). So here I am with my two boys. Missing are my lovely wife and teen daughter. Only so much room in a profile pic...

What's a Bouncy "C"?

Remember when Martin Short was on SNL?

He had a cheesy character named Irving Cohen who would sing and make up horrible songs on the spot. He abused his keyboardist and would always start his songs by saying, "Give me a C...a bouncy C."

That's me. Not Cohen. The guy on the keys. Out of the limelight but making the limelight possible. See the guy in picture (click on it for full size)? No, the one playing keyboard at the back of the stage. That's me.

I don't know...it's all I could think of at the time.