Trying to remember to be thankful on Thanksgiving

Yesterday was an interesting Thanksgiving. We don't have much family around--except for some cousins and extended family on my husband's side--so we went to Eric's Aunt Joanie and Uncle Bruce's house. We brought my sister's mother-in-law's famous creamed corn (which isn't nearly as bad as it sounds--it's actually the highlight of most meals).

I like Eric's family. We had a good time. The food was great. We played games after dinner while Eric watched the Cowboys game. We ate pie.

After a while sitting around and talking and letting our stomachs settle, we got on the topic of videotapes. Aunt Joanie--an avid camera/video camera person if I ever knew one--said she had some video tapes with Miranda on them. We pored through her plastic baggies of labeled video tapes with any months that Miranda was alive, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

I often thought after the funeral that I'd much rather have a photo someone dug up of Miranda than a bouquet of flowers or plant. The flowers die--rather quickly. The plants die--it takes longer, but they still do, especially since I have Eric in charge of watering them while I visit home for a month every summer. But just to have another glimpse of her. Because that's all that's left. But even better than a still picture is a video image of her moving--alive and moving and real.

So I sat on Joanie's bed last night and watched video tapes and Miranda came alive for me--for a while. I saw videotaped footage of the night of the Harry Potter party--ten days before the accident--when we were walking around the Barnes & Noble. Miranda was so wobbly. I forgot how recently she had learned to walk before the accident, wearing a pair of sandals I still haven't found. I saw footage of her playing with a wand we made. I was holding her, so close I wished I could just have that night back. Just hold her one more time. But all I had was a rewind button.

I left last night with red eyes. Joanie was worried I would be upset. Of course I would cry. I got back another glimpse of her I didn't have last night.

It's hard on a day that I'm supposed to be so grateful to not hate everything about life. To not be bitter I only got 15 months with her. It's hard to be thankful that I got those 15 months. It could have been 13 or 12 or 2. I'm trying to remember to be thankful, but it's hard.

The gifted child

So, I was watching a re-run of Judging Amy yesterday (this seems to be the only show, besides Desperate Housewives, that I watch anymore) and an interesting subject came up. Amy was trying to get her daughter into this "gifted" program in school. Well, she found out after having an independent test done that her daughter is not gifted. She was just an average, normal child.

So, I've been thinking about this a lot. For the last several months, I've been feeling like I'm trying to keep my daughter up with the smartest kids in her kindergarten class. Doing extra work with her every night. Re-reading books. All that stuff. So, why is it that we all want our children to be the smartest or the most gifted?

I was an average, normal child. Not the smartest, but not the dumbest either. I turned out okay. And everyone has different gifts--many of them not noticeable in school. So, what does it really matter if my child isn't gifted in reading and writing and math?

As I try to reason this out, I know that it actually doesn't matter. And that even if Bianca is the least advanced in her class, I'll love her just the same. So why does it still make me anxious? Why do I still feel like this is a race to get her to read more or to get her into the math-group at school? Will it change anything if she is gifted? Or if she's not?

Obviously, I'm still trying to mull some things out in my brain. What do you think about this?

Voting for my fore-mothers

This weekend, I picked up a coffee table book recapping the 20th century. As I browsed through its pages, I came across a small story on a woman who marched for women's right to vote. At the time, they thought that if your husband was voting, there was no reason for a woman to vote. For obviously, they would vote the same way?!? I suppose I shouldn't judge; that is the way the world was then. But I read about how badly these woman wanted the right to vote. So they could have their voices heard as individuals, with separate opinions, even from their husbands.

So I was on my high-horse yesterday. If you called me or talked to me, you may have gotten an earful on how our fore-mothers fought for the right to vote and how important it was to them and you better get out there and vote. I don't know how correct this percentage is, but I heard that only 15 percent of women actually vote. This is why those women fought and fought, so that most of us wouldn't even leave our houses or make the time to punch in a couple names.

Well, I went and voted. I stood at the voting machine and I put in most of my names. I knew most of the big names and who I wanted to vote for. But then a huge list of judges came up, and I was supposed to say whether they should be voted off as judges or retained. I didn't know any of them. I reasoned that it's sad for someone to lose their job, so I voted to keep them all. All the while, wondering what I was actually voting for.

Then I came down off my high horse. Yes, I'm standing here voting, but what's the point of doing it if I don't really know what I'm voting for? Am I actually helping anything? Would this make my fore-mothers proud? No.

As I left the middle school, I hung my head and stuck the "I voted" sticker onto my shirt and thought that next time I have to do my homework first.

Cowboys Against Cancer

This weekend, we went on our annual trip to Wyoming. It's a short fun drive. About three hours if you're driving slowly. The highlight of the drive was our stop in Evanston, where we entered the most amazing McDonald's I've ever stepped foot in. We walked in and were greeted with a roaring fireplace surrounded by soft comfortable chairs. The playplace was equipped with saddles for the seats. There were TVs all along the walls, including in the bathroom. And even better, the McRib is back. A perfect beginning to a great weekend.

We got into Green River around nine. This weekend, we really got to experience Wyoming. We went up on the bluffs and shot clay pigeons. This was the first time I've ever shot a gun in my life. I didn't hit a clay pigeon, by the way. Eric did and he loved it. And Amy is so good at shooting. It's amazing how much you'll learn about a friend you think you know after you see her with her family where she grew up.

That night, we went to the Cowboys Against Cancer benefit. It's a huge deal. The Governor of Wyoming and other dignitaries come every year. We ate duck and even got to dance after the auction. And you don't even want to get me started on the auction. I nearly had to hold Eric's hand down he wanted to bid on this adorable long-haired chihauhau puppy. Sure, I agree it was cute, but we already have a chihauhau (and Eric, I no longer believe you hate Tigger--I know you secretly love him now) we can barely tolerate.

There's a moment during the event when they ask all the cancer survivors to come up on stage. Most of us hobbled up there--I felt a little out of place. But it was at Cowboys Against Cancer last year as I stood on that stage looking out at everyone that realized it was a big deal that I survived cancer. I never honestly stopped to think about it. Yes, it will be five years next month. And it is a big deal. And it's almost as if it never happened. This year, I stood up there again and remembered it's a big deal that I'm alive. There was a time when I thought I would die and leave Eric and Bianca alone. All the cancer survivors got a little bag of stuff-including a thermos, hat, pins, a tool kit, and other stuff. And you know how I like to get something free.

The next morning, we packed up our stuff and headed home. We'd had a great time. Amy's dad and his wife treated us like family. They even had surprises for Bianca, as if she were their granddaughter. We stopped at the amazing McDonald's on our way home and got here shortly after, where Tigger (our chihauhau) greeted us excitedly by running back and forth in the family room. As Bianca says, he was crazy loco.

I unpacked my bag and my Cowboys Against Cancer gift bag for being a cancer survivor. Bianca was disappointed that there was nothing in there for her. She complained a little and asked why I didn't take her to the Cowboys Against Cancer "store" to buy some things. So maybe I'm a little dramatic, but I looked at her and said, "Bianca, you're lucky to have a mom." And I think I need to start remembering that more than I do, that I should be grateful that I'm still here.

A Weekend Away

We're going to the Cowboys Against Cancer benefit in Wyoming in November. We went last year too and had a blast. As I'm planning to head out of town, I've been thinking about something that happened last year that I've just got to put down. It's so funny I don't want to forget it.

When we arrived last year, we stayed at Amy's mom's house. Her grandparents were staying there as well. Her grandfather is a nice old man, who is a little hard of hearing, who was very successful in his career and talks to you as if you were in a job interview. After the grill of what my husband does and what I do, I nearly asked him if I had gotten the job.

As our kids, Bianca, Devyn, and Jaxon were running around the house, playing and getting into everything, we quickly learned that "Grandpa" didn't know Amy's kids' names. I believe he called them, "hey you." It wasn't a big deal, but Amy and I must have mentioned it in passing while the kids were somewhere nearby because we soon realized our kids listen a lot more than we knew.

Bianca and Devyn were getting into Amy's mom's jewelry box--losing at least several pieces of jewelry--when Grandpa entered the room. He turned to Bianca and asked her how old she was. She had just turned four, so she stated proudly that she was four. He was trying to tease her a little, so he insisted that she was only three.

"No, I'm 4."

"No you're not, you're only 3."

After going back and forth four or five times, Bianca got fed up. She put both her hands on her hips and replied loudly and adamantly, "I'm four. I just had my birthday and I know I'm four." Grandpa finally thought the game was over, so he agreed, okay she was four.

Bianca waited a minute, then turned to Grandpa again and said, "And by the way, her name is Devyn."

To which Grandpa responded, "What? You're seven?" Amy and I tried our hardest not to burst into laughter right then and there. But we've laughed many times since, retelling the story.

I hope we get to see Grandpa again this year. I'll make sure Bianca knows she's five this time too, just in case.