A Stranger in my home.

A while ago, my Dad met a stranger who was new to our small town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting newcomer and soon invited him to live with our family. The stranger was quickly accepted and was around from then on.

As I grew up, I never questioned his place in my family. In my young mind, he had a special niche. My parents were complementary instructors: Mom taught me good from evil, and Dad taught me to obey. But the stranger…he was our storyteller. He would keep us spellbound for hours on end with adventures, mysteries and comedies.
If I wanted to know anything about politics, history or science, he always knew the answers about the past, understood the present and even seemed able to predict the future! He took my family to the first major league ball game. He made me laugh, and he made me cry. The stranger never stopped talking, but Dad didn’t seem to mind.

Sometimes, Mom would get up quietly while the rest of us were shushing each other to listen to what he had to say, and she would go to the kitchen for peace and quiet. (I wonder now if she ever prayed for the stranger to leave.)

Dad ruled our household with certain moral convictions, but the stranger never felt obligated to honor them. Profanity, for example, was not allowed in our home… Not from us, our friends or any visitors. Our longtime visitor, however, got away with four-letter words that burned my ears and made my dad squirm and my mother blush. My Dad didn’t permit the liberal use of alcohol. But the stranger encouraged us to try it on a regular basis. He made cigarettes look cool, cigars manly and pipes distinguished.
He talked freely (much too freely!) about sex. His comments were sometimes blatant, sometimes suggestive, and generally embarrassing.

I now know that my early concepts about relationships were influenced strongly by the stranger. Time after time, he opposed the values of my parents, yet he was seldom rebuked… And NEVER asked to leave.

More than fifty years have passed since the stranger moved in with our family. He has blended right in and is not nearly as fascinating as he was at first. Still, if you could walk into my parents’ den today, you would still find him sitting over in his corner, waiting for someone to listen to him talk and watch him draw his pictures.

His name?…. .. .
.
.
.
.,
,
,

We just call him ‘TV.’

(Note: This should be required reading for every household!)
He has a wife now….We call her ‘Computer.’
Their first child is “Cell Phone”.
Second child “I Pod

this fantastic piece was taken from Facebook notes of Ameen Melhem Salhab
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The Special Mother

by Erma Bombeck

Most women become mothers by accident, some by choice,

a few by social pressure and a couple by habit.


This year nearly 100,000 women will become mothers of handicapped children. Did you ever wonder how these mothers are chosen? Somehow I visualize God hovering over Earth selecting his instruments for propagation with great care and deliberation.


As he observes, he instructs his angels to take notes in a giant ledger.


“Forrest, Marjorie, daughter. Patron Saint, Celia.”


“Rutledge, Carrie, twins. Patron Saint…give her Gerard. He’s used to profanity.”


Finally he passes a name to an angel and smiles.


“Give her a handicapped child.”


The angel is curious. “Why this one, God? She’s so happy.”


“Exactly,” smiles God.


“But does she have the patience?” asks the angel.


“I don’t want her to have too much patience, or she’ll drown in a sea of self-pity and despair. Once the shock and resentment wear off she’ll handle it.”


“I watched her today. She has that sense of self and independence so rare and so necessary in a mother. You see, the child I’m going to give her has a world of it’s own. She has to make it live in her world, and that’s not going to be easy.”


“But Lord, I don’t think she even believes in you.”


The angel gasps, “Selfishness? Is that a virtue?”

She will never be alone. I will be at her side every minute of every day of her life
because she is doing my work as surely as she is here by my side.”

“Armstrong, Beth, son. Patron Saint, Matthew.”

“Could I give a handicapped child a mother who knows no laughter? That would be cruel.”

God smiles.

“No matter, I can fix that. This one is perfect. She has just enough selfishness.”

God nods.

“If she can’t separate herself from the child occasionally, she will never survive. Yes, here is a woman whom I will bless with a child less than perfect. She doesn’t know it yet, but she is to be envied. She will never take for granted a spoken word.
She will never consider a step ordinary. When her child says momma for the first time, she will be witness to a miracle and know it. I will permit her to see clearly the things I see–ignorance, cruelty, prejudice–and allow her to rise above them.

“And what about her Patron Saint?” asks the angel, his pen poised in the air.

God smiles.

“A mirror will suffice.”

The Special Mother.

I found this poem on a fellow bloggers site. It was posted there because she is a mother who knows the pain.   I hope it touches you as it touched me

The Special Mother
by Erma Bombeck

Most women become mothers by accident, some by choice, a few by social pressure and a couple by habit.

This year nearly 100,000 women will become mothers of handicapped children. Did you ever wonder how these mothers are chosen? Somehow I visualize God hovering over Earth selecting his instruments for propagation with great care and deliberation.


As he observes, he instructs his angels to take notes in a giant ledger.


“Forrest, Marjorie, daughter. Patron Saint, Celia.”


“Rutledge, Carrie, twins. Patron Saint…give her Gerard. He’s used to profanity.”

Armstrong, Beth, son. Patron Saint, Matthew.”

Finally he passes a name to an angel and smiles.

“Give her a handicapped child.”


The angel is curious. “Why this one, God? She’s so happy.”


“Exactly,” smiles God.


“But does she have the patience?” asks the angel.


“I don’t want her to have too much patience, or she’ll drown in a sea of self-pity and despair. Once the shock and resentment wear off she’ll handle it.”


“I watched her today. She has that sense of self and independence so rare and so necessary in a mother. You see, the child I’m going to give her has a world of it’s own. She has to make it live in her world, and that’s not going to be easy.”


“But Lord, I don’t think she even believes in you.”


The angel gasps, “Selfishness? Is that a virtue?”

She will never be alone. I will be at her side every minute of every day of her life
because she is doing my work as surely as she is here by my side.”

“And what about her Patron Saint?” asks the angel, his pen poised in the air.

Could I give a handicapped child a mother who knows no laughter? That would be cruel.”

God smiles.

“No matter, I can fix that. This one is perfect. She has just enough selfishness.”

God nods.

“If she can’t separate herself from the child occasionally, she will never survive. Yes, here is a woman whom I will bless with a child less than perfect. She doesn’t know it yet, but she is to be envied. She will never take for granted a spoken word.
She will never consider a step ordinary. When her child says momma for the first time, she will be witness to a miracle and know it. I will permit her to see clearly the things I see–ignorance, cruelty, prejudice–and allow her to rise above them.

God smiles.

“A mirror will suffice.”

A poem for my children.

There are some times in life when we find ourselves rather helpless. We want the best for those we love, yet destiny has a different story laid out for us. I stand at cross roads having to decide such critical decisions. I am not certain what the reperussions would be on my boys. 

In my confusion and despair, I felt inspired to pen my thoughts, before I knew it, it took shape of a poem. Its nearly after 20 years that I felt the pain to write a poem today. pain, coz I am one of those people who are inspire to write when hurt and create when happy.  Actually its less a poem but my wish, my hope, my prayer for my boys. A mother is the backbone of a family and she constantly has to remain strong. Sometimes I find myself drifting from my hopes and it scares me.

This poem is for my sons who are bonded for better or worse times, but struggle every single day to fight in this very perfect world.  

  They are all dyslexic.

 

My darling Son,

You are unique,

You are special,

You are capable of everything under the sun.

 

In everything you see, feel and show

You are clear yet unsure

 

My precious one, you will always have me beside you,

We will be brave and fight it thru

 

Darling son, don’t ever let them change you

For your disability is not a failure in you,

I know, struggle will always be your best friend

But better that, than silly boys to tend

 

Sensitive as you are

Mocked as you are

Believe in yourself, believe in me

At your feet, this world will be

 

Let your imagination soar

Let your creativity find its core

Your world is so much more beautiful

While ours full of  mean and ridicule   

You have to climb these biased mountains

No one else but you should be certain

 

You are special

You are gifted

You are God’s own chosen one

Use it to bring comfort to others

Use to show kindness to other brothers

 

I feel miserable when I see you lonely in your class

Then I feel perhaps its coz you are a class apart !

 

Don’t join the flock to be one of them

Make instead your own path

Believe that you have been sent down to fulfill a purpose

Be happy, be grateful, we have one another

It may seem difficult today but the road does go further

 

I am with you today in body

Tomorrow in spirit and perhaps

Another day only but in your prayers

Whenever where ever you are,

 Remember God’s chosen one, you are  

Rubberstamping Poem.

This is such a cute poem and probably almost all crafters identify with the author’s dilemma. It is amazing how quickly this hobby takes over our lives. I started out from the corner of my bedroom with a couple of shoe boxes for containers and just a handfull of craft supplies. It was much later that I took to rubberstamping. Especially since we had almost no store that stocked rubberstamps ! Even today there are barely 2 scrapbook shops here. 

Now I need an entire room to myself and that too is less so ofcourse there’s the shed in the garden, my extended craft storage room !!  Well thats how it is … once your hooked.  You have to have a pretty smart husband to keep track of your spending sprees. For there will be plenty ….            

I started out with just one stamp, And when I bought some more
I decided that a shoe box Would make an ideal place to store.
Then as I added inks and pens My stamp collection grew
So I bought a roomy plastic crate, It would last for years, I knew.
Embossing then became my thing With powders and a heat gun,
Metallics, tinsels, pearls and clear, I soon had every one.
By now my lovely plastic crate Was spilling everywhere
And my glitter glue collection Lay scattered on a chair.
My Husband started muttering And said things had to stop,
So I bought a huge old wardrobe At the local charity shop.
But after a while I couldn’t shut the door
And I put shelves in the spare room To accommodate yet more.
Our house is now for sale, Something larger being sought,
By the way, did I show you The latest stamp I bought……..

WHY WOMEN ARE SO SPECIAL .. ..

toons12

Mum and Dad were watching TV when Mum said, “I’m tired, and it’s getting late. I think I’ll go to bed.”
She went to the kitchen to make sandwiches for the next day’s lunches. Rinsed out the popcorn bowls,
took meat out of the freezer for supper the following evening, checked the cereal box levels,
filled the sugar container, put spoons and bowls on the table and started the coffee pot for brewing the next morning.

She then put some wet clothes in the dryer, put a load of clothes into the washer, ironed a shirt and secured a loose button.
She picked up the game pieces left on the table, put the phone back on the charger and put the telephone book into the drawer.
She watered the plants, emptied a wastebasket and hung up a towel to dry. She yawned and stretched and headed for the bedroom.

She stopped by the desk and wrote a note to the teacher, counted out some cash for the excursion and pulled a text book out from hiding under the chair. She signed a birthday card for a friend,addressed and stamped the envelope and wrote a quick note for the grocery store. She put both near her bag. Mum then washed her face with 3 in 1 cleanser, put on her Night Solution & amp; age fighting moisturizer, brushed and flossed her teeth and filed her nails.

Dad called out, “I thought you were going to bed.”

“I’m on my way,” she said. She put some water into the dog’s dish and put the cat outside, then made sure the doors were locked and the patio light was on. She looked in on each of the kids and turned out their bedside lamps and radios, hung up a shirt, threw some dirty socks into the hamper, and had a brief conversation with the one up still doing homework.

In her own room, she set the alarm; laid out clothing for the next day, straightened up the shoe rack. She added three things to her 6 most important things to do list. She said her prayers, and visualized the accomplishment of her goals.

About that time, Dad turned off the TV and announced to no one in particular. “I’m going to bed.” And he did…without another thought.
Anything extraordinary here? Wonder why women live longer…? ‘CAUSE THEY ARE MADE FOR THE LONG HAUL…….  (and they can’t die sooner, they still have things to do!!!!)

A parent’s regret.

I Wish

aalady20ironsI was so busy through the day, I didn’t take the time to play.

When you brought your games to me, I told you “Not now,” and quietly,

I cleaned the house, I’d iron and cook, but when you’d bring your story book, And ask me to sit and read to you, I’d say, “I have too much to do”.

I’d tuck you in your bed at night, you’d say your prayers, I’d dim the light.

Too quickly I’d pass through the door, I should have stayed a minute more.

Life’s much too short, each year flies past, my little boy grew up so fast.

No longer playing by my side, for me to nurture and to guide.

The books and toys are packed away, no longer are there games to play.

No precious bedtime prayers to hear, that all belongs to yester-year.

My days once busy now are calm, the hours empty and too long.

I wish I could go back and do, all the things you asked me to.

At the time you don’t realize it, but raising your child is the best time of your life!

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