A FEW NEW TIDBITS FROM A HALF-WIT

Tidbit #3: "Doesn't it seem that if people are paid to preach the gospel they should be defined as employees with a job to do instead of servants with a mission to fulfill"? Brenna Brown

Tidbit #4: "To think the world came into existence without a who and a why gives no one a reason to learn the what, where, when and how". Brenna Brown

Tidbit #5: "The priorities you approach mid-life with will determine whether you will have a crisis or a christening".
Brenna Brown

TO MY DAUGHTER SANDI - MY HAIR TWISTER BABY THAT NEARLY MADE MY HAIR FALL OUT

Sandi, you have a spirit and a will that drives you forward. I believe you have somehow inherited that drive from the Houston side of the family because their motto has always been "I'm happy as long as the wheels are rolling". Your Aunt Bobbi and Mamaw Rose precede you there. Possessing this nature has given you a zest for life and was the cause of many a stress filled worry for your mother. It has given you a brightness making you a fun-loving, adventurous and an active player in the game of life. For one brief moment, I saw that brightness snuffed from your countenance. It was like watching a candle's illuminate flame covered until the oxygen is spent. Watching that light totally disappear in such a short amount of time was one of the most terrifying moments of my life. True to your nature you rose above and relit yourself with all you knew you deserved and more. In reclaiming these things for yourself, you have the experience to teach the truth that maintaining self worth is one's own responsibility. As a result you have a family that consists of equality and mutual respect. A family that loves and supports each other enough to allow each individual the wings to fly solo without feeling alone in the process. I love you. Mom

A FEW NEW TIDBITS FROM A HALF-WIT

It has always been my philosophy that self esteem should never be a delegated responsiblity. Hence, everyone can have high self esteem if they realize that the giver of that gift can only be oneself. This is why I can retain high value for myself even when performances or executions are not of the highest quality. There is always a purpose accomplished if it ends up you have shown how 'not to do it' through innocent ignoranance or a good intentioned, uneducated try. There is nothing like taking pride in being a half-whit because that means you at least have some whits about you verses none at all. To this end, I have penned a few quotes about things in the world around me that by some will be considered half-whitted brillance and by others half-whitted ignorance. Either way, these Few New Tidbits from a Half-Whit that will be sporadically lobbed thoughout this blog will have purpose and allow me to retain my self esteem while sharing them.

Tidbit #1 "One of the biggest and saddest red flags of a bad executive leader is when they expect those under their leadership who give obligational respect to pretend it is volitional".
Brenna Brown

Tidbit # 2 "I have been accused of being a little anti-social and anti-talkative in my mature years. I think I am just excercising a little anti-it's all about you Brenna". Brenna Brown

TO MY OLDEST SON NICHOLAS-TRUE FEELINGS THAT TEND TO ALWAYS MAKE YOU CRINGE AND BITE THE INSIDE OF YOUR CHEEK

Nick, I have grown to admire you for the man you have become, the family you have created, and the life you have established. I love your sense of humor and your natural ability to draw people to you fills me with an almost covetous envy. The pride and love I feel to call you my son is real and will never change throughout all eternity. I see the respect and love that you give to your wife Crystal and applaud you for discovering that loving someone more than yourself makes you a real man. Always remember, the apron strings that are severed by a son which allows him to grow into a man leaves behind a small wound on the heart of his mother that never quite heals. Most mothers, myself included, realize that although it will never be the same it is necessary in the progression of life. Just remember who you are, the gifts you have been given and why you are here. Do it every once in awhile for old times sake, okay buddy?(Hint: Take out the PB, dust it off, read it and believe, so your neurotic mother will tremble a little less. ) I love you, Mom

TISSUES AND TOOTHPICKS

It is funny how your view of your parents change over the decades that pass. Moms and Dads run the gambit from caregiver; to advice giver; to cheering you on in the stands giver and then it hits. They become unable to be a giver because they can no longer even give what it takes to maintain themselves. The cycle of infant; to toddler; to adolecent; to young person; to spouse; to parent; to grandparent; to retiree, then slowly or quickly depending on fate, to child again is frightening to experience. However, it is just as frightening for the care giving children who must resume a role that is not quite parenting but eerily seems like it again. The challenge in the caregiving role this time is to nurture in a way that dignity is not extinguished. The kids enter a world where their conflicting emotions will take them from the anxiety level of a Steven King novel to the insanity level of a redundant Dr. Suess book. When it comes to my life most of this experience falls to my sister Bobbi because of geographical choices made by my parents. I constantly fight off the guilt of not being able to care for Mom and Dad by repeating to myself over and over, "It was not your choice, it was not your choice..." but guilt scores the win almost everytime.

It came suddenly with a phone call from my sister in August. "We are going up to see the kids in Indiana and Mom has decided that she and Dad want to come stay with you for three weeks". The adrenaline pumped as I asked when to expect them. "In about four days, is that going to be okay"? My mouth was spouting all sorts of affirmatives and positives but my mind was racing with thoughts of panic filled hows. It was not that I didn't want them to come or that I didn't want to do it, but the fact that spur of the moment is not a phrase that can be easily acquainted with two 86 year old people. Because she was 86, Mom didn't seem to get that concept. She was driven by what she wanted to do not by what was feasible to do in a short amount of time. You gotta love her though because she still has spunk, even though her spunk comes at a cost of exhaustion to those that have to make the arrangements for wherever her spunk may lead her!

The fury began as I stressed over whether or not the shower was accessible, how to make the airport pick-up managible, what to do if they needed medical help, and the list goes on. In the end it all worked out as each day got a little bit more perfected in routine and time management. My Daddy never accepted the need for me to help him shower, even though WITH my help he was exhausted. He dispareingly resorted to being tolerant through the whole process but reserved the right to have a pissed off attitude so that he could maintain the claim that he didn't really need the help and HE was appeasing me! Gotta love my Daddy's sense of hanging onto dignity. My Mom was the exact opposite. She welcomed the help and was appreciative through it all. It gave me a sense of accomplishment and nurtured me through the experience as we met learning mistakes head on with humor and laughter. I never compared the two to each other. I just accepted the fact that they each had their way when it came to showering of dealing with the loss of independence. It was my duty to respect that choice without judging who made it easier for me! So it went forth with each aspect of care, ranging from meals, to pill dispensing, to getting ready for bed and the nightly ritual of watching televison together even though I hate Wheel of Fortune. For me the different care issues were the same, but for Mom and Dad they varied in their attitudes lest you think Daddy was always the obstinate one.

It is amazing to me that there is such a thing as time passing quickly and slowly at the same time. Yet, in this visit that is exactly how it felt. It was just a few days after they left I began finding the the tissues and toothpicks around the house. These tangible items on the floor, in the beds, in the dryer. Mom's tissues soft and Dad's toothpicks sharp, much like their attitudes toward showering. I'll never look at those items the same again in my life. To me, each one represents the aspects of what is left to give when we reach a time where our giving is limited. The softness of gratitude and laughter and the sharpness of pride and dispair as those we love do for us what we can no longer do for ourselves. I hope that as I pass through the realms of becoming elderly I can remember this so eventually,when I am gone, my children will find more tissues than toothpicks that I have left behind.

TO TO MY SON CHARLIE - WHO ISN'T AFRAID TO HUG LIKE HE REALLY MEANS IT!

Charlie, you came last in the line of the Brown household. With your birth, came a test of faith. In your young years, up through the age of accountability, and into adolescence your experiences were laced with the burden of fighting for your life and enduring many things that were not fair. You fought the good fight and won your adulthood. Make no mistake, your lack of secular abilities, because of that fight, has no baring on the spiritual abilites you can give through the Priesthood of God. You, my son have the potential to be the strongest of us all, through the experiences you have had and the life you can choose to live from this moment on. The gospel is simple and so are you, Charlie. Life is not fair but Heavenly Father is. Nothing will be withheld if you are obedient and willing to sacrifice. You may have to wait longer but the blessings will come as you are faithful. I love you very much and this essay, although dramatized to get the grade in Composition class, holds very much the truths and feelings that I felt in those first few days in the hospital with you. I love you, Mom

AN ESSAY FOR MY SON CHARLE
My young son looks weak and wounded as he pushes the towering intravenous pole down the hallway - all by himself. A puffy face, red swollen eyes, and cheeks stained with streaks made from hot descending tears reveal the slow and intimate struggle the nurse had finding the tiny vein. He moves his small frame toward the reward of the playroom while clinging to the pole as if it were a battle flag. He looks taller and more victorious than any soldier returning from war and I come to the realization that I am witnessing the birth of a wise old man who is only three years old. He goes by the name of Charlie.

The time has come that I have dreaded all afternoon. Charlie must be told that one of the things he will have to sacrifice is his beloved rat-tail. With his short, brown hair lying close to his head and ears like half moons on either side, he will turn 180 degrees at a moments notice to proudly display the inch long lock of hair located at the base of his skull. The tumor looms beneath the beloved possession and the area must be shaved for the impending surgery. I know it is the one thing that means the most to him because it makes him like his big brother Nick. It gives him the honor of being cool and somehow includes him even though he's too young to be in the club. After all, you must have a rat-tail to earn the priviledge of being a Rat-Tail!

My heart is heavy in my chest as I try to explain a necessary evil, only to end up saying what is always said when life isn't fair. " I am so sorry, Charlie". I look in his brown eyes as they widen and give hint to his sense of helplessness and horror while he reaches up with his finger and softly touches a tear in the corner of my eye. I am catching another glimpse of the wise old man seeing the agony of another as it glistens on the end of his finger. I see him lay aside the pain of his impending loss to look up and whisper to my broken heart, " It's okay Mom, it will grow back". The greatest love given is always accompanied by sacrificing one's own feelings for the sake of another's. I wonder how this child comprehends what it takes most people a whole lifetime to come to know and conclude that it isn't something he has learned, it is something that the wise old man brought with him. In awe I say, " I love you, Charlie". He replies, "I love you more". I have never heard four words ring more true than I do at this moment.

The sounds that surround a hospital room late at night remind you that there is no place like home and you are not in Kansas anymore. They are echoing sounds like, the soft shuffling of nurse's feet scurrying to each room; the occasional bang of a dropped clip board followed by a hushed curse word; the answering of a ringing telephone at the nurse's station with the same redundant words repeated numerous times thoughout the night, "third floor pediatric unit'. Everything seems to be done as if to maintain a quiet and a reverence but in the end fails miserably.

Not being able to nod off because of all the "quiet", I watch Charlie sleep from my chair. His small chest rising and falling with each breath leads me to a dark place wondering if they are limited in number and will have an end soon. I notice his eyes are slightly open and for a moment I think he is awake. As I lean forward to ask him if everything is all right, I see the windows of his soul possessing only a blank dead stare and it frightens me. I can feel the adrenaline rush as I move instinctively and crawl into bed beside him. Placing my arms around him, I pull him close to me and cling tightly. The medical t.o.d clock which is found in each room, slowly and methodically counts the seconds until morning as my son cuddles and feels secure in the arms of a trembling mother.

The long night that seems to linger like dense fog over a lake clears to begin a day of dread and hope. It is time to turn my son over to God and the doctors. Slowly walking down the endless hallway that possesses no doors or windows on either side gives me the eerie feeling that I am once again in Oz. As we finally reach the huge doors they burst open with the rushing sound of an air gun to reveal a big, young, black male nurse who has come to take Charlie to see the wizard. He is full of positive energy and has a personality that emits a boisterous, fun loving nature. One can tell by just looking at him, that although he could play in the national football league as a linebacker, he could also be as gentle, tender, and loving as an award winning mother of the year. Charlie doesn't want to ride in the wheelchair and the nurse bellows, " No, problem little man". I see my tiny son take the hand of the huge man to begin a journey to an uncertain future.

As the double doors begin to close slowly, Charlie whispers something to the nurse who bends over to hear what appears to be a very important request. They both turn simultaneously and wave to those of us left behind to give us assurance and peace that in the end, whatever that may be, it will be alright. I peer through the window of the closed doors to take one final look. It doesn't surprise me to now see a tiny,wise, old man take the hand of a huge boy to continue on to his destiny.

AN ESSAY BY BRENNA FOR THE PONDERING

Studies show that from birth to four months an infant, because it cannot foster relationships on its own, needs to have communication and touch provided in order to thrive. Let us fast forward the DVD of life for this child, say around eighty-seven years, and visualize what we might see.

As we enter the long, dark, tall hallway of a nursing home, our footsteps echo so loud it seems like the very corridor that leads to the chamber of the great Wizard of Oz himself. At the end of the hallway sits a little, old lady in her wheelchair slouched over with her head drooping so low it looks like it is disconnected from her body and she is holding it in her lap. Her oily, thin, whitish gray hair is pulled back and plastered so close to her head it looks like she is wearing an early sixties bathing cap minus the chin strap.

As we approach, we see the skin on her thin arm looks taut but wrinkled at the same time, much like overly stretched leather. The skin possesses a transparent look revealing so many veins in her arm that you could probably route a map to Florida easily on it. As we softly touch her arm, her head suddenly pops up like the Whack-a -Mole at Chucky Cheese, her eyes appear to bulge at least an inch out of their sockets as she screams at the top of her lungs, "Get the hell away from me you Commie"!

Now, I don't know about you but my first instinct would be to never touch or talk to that woman again. However, we need to remember whether it is an infant or the elderly, if they do not have or have lost the ability to foster relationships, they still need communication and touch to thrive. Why should we do this? First and formost, it gives us the ability to entwine empathy into our nature. If that is not enough of an incentive for you, consider the fact that the choice you make opens the reality of the old saying, "What goes around comes around". Whether or not this saying is a blessing or a curse when you reach the age of eighty-seven is entirely your choice!