We’re such a modern family tonight—a rarity around here. Luke’s on his cell, I’m on the computer, and the twins are playing a game of Wii basketball. Lest their pastime seem too sporty, Maggie is adding her touch by doing pirouettes and tour jetes every time she scores. Now, that’s more like our house.
Even though Luke grew up with sisters, sometimes I worry he’ll drown in lip gloss in this house full of females. Our daughters talk tea and French braids and ballet, all the while with a sweet eagerness to emulate their mother. How long will that last, I wonder. The twins are 12—will they always say things like, “When I grow up, I’m going to have pink and purple flowers in my garden like you, Mommy. No oranges or yellows for me!”?
It’s almost a relief when someone colors outside the lines a little. Like Maggie appearing downstairs with a t-shirt from summer camp, shorts and a baseball cap, looking at me out of the corner of her eye for a hint of disapproval. I don’t flinch.
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The spouse frowns when I complain about the weather. I know, it’s like complaining about gravity.
But y’all, it’s hot. And June isn’t acting like June, the one summer month that’s supposed to behave. I don’t know if I can sustain cheerfulness through the inevitably sweltering July and August without the bolstering of a cooler, dryer, fresher June.
I wonder if God frowns, too, when I complain. I don’t mean any offense toward him, really I don’t. He is the maker of lovely Junes. I’m addressing my grumbling toward a less benevolent and completely imaginary character, some vague being fashioned by my yankee mind, who is, if he had to have a name, Old Man Georgia.
Maybe my husband thinks I’m mad at him, too. Maybe I am a little—after all, he’s from here. So isn’t he somehow responsible?
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“It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said ‘Bother!’ and ‘O blow!’ and also ‘Hang spring-cleaning!’ and bolted out of the house without even waiting to put on his coat.” ~ Mole, upon being called by spring’s “spirit of divine discontent and longing” in Kenneth Grahame’s Wind in the Willows
I was talking with a wise friend last week who said the cure for all this striving of mine, this constant quest for something akin to perfection, is grace. I left her place pondering the word, vowing to churn it over in my mind.
A few hours later, a bottle of perfume with the word “Grace” printed on its pale pink label caught my eye on a store’s shelf. I bought it, thinking a daily spritzing of the stuff and the word staring at me next to my bathroom sink would be a celebration of the concept as well as a pretty reminder. As if such a gift as grace could come in a bottle.
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“When I have a brand-new hairdo
With my eyelashes all in curl,
I float like the clouds on air do.
I enjoy being a girl!”
~ from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Flower Drum
Can’t you just hear your grandmother scolding: “Sit up straight” or “Napkin on your lap, please”? Or, if she was hard-core, there were reminders about carrying a handkerchief or never being caught in public without lipstick on.
As girls we endured that and perhaps thought what an old goose Grandma was. But, I think, deep down, we sense that the feminine graces shouldn’t be relegated as things of the past. We all want to be lady-like, just a little bit.
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