FrankenMini!

Dear Mini,

 

Every parent wonders and dreams about what their child will look like.

 

Most every parent these days owns an iPhone with an app suited to assist them in answering this question.

 

I don't.  As I told you before, I'm as cheap as a box of rocks in a jewelry store.  I have Microsoft Paint instead!

 

With the help of that program and a little runaway imagination, I've been cutting-and-pasting my imaginings of you from my head and onto the screen.

 

For some reason (perhaps it's my lack of asthetic judgment or computer design skills), the Mini Clenney in my head and the FrankenMini in my .jpgs don't quite match up. 

 

Judge for yourself:

 

In my mind, it's very likely that you will have tightly-curled hair (due to both your mommy and daddy bearing this affliction), your daddy's near-black eyes, his parenthesis-style lips, my bone structure, and my paper-pale skin. 

 

Oh, and your father's affection for all creatures great and small.

 

And this is what Micro-Paint came up with:

 

 

 

Hooray for low-end technology.

 

Your daddy and I have laid beside each other many a night and worked out the probability of you possessing certain physical characteristics.  During his stint in Anatomy and Physiology last fall semester, he was reintroduced to the Punnett Square -- the simple method by which one may work out an offspring's probability to inherit certain traits. 

 

According to this method of deduction, we figured that the most likely combination for you to come out with would be brown eyes, fuller lips, small ears and curly hair.

 

 

 

 



And then there's the funkiest FrankenMini of them all: a compilation of all the inheritable features we would like to pass onto you.  

 

(Please ignore the stubble.  Side effect of poor editing.)

Corde Pulsum Tangite

Dear Mini,

 

There will be moments in your life which you would prefer to forget.

 

September 11th, 2001 is one of those days for me.

 

I don’t mean to be selfish in saying that.  I know that some people have a need to revisit the past in order to face the fear they experienced and sit with it, as if the event should make sort of sense of it within the context of their own lives.  I used to be that person.  I understand her.

 

And then some people grow tired of living in a constant limbo-like state of terror and instead choose to defy that paralyzing emotion by giving up their right to be upset and focusing on what can be done.  I doubt that could be defined as forgiveness, but sometimes it’s the only way to turn the rusty wheels of everyday life again.  I suppose that’s who I’ve become.  I’m not sure if that’s healthy.  I’m not even sure it’s something to be proud of. 

 

It just is. 

 

When this old source of fear invites itself into my living room for a cup of coffee once a year, it seems better for me to reflect upon what eased myself and others through that original shock instead of watching graphic footage reruns on CNN.

 

One cauterizing agent was music.  I remember attending a Laurie Anderson concert at Town Hall during the week following the attacks, and the audience’s eerie recognition of performance art as prophecy fulfilled…. 

 

  “And the voice said: This is the hand, the hand that takes. This is the hand, the hand that takes. This is the hand, the hand that takes. Here come the planes. They're American planes. Made in America. Smoking or non-smoking? And the voice said: Neither snow nor rain nor gloom of night shall stay these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds. 'Cause when love is gone, there's always justice. And when justice is gone, there's always force. And when force is gone, there's always…Mom. Hi Mom!”

 

(Heather thinking: what a strange song to write to your baby!  Oh well.  Keep going.  You have a point in here somewhere.)

 

I call to mind the Netherlands-sponsored goodwill concert that I participated in as a member of the Young Peoples’ Chorus of New York City.  I recall the kindly, weather-worn faces of the policemen and firefighters chosen to sing alongside us at Carnegie Hall.

 

We cried:

 

 “Hac in hora
sine mora
corde pulsum tangite;
quod per sortem
sternit fortem,
mecum omnes plangite!:

 

“So at this hour
without delay
pluck the vibrating string;
since Fate
strikes down the strong man,
everyone weep with me!”,

 

-       “O Fortuna”, Carl Orff

 

…for what else could be said at that hour?

 

And in the silences of the week that followed, there was comfort in the company of bewildered strangers. 

 

 

There was kindness in the streets.

 

 

There was reassurance that our worries were common, and that hearts were being searched.

 

 

And thank God there were children to be seen and reminded of.

 

 

My sweet baby yet to be born,

 

I wonder about and worry over what your generation will face.  Many people question the judgment of anyone who would endeavor to bring a child into the world at this moment, when our state of affairs seems so turbulent. 

 

In my humble opinion, the very nature of life is cruel and beautiful, but so worthwhile.  Every generation has its disasters and its victories, and a collective amnesia of the hardships of those preceding them.

 

I have faith in the God that was, and is, and is to come.    

 

We curse ourselves with conflict and war.  He offers the hope of family.           

 

I think we would curse humanity even more if we were to deny those with the hearts of mothers and fathers the blessing of children just because we’re afraid of the future. 

 

So we choose you.

Our Redneck Past

Dear Mini,

Tucked inside family photo albums interred in deep storage are two very telling pictures of me and your Daddy.

In the picture of him, he is in a pig pen crouching between two very large sows with an arm slung affectionately around each one.  He’s tanned and bare-chested, which boasts of the lean muscle most people enjoy only in adolescence (but which somehow he’s also managed to pull off in his twenties, lucky sucker).  It’s one of the few pictures that I’ve seen from this period in which he’s completely unconcerned with the tortuous vanities associated with the teen years.  I love the boy in this picture.  He makes no apologies for his ruffled hair or the mud crusted up to his elbows.  This is your Daddy when no one is looking.

In my picture, I’m standing in front of a rickety stage at the county fairgrounds, sheepishly dangling a 5th place yellow ribbon from my hand.  I’m the definition of awkwardness at ten in my black jeans and a droopy brown fringe vest, my bangs in a questionably styled hair blob riding sideways across my freckled forehead.  This snapshot was taken shortly after the results from my first talent show were announced.  Out of six contestants in my division (Vocal Solo), I had come in next to last place, and I was pretty sure that the tone deaf girl whom I had beaten was wearing a hearing aid.

In retrospect, the results don’t shock me at all.  The whole event was a very last-minute affair for me; I remember pulling clean, wadded clothes out of the cold dryer and throwing them on as I hurriedly picked through the two karaoke cassettes I kept for church specials, choosing the least drowsy-sounding of the pair.  The importance of practice and preparation hadn’t quite occurred to me yet.  Neither had the proper use of hairspray.  Still, this picture tells so much of who I would become by showing who I was longing to be – skilled, confident, and willing to put myself out there to face the scrutiny of others.  My expression says,I know what I’m capable of and I know that I could have done better. 

To me, his picture serves a similar self-definitive purpose, but in a different tone.  It says,I don’t have to be perfect here.  These creatures don’t judge me; I care for them, and they love me.  

During the same time in your life, Mini – the period between when you stop wearing cartoon character-printed shoes and college – we will amass many, many of these kinds of pictures of you, I’m sure.  Pictures of awkward beginnings and private moments that belong in the attic – for just a little while. 

Then they belong on your coffee table. 

It’s good to see where you come from, to be able to look into the eyes of the person you were when life was less cluttered with mortgages and bosses and taxes, and recapture the original purity and vision borne of your God-given gifts.  I can’t imagine where I would be at this point in my life if I hadn’t sought to hone and develop the skills that I so longed to master during the time my picture was taken.  As a matter of fact, you might not have even happened -- I believe that music was part of the way I attracted your Daddy. 

And the kid in Daddy’s picture who fed his talents for caring for another living creature became the man I spied on at Dillard’s as he showed attentive kindness to each customer who crossed his path.  That boy is the man I saw when we met.  I’ve never known another individual, either man or woman, who has the ability to nurture broken peopleor animals back into functionality like he does.  He’s the reason why I’m not knitting my eighteen cats individualized sweaters in an Winnebago parked behind my parents’ house at thirty years old.

My point is this, hon:  as long as you’re seeking God’s will and using the abilities he gave you – even if those abilities seem trivial to you --  it doesn’t matter if you succeed in ways measured by society’s standards.  Be joyful in who he made you to be, and he’ll bless you for it.

He blessed me with your Daddy.

And now here you are.

(Or will be!) 

Friday Funnies for Mini

Say WHAT?!

Something about pregnancy brings out the outspoken, critical great aunt in us all.

 

I’m not quite sure who issues people a license to say eye-rollingly bold things to a couple who is pregnant (or is rumored to be), but it must be the same office that also authorizes Facebook T.M.I. offenders and the “friend” who likes to tell you when that same glamorous hair starts to reappear in your facial mole.

 

Here is but a snippet of a few of the eloquent statements posed to us, as well as a few from other sources:

 

Idiot says to Daddy:  “So, you’re having a girl!  Are you disappointed?”

What Daddy says:  “Absolutely not!  I’m just thankful that the baby is healthy!”

What Daddy should say: “WHAT?!?  A GIRL?!?!!!  My wife said that she wasn’t going to find out!  She told YOU?!!!”

 

Idiot says:  “Wow!  You’re really pregnant!  How much longer do you have to go?”

Mommy says:  “Um…seven months.”

What Mommy should say:  “Oh, I’m not pregnant.  I just naturally bulge.”

 

Idiot says:  “You’ve five months along and you haven’t decided on a name yet?”

Parent says:  “We just want to make sure we’re certain that we choose well, so we’re still exploring all of our preferences.”

What parent should say:  “Well, between Cori-Annder Moonbeam and  Salmon Ella Clenney, we just can’t seem to reach a compromise between the two of us.  I guess we’ll just end up flipping a quarter in the hospital!”

 

Idiot says to Daddy:  “So, when are you painting the nursery?”

Daddy says:  “Oh, we’re not expecting.”

Idiot says:  “Oh, yes you are.  I can tell.”

Daddy says:  “Um, no, we’re not.  I’d think I would be the first to know.”

*Awkward pause*

Idiot says:  “So…. Ya need some help with that?”

Daddy says:  ….nothing.  He wisely walks away and tries to figure out what just happened.

Daddy should have said:  “Sure, buddy.  Let me pencil ya in for June.”

 

 

Moral of the story:

 

Anger or upset the emotional, hormonal, large bloated lady and her bedraggled husband.

 

Go ahead.

 

There will be YouTube footage of the carnage later.

 

Halftime Show!

At the midpoint of most events, both the participants and the audience normally get the opportunity to take a break.  They can stretch their legs, get a cold drink, and disengage from the action for a moment in order to return their attentions afresh.

Not so with pregnancy.  YOU can get up and get whatever kind of drink you want.  I’ll just sit over here and suck on my Sonic ice.

With this week marking twenty weeks of our pregnancy with “Mini” Clenney, I’d like to officially declare that today is halftime and plan to celebrate accordingly.  While I’d love to welcome Sting and The Rolling Stones and Prince to the blog to perform a stirring decades-spanning mishmash of top 40 hits in honor of the occasion, I’m afraid that all I could book was The Hall & Oates Tribute Experience.  What can I say….they were a bargain, and with the economy being what it is….

And honey, baby formula is expensive.

So let’s take a trip down memory lane with The H.O.T.E. and review the greatest hits of our joyful beginnings with baby girl….

“I Can’t Go For That (No Can Do)”

After years of preparation, planning, and praying, we finally presented the doctor with the glad news:  I’d had five positive home pregnancy  tests (with so much of our hearts pinned to this hope, we weren’t about to make the copay unless we were sure we had a winner)!  With visions of plus signs dancing in our heads, we eagerly awaited his confirmation of our results.

And then the doctor told us we weren’t pregnant.  But hey, wouldn’t we have fun trying to be?  (Note to doctors: worst. advice. ever.  Of course, ahem, marrital relations are fun, but when a couple has their heart set on conceiving a baby, saying crap like that makes the whole process sound so trivial.  Don't be that guy.)   

We just smiled and thanked him.

We knew he was wrong. 

And he was!

Bwahahahahhaaaaaa!!! 

“You Make My Dreams”

And then the dreams began – partially due to anxiety, and also slightly influenced by hellacious indigestion from eating things like mu shu pork and fistfuls of gummy worms in the same sitting.  My body didn’t know if it was coming or going, and my brain was merely a disoriented victim in the passenger seat of pregnancy.  Amidst this cloud of randomly firing synapses, I saw you.   My dreams strongly suggested that you were a girl.  As the former kid who believed in purple unicorns and a tooth fairy who looks like Betsey Johnson, naturally I was inclined to believe them.  And I’m glad I did.  It’s nifty to feel like you have a privileged peek into your own uterus.

I was also extra pleased in that Jason would have at least one daughter, for I knew how fortunate such a little girl would be.  It’s difficult to find a man who knows how to treat a lady anymore, and I can confidently brag that after six years together and four and a half years of marriage, my husband has never failed to do so….  no matter how many times I’ve gobbled garlic for dinner or rubbed my porcupine legs on him in bed.  He always makes me feel like I’m lovely, and that I’m worth his protection and care.    

 “Private Eyes”

We’ve been fortunate to have had the opportunity to see our little squirrel four times via ultrasound during the past twenty weeks; that’s more than most parents get to during a low-risk pregnancy.  Just because I’m the type to randomly associate, this is how I’ve thought of her as we’ve watched her growth and progress.

June 5, 2012:      Teddy graham cracker stage

June 18, 2012:    Alien eyeball work hat stage

  

August 6, 2012:     Boticelli profile stage

August 23, 2012:    No denying your paternity by those lips stage

 

“Maneater”

 To quote your daddy:

“God wouldn’t give me a girl.  He knows I would kill the first boy who showed up at the door.”

 Well, start polishing your ’22, pops.

And a fair warning to the male class of 2030: there hasn’t yet been a deer, squirrel or possum that’s escaped the barrel of Mr. Clenney’s gun.  I don’t think he plans on missing anytime soon.   

Sorry about your lovelife, Mini.

There's always cats.

Date Night

On nights when the waxing moon rises and spreads its illuminating lunacy across the cityscape, strange and homely creatures emerge from their family-size sedans and lurk amongst unsuspecting sociable individuals.  These mild-mannered suburbanites are easily differentiated from the general populace by their common uniform of costume jewelry, polo shirts and sensible shoes (sometimes with socks, sometimes without, depending upon how carefully maintained their remaining sense of style may be).  You will know them by the expression of wonder on their faces as they encounter other adults who speak in full sentences instead of toddler-ese jabberwocky and who carry a discreet name-brand purse instead of a diaper bag.

You may be seated in the booth next to them at your local bar and grill franchise, where one of them will make a failing attempt at placing a drink order for apple juice on the rocks.  Or you may spot them on the ballroom dance floor of a local hotel, swaying to the Friday night three-piece house band in that strange rhythm which only married couples seem to know and not be embarrassed of in the least.      

Their presence, though thoroughly entertaining to a sophisticated crowd, is not long beheld; alas, the chime of their internal timepieces will turn them into a pumpkin by eleven o’clock, thus culling the crowd in favor of the hipper of the herd.  They contentedly drift home at a leisurely 45 miles per hour, satisfied that they have nourished their relationship with the stuff of romance – the understated glow of her mauve Mary Kay lipstick, his liberal application of Aqua Di Gio, a low-carb appetizer for two, and the soft rock standards that drift from their car stereo and into the hush of the early evening.       

These are the parents.

This is their date night.