For goodness' sakes, buy the lemonade already!

by Shirley Bahlmann
I was walking to the credit union when I saw a boy with a little card table, a pitcher of blue juice, and some styrofoam cups. I immediately pulled out a quarter and bought myself a cup of sugary drink that the boy had valiantly tried to keep cool under a black umbrella.
It's not that I wanted the drink. I prefer real fruit juice, especially cranberry or fresh squeezed lemonade. (Let me assure you, this was NOT cranberry OR real lemonade.) But that didn't matter. Every time I see a child trying to earn a living selling roadside drinks, I stop and buy one. I feel it's part of my mission on earth to make sure no child goes through the trauma of my childhood summer drink stand business. Oh, the horror. NO ONE STOPPED.
It probably didn't help that I set up in our front yard on a quiet street where we could play kickball for a whole afternoon and move aside for maybe one car and a bicycle. But I was in business, and I expected there to be business.
Then my big brother had a brilliant idea. We would offer free popcorn to everyone. Then, when they stopped to eat their free popcorn, they'd get thirsty and buy lemonade. How could it fail? My brother's best friend, Ronnie, even agreed to eat the popcorn to show passersby how good it was, and he was willing to do it for free.
So Ronnie started in on the popcorn, taking huge handfuls and opening his mouth wide whenever the occasional car rolled down our street, the driver peering distractedly at house numbers. Ronnie ate popcorn when there were no cars, too. He needed the practice. He did such a good job that he ate the whole bowl down to unpopped old maids.
That was when a big, black car stopped at the curb. My heart nearly stopped, too. I had a customer! A man in a suit got out of the car and walked across the sidewalk. "Would you like some free popcorn?" I asked, holding out the bowl.
The man looked at the wreckage Ronnie had left behind and said, "No, thanks. But I'd like a drink, please."
I grabbed the pitcher and a paper cup and poured him as much as I could fit without spilling over the sides. He handed me a dime, and I handed him his cup. He had to bend his head forward and drink some before he could turn and walk back to his car without spilling. As he left, I stared at him with adoring eyes. I have a very good memory, and I'm sure he was glowing as he got into his car and drove away.
That was my only paying customer in the lemonade stand business, and as such, he deserves a special place in heaven.
On my way back from the credit union, I bought another cup of blue drink from the boy with the umbrella. I had to. It was a very hot day.

Under Son

by Shirley Bahlmann
I just finished a week and a half long stint at the Mormon Miracle Pageant in sunny, mosquito-infested Manti, Utah. My routine was pretty much get up at 6:00 a.m., clean the alternative high school in readiness for Summer School classes, feed and water our pets since that's the only way I could be certain they'd remain alive, then be in my Craft Fair booth by 10:00 a.m. (I didn't have to go except when it was my turn to take the till, but more people bought books when I was there to threaten them with paper cuts if they didn't.) I stayed among the paper and glossy covers until it was time to do my part in the Pageant, which started at 9:30 p.m. (I was a wicked Shaman who led people astray from Third Nephi.) Home by 11:30, I was in bed soon after, unless my restless 8-year-old made it later.
Later, rinse, repeat.
I met some interesting people in my book booth. One fellow who appeared deceptively young had a double super hero cape velcroed around his neck. On one side was the Superman symbol, the other side showed Batman. One lady who shared my booth asked the young hero which super dude he was. "Are you Batman or Superman?" was her innocent question.
The boy fixed her with deadly laser beam eyes. "I'm Under Son," he declared, clearly irritated that she did not recognize him by sight. (How could she have known his real cape was at the cleaners?)
"Under Son?" the lady asked, unaware of the mortal danger she put herself in by questioning his identity. Her life was saved by the lad's older sister, who obviously had super powers of her own. She grabbed Under Son's shoulders and held him fast.
"It's like Under Dog," the girl explained. "Only he's Under Son."
Ah.
That boy has a big future. I could tell by his cape-swaying swagger as he left us without a backward glance. (Under Son never glances backwards.)
I'll tell you what... if I'm ever in danger, I'll run to the nearest kindergarten class and call for Under Son, the hero of limitless creativity.

They go potty in heaven, don't they?

by Shirley Bahlmann
We're in the middle of "The Mormon Miracle Pageant" here in little old Sanpete County, Utah. The outdoor spectacle of volunteer actors in period costumes is in its 42nd year on lovely Manti, Utah Temple Hill.
One thing that pageant goers probably don't know is that before each performance is a devotional for cast members. It takes place on Temple Hill behind the costume building. There are some wonderful speakers at those meetings, interspersed with those who do the best they can with the talents they've been blessed with.
During one meeting, my 8-year-old came to me with a frown on his face and said, "The man wouldn't let me use the bathroom."
"What man?" I asked, my protective Mommy hackles rising.
"The one who says when we can go get our costumes."
So I went to talk to the bathroom-maximum-security guard. With a voice that could freeze watermelons, I said, "My son told me you wouldn't let him use the bathroom."
"Oh, I'm sorry, when was this?"
"During cast devotional."
"Oh. Well, you see, if I leave the bathrooms open, then all the teenagers go in there and won't come out."
"My son is eight," I said, smoke coming out of my ears.
"Oh, I'm really sorry. Look, if you could come with him next time, then that would really help with crowd control. I really apologize," the man said, looking very apologetic.
"Okay," I said, my hackles smoothing down. I was glad, too, because raised hackles is not a good look for me.
I walked away, reflecting on the lesson that if you really want to reach your goal, it helps to take a parent with you. And there is One who can get through any barrier, from writing block to basic mortal needs. And if I, as an imperfect mortal, love my son enough to push aside my non-confrontational fun-loving yellow personality to confront Bathroom Security, how much more does Father in Heaven love us? I'll bet he even has a bathroom key right there in his pocket.

Walking Boxes

by Shirley Bahlmann

They were big, they were beautiful, and they were in the dumpster. Two huge boxes, big enough to reach from my head to my ankles, sat unappreciated, waiting for their final journey to the dump. How could I let these building blocks of imagination meet such an awful fate? There were castles and rocket ships and secret clubhouses just waiting to be built!
I recruited my big fourteen-year-old son for project "Save-a-Box." We each hoisted one up, up, and over our heads, upside down, so we were looking through little peep holes that were torn along the bottom. Walking with a big box on your head takes some getting used to. By the time we reached Main Street, we were moving at a reasonable pace, and were glad to find the crossing guard willing to hold up his STOP sign so we could cross without worrying about being blindsided by a turkey truck. I thought the most dangerous part of our journey was over, but that was before I decided to take a shortcut through the elementary school yard. That was real danger.
Curious children started squealing and pushing on our boxes, making me stagger to catch my balance. I don't know about you, but falling down is not one of my top ten favorite things to do, and falling down inside a box where I had no option of putting out my hands to catch myself is an even worse prospect.
"Hey, stop pushing us!" I yelled.
There was a moment of silence, then a small voice asked, "Are you Michael's mom?"
"Yes," I answered, claiming parentage of my third grader. Since I'm a minor celebrity at the school, working with producing social skill skits every month, most students know me. Once they knew who the alien box monster really was, the pushing stopped and we survived crossing a street on our own.
A block from home, a stream of wolf cub scouts flowed toward us, parting around the boxes like rocks in a river. Then I saw my son, Michael's, face through my peephole.
"Mom, what are you doing?" he asked, his cheeks turning red.
"Taking these boxes home," I answered.
"What for?" He tried to sound exasperated.
"To play with," I said.
"Whatever," he answered, and walked on to join his den.
When my son got home from scouts, he spent the rest of the afternoon playing in the boxes. I grinned, remembering all my cardboard box adventures, and marked double time on my walking exercise chart.

Within An Arm's Reach

Within An Arm's Reach
by Kimberly Jensen

"Go away, stop following me," Bennett said as he pulled himself out of the swimming pool and marched over to the line of children standing behind the diving board. He wiped the water from his face and stood in line, looking straight ahead, ignoring the children around him as they giggled and chatted about the next 'big dive' they were going to perform.

"I can't stop following you. I have to keep you safe." I whispered to myself as I watched my 9-year-old attempt to be independent of me, his mom, who is always just two steps behind and an arm's reach away.

I tried to stay far enough behind him so he wouldn't stand out in a crowd of children whose mothers were nowhere to be seen. They didn't need the constant mother shadow, like Bennett did. But as mothers of autistic children know, thier kids stand out anyway. Bennett brought stares and smiles as he mimicked his favorite cartoon episode, complete with sound and action at the back of the diving board line.

As we ventured through the water park that day, I noticed other special needs children splashing in the surf and playing in the sun. I scanned the area around them and within an arm's reach, was of course, their mother, carefully watching, admiring and smiling at her child who was playing alone in the water, oblivious to his mother's constant guard.

Like all mothers, we go through the natural tug-of-war between mother and child. As our children grow up, they want to pull away,we want to pull them closer. As mothers of special needs children, we know we are more than just mothers, we are their protectors, their teachers and their friend, oftentimes, their only friend.

So while other children lose their shadow mothers early, we mothers of special needs children are called to stay within an arm's reach for many more years, sometimes forever.

Nothing Special About Multi-tasking

by Mary Stosich

Multi tasking is the grief of my motherhood. Rarely did I take enough time to enjoy the minute with awareness and appreciation.

One night, our first-grader Danny was in bed crying. He refused to tell me his problem. I coaxed and pleaded. Finally he gave it up:

“Mommy, our teacher asked us to think of a special memory of our mother, and then she will write it down and we can make a card for you.”
“Why are you so upset about that?”
Then Danny replied with this shocking, devastating, horrifying statement, “Well I don’t have any special memories of you!”

Frantically I started naming off some memories, any memory! “What about reading together?”
“No, that’s not special.”
“What about your birthday party?”
“No, that’s not special.”
“What about teaching you to ride a bike?” He was the only kid I knew whose mother could or would run 6 miles along side the bike. Impressed? Never-mind. I was still multi-tasking by exercising while I taught him!
“No, that’s not special. See what I mean? We don’t have any special memories!”
More tears.

I resisted the urge to shake him and say, “Listen here! I love you!” I also resisted the urge to crawl in bed and bawl.
I finally asked, “Well, my special son, what would a special memory be like?” His clincher question that helped me with some perspective:
“Did you ever save my life or anything like that?”
The closest I could come to that was still way beneath his expectations—something about holding his hand after his tonsillectomy. (I might have been reading a book also.)

Well, I didn’t say everyone else had to be aware or appreciative of our experiences, but we need to be. You see, about that same child, I have one of my precious memories. I have it because during one quiet moment of his babyhood, I put it there on purpose. I wasn’t multitasking. I had lost so many other pictures during my motherhood. I couldn’t bear to lose this one too.

I shut out the rest of the world for just a minute and leaned over the side of his crib where he was cuddled with his blue blanket, blissfully asleep. I memorized his soft face, the way his skin looked, the perfect profile of his little forehead, nose and lips. I touched his fat little hands and traced around his fingertips. I listened to his soft breath and stroked his dark curly hair. My tears fell on his blanket.

Twenty-two years later I have that memory because I was aware. I thanked the Lord and asked him to help me never forget it.

May 15th: An Answer To Everything

May 15th: An Answer to Everything

By Kimberly Jensen

It seems the older I get, the more questions I have. When I was 16 years old I thought I had most of the answers; when I was 25 I thought I knew where to find most of the answers. I turned 41 over the weekend and I realize I don't have any of the answers. However, my son has the answer for just about anything and I marvel at his simplicity. My son Bennett has Autism and I love how literal everything is to him. If you say, "It's raining cats and dogs," he says "where?" and he is actually looking for cats and dogs. If you say "keep off the grass" he will ask "which piece of grass and for how long?" and if you ask him not to pull the dog's hair, he will say "which hair" and pull the one he didn't pull before. He also has a pat answer for everything. If you ask him how old he is, he says, "May 15th," If you ask him his address he says "May 15th," and if you ask him what his birthday is, he will say, "May 15th." On this answer, he is right. So when he answers "May 15th," it means he is finished answering your question and you can now go away and leave him alone. He doesn't elaborate and he won't take another question. He's given you the answer and that it that. Don't you wish we all could be so simple and give a quick pat answer and have the rest of the world (even teenagers) just deal with the answer, whether they like it or not and move on. What would your answer be? I think Jesus has the best answer of all, "Love One Another."

Applause From A Most Unexpected Source

When I'm not plotting or characterizing I'm still reading books at the local library during pre-school story hour. This past week our subject was the alphabet and how it spells our names. One of the books I chose to read had the charming old song that goes, "A," you're adorable, "B," you're so beautiful, "C," you're a cutie full of charm..." Of course I couldn't just read the words when the tune was haunting me from the back of my brain. Even though I wasn't 100% sure of the tune, I did my best to sing what I could remember, and ended joyfully on the final line of, "It's fun to wander through the alphabet with you to tell you what you mean to me."
Just as the final note drifted off to silence, a cute little girl with brushy horizontal pigtails sticking out behind her ears put her small hands together and clapped. Startled, I looked down into her adoring blue eyes staring up at me. Then I said, "Thank you," and gave a little bow.
I've been floating on that tiny bit of appreciation from a tiny little person for days.
So say something nice. Give a smile. Clap for someone. It doesn't hurt a bit, and it will help more than you imagine.
Shirley Bahlmann

The Facts of Life

By Tracy Winegar
One of the rare outings that we go on as a family is a very regular trip to the zoo. My son Luke is a somewhat difficult child in public, leaving us no choice but to choose the zoo as our activity, something that he can actually enjoy and handle. As a matter of fact we have the season pass because we figured it would save us a nice chunk of change, since we frequent the establishment so much. He’s always had a fascination with animals. It has, however, been our sad misfortune as of late to have several run ins with the tragic facts of life.
It was only a month or so ago that we went rather early, early enough that the reptile house had just barely opened its doors to the public. There in one of the cages was the sweetest, fluffiest little bunny rabbit you’ve ever laid eyes on curled up in the RATTLE SNAKE’S CAGE! My daughter innocently asked, “Mom, why is that little bunny sleeping in the snake’s cage?” It was then that my husband had to explain that the bunny was not sleeping, that it was breakfast. She was devastated. She cried through the remainder of the exhibits inconsolably.
More recently, just last week as a matter of fact, we were standing in front of the crocodile exhibit. The frighteningly large reptile floated like a piece of drift wood in the water just behind the protective glass barrier. Nearby the immense, cold blood creature bobbed a plastic ball, carried to and fro with the movement of the water. In slow motion the crocodile dropped his lower jaw, ever so slowly rising to the surface of his concrete pond and then sprang towards us at lightening fast speed, lunging at the ball, and snapping it between its dangerously sharp teeth. The sudden violent movement made us all cry out and jump back in terror. My son, who speaks as seldom as is permitted, has been saying all week, “The alligator bit the ball.”It reminded me of when he saw the National Geographics special on lions, and witnessed a lioness attacking and devouring a zebra. He seemed very concerned for the zebra as he exclaimed, “Ouch! Are you OK?” So here it is, one of the unfortunate facts of life, dinner is whatever is available. Hopefully you’re the one eating and not being eaten!