A Lizard, A Cat, and My Need for a Nap

Even after an extra cup of coffee today, I needed a mid-afternoon nap. Sunk deep in my Sleep Number bed, I hardly roused when Eggs, my cat, clambered underneath. However, when she didn't settle down, I called her name, with affection, hoping to calm her. 

It didn't work.

As the ruckus grew, I roused myself to make sure she wasn't plundering loot from my dresser top. After a quick look around, I found her hunched under my bedside table.

Thinking she was chewing power cords, I grabbed my shoe and waved it under the table. She backed up a step, but didn't run, frustrating me.

Still half on the bed, I leaned over for a closer look. As blood rushed to my head, I recognized a certain wide-eyed look in her eyes. Knowing something was up, I perused the cords again.

Only then did I see the lizard. The one that blended in with the surroundings.

The slithering reptile lay against the wall with Eggs close by. As I considered my options, both animals bolted under my bed, leaving me with a decision: Do I hunt the loose lizard or take my much needed nap?

There once was a day when I couldn't have napped with a lizard loose under my bed. The mere thought of a lizard crawling on me in my sleep would've kept me from slumber.

But not today. I'm older, more tired, and will soon celebrate ten years of marriage to a farm boy from South Georgia.

Just last night he encouraged me to not discourage Eggs when she brings in lizards. I was a little offended.

"I'm not discouraging our cat from hunting when I set her lizards free," I asserted. "I'm just letting her know I don't want her pets in my house. It's called healthy boundaries."

The problem? After taking her living room creatures away, I now know she's taken to bringing them into our bedroom.

But since my friend, Sue, once assured me that lizards eat bugs, I surprised myself, laid back down, and fell fast asleep.

Having chased Eggs and her lizards before, I knew it wasn't easy. With both under my bed, I hoped the pursuit would entertain the feline whilst I slept.

She hopped on me at some point. And as she crawled along the length of my body, I dreamily willed her to not have the lizard in tow. Convinced or uncaring, I didn't stir.

When I later woke and sat down to eat, a tiny squeak alerted me to unusual activity. Knowing a fake mouse lay at the foot of our bed and normally stayed quiet, suspicion grew.

So I pulled on the chest that sits at the foot of our bed and lifted the bed skirt. There I found Mr. Lizard laying quite still. He didn't even budge when I poked him.  

While Eggs crawled in close, I didn't let her intrigue stop me from sweeping the almost dead creature into a small dust bin and throwing him over the porch rail.

Thus I will sleep in peace tonight with no thought to lizards.

I'm not quite sure if I've become mad or grown strong. Regardless, I'm different. Not only do I, an avid dog lover, own a cat, I clean her litter box, wipe my kitty scratches with hydrogen peroxide, and accept her need to bring home stray pets.

Odd. I know.

Things that once bothered me don't bother me the same any more.

For instance, last week, I learned something that hit me deep for a time. It hurt. Threw me off kilter. Dug up old feelings of rejection.

While I'm obviously not impervious to insult, I can celebrate that after a few days of processing, I dusted off the yuck, got up again, and pressed into "My Journey Home"... because I don't want to live in "The Great Undoing" anymore.

So let the cat play with the lizards under my bed, even while I nap.

God's love is bigger, bigger, bigger than the petty forays we often lose ourselves in.

This I know. And this I will fight to live out.

Buy your copy at:

www.susanschreerdavis.com

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An Open Letter to Mayor De Blasio

Dear Mayor De Blasio,

I recently had the privilege of drinking morning coffee in your great city. I chose Starbucks over Chick-fil-A due to the stores close proximity to my hotel.

With my foot in a post-surgical boot, I was forced to navigate on a knee scooter and factor in travel distance every where I went. Limited energy and joint strength due to mitochondrial disease further demanded I consider each step.

So you can imagine my surprise when I entered my first restaurant and heard a young hostess say, "I'm sorry, but you'll have to leave that outside."

"On the street?" I inquired.

"Yes," she explained. "Fire codes demand all strollers and such be left outside. We don't have room for them indoors."

Tired from an early morning flight, I started to roll away. Maybe I've watched too many episodes of Blue Bloods, but leaving my knee scooter alone on the sidewalks of New York made no sense.

But once outside, rolling away didn't feel right. Indignant, I tried again.

Facing the same hostess, I explained "I just landed in New York City for the first time. I'm from the south and have never been here before."

My hands moved in rhythm with my words, "Since my foot is still healing from a serious surgery, I'm puzzled that you want me to leave my scooter out free on the streets of New York. Forgive me if I've got this wrong, but that sounds insane to me. If someone takes it, I won't be able to function in your city because I can't walk on my foot. Doctor's orders."

Then I brought it home, "Does that really mean I can't eat in your restaurant?"

Startled, the young woman compromised. She let me wheel to a table near the entrance and then stored my scooter in the small lobby area where she stood guard.

The bathrooms were up a flight of stairs. So I limited my liquid intake while eating an overpriced meal and listening to wanna-be Broadway singers entertain their captive audience.

The small victory helped. But hours later, when I showed up to check in to my hotel, I was disappointed to learn our room wasn't ready thirty minutes past the check in time.

When I asked why, the hostess stated, "You changed to a handicap room."

Stunned, I stepped away. The change had been made over a week before and only because my doctor insisted I remain no-weight-bearing until after the trip.

Waiting for a room was one thing. Waiting because I requested a handicap room made me squirmy.

In time I showered in my handicap hotel room, only to have water spill over the skinny floor drain onto the marble tile, creating a distinct hazard for someone managing life on one foot. I used towels to sop up most of the mess and gingerly maneuvered on the slick floor as I readied for bed.

But I was surprised at the lack of consideration for someone in need. I could manage. But I know many others in worse shape than me who could not.

This brings me to ask, "Mayor DeBlasio, does your city hate handicap people?"

By your own definition, you must.

As I rolled the sidewalks I found large swaths of concrete changed patterns every few feet, especially on 7th Ave. The bumpy terrain caught my wheel once or twice, causing me to almost face plant just up the street from China Town.

Ramps at pedestrian crossings rarely matched on both sides of the street. At some crossings I rode down a small, bumpy slope, only to meet a curb on the other side. Other times, I rode down the incline and across the street only to find that the up ramp accommodated those crossing perpendicular to me.

For the average person, those things matter little. For the handicapped person, they matter much.

In fact they matter so much that I have since learned that several wheelchair bound people have had to leave your city once injured because it was too difficult to maneuver freely.

Those people loved their NYC home, but found it was not designed to embrace them after life dealt a catastrophic blow.

If I used the same rhetoric you recently embraced, I might even insist, "Mayor De Blasio hates handicapped people."

But since I don't expect the entire world to accommodate my needs, I understand that your city was built during a time when builders were not called on to consider disabled and handicapped individuals. Expanding the city's tight quarters now would require an expensive remodel.

Still, for a city called The Melting Pot, there's a distinct segment of our society that is unable to meld into the scenery and blend with your thriving metropolis.

So, does that mean that you, Mayor De Blasio, hate me?

I would be wasting an incredible amount of energy if I concerned myself with that kind of negativity. My greatest challenge in life is to overcome the fear and disappointment my the wobbly legs conjure up some days, and to live with joy and dignity.

Still, when I heard you join the rhetoric that claims Chick-fil-A spreads hate by espousing values long endeared, I couldn't stay quiet. Yes, the company believes differently than you. But does that really mean they spread hate?

Since your city is not able to host disabled people with ease, does that mean you hate them? If you don't focus solely on meeting the needs of the mobility challenged, does that mean you abhor that part of society?

The Metropolitan Museum of Art had wheelchairs available for free. As did the Central Park Zoo. So all was not lost.

And the same is true for Chick-fil-A. As quoted from their website:

"Over the past three years, Chick-fil-A, Inc. and its franchised Restaurant Operators have given more than $68 million in contributions to over 700 educational and charitable organizations and have provided millions of dollars in food donations all across America."

www.chick-fil-a.com/Company/Responsibility-Overview

When I look at a National Geographic Magazine, or simply read the world news, the vast array of distinct cultures captivates me. Thus I'm all the more amazed at how streamlined our culture demands we live.

If I don't believe like you, then I hate? If you don't believe like me then you hate? It just makes no sense to me.

So some day, I might even travel back to NYC and traverse your bumpy terrain again. I'll marvel at the mass of humanity that bumps elbows on the sidewalks and even smile at the Naked Cowboy if I pass him again.

And no doubt, the next time I'm there, I'll find some chick-coffee and wait in that long line to savor my favorite chicken sandwich.

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A Mother's Day Confession: The Time I Was Very, Very Wrong

Coffee with Dad and Nathan.

After barbecue and carrot cake, we sipped decaf coffee, savoring what was left of two sweet days.

Lively banter kept the older generation riveted. Laughter came easy. Celebratory thoughts lingered. And the mother's at the table felt quite at ease.

Three graduates made for a momentous weekend.

Courtney, my daughter-in-law, walked the stage Friday morning with highest honors due to her 4.1 GPA in applied Linguistics from Georgia State.

Friday night, we celebrated Drew, my nephew, who leaves for the University of Alabama in the fall with a full scholarship.

Saturday afternoon we sat in the Georgia Tech basketball coliseum and cheered when my youngest son, Sam, appeared on the big screen. And now that grades have posted, I can share with certainty that he maintained a 4.0 GPA as he earned his bachelor's degree in business.

Their accomplishments amaze me.

Yet just over three years ago, I sipped coffee across our kitchen table from Sam and Courtney, quite overwhelmed by their request. It was March of their freshman year and they wanted to marry before Christmas.

Since I didn't know Courtney well and the duo hadn't dated but a few months, I was baffled by their insistence on marriage. I was also recovering from my first ankle reconstruction, unaware two more major surgeries lay ahead in a matter of months. So even after several hours of conversation, they wanted a blessing I just could not give.

In time I asked Sam to give me some time and he obliged. During our time out, a series of articles came my way that heralded the benefits of marrying young. Like this one: The Case for Getting Married Young.

I married young. My parents married young. The author of that article married young, and all with good results.

Still, the thought that my son wanted to do the same caused concerns to ricochet through me, leaving me more off kilter than my reconstructed ankle.

Are they ready?
Can they provide for themselves?
Will they regret not living the normal college experience?

The article and a few others spoke. I acquiesced. And the sweet couple married. And while they've endured struggles along the way, they've more than conquered. They survived as a team, intact, with bills paid and excellent grades.

As they took their place among a host of graduates this weekend, I knew I'd been very, very wrong to doubt their choice to marry young. Thus I celebrated their victory in full.

That said, in last week's episode of Madame Secretary, the Secretary of State's college-aged daughter accepted a marriage proposal and planned a wedding in only days. Overwhelmed, even Bess moaned, "It's like my entire history of parental guidance is being erased."

While changing diapers grew boring and I almost drowned in elementary school projects, figuring out my parental role as my boys left for college turned me on my head. Seriously.

After pressing in with everything I had, they were suddenly grown and left me in their wake.

And finally, finally, finally, I realize it's all a very good thing.

With that, I'll continue to dig into my new life and share that I have another book signing scheduled in Douglasville, Tuesday, May 31st from 7-9:30 @ Cabin Fever Roasters.

If you can't make it, check out my new web site page:

The Great Undoing and My Journey Home

But if you live out that way, I hope you'll stop by, enjoy a sandwich (or one of forty different types of coffees), and enjoy live music.

We'll have plenty.

And where there is music, there is joy. And where there is joy, there is life worth living.

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An Epic Ride Through NYC

The three story M&M store that lies a block from Times Square lured me in more than once. Floor to ceiling windows surrounded colorful merchandise, including an array of coffee mugs. A peanut M&M fan myself, I indulged in a few items in honor of my friend, Lu, who always has a mound of chocolate available on Bible Study night.

It was epic.

While I traveled a great deal in my childhood, I never walked the streets of Manhattan... until last weekend. Chapter five of my book, The Great Undoing and My Journey Home, details the time we accidentally drove through the city on the 10th anniversary of 9/11. But even then, we didn't stop. 

It was late. We had a flight to catch. But deep down, I longed to experience the city that never sleeps.

So when we learned late last fall that Nathan, my oldest son, would be singing at Carnegie Hall with the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra and Chorus this spring, I wanted to go. But with my feet turning in, I was hesitant.

Fast forward a few months, and only hours after Courtney and Sam learned that my friend, Bonnie, had died in late January, they came home for the weekend. Their presence soothed my inner ache even before Courtney suggested, "Let's plan our trip to New York."

In need of something to look forward to, we buried our heads in our lap tops and searched for travel bargains. Satisfied, we booked the trip, and then my feet took a turn for the worse.

After several phone calls and a little begging, my surgeon worked me in quickly, hoping I'd be able to walk by the time we left for New York. It didn't happen. And the night before we left, I stewed over what equipment to take: the knee scooter or the walker/wheelchair device.

As we walked out the basement door at 4am, I went with the knee scooter, hoping I'd made the right choice. And I did - especially when combined with leftover tramadol.

The synthetic narcotic gave me energy and pain relief. And both were desperately needed - even if I felt like a pill popper for a few days.

So even though my youngest son's parting words to me were, "Mom, you use the word 'epic' too much." Bottom line, the entire trip was truly epic.

I feel braver, stronger, and maybe even more self assured after tackling New York with a knee scooter. Don pushed me as much as I walked. But together, we made a good team and sweet memories...

Hunched over in my slow-to-wake-up-FB-perusing mode, I didn't realize a camera was turned my way. But since it was, notice how I rest my non-prism glasses on the side of my nose since they don't have bifocals. Don does not like the off-kilter look.

But he waited until I had a large Starbuck's coffee in hand before announcing he was taking early morning photos. A smart move.

Dressed and caffeinated, we made our way to Times Square.

Hours later, Nathan arrived.

So we took a subway to the 9/11 memorial.

Though we original decided against paying to ride to the top of any building, we changed our minds and headed to the World One Observatory. And I'm so glad we did.

Courtney craved dumplings from China Town.

And Nathan wanted pizza from Little Italy.

As you can see, my knee scooter and I traveled far. When my leg couldn't take the strain anymore, Don pushed from behind. It wasn't easy, but keeping up with my kids spurred me on. So the next day, we met up at Central Park.

On our way back I noticed one thing. So in case you ever head to New York on a knee scooter, rest assured, Fifth Avenue is a much smoother ride than Seventh and takes you right past...

And if you turn right a few blocks down, the Rockefeller Center

And I guess that's what amazed me most. For three days, I rolled among buildings that serve as the epicenter of news, entertainment, and the magic that has always been New York, including Carnegie Hall.

High in the nose bleed section, I couldn't get a good picture of Nathan. But he was on the second row from the back, smack in the middle of the group. While he acts nonchalant about the whole thing, I can't. Read the New York Times review here!

Since we didn't arrive home until midnight Sunday, it's taken a few days for me to get back on track. But my suitcase is unpacked, my laundry done, and now memories are recorded here. And no matter what Sam says, it truly was epic.

Being with my kids in a bustling city. Conquering mobility issues with a sporty aid. Feeling fully alive only six weeks after surgery.

I guess it's just like the song says, "If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere. It's up to you, New York, New York."

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