Mom Over Miami Part 28

"I'm going to write that down."

You'll get a snotty letter about cornball plat.i.tudes, a little voice in her head warned her.

"Ha! You think I'm scared of that? I'm Moonie Shelnutt's daughter. What could anyone throw at me that would compare to cras.h.i.+ng the Memorial Day Parade in Daddy's Caddy with my sisters a couple years ago? Or grabbing my bags and running away to Miami today?"

Oh, no.

That's when it hit her.

While Hannah's small rebellion might have helped her separate a mother's needs from a mother's love for her children, there was something more beneath the surface she had yet to address.

Yes, she forgave her mother and could now say she loved her despite a lifetime of questions. But the truth was, that looking over her life and the things that drove her day by day, the issues of her mother's depression and disappearance hardly ever came up.

Her issues had centered more on getting attention, getting approval. She had just wanted everyone to like her. Which sounded exactly like...

"Daddy!"

Daddy who acted like he didn't care what anybody thought of him, that's who she had struggled all her life to find in herself. Everybody liked her daddy. Even the people who wanted to wring his neck.

Hannah laughed softly.

All this time she'd grown so used to blaming her mother's leaving for her every fear and insecurity, but now...

Now she had run away from home, a truly Moonie-Shelnutt-worthy action if she ever saw one.

And like it or not, that lone act would become a part of her personal story. The day Hannah finally flew the coop!

"Might as well make the most of it." She took a deep breath and pulled her laptop from its case.

CHAPTER 20

Subject: Nacho Mama's House column To:

Greetings from Miami! That's right-I'm sending out my column at the last minute, in the first hours of my preseason vacation. I tell you that, not to engender sympathy, but because I feel the need to be totally honest.

At last.

Never in my days taking cla.s.ses in journalism or my time managing the clinic in Wileyville or even in all my years of experience as Moonie Shelnutt's daughter did I ever imagine I would end up writing frank confessions. But here I am about to do just that. Those of you who have told me your secrets, don't sweat, though. Just send money and everything will conveniently be forgotten.

A joke. Am compelled to point that out. Ever since an anonymous letter writer went to great pains to let me know I am both too glib and not too witty, I find myself questioning every remark. Examining every turn of phrase for what might offend or confuse or simply fall short of the mark. Believe me, the supply is so plentiful that this act could very well take up what's left of my free time! I hope to work on that, on my writing, and do a better job of it in the future.

But then, that's the story of my life, isn't it? To step up to the plate, each and every time fearing I don't have what it takes, floundering, then afterward vowing I will do better next time.

And next time comes and...

Tonight I am in Miami curled up on a king-size bed in a beautiful hotel room that I had planned on sharing with my darling husband. But something came up at the office and he couldn't get away just now. He asked me to make a last-minute change in plans and I did. I came alone.

Yes, friends and readers, I have run away from home.

Or I tried to run away.

But it didn't take me long at all to discover that the things that drove me out the door, onto the expressway and through the barrage of airport bag scanners, drug sniffers, shoe examiners and all the other essential security measures of our time, were not things I could escape. You've heard of someone having a lot of personal baggage? Y'all, I have so much that if it had manifested itself in real trunks and suitcases we'd have never gotten off the ground. I could have walked to Florida faster than that poor overloaded plane could have flown.

But, since the only one who feels the weight of that kind of emotional baggage is the one carrying it, we made it here on time. And I started to unpack.

Not to press a metaphor too far, but the more I rummaged through the luggage of my life the more I realized I had been lugging around a lot of stuff I should have gotten rid of a long time ago. Worry, for one. And fear.

I guess to say "I worry a little" might sound to some of you like saying the Atlantic Ocean is a little damp. I worry all the time. I worry about my family. I worry about my work. I worry about my family's work.

And I worry about you, dear reader. I worry each and every time that I send off my column that you will read it and finally see the truth. That I'm a fraud.

Not fit to be published, for sure. Neither clever nor particularly insightful. Not as good as...You can fill in the blank, from your favorite syndicated columnist to your great-grandniece who writes you letters from North Dakota.

I am wholly, totally and woefully inadequate. Not just for newspaper writing but for so many things that I somehow have gotten myself stuck into.

Snack Mom. How can they stomach me?

Nursery Supervisor. I think I need crib notes!

a.s.sistant Cla.s.sroom Helper. More like a.s.sistant? Cla.s.sroom, help her.

Christmas Pageant Director. We Three Kings, Disoriented Are? Don't know why I got myself into this one and not sure how I will pull it off.

Uncompensated After-Hours Office Cleaner. At least for this one I am paid what I'm worth!

That was a joke, too.

Honestly, I don't mind cleaning in my husband's office, considering the work they do has so much meaning. The women who put in long hours there contribute so much to the health, happiness and welfare of others. I am in awe of them.

Just as I am in awe of so many women that I cross paths with during any given day.

The other soccer moms who practically live in their Mommy-vans but still find time to pitch in with schoolwork and bake homemade goodies.

The tireless volunteers at my church who, even though I sometimes make light of their foibles in my column, give freely of themselves with joy, creativity and boundless energy.

The neighbor lady willing to step in and help should I ever need her to remind me not to take myself so seriously.

My sisters who love me no matter what (not always an easy job), and who believed in me enough to submit my work before I even thought of it as work. They do so much: running a business, working for the city, maintaining a family and chasing after You-Know-Who (Daddy, do not go around telling people your youngest forgot your name). They are the cornerstones of both home and community.

And lastly, my Aunt Phiz, who flew all the way from India (not China) to come to my aid when she saw I had gotten myself into a hole and needed someone to hold up a light, show me the way and to pray for me.

You women inspire me.

You are amazing.

Delightful.

Strong.

Smart.

And a bit intimidating.

You are the reason I try so hard and why I take my failures even harder. I see all that you accomplish with your time, all you strive for, all you give, and am humbled at how often and in how many ways I cannot measure up.

You all are my heroes.

Not to slight the men in my life.

My minister, my father, my son and my husband have all shown extreme patience (except Daddy-on this score like daughters like father.) They have treated me with love, trust, goodwill and a colossal sense of humor. Really, for example, only a man who loved a good joke could have pegged me to direct the Christmas pageant after my inept handling of the nursery redo.

Each of these men has taught me something. I adore them all in different ways for it.

But let's get real, folks.

In the knock-down, brag-out, whiner-take-all brat-race of Mommies and Minivans, it's definitely a woman's world. For that I am grateful. The hand that rocks the cradle most definitely rocks!

It's been suggested to me by these remarkable women (and a few of the men) that I need to take the time now to listen, to learn, to laugh, to leave my fears and worries with the Lord.

It's not about outmothering the other moms, winning accolades or the desperate need to be liked at all costs. It's not about playing peacemaker or cake-baker or nursery wall-painter in the small hope someone will pat me on the head and tell me "Good job." It's about doing what a woman must do because she is called by G.o.d. I am called by G.o.d to love and be obedient to His will.

The prayer of Hannah, as evidenced in 1 Samuel 2:3, is still true today. "'Do not keep talking so proudly or let your mouth speak such arrogance, for the Lord is a G.o.d who knows and by Him deeds are weighed.'"

By Him my deeds will be weighed.

It's sound advice. I think I will take it, do my best and leave the rest with G.o.d.

Only thing left to do was. .h.i.t send, then hit the hay.

CHAPTER 21

Hannah couldn't recall when she had slept so soundly...or so late!

"Nine o'clock?" She forced her eyes to focus on the glowing green numbers a few inches from her pillow. That couldn't be right. She kept her alarm set for six-fifteen. Even so she never heard it go off. Tessa always woke up well before- "Tessa!" She sat bolt upright, realizing she hadn't gotten up once in the night with the baby.

The crisp white sheets slid down to pool in her lap. Glorious sunlight streamed in through a wall-size window.

No coffee pot dripping. No Squirrelly Girl giving the low familiar hooty-whoo hooty-whoo sound that the greyhound made to demand to be fed. No Aunt Phiz singing. No Payt showering. No Sam grumbling. No Tessa fussing. And when Hannah got out of the bed, her feet would hit carpet, not scattered bits of dry cereal. Not s...o...b..r-covered dog toys. Not Payt's day-old discarded socks. sound that the greyhound made to demand to be fed. No Aunt Phiz singing. No Payt showering. No Sam grumbling. No Tessa fussing. And when Hannah got out of the bed, her feet would hit carpet, not scattered bits of dry cereal. Not s...o...b..r-covered dog toys. Not Payt's day-old discarded socks.

"I am definitely not in Loveland anymore, Toto." She stretched and savored the comparison to the storybook heroine who found herself transported to a magical, unfamiliar world.

"Where people bring breakfast right to your door," she said even as she picked up the phone and opened the room-service menu.

Fifteen minutes, they had said.

Everyone knew that in hotel-service speak that meant twenty, maybe even thirty minutes. More than enough time to grab a shower and read...

"The paper!" Her column. Last night after she had opened up her address book and hit send, she had put the thing out of her mind. But it was morning now, and time to face the music.

She just hoped it wasn't a funeral dirge for her career.

"You can do this, Hannah. You were honest with them. You should be able to handle them returning the favor." She drew in her breath, rifled through her makeup case for a hair scrunchie and padded barefoot to the small table where her laptop still sat open.

She settled into the st.u.r.dy little chair, brought her feet up and pulled her hair back. She caught a glimpse of herself in her laptop's blackened screen. With her once-sophisticated hair caught up in a ponytail, with no makeup and wearing pink pajamas with green cats on them, she looked all of twelve years old.

She felt all of twelve...and a hundred and twelve...all at once.

"Deep breath." She took one. "Turn on the computer."

The machine hummed to life.

"And...connect." She pressed the b.u.t.ton and waited.

"You've got-"

"Mayhem!" she said loud enough to drown out the cheery synthetic voice that usually greeted her when she checked her e-mail. "What is going on here?"

Screen name after screen name scrolled up one after the other, and not a one of them trying to sell a thing. It wasn't the number that staggered the mind, though, it was the names. Practically her whole address book accounted for.

And reading the headers, she instantly knew why.

Her fingers flew over the keys to help her confirm.

"I didn't." But of course she had. Physically worn-out from the trip, emotionally worn down from the events of the day, when she had opened her address book to send her column off to her editor, she clicked the wrong icon. She had accidentally sent her unedited, extemporaneous outpouring to everyone she knew.

And apparently most of them felt moved to respond.

One. That's the number of people she had prepared herself to hear from, the exact amount of criticism she considered ample for the piece she had submitted. "But now the whole world can tell me I am a dopey sap who should stick to writing about nachos."

Oh, goody.