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Bookworm Lisa~: Blog Tour ~ Review of "Mattie" by M. Ann Rohrer

Bookworm Lisa~: Blog Tour ~ Review of "Mattie" by M. Ann Rohrer : Mattie by M. Ann Rohrer My rating: 4 of 5 stars Source: Netga...

Tuesday, May 15, 2012


        Early in our marriage, I told my husband I was not his mother, he was off the hook for Mother’s Day.

        Stupid me.   

        Children don’t do Mother’s Day without parental support, not even simple things much less breakfast in bed.  No big loss.  I don’t even like eating in bed.  It’s messy, and uncomfortable, and doesn’t allow for seconds.  Thanks to school and cub scouts, I received my first macaroni necklace and a Mother’s Day card decorated with stick figures, one of which represented me. 

         IN MY DREAMS! 

        My six children got older and remembrances got more sophisticated—meal prep and clean up, impressive art, flowers, grain mill, landscaping, interior decorating, and letters of adoration obviously written about someone else’s mom.  Or maybe it was a wish list.

        I asked my sister if she had a happy Mother’s Day.  “Yes” she said. “I had no expectations, so there were no disappointments.”  A mantra for contentment.  While laud, pomp, and circumstance is always welcome, expecting it is selfish and presumptuous and robs me of finding joy in the simple things—a phone call, an e-mail, even a macaroni necklace. This year, one of the most unexpected pleasures was a card from the grandchildren.  And an invitation from my number three child, —“Hey, Mom, I have to speak in Church today. You want to come?  I’m going to talk about our family problems."

Wednesday, May 2, 2012


 Barely out of pajamas, eyes still puffy from lack of sleep, second day hair, cosmetics hurriedly applied. Long lines at check in counters. Longer lines at security.  Like cattle prodded through chutes, we advance forward, but in silence, smiles buried under stress of hurry up in a long line of wait. Finally, my turn with the security agent. Produce ID again, shoes off, jacket off, 3 oz liquids exposed in quart-size zip lock, laptop rides alone outside its protective sleeve. Did I remember everything?  The beeper sounds. No! Cell phone in my pocket. Blast! Back to the conveyor belt. Deposit phone into tub—not the one with the laptop. Laptop rides alone, remember.  Choose another tub. I have four.  I pick the tub with the shoes. Back to security booth. Place feet to match painted prints on floor, arms over my head, hold my breath, not unlike being at the doctor’s office for my annual pap and mammogram. (Does the x-ray show my red face)? Step through the booth. No beep. Repack; computer in its sleeve, phone in pocket, reload shoulder bag, slip on shoes, grab jacket, grab pillow, stack tubs. It’s a race. While not actually run over by the fellow who follows, he who hesitates hazards deep sighs and furrowed brows for holding up the dance. Find my gate. Relax. Look at the schedule. Two hours to departure.

 Hurry up and wait.

The departure gate changes twice, but I’m not informed. The first time, I over hear the attendant telling another passenger.  The second time, a half hour before departure, I sit alone at the gate B93. Something is wrong.  I check the Departure board. The gate has been changed to B52. Heart pounding in my temples, I sprint, twenty five pounds on one shoulder, ten pounds on the other, a death grip on my pillow.  With ten minutes to spare, I’m second to the last passenger to board. I find my seat.  We don’t leave for another fifteen minutes.

Hurry up and wait.