susan hayward photography

Sunday Comics

I don’t want to get into a big discussion about religion, but there’s something you need to understand about me before you look at the comics in today’s post. I belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints--you know, The Mormons. Which is to say, I am a follower of Jesus Christ and I read The Book of Mormon in addition to the Bible. This is not to be confused with the notion that I worship Mormon, a prophet who abridged the book of scripture that bears his name. While I think that Mormon was a great prophet, I don’t have a shrine to him in my house, and I don’t think he can do much for me in the way of getting to Heaven. However, I do have a few pictures of Jesus on my walls. Now Jesus, He can get me places, not to mention make me feel a whole lot better about a whole lot of things in the here and now.

So that’s your background. Now for the illustration that my youngest drew. In the LDS  Church,we don’t eat breakfast and lunch the first Sunday of every month. The money we save from not eating we donate to the poor and needy. We call this religious practice fasting, which is different from starvation because we’re supposed to be starving for a good cause. That good cause can be anything, from wishing someone who’s sick will get better to hoping for world peace. It’s a day to show God that you want something so much you’re willing to give up your morning bagel for it. And your lunch. The idea is that starvation coupled with prayer becomes a faith building experience.

But it’s a hard sell to the kids, especially mine. In our house, we like food. We are not those kind of people who forget to eat. So last Sunday morning, the youngest ate breakfast as usual, never wondering why no one else joined him in the kitchen as he chomped his cereal and slurped his milk. It wasn’t until we got to church that he remembered.

When he was supposed to be listening to the speakers, he drew these:

I can only assume that he created them in sympathy to those whose empty stomachs groaned and gurgled through the meeting. Like mine. And his father's. And his brother's. But apparently not the cat's.

Details of the Day

Sound for the day:

A little boy sucking on a lolly pop with great, satisfied slurps, as if he were drinking a most delicious milkshake and had made it to the bottom.

Heart for the Day:

While reorganizing my bookshelves, I came across a few Halloween books that the kids have outgrown. I took one over to the little girl next door, a precocious two year-old with a new baby sister. Her father answered the door and the little girl toddled over to see who was standing on her porch. I showed them the book. “I thought your daughter might like this,” I said. The girl clutched her blanket with one hand and brushed some hair out of her eyes with the other. She stared at me for a moment, looked at the book, then at her father and said softly, “Let’s read it, Daddy.” Made me melt. 

Last night, the same little girl came trick-or-treating. I gave her a little Snickers bar. She stared at it in her hand, then looked into my big bowl of candy, as if contemplating whether she could take all of it and be done for the night.  

"What do you say?" her parents asked their child, meaning that she should thank me for the free treats.  She held the candy bar up towards them and said, "Open it."

I really like this kid. 

 

Snow White is in the House

Snow White came back for a visit--and a tea party. I know there are a lot of photographs. But I couldn't help myself. As the mother of boys, I don't get many opportunities to do girly-girl things. When these girls showed up in all their finery I started clicking away, following Snow White around the house like her personal house elf.  

Then, if that weren't enough, someone looked out the window and said, "There's a train!" And sure enough, when we opened the door, there it was. Everyone got a ride around the block. It felt so much like Disneyland that Snow White said, "It feels just like home." I think it was even better.

    

Brace Yourself

My middle child. In braces. 

Paul went to our brilliant and talented orthodontist Dr. Jamey Watson for just a look-see this week and came back with a new set of railroad tracks on his smile. When he walked into the room, he looked at me just like this (see picture above), as if to say, "Would you look at these things? Aren't they great?" He wiggled his lips, trying to get used to the feeling of barbed wire fences stuck to his teeth. He had the look of a kid on Christmas morning who finally got his Red Rider BB gun and wanted to show the whole neighborhood. "Have fun at school," I called as he skipped to the car with his dad. But by the time he got home four hours later, his shoulders drooped and the smile had faded. "I hate braces," he said as he trudged into my office, his feet scraping against the wood floor. I assumed the kids had teased him. But it turned out he had not eaten much that day, owing to the throbbing pain in his mouth.

I stood up and put my arm around him. "I know what you mean," I said. And, because I am a great believer in the power of sugar to heal all wounds, I offered to make him a fruit smoothie. That, with a chaser of ibuprofen, cheered him up a bit. 

As we drank our smoothies, I thought back to when I was twelve and had to get braces. My braces were ugly, clunky things, not like the diminutive and colorful bits of metal kids get to wear nowadays. Now kids can make a fashion statement with their orthodontia, choosing to sport braces with colors named "kiwi-lime" and "purple fusion." These poor sheltered children don't know what it's like to be called "brace face" or "train tracks" or "metal mouth."  I, on the other hand, do.

Unfortunately, my two front teeth grew in crooked. They stood nearly back to back, looking in opposite directions. The best way to describe the angle at which they butted into each other is to make an open book with your hands. Now hold your "book" vertically and you've got a visual of how my teeth were misbehaving. Of course, the kids teased me about it. One girl in particular--we'll call her Wanda--found great enjoyment in calling me "toilet teeth." Every recess she called out "Hey, Toilet Teeth!" after which she'd laugh hysterically, going so far as to stomp her foot in the dirt and clap her hands, wiping imaginary tears from her cheeks. We all knew the routine. She was not all that imaginative in her insults, unintelligible really, but the other kids still laughed with her. Wanda was short and wiry, quick to throw a punch and slow to apologize. Though I outweighed her by a good thirty pounds and stood a foot taller, she scared me. And she scared everyone else, too. If ever someone should have had the nickname Firecracker, it was Wanda. If you unknowingly set her off, it was best to stand back at least eight feet and shield yourself from the imminent explosion. 

I spent a lot of time sitting on a fiberglass bench during recess, trying to figure out the toilet teeth thing and getting nowhere. Did Wanda's toilet look different than mine and my teeth reminded her of it? I thought toilets were all the same. Plus, toilets were generally white and shiny. Wouldn't that be a good thing for teeth to be? So when my dentist recommended I get braces, I immediately said, "Yes! YES!" I thought that if I got braces, Wanda would leave me alone and I could get through recess without emotional bruising. They would prove that I was not one to sit on the bench forever. Braces would be my way of saying, By golly, I'm going to do something about these toilet teeth of mine once and for all. 

A few weeks later, I came to school early to show off my new braces. When I smiled, the shiny rings topped with silver barbs of metal sparkled in the sun, attracting a group of girls to my usual spot on the bench. Seeing the crowd, Wanda approached. This is my moment, I thought. I looked at Wanda, my lips parted to reveal my new, bedazzled smile. Wanda stared at me in silence for some time. Then her eyes grew wide and watery, and from deep within her tiny chest, I heard a distant rumbling. That's when she started to laugh, bending over and slapping her thighs for greater effect. "Metal Mouth!" she said, pointing at me, as if no one knew who she was talking about. "Train tracks!" she squealed. Wanda danced around the bench, laughing and clutching at her stomach as if she might vomit from her own hilarity. As I sat watching the show, the backs of my thighs started to itch from the fiberglass. The night before I had planned on first showing the kids my braces and then telling them about the neck brace I would get to wear every night for the next six months. I had even considered bringing the neck brace to school as part of a one-woman show-and-tell, even though there was no such thing in sixth grade. I envisioned the children running home to tell their mothers, "I want braces too!" I would be a trend setter, an orthodontic super-star. Most of all, I would finally be what all girls secretly or openly long for: I would be popular.  

Wanda ran a final lap around the bench and stopped in front of me. "Brace Face!" she jeered. I closed my mouth and looked away. I hated how my lips protruded, unable to lay flat against my teeth because of the braces I had so foolishly agreed to. Thankfully, the bell rang and Wanda ran off, wildly pumping her thin arms and legs in a race to the classroom door. I stood up and scratched at my fiberglass wounds. I would not be a super-star after all. But at least, I told myself, I was no longer Toilet Teeth. 

Looking back on it now, I wonder if someone had called Wanda a potty mouth and she, not quite comprehending the implication, turned her confusion on me in the form of Toilet Teeth. She did cuss a bit, come to think of it. She was one of the kids from the rough part of town who was bussed in to attend a nicer school in a nicer neighborhood. What she didn't know is that I was doing the same thing, only my mother drove me to school and a bus did not. If we had analyzed our lives, we probably had more in common than not. Yet to Wanda, I was just a goody-goody teacher's pet. (I know this because she wrote me a note telling me so.) And to me, Wanda was just a bully. 

We both knew that in a year's time, the braces would come off and my teeth would be straight. But perhaps there were things in Wanda's life that would not right themselves, things she had no control over. So she lashed out at me, attacking one of my most visible weaknesses. That's what bullies do: they make their victims a symbol of what they would like to beat up but cannot. Perhaps in my own small way I helped Wanda to vent her frustration and anger, saving her from years of therapy and turning her into a nice person. 

But then again, maybe one day when her own child came home from the orthodontist, she took one look at her and said, "Hey Brace Face, why don't we trade in all that metal on your teeth for some spare change?" Then she'd start laughing, slapping her hand on the counter and wiping the tears from her eyes with her apron. Yes, that sounds more like it.