Hope Comes in Many Forms

The story of Randi Hope is one that must be told.  I've referred to Randi several times throughout my writings, but one must know the real story of how Randi Hope came to be.  Most families have a pet or two - normally these are cats or dogs, even fish or birds.  Then there are those that live on the outskirts of civilization that have their own private zoos with exotic creatures that both excite and frighten children all at the same time.  My family is caught somewhere between those two ends of the spectrum.   We are a normal family, in a normal house, with a normal life.  But tucked away inside these facades of normalcy are multiple pairs of little loving eyes hanging upside down from a carefully placed limb, lounging about on the roof or even running full circles on a tiny plastic wheel deep within my daughter's bedroom.  

We never set out with any goals to procure these creatures... they simply find us.  If there is an injured animal anywhere around, its internal GPS will lead it right to my back door.    The most unlikely arrival was a chicken that had fallen off of a Tyson Truck on it's way to certain demise.  A neighborhood child found the wounded fowl and brought it straight to the Brodnax house.  I stopped asking why years ago.  The little white chicken lived with our daylight challenged rooster and two ducks for almost a year until he disappeared one night without a sound.  We have earned a reputation of being able to nurse injured critters back to health.  It's not because of our mad veterinary skills or our desire to run a farm, it's because of my huband's genuine love of animals and our daughter who holds and loves and soothes every creature she comes across.  One touch from her candy coated fingers and pain seems to disappear and healing begins.  It is much like living with Snow White.  I looked out the window one day to see her walking down the street with her dog, followed by two curious cats, and a white tail deer..... Randi Hope.

Randi was one of those fallen animals that made its way into our hearts.    Almost two years ago, Randi's mother was running free and wild when she jumped a fence and broke her back.  My husband was immediately called to come and help, for the young mother deer writhed in pain on the ground in front of a growing group of onlookers.   Not wanting the children to see what was coming next, my husband attempted to load the deer into his truck until he was stopped by a policeman with orders to put the deer down.  He pulled out his gun and shot the deer, much to the surprise of those standing near.  My husband asked the much needed question, "Did you know she was pregnant?!?" and proceeded to open the now deceased deer up in an attempt to rescue the life that remained within.  With the help of a friend who happened to be an ambulance driver, they removed two baby fawns.  After mouth to mouth resuscitation and a conveniently located oxygen line, one of the two  babies survived.  The crowd cheered with delight and a young woman asked if they would name the deer after her son since it was his birthday.  Thus.... Randy was born. Forgetting that he had his own child at home that named pets before she even got them,  my husband was met with the loving eyes of his daughter who exclaimed, "Oh Daddy, can we name her after me?!?"  Compromising and sharing middle names, Randi Hope was now officially a part of our family.  She was lovingly placed on a warm blanket under a heat lamp in the corner of our living room where I was certain she would remain for weeks like a baby in an incubator.  Surprisingly, it seems a baby deer can use those spindly legs and walk upright in a matter of hours. In a few short days, they are able to jump over the couch and stand by your bedside nibbling on the ends of your hair while you sleep.  Who knew?  It took only days to move Randi to the big outdoors where she was free to roam deep into the woods and mingle and play little deer games.  The problem with this was the fact that Randy had arrived by C-Section and unbeknownst to us all, had imprinted on my husband and now believed, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was a charming retired fisherman.  She had no desire to join those rowdy deer in the wood. She preferred lounging on the patio furniture eating grapes and sneaking a taste of whiskey when she could.   Her life was good!   Randi roamed the neighborhood and ate the neighbor's hostas and impatiens.  A freshly planted bed of flowers looked like a snack tray laid out for her to enjoy.

Randi grew and her spots faded and she turned into a full grown doe.  One Spring day, Randi was not found lounging by the pool in her usual spot.  Several days passed and she was nowhere to be found.  She had been run away by stray dogs off to an early start of deer hunting.  Luckily, she wore a pink collar with our cell phone numbers on it and she was spotted curled up in a woman's carport miles from our home.  My husband went to get her and coaxed her into the cab of his truck.  I would have paid to have seen the next scene.   He lights a cigarette, starts the engine and about the time he shifts into drive, this loving deer goes mad and demands to exit the vehicle.  At this particular time, the only exit was the driver's window that had been lowered to allow the smoke to exit.  Smoke and a full grown deer lept from the truck window bounding on the pavement, leaving my husband uncertain what bodily injuries he had just sustained.  That is when he called me to come and help.  When I arrive on the scene he explains his plan to climb into the back of my SUV with the deer in his lap.  He will hold her until we get home.  I knew then, as I do now, that it would never play out like he imagined.   With everyone safely in the vehicle I begin to move forward.  As the car shifted into second gear, the deer began to buck and jump and it was a blur or hooves and hands and fur and hair.  I screamed that if she came over the back seat I was jumping out and they could crash together.  The battle was on and he held her down as she slammed his head against the ceiling, the side panels, the headrests and more.   It was the longest eight mile drive of my life.   Randi and my husband both survived the ride home and fell out onto the front yard when the hatch was opened.   I walked away in shock.  The deer took to it's lounge chair and my husband lay in the front yard as the bruising set in.   It didn't matter to him.  His love of that deer outweighed any cranial hermoraging that might be setting in.  To most people, this would seem unusual.  I'm certain our neighbors never viewed this as out of the ordinary for the Brodnax family.

Randi has been with us now over two years.   Her colors change with the seasons and she has overcome many a challenge.  As a fawn, she ate a roll or telephone wire and came close to death.  She was later shot while in the woods and came home with a shattered knee.  Against all advice to put her down, we allowed nature to run it's course and after months of limping and constant attention from my husband,  one day she sprang up on all four and her knee was good as new.  She  now lives in a very large fenced in area with two predator dogs that she calls brothers.  They chase each other, love on each other and most definitely respect each other.    The large dogs are fully aware of the power of a hoof to the head and the deer knows the strength in the jaws of those dogs.  Neither has ever hurt another.   She no longer roams the neighborhood, but is allowed out of her fenced area to taste the honeysuckle on particularly warm Spring days.  She has been known to sneak in the back door on occasion and realizes her mistake as those spindly legs hit the slick hard floor of the kitchen.   Wondering what she was looking for, we allowed her to enter to see where she was going.  She nosed around a bit and found her way to that tiny spot in the living room, once warmed by a heat lamp.  Love grew from that spot and Randi remembered it well.     We both smiled and knew what was next.... me with that crazed look yelling "Get out of my house!"  Off she skated on all fours in a mad attempt to exit the house.   She is a good girl.  She is one of us and she knows she is family.

   

Driven to Madness by the Dollar Menu Board

"Medium Coke, light ice, one napkin."  This is my early morning drive-thru ritual.  I pull up in my comfy car, Van Morrison spills from the window, I recite that short order, pay my $1.10, pull through and am out in 42 seconds.  I have it down to an art form.   It's so easy.   

During my twelve seconds in front of the menu board, I glance over at the dollar menu and think, "How nice that you can feed a family of four for $12 or less"..... UNLESS it's my family. Just entering the drive-thru with my car full of family members and friends brings on an anxiety that must resemble what dogs feel like days before a giant earthquake.   

I've always considered myself a confident woman who can handle most any situation with common sense and a good up-bringing.  But... a trip through the drive-thru instantly strips me of any skills I have of maintaining order.  I do attempt to take control and keep the madness at bay.  I have good skills.  I use them wisely.  They may never help me on a resume, but they have enabled me to ice 48 cupcakes before work, ensure the delivery of clean children to school minutes before the tardy bell rings, remove a Chinese Takeout Chopstick from my air-conditioner vent with a glitter pencil and a wad of gum, and lick the icing off my sleeve before meeting with coworkers to discuss strategic planning initiatives and corporate vision.  These things come easy to me.  So why is it then, that tackling the drive thru with people I love is a challenge I may never succeed at. 

As my car enters the lot, I begin by laying down drive thru rules.  You may not change your order once it has been given.  Nothing will be super-sized and drinks do not come with blended up candy bar pieces.  Once we have that understood, the kids will begin to call out Combo Meal numbers that never match the items they actually desire.  "I want a number five, 3 piece meal with Oreo McFlur."  The speaker calls back to me, "You can't get a 3 piece double cheeseburger meal."  Any semblance of order I had begins to crumble.  I can sense the giant crack in the Earth's crust racing down the street towards us.  I translate the kid's orders into English, procuring the exact amount of chicken strips, fries and sodas that match the number of seat belts in the car.  If I'm in the SUV with the fold down third row, I get two extra value meals. There are no cookie containing drink products ordered and the kids can figure out who gets Sprite and who gets Coke.    

Once I have mastered the kid's orders, none of which came from the dollar items, my husband will begin his order and this is where my world falls apart, my head falls slowly to my steering wheel and I enter a new world of dollar menu madness.  He will order items that aren't actually on the menu.  I will explain that you can't get a Fish Sandwich at Taco Bell.  He will then create menu item names that closely resemble items actually on the cash register buttons, but don't actually exist.  Last night he attempted to order Macho Dell Grandes at Taco Bell.  Curious as to what this might be, I sadly had to explain to him that there was no such item.  He will then ask me, "Why?" and I have to explain how once upon a time a focus group sat down and asked the question, "What do people like to eat?"    Macho Dell Grandes never came up, meaning he will have to chose an alternate item, perhaps something actually on the menu board.  

As cars line up behind me, he then begins to read each menu item out loud as if experiencing the taste and carefully selecting the perfect item.   The kids are salivating in the back seats, anxiously awaiting their deep fried chicken bi-products and my husband continues with his disection of the menu. "What is Baja flavor?" he will ask the young person on the other end of the speaker.  Knowing an answer is nowhere to be found, I will jump in, order some random combo number, tell him it's a Macho Dell Grande and screech around the corner waiting for the total and the peak of my complete nervous breakdown.    The cashier will smile, look at my husband and ask if we wants any sauces with our order. My hands clench the wheel, one eye begins to orbit my head and with a nervous tic brought on while in line,  I whisper through clenched teeth, "Please don't ask, Please don't ask..."  And then he speaks.... "What kind of sauces do you have?" Twenty minutes later, the people in line behind me have written down my license plate number, tracked me on google, left unfriendly messages on my Facebook page and moved over to McDonald's to enjoy the tasty fish sandwich my husband wanted from the beginning.

The Apple of My iPhone

My children truly are the apple of my eye and, in fact, have apples in their own eyes.  It’s just that their apples are attached to laptops, ipods, and cell phones.  I’m certain that it is probably a bad decision, but I enjoy giving my children better things than I have.  Who can resist the twinkle in their eyes as those apple commercials taunt them with the next Steve Jobs creation.  When it comes to technological gadgets, I am at the bottom of the pile with my antiquated hardware.  Months before I am due an upgrade on my cell phone and modern technology is within my reach, my children have hacked my account, reviewed and compared all five users to see who has the nearest upgrade on the horizon and have pre-selected the phones of their choice.  My little flip phone has served me well, but when you can no longer dial the number “8” it is a clear sign from the AT&T demigods that it is time for an upgrade.  While I tape my screen together and have lost all friends with eights in their numbers, my children get my upgrade and leave the store with the latest and greatest in cell phones.  Their eyes are  all bright and shiny with silver apples in them once again.  I smile and take their hand me down phones and am thrilled to get them.  It is interesting what you can discover on your children’s phones.   I currently have my daughter’s former phone.  As an added bonus,  I now have pictures of every puppy she has seen within 1000 miles of our home and 200 photos of her framing her face from one arm length away.    My address book is most interesting because everyone has names of celebrities.  I did not know that I was Carrie Underwood and don’t even want to know how I got that name.  Her father has the name of a cute boy at school that she likes so that her friends could see him calling her every time her dad called.   She would smile and talk sweet  leaving her friends to ooh and ah while they were completely unaware that she was actually making her dad feel oh so important.  My address book also includes characters from books she has read, movie stars and other famous people.   It’s not many people in this town that get calls from Brad PItt and Jesus.  I do.   Recently, I had left my phone full of famous people at home and needed to call my son.  My daughter’s new phone was in my purse, so I retrieved it to make this very simple phone call.  The first thing I discovered was that phone was locked.  I tried every password I could think of such as her birthday, her pet names, and even curse words after I had exhausted all ideas and had reached total frustration.   I took the phone to her and with that one eye half shut look that only a mother can give, demanded she unlock the phone without ever saying a word.  She types in “The Sky”  with two thumbs and the phone opens up offering me a palette of applications and more glamour shots of her.  I jumped to the “J’s” in her address book to call my son, but he wasn’t there.  Realizing he must have some alias, I asked how she had him listed.  She told me to look under “A’s”   It seems his name was “Too Cool for School A Really Cool Guy.”   Realizing I was entering the world of Allie logic I had to ask..... Why “A”?    “Too Cool” begins with a T.  It appears that “A Really Cool Guy” was the last name.  Never saw that coming.    While I learn to navigate my hand me down phone pre-programmed by a ten year old I am keenly aware that many a surprise is tucked away in this hand held device leaving me with a virtual treasure hunt.  So as I discover more pictures of puppies and rekindle relationships with those with “8”s in their phone numbers, my daughter’s arm grows a bit longer each day so the evolutionary process will allow her future offspring to take perfectly focused pictures of themselves and have all they need within an arms reach away.  

A Tall Drink and A Short Straw

As a good parent, I have talked to my children about drugs and alcohol and the dangers of using and associated addictions.  Where I failed was when I forgot to discuss the many other addictions that will flash before them with false enticement and a siren song.  I hang my head in shame when I have to admit that we have all become terribly addicted to late night Frappes.  Yes,  McDonald's is our dealer and we find ourselves circling the parking lot like excited crackheads trying to decide if we want mocha or caramel.   There is a prerecorded voice that greets you as you enter the drive-thru.  I'm certain it must be the devil, but it calls our names and fills us with joy.  In high pitched excited tones, like a girl going through Greek Rush, she says, "Hi, Would you like to try one of our delicious ice cold mocha frappes?"  "OF COURSE WE DO",  I want to scream.  You would think they would recognize my car by now and just start whipping up frappes as I enter the lot.   One by one, they hand me our drug of choice and I pass them to the far ends of the vehicle while little hands reach out for that delicious, caffeinated cup of evil that drives us.  For the next few miles, the only sound in my car is the sound of slurping and some awful 70's song I force my kids to listen to.  I have learned to associate these cold, chilly drinks with wellness and after a stressful day, a frappe cures what ails me.   I have discovered that there is one other chilly treat out there that works almost as well.   Until you have experienced a Sonic Lemon Berry Slush on a 103 degree day, you have not lived. An added bonus is happy hour between 2 and 4 when drinks are half price and for a few pennies difference, you can get the extra large Route 44 cup which can later be used to bathe a small puppy in.   It's more chilly treat than one can endure. However, with all great things, there can be downfalls.  Just yesterday as the thermometer soared past 104 degrees, my car was on autopilot and it took me to Sonic for my lemon berry relief.  In a hurry to get to work, I took my tall drink and straw and darted out of the lot.  As I drove down the road I realized the straw was shorter than the cup and while slurping ice citrus slush, my straw slipped inside the cup and my face went straight into the lid.  Berry Slush went everywhere! While it did have a cooling effect, it's hard for people to take you seriously while you have lemon pulp frozen to your hair.   I should stick with the frappes and a sippey cup lid. You're bound for failure with a tall drink and a short straw.

Laundering Money

Dirty laundry is my nemesis.  It is my greatest challenge and biggest foe.  It is the one thing in my life I cannot get my hands around - it’s just too big. Just as I think the last sock is washed and the bath towels are folded and put away,  five kids in wet bathing suits and wet towels will fly through the back door leaving a pile of laundry on the floor.  After fifteen years, I have accepted the fact that the laundry is bigger than I and it is truly a mountain I will never conquer.  There are no support groups for those who need a laundry intervention, so I decided to tackle this problem using the tools at hand... namely, child one and child two.  I announced to my kids that they were responsible for doing their own laundry.  This was said with great authority and self-pride that I had taken charge.  Nothing happened. No laundry was done. The kids were quite content mining for clothes at the back of their closet and had no need to wash their dirty clothes as long as there remained an abundant supply of clean items to wear, even if they were out of style and two sizes too small.  I accepted defeat once again and relinquished control of my failed laundry skills to a higher power.   One day while forgetting to remove $35 cash from my jeans pocket, I began another round of laundry.  I had no idea what luck lay ahead.  I sent my daughter, against her will, to remove the clothes from the dryer.  As she reached into the dryer she discovered a crisp, clean five dollar bill.  She squealed with delight.  We all know laundry law dictates that you keep what you find and she ran about the house  gloating about her new wealth.   She returned to her laundry duties with a new found excitement and shortly after retrieved a twenty dollar bill from the dryer.  Prepared to dispute laundry law, I was ready to take back my twenty, but realized that this lesson might be worth twenty dollars in the long run.  She took her cash and showed all the neighborhood kids who were standing in my kitchen in their freshly laundered towels and suits.  It wasn’t long before the kids were begging to do the laundry. I even had one of their mothers offer to wash our clothes.  I had accidentally stumbled onto something bigger than me and possibly bigger than the laundry pile itself.   Doing the laundry had become a treasure hunt and my kids were begging for more clothes to wash.   The neighbors even wanted to see my dirty laundry and they meant it in the most literal way.   I actually caught a glimpse of the end of the laundry pile and a feeling of success and happiness welled up inside of me.  I discovered great enjoyment watching the kids race to the washroom each day to start a new load of clothes.  Most people throw dryer sheets in their dryer.  I toss in a few dollar bills and before long I have clean laundry, happy kids and a new found freedom from the evil laundry monster that had enslaved me for years.     The cost of this new freedom....a couple of dollars a day and an occasional five or ten thrown in for motivation.  I’ve toyed with expanding this idea and throwing in a surprise find to keep up the excitement.  Unfortunately, most of my ideas such as concert tickets, chocolate, or a puppy just won’t work. The kids will simply have to find self-motivation with their Downy fresh ones and fives because once you make it to the end of laundry pile, there is no going back!  

It Always Helps to Own the Stolen Vehicle You are Being Arrested for Driving

It is one thing to have your vehicle stolen from your own driveway while you sleep. It is another to be pulled over months later driving that same stolen vehicle with your kids in tow.  We had owned a popular version of a Chevy Silverado that had a spectacular paint job that sparkled in the sun.  The first time it was stolen from us out of a local parking lot should have been a signal to us not to purchase the exact same vehicle. When it never returned and was probably being sold off for parts, we did exactly what we shouldn't have done and bought the same style truck again.... same paint job... same shine.... same invisible sign that screamed "Come Steal Me."  Several years later, as the paint began to fade and the shine wasn't quite so obvious, it sat tucked safely in our carport full of all things a hunter would love.... guns, bright orange vests, Columbia jackets and more.  My husband rose early the next morning to take to the woods and join the masses in the first day of deer season.  Not being a good hunter wife, I only rise that early one day of the hunt and it's not to prepare eggs and bacon.  I join him because I'm the only one who knows where all the hunting gear has been stored for the rest of the year. We stood outside with our steaming cups of coffee admiring the moonlight as it cascaded over the garden and the sleeping dogs who obviously failed in their guard duties.  It was at about the exact same moment that we both realized there was much more space where we were standing than there was the night before. Something was missing.....the truck!  It's one of those moments of disbelief where you have to have a few more sips of coffee to understand exactly what has happened.  There is no great sound of realization, but rather a subtle whisper of "hmmmmmm.... the truck is gone."  Of course, we belong to that special club that gets to add one more word to that whisper of realization...."again!"   The truck was gone again.    There had been no dog barking during the night and no sound of engines roaring.  The vehicle had driven off silently as we slept away.   The funny thing about having something stolen is that is makes you crazy for a few weeks. You begin to look at everyone with suspicion and you see your stolen goods all over town out of your peripheral vision, never quite able to focus on them and you convince yourself you're seeing things. We went through all the motions of reporting the vehicle stolen, filling out all of the paperwork, and leaving it for the detectives to find.  They never did.  However... a month later a few boys on bicycles came out of the woods behind our house and spoke of an abandoned truck stuck in the mud miles down the powerline.   Being a good southern family, we jumped on the 4-wheeler (mom, dad, baby and a rifle) and shot down the powerline where we found our muddy truck, stripped of everything except for our Federal ID badges. I suppose the thieves knew that it was much more serious to steal those than our hunting truck.  Here is the funny thing about finding your own stolen vehicle.  You need to make sure the police log in their database that it has been recovered.  We informed the police, the insurance agent, our neighbors, the crazy guy down the road who we suspected all along and even told our friends and family about our fantastic find.  However.... somewhere deep in the police station, I suppose the report sat on a desk and never quite made it to data entry and unbeknownst to all, the truck remained listed as a stolen vehicle.  Can I tell you what happens when you are driving down the highway with your husband and a baby, none of whom have a shred of identification on them...... usually nothing..... unless they are driving a stolen vehicle!  As the blue lights flashed across the less shiny truck, a fearful realization took over that we were indeed going to be arrested for driving our own stolen vehicle. I hugged the baby, kissed her on the head and told her "Daddy's going to jail!"  The good thing about actually owning the stolen vehicle you are being arrested for driving is that you get out of jail free.  Of course, that's after your friends stop laughing and bring your identification to the jailhouse.

Early Morning Visits from God, The Utility Guy and the Crying Eyed Cat

Since the time that I was pregnant with my first child I have struggled with insomnia.  I wake abruptly and all throughout the night with sudden realizations that I forgot to put Downy in the rinse cycle or failed to mail the water payment in a timely manner.    I never wake from the thoughts that should wake someone, such as..."The iron is on and the curtains are beginning to smolder."  The thoughts that throw me awake are subtle whispers that I failed to accomplish everything on my "Mom" To Do List.    A pattern began to emerge over the years and most nights I wake at exactly 3:33 a.m.  Instead of finding this odd, I find comfort in the fact that I am keeping to a schedule.  While I am acutely aware of numeric patterns, this has never stood out to me as strange.  When I was eight months pregnant,  I would wake from a foot lodged in my bladder and joke that it must be 3:33 a.m.  It always was. It was playtime for the baby.  My son has had the same crazy sleep habit since gestation.  As he moved into his teen years, he once again began to wake at exactly 3:33 a.m.  Now there are two of us in this house of no sleep.  In an attempt to keep to our daily schedules and not be late due to an absence of R.E.M. sleep, I moved my alarm clock ahead ten minutes.  And yet...when I am thrown awake each morning trying to smell the burning curtains or Downy April Freshness, it is again 3:33 a.m.  My manipulation of the clock has had no effect on our odd sleep habit.  It was just recently that I heard tale that this is a common phenomenon and people around the world experience the same early morning wake up call at exactly 3:33 a.m.  There are many reasons listed on the internet and they vary greatly in explanation. Some say it is God whispering to you and others claim it to be a more scary call from the underworld guy.  (I knew the devil ran the water company. He’s peeved about my bill and wants to talk)  I'm curious how we can jump from one end of the spectrum to the other in explaining this common sleep pattern and exactly how does one gain this privileged information about how God and/or the devil communicate...Wikipedia, I suppose.    I like to think that it is God, but it concerns me that all these years He has been speaking to me and I assumed it was the laundry calling me.  What a gross error in judgment!   I read about how the soul can travel to astral planes and this is the time of the morning that it returns to the body.  I'm uncertain exactly what an astral plane is, but I'm quite concerned about the chance that souls are coming and going all throughout the night in my house.  There is enough activity in my house at night and now I'm led to believe that there is another dimension of activity occurring.  Does anyone ever get any sleep?   While this turn-style for souls has possibly manifested in my house, you must know that there is also a little boy who sings in our kitchen at night.  Perhaps he got off at the wrong house.  Nobody has ever seen him, but each of us has heard his sweet song echo down our hallway.  I teach my kids to enjoy such things and not be afraid.  We don't make it out to be ghosts or lost souls- we simply accept that something has occurred that cannot be explained by any of us. To add to the night’s activities in this house with no sleep, my daughter has two hamsters that feel that nighttime is the best time to run and run and run on that dang metal wheel of fun they have in their cage.   Maybe they are running from the singing boy or from the smell of burning curtains.  Most likely, they are running from the crying eyed cat that sits in front of their cage at midnight.  It’s a sad little kitty, born way too early and without any tear ducts in one eye - so it cries non-stop.  Disturbing, but cute in a cuddly “I need something else to take care of” way.    So tonight,  after I turn the iron off, comfort the kitty, and thank the Lord for my working utilities, I will drop off to sleep and hope for another wake up call from a higher power.  I have a lot of things I need to thank Him for and a little lost sleep is well worth the chance to do so.