transparent. adj. 
1a (1) : having the property of transmitting light, b: fine or sheer enough to be seen through
2a : free from pretense or deceit, b : easily detected or seen through, c: readily understood, d: characterized by visibility or accessibility of information especially concerning business practices ~ Meriam-Webster
It has been said that a home mirrors the inhabitants living in it.  It reflects who you are; your hobbies; values.
A few years back I read an article questioning if someone, visiting my home, would know we were Christians.   It was during a time when I was trying to explain faith to my young boys; my eldest son aged 7.  It was in 2007 that I had embarked on the whys?  The husband had endless questions to test my patience.  Why did the deacon, at my family’s church, make a racial slur to my cousin?  I had typed a long letter to the archdiocese and parish; the parish that married us, in fact.  Why does the large church, that we attend, always collect money?  Doesn’t it need to go to the poor?  Why are so-called, believers, hypocrites.  When good friends, a church-going family, divorced; the hubs gave me the I told you so, look.  Appearances are deceiving.  Thus, much to my surprise, when the hubs walked over to the cross with the transparent crystals embedded (for our crystal anniversary) I ran to the register with it.  I added the FAITH stand (also with crystals embedded) for good measure.  LOL.  For anyone who enters my home (not that anyone ever does as of late) there will be no question that we are a Christian family.   We are transparent.
I continue to count my thousand gifts, thanks to Ann Voskamp, with my bookmarker; the ones I found in my Bible not too long ago.  I have recently finished reading Ann Voskamp’s, One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are.  I am attending a conference, this weekend, in hopes to have her sign my book.
This is my motto for the school year; transparency.  In everything I do.  In my words, in my works.
I use this word often in my dealings with customers, parents, my children.  When I compile reports and complete tax forms my accounting goal is to be transparent: to the IRS; to our school population (PTA).   I recently glanced through my middle school scrapbooks, created at age 12, and my thoughts were easily understood.  It reflected who I was; my interests at that time in my life.  As we mature we learn to mask our emotions; our desires.  We learn to deceive.  My eldest son rides the highs and lows of hormones; attempting to gain control of his emotions; his impulsiveness.  I don’t want him to shut down; to not share his feelings or thoughts.  I want to be accessible to him and vice versa.  It is a slippery-slope; parenting a hormonally- charged son.  The middle one is already exhibiting the same symptoms.  I’m in for a long ride.
So it was fortuitous that on my early morning program Rosalind Wiseman appeared.  I had recently been thinking of re-reading her other book, Queen Bee Moms and Kingpin Dads to mentally prepare myself for the busy school year ahead.  So on my lunch break, before picking up kids, I rushed into my local bookstore and grabbed the book; fresh off the press.   I can’t wait to crack open this one!  It promises to be good based on the media coverage it is getting.  Normally, I purchase books via my Kindle but I want this easily accessible on my bookshelf.  I’ll keep you posted.  I can use all the parenting help I can get!
One of the things I appreciate about younger kids is their joy for the simple things.  Their thoughts are transparent or, as in my youngest son’s case, very visual.  He loves bright colors and after my suggestion that it may be a bit hot to wear a long-sleeved, striped and mismatched shirt, that he change.  Nope.  I like all the colors, Mommy.  This is my style and who I am!  The middle son was dressed all in black; the fedora sitting upon his head with blue sunglasses upon his nose.  The eldest looked at the shenanigans and shook his head.  He is too busy to be worried about fashion.  BIG LOL.  Gotta love the multicolor display that he wore to school yesterday.  What is missing is the blue fedora hat he wore on his head.
Today as flags fly at half-mast the eldest asked if I remembered when 9/11 happened.  We were discussing world events; particularly Syria.  It amazes me that he grasps these concepts since I, at this age, was too busy collecting Duran Duran t-shirts and buttons or finding things to write to my pen pal in New York City.  It is one of those moments indelibly etched in my mind; the almost one-year old crawling on the floor as I stood transfixed in front of the television.  I worried that his Dad woudn’t come home, his carrier rapidly crossing the Pacific and due to arrive 9/12/2001.  Those same tears came again as I caught digital glimpses of the memorial at ground zero this morning.  My eldest claims, he too, will join the armed forces for his country.
My mind screams, “NO!!!!”  My sons know the story about their Dad and I.   I had no intention of marrying a military man.  When pregnant for the third time the military spouses assumed I was trying for a girl.  They were wrong.  I emphatically shared that I needed a third son in case I lost one to war.  The film Saving Private Ryan comes to mind.  They had gaped at me, at a loss for words.
I save the ice cream for this son, the one who resembles his father, and whose birthday is in one week.  I do not understand his language.  He speaks in code, computer code to be exact, and as we walked the aisles of Fry’s this past weekend I observed him happily choosing components to fix my computer.  I had no understanding of the motherboards, the graphics cards.  But he is still transparent.  I will continue to hope that he remains this way.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s