The Wanderer

Most of the stories my mother tells about me growing up have a common theme - my wandering ways. I have no recollection of it, but she says as soon as I started crawling, she'd turn around to find me gone. A quick search would find me at the bookcase devouring my older sister's storybooks. Once I was older and walking, my wandering off became riskier and more terrifying for my parents. Taking me shopping must have been a nightmare for them because if something caught my eye, I was gone always knowing where I was but failing to inform the worried parent that I was just browsing and not accepting a candy offer from a creepy stranger with a van. The exasperated looks I received when I was located are too numerous to count.  Pretty sure my parents thought their shy daughter would be too timid and frightened to ever leave their side, but I proved early on the only thing I was shy about was telling them where I was going. Once I was found, I'd show them the 'neat' thing that had lured me away and then reluctantly follow behind them like a dutiful daughter. 

I've never stopped wandering. The intrigue of new places, new things and new experiences are still catching my eye and leading me away from the presumed 'normal' path. Seven years ago, I decided to wander off to New York City. I grew up seeing it in the movies and on TV; I'd taken a few trips and seen firsthand how fascinating and special it was. There was so much to see and do and try, and I've seen and done and tried a lot of it. I'm sure I could've wandered here forever with its constant changing and surplus of shiny, new things. When I was a child and I'd wander off, my family would always draw me back. Things are a little different this time, my parents aren't the exasperated ones, two little boys are. Those nephews of mine have dulled the allure of the new for me. Suddenly, seeing a new exhibit pales in comparison to their first day of school. No date has been finalized, but I've already started warning those little cuties that their aunt is coming home for good and they'll soon be sick of her.

Not So Silent, Not So Deadly

We were all pretty excited when my sister had her first little boy, Grayer. He was so much fun and a constant joy. A year and a half after his arrival, his little brother, Cole, was brought into this world and into our lives. The fun and joy that came with Grayer was now doubled, and seeing those two interact while they grow up has been quite the treat.

This past summer, my mother and I were taking 3-year-old Grayer and 18-month-old Cole across town. A light afternoon rain was coming down, and I was in the driver's seat of my parent's SUV. A few minutes into our journey, Grayer pipes up from the backseat, "Someone tooted back here."

"Was it you, Gray?" It seemed like a logical question to ask.

"Nooooo. It was Coley!" Grayer didn't seem to mind placing the blame on his younger brother.

My mom turned around to look at Cole. "Coley! Did you toot?" The little dude nodded his head that he had. This baby's honesty and no shame was refreshing, but I feared the impending odor from him would not be.

"Coley tooted again!" Grayer loudly proclaimed a few minutes after his initial accusation.

"Coley!" My mom and I were both shocked at the mini-farting machine that was sitting so innocently in the back seat. Every couple of minutes, Grayer was making a similar announcement about his little brother's gas. After the fourth or fifth 'toot' accusation, I turned to my mom, "I'm not hearing anything." I wasn't smelling anything either, but I wasn't going to complain about that.

"Did you hear that?" She seemed thrilled that the little one responded to my doubt with another 'toot'. I was thrilled as well because I had finally heard one of the 'toots'.

"Mom, that was the windshield wiper scraping against the back glass." This afternoon rain we were driving through was at that annoying amount where you needed the wipers, but at the lowest frequency the wipers would sometimes have to drag themselves across mostly dry glass which resulted in a shuddering 'toot-like' noise. My mom and I had a chuckle now that the mystery was solved, and poor Coley, we were about to let him be known as Backseat Tooter. We may not be believing Grayer the next time he so quickly places the blame on his brother.

Miranda Nolanda

For the inaugural post, it is only right I should explain where the name "Miranda Nolanda" comes from. Yes, it is a variation of my name, and, yes, it is fun to say, but it came about many, many years ago when I was first learning to spell and write.

I seriously doubt my parents had any idea the trouble I was going to have with the name they gave me. First, when I was starting to talk, I couldn't say my r's correctly. They sounded more like w's. When people would ask me my name, barely audible I would reply "Miwanda." They would get confused by this unique name and rack their brains for a close match. Brandon? Brandy? Amanda? No, no and no! I would repeat my name while pleading with God for them to understand me so this embarrassment could cease. Since I was fairly young and good parents rarely leave their young children alone in the company of strangers, one of my parents was usually there to fill in the blanks or the missing r's. Much to the delight of my parents and me, my speech issues went away after a few years before it did too much psychological (obviously, I became or continued to be super shy, never wanting to speak) and educational damage (it had started to disrupt my spelling).

So, I get past the talking funny thing and am in grade school putting my first and last name on the line in the upper right hand corner of all my worksheets and tests. Now in those days, speed was beyond cool. I strived to be the first one done in all things academic because I figured that must mean I am super smart. I would rush to put my name on whatever it was and head straight to real questions. When I would receive the assignment or test back, there would be an 'x' at the end of my name. Upon closer inspection, I would see that my teacher was crossing out an unnecessary 'a' at the end of my last name. At first, I thought it was a joke or silly prank. Surely, I couldn't have misspelled my own name. I was super smart and speedy Miranda Nola -it hit me. Both of names had 'and' in them, and I was moving so fast that when I put the 'and' in Noland I thought I was putting the 'and' in Miranda so I put the 'a' at the end of my last name just like I did for my first name. Just like with the speech impediment, the misspelling of my last name didn't last too long. I still cringe when asked my name, and I still proceed with caution when writing my full name, but I've been doing fairly well with both for 20+ years.

A little over two years ago, my sister gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. She named him Grayer, but most of the time he just goes by Gray. He's at that age now where he is talking a lot. Of course, there are a few words that give him trouble, but just like his aunt (me) he has the most problems with his first name. I first noticed it when showing him pictures of family members. I would point to people and ask him their names. When I pointed to him, he said 'Gay.' I had him repeat it a few times to make sure I was hearing him correctly. I was, and the poor boy had no idea of his mistake. Months later, he is still telling us that he is 'Gay.' We all get a little chuckle at his expense, and it reminds me of how far I've come from my days of mispronouncing and misspelling my own name. We all grow up way too quickly, and the things that cause us grief today we will soon be laughing about. With this blog, I hope to document the memories of my own childhood along with the current stories about my nephews. This is meant to be cute, funny, touching and therapeutic (for me if for no one else).