What kind of lettuce is this?

It occurs to me, now that my son is grown, that maybe I could have taught him more. Oh, he has a good head on his shoulders, and is quite able to make reasonable and thoughtful decisions. Maybe there are things I should have told him, or taught him, or just exposed him to, so he would be well-equipped for life. My husband and I both tried to teach him about different things, to experience new things and not be close-minded to unusual experiences. Perhaps we missed some of the more mundane stuff. 

Even when it comes to lettuce, I tried to make sure he had eaten romaine, Boston, green-leafed, red-leafed, and others so that he didn't always go for the bland boring iceberg. (You wonder why I'm telling you about the lettuce he's eaten? Read on.)

Today, he walked into my office, carrying a rather round green vegetable. 

"Mom," he said, "What kind of lettuce is this?" 

"Cabbage," I answered. 

Patience is a virtue?

Patience is a virtue, or so I've been told. I've also been told that "anything worth having is worth waiting for." I know the 1 Corinthians 13:4 reference, "Love is patient, love is kind..." and the Bible is chock full of verses about the goodness of patience. 

I know all of this, but I find it hard to live patiently. I was born in the generation of immediate gratification. I stand in front of the microwave, warming a cup of coffee, tapping my foot and saying, "C'mon, c'mon, hurry up." Yes, I even speak in contractions--who has time to use whole words? 

One of my friends has her own saying about patience, and it's one I love. "Patience," she says, "is not a flower that grows in my garden."

I named my cat Patience. When I call her, the neighbors hear, "Patience, Patience! PATIENCE!"

Patience the cat is elusive. I have to wait on Patience, which, of course, drives me crazy. 

Patience is a virtue? Patience is a cat.

Good as new?

I sprained my ankle a couple of weeks ago. After a trip to the emergency room, x-rays, a week of crutches, ice and heating pads, it was pronounced "okay" by my doctor. I am amazed at how well it has healed, although it strikes me that this healing at my age of 50 is not the same as the healing of a sprained ankle when I was a teen. When I was younger, I didn't use crutches, limped around on the ankle and re-injured it, and yet it was "good as new" after two weeks. Now, being more, uh, mature, my ankle two weeks after the accident is only slightly swollen. I can, with effort, maneuver it into a shoe other than the tennis shoes I have been wearing since the swelling went down enough to force my foot into a loosely-laced tennis shoe. I am still slow in going down stairs. (If I had been cautious like that before, I could have avoided the sprain entirely, but what would be the fun in that?) My foot isn't "good as new," but it does have a new ache that I think will be quite handy in predicting weather changes.

And, all of those little wounds of youth that healed "good as new" are not really gone, either. They are now the cumulative odd aches and pains that strike us suddenly when we get up from a chair or move too quickly in later years. If you are around my age or better, you know what I am talking about. That cramp in your leg or quick zing in your shoulder? Where did that come from? If it comes out of nowhere and goes away quickly, it may just be "good as new."