Realities of Momhood

The Voice

2012-01-31T06:01:00.001-08:00

I've reached a point in life that makes me question my own sanity. A little. Okay, not much, really.
I've thought long and hard, and for many years, about the voice of God. Some people claim they can hear Him speaking to them. Moses clearly heard him. My Sunday school kids decided they had never actually heard the voice. And I had to agree...while there were several times in life I felt compelled by his will, I hadn't really ever heard Him speak to me.

Till recently.

I don't really know when it started. I think there were a few occasions when I asked God a question in my head, silently, and immediately a response, not in my own voice, came back to me. Then it became kind of....conversational. I would say something, mentally, and then a response would come. At first I thought I was crazy, and just answering my own questions and responding to my own statements. Then I realized I just wasn't. I can't tell you how I know it isn't just that, me talking to myself, but I just know it isn't.

So, I've started to pray differently. More frequently. More conversationally. Weird things began to happen.
For instance, not long ago, I was in a car wreck. A snow plow demolished the front of my van. I knew, ahead of time, that it was coming. I said it, this time out loud, as I drove. "God this snow plow driver doesn't see me!"
I know. It's going to be okay. You're going to be okay."
As I opened my door and realized my legs could support me, my arms could move, and no blood was dripping off me, I knew He had assured me of this. I was okay. But it was more than his assurance. I heard Him.

A few weeks later, we were having a typical Sunday night at our house. Sunday nights are brutal; it's as if the two days off from school was a year. No one knows where their hat or backpack is, or what they want for lunch. The oldest kid remembers, "oh yeahhhh..." that I am supposed to call parents to ask for volunteers for the upcoming Valentine party. The youngest simply doesn't want to go to school, and therefore, will not take a bath. Somehow, it equates, in his mind.

Frustrated, I head downstairs to feed the bunnies. I give them each a generous handful of hay, and watch as they attack it hungrily. Then something happens. Marley, the little girl in the middle, must have swallowed a piece whole. She begins choking. Gasping for air. Green stuff is oozing from her nose and I am freaking out. I try to open her mouth to see if I can dislodge something, but it's impossible for me to accomplish. She's fighting me, and fighting to breathe. I am shaking and panicking, and I run upstairs to tell my husband the bunny is choking and I can't do it. I really can't. I have this animal...thing. I love them, too much, and I can't see them in any sort of compromised state. I curse myself for even having pets; I am a nutcase when it comes to any sort of illness or injury for any of them.

My husband goes downstairs and stays down there for a long time. I am convinced she is dying, or dead. I am googling "rabbits choking" and getting all sorts of gruesome diagnoses. Death. Painful death.
There's a bunny heimlich option, but it's a long shot, and it's dangerous in itself.
In another half hour or so, Randy comes upstairs, presumably to give me the bad news.

"She's just sitting here, now, on the carpet. She hopped around a little and she's a little shaken up, but I think she's okay."

I race down the stairs, scooping Marley into my arms. She is panicked and seems weaker, but she is breathing a little better. I'm still worried she won't make it through the night. Rabbits are ridiculously delicate creatures.

The next morning, she is sitting up in her cage. She sniffs and eats a tiny piece of her banana, offered from my hand. She is timid, and she hasn't had any water or pellets all night. I let her out to wander the family room, which she does, but not as enthusiastically as she usually does. I tell myself she is still just weak and uncertain. Maybe her throat hurts. Maybe her stomach hurts. That night, she still hasn't eaten and I pick her up, cuddling her to my chest. She sniffs me curiously, but then lays her head down, defeated. I cup my hand over her tiny back and become angry. She was such a fun, adorable little bunny, just yesterday!
"God, help her! She is one of your creatures. Why won't you help her, she's scared. I know she's an animal. I know you have more important things to work on, but I am sooo bad at this. Please just help her."

Some creatures are stubborn about healing.

That's the response I got. Stubborn about healing?
I laid in bed, after putting Marley back in her cage. Again, I figured she'd be dead in the morning. I began my usual kind of prayer, not really starting with "Dear God," or anything formal:
People are stubborn about healing, God, you're right. People want it their way. They want control. They want sympathy. They want everyone else to be miserable. They want all sorts of different things, I guess. Sometimes, I don't even know that they want to get better. Could that be? I should say 'we'. I'm people, too. But animals? How do they even know to be stubborn?"

The response, clear as day:

"People need to want to be healed. People need to seek healing. Animals? They never want to feel bad. But they usually don't want your help, either. It's not natural. They don't understand the conflict."

This morning, I had my husband do the initial "bunny check." I can't go down and find her dead. I did that once, when I was about six years old...found our dog dead, in the garage. It stays with ya.

"She's eating hay, and sitting up." Awestruck, I filled the colander with fresh greens and banana slices, determined to see her eat. She nibbled a few bites of mustard greens and then ate most of her banana slice. It's her favorite. I felt a little better. Then she hopped 180 degrees and turned her back to me. Creatures are stubborn about their healing. Normally, I'd force her to turn around and try to get some more nourishment in her. Instead, I laid the rest of the greens on the cage floor, freshened her water and made sure she had some pellets, just in case.

"I'm willing to wait this out with you, Marley, if you're willing to try."

As I go through this day, I still don't know that she's going to make it. She looks better, but I know rabbits tend to look better than they are. It's a defense mechanism for prey animals. Being stubborn is sort of a defense mechanism for humans, I suppose.
Somehow, though, I have to realize it's just not up to me.

It's going to be okay. No matter what.

Annoyance, Bliss, and Carts.

2012-01-26T12:29:00.001-08:00

I have developed a love-hate relationship with grocery shopping. "You've posted about the grocery store before!" you might say.
You're right. I have nothing else to do in my tiny little life but tell you about my frequent trips to the supermarket.
And when I say frequent, I mean that I go at least three times a week. I'm one of those people.
First of all, I'm on Weight Watchers. It is yet another ill-fated attempt to drop poundage so that I might look like my eighteen-year-old self in a pair of shorts this summer. If I'm lucky, the shorts won't have a name like "crops" which mean, they skim just below the knee, a.k.a. culottes. I...hated...culottes as a child. Loathed them. Was made fun of because of them. My mother insisted on them though, in addition to "pedal pushers." Dear Lord, pedal pushers?
My goal is to wear a pair of shorts with the inseam measurement noted in the description. Preferably 5". Not 3". I'm not that crazy, and no amount of Weight Watchers will get rid of the road map that has become my thigh region.

Per usual, I have regressed. The reason I've mentioned the Weight Watchers is that it has spawned a new shopping obsession based on the Points Plus system. I must know the point value in my purchase. Say that five times fast. I drag along my Kindle (because I'm hip and fancy) and plug in fat, carbohydrates, protein and fiber. Or FCPF, as we cool people like to use our acronyms.

Yes, the calorie deprivation is altering my sanity even more. Keep reading.

Usually, I'm okay when it comes to regular food. Vegetables, fruit, meat, etc., I can handle. It's just that I grew up understanding that a prerequisite to bedtime was a snack, and that hasn't changed. Not in thirty years. I still need a bedtime snack. For a while I was hooked on a bowl of cereal, until Oprah said something ghastly about eating cereal before bed, (I can't remember what it was) and now I don't do that anymore. Well, usually I don't. Desserts have become a problem for me. I like desserts the way they are supposed to be: ooey, gooey, flaky, sweet and chock-full of calories. This business of replacing butter and oil with things like applesauce or pumpkin is really for the birds. Come on, you know it is.
But I try to convince myself I like it.
I like lying to myself, apparently. Again, it's the overall calorie deprivation.
So I meander through my favorite supermarket, which is kind of like Cheers, because everybody knows my name, and I look for alternatives and substitutes to my favorite desserts without sacrifice, which is really just laughable.
I become annoyed with aimless shoppers. They are clearly not with me on my mission. Husbands and wives are the worst.
"Did you get coffee last time?" (I'm already annoyed; I get coffee every time. Is this a real question?)
"I don't remember. I liked what we had, though."
"Should I get Michigan Cherry or Hazelnut?"
"Do we need dog food?"
"Did you hear what little Jack said to me this morning?" (Huh? Focus on the coffee. Or move, because I'm trying to plug in the FCPF on that Swiss Miss you're hovering over).

I am mended, immediately, as Greg Laswell's voice croons over the stereo system. It's just for me, I am convinced. I am blissfully aware of the energy I put into my mission here at the store, and Greg has reminded me. You never know, I could run into him this summer, in my 5" inseam shorts. Plug in those numbers, sister!

Calorie. Deprivation.

Thinking of Greg Laswell's deep brown eyes reminds me of chocolate chips and how I miss my love affair with Tollhouse cookies. How big of a sin would those be, on Weight Watchers. Might as well cruise the baking aisle to see the point-reality.

I settle on a box of something called Skinny Cow, picturing a heifer with an unnaturally whittled middle grinning seductively as if these treats, lacking in caloric bliss, will make me do the same. I doubt it.
And I don't know that she's a heifer. I just like the word.

As I battle check-out, my least favorite part, because twice now someone has attempted to slash my achilles tendon with their cart, I make a mental note to buy a pedometer next time.
All this searching has got to be earning me Activity Points. AP.

Wildly Inappropriate

2012-01-12T13:21:00.000-08:00

I remember gazing into his big, dark blue eyes in the hospital bed, and thinking wow, how did I get so lucky?! And weeks later, cuddling up to the cutest duckie pajama-clad bundle as he cooed and kicked happily, thinking he was the most perfect, joyful little gift I could ever receive.

At around two, he would be engrossed in play, but he would frequently drop everything and run to me...well, charge at me like a bull, to fiercely grab my leg and squeeze me into a hug. Those tiny "I love you, Mommy"s are priceless, aren't they?

At three, we got a taste of his personality, destined for mischief. He found a bottle of baby powder, and not only redecorated the bedroom with its contents, but also covered every inch of himself, save for those blue eyes. "I stink!" he proclaimed, reeking in this exorbitant amount of newborn baby-smelling stuff, similar to an old woman bathed in Jean Nate'.

At five, he demanded we remove his training wheels. The air of cool confidence in his voice, and unwavering certainty when we told him, "once they are off, they aren't going back on" made me smile. He knew he would do it, and his determination proved him right. He rode on two wheels that very day, and now does it at lighting-speed, God help me.

Although I'm sure I read, back in my days of baby name books, that Isaac means "laughter," it is impossible, as a mother, to know if a name will really fit until your child is a little older. You pick out a name, and you hope it works. Ultimately, it's the name you like best, after several disagreements with your spouse, ruling out things like "Finn, Phoenix, and Calvin." Or at least that's what happened in my case.

Isaac means "laughter." Ain't that the truth?

I can't count the number of times this kid has had me in stitches, with either his wild antics or his tall tales. The dinner table, though, is perhaps my favorite locale for silliness. We have, by no means, a serious dinner. The concept that children should be "seen and not heard" does not apply in this house. Despite my efforts to serve gourmet meals on the lovely china, with well-groomed children using impeccable manners, it...well, it just hasn't happened yet. We aren't raucous or gross, either, mind you. We just have humorous mealtimes, usually spurred by Isaac saying, "today, you know what happened?"

"Mommy, today...you know what happened at school? The gym teacher told us to bounce basketballs against the wall and catch them. It was fun. Until it bounced at me and hit me in the nuts. It hurt soooo much. I couldn't talk in my regular voice."

Me (stifling a grin and trying to look concerned): "What exactly are your nuts?"

"You know, those things, on my crouch."

"Oh....yes, your crouch. I don't have those, then. Nuts."

"Yes, you do, Mommy. The girls at school said they do."

Gabe is laughing wildly at this point, as he apparently calls his "biscuits."

"Eat your dinner," I say, "and you go to school with some very interesting girls."

The boys continue giggling between bites, and Ella chimes in the best way she knows how, turning to Isaac and shrieking "Pull my finger!"

So, anyway, I guess I named him appropriately, even if he is, often, wildly inappropriate. He doesn't realize it's inappropriate. He was speaking earnestly, of a traumatic event during gym class!

He makes us laugh, and that's for sure. He's very smart, clever, and imaginative to go along with it, so there's great potential for his future.

But stand-up will always be an option, I suppose, if nothing else pans out.

Fillin' that heart

2011-12-16T12:59:00.000-08:00

This will be brief and it won't hurt a bit. My kids were talking about the North Star yesterday, and asking if it was called "The North Star" because it's at the North Pole, with Santa. It is, in fact.

It's also called Polaris, or Ursae Minoris. Also, as I explained to the kiddos, it was the called the Star of Bethlehem - it led those three very wise men, also called the Magi, to baby Jesus.

By then they were bored with me. Very bored, and not at all amused with all of my information.

So they asked me a question I didn't know. But Google did. How far away is the North Star?

According to Google, it's about 430 lightyears from Earth. In a car going 100 miles per hour that never stops, it would take you about 3 thousand million years to travel that distance. Wow. I hardly even like to drive down to the store.

Satisfied, my kids went away.

And I started thinking. If the Magi just trusted that star enough to follow it to Jesus, why shouldn't it be our quest to follow it too? And then I remembered, the darn thing is 3 thousand million years away.

But there is a simpler fix, thankfully.

Just invite Jesus to live in your heart. He will come right away, because He can travel much faster than the speed of light.

And He promises to stay forever.

Fragile

2011-12-13T06:10:00.000-08:00

Every Christmas, we watch "A Christmas Story" with "Ralphie" and "Randy." If I get my way, we watch it about 18 times. Hey, you don't earn the right to quote the movie year 'round until you've seen it 372 times.

Anyway.

There's a part in the movie when the father receives, via delivery truck, a large wooden box marked "Fragile." We all know it's the infamous leg-lamp...but I still feel that pang of anticipation for him each time he runs his hand over the word, proclaiming, "Must be Italian...."
And then, as the story goes, that fragile leg breaks into a dozen pieces when Mother is cleaning one day, proving its delicate state and crushing Father's dreams of being a "major-award" winner along with it.

Such is life. Literally.

I've learned that as I get older, I also get more emotional. Maybe 10 years ago, if you would've told me there was a disastrous earthquake that decimated a region of the world, I would have had sympathy, and I might have acknowledged it to be horrific, but my life would have remained the same. I would certainly not have taken any time out of my day to thank God for my safety, nor would I have asked Him to comfort those grieving.

Now, I see a house fire on the news, and I'm reduced to weeping. And praying. Prayers of comfort and peace for those who are homeless. Prayers of thanksgiving for the safety and health of my family. Funny how things have changed.

I suppose it is just that I've realized that little things can alter the course of one's life. Even little things are big things, sometimes. We are all indirectly affected by not only the things that happen in our own life, but also by the things that happen in others' lives. It is foolish to think that we have not, ourselves, made decisions that have changed someone's life. Have you ever fired someone? Broken a heart? Paid for someone's groceries? Sent an encouraging note? Have you ever bullied?

Life is fragile. Italian or not.

And it's ever-changing. The things that are a big deal today, won't be, in a year. Maybe even in a week. But the things we say or do can have more impact than we could ever imagine. I started writing this blog about two years ago, thinking I might bring a smile to someone's face. I've never written it with the intent to have hundreds of followers; I don't care about that. If I make one person's day a little bit more bearable, I've succeeded. I've altered the course of their day in a positive direction.

Virginia O'Hanlon wrote to The Sun back in 1897 to ask if Santa Claus is real. The Sun not only said "it was so," but that "the most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see." Think about it, next time you look at the fragility of life, and words, and actions. Think about your own contribution, and then think about the way your contribution will affect others for years to come.

Make sure it's a good one.

Christ-mas

2011-12-06T12:28:00.000-08:00

I saw a sign today that said "Beware of Christmas celebrations that remove Christ."
Isaac said, "If you remove Christ, you just have mas. What's 'mas'?"

I thought about it for a second: I'm not really good at word origins, in fact, I was perfectly content with everything being a derivative of the Greek language, a la "My Big Fat Greek Wedding."

I did take Spanish class, however, and back then, I learned that 'mas' means 'more.'

And that's exactly right. If you remove Christ, you just have more. More greed, more stuff, more emptiness. More hype, more stress, more people who say I can't wait for the holidays to be over. More depression.

Less of what matters.

Many argue the tradition of celebrating Christmas on December 25; many argue celebrating what has been called a Pagan holiday, altogether. The point is, it's a time to celebrate the greatest gift of our entire existence, and how one tiny little life could blossom into a perfect man, who would wipe away the sins of the world with His incredible sacrifice. And that's the only point. The rest is just gravy.

When I was a kid, I had mile-long Christmas lists, too. I wanted lots of stuff. My kids have those same lists, minus the requests for legwarmers, Fad makeup and the game Girl Talk. I waited for Christmas cookies, parties and the sound of sleigh bells. We didn't have Norad to track Santa, but the weather man on the news would often show super cool "spottings" of the sleigh on the radar. I still wish it was like that; Santa was much more mysterious then.

Anyway, I have had really odd feelings about Christmas this year. Somewhere between anxious and depressed. I feel like it's happening too fast, and it's too routine. I feel like this giant to-do list cloud is hovering, and there has been no peaceful enjoyment of the true meaning of the holiday. Bake this, wrap that, be at so 'n' so's house at 7:00. Fix the lights, plan the meal, clean the house, check to see if Amazon has a better price...more, more, more.

So I'm stopping. Right now. The stress part, I mean. Christmas is coming, ready or not. More importantly, Christ is coming, ready or not. So I'm gonna take His word for it, and cast my worries on Him, instead of trying to make everything perfect for the Super-Holiday this has become. My kids will get over it. They aren't getting mountains of gifts that cost me well into next spring. We talked last night about the gifts of the Magi...and the fact that there were only three. My boys were appalled. We agreed on four gifts each, an idea I saw on Pinterest: Something they want, something they need, something to wear and something to read. I told them to count themselves lucky; it's one more gift than Jesus got.

I'm hoping that we can put more Christ back into Christmas this year; that's my goal.

An unrelated goal, now that I've mentioned it, though: does anyone have a Girl Talk game anymore? My mother always said it was "too-old" for me. I'd like to see if I'm mature enough to play it now. That, and I always thought those fake red zits looked like fun. Anyway, I regress.

Go to church, friends. Learn what this whole thing is all about, and get ready. While we might be able to track Santa with Norad, we sure can't track Jesus, and He's going to show up one of these days, whether the house is decorated or not.

Thanks

2011-11-08T17:43:00.001-08:00

I sit here, sweating. Tired. Exhausted, really. And covered in glitter and blood. Not my blood; Gabe's blood.
After a long, trying day, a not-the-greatest dinner (Buittoni tortellini didn't turn out to be as spectacular as it sounded),lunchbox-packing, cat litter changing and two overflowing baskets of laundry to fold and iron, I mostly just wanted to sit down.
Alas, my plan was foiled, when Gabe took off for his bedroom in footed pajamas...on the hardwood floor...and the wooden bench got in his way. Spurting, almost cartoon-like blood covered his face and I had no idea what to do. I didn't bleed as a child, because I am a girl. A girlie-girl. I played with dolls, legwarmers and FAD makeup. Quietly. Bloodlessly.

I picked him up, trying to ignore the fact that my shirt was quickly becoming speckled in red and his screams were only making it come faster. I plopped him on the kitchen counter and grabbed the paper towels, trying to mop through the mangling to find the source. As it turns out, it was just a small cut, and I immediately recalled that head wounds just produce more blood than other areas of the body. Okay. I can deal with this. I searched the medicine cabinet for the right bandage; a butterfly would have been my choice. I cursed myself for the 112th time, because every time I open that cabinet I think I need to organize this soon. And I do. Need to organize it, that is.

I didn't have a butterfly, or at least I didn't find one. I settled on a cotton pad, some gauze tape and an antibiotic ointment. After a shirt change, I'm now sitting next to my boy on the couch, because there's no way I'm letting him go to sleep right now. I'm sitting, doing what I was going to do, earlier, till the mayhem began. I was going to write about how my 30th wasn't that big of a deal, after all. But as John Lennon said, "Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans." Remind me to quit planning.

Anyway, I realize I kind of freaked out about turning 30. It wasn't that bad. The things that were important still are, and the things that weren't, well, they're still not. I'm realizing more and more that despite the heart-attacks my children like to give me, they are my entire life. I think anyone who becomes a mother and thinks their life can possibly resemble anything it did before is crazy. Is that mean? This life, this mom life, is worlds away from the "old me."

And as Thanksgiving approaches, and I see all my Facebook friends posting the things they're thankful for, I guess it boils down to the simple things in my life that I'm most thankful for. I'm thankful that I have a washer and dryer to produce these overflowing baskets of laundry. I'm thankful for the money to buy even the not-so-great dinners. I'm thankful for Isaac, who always likes the lunches I pack and reads to me each morning, for Ella, who dresses up in my pantyhose and her brothers' t-shirts and shrieks "Gook at me, Mommy! Am I so cute?"....for Brett's ability to be flexible and good-spirited in the worst scheduling circumstances ever,and for the rest of my family who...all have their own qualities. I'm thankful that I had Sarge, the best dog ever, who loved me more than I ever had the right to be loved. And for this bloody kid, who says "you would never laugh at me for having this tape and stuff stuck to me, would you, Mommy?"
No, I wouldn't. Ever.
"Is my blood done coming, Mommy?"
I sure hope so.
"How does tape stick, Mommy? You should get that eyeshadow on TV, Mommy. You could look like Halloween all the time. Do you think I should wear my pajamas to school tomorrow? Can I drink hot apple cider for my breakfast again?"
sigh.
I'm thankful for that. I'm really, really thankful for that.
Oh, and the glitter. I've left you hanging about that, and you're dying to know how I am covered in blood and glitter, right?
Yes.
I was starting to make a wreath. A Christmas wreath.
Because that's just around the corner, too, you know.

Something-life-crisis

2011-10-05T18:13:00.001-07:00

I ate a Little Debbie snack cake. I ate two, actually. I haven't eaten one in probably twenty years. I know why: they're disgusting, and they taste like plastic. I am watching a movie, on television, that isn't Lifetime, and hasn't been in theaters. This means it was never good enough for either.
I bought a ridiculously expensive bottle of Essie nail polish; it's called "Lady Like," as if I'm really going to accomplish something.
I bought a Zumba Ultimate Transformation kit. I eyeball it warily. I've yet to unwrap the DVDs. I just figure that if I'm going to wear the leggings (which were last week's brilliant idea), I'm going to have to do something about these thighs.
I keep looking online at spas and getaway trips to resort lodges with glossy pine beams on the ceiling and pictures of women resembling Stepford Wives enjoying glasses of wine.
I am back and forth on whether or not I want bangs again.
I am determined that I have to get rid of my minivan. It only makes me feel older.
Older. The same feeling I get when I look in the mirror each morning and see bags and gray hairs. I remind myself that I'm still young and hip. I have a Kindle.
I feel a little crazy, but I wouldn't call it a mid-life-crisis because I don't know how old I'll live to be. How does anyone know when their mid-life is? I never understood that.
Nope.
I'm turning 30.
In 5 days.
Please pass the Xanax.

Unconditional Love

2011-10-01T05:28:00.000-07:00

The best kind of love is the kind that is free. It does not require stipulations, it does not change, it does not lessen. I am certain I've felt two, solid instances of this type of love in my life thus far.
I think the most common example of this kind of love is felt when a woman becomes a mother. For me, it happened the moment I discovered, after peeing on countless sticks and seeing countless pink plus-signs, there was a person growing within me. It was a two-fer, in my experience...I hadn't 100% trusted in Jesus yet, but I realized He loved me enough to give me a new life. He loved me that much, even though I hadn't lived my life for Him. Through months of discomfort, uncertainty, nausea and what felt like a million trips to the bathroom, I awaited the moment I'd look into the face of this little creature I loved more than anything before. No other love before that can measure up to it; the feeling is, for lack of other explanation, euphoric. Sadly, the love from child to mother doesn't always follow suit. Don't get me wrong, I think my kids love me, and I think they love me a ton. At this age. I'm all they have, I'm their lifeline to everything they've known in their brief time on this earth. I just know it will change. I know they will be angry with me, someday, and they will claim to not love me. Two of them have already "hated" me at some point. I know they don't mean it...but what I'm saying is, the love isn't the same. My theory is that they'll discover this type of love later in life...I can't remember loving anything unconditionally when I was a kid, either. But I remember feeling unconditional love, from my mother.
I think it's tough for people to love unconditionally. It's natural for humans to put conditions on things. "I love you when..." or "I love you, except..." This is why, I think, God gave us animals. In Genesis, God creates Eden and gives Adam the responsibility of looking after all the animals, forming a bond between man and four-legged-creature that has continued for centuries. My dogs love me unconditionally. They follow me throughout the house with their eyes, and if I leave their line of sight, they'll move to a new position so they can see me again. When I stir in the morning, when they hear my movement, they begin to whine with anticipation, waiting for me to pat my hands on their heads for the first time of the day. Their backs grow rigid and their eyes wary with suspense whenever a strange person approaches me. They'd lay down their lives for me, any day, any time, unconditionally. It's sort of how I'd lay down my life, any day, any time, unconditionally for one of my kids.
Dogs (or any pet for that matter) are a great example of unconditional love, because "stuff" doesn't get in the way.
The thing that taints unconditional human love, when it does happen, is "stuff." Money, possessions, greed. You can't take it with you, anyway. When I last looked at my best friend, Sarge, I felt my last dose of his unconditional love for me. In his deep brown eyes, I knew that nothing in life had satisfied him more than the bond we shared. When marriages end, and couples sever their ties and create new lives apart, it's the greed, the bitterness, and the argue over "stuff" that surfaces. The love wasn't unconditional.
When a loved one dies, their "stuff" becomes a breeding ground for anger and contempt. For jealousy, as one sibling discovers that another sibling will fight them for a material possession. For betrayal, as deep secrets are discovered and relationships are forever wounded. The love wasn't unconditional.

So, friends, my point on this Saturday morning is to strive to find the moments of unconditional love you've experienced in your own lives. If you're a mom, maybe you already know it. If you have a pet, maybe you know it. Maybe you have experienced a different form altogether. Whatever it is, find it. Think of all the things in this life we will have, or consume, or even think we own, and know that it is only temporary.
Love is the only thing you can take with you.

Sometimes

2011-09-23T09:42:00.000-07:00

...I find myself crying for no reason. I know that's a symptom of something horrific, according to one of those chemically life-altering anti-depressant commercials, but, alas, I do. I used to think my mother was insane for crying at Hallmark commercials, but...now that's just par for the course. Sometimes I can't even go in to a Hallmark store. Well, and that Maxine just gets me going, too.

So, today, as I was sitting in my dark and clouded dining room, I found myself staring at a "mega-noodle" on my spoon. I was thinking how it was indeed much more practical than an "average-noodle,"when suddenly, something plopped down into the liquid. I thought to look up to the ceiling, but I then realized it was a tear. I plunged the spoon back into the bowl of Campbell's and rested my forehead into my palms, twisted the pressurized knob of the emotional spigot in my brain, and let everything pour out. A flood of all things unspoken (at least unspoken to most) came rushing through my head; tightening my throat, burning my eyes and making my nose begin to run.
Next week I have to go and have another ultrasound, and it terrifies me. What if it's something really bad and...what if my kids, God forbid, had to grow up without me? In two weeks, I'm turning 30. In 10 years, I've been a wife twice, a mother three times, and I've lived in four houses, not counting the cottage and three apartments. Yet, I still haven't figured out what to do with my life. I just know it goes on, whether you figure it out or not.
And then,there's the deep-dark secret. No, I'm not going to tell you what it is, but it's there, tucked away, all the same. Right there, snuggled next to "no one understands you." They've become good friends. And the reminder I give myself: "you can't get upset with people because they don't understand, and not everything you do can be undone."
Today is my little baby girl's birthday. She is two! She is two.

I suppose I could have been crying for any of those reasons. Sometimes, I just do. And so I sat, staring at the orange and brown and green stripes of my place mat, and feeling the warmth of a ray of sun, creeping between the limbs of a tree and making its way through my dining room window. For now, though, I tell myself, it's time to dry it up and put on a smile. There's a cake to be made, some laundry to be done. There's a little boy who wants to me to play Legos, and another one who will want to tell me all about his day at the school farm. Yes, so just get up.

Tomorrow, after all, is just another day.

The day after September 11

2011-09-12T14:09:00.001-07:00

I didn't post this blog yesterday, mainly because I just couldn't get it right. Okay, in all honesty, I didn't type it until today.
But that's no big thing, really. I write everything in my head way before you ever see it in typeface.
I didn't post it because I kept thinking about the actual day of September 11, 2001, and how on that day, nobody had any idea what had just happened. But the next day...after hours of no sleep, and trying to get to the bottom of it, we all had a pretty clear picture of the magnitude of horror. And ten years later, watching the events unfold again on television, I had just that feeling: what in the heck is going on? So I waited. Till today, to see if my thoughts would magically congeal into something more...logical. And I regret to inform you, they have not. There was no lightbulb, no "a-ha!" moment, when I suddenly understood why families have suffered from this tragic day for ten years. Because it was all stemmed from hate. And hate has no logic.
Some of us have suffered less than others, certainly. I didn't lose a family member in the Trade Center, and no one I knew was on one of the flights. We all remember what we were doing on that day - just like my mom remembers what she was doing when she found out President JFK was assassinated. You just remember stuff like that, I guess. I was in school, if you care to know. And I was an Army wife, which presented a set of problems all on its own. My husband wasn't home...he was in Ranger school. Somewhere in the Everglades. I was alone. Next to an Airforce Base, where it was normal for Chinooks and Little Birds and C-130s to hover the area regularly. As I drove to the base, though, that afternoon, the silence in the sky was deafening. The military police were bigger jerks than usual, armed with weapons fit to kill something much bigger than me and my dog, Sarge. We just wanted to get through the gate before the base locked down, and get to someone we knew. Marc Anderson walked out to my car, pet Sarge and asked if I was alright. He said he wasn't sure when I'd see my husband again - he didn't know the plans. Maybe they'd all deploy to help, somewhere. Maybe they'd just go to Iraq and blow up the bad guys. I know a lot of guys were hoping it was the latter. There was a lot of anger, amid the confusion.
There was a lot of fear. I needed my mother...no matter how old you get, when you're scared, you want your mama. I must have called my mother ten times that day. And my two best friends in Georgia, Tracey and Laura. And of course, I had Sarge. During the next few months, Marc was a big brother to me, too. He made sure I got out of the house for a few good dinners, and asked me to come and help pick out an outfit for his brother's expected baby. He was incredibly excited to be an uncle. We even got a boonie hat embroidered, "Lil' Anderson."
That Christmas was bittersweet, in 2001. "The boys," otherwise known as 1st Platoon, came over for Christmas dinner. I made the biggest turkey I could find at the commissary, and enough sides for, well, an army. We had a roaring fire in our old brick fireplace, and that tiny cottage with the wooden walls was never cozier. All the guys spread out on the floor and we watched Shrek. I remember Marc fell asleep with a cleaned-to-the bone turkey leg resting on a plate on his chest. We all joked that he looked exactly like Shrek.
The next day (which is always kind of a letdown anyway, when the festivities are over), the boys all left for Iraq. With the nation whirling around in fear, frustration and uncertainty, it was just the icing on the cake to know that my husband, not to mention the rest of the boys, were heading for war.
And to make matters worse, Marc never came home. Those bad guys took him down, on March 4, 2002. I told you nothing good comes from hate.
So, yesterday was a flood of emotions, as it is every year on the 11th of September. I watched the programs on television and I remembered, of course, what I was doing that day. I still felt the horror and disbelief when I saw the victims jumping from the Trade Center windows. The gruesome thud of bodies, hitting the concrete. The firefighters valiant effort to herd masses of corporate America down dozens of flights of stairs. The shaking voices of wives, hearing a final goodbye from their husbands, on a plane about to crash.
A horror film.
And then I heard the bagpipes. And I love them, but since Marc's memorial service, I just can't do them anymore. Then a beaten and battered American flag triumphantly unfurled at the memorial site, telling the story of her courage, even though her rips and holes and dirty stripes didn't come for free. And I sobbed and sobbed.
And I reached for the phone to call my mother.

It's all baloney

2011-09-02T09:50:00.000-07:00

I am eating a bologna sandwich. I can't tell you the last time I had one. I might have been ten. No, I was nineteen. I remember this now, because I was incredibly poor, and bologna was cheap. So were pickles and grape jelly. Our fridge was interesting. This sandwich is good; I put butter on it, along with the mayo, by the way. I always do, because my mom always did, and my grandma always did, and beyond that, my grandpa put butter on anything edible. And he lived to be 98.

Butter and mayo and bologna and bread. And let's just get it out in the open, I think it's stupid that "bologna" is spelled with a g-n-a at the end. So in the title, I spelled it "baloney." It works out better that way.

I'm eating this baloney sandwich and blogging, about nothing. About the sandwich, so far. Earlier this week, a female acquaintance of mine commented on a post I made on Facebook. She said I ought to write a blog; what I have to say helps her prepare for the future in raising her own children. (They're babies, still, and I've been there and done that already). Of course I told her I already do write one, and she should follow it. If she wants. Not that I'm an expert on child-rearing, but because sometimes, it's easier to deal with your own life if you can see that you're not alone. It's better than going to counseling, see, because you can read it and either say "Ahhh, well, there now, I'm not that crazy," or (and hopefully not) "Good grief, I'm in trouble." Self-diagnosis.

Anyway, after reading this acquaintance's suggestion, I asked myself, why do I write a blog?

For one thing, the computer doesn't talk back. It doesn't question. It allows me the freedom to "talk and talk" and it never rolls its eyes or pretends that I'm interesting.

I know there are other moms out there who must experience the same things I do. Life's trials and tribulations, moments of ultimate frustration with kids and husbands and family, along with moments of indescribable joy. My life is plain, yet it is never dull. We aren't rich or fancy, we don't take lavish vacations, and I can't, honestly, even remember the last time I ate dinner out somewhere. Unless you count Pizza Hut family night. So, I can't write about red-carpet-worthy events. I can write about my love for stuffed-crust, however.

Each blog is a snapshot of my mind at a current moment. Some days I am contemplative, some days nostalgic, and some days, I'm just writing because I need an outlet. A listening "ear." So I sit (with or without a baloney sandwich) and click the keyboard. I note that I'm getting crumbs on the keys.

There's this feeling of disbelief that people are actually reading what I write, yet they say they do. People have even said they like it. Perhaps they have related to something. Some blogs are a little pointless, like this one, maybe.

I don't know if you have ever experienced this, readers, but sometimes, when your mind seems to be flooded with thoughts, the last thing you could do is put them in writing. The thoughts are transparent; you cannot grasp them and nail them down. And they're so overwhelming, you'd love nothing more than to be able to do just that. Because if you could line them up, you could prioritize; make a plan. But you can't. Or I can't.
I keep hoping that by writing things down, eventually, things will sort out. They typically do.
So I just blog.

And develop wrinkles in my forehead.

And the green grass grows all around

2011-08-28T03:42:00.000-07:00

You know that saying, "about as exciting as watching grass grow..." or something like that? I realize this post might fit that bill. However, I decided it was important to note, in writing, how much I am actually grateful that my grass does grow, and how happy I am to mow it. Weird, eh?

When I lived in Georgia, I had a dinky push mower that was a pain in the rear to start, and nine times out of ten, I would pay some teenager to come and start it...and mow the lawn while he was at it. I couldn't be bothered, and it was so darn hot, your face would melt right off if you went out there. Really.

When I moved to Indiana, I found that the grass actually stayed green and pretty, and it wasn't so bad, once in a while, to cut it. In fact, I began cutting it regularly, which, I thought, was a novel idea. It also didn't really matter what I thought of it, because as the sole adult living in my house, I didn't have much of a choice.

Now, back to where I started, in Michigan, I wouldn't give up my lawn-mowing duty for anything. Well, maybe for a brownie sundae, but let's pretend that's not an option. In fact, I consider it a lawn-mowing privilege these days. It's an hour of peace and serenity, just me and the yard. But there's something more. And I had to get to the bottom of it. So a few days ago, perched atop my Yardman, I began thinking...as I tend to do. I don't take a Walkman, or I guess now it's an IPod...whatever those things are with the little buds that stick in your ear and make you oblivious to the world around you. I've seen the look that teenagers have when they are attached to those things, and it's spooky to me. I actually like to hear the rumble of the engine, the whirring of the blade. I watch the ground ahead of me, scanning for sticks, rocks, fallen walnuts. I watch along the creek as I drive past, looking for minnows or maybe a trout. I see when the snapping turtle is eyeing me, making sure we understand our place as cohabitants on this property. I note the progress of growth in the butterfly garden I've planted. I think of how I'll expand it next year. I begin reciting "Birches," my favorite Frost poem, while I circle the white, peeling trunk. I hum "Feelin' Groovy," and I feel every bump and curve of the land.

I do this weekly, whether it needs it or not. I come by it honestly; my grandpa was a habitual mower. There'd be weeks with no rain, and the grass would be all-but-dead, and George would say, at approximately the same time each week, "Well...guess I better mow." And he would. And it was my cue to go outside, too, because, well, I liked to be out there when he mowed. My childhood best friend and I would play while he would mow and then he'd bring his mower up to the corner of the driveway to remove all the clumped grass from the blade. He wore these dark brown cotton gloves, pretty much whenever he was outside, I remember. Sometimes he'd complain because the blade needed sharpening, but I don't even think he minded that much. He sharpened it on some sort of tool in the garage, telling me to "stay back" and I'd watch in awe as sparks flew around and his face skewered up with intensity. And always those dark brown gloves. One time I visited, as an adult, years after he gave up on mowing his own lawn, and the gloves were still on the shelves in the garage. I tried them on my hands; they were soft and worn and still smelled like grass.

Mowing, I suppose, has always been a comforting thing. It has always meant people were there, people who loved me and took care of me. At my childhood house, I enjoyed days when the mower came out, because it meant my dad was home. The few times I mowed the lawn in Georgia, I was always under the watchful eye of Sarge, my beloved dog and companion, who, at the time, was all I had..and therefore, was my home.

Sometimes now, my children will play on the deck while I mow, or ride their bicycles in the driveway. The dogs will lay on their bellies in the shade, sleepily supervising me as I pass by. I wonder if they, the kids and the dogs, like the mowing. They don't say.

In addition to my bond with the lawnmower, I'm taking up birdwatching. I didn't mean to, but they are kind of fascinating and beautiful. I especially like the morning doves that took residence in the crab tree. As a kid, my grandpa used to call to them from the porch swing in a sing-song voice, and Grandma would peg orange-halves to the maple tree for the Orioles.
But I suppose that's another post for another day.

Fearless

2011-08-23T07:19:00.000-07:00

How is it that I am so much more tame now than I used to be? Last night, I was laying in bed, recalling that once upon a time, I went to Atlanta with a friend, and this friend took me to another friend's apartment, and at this apartment, people were smoking marijuana from a big thing that I learned, later, was called a bong. Or was it a hookah? I enjoy that word...but anyway, I had no idea. Really, I did not. And no, I didn't use it. But when we went to a bar, later, for a costume party, I did have a drink. Hey, I was 21. It was legal. Smart? No. I was in Atlanta and I knew 3 people, sort of. But...

I had no fear.

Then, on the way home, this friend stopped at a gas station. Pumped gas. And then got back into the car...only to shout expletives a few moments later when realizing that some...illegal substance that was apparently being carried in a pocket...fell out at the gas station. I didn't know we had been carrying an illegal substance in my Camry. I didn't even consider that, had we been pulled over by police, we could have gone to jail. The point is, even when I found out about it, I didn't panic.

I had no fear.

The thought struck me that I packed up my entire life into a U-Haul, said a casual goodbye to everyone I had ever known, and trucked my way to Georgia, to live in an apartment with my high school boyfriend. I navigated the streets of Savannah, GA over the next few weeks in my black Toyota Corolla, still not really mastering the art of driving a manual transmission; certainly not around those squares. At dusk, I hightailed-it back to my little apartment in not-the-best area of town, set the security alarm, and hunkered down for the night. I listened to sounds from other apartments. Yelling, cursing, banging. I watched suspicious-looking people walk past my sliding glass door, and I compulsively checked to make sure it was latched.

Because maybe I had a little fear.

To pass the time of loneliness, while my husband was overseas, I put myself through real estate school and began showing these amazing historic Savannah homes. Except they weren't all amazing...some were scary. Especially the one occupied by the schizophrenic man who pinned me to the wall and said "It's just me n' you, now, Blondie."

I had fear, but I had mace.

Recently, my sister was about to embark on a music tour with a group of folks she met on Facebook. She'd probably tell this story differently, but it's my blog and I'll tell it like I know it. She was meeting them in Chicago. I drove her to the venue; a sketchy place with walls covered in black trash bags, just down from Gino's East on Racine. Her attitude was nonchalant; she was ready to go take a stab at this touring thing. Only, having been her sister for 23 years, I sensed a little fear under all that armor. Either way, I knew I wouldn't convince her to nix the idea. At one-something in the morning, however, I got a call:
"I don't have anywhere to stay tonight. I'm stuck here, in Chicago, and they didn't arrange for me to stay with them," which translated, in a language only I could understand,to "these people turned out to be a little freakish, I can't do this tour, please, for the love of God, come get me."

For some reason I'd had a hunch this might happen, so my Nikes were at-the-ready and I was out the door and back to the Dan Ryan in no time. I wasn't pleased. Not at all. But, I recall that kind of life, I do.

Nowadays, I'm a walking ulcer. I'm addicted to Fox News, coffee, and worry.

Then again, my grandpa was a hand-wringer too, and he lived to be 98.

County Fair

2011-08-22T06:18:00.002-07:00

In my case, the annual 4-H "youth" fair has always been a source of anxiety and excitement for me. I wasn't a farm-kid, growing up. My grandparents on my mother's side were farmers in their young years, but none of that really carried over when they married and had children. On my father's side, my grandparents had a farm with cattle. While I enjoyed the occasional opportunity to visit the cows out in the field and feed them ears of corn, and certainly loved the adventure of dodging cow patties along the way, I never entered any of them in the fair.
Growing up in a rural farm community only meant that about 70% of the school population was composed of farm-kids. I don't know what the other 30% did; maybe they were the "gamers" of our time. I never got in to that, either. Looking back, I don't know what the heck I did with my time. Let's continue.
The farm-kids spent full weeks at the fair, hanging out in barns with their livestock, riding all the rides a hundred times, eating fair food and forming, whether they knew it or not, this ultra-cool secret society that someone like me, a non-farm-kid, would never understand. I recall meandering through the barns with my parents (lame, because none of them had to walk with their parents, but mine still believed someone would steal me), and casually encountering farm-kids in each barn. I always felt envious of them, and their freedom to interact until late-night, wander the fair grounds in happy little packs, make ill-fated attempts at summer romances and be patted on the back by the teachers in school, a few weeks later, for their ribbons and achievements.
I never went away to camp either. I'm sensing a trend. This is why there are therapists.
I spent the past week at the same 4-H fair, except now, of course, I'm (supposedly) all grown-up and (supposedly) looking at life from a different perspective. I was hosting my own booth for lia sophia, my jewelry company. When representing my company, I feel it's necessary to look my best, whatever that means, and present myself as a professional. So, I made all attempts to achieve just that, and stood proudly behind my booth all week. I did, however, still feel that little twitch of anxiety. I knew, for certain, that in a small town like this, I would surely run in to people from high school. Farm-kids. And on top of that, other kids, now (supposedly) all grown-up too, and looking at life from a different perspective.
Anxiety. And maybe a little curiosity.
Right away, they started filing through the commercial building. Every hour or so, I'd see another familiar face. At one point, a boy from high school walked in. This boy, in particular, is one that I drooled over, back then. I thought he was the cutest, funniest guy. It was common practice for seniors to bring their wallet-size pictures to school and pass them out to friends. If you were a close friend, maybe the back of the picture would have a personalized message, too. Anyway, I happened to be standing in a random group of people when this boy was handing out his pictures one day. He handed me one. There was no personalized message, but I ain't complainin.' I hung that picture on my bedroom mirror, convinced that there was a divine reason he handed me that picture. Of course, it wasn't just because I had been standing there. Surely he intended for me to have it.
Boy, I ramble.
So he walked in, pushing a darling little baby girl in a stroller, and his wife and older daughter were close behind. I immediately felt a pit of anxiety in my stomach. Now would be the time to remind you, readers, that I am not suggesting that I have any desire or attraction to someone outside my marriage. I'm simply recalling the oddness of the past working in the present. It is not because I've thought of this boy at all in the past 10 years, or because I harbor any lingering feelings, but at that moment, I remembered, keenly, what it felt like to be 15 years old, uncool, and awkward. Turns out, while those feelings dissipate over the years, they never actually go away. Right away, I was astonished (as I was when I saw many old schoolmates) that he looked so normal. I guess, back then, I thought all of the "cool kids" were cool because they were somehow better than me. More attractive, popular, charismatic.
And then life happens. And things go the way they go. And almost 12 years later, we're all sort of on the same page.
So I stood up straight, grinned my toothiest grin, and mustered up all the confidence a nearly-thirty-year-old mama can muster. I did my best to shush all those old feelings. I applauded myself, internally, of course, for wearing heels, because Clinton Kelly says they lengthen the leg and make you appear thinner. I stood, nonchalantly glanced in the direction of his family, and....never made eye contact. He didn't pay a lick of attention. Hmph...doesn't he remember, he gave me his senior picture!?!
What does it matter, anyway. I'm glad his family looked so happy and I'm proud of mine as well. Why do I care if he recognized me?
It's just that inner-kid. The non-farm-kid, relatively awkward, out-of-place girl making her way to the surface. The girl I've worked for years to improve, suddenly shouting "still here!"
Will she ever just go away?
Do I really want her to?

Just then, the guy in the booth next to me says, "Hey, do you know that guy with the two little girls over there? He keeps looking over at you, like he knows you or something."

Ha.

How do you do it?

2011-07-26T07:01:00.001-07:00

I am asked that question all the time, and friends, I don't get it. How do I do what? Watch my kids? Stay at home? Cook three meals-a-day, wash, dry and fold laundry, vacuum, dust and pay bills? I just do. Because it's my job. And yes, contrary to popular belief, it is a full-time job...but unlike those of you who get a paycheck each Friday, I am perpetually waiting for the crew from Publisher's Clearinghouse to show up at my door and reward me for all of my hard work. I mean, I would be waiting if I actually did that Publisher's Clearinghouse stuff. I just don't...because I'd probably become addicted to those bonus item things they send ya.

Anyway, I regress....as I typically do....
The other day (I say "the other day" a lot, as if there is some week in my subconscious, comprised of "other days") I was in the grocery store with one kid. I have decided that one kid is my max for grocery store trips. More than one comes along, and they fight like rabid raccoons. One, I can handle. Usually. It's just important that I never underestimate the volume of even just one little mouth. And the word "want." A kid can say something as politely as possible, but when it comes to the part when they say they "want" something, it is always at least 30 decibels louder than anything else they've previously said. E.g.: "Mommy, can you please buy those Danimals (or if you're my kid, you embarrassingly pronounce it "damnanimals") crush-cup yogurts? I WANT them!!!"

So.

I had a pretty successful trip, on this other day, when I went to the store. Things stayed mellow, I bought what I needed, took advantage of some good deals. Then there's the checkout. And I think we should really give a tongue-lashing to people who market checkout lanes, because they clearly do not have children who WANT all those little pocket-size toys, gum, and intriguing cans of Binaca. Nonetheless, my boy was not too hard on me this day. Yes, he asked for every last little item there, as I was distractedly emptying my cart onto the belt, but he did not scream or cry, or do anything that would have surely happened if there had been more than one child present. It was the lady behind us who made the trip memorable...she kept eyeing my purchases, making concerned faces. Finally, as she placed the little "order separator" between our cart-loads, she said "How do you do it?!"
I stopped, dead in my tracks.
"Do what?" I said with a half-smile, expecting the worst...imagining that she perhaps saw my child pocket the Binaca when I wasn't looking, and I'd have to make some horrible example of why we do not steal even if it's small and fits in our pocket...(can you tell I've had to do that before?!)
"I mean," she says, "do you have a big family? Or do you at least have someone to help you unload all this stuff at home? Who do you make all this for?" as she sweeps her hand across the grand pile of chicken, toaster waffles, spaghetti sauce, dog treats and produce on the belt. "And all those paper products," pointing to the paper towel and toilet paper, (listed as PT and TP on my grocery list)"must cost you a fortune!"
I chuckled. It's what I do when I don't really know what to say.
"It does, actually, but you know...coupons...and..."
"But how do you do it? How many kids do you have?"
Now this woman looked about 65. From what I know about her younger years, back in the 40's and 50's, it wasn't atypical to have a big family. So what gives? I've only got 3. 4 when my stepson is over...I didn't think that was a lot. Yes, it's hard, and yes, they're young. But it isn't horrible. So I told her something along those lines, and she gave me this half-smile of pity. Which is when I started mentally going over my outfit and hairdo without actually looking away from her. Did I brush my hair? Am I wearing earrings? Did I spill Diet Coke on my shirt in the car? My only guess is that I look like a destitute woman at her wits-end.
And something odd comes of this situation.
Instead of feeling bad about her revelation that my life must be terribly difficult, I suddenly feel a little bit gleeful. I stand a little taller. I grin at my little boy, now engrossed in a National Enquirer. Heck yeah, this is a tough job. Finally, someone sees, it's a job. No weekends off. 24 hour shifts. No paycheck, no bonus, no vacation. No company car, just a hideous minivan with a mysterious odor and the occasional french fry wedged in the seat cushion.
Clearly, even if just for a moment, I've debunked the myth that stay-at-home moms are these perfectly pedicured Betty Crockers, lounging about on the patio with an Arnold Palmer, awaiting their Ward Cleaver to return, briefcase in hand, to sit down to a lovely gourmet meal.
So I shrugged my shoulders, wiped the pretend-sweat from my brow and did one of those little, "well ya know..." things while playfully shaking my head as I handed the cashier my credit card.
All in a day's work.

...and thanks for listening all the time.

2011-07-18T15:24:00.000-07:00

Dear God,

I know I talk to you all the time. Probably to the point of annoying, but, I figure, hey, you're God, things aren't supposed to annoy you. So I keep talking. And hoping that some of it is making its way to your ears.
Today I am putting it in writing. And then I'm gonna post it to this blog forum. I don't know if you're in to blog forums at all, but I suppose as long as I keep it clean, and I make sure everybody knows how I feel about You, it's probably okay. Besides, the only reason I'm writing this in the first place is because there might be another mom out there who needs it. So she doesn't think she's alone in her crazy world. Because as I've told you, it's easy to feel alone.
So here's the gist of it: I need a break. Relief, from somewhere. I've done it all myself, and I know you tell me not to. I've tried not to bother you with all my woes. I've been very thankful for all you've already done for me. But right now in life, I feel like I need someone bigger and stronger than me to take over for a little while. Or at least give me a good boost. Yeah. A boost would be good - like when you know you can't possibly reach the next level by yourself, and someone comes up and makes that little foothold by locking their hands together, and they say "here, step up," and you're thinking oh my word, but I'll break your arms off, but you giggle nervously and take the lift because you really needed it and then you realize it wasn't so awful to trust for a second, that someone else, bigger and stronger than you, could actually help. There I go rambling again to you. See, I even do it in writing. Sorry.
You know the stuff I need. You know the relief I'm asking for, so I won't blare that all over this blog forum thing.
But I will post it....because maybe another crazy person out there needs You too, but they're too afraid to ask.
Love,
Sara

Mint Juleps and Rocking Chairs

2011-06-30T07:15:00.000-07:00

"And then I am going to buy my house in Kauai before I am too old to actually enjoy it," I announced, last night, mentally sealing my deal that I am going to triumph in my own business, make a six or seven-figure income and become very comfortable in life. Not that I believe money is all that we need - it's the last thing, really. But it would certainly be nice to not feel the pings of a coronary each time I get my credit card statement. Or when I take my stepson to the dentist and hear the words "insurance won't cover this." Or when I get a text from my husband casually saying "The washer broke...basement's flooded." A few extra bucks would be nice, that's all.
My mother and I were conversing on the phone the other day and I exclaimed: "It's just NOT how I planned my life to be. I had no idea it would turn out this way!" And then I instantly felt guilty because I am certain that the woman who listened quietly as she was told she had breast cancer, or that she couldn't bear children, or that her husband had been killed, her child has a debilitating disease...didn't really plan on life being this way, either.
I heard snippets of many womens' stories this week while attending National Conference for lia sophia. So many of them had a butterfly story, of how they mustered up the strength and perseverance to rise from the pits of despair and become successful in their own businesses. One woman looked at me and said, "Well you know, girlfriend, that if you want somethin' done right, you just gotta do it for yourself!" And how many times have I heard that? And how many times do I still believe I will be somehow rescued from my woes? I promise to let you know when it happens.
John Lennon said "Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans." As we hurdle through the day's challenges, feeling like hamsters on the wheel, life is going on around us, and, before we know it, our hair is gray, our kids are grown and have moved away and we wonder where it all went.
So, I'm scheming again. Planning, I should say...because it sounds nicer. Can I, through faith, courage, and enthusiasm, change my own path? Because the alternative is to be stagnant. Sitting in a stale pool of "wait and see." And I know I can do that, because I do it all the time. Can I feel the empowerment of being a woman in today's society, grab life by the reins and show no fear? "I'll try," I say to myself. And then I remember the saying, "There is no try; only do." So...there's that.
I had another little dream, in case Kauai didn't work out. When I lived in the south, there were these magnificent old plantation houses, with majestic cypress trees drooping over the front yard, a dog or two wandering about the long, gravelly driveway. The best part about them was that they all had these porches as big as my garage - equipped with dainty little tables, lumbering rocking chairs and giant porch swings. I imagined myself laying in the swing, reading a book, or sitting in one of those chairs, sipping a mint julep and watching the day go by. There'd be a lake or a river out back, full of fish, a rickety old dock to sit on with a dog or two by my side and a night sky so big an starry, I'd feel like I was in outer space.
For now it's just a dream. But maybe also a challenge, because, as I'm slowly grasping, this is the only chance we've got to make what we want of this life. There are no do-overs. And, the only guarantee in life is that it won't last forever.

Waiting to exhale...

2011-03-23T15:47:00.000-07:00

For about 3 years, I've struggled with this: a child who is bright and intelligent, imaginative and social, inquisitive and thoughtful. Oh, and also hyperactive and impulsive. And sometimes a little violent. And disobedient, unfocused, and obnoxious. That's all. Just that.

Many parents would be drinking by now. Many would have turned to child abuse, or demanded medication to drug this child into a zombie-like oblivion. I took him to counseling, tried with fervor to work with him at home, and spent endless hours on the internet, doing research on this sort of behavior. And I cried, certain that I had failed as a mother.

I consulted Isaac's teachers recently, after finally wrapping my mind around the fact that he may, indeed, suffer from ADHD. Some people who know us might be laughing right now, muttering something along the lines of "duh!" But those people don't get it, unless they've been through this. Mother's of children with ADHD don't admit it easily. At least I didn't. I didn't want this diagnosis, considering it's a mental disorder. What mom wants to hear that their child has a mental disorder? The pediatrician suggested it quite a while ago, but that only put me into the frenzy of research, along the way deciding to obtain my master's in child counseling because of it. The teachers' evaluation of Isaac was what really shook me. It was devastating to me. I realized that I was only hurting him further by waiting. We sat down and had a long talk, which was when this six-year old with amazing potential told me, in a nutshell, just that.
"Mom, I want to do well. My brain tells me to do things that I know are bad, and I can't stop it, even when I want to."

So all this time, maybe he could have done well, he could have struggled less...and I was too stubborn to try medication.

Until today.

He had his first dose of Adderall at about 4:30 p.m. The doctor and the pharmacist both told me it could take 2 or 3 months to level out in his system, but this was an immediate-release, six-hour formula, and I'd likely see a change relatively quickly. The first 30 minutes, I noticed nothing. He was insane in the grocery store, and acted as though he could hear me. He grabbed for everything on the shelves, begged for candy, and ran in the parking lot. Hmph...yeah, immediate release. Right.
By the time we returned home, however, something changed. He was oddly quiet. He was respectful to me while I made dinner. He asked for salad. He ate his meal without jumping up from the table, complaining about the food or making obscene noises. He volunteered to take a bath, did homework without any nagging, and even helped his brother make his bed. I thought surely it was a joke. He had to be making it up. Except for the part that he's six and has no idea what that little blue pill was for.
So I find myself, still, holding my breath. Tomorrow is a new day, another 2 pills. I am immensely curious as to how his teachers perceive his behavior. And I continue to stress, because that's what moms do. They live and breathe for their children, I suppose. And cry for them, and laugh for them, and celebrate their victories.
I'm certainly opening up to the idea that this might be one of those victorious occasions.

To Go to Heaven: The Simple Version

2011-03-14T06:49:00.000-07:00

We're driving to church Sunday morning, and between chattering teeth because the heat hasn't started working yet, Isaac opens up a conversation, again, about Sarge.
"I really miss that dog, Mommy. He must have been very old if God wanted him back in Heaven."
"Well, he was old," I say, "But you don't always have to be old to go to Heaven. Often, God needs to take back young people, too."
"I'm so mad that I'll be seven, soon," he says."This means, I'll be seven and my brother will only turn 4, and I'll always be older than him. Which means, I'll have to go to Heaven first."
I reassured him that age is not the only reason people die and go to Heaven. Although, I told him I hoped it would be the reason that all of us go...that we'd live a full life, grow very old, and then one day, God would come for us.
He sat quietly for a while, his six-year-old hands stuffed into his coat pockets, shoving his feet against the blower of the now-warm heater. Then he pipes up:
"Sarge probably has to protect people, even in Heaven. I think that's his new job. Like maybe he protects God, or the angels or something. Or maybe he is an angel and he protects me."
"Maybe. What made you think that?"
"Easy, Mom. He was a lifeguard."
And that, he was. And this conversation did to me what many conversations do to me. It provoked so many thoughts. Thoughts about the mind of a child, and how vast the world must seem to them. Thoughts of how fleeting it all really is.
We went to my late-grandparents' house later in the day, and I took a few pieces of Grandma's old costume jewelry, and a sugar bowl that sat on the table every day I ate there. They didn't have lavish things in life. Nothing of great value, material-wise. They were just great people. I didn't want anything of great value, anyway. I got that while they were alive, just soaking in their presence. I wanted a few things that I knew they used often...a bowl that held the sugar that Grandpa spooned into his daily coffee, and a couple pairs of earrings that not only do I remember Grandma buying (from the Avon lady, at that), but wearing. I wanted things that they touched. So fleetingly.
My Grandma used to talk about the end of the world. She read the National Enquirer and half-believed all the outrageous stories about a "half-child, half-monkey" or an "alien invasion impregnating rural farm community women." But she really believed everything about the end of the world. About the apocalypse, and Jesus' second coming. She thought it might even happen during her lifetime. Turns out it didn't, but I am not sure she was far off.
My mother noted, today, that the devastation at the World Trade Center was on 9/11/01, and the earthquake in Japan was on 3/11/11. Then I saw on a website that someone took the time to add those numbers together, reaching the conclusion of "12-21-12," the date Nostradamus predicted the world would end. Hmm...but then I did some further browsing, and noticed that the Madrid bombings happened on 3/11/04. Coincidental, maybe. I don't like being too superstitious.
However, the other day, at church? I opened our Daily Devotional. The 40 day one we are supposed to use during Lent. It has little blurbs, each day, about things we can ponder during this time of reflection. I read March 9 (Ash Wednesday) and then the 10th. It was when I flipped to Friday, March 11, that I got goosebumps. The topic for that day was "Seismic Shocks." It was all about great earthquakes, and David. The prayer? "Lord, use seismic shocks to wake us up to your Message, and use us to spread your word so that others may learn that they must turn to you for their rescue."
That, my friends, is no coincidence.
How can I tie this all together? What's the point? The point is: life is fleeting. If you've ever lost something you love, you're aware of this, all too painfully. There's nothing we can do about it, except to live well and live right while we live here. There's no telling when the world will end. There are plenty of hints in the Bible, things to look for. Either way, we have to agree, he's given us ample time to prepare...so that's all we can do. It's never to late to repent all the bad stuff and start over. If we know anything from Lent, it's that the ultimate sacrifice was made over 2000 years ago, and it didn't have an expiration date. Trusting in that, I think, is the simplest way to get to Heaven.

Just a Dream

2011-03-12T07:55:00.001-08:00

Have you seen the movie "Family Man" with Nicholas Cage? The one where he is a high-falutin' business man with everything and then after the altercation with the guy robbing the convenience store, he wakes up with a full-fledged family on Christmas morning? And...um...doesn't really dig it?

Some days I wonder if I'm dreaming...if my life, pre-kids, pre-responsibilities, pre-marriage, etc...isn't just a "wake-up" away. No, I'm not saying that I don't want my family...no I'm not saying that at all. I'm not ungrateful. I just feel like I'm in some sort of dream sequence, and I'm often unsure of why God chose me for this life, instead of, perhaps, another one.

Sitting at my kitchen counter, looking at the debits going out for bills vs. the credit coming in, living in a day-to-day panic, dealing with a child with undeniable behavioral issues (which the doctor calls ADHD and I haven't been able to fully accept, yet), having to move, pack, deal with sickness...the list goes on. And I'm officially griping, I suppose, for which I apologize. It's just, don't any of you ever feel this way? Please say you do.

I've been studying the purpose and meaning of Lent, and today I've finally reached the point that I think God has been asking us to reach. I sat here with my cheek pressed against the cold counter top, racking my brain for answers. "If I pay the hospital with this paycheck, I can wait on the car payment till next week...and still have some room for groceries..." and it happened. Turn it over. Our pastor preached about turning our worries over to God, a few weeks back, and I half-heartedly went along with it. It's a nice concept...but really? I doubt God'll pay my bills or make my kid behave. And truth is, He won't...exactly. But He will listen and He will see, that somehow, everything works out.

I found a greatly supportive quote by Ian Maclaren: What does your anxiety do? It does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, but it does empty today of its strength. It does not make you escape the evil; it makes you unfit to cope with it when it comes. God gives us the power to bear all the sorrow of His making, but He does not guarantee to give us strength to bear the burdens of our own making such as worry induces.

So, I'm gonna try. I really will. Pastor Pat said to cast our worries upon Him and then go to sleep. He's going to be up all night, anyway.

Thank God for Creamer

2011-03-11T05:01:00.000-08:00

...if I didn't have it, I'd be in a world of hurt. My dark chocolate breve creme in my Nantucket Blend is the closest thing I have to cake at the moment. Speaking of deprivation, I am supposed to facilitate a 30 hour famine for my teen Sunday school group. I am now realizing, after about 30 hours without my favorite desserts, but with all the other foods, how difficult that famine will be. I also realize how ignorant that sounds. Considering there are children who probably haven't eaten at all this week...or ate mud cakes, convincing themselves it tasted okay. Anything to fill the belly.
Makes 30 hours, and creamer, seem pretty insignificant.
Lent is a lot about self-discovery. Redirection. It's about learning or relearning your abilities to control yourself. On the surface, I've sacrificed something superficial: cake, cookies, pies...but deeper, I am trying to relearn my ability to devote myself to something, and really mean it. I'm thinking of ways to teach this to my children, but I still think it might be too early. Only last year did they watch (parts) of the Passion of the Christ. It moved them, for certain, because we still talk about it regularly. I'm not sure they understand sacrifice, though. How do you teach them the value of self-sacrifice, of following Jesus when it is much more convenient (and fun) to follow negative influences? It's not something I'm really trying to answer just yet. Really, I'm only pondering...
I found this quote from the writings of Frederick Buechner, and decided to re-post it. I find the idea of spirtual rebirth fascinating, if, in fact, we believe it can happen:
"In many cultures there is an ancient custom of giving a tenth of each year's income to some holy use. For Christians, to observe the forty days of Lent is to do the same thing with roughly a tenth of each year's days. After being baptized by John in the River Jordan, Jesus went off alone into the wilderness where he spent forty days asking himself the question of what it meant to be Jesus. During Lent, Christians are supposed to ask one way or another what it means to be themselves...to answer questions like this is to begin to hear something not only of who you are but of both what you are becoming and what you are failing to become. It can be pretty depressing business all in all, but if sackcloth and ashes are at the start of it, something like Easter may be at the end."

Ashes

2011-03-10T04:24:00.000-08:00

Cookies, cakes and pies. That's what I gave up. Generic, I know. Everyone gives up sweets, or soda, or junk food...something like that. Me, too. I figured I should give up something that will be challenging, so it's actually a sacrifice. Coffee was a suggestion. Give up coffee? Me? I don't think so...that's too drastic...and I didn't figure it would be that noticeable if I gave up, say, brussels sprouts. The lack of those three desserts will hurt. Trust me. However, I still feel a little silly. It's not going to be that big of a sacrifice, in the grand scheme of things.
In thinking about it, if we truly want to repent our sins, we should give up things that hold us in sin. Vices, if you will. What's mine? Probably Facebook. I should have given up Facebook. Does it make me sin? No. It does, however, hold me in an addiction, and allows me to do things that, well, let's just say God probably doesn't promote. For example, what's the newsfeed for? Gossip! It's so we can call up our best friend and say "did you see what so n' so had as their status today?" How about profile "stalking?" Checking out your ex, or your old high school crush, or that girl you hated in high school so that you can now compare your life to theirs? Or worse, lust after times you spent together? As with all things...guns, drugs, money, etc....Facebook isn't evil. It's when people who are using it misuse it, and turn it into an escape vehicle from real life, that the trouble begins. I'm not trying to preach, friends. I'm just as guilty. And...did I give it up? No. I confess that I am weak; I love a mug of coffee and a juicy "Most Recent" newsfeed in the morning.
When our pastor spread the ashes on my forehead last night and said "In the name of Jesus Christ, you are forgiven," I felt tears prick my eyes. Because just like that, she's right, I am forgiven. Even though I know I might sin a dozen times before lunch today, I'm still forgiven.
As I listened to the rest of the sermon, I realized that in addition to giving up something, I'd like to add a conscious effort in something else. Writing is one of my passionate outlets, so why not add a documentation of my own journey to the cross? If I had been there, that day, asked to carry His cross...could I have done it? Would I have recognized, then, what this man was about to do for me?

Last night,I sang the lyrics, "the world behind me, the cross before me...no turning back, no turning back." And although I know we all fall short of the glory of God...I decided that I will use this time of Lent to focus on the cross before me, and I am praying that God will help me stay focused, in all that I do.
So that's my charge to all of my friends who are denying themselves something, this Lent. Whether it's something easily doable or something that will be a major sacrifice: pray about it. Pray for the strength and focus, and maybe you'll be surprised about the other things that seem to fall in to place when you do. I'm counting on it.

When I wore power suits, I had power....

2011-03-04T22:35:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, I was tough. I had the proverbial "backbone." I didn't back down to people, and generally didn't mind confrontation. I remember a day, back in Savannah real estate, when I said to my then-business-partner Kim, "well this'll be a fun one," as we were dealing with an impossible, rude, demanding couple buying their first home. They antagonized me with late-night phone calls, daily complaints, and wish-lists for things that I should pay for on their behalf, since, of course, they chose me as their Realtor in a sea of other real estate professionals. I took it with a grain of salt. I didn't mind. I may have even enjoyed the challenge. I'd give assertive answers, I'd get the job done, and I'd show up to the lawyer's office for closing, in my black Ann Taylor suit, my favorite Coach heels and and my Louis Vuitton briefcase that begged for the commission check. (Insert materialistic sigh).
Today, friends, I avoid phone calls. I hate to talk on the phone, except for the "regulars" I talk to every week. I love caller ID. If I don't recognize the number, I don't pick up. I don't check my voicemail, either. I generally don't want to know who is calling, because I probably won't call them back anyway. Now, if the call is confrontational, i.e., if there is a problem that I am to somehow solve or otherwise remedy, I really don't want to hear about it. Perhaps I feel, subconsciously, that I did my time. I handled my share of conflict in life. I've been on the receiving end of some horrible calls, with horrible news, and I'm, well, done.
However, it's 1:43 a.m. here, and I awakened from my sleep with one thought: when did I become a sissy?
Maybe you think "sissy" is a bit much, considering I've only mentioned that I avoid phone calls. But I think I avoid more than that. For instance, I don't like dealing with people in person, either, anymore. I find the older I get, the more annoyed I get. Am I a crotchety old woman, at the ripe old age of 29?

I found myself in the check out line of the grocery store, in the deceiving "20 items or less" lane the other day. Everybody always has at least 21 things. Maybe a few more, but, I figured it would be my best bet to at least try to get out of there quickly. Friends, I loathe the supermarket. I love food; I hate buying it. Let's not start me on that tangent. Anyway, I'm behind Little-Miss "I can fit all my needs in one of those little baskets and carry it home in my one little earth-friendly recycled fabric bag." I have never been able to fit all of my stuff in one of those baskets. In the few times I've attempted it, I've nearly killed myself trying to lug it around, obviously full beyond capacity, and left serious track-marks on my forearms from trying to distribute its weight. I regress. Did I mention it's like 1:45 a.m.? My point is, this gal ended up arguing with the cashier over a box of too-expensive teeth whitening strips. She had a coupon. The cashier wouldn't take it. I was immediately annoyed. I would have backed out of the lane, chose another one, and cut my losses. But I'd already used the little separator thing, and put my groceries on the belt. Reloading my cart was not an option. I stood patiently for about a minute. This is a personal record. I tried to soothe my antsy children. I felt an edge in my voice as I told my son "NO" for the one-hundred-ninetieth time he asked for a Ring Pop. They're sticky messes, I'm telling you, Ring Pops. They make for sticky, messy little boys. I shushed my daughter and felt my hands growing sweaty on the handle of the cart; my forehead prickling with sweat as well. It wasn't hot. I was becoming that irritated. Something happens to me that never did before. I get anxious. I get this bewildered sense of...I don't know...craziness. It's a short trip from patience to losing it. The final straw was when the cashier put her flashing light on, for assistance. Little-Miss platinum highlights in front of me was insistent upon using her coupon. It had expired, I overheard. My inner-sissy was telling me to calm down...it'll pass...mellow out and avoid conflict. Then it hit me. Suddenly I was not wearing Adidas track pants, running shoes and a hooded tie-dye sweatshirt. I was in heels, a pencil skirt and pantyhose, and gol-darn-it, when I'm in pantyhose, I mean business. I heard a voice say "Excuse me, dear. I would guess that you have better things to do than stand here and wait for another Meijer employee to come and verify that it is not acceptable to take an expired coupon, and frankly, your teeth appear white enough already. I,in fact, also have better things to do. I'm not exactly sure what those things are, because my life consists of doing things like laundry and changing diapers, but it wasn't always like this, I used to be a little like you. You know, before...this," as I swept my arm over the cart containing my children and groceries. "If you look into my eyes and see the crazy woman behind them, at her breaking point, I am certain that you will end this ridiculous rant and be on your way." Did I just say that? I think I did. Okay, I didn't say the last part, about the eyes and the crazy woman, because, really, they might have called the cops, and I'd be typing from a rubber room right now.
Friends, here's the long and short of it. I always like it when people say "the long and short of it," even though I don't get it. At all.
I have, somewhere along the line, mellowed into some passive-aggressive wanna be of the old me. I'm not confrontational anymore, at least, not right away. I'm now the type who becomes sick, physically, at the thought of having to address "an issue" with someone. I hold on to bad associations way too long simply so I do not have to face them. I am overwhelmed with motherhood, housewifehood, groceryshoppinghood and all of the 'hoods in between, leaving me no time to be the power suit-donning fireball I once was. Maybe, just maybe, a piece of her is still in me, though...and maybe that's enough to someday spark up my "old ways."
On the flip side, though, since I traded pantyhose for track pants, I don't have to shave my legs as often.

A Tribute

2011-02-11T06:13:00.000-08:00

It started the way I would think a blind date might start. I had, after all, picked a safer option. In fact, he was already on the way with me to my car, ready to go back to my cottage. Jessica, a girl who worked there, ran out to me as I climbed into the driver’s seat and said “Sara, wait…there’s another one I really want you to look at. He’s really timid, won’t open up to anyone.” I gave her a look of dread and said “but I already have Gump here…” as I peeked into the backseat at the happy Border Collie who would surely be a smart companion. “This guy is different, though,” she explained, “he’s badly abused and doesn’t trust anyone. You have time…you could turn him around.” I remember trying to protest again when she said “Okay, girl, I wasn’t gonna say it, but his card is up for tomorrow.” I knew what that meant. This “timid” guy she was talking about would be euthanized when the vet came around in the morning. Usually that was reserved for sick ones, or the ones who were the least likely to be adopted due to the ugly nature of their previous lives. In this case, abuse had hardened this six-month old Shepherd mix, making him wary and ill-tempered. At those words, I let Gump out of the backseat and headed back towards the shelter.
Volunteering there off and on, I knew my way around, and I knew several of the employees. Jessica took Gump inside and pointed down the row of barkers toward the last run on the right. At first, I didn’t even see the dog. He was crouched in the corner, eyeing me nervously. A kennel-hand passed by. “I wouldn’t mess with him,” he said, “he snapped my hand when I tried to water him.” I rolled my eyes. I could have been home by now. I read the card on the door of the run. Sure enough. Scheduled for tomorrow. Found tied to a tree….six months old….male…called Sarge. The scarred over lacerations on his back told me enough about the first six months of his life. I tried to speak to him. He tried to blend in with the wall. I did my best baby-talk voice for him, hoping he’d ease up a bit, and it only made him retreat further. I thought of Gump, inside, who had been promised a home, and thought I’d better move on. I looked toward the building and saw Gump in the play yard with Jessica, and her full grown Shepherd, Sheba. I looked back at Sarge, and, against my better judgment, opened the kennel door. His eyes widened as I took a seat on the concrete just inside. He curled up a corner of his lip, to let me know I’d better stay put. I did. Determined not to let him intimidate me, I rested my head on the block wall behind me, looking up to the sky. “You know,” I told him, “I came here today to adopt a dog. Someone broke into my cottage, and my husband is overseas. I’m by myself in this God-awful state. Alone. I hate being alone.” I peeked over at him. He was laying down, his muzzle on his front paws, as if he was listening. “You’re alone, too,” I continued, “You don’t trust anybody either, I get that.” I sighed, thinking again that I better go. But I stayed. A little longer. I continued to lean my head back, more focused on the clouds than my conversation with this dog. I don’t know how much time had passed, but suddenly I felt something tickle my toes in my sandals. I jerked my head down, startled to see Sarge, sniffing my feet with his wet nose. Not wanting to alarm him, I stayed still. Moments later, he was sitting next to me…not touching me, but sitting there. “Do you want to walk?” I asked. I cautiously slid the mandatory rope-leash around his neck and took him out of the run. I couldn’t see Jessica or Gump anymore, but I figured taking him out was alright, if he was leashed. We walked along the fence line, me chatting like an insane woman, trying to reassure him as we went. He stopped at the edge of the fence, looking out over the lawn, sniffing in deep breaths of the January air. A woman and her daughter walked nearby, looking at the dogs. She said to me, “What a good dog you have there,” as she looked at Sarge, sitting like a nobleman at my side. I began to protest, “he’s not actually my dog.” She looked puzzled, and then softened, “Looks like he is, now.”
From that moment forward, he was. I needed him as much as he needed me. Gump, by the way, still got a home that day, too. My landlord fell in love with the description of him, and headed right there to adopt him. We were two loners, Sarge and I, learning each other and more importantly, learning that we could depend on each other. Even when my husband returned, and although Sarge accepted him and grew to like his company, he was still very much my boy. He actually loved everyone he met. He made friends quickly with my friends, neighbors, and even their kids.
When I began selling real estate, I had a bit of an altercation while showing a house. A man had pinned me to the wall of a house in the “bad part of town”…a house I had no business entering in the first place. I was lucky enough to get out unharmed, but from that day on, I decided my sidekick would come to work with me, too. It didn’t bother him any, in fact, he loved waking up with me and getting ready for “work.” He especially loved eating lunch at the Sonic next door to the car wash when we’d have the car done.
Speaking of favorites, Sarge developed a few of his own: a yellow stuffed man from the local pet store became Harvey, his favorite toy. He never shredded it or mangled it; he instead carried it around like a child might carry a doll. A couple times, Harvey was left in the yard after a long afternoon of playing, and when bedtime would come, Sarge would go to the back door, whining. We’d have to let him out to go fetch his Harvey.
As life progressed, my bond only strengthened with my Sarge. He seemed to know my habits better than I did; he knew my timing, my routines, and my emotions. He diligently waited to dispose of any scraps I might have while cooking at the stove. If I was sick, he knew it. He was like Velcro on my side, not even allowing me a private trip to the toilet. He ascertained that no squirrel would linger too long in our yard, no mailman would deliver mail unannounced. When I had Isaac, my first born, he got up with me in the night to feed him, grumbling with me as we padded down the hall to retrieve the screaming baby. When we decided to move back north, he rode up front, for 22 hours, keeping me company on our travels. I am known to be an animal lover, and Sarge wasn’t an “only child” for long. Besides the two cats I also had, I introduced Maddie, a black lab mix, and years later, Yukon, a fluffy white sled dog. Sarge may have had to quarrel with the others to protect his status as “pack leader”, but he never lost his place with me. He knew, above all, he was mine and I was his. Anyone close to me would have confirmed for you that Sarge and I were bonded by something that doesn’t happen with every pet-person relationship. We had weathered many storms together, and we had become the very best of friends. Amazingly, the other animals in the house revered Sarge like a wise man. He became gentle and easy in his older years, and much like my grandfather, he would sit patiently and watch the world go by. He always kept me in the corner of his eye, and if I barely whispered his name, he would be at my hip in seconds.

When Sarge turned nine, I knew age was taking its toll. His muzzle was becoming more and more gray, and he would grumble when laying down or getting up. Those things were expected. I didn’t, however, expect for his mind to be compromised. Just like an older person might develop dementia, apparently, dogs can develop mental disorders too. Now, it was never actually diagnosed, but I think he had some major anxiety issues, and maybe even some doggie dementia. After being the neighborhood socialite for years, he suddenly decided to fear people. It became increasingly common for us to put him “away” when guests would come, as he would growl and bark, raise his shackles and show his teeth. He remained friendly to a few, though…my mother, father, sister, and my (now) ex-husband. He would go through periods of time, mostly at night, when he no longer knew who people were or where he was. He’d panic, and look for me. When he’d find me (usually asleep, in bed) he’d jump on me, burying my head with his body. This not only became a nuisance, but a hazard, as well. A 55 lb. dog making a surprise attack on your head in the night is unpleasant, to say the least. We tried various things: closing him in the bedroom with us at night, giving him his own room to feel safe in, leaving lights and a TV on all night for him…nothing worked, and he progressively got worse. After moving into our current home, he discovered that he could open doors. From then on, he would open the doors at night and drag out the kids’ hampers and stuffed animals, in a crazed panic. He’d wake the children, and create quite a bit of chaos. All throughout, however, I could never bring myself to be upset with him. I knew this wasn’t really him. He didn’t want to do these things. He wanted to be a good dog. That’s all he ever really wanted to be in the first place.
Yesterday will go down in history as one of the worst days in my life. It wasn’t supposed to be; I wasn’t prepared. I opened the doors to my van at 8:30 in the morning, allowing Sarge and Maddie to jump in for our trip to the vet. It was supposed to be a quick visit; a couple booster shots. I knew I’d talk to our vet about Sarge’s behavior, as we’d been keeping tabs on it with different behavioral modifications and anti-anxiety prescriptions for a couple years. I knew she’d ask, and I’d have to tell her, it was all getting worse. Just Monday, Sarge had been left alone in the house for 10 minutes, and he panicked so much that he jumped onto the kitchen island, breaking a glass and annihilating a Valentine candy dish, tearing up a newspaper and pushing the laptop computer onto the hard kitchen floor. I know this stuff is serious, but I also know that I have shrugged it off for years, and chuckled along with people when I recalled the stories of his “senile antics.” In the back of my mind, however, I felt like screaming…this isn’t normal…my baby is getting worse…it isn’t funny. Anyway, when we arrived at the vet, we did the usual weigh-in. I usually hold my breath a little, because Sarge has had a few notorious extra pounds for the past few years. Admittedly, this is because I indulge him in a few table scraps now and again. I figure he deserves it after all these years. I darted my eyes at the vet-tech when she said he was only forty-some pounds. I eased into a smile, “That can’t be right…” She agreed, easily, and said we’d check again. Scale must be off. To my horror, the scale, again, read just over forty pounds. He had lost nearly 15 lbs since the fall…great for someone like me, who’d be elated at that sort of news, but an alarming sign of something wrong in a dog. Especially in a dog who had been eating regularly and still having his “extras” at dinnertime. The vet tech, a very sweet girl, reassured me that we’d check into it. We’d do blood work. We’ll talk to the vet. I felt ill. I went along with the motions of the rest of the appointment, chatting easily and lightheartedly coddling my dogs as they had their nails trimmed and their vaccinations administered. I waited for Dr. Lori to come in and give me her advice…surely she knew why he was losing weight. Surely there was a prescription we could give, and he’d be back to his old self in no time.
When she came into the room, she appeared different to me. She was still pleasant, but I felt (and it could just be me, and my pre-determined apprehension) that she was biting back the advice that she knew I didn’t want to hear. “He could have whipworms,” she said, “Maddie had them before, we could test him. I mean, with his age…” and I heard the words “cancer” and “quick-spreading” and all of those words associated with senior dogs that no one likes to hear. We spoke about his doggie-anxiety. She began looking up the generic prescription for a canine Prozac. We continued talking and finally, I looked at her and said “What would you do?” I waited. I needed her to confirm. Yes or no. Keep going or don’t. She looked at me and said, in a shaky voice, “I don’t know. I can’t say,” and went on “You have gone above and beyond what most people would do for their dogs. You have put up with a lot. Most people wouldn’t tolerate being kept awake all night, or having the threat of destruction in their homes. He could be in pain. He could be suffering, but we know this isn’t him.” And it became clear to me. I was keeping Sarge here, for me. In turn, he was staying, for me. Suddenly, in that room, I was transported back in time to that kennel run, 11 years ago. It was Sarge and I, alone. Staring into each other’s eyes. Asking, silently, what the next move would be. Only this time, it wasn’t Sarge with the apprehension. It wasn’t Sarge who was wary and ill-at-ease. It was me. He was the calm one. He looked at me as if to say, “It’s alright Mom. I’m in, whatever you decide.” He had come to trust me with everything, down to his very last breath. We stared at each other, my hands running frantically through the fur that surrounded his face, suddenly knowing it would be the last time. I began blubbering, through tears, about how handsome he is, and what a great dog he had been. I repeated, over and over, how much I loved him. He leaned his bony head into my shoulder, giving one last infamous “Sarge-hug.” His “sister,” Maddie began licking his face. I kissed his gray muzzle and Dr. Lori said “You’ve really given him a great life.” I broke into full sobs and corrected the statement with certainty: “Oh, no…he has given me a great life.”
Sarge sat patiently, his tail swishing on the cold tile. He looked as stunning as ever, his distinguished graying brows against the black and tan of his coat. The vet-tech offered to let me go, and she’d take him “to the back” after I had gone. I couldn’t stand the horror of him watching me go. I never, ever, left without him. I asked that she take him from me, so he wouldn’t know I was leaving. Watching him leave that room, for the last time, was the absolute worst feeling I’ve ever endured. Tail wagging, looking over his shoulder at me one last time. He didn’t look at me with fear, but with the reassurance we often get from a parent or an older, wiser person. It’ll be okay, Mom.
I don’t remember the walk to the van, how I got Maddie back inside, or any part of the drive home. I don’t know how I saw the road through the constant wash of tears. I know that I kept looking at the clock, wondering if he was still “here,” or if they’d given him the injection, yet. I couldn’t have stayed. I couldn’t have seen his body, lifeless, on the table. I had to remember the tail wagging, ears perked, and warm chocolate eyes that were always glued to mine.
Ironically, I find myself at a loss for words, even after all of these recollections. I find that I cannot convey appropriately the impact this dog had on my life. It’s rare to find someone in life who will truly love unconditionally, one who will be loyal, no matter how often you screw things up, no matter how often you move or change, or forget to show how much you care. A third of my life was spent with Sarge, and he never faltered from his position as my true companion. He never threw in the towel or said “enough’s enough.” He’d wag that tail and take it all in stride, making it clear that as long as we were together, we’d be alright. He was right. It’s a new beginning for me, now. Essentially, I have to retrain myself. I don’t really know how to go about life without him, as silly as that sounds. He was my protector, my faithful friend. We got to a point in life when words didn’t even need to be spoken; a simple glance spoke volumes. I felt safe and comforted by that dog, and now, I have to learn to go about my every day life without that feeling. I have the other two dogs, yes. I love them dearly. They will never, however, be like Sarge. They are completely different; while still loveable, heartwarming, and happy assets to our family, they will just never be like Sarge. No dog will, again, I think.
I lost both of my grandparents. They were wonderful people in my life. My grandpa always really liked Sarge to visit him; he’d quietly pet his smooth head and Sarge would respond by sitting nobly next to him, allowing his gentle old hands to caress his fur. I don’t believe that animals, our beloved pets, just die. I believe we’ll see them again. I have to believe it. For now, though, I genuinely hope my grandparents were waiting for Sarge, ready to welcome him into a much better place. I hope Grandma will fry up a pan of liver n’ onions for him, and Grandpa will sit with him in some sunny backyard, stroking his head and watching the birds.

Sales Pitch

2011-01-04T04:28:00.001-08:00

Okay, Moms. Those of you who are like me (we stay at home with our kids, even though we don't have super-rich husbands or a wild inheritance, but rather, we live paycheck to paycheck and remind ourselves of how blessed we are to be able to watch our babies grow up?)know what it's like. You know what it's like to get ahead a little bit, and then to receive a crazy-high gas bill. Maybe it's a medical bill, for that Urgent Care visit on a Sunday afternoon when your little girl had a high fever. Or simply the fact that the holidays just came and went, and wreaked their havoc on your already-laughable savings account. However it works, in your household, I have an inkling that you know how it is.
You also know how it is to have that annoying post-card show up in the mail, inviting you to some sort of party. Candles, jewelry, makeup...heck, I even got one for a "romance" party, and I laughed my tail off. Clearly the person who sent that one is a jokester. It really made my day.
So, when I got an annoying post-card in the mail advertising a lia sophia jewelry party a few months back, I rolled my eyes and thought, "Like I reaaally have the money to buy this stuff, on top of the fact that I'd have to pay a babysitter just to go, for my children who would inevitably break any jewelry I did buy." Yep, that's what I thought. I looked at the "hostess" name. A friend of mine. Shoot. She'd probably be hurt if I didn't come. She knows me. She knows I have nothing better to do. So, I decided to go, on the notion that she might have good snacks and perhaps I could score a free glass of wine. Plus, I could always try on someone else's jewelry and pretend, for a few minutes, that I could actually get away with it.
Flash forward: today.
This morning I sit and share this story with you for one reason: I am that annoying friend who is selling jewelry now. Except, I hope I'm not that annoying friend. I found out that this jewelry company is different. There are a lot of moms, just like me, who do this for a little income. Or a lot of income. And, amazingly, they know my kids. I mean, they must know them, because they put a lifetime guarantee on their jewelry - which means my kids can break things and lia sophia will simply send me replacements...for free. (Not that I actually let my kids break things, friends. But you know it's bound to happen). With my first few parties, I held my breath: I waited for the "catch." I waited for them to send a note that said, "well....sell this much more, and we'll pay you," or something like that. Instead, I woke up one morning, checked my bank account (a task that makes me wince on a daily basis) and I was shocked to see a few hundred dollars added to the balance. I didn't even really do that much work. I left my house with a bag of my jewelry and a briefcase full of order forms and - poof - suddenly I was getting paid.
The best part about the company is that they seem to be a breath of fresh air from the other pushy-naggy companies out there. They just want their "advisors" (that's me!) to have a good time. Sure, they give you goals, but only goals with clear rewards - and if you don't make your goals, so what? Nobody calls and berates you. Nobody gives you a funny look. Heck, it's really your business. You are your own boss. So, what I've learned is that I really can do this. I can sell pretty things, have a whole amazing collection of pretty things of my own, and they also pay me. Pretty well, in fact. It's exciting to feel like, after only going out and working a couple nights a month, I can actually have a little money in my pocket again.
So, here's my sales pitch. I'll only do it once, because I truly HATE sales pitches. My goal for 2011 is to grow my team. I want to work with real women...women like me. I want to piece together a team of ladies who'd like to make some money their way. It doesn't matter where you live, and I don't suggest this because I want to be at the top of the "pyramid," either. I haven't even really looked into it, but I think I'd need a pretty big team to actually make more money that way. I just want to help others, like me, and to work together with some great girls. No pressure or gimmicks. No weird catches. Just a paycheck, some really nice jewelry, and hopefully, new friends who are a lot like you.
So, in conclusion - (I feel like balloons should drop from the ceiling and confetti should shoot out of no where)if you think you'd like to give this a whirl, let's talk. Better yet, come by for coffee. Or I'll come to you. We can even have a test-party at your house. Invite your friends, and if they like it, I'll let you call it your first party, to get you started.
End sales pitch.
But really, what do you have to lose?

The Hype

2010-12-21T05:40:00.000-08:00

I feel a certain panic as the holidays near. A “time is running out” sort of feeling. It isn’t as if I haven’t spent entirely too much on a ridiculous amount of gifts to adorn the nether regions of my Christmas tree. It isn’t as if I don’t have a fridge stocked with the makings of a fine Christmas dinner. No, and it isn’t as if we’ve missed any of the pre-Christmas church services, celebrating the “reason for the season.”
I think it’s just that there is all this hype – this extreme behavior that demands attention no matter how badly we’d like to look away. The commercial on the TV today, the one for Target, really gave me heart palpitations. Santa is running at full throttle through the Target parking lot, racing against the clock. Despite the fact that I am done with my shopping, I subconsciously glanced at the present-hiding places in my house, noting that they were all there, and silently chanted “Go, Santa…Go…”
My anxiety is likely related to this feeling of rush, excitement and beat-the-clock mania that begins with Black Friday and continues to Christmas Eve. The mad dash, for me, anyway, began at 1:30 Black Friday morning, and has continued producing dark circles under my eyes up to the present moment. Christmas Day comes, the wrapping paper is shed, the meals are consumed and then…it’s over. I now understand why this was all so magical as a child. As kids, we didn’t feel the panic, the stress. We felt only the excitement, the build-up of adrenaline that leads to the finale: Christmas Morning. 5 a.m. Only the glow of the Christmas tree and the shimmer of ribbon, so skillfully twisted and crafted, begging to be ripped. The ultimate joy of getting “just-what-I-wanted”, and the sweet reassurance that not only is there a Santa Claus, but, boy, he sure knows his stuff. When I was a kid, we piled into the car and headed to family’s houses for more festivities, more food, and inevitably, more gifts. We didn’t know what the heck was going on. We were on a ho-ho-high. All the preparation, all the lack of sleep, all the empty bank accounts that our parents and grandparents suffered….we didn’t know, and I am not sure we would have cared at that moment.
I now know what it feels like to be penniless, stressed, and overwhelmed. I know that I’ve worked desperately hard to make Christmases special, and to somehow out-do the previous year. I find it to be an unwritten rule that many parents follow. You’ve gotta have the “wow” factor, so this year isn’t the same as last year. This, friends, is why I panic. And as I write, I realize how very stupid that sounds. I have fallen victim to this materialistic controversy that has overtaken the meaning of Christmas, and replaced it with greed.
This year we’re staying home on Christmas day. It’s an ill-favored decision, especially among family members who disagree. I am trying, (‘though it may be in vain) to re-introduce peace into the day. No rushing, no greedy ripping of paper and a “more, more, more” attitude. I am hoping for a casual day of togetherness, enjoying the thoughtfulness of one-another’s gift giving, and the sharing of a meal prepared slowly and with love…at whatever time we decide to eat.
I’m not saying I’ve made the perfect choice. That remains to be seen. All the same, I’m looking forward to it.
What I am not looking forward to, however, is the panic that strikes between Christmas and the New Year. The “it’s all ending” feeling. The entertainment shows that showcase the highlights of the year, in a bittersweet culmination. It’s a little bit depressing, thinking of another year gone by. It’s a little hopeful, thinking of a fresh new start. Either way, for me, it induces a little anxiety.
Then again, we know by now that the way I view things might be slightly different than most normal, sane people. Just slightly.
To my friends and family, and to those I don’t even know…I wish you a Merry and Blessed Christmas. I wish you peace, comfort, and joy. I wish you all of the delights you had as a child, and then some.

How it happened:

2010-12-08T14:22:00.000-08:00

Perhaps the holidays have become a time for subtle brain wash. At this time of year, there is a certain lenience to eating the majority of one's diet from the "use sparingly" section of the food pyramid. We listen to raucous music about hippopotamuses, two front teeth, and the suggestion that Mommy is having an affair with Santa Claus (which, if Santa looked like Channing Tatum, Mommy's act of indecency is surely understood, wink...wink). We also justify bank-breaking purchases, and, as long as there's a little "giving" in the bag, too, those gratifying "these are for me" purchases can be easily acceptable. Maybe I'm just talking about me, here. Truth is, friends, I've never rocked around a Christmas tree, nor have I been kissed under the mistletoe. I just suffer from HBH. Holiday Brain Hiatus. Yes, I just made that up.
This drain on my brain, this weakness of my willpower is certainly a mystifying effect of the holidays. I refuse to think it is due to any other reason. I stare at the television mindlessly without watching the programming, I read the same pages of my book over and over again, and then, just today, an all new low:
I was looking into the refrigerator, trying to decide on what we might eat for dinner. It started off in the harmless, non-invasive way that the "fridge contemplation" typically does. Door open, one foot crossed over the other, left hand braced on freezer, furrowed brow. Everyone does it like that, right? Yes...until suddenly, the freezer door was ajar, and the left hand traveled all by itself to the inside and removed (without my notice, I assure you) a frozen Snickers bar. Then, ol' Righty chimed in, and helped it's partner open the wrapping, and lift the dreamy ice cream treat to my lips. My mouth did what it knows best, after that, and promptly consumed the Snickers...but here's the amazing part: I can't remember my eyes ever leaving the contents of the fridge.
No one said that the 12 days of Christmas are for eating. I just sort of invented that theory. For that matter, forget 12 days. That simply isn't enough time. Why not just begin at Thanksgiving and work your way through to New Year's Day? Isn't that what resolutions are for? I'll probably end up weighing about as much as eight maids a-milking, if I continue on this holiday nosh-fest.
I do have structured events in my life, meant to keep me on track. Things like school, grocery shopping, doctor appointments, etc. are still present, and do force some routine into my day. However, during this time of year, I view those things as nuisances. They are cruel obligations that cut into my hot-cocoa and fuzzy slipper time.
Alas, my friends, do not be alarmed: I am fairly certain this HBH is completely curable, and like many viruses, will go away on its own. My guess is that it'll be over sometime in January, when the whole world comes back to reality. As for you, you may choose to fight it, or you are welcome to stop by, sample one of the goodies I am inevitably baking while I carelessly watch a sappy Christmas movie on Lifetime Movie Network. You do run the risk of contracting HBH, yourself. In fact, it's a strong possibility. Anyway, door's always open - just don't mind my drawstring pants and fuzzy slippers. You'll learn, in time, that they are pure necessity.

A month goes by...

2010-12-03T04:27:00.001-08:00

So begins my attempt at a series of Pre-Christmas blogs. Last year, I brought you some doozies. This year I hope to not disappoint!
The date, December 1, was blinking on the orange glow of my alarm clock, yet, I hadn't an ounce of strength, will, or heck, even ability to remove myself from beneath the covers. Although, I had removed the covers about 221 times over the night, during my frequent "night sweats." It's hell being female, sometimes, especially when you're missing some of the required parts. Besides that, I had the worst case of gastroenteritis I can ever remember, which was proudly kicked off by a round of the technicolor yawn in my cousin's toilet, during one of the debut parties for my lia sophia business. Who feels sorry for me? Come on...I left the house for the party, feeling smart in my pressed khaki pants and (supposedly) stylish, fitted denim jacket, smelling success in the air. I left in a much more humble state, as I carried my leftover Walmart plastic bags to the car with me, just in case I tossed my cookies on the way home.
The thing is, when you're a mom, you abandon the notion of "being cared for." You live and breathe to care for your children, your pets, your home. You, in fact, are a sub-creature of your own life. You're simply the body that performs the tasks that keeps everyone else thriving. When I do become ill, I remember vividly a time or two I was under the weather and staying with my grandmother. She was amazing. Have I ever mentioned that? I remember laying on her couch, drinking Sprite from yellow Tupperware cups, watching General Hospital. I remember the times I'd have to make it to the bathroom, and she'd not only escort me there, but she would stroke my hair, speak gently and, with great intestinal fortitude,clean up any mess I may have made. I never saw her flinch, or turn away, or even imply that I was too much for her to handle. That, my friends, is pure love. I suppose, however, I do that now, for my kids. I realize all of the disgusting things I've put up with; things that, as a teenager, I would've contorted my face about, and exclaimed how "GA-ross" they were. There was a time period, a long one, at that, when I swore I'd never have children. Time passes, lives change, right?
December began, like it or not, and I'll mark the day in rememberance, as the one I spent on the couch, with my new Black Friday steal, a Target Christmas blanket and my eyes barely in focus on the television. I don't really know what my kids did all day. They behaved, I suppose, and no one bled. All in all, a success. I think my oldest is finally at the age where the human in him is beginning to surface, and he can, for brief periods, be kind and considerate. I hope I am not speaking too soon, on that, but he did bring me a lemon-ice and a spoon, and he did get his sister a bottle and refrained from beating the bloody heck out of his brother that day.
Brighter days of upcoming Christmas cheer are ahead, though. I am well again, and there are only two more grueling weeks of school before a much-needed break. It's Christmastime in the city, friends, and whether you can hear Silver Bells or not, we can look at it one of two ways. In a month, not much changes. The time will pass, regardless of how you choose to celebrate, or not celebrate. Yet, everything changes. I tend to become lost in October/November/December, bulking it all together in this "holiday" package with sparkly wrapping because, well, I can. In the glimmer and glitz of the holiday mayhem, however, lives still go on: some people are more jolly, some people still suffer... I, however, try to keep some spirit alive, because just around the corner, there is still a let-down to experience...it's the ultimate disappointment that, (if you let yourself travel this road) in a matter of weeks, it'll be over. It'll be January. Either way, keep your head up. There are still 22 days to shop.

Love, Love, Love

2010-11-08T10:30:00.000-08:00

What is it we want? What do we really want? There are many answers mulling through my head. The one at the forefront, however, and coincidentally, the scariest one, is "I don't know." See, you would suspect, that at my age, with three children, a college degree and, for the most part, stability in life, I would know.
I've had a song in my head for weeks, as I once in a while do, when I hear something that speaks profoundly. Or, in this case, sings it. J.J. Heller's "What Love Really Means" is the song. In the lyrics, she describes multiple situations when people are searching for the love that will make them feel whole. And as I listen to it, I wonder how many people there are, doing that very thing. I am one of them, to be sure.
It's not what you think. I'm not greedy or discontent. I even thought I knew what love really meant a couple times. I suppose the first time I was absolutely positive I knew was the moment I saw my first baby's little wrinkly red face. And then the second one, and the third. Perfect, innocent little reminders. Let's face it though, that's not the kind of love we're talking about. Or is it?
Is it romantic love we seek? Is it the excitement of a new love, a "Bad Romance" as Lady Gaga would say? A frightful yet exciting, thrill-seeking, emotional high? Note: Mom, that's for you. I will never lose the mental image of you making claw-like hands and singing "Love, love, love."
Is it the concept of a soulmate? The romantic in me still believes that soulmates exist; the cynic in me says "fuggetaboutit." I think, if they do, in fact, exist, the whole theory is reliant upon flexibility. Your soulmate might not come in the perfect package you envisioned. Which is why so few of us have found them: we are too jaded by the fantasy of perfection.
I listen to Don Moen's Sunday morning radio show on my way to teach the teen Sunday school class every week. I love the inspirational stories. I always, always cry. Because I believe, deep down, that these people who are sharing these amazing stories of love have something I don't, but I'm convinced that I'm thisclose to finding it. I remind myself about timing, constantly. It's not up to me. God can count the hairs on my head, how foolish am I to think that I can control timing? Don said he heard a quote, I forget from where, about searching for peace, love and contentment. The quote was something like "Are you searching? Join the masses who are, the people who feel the emptiness, like a vacuum, inside. The truth is, that's there for a reason, and can only be filled by God. When you give up on looking for tangible things, or even people, to fill the vacuum, and you realize that God's love for you is the greatest form of fulfillment there is, you will feel whole." So is that it? That's what J.J. Heller says in her lyrics: "You will love me, for me. Not for what I have done or for what I become."
So, it's God they're talking about. And I can jump on that bandwagon and agree, but it doesn't mean I've accepted it or invited it myself. It'd be hypocritical to say I have. I'm still among the masses of searchers.
Inevitably, it's a process, like anything else. Accepting God's love, filling that metaphoric vacuum, is likely the first step. Maybe even not so much a "first step" but rather, a pre-requisite to step-two: the mysterious human love we crave in our every day existence.
So I'd love to hear from anyone who can tell me what that means. What is the love you crave? Are you still writing bad romances, or are you "filling your vacuum" too?

The Salon

2010-11-03T16:55:00.000-07:00

Beauty salons are very scary places to me. They are wonderful places, don't get me wrong. I can walk in with eyebrows mimicking Bert from Sesame Street and hair like the Mad Hatter, and "poof" I walk out looking like Eva Longoria. Or something like that. I mean, if I was Latina, perhaps. Bad analogy.
Anyway...
I went to the salon last Friday. I look forward to these trips more than some holidays, I think. First of all, I am alone. My loud children are left behind, to fend for themselves. Well, not really. But they sort of are, because I'm not sure what my husband does to really "hold down the fort." There are these sleek, red leather club chairs in the salon, that immediately make me feel stylish when I sit in them. One of the multi-colored hair girls behind the counter (it's a hip place, go with it)saunters over with a wine glass full of ice water and asks if I'd like anything else. I can barely whisper "no" because I am overwhelmed that I'm holding a real glass. I would browse through the hair style books, but I'm too busy gawking at all of the artwork, the colors, and listening to the easy chatter of hairstylists with their clients. I glance at the lady next to me, in the other red club chair, and she is oblivious to the things I am noticing. Her water glass sits untouched as she thumbs through a People magazine and checks her phone every 2 minutes. I decide that this must not be special for her. She does this all the time.
My hairstylist, Jenn, is a cute girl in her 20's, with a bubbly personality. She asks me questions about my family, and I answer, dutifully. She asks what "we're doing" today, as if I will be handed a pair of shears and invited to cut along. I say the same thing I usually say: "I'm still growing it. Just the ends, and trim up the bangs, I think." She nods and says she'll give me a stress relief. Stress relief? I expect a cart of Ben and Jerry's, Diet Pepsi, and a stack of Gerard Butler movies to appear. Instead she weirdly massages my head. And it feels nice, I suppose, but my hair is getting in my eyes and it reminds me of when my boys (yes, my boys) "style" my hair at home.
We head to the awkward, neck-paralysis sinks. She washes my hair with things that smell expensive and she chats about her dog, her husband, and what they're doing for Halloween, which, she mentions nonchalantly, includes a trip up north for a weekend party. She asks what we're doing, and I tell her, just staying home and trick-or-treating. As I say it, I realize it must sound lame. But to me, it's an excursion, because on any normal weekend, we do much less than even that.
I feel a little grateful when she starts the blow dryer, not because I don't like talking, but because I am running out of things to say. I wonder what my kids are doing. I wonder if I turned on the dryer.
This appointment, I also scheduled an eyebrow wax. I did this because I have shamefully let things get out of hand, and even the best tweezers couldn't bring me back. I need wax intervention.
I sit back in another paralysis-inducing chair as another jovial little elf-like gal comes to examine my mess. She says "Are we just shaping up?" and I giggle, thinking of how she's GOT to be trying to be polite.
"Divide and conquer," I tell her. She chuckles a tiny bit, but she has no idea what I mean.
As she leans over me, she apologizes that her scarf is falling into my face. I mutter some dismissive response, and she says "I hope it at least smells good. I sprayed it with perfume this morning. I always do, I would hate it if I smelled bad and I'm leaning over people all day."
I haven't gotten past the spraying of the scarf. People do that? I have never thought of it. I tell myself I am going home and spraying all of my scarves.
When they announce that I'm finished, I examine my red skin on my eyebrow area, but I'm not bothered, because at least I see skin. My hair is shiny and even, and I am secretly proud that I wore a skirt and tights, because now I'm "complete."
On the outside, anyway.
Look out, Eva.

A Patchwork of Thoughts Unspoken

2010-10-27T04:34:00.000-07:00

It happened again last night, and it keeps happening. The feeling like I have rocks in my throat when I try to swallow. It waits until it's quiet, usually when I'm finally resting in bed. And my eyes burn. It's a weird "I'm about to cry" sensation, like I used to get when I was embarrassed as a little girl...but I don't cry. Instead, I think. Thinking is way worse than crying. Thinking leads to more thinking, which leads to things like...wishing...regret...but sometimes, something good happens. Sometimes thinking leads to prayer. I have, for as long as I can remember and even as a little girl, wondered what happens next. Beyond next as in the expectable "next up" situation. I mean next...in life. So I evaluate. I evaluate that I've had a weird past, which is not really weird to me, because I remember it all and I can piece it together just fine chronologically, but my life now is not anything like it used to be. And it's hard to show people the pieces of me that I used to be. It's like...people who meet me now wouldn't even know that the old me existed. And I'm oddly enough bothered by that. The other day, I was speaking of my life "pre-kids." Of the years I sold houses in Savannah. Of the time I was accosted in the project house down on MLK. How my hair was really blond, which is why the guy called me "Blondie," but how it didn't matter a minute later when I was spraying mace in his eyes. As I was telling it, I thought about how Sarge used to go with me everywhere. Never on a leash. Always happy, his dark brown fur a compliment to his dark brown eyes.He was my sidekick, I didn't imagine needing anything beyond his companionship. Even about how I didn't worry, after that incident on MLK...because soon after I began carrying a .38 special in a purse holster. And I even got a license to do that. Anyway, I think about that life, before...and then my life now...and I realize how generic my life must seem to those who don't know me "pre-kids, pre-Indiana, pre-proverbial-housewife." Which is even funnier since I'm dressing up as a 1950's housewife for Halloween, as if it is my inner desire to channel this June Cleaverish existence. So I wonder what's next. I wonder, to the point, apparently, of getting the rock-like sensation in my throat, which may mean, to some, that I'm worrying. And that'd be correct, too. I feel a little stuck in my current life. I don't know if there's any adventure left for me. Not that I need a purse holster to feel adventurous...but it's just that...there's more to me than this. Alas...just trust that even if I don't make sense to you...I do to me.
Additionally, to add to the patchwork mix of thoughts unspoken, I feel the need to touch on my son's progress in life. Isaac, in particular. I attended my first ever parent-teacher conference yesterday. It was enlightening, for sure. It's Kindergarten, people. I always think, when I see these moms who are so obsessed with their Kindergarten child's progress - Oh, Ian is soooo smart, he knows all of his sight words and all of his numbers to 200 and..."- that every kid catches up to the basics sooner or later, so don't go banking on a Nobel Prize. And then I see my kid's progress report. And I see this pattern. When it came to testing, he did awfully. He rushed. The teacher says to me "I actually watched him test. He looked at the computer screen for 2 painful minutes, and then spent the rest of the time plugging in answers, just to get done, because he obviously hated it." Isaac does what he wants. When he wants. Horrid, right? Well, here's the thing. When he wants to, he does amazing work. The stuff his teacher showed me that represented that situation was unreal. His artwork was somehow "deeper" than stick-figures and scribbles. It meant something. Like the one picture he drew of himself sitting on the ladder to the pool, Yukon (our sled dog) watching him from the deck box, and Jesus watching him from somewhere in the clouds. And when I pointed that out, he shrugged like it was nothing out-of-the ordinary, and said "Well, yeah." They were supposed to draw their favorite summer activity. Many kids drew themselves swimming. Isaac wasn't swimming. He was sitting on the ladder, looking at the water.
His answers to questions were thoughtful, imaginative. And, although his math testing scores were deplorable, his math work in the classroom was probably better than I would have done. He not only answered questions, but he drew images of "why" he came to certain conclusions. So, he puts on this hard-core, "I do what I want" front. He annoys people. Often me. People think I don't get it, maybe, that my kid is irritating. And then I think of my aforementioned "previous life" and it makes me wonder what this stage is in his life. Because I have seen, on numerous occasions, that this kid is exactly like me. I can only imagine that he will soon be able to harness his own wants and become more agreeable to being flexible with what other people want. I also know, however, that if you are not a flexible person, it is best to not allow many people in your "circle." Perhaps this is a thought for later years, though...so strike that.
Anyway, what I'm saying is that he's a kid, he needs to roll with the punches, right? Yeah...but he has a "previous life," too, when I think about it. In six years, he's moved 1100 miles,lived in 3 homes, he's lost his real dad to the Army-life, he's struggled with feeling like he has no dad, he's struggled with a step-dad, a little brother who can't identify with that situation because he was too little when it all happened, and now, a little sister who simply has no idea that his "previous life" existed. So, maybe he feels kind of like me. Minus the epic failure part, I hope. The only constant this kid has had is...me. Yeah, so, people say he should learn to roll with the punches. People, however, say that as a way of dismissing a situation. A situation too complex for them to take the time to think about. It would take too long. It's not their life. But, see...he's my kid, so I do think about it. And I blame myself, mostly, because I'm the one who kept shifting around and adding patches to this life-quilt, and son-of-a-gun if I'm not laying in bed at night, rocks in my throat, thinking of how I could change it again. I really wish foresight was 20/20, instead of hindsight.

George

2010-10-07T05:30:00.000-07:00

Since I'm trying to use writing as an emotional outlet, I thought this morning, I'd share a story about a man named George. I didn't know this man until he was already quite old. He was born in 1912, and I in 1981, so you see, there was already a big gap in age. By the time I was born, he had already fathered 7 children and grandfathered several grandchildren.
George was a community icon. Not because he drove a flashy car, or had a grand house, or built some corporate empire. Nope. When I was younger, he had a boat of a car, a red Chevy Malibu, actually, a cozy little three bedroom house with a garden, and a monthly pension check from years of working in a foundry to support his family. Yes, when I met him, his face was already wrinkled, but the wrinkles could not disguise the charm in his blue eyes, or the fact that his good looks once made girls swoon. He had a habit of clearing his throat loudly, and adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He walked "up town" (this is back when people still referred to it that way, because this town was hardly the metropolis that most are, these days)every day, he put jam on his bologna sandwiches and butter on his cookies. He didn't watch his weight, and every time I stayed the night at his house, he had a brandy nightcap. He chewed tobacco, and strangely, I cannot recall it ever bothering me. There was a stash of cigars in his top dresser drawer, in one of those old White Owl cigar boxes. I have one of them, that he gave to me to put my "stuff" in, when I was little.
When I was in elementary school, he picked me up every day. He'd march right into the school, with his brown knit gloves and his newsboy cap, all the way to the door of my classroom, and even if it was 15 minutes early, my teachers would nod and say I could go. They all knew him. I spent my summers in the cozy little house, whiling away the hours, twisting around in the maple trees, making up games with the neighbor girls, and sitting out on the picnic table with heaps of cold watermelon to eat. George would come outside and show me how to pick a ripe tomato from the garden, bite it like an apple and then sprinkle it with salt as I ate the rest of it. He liked to rock in the swing in the back yard, and I'd sit by him. We'd beckon the little birds enjoying their bath. They'd always come curiously close, and George would smile and speak "bird" to them. When the ice cream truck would come down the block, George would walk to the curb in his polyester pants and black "clodhoppers," even though the summer heat was brutal, to open his wallet and purchase ice cream sandwiches for all of the kids who had also congregated there, knowing George's track record for generosity. In fact, any time he even spoke to a child, he'd be reaching for his change purse, asking "ya gotta pocket?"...which inevitably meant he'd pull out a quarter and conclude "go buy yourself a bar 'a candy." I almost wish I'd saved all those years of quarters. Perhaps I wouldn't have as many student loans today.
You see, George was just that kinda guy. He wasn't boastful or proud, but just good down to his soul. And his soul is exactly what I am rejoicing for, today, because I know that my Father opened his arms and welcomed him last night, as he passed from this life at the ripe old age of 98. I also know that my beloved grandma has been waiting for him, too. Because if you haven't caught on, George is my grandpa...and he's missed her since she left this earth in 2004. He has been like a lost sheep, with a lot of substitute shepherds trying to herd him around, but no one who could take care of him like she did. So in essence, it's a life story of love, of humility...of humanity. I know there are a lot of good people in the world, or at least I hope there are. It's just that we're down one today, and as much as my heart is happy for his new, eternal life, I can't help the selfish sadness I feel because I know I'll never get to look at those smiling blue eyes, or shake his soft, wrinkled hand again.

On Knowing the Truth...

2010-09-24T04:38:00.000-07:00

There's this something I've been pondering for the entire week, and, this morning, I'm watching the sun rise behind these abnormally amazing clouds, and the wind pushing the trees in an awkward rhythm, and everything seems strange and beautiful...and it hits me: the answer to the thing I've been pondering. At least, an answer that is good enough for me.
You see, last weekend, I only had one student in my teen Sunday School class. This isn't all that uncommon; two of the kids are avid swimmers for their swim team, one has a part-time job that sometimes needs her on Sundays, and the others are only there sometimes, anyway. At first, I thought, this might be awkward. This is a sixteen-year-old boy, stuck in a room with me and the latest issue of DevoZine, the devotional we study each week. It is beyond likely that he is regretting every move that led him up to this room, this morning, including his mother telling him to "get up and go to Sunday School."
However, I'm sure he doesn't know that the material we discussed in that room was food for thought for an entire week for me. The initial discussion was about confidence, and the fact that so many young people dislike their images. This teen appears particularly confident, and when I told him that, he agreed. "But," he said, "it's still just as bad for guys as it is for girls. Guys care about their appearance at least as much as girls, in high school, anyway." I did not know this. I thought the early morning struggle we have in this house, me vs. the five-year-old, when I am challenged as "the meanest mom" who makes him wear "the ugliest clothes" was...a phase. Somehow, however, the topic swirled away from confidence issues, and on to something deeper. We transitioned into the topic of God's existence, period. It's such a vast concept to wrap your mind around anyway, and as a teen, it's often the furthest thing from your thoughts. I remember those days. I remember thinking, "I'll have time later to worry about that stuff. To say sorry for the bad stuff I'm doing, and to care about what God says." Thankfully, I was right...I do have time, now. But it doesn't mean I was right to think that way.
"It's just so weird," he said, "there are, like, a thousand different concepts on what happens after we die...and like, are there ghosts or not, and is there a purgatory, or do we go straight to heaven? Or are there just ghosts because those people decided to stick around?" Ohhh...what did I sign up for? This is hard enough to try to explain to a five-year-old who thinks God should wear a bell on his "collar" because that would at least help him know when He's in the room.
"And," I say, "there's the ashes to ashes, dust to dust theory. When we die, we are buried, or cremated, and it's likened to a deep sleep, or a different realm of consciousness, until we are all resurrected."
"Yeah, and that's crazy. I mean, it's insane if you think about it. Not that I don't love sleeping...but...we'd be resurrected, right alongside Abe Lincoln or something. How weird would that be?"
I nodded. I hadn't thought of that.
"I mean, how do you know?" he asked. "How does anyone know?"
That's the thing. None of us know. Nobody, to my knowledge, has died and come back to write the tutorial on what to do when you see the light. Or don't see the light. Maybe there is no light.
We all have our own beliefs, and part of the reason the world is as messed up as it is, is because we can't seem to agree to disagree. We can't seem to fathom that there might be more than one right answer. After all, to this day, and feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, God hasn't shown up on a Sunday morning dressed in his best Armani and said "Hey, way to go, guys, turns out YOU are the right religion. All those other folks worshipping this morning, (or last night, or Wednesday at sundown, or whatever), are craaaaaazy!"
So, anyway. This morning seems weird to me. The weather seems to indicate a change is coming. Which, duh, it is. It'll be snowing before we know it. But it's just one of those odd, "winds of change" mornings, when it seems that beyond the clouds, in the rush of the breeze, in the peeks of sunlight through strangely golden-green puffs of white, there is a mystery.
Mystery.
The mystery, it came to me, is faith. And faith is largely based on trust. I realized that all those times, as a teen, when I was acting not-so-appropriately, I trusted that everything would be okay. I had this inner glimmer of hope that even if I wasn't the shiny penny that my mother expected me to be, I'd still come out alright. Which, I think, I did...I trusted, even when I didn't know, that God would make sure of it. I had faith. Although, I wouldn't have admitted it at the time.
Even from birth, we've been programmed to trust. At the moment we are born, all things we "knew" from conception to that point, are ripped away, and we are forced to trust, and rely on someone else to get us through. We have faith, if you can imagine a tiny being having faith, because we don't know anything else. As life continues, we learn the bitter reality that often, relying on someone doesn't always pan out. Trust is abandoned, faith can become a resentment, a disappointment. Let's face it, reality can be a major letdown from time to time. People get sick, people get injured, people we love are plucked from our lives in the blink of an eye. Living in a world of ever-increasing melancholy is no picnic. So what happens? We give up, that's what. We acknowledge faith as something warm and fuzzy, something we can claim when things are going great, but ignore when things are, well, crappy.
I realized that it's okay to admit that I don't know the answers to some of the topics we discussed on Sunday. Encouraging my class to have faith, however, even when there seems to be no person they can trust, is something I intend to work on. Faith is about accepting the mystery. It's about believing when it looks like there is nothing worthwhile. The way I see it, faith is the mystery in our own life story: it keeps us turning the pages to see if something greater will happen in the next chapter.

when you think you're failing as a parent...

2010-09-20T04:48:00.000-07:00

We can't really fault our children for wanting "things" when, as adults, we constantly let our lives revolve around "the next big thing." Whether it is a new event, like getting married, remodeling the kitchen, starting a new job, bringing home a puppy, etc., or a new possession, like a car, an I-phone or a Wii, we seem to be driven by these "things" coming up. We plan for them. We save for them. We tailor them in our minds until they are perfect, and before they even exist in reality.
Sometimes, the things never happen. Sometimes, you have to drive the car until the wheels fall off. Sometimes, the kids have to share the bedroom because there's no way to afford the bigger house, and certainly not a Wii to go with it. Most adults have a method for reasoning with those issues...or at least their pocketbook does. Kids, I've discovered, do not.
My Isaac is very driven. He's driven, however, not by the desire to do well, or even to be recognized as a "good boy." He is driven by stuff. I tell you, my friends, I am sad to admit this. He, however, wouldn't be the slightest bit sad to admit this. He loves the thought of getting something new. Lives for it, in fact. We've had some discipline issues over the past, oh, let's see...he'll be six in October, so, five years. I've tried motivating him many different ways. Positive reinforcement, all the experts say. Self-empowerment. Build the desire to do well. Then, when that didn't work out so hot, when I realized I was just creating an arrogant little beast who didn't think anyone could "put him down," I started removing privileges. No TV. No toys. He didn't care. I listened to countless elders say "just give the kid a good-old-fashioned spanking!" And I did. A few times. He didn't like it, true, but it didn't change the behavior, either.
So now we are down to stuff. A nurse at his pediatrician's office said she motivated her kids with an allowance of sorts...she let them earn marbles for good behavior, and so many marbles (enough to reach specific lines on the marble jar) would amount to so many dollars. As a bonus, they also learned the value of money. Somewhat.
I thought I'd try it. We didn't do marbles...like I said, this kid needs to "see it to believe it." I knew that the intangible concept of marbles in a jar equaling stuff later would not work. So I started the week with $5. Each time he had a good day, at school and at home, he got to keep $1. If he didn't behave, he gave it back. He has yet to have a week when he could keep all $5. He is motivated, however, because he checks the prices of the things he wants at the store, and sees that he needs more money to buy it. The way he's going along, he may be able to buy that Bionicle when he's 12.
Friends, I don't really recommend this method, and I am a little sorry I've done it. You see, it's not that it isn't working. It really does work. It's that I'm right where I don't want to be. I don't want to be responsible for bringing another person into society that is solely driven by materialism. A counselor once told me of a similar method, but instead of money, the kids could choose an activity, such as, a movie and popcorn, a trip to the zoo, etc. I tried that too. No go. This kid wants stuff. Have I said that already? I mean, I look at his environment. He watches limited TV (by that I mean the Disney channel because I've blocked most all of the rest), and it's laden with commercials for new toys. When we go to stores, the advertising is all eye-level to kids, and even a Happy Meal at McDonald's isn't about the food in it, but rather, the toy. The cheap plastic toy that will provide, maybe, five minutes of entertainment. At school, there is a prize box, for kids who are behaving well. Isaac says to me, this morning, "Mommy, when you went to school, was there a prize box?"
"No," I say, "when I was in school, the fear of coming home and telling my mom that I was naughty, or that I got in trouble, was enough."
"Why, would she spank you?"
"Maybe, maybe not. But she would be very disappointed in me."
He half-grinned and shrugged. He doesn't get it. And in case you didn't catch it - disappointing me is also the least of his worries.
How,I ask myself,how am I failing at this? I am working to become a child counselor, and I can't even straighten my own kid out. This is looking good. I ask God, all the time, why He couldn't just attach instructions on these children when they're born. Why not? I mean, I get it, when we're adults, we're supposed to have control of things, and somehow be able to navigate life, and marriage, and even loss. That's all hard enough. But then, God, You put these little creatures in our lives, and we're supposed to "raise them right." Yeah, I know it's been done for eons. I know. So, why, with all the resources I have available, am I struggling? Is it that I have too many resources?
I found myself asking these questions this morning, as I watched Isaac skip down the street to the bus stop. I came into the house, sat down, and glanced at the Bible on my nightstand. Inside the front cover, I have taped a verse from 2 Timothy : "But as for you, continue in what you have learned and have firmly believed, knowing from whom you learned it and how from childhood you have been acquainted with the sacred writings, which are able to make you wise for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus."
It was one of those lightbulb moments: one of those "aha" type things.
For it occurred to me at that moment, I was wrong.
He did write an instruction book.

2010-09-17T08:43:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the funniest things come to me during the day, and I think, oh I should write this down, and then I don't. Which is why sometimes, I don't write a blog for weeks. It's because I forget things.

Today, however, the gates to freedom (which is a word used in a very limited capacity, since I still have 3 kids, 3 dogs, and a husband who is just as needy, if not needier, than the previous) have opened. I completed the summer quarter of grad school 2010 and I now have a 3 and a half-ish week break until fall quarter begins. What will I do with my time? All this blessed time? I plan to while away the hours with deviant behavior. I will look, shamelessly, at stores online. Gap, at J.Crew...at L.L. Bean...hurt me. I will bake things. Which I do anyway, but I will bake things that take more time, more precision. I'll play with the kids even more. Outside. In my favorite season of the year. I will engross myself in mindless television. Things I don't normally get to watch. I'll...I'll...why am I in school, again?
Anyway. Also on this break, I'll have to do some mental preparation. In October, I have a surgery scheduled. A full-fledged, no-hormones-left-behind hysterectomy. Which isn't completely true, because I think they are leaving the hormone producing parts. So I don't have to take pills. That was one of my demands. To not have to take pills. I am bothered by this, somewhat. I always thought I'd have a lot of children. Like, maybe a lot, really. Four, five? Six, even. I know, Mom, you think I'm certifiable. I actually really like the little buggers, once in a while. But, see, then I got divorced, which was a real humdinger, and then I remarried, which was sort of an eyebrow-raiser, and then...well, we had Ella. Barely. Because I barely lasted through that pregnancy. My body was screaming "NOOO" and my mind was pleading with it, "come on, one more?!" So, I gave in. To my body's wishes, that is. I had one of those nifty tubal ligations, which had to be done in the "university" hospital, when the Catholic one refused to allow it...and I was sad, because I wanted to have her in the new hospital. But I regress. A year later: flash forward. My body is still screaming "NOOO" but now I don't know why, other than that maybe it's got some neurotic mind of its own...and it hasn't been treating me very well, lately. It probably wants me to go on some sort of rejuvenating Eat, Pray,Love style excursion, I'll bet. And I'm sure this surgery will end up setting me back enough that I could have afforded one. Anyway, I wasn't even going to mention it, publicly, but I will, because it'll put me out of commission, physically, for a couple weeks. What it may do, however, is put me IN commission as far as my writing goes. I'll be forced, yes, forced, to lay in my big chair and look at things on the internet. I'll have to check Facebook several times an hour. I'll have to Ebay. Which, as you can see, is not only a website, but a verb, an activity.
Speaking of Facebook, do most of you have one? I think most people I know have a Facebook page. I am contemplating the deletion of my own, personally. It's too consuming. It implies things that sometimes I didn't mean to imply. You can't use sarcasm too carefully, and I'm a natural cynic. I also sometimes feel overwhelmed by how super-wonderful-fantabulous some people's lives are. Some people's glorious marriages and too-cute-and-angelic-never-did-a-thing-wrong children. I mean, people, good for you. This is what I mean. I really am, inside, glad for ya. If it's all true. But that silly little cynic inside me says, it can't always be true. You gotta have bad days. You gotta wonder, sometimes, why God didn't just spell it out, women are superior, men really ought to take notes. Or be banished, to some cave in a remote location, with other men, and maybe between all of them, they'll find one working brain cell. You gotta, once in a while, want to duct tape your children to a wall and leave them there. Er, you know, something like that. That's the little voice of sarcasm in my head. And if I said it, publicly, it would make me out to be bitter and awful. Resentful, even. Maybe I am. So, in short, sometimes I think Facebook should be called Fakebook. And to all of my friends out there who do post the bad with the good: thank you. That's why I love you all. Misery loves company, right?! Kidding, kidding...but seriously. I'm going to start Truthbook. I'll send you an invite.

2010-09-08T04:55:00.000-07:00

One of the great things about kids is that they don't ever really think before they speak. And even if they did, it probably still wouldn't change what they say, because they don't really process the same way we grown-ups do. Children are so driven by emotion, and the funny thing is, so are adults. The difference is the fine-tuned (or, let's be honest, not so fine-tuned) reformation that happens through the school years, teaching us a little thing called tact. Or, as I sometimes refer to it, lying. I know you'll say, "no...it's not lying..." but think about it. Picture it: your co-worker comes in sporting a pair of tight, white capri pants, it's after Labor Day, and she's, um, not skinny. To top it off, she's wearing pink polka dot underpants. Obviously. She saunters past your desk, obviously looking for you to compliment her. Your automatic reaction, because you're so very "trained" in your etiquette, is: "Oh, Janice! What cute pants, where'd you get 'em?" You mean: "Holy crap, Janice. I can see that you thought you were 13 this morning, not just because your pants came from the junior's section, but also because your underwear are screaming Tiger Beat, and by the way, it's almost October."
So, in essence, didn't you lie? Nah...it was tact. Let's keep telling ourselves that.
Kids, however, don't have that filter.
Here's a scenario: I put on a hot pink (you can only say "hot pink" if you lived through the 80's, by the way), long sleeved tee this morning. My sons were out in the kitchen, eating cinnamon rolls. Which I cannot eat for breakfast, I've discovered, because if I do, by about 11 a.m., I am in a diabetic coma. And I don't have diabetes.
But I regress.
So, hot pink shirt, jeans and my slippers. Standard attire. Admittedly, the hot pink shirt is a little form-fitting. It shrunk in the washer, but I still like the color. Anyway. I walk out into the kitchen and ask the boys how their breakfast is going. Gabe, the little one, starts giggling. "Mommy," he says, "yo shirt wooks wike Santa Claus." What!? It's not red, it's hot pink! Isaac says "Well, maybe a girl Santa Claus. I think he means your belly is jolly. Gabie, she has a bowl full of jelly in there!" I am never feeding them again. I stood there in shock, not even knowing what to say. See, as adults, since we've been trained to use this tact thing, we also have a delayed response when it comes to handling a situation that isn't tactful. Isaac decided to break the silence: "Okay, mom. It'll be fine. I just think you should literally go put a different shirt on. Seriously."
Seriously? Literally? You're five. Since when did you become a mini-Tim Gunn? I'm never feeding you again.
So that's how my day started. I now have a much baggier, cover-every-inch of my upper-half gray, drab, hooded shirt on now. The hood is there as a safety, just in case I need to cover my hair, should it become raucous and, I don't know, leprechaun-like. I've been put back in my place: mommyhood. Boring, frumpy, stay-at-home mommyhood.
As an honorable mention, I should note that my dear mother, love-her-to-death, is one of the few adults I know who won't mince words. I mean, to me or my sister, she won't. She has told us when we've looked downright hideous, when we've done something dumb (which, to her, wouldn't be called dumb, it'd be more dramatic, like asinine), and for me, she even proof-reads my blogs, free of charge! Most people just read along, and ignore it if I misspell something or use improper grammar. You're reading for content, right? You realize I probably do know how to spell, and I generally make good grammatical choices, but I also do have three kids here and sometimes it's tough to edit everything in my five-minute window of time to blog. My mom, however, reads through with her very critical eye, and calls me as soon as she spots my mistakes. "Do you not know the proper usage of the word hear, moron? You hear music, but you are sitting here." I love my mother, she means well. And the good news is, she'd never do it to anyone else. She'd lie. I mean, she'd use tact.

I Am...

2010-09-02T18:29:00.000-07:00

I am a child, inside. I would love it if I could run and play all day, and I often reminisce about the days when I did. I have a terrific imagination. I am a daydreamer, to the extent of forgetting what I am actually supposed to be doing. I didn’t have a lot of boys to play with when I was growing up, so now that I have little boys, I am being introduced to the games they play. I now know how to build a few things with Legos, and I can make excellent train and semi-truck noises. I am still afraid of the dark. I have an occasional temper-tantrum. I don’t like it when things don’t work, and I really don’t like it when someone else can make something work and I cannot. I like naps, and I like them even more when I have my blankie. Simple things like warm cookies and cold milk, and some kind words from a friend are enough to make my entire day. Actually, if my mom says something nice to me, it makes everything better. I am fond of reading children’s books. I like to look at the pictures.

I am a mother. I have carried and given birth to three beautiful children. They are not perfect, but they are perfect to me. I am not perfect either, by the way. My children are full of life and light. They are quirky. They are loud, and sometimes, I am louder. At least the kids come by it honestly. I am fierce when it comes to my children. I would lay down my life for them. I would, however, insist that they face their punishment if punishment were due. I am not willing to fight all of their battles. My children make me weak and strong, all at the same time. Their tears make me feel small and helpless, grasping for something to make it better, but their laughter makes my heart stronger. I am learning from them, every day. I am proud of myself, as their mother. I think I am doing a good job, overall. I think I still have a lot to learn, but I think that nothing happens overnight. I am hoping that someday they will say “thanks” and they will admit, albeit a tough admission, that I was not the “worst mommy in the world.” I am home with my children all day and all night. It’s what I wanted to do, for now, anyway. I can ascertain that the job is not glamorous. It takes a strong will, a strong back, and sometimes, a strong stomach. Motherhood is not a fairytale, but rather, an adventure.

I am a woman. I am tough on my exterior, and a bowl full of noodles inside. I hide my emotions when I need to. I reach a boiling point, and I let them out, usually on the people I love the most. I love wearing high heels, but I find myself with fewer reasons and places to wear them. I am working on becoming more introspective and less judgmental. I am a follower of Jesus Christ. I don’t know where I’d be without my faith. I don’t like trying to prove things, because of that. Why bother with faith if you can prove it? I don’t have a lot of friends. I have a lot of acquaintances, but I find it hard to trust. I realize that is not a good thing. I am a bit of a hypochondriac. I worry about my health. I used to live a lot more recklessly, but now that I have children, I suppose I think it’s important that I am here for them. I am afraid to die. I suppose this is why you can’t have too much faith. I am self-conscious. I am convinced that I am not pretty, and I don’t think that conviction will change. If you catch me looking in the mirror, it is not to admire myself, it is to judge. I fight myself about my weight. I am confident in my knowledge, however. I am a reader, and I actually prefer a book to any television show. I am vulnerable. I know that the wrong words in the right place will break me, but I also know that I probably won’t show it outwardly. I am in love with love. I am convinced that there is a special someone for everyone, and that someone will feel as necessary as oxygen and as comfortable as your oldest pair of jeans. I want to be loved, and I want to be somebody’s world. I think I am. I think I am three peoples’ worlds. I struggle with contentment. I struggle to wrap my mind around life, and the thought that this is “all there is.” I am ashamed to even admit that, because I really do have a lot. It’s just that I pictured so many things: I was going to be a singer at the Metropolitan Opera House, I was going to be a veterinarian, I was going to travel the world and see everything. I have to slow down and appreciate more. I am a great cook; I will eat most anything I make. See the above section where I mention the battle with weight. I am an animal lover. I am fairly certain I have more animals than I need, but I don’t worry about it. Animals love without boundaries. I have a terrific and dysfunctional family, and I am a firm believer in dysfunction as normality. I am independent. I do not like others to tell me what to do. Some may call that stubborn. I suppose it’s possible. Nah, I doubt it. I am not patient. I share well. It’s something I learned in childhood. I miss my grandmother terribly. I am hoping I am like her someday. I am slowly learning that life is comprised of peaks and valleys. When I am in a valley, I know I just have to do the very best I can in that valley until the next peak comes into view. I am trying.

2010-09-01T04:25:00.000-07:00

It's come to a point when I am surpassed by technology. Sure, as I sit here, I am staring at a computer screen and "blogging," which is a term I still don't particularly understand. I prefer to say that I'm "typing in my journal." There, that's better. My cell phone is not fancy. I would prefer not to have one, and, if you asked any close acquaintances of mine, they'd tell you it's pointless for me to have one, considering I never answer it or check its voicemail. I have no idea what its features are, either. I know it can call, I know I can answer, and I know it can text. Although I am not good at texting, nor do I plan to become better.
I have caught myself saying, more than a few times: "not to be old-fashioned, but..." and I realize that perhaps I just am a little old-fashioned.
I believe people should respect each other, not one-up each other. One-upping leads to greed, and I know you're all smart enough to know where greed leads. I believe children should be encouraged to imagine, and parents should not allow video games and television to pollute that imagination. Equally, I believe that animal children and people children should be viewed as similar: they love to play and they love to run, and they love to be outside. Let them. There is plenty of time for seriousness later, God knows.
Speaking of serious, perhaps it's time we stop and take a serious look at what we've (we being mankind) created. We have created more than we can handle, in my opinion. The character in the 1995 movie Powder made the quote that he believed technology was surpassing humanity. I believe that too. Just look how easy it is, and how comfortable we've become, sending an email rather than making a phone call or writing a letter. It is also apparent that it is easier to talk in exaggeration or with a hint of deception, rather than to ever reveal oneself in truth.
A friend of mine expressed concern lately about teenage drinking, and how it is a favorite pastime of youth, to drink beyond oblivion, to not remember where they've been or how they got there. I mentioned my disbelief for a sign outside a Planned Parenthood that read: Birth control without pelvic exam, free STD testing, morning after pill $38. You may say it's my "old-fashionedness" coming out, but, really? Is that okay to advertise now? Why not just get a bigger sign and say this: "Text your boyfriend, and his friends, and his friend's friends, because in reality, he's going to text them all anyway and tell them truth or not what you did last night. Let him know you're headed here for a free STD screen and a quick morning-after pill. You'll let him know how it all goes. If he could contribute half to the pill, that'd be cool. If not, no biggie, right? Responsibility is so overrated anyway." In The Case for Christianity, C.S. Lewis said "Human beings, all over the earth, have this curious idea that they ought to behave in a certain way, and can't really get rid of it." Obviously.
Immanuel Kant was a Western-philosopher who challenged utilitarianism, and I have to challenge it too. Our society has just become too okay with "whatever feels good, looks good, and gets me there the fastest." I fear for my childrens' understanding of this, because it is all-too easy to become one who believes this, and the media targets our children relentlessly. Simply put, the utilitarian belief is that human beings are not necessarily responsible for their actions, and that the world has just influenced them to behave a certain way, and justify it. Likewise, punishment should be lenient, if at all. In reality, utilitarians think that we (society) owes it to people to help them, change them. Sounds great, right? At first glance, yes. Everyone wins, everyone receives the help they need, regardless of their offense. It even sounds like the Christian thing to do. But wait a minute.
Kantians believe differently. They believe in responsibility. They believe that humans are generally rational beings, and must be held accountable for their actions. They don't believe that we should be handed a "get out of jail free" card, but rather, learn from our mistakes and own up to them. They believe that if you created it, you must be able to control it, because, as my kid likes to say "no take backs." Sounds harsh, maybe. Sounds un-Christian. Hmmm...in many religions we confess our sins to God, whether it's in a tiny booth and in the presence of a priest, or a moment of silence in prayer. And didn't God tell us that we should live a certain way, in responsibility to Him? Didn't he make it clear that He sent His son to die for our sins, and that the only way to the kingdom of heaven is through His son? We can't justify our own sins, friends. We can't make them okay, and no one here on earth can, either. We can seek counseling, we can seek spiritual guidance, we can have the warm-fuzzy hug of a utilitarian thinker who says "it'll all end up okay." And hopefully, it will. I'm not saying we shouldn't help each other realize what's right. But somewhere down the line, we have to take ownership for the way our own lives are unfolding. We have to halt the madness of advancement and realize it isn't always for "a greater good." Sometimes the flashiest "things" come with the worst implications. It sort of reminds me of a time that I took a picture of myself in the mirror. The flash of the camera blocked my face in the photograph. It was as if I wasn't even there; like this bright light covered up who I am. Might be a bad analogy, but it makes sense to me.
I realize this is preachy and abstract. It's just a brief culmination of the things floating around my head lately. Perhaps it isn't for you, and that's alright. But since I have this nifty "blog" I can record my own thoughts and review them later, just as you can.I do have to insert, also, that I am not, by any means, perfect and didn't write this with the intention to make you think so. It's just another one of those little realizations that has dug a hole deep within me; one that I can't let go of but don't know exactly how to resolve it, either. I leave you with another C.S. Lewis quote. On some days, this quote makes me feel anxious, and on other days, it makes me feel assurance: "Now is our chance to choose the right side. God is holding back to give us that chance. It won't last forever. We must take it or leave it."

Lewis, C.S. (1996). The case for christianity. 1st ed. Touchstone Books.

2010-08-30T04:40:00.000-07:00

I'm a little disappointed in myself. Not because I ate half-a-dozen cookies last night whilst sipping on some hot cocoa and browsing recipes for caramel pumpkin cheesecake, either. Well, okay, maybe a little because of that, but for the sake of writing a post this morning, let me own that disappointment separately.
I'm disappointed because, here I am, a church-going woman, a supposedly open-mind, open-hearted woman who will love everyone, a non-judgmental, do-the-right-thing type of gal. That is, until I realized that over the past week, I've judged people I don't even know, and even created imaginary circumstances that I know nothing about. A few days ago, after wheeling our trash can (my husband calls it a Herbie Curbie, but I contend that no one else calls it that) back up to it's resting spot, next to the house. About 3 or 4 hours later, when I was reluctantly cleaning the litter box, I walked out to dump the litter trash bag, only to find that Herbie was no longer next to the house. After standing there in a stupor for about 5 minutes, asking myself whether or not it was possible that I didn't put Herbie back, and I am actually nuts (which, the verdict is still out on that one...), I determined that someone had to have taken the thing. It was the only answer. About that time, a kid road by on a Vespa. The kid happened to be a different skin color, and as God as my witness, racism is not something I represent, but I did note that it was odd because there are two African American families that I know of in our neighborhood, and this kid didn't live with either one. That I know of. There's judgement one: would I have even noticed if it were a white kid zooming by? I don't know. In all fairness, I did pay special attention to this kid for another reason. He had ridden by, back and forth, about 4 times in the past 20 minutes. It seemed really odd, and somewhat coincidental in relation to my Herbie being gone? I narrowed by eyes and thought on it. Yes, I made the connection that somehow, this kid had to be guilty. But what would a kid want with my trash can? I let myself brew on this theory for a while. My dear neighbor and I stood puzzled in the yard, wondering who would steal a trash can. Anyway, I learned, a few days later, that the can was picked up by a trash company, as a result of a completely unrelated circumstance involving obvious miscommunication. Needless to say, the boy on the Vespa was probably just having a good time, enjoying this street particularly well, thus needing to travel it several times in a short period. And here, I judged him anyway. I realize as I type that I'm persecuting myself, here. Bear with me. It gets worse.
Ask yourself this: would you be suspicious if you saw a guy with a mullet-haircut, drinking a beer out of a beer stein, cigarette hanging from his lip, while manhandling a gray pit-bull, clipped for fighting? He also rides a bike around the neighborhood and "runs" this dog on a chain better fit for a winch on the front of a Jeep. And no, friends, I'm not one of these "pit-bulls are horrid, vicious dogs, not family pets, etc." people. I'm actually just for the ethical treatment of animals, period, and I don't take easily to a dog that looks like it may be used for illegal, and not to mention, inhumane, purposes. So you've read my description of the guy. What would you think? Well, again, I chose to stereotype. My honest thought, since I'm on a roll with self-righteous people-bashing here? "Wow, this redneck guy's probably trying to toughen this dog up to fight, he's probably abusing her and making her into one of these pit-bulls we inevitably see on the news, after they've attacked another innocent child. Great. Won't be walking the dogs past his house anymore." I thought this, wholeheartedly, until yesterday. Yesterday, Maddie, one of our dogs, went missing. She's been a notorious runner her entire life. She'll go months, even over a year, without escaping. Then, she'll have a streak of bolting that throws us into a frenzy. So, when I went to call her inside from the backyard yesterday and she didn't come running, I knew she had dug a hole. Sure enough, we found the hole, only just big enough for her sleek, lab body to slide out. After about an hour of searching, wouldn't you know it, Pit-bull Man approaches and says "I think I had your dog here, but I called the Humane Society because I didn't know where she belonged. She was real friendly and I gave her some water, but she didn't have a collar (she slips out of her collar, too) and I didn't know what else to do." I was dumbfounded. And honestly, friends, my stubborn, hen-pecking self still didn't let my accusations toward Pit-Bull man resolve. All night, since it was a Sunday evening and I couldn't call the Humane Society yet, I had visions of my poor dog, locked in this guy's basement while he used her as a bait-dog for his ringleader. That is, until this morning, when the lady at the Humane Society was kind on the phone, telling us Maddie really was there, and safe, and ready to go home. With a lump of humility in my throat, I decided that the man down the street who ultimately rescued my dog, F.K.A. Pit-Bull Man, was probably not a bad guy at all. I still have no confirmation as to whether or not his pit-bull is being used for fighting, but I really just need to believe she's not.
Sadly, these realizations didn't just flood over me this morning. I've had guilt-ridden little hints of them all along. My neighbor (and friend) was right, when she said to me last night, as she delivered the plate of fabulous cookies that I already admitted to eating in an aforementioned statement, "maybe this guy is actually a really good guy and he's really done the the best thing he knew to do for Maddie..." and I had one of those guilty moments of "yeah, that's probably true, and definitely what I should be thinking instead of what I am thinking."
I wonder if humility comes easily to others, or if I'm the only one who obviously struggles. I know it's hard for people to admit their faults, and much easier to hide behind the faults of others, making accusations that often distort reality.
I had a long time theory about a very important person in my life. I thought she was overstressed, a little high-strung, and often seemed unapproachable. At least to me, because I was always worried I'd upset her. Yesterday morning, in our place of worship, she admitted a history of life-shattering pain, and a more recent history of medication used to calm the mental illness that has formed in her body as a result of her being a victim to abuse for decades. The truth was, her medication had been adjusted so many times lately, she was struggling to do anything at all, and that is why she seemed so moody. I sat, numbly, in my seat, listening to the horrific details. This time, guilt flooded over me. It didn't come in little memos, like it usually does. I had pegged this woman completely wrong. And I had never even thought twice about it.
What I now know is this: when God sends you those little memos that say "hey, think about this a little more. Do you really think you should jump to that conclusion?" perhaps I need to listen up. Because He'll also intervene, once in a while, with a flood that says "Hey! That's my child too, and you need to love her! You don't need to know the circumstances. The only job I give you is to love." So, that's that. I need to work on it. There's my final admission.
Oh, and instead of a plateful of cookies, I suppose I should eat a slice of humble pie.

Animals, Ethics, and Dinnertime

2010-08-24T14:47:00.000-07:00

It doesn't take long, upon meeting me, to know that I am an animal lover. In fact, my house seems to be a hub for four-legged friends, including three beastly dogs and two cats, and then two "aquatic" friends I have mentioned in previous posts. Growing up, my grandparents ran a cattle farm, raising and selling beef for slaughter. I didn't think twice about it, however, I don't think I really even knew what was going on until much later in my childhood. I was naive, or maybe I just chose to be in that case. I recall my Papa had a bull named Willy B. This bull was "there" every spring, in the barn, yet, he would occasionally change personalities. "Oh, Willy's ornery today, don't visit him" I'd hear. I am slightly embarrassed to say that I didn't know until about age 13 that there had been about 8 different Willys in my lifetime.
Okay, where am I going with this? Well, as a teenager, I made a devout commitment to vegetarianism. This lasted for a few years - no meat at all. I took pride in the fact that a girlfriend and I could annihilate a Veggie Delight footlong at our local Subway in 8 minutes, flat.
When I moved to Georgia and got married, however, I decided that my husband might want to eat a steak, once in a while, and so on and so forth until I eventually caved and became a carnivore once again.
Flash forward: three weeks ago.
My son Isaac is passionate about the humane treatment of animals, particularly livestock. He was horrified at the 4H fair to see the bunnies in cages, panting in the stifling heat of the afternoon, despite the use of deafening fans in attempt to cool them. He hated seeing the cows lined up against the wooden walls, their tails swishing and their heads baying while, in front of them, their "prize" weights were displayed on brightly colored posterboard. I get that it's a farm-kid's past time. I understand that, I do. It's just I understand my kid's heartache for them too, because I've felt it all my life.
It all really came to a head on a drive to church this summer, when a cattle truck passed us on the interstate, full of those beautiful brown eyes and wet noses trying to sniff the unfamiliar air from the tiny holes in the trailer. Isaac asked, with some hesitation in his voice, "Why is that truck full of cows, Mommy?" I considered my options. Moving to a new farm? On a field trip? How about, oh, just headed off to some slaughterhouse where, in a matter of days, they'll be in the beef case at the grocery store.
I took a deep breath and explained that the cows, unfortunately, were not going to live much longer. In the most censored way possible, I told him they would be killed, and their bodies would be used for meat. Hamburgers, steaks, etc. He stayed quiet. So did I. A few minutes later, in a shaky voice, he said "and what happens with pigs, the same thing?"
I nodded.
I stuggled, internally, with this conversation for days. I hadn't actually eaten pork or beef in quite a while, mostly because of the stomach aches I get when I do eat it. I've been working toward semi-vegetarianism again, and I wondered if it would be okay to suggest it for my kids, too.
Flash forward: today.
Since the incident with the cattle transport, we have had many discussions about the ethical treatment of livestock. A wonderful woman in our church even brought up kosher meat, and suggested that we learn about it. Isaac and I watched several clips on youtube.com about keeping kosher, and although we aren't Jewish, we consider it a viable option. However, the interest has also sparked in Gabe, my three year old, and he put it simply: "We don't kill animals, Mommy. Dat is so not nice. So we not gonna eat dem, anymore." (I should note, he does not think that chicken nuggets are animals, which, they're probably not, but we're not going to go there).
Semi-vegetarianism it is. Lacto-ovo is what I'd like to be, but I think the protein is really important and I don't think I could completely remove fish and poultry from my kids' diets just yet. I realize there is inhumane killing of chickens and turkeys, too, but I'm trying really hard to buy into the fact that some of these cage-free farms are actually killing humanely and that it's not just one giant way to get people to pay three times as much for a chicken. I found that you can also order kosher chicken and turkey online from Jewish markets.
Tonight we had Boca burgers, corn and potato wedges. Isaac beamed and ate every bite, proclaiming more than once that it felt "so good that he wasn't eating any cow."
Trouble is, Gabe has taken the notion to an extreme: tonight at dinner he burst out, "No, we NOT gonna eat cows, Isaac, or kill dem. We just be NINJAS and we will kill all da PEOPLE dat try to kill da COWS!"
Um, yeah, I'll work on that.

The Bus

2010-08-19T04:56:00.000-07:00

So, first thing's first - I took the summer off, forgive me. If anyone read this enough to care, anyhow.

Now that that's out of the way, let me tell you, friends, that I've been replaced. Stood up, snubbed, pushed out, betrayed, whatever. Trumped, by a big yellow beast and the school that hired it. My baby started Kindergarten yesterday. Today, he started being a "bus rider."
For weeks, months, heck, even years, he's stated emphatically that he will not be going to school. First it was cute, then funny, and then recently, scary, as I pictured myself having to drag him there, explaining to the teachers that he may have to be roped to a chair if they wanted him to stay. Yesterday was day one. He rode with me, because there were abbreviated hours, and parents were invited to orientation. He complained the whole drive there, that he did not want to go, and didn't see why he couldn't just stay home. Then something changed. He entered this classroom, full of brightly colored posters, and bins of things like Legos, and blocks, and crayons and pipe cleaners. He found a seat at a table that was already labeled with his name. He became very excited.

Today is day two. My child did not complain, no, he shot out of bed like a cannonball and quickly - I mean quickly put his clothes on. All these years of saying "Okay, and now where are your pants? Don't you have another sock?" must be over. He had everything on, in the right place. He sat and ate his cinnamon roll Toaster Strudel and drank his juice without complaint as well. He even commented on how good it tasted, which really never happens. Next, he mentioned that we better "go wet this hair down" because did I see "how crazy it is!?" Prior to this day, I swear to you, this child would walk around with hair wilder than Albert Einstein and not care.

I kneeled before him and said "You know that you have to listen to the bus driver, and you have to do whatever he says. You can't get off until you're at school, either." He said to me, I kid you not: "What, am I stupid or something? I know what my school looks like."

We walked silently to the spot, only about 300 ft. from our front door, where the bus stops. My stomach was in knots as I clutched my coffee cup. I needed something to hold onto, because I knew that today, it wouldn't be his hand. Two little girls, fifth graders, were already standing there. I started nervously speaking to them, like I was on a first date: "Do you come here often? I mean....you ride this bus every day?" And then I continued with "This is my son Isaac, he's in Kindergarten, would you girls make sure he does this whole bus thing right?" Isaac glared at me, and turned to the girls and rolled his eyes. "I've ridden lots of buses before" he told them. Um, no you haven't. Whatever, I get it. Can it, mom.

The bus pulled up, and I braced myself for the big goodbye hug, the promise to see him in just a few hours, the "I'll miss you, have a wonderful day." And as I stood there, white-knuckling my mug and running through the dialogue in my head, I watched my little blonde-headed boy bounce onto the bus without looking back. I froze. That's it? No big, dramatic goodbye? What?

The bus driver looked down at me from his throne, his big vinyl seat of authority, and said "Kindergarten?"
I nodded.
"He'll be fine."
I barely whispered, "okay."

As I heard the engine kick up, and the bus pull away, I stood there on the pavement, a little stunned at what just happened. But as I walked back home, a smile spread over my face, thinking of how exciting this all is for my boy. How he must be on top of the world right now, heading off to school like a big boy with his Spiderman backpack and new shoes.

I can't believe how quiet it is here. I realize the other two will be up momentarily, and the house will come alive. For now, though, I'm not sure what to think. Other than that I think I am going to need more coffee.

with the warm comes the crazies

2010-05-15T17:26:00.000-07:00

We've had temps above 60 for several days recently. I love it. I really do. I love to sit outside and soak up the sun like the best sun worshippers out there. I love the thought that in another few weeks, that temperature will soar even higher and it will be beach time. I love planting flowers and gardening...and love it even more when the kids find the first ripe tomato of our garden and plant their tiny baby teeth into it.
I'm a summer person. Fall's my favorite...but summer is definitely a close second.
Besides the agony of putting on a bathing suit...and taking it off, and putting on a different one...and taking it off...and then finally settling on some sort of bag with a drawstring or a terry cloth smock that's cutely named a "beach cover up," I also loathe neighborhood ruckus.
By ruckus, I mean other people's kids. I appreciate the desire for children to play outside. I do. My aforementioned children love to run themselves ragged in the dog days of summer, from the first peek of daybreak to the last breath of light. But, I just don't appreciate that some parents let this "ragged running" take place unsupervised.
I had a conversation with both my parents, in the past few days, about watching the kids. We are contemplating the purchase of a new home that happens to have a creek flowing through the backyard. It's gorgeous, and the babbling of the water over the rocks creates a feeling of serenity and peace. Peace, however, may not be the right word to describe the feeling I get when I think of the kids near that creek. The feeling is anxiety, apprehension. My parents share that feeling.
However, there's this thing I do...it's called "supervising." I do it a lot. Not just from the crack of dawn till that last breath of light. Nope. I'm the mom that gets up at 3 a.m. to make sure everyone is still breathing, as they are passed out in a hard, drooly sleep, with various action figures, stuffed animals, or pacifiers nestled in next to them. I love my kids. I suppose most parents do.
I even suppose that my neighbors love their kids, too. It's just a funny way of showing it. For example, this evening, what prompts me to type this post in the first place, is the fact that my neighbors' six-year old girl is playing ball in the street with two teenage boys. I have never before seen these boys. I also don't know that I'd let my daughter play with them. Maybe they're cousins. Maybe uncles. I don't know. But, regardless, they are all in the street...the same place as the not-so-speed-limit obedient cars. They have also, eight times now, not that I'm counting, thrown their ball into my front yard. My three beastly dogs are finding themselves quite distraught over this. They can't handle it. I am growling at them to cease their barking; they simply think they're alerting me that someone has come into our yard. They're doing what they should, I'm the one supremely annoyed.
So the question is, do I say something to the parents, or do I assume that if they were actually conscientious people who caredfor their child's well being, they wouldn't allow her out there in the first place?

Betcha this kid's mama is proud...

2010-04-08T18:22:00.000-07:00

I got this email today from my mother-in-law. I don't get a chance to read a lot of forwards, but this was worth reading to the end. I could imagine my little boy saying some of these things...This was a homework assignment, to 'explain God.' It was written by an 8-year-old named Danny Dutton, who lives in Chula Vista , CA . Danny is in third grade. Way to go, Danny.

EXPLANATION OF GOD:

'One of God's main jobs is making people. He makes them to replace the ones that die, so there will be enough people to take
care of things on earth. He doesn't make grownups, just babies.... I think because they are smaller and easier to make. That way he
doesn't have to take up his valuable time teaching them to talk and walk. He can just leave that to mothers and fathers.'

'God's second most important job is listening to prayers. An awful lot of this goes on, since some people, like preachers
and things, pray at times beside bedtime. God doesn't have time to listen to the radio or TV because of this. Because he hears
everything, there must be a terrible lot ofnoise in his ears, unless he has thought of a way to turn it off.'

'God sees everything and hears everything and is everywhere which keeps Him pretty busy. So you shouldn't go wasting his
time by going over your mom and dad's head asking for something they said you couldn't have.'

'Atheists are people who don't believe in God. I don't think there are any in Chula Vista . At least there aren't any who
come to our church.'
'Jesus is God's Son. He used to do all the hard work, like walking on water and performing miracles and trying to teach the
people who didn't want to learn about God. They finally got tired of him preaching to them and they crucified him But he was good and
kind, like his father, and he told his father that they didn't know what they were doing and to forgive them and God said O.K...'

'His dad (God) appreciated everything that he had done and all his hard work on earth so he told him he didn't have to go
out on the road anymore. He could stay in heaven. So he did. And now he helps his dad out by listening to prayers and seeing things
which are important for God to take care of and which ones he can take care of himself without having to bother God. Like a secretary,
only more important.'

'You can pray anytime you want and they are sure to help you because they got it worked out so one of them is on duty all
the time.'

'You should always go to church on Sunday because it makes God happy, and if there's anybody you want to make happy, it's
God!

Don't skip church to do something you think will be more fun like going to the beach. This is wrong. And besides the sun
doesn't come out at the beach until noon anyway.'

'If you don't believe in God, besides being an atheist, you will be very lonely, because your parents can't go everywhere
with you, like to camp, but God can. It is good to know He's around you when you're scared, in the dark or when you can't swim and you
get thrown into real deep water by big kids.'

'But...you shouldn't just always think of what God can do for you. I figure God put me here and he can take me back anytime
he pleases..

the meaning of holidays

2010-04-04T16:18:00.000-07:00

This past year's Christmas was kind of overwhelming with gifts and hoopla. My children have reached the age when they want everything, and believe that Santa Claus will provide. I believe we, as parents, did this to ourselves, pushing the Santa business down their throats.
Then we get to Valentine's Day, and while we don't celebrate any visits from fictional gift-bearing characters, the kids have come to expect some sort of flashy red box containing nougat filled chocolates.
Fast forward to today, Easter Sunday. The most sacred of holidays, in my opinion. Except, again, the meaning of the holiday is shadowed by gifts...and in this case, it revolves around a giant bunny rabbit. Don't get me wrong, I think kids should have their fun. Heck, I loved Christmas and Easter when I was a child. The food, the fun, the family, and yep, the new stuff made for an excellent day.
So, not wanting to squelch their dreams of candy-filled eggs, I didn't put the kabash to Easter bunny festivities altogether. But I did decide it was time to intervene, and begin to explain to them why we believe holidays, and in particular, Easter, are so important.
Yesterday, I showed my boys excerpts (non-violent ones) from The Passion of the Christ. I wanted them to know about Jesus'crucifixion, and why we celebrate his victory over the grave.
While I'm not convinced they truly get it yet, the outcome was pleasing. Here are some of the things that came up in conversation as we watched:
Isaac: "So they beat him?"
Gabe: "They beating him?"
Me: "Yes, they were very awful to Jesus."
Isaac: "Well...I guess I'm not going to church tomorrow, if this is what happens when you go around Jesus on Easter."
Me: "This happened a long time ago. And God brought Jesus home after that, to Heaven, to forgive all of us on earth."
Isaac: "God gave him pretty good powers, I guess."

Then, today, the boys got their Easter baskets when they woke. They were, as expected, elated to find their goodies in the nests of plastic grass. Isaac put his things down, and said with a very serious tone: "Gabie, let's pray."
Gabe followed suit, bowing his head and clutching his hands together. Isaac began:
"Dear Easter Bunny..."
I interjected that we actually don't pray to the Easter Bunny.
Isaac cleared his throat again:
"Dear God...Thank you for telling your friend, the Easter Bunny, that we are good boys. Well, thank you for telling him that we are not bad boys all the time, I mean."
He opened one eye and looked at me, while I tried to remain composed.
"And thank you, too, for getting Jesus up today."

So, for now, I realize that Santa, God and the Easter Bunny are all on the same level for this kid.
Of course I know this will all have to be sorted out...
For right now, I'm just gonna be okay with it.

Long time, no see...

2010-03-27T18:42:00.000-07:00

I did not die or fall off the face of the earth. I have been incredibly, overwhelmingly busy. And it turns out, I am not one of those moms with extra tentacle-like hands that can do various tasks all at once....including updating a once-frequented blog.

Here's what I've been doing:

Dealing with a six-month old drama queen. She spits, she rolls her eyes at me, she refuses to look my way. And the next minute she smiles, coos, and reaches her arms out to her favorite mama.

Dealing with a five-going-on-35 year old boy. Nothing is new here. He is an orange belt in TKD now...which translates to more emphatic outbursts of "I can KICK YOUR BUTT!" to his brother, when applicable. But trust me, if he even tries to kick his brother's butt....well, we'll see who's got the orange belt...

Dealing with the process of getting a Masters in Counseling. I can't believe how much more work this is, compared to undergrad. I wanted to be done. What was I thinking?

Putting my house on the market, and praying it sells soon.

Dealing with the ever ongoing struggle to get Gabe to gain weight. His sister went in for her six month checkup, and weighed in at 13 lbs, 13 oz. Gabe is nearly three. He weighs 24 lbs. There is something very disturbing about that. He eats incessantly, but I am now wondering if he has Crohn's. Why can I not eat incessantly?

Speaking of weight, I witnessed the little hourglass on my computer screen as it processed the calculation of my "ideal" weight. I waited. And to my horror, the number it gave me was a shocking 70 lbs. less than what I currently weigh. So that's it, folks. "Morbidly Obese." Since I figure I'm about 2 shakes from having my own show on TLC anyway, I would like to avoid having it revolve around my weight issues. So I joined Weight Watchers, and intend to go into seclusion until further notice.
Which, on the bright side, may mean more blogging. Or just more running and jumping and following the humiliating moves of Jillian Michaels, the much despised weight loss coach for "The Biggest Loser."

Take care, folks.

Nostalgic 64

2010-03-09T11:07:00.000-08:00

This afternoon, I gave Isaac a present. I actually had it at Christmas, but I didn't want it to get lost in the shuffle. This is a special present...to me it was, anyway. It's a box of brand new Crayolas. The "big" 64 crayon pack. Not the super fancy one with the built in sharpener, or the huge 108 count box that boasts more variety but rather just slightly changes the originals and rewrites a fancy name. Nope. This is a traditional box, all with beautifully sharpened tips, neatly falling in line like little colorful soldiers in their respective cardboard sections.
I remember that Crayolas were my favorite part of going to school. Each August, I'd get a new box, and though I would spend several minutes at a time looking at the colors, studying them and moving them around in the box, I wouldn't make a single mark with them until I was in school. They weren't to be spoiled.
So, today I sat with Isaac and we looked at all the colors. He quickly picked his favorites, just like I quickly picked them when I was his age. He selected royal blue and red, for obvious superhero reasons. Those are Spiderman's colors.
Back then, I would have raced my fingers to the magenta and thistle. Those were my go-to colors. Ironically, I didn't color with them much. I didn't want to "waste" them. Funny, now I don't know where all those magentas and thistles went. The almost new crayons, probably tossed in a trash along with the stubby black, the worn out jungle green, and the paperless orange-red. Then I remember the trend of coloring many patches of the rainbow onto a sheet of white paper, and then coating the whole thing in black so you could make designs with a toothpick and the colors would come through. I liked the idea, but I only used my death-row crayons for that. By this I mean my sorriest black, my ugliest blues, yellows and pinks. Never my nice new colors; this project was crayon massacre.
We were interrupted in our crayon admiration by a "test of the emergency broadcast system" that reassured us, it was only a test, but also noted that it was a regularly scheduled test of our nation's Homeland Security alert system. Like the kind of alert we might get, not as a test, if our country is attacked by terrorists again? Perhaps. Isaac turned his attention to the TV, asking me what it meant. I explained it was just a way to make everyone aware if there would ever be danger. His eyebrows furrowed.
So did mine.
So, it seems, while he and I can share the joy of a new box of Crayolas, the thought stikes me that my children's childhood may not be as carefree as my own was, as carefree as it's supposed to be. I know I'll do everything I can to keep things simple, but we're definitely in a different ballgame, now.
For the moment, though, I think I'm going to teach him how to make one of those "use up all your old colors and draw with a toothpick" projects.
And for the record, as of today, I think my new favorite colors are orchid and raw umber.

A creative kid?

2010-03-02T13:04:00.000-08:00

I woke up in a cold sweat at about 2 a.m. today. This doesn't happen very often. No, it wasn't a nightmare about a monster or ghosts, or being attacked or chased, or falling out of a 10 story building or anything like that. It was about school, and particularly, my kid. I had talked with a few of the mom's at Isaac's Tae Kwon Do class about Kindergarten options, and as luck would have it, I had a dream about it. To sum it up, in the dream, Isaac started Kindergarten. The teachers were impressed with his knowledge, he knew his colors, shapes, numbers, etc. But when it came to relating to his friends, there was trouble. He came home and cried that no one liked him. And, although it's an extreme exaggeration from real life, at the end of the dream, I was having a conference with his teacher who said "Just face it, your kid is a weirdo."
Now, I've never heard a teacher call a kid a weirdo; at least not to a parent. In fact, I'm sure the term "weirdo" came from my own frequent use of it in my vocabulary. I like to say it with a little Bronx accent "ya weeah-do."
Anyway, point is, Isaac is a lot like me. He's a bit of a loner. He loves to play with other kids, but in general, his ideas seem a little far-fetched to some kids. He frequently dresses up in costumes, he alters his voice to sound like various characters, he draws elaborate pictures of space aliens playing with zombies and he fetches random useless items (sticks, buttons, pieces of string, etc) to use on his unbelievable snow "castle" creations in the backyard. I overheard him telling his brother that he's married and the cats are his children. Just today he told him that if he didn't start using the potty soon, he was going to smell like "tuna fish and wet chicken!" He also sulks at the dinner table, spending a few minutes every evening giving me guilt trips about serving meat, considering the fact that it's killing farm animals. I just don't know about him. Every parent questions their child's nature from time to time, I'm sure. Every parent worries, (whether you admit it or not) that your kid will be the one dancing around with his hands down his shorts like the kid of Everybody Loves Raymond when the rest of the basketball team is trying to score. Likewise, every parent secretly thinks, at one point or another, that their kid is really gifted, super-intelligent and somehow, in some way,superior to other kids. Come on. We all do it.
Perhaps it's all normal. Perhaps it's because he is home with me all the time. I don't really interact with many people. I generally leave the house 3 times per week: church, and Monday and Wednesday's Tae Kwon Do class. I do go to the store from time to time, too, but I tote all 3 children along. I find myself becoming more and more of a loner, and maybe it's impacting him somehow. I used to hang out with friends often, before I had children. Even when I worked outside the home, I was more social. Nowadays, the reasoning process is different for me. Generally, if I have to pay a babysitter, dress up (something other than jeans), or pretend to be interesting, it's a no go. I even go to school at home, on the internet. I am becoming more fond of the concept of "Individual Networking" or "Autonomous Networking." Most of the friends I have exist only in the cyber-world. Some of them, I know, are friends that I've known for a while, and we simply reconnect online, but some of them I've never really met...and we are friends, just the same.
I find more often that my "friends" are the people who are most comfortable with who I really am. My mom, my sister, a few others, maybe. People I don't have to impress. People I can laugh with about idiotic things. People who don't care if I share a controversial and politically incorrect opinion, drop some foul language for the sake of passion, or even simply disagree.
What I do realize is the fact that this may not be the most helpful to my "interesting" child. Maybe he needs to spend less time with me, and more time interacting with peers. He casually shrugs his shoulders and tells me, "Mom, I'm just creative." Except he pronounces it "curative."
Creativity or not, maybe it'll all turn out okay. Maybe he'll blend in just fine, and I'm worrying for nothing. Maybe he's not a weirdo after all.
And anyhow, one of my favorite sayings is that there's a "fine line between genius and madness," and having a "curative" kid that turns into the next Albert Einstein wouldn't be all bad. Maybe the little man will win a Nobel prize someday, although it wouldn't really matter...they give those out to anybody nowadays....There I go with a politically incorrect statement again, darnit.

The Potty Dance

2010-02-23T07:36:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting on the bathroom floor. With my computer. I am doing this because I've already been here a while, and I was getting bored. Answering questions....unlimited questions. "Do you go on the potty?" Yes. "Do you like stickers?" Yes. "Can I wash my hands?" After you go potty. "Can Isaac potty in here?" Not while you're on the toilet. "Do you like Elmo?" Sure. "Does Elmo go potty?" Probably. Yes. "Where's his potty?" (baffled) I don't know. On Sesame Street. "Sesame Street?" Uh-huh. "Where's that? Is it in my home?" On T.V. Go potty. I'm gonna go get my computer.
I've done a lot of research, had a few conversations with the pediatrician, and many conversations with other moms; all to arrive at the same conclusion. I have no conclusion. My son isn't potty trained. He is apparently just taking his time. It's not that Gabe hasn't gone on the toilet. In fact, he's gone numerous times. He just seems to not really care whether he goes on the toilet or in a diaper. It's sort of like, "could you go for tuna salad or egg salad?" Eh, either one, both sound good. That's how Gabe handles potty training. "Diaper or toilet?" Eh, whichever. I'm not picky.
I've tried some tools. My mother bought a "Potty Training Chart" that features Elmo and friends, and you put a sticker on the day when an "achievement" is earned. He really wants the stickers, but evidently not badly enough. So he ogles them while he sits on his (also Elmo and friends) potty seat. He tells me which one he's going to have, when he does go. So I figure he's looking toward a positive future?
I've tried the motivational "potty-chants." I've created my own: "We're gonna go on the pott-ay" (rhythmically, and with some pretty enthusiastic hand-jive motion). I've even danced my way into the bathroom with him, showing my obvious excitement for him to make in the toilet, and not in his pants.

This was not the case with Isaac. I'm pretty sure he was peeling back the diaper at about a year old, heading for the toilet in pursuit of potty-freedom. Well, maybe not quite a year. But really, I didn't have any "training" involved with him. He just did it. Gabe is obviously a different story.
Changing a baby is one thing. They can lay on a changing table, coo and giggle and be cute. Even their diapers don't seem as gross. To me, anyhow. A 2 and a half year old is a different story. A 2 and a half year old's diaper is vile. And the fact that he will ask questions while I change it; that makes it worse. My sister dies every time I have Gabe bring me a clean Pull-Up and some wipes, and then he whips his pants down, slaps his hands onto the floor and points his bare bottom skyward for me to wipe him down. It's gross. Humorous, maybe. But gross. You'd think at this point, he'd know it's just...time. It's time to be over this charade of "You should have told Mommy....go get me a clean Pull-Up."
Should be, would be, could be. But for now, my bottom is planted on the cold and hard bathroom floor in the room that also doubles as my laundry room. My head is rested against the door, my knees folded against the vanity. I notice things from this angle. I need to wipe down the baseboards. There are dust bunnies under the washer. Perhaps I could make a day of this and fold the load in the dryer. Or perhaps he could just go and we could get the heck outta here.

Why there was REALLY a massacre...

2010-02-14T17:10:00.001-08:00

"I'm so done with girls!" This, the proclamation of my five year old, who can't even reach the handle on the kitchen faucet, but, is decidedly over the vast majority of the female population. Fine by me, at this point, anyhow. I asked him what he was before he was done with girls, and he didn't reply...audibly. He just rolled his eyes and gave me the "please Mom, are you serious?" face. I want to reiterate - this kid is five. Apparently he was chased this morning in Sunday school, by a pretty girl in a festive dress and tights with red and white hearts peppered all over them. She supposedly tried to kiss him. He told her he can't kiss girls except his mom and girls he's married to. Consider yourself notified, girls. So, he told her he wouldn't marry her. And her heart was broken, and she went off to pursue a future in country music...and my son ran to me and made the aforementioned proclamation.

Well, it was something like that, anyway.

The day is full of Valentine expectations. As I've mentioned many times, I love expectation just about as much as I hate it. I realize that statement doesn't make much sense. I passed a couple roughly spray-painted signs offering fresh flowers on the side of the road. One was neon yellow, and said "ROSES" in huge red letters, and a lonely man sat on the back bumper of his minivan, trying to peddle those bouquets. I went to the mall and witnessed the hustle and bustle of ladies and gentlemen trying to find last-minute tokens of love and worship for their significant others. A couple gals walked into Bath and Body Works, sweating and out of breath, asking "Do you have any Valentine gift sets for MEN?!?" The store clerk looked at them with empathy and let them down easy with a soft "no." My first thought, ladies, is that your man probably didn't want anything from that store anyhow. 'Specially not a Valentine gift set.
A man I passed on my way home this afternoon deserves an honorable mention: his love for McDonald's is apparently so great, he had a full display of drink cups on his dashboard, crammed against the windshield. That's some incredible paper-cup love. Or maybe he just couldn't find a trashcan.
So why do we try so hard to make this such a mushy gushy holiday? I hunkered down at the computer to reread the stories of St. Valentine's Days in our history. I was curious, and I was stalling so I didn't have to do homework.

It certainly wasn't a warm-fuzzy day for the guys who got shot on the North Side of Chicago back in Capone's days of reign. Maybe they picked the 14th because they felt a little vomity (it's a word, in my vocabulary) over the lovey-dovey-ness of the holiday? That's my theory.

Word has it, St. Valentine was a priest who was martyred for his love of Christ. Evidently, he liked to perform marriages, in secret, so the emperor would not find out. Emperor Claudius didn't want men to marry because then they wouldn't sign up for his army. One day St. Valentine was caught for performing a marriage and jailed for it, but the prison guard's daughter took a liking to him...and visited his cell regularly. Well, the day Valentine was set to be executed, he left a little note for this girl, signed "With Love, Your Valentine." So...we all love each other especially much on this day because of a priest on death-row's affection for his jailer's daughter. Perfect. Makes wonderful sense. Well, at least to Hallmark, it does.
But who am I to knock a day to enjoy decadent desserts, unusual kindness from husbands, little girls trying desperately to kiss little boys, and, of course...the annual box of "gamble chocolates."

An Evaluation

2010-02-06T17:06:00.000-08:00

There are lyrics in the song 'Beautiful Boy' by Mr. John Lennon that go like this: "life is what happens while you're busy making other plans." I've liked those lyrics since I first heard the song, and I even had a T-shirt that said it once...it's somewhere in the sea of lost T-shirts at my mother's house now...but I don't think I ever really got the meaning till just a short while back. As many of you may have noticed, I haven't had so much to post about as of late. I'm in a funk. Did I mention that already? Yes...remind me...I have a few times now, I'm sure.
I am thinking about my life and its meaning. Don't we all, at some point? I evaluate and re-evaluate. I'm like a professor of myself, at this point, except, just when I think I know all there is to know about me, I do something different. I do stick to what is relatively important, but I've had some bouts of temporary insanity, too. I have recently been accepted into a Masters program for Counseling Psychology. Psychology? Counseling? Me? Hah!
Ok, but the point is, my acceptance was conditional on me doing this "self-evaluation" thing...on paper. And from the way the criteria read, they wanted candidates to basically Maury Povich their entire lives into several hundred words, the juicier the better. So I started thinking....juicy....and I thought of steak...but, no, seriously, I tried to think of all of the happenings in my life. Which is when Lennon's lyrics made sense. All of these things I've done: moved away from my mother while I was still a teenager, went to school for music, met great Southerners, lived as an Army wife, drank Jagermeister (hello, yuck!), learned to cook really well, learned to pay bills and balance a checkbook, suffered more heartache than I ever thought I could stand, got a real estate license, visited and sold some really amazing houses, had children, got divorced, moved back "home," bought my second house, graduated from college, finally, got married again, had another child...are ya bored yet? You get the picture...I had a lot to write about. Not that I told my life story, they only wanted the most corrupt parts. Because, apparently, you should have a certain amount of corruption within in order to be a counselor. Or perhaps that's the overall goal. Perhaps the board of Psychology at my school are hoping to transform the gory details of my life into a learning experience, where I will diagnose my deficiencies and be a wise-owl who can utilize this knowledge to guide and treat others. Perhaps.
Either way, I'm enjoying the re-cap. Sort of. Some of it just makes me shake my head.

Can't...Stop...Eating

2010-02-04T10:37:00.002-08:00

It amazes me that I have been so strong and able to do so many things in life independently, yet when it comes to food, I am weaker than Kool Aid in the ocean. I could sit and read cookbooks for hours. I love it when there are pictures of the finished recipe. I love the concepts behind fancy cakes with elaborate fillings, standing rib roasts fit for royalty and the quest for the best pizza pie in the area. This, of course, is directly correlated to the growth spurt also known as my waistline.
I tell myself constantly that I'm going to cut it out. I'm going to give up the sweets. I'm going to cook only low-fat, low-calorie meals. I'm going to count calories. I'm going to work out every day. And...then....I don't. Don't get me wrong, my intentions are wonderful. I buy an arsenal of health food. Bags of arugula, tomatoes, fresh mushrooms, whole grain pastas and mass quantities of boneless, skinless chicken breasts. Then I find a recipe that calls for things like that...and just a little cheese. So I add the cheese. And it looks so good, I add a little more. And then one of my children says, "Mom, can we have more cheese on this?" And I cave. I dump in the whole bag. Calcium, right?
That's part of the problem. My little Gabriel is very underweight, and I know I have to pad his calorie intake daily. Butter on everything, extra cheese, extra cookies. Sometimes I forget I'm not Gabriel.
Or, my other classic move is what I call "little bit" eating. I eat a healthy breakfast...and my staple, coffee. I eat a small, but healthy lunch. Something with protein and whole grain. Dinner is chock full of veggies. Good stuff. But....all throughout the day, I pick up "little bits." This may include the remaining 3 Cheetos on one of the boys' lunch plates, a couple M&M's that I've got in my pocket for Gabe's "reward" when he goes on the potty, a handful of crackers while I search the pantry for dinner supplies....and then when I cook, I sample that too.
So, I implore anyone who is reading...how do I stop the vicious cycle? How do I gain the willpower? How do I deny myself these demonic carb-avore dishes and cakes and pies that pack on pounds? Did I mention that during the act of eating, I am amazingly satisfied and content with the world? It's like harmony in my mouth? It would be like an emotional detachment to remove such bliss from my life?
It's not that I'm morbidly obese. It's not that I'm hideous....although there are days I feel that way. I am simply not where I want to be. I want to fit into old jeans that I once loved. I want to wear a bathing suit without feeling...lumpy. I admit, winter is my worst time for this dilemma. I can hide my body more, this way. I would love, though, to have a tried and true way to do this, to conquer this, rather than to battle it every day with only minor success. I'm open to suggestions, folks.

Conversations with a Five Year Old

2010-01-31T14:19:00.000-08:00

I am always amazed and surprised at the things my children come up with, but lately, my Isaac, in particular, has said some pretty profound things for a fiver. I have to catch myself a lot, because I find myself having "regular" conversations with him about things, more like two buddies would have, less like a mother and (very young) child would have. They go a little something like this:
Me: (watching Miss America)I don't think that even if I had the best body in the world, I'd wear a bikini on television.
Isaac: Yeah...those girls are kinda hot.
Me: What!?!
Isaac: You're just upset because you'd look too fat.
Me: Thanks...that's nice.
Isaac: (pointing at my middle) Well, whaddaya call that? Maybe you should just grow a mustache.
Me: Because now I look like a man?
Isaac: (huge sigh) I don't know. (continues coloring Spiderman)

And another day...
I was sitting in my office, typing away at some schoolwork, and I hear a deafening silence from my living room. Usually I hear some sort of ruckus, or at least the sound effects of a cartoon. This day, I hear nothing. So I wander out into the room to find Isaac covered up to his eyes in the couch blanket, peering out, watching a soap opera.
Me: Is this a soap opera?
Isaac: Is that what it's called?
Me: I don't really know why, but yes.
Isaac: Yeah, I don't know either, but it's very, very sad.
Me: Why?
Isaac: It's just that all these people have sad lives and they are always in the hospital or something. When I grow up, I'm going to help people. And animals. And work in a hospital.
Me: Yes, because you need to buy your mommy a nice house.
Isaac: Yep, well, a house for both of us, because I'm going to live with you forever.

And just the other day...
Isaac: (to my sister) Do you have a boyfriend, Tante?
Stacey: No. Do you have a girlfriend?
Isaac: No. I did, but I don't right now. It was Brielle, but now she doesn't come over because Mommy doesn't let her.
Me: That's true.
Stacey: That's good. But when you go to school, you might get a new girlfriend.
Isaac: I'm not going to school. Besides, I won't get one anyway. Girls don't like guys like me.
Me: What's a guy like you?
Isaac: Look at me. I'm ugly. Girls like cute guys.
Me: You are very cute!
Stacey: Not when you make bodily noises.
Isaac: Girls won't like when I toot?
Me: Definitely not.
Stacey: Nope, they won't. It's gross.
Isaac: Whatever. I don't care.
Me: Isaac...I love you.
Isaac: Yeah. I know it.

I Admit

2010-01-25T18:37:00.000-08:00

...I admit that sometimes I'm not hungry for dinner because I ate dessert first. Or half a bag of chips. Who am I kidding, I mean a whole bag of chips.
...I admit that when my little boys are supposed to be in bed, but instead they're upstairs squealing and laughing, I don't really get mad...it makes me feel happy because I realize someday it will be quiet upstairs...
...I admit that I love the strength I gather from my relationship with God, and I am so grateful for the blessings He's given me.
...I admit wholeheartedly that one of those blessings was my grandma Margie, and I admit that I believe she is watching over me and my children.
...I admit that I've woken my baby girl up on purpose a time or two, just to see her big blue eyes and her toothless smile.
...I admit I think boys are the best when they are younger than 10 or older than, say, 70. In between, they are gangly, arrogant and ornery. Think about it.
...I admit I love my dogs more than I love some people. I don't even really think of them as dogs...they are my family too.
...I admit I watch stupid shows like The Bachelor, and I find myself talking to the T.V. screen, telling him what to do, who to pick. Only when no one is around. But then again, I only watch when no one is around.
...I admit I really do like the snow.
...I admit that I like my legs. But only from the knee down. I also like my feet.
...I admit that it pulls on my heartstrings when my oldest son shouts "I hate you!" But that it pulls even harder when he wraps his arms around my neck and says "I love you, mommy..."
...I admit that I wish I had a better relationship with some of my family members. We aren't all as close as I wish we could be.
...I admit that I've lost touch with some friends that I shouldn't have lost touch with.
...I admit I've made mistakes. A lot of mistakes.
...I admit I've learned my lesson. Most of the time. But sometimes a lesson is learned too late.
...I admit to being a really good listener, but I also admit that I might give you unsolicited advice.
...I admit that I don't always correct my baby boy when he mispronounces a word because I just think it's cute, and who's it hurting, anyway?
...I admit that there hasn't been a diet in my whole life that I've not cheated on. I am a dieting infidel.
...I admit I give up on most exercise programs, I need a buddy.
...I admit that I won't believe you, most of the time, when you pay me a compliment that has to do with appearance. It's a confidence issue I'll never be over.
...I admit to an obsession with worn-out blue jeans and designer shoes. But I can only really afford one of the above. Guess which one.
...I admit that most of the time, my mother is right.
...I admit I still don't listen to my mother like I should.

Positivity

2010-01-21T17:52:00.000-08:00

I've got a case of blah. It crept in and hasn't left yet. It's contagious. And it spreads quickly.
So I decided to do things that made me feel happier. I read a quote the other day, and it's pretty true, in my case, anyhow:
"A happy person is caught up in the moment, not worried about the past, or the future"...except I don't know who actually wrote the quote so I can't really give credit to anyone. Even though I see the point. If you're happy, it doesn't matter what happened yesterday, or what might come of tomorrow....because right now, everything is good.
I lived this moment today. How can this not make you happy, even if just for a little bit?

Dinner is Served, Days Eight and Nine

2010-01-21T17:36:00.000-08:00

I told ya we'd be following the Pioneer Woman's cookbook this week - and I wasn't kidding.

Day Eight is her meatloaf. It's unlike any other meatloaf you've ever tasted. It's soooo good. So wipe off any judgment you previously had about the loaf of meat, and make this one. You won't be sorry. I served cheesy grits on the side, but that's just me and my obsession with hominy.

Day Nine is super yummy. Simple, Perfect Enchiladas. And they are simple. And perfect. But they do take a little time. Don't all good things? I actually think I'd rather have this than a trip to Hacienda. Except I really do like the margaritas at Hacienda. Especially the frozen ones with a salted rim. Oh, boy. Lookout.

Here's the recipes. Let me know what you think. Oh, and I made my enchiladas with chicken tonight, instead of ground beef. I was feeling feisty.

http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/2008/09/simple-perfect-enchiladas/

The Bar

2010-01-20T12:46:00.000-08:00

No, I didn't go out drinking. I couldn't even recommend a good bar to visit for that. I'm talking about the bar we set when we are prioritizing the standards of our life. Deep, huh?
My mother and I have often had the conversation about expectation vs. disappointment. And I believe this directly correlates to our own personal "bars." For example, let's look at birthdays. As a kid, I got really, really excited about them. I would countdown for weeks until that wonderful morning that I would wake up and be a new age. Especially ten. Ten is the year you go from a single digit to a double digit. It's a huge deal. It's an unmatchable deal. Let's face it, unless we live to be a hundred, it'll never be as big as this again. Anyway, the birthday arrives and it's all about fun, when you're a kid, at least. Your friends are all excited for you, there's typically cake, ice cream, a party, maybe...gifts...the whole shebang. But let's talk about, oh, 27. What the heck happens when you turn 27? I'll tell you. Not a thing. I did not even see a cake that day. Not at 28, either, until I specifically remember dragging a warped Duncan Hines box out of my pantry and making one myself. Sure, we could say this is because we're getting older, birthdays are for kids, blah blah blah. Really, though, it's because our expectations themselves have become more realistic, and disappointment has replaced excitement more than a few times.
My good friend wrote about the hype leading up to midnight on New Year's Eve. Same deal. We make a big fuss, and for what? Unless you're one of the lucky few that got proposed to on this eve, or you're standing on Times Square partying with Ryan Seacrest, I'm doubting there's anything monumental about this holiday - ever.
Here's a touchy one, ladies. Look at your significant other. If you have one. Is he who you really thought you'd end up with? Are you head over heels in love, never once looking back or questioning what the heck you were thinking? Did you know it all along, or did you grow into it? Does he "raise the bar" for you, or lower it? What about with your job? Is it your dream? I mean, really? You certainly don't have to tell anyone the answer in your head. My point is, all throughout life, we are faced with our own personal standards. Our own "bar." The decisions we make do tend to indicate our own lowering or raising of our standards...
I'm truly not even trying to be depressing...I hope we've all made decisions that have made us better people. I know I have, several times. But then there have been times that I've dropped my "bar" altogether. And I guess that's okay, too, because isn't life one big learning curve in itself? Really, though, should we just get rid of the bar? What do standards become if we are constantly disappointed with results? What are we doing to ourselves when we make resolutions to, say, lose a bunch of weight and then on the second week of our diets we fail to go on that 30 minute walk, or we eat a giant piece of chocolate cake? (P.S., if you know where I could find a good piece of chocolate cake, I'd like to chat...otherwise I have to locate the aforementioned box of Duncan Hines in my pantry again and make my own magic). Here's my opinion: we have to re-vamp our standards in order to even call them "our standards," pretty much on a regular basis. Because I think it's all a part of growing older, and the whole "hindsight is 20/20" thing. I think we have to look at what we've done, and evaluate it after the fact. Act now, tweak later? Sort of. Act now on the little stuff...don't think about it too much. But add up the little stuff and use the pros and cons as a guideline for the big stuff. What are your thoughts?

Dinner is Served, Day Seven

2010-01-20T12:36:00.000-08:00

I'm behind. I know this. However, I think I'm still okay, because I don't know of anyone specifically who is following these recipes and has starved for the last day I didn't post...but here's what we did for supper last night:
The Pioneer Woman's "Penne Alla Betsy"....

Now I run into a political snafu...I'm not sure it's legal or appropriate for me to post someone else's recipe without their permission. And since the Pioneer Woman is busy I am certain she won't answer my plea if I beg her permission to share her recipe. But I will direct you to her website, and even give you the link for this recipe. It is very, very yummy and you won't be sorry you made it.

This week, I'm pretty much sticking to the Pioneer Woman Cooks cookbook. I recommend it fiercly - I've made nearly every recipe in there and I've not regretted one of them. However, I've had to exercise more, because Ree Drummond, like most of my favorite cooks, is no stranger to a stick of butter. Love it.http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/2007/09/cooking_with_my_punk-ass_little_sister_penne_a_la_betsy/

The Vacuum Diaries

2010-01-17T19:06:00.000-08:00

If you stick around my house for a while, you'll see the vacuum cleaner on several occasions. It's as integral as a toilet in my home. With 3 kids, 3 dogs and 2 cats, we have a serious need to vacuum often. Therefore, a good vacuum is imperative. But I'm too cheap to buy a really good one, so I've settled, all these years, for slightly crappy ones that die in about 6-8 months. I'm a little hard on them, admittedly. Most people don't vacuum twice a day. I'm not most people.
Anyway, on Christmas Eve last year, my vacuum cleaner died. I begged it to hang on another few days. I tried to explain to the turquoise blue machine (which actually lasted more than a year) that it was Christmastime, and it would be impossible to get to a store and purchase a replacement. The lines would be awful. I would get run-over by crazed parents buying last minute toys. Traffic would be a nightmare. Alas, ol' Turq didn't listen. He coughed and sputtered and surrendered to the dog-hair-cat-hair-kid-crumb infection it harbored for several months. It quit on me. Thanks, Turq.
I was devastated. Reality told me I had to face the fury of the Christmas crowds, for my house would be disgusting at the end of a day with no vacuum. My children couldn't possibly open their gifts on a carpet coated in hair. So I ventured out in Gold Lame' and bought the vacuum that got high reviews on Amazon.com...a Shark Multi-Purpose vac that claimed to NEVER lose suction.
And here's what I found out: it doesn't lose suction. It just falls apart. Christmas night, while in use, the dirt compartment simply fell off. It didn't just come unlatched, it broke off. Guess where I was on the day after Christmas? In the return line at Best Buy, along with 9,000,000 other people returning and exchanging Christmas gifts. I could have spit nails. I wanted to cry. I wanted my floors clean.
And then I stupidly exchanged my broken vacuum for another one...the exact same model. I figured mine was a fluke. This one wouldn't break. And it didn't.
For 3 more weeks, anyway.
Today the new one broke. Same thing. In the middle of vacuuming, the dirt compartment started making a whistling noise, and then broke off. I wailed in dismay. Not really, but I wanted to.
So on my Sunday that would be full of running around anyway, I had to add a trip to Best Buy. But this time, I would not make the mistake again. I explained to the Customer Service clerk that this vacuum was entirely impossible to use in my home. Maybe it was just not cut out for the kind of rigorous vacuuming my house requires. Perhaps it would be great for a less-chaotic household. It didn't ever lose the suction, so that was positive...but I needed more stability. I needed heavy-duty. A friendly (and maybe commission-hungry?) sales clerk empathized with me, and suggested the all-powerful Dyson. I must say, there was probably a look of wonder on my face at the suggestion. After all, I have pondered the Dyson before. I've run my fingers over the smooth, steel grey exterior and stared, with glazed eyes at the cyclone technology...but (snapping back to reality)I cringed at the $449 price tag. No way. Not when it'll just die in a short while. "But it won't die," he claimed, "it has a five year warranty, too"...."and this one is on clearance, only $269." Hmm...
I read the feature-card. Lots of nice features. But $269? I don't know. I didn't see a box anywhere. I asked him, and he looked in the back. Nope, turned out they didn't have this one anymore, anyway. Too bad, I was nearly convinced.
Until happy-friendly clerk spoke to his manager, who told him to sell me the vacuum for $219, display model, no box.
A Dyson for $219? Okay!
Plus, there was the $129 refund from the ill-fated Shark. So my out-of-pocket expense on this particular day was less than $100...and I was feeling fine about that.
Better yet was my reaction when I got her home and plugged her in. Unbelievable. I had just vacuumed this morning with the other vacuum before it broke, and this new machine sucked up things that may have been in my carpet for 1700 years. The compartment filled in minutes. It was amazing.
If you find a good deal, get a Dyson. Just for entertainment, if nothing else. But I promise you'll love it to death. If you're sick, like me...

Oh, and your kids will like it too.
Mine did, anyway.

Dinner is Served, Day Six

2010-01-17T18:54:00.000-08:00

Sunday night dinners stress me out a little. Sundays have turned into a day when I am on the go from sun-up to sundown. I have church, I come home and make lunch, and then I run errands. My top priority (errand-wise) is the grocery trip. I love grocery shopping and yet I hate it. I don't like trekking all over a super-center for things, but I love the convenience of everything I need, housed in the same building.

Anyway...I try to either make something in the crock pot on Sundays, or something fairly simple. Big, elaborate meals just don't happen on this day, because I don't end up having the time.
Tonight I made a big, healthy salad. Here's what you'll need:
1 large bag arugula
1 carton grape tomatoes
1 container blue cheese crumbles
1 bell pepper, diced
3 hard-boiled eggs, chopped
2 filets of sirloin
2 T. olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste

Toss the first five ingredients together in a large bowl. Sear the steaks over a medium-high flame in a skillet coated with the olive oil. Avoid pressing on the meat, you'll lose all the yummy juices. Once the steaks are browned on each side (about 4 minutes each side), remove them to a cutting board and thinly slice them.

Pile salad mixture on dinner plates, and arrange sliced steak on top. This is best topped with a lighter dressing, such as a balsamic vinegar/olive oil blend. Makes 4 servings.

Dinner is Served, Day Five

2010-01-17T18:52:00.000-08:00

Short n' sweet: tonight we ordered pizza from Pizza Hut. They have a great $10 deal where you can get any pizza, any size and any toppings for ten bucks. I ordered half with plain cheese (this is all my children want) and half with sausage, black olives, onions and diced tomatoes. That half was for me.

I also tried the Wing Street garlic parm wings. They were not as pretty as the picture, for sure. And they didn't taste as good as I wanted them to. Stick to pizza.

Bon appetit.

Dinner Is Served, Day Four

2010-01-15T18:45:00.000-08:00

If you like southern cookin', you'll love tonight's meal. Full of yummy flavors and most importantly, the southern staple: barbeque. If you didn't know, barbeque is a food group down south. I know this, I lived there. I speak from experience. Some of the best barbeque I've ever had in my life was from a tiny little restaurant called Ken and Candy's in Savannah...And to those of you who think barbeque is just a sauce, just stop reading here. Move on. Make yourself some Hamburger Helper and go about your day...
Wow, sometimes, I'm so cynical!

Anyway, you will need:
2 and a half pounds of baby back ribs. Or 3 pounds. Or 3.33, which is what mine weighed tonight.
1/2 c. brown sugar
3 T. barbeque sauce (yes, at this point we do use the sauce. But this is not the dish, itself.
1 tsp. ground ginger
1 tsp. ground mustard
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tsp. chili powder
3 T. chili sauce
1 and a half c. orange or pineapple juice. I had orange-pineapple in the fridge; it turned out nicely
1/3 c. soy sauce
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. black pepper

Cut ribs into individual pieces. Mix together all ingredients until well blended. Place cut ribs in a large freezer bag and pour the liquid marinade in, but reserve about a cup and a half of it for later. Refrigerate at least 2 hours.

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Take out marinated ribs, place in a 9 x 13 inch pan. Cover with foil, and bake them for 2 hours. At the 2 hour mark, remove the ribs. On the stove, heat the extra marinade until it simmers and thickens. This will take about five minutes. Watch the consistency; when it coats a spoon it's pretty well there. Drizzle this thickened sauce over the ribs, and put back in the oven, uncovered for 5-8 more minutes. Serve with plenty of wet-naps.

I served these with one of my other favorite southern dishes: corn pudding.
This is how I make mine:
2 cans cream-style corn
1 stick melted butter (not only your best friend, but another southern staple)
1 box Jiffy cornbread mix
2 eggs
1 8 oz. container of sour cream
salt and pepper, to taste

Mix ingredients well. Pour into a large casserole dish. Bake (along with your ribs) for 55-60 minutes. Note: the oven was at 325 for the ribs, which is why I baked the corn almost an hour. You can reduce to 45 minutes if you are at 350. A nice golden "crust" should form on top, and it should no longer be gooey. A little jiggly is fine, this isn't a completely "solid" dish.

Pour yourself a glass of sweet tea, close your eyes and feel the southern breezes.

Dinner is Served, Day Four

2010-01-15T06:37:00.001-08:00

Calzones, calzones....

I made the dough the day before - it was my plan. It was not, however, my plan, for Yukon, my 90lb. Samoyed/Husky dog to eat the pound and a half of dough I created. Let's just say there were lots of trips outside yesterday.

Anyway, I remade my dough, and here's what you do next. Note: if you missed the dough recipe, it's posted on Day 3.

Separate your dough into six pieces, and lay on a floured surface. Roll out each piece into a circle or a rectangle. I am a horrible circle-roller so rectangles work best for me. Then it's time to fill them. Here's where the possibilities become endless...be creative!

I made three pepperoni pizza calzones, and three with ham, cheddar and veggies. They were both tasty.

I took about a tablespoon and a half of ricotta cheese and made a base on each of my dough pieces. Then, on the pizza ones, I added pizza sauce, mozzarella and pepperoni. I also sprinkled on a little oregano. On the ham ones, I added frozen broccoli and carrots, chopped ham, and cheddar cheese.

Fold your dough over into a semi-circle, rolling in the edges to seal. It should make a nice, tight pocket.

Bake these on a stone or a cookie sheet (use nonstick spray) at 350 degrees for about 20 minutes.

One calzone is plenty for one person, I think, but if you're feeling dangerous, eat a couple of them. No one is watching. Really.

The privilege of eating

2010-01-14T11:15:00.000-08:00

Time: 11:08 a.m.
Location: My house - where else do I go?
Situation: food

Yes, food is a situation around here.

At this late hour of the morning, I discover I am hungry. Very hungry. Famished. I have thus far made myself a cup of coffee, which, although very rewarding, does not constitute breakfast. My children, however, have had the following: one glass each of carrot juice (this is not child abuse, they like it), one glass each of chocolate milk, one banana each, one waffle each, and most recently, one string-cheese each. They've eaten more in 2 hours than 20 children in Ghana will eat this month. Terribly unfortunate, but terribly true.
Did I mention I have not had anything yet? I've fed them several times, poured juices, buttered and "syrupped" their waffles, cleaned up the spilled syrup, cleaned up spilled juice and milk, scolded the dog for eating half a string-cheese and thrown away banana peels that were left behind after the children "took care of their messes." Heh.
But I haven't eaten yet.

So, at 11:08, precisely, I begin to consider my growling stomach. I think, "a bowl of grits sounds nice." It may seem like an odd choice, but I really like grits. With a little butter, a little cheddar, a little salt and pepper. I create this dish. It boils over in the microwave. I am not irritated, though. I'm still going to eat. It's going to be okay. About this time, Ella decides to wake from her nap. Screaming. Needing to eat. I glance at the microwave, sigh, and prepare a bottle. I feed Ella. She's happy, sort of. It's now 11:36. I head back to the microwave, and remove a cold bowl of slightly crusty grits. Nonetheless, I dig my spoon in. As I close my eyes in thankfulness for my chance to eat, I hear little footsteps approaching.
It's Gabe.
"Mommy, can I have a bite?"

Mysteries of Momhood

2010-01-13T16:58:00.000-08:00

We've all dealt with lying. Some of us have even done it ourselves. I said some of us...not me, of course.
Anyway....the picture I've posted is my little mommy-angel. I got her before Christmas last year. I love Willow Tree creations...and I love this one because she's holding three little hearts, one for each child of mine. At least that's what I tell myself about her...

This morning, as I was bustling about the kitchen, I glanced over at her, and noticed her arm was dangling. Broken clean away from her rusty red gown. It so happened that Randy, Gabe and Isaac were all present in the kitchen at the time. They all stood looking at me with blank stares...each one obviously not taking any responsibility for this mishap. Considering she was standing upright, I knew one of the dogs didn't do it. They wouldn't stand her back up. No. One of these three boys did this - and no one was confessing. Isaac immediately started in with "Mom - I swear to you, I did not do this. I really didn't mom. I would tell you. I know you love her." Frankly, I believe him. He is very passionate about the truth when it really is the truth. And besides, when he lies, he can't keep his eyes straight.
So it's down to Randy and Gabe. And both of them deny involvement.
The mystery continues....

Dinner is Served, Day Three

2010-01-13T11:55:00.000-08:00

Tonight's very simple - packin' up the kiddies and heading out with my mother for someone else to cook me dinner and clean up my mess. And bring me more drink if I choose to drink more. But I don't know where we are going to go, so I'll have to edit later.

That being said....we're still not off the hook, completely. Tomorrow is Calzone Day. Don'tcha love how I capitalized it like I'm making it a national holiday? Well, it isn't. In fact, the closest holiday I can find that is even close to a Calzone Day is National Cherry Turnover Day, and it's on August 28th. Mmm....

So, here's a choice: you can make your calzone dough today or tomorrow. I personally think it's better to do ahead, but that's because it's a little messy, having your countertops full of flour, and I can only take messiness in baby steps. I also think that refrigerated dough tends to be a little easier to handle, too...or at least that's what I tell myself. This is the recipe, you decide how you want to proceed:
You will need:
* 1 cup lukewarm beer or lukewarm water (warning - beer is gross, lukewarm beer is grosser)
* 2 tablespoons sugar
* 1 teaspoon salt
* 1 tablespoon butter
* 1/4 teaspoon garlic powder
* 1/4 teaspoon onion powder
* 1/2 teaspoon italian seasoning
* 2 1/2 cups bread flour, or whole wheat flour
* 2 1/2 teaspoons bread machine yeast

Put all your ingredients, in this order, into your bread machine. Select the dough cycle. Once dough is finished, either put it in a lightly oiled bowl, cover w/ plastic wrap and refrigerate (supposing you're going to make your calzones the next day)...or turn it out onto a floured surface and get ready to roll and stretch. This recipe will yield six 6-inch calzones.

Dinner is Served, Day Two

2010-01-12T10:54:00.000-08:00

Well, I don't know about you, but I'm cold and when I'm cold, I want comfort food. What better then, than a bowl full of spaghetti and meatballs? Let's get cookin'...

You will need:
1 lb. of thin spaghetti noodles (consider yourself healthy and buy the whole grain kind)
1 large jar of tomato sauce
1 15 oz. jar canned tomatoes (or if you live nearby, stop over and I'll give you a jar of my own tomatoes!)
1 lb. extra lean ground beef
2 or 3 pieces of white bread (or wheat...and it can even be a little stale)
1/2 c. milk
1 clove of garlic, finely minced
1 medium onion, finely minced
2 tsp. oregano
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. pepper
1/2 c. parmesean cheese
1 package of cleaned, sliced mushrooms (Baby Bellas work well!)
1 bell pepper

Begin by soaking your bread in the milk, in a large bowl. This forms the glue that will hold your meatballs together. When it's saturated, add in your ground beef and work it together with your fingers, till the bread is all "mushed" into the beef. It'll feel gross, and probably cold. Suck it up, this is going to be good. Add in: garlic, onion, 1 tsp. oregano, salt, pepper and 1/4 c. parmesean cheese. Mix well. Shape into 1 inch balls and place on a parchment-lined baking sheet. Note: Parchment is your best friend. Never run out. Note Two: If your meatballs aren't sticking together, you need more "glue" in there... That's why I said 2-3 slices of bread. Usually I need 3, but it depends how big your slices are.
Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes, or until they are nice and brown on all sides. You will want to give 'em a roll in the oven once or twice so they brown evenly. Note 3: If your meatballs are too fat - they won't cook through. I speak from experience. 1 inch balls, here, folks.
While those little balls of delight are cooking, start on your sauce. Pour your canned tomatoes and your tomato sauce into a nice-sized pot. Heat over a medium flame...and add in your mushrooms, bell pepper, and the rest of your parm and oregano. Simmer while the meatballs finish up. When they are browned, take them out and add them to your sauce.
Now let's boil some noodles. This is real simple, ready? Boil some water...sprinkle in a little salt...and when it's rolling, add your noodles. If you've got little ones at your table, like me, be nice and break them in half first. The noodles. Not the kids. Cook as directed on the package. Again, not the kids.

When the noodles 'al dente' and drained, add them to your pot of sauce. Remember how I said to get a nice-sized pot? This is why. Gently combine the noodles to cover them with sauce. Don't beat it all up or you'll ruin the meatballs.
Serve up piping hot bowls with a piece of crusty bread or garlic cheese bread. Later this week we'll be making calzones, and the dough is very versatile, so I'll tell you how I turn it into a really good pull apart cheese bread. Mmm....now I'm kinda bummed I didn't do that today.
Bon Appetit!

Woman Vs. Beast

2010-01-12T06:13:00.000-08:00

Many of you know I'm an animal lover. I would seriously LOVE to open a shelter. Or a Doggie Daycare. But most of you also know I love to do a lot of other things and my tragic flaw is that I can't really make up my mind on what I want to do when I grow up. But that's another post, where we can analyze the inner-workings of my unreliable and indecisive brain. Maybe if I share some thoughts here, I won't have to pay a therapist. Heh.
Anyway, I love dogs and cats and horses and bunnies and fish, and just about everything except reptiles. And I don't hate reptiles, either, I just don't want to have any in my house. When I lived in Georgia, I had geckos in my living room, occasionally, and that was enough of an experience to last a lifetime. At this moment, I am the proud mama of 3 dogs: Sarge, Maddie, and Yukon, 2 cats: Izzy and Charlie, and 2 fish (which are really my son's, see the post called Fish Miracles): Ryan and Marlin.
Izzy is my oldest guy. Originally named Isachar, but soon changed to a less serious version, Izzy was a timid, alien-eyed kitten I just had to rescue from the shelter in Savannah. He's now still timid and alien-eyed, but he's of monstrous size, weighing about 17lbs. Charlie is our little black and white kitten. He's about 9 months old now, I'd guess. I adopted him when I was pregnant with Ella, because I had doctor's orders to stay on the couch (pity!) and I figured having a kitten cuddled up on my lap would make the time pass quicker. I was right, Charlie was a lap cat right away. However, now that I'm constantly up and about, rushing from pillar to post, I don't have the same amount of time to sit with a kitty on my lap. So he's made great friends with Isaac. Isaac can sit and watch cartoons, and Charlie can lay in his lap.
Sarge deserves a whole post to himself...he's my best buddy. He is a 9 year old German Shepherd mix that I adopted when I was on my own, scared of life and I needed comfort and reassurance. Sarge was just what I needed. He was like me...lonely and afraid of the world ahead. Sarge had been abused and he didn't trust anyone. I remember sitting in his kennel with him, 8 and a half years ago, telling him it was okay, I didn't really trust anyone either. I told him we'd figure it all out. And we did. He became my sidekick and from that point on, we did everything together. I sold Savannah Real Estate and Sarge rode along with me to showings. He came to the office with me daily, and camped out under my desk. Everyone who met Sarge loved him...in fact, many people asked if I'd bring him inside houses for showings. Of course he was a perfect gentleman, walking at my side, seeming to listen as I pointed out features of a potential sale. He made the move up north with me, suffering through the 22 hour drive, sleeping between the boxes shoved full of my life, stopping at desolate rest areas. These days, Sarge is older, slower, more tired and a bit grouchy. I say, rightfully so. He's had a long and full life. I honestly don't know how much time I have left with my old man. His muzzle is gray, but his eyes are still full of life and affection. I know, though, that I've had a relationship with this dog that I'll never, ever forget. He's been the rock I've clung to when the rest of the world was slipping away.
I adopted Maddie in 2006, after I had been in Indiana for about a year. She was a little runt, the last of a litter in a kennel at the Humane Society. She was antsy and obnoxious, desperate to have a home to romp around in, and children to play with. That's just what she got. She spent the greater portion of the first year of her life kissing Isaac's face and wrestling him in his bed. She'll be a little runt all her life; she's the submissive one in the family. She sits on the haunches of her petite 51 lb. Lab frame and waits for the big boys to take the lead on walks, at dinner time, and when it's time for treats. She's even the last one to go to her bed at night. I used to feel sad for her, being last all the time, but it really seems that she prefers it this way, having the big dogs show her the way.
Finally, Yukon. The reason for the title: "Woman Vs. Beast." Yukon is, in fact, a beast. He is an oversized white Samoyed/Husky mix that I brought home a week or so ago. He's a big baby, but his stature is a little intimidating. While he isn't the hugest dog on earth, he acts like he is and has a bark to match. I believe that rescue dogs attach to their masters like no other dog will. They love you and appreciate you for life...and Yukon displayed this right away. I can't even take a shower alone. Although I think I have him convinced not to jump in with me, he still has to have his head on the ledge of the tub. He has decided he would like to be the pack leader around here, and it's rather humorous. Sarge is obviously not going to give up his own rank, and even Sarge knows he must "report" to me. Yukon figures he can bypass all of that and be King of the Forest. His bossy tendencies are amusing. He tries to assume the job of telling Maddie and Sarge when to eat, by going back and forth to each of their food bowls and barking. When told "no," he promptly howls like a child and paws his huge white feet against my leg. He tries to "tell" the cats to play with him, and cries under the table when they want nothing to do with him. In many ways, this beast is like raising a toddler. Well, I suppose he is a toddler; he's not quite a year old.
Some people think I'm genuinely nuts, having three kids at home, three big dogs and two cats. Some people are right, I am probably certifiably nuts. But, what I've learned, is that there are two things in life that will give you unconditional joy and affection: children, and animals. Neither, usually, have had the contamination of the cruel world to jade their opinion of you. So, pondering that, you may consider me to be one of those people with some psychiatric disorder...you know, "she wasn't loved as a child"....or, "she's missing something in life and has to fill a void"....but I think I just really love kids, both human and furry....and if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of "kids" who want me to come play right now.

Dinner is Served, Day 1

2010-01-11T17:35:00.001-08:00

Tonight's dinner was quite tasty. It was my own recipe, and to kickoff 365 days of dinner, here's your plate:
Roasted Cider Chicken and Carrots with Carmelized Brussel Sprouts
You'll need:
1 whole fresh chicken
1 bag of raw, whole carrots
1 small bag of brussel sprouts *I buy the kind that come in a little mesh bag, there's a pound of them, I believe
2 c. apple cider
1 T oregano
1 clove of garlic, minced
3/4 c. brown sugar
1/4 c. honey mustard
olive oil *I used a type that's infused w/ basil and pesto but any'll do
parmesean cheese *as much or as little as you like
salt and pepper to taste

Clean your chicken thoroughly, removing any giblets or weird neck things. Give it a rinse. Then, in a large bowl, combine the cider, oregano, garlic, brown sugar and honey mustard. Whisk it all together. Put your entire chicken in the bowl of this, and brine it for about 4 hours.
Then, 2 hours before you're ready to eat, lay your carrots in the bottom of a roasting pan. Lay the whole chicken on top of it, and pour the liquid over it all. Roast in a preheated 350 degree oven for 2 hours. Baste several times throughout the roasting process to keep it juicy. You can choose to put a little butter on the skin to give it a crispier golden crust.
About 15 minutes before your roast is done, pull your sprouts out of the fridge. Rinse them, and discard any funky looking leaves (brown, ragged or curled back). Cut the sprouts in half, length-wise.
Pour about 2 T of olive oil into a pan and get it hot on the stove. Lay your halved sprouts in the pan, flat side down. Salt and pepper them, to taste. Let the flat sides carmelize for about 3 minutes, then toss them with your spatula to let the round sides brown a bit. When you're happy with the browning, drizzle on a little more olive oil and cover the pan. Let them simmer and steam for about 4 or 5 more minutes. Then sprinkle them with parmesean cheese.
Trust me, I'm not a huge brussel sprouts fan, but served this way, even my kids will eat them. They're packed with vitamin C, and the carrots have great vitamin A for healthy eyes, and beta-carotene which is a great anti-oxidant. Also, it'll make you excited to know, carrots are unique in that their nutritional value increases when you cook them. But if that doesn't make you excited, it's okay. Just eat your vegetables.

If I Knew You Were Coming, I'd Have Baked A Cake

2010-01-11T14:32:00.000-08:00

I had a major craving for sweets today. I have been trying, desperately, to monitor my dessert intake, for I've resigned myself to the fact that my paunchy tummy will never disappear, even a little bit, if I continue to gorge myself on the sweet stuff. So I thought and thought on how I might remedy this situation. And decided to bake a cake. See, in theory, if I bake a cake from scratch, there is a lot of time and effort, blood, sweat and tears into it (gross, eh?!) and I'm actually working out as I make it. That, and the end result of a homemade cake is so rewarding, I will commit myself to only one slice of the masterpiece and donate the rest to my children. Who will in turn love me forever.
What I have yet to mention is that this cake-baking quest was shared by my two-year old, Gabe. Ever made a cake with a two-year old? Well, here's how it goes:
Me: Do you want to bake a cake with Mommy?
Gabe: Yes, I bake a cake!
Me: You can help me stir things in.
Gabe: Yes, I knowa stir tings!
I start creaming the butter and sugar together. I am enjoying the entertainment my son provides as he slips on my silver cuff bracelet and his sister's pink lambie bib.
Gabe: I stira yet?
Me: In a minute. We've got to put in eggs.
Gabe: Where eggies come from?
Me: Chickens. Lots of chickens.
He begins making chicken noises. Then barks like a dog and moos like a cow, so those species don't feel left out.
I add in my eggs, one at a time, making sure the yellow-orange yolkiness is all blended in. Gabe finds a turkey baster and begins blowing air into his face.
I add the vanilla.
Me: Are you about ready to stir? I am going to measure flour.
Gabe: I like flowers.
He begins to stir. And giggle.
Me: You are kind of making a mess.
Gabe: I not a bad boy.
Me: No, you are not.
I measure out three cups of Swan's Down Cake Flour. You must have this in your pantry.
Gabe: What's that??
Me: Cake flour.
Gabe: I like-a cake. We make-a cake!
I start pouring the flour in, bit by bit, while he stirs. He dips his nose in the flour. He giggles harder, and I assume the responsibility of stirring from here on.
Gabe: I taste it?
Me: Nooo, there's raw eggs in here, you could get sick (as I dip out a fingerful for myself and wink as I slide the bowl over for him to do the same).
Gabe: Good cake.
Me: Thanks. Hopefully it's good when we bake it.
I pour our concoction into 3 nine-inch pans, greased and floured. My other son joins us, and is very annoyed that he was not included in the process. I remind him that he has been outside, throwing snow at himself.
I slide the pans into the oven.
Gabe: Where da fwosting?

I dig up a recipe for chocolate frosting....

There you have it....in case you ever wondered how that might work.

The consideration for this blog has triggered another brilliant idea: since I am trying, desperately, as aforementioned, to monitor my eating habits, I realized something very important. I realized that I need to be held accountable for my food. Being at home with children does not really execute this task. Children love to eat junk. And therefore, they won't tell anyone if you eat junk with them. So I decided to post my eatings here. For all of you to see. And critique. And marvel at.
I sorta have to give credit to the movie, Julie and Julia (great flick!)...and I'll say with some reluctance, we'll do this for 365 days...although I won't be using Julia Childs' recipes each day. I'll use a conglomeration of many different recipes. My own, my favorite chefs', and some nights, I will warn you...we are gonna order pizza. Or Chinese. Or go to TGI Fridays. But I will share all of it with you. My goals are these, for me and you:
-We will become more aware of what we put in our bodies, for better or for worse.
-We will learn to plan out healthy meals, and we will take pride in our creations.
-We will occasionally splurge and make a great dessert, just so we can feel like June Cleaver for a day, and when we do, we'll do it in a frilly apron and high heels. Or sweatpants.
I hope you'll feel inspired to post your own favorite meals, or simply let me know what you think of mine. Or maybe you'll decide to cook with me. Either way, thanks for reading and enjoy the blog.

Ah, to Reminisce

2010-01-10T18:21:00.000-08:00

The new deal in town is Facebook. Having it is essential, not having it is nearly criminal. I only know a couple people who don't have Facebook, and I pity the vast void they must feel in their lonely little worlds of anti-networking torture. Heh. Nah, actually I envy their willpower to not give into the brain-suck that IS the top social-networking site in the world. I signed up for a Facebook account for a valid reason, I tell you. Ready for this? I'm nosy. I'm undeniably, inexcusably nosy. It started off with photo viewing. I like to see how all my old pals are doing. Then I saw how easy it was to "add" friends. When in your whole life have you ever been able to gain friends at the click of a button? Some people you'd really never hang out with in the real world, suddenly on your list of "friends" because you happen to have 31 mutual friends between you, which ultimately suggests, of course, that YOU should be friends too! But it's cool, 'cause then you can look at their pictures. Then I started adding the people that I should add because I just should. Like business aquaitances, old teachers, family members. Not that I wouldn't have added them anyway, but I realized at this point I wasn't just "socially networking." I was building an empire of people. I noticed people posting high scores in Facebook games. Not much of a gamer myself, I casually browsed the options and didn't see anything that sparked interest. Until I learned of Farmville. As a woman who secretly and wistfully harbors the desire to be a farmer, what could feed my desires better than a virtual version? Of course! I could do it all day long, and never get dirty. And I didn't even have to get up before dawn to tend to my farm duties! Well, not till I started planting grapes, anyway, but that's beside the point. I shuddered at the thought of going into labor unexpectedly, as the day loomed before me and my belly seemed to stretch when no more stretch seemed possible. I prayed that my c-section would go as planned, and I'd be able to keep my farm in its impeccable shape without any lapse...or withering, for you virtual farmers. Then September 23 came, and so did my labor. And the fleeting thought of my Facebook farm entered and left my brain in a "oh my gosh, I can't believe I was worried about that" fashion. Needless to say, I gave up the farm. But not Facebook. Oh no. This addiction runs deep. I even had my little red lappy in the hospital room with me, and although I really didn't use it, I made sure my husband posted all the new baby pics that were taken, so my Facebook folks would know my "status." Which is a little funny, too, because if I were being honest at the time, it probably would have said something like: Sara Hendrixson is "in a desperate and hopeless pain, wishing for a gigantic sausage pizza and not one more nurse to walk through the door to push on my recently massacred tummy. Also feeling incredibly depressed about the tubal. What was I thinking?" Instead I said something warm and fuzzy and socially appropriate about being a new mom to a beautiful baby girl...which was also very true, just not the complete picture, ya know?
Reconnection with friends is really the best part of Facebook. There are people I would literally never see again without the help of this website. I would never know if they'd gotten married or had children or graduated college. Now I know, and likewise, they know about me. In fact, I've reconnected with several people since I've developed my profile on this catchy little site. I had dinner just last night with an old friend from way back when. It was great to catch-up on old times, laugh about things we used to do for fun, and discuss the latest and greatest. We talked about our current lives, our college experiences, and relationships. When I returned home, my husband asked if I'd had a nice time. I told him I had a great time...and yet that there was something so different about my relationship with this friend...something I had to think about for a while. So I thought. And thought. I woke up in the middle of the night and thought more. And my conclusion? It's kind of silly how simple it is: we grew up. She is a mature and capable woman with ambitions and goals and strong life-principles and ethics of her own, much different from the carefree days of high school, when we all proudly displayed an "anything goes" attitude. Yes, she's loved and been loved...she's been hurt, and she's rebounded. She's learned the value of hard work, and learned how hard it is when someone tries to compromise that. And then the second reality of this whole thought process was that I grew up too...but beyond that, what had I really expected? That we'd be like kids again? No. I'm proud to say that although she's an old friend, she's a new friend in the same way.
And I suppose that was the gist of the whole blog tonight...the "re" connection that Facebook has allowed for people like me. It doesn't just connect old lives. It intertwines the new with the old, and the results are pleasantly surprising in most cases.
So here's to old friends, new acquaintances, reuniting....and of course, photo-snooping.
Cheers.

The Trade-off

2010-01-06T05:09:00.001-08:00

There are very few women I know who find the right things in life the first time. I do know a couple, don't get me wrong. One girl I graduated high school with married her high school sweetheart a year or so after we graduated, and they had three lovely little ones and, from what I know, are still living in marital bliss. Another, my best friend in school, waited several long years before marrying hers, but they lived together for a long while and still, for all intents and purposes, were really happy. What I know, though, is that most things come with a trade-off. A compromise. And I don't know why I just talked about marriage, because that's not the only thing...for example: when I was in my second year of college, there was this guy from the Met in New York that taught a vocal master class. He was amazing. And at the end of the class, he said "you know, you should really come audition." Stunned, I went home with full intent to tell my husband...and then I didn't even mention it, because we were Army people, get real. Singing? No. There were bills to pay. I could have gone to NYC, sure, and maybe I would have made it or maybe they would have laughed me off the stage, but either way, there would have been a trade-off.Years later, a dear friend came to tell us of the horrific scenes he witnessed on 9/11 as a New York firefighter. I began to tell him how much I loved Manhattan, and how much I'd love to go back and audition at a few places...he encouraged me to come, "stay at my place a while!" he said..."and I can get your hubby into the NYFD in Rockaway Bay." But we did not go. For I traded, again.
My mother has traded her whole life. She's not done one stinkin' thing for herself. It makes her angry, I know it does. Not angry that she's done what she's done, because I'm sure there's some gratification in knowing she raised my sister and I to be the amazing women we are (har, har). But now, because she's never stepped forward and said "what about me, world?" she finds herself alone and, well, a little trapped. It's easy to say you can start your life over in your 50's, but I think it's kind of traumatic, too. There's a man who likes her. I didn't say loves her or wants to marry her...just shows interest. I wish she'd go to a show or a meal with him. But it'd be a trade-off. She'd have to give up her comfort-zone. And if she didn't like him all that well, she'd have to figure out a way to lose him...which, regardless of what we may think, it's a lot of unnecessary stress. Life is so full of these trade-off situations.
My sister is a great singer. She takes after me. Heh. (She'll get so mad when she sees that, I can see her eyes rolling around in her head right now!) She's gone to a prestigious college for almost four years now; she graduates this year. And the trade-off? She hates her degree. She wants to perform. And I know what that feels like, to have the people around you telling you to suppress your dreams and ambitions and "be realistic." Because I've been realistic my whole life.
I don't know, either, about the few women who seem eternally happy without compromise. Did they really avoid all the fools gold before they "hit the jackpot?" Is it merely a facade? Is it possible to live the course of a life without ever, ever regretting a decision?
On the dawn of a day when I've just learned that two local lives were whisked away into the cold winter night at the mercy of an icy, snowy road, I realize we don't have a lot of time for these trade-offs. I'm not suggesting we do things irrationally, like pack up and move to Barbados to join a steel-drum band, or to ditch your comfy husband and head out in pursuit of Johnny Depp or anything. I'm just saying maybe we could all afford to take a look at our own lives and discover what trade-offs we've made. Perhaps some of them were unavoidable. Or perhaps some of them delivered pleasing results. But, perhaps some of them will make us downright sad, and give us the motivation we need to live life a little fuller.

My Favorites II

2010-01-04T18:09:00.000-08:00

The days of low-rise, booty-bloomin' jeans are over for this girl. Although I never dared venture down the road of thong-exposing low riders...I can admit that I tried a few pairs of lower cut jeans that inevitably stretched at the waist and exposed more of my rear end than I'm comfortable with. Well, really I'm not comfortable with ANY of it showing. And while we're talking comfort, let's hit on thongs again for a second. Who the heck wears those at will?? Who wants to wear some halfway- there scrap of cloth that would barely cover a postage stamp, with a string that hikes up the middle of your keister!? But I regress. Alas, I unveil for you the second edition of My Favorite Things:
Two pairs of jeans that have made me feel like a fashionable mama once again. The first pair is the Old Navy Boyfriend (Weekend) Jean. Gals, I was skeptical about the "boyfriend" part. I never borrowed a boyfriend's jeans. Eww. I think about my own sons, grown, with girlfriends who want to borrow their jeans. Take my advice, girls: don't do it. Although we can hope some bad habits will be outgrown, their jeans are currently dragged through mud and muck in the backyard, pockets full of sand and bugs and rocks and frogs, and when it's mealtime, they double as a napkin. Why waste paper? I find that I have to beg my boys (including my husband) to surrender their jeans to the washer, too. They'd keep wearing the same pair. They rely on the "sniff" test. If the stink doesn't knock them over, wear 'em again!
Now do you want to borrow your man's jeans? Of course not! So buy these. They are nice and soft and worn in...a little baggy in the legs and distressed at the knees. They do NOT fall down your backside, but they do ride slightly lower on the hips, so if you're a "hippier" girl like me, then please order a size up. Do NOT feel bad about this. Relish in the fact that you're wearing your own jeans, for pete's sake.
Here they are:

The second pair lives up to its name: The Dreamer. Again an Old Navy brand that'll run about $34 unless you find a sale, these jeans are what I've dreamed about: a flatter-looking tummy and a butt that doesn't sag. The Dreamer jeans will make you feel sassy. Pair 'em up with some saucy boots, just to feel extra saucy-sassy. Doesn't that sound good? I found that I could maybe go a size DOWN in these, which gave them extra points. Makes up for going up a size in the other pair. These are a sleeker fit, but the waistband won't gap and the front portion comes up a little higher, just in case you've had a few c-sections. Or that's what I tell myself it's for, anyway. Here they are:

That's about it for my sharing tonight. If you're in the market for a pair of good denims, give these guys a whirl. I wouldn't steer you wrong.

All My Exes Live in Texas

2010-01-03T17:56:00.000-08:00

....Ok, so that's not true. I have no exes in Texas, and I am not sure I even know anyone who lives there. But it was catchy, wasn't it? I was pondering today how odd it is that I am not quite 30 years old and I have an ex-husband. And a new(er) husband. It just seems like a lot of husbands before 30. 'Till I really think about the scenario...My first husband's name was Randy. IS Randy...he's still alive and all. We met at the beach, which was an unlikely spot, considering he wasn't a big beach-fan and it was a complete fluke chance that he drove down to the lake that day. I, on the other hand, was a beach bunny. Heh. No, actually I was a beach bum. Beach bunnies are cute little tan girls in teeny weeny polka dot bikinis who giggle as they toss volleyballs over the net and flash their brilliant white smiles at the chiseled figures of male...uh, jackrabbits? Anyway, for me, bum is more appropriate. I wore jeans alot. I was moody. I was seventeen. Randy and I began dating at this tender-young age, and although I'd like to say the relationship "blossomed"...I don't think that's the right word. I think we were two people who didn't really feel certain about life on our own, so we stuck together in hopes to figure it out as a pair. He was going to join the Army, and I didn't really have plans. Sure, I wanted to go to school, but the idea of dorming with a bunch of freshman girls was nauseating to me, and the thought of staying at home with my mother was out of the question. I had to get outta town. So I thought. So I did. Because when you're that age, and you're out of high school, the world is at your fingertips. You know everything and you fear nothing. That was me. Footloose and fancy-free. Anyhow, I spent seven years being an Army wife. During that time, I went to college, and went to real estate school so that I could sell houses and pay for college. I did just that. I sold lots of houses, and made great money. I made some unforgettable and lifelong friends. I had a house built, right by the Intercoastal Waterway in Savannah, GA. It was really lovely. Marriage-wise, things weren't perfect, but I was convinced that once Randy got out of the military, we'd tighten up all those loose-ends and have this glorious family. Then 9/11's tragedy struck, and things weren't the same. Randy had to deploy, immediately, along with a band of brothers I had grown to love. They were my new family. I cooked for them a few times a week, and spent many a holiday with those guys. They were really good guys, even though they were often foul-mouthed and rough around the edges. I knew they would have done anything for me, and sometimes, they did. One was from up-north, and he entertained my fancy of ice-skating whenever the Martin Luther King arena iced over for the month of open skating. One was quite the intellect - I think he's a doctor today- and he'd have long conversations with me about school and future plans. One was like a little brother, always finding mischief, but always making me laugh. He said I was like his mom...which actually didn't bother me because I knew it made him feel more at home. That one owned the first motorcycle I ever rode... And one very special one was like a big brother to me. I loved him so very much. He made sure I was always safe and happy, and when my husband would have to be gone at a school or a field mission, he'd always call to check on me. He shared with me his hopes and dreams beyond the First Ranger Battalion. He had me help him shop for the outfit he was going to wear on a date. He took me with him to buy Christmas presents for his brand new niece, and then we shared dinner at an Italian restaurant, where he promptly finished off his own plate and most of mine. Did I mention he was a huge man? He was precisely the man that changed my marriage. On March 4, 2002, he was shot and killed during Operation Anaconda. My husband was with him. He saw the whole thing unfold, and helplessly tried to save this big brotherly guy. He tried and tried...but to no avail. After the battle ceased, he laid with Marc's body for several hours until rescue came. My husband came home a changed man. Marc came home in a casket. This was a big turning point. You can't save a marriage from the terrors that are born of such a tragedy, so it seems. Or maybe we weren't strong enough to begin with.
Yes, I thought things would be salvaged. I thought the nightmares would end. I thought our new house would be something to uplift us, something to be excited about. Then, together, I think we foolishly thought that a baby would help reconnect us. But it only drove us further apart. Of course we loved our son, together, but the stress of being apart all the time and raising a baby on my own more than 1000 miles from any family was simply too much. I sold the new house. I moved back "home." Looking back, I realize that this was always home. My home here, in Indiana. No, this house wasn't physically my home, but this area certainly was. The familiarity of the city, the comfort of people I've known forever, and the ease of communicating with people who didn't think it strange that I'm a Yankee was refreshing to me. So, I got a job, and decided to make a life for Randy to come "home" to. I really thought he would come home. And he did, for a brief spell. We even learned we were pregnant with a second son. Things were strained, but if we could just make it through the final grueling months of separation and Army life....but, since you already know how the story ends, you already know, we didn't make it.
Looking back, do I regret that time in my life? Goodness, no. It was absolutely what I needed to experience to become who I am today. I grew up so very much, I even became a bit of an old soul inside. I was blessed with my two terrific sons. I learned hardship, and I certainly learned true heartache. I struggled, and I picked myself back up. I maintained a household on my own, with no help from anyone. I learned how to control finances, and I learned how to go into debt. I learned how to assert myself and communicate effectively. I learned that nobody can make me feel like nobody without my permission. I learned that God is real and true, and that when everything else has gone wrong, sometimes you just have to get on your knees and ask Him to pick you back up.
So here I am, not quite 30, with an ex. And a new husband. Coincidentally, his name is Randy, too. Weird, huh? And he's totally different. He's in a different place in life, ready to devote himself to a family. He's just the person I needed to take the next step into the new phases of my life. I don't plan on having any more exes. But I want to make clear that I don't regret the choices I made. Nor do I regret the day that I chose to be a beach bum instead of a beach bunny...it somehow all worked out the way it was supposed to with or without my teeny bikini.

My Favorites

2009-12-30T08:25:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I'm not Oprah Winfrey with the Favorites Show or anything, but since I'm here, and since I do have some favorite things, I thought I'd start sharing them with you....
Today I'll share with you my recipe for my favorite chocolate chip cookies. These are amazing. I must say, it took me a long time to create this recipe because I was trying to replicate my grandmother's chocolate chip cookies. I came as close as I could, and I'm satisfied. I hope you'll like 'em. But first you need to understand two rules:
1) Butter makes the world go 'round. I am not shy about using real butter, real sugar, and real vanilla. Who wants to eat stuff that they can't pronounce, anyhow? So buy yourself some bricks (yes, bricks, not sticks) of the real stuff and keep 'em on hand. Everything will suddenly taste better at your house. I use salted, but this is negotiable.
2) There are not enough chocolate chips in a standard-size bag for a batch of cookies. So get a couple bags. This recipe uses a bag and a half. What to do with the other half? Well...I'll leave it up to you, but they're great add-ins for pancakes, they're a great quick chocolate fix, and I personally recommend them for potty training rewards.
So let's get started...you will need:
-1/2 pound of butter. Cut a pound brick right down the middle. If you cut it unevenly, use the bigger half. The butter directly correlates to the golden crispiness on the outside of the cookie, so you don't wanna skimp.
-3/4 c. packed brown sugar
-3/4 c. granulated sugar
-1 tsp. vanilla
-2 eggs
-1 and 1/2 tsp. cinnamon (yep, cinnamon!)
-2 and 1/2 c. flour
-1 tsp baking soda
-1 tsp salt
-1 and 1/2 bag of chocolate chips. I prefer Nestle Tollhouse.

Preheat your oven to 375 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. You need parchment paper, not cooking spray.
Place your half pound of butter in a large bowl for about 30 minutes. You want it to soften, but not too much. You'll know it's ready when you can mash it down easily with a spatula. Do not microwave your butter.
Add in the two sugars, and mix them till it's a soft, doughy consistency. I always mix my cookies with a spatula. One, because I'm not privileged enough to own a beautiful Kitchenaide Stand mixer, and two, because I think they turn out better when you hand mix 'em.
Then, in a smaller bowl, or a coffee mug, beat your eggs. Add in the vanilla and cinnamon to the eggs....it's like we're making french toast! But we're not...
Pour this mixture in with your butter/sugar mixture, and cream them all together. I've always wondered what "creaming" meant.
Then add in your baking soda and salt. You do not need to use a separate bowl to "sift" those ingredients together. I think that's hogwash. Or, it's because people who write cookbooks or are on cooking shows want you to think they have lots of bowls and lots of time to wash all these bowls.
Stir in the dry ingredients, and add the flour in bit by bit until it's all in there. At this point, you'll find the mixture hard to stir. Infact, you'll probably need to start "kneading" it with your spatula, pulling it away from the sides and into the middle and so forth.
Now add your chippers. Weird confession: I think this cookie dough looks pretty with the chips in there....and I own a sweater that reminds me of chocolate chip cookie dough. Mmm...
Okay, now we scoop it onto the parchment-lined sheet. The easiest way to do this is to grab a teaspoon out of your silverware drawer, and scoop out little heaping spoonfuls...and then put them into your hand and squish them into little "balls." Not perfect balls like you'd do for peanut-butter cookies or something, but just a little bit of uniformity. Your hands are a heck of a lot better at this than a fancy cookie scoop, too. I fit about 20 cookies on my big sheet, about an inch and a half apart. These cookies shouldn't spread too much, they're pretty thick.

Bake them about 10 minutes...or depending on your oven settings, till the tops of them are turning a golden brown color. Touch one in the oven, and if it "deflates," leave it in a little longer. You don't want them going flat on you when they cool. As you wait for the longest 10 minutes in life to expire, sample your dough a few times. I don't personally know anyone who has gotten salmonella poisoning from cookie dough, so I do this. If you know someone who has, you'll probably think twice about it.
Transfer baked cookies to a wire rack. Or, do like my Gram did and put them on a paper towel on the kitchen counter. It'll do.

Continue this process till you've got all your dough baked...you'll end up with somewhere around 45-50 cookies. Grab yourself a glass of milk and do some damage. Caution: do this damage after you've let the cookies cool a minute. I speak from experience here, it WILL take at least 24 hours for the roof of your mouth to regain sensation after putting a just-out-of-the-oven cookie in there, no matter how tempting it looked.

On Value

2009-12-30T06:01:00.000-08:00

So, here's how it started: Our house was sound asleep. Then came the "stirring." The restless back and forth head movements of my baby girl, as she begins to wake. Then came the fussing that accompanies the stirring after a minute or two. I groaned and looked at the clock, which read 5:48 a.m. Not too bad. I laid there, mentally preparing myself to sit up and take Ella from her bassinet, when my husband popped up out of bed to go retrieve her. I couldn't believe it. I thought sure I was dreaming. Enveloped in the moment of great sleepy happiness, I rolled over and pulled my blankets up to my chin and closed my eyes. But the fussing didn't stop. And I didn't hear her bottle preparation in the works...so I rolled back over and peeked one eye open, to see Randy standing next to me, holding her, with a look of expectation on his face. Read: I do NOT like looks of expectation at 5:48 a.m.. He laid Ella down on the bed and handed me a diaper and the baby wipes. He then made her a bottle...and handed that to me too. I sat up in bed, completely defeated, and I changed and fed the now squirmy and very much awake baby...while she giggled and gurgled in her great "awake" happiness. And without a word, my husband slipped back under the covers and closed his eyes.
So that's when I said it.
"Does it ever occur to you that I'd like to sleep once in a while too? Does it occur to you that I'm actually not the ONLY one who knows how to change a diaper or make a bottle? Or that maybe once in a while, you could just handle this and let me rest?"
Silence...
Two minutes pass.
I clear my throat, purposely loud.
Finally he speaks: "Well, it's not like you have to work or anything."
So that's when I blew up. I'm quite sure I looked like a Looney Tunes character with bloodshot eyes bugging out of my head and steam coming out of my ears. I said lots of things. Things I shall not repeat here. But in conclusion, I said:
"I guess I'm going to have to go and get a REAL JOB in order to be considered valuable around here."
Value.
I think I'm a valuable person...my dogs think I'm pretty great. My cats like to know I'm here to feed them...and my kids, they'd surely miss me. But it's true, I technically don't have a real job. I did have a really good job. I made good money and I had opportunities to advance into future career endeavors... and then I quit it, to do this mommy thing. This mommy thing that is, by far, the most equally rewarding and gut-wrenchingly challenging position I've ever accepted in my life. And to be egotistical for a second, I'm smart, I'm a little funny, and I think I was an asset to the "real job world" at one point. Once, an aquaintance on my Facebook page posted as his status that something (I can't even remember what the something was) is "as useless as a mom's college degree." I got upset by that. Offended. And then I realized, it was just ignorance on his part. He has no idea what moms have to put up with on a daily basis. There are things we moms do that would be unthinkable in the outside work environment. Our job requires: heavy lifting, dealing with extremely insubordinate "employees," responsibility to feed and clothe said "employees" sometimes several times a day,dealing with hazardous materials (messy diapers, runny noses, stomach flu...need I say more?),no sick time, no vacation, overtime EVERY day with no extra pay, and come to think of it, no paycheck at all, actually. Teaching duties include: teaching one to read and write, one to fall asleep on her own and one to use the potty...Oh yeah, and secretarial duties include: making doctor appointments, dentist appointments and scheduling around Tae Kwon Do. A lot of this happens before I even get a shower in the morning. I could come up with one heck of a resume. This makes me chuckle, considering my official bachelor's degree title was "Organizational Management." I don't think this is what they meant.
A good cousin of mine invited me to become part of her network on Linkedin...cousin, if you're reading, I did accept the invite! But I struggled with the part where it asked me what my occupation is. I didn't see Mom on there anywhere. So I thought I'd just pick one off the list. Administrative Service Manager? Hmm...or maybe Chef/Head Cook? Barber would fit too...Captain?...Bus Driver(Gold Lame' is pretty bus-like)...Education Administrator, Labor Contractor, Healthcare Support Worker...this is getting tough. Even Animal Breeder might be considered appropriate, if you've met my children. So, I simply left the field blank. I couldn't choose just one.
Someday, maybe I'll rejoin Corporate America. But for now, I'm satisfied being the head of my own corporation here. And I greatly respect all of you individuals who work outside the home, I truly do. I don't think I'm better than any of you. It's a tough world out there. I didn't think twice about writing about this topic today, though, because I'll bet there are a lot of stay-at-home moms out there just like me, who may feel the same way. Those of us who've been asked "What do you do for a living?" and when we answer, we get "Oh, how nice for you"...or , "oh, I wish I had the luxury of staying at home too." You know my answer? "It is nice," and "I wish you could, too, because you'll learn more about yourself in 24 hours than you ever thought you could know." And, to end this painfully long post with my signature wit and charm (it' alright, you can roll your eyes here), I do challenge the Facebook aquaintance who made the Bozo claim that a mom's degree is useless to come and spend a day in my shoes. We'll see if he'd like to retract his statement.

The Greatest Gift

2009-12-24T07:13:00.000-08:00

Christmas has become really complicated. It's become a race against time... There are those folks who start early, displaying their Christmas spirit even before Thanksgiving. One brave neighbor turns on their outside lights, then another, then another...until the final procrastinator in the neighborhood digs his lights out of the shed and haphazardly staples them to the house once again. Then you have those who have a certain affection for inflatable lawn decor. It must be the Christmas spirit that allows the Grinch to sit amicably alongside Winnie the Pooh in a Santa hat. I don't really get it.
There are those who dash around, last-minute shopping, a crazed look in their eyes as the Target cart gets filled with various toys and trinkets. These are the folks who will literally take it to blows if it's the last Zhu Zhu pet on the shelf. Watch out for that crazed look, I'm telling you. Then you have those who have a plan to scope out the sales at a number of stores before making a selection. A method, a purpose. Not a dollar spent without painstaking consideration.
Good driving habits tend to suffer neglect this time of year also...I've noticed a few people waving hello very strangely...using only one finger instead of the entire hand. Weird. I've also noticed a few people who must believe that someone's yard is merely an extension of Cleveland Avenue, for if you can't get there fast enough in the lanes provided, why not just create your own? I overheard a frazzled mom in Meijer the other day too, trying to talk to her husband over her screaming, punching children. He was standing next to the chocolate chips, and she was trying to think (which is impossible when you have screaming, punching children) of how many bags she needed for cookies. She finally barked at him: "I have no idea, just get 8 bags and LET'S GO!" Eight bags? Is she having a bake sale? Probably not. She, like me, is probably just overwhelmed with the expectation and anxiety that has replaced the warm fuzzy feelings of goodwill. I'm not kidding, people...the Christmas rush, in my opinion, has gotten downright ridiculous.
Why have we let this happen? We're all somewhat guilty. I love our pretty tree, and the look on my kids' faces when they open the "just what I wanted" gift.
I worked really hard, though, this year, to remind myself of the true meaning of Christmas.
The old familiar tale, in my opinion, is most beautifully summarized as Linus VanPelt quotes the book of Luke:
"And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.
And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
And the angel said unto them,
Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.
That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown."

Magi appeared from distant Persia, partly because of curiosity brewing over the rumored birth of a child who would be the Savior, and partly because they just couldn't take their eyes off of this unbelievably radiant star that led the way to the manger. The three magnificently dressed Kings bestowed Frankincense, Gold and Myrhh at the lowly manger of this newborn.
I consider this to be the first message to us, present day, that we are to continue to show our wonder and admiration for Christ by bestowing our gifts at His feet. When we consider all the hype and gift-giving and money spending and chaos, it sets ya back a little when you consider how simply Christmas all began... in a dirty cave that made shelter for a frightened mother who, with no medical assistance, drugs, or even sanitary conditions gave birth to a child who would save us all. So at this Christmastime, I hope we can all think of the greatest gift of all...the gift we received that night, when God gave us His son.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DKk9rv2hUfA

Twas the Night Before Christmas

2009-12-21T13:36:00.000-08:00

Everyone knows the poem " 'Twas the Night Before Christmas"....and oddly enough, no one really knows who wrote it. It first appeared in the Troy Sentinel in 1823, and while a biblical scholar named Clement Moore "allowed" his name to be attached to it in 1837, it is unclear as to whether or not he actually wrote it.

Either way, here's my own twist on the poem. I hope you enjoy.....

Twas the night before Christmas, and here in our hut

Are three noisy children and a couple of mutts.

One stocking is missing, somewhere in Isaac’s mess

He snuck off with it a week ago, to make the cat a dress.

If we can get to bed by midnight, it will be a blessing

‘Tho I doubt that it will happen, as I’ve been really stressing.

I plan to go to Christmas mass, and sing a carol or two

Then come home to wrap some gifts, and pop open a brew.

Who knows, I may see Mr. Claus; he’d surely be a sight

After waiting for him, as a child, peering into the skies at night

He’d slide onto my roof, in his sleigh with ease and grace

I can hardly imagine what I’d do if I really saw his face.

I’d hear him silence the trampling hooves of his eight glorious pets

I’d wonder who’d believe this sight? Not too many, I would bet.

He’d come down my chimney, and with his booming “Ho Ho Ho”

I’d be certain he’d wake the children, then everyone would know

Of my rendezvous with ‘Ol Saint Nick; they’d all believe me then

But I may just keep it to myself, our secret meeting in the den.

With lightening speed, he’d place the gifts beneath our white-lit tree

I’d feel just like a child again, all eager and full of glee.

He’d eat his milk and cookies, left with love from the boys

He’d pat his jolly belly, and leave a few more toys.

He’d notice the sleeping baby, all snuggled at my chest

Then he’d wink and say “Good work, Mama, now you go get some rest.”

With a warmth in my heart and a new feeling of peace

I’d feel my eyelids slowly close, and finally give in to sleep.

Somewhere in the depths of my dream, I’d hear him packing up to leave

And I’d know that all those years it was true, the stories I’d believed.

For if we believe with the hearts of our children, no matter how absurd

There really is a Santa Claus, and then there are those words…

‘Tho I was fast asleep, I know I heard him call:

“Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!”…and then he exclaimed

As he flew out of sight “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

On Being Disciplined

2009-12-17T20:02:00.001-08:00

"Ponked" is what I apparently did this morning when a car in front of me did not turn quickly enough as I was headed into a store parking lot. You only get the green arrow light for a couple seconds at this particular intersection. So I heard: "Mom, did you just ponk at him?" and I answered yes. I ponked because, as I recognize, I am rather impatient. I want to get where I'm going. I want to get there yesterday. I don't enjoy driving places that much, unless it's a cool roadtrip or something with some sort of nostalgic meaning. If it's a trip to the store, I just want to get there and get home. My impatience doesn't stop there. I don't like waiting for packages in the mail, waiting for projects to be finished...I don't like waiting, period. So, as I'm thinking of this today, I realize my other "disciplines" are also a little out-of-whack.
Perhaps this is because we've been discussing discipline at home. You see, Isaac began Tae Kwon Do school yesterday. And there was plenty of talk about the discipline that it requires to master this art form. Isaac's teacher told me that it's very important that I remind him of key disciplinary points. For example, when he's acting out a behavior that is less-than-desirable, I should remind him that I would like for him to stop the behavior. I should do this calmly, and explain why I'm making such a request. This is hard for me. My usual, impatient self would typically say, once, and admittedly with amplified volume, "Knock it off." If it then continued, my reaction would be to assist my child in a trip to the time-out step. I don't think Isaac's teacher is suggesting that we'll never have to do time-outs again, but I think the goal is to develop Isaac's self-discipline well enough that he can control these behaviors on his own. So, supposing this is what actually happens, does this mean I have to become a black belt to gain some self-discipline skills?
As I consider this, I realize faults in other aspects of my own self-discipline. Let's take eating, for example. I'm horribly weak around food. I love food. Most any kind. My love handles could tell you steamy tales of forbidden nights when we've stood over a pan of brownies on the stove, a fork in one hand and a glass of milk in the other...but those are forbidden tales...so I forbid myself from continuing...Ok, so I fail at that discipline.
Maybe exercise? That thing that I start with a vigorous burst of energy about three times a year, and then after a few weeks give up dramatically and depressingly, seeking comfort in a Paula Deen cookbook? (See above paragraph?) Again, fail.
How about my lady-like manners? More specifically, my ability to control the urge to say inappropriate words. Cussing, you might call it. If you were honest. I choose to dampen it a little, calling them inappropriate words. Considering one of my sons has been caught a number of times muttering "dammit" when he drops or breaks something, and the other is closely trailing with his exclamations of "holy capp!"....mmhmm, you can say it, I fail.
Oh, and here's one more: I have no discipline in stores like Sam's Club. In fact, that's what started this story, as that is the store we visited this morning. I have some mental disorder that leads me to believe, wholeheartedly, that I will need a six-pack of window cleaning foam. A barrel of apple juice that will nary fit in my fridge? Yes, put it in the cart. Toss in the king-size tub of pretzel sticks too. I don't care that I don't even really like pretzels, how can you resist it when there's four hundred of them together? I think part of this problem is that you have to display a little membership card, too, in order to purchase this stuff. It's like a secret, buy-much-more than you need society. And I'm a member. Epic, epic fail.
So, I wonder how challenging it will be to help my child learn the discipline it takes to be a Tae Kwon Do student when my own skills aren't squeaky clean. Honestly, I'm thinking it'll be a very challenging, but very rewarding process for both of us.
And to clarify, I'm not suggesting that I'm a completely lazy, barbaric, morbidly obese sailor-mouth. But let's be really clear: I'm not a size 4 Jillian Michaels with a charm school certificate, either. Although I do have that Sam's card.
One way or another, we'll get the hang of this Tae Kwon Do way of life. Who knows, maybe I'll even join my son on the mats...either that, or he can just go back to playing baseball. After all, I was a good "snack-mom." It's easy to be a hero when you show up with enough juice boxes and pretzel sticks to feed the lower half of Texas.
Hi Yah!

Writer's Block

2009-12-14T13:48:00.000-08:00

I have writer's block. I haven't written in almost a week, and it's because I can't really think of a good topic. It's not that nothing has happened around here. It's not that my children haven't said or done funny things....it's just that I think about writing and I realize my life is perhaps not that interesting.
So, here's what I'm gonna do: I'm going to write some random thoughts that weren't necessarily grand enough alone to develop into a posting. Maybe if you think they are, you can help me out. You can let me know if you'd like to hear more about it:

My sons were Joseph and a sheep for the church Christmas pageant on Sunday. I had nothing to do with this pageant, and was a little surprised to see Isaac emerging from the back room of the church looking more like a ninja than a poor, confused man who's virgin gal was about to give birth. I was admittedly less surprised when Gabe chose to be a barking and growling sheep. No shepherd could tame him.
Today is my husband's birthday. He wanted (brace yourself) strawberry cake. No, let's just be honest. He wanted strawberry cupcakes. With "strawberry mist" icing. Not something manly...like a mincemeat pie. Or even a generic little yellow cake. Nope. Pink and fluffy. So, that's what I made. And there are little pink fluffs all over my kitchen counter as I type. He has eaten four of them thus far. The good news is, perhaps he will be an ideal guest for my daughter's tea parties.
My baby girl, Ella, has chronic stomach issues. My son Gabe had the same issues. Gabe ended up hospitalized at seven months because of his problems. I pray this is not where I am headed with Ella. She just can't seem to digest food properly. She cries endlessly when a tummyache hits, which is increasingly frequent. Poor child.
I think about my grandmother constantly. I wonder if it means I have issues. Besides the issues I already know I have. My grandmother died five years ago, and I can't let go.
Speaking of my grandma, I'm having a big family Christmas party this coming Saturday. I am not sure why I took on such an event. There has already been so much controversy surrounding it; it will certainly provide me with resources for future blogs.
Speaking of controversy, a major one occured in my household on Saturday. I suggested we pick up my stepson and bring him to our house for the night. This would be my husband's son. This child's mother has convinced him that I am pure evil. This boy spoke to me worse than I think I've been spoken to in a long, long time, and the sad reality is that the words from his mouth weren't even his own. They were the coached words of his mother. Why do people do this to their kids? I could write an entire post on the things I've done to better this child's life. Anyway, he didn't end up spending the night. He couldn't handle it. He couldn't handle being in the house with me. I should include that the cheif reason for the problem is the religion his mother practices. They are Jehovah's Witnesses. While I'm not one to persecute other religions, I must admit to you it is taking all the willpower in my little fingertips not to tell you how I really feel about this religion and the choices that have been made in this boy's home. I realize I'm divulging juicy details about my life that maybe I wouldn't normally be okay with sharing. But I'm just in a juicy detail sharing sort of mood, I suppose. And no, I've not been drinking.
But (and yes, I realize that I sometimes begin sentences with conjunctions)...a glass of wine sounds mighty fine....after reading all the above, that is.

Cheers to you on this dreary night....

And please do stay tuned. I promise it'll get better.

Ode to DeDe

2009-12-08T06:34:00.000-08:00

'Little over two weeks ago, my Isaac lost his very best friend. I've never seen this child so sad, so absolutely heartbroken and devastated. Before I lead you down the wrong path, I must clarify: his friend is not human. His friend is a little, grey terry cloth covered stuffed dog, with a big nose and a tiny head. It's tattered, missing a tail, and it's been loved so much that the fluff in it's neck is wearing thin so it's head flops a little. He's had this dog since birth. And let me get another thing straight. Although the dog's name is DeDe, it is not a girl. Isaac has corrected many a person who refers to DeDe as a 'she.' In fact, just to clear it up completely, "DeDe" wasn't really even a proper name, to begin with. It was how Isaac said "dog" when he was learning how to talk. So, naturally, DeDe carried on to become "dog's" name.
Anyhow, at several points in this child's life, I have feared this would happen. Once, we were in TJ Maxx, and I swear I wasn't buying another sweater or looking at shoes, but during the process of not looking, somehow DeDe fell out of the hands of my boy, and it wasn't till we were leaving the store that he asked the sweat-inducing question: "Where's my DeDe?" I remember racing up and down the aisles of that store, in and out of clothes racks, pilfering through boxes of shoes that I had, again, not been looking at. At last we spotted him, on the floor beneath a dress rack. Whew.
Another time, we were in a hurry to leave for someplace I don't recall. We got down to Auten Rd, the cross street we always turn on, and you guessed it, there was that question again. I tried to suggest that he had just left him at home, but this child was insistent that we stop the car and look. As I swerved onto the shoulder, horror struck me as I suddenly remembered that I put DeDe on the roof of the car while I was buckling the boys in. I was positive this stuffed animal was a goner. I unbuckled my belt and exited the car wincing, knowing I would look up at an empty roof. Sure enough. It was gone. I walked around to the back of the car and kicked the tire, cursing myself for doing this, and agonizing over how I'd tell Isaac. I rested my head on the back window staring at the road behind the car...and there he was. A little stuffed grey head poking out of the ditch. I ran to his rescue and delivered him to his faithful owner. That was a miracle, for sure.
Oh, and there were countless times that a store clerk would chase after us because Isaac had left DeDe by the register, or a waitress would catch us on the way out of a restaurant when he'd been left in the booth.
But this time was different. This time, no one chased us down, no one said "oh, I remember where I saw him..." I couldn't even remember the last place I saw DeDe with Isaac. He'd become such a fixture under my son's arm, it was hard to recall anything different. We searched his room, particularly his bed, which is a pit of toys (no Dr. Phil or Supernanny comments on how to raise my kids necessary here, people). We searched the basement, where the kids play. We looked high and low, but DeDe didn't reappear. I began to think he was probably in a grocery cart...considering all the Meijer trips we had made around Thanksgiving, I figured it the most probable case. I called Meijer, too. The clerk on the phone paused, and then a half-snottily, half-amusedly said "Noooo, we don't have any tailless little grey dogs in our lost and found." This child was beside himself. I thought it might pass, after a few days. No. For two weeks straight, he cried about it, drew pictures of DeDe, wrote letters to him, and theorized that DeDe was somewhere dark and cold and no one was loving him. I think, in reality, Isaac was the one feeling a dark and cold pit in his stomach, missing his dear grey friend. He confessed through tears that it was all his fault, he was sure he'd left him somewhere, and he told me (remember, he's five, not thirty-five) that this was the worst pain he's ever felt in his life.
My father promised to help look for it. My mother and sister were wrought with anxiety over this little dog. I prayed that God would help me find it. I even hoped, in some child-like way, that a Christmas miracle would bring him back to us. Maybe someone would find him. Heck, everyone who knows Isaac also knows DeDe...it was possible someone would see him somewhere.
Last night, Isaac had another breakdown. He sat down by the Christmas tree, on his knees, his head hanging. I asked what was wrong, and then I noticed big teardrops plopping down on his lap. He said he didn't care if any other presents came under that tree, he just wanted to see DeDe again. This prompted one last search. We tore apart the basement, including the mechanical room and the storage room. My husband went upstairs to Isaac's room, and I could hear him up there, literally moving furniture and ransacking the room. At one point, it was all quiet again. I heard his footsteps coming down the stairs, and braced myself for the shoulder shrug. The "well he's just not up there" shrug. I could tell by the look of hopelessness in my boy's eyes that he was expecting it too. I can't tell you how this next part is possible. I really don't know. I tell you I looked for hours, I begged for some sort of divine assistance, I cried for this child and his DeDe...but to no avail. So I don't know how, after two weeks, this floppy grey head came around the corner in my husband's arms. But I can tell you that tears of relief and joy and general "oh my Lord is this really happening" raced down my face and Isaac's too, as he held his tattered buddy. DeDe had somehow gotten lost in Isaac's closet....in hindsight, it was probably when I had Isaac clean out his closet....about two weeks prior. Either way, DeDe was 'home.'

I realize this is bittersweet. I realize it may have been a good opportunity to say "well, he's five now, and it's probably time he gave up his attachment, anyhow." I realize it could happen again. But I also realize a bond that meant something to my son. This little dog comforts him, makes him feel safe. It's his friend, his confidant. I realize he'll grow older and make "real" friends, and even experience real loss, but somehow, I hope he can hold on to DeDe, even if it just becomes a decoration on his bed. It means something very special to him. And even though this is already long, I have to share with you my justification for this relationship, for I have believed the Skin Horse's words for years and years, since my own childhood:
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real...It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."--The Velveteen Rabbit

Snowy Morning Recollections

2009-12-07T06:35:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm glad this morning was snowy. My kids are glad too, for different reasons. Snow is white, and pure, and unscathed by nature. Let's try to pretend it's not acid snow for a second. Anyway...I needed this after a day of mayhem yesterday. I needed a pure, fresh start.
I had church in the morning...I sang. People liked it, or they said they did. I always wonder, if they didn't like it, would they tell me? If it was as good as they say, maybe I should pursue the whole singing thing. I had a scratchy throat, I think I have throat cancer, actually....and I wasn't altogether proud of my performance. That was step one.
Step two: I had to get my sister ready for her Madrigals performance, and then attend the performance/dinner with my five-year old. Note: there was to be china on the tables. (Shudder). Turns out the china wasn't my worst enemy...it was the large knife stuck in the loaf of medieval bread that my son found fascinating. He took it out and held it up as if to spear someone...for a second, before I carefully peeled his fingers from around it. Other highlight of madrigals: had to walk approximately 17 miles in heels to and from Gold Lame'. If you don't know Goldie, read previous posts.
Meanwhile, my husband is home with the two little ones, entering survival mode. You see, I did not prepare any lunch for them. Even with a full fridge and a full pantry, if a meal is not created out of the food item options, we will, theoretically, starve. And the earth may actually stop turning. According to my husband. So after my 17 mile hike, in heels, this is what I return home to. Did I mention I still had heels on?
Then step 3: Community Christmas service. Hundreds of people packed like sardines into a church, singing carols. It's pretty. It's also hot. And it's about 20 degrees hotter when you're stressing because your three very vocal children are also in the sanctuary. It's not that they were misbehaving...it is just that they only have one volume: loud. So I led my choir through their Jewish/Slovic/80's Dance Party number, while simply guessing and praying that our piano accompanist could see the white tip of my conductor's baton. I could only see her hair over the lid of the baby grand. It went well, I guess. I have trouble when the piano is on my left. I am deaf in my left ear. Everything sounded very distorted to me, but I'm told it sounded nice.
The stressful part here was just that I had to sit with my children through the rest of the service. They don't sit still for that long. Isaac kept saying (in his one volume) "Can we leave?!" and Gabe was chewing on prayer request forms in the pew. At least it wasn't a hymnal...or a Bible. Ella was a few rows back with my mother. My mother who did not remove the baby's coat, or her own coat for that matter, for the entire service. I imagine they were both roasting. I'm sure of it, actually.
So, this morning's snow is refreshing. A new day. A clean slate. I've thus far had a cup of lovely coffee, made French Breakfast Puffs (mmmm), and studied each of the puffy, beautiful just-woke-up faces of my children. I have not showered yet. Actually, I haven't even changed out of my pajamas. And I am absolutely, definitely, without-a-doubt not wearing heels today.

A Little Christmas Spirit

2009-12-04T10:37:00.000-08:00

I took my kids to McDonald's this morning for breakfast. I do this for two, and only two reasons: there is a Play Place where my boys can run freely and hoot and holler like the apes that they are, and my husband happens to run this particular store with the Play Place. Which means that my kids can do the aforementioned and most of the workers and several of the customers know who they are and don't complain. They actually tell me these boys are cute. They don't live with us.
A customer approached me while we were waiting in line (yes, we wait, like all the rest of the people despite our celebrity status). And I'm kidding about the celebrity status thing. Anyway, this customer was an older woman who promptly told me I am brave for taking my three children to a restaurant by myself. I did my usual half-smile, half-giggle thing that I do to try to make people think it's no big deal when really I'm thinking "I KNOW! This is crazy!" This lady says she had three girls, then three boys, and then two more girls. They are all grown now. My eyes widened and I swallowed hard and told her she was the one who was brave. So, she proceeds to order and pay, and then turns to me and shoves a fistful of cash at my free hand (the other one is holding the infant seat). I was shocked, flooded with thoughts "do I look really poor and awful?" "Does she think I can't pay to feed these kids?" I didn't know what to say, other than to try and politely decline the money. I tried and she said that she really just wanted me to take it and buy the kids breakfast. I didn't know whether to feel humiliated or just to accept it and smile. I chose a little bit of both. Bev, the cashier at the time, just kind of stood there and smiled, observing the whole scenario...and she didn't charge me for my food anyway, which is pretty typical when we go to my husband's store. So I told myself I'd "pay it forward." Suddenly everyone around me became a potential "victim." A scrawny old man in a much-too-thin sweater buying a senior citizen's coffee, I thought, would be the first one I helped. I gave the cashier a couple dollars and told her to give him a breakfast sandwich too. He got his coffee and was handed the sandwich, and he looked confused. The cashier looked at me nervously and then back at him, and a smile broke out over her face and she told him "must be elves that made this for you." He chuckled and took his hot coffee and sandwich to his little table alone. This felt good. As we walked with our tray to the Play Place, my son Isaac asked me if he could have some of the money. I started to tell him no, but then I thought "what the hey"and gave him $3. We were going to Walmart next, he could buy some candy for himself and his brother.
As we sat down to eat, he said "Mom, I saw that you bought that man's sandwich. He looked really happy." I told him I thought so too. He then said "I know there's lots of people everywhere that would be happy to have someone buy them stuff." Again, I agreed with the child. He then suggested that we buy a little toy at Walmart and put it in one of the Toys for Tots boxes on the way out, and I thought it would be a wonderful idea. I was very proud of him...considering he is usually belly-aching about getting something for himself before we even leave for the store.
We did just as he suggested. The boys decided on a Transformer toy and we took it to the checkout with our groceries. As I pulled the rest of the money out of my wallet, I decided to see just how far my son's charity stretched today, and I said "Do you want to use the money I gave you, too?" He looked at me, perplexed. He scrunched his eyebrow, just one of them, and said "No, mom, but I am gonna do something good with it, just wait." I scrunched my eyebrow back at him and nodded my head.
As we walked out of the store, we dropped our toy in the box. Isaac started digging in his pocket. "No, buddy," I said, "you don't put money in the box."
"I'm not, Mom, hold on."
He ran ahead of me, and just as I started to scream at him for taking off without me, I saw what he was doing. He headed straight for the Salvation Army Bell Ringer, a big bearded man. I hurried forward and heard this child's words spoken softly but crystal clear: "I have $3 to put in your bucket to help someone who needs it. Have a Merry Christmas. God bless you." I couldn't believe my ears. It was the single-most precious moment I've ever experienced with this child, who is normally boisterous and loud, and has an ongoing, year round list of things he wants for himself. But today, I'd like to think he was moved by the Christmas spirit...and I'm sure I'll never forget it.

Gettin' Done Up

2009-12-02T13:35:00.001-08:00

I hadn't gotten a haircut since 2 weeks before Ella was born, so that puts us somewhere in the begining of September. As a former salon junkie, I know this is an unacceptable amount of time. Well, that's relative, I guess. When I was a junkie, I could justify 2 or 3 or 5 trips a month for root touch-ups (I was highlighted), nail repairs, bang trims or an eyebrow hair gone awry. Then kid number one came....and the addiction slowed a bit. Once a month would have to do. It's expensive. Kid two came. Holy moly, did they raise their prices?! $45 for a haircut and 2 hours in a chair...while my kids are probably killing the babysitter....every six weeks would have to do. Now, kid number 3. Sorry, I mean children. I'm not raising billy goats. Although some days it would be debatable. Anyway, Ella arrived, and like I said, I had just gotten my salon fix a few weeks prior. I noticed just the other day, and she's over 2 months old, mind you, that my ends were a little fuzzy and some greys were poking through my dark brown. Upon closer examination, I also noticed my eyebrows were moving in together and my hair that was once called "shimmering mocha" was more of a dull cardboard brown. Well, and I noticed the crows feet and lines on my forehead when I contorted my face different ways, and the fleeting thought of Botox entered my head. But notice I said fleeting. Let's be real, here. So, I called my salon and signed myself up for the "Glam Shape Up Package." What could remedy my situation better than that?

So I headed in to the beauty parlor this morning, after painstakingly choosing an outfit that did not involve fleece or elastic waistbands. And then, the process of plucking, waxing, "glazing" (a new hair term I learned), texturizing and general self-confidence building procedures commenced. My dear gay friend, affectionately, my "Will" showed up too, and got highlights alongside me, while we discussed the things that are making us feel old and ugly. I confessed I want lipo for Christmas. He confessed he is thinking of going to Chicago for hair transplants. I watched people come in and out....the "regulars" who didn't need 2 plus hours to get beautified. Just a touch up here or there, like I used to be. I watched a woman next to me tell her stylist all about her daughter needing braces. I studied her mouth as she said the word "braces"...she stretched her lips out all dramatically. I forced myself not to imitate her, although I pictured how I'd do it in my head. I listened to another stylist as she told her client all about how Christmas wasn't her holiday to have her kids, so she and her live-in boyfriend would be going to Cabo for a week. I looked hard to see if she looked bothered by the fact that she wouldn't have her kids...but she didn't.

I pulled out my pocketbook and grimaced when the stylist finally delivered the news of my bill. And I went home, not out to some posh lunch spot for a $9 half-sandwich and a sparkling water. I went home to my kids, where no one really noticed that my eyebrows broke up and my hair was shinier than a Christmas bulb.

And I put on my sweatpants.

Some of those "Darndest Things"

2009-11-30T18:54:00.000-08:00

Art Linkletter made good money from his ability to chat with children on early television, amusing audiences everywhere with the hilarity that comes from "the mouths of babes." Bill Cosby made a few bucks on it too. I outta be a gosh-darn millionaire. If NBC or any of its affiliates want to put on some good TV, I'll gladly provide my address, you can show up at my door and start filming.
My oldest son has a new saying, "If you make me go to my room, I'll get in your jewelry box and TAKE SOMETHING!!" ...and that's in all caps because he screams the last part. Where's the funny part, you say? This kid actually thinks I have valuable stuff in my jewelry box....
Other notable quotes from the oldest:
"I'm five now, and soon I get to pee in a cup"....(to his Sunday school teacher)
"Is this a Diego backpack? Is this a boob? It smells like stankin' cheese"....when handling a maternity strap-on "see how this shirt'll fit when you're huge" belly pillow thing in the Motherhood dressing room. After I told him not to touch anything.
Better yet are some of the things I say that I would have never imagined saying. Seriously, without batting an eyelash, the following phrases come out of my mouth....regularly.
"You cannot pull his arms off."
"Get your finger out of your nose, it's gonna bleed."
"Did you flush? No. I didn't hear it. Go flush. And then wipe the seat."
"The cat does not like to be put in a stocking."
"If you keep talking, I'm going to stop listening."
"Don't touch the walls, don't touch your brother, don't touch the dog or he'll bite you. Don't touch anything. Put your hands in your pockets."
"No, you can't drive."
"Yogurt will not keep in your room."
I'm a church going woman...but even in the house of the Lord, I can be pushed to my limits. Tonight, while putting up the church Christmas tree, this poured from my lips:
"You know what? This is God's house. And He doesn't want His house messed up either. So if you don't pick that up, sit down and quit acting like a wild animal, you're gonna have to sit in God's time-out chair, and He will tell Santa Claus because He knows him!!!"

Kickoff to Insanity

2009-11-28T10:02:00.001-08:00

Thanksgiving went off without a hitch. My turkey browned nicely, thanks to a cheesecloth and more butter than a Sunday dinner at Paula Deen's. Our renovations in the house were finally completed and I have to say, it all looked beautiful, the table settings, the golden pies and the ample casseroles. After dinner, reality hits that someone has to clean this stuff up, and then resolve the age old challenge of leftovers. My husband is the world's worst leftover-eater, so he's no help. I'll make another "Thanksgiving plate" the day after, or maybe a turkey sandwich and maybe even the day after that, but then I'm officially sick of it all and I start digging through cookbooks to find interesting recipes to use up the leftover bird. Tonight's turkey tetrazzini.

Our friends were up from Tennessee and my best friend Tracey and I braved the stampede and forged a trail to Toys R' Us at dark and cold o'clock in the morning on Black Friday. I know why they call it "Black" Friday, and it has nothing to do with the economy. It's because the whole time you're gone shopping, the sky is still black, reminding me that the appropriate place to be is tucked warmly inside my bed, not waiting in a line amongst foul-mouthed teenagers who are bound to get sick, wearing next-to-nothing clothing in negative temperatures. All this just to get into a store that I could go to any other day of the year in the daylight, no lines. Hmm....perhaps I should shed light on the positive, the fact that there were really excellent deals, because I'm beginning to suggest I'm an idiot here. I'm trying to buy gifts that I think my children would really like. I find it all too easy to buy things just to fill a quantity, you know, like "I bought 3 things for Gabe so I've gotta have 3 things for Isaac." So I pre-planned, and I pretty well stuck to my list. I know it's silly to buy anything for a two month old, so Ella is getting 2 things that are significant, in my opinion: a Cabbage Patch newborn doll, and a 2009 Holiday Collector's Edition Barbie. I had one when I was little, and I just sold it a few months ago for a nice chunk of change. I figure she can do the same.
We arrived home from our excursion, a few coffees later, money spent and bodies tired. Too bad the kids were on full tilt, turning the house upside down and killing eachother, meaning we'd have to jump in as referrees when we really wanted to nap. I've learned that as soon as you become a mom, you're supposed to be able to sleep and wake on demand. It's not just when your kids are infants, it's forever. If they're awake, so am I, and if they sleep...well there's probably laundry to do.
So, friends, here we go, kicking off another holiday season. The decorations are out, the cookie cookbooks are pulled out and the carols are making way into my mental soundtrack. I've cursed about a strand of lights that never work, broken two ornaments, I've begun to start the annual nagging for my husband to get the outside decorations done, and threatened numerous tmes that "Santa sees everything, even when you try to pull your brother's arms off."
Here's to a cup of cheer.

Fish Miracles

2009-11-23T11:15:00.000-08:00

Last night, my son Isaac ran down to my bedroom, alarmed that his dresser was "all wet and the water was stank!" Stifling my laughter for the use of the word "stank," I asked him why he thought the water smelled bad. He claimed it was water from his fishbowl, which triggered several thoughts. My first thought was that Charlie, our little cat, had been fishing. It's happened before, and although he is terribly unsuccessful, he continues to try. As I walked down the hall, I braced myself for a mess. I have this way of thinking myself through the worst situations so that when I'm actually in them, I don't panic and get overly upset. If the fishbowl is spilled over, it's okay, I'll get some towels and clean it all up. If it's broken, we'll have to get a replacement, and then the fish..." Oh no, the fish! I hadn't even thought about them. Two bettas, a red one named Marlin and a blue one named Ryan (random names, I don't question a five-year old's logic while naming fish), were housed comfortably in this two-sided bowl, with a little opaque shield that could be lifted to reveal a window between the sides whenever Isaac wanted to see them "puff up their muscles and get mad at eachother." Do bettas have muscles? Do they really get mad? Anyway, I hadn't thought about what must have happened to the fish. Did the cat finally eat them? Suddenly, panic struck me. Nothing in Isaac's life has ever really died before. I haven't prepared this talk yet. What would I say? Sure, he's seen me squish bugs, he's seen roadkill and asked questions out of curiosity, but nothing of his had ever died. So, I got to the fishbowl, and to confirm suspicion, it was dry, and water soaked the dresser and floor. "See mommy, see?! I promise you I did NOT do this!!! " he exclaimed, and with the look on his face, I truly believed him. Actually, when I picked it up, I found that the drain cap on the bottom was somewhat loose, and water was leaking from underneath it. Either way, I looked inside the bowl, and all of the rocks and the little fake trees were still in it, and beneath the trees, on either side, lay Ryan and Marlin. Isaac stared at me with hopeful eyes, and said "Are they in there, mommy?" I nodded my head, staring hard at the two fish, hoping to see any possible sign of life, but there was none. "Are they going to swim again, mommy?"
"Um, I don't think so, buddy. I think they are gone." At that, Isaac's eyes flooded with tears and he threw himself on his bed. Although he's normally a tough kid who rolls with the punches, this was a very raw reaction for him, feeling loss, and feeling anger because he didn't know how it happened. "I'll never have fish AGAIN!" he screamed. You see, Ryan and Marlin were "practice fish." Isaac always wants to go down the fish aisle at Meijer and pick out the fish he will one day have. He likes to look at the pirate ships and treasure chest tank accessories, and we told him late summer that if he took care of Ryan and Marlin for a while, we would get a big tank for him to fill. I could see not only the hurt of losing his fish, but the frustration, knowing what this might mean for his future fish tank. As I carried the fishbowl into the bathroom, I started talking about how we could go to Meijer the next day and see about getting some more, and he followed on my heels, still crying.
I pulled the fake trees out, and was leaning over the toilet bowl, trying to come up with a quick eulogy for the bettas, when Isaac proclaimed, "Well mom, of course they're not swimming, because they don't have any water!" I told him it was too late, they'd probably been without water for a long time, and proceeded to slide their lifeless bodies to the edge of the fishbowl to dump them down. "MOM, give them WATER!" He just wasn't getting it, and I didn't really want to add water to this bowl so he could see them float. But, because he was so adamant, and because I didn't really know how else to explain that they were gone, I flipped on the faucet and began filling the bowl up again. Sure enough, Ryan and Marlin floated up to the top. I set the bowl down and said "There now, see? They can't swim, bud. They're going to have to go to fishy heaven. We'll still go pick out some new....." "MOM!" he interrupted. I looked at the bowl, and my jaw dropped open as the words fell out of my mouth "My God they're alive." Red fish and blue fish, Marlin and Ryan, were suddenly darting around the bowl once again. Friends, I tell you, this was nothing short of a five-year old's miracle. I have no idea how this could even be possible. I quickly grabbed two glass jars and transferred them, noticing the bowl was still leaking, and they stayed as perky as ever, exploring their new surroundings.
"Heh...I told ya they needed water, mom. Don'tcha know that fish need water for swimming? I even knew that."
No, I apparently never heard that one, Isaac.
Obviously, I realize this must have been some fluke occurrence. Or maybe it was a miracle. Who knows, maybe God knew this little boy wasn't ready to handle death yet. Or maybe He knew I wasn't prepared to talk about it.
Either way, what I learned is that our children will all face tragedy at some point, and unfortunately, it probably won't always be something as small as a fish. The moral of this story is that I've got to figure out what to say, for next time. That, and I'd probably better get rolling on that fish tank. Perhaps then, when Ryan and Marlin do go to fishy heaven, it'll be a little more tolerable?

Thoughts that drive us

2009-11-21T13:04:00.000-08:00

I rarely listen to the radio. I mean, I rarely even turn it on in my car. Who am I kidding, I mean in my minivan. My Gold Lame' minivan with the stow-away seats, at that. Anyhow, I pretty much listen to one of two things: one is the hollering banter of my children (including crying, whining, begging to stop at a drive-thru, and rollicking laughter if someone happens to pass gas), and the other thing I listen to is the thoughts in my head. No, I'm not schizophrenic. Or maybe I am, but the point is, as soon as my eyes are fixated on the road ahead, I begin to sink deep into thought. I think about all the things I have to do, I plan out events such as Thanksgiving dinner, I wonder about my childrens' future, I even have pre-rehearsal choir rehearsals in my head, running through what I need to cover with my crew next time I see them. I realize that I do this because it is the only time in my life that I have a moment to spare; my kids are all strapped in and nothing else is taking my attention (well besides traffic, I know). I get a couple seconds in the bathroom once in awhile, but it's not the same, because I'm usually listening for screams or the doors opening and children escaping, dogs barking, etc. Driving lends itself to a bit more peace, thought-wise.
The peace is abruptly halted, however, when a destination is reached. Single, childless girls, take a moment to celebrate your single childless-ness. Love it. Embrace it. 'Cuz once you've got to pre-plan the stop based on how you're going to maneuver your children in and out of the car, traveling anywhere requires serious consideration. When I was single, I remember saying I was going to "run" here or there. "Gonna run to Walgreens and buy some deodorant..." or something. In the car, outta the car, so on and so forth. Now, I don't run. I haul. I don't mean haul as in haul tail, either, I mean haul like a donkey hauls oversized people down the Grand Canyon. Now I start to feel twitchy when I pull into the Meijer parking lot. It's imperative to get a spot next to the cart corral. I like to grab a cart and then go unload the kids, and I can't do that if the cart corral is four spaces down from my parking space. So I circle the lot, and get more twitchy, because one child is asking if we can look at toys, one is asking to take his pillow in with us, and one is still sleeping and I'm praying she stays that way till we get back home...and I keep circling till I find the spot by the cart corral. Then it's still not "in the car, outta the car" kind of stuff, it's a calculated mission...take out the baby in her carseat, load her into the cart. Circle around the van, yell at the boys to stay inside and do not open the door and jump out...get to the other side of the van, open it up, load Gabe into the front part with the leg holes and then argue with Isaac about why I don't like him to stand on the little bar on the end of the cart because I can't steer. I always end up caving on that one, though.
The bottom line is, ladies, we've all got to take a little time to chill, and if it's driving that gives you that time, so be it. Our husbands don't understand this, and will never understand this because they are wired differently. For lack of time to make my explanation to this, I'll just say this: in their heads, they're "chilling" all the time.
So, you may be asking, is it the childless, single life I'm lusting after? Am I suggesting that I regret the lifestyle I have? Well, yesterday, to change things up, I clicked on the radio, and a song I liked back in highschool was playing, "Closing Time" by Semi-Sonic. I was on a rare trip out of the house without my children, so I cranked it up and immediately my head flooded with thoughts of other times I'd heard that song. I was taken back to late night drives home from my highschool boyfriend's house, the windows of my little red Paseo down, the smell of campfires and beachy air filtering in as I curved along Red Arrow Highway. I must have been seriously reminiscing, because I didn't even notice the ease of getting out of the car, or the convenience of how casual and stress-free my walk into Target was. However, to answer the above question about regret, I'd have to say no. You see, my nostalgic thoughts faded quickly as I found my body moving on auto-pilot to the diaper aisle. I realized that I have not only reached a new chapter in life, when diaper purchases replace the late night runs for deodorant or lipgloss, (usually a quick purchase on the way downtown to party for the night). Also, the company of my children, their neverending methods of entertaining me, and the reality that one day, I'll be back in a smaller sedan and no little faces will be in the rearview mirror looking back at me trumps any wistful thoughts of single girlhood I've ever tried to hold on to.

The Name Game

2009-11-13T10:26:00.001-08:00

We're remodeling our house. I have mixed emotions. I am elated to have my walls torn down and a fireplace put in...not to mention we get to let the sunshine in, literally, but I am sickened by the fact that the main floor of my house is in complete shambles at the moment. However, this too shall pass. The major problem with a remodel is children. What do you do with them when construction workers are present? Loud noises startle Ella, Gabe wants to play in drywall dust and Isaac....well, Isaac may as well be renamed Dennis, as in "the menace." Our contractor's last name is Zebell, and Isaac keeps saying "Hey, Mr. Zebra..."(fill in the blank)...sorta like Dennis would say "Hey, Mr. Wilson!"
Anyway, I thought I'd do the contractors a favor and win brownie points with my kids by taking them to the park today. So, off we went, to a very nice local park with a great playground, and as usual, there were very few people there. I tucked Miss Ella into her sling, and released the hounds from the van, watching them hoot and holler as they ran toward the play-equipment. Only two other little boys, one about Isaac's age, and one about Gabe's age were playing there, with their parents eagerly helping them race down the firepole and through the tunnels. My thought: What nice, dedicated parents they have....I'm going to go sit on that bench. Only a few minutes into playtime, I've heard Isaac say "Hey you!" to the older boy about ten times, so I say "Isaac, why don't you ask him his name so you don't have to say 'Hey you?' " There, a good mom suggestion. Isaac asks him, and the boy responds that his name is Alesandro. Well kid, he won't call you Alesandro, but it'll be a version of that, still better than "Hey you." Isaac nods, and a few minutes later I hear shreiks of "Hey Bondo, let's do this slide!" Oh, well. Moving on.

Gabe, who repeats everything his brother says, begins with "Hey you!" to the younger boy, and I try the same suggestion with him. Gabe asks the little boy what his name is, and the boy stares at him, obviously not much of a talker yet. His very proud mama says, "This is Franco!" At that, Gabe gives his classically indifferent "Oh." I figured Gabe either didn't hear the name or didn't care, because he seemed to move along, playing by himself. That is, for about five minutes he did. Then, to my horror, I see him glance toward the swings, and then flash a smile to Franco and proclaim, ( I say proclaim because he did this at the top of his lungs), "Hey F--ko!! Let's swing!!"
I did my best shrug-it-off, nervous giggle as his mother looked at me like my kid was the Anti-Christ, and mumbled "outta the mouths of babes, right?!" She was less than amused.
We promptly said our goodbyes and headed home, to our banging, clanging mess of a house. But at least everybody knows everybody's name here...right, Mr. Zebra?