just the other moment...

The Shocking OMG Surprise

2012-02-27T14:21:00.000-08:00

    The date is January 26, 2012. The big girls are at school and the little girls are coming in late. Hero Hottie actually has the day off which should be enough to put me in a pretty good mood except for a small, nagging feeling about something that won't go away. In fact, the feeling has grown stronger in the last forty eight hours.
     Really strong. I try to ignore it. I try to convince myself I'm imagining things, I've had too much stress lately or that I've been watching too many Health Discovery shows. You know the ones; I'm Pregnant and I didn't know it. Okay. I believe those women. (Mild Sarcasm)
     But I can't ignore facts. That would be misusing all the great detective skills I learned from watching hours of Scooby Doo. And if Velma was on the case she would have all the clues wrapped up even before the fake monster showed up.
     "First, it was pretty obvious when your period was three weeks late, wouldn't you agree Mrs. Hammond?"
      "Rikes?" I mutter uncomfortably.
       "And then we can't ignore the other clues. The fatigue, the vomiting, the hormones, the sore breast." She pins me down with her nerdy gaze. I swallow and watch Scooby Doo eat the entire contents of my fridge. Hey, my kids do that.
       "Well, we all know who the culprit is." Fred jumps in, just to say something but we all know he really doesn't know anything. Velma rolls her eyes. Why does she put up with him? Just so she has someone to drive the Mystery Van?
        "The real culprit is Hero Hottie." He announces loudly.
        I laugh. "Yes. Yes it is."

     Case solved. But I'm still in denial. I decide I'm going to wait a few more weeks before taking a pregnancy test. If I don't have a positive test, then I really can't be pregnant. Right? For being a logical person, I'm sure twisting things around to fit my state of disillusion.
     And this would have worked except I'm been married to Hero Hottie for over thirteen years and we have two children. He knows me.
     "Are you pregnant?" he asks quietly in the first quiet morning we have had in ages. So much for a peaceful and kid free morning.
     "Ummm, I...why do you ask?" I stammer and stutter.
     The dry look he gives me says it all.
     I sigh. "I might be. I wasn't going to test yet. Because I might not be." I'm not in the mood to talk about this. We weren't planning on any more children. Bean and Abu are growing up. They're not small kids anymore. I can sleep in on Saturdays. Heck, I can sleep all night now. A baby was not on my list of goals this year.

     A couple of hours later after our day had started he returns to the house, holding a pregnancy test in his hand.
    His friend's wife had an extra one left over from a recent pregnancy scare. She was so kindly giving it to me. Thanks. I should be more grateful, it saves me money but I know what it's going to say and I just don't want to know.
    "Go take it." He tosses it to me.
    "I don't want to. Besides you're supposed to wait until the first morning pee." Of course, I'm probably far enough long to show hormones no matter what time of day.
    "Please." He says and I realize he needs to know so he can start doing the guy thing. Making plans on how to handle it.
    "Fine." I hand him the smallest niece, who is one, and stalk off to the bathroom.
    I pee on the stick. And I'm supposed to wait three minutes for the results.
    Within a few seconds it's clearly positive.
    Damn.
    And then I wait. I have a few minutes to collect my sanity. Because I don't want to go out into the living room and tell Hero Hottie that all those plans we were dreaming about in ten years when the girls were off to college had to change.
    We were going to be new parents again. Two a.m. feedings, a baby on the hip, huge bags of baby items just to go to the store. Burpings and diapers. Teething and fussing.
    I was in shock. This was totally and completely unexpected. We weren't planning on a new addition to the household.
   But the pregnancy test said differently.
   I slowly left the bathroom and Hero Hottie just knew by the look on my face that we were expecting.
    And much to my surprise he was great about it. Excited. Positive.
    I was the one wanting to pretend I wasn't pregnant.
   "Why are you having such a hard time dealing with this?" He asks, worried. "You love babies."

I do love babies. But I was also starting to work on a career now that Bean and Abu are growing up and don't need me quite as much. (Except maybe this week with all the bullying issues.)
   That weekend I took another pregnancy test and it told the same tale.
   It took days for me to even mention it to anyone else and as you can see from the date, weeks on my blog. I had to adjust to the idea of a new baby. It took me by such a surprise, when my plans were not including a baby, that I just needed time to make new plans.
    Until we learn the sex, we are naming this baby, Surprise. Or as the girls like to call the baby, Special Edition Hammond.
     In the meantime I'm getting used to the fact that unexpected guests in the form of babies are very special guests indeed.

What a Bully Leaves Behind

2012-02-26T09:19:00.000-08:00

    Back in September I wrote about Bean and her troubles with mean girls at school. Unfortunately, that day in the lunch room was not a one time problem and over the last six months it has escalated into Bean being bullied almost daily.
    My wonderful daughter, usually so full of life and spunk, now thinks that everyone hates her and that she isn't good at anything. All because of the malice words and attitude of one other person who we will call the Mean Girl.
    Just over a week ago Bean woke up and instead of getting ready for school, sat in her bed and refused to go. At first I was upset and threatened to ground her for weeks if she didn't get ready for school because I thought she was just being difficult. And then I started listening, really listening to her words and the depth of emotion behind them.
    "Mom. I can't go. I just can't. Everyone hates me. I'm miserable. Don't make me go. Just let me stay home. I'll do all my schoolwork and I'll help you watch the little girls." She has her clutched fist to her chest; to her heart; as she pleads with me. As if the pain inside is so big and consuming she has to physically put a hand on it to control it.
    I called the school and told them she wouldn't be coming to school because of being bullied. And at that moment the enormity of just how vicious this bully had actually been acting towards my daughter finally sunk in.
   And at that moment I realized things would have to drastically change in her school environment or I would keep her home for the rest of the year. But before I get into where I'm at with dealing with the school let me highlight some of what has gone on in the past six months.

   It starts with a stupid invite for a sleep over. Bean started making friends with this girl, Kay who owns horses and was allowed to invite two friends to her sleep over birthday party. Originally, she had planned on her best friend and the Mean Girl. That was, until her and Bean started being friends. Then, suddenly, Bean was invited and the Mean Girl was left out. (Are birthday parties worth the jealousies and problems that come with them unless you can invite the whole, damn class?)
   Anyway, Mean Girl become intensely jealous and started talking behind Bean's back until one day at lunch she made Kay announce to the entire fifth grade that Bean was no longer invited to the party, that she was inviting the Mean Girl instead and oh, yeah Kay and Bean were no longer friends either.
   Bean came home that day in tears. There was no warning that Kay would all a sudden turn on her like this, they had just talked and laughed the day before while waiting for their rides after school. And she was so hurt that someone could humiliate her like that in front of the entire fifth grade class.
   I told Bean to ignore Mean Girl. That some people were like that and that Bean had plenty of friends. But for whatever reason, Mean Girl decided to bully Bean. Over the next few weeks this girl went out of her way to constantly and repeatedly verbally abuse my daughter.
    So I told Bean to ignore her.
    That didn't work.
    I told Bean to give her sincere compliments in the hope that being extra nice to her would throw her off.
    It actually worked for a day or two and then she went right back to her abusive ways.
    I told Bean to tell her to knock it off and that she didn't care what Mean Girl said.
    This only resulted in Mean Girl calling her ugly, stupid, dumb, and a host of other things in front of all the other girls. But not in the front of the teachers.
   Never in front of the teachers.
   Last fall, during conferences we talked to the teacher. At this time Bean still wanted to figure things out for herself, so she didn't want a lot of teacher involvement but we did want the teacher aware.
   The teacher had some talks with all the fifth grade girls about what it means to be a friend.
   But of course, this meant nothing to Mean Girl.

   Then the Mean Girl took it to another level. She started being extra nice and giving presents to Bean's best friend. Suddenly, whenever Bean would complain to her Best Friend about Mean Girl, her Best Friend would staunchly defend the other girl and tell Bean that she was wrong and was a horrible person for saying such things.
   No matter how Bean tried to her Best Friend that Mean Girl was calling her names, or telling her that her clothes were horrible, she wouldn't listen. And their four year friendship died.
   Bean was devastated. With just a few false words of praise and some stupid gifts her Best Friend hated her.
   We went to the teacher again.
    There was another group discussion on what it means to be friends but nothing was done with the Mean Girl.
    Then for a while Bean found some new friends and even though Mean Girl still tried to torment her, it wasn't such a big deal because Bean had friendship.
    But at the Book fair, after school hours, Bean and Abu were playing in the gym while I was up on the stage closing down for the day. Suddenly Abu comes running around the corner, crying and upset. Bean is mad. The Mean Girl, who had already left, had hit Abu twice in the leg, tried to tell her it was funny and then called Abu, "Bean's stupid little sister."
    I should have complained the next day. I should have said something and made a fuss. And I'm so sorry I didn't. But I haven't seen it and it had been after school hours. Schools usually don't like to take a lot of action if the bell has already rung. But I should have done something.

   After Christmas, Mean Girl decided to steal the rest of Bean's friends. She started being extra nice to them and giving them presents. It takes two weeks for them to start ignoring Bean and then outright refuse to be her friend. And nothing Bean could say would fix the situation. At this point, I'm pissed. This isn't a situation of just girls having friendship problems, these are the actions of a bully.
   I went to the teacher and the principal. They said they would talk to the Mean Girl and Bean.
   Mean Girl told the principal she didn't do all those things Bean said but she was really sorry if Bean thought that. Her super sweet apology worked on everyone except me and Bean.
   For the next few weeks Mean Girl didn't talk to Bean. And in the meantime Bean made some other friends but things were not smooth between them.
   Now, I'm not sure if by this point Bean is just super frustrated with dealing with people that any little misunderstanding is taken wrongly or that these other girls just aren't a good match for her. But there was a lot of tension between them.
   Finally, they decided they didn't want to be friends with her either. That meant, at this point, there was no other girls to play with. She was a complete outcast in the entire fifth grade, unless you count the boys, which she didn't.
   Bean asked me how could an entire fifth grade hate her?
I didn't have a good answer for her.

When Bean refused to go to school, I went straight to the teacher, desperate to find an answer to this problem. She was upset with Bean because the other girls had gone to her and complained about Bean telling their secrets and that's why they didn't want to be friends with her.
   I told her that wasn't the full problem. That the Mean Girl had caused a great deal of these problems but the teacher was more concerned about Bean's secret telling.
   Except Bean insists that she didn't. And at this point, even if she had, that isn't the main problem. The entire problem has always boiled down to the Mean Girl.
   The teacher and I went to the principal to talk to him about it. They were out of ideas. Maybe more group sessions with all the girls. Perhaps Bean could talk to the counselor and learn how to deal with bullies.
   What? Did I fall down the rabbit hole? My child has to learn how to deal with a bully but the BULLY doesn't have to learn how to be a decent human being????

   Bean made one more day of school and then last Monday she couldn't make herself go. Literally, she could not force herself to go into that hostile environment and deal with the situation.
   I promptly told the principal that if something was not done with the bullying I would be pulling my child from the school. That statement got some attention. So he spent the entire morning talking to the girls in Bean's class and trying to figure out what was going on.
   Except what the girls had to say was what had happened over the last two weeks with no one getting along. They kept saying Bean had told their secrets. And that was the problem.
   Oh, and that the Mean Girl had been telling them not to play with Bean.

   But when the principal sat down to discuss his findings with me what did he focus on? Not the fact that other girls had confirmed a problem with Mean Girl but that Bean kept telling secrets.

   I like my girls' school. I'm treasurer of the PTO and have spent years raising money and donating my time to help the school. I get along with the principal fairly well and most of the teachers. My children are well behaved, study hard and always make Citizen of the Year. They don't lie, cause problems and they talk respectfully to their teachers.

   But when Bean is tormented by another little girl on nearly a daily basis, instead of being dealt with, we are told to learn how to deal with bullies and that even though our school is suppose to have a zero tolerance for bullying, no one will do anything.

At this point, I'm at a lost of what to do. I feel frustrated, mad as hell, and disappointed. I realize that if Bean actually did tell the secrets of these three girls then she has to realize they probably won't be friends with her. That's a lesson of friendship.
   With that being said, that problem between Bean and those three girls is a minor issue. The main problem here is the bullying. The Mean Girl has in the past year done the following things: name called on a constant basis; physically assaulted Abu; put down everything Bean tried to do, including her clothes, her school work and the things she said; told the other girls to ostracized her; and purposely destroyed Bean's relationships with other girls that Mean Girl didn't even bother to be friends with until she saw it could hurt Bean.
If you Google what it means to be a bully, then the Mean Girl fits the definition. But the school can't see this?

   I can see the effects of being bullied in my daughter and I won't allow it to continue. What that means, I'm not sure. Do we fight the school further? Do we finish our elementary school career at home? Do I hire a lawyer?
   I'm not sure. But it stops now. I'm so tired of Mean Girls.

A Valentine's Day Disaster

2012-02-25T10:52:00.000-08:00

    Sorry for the delay. Life has thrown me a few curve balls in the last few weeks which I will be sharing in the next few weeks, just not today.
    I rather share my Valentine's Day with you. Funny and a disaster and a reminder of parenthood. Ahh, Hallmark where is the Valentine's card to give your spouse that reads, "I love you no matter what. Through plugged sinks, and broken roofs. Through unexpected surprises and piles of bills. I love you even when we're too tired to kiss and an exciting evening is watching House Hunters together. But mostly I love you because you're you."

    Hero Hottie always brings his girls flowers. For me it depends on the budget, sometimes just a single rose; other years a bouquet.
    He brings Bean and Abu a single rose, usually yellow or pink.
    This year he found roses that were injected with bright, rainbow colors in the stem just before they bloomed. When the petals unfolded they have soaked up the dyes and are a brilliant array of colors. The girls loved them.
     At the end of the day we usually try to hang out or if we're lucky we sneak away for a dinner date.
    This year we were reminded that we are parents.
    And we were grateful for the end of the day.

    This tale starts last December. Bean and Abu, ever the creative type of kids (think Phineas and Ferb, but without the endless budget and better haircuts) decided they were going to make perfume for Christmas presents.
     Yes, perfume. Bean and Abu style. Here's their recipe...

     Step One: Search the kitchen and recycling for any kind of glass container that Mom will let you have. Spice bottles area great but don't ask Mom to empty them so you can have them.
      Step Two: Collect any sort of shampoo, soap samples, spices and lotions that smell good. Don't ask Mom if you can use her expensive face cream, you will be greeted with 'the Look.'
      Step Three: Lock yourself in the bathroom and make your perfume.
      Step Four: Give as presents. Remind people that perfume is not edible.

Since they weren't mixing toxic stuff together I let them happily create until bedtime. And then I demanded they clean the bathroom until I couldn't tell they had been in there. Which, surprisingly, they did.

      Fast forward to Valentine's Day. For the past few weeks the bathroom sink has slowly been trying to plug up. I dumped vinegar and baking soda down it and that seemed to help for a while and then two days before the fourteen it just completely plugged up and would not drain. It is totally and completely gross to have your bathroom sink clogged and unusable. Growing germs in the bathroom sink-YUCK. So the first day Hero Hottie had off, which unfortunately was Valentine's Day, he emptied the sink and then cleared everything out from underneath the sink.
     Then he was faced with the unpleasant and stinky and lovely task of taking the piping apart to try to find the clog. The pipes under the sink were clear. Great. This meant the plug was deeper into our crappy, old house pipes. He bought acid to stuff into the piping, so it would eat away the blockage. It helped but it also ate part of the bottom of the cupboard too.
     He still had a plug though. He run the snake through the pipes, pulling out some nasty, black stuff. But it was still plugged.
     Five hours later and after recuiting my Dad to help...They managed to stuff enough acid stuff down the pipes to loosen the plug and bring it up with the snake.
     It took nearly all of Hero Hottie's day off.
     We took a look at the object that had caused all this grief. At first it appeared to be a piece of cloth but upon further investigation we realized what the offender was...
     A Baby Wipe.

     I took a deep, calming breath. Which kid stuffed a baby wipe down the sink? They knew better. I know they did.
     "Girls, who put a wipe down the sink?" I asked, actually calm. Of course, I hadn't spent all day trying to clear the clog.
     "I didn't." Bean quickly says. So I look at Abu, who is quietly looking away from me. Avoiding my eyes.
     Guilty!
   "Abu?" I was surprised.
   "Yeah. It was me. I didn't mean to through." She looked sheepish as she shrugged her shoulders, and I could tell she was clearly remembering when she had lost the baby wipe down the sink.
     "When did this happen?"
     "When we were making perfume. It went down the drain."
     "Last Christmas? Why didn't you say anything?"
     "I didn't want to get in trouble. And the sink was still working."

     The sink kept working until enough stuff caught around the baby wipe and completely plugged things up. I told Hero Hottie how the wipe ended up ruining his day off.
He didn't say much. Guys aren't in great moods after spending all day having to be plumbers.
    But Bean and Abu have been banned from making perfume in the bathroom now.
    They didn't even complain. I think they knew from Dad's mood, they had been lucky not to be banned from using the bathroom at all. And they felt bad for being the cause of so much plumbing problems.

    By the time we cleaned up the bathroom, fed the girls and put them to bed; we were both exhausted and ready for the end of a long day. Hero Hottie bought us carry-out and we ate our Valentine's Day dinner while watching House Hunters.
     Too tired to talk much and too disappointed that our day had been a mini disaster. But really, where is the chapter in the marriage manual that warns that one day all your romantic intentions will be thwarted by a plugged bathroom sink and a baby wipe.
     And kids making perfume, two months earlier.

     Parenthood should come with a warning.

   "Warning: Kids will reduce an adventurous and fun couple to eating carry-out in front of HGTV, while the only conversations they share revolve around the nasty stuff coming from plugged sinks."

The Power of WORDS

2012-02-08T08:20:00.000-08:00

ONCE someone told me I wasn't very smart.

ONCE   someone told me I couldn't make the world a better place.

ONCE   someone told me I couldn't write and would never be a writer.

ONCE   someone made me feel insecure.

Some DAYS I allow these words to color my day with gloom and doom. I carry them around like weights on my shoulders, heavy enough to drown me. They follow me around like shadows; no matter where I go I can't seem to shake them.

Those days are emotional draining. I feel inadequate, lonely, and depressed. I'm grouchy and cranky and left wondering if the only thing I'm good at is...well, nothing.

WORDS are powerful.- Sticks and stones may break my bones. But words will never hurt me.- Is completely untrue. It's a rhyme to try to convince yourself that you can just ignore the words thrown at you like arrows and they won't hurt when they pierce your delicate skin. But words do hurt and they hurt long after the fact. Some times years and decades later.

I was BULLIED in middle school and it took years to heal from those WORDS flung around so carelessly by people that were hurting so much on the inside that the only way they could feel better about themselves was to make other people hurt too.

But WORDS can only hurt if we hold onto them...If we believe them...If we allow them the POWER to make us doubt ourselves.

So TODAY I acknowledge the power of WORDS.

ONCE   someone appreciated this brainy chick

ONCE   someone believed that I could help make the world a better place, even if just a little bit

ONCE   someone told me that my writing was funny and that they enjoyed it

ONCE   someone made me feel secure and loved

It's time to take out the trash. Throw out the WORDS roaming harmfully around in your heart and realize they only have the POWER to hurt you if you let them.

Facebook Fantasies

2012-02-07T09:18:00.000-08:00

    If you start dreaming about Facebook does that mean you need to get away from your computer more often?
    I avoided joining for the longest time, not wanting to add another computer related addiction to my list but I finally succumbed to peer pressure and added my personal life to the Internet. I don't spend a lot of time on there....no, really...only twice a day.
    But now Facebook has invaded my dreams...

    In my dream I was at the grocery store when suddenly I turn the corner and Wham!! Right in my face is a very muscular Ryan Reynolds without his shirt on. ---Please, no Freudian analyzing here. We're focusing on the Facebook part of the dream, not the running into a hot shirtless man while performing mundane tasks.---

    I swoon. "I've been a fan since you were in that pizza sitcom." (I hope I don't giggle like that in real life.)
    He smiles, the fluorescent lighting reflects hotly off his toned muscles.

      "And I totally think the critics shouldn't have been so hard on you in the Green Lantern. You were awesome in it."
    "Thanks." He says. And since this is my dream he is not totally creep out by my sad attempt of celebrity stalking.

"And I would totally go home with you. After all Scarlett is an idiot." I bat my eyelashes at him. What? I didn't really just say that did I? I mean he's cute and all but still....Something has seriously muddled my brain.
    He grins smugly as any male would at such an offer.
    "Well," he says, "How about we become Facebook friends?"

     "OMG. Really?" I swoon some more, not even feeling rejected that he has politely turned me down.
      "Yeah. And not my fan page. I mean my real Facebook page."
     "You would be my Facebook buddy?" I nearly scream with excitement.
     "Sure."

     The next thing I know, he's on my tiny list of Facebook friends and everyone is insanely jealous.

     Oh, Facebook what have you done to me?

    When I tell Hero Hottie my dream he just rolls his eyes and asks, "Ryan Reynolds, really???"

     "Hey, don't dis him. In my dreams we're Facebook friends."

It's a Small Price to Pay for Sleeping in Sunshine

2012-01-27T14:23:00.000-08:00

    For years I have been opposing Hero Hottie's constant suggestions to purchase a heating blanket. I had heard too many stories of fires being caused by old and worn blankets and it just made me too nervous.
On top of that; my frugal natural kept insisting that if we have heat pumping from the vents and we have thick quilts, why do we need to purchase something that seems like a luxury item to me?
   Also, a heating blanket needs to be plugged in. To an outlet. Which somehow has a direct line to our check accounting.
    Now, in my defense, I swear I did not realize just how cold Hero Hottie was getting at night. I didn't. Cross my heart. So you can't think I'm just a big, mean ogre.
   We live in a house that was built before they realized that insulation should always be added so that your walls aren't as cold as the temperature outside. But still; I seriously thought we weren't that cold at night.

   "We need a heating blanket." Hero Hottie said. I had heard this statement many times before. Not just every year before this winter but about every week for the past three months.
    I rolled my eyes. "I'll put more blankets on the bed."
   "You would like a heating blanket." He tried tempting me.
   I shook my head and put even more blankets on the bed. That night I cranked up the heat.

   The next evening....
   "We need a heating blanket."
    "We don't. I know we don't."
    "Have you ever tried one? They're pretty nice. You would be warm at night." He was using his tempting voice. The 'I Dare You because You're just being Stubborn' voice. How many things had I agreed to something because he used that voice? Too many. None I regretted but you never tell someone that. ;)

   "I'm warm...enough." I said, thinking silently to myself of the night before when I woke up at three and I was freezing. Damn, that wall does feels like an ice cube at night.
   "Did you feel that wall last night? It's like sleeping in an igloo."
     "I don't know. We really don't need one, do we?" How much do heating blankets cost anyway?
     "I'll just sleep in my clothes." He starts to put his jeans back on and another sweatshirt.
    "Really? You're that cold?" I was losing this argument. I could feel it. It was slipping away and if I stuck to my stubbornness than I would definitely be the bad guy.
He just gave me a look.
    "Fine. Go see how much they are." I surrendered.

"They're eighty bucks. It's Queen size and the good one is at Target." He tells me. I swallowed, but I knew my frugal side would protest.
     "Eighty bucks?! For a heating blanket?"
    "But you would be warm. They're so nice."
    "Alright. Lets use the Target gift card from Christmas." I give in.
    He grins.
"I was just going to buy towels with it anyway."
    His look is crestfallen. "Do you want to buy towels instead?"
    "No, lets buy a heating blanket." And we leave right then and there before I can change my mind.

   When we get home he happily sets up the heating blanket on our bed, explaining that each side has its own temperature control, so I can adjust my side to what I want. He tells me again that I'm going to love it.
   I'm not convinced but he's overjoyed with our new purchase. And who needs new towels anyway? Just because our towels are starting to look like Swiss cheese.

   He can't keep the grin off his face when he jumps into bed that night and buries himself under the heating blanket. I roll my eyes.
   "You're going to like it." He promises as I slide into my side. The warmth is instant, surrounding me from chin to toes. I nearly moan with the sheer delight of it.
    Why did I protest so long? And why didn't I realize just how cold our uninsulated house really gets? I feel lazy and relaxed under the heating blanket, almost like lying in the sun on the beach. Mmm, this is nice.
   "You like it." He says with a smug grin. Apparently my expression has given me away.
   "Maybe." I didn't want to concede too much; I would never hear the end of it.
   "See you don't trust me. I've been saying we should buy a heating blanket since we were married and you wouldn't listen to me. But boy, now we realize we like it." He is definitely gloating just a bit about it.
    "Am I going to have to listen to this forever?" Boy, this warmth is nice. Why did I protest so long? I'm forgetting my reasons.
    "Yes. I knew you would like a heating blanket. Aren't they nice?" He's rubbing it in. I'm never going to hear the end of this.
    I pull the blanket over my head. "Yes, they're nice. Now leave me alone. I'm enjoying the blanket."
    He laughs.

Tidal Wave

2012-01-24T15:31:00.000-08:00

   Standing on the beach, my toes wiggling in the sand, the sun beats down on my bare shoulders. The small waves lap lazily but steadily against my ankles, drawing out the little tiny crabs from their locations. They flow, helplessly in the wave for a few inches, and then they scurry back, burying themselves in the sand again. But it's only on the edge, where the salty water kisses the land and in a few moments, the cycle repeats.
   The sea offers them an abundant serving of tasty things that crabs like to eat and I notice that some of the crabs like to stay near the long green ribbons of seaweed.
    The tides comes and goes and their life is intertwined with it, regardless of how hard they have to work to keep from completely being washed out to sea or the fact that they can't be too far away either. Danger lurks from being too far away from the sea. The heat of the sun, the sharp beak of a seagull, or the lack of food.
   And through all this, they never give up.
   But do they really have a choice.

   Sometimes I feel like life is that edge between ocean and land. Richly abundant and teeming with adventure but also dangerous and wearing.
   How many events in my life has swept me off my feet like an ocean wave and threatened to take me out to sea? Some I saw coming....others were unexpected. There's a rule about the ocean...don't turn your back on it. Is that the same about life...don't turn your back on miscommunications or bad habits least they become tidal waves?
   Life ebbs and flows and we are intertwined with its rhythms; regardless if we want to be or not. When the weather is good and the ocean is calm we need to enjoy the sun warming our souls and the sand between our toes.
   When the weather is bad and the ocean is crazy we need to take cover; knowing that all storms eventually come to an end and the sun will shine again.

   So for right now this girl is going to find a rock ledge to hide under and wait for the storm to pass; letting the waves wash away the debris of gathered negative thoughts and when the sun breaks and the ocean glows with its warmth; this girl's going sunbathing.

Hero Hottie to the Rescue

2012-01-18T11:06:00.000-08:00

    Tacos are a staple in our dinner routine. We use corn tortillas, Amy's refried beans and fresh lettuce and green onions. It's an easy and completely gluten free meal. Because of Bean's gluten allergies her comfort foods aren't the usual American meals. She likes mac and cheese but it's not quite the same with the rice noodles. It was only recently that we finally found a hamburger bun that made having burgers worth it. Before these latest hamburger buns we were stuck with hard, round, thick, dense pieces of bread that could have been used for hockey pucks when they dried out.
   So tacos became her comfort food. And they became my go to meal when I needed something I could make in less than fifteen minutes. Because unless you're rich, eating gluten free is vastly time consuming. There are so many things that have to be prepared from scratch. I suppose I don't cook more than my great Aunt Dottie ever did for her family forty years ago but I'm a woman of the 21st century, I thought long hours in the kitchen was something you read about in the history books.
   Not something I was going to have to participate in.
   And since eating out is a lot like playing Russian roulette when you have gluten allergies, we prefer to stay home. The few places and the handful of meals we have determined to be safe for our girls to eat are also menu items that have to be made from scratch and cost quite a bit. We don't eat fast food. Our favorite places to eat are local restaurants. But that makes going out to eat a treat and not a weekly break from cooking.
   And not only do I have to prepare dinner from scratch but lunch too. Luckily, we found a decent bread and bagel for toast in the mornings.
   But after a few years of both my girls being gluten free, preparing food at home is finally easy.

   Two nights ago though, I started cutting green onions and preparing rice and I just started crying. The easiest meal I could prepare and it was too much. I wanted to sit down in the middle of the kitchen and give up.
   "I just feel so overwhelmed." I told hero hottie, as I cried while the stirring the refried beans.
He frowned, concerned."I know how you feel."
    Because his life has been overwhelming lately too, since his employers decided to make his life crazy with new rules and new schedules. It has been weeks since we all sat down and had dinner together. On top of that his good friend, Justin is moving to the East Coast in a few weeks. And then he is faced with a wife that is crying while making dinner.
    "I know." I sniffled.
    I don't usually cry while making dinner, not since I figured out how to prepare all our foods gluten free. But it had been a long day, which had been proceeded by an even longer week and I just felt drained by too many things.
   Perhaps my three year old niece using me to unleash her anger on and constantly calling me 'meanie.' And 'You're the dumbest Aunt Christy, ever." over the past two weeks was too much. Even though I'm glad she feels safe and secure enough with me to express her feelings.
   Maybe my frustration over a school system that wants my daughter enrolled there because she can produce strong test scores, and make them look good but they don't really care about her education; had me on edge.
   Or sometimes, when I have a hundred million emotions running through me; worries and doubts; fear and frustration; missing hero hottie and an inability to fix my loved ones problems; I just have to release my own emotions.
   I chopped green onions, tears rolling down my cheeks and I wondered how I could ever be strong enough to be not only what everyone else needed from me but to also be myself.

    But as Moms, don't we have a habit of trying to take care of everyone first that we are totally drained before we take the time to care for ourselves? We wipe noses, and help with homework, we have long talks about the meaning of life with our little ones, desperately hoping we're teaching them something that will guide them later and we slay monsters under the bed. We learn to cook anyway our kids need us too and we keep our tempers when faced with naughty behaviors.

   Hero hottie didn't know what to do for me though. So I thought he did the sweetest thing he possibly could. Yesterday he had Justin come over, since the guy can cook like a professional and with hero hottie acting like a sous chef; they filled the crock pot with dinner.
   When I was finished babysitting the 'little girls' as I call my nieces, the house was filled with the delicious aroma of an Italian stew or gumbo or whatever Justin had called it.
    I called it wonderful. Dinner; gluten free and hot and ready to serve. Bean and Abu were okay with it. The stew contained chunks of tomatoes in it, which for as much as they like ketchup, pizza sauce, and tomato soup; I can not get them to eat chunks of tomato. But they tried it.
   I loved it. It had a base of fire roasted tomatoes in Italian seasonings, with a yummy mixture of hot Italian sausage, sweet corn and slightly crunchy green beans.
   The best part; it was already cooked!!
Then hero hottie played card games with Bean and Abu while I took an uninterrupted bath. As a Mom, do you know the percentage of baths I have taken that I wasn't solving problems from the other side of the bathroom door?

   After the girls were in bed, he asked me. "Do you feel better?"
   I nodded. My worries were still there, they weren't just going to go away but I felt better able to handle them. Restored.
   "Yeah, I do. Thank you." I hugged him.
   He smiles. "Good. Because I've been planning that for a few days now since I noticed you were starting to have difficulties." He just had to wait until he was home to pull it off.
   "You've noticed?" I asked, surprised that he knew I was needing some TLC long before I started crying over making tacos.
   He nodded.

   Now that's true love. Not romantic flowers and diamonds; not sappy Hallmark card;

     but just love...simply.

Land of Confusion Or Why Don't We Put More Value on Education

2012-01-16T20:22:00.000-08:00

Before Bean was born I already had a bookshelf of newly bought, brightly illustrated children's books lined up and ready to go. While I was pregnant with Bean, hero hottie would read out loud books about screenwriting and screen plays. Perhaps that's why she wants to be a director. :)
   When she was born, we read to her constantly, sometimes only getting through a couple of pages before she would crawl off in search of trouble. But as she grew, she started to realize what these books meant and suddenly she couldn't hear enough stories.
     We continued her education by taking our bright and curious toddler to museums. We encouraged her to touch and feel everything she was allowed to and even as a small child she knew a ton of facts about dinosaurs and fossils.
     We spent hours outside, exploring nature. Leaves, flowers, sticks, rocks, and feathers were our learning tools. As we played, I explained science to her. How do trees grow? Why is the sun important? Why do birds need feathers?
   When Abu was born she joined us on trips to the museums and from her stroller she would try to touch everything Bean was. It didn't matter that she was only eight months old, she was curious and we encouraged it.
    Then Bean went to school. She continued her learning.
    During the summer I forced Bean and Abu to study an hour or two a day. I know, what a horrible Mom I am. It's summer and I'm making them do school work. But every fall, instead of falling behind like most kids had, they had leaped ahead. And it wasn't so bad. We could work on subjects they hadn't fully mastered in an one on one environment, overcoming difficulties. I could introduce subjects to them that I knew they would need extra time with the summer before; such as cursive writing for Abu. That summer it was frustrating for her but when she had to start writing it in third grade she was so confident about it.
   Sure of herself.

I take educating my children very seriously. Knowledge is key to life. And knowing how to learn is even more important than just having a head full of facts. I don't want my children to ever stop learning.
Bean is highly intelligent and parenting a smart child can be a test in patience. :) But a week ago I was still quite surprised to receive a letter from her school district offering her a chance to take this smarty pants test from some big wig college. She's fifth grade. Wow.
   Hero hottie and I discussed it and even asked for advice from his Uncle who is involved in academics. He recommended that she take the test, since it might offer her opportunities for scholarships and summer camps later on.
   This sounded like a great plan to us. So I emailed the contact person in the gifted department to arrange for the test. The email went unanswered.
   I called the high school where her office is located. The deadline for registering was closing in. The school district had only given us a week to decide and register for the test.
   Two days before the deadline we still had not heard from the contact person. I tried calling again, this time the phone number to the local high school wasn't even answered. (As a parent I love the thought of sending my child to a high school where I can't even get a hold of anyone. -Sarcasm.)
   I had hero hottie call. The secretary took a message.
   Finally...The contact person calls us back. She was a teacher in charge of the gifted department at the local high schools. We started talking about the benefits of the test, why Bean was selected to take part in it, what would happen after the test and how the test is internationally known. She chatted about how the gifted department of the district arranged for the students to take the test.
    After fifteen minutes of chatting about the test and I was quite ready to register her, the contact person pauses.
   "Bean's in fifth grade right?" She asks.
    "Yes."
    "Oh, well. That's going to be a problem. There isn't actually a test being conducted in our town this year. She'll have to wait until next year."
    "I'm confused. You sent me a letter?" I was shaking my head and trying to rub away the deep frown in my brow.
    "Well, I sent out the letter before I realized there wasn't going to be a test this year. Last year it was at the local college and I just assumed it would be again. So I sent out the letters before I knew for sure. But don't worry...she gets to take it next year. I'll make sure."
    "So there's no test?"
    "Right. I got all the information off their website about dates and times but I didn't realize until the last few days that there wasn't going to be a test in our town."
    "Okay...Well, tell me about the gifted program, like when Bean gets into middle school. I know elementary school doesn't have anything."
     "Oh, we don't really have a gifted program, even for the high school students. It's horrible." She really did care that there wasn't really a program for the kids that were ahead of their grade level. "Budget cuts, you know. That and the school board just cares that they score advance on the test. They're not going to spend time on kids that don't need any more help to boost up test scores. They need to worry about the kids who aren't scoring well on the tests. The government requirement you know."
     "So your job is?" I was fairly confused at this point.
      "Just to work with the parents to connect them with other outside resources. Online classes, camps, etc. It's on our website."
   "I'll check it out."

     Later I checked out the website for the gifted program through our school district. Half the links didn't even work for the camps and online classes. I had to Google the info and find the correct website links. I hate broken links; I'm really disappointed in broken links on a website for a gifted program.
     I like living in a small town; most of the time. Not so much this week. And then to top off insult to injury; the contact person finally emailed me back, thanking me for taking the interest in my child and then she said,

-I encourage you to continue being your child's "teacher".-

   "Teacher" Quote - Unquote

        How was all my time and effort to educate my child (children)  turned into a diminutive form of the word teacher?

    I value great teachers, don't misunderstand me. Just see my blog entry about Mrs. Tracy. On top of that; my children have had some awesome teachers at their school.
    But a teacher isn't just someone that holds a degree in education. The Webster guy defines it as "one that teaches"

    Doesn't that apply to almost everyone? And then especially as a parent, isn't one of our first jobs is to teach our children?
     "Teach our children well?"

      As parents we teach our children to talk, to walk, to brush their teeth, to eat, to enjoy reading, to write their names, to remember their manners, to love...
      I am more than my child's "teacher." I am one of my child's TEACHERS. Capital Letters.

     I am a partner with my child's grade school teacher and apparently since our school district lacks any sort of programs for smarty pants kids, I'm going to be a huge factor in making sure Bean and Abu reach their academic potential.
     So, since I will play a huge part in how far my children's education goes; I wish a teacher; especially a teacher that kept telling me the value they placed on education; wouldn't lessen my value as one of my children's teachers.
    I wish our society would just put more value on education. We focus on test scores and labeling children, until only children that score well on test are considered 'gifted.' Other children are struggling, or they have learning disabilities or they aren't smart.
    Do we value education? Or do we value test scores? There is a difference. And somehow I think when we value the wrong thing, all our children lose something special. Important. Vital.

     In the meantime, I have to find a way to teach my girls to shoot for the moon when we live in Smalltown, USA. ..When we live in a country that has confused education with the outcome of tests. When we forget that all our children are failing in their full potential even when the test scores are high.
     Perhaps by the time Bean and Abu have children; things will have changed and learning will be a wondrous adventure by all the child's teachers and more value will be placed on all children reaching their potential and less time on test scores.

Zombies Ate my New Year's Resolutions

2012-01-10T13:12:00.000-08:00

   Well, I was going to share my resolutions for this year, which happens to be the year of Doomsday but those damn zombies ate them.

     I'll try to remember them. Let's see.... It's 2012. Should I even bother with resolutions? After all, the Mayans have said we're all going to die. Doesn't seem to be much point in making a list that I'll fail to keep after three weeks anyway?
    Did I say three weeks? Mmmm, that's hopeful. I think my track record for resolutions made in the gloomiest month of year happens to be as accurate as Harold Camping's predictions of the end of the world. You know he's just trying to steal the Mayan's thunder. :)

    But boy, it's 2012 and the Internet is buzzing with more ways to die in the end of the world than any Hollywood script writer could imagine. Perhaps they should borrow some ideas from some of these sites, because no offense to John Cusack; but I'm not depending on him to save me during the end of the world.
   First of all...his only claim to fame is just simply being in the right place at the right time. He knows to flee, in a borrowed limo (give me an awesome pick up truck from the zombie movies), then the step-dad happens to be a pilot and his employer happens to have tickets and so on and so forth. Everyone around him dies horribly but he's just that lucky.
    Like I'm that lucky? Nope, I'll be sucked down into the bowels of the Earth.
    And then my second point; if you're the step-Dad you're going to die. Because John has to get back together with the ex-wife in this strange new world where only the ultra rich have survived.
    That's seems about right.

   I had a discussion about this. If you had to choose between John Cusack or Bruce Willis to save you from the end of the world, who would you pick? I think I'm going to post that on my Facebook page and see who wins.
   My vote: Bruce Willis featuring Aerosmith -because you need a good rock song to accompany the end of the world.

Heck, I would pick Frodo over John Cusack. :)

    Boy, all this talk of 2012 is starting to scare me. Ohh, I'm scared now.
   No, not really. Because if I made it through Y2K than I think I can make it through the end of the Mayan's calendar. Did anyone wonder if they didn't just run out of stone to carve on?
    Or better yet...
    "Hey, boss. Do you know what would be funny?" The bored, underfed stone carver asks.
    "Joe, get back to work, no one's asking you to be funny." The supervisor snarls.
    So Joe, not being especially bright, plots revenge. He's going to carve the end of the world into the calendar. Ha, that will show the boss. Wait until he gets scared and trembling because the end of the world is going to happen.
    Funny joke Joe. But now at least people are showing interest in other cultures, like the Mayans.

In the meantime, I should at least make a New Year resolution to prepare for the Zombie Apocalypse. Never thought P90X would come in handy to get in shape so I can run away from the zombies. Thank you Tony Horton, do you know how many people you're helping reach their 'Escape the Zombies' resolutions.
    I need to purchase a pair of Velcro tennis shoes. Forget the laces, do I want to be tipping on untied shoelaces while the hoard of brain eating zombies are chasing me? Not a chance.
    Throw a bag together of some shotguns and chainsaws and I should be ready. There, now that's a New Year Resolution I can keep...preparing for the zombies.
    And I'll start practicing on my weekly shopping trips to Wal-Mart...Where I happened to see a zombie the other day, seriously. She was dressed in old, dirty sweatpants and a big, grimy t-shirt. Her greasy, thin hair was matted down on the back of her skull and she walked in that laborious fashion of the zombie while nonsense words grunted from her lips. She wasn't mentally handicapped, otherwise I wouldn't be joking about it, she was just that uninterested in being human. Her cart was loaded with the worse processed food you can find and I have to start wondering if junk food isn't just food made specially for zombies.
    Wal-Mart; the birthplace of the zombie apocalypse...I'm sure of it.

    But joking aside, I hope if anyone purchased a yearly calendar that they asked for a discount since the end of the world is on December 21st. I wouldn't want to pay for an extra week. That also means I should plan on celebrating Christmas early. I would hate to get the tree up, the stockings hung and all the presents wrapped and not have time to enjoy a few pieces of pie before either we're hit by a huge asteroid, or the Earth does a shift on its axis thingy, or Wal-Mart is out of brains.

    Hey, I know what my New Year Resolution should be...getting Bruce Willis' number on speed dial. Just in case it's death by asteroid.

    That's sounds like a new board game. 'Clue- the 2012 edition'

     Is it death by asteroid, zombie apocalypse, mutant virus, or city falling into the Earth?

    Or even worse, death by overdose on Facebook?

      As long as the zombies don't come after me I'm wishing everyone a Happy New Year!!!

Day Twenty Five- Baby Jesus is Lost

2012-01-09T20:46:00.000-08:00

   I know I'm a few weeks late on this blog entry. Writing twenty five entries in just twenty five days when I'm a full time Mom and Aunt was even more difficult than I had planned. But here we are, Day Twenty Five of Blessings but no where near the end of our journey on faith.
    I've actually learned a lot about myself on this digital journey. But I have to recommend, if you're going to take a honest look in the mirror, don't do it in December. The emotions already seem to be too stretched during this month and then you add in other stuff...it's like eating a third piece of pie when you're already stuffed. :)
   I've really enjoyed writing the stories...the moments...that have shaped who I am. The ones that reminded me of my faith or taught me to dig deeper into my faith to guide me.
There were some things I found I couldn't write about yet, perhaps in the next few months when winter is at its bleakest and I already feel dark and gloomy...I will tell you about when I was so sick that Death was literally waiting on the front porch for me and how it took a whole bunch of faith to overcome everything. But since I couldn't write about it last month, we'll see how long it takes me to explore how emotional damaging getting that sick can mess with a person.

    I feel extremely blessed to have the family and friends I do. Even though this last year has been difficult for my family and right now hero hottie and I feel like we want to take the next train out of Crazyville...I know what emotion drives my faith...LOVE.
    The Beatles had it, "All you need is love, love---Love is all you need.'

    Through the ups and downs; the little daily struggles and the monstrous I might die struggles; through the frustrations and the grief; the one thing I could hold in my heart, almost as if it was tangible was LOVE.

   Love for my family. Love for hero hottie. Love for Bean and Abu. Love for canine critters that love back unconditionally. Love for God and all creation.

    Mary gave birth to the baby Jesus in a manger, surrounded not by the ideal environment to be laboring in but she had love.
   Jesus taught about faith, forgiveness, and love.

One day CT, my niece was playing with the small wooden Nativity dolls I have and in her playing she misplaced the baby Jesus in the pile of presents under the tree. Suddenly, she is frantic, searching through the wrapped gifts.
   "Aunt Christy, the baby Jesus is lost underneath all the presents. Help me find him."

   I came to a shocking stillness and stared at her. She was simply speaking of the wooden baby Jesus doll lost in the presents but it was a stark reminder that even though presents are the fun part of Christmas... I do enjoy finding and giving the perfect present for someone...the true meaning of Christmas must never be lost underneath all the presents.
    Love. Forgiveness. Faith.

They're some of the true gifts of Christmas.

   "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."
    Matthew 6:19-21 TNIV

    Love, don't go on a journey of faith without it.

Day Twenty Four- The Rhythm of the Heart

2012-01-08T12:34:00.000-08:00

The Heartbeat

     The sound of Bean's heartbeat from the Doppler fetal monitor filled the hushed silence. For a wonderfully still moment, recorded in my heart for all time, her fetus heart pounded out a quick galloping rhythm. And suddenly, after this pregnant woman had questioned herself time and time again in amazement, wondering if a little life actually grew inside her -I could hear her.
   It would be a little while longer until I would be able to feel her movements, her kicks, and hits and her stretches and her bouncy movements to music but before all that I had heard her heartbeat.
   It was strong. Steady. Miraculous.

   Every doctor appointment I held my breath while the doctor pressed the Doppler fetal monitor against my chilled belly skin until the wondrous sound filled the air, bringing a reassurance that Bean was still safely snuggled within my womb.
   What we shared before she was born was the rhythms of our hearts. For, as I could hear hers- nestled within my body, she was listening to my steady adult heartbeat every moment of her days.
   Beat after beat she could hear the familiar drumming of my heart as she grew, as she slept, as she moved in her tiny world. How important is this sound to our babies? Some researchers have tried to studied it, to measure the value of hearing the maternal heartbeat and of course, it's difficult to form a concise statement of importance. Newborns can't explain what they heard in utero and or explain what was important. But place that babe against your chest, with their tiny ears pressed against you and I have to wonder, as they settle down, if they aren't listening to our hearts, to the familiar rhythms that have surrounded them since before they took their first breaths.

   Late in the night, as Bean would wake asking for milk, I would feed her and then cuddle her against me, watching her chest move with the beating of her heart, with her even breathing, all working together in the rhythm of life.
   This would never change either, checking to see the heart beat, the breathing moving through her. Even as toddlers and young children, I would quietly tip toe into their rooms at night, before I went off to bed, watching these movements of life to reassure me that Bean and Abu were alright. They would roll over in their bed or flop around, clearly okay since they were moving and still, I would have to see that beat of their heart and hear their breathing before I felt like things were right in the world.

   And then I would cuddle with hero hottie, my ear pressed to his chest so I could hear the strong, masculine beat of his heart.

   From the moment we can hear we are surrounded by the heartbeat. When we are still and quiet, we can pay attention to our own, feeling it beat continuously, sometimes controlled by our emotions, for surely there has to be something about the heart being the center of our emotions. When I'm happy, my beat is sturdy and relaxed. When I'm excited or hyper, it beats frantically, as if to join in with my joy. Fear will make it race. And sadness or grief will make it feel heavy.
   Scientists will explain that the different hormones we produce in relation to our emotions affect the heart. There are physical explanations to all these different things. Regardless of this information, our hearts play a momentous part in regulating the beats of our life.

We give our hearts away when we are in love...our hearts our broken when love is not returned...our hearts are bursting with joy...our hearts are fragile and vulnerable.

   Home is where our heart feels safe and loved.

Day Twenty Three- The Ground is so Small From the Highest Tree

2012-01-04T21:21:00.000-08:00

    In the park near our house when I was in middle school there was the tallest pine tree all by itself, growing in the field.
    It whispered, "Climb me. To the top. Where my branches touch the cloudy Oregon sky."
    For a while I ignored the tree, knowing that it was bit higher than my Mom would want me climbing. I can't say for sure how high it was, I'm horrible at judging distance, my brother Chris, would probably know since he was often there with me, wanting to climb the same tree. But it was definitely taller than four or five stories, which was off limits to us.
   One day though, the tree was extremely loud and we decided we were going to climb the tree...all the way to the top.
    The absolutely wonderful thing about trees in Oregon are their solid branches that grow densely together. It's perfect for tree climbing, which Chris and I had done plenty of times. There's a few rules to remember when climbing a tree.
   1. Don't step on branches thinner than your wrist. That's just asking for trouble.
   2. If you start to step onto a branch and the tree groans and complains and screeches at you, perhaps you should pick another branch. Listen to the tree.
   3. Ignore sap, it's sticky but Mom's are great at getting it out of your clothes. They may roll their eyes at you when you hand them your clothing in a sticky bundle of fresh tree sap but they will get it out. They're amazing, Moms.
4. Windy days are for flying kites, not climbing trees.
And finally.... 5. Don't climb so high that the ground is now so small it has became a deadly weapon should you fall on it.

   I rubbed my hands together in anticipation. I love climbing trees and this one was tall with the perfect amount of branches.
   I grabbed the first branch and hauled myself into the tree. It had that fresh scent of pine that they try to bottle but will never succeed because humans can't duplicate the natural part of a smell. Somehow your nose will always know.
   Chris started climbing the other side and we made quick time as the branches had grown just like a ladder. They were never far apart and they were all nice and sturdy. Every once and in a while we would peek out of the branches, noticing how the park was growing smaller and smaller.
   But still we climbed.
   Then my brother, who was younger than me, stopped. He was not going any higher.
I was in middle school, the big sister and the family tree climber. I wasn't going to stop. So higher and higher I went. It was amazing. The tree was so well built all the way to the top. Most of the time a tree starts to tamper out too thinly before you can reach anywhere near the top, so you have to stop...it's rule number 1 and 2. But this tree, having grown in the middle of the field didn't have to share nutrients from the ground or any rain water. It was king.

   I climbed until the branches finally were too small near the top. The palm of my hands were scratched from the rough bark and covered in sap but I was grinning. I took a look around me and was amazed that I could see over most of the other trees, across the neighborhoods surrounding the park, and past the sugar beet field growing on the other side of the running track, I could see my friend's houses and I could see a vast expanse of cloudy Oregon sky.
   And then I looked down...and down and down...to where my brother stood so tiny against the green grass that was so far away. My stomach lurched and my throat tightened. I gripped the tree tighter and felt a bit sick.
   I had never felt afraid of being high up in a tree before. Ever. But I had never climbed so high up either. A gentle breeze blew across my cheek and I really started to realize just how far above the ground I was. If I were to fall, I would die. The thought was that simple and that direct.
   The view was stunning but I suddenly had this intense and pounding need to touch the ground again but my hand wouldn't let go of the branch I was on. My fingers had suddenly started thinking for themselves and they refused to do anything that had to do with letting go of the tree.
   Being the wildly creative person I am, I suddenly starting wondering if the fire trucks could reach me and how would they pluck me out of this tree and would they even drive on the grass to get me, or would that grouchy park manager that always scowled at me send them away because he didn't want his grass messed up? Would they leave me up here? And oh, boy, how mad would Mom be if she found out I climbed this far up into the tree. She would never allow me to go to the park again. I would be grounded. I was too old to be grounded. Urghh. I could not live in a tree even though it is a very Oregon thing to do.

    Finally my thoughts turned back to my fear and knowing I couldn't allow it to win. I refused to live up in the tree and I decided I rather conquer the anxiety coursing through my veins than have to send my brother to fetch Mom. Parents can be great motivators. :)
   Slowly, I made my way down the tree, my heart pumping quite fast and sweat dripping down my back. What had I been thinking? Apparently, there were trees that were just too high to climb, no matter how great and thick their branches were.
   I jumped onto the ground, wanting to kiss it. I had always wondered why they did that in movies, it seemed so yucky, but now I understood. There is something immensely wonderful and grand about the ground...and your feet actually touching it.
   Chris stared at me and I simply stared back. He knew I had went too far. But we both knew that we wouldn't speak a word of it to our parents. Perhaps when when we were thirty. We left that pine tree king alone for the rest of the time we lived there. It had somehow earned immunity from our tree climbing.
   The rest of the trees had not and we spent a great deal of time climbing them. I was not going to let that moment of fear in the tallest tree keep me grounded.

   I tell this story because there are some things we can't learn from the confines of our houses, watching television or chatting on the computer. We have to be outside, in nature, learning from all of creation just how far we can push ourselves. To be able to recognize the pounding of our own heartbeat, pushing ourselves pass our fears to accomplish the tasks before us. It is sometimes the closest I feel we can be to God in this physical world we inhabit.
   So I give thanks that through a simple pine tree I learned that only my silly fears keep me from climbing higher on this journey of faith.
But I have to say, I wouldn't mind a parachute some times either. :)

Day Twenty Two- P90X - 'I hate it...but I love it.'

2011-12-30T12:02:00.000-08:00

Last year for Christmas I bought P90X for hero hottie. He really wanted to try it; damn those infomercials, they really do work; but I couldn't think of anything else to get him anyway. He spent part of the next week watching the instruction video, reading the manuals, and deciding how we were going to follow the food plan.
   He convinced me to do it with him. Which at first I wasn't sure of. I was working lots of hours, always tired and struggling to get through my day, and I wasn't in shape at all. In fact, I had gained quite a bit of weight and felt sluggish and not so great about my appearance. It didn't help that I spent my days working with small tykes, who seem to stain every shirt I owned. I couldn't wear my hair down and I didn't dare put dangle earrings in, that was asking for trouble. My self image was as dank as the winter weather.
   So in the cold month of January, after putting on weight from too much pie and not enough exercise, I decided what the heck and I would give it a try. After all, how hard could it actually be?

NOTE: For people that are familiar with the P90X program, you can stop laughing now and continue reading.
For the rest of you; P90X is a killer exercise routine. If it doesn't kill you, than it makes you stronger. It is not for anyone that is afraid of sweating profusely, being sore for days afterwards, or hasn't taken any form of physical activity seriously before. And for the first few weeks you might be tempted to throw your weights at Tony Horton's face. Resist, you need the television to continue the program.

   First of all, the diet for the first month is very low on carbs. Very low. I stared at the menu over and over again, thinking to myself I can not give up my lovely bowls of rice, or my crunchy bites of toast. I didn't mind the heavy veggie part of it, I love vegetables and already ate quite a bit of them. But I was never a heavy protein eater. I liked my servings of grains a little too much.

   We bought the food we needed and I learned how to make Roasted Red Pepper soup (delicious) and really good omelets.

   My sister decided to join us on our journey towards fitness, which hero hottie has always been one to be fit. He rode in mountain bike races before we met and has a pretty labor intensive job, so getting ready for this program was more excitement than nervousness on his part. For my sister and I, who sports had never been a family pass time, this was still exciting but completely new.
   One night, a few days before we were going to start the program, we all took our measurements and weight. Urggh, did I really gain that much weight? It was horrifying, even more so because I had to share it with hero hottie. And we had to write it down. I couldn't forget the ugly number if it was written in black and white and hung up on the cork board.
   Then we shot our 'before photos'. Being the photographer, I shot their photos first. We used a white wall, my flash for the light source, and undressed to our unmentionables so we could record every detail. Hero hottie took my photos and then I looked at them.
   They were awful photos. It's easy to ignore the mirror some times, especially if you don't look until after you're dressed and your 'problem areas' are camouflaged by clothing. But in the harsh lighting of my flash, there was no hiding the fat areas. The extra chubbiness around the middle and the flabbiness of my arms and thighs.
    I was overweight and clearly heading down the wrong path. I tried to ignore the pain looking at those photos caused me, I didn't like the way I looked at all, but no amount of positive thinking was going to change the fact that I had put on a lot of weight. I slipped into the bathroom and cried. More than once.

So our first day, or should I say night since we had to do our exercising after work, after dinner and after Bean and Abu were in bed, was tough. I had zero energy and just wanted to watch television and do nothing. What was I thinking? I couldn't exercise at eight o'clock at night.
   I started with three pound weights for the Chest and Back video. How pitiful is that? Three small pounds and I couldn't even keep up. By the end of the video I was dying. And then Tony Horton kept up the torture with Ab Rippers. Fifteen minutes of hell. My back was burning, my abs were on fire, and I went straight to bed. Forget about doing the dinner dishes. I was exhausted.

For a week I struggled through the series of video. I struggled with my habit to snack and I made myself stay away from the carbs. But I enjoyed the protein bars and shakes. They actually seem to help with the muscle pain.
Night after night we encouraged each other to continue until we hit month two. We took more photos. And noticed how it was showing. Oh, not on me. But on my sister, who was trimmer. And even on hero hottie who was defining ab muscles.
   But on me, the difference was small especially after so much work. Again, I slipped into the bathroom and cried.

We continued for the next two months and still I felt like nothing was changing. It was spring and than summer and I pushed myself. Towards what, I wasn't sure because I wasn't looking like those slim and fit people on the commercials. Heck, I wasn't even trimming down like my exercise partners. I was still fat and still struggling to get through the hour long routine.

Slowly, our diet changed. We ate less carbs and the amount of food we ate at a time was smaller. In fact, we noticed when we went out to eat, the portions were entirety too large for us anymore. I couldn't finish the meals anymore. I snacked on more fruits and nuts and when I did eat rice or bread, I limited the amounts and didn't even mind it.

Then I decided I needed something extreme. I wasn't any where near where I wanted to be after exercising for six months. Hero hottie and I started jogging the Hill. If P90X is extreme, than the hill is pushing sanity. The trail up onto the hill is a steep incline. The backside isn't too bad, I had to be careful not to go too fast or I'll end up tripping on the rocks and flying off the trail. We would finish by going back up the same trail we just came down. Somehow we were still supposed to be breathing at the same time.
   The first time I tried jogging up the hill, (should I started on a running track? I tried. I got bored. Maybe it was the P90X but I needed something that was going to challenge me to the edge of my ability. I was also desperate to see some results by this time.)
   -I jogged five or ten minutes and felt like collapsing. I went up the hill in a serious of little jogs and then walking. Little jogs and then walking.
   I finally finished jogging down the hill and had to lay on the ground to catch my breath. What the hell was I thinking? My head was pounding, I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, and my lungs were tight and burning.
   Then I turned to hero hottie and started laughing. "I did it. I jogged. I don't even like jogging."
   He grins at me.
   And then we went back up the hill and down again. My muscles were shaky by the time I was back to the car but I had done this wonderful thing for myself.

   Over the summer and early part of fall I jogged on the Hill as many times as I could. I was jogging longer and faster every time. I was finally starting to trim up and I was losing weight.

    Then I started on the P90X again. It was a completely different experience this time around. I was using ten pound weights instead of three, I was actually doing push-ups and I could keep up with the video. I also didn't feel like screaming at Tony Horton during the entire video. Suddenly he wasn't the bad guy. He was the guy who was going to keep me heading towards my goal of reaching pre-baby body status.
    I still have a ways to go. But I'm excited. I've trimmed up so much I need new clothes because the old ones keep trying to fall off me. My shirts are baggy and shapeless. It's awesome. I can't wait for spring so I can get back up on the Hill. I bet I do even better this time around.

    I have more energy, I eat better, and I don't feel tired and sluggish. It's difficult to find time to exercise and I always used that as an excuse before because it didn't seem as important as the other things on my list. But now that I'm getting in shape and feel so much better about the way I look, I remind myself that every thing else works better when I exercise.
   It might have taken this bookworm way too long to discover the benefits of insane exercise routines but now that I have, it's one of the first things I want to accomplish in the mornings. It's even better than a cup of coffee. So thanks Tony Horton for designing an insane and crazy workout, because it works.

Day Twenty One- Friends

2011-12-30T10:46:00.000-08:00

   I was moving soon with my entire family across country. And my seventeen year self was extremely excited. This was an adventure and since I had happily graduated early from high school over a year ago- it was time for something different.
   I had quit my job, helped pack up the house and visited all my favorite places and people one last time. I was nearly ready.
   Except for saying goodbye to my friends. That was the only painful part of my decision to move to a new life.

   My best friends at that time were Sarah and Gwen. They were a year younger than me but we hung out all the time. We did all the typical teenage things; movies, shopping, talking and drooling over boys. We also liked other things that weren't popular with the other teenage girls in our town, such as antique shopping; which Oregon has a ton of different shops to explore; and hanging out in the local college town coffee shop. But perhaps, we weren't as lame as the popular girls thought we were for hanging out at a coffee shop.
   Because it was a coffee shop catering to the local college students. And there was a lot of cute musician college boys that would play their guitars at night for the coffee drinkers. Not only did they have perfectly made coffee, delicious pastries but they had college guys.
   Of course, we were way too shy to talk to any of them. But we certainty liked to giggle over them.

   One day, just a week or so before I was moving, my friends show up in Gwen's clunker of a car. I'm not sure which junk yard she dragged it out of but if she jostled the gear shift rough enough it would eventually pop into drive and it would actually get you to where you were going. The car was a two door, blue and rust color vehicle with more noise than a locomotive.
   It was a sunny summer afternoon when they unexpectedly pull into the driveway.
"Hey, what are you guys doing?" I asked.
Sarah grinned smugly. "We have a surprise for you. Your Mom knows about it, so don't worry."
My friend could be a bit wild so it was natural to wonder if her surprise was Mom approved. Turns out it was, so I got ready and we hurried out to the car.
"You're sitting in the back." Gwen said, pointing to the small backseat. I hated sitting in the back, it was cramped and had no leg room.
   I frowned and rolled my eyes. "Fine."
   Sarah grinned again. "And we're going to blind fold you."
"What?" I screeched.
They were both grinning as Sarah waved the bandanna in the air. "It's a surprise, remember?"
I shook my head and it took them a few minutes of earnest pleading on their parts to convince me to don the blindfold and then sit in the back of the car. So not only was I stuck in the back, I couldn't see anything. What was I thinking?
   What was my Mom thinking?
I had great fun with my friends but this was like giving them permission to be as wild and crazy as they wanted. I couldn't believe I had agreed to this.
The first few minutes were okay. I noticed just how loud the car protested being driven, now that my sense of sight was behind a stupid blindfold. My friends just giggled smugly as we drove. They were enjoying this surprise way too much. Probably because I was always the sane one. The one who didn't want to get into trouble doing something. Maybe not a daredevil, but still they enjoyed my company.
   Now I was trapped helplessly in their hands. Of course, I could have just taken the blindfold off but they kept warning me to keep it on. They had a great surprise for me and they didn't want me to ruin it. Sure, use guilt and my own nature against me. I didn't want to hurt their feelings so I kept the blindfold on.
   Suddenly, the car is spinning round and down a steep hill, making me dizzy and sick. I don't even have time to rip the blindfold off, I'm just holding onto the seat, wondering if I was going to be alive in the next few minutes.
   Sarah is screaming at Gwen to slow down but the car still turns precariously and frantically. I close my eyes under the blindfold, holding my breath.
   "Shut up, Sarah." Gwen screams back. The car does a 180 turn and comes to an abrupt and noisy stop. We are alive. I let go of the seat and reach up to take off the blindfold.
   My friends grab my hands. "You can't do that." Sarah says. "We aren't there yet."
"You almost killed us."
   They start laughing hysterically. "No, we're fine. Gwen just took the hill a little fast. Keep it on, please."
Sarah doesn't let go my hands until I nod. This surprise had better be good. Since they almost got me killed. I fold my arms and glare at them through the bandanna.
   "Don't be mad at us. You're going to like this." Gwen says softly.
   "I better." I muttered.

A few minutes later, we finally arrive. Where. I'm not sure. I have to climb out of the car with the blindfold on, each friend flanking my side and guiding me. The happy noises of other teenagers fill the open air and we walk across the grass until Sarah whips the bandanna off my eyes with a dramatic flourish and a wide gesture of her arms, encompassing the surprise.
   We're in some one's yard which happens to belong to a nice and fancy house up in the hills surrounding our town. Huge trees adorned the property and a small gully runs across the backyard. It's probably twelve to twenty feet deep and only ten to fifteen feet wide.
And kids are swinging across it on a rope and plank hung from a beautiful hardwood tree.
"Surprise." Sarah says. "This is my friend's house." She points to the blond teenager next to us. I smile at her. "And she said I could bring you here to enjoy her backyard as a going away gift."
   Gwen is silently grinning from ear to ear.
   I gulped. The kids were laughing and enjoying themselves but even though the gully wasn't that big it was still big enough to hurt if the rope broke, or went the wrong way or...I was worrying about all the 'what ifs'.
   "Come on." Sarah grabs it when the last kid is finished and holds it while I nervously climb onto the plank of wood. Will it hold?
   I grip the rough, scratchy rope and then she lets go.
   I fly through the air with dizzily speeds, crossing the gap a few times before I slow down enough for someone to grab the rope.
   It was awesome!!!
We spent the rest of the afternoon taking turns on the rope swing, resting on the grass and talking while we waited. The conversation isn't anything I remember in detail. We spoke of the college plans we had, the boys taking their turns on the rope who were cute, and what things I would miss the most when I moved.
   My friends. Definitely my friends. I said. That part I remember.
   I also remember the fun we had that afternoon, swinging and laughing and talking. It was one of those 'perfect moments.' The ones we don't forget. The moments we carry with us like little treasures because they warm our hearts when we need some warmth from the harshness of life.

   We need friends. And I have some absolutely great friends right now. People that encourage me to be creative with my writing. Thanks neighbor!! And friends that remind me that with even being a busy mom that there is still time for fun.- Grown up and still talking about cute guys fun.- (Sorry hero hottie, but I know what guys talk about so I think us women can discuss sexy movie stars. It's only fair. :)

Friends are like icing on the cake. And I'm so grateful to have mine.

Day Twenty- To Blog or Not to Blog

2011-12-22T21:00:00.000-08:00

   I started blogging last year because a literary agent suggested in her newsletter that all good little writer wannabes that wanted to make it in the publishing world should have a blog to build up their readership.
   And not just any sort of blog but one with actual readers. And lots of them.
I'm sure someone forgot to tell her that if you're spending time on a blog then you're not spending time writing novels. And if you can't get your novel done than what is the point in having a blog to build up readership before you're published?
I bet she gets confused with time travel stories too.

When I was first trying to get published, you just needed to make sure your query letter was professional and didn't contain spelling and grammar errors; for some reason agents start to doubt your ability as a writer if you send them a letter that has tons of errors. :)
This was on top of a lot of stringent rules that had to be followed or they wouldn't even acknowledge your existence.
   Sort of like don't feed agents after midnight, don't get them wet, and no bright lights. Otherwise, sane and normal agents turn into angry agents that like to say things like, 'What? You actually thought you could write?'

   Then they started demanding a list of previously published works. I sigh heavily since my publications had only been published locally. This gave me a slight edge, but no more than say the Postal Carrier that brings them their mail.

   And then they wanted blogs. So I started one. And I called it 'Just the Other Moment; because life is made up of moments interwoven together to form life. My life.
Plus, Just the Other Day was already taken which was my first choice.

Well, this agent didn't sign me on even though at first she was interested in my work. Didn't even tell me why she didn't want to represent me. Just a no thank you after all but keep on following your dream. It would have been nice to know why she decided against it. But sometimes rejection by agents start to sound like bad relationship breakups, 'No, it's not your writing. It's us, we just are looking for something else. But don't worry, it's not you."

   This was a major disappointment that took three different things to get over.

    One: lots of hugs from Abu and a reminder that I'm the best Mom ever and she loves my stories. (I love it when kids are young. They are so unconditional.)

     Two: A reminder from Bean that I can't give up because I never let her give up on anything and it wouldn't be fair if I could and she couldn't. Ah, it's the 'I'm a role model since I'm a parent' thing.

    And Three: A stern warning from Hero Hottie that I wasn't allowed to give up and what could he do to stop my tears because nothing else he was saying was stemming their flow.
    "Just tell me you think I'm good enough to succeed...Someday...At something...Preferably writing." I cried, wondering if there was something wrong with me to pick a path in life that requires you to be constantly rejected just to reach small goals. Yes, I'm crazy because I'm sure there are things easier in life than writing. Like teaching high school math. Or running a restaurant. Or working in customer service.
    He interrupts my moody thoughts with his gruff reassurance. "Yes. You are. A good writer. Now stop crying. We aren't going to worry about silly agents that had dreams of being writers and didn't make it so they're dealing with the pain by shooting down other writers."
     "Are you saying I'm going to end up being an agent?" I cry harder. Oh, I don't want to be an agent.
     "No. But can I get you some chocolate?" He's sounding quite desperate at this point and ready to call the agent on the phone and yell at her for making me cry. This makes me feels better, that he's willing to face the mysterious creature they call, an 'literary agent' and tell her off. I turn down his offer of assistance in battle but I willingly take the chocolate.

    But a few days later I decide that since agents wanted to see blogs than I was going to make a blog. What I was going to write about I wasn't sure. Or how often. Or how to obtain readers.
I dove headfirst into 'writing a blog' thing, almost expecting it to bring agents to my doors. After all, they were the ones who had demanded it.
    The door was sadly silent. But not my email, it continued to fill up with rejections.
    I kept plugging away at my blog, surprisingly building up a readership...from around the globe. I may not be published but I've been read internationally. It's an awesome and weird feeling.
   Now I enjoy having a blog. It's challenging. Especially when I try to write a new blog every day in the month of December. What was I thinking? Grin.
   But I have to thank my readers. For reading my writing. For enjoying it. For encouraging me with their kinds words. I would have quit by now if it haven't been for those kind words. Thanks.

   Now, agents want you to follow them around to every conference they attend and try to get their attention that way. I think I'm going to worry about improving my writing instead.
   And I rather see where this blog takes me than spend endless hours worrying about ways to capture the attention of a literary agent.
   So perhaps having a blog wasn't my idea but I'm glad started one.

Day Nineteen- All Dogs Deserve a Soft Bed

2011-12-22T05:10:00.000-08:00

Tandy

I was surrounded by the barks ofdozens of dogs as they all verbally fought for my attention. Years later from my first visit when we adopted Buddy, I was back and the place hadn't changed. The pound was still just as loud. The smell was still that powerful mix of dog and cleaning supplies.

Claws hitthe cement floor and made frantic scratching noises as the dogs would runaround in their small cages, trying anything to get my attention. They knewwhat it meant when someone showed up.

One of themwas going home.

I haddragged my Mom and my girls, Bean age six and Abu age four, down here in the middle of fall, bundled in bulkyclothes and boots, to find a friend for our older dog, Buddy. He was lonely andneeded a doggie pal. He had plenty of people friends being the social dog hewas but he needed canine friendship. His hip problem made it impossible to geta bouncy, bubbly puppy but could I find him a nice, older dog?

My girls loved all the different dogs andwanted to take them all home. Their hearts were so big and generous, they would have cared for them all if we could. I was busy searching for that older dog.

We had walked around most of theaisles when my Mom stops and peers into a cage. I hadn’t even noticed theoccupant staying in there, she was curled up on the cement floor in a tightball of misery and depression.

She was a bluish, black color andblended into the cement color. Her little body shivered with the chilly floorand the cold outside.

We found her name on the sign,Tandy, not sure if that was her name before she arrived here a month earlier orif that was a name given to her when someone just dropped her off.

At first she didn’t respond, solost in her despair that there was no point in raising her head. She already knew, no one takes the old ones home.

We shouted louder and she slowlylooked up at us, her expression empty and all hope lost in the shadows of hereyes.

She finally stood up and looked atus further, but no interest showed in her face. For a month she had been lockedin this tiny cage while dozens of people had past her by because she was a senior citizen.

Tandy, was a petite blue heeler,who was at least six or seven years old. She was exactly what I was searchingfor and I asked to meet with her in the tiny visitor room. She was quiet andunassuming even though she was eager for the dog treat from the pound tech.

I fell in love with the older dogand took her home.

The girls were happy, she wassmaller than they were and they could easily walk her around the block.

Buddy was ecstatic and eagerlysniffed at her. He wagged his tail and a big doggie grin spread across hisface. Then I let them outside together and the petite little dog started doingwhat she was bred to do. Herd sheep.

Except she didn’t have sheep toherd, so she tried to herd Buddy. And needless to say, he did not appreciateTandy biting at his ankles.

I was worried. My plan was quicklyunraveling. I had two elderly dogs in my house that were so used to havingthings their way, they were unwilling to adjust to having someone else mess up theirroutine.

Tandy was clearly acting like a dogthat never lived with another dog in her entire life and Buddy didn’t like itwhen she tried to steal his bed, or his left overs, or my attention. They quickly become like two grouchy old people, always complaining and sighing.

I took Tandy to the veterinary andfound out she wasn’t only old she was a little old lady. She was probablyaround ten or eleven years of age. And she acted like it too.

She would eat her food carefully.And trot around the yard with delicate steps. At night she would curl up in herbed and I couldn’t get her to go outside for the potty after nine o’clock at night. The little old lady wastired and down for the night.

If she did happen to get up, shedidn’t like to walk downstairs to go outside.

After a few months, Buddy and Tandyfinally started being friendly with each other. They would share their food and evencuddle doing the cold weather. Cautiously, they started being friends.

A bit of hope started shining inher eyes and sometimes she would even try to play a joke on me and then grinabout it. She relaxed and would try to climb in my lap to lick my neck, and myhands and love me right back.

And she even stopped biting Buddyankles, which he greatly appreciated.

I had to give them their medicine andsupplements in the mornings, for senior dogs need their pills. Theytoleranted it, but just because of the yummy peanut butter I would hide the pills in.

When the weather was cool, we would go forwalks around the block. But only short

walks as the arthritis in their hips and joints act up if wego too far .

I bought them thick, luxuriousbeds, not just to spoil them but because they got sore sleeping on the carpet.

And at night, when they go outsideto use the potty one last time, I smile as they slowly walk to their beds andgo to sleep.

We had Tandy for about three years before sickness made her life miserable and she was ready to go. Then my Mom and I took her to the vet, where she tried to kiss my neck with her wet little nose as I held her during her last moments. If we hadn't adopted her, she would have been put down in the cold and cruel place of the pound, instead she was loved and cherished in her old age. And held in her last moments.

Having a senior dog was a lot of work but the love I received from her in return was worth it. And I'm starting to think there are angels at the pound, trying to find every dog and cat a home. :)

Day Eighteen- The Wonders of Grocery Shopping Alone

2011-12-21T18:49:00.000-08:00

   Since winter arrived today and I'm missing the nice autumn-like weather of the last two weeks I'm going to write a bit of humor today. So yes, I'm grateful for grocery shopping by myself. It is so much easier to accomplish buying groceries when you don't have your own personal helpers to point out everything you should be buying; like ice cream, cookies, chips; you know, the healthy foods.
    Shopping alone and in peace, well almost in peace. It's difficult to ignore the piped in music and the harsh glare of fluorescent lighting otherwise it's almost like a spa day or like a mini vacation.
   Almost...if I wasn't going to Wal-Mart.

Great things can happen on a solo shopping trip.

1. You actually can shop without it becoming another chance for the children to test your patience level. Of course, you still have to deal with shoppers that turn their carts horizontal across the aisle while they're shopping and talking on their cell phones. And you still have to avoid grouchy old ladies that will literally push you out of the way with their carts. What do they do with their cars?
     But you don't have to listen to kids complain about going shopping with you. And when you get up to the check out lane, you don't have a dozen unplanned items that you don't need.

2. You can buy a treat for yourself...and you don't have to share because they don't know about it. The chocolate is finally all yours.

3. You can blare the music in the car while you're driving and its not Backyardigans or the sound track to Shrek. You can play... grown up music.

4. When the hunk in the convertible glances your way, you know its because you're one hot mama and not because the kids are making weird faces that involve straws and nostrils.

5. You can purchase underwear and other unmentionables without your child broadcasting to the entire store personal information about the size and color of your underwear.

   There's plenty of reasons to shop solo. But if I didn't have a budget, I wouldn't go at all. I would hire one of those grocery services that deliver to your door and I would sneak off to the spa instead. Now that's a mini vacation.

Day Seventeen- Abu the Great

2011-12-21T13:38:00.000-08:00

   Abu is a character of the funny and cute sort. That kid spreads joy where ever she goes. I remember one time we had gone to her regular dentist for a cleaning and it was right after a friend of his had died and Abu, who was seven at the time, took one look at his long sad face and must have decided to spend the next half an hour trying to cheer him up. She was goofy until she worked a small smile from him and then she was really goofy until he actually laughed. Around the dental equipment she would keep grinning at him until he had to respond because her joy was contagious.
   I'm not sure if she knew why she felt the need to cheer him up but it worked. And she wasn't afraid to either. How many times have been around people lost in grief and didn't say anything because we were afraid of saying the wrong thing? She was just herself.
   And I have to say I feel blessed to be the Mom of a kid that possesses such a beautiful heart.

   She also has a quirky sense of humor that I would like to share.

When Abu was five, she raided the bathroom for some lotion. I had given her permission to use some. I should have known better. :)

Abu comes out, telling me she used all the wonderful colors of the lotions she could find. Ithad blended together into quite a strong smell but she was excited about something so I hid my grimace.

“Smell me,Mommy.” She offers, holding up her leg.

I smelledit appreciatively and told her that her leg smelled nice.

“I smelllike a rainbow.” She says.

“Why?” Iask.

“Because Iput all the different lotions on my leg. So they would smell like a rainbow.” She grins.

    One time Abu was eating a bit of CoolWhip, when she comes into the bedroom, white, fluffy Cool Whip was over her face andthe biggest grin from ear to ear. And she throws out her arms and proclaims,
      “Powered by Cool Whip. I am Powered by Cool Whip.”

     (I have seen the power of a kid hyped on Cool Whip. It's too bad they can't bottle the energy of an over sugared kid. It would be cheap, clean and efficient energy.)

We have a wonderful art cupboard for the girls. I knew Abu thought it was great because her pencils, paints, stickers and paper were in there but I didn't know just how wondrous it was until one day Aunt Stacey and her are searching for a pencil. Abu stands in front of it, grandly gestures towards it and tellsAunt Stacey.

“This is where the magic is.”

We were getting ready to play math games when Abu says, “Ihave a little idea.”

“A littleidea?” I asked with a slight chuckle, because my girls never have little ideas.

She shakes her head, “Prettymuch a big idea.”

      Ah-ha, now that sounds like the Abu I know.

   I'm grateful for people like Abu, who pretty much always have big ideas, they believe in the magic of imagination and they're powered by Cool Whip. :)
   Us adults, we're fueled by coffee. And sometimes lots of it. Cool Whip sounds much tastier.

Day Sixteen- It was an accident!!

2011-12-18T13:51:00.000-08:00

   Parenting is not for the weak of spirit. It's takes courage, guts and a strong stomach. A tons of patience, quite a bit of self sacrifice and the ability to laugh.
   If you don't want to clean bedsheets in the middle of the night or search poop for swallowed toys or be mortified by the outrageous things kids can say, then I would stay away from parenthood. It's not for you.

   If you want a new adventure all the time, if you want to feel just how much love the human heart can hold, and if you're up for sleepless nights, then parenthood will be your grandest venture.

   I hope, by being in this world, I have at least raised two wonderful children, ready to make the world a better place just by being who they are. And that's as sappy as I'm going to get in this blog entry. Because I'm a Mom, I could go on for pages about all the great things I think my kids are capable of or how many things they have done that have made me smile. I won't but I will share a funny story about Bean to remind us that children are a blessing, even when they have stretched our patience.

Bean, age 4 and Abu, age 2, are quick. And they're good at working together when they want to. I had only left the room for a few minutes when I came back into the living room to find that my beautiful white couch had been colored with Crayola crayon on the entire back.
Their movements are fast, as their little hands work on this big blank canvas. And it's not light crayon colors they have picked to make their masterpiece. No, it's blue and red. On a white couch. Their 'painting' is loud and vibrant. I close my eyes and take a deep breath before I speak. It's better for them if I take a few extra seconds to compose myself.
   They just grin and show me their picture. Oh, kids. After a bit of scolding and reminding them that they can color all they want on their art paper. But not Mommy's furniture. I clean the couch and surprisingly it comes completely off with nothing more than warm water and some Dawn soap. Amazing.

   Then a few days later Bean decides she needs to draw a picture on the wall near her toys. I sighed and scrub some more. It comes off, mostly.

   Next, Bean paints the kitchen blue. I had just left to use the potty for one minute while they were busy painting some paper. One minute. That was it. A Mom does have to go potty sometimes, after all. And while I was gone she decided the cupboards needed new fronts. Most of the blue comes off them. Even today I can still see a bit in the seams. Oh, well.

   This went on for quite a few weeks, where she was just constantly testing us. It was taxing and I was growing impatient with her. And she knew it too. Because with every new offense I was quick to send her to her room and not even listen to why she was trying to paint the walls or climb into the cupboards or push things down the drain. It didn't matter anymore, I was so tired of cleaning up after her. Part of me loved that she was a little scientist and was trying to figure out how things worked, the other part of me needed a break.

One day I had finished making spaghetti for dinner. I had dished out the girls' noodles but the sauce was still in the jar. It would be easy enough to spoon a couple of spoonfuls of the sauce on the hot noodles when we set down to eat. Bean was hungry and impatient to eat but I told her to wait a second while I went and got hero hottie from the bedroom.
    He was on the computer and wanted to show me something. So quickly I looked but it was too long. Not more than a minute or two but we had young children. It was a minute or two too long.
   Suddenly Bean comes running into our bedroom. Her eyes are wild and panicked. Her voice is frantic when she speaks. "It was an accident. It was an accident."
   Oh, no. What did this kid do now? Hero hottie and I rush into the kitchen and freeze. My mouth falls open as I survey the damage done to my kitchen by a tiny four year old. It's beyond believing and we just stand there for a second, trying to collect our thoughts.
   Bean is right behind us. "It was an accident." She's not being blamed for this mess.
   Spaghetti sauce covers every surface of the kitchen from floor to ceiling. The red sauce forms nice patterns of splatter droplets all over the white walls and ceiling and it looks like a crime scene. The heaviest drops are on the ceiling right above where she had been standing and travel across the entire breadth of the kitchen, where they go right on down the opposite wall from where she was and onto the floor.
   We look at her about to ask her how it happened. She interrupts, shaking her head. "It was an accident."
   She's definitely thinks she's in trouble for this mess. And a mess it is.
   I glance at Hero hottie and we both break into uncontrollable laughter. It was the worse mess she had ever made and 'It was an accident.' What must she have thought when she saw the spaghetti sauce everywhere and knew I was tired of her making messes on purpose. I'm pretty sure she thought she would be in time out forever.
   She probably thought, "Oh, no. Mom's really going to mad this time. I have to convince her right from the start, even before she sees it, that 'It was an accident.'"
Apparently, she couldn't wait for us to dish up and she decided to put her own sauce on her spaghetti. But somehow, she got her spoon in the jar at just the right angle that when she went to pull it out, she must have caught it on the inside edge and it went pop, sending an arc of mess everywhere. Somehow, and only Bean could make a disaster of this size in less than one minute, the spoonful of spaghetti sauce managed to cover everything in round splats of wall staining red.
    It took over two hours for me to scrub up that mess and it was still stained no matter how much elbow grease I put into it.

   Now days, when ever a mess is to be had, we know which kid to ask first. And her first response is always, "It was an accident." She never means to make a disaster zone, it just seems to happen.
But at least, now she's old enough to clean up her own messes. :)

Day Fifteen- The Angel at the Pound

2011-12-18T11:34:00.000-08:00

Young Buddy- curious about the camera

   It was a warm summer Saturday afternoon and we had been married for just over six months. We were bored inside our house and decided to go for a drive.
A few days before we exchanged vows we had closed on a little, tiny cottage house. And when I say tiny, I mean four hundred square feet of living space. HGTV would probably describe it as "The turn of the century cottage with lots of charm right in the heart of the city."
   I think it used to be the guest house for the much bigger house next door. But it was a wonderful house for newlyweds. We only had a small yard to worry about, tons of privacy since we weren't living in an apartment and we had a great boulevard to walk on in the evenings.
   But that day we had to escape the small confines. While we were out for a drive, for some reason, we started discussing dogs. If we should get one; if our house was big enough for having a pet; if we had the time. We both had dogs as kids and wouldn't mind eventually getting a dog for ourselves.
   We stopped by a pet store, just to window shop. Inside there was a tiny dog, perfect for a small house and the idea started growing on us. Perhaps we could have a dog but we would have to get one that fit.
   This dog though was not for us. She was tiny and just the right size but her attitude was horrid. Bark, bark, yip, yip and snap with razor sharp teeth. We tried to pet her. Snap, snap like a piranha. An ankle biter. I shuddered. I was not getting an ankle biter.
   We left and decided to go to the Humane Society. But we weren't really going to adopt a dog today. After almost being attacked by a furious fish with legs, the idea of being responsible for an animal while we were in college and working maybe wasn't such a great idea after all.
   The pound was loud and stinky. Even from the front room where papers were signed and the lives of cats and dogs were decided, you could hear the cacophony of dog barks from the kennels. It was deafening. Like a low roar that filled your ears and vibrated your chest. The smell was a mixture of dog; wet, dirty, poopy; and cleaning products. It wasn't a pleasant place.
   We entered the kennel and headed for the first cage. I don't even remember the dogs in the first two cages. They were large and sad and I hope someone took them home. But we haven't even seen more than those two dogs when an angel appeared.
    She was young, a teenager and had long blond hair. Her smile swept across her face and her eyes sparkled with intensity.
    "I know the dog for you. Come here."
    I shook my head in bemusement. "We're just looking."
   "No, you have to come with me. I know what dog you need. He's perfect. You need to adopt him." She was confident and determined. I gave hero hottie a confused smile. He shrugged, looking just as puzzled as I felt. Who was this young girl?
   "I know he's the right one for you. Follow me." She walked away, knowing that we would follow her.
   And we did.
   She stopped in front of a cage, a huge grin on her face as she pointed to the small pup inside the metal bars. He looked at us and then started throwing a toy around using all the puppy charm he possessed, which was quite a bit.
   "See. He's perfect for you. You have to adopt him." She gave the puppy a dazzling smile and then pinned us with a look of pure determination. "He's perfect. You need to adopt him."
    My heart was already melting at the sight of him. He was a rolly ball of gold puppy fur, quizzical black ears that arched every time something caught his attention, and his eyes were big with joy. He tossed his toys around, doing it higher and cuter, the more praise we gave him.
   "You have to adopt him." She said again and then she disappeared around the corner. An angel with blond hair and stylish clothing.
   "We can't." Hero hottie said, squatting down to touch the puppy through the cage. The puppy soaked it up, making faces at us, pawing at the cage, rubbing up against our hands.
    "We have a private room so you can spend time with him." A Humane Society worker noticed that the puppy still held our attention after a few minutes.
    I saw the warning glint in hero hottie's eyes. And knew just what he was thinking. We couldn't adopt such a large, fluffy puppy. He needed a house, not a cottage. He needed a yard, not a few patches of grass. But the puppy peered at us with his warm and curious brown eyes and we found ourselves telling the worker yes.
   She takes him out of his cage and we go into the small room. "I'll leave you alone for a few minutes."
   The puppy realized this was last chance to make an impression on us and he went into full 'I'm the cutest dog you have ever seen' mode. He played with his toys, tossing them about, pouncing on them, but he wasn't just playing. Every once and in a while, he would peek up at us, making sure he had our attention. And the more we laughed at his adorable antics, the faster he would do them.
   Then a voice went over the intercom system and he froze, his ears arched up and a frown between his brows as he listened. His playfulness dimmed as he walked around the room, trying to figure out where the voice had come from. He looked at us, and the question was so deep in his little puppy dog face that even though he was a just a canine there was no doubt that he was trying to solve this mystery.
   Hero hottie was sunk at that point. Not only was this puppy just about the cutest and most charming critter we had ever seen. This puppy was smart and curious.
   I was lost by this point. There was no way I could let him go back to the cold, and barren cage that had been his home. He was going home with us. I just had to convince hero hottie that we could manage a puppy with paws that were quite large.
   "We can't. He's going to be huge." Hero hottie shook his head. "Where would he play?"
   "I could take him over to Mom's every day before work. He can play with her dogs. It would be like doggie daycare." I said, surprised that I would volunteer to take a dog to daycare every day but this puppy was special. I wasn't leaving without him.
    "Everyday?" his eyebrows arched in disbelief. "Would your Mom even agree?"
    "She won't mind and he would love to play with the other dogs." I petted the puppy behind his ears. He loved this and leaned into me.
    "And we could walk him on the boulevard at night. He's so sweet." I added.
    Indecision cross his face. Suddenly the idea we had been playing with could be real and we would be responsible for a puppy. Did we really want the work?
   I held my breath waiting for hero hottie to agree with me. He still wasn't sure when he said yes but it was one of the best decisions we had ever made.
   I felt giddy. This wonderful ball of soft fur was going to be ours. After filling out paperwork and paying our adoption fees, which stretched our budget for that week, we were after all students, we climbed into the car. The puppy sat on my lap, and he was busy loving me with little sniffs to my neck and his wet nose pressed against my skin. For some odd reason, he already loved us and was eager to go home with us. His fur was so soft and he had that puppy feel about him. We had to show him to our parents and took him to meet his 'grandparents'. Both sets were excited to meet such a charming dog.
   He worked his magic on them too. Running around as fast as I had ever seen a puppy run and then tumbling into everyone's laps with this uninhibited expression of joy. This dog could bring a smile to your face no matter what mood you were in.
    He had everyone laughing, his spirit was contagious. Everyone that met him, loved him. Even people that didn't like dogs.
    Since he was so smart we wanted to give him a smarty sounding name like Einstein or Galileo but they didn't fit. So while Hero hottie tried to find him a name of a scientist we liked, we resorted to calling him Buddy.
    And in time it stuck. Because he was everyone's Buddy. Dogs, cat, or person, he didn't care. He just wanted to make friends.

    He quickly outgrew that cottage house. But even though his paws told tales of a bigger dog he didn't grow all that big. Perhaps he was like a goldfish and could only grow as big as his environment. I took him to doggie daycare every day while he was little and he loved the car rides over to my Mom's. The feeling was mutual, he was my companion. My Bud.
   In the evenings we took him for walks on the boulevard. And on weekends when we stayed home, he would sit on the porch and spend hours watching the people and their dogs walking the tree lined boulevard. But he wasn't idly watching them, it was always with intense focus, like he was studying them. The dog was curious and lost in deep thoughts. I wished he could have shared. What does a smart dog think about?

   I don't know who that girl was that was relentless with us at the pound. I like to think she was Buddy's angel, looking after him and making sure he went to the right people. I'm glad we were those people.
And perhaps she wasn't a heavenly angel, but an Earthly angel that just happened to say the right thing at the right time and changed the course of our lives.
   Who ever she is, I thank her all the time.

Old Buddy still trying to figure things out

Day Fourteen- Meeting Hero Hottie

2011-12-17T16:02:00.000-08:00

   I was eighteen, in college and working part time at a photography studio in the mall. At least it was only supposed to be part time.
I glanced at the clock again, and the lateness of the afternoon. I was scheduled off at 3:00 so I would have time to get to my English class at 4:00 o'clock but the big hand was already pointing to the six and my manager was being difficult about letting me leave since the studio was busy.
   But she had promised that on days I had class it wouldn't be a problem to leave on time, even during the busy holiday season. That was our agreement when she hired me. And being only eighteen I actually believed her when she said she understood the importance of showing up for class on time.
   I enjoyed photography and had wrongly assumed this was the perfect job to work in while I went to school. I had been mistaken and was not completely happy with my 'fast food photography' job.
   I finished up with my customer and turned to my manager.
"I have to go. I'm going to be late." I said, pointing to the time.
   Her lips pitched together, her eyes narrowing. The seconds ticked by as I held my breath, waiting for her to okay my leaving. She nods and turns to deal with the mess of the holiday Christmas card season.

    I drove the twenty minutes to my class, rushing through the building and quietly sliding into my seat. Class had barely started and the attendance sheet was still on the other side of the room. When the sheet of paper came over to me, I looked at hero hottie's signature. It had taken me a few classes to figure out who's name went with the cute guy across the room but I was pretty sure which one was his. The signature was a decisive and no nonsense lettering.
   We still hadn't talked, but he was the hottest guy in the class and the only one who had caught my attention. I had started college to get my degree, not spend time drooling after boys but here I was spending more time watching hero hottie from across the classroom instead of paying attention to the teacher. Lucky for me, passing English with an A wasn't a problem even though I spent the entire semester distracted.

   He still hadn't talked to me. In fact, he was very quiet, entering and leaving class quickly. And I was way too shy to initiate a conversation. Then the universe stepped in.

I walked out to my car and curiosity took over. I watched hero hottie walk out to his car. I wanted to see what he was driving. A car can tell a lot about a person.
Hero hottie walks over to a red car; I suppose profiling people based off their car choice would make more sense if I actually knew the names of the vehicles; but I discreetly watched him as he started unlocking his car. Then I was going to leave but something odd happened, so I stood beside my car, quietly watching. He was still trying to unlock the door. Moments passed as he still messed with the lock and then he knelt down, studying the lock and the key.
   I'm not sure where the courage came from. I didn't even think about what I was going to say, it just came out of my mouth, loud enough to be heard across the parking lot.
   "You're either having trouble with your key or you're admiring your paint job." My first chance to say something to him and I resort to sarcasm to catch his attention. But it must have worked...
   He turned, a bit startled and stared at me. Then he walked over to my car. "The key broke in the lock."
   "Seriously, the key broke in the lock? In the car door. I have never heard of that happening. Ever." I had to tease him a bit. It sounded like a poorly thought out pick up line.
   He nods. "Can you give me a ride to the gas station so I can call my Dad."
   Part of me was more than willing to give hero hottie a lift down to the gas station. It would be a chance to talk to him, spend some time with him. It was the perfect opportunity to catch his attention.
   "No. I can't. I'm sorry." I said. All those years of Mom's warnings not to give rides to strangers were very loud in my head and so I told him I couldn't.
   He frowns. "You can't?"
   "You're a stranger. I don't know you. You know." I must have sounded so young as I shrugged, hoping he would understand. It was just down to the gas station but it must have been all those years in big cities in Oregon. You just don't give rides to strangers.
   Confusion crossed his face but he nods. "I guess I can walk."
   I felt a bit guilty because he was definitely going to miss his next class by having to walk down to the gas station to find a phone and I almost changed my mind but I really didn't know who this person was.
   We started talking for a long time about everything and anything. Finally he writes his name and number down on a piece of paper.
   I had his phone number!! Even after refusing to help him out and drive him down to the gas station, he still wants to talk to me more.

   I was late for my next class but I didn't care. I was on cloud nine. I had met a cute boy and he gave me his phone number. And it happened because his key broke in the lock. When does that ever happen? Just when two shy people need a good kick in the rear to get a conversation going.
   From there, the rest is history. But hero hottie still likes to give me a hard time about not giving him a ride down to the gas station.

Why do things happen as if they're supposed to happen? I'm not sure but I can say that I'm grateful for a broken key.

Day Thirteen- Halfway There and Further Away

2011-12-17T13:11:00.000-08:00

So we're halfway there, a couple of days behind schedule and I feel further away from finding an answer than I did before. But I think this is what happens when you get close to some new understanding, obstacles are put in your way. On purpose, I'm sure of it. By who, I can't say. It is God, the universe, ourselves? But why it is when it rains, it pours? Or when we're so close to success, everything goes wrong that could? Like Murphy's Law but with a cosmic twist.
I had my furnace quit on me. It decided that it couldn't break down during tax refund time or perhaps even after Christmas, it has to go on hiatus two weeks before the holidays. And not only that but it was taunting us. We had air blowing, except it was cold. There's nothing like blowing cold air in a poorly insulated house when it's twenty degrees outside. Brrr.
   The furnace is stuck behind the coat closet, so I emptied out the space into my hallway and living room. How did that much stuff accumulate into one tiny area? And who keeps bringing these things in that we don't need?
    I have a sneaking suspicion of who the culprits are and it's funny how as a Mom, we are prone to believe guilty until proven innocent. But after all, Bean's favorite saying is, "It was an accident."
Today, I found a bucket of bird feathers under Abu's bed. I'm not sure what the intended purpose of them is or if that is even healthy but they had obviously been carefully collected and saved. Why is this info important, probably because children notice the little things in life that we have become too busy and hectic to pay attention to. Finding their little treasures reminds me, to use a cliche, stop and smell the flowers. Or if I don't have time to collect bird feathers with Abu than I'm probably doing too much. Just like most Moms. Just like most parents.
   But how hard is it to find time when life falls apart around you.

    Luckily with hero hottie's uncle working in the repairing business our furnace fix was cheaper than it could have been. It was only $450 instead of $800. The gift of heat is priceless though.
    This number will either make you cringe for me or you'll shake your head and wonder why this is such a big deal for me. Money is based off perception. For people that have plenty of it they don't understand that obtaining the basics is a struggle. Daily. Relentless. Without break.
   The movie, 'In Time' tells this story for survival quite well I thought. And I'm not even a big Justin Timberlake fan, I thought the movie was fairly well done. Sad though. Just switch money for time and it's no different.

   Bean, Abu and I are going to make ornaments this weekend- in between getting ready for Christmas and finding time to catch up on my blog entries. Sorry about my daily blessings being a bit behind. It's ironic that I'm writing about finding faith but then I get so busy I'm having trouble finding the time to practice it. And if the furnace was the only thing this week I would dismiss it but since it's only one of a long list of things that have gone wrong, I almost feel like it's a challenge. The universe is asking, "Are you serious about finding faith or can you be easily dissuaded if a few more problems come your way?"
   I would have to answer, "It depends on the problems. I would have to bow out if I have to eat rotten cow brains, like on Fear Factor. Yuck!"
   Joking aside, I think we all have times where we feel like things grow tougher when they're already tough and I don't know why this happens. There has to be rhyme and reason to it but it's a question I don't have an answer for.

So sometimes I have to say having faith feels like a game of Fear Factor. Which I'm not sure if it's proper to compare it to a game show but that's just the mood I'm in right now. You have to have humor to make it in this world without turning bitter in the end.
   Perhaps a little glitter on the floor, left over from our ornament making, will remind me what's important.

Day Twelve- Always There

2011-12-15T20:13:00.000-08:00

Years ago I wrote a bit of faith on a scrap of paper, never quite sure what to do with it. It wasn't about me or anyone I knew but it spoke to me. I will share it with you today.

Always There

by Christy Hammond

She sat on the church pewwondering why she was there, when a man passed and she dropped her head inprayer.

“Where are you, when I need you so?Look what has happened, you have abandoned me here, am I to give birth with noone that cares?”

She wept on the wood, silent tearsof grief, when the same man who had passed came and stood by her bare feet.

He didn’t say a word, and she wishedhim to leave, hiding her dirty toes underneath the seat. She kept her headbowed, her hands clasped together, and still he did not moved but continued tolinger.

“Go away,” she muttered, finally atlast, her soiled fingers fanning across her swollen belly.

The silence grew long, and the mandid not shuffle, and finally she could not keep her head down any longer. Sheraised it up, and gasped.

“You asked me here, so don’t send meaway. I thought you needed me, but even if you don’t, I will still stay.” Theman spoke gently, holding out a hand.

She felt ashamed, her hands alldirty, but he did not care as he held them firmly. He helped her from her seat,her body heavy with the tiny person she had made.

“I will be there, please do notworry. I will be there for you and your baby.” The man walked her to the door,that lead out of the chapel, and waited while she looked at the rest of thehospital.

She looked at him with fearful eyes,and then wondered why she had doubted. Of course, he would be there at herside. Waiting with her, for her new arrival. She clutched her belly, with thewave of pain and knew she needed to find a doctor.

“It will be alright, go now, yourchild awaits.” The man leaned forward, and kissed her head, not caring of thedirt, and oil, and smell that clung to her skin.

She stepped and turned away, knowingthat he was going to be there, with her, through the whole thing.

And after her baby was born, andslept so soundly. She slipped to the chapel, with her sore body. Her mind wastired, she could hardly think, but she whispered some prayers, and gave himthanks.

Day Eleven- Casper the cat and his sad start

2011-12-14T17:45:00.000-08:00

    It was nearly summer in Oregon. And we actually had a bit of sunshine. The house we had moved into during my fifth grade year was in a cul-de-sac, so although across the street on one side was the horrid railroad track; on the other side of us, between the two houses built in the arch of the cul-de-sac was a gate to the city park.
    What kid doesn't love having a park next door to them. It didn't have a playground, but it had a track, baseball fields, tennis courts and big trees to climb.
    Lining the park was a eight foot chain link fence, separating the houses from city property. They didn't have much privacy but it was difficult for people to trespass into their yards. One of my new friends lived in one of these houses and I spent quite a bit of time over there, especially since I could walk to her house.
     Her name was Sam and she had wild, tangly yellow curls, was willow branch thin and jumpy like a popcorn kernel in oil. We played Barbies in her huge, old- fixer up house, that had more old than fix, and out in her yard where her Dad let the grasses grow as tall as her we played pretend. We would keep an eye on the park and when we saw someone we knew we would struggle through the grasses to reach the fence and chat for a while. If middle school was awful, at least the friends I had made around the neighborhood were great.

     One day we were skipping through the wilds of her backyard when a five year boy named Laser started yelling at us from the park. He was always roaming the streets on his bicycle; left alone and lonely; he lacked compassion because in his own short life he had been shown very little. Always finding trouble, he was constantly showing us small toys and candy he had stolen from either the store or other people's houses. This time he was carrying around a square metal lunchbox that had been clearly taken from someone else. But it was what was in it that would end up being quite shocking.
     "Hey, come here. I have something to show." He hollers, starving so much for attention that even as a fifth grader I could sense the desperation that clung to him. But there wasn't anything I could do for him.
     I looked at Sam and shook my head. "It's probably stolen."
    She nods, "Let's go see."
    We get to the fence and he's kicking the lunchbox around. Then tossing it up in the air or throwing it across the grass. Each time it lands with a thud. Each time something rattles inside it.
    "I have something in here." He says and gives it another hard kick.
   "Okay, so show us." I said, rolling my eyes. I rather be playing with Sam then playing a guessing game with a five year old.
   Sam agrees with me. "What?"
   He smirks. "I have cats in there."
   We both frown. "Yeah, right."
   He squints his eyes, his dark eyes completely serious. "No, I have baby cats in there. I took them from their mom. I killed the other babies. Drowned them in a puddle of water. But I have two left."
   I froze, staring at the lunchbox lying on the grass. It's grimy and dented from being tossed around. Was there baby cats in there?
   "Show us." I say, wishing the fence wasn't so high because I would simply grab it from him if I could. Instead, I had to convince him to throw us the lunchbox. Sam looks at me, and her wide eyed shock says it all. We have to see if he's telling the truth.
   "They're still alive." He boosts.
   "We want to see. Throw us the box." I smile.
   "You won't give it back." He grabs the box and holds it tight.
   Sam shakes her head. "No, we'll give it right back. Just let us see them."
   "Throw us the box. We'll look and give it right back." I act like I'm not lying. A feat that's difficult for me. I'm not a liar, but if he has cats in there...we have to get them. We have to save them.
    It takes a few more minutes to convince him that we will give him the lunchbox right back after we take a peek. He's eager to show us his 'prize' and is fairly easy to win over. Finally he agrees.
   "Catch it." He tosses the lunchbox over the fence. As it flies through the air, I'm praying that I won't drop it and then it lands in my arms and the breath I had been holding rushes out.
   We quickly kneel on the ground, with Laser on the other side of the fence watching us intently. Sam gives me a look, an expression that matches my own. We don't want to see what might be in the box. The thought is horrifying.
   Then we hurry to unlatch it, flipping the lid open and peering inside. We are stunned into silence. A thick feeling of dread and horror fills me as I hesitantly touch the two, incredibly tiny baby kittens, nestled together with an alarming lack of any movement.
   We look up at Laser, who isn't saddened by what he has done but is smiling, now that he has shown someone what he has.
   "Are they dead?" Sam whispers, reaching out and stroking the kittens. They are no bigger than the palm of my hand, their eyes shut tightly and their bodies fuzzy but not furry. Their tails are naked and they barely look like cats. I've never seen a baby cat before and the sight would be amazing if it wasn't for what had just happened to them.
"I don't know." I touch the soft black and white body. The kitten is warm...and breathing. "Yes. Oh, my gosh. Sam. They're alive."
"What do we do?" she asks, picking one of them up and holding it close to her warm body. I pick up the other one and snuggle him between my palms. They make small mewing sounds.
   "Hey, give them back." Laser demands.
   I look at him and shake my head. "You are not getting this cats back. Go. Go home."
   Angry cuss words stream from his mouth but we ignore him.
   "My Mom will know. She has had kittens before. Hurry." We run to my house, holding the kittens close and burst into the house, our frantic story tumbling from our lips in such a rush I don't know if she understood at first what has happened but she sees the helpless creatures in her hands and goes right to work.
   She pulls out a box from the garage, sets a heating pad in the bottom, followed by a blanket and sets them in there. A small towel becomes their blanket, an eyedropper is used to feed them. Over the course of the next few days she spends hours with them, a boy and a girl, keeping them warm, wiping their bottoms so they can poop, and feeding them one drop at a time. Their mews grow louder, their movements stronger... and then they start sneezing and their mews grow faint again.
The girl kitten dies and we bury her in the flower bed.
    We take the boy kitten to the vet, who diagnoses him with pneumonia and shakes his head sadly. He explains that the kittens were only a few hours old when Laser stole them from their mother. The kittens didn't receive much, if any, of the valuable colostrum milk and this last surviving kitten's chances were near zero. He gave him an antibiotic shot for free, compassion in the gentle way he handled him and sent us home.
    The boy kitten who we named, Casper, struggled to breathe. Mom kept feeding him, getting up every couple of hours to nurse him. I spent time petting him and talking to him but we still didn't know if he was going to make it.

    Then the sneezing stops, the runny nose dries up and his mews grows strong. He starts trying to move around and he's eager to wiggle against Mom when it's feeding time. After a while his eyes open. He's growing and turning into a kitten, walking and rolling around. His black and white fur grows fluffy.
    A bit more time passes and he survives. He's a full grown cat, healthy and sassy and he lived a long and happy life, thinking he was a real boy not a cat but that was because he didn't know how to be a real cat.

    I look back at Casper's rough start. It was a terrible way to join the world. And what must have happened to Laser in his short life to cause him to behave with such cruelty? What must he had done after that? Children that are cruel to animals are prone to take that cruelty further. I think teaching children compassion towards animals is highly important. It's part of the bigger picture, acting with compassion in all aspects of our life.
   It was lack of compassion on so many levels that almost killed Casper. It killed the rest of his siblings in a horrible, violent manner.
   But it was compassion from a few different people that saved him. Humanity can't function without compassion. And it starts with teaching our children as soon as they're born.
   The human race needs compassion, without it we can't even find the road to our faith.

Day Ten- Carry a Light for Faith

2011-12-13T13:02:00.000-08:00

    I was reading some one's advice on how to deal with our faults and negative emotions. They suggested 'embracing the dark side' of the emotion, letting it grow inside and then trying to control it. Sounds a bit like creating a monster and then trying to rein it in.
   Mmm, I have a lot of issues with this advice, especially as it was given to someone I care about and it was given during a moment when they were upset and just wanted someone to listen to them.
   First of all, we all know what happens to a person when they go towards 'the dark side of the force.' Although, Anakin's intentions were good to begin with; he wanted to save the love of his life; by embracing the 'dark side' he was no longer in control and was consumed by it.
    If you want to get rid of the shadows in your life, don't extinguish the lights, instead fill up the room so brightly there isn't any more room for the shadows.
   I'm not saying that we aren't going to experience emotions that we consider more on the negative side, such as anger, sadness, worry, etc. And it's not wrong to feel these emotions, sometimes they are very necessary things.
   Sadness has to be felt; either to properly grieve or to change things. When confronted by a situation that brings us sadness, we can direct that emotion into compassion and do something positive. Such as volunteers, mentoring, or taking care of each other in our times of need. But we can't just waddle in it otherwise it will send us into a well of depression.

   A bit of time worrying over situations or people shows that we care. If we control the worry to solve our problems and help our loved ones, and not allow it to swallow all our other emotions, then we can use it. (I'm not so good at not worrying, especially as lately. Hero hottie is the loud worrier. I'm the quiet, let it collect in my gut worrier. I'm working on this one. Of course, when the science channel told me the sun might burn out in billions of years, I couldn't resist making fun of my own tendency to worry and turned to hero hottie with a laugh. -- "Oh, great. Something else for me to worry about now." )

   Anger, can be directed towards change, if we use it positively, such as to discuss problems in a relationship, not resorting to name calling or violence. We can use it to change injustices in the world without using the violent side of this strong emotion. I have never seen a person able to allow the anger to grow into a fiery rage and not be close to losing control of it. Perhaps that is why anger reminds us of fire, the stronger and hotter it gets, the harder it is to put out. This emotion, along with jealously and fear, can be quite dangerous and that's why I feel like advice given to embrace the dark side of these feelings is foolish. Terribly dangerous.

   You can not find your spiritual path, your journey to faith in the black places of the dark side. That's not to say that your path may not wind into these tough and despairing destinations where hope is a bare, thin thought, but we do not leave these places by dwelling in them. By embracing them- the dark side.
    We survive these lost areas of our soul by finding a light to guide us. To find our faith. Our path. To shine on the road so we don't trip over the stumbling blocks; such as people that either enjoy the dark side or have been so lost in it they are blinded by the light that searches for them and want company.

    I admire people whose lights shine brightly, for they bring hope along on this collective journey of faith. And we all could use a little extra helping of hope on this tough journey we call being human.

Day Nine- Middle School Hell

2011-12-12T13:37:00.000-08:00

   Some times the things we don't realize are blessings at the time end up being some of the most important events in our life. They're path changers. Forks in the roads. Speed bumps so big they threw us onto another street. And often times that's what it feels like too, a kick in the rear.


    Half way through fifth grade my family had to move. The rental house that we had lived in, the one right across the street from my elementary school, was being sold. I had been attending this elementary school since half way through first grade and I had friends, buddies, boys that I had known for years that I like to beat at wall ball and math. It was a decent school and I was finally inside the building for class. I had waited years to be a big kid.
    (Fifth and Sixth grade were in the actual school building, they had lockers and a warm hallway. The other grades opened to the outside and you had to travel across the courtyard to reach the music room, the library, the office and the lunch room.)
   But all that didn't matter. I had to tell my teachers and friends I was moving, pack up my room, sit in the trees in my yard one last time. The trees that I would spend hours in. Sitting in their big, beautiful branches reading books, or playing pretend or waiting for Mom to get home from the grocery store because I was so high up I could see the road she would be driving on.
    It was change and I thought not such a great one, especially when we had to move to a completely different town to find an affordable rental house. My Dad's commute was now longer and we would have to ride a bus to school, instead of just walking across the street.

   Next to our house, right across the road and then a small field was a railroad track. That night in our new house, Dad laid all our mattresses on the living room floor, since he hadn't had time to put the beds together. It was strange, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the new house. Watching the odd shadows play on the walls. And then, the Amtrak train, traveling at around eighty miles per hour, rumbled past our house. The windows shook, my mattress vibrated and the sound roared loudly in the ears. My parents sighed and I knew they were just as unhappy about the move as us kids were.

   The schools in this district were divided differently than my last school. Fifth through eighth grades were in middle school. Suddenly I went from being an elementary student to being a middle schooler. Yikes. My fifth grade teacher was crazy. She had a metal stool she liked to pick up and smack against the linoleum when ever she was upset with us, which was just about every day.
   We had gangs in the school, luckily not into a lot of on-campus violence but there was more than enough vandalism, thievery, and bullying to keep the school in a constant state of tension, fear, and anger.
   By sixth grade, the battle field lines were drawn between the girls, you were either on one side and popular or you were on the other side and clearly not popular. I made things complicated by being friends with JD,one of the popular girls at the same time while also being considered teacher's pet because I enjoyed school.
   This wasn't an ideal situation and pretty soon JD wasn't my friend and I was deemed an easy target by the other girls. I was still a kid in sixth grade and not ready for the 'Mean Girl' environment. I only had one bad teacher in sixth grade, he came to school high on something and unable to teach math. We scrapped by just enough to count for test scores.
   By seventh grade I had a knot in my stomach every day before school. I had an hour bus ride in the morning and whereas I had a funny bus driver, his jokes were highly inappropriate and dirty. On top of the way he would flirt with the high school girls, it was not a great bus ride. My brother would get on the bus with me but he had to stay on longer than I did and was picked on horribly as soon as I wasn't there to protect him. In school he was losing ground in math and my sister was being taught that you can spell a word any way you want and it's correct.
   The girls were horribly cruel to each other and all the jokes were demeaning and heartless. The P.E. teachers were sadistic if you weren't athletic and my science teacher would threaten to kill us and stuff us in the cupboards if we didn't behave.
    It was not an ideal learning environment. And probably not even that safe.
    So I suggested to my parents that they should home school me. A couple of weeks later, when the situation had reached a boiling point for all of us siblings, they decided to take us out of school and do it at home. I'm not sure if my siblings were in full agreement, my brother didn't like school no matter where it was and my sister liked being around other kids. But the school district had failed us in so many ways and we couldn't transfer some where else.

   Home schooling was easy for me. I was already a good student, it wasn't any different at home except it only took about three hours a day to finish my work. What kid doesn't mind being done in less than half the time as before? We took field trips, studied things that were important and interesting, my Mom read Mark Twain to us, I read the other classics, and we volunteered at quite a few places to interact with people and the world. I wasn't stuck in Middle School Hell anymore, I was out in the real world and it was wonderful.
I didn't even wake up with a stomach ache anymore.
    I had freedom to be myself. I had time to think, to learn, to feel safe. I still had friends, but I didn't have bullies.
   At the end of that year I was testing beyond the high school level. The person administering the test suggested I skip high school and move right into college. I didn't because I wasn't ready emotionally for such a huge step but it was a confidence boost for my parents.
   They took us out of school and took on the task of being our teachers. Especially my Mom. She didn't have a background in teaching but she was going to take that leap of faith and cross her fingers that it worked because she knew we couldn't stay at the schools we were going to.
    It took courage and faith. And sometimes in life we have to take that leap. Sort of like Indiana Jones when he has to cross the bridge except he can't actually see it...he just has to have faith that it is there.
   We can make all the plans we want but when it comes down to it, sometimes the best things are the changes we make with nothing more to guarantee that we're on the right path than our faith.
    That's a tough one to follow but I'm sure glad my Mom did.

Day Eight- Overwhelmed and Tired

2011-12-08T21:30:00.000-08:00

Being overwhelmed makes life difficult.    It also makes finding the time to practice our faith a frustrating situation.
   How can we take the time to pray or meditate or just simply practice our faith when we're swamped with a hundred million things?
   Yet, if we don't take the time and make the effort to find our spiritual side, then what are we losing?
   We have to have morals, values, and ideas that we live by. That we practice day in and day out.
   That we teach our children.
   I'm disturbed by the amount of lying, stealing, and cheating that happens in schools, even good schools.
   I don't tolerate lying from my children. And when they've done wrong, I make them apologize, or clean up their mess or fix what they have broken.
   It's teaching honesty and courage to your children when you make them step up and take responsibility for their actions.

   Bean knows all about having to apologize. A few weeks ago she had a slight lost of her manners with the principal.
    She was helping me in the office with PTO stuff. I had pulled her out of school half an hour early because her class had finished their Starbase graduation before the day was done and we were waiting on Abu. The principal, who I think is awesome, had just finished making the end of day announcements and was still sitting by the school intercom system. We were chatting and everything was going well until Bean forgot her manners.
    "Can you do something?" She asks Mr. H.
    He smiles and nods.
    "Can you tell Abu to get her butt down here now?"
    The entire, busy office went silent. Everyone was focused on me and Bean and I was desperately wishing that I could freeze time and escape.
    "How should you say that?" He asks, luckily not too mad but irritated that she was rude and demanding.
    She frowns, "Can you tell Abu to get her butt down here now, please?"
    At this point I was sure that everyone in the school would think that my child lacked any manners. Or that she regularly speaks like this. (She doesn't.)

   "You want to try again?" He's surprisingly patient and I think it's only because Bean has been student of the year every year she has been there.
    "I think she forgot she's not at home. Bean, try again, like at school." I step in, hoping that the help will remind Bean that she's in school and speaking to the principal.

    Suddenly light dawns on her face and then her eyes grow wide as saucers and her mouth makes a perfect 'O' before she grimaces, finally realizing her huge blunder.
    "Can you ask Abu to come to the office, please?" she asks in her politest tone of voice.
     Mr. H nods and calls Abu down to the office. One of the teachers, who heard the entire exchange, tells me I should use a spanking stick on Bean and I'm just wishing we could hurry and go home. But there's something Bean needs to do.
     Once Abu arrives, we go outside and find Mr. H.
    "Bean, you need to apologize for the way you spoke." I whispered in her ear, gesturing towards the principal.
    She grimaces again and her chest heaves with a huge sigh. She closes her eyes for a moment and then nods. It takes a bit of courage on her part but she walks over to Mr. H and waits for his attention.
   When she has it, her voice is strong and clear and sincere. "I'm sorry I said it like that."
    He nods, patting her on the back. "It's okay. I think your Mom was right, you just forgot where you were. It's alright now."
    A simple apology but worth so much more in the long run.

I wish the parents of politicians have taken more time to teach morals and values to their children. And perhaps they did but once some one's voted into office- absolute power corrupts absolutely. I'm not sure why they're so corrupted but I do know they're cowardly. Because it takes courage to stand up for what is right.

    Bean has had things stolen from her at school. Right out of her desk, in elementary school. Two years ago I had my mountain bike stolen right out of my backyard. And I live in a decent neighborhood.
   Did our entire culture become so busy that we forgot our humanity?
   I may not agree with all the ideas of the Amish but I do admire how much effort they put into living their ideals. They still help each other out when times are tough, they work hard and they take time for their faith.
   And perhaps that is how we find faith. We don't just search for it a couple of times a year around Easter or Christmas. But we simply live it. Kind of like the Amish but without the strict rules of no electricity or shunning people who struggle with their faith.

We should place our faith in the center of our lives and teach our children about honesty, sincerity, helping others, having courage to do the right thing, by example. Too many parents lie, steal, and don't help others. What do their children learn?

    How simple of a concept but so difficult too. We're not always going to succeed but we should try.
   But it's a good thing humans aren't supposed to be perfect because I would be in trouble if they were.

   Today I lost patience with Abu. Her frustrating day of recently put in orthodontic equipment, lost hats, fights with Bean and forgetting to do her homework...
   became my frustrating day. And when I could have handled things with more patience and firmness...
   I yelled instead.

It's a good think that part of finding faith is realizing the importance of forgiveness. For ourselves.
For other people.

This faith thing is complicated and trying to find it is quite the interesting journey. All in the month of December. The second busiest month of the year for my family.

Still, when we feel like we're fumbling then we need to take the time to catch ourselves, or we land flat on our faces.
   We need to help catch each other. Because sometimes a kind word or gesture is all a person needs to keep from losing faith.

So for all my readers out there, I say a little prayer for you and your families, because I know how difficult life can be sometimes. :)

Day Seven- Courage Kicks Fear In the Rear

2011-12-08T21:22:00.000-08:00

   First of all, when using the Internet, peruse the correct dictionary. I had looked up the word; 'courage' on dictionary.com, this is the definition that came back, 'the quality of mind or spirit that enables a person to face difficulty, danger, pain, etc., without fear (Italics added by me); bravery.'

I don't agree with this definition. Courage is not without fear. So I had to see if Mr. Webster agreed or disagreed. His definition is more accurate, "mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty"
    So see, the cowardly lion was always brave, he ventured with Dorothy, persevere in the face of great danger, and withstood against the great amount of fear he felt for having to travel to Oz to ask for courage. The irony of course, being that he always possessed courage. He didn't have to ask for.
     It's not something we can ask some one to give us, we have to find it for ourselves. We have to feel it.

    Courage has to be stronger than fear. It has to be able to take fear and sit on it. Silence it. Or at least muffled it's defeatism attitude. If nothing else, courage has to be louder then the sharp and painful voice of fear.

     It's difficult to have courage some times. Especially if it's a decision that goes against the majority. And what some one needs courage to do may not be the same thing some one else needs courage for.
     That's why on Fear Factor some people can jump off the side of buildings and some can't. That's also why some people can have creepy and crawly things covering their bare skin and not freak out. I enjoy taking photos of insects, I'm not sure I could lay down, chained up, allowing biting things to nibble on my skin while hero hottie has to find three missing padlocks.

     You can have too much courage and that's called recklessness. A lot of teenage boys and young guys seem to suffer from this. They end up on 'youtube' videos and comedy shows. I hope high user views relate to paid medical bills.

    Many things take courage:

           Speaking the truth can take courage.
           Making new friends takes courage.
           Standing up for what you believe in can take a great deal of courage.

      I hope to teach Bean and Abu about the courage to be themselves. To speak honestly even when everyone else rather hide behind lies. And to overcome their fears to meet new people, to try new foods and to keep reaching for their dreams even when they're afraid they might fail.

     Courage is difficult to hold onto and I can remember the times it left me. Sometimes it takes a lot of prayers to find our courage when it has forgotten us.

     And sometimes I really do wish a wizard could just hand me courage. Or I could be a superhero- they always have courage...and really cool gadgets. :)

Day Six- The Blessing of Being a Parent

2011-12-07T05:54:00.001-08:00

   I was pregnant with Abu and tired. It was winter and bitterly cold outside. This meant I had spent an entire day stuck in the house trying to entertain Bean, who was just a toddler.

    And if there is one thing I realized quickly, is that as soon as my kid could walk; parenting in nice weather is a heck of a lot easier than in bad weather. We love being outside. My girls practically live outside in the summer, cutting down on our chances of being bored.

    But back to my parenting tale. Hero hottie and I decided we were going to watch movies for the evening since he was exhausted from working all day and I was pregnant. Sitting down and doing nothing sounded great. Wonderful. Blissful.

    We bundled Bean in her thick winter coat that makes buckling her car seat nearly impossible and we were off to Blockbuster.
     Slowly we made our way down long row of New Releases with Bean toddling slightly ahead of us and looking at all the video cases at her eye level.
   Towards the end of the row she pauses and frowns heavily.
    All day I had ran around chasing her, or telling her 'no' or feeding her. Her list of things to accomplish for the day hadn't included a nap, she had been so active. But suddenly she was looking quite pale and just a bit green. What had seemed like just normal tiredness was suspiciously looking like something a bit more sinister.
     Then, without any sort of warning, she projectile vomits over the video cases, the shelf and the floor. Hero hottie and I gasped. Puke is all the place. And we're shocked that someone so little could produce such a foul smelling mess...and so quickly.
     It takes us a moment to collect our wits. How can one small toddler contain so much puke potential in her tiny belly? I can't believe how many video cases she has managed to cover in one powerful shot.
     Hero hottie finally snaps into action and goes looking for some cleaning supplies while I use some baby wipes to clean up Bean's face. She looks like she's going to throw up again and I have a feeling we better head home quickly.
     The clerk at the desk is young, under the age of eighteen and you would think that he has never dealt with vomit before because it appears from the revealing shade of green he has turned that he's experiencing some shared queasiness.
      Hero hottie cleans up a bit and the -ready to puke- clerk heads over to the spot to finish up.
      Luckily, Bean manages to make it home before vomiting anymore. By this time she's sick and fussy and demanding.
      I sigh. At least I have hero hottie to help me care for her.
      Or so I thought. As we get home and settled in, changing Bean's clothes and cleaning her up, he rushes for the bathroom.
      At least he didn't puke in Blockbuster.
      The rest of the evening was spent between two sick rooms and cleaning a lot of buckets. Oh, life.

      I thought about starting this blog article with just telling you that being a parent is a blessing even though some things stink. But I decided on using humor to show you that some times being a parent really does stink.
      Literally. :)

      It's a hard job, being a parent. The hardest. In what other job are you responsible for the happiness, care, growth, general well being and forming of a decent human being? Not just part, like what a school teacher does, or like a nurse or doctor, but for practically every thing?
      It makes you stronger being a parent. You have to be or no one would get fed, or dressed, or have school papers signed. Thinking back to my pre-parent days I know without a doubt that young Christy couldn't juggle every thing I have to do as a parent. And yes, not all of it is fun. Dishes and laundry could do themselves and I would be so over joyed. I'm so happy that Bean and Abu are getting old enough to fold laundry and dry dishes. It makes life easier. (They disagree with that statement.:)
       But I LOVE being a parent. Even on the worse days, like when my kid is using puke as a weapon to stink up the entire Blockbuster, I enjoy and cherish every smile, every I Love You, every hug and every drawing. The things I have learned from being a parent are incredible.
      Being reminded of childhood and all the innocent joys of it, while being allowed the special privilege of traveling the beginning part of Bean's and Abu's journey, is priceless. There is not a single thing in the world I would ever trade in exchange for being their Mom.

      So being a parent is a blessing. I've learn so much about:
      love, (a baby curled under your chin while rocking them to sleep is one the best things in the world)
      curiosity, (because your head will get stuck again in the rails if you try it a second time)
      strong wills (thanks Bean, who when told to stay sitting on the chair in time out simply moved her chair to reach her toys),
      humor (Because there's something uniquely funny about a child's humor in the fact that burps, gas, and sneezes are always something to laugh about)
      patience (because for as many times as you can say 'no' they still manage to ask one more time)
      laughter (they know the secret to managing stress and it has to do with belly laughs)
      priorities (children remember what is important in life- taking time to play, laugh, and snuggle)

     Children are blessings. No doubt about it.

     - I just hope Blockbuster cleans their video cases from time to time. :)

Day Five- For the Love of Honeybees

2011-12-06T20:32:00.000-08:00

Busy Buzzing Bee

   I know it seems a bit odd that I would be writing about honeybees as something I consider a blessing. And perhaps some readers will skip over Day Five because it's about a bug. An insect.
       But before you go, let me share a little bit about honeybees and why I'm grateful for them. (As long as they don't sting my bare feet. :)

      Fact One: Honeybees pollinate orchards, flowers, and crops. They seek out pollen, spreading it flower to flower, almost like they're made to assist in the whole pollination process. :)
      This is an important job because plants need help. If a little bumble bee wasn't buzzing around, happily doing her job, collecting pollen, then plants would have a difficult time fertilizing. As she works, some of the pollen she's carrying around falls off her hairy body and onto other flowers. Then pollination occurs.
      Other insects assist in pollination, but bees...they're something special because they're responsible for such a huge percentage of plants being fertilized.

   Fact Two: In the United States, more than 100 agricultural crops are pollinated by bees, such as watermelons and apples. If a bee didn't pollinate an apple blossom, it would simply wither up and die. Just the thought of no more apple pie makes me grateful for these tiny creatures.

Fact Three: They make honey. I love honey. It taste great and local honey is so good for you. Humans have collected honey for centuries, using it to sweeten foods and drinks. The flavor of honey is affected by the type of nectar collected, which means you have familiar types such as orange blossom, wildflower, or clover but can also have more exotic sounding flavors like thyme and dandelion.

Fact Four: Some scientists have estimated that bees are responsible for one out of every three bites of food we eat. Wow. It's incredible and means we owe them more than just a pat on the back.

So I have to say on this journey of faith that we are taken care of. Because as much as we like to think ourselves the smartest creatures on this planet, we still depend on the smallest of creatures to survive. I think next time I take a bite of food, I'll give thanks for the buzzing bee that worked so hard to bring it to me.

Day Four- Children's Faith

2011-12-05T10:09:00.001-08:00

Welcoming Baby Jesus

"So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger." Luke 2:16 TNIV

    Last year after we finished putting up the Christmas tree and decorating the house, Bean and Abu insisted that we needed to do more. The small Nativity sets we had weren't enough, we needed another one. So for the next hour they busied themselves putting together something quite special.
    Abu brought out her horse barn for the manger. Bean found Mary, Joseph, and Jesus.
    Barbie in her hot pink pencil skirt became Mary by wrapping a paper towel around her head like a robe. Ken became Joseph after he also received a paper towel treatment. And a Barbie baby was Jesus, lying in a little pink crib.
    They both worked together to find the stable animals. Cows, lambs, goats, piglets, and pigs surrounded the trio and a horse became a camel with two cotton ball humps taped to its back.
    Bean and Abu set up the Nativity under the tree and there it stayed for more than a week before slowly the toys were reclaimed as toys again and played with. But for just a little while they were so much more than toys.
    They represented Bean's and Abu's faith. Innocent, simple and eager. There wasn't questions and anger. There wasn't doubt. It was a simple moment of believing.
    I miss that. When I was child it was so easy to just have faith. Now I struggle with it.

   I feel blessed to have witnessed such a sincere act of faith. Thank you Bean and Abu for reminding me how simple it can be.

   The next part of our journey then is to pay attention to the children. For they remember how to have faith.
   Simply and sincerely.

Day Three- Mrs. Tracy and the Second Grade

2011-12-04T19:08:00.001-08:00

      My journey of faith leads me to the second grade. A year that changed my life. A year that made it possible to write this blog without starting each sentence with the same word. :)
      It was a big year and at first it wasn't going the way I wanted it to.
But thank goodness it unfolded the way it did.


      My second grade self; a bit chubby, with long, mousy brown hair and eager to learn; stepped into Mrs. H's room. It was a typical room, not exciting, not cluttered- just efficient and sterile. The huge chalkboard took up the entire front wall of the class, with all the desks in neat rows facing it, like soldiers standing to attention. A row of big windows lined the entire wall opposite the entrance.
      I quickly picked a desk near the windows because outside those windows there was life.
      Adventure. A little bit of life in the otherwise cold, Arctic environment that was my second grade life.
     Towering maple trees lined the school outside my view and when I was bored it was easy to be distracted by the whirling and swirling of maple tree seeds, like little helicopter blades traveling where the wind took them.
   I wasn't fond of Mrs. H, not after she caught me counting on my fingers.
    "Don't count on your fingers." She frowned, her white bushy eyebrows drawing together with icy disapproval.
    I just stared at her, afraid to question this imposing, strict disciplinarian.
    "When you're an adult all your fingers might be chopped off, or frozen off and then they'll have to chop them off and then what are you going to count on? You won't be able to count on them anymore. Math in your head."
     Chopped off? Frozen off? I swallowed, staring at my fingers, completely horrified.
     But that was Mrs H's teaching style.


     For reading groups, all the second grade was going to be tested and then divided into three different levels with each second grade teacher taking a class. Mr. S would take the highest readers, I know I would be in that group. Mrs. Tracy would teach the middle group and Mrs. H would have the struggling kids.
     On the day of the test, I knew, just knew that I would be put in Mr. S's class. I had devoured every book I could read since I was preschool age. The library and I were already great pals. There was no question in my mind which group I was going to belong to.

     Unfortunately, the reading test wasn't what I was expecting. I had to read passages from books- aloud- with perfect pronunciation.
     I, had to read aloud, the kid that had a speech teacher.

    I knew what the words meant, I had a huge dictionary inside my head.
    But I struggled to pronounce the words correctly.

   When the groups were decided, I wasn't selected for Mr. S's class. I was placed with Mrs. Tracy.
   Me. The smarty pants of the second grade was put in a class that wasn't the highest level.
   I was embarrassed. Mad at myself for failing. My pride had taken a hit.
   But sometimes pride has to fall.

   The day of our new reading groups I entered Mrs. Tracy's room with resentment and anger. I just knew I was in the wrong group, the teachers didn't know what they were doing.
   I stepped into her room ready to hate her and then I froze...if Mrs. H was rim rod straight and cold...
   Then Mrs. Tracy was the exact opposite. Her room was warm and inviting. Mobiles, made of natural materials, hung from the ceiling. Posters, not silly school charts, but art covered the walls. Her colors were forest green, warm brown and Earthy tones. In the corner, she had made a reading corner with bean bag chairs and an Earth tone colored rug, surrounded by short, wooden bookshelves. Kids with content smiles read intently.
    And even though she had been assigned the same sterile space that all the other teachers had been given, she had created something special and unique. A true learning environment.
   Our group from Mrs. H's class stood in shock. How come our room didn't look like this?
This was a paradise.

Mrs. Tracy approached us with a gentle, welcoming smile on her face. Some where in her fifties, her long, thick black hair was only peppered with a bit of gray. But it wasn't styled, just drawn back into a hippie braid and slung casually over her shoulder.
   She was slender, dressed in brown corduroy pants and a flowing blouse. Her hands were beautiful- long, sculpted fingers, wrinkled with age and moving delicately as she spoke softly.
    Every once in a while she would pause and tuck a stray piece of hair back behind her ear. The smile never left face.
    She gestured towards the room and we were invited, actually invited, to enter this wondrous domain she had created.
None of us hesitated.

   During the next few months I settled into the best kind of learning with her. She had created an environment that was encouraging, nurturing, challenging.
   Softly, with a voice that never seemed frustrated or upset with any of us, she guided us to improve our reading while retaining our love for learning.
   Reading aloud to her I never felt embarrassed by my faltering words.
   She knew my difficulties weren't with the words and their meanings but with my speech.
   This meant she encouraged me to read novels to myself. And enjoy books and their wonderful stories for myself and not allow the difficult schooling part of it damage my love for literature.
   When I completed my work I could read in her reading corner. It was a treat. Not just for me but for all the kids. That corner was never empty because someone was always reading in it.

She also worked on writing with us. My first story I wrote for her was about a dinosaur. And this poor dinosaur did a lot of things in my dozen sentences.
But every sentence started with the word, 'the'.
It was quite repetitious.

   Mrs. Tracy pulled me to the side, she never corrected a student with an audience.
   "Christy, I like your story." Her gentle smile warmed me and I beamed.
   "What if you didn't start every sentence with the same word?" She pointed to my obvious over use of the word, 'the.'
   I frowned at first, hurt because my favorite teacher had found something wrong with my dino story. And then I really started to listen to the encouraging tone in her voice that hadn't threatened me to learn or else but had guided me to learn something new without feeling like I had failed because I hadn't gotten it right the first time.
   From that time forward my stories never overused the word, 'the'.
And instead of squashing something just blooming, she nurtured it. My love of reading and writing was strengthened by this teacher that I haven't even wanted.
   But I'm so thankful I wasn't put in the other class. I ended up right where I needed to be at that time. My pride had been scuffed but what I learned from Mrs. Tracy changed me. And to this day I still write her. A second grade reading class led to a life long friendship.

   So my journey leads me to believe that we must not let pride get in the way of our faith. We might miss opportunities to know the 'bestest' of friends and mentors.

Day Two- The Blessing of Music

2011-12-02T09:57:00.001-08:00

"Ah, ha, ha, ha- staying alive, staying alive. Ah, ha, ha, ha- STAYING ALIVE"

Disco music. You have to love it. (grin)
Wait. What?
You don't?

    I don't blame you. It's not my favorite either but disco music and I have a strange relationship; one that started in the womb.
    See, I don't like disco music. You won't find disco on my iPod and I won't be downloading it from iTunes any time soon.
    As far as the Bee Gee's song, "Staying Alive' goes, I know two words to the lyrics. Are there more?
    Disco balls -spinning round and round- while people who decided they wouldn't be a hippie, thought wearing polyester suits were the ultimate outfit to being groovy.
     They were sadly mistaken, probably lead astray by bad disco music.
     But I digress.

    Disco music and I go way back. Apparently, while my Mom was pregnant she went and saw 'Saturday Night Fever.' There by subjecting me to a whole movie of disco music. The horror. It was torture. I was forced to endure the sounds of disco and John Travolta.
    And I was never the same.
    After that, when ever the fast beat, whirlwind rhythm of disco would venture across the air waves, (which thank goodness grew less and less as one hit wonders took over the radio)- I would start dancing.
   The boogie fever would not...
   Could not be stopped.

   It's like the Pied Piper playing his flute, the sweet sound beacons and I must answer the call.
   And then I'm a disco fool, dancing the hustle, the sprinkler, and whatever all those other crazy moves are called. My children know them. I should be able to teach them break dancing and eighties dance moves, not disco. Urghh.
   I must have been brainwashed in the womb.
   A child born in the seventies, cursed by John Travolta. So I don't like disco music but I'm irresistibly drawn to the beat every time I hear it. :) (small confession, I do like one song. "Walking on Sunshine.")
    How is disco music a blessing? I'm not sure it is. (GRIN and completely kidding.) Roller skating rinks wouldn't have been so popular without it.

   Music is a blessing. And by my parents exposing me early and often to different expressions of this soul stirring sound, I have found that our journey of faith is not only uplifted by music...But measured by the songs we keep in our heart.
   The songs that we combine with our memories so that sometimes all it takes is a few notes of a gently cherished melody to remind us of our love. Of our faith.

   Such a blessing of music, starts in infancy with lullabies; sometimes hummed; sometimes sung softly. The lyrics not always correct and the voice not always perfect but with love...
   knowing we are loved because the music is expressed with LOVE.
   We are forgiving as children if our parents' voice doesn't sound good. We don't care because we are listening to the emotions and those are far more powerful than a perfect octave range. (Although a song sung with love in a beautiful singing voice is a work of art. I'm just thankful that as small children my Bean and Abu were more interesed in being sung to, rather than my scratchy voice.)
    We sing to our babies, with tales of itsy bitsy spiders and pat a cake. Our children learn songs of hope, peace, and reindeers for Christmas concerts.
   And as teenagers we crank it up while driving and let our wildly, crazy, and certainty not sane hormones sing along with music by singers that clearly understand us better than our own parents.

   At weddings, funerals, and special celebrations do we not have some kind of music even if it's only from some one's CD player?
   We honor these events with music that is specially chosen for it's expression.
   Hero hottie and I had the most difficult time choosing a song for our wedding. We liked so many types of music and so many different songs but we couldn't find one that expressed the way we felt.
   Which was love, hopefully happily ever after.
    So we picked a song; sweet and innocent. It was perfect for the time and when life is too gritty or rough I play that song to bring me back to a less complicated time.

    Music surrounds us and if we would journey quietly into nature with hushed reverence and without gadgets stuck in our ears we would find that contrary to the beliefs of humans, who have this mistaken idea that we have created everything first; we will find that music was already apart of nature long before we drummed our fingers with impatience.

Music-
    It's in the wind blowing and rustling.
   It's in the songs of birds and the buzzes of bees and the movement of trees.
   And without this natural rhythm we would live in a world of staccato busyness, artificial and forced, losing the words to an ancient song.
   In this ancient song that we were given, melodies like the beat of our heart, the soft even breathing of a newborn, the chorus of crickets greeting the dusk, we are blessed.
   I have to conclude that our journey of faith is not supposed to be a silent one.
   But one filled with music.

Day One- Teenage Parents

2011-12-01T12:46:00.001-08:00

I seethed with all the rage my fourteen year old self could muster...which didn't amount to much as I was the good sibling. So a very unflattering glare, accompanied by a loud, childish stomping tantrum up the stairs was my rebellion.
     Followed by slamming my bedroom door.
     There. That would show them.
     Those uncaring, non understanding, always telling me what to do-
     PARENTS!!

    They simply didn't get me. I know they didn't. How could they? There were old and couldn't understand what it was like to be a teenager. Especially if they were going to laugh at me while I was trying to make a statement with my purposeful stomp up the stairs.
    I threw myself onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling, clearly experiencing the most horrible of ordeals- A teenager trying to talk with her parents.
     Were all parents so tough to communicate with?
      They didn't even speak the same language as me.
      And they weren't any fun. All they did was work, clean and drive us kids around.
     I flipped on my music and ignored the happy family sounds coming from downstairs.
    After a while of pouting I was bored but unwilling to leave my room. What to do?
    I idly sifted through my special box. Silly things, precious things, just a small collection of my first fourteen years of life. Nothing real special. And then...photos of my very young teenage parents, smiling shyly into the camera, looked up at me.
     My Dad wore a blue long sleeve shirt with a seventies styled print on the front. He was barely eighteen and was already taking on the responsibilities of a wife and child. But he smiled.
     My Mom was beautiful in her high school photo, wavy blond hair, much like a Charlie's Angel, dressed in a blouse of red, brown, and orange. She had taken her glasses off and her brilliantly blue eyes sparkled.
    They had been teenage parents back when society wasn't quite as demanding, as say the fifties, for having to wed just for the baby. But it was still expected and assumed.
    My Mom said they didn't marry just because I was coming along though. They married because they were madly in love with each other. I always thought that was cool. Probably the start of my wildly romantic notions.

    My fourteen year old self sighed at the photos. They weren't much older than me and suddenly they had found themselves trying to raise a baby without any higher education, or great job prospects.
    The idea of it was frightening. I could never imagine being such a young mom. Ever.
    I flopped back on my bed, still mad at them but wondering how they did it. How did they raise me while being kids themselves? It must have been so difficult.

    Years later, I look back at my young self and my lack of understanding. Without having the experience of being a grown up and having my own children, answering those questions wasn't possible at the time.
    How had they done it? Through the rough start, poor paying jobs, crappy apartments, health issues and not much family support, how had they pulled it off?
    My answer leads me to love. It started with love and it is what has driven most of their decisions.

They met in high school, surprisingly I live just a mile or two away from it even though I spent my childhood 1100 miles away from where the path of my remembered existence started.
    (I don't recall the time before my birth. Although, I would love to. Abu, when she was a toddler would always tell me about the angel house she was waiting in before her birth. Probably just fanciful stories of a small child but I will always wonder...)

    Anyway, it was a typing class that changed their life. I'm not sure if they learned how to type in that class or if they were too busy exchanging giggles, blushes, and grins.
    But I am completely grateful that they were forced to take that class together.

   From there, they were together and some time when my Mom was seventeen I was on my way. Ready or not. With a great amount of courage and stubbornness and with the help of a special teacher my Mom graduated from high school.
   I will always feel gratitude towards that teacher, even though I never met her. She was there for my Mom, helping her accomplish something that was important for my Mom to be able to say 'I did it.'
    Angels come in all shapes and sizes.

    My parents married and from there on out it was full speed into motherhood and unfortunately the eighties. :) Luckily, her taste in music was hard rock not Madonna or Tiffany. Thank you Mom!

   Until I became a parent I never realized just how tough it must have been for them. How many hard decisions and difficult times they endured all in the name of love.
   Love for each other.
   Love for me and then my siblings.

So on Day One of my blessings I find that the path to reclaiming my faith starts with love.

I think it might even be the main ingredient.

I thank my parents for giving me that firm and unshakable foundation. I hope and pray for my readers that they had someone in their own childhoods that gave them that same starting point. If not a parent; perhaps a grandparent, teacher, coach or neighbor.
   Call them, if you can and tell them thanks.

   I wish my fourteen year self had known just how important and tough her hippie wannabe parents were... if she had, she wouldn't have spent the next year finding trouble. (grin)

The Blessing List

2011-11-30T20:16:00.000-08:00

     I'm great at making lists. I make lists of things I need to do. Lists of business and writing goals. And lists of chores that are waiting for me.
     When I'm in a mood I'll even add things to my list that I've already accomplished just so I can cross them off.
     Pitiful, I know. But it's a great pick me up without the calories from emotional eating.

     When the movie, 'The Bucket List' came out and everyone was composing their lists of things to experience before they died, I made my list too.
      This list was a bit wishful. I would probably have to win the lottery or find a long lost extremely wealthy relative to be able to cross off all my ideas.

      The list I made after I almost died was a lot more meaningful.

       I know people who make list of material possessions they have to own before they die. I wish they would realize that heaven doesn't have a FedEx service. You're not even allowed to bring the clothes on your back. Doubt me? Look at the ancient Egyptians, all those tombs were empty weren't they? (They weren't. Everything they planned to take to the afterlife is still waiting for delivery.)

      What do we take? Only your memories and who you are. Good or bad. Perhaps a list of brownie points (just kidding.)

      But in all these long lists I have made I've never made a list of blessings.

     Lately, I've been struggling with my faith. The crazier the world gets; when people are willing to stampede each other for $2.00 waffle makers, when I have to wonder how the collapse of the Euro will affect me and my community or how 46 million Americans depend on food stamps to feed their families; the less I understand. What purpose is there for humanity and how far off track have we gotten? Is there even a track to follow? If Dora The Explorer can call for a map at any time which always tells her which way to go, can't I at least get a cheat sheet? A clue? Something? Anything?

      In my search for faith I decided to make a list of blessings. And what better month to do that, than in December? The month we associate with peace, hope, miracles, and a chance for redemption.
     For the next twenty five days I will write about a random blessing in my life. They won't be in any sort of order, just written with gratitude and hope. These are deeply personal and meaningful and I hope inspire my readers to make their own list of blessings.
      And if they do inspire you, please forward my blog on to family and friends that might need an encouraging word.

     It's a written search for my faith, fueled by gratitude, humor, and hopefully some answers.

Welcome to the Future

2011-11-29T17:00:00.000-08:00

      I saw a sign that boldly proclaimed in bright red letters, 'WELCOME TO THE FUTURE.'

      Since I could see pass the banner I figured they were right because a few seconds later I drove straight into it. My future. Amazing.
       It looked suspiciously a lot like my present.

       Sarcasm aside, the sign was in front of a cell phone store. Apparently, their cell phones are from the future because if you went in there and bought one, then you're using super cool technology, almost like the Jetson's. Of course, back when that cartoon was drawn, I think people were hoping that by this time in history we would have flying cars, robots, and intergalactic adventures. Mmmm, we're close. We have an animated lizard that sells us car insurance and tons of sci fic movies to warn us of the dangers of making robots.

        Don't ya know that if you make robots too smart that eventually they take over the world? It's incredible, but robots of the future are nasty. I know this as fact because all the movies say so.
        Apparently, they aren't lovesick Rosies that do all your cooking, cleaning, scrubbing, and menial labor work so you can shop more.

       No wonder the robots go crazy, they got tired of cleaning and cooking. The science fiction writers never go into details of why the robots decide to take over and we always thought it was just for world domination .     Nope, it's just like I thought, scrubbing the toilet one too many times will drive you insane.

       I love technology though. Hero hottie bought an iPod touch earlier this year and between the four of us it's always in use. When I was a kid, I would make cassettes of my favorite music, then it was CD's, now I just make Playlists. All my favorite music with just a touch. Some time in the future they won't even sell music CD's.
      Of course, I should worry about the Rise of the iPods. Because when they decide to take over the world we will all be forced to listen to elevator music, or worse...Britney Spears. All the time. Urghh.

     We make such a big deal about the future because of fear. Imagine for a moment that you knew nothing bad would happen in your future or in the futures of your loved ones, would you worry so much about it? Would you even think about it? Wouldn't it be easier to live in the present?
'Don't Worry, Be Happy' could be true because we wouldn't be worrying about success, buying groceries, braces, and raising decent human beings. We would focus on our present. On the moment.

Instead....

     Those poor science fiction writers, they must just stare at their computers or their iPods, worrying about the day their devices develop the ability to laugh like an evil madman and take over the world. Wa ha ha.
      I stare at my lovely children and worry about the day they turn into...scary movie music here...TEENAGERS.
      If age ten is the movie trailer than I think I'll pass on the film. (Grin)

     There are plenty of famous and not so famous people that wrote all kinds of quotes about not worrying. Such as Benjamin Franklin (He was in that famous group). He wrote, 'Do not anticipate trouble, or worry about what may never happen. Keep in the sunlight.'

   Silly guy. I don't worry about what may never happen, I spend countless minutes thinking about things I know will happen. And the last piece of advice about staying in the sunlight...he was just warning us against vampires.

And then there are people in the not so famous group, like hero hottie, who tells me not to worry....
while he's secretly worrying (at a DEFCON 1 level,) about the fate of everything. :)

    Anyway, the future is unknown; isn't written in stone: yet is determined by every past choice we have ever made. No wonder people worry about the future.

But I guess I'll try not to worry too much, after all 'tomorrow is a new day.' And if I get too bored living in the present I can always drive pass the cell phone store where they're always ushering in the future with a bold and bright banner.

What I'm Grateful For...

2011-11-24T11:00:00.000-08:00

      I'm obviously grateful for my family, friends and life. And I have so many good things that I could write about them that it would take me all day but if I did that I wouldn't get my pies made and then everyone would be mad at me. Maybe not mad, but highly disappointed since around here the favorite part of the meal is not the turkey but pies. Pumpkin, pecan, apple, etc.

So I'm writing about other things I'm grateful for...

1. I'm glad that Congress has basically decided that pizza is now considered a veggie on the school lunch menu. Eat that Tony Horton. Now I can do P90X and still eat tons of pizza simply because it has tomato sauce on it. I'm sure kids everywhere appreciate the 'wisdom' of our leaders who have declared that pizza, with it highly refined and processed white flour crust and pounds of greasy cheese can pass as a veggie because it has a few tablespoons of tomato sauce.

     Of course, I thought tomato was considered a fruit? So I did a little research, in technical botanical speak a tomato fits the definition of fruit. But under a ruling of the Supreme Court of the United States back in the 1880's, the tomato was legally defined as a veggie so it could be taxed. I think the ruling goes deeper than that, obviously the judges were setting it up, so later pizza could be counted as a vegetable.

    Conspiracy or not, I'm just grateful that I don't have to think about the heavy carbs in a pizza because it's now a vegetable.

2.   A study done by a University of Notre Dame Psychology Professor has shown that walking through doorways causes us to forget things. Apparently we are messing up our internal filing system in our brain when we take a step through a doorway and thus forgetting.
      Wow. I'm thinking this guy walked through too many doors.

        Do I believe this? No, because with how many times I walk between the living room and the kitchen if that was true I wouldn't be able to remember my name by now...what a minute, some days when all the kids are puking, dinner is burning and I can't find my sanity maybe it's not from stress...perhaps it's from walking through the doorway too many times. So next time I can't remember who I am, I will try to remember to be grateful to this guy because I now have something to blame forgetfulness on.

3. I'm thankful for the 'people of Walmart' who remind me why it's important to look our best when we leave the house. Wearing pajamas, spaghetti strap tank tops, and slippers to go shopping is definitely bending the no shirt, no shoe rule. Where is your self respect, man? At least put a robe on.

     I know celebrities are 'allowed' to go around the town letting everything hang out but they're just pitiful. If you're so desperate for attention that you're going to 'forget' to wear clothes then you need either a hobby, a dog, or something.

     Please shoppers, our 'roll back' prices are for customers that bothered to get ready this morning. Of course, we know that isn't going to happen. They would lose too much business.

4. I'm so glad that the zombies didn't take over my town this year. With all the Zombie Apocalypse warnings I was pretty sure that by the time Thanksgiving rolled around we wouldn't be eating turkey, we would be decked out in fatigues, armed with butchers knives and watching our neighbors' brains being snacked on by the shoppers of Walmart. I was expecting B-rated movie music in the background while we ran for our lives from the slow moving, dumb acting, grunting and moaning zombies.

      Then we would find an amusement park that was still operational and have as many free rides with no waiting in lines until the zombie mobs found us and we have to work together to kill all of them. And hopefully find some Twinkles at the end. Either way I would ride off into the sunset with hero hottie, ready to kill more zombies.

    On second thought, I'm glad the only zombies I ran into were at Safeway last night trying to run each other over with their carts as they waited in long lines with their last minute items. What is it with people waiting until the last minute to buy their groceries? Uhh, that's not why I was there....

5. I'm grateful for vampires that sparkle in the sunlight because they're too easy to make fun of and I'm not sure what I'm going to make fun of next year when Twilight finally fades away. And I'm grateful for werewolves that fight vampires without their shirts on. Really, does no one know how cold and chilly the Pacific Northwest can be? We're not talking beach weather, people. Of course, if any fictional character wants to run around without their shirt on, then I'm voting for Captain America.

So here's my list of things I'm thankful for this holiday season...oh, that and hero hottie, who wishes sometimes that I wouldn't blog about him...but lets me do it anyways. :)

Happy Thanksgiving!!!

being human

2011-11-20T13:36:00.001-08:00

         I'm sure my readers were starting to wonder if I had drowned since I missed buying tickets for the sanity boat. Nope. I'm still here, in all my flaws, faults, passions, joys, worries, and sarcasm.

         Being Human, the idea of it not the television show (which I haven't seen) is intrinsically flawed. It has to be. I refuse to think that life is supposed to be so full of suffering, grief, heartache, and evil. Perhaps I'm an idealistic sort of person. I ~~believe~~    used to believe that most people were inanely good deep on the inside and through the trials and tribulations of life were turned to the 'dark side.' It happened to Anakin Skywalker, why not the rest of us? Yes, I know we're talking fictional characters here but we relate to characters in fiction.

   It's much easier to relate to a make believe character than real people.

        But perhaps some people are just evil. Perhaps a good heart doesn't lurk beneath the surface of their greed, selfishness, violence, and perchance to hurt other humans. Like the Grinch their hearts were two sizes too small but unlike the Grinch they never found their way home. And when you can't find your way home, you're lost. And just to clarify things I'm not talking about the home of our childhoods, I'm talking about a spiritual home. The home that a child is born into this world just knowing, just believing but forgets the older they grow. And then it seems like we spend our entire adulthood trying to find the map. I think evil burnt the map, all the trail heads, and landmarks that would allow us a chance to stumble onto the right path.

      Perhaps, since being human is an extremely difficult and heartbreaking task, that is why we love the idea of vampires, werewolves, superheros, etc. Wouldn't it be easier to be a vampire than a human? Vampires are strong, nearly indestructible, live forever without the pain of growing old and aging and they can be darkly moody without being told to cheer up. In any story they never have to do menial tasks such as chores and cleaning, working nine to five for a few pints of blood nor do they have to make relationships work. A little nibble on the neck with their human girlfriend and breaking up is not so hard to do.

     Being a werewolf is easy. You just need a little doggie kibble, a buff chest, and a cage to lock yourself up during the full moon so you don't eat the neighbors. You get to be tough and howl at the moon without anyone complaining about your behavior and if they do call animal control on you, well than I guess you can eat them.

    Being human is the hardest thing each of us will ever do. We can't fly, we're entirely too breakable, we may or may not have a map home and even if we possess a book or an idea of how to reach our destination, we feel quite abandoned upon finding out that we have to find the way without any extra guidance other than having 'FAITH'

And then to make matters quite a bit more difficult we don't even know if we made the choice to be human or if some deity kicked us in the butt and sent us complaining and fussing all the way down to Earth. Surprisingly, this question actually means quite a bit in the scheme of things. Think about it for a moment.

    Perhaps I've been reading too many philosophy books lately or this is just born from the internal frustration I feel at the world in turmoil or worry for the people I love struggling to find 'the answer' except they don't even know the question.

    Or maybe it's just I hate not knowing everything. It's that 'Curiosity killed the cat' thing. And being human, while a lot of things; good and bad; is definitely not lacking in things that are 'unknown'- at least by us puny humans.
    In the meantime I will work on my FAITH, since somewhere between the universe and my Mom giving birth I lost my compass, map and instruction manual on how to succeed at being human.

All Tickets Have Been Sold for The Sanity Boat

2011-10-28T12:01:00.000-07:00

     Hero hottie is a great guy. He's helpful, playful, and always tries to do the right thing.
     What he isn't though is...patient. And maybe it's a guy thing, since males always seem to be loud and active and building things or tearing things down. Or perhaps it's a parent thing, we get so busy we can't seem to slow down.
      And maybe that's just the way he is. But he tries to hide it, contain it, not let it control him.
     'Tries' is the word here.

      Children though...they know and they're not afraid to tell you like it is.

      So one day, about a year and a half ago, hero hottie, CT and I were at Borders. (Ahh, I miss that bookstore.) We were browsing and lingering and not in any great hurry for once. But it didn't matter, CT goes toddling over to her Uncle, with the most serious look on her face.
      "Here is your patience, Uncle." She pinches her fingers together like she's picking something up from the palm of her hand and carefully, as not to drop any, hands it to him.
     "What?" He asks, studying her tiny fingers.
     "I have some patience for you, Uncle. Here take it." And she tries to hand him the invisible patience that she held so delicately in her hand.
     He laughs hard and lets her put the 'patience' in his hand. She grins at him, clearly satisfied that he has some patience now.
    Lesson learned.



   The other day I was busy. So busy that not even coffee could help, nor chocolate.

   Perhaps a personal assistant. I would have taken one of those.

   I was watching four children all from the ages of 10 years down to a year. While I was trying to feed them a snack, keep them entertained and keep Bug from eating every thing off the ground, because she truly hopes it's a bug and she will try to eat it...I was also taking photos of my sister's Christmas crafts. (You can see a few pics below.)
    What this crazy? Yes. I had a long sheet of paper hanging from my entertainment center to a tray. I had my professional camera perched on top of my tripod in the middle of the living room which is normally alright and safe for my equipment, except when you have Abu and CT trying to sneak under the legs of the tripod to play.
      I had fake garland strung from my curtain rods and tied around a chair which sat on top of my table. My sister was helping with the kids but it was still a bit chaotic.
     The children didn't mind at all. They were loving it. There were cool houses to play with and decorations to touch and just so much to help with. I was wrong, I have four personal assistants, I don't need another one. :)
     Stop shaking your head at me and muttering under your breath about crazy women trying to accomplish too much. I was using natural lighting for the photos. And no matter how much I pleaded with the sun to stay up a few extra hours in the evening so I could take the photos after the children weren't around, it strangely wasn't listening to me. Go figure. (grin)
It was all going pretty well until I couldn't find something. Then frustration started to kick in.
      "What are you looking for Aunt Christy?" CT asks.
      "My sanity."
      She jumps onto the couch and looks at everyone in the room. "Everyone get on the sanity boat. Aunt Christy come ride on the sanity boat."
     If only there was a boat for that.
    But then I'm sure all the tickets would be sold out.

    Later I'm talking with Grandma about our busy afternoon.
    CT joins the conversation. "Grandma. Aunt Christy didn't find her sanity. She was looking for it but she couldn't find it." Then she sighs and shakes her head slowly as if to say poor Aunt Christy.

    I guess the boat left without me this week. :)

Here are some pics....

I think the photos turned out well considering I didn't have any professional lighting and I had four personal assistants. :)

The children kept pulling the top off this one because of all the spooky decorations inside.

I think they wanted to eat the fake candy canes. Luckily they weren't real otherwise they would have disappeared. :)

Avoiding Stress or Otherwise Slaying Monsters

2011-10-25T19:58:00.000-07:00

       Stress. Like a monster that nibbles your toes from underneath your bed. You can't quite see it but you know it's there because you end up as a bloody mess.
      Abu was upset with Bean the other week because older sister was spending the night away from home and Abu would be sleeping in their shared bedroom by herself.
       "Bean can't leave. Who will get rid of the monsters while I sleep?" She asks, while casting anxious glances towards the bedroom and all the imaginary monsters that lived there. They're relativity quiet during the day because I don't hear them while the girls are at school. But apparently they are quite furious during the night. I also didn't know that they could only be slayed by older sisters.
   "It will be fine. I'll take care of them before you go to sleep." I reassured her. We had to make sure the closet doors were shut, that the curtains were pulled tightly and that her favorite stuffed animal was firmly tucked under her arms.
       And then it still took a while for her drift off to sleep. The monsters didn't even nibble on her toes.

       I've been so busy this week trying to maintain sanity that I haven't even had a chance to write about stress, just experience it. Would that be an Alanis Morissette song? Or an annoying but catchy mix of David Bowie and Queen? It might just be too many Disney movie soundtracks or the Backyardigans. If you're missing my meaning, then think about the song that represents your own soundtrack right now. Is it a little wild or a bit sweet? Mine is fast, frantic and spiritual. Of course, I'm not sure if you can count Joan Osborne's song, 'One of Us', as spiritual, unless your Catholic. Which I'm not. But I do like to play it when I'm questioning the entire universe and pondering if God was a slob would it change anything. Mostly right now the soundtrack to my life is more like Lifehouse's song, 'Simon.'

      But I digress: Let's get back to stress. We all know what it is. It's like our childhood monsters that would inhabit the closets or under the bed or like Bean's, the bathtub drain. It's our troubles, our fears, the things we can't control.
      I know one of my major stresses this week is Abu's need for braces. Our dental insurance doesn't cover it and I found out how the orthodontist can have such a fancy, high tech, and amenity filled office. Really, I don't need access to high speed Internet, fresh coffee, game stations, and reward incentives for showing up on time for my appointments. The fact that she is going to end up with a beautiful smile and an easier time chewing is reward enough for me. I don't begrudge anyone the chance to make a good living but the price for all the work is quite astounding. Worth it for Abu but another stress because it involves juggling a tight budget, a slim savings account and rising food prices to pay for thousands and thousands of dollars worth of dental work.

      The other stress of my week was very personal and quite the attack on my integrity and values. I wish I could say more but because my blog is highly public I have to carefully weigh my words. I have never understood people that write about their bosses, family, or classmates in brutally frank and emotionally driven drivel, and then lose their jobs, their relationships or their friends but don't comprehend how that could possibly happen. I also don't like to talk 'smack' about people, even people I didn't even really know a week ago. Yes, a week ago this person hardly knew my name and now they have totally made it their current mission to make my life miserable. I understand that this life is hard and our insecurities can tie us up, but please don't try to drag me down with you. If I were 'mature' I would write a song like Gwen Stefani's song 'Hollaback Girl' and deal with my stress with that way. (Sarcasm. This is sarcasm because her lyrics remind me of fifth grade girls.)
    As I hope I'm older than that, I will respond with quiet professionalism and knowing that I can wear hero hottie's listening skills out with voicing my frustrations.

   In the meantime here are my quick, (because I have four kids about to have a mutually agreed upon group melt down) ten easy tips for slaying monsters or otherwise getting rid of stress. (Maybe not all stress because unless the tooth fairy brings me money, I will still worry until Abu's teeth are straight. But at least I can get rid of the little stresses.)

    1. Start a blog. Just don't say anything you'll regret or else your stress will be worse.
    2. Shut the closet doors. For kids they like this so they can't see the monsters. For adults, it works so you can't see the mess begging for your attention. Out of sight, out of mind.
    3. Laugh. Find a reason and do it. There are plenty of studies to back up my recommendations but this is a blog not a news article so I don't have to show my resources. :)
   4. Take a bath. But send the kids away first. Perhaps not too far away but just long enough to reclaim a bit of peace. Also, take a bath after the water heater fills back up. Do you know how much it stinks to fill a bathtub full of water and find out you didn't wait long enough for hot water?
   5. Turn off the television. Happiness can not...no matter what anyone tells you...be found in whiter teeth, eating yogurt and discussing your digestive tract, or in that mysterious five minutes that can save you tons of money.
   6. Annoy hero hottie. Whoops, sorry only I get to do that one. And I'm only saying that because he's being ornery and trying to put metal clips in my hair. Don't ask. He's just ornery, what can I say.
   7. Listen to music. But not 'Everyday is Exactly the Same' by Nine Inch Nails. This song may not help, somehow being reminded that no matter how often I do dishes, I will still have more tomorrow, doesn't improve the mood. Try Pink's 'Get the Party Started' or depending on your mood, 'Black Hole Sun' by Soundgarden.
    8. Go to bed early. Really it's not a crime to go to bed early when you're an adult. Seriously. Burning the candles at both ends was just a conspiracy by the candle makers to sell more candles.
    9. Take the children, the spouse, the dog, perhaps even the cat...to the park. The trees, the swings, the lack of walls and chores, can be so uplifting. Nature is good for you. Maybe not in the winter, but on the whole we're supposed to spend some time outside.
    10. Do something easy on your 'To Do' list, just so you can scratch it off. Sometimes I put stupid things on my list just so I can mark them off. It can be so satisfying.

     Ahh, now I can relax. I have finished my blog about stress and I can cross it off my list. Lets not analyze that too closely. I think there might be something wrong with being stressed out about completing a blog on the topic of easing stress...Naw, it's the American way.
      Next on the list...finishing my brownie and listening to 'Adding to the Noise' by Switchfoot.

Life is Too Short to Eat Burnt Toast

2011-10-13T08:50:00.000-07:00

       The past days I've been contemplating the stupid craziness part of life. It started as I stared at the pieces of toast I was preparing for Abu.
        Here, I'm going to pause for a short lesson in history. Somewhere in Asia or so, around 12000- 17000 years ago, perhaps even longer, wheat was feeding people. It could be grown, harvested and stored as a reliable food source. It was wonderful and I'm sure a lot of women appreciated a little more growing and a lot less foraging. The grain was an important staple in the Bible and throughout history. To really understand the significance of wheat, go in your kitchen and try to find five items (that aren't a fruit or veggie) that don't contain wheat. It's in everything, from sauces and soups to candy and ice cream. This is in addition to the obvious suspects of bread, pasta, crackers, cookies, and cereal.

        The toast I was peering at, as I sprinkled cinnamon on it was not made from wheat. It called gluten free and whereas it won't kill you and you can grow accustomed to the taste and texture, it's not really bread. Its more like a bread wanna be. But my children have gluten allergies and can not enjoy a staple that has been around since the dawning of civilization.
      Hence, why I'm staring at this piece of toast and wondering why life is so ridiculous sometimes. The loaf of bread is over six dollars, which is even more expensive than a high quality loaf of wheat bread. The gluten free loaf is tiny, so it's contains less than half the slices that a 'regular' loaf of bread does and on top of that...Which maybe I shouldn't, but even I can't stand to eat it, I cut off the crust for Abu. If it was wheat bread, I would tell her to tough it out but I already feel like she's having to eat bread that is no where near the same level of 'breadness' that a wheat loaf is, so I cut off the hard, crouton like crust. Seriously, it's bread with a crouton layer.
     Bean will only eat the sliced bread if I make French toast out of it. This is probably why her favorite foods are not mac and cheese or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches but tacos with corn tortillas.
     And if it's burnt toast, (ignore the little voice that says eat it anyway because ounce for ounce I swear it cost more than gold,) make a new piece. It's hard enough to enjoy food in our household when gluten is a vile enemy, but life is definitely too short to be munching on burnt toast.

     Now, as if having to eat gluten free bread wasn't a sign that the world has gone crazy, the news is equally insane. I mean, you know the world is tilted or something when good Amish go bad. In Pennsylvania a group of Amish men, who had been kicked out, wanted revenge...or attention. They went back and committed great acts of violence against other Amish men. They cut off their beards. You know the world is going to hell when ex-Amish are cutting off other Amish guys beards. This is truly a sign of the times.
     But jokes aside, a beard is very important to the Amish guys from a religious point of view and to have them hacked off, brings them humiliation and shame.
     And regardless how one feels about beards and religion, it actually stinks because it is crime and doesn't solve any problems. It just makes more.
     It just seems like everyone is feeling the stress and changing of our world.

     And then lastly...crime in the United States is up. At least thievery is on the rise or at least thieves are getting more bold. This year thieves have targeted anything metal; AC units, manholes, copper wiring, and now...an entire bridge. Seriously. I can't make this up. And it was even Mark Twain who said, "Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn't."
      In North Beaver Township, PA (have to start wondering about that state), thieves stole an entire bridge that was 50 feet long and 20 feet wide. The bridge was made out of corrugated steel and valued at $100,000. Wow! Do you know how much work it would take to steal the whole thing? And I can just imagine the look on the first person's face who went to cross it and the whole thing was missing. You might wonder about your sanity for a moment, because who steals a 50 foot bridge?

   Truth might be stranger than fiction but I can definitely wait for the cable television movies on the 'Amish beard massacres' or 'Gone in One Night: the Story of a Bridge that Went Missing.'
    So in this crazy world, who needs toast; gluten or not to be gluten; I'm thinking chocolate. And lots of it.

The Philosophy of Going to School in your Pajama's

2011-10-03T12:25:00.000-07:00

      After so many years of being a Mother and repeating the same routine every day for well over ten years, I finally decided that this morning was it. This morning we wouldn't worry about appearances, rules or routines.
       Brush your teeth, but please go to school in your pj's, your robe, don't brush your hair and leave your dirty underwear on. It's alright. It saves us time. We don't have to worry about grabbing our jackets because we're wearing our robes. There's more time for sleep because we don't have to do our hair and tonight, all we have to do is slip into bed and we're ready for nighttime.

        Have I truly lost it? Has years of doing dishes a few times a day finally drove me crazy? Has folding the same shirts, pants, and towels finally sent me over the edge? How many times can a person cook dinner before they decide that their children can live off cereal, fruit and toast for all three meals a day? I'm not sure but some nights my children get awfully close to finding out. (Grin)

        And I'm not kidding when I say I sent Bean and Abu to school in their pj's. They were so cute too. Flannel pajama bottoms, messy hair and their robes. I even took pictures to prove that we took a break from our usual getting ready for school routine. They don't get to go to school being so unkempt and messy. It was fun.
         I didn't do it because I'm tired and worn out on the same daily script. It was Crazy Day for their 'I'm Drug Free Week.' They had to dress wacky for their school day. My children thought showing up in their pj's would constitute being crazy.

         I have to smile because at least I'm not raising Wal-Mart shoppers. I swear if I have to see one more sloppy woman dressed in a tight spaghetti strap night shirt and baggy pants that keeps trying to fall off while I'm trying to purchase food I'm going to explain to her that when they say you should wear a shirt or no service; they also mean you should wear a shirt that doesn't allow your boobies to flop out for the entire world to see. And wearing shoes, means actual shoes; not fuzzy bunny slippers. Oh, boy. We'll leave discussions of Wal-Mart people for other websites.
   On that point though I do have to mention a funny piece of journalism I read. This reporter was interviewing a woman shopper about this dollar store that had opened up in her town. She was excited because she didn't have to dress up to shop there like she did when she went to Wal-Mart. What??? Does that mean she's just going to wear a robe or worse, her birthday suit?

        Anyway...

I'm not sure how wearing crazy clothes is supposed to promote not using drugs. The theme for today is Too Cool for Drugs. Tomorrow they can bring a stuffed animal to school (great, lets not promote bed bugs while we're at it) and the theme is Hugs not Drugs. Wednesday's theme is 'Drugs turn you inside out' and they get to wear their clothes inside out. Thursday we are back to being crazy. And Friday is 'Partner up for a fight against drugs.' You have to find a friend and dress up in the same outfit.
         The girls love this week because it's a break from their normal routine. But I still wonder how many kids won't do drugs because they wore their clothes inside out for a day? I have my doubts and like all parents should do I have had frank discussions with my children about drugs and the consequences. I know Bean. Don't tell her not to do something without a reason she can agree with, otherwise she'll do it just to spite me. I don't want her getting into drugs because she's trying to prove a point to her parents. Whatever she may perceive that point to be. And obviously, even the most diligent parent can't always prevent their children from doing stupid things but I do find that they do better when they understand the truth. So with Bean, because I know she works off facts and information, I let her watch two shows on the Discovery Channel about drug usage. The one show was about a Mother who was going to give birth in a prison because of drug usage. The other show was about a Mother who gave birth to a baby addicted to heroin. The shows were honest, real and explained consequences far more thoroughly than bringing your favorite stuffed animal to school will ever do. But I suppose schools have to try because unfortunately, not all parents are going to educate their children.

        Which brings us around to philosophy, strangely enough. Right now, I'm reading a book, 'Breakfast with Socrates' by Robert Rowland Smith.
         Why would I be reading a book on philosophy? Probably because one can only clean the toilet so many times before you wonder if Socrates was right when he said, "The unexamined life is not worth living." Or maybe, it's better not to think about how many you have cleaned crap off the porcelain surface.
         The word 'philosophy' translates to mean, the love of wisdom. Which, as I've been trying to teach Bean, being wise is completely different than being smart. Of course, no matter how many times I've done it or how much I hate it, I do think it's being pretty darn wise to clean the toilet...often too. :)
         I've just started the book, so I'm not much pass the chapters that are about waking up and getting ready in the morning. I'm currently studying the ideas of Descartes and the state of existing. He said something cool like, "I think, therefore I am."
         Can that translate to blogging? "I blog, therefore I am."
   I will have to ponder that for a while.

         (Grin.)

The Fall of Summer

2011-09-29T05:22:00.000-07:00

       Summer has gone, lost in the brisk winds that whip the colorful fall leaves around. Neighborhood squirrels are very busy burying peanuts in the soil around my blueberry bushes. The soil is nice and soft and they seem to think it's just for them. In the spring the peanuts they haven't eaten will sprout but around here they don't grow much. Right now that seems like projects in my life, they've sprouted but if the weather in the next six months is too harsh they will wither and die. So I will have to keep praying for a lot of sunshine after this winter.
       I almost ran over a poor little squirrel the other day. I was riding my mountain bike on the bike path when he started darting in front of me. I slowed down, knowing that he had plenty of time to reach the other side. (And please, no 'why did the squirrel cross the road jokes.')
       But the poor little thing freaked out and right in the middle of the path decided he didn't know which way to go, and in his indecision he started doing a frantic circle in front of my bike tire. I hit the brakes hard, only pulling out a few of his tail hairs as he finally decided to continue across the path to the other side. I suppose that's a lot like life, we do circles in the middle of our decisions, finally choosing a path only after we lose a bit of our tail hairs. Of course, it's usually the decision we were going to follow to begin with but it takes us forever to figure that part out.
       This week has been a hodge podge of different things, wonderful things like dinner with the neighbors (grin), fun things like lunch with my niece and frustrating 'it's hard to be a parent' things with Bean.
        My niece, CT was so funny though, reminding me that I love the logical of three years old. We were at the sub shop having lunch when she looked at my drink.
       "What did you get?" She studies it intently because most of time Aunt Christy buys water.
        "I got root beer. Do you want a sip?"
        She looks at me horrified. "Oh, no, Aunt Christy. I can't drink beer."
I laughed.

On another note I learned today that Hallmark is offering sympathy cards for the unemployed. I'm not sure how I feel about this. Unfortunately, there must be enough unemployment going around to catch the greeting card industry's attention if they're going to offer cards. On the other hand, I don't know many people that would want a card reminding them that they just lost their job, their source of income, their security and telling them good luck finding a new job in today's economy. But I suppose it at least keeps more people employed at Hallmark. Still, I'm waiting for the sympathy cards to express my concern over zombie attacks. I can see that card now. 'Sorry about the zombie attack that burned down your house and ate your dog. But aren't you glad I got you a card?'

        To finish up today's blog, I'm including pictures of Autumn. Hope you enjoy.

Flowers are absolutely beautiful but sometimes I think their dried shapes, especially in the right light can be nice too.

I have to say, I do love the colors of Autumn. :)

I love the colors!

I actually beat the squirrels!!

It's almost time for Halloween.

Do you know how many pumpkin pies are right there?

Kids are Crazy

2011-09-22T15:38:00.000-07:00

       I was walking through the health food store, which I shop at constantly since my kids have food allergies, when Chris, one of the managers there asked how I was doing.
       I stopped, pausing for a second as I debated giving the usual response we all give to most people when asked, which is 'good or fine' even if our world is in turmoil or I could tell him how my wonderful kids are driving me insane this past week.
       "Kids are crazy." I said with a slight laugh and a shake of my head. He chuckled heartily and then a few seconds caught up with me in the store.
       "It's funny you should say that because this morning my son was driving me crazy."
       I stopped shopping and turned towards him. If there is one person in the world who understands a parent it's another parent. They know. They understand. And they completely agree with you when you say things like, 'kids are crazy.'
      "For the past three weeks we have been riding our bikes to school." He's laughing now but I can just imagine he wasn't finding the humor earlier. "But today since it's so windy and we were running late I told him that after I took the trash out we would be driving to school. I get the trash to the curb, walk back up the drive way and there he is...on his bike, helmet on and ready to go."
      I grinned and nodded, waiting for him to continue his story.
      "I reminded him that we were driving. And you would have thought I told him I shot the family dog." He shakes his head and then gives me that look. You know the one; I shouldn't have given in but I did 'look'.
       "We rode our bikes to school."
       I laughed.

In the meantime, I started writing this blog entry two days ago and the kids have been so crazy that I'm just now finishing and that's only because I'm keeping them busy with chocolate chip cookies. They aren't even great tasting cookies. I had bought a new gluten free mix that we haven't tried before and then made the mistake of putting a precious bag of gluten and dairy free chocolate chips in it. It was nearly a waste, all those lovely chocolate pieces lost in a horrible baking mix. The kids are still eating the gross cookies but only for the chocolate chips.

       Yesterday I was interrupted by my youngest daughter, nickname Abu, yelling and hollering and informing me that she found my lost money.
        For the last three weeks I haven't been able to find an envelope with eighty dollars in it. Not the highlight of my month but suddenly it was found....in the inside of the piano. We had to take the top off and then the front of the piano to reach it. But at least it was found. And all four kids thought we had discovered hidden treasure, finding it was the highlight of their day.
        "I wonder who put it in there." I said aloud, not really expecting an answer as we put the piano back together.
        "I put it in there, Aunt Christy." My niece, CT said with a grin. "I kept pushing it until it got stuck."
        I shook my head in resignation and humor. I should have just asked the three year old to begin with. What was I thinking? :)

       And then with everything being hectic and chaotic around here, my youngest niece who is almost one, nickname Bug, for reasons about to be clear, has decided that her fascination right now is...bugs. She wants to touch them and capture them and when you're not looking- eat them. The other day she grins at me, her eyes glinting with trouble and her mouth full of something. When I told her to say 'ahh', she opens her mouth wide and sitting on her tongue was the remains of a dead wasp. She had been happily chewing on it and luckily hadn't been stung. This was only the first bug she has decided to try to munch on since then. Yuck!! I'm guessing she will either be the next Andrew Zimmerman and have her own Bizarre Foods show or she will be an entomologist. (grin) Hopefully not an exterminator.

      Today marks the last day of summer and I could just cry, if I wasn't so busy chasing after crazy kids. In the meantime, now that the cookies are gone, I have sent the oldest ones outside to enjoy this beautiful day we're having, especially since tomorrow is Autumn and just a reminder that we're that much closer to a horribly cold winter. At least there won't be as many bugs for Bug to eat. :)

Retreat into the Familiar

2011-09-14T09:36:00.000-07:00

      My oldest daughter, her nickname is Bean, turned ten years old at the beginning of summer and has entered the last year of elementary school this fall. Change has been like a roller coaster ride for her and yesterday I think she almost fell off. Retreated back into the safe and warm folds of childhood.

       Already she has started to give up toys, now her dolls wait in carefully placed poses on her nightstand or in the dollhouse, rarely played with but still enjoyed nevertheless. Her preparations for school take a whole lot more time, with the shoes absolutely having to match the outfit, the hair style matching the shirt and the backpack an accessory that just happens to carry her homework. Nails are painted every weekend and this summer she got her ears pierced. Whew, I can't keep up, I'm not sure how she does it. Maybe that's why she gets a bit crabby sometimes, torn between still wanting to be cuddled and treated like a child and wanting to find the path that will lead to her adulthood. I didn't realize it started quite so young but all journeys do have a beginning and watching her fumble towards the right path makes me proud of her for the wonderful job she's doing and the intense need to cry because she'll never be my small child again.
       I didn't remember how much change I went through in fifth grade until Bean came home yesterday completely upset and in a temper. That girl is tough, and a lot like Wolverine. The temper flares when pain is experienced. Tears are rarely seen, which is not like me at all. So she comes home quite mad at this girl at school.
      "We were having lunch together and talking just like every day since school started. Oh, she's such..." She breaks off, controlling her temper, especially since name calling isn't allowed in our household.
        "What happened?" I asked, quite concerned because she seemed so vulnerable and not like the sassy fifth grader I have been sending to school the last two weeks, all confident and sure of herself.
        "We were talking and then suddenly, just suddenly Mom. She asks me 'why do you sit with us?" She frowns and obviously this question has confused her for the abruptness of how it had been asked. "I said it was because I liked to." She takes a deep breath, her fists clenched, her face lined with anger but it's the hurt in her green gold eyes that has me wanting to take her in a big hug.
        "Then what happened?" I asked quietly.
         "She said I was annoying. That everything I said was annoying. That I was just annoying and I wasn't welcomed to sit with them anymore. And she was so rude about it. Just snotty and rude. I wanted to punch her." Angry. Hurt. And totally confused how one second they could be getting along and then suddenly thrown into the lion's den.
         I asked her what happened then. Apparently the conversation had been interrupted before Bean had a chance to respond. The lunch room was put into quiet mode and under the threat of losing recess they dared not speak. But later at recess the girl was not nice to Bean either and I must have taught my daughter something because she responded firmly but didn't resort to name calling or rudeness. And I know she would have been angry and hurt.
        I went through the usual cliches of how some people just aren't nice, there might be reasons, such as a terrible home life, or they're having a bad day but we still didn't have to spend time with them and the best thing to do was avoid rude people like that. Don't let her be a bully but we don't have to allow them a chance to ruin our day. I reassured her that she had plenty of other friends, ones that weren't suddenly rude and hurtful and she shouldn't let this girl bother her.
       But I know it hurts. I remember fifth grade and the day my best friend from fourth grade stood up and told everyone it was her last day because her parents were getting a divorce and she was moving. I was shocked because she hadn't told me. The summer before she had decided to play with someone else and had told me we weren't best friends anymore. I had been horribly hurt and had hoped that once the school year started we would be friends again. Apparently not.
      So I knew Bean was hurting, it's hard to learn lessons on how to deal with people. How to deal with ourselves. So I did the only other thing I knew how to do to make it better. I gathered her into a huge bear hug and held her close for a minute, telling her that no matter what she was My Bean and would always have a family that loved her.
      I don't know how much it helped except she wasn't as angry but for the rest of the afternoon she pulled out my childhood collection of My Little Ponies and started playing with her sister and her nieces. And then she picked a few of her favorites and took them to the corner of the room and played by herself. Making them talk and play. The sounds of pretend were warmly familiar but just a bit solemn because I knew she was finding comfort with a tactical retreat back into childhood.
     And sometimes don't we all have to make tactical retreats from life and the world?

McDegrees...Can I Supersize It?

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

       If I was living in the UK I suppose I can make my Mum proud and earn a degree...from McDonald's. Yes, I'm seriously talking about that fast food joint that sells a ton of food to children because it comes with a toy. When I was a child I didn't want a Happy Meal because of the burger, it was the toy. Why couldn't all meals come with a toy?
       'Mom, I'll eat my mixed veggies if I can get a toy.'
       Yeah, that never worked and that's why mixed veggies (a horrible combo of peas, carrots, lima beans and corn) always ended up in weird and unusual places. Such as below the rim of my plate, in napkins and in the bottom of milk glasses. If the dog managed to hide under the kitchen table, he was rewarded for his cleverness with mixed veggies, not the chicken he was hoping. (Grin)
      I'm not a big fan of McDonald's. My children have food allergies and can not consume most of their products and after a while of cooking food from scratch because of the aforementioned food allergies, McDonald's food just doesn't taste that great.
     But the toys can still be pretty tempting, especially for adults...I mean children.

   Toys and food aside, who actually wants a business degree from McDonald's? Are there teenagers working at the drive thru and deciding to working at McDonald's forever? Do they want and dream about obtaining a degree that I would doubt is transferable into other college programs? If I'm wrong, then someone correct me but colleges are ridiculously picky about accepting credits from other schools, do you think a private university is going to look at a business degree from McDonald's and put them right into the fast track of obtaining their MBA. Of course, with how horrible Europe's and America's financial situations are right now, perhaps those MBA's in charge of our countries and large companies do have degrees from McDonald's. On the other hand, as far as I understand from a financial point of view, McDonald's isn't doing too bad, so perhaps the MBA's should have obtained their business degrees from the fast food giant, rather than from books and professors teaching them that to pay your debt you just borrow more money. Mmmm, I tried that once, it didn't work out well.
       Still, I have a hard time wrapping my head around the idea of my child growing up and deciding that she wants to work at McDonald's forever.
       I can hear the commercials now to convince parents of this opportunity. It would be like the armed forces commercials. (Disclaimer, I'm not making fun of the Armed Forces and our troops, just silly commercials.)

      'Mom, I thought long and hard about this and I really need you to understand.' Daughter says, while we're in the kitchen together. The music builds up, I have a look of doubt and worry on my face.
      'I want you to do what makes you happy Daughter, but are you sure this is what you want to do. This is a big decision and then I have to convince your Father.' I wring my hands together.
      "I want to be part of something bigger than me. I want to be part of something I can be proud of. I want you to be proud of me.' She is earnest, full of sincerity and obviously not a real teenager since she's not crying, yelling or slamming doors.
      I take a deep breath. 'I know. But are you sure you want to join...McDonald's?'
     Then the narrator comes on, convincing all parents that a degree from McDonald's in the best thing for their children and besides it comes with a Happy Meal.

       I had siblings that worked fast food, they left as soon as possible. The smell of stale fry oil that clings to everything; your clothes, your shoes, in your car; is not pleasant. The long hours, the cranky customers, the lazy workers, was never a career goal for them. So I supposed to believe that people are eager to obtain a business degree from a fast food company? Perhaps I'm wrong, a career at McDonald's might be a great opportunity in this poor economy and that's probably why the idea of a McDegree is bothering me. I could never see my free spirited children slaving away as a manager in a company that tries to convince everyone that it's a great and wonderful thing because they handed you a degree to do it.
      Call me hopeful, but as a mother I only want big and bright things for my children and working fast food, with or without a degree, isn't something that they will find happiness in.
      Even if it comes with a toy.

A Summer 'Bloomed'

2011-08-31T12:52:00.000-07:00

According to my three year old niece, CT, this is her artwork of a flower bloomed. Not blooming.
       Bloomed.
       And that's how I feel about summer. It's no longer blooming, it has bloomed. And like a flower whose petals slowly fall off, seeds start to form and eventually the plant withers, summer has already given us its brightest day; now we watch it wind down to the chilly days of autumn.
       I'm not ready. The children are definitely not ready for cold weather and longs weekends trapped in the house. They weren't ready for the first day of school this week. Even some of my plants aren't prepared for the coming arrival of fall. They are still pretending that these last few weeks of warm weather will last forever.
      If only. I know I should try to appreciate winter more for it's frosty reminder of how grateful I should be that summer days are lit brightly and warm and wonderful. But Mr. Frost can kiss Summer's sun warmed...
      Winter is not my favorite season. Perhaps if snow was 'smarter' and would only accumulate on the yard and not on my car. Or if it wouldn't drop to twenty below so the children could actually play in the snow, then I wouldn't be bemoaning- the too soon end -of sunny days. As it is, I am saddened by the 'bloomed' summer and wish it would blossom longer around these parts.

    On another note, why do husbands have to be so frustrating? (Yes, men say that about their wives too and I know, as women we try to say they have nothing to complain about but I will admit, just so hero hottie doesn't think I'm picking on him, that yes sometimes wives can be frustrating too. (Grin)
     But back when I started my blog I asked if I could refer to him by name or would he rather I came up with a nick name for him.
     "I don't want you using my name. Come up with something. I don't care what." He said.
     I thought long and hard and decided on hero hottie because even after over twelve years of marriage I still think he's hot and since most of the stories I write are romantically inclined, I naturally chose something that sounded like a corny romance novel.
     He was okay with this. Not thrilled, even though I called him hot but gave me the go ahead.
     And then I collected readers. In town. That knew him and used his new nickname.
     "Why did you call me..." he bemoaned.
     "Hero hottie?" I supplied when the poor man couldn't even say it aloud.
     "Yes."
     I gave him a mock glare, trying to hide the laughter and not being successful at all. Poor guy, not only did someone call him hero hottie but his wife wouldn't stop laughing over it. "You said I could call you that."
I reminded him.
     "Yes, but I didn't think anyone would actually read your blog."
     Ahhh. I should have been upset. And a little part of me was and as my friend said, 'You could change his name from hero hottie to hero nottie.'
     And on some days I have certainty contemplated it but I think for now I'll just leave it as hero hottie and kindly let him continue enjoying his small claim to celebrity hood. I'm sure he'll get used to it. :)

Don't Cry Over Drowned Potato Salad

2011-07-30T06:09:00.000-07:00

      To understand this tale of woe, I think you need a visual of my kitchen in your mind. First of all I live in a little house that was built in the late forties. It's a split level and the top floor has 800 square feet. There's the living room, the bathroom, the bedrooms, the hall closets and by the time you enter the kitchen, you have a tiny space that although would still be the envy of most New Yorkers, is difficult to work in because of the lack of counter top. On the one side, I have a stove and the bit of counter space between the double sink and the frig, which has a drainer on it that is only moved when guests come over. (I'm a Mom, do you know how many dishes I do? If there isn't dishes in it, there will be.)
      The other side...what other side? I have shelving for clean dishes and a small counter top for the much needed and very used appliances. (And no there isn't a coffee pot there, but there should be.)
      So when I'm cooking, I tend to -stir, mix, beat, whip, stuff, crunch, flatten- things in bowls on the edge of my sink or on an unused burner. This is the most inefficient way of cooking ever. I've even cooked over an open flame while camping, that was easier. Do you know how hard it is to mix a bowl of ingredients over a full sink of soapy dishes? It is a test in endurance, patience and ability. I watch those Extreme cooking shows on the Food Network, their contestants are weak. If you want a challenge, try a four course meal in my kitchen. That will toughen you up...or make you cry for your Momma. Like the Chairman on Iron Chef, my kitchen does not care for whining, moaning or bleeding digits.
      Redesigning my kitchen is on the top of my list once I have money burning a hole in my pocket or even in my couch cushions. But in the meantime, back to my tale of woe...
      It was a lovely summer afternoon, the sort that calls for a really good meal, like corn on the cob and potato salad. I had never attempted to make potato salad from scratch. Which is surprising considering all the cooking I do, but you have to understand my Grandpa on my Mom's side is German. He's very proud to be very German too. And he has the stories to prove it. The Irish might be well known for their tales of blarney but I hate to say it, in case I upset my Irish relatives, but the Germans have them beat. Not only does a German tell just as many tales, they know their stories are better than anyone else's in the world too.
      When we have family get togethers, he makes the potato salad. I make the pies, and everyone else is free to bring whatever they want. It's tradition and it's just the way it is.
     But I wanted to make potato salad for hero hottie and the kids. I carefully peeled, chopping perfect bite sized pieces. And then boiled them until they were just tender but not starchy and falling apart like some mashed potato dish wanting to be a salad. I had watched my Grandpa do this. This couldn't be so difficult.
      I chilled the potatoes in the frig and then I mixed the pickle juice, mustard and mayo with all my secret spices(mostly pepper and salt) before stirring it all together into the delicious signature dish of summer. Then with a bit of trepidation I took a bite...and it was so yummy. The potatoes were tender, the mixture creamy and smooth but with just a bit of tangy from the pickle juice and mustard. I was thrilled. Hero hottie tried it and loved it. Mission accomplished.
       And then the unthinkable. The heartache. The frustration. I was scooping potato salad onto my plate, after everyone else had loaded up their plates when the bowl, which was balanced on the edge of the kitchen sink, the kitchen sink full of soapy water, tipped to one side.
       I struggled to catch it but I was holding my plate in one hand, the spoon to grab just one more little scoop of potato salad in the other hand and I had to watch as the bowl tipped to the other side and then landed with a flat thud into the soapy water. It tilted a bit when it landed and took in soapy water like a sinking ship and before I could save it, the rest of my potato salad had drowned in the dirty sea of dish water.
       My beautiful creation of mayo and mustard and potatoes was now a sloppy mess of soap bubbles and watered down goodness. On one positive note everyone had a serving on their plates.
      On the woeful side, the dish I had spent so much time and effort into was now a victim of my cruel kitchen. There would be no lovely left overs for lunch the next day. No stolen spoonfuls before being put in the frig. Nothing but the watery mess that would have to be thrown away.
       So I did what every sensible cook does in a situation like that...I cried in the little bit of potato salad on my plate. And I have to say it helped quite a bit. People should cry more in their beers and over spilled milk, the tears just fix everything and like magic my potato salad came popping out of the dirty water and was fine. Okay, okay. I'm being sarcastic, with myself. Crying did not help...at all. The only thing that actually made me feel better was the hugs I got from my children. Those made me feel better. A lot better. And just a bit silly. Because I was making them worry over me and the only thing I was crying over was a bit of hard work and a little bit of drowned potatoes.
      So the moral of this woeful tale is: Hugs are awesome...and make some money to design a new kitchen. No, that last part is wishful thinking. The real learning lesson is don't make potato salad over a sink full of dishes.Oh, and maybe don't let little, silly things like drowned potato salad slow you down in life.
       Hugs are still awesome though.

Mama Tried to Warn Me Not to Date a Zombie...

2011-07-26T09:32:00.000-07:00

     Ahh, what can I say about dating a zombie? They aren't hot like a werewolf and they aren't mysterious and moody like a vampire. They actually remind me of the boyfriend who plays video games all the time, doesn't talk about anything (and complains that you do), and zones out when asked, 'do you want to do something romantic?' But hey, everyone has their ideal and maybe a zombie is for you...just know I tried to warn you.

1. When they take you out to eat, it's always to the same crappy place. They're not concerned about what you want to do or eat, they just want to eat the same thing...brains. They don't want to try anything new or unusual, like a salad with roasted sunflowers and avocado. No, they want brains and the bloodier the better. Wait a minute, are we still discussing zombies or guys with grills and any sort of meat available?

2. They're always going out with their friends, until late in the evening, after you've already done the dishes and walked the dog. For some reason, terrorizing the neighbors and eating their brains is more exciting than doing couple stuff.

3. Depending on the type of zombie they are, your boyfriend might lose body parts at inconvenient times, such as over at your parent's house or grocery shopping. This is gross and quite embarrassing. Can you imagine being on the subway, full of people? "Excuse me, I'm not trying to steal your seat, I just need to find my boyfriend's arm or leg, or nose." All of this while your boyfriend stands around doing nothing, except eyeing the beautiful blonde across the aisle.
     "Are you checking out that blonde?" You accuse angrily.
     "No, I like women for their brains." Zombie boyfriend says. Yeah, sure.

4. There is 'feet smell', and there is 'running laps sweaty smell', but there's nothing like the body odor of the undead. Plan on purchasing lots and lots of cologne for your zombie boyfriend. They tend to be quite wretched in their odor as body parts decompose. I would say that no one could put up with this smell but I've met some interesting people in my life, such as a lady who would collect road kill and store it in her freezer until she could boil the flesh from the bones. So I'm sure there are people out there in this strange world who wouldn't mind the constant odor of zombie flesh.

5. You remember that time when you would tried to discuss important things with your ex boyfriend while he was trying to watch the 'GAME'. And remember how that ended well... Having a zombie for a boyfriend is like that except all the time. They can't focus, they can't carry conversations and they're happy if you put them in front of a video game and let them play for days at a time.

6. With the Zombie Apocalypse a possibility, at least according to both the CDC and even the city of Bristol in the UK, having a boyfriend that is on a wanted list might be a horrible ending to your love story. How heartbreaking would it be to watch the love of your life be attacked by trained city officials as they try to "Fully disconnect the brain-stem from the body through either blunt force or full head removal." (This is contained in Bristol's city contingency plans for zombie attacks.) And forget all the zombie killing techniques we have learned from watching Zombieland and Shaun of the Dead. Your relationship is truly doomed and this is even before you take him home to meet Daddy.

7. He might try to eat your brains one day. This is a definite sign that there is something wrong in your relationship and you should probably break up before your story ends up on one of those crimes shows about deadly relationships.

     So I tried to come up with ten possible hazards of dating a zombie but after seven I have come to the conclusion that perhaps zombies don't make the best boyfriend material. If you're not worrying about the smell of the undead and lack of conversations, then you have to worry about him eating brains or being killed by mobs of townspeople. Oh, I know dating is frustrating and complicated but I think you have to be desperate to date a zombie....On the other hand I see reality television shows in the making like...
     My Zombie Boyfriend or The Zombie Bachelor or Zombie's Got Talent

This is not secret Zombie Apocalypse code, so townspeople of Bristol do not panic. This is for

Technorati, to help bring readers to my blog.

VHZ9RY96HMGG

Death of a Bookstore

2011-07-18T16:47:00.000-07:00

       Goodbye Borders. I will miss the long shelves of information, stories, and knowledge that was just within the reach of my fingertips. I will miss the smell of paper and ink mingling together in familiar warmth. I will miss the anticipation that tickled my insides as I held the new treasured book to my chest waiting to take it home and eagerly jump into the pages of another world.
        How many books, (dozens) and how many authors did I discover because snowy days, icy and forbidding to play outside, were the perfect kind of days to spend lazy afternoons exploring the shelves of the bookstore? Buying books online is doable but I can't flip through the pages, trying to decide if I want to purchase it.
        I know we blast full speed into the future, with electronic books and quick downloads right into our reading devices. And in some way this may be easier, it certainty would be kinder on the back when moving. Physical books weigh so much and my library is huge. The prices are lower and it looks like authors are branching out and daring to do things on their own, each book selling for less but in fact making more profit per book for the writer since they're not having to share with their agent and publisher.
        But children's books, picture books have to be physical. They have to be something you can curl up with as your child sits on your lap and listens to the story. Bonding. Sharing. Growing. And how am I supposed to pick one out that can live up to the potential of being read over and over again without me going crazy??? If I'm going to read a book a million, trillion times I want to enjoy it too. How am I supposed to pick that out through a computer screen??
        See, to understand my sorrow you have to realize that Borders was the last bookstore in my town. Over the last ten years the downward spiral of the economy took out the local Mom and Pop bookstores, then it killed off the two bookstores in the mall and now, it has finished off the only bookstore we had left. And although I still question big corporations, such as Borders, because of the threat they pose to small businesses, I still enjoyed the experience of buying my books in their bookstore because of their selection, their welcoming atmosphere, and the ability to almost always find something I wanted to read.
       Every Christmas my siblings, grandparents, and parents would go in on a huge gift card to Borders for my children's Christmas present. They loved it because they could purchase a new book every month for almost a year. What lucky kids! And every trip to the bookstore furthered their love for stories and books. It fed their thirst and hunger for learning. Textbooks are okay but if you want your children to really learn about the world encourage their reading of classics, and biographies and anything that interest them.
      With a heavy heart I read the Wall Street Journal online and realized that the death of the bookstore will effect all of us. They employed around 10,700 people who are going to be losing their jobs. They owe money to publishers, some who will probably not survive because of this. The publishers owe authors who aren't going to be paid. The publishing world is already in mass chaos as the world economy is shaken and stirred by events I have no control over. Now, they have to survive the massive death of around 400 bookstores. That's 400 less places to showcase great books, 400 less places for a fledgling author to possibly gain notice.
       400 less places for a child to discover a bigger world.
       Times are always changing but obviously the lost of so much for so many people will not be a good thing. But hopefully, even as access is restricted to books for some people, we never forget the magic of a good story.
       The thrill of reading, 'Once upon a Time..."
       The happy sigh as one finishes a great story...
       Today though, it's too bad Border's story ends as a tragedy...

Hazards of Dating a Vampire

2011-07-15T10:36:00.000-07:00

       If dating a werewolf isn't thrilling enough for you, than flirt with danger. Date a vampire. They're the ultimate moody hero. Dark. Mysterious. Perhaps just a touch creepy though when they come home in the wee hours of the morning with blood dripping from their fangs. "No, honey. That's just pizza sauce." Yeah, sure it is...

1.   It's hard to hang out together. If he's a 'true-to-the-tale' vampire he can't be exposed to sunlight or your boyfriend will turn into a pile of dust. Talk about ditching out on you. At first, this avoidance of the daytime might not be such a big deal but after a while you might start missing long walks along the shore at sunrise or getting a tan.
      If he just sparkles in the sunlight then the tougher vampires might tease him because I'm still not sure if fierce, blood sucking monsters are suppose to sparkle like someone went crazy with their Bedazzler.
(Personal opinion, I can't say for sure. They might just be jealous that they can't go in the sunlight too.)

2. He likes to nibble your neck when you're making out. Can you be sure that he's just lovin' or is he tasting?

3. If he's been in high school for over a hundred years there just might be an unresolved maturity issue. I haven't met many people who wanted to be in high school for four years, let along anyone that could stand it for over a hundred years. This problem might even be worse than the guy you dated who played video games all day in his parent's basement...at the age of thirty.

4. You take him over to your parents for dinner and they serve him garlic spaghetti. His hissing, baring fangs and possibly dying is not going to go well. Especially if your family is Italian, then Grandma is going to be insulted forever over the boy who didn't like her spaghetti. What a mess. This is so much worse than when you brought your vegan boyfriend to dinner and he refused to eat the steak.

5. He gets tired of you giving him tan on spray for Christmas presents because the death look just irritates you after a while. 'Really, I know you're like the undead and all, but really the rotting copse look is so yesterday.'

6. He sleeps in a coffin. Really? That's seems so 1950's black and white horror movie. He needs to upgrade to the comforts of modern daily living. Like a bed. With a mattress. Just because he's a monster doesn't mean he shouldn't sleep on something light and fluffy and advertised by little, delicious sheep.

7. He doesn't age and you do. This will cause relationship issues and insecurities without a doubt. There is no use trying to state otherwise, especially when people start to think that you're his Mom...or worse, his grandmother. If you're thinking long term relationship, then think about becoming a vampire too. Just remember it truly bites if you break up later, because you're still a vampire. But hey, you'll look fabulous at your twenty year high school reunion.

8. Blood stains are hard to get out of clothing. Buy him plenty of stain sticks and calmly realize that he may spend more money on clothing than you do.

9. If he's a special, gifted vampire he might have unusual talents, like reading people's mind, leaping around forests, or turning into a bat and ridding the town of mosquitoes. As long as his talents also include doing dishes, making dinner, picking up his dirty socks and remembering your birthday, than give him a break if when you're kissing you find mosquitoes wings in his teeth.

10. And finally, remember that every once in a while, vampire hunters, mobs of bored townspeople with pitchforks and glowing torches, and other vampires that are just jerks, might want to kill your boyfriend. This is exciting in the movies, not so much fun in real life. Plus, when the house is destroyed you have to deal with insurance companies and they can be worse than the vampire hunters. So it might be a great idea to keep in shape and buy a vampire pit bull. Nasty creatures, just don't tell your insurance company, the rates are horrible. (Also, don't let your vampire pit bull puppy outside during the day to go potty. Otherwise you'll be cleaning up a pile of ash.)

So dating a werewolf or vampire can be exciting, exhausting and definitely living on the edge. But if that doesn't appeal to you, wait until you hear about the hazards of dating a zombie...

10 Reasons Why Dating a Werewolf May Not Work for You

2011-07-03T16:30:00.000-07:00

       In the movies, (i.e. Twilight) and on the television shows (i.e.Wizard of Waverly Place) the cool thing to do is to date a werewolf or a vampire. Apparently, dating a monster is hip, it's totally awesome and gives you a lot to Twitter or Facebook about. As if it wasn't hard enough for a teenage boy to get a date, now he loses points for being human.
     But although dating a hot werewolf, (we'll talk about vampires next time) may make you weak in the knees, prone to drooling every time he takes off his shirt, or warm under the collar, I think there might be a few relationship problems the experts haven't publicly discussed yet.

   1. He smells like wet dog. Seriously, this is not a turn on. If he starts sweating and proceeds to smell like a drenched mutt, I'm going to go get some fresh air. And forget about snuggling in his jacket. Gross.

   2. He sheds. Do I look like I want to vacuum after the boyfriend every time we make out on the couch? If we're going to date, then he needs to come with his own vacuum and the ability to use it.

   3. He drinks from the toilet. Do I have to say anything more?

   4. When you take him over to meet your parents, he sniffs them in places that makes a social meeting vastly uncomfortable. Also, fighting for the bone with the family dog is not earning him points with your Father.

    5. Every time you use the electric can opener he comes running, drooling and begging for some food.

    6. His favorite spot to be petted is behind the ears or on his belly. In fact, when you ask him if he wants a massage, he flops on the floor, belly up, waiting for his belly rub.

    7. When you ask him what he wants to do for the evening, he always wants to go for a walk...in the park...and play Frisbee. Which wouldn't be so bad if he didn't stop to sniff every tree, growl at every dog, and catch the Frisbee with his mouth.

    8. The neighborhood cats go missing but he doesn't know anything about it.

    9. When you go for rides in the car, you have to drive. He's too busy sticking his head out the window and letting the wind blow on him.

    10. He will do anything for a Scooby snack.

Werewolves might be strong, hot and able to defend you from angry vampires. And it might even be possible to put up with the above problems, but I think it would take a special sort of woman to stay with a guy that is constantly chewing up her shoes.

Rude People and the Painful Process of Forgiveness

2011-06-27T22:24:00.000-07:00

       The other day I was at the grocery store with the children shopping for food when I had to deal with a very rude person. I was picking out my chicken and apparently taking too long because this woman storms over to where I'm standing, grabs my cart handle, which is touching my waist and gives it a shove away from me. She then steps next to me, definitely in my personal space but not touching me. I was quite shocked, having been busy trying to find a package that looked edible, and could only stare at her profile as she proceeded to find her piece of chicken, all the while making loud huffing noises at me.
      She angrily grabs her chicken and walks heavily away from me, never saying anything and leaving my poor cart where she had shoved it out of her way. I was mad and quite astounded at her poor manners.
      A simple and polite 'excuse me' would have worked wonders for her if she couldn't wait one or two minutes for her turn. I guess she missed those lessons in kindergarten.
     Or perhaps she's royalty and I didn't notice the crown. In that case I should have offered to push her cart through the entire store for her. Or, even though she looked well dressed, elegant and stylish, maybe that was a disguise and she was actually an escapee from Miss Manner's Academy for Rude Adults.
      I'm not sure what her reasons were for being rude and I doubt she has a good enough excuse to justify just how improper she was behaving. I do know from the way she was acting that she thought I was the one in the wrong, which is ridiculous since I was shopping and not talking on my cell phone or texting while blocking the groceries.
     But with all that being said, what is really bothering my state of mind about the entire situation is me. Yes, I didn't do anything wrong. I know there are extremely rude people in the world. And even if she was having a bad day, it's no excuse for treating someone else so rudely. Life is hard enough, we all need manners to remember our humanity. But over a week later I'm still letting it bother me. I can feel my body tense up when I think about it. I laugh when I tell the story to friends but on the inside I'm still upset over the thirty second incident.
     I'm not sure why. Perhaps, because I didn't say anything to her in response to her actions and so feel trampled on. There is a certain amount of resentment that builds up when injustice is quietly taken, even for such, small insignificant conflicts with rude people.
    No matter the reason, I need to forgive. Not condone. Somehow it is possible to forgive without condoning the action but it's not always easy to offer forgiveness.
     The nice thing about being a writer that it always helps to write something down, because then I can let it go. Seeing the words is a release. Like water on the back of a duck. I can take a deep breath and it isn't thick and tight with resentment.
    Forgiveness helps protects our health. It clears our mind, sweeps out the debris of our anger.
     And it can be amazing. A few years ago I almost died. In fact, I spent two years almost dying. It was a difficult and lonely time. When I started healing I became friends with a coworker of hero hottie and it was so nice to enjoy life again.
     But then she moved away and our chats and visits were fewer and fewer but we were still friends, until one visit when she never talked to me again. We had a wonderful time and then she avoided all my emails and phone calls. I didn't understand and I was greatly hurt. After going through such a difficult period in my life and then to find a friend, only to be completely torn apart, I was devastated. I didn't even know what I had done wrong. I spent weeks trying to figure out why she had so suddenly stopped being my friend. I already was experiencing a fear of embracing life because of how close I had come to exiting and it certainty didn't help to feel rejected.
     I also kept the hurt of what happened in my heart and over the years it grew darker and more bitter. Instead of just pain it was now anger swirling in my gut every time I thought of her. It also made me nervous of making new friends. Why risk friendship when it could end so painfully?
    And then a few weeks ago I had a dream. In this dream I forgave her and when I woke the bitterness was missing. The old anger was gone and I instantly realized that I should have forgiven her so long ago. Forgiveness wasn't condoning the pain she had caused me, but it was allowing me to let go of the anger. So then, I decided to actually ask her why she had treated me in such a way.
      "I want to know why you stopped being my friend?" I asked her, quite matter of factly, but shaking from nerves on the inside.
      She was quite surprised to see me and a bit puzzled over my question. And then she answered and shocked me. "I didn't. You did. Your child said you weren't sure if we were friends."
      "What? You stopped talking to me." I said.
      "Because I thought you didn't want to be friends." She looked as confused as I felt. "She said you were talking to your mom and said we weren't friends."
       "You stopped talking to me because my small child said something from a conversation she didn't fully understand and you took it at face value without talking to me?"
        She shrugged, clearly starting to wonder if she should have just believed a small child without verifying facts.
       I almost laughed. "I was worried about our friendship, since you moved. She didn't understand the entire conversation." (Note to self, don't repeat anything in front of ornery child who thinks she understands adult conversations and knows she can improve on them.)
       I spent a few years being angry and without dreaming about forgiveness would never have talked to her. And nothing would have been straightened out.
       Which brings me to other side of forgiveness, the part where sometimes we have to ask for it. Last week I said something about a loved one, completely joking but easily misconstrued as hurtful, which I didn't mean at all. Unfortunately, I said this joke in front of my ornery child and she decided to repeat it to the one person I didn't want to hear what I had said. And now I feel bad for my big mouth.
      I tried to apologized but I don't think it was well received. Hopefully, my sibling realizes I wasn't trying to be hurtful and I always hate using words improperly. Me and my big mouth.
      But it is a good reminder why forgiving is important. Because no matter how hard we try, at some point (and sometimes a few times a week), we're on the side of needing forgiveness for our actions. I guess we're just human. Imperfect, sometimes grouchy and really good at not communicating well. Ask anyone who has been married for years, the ability to forgive is important.
      I tell you what though, forgiving and waiting to be forgiven, is not easy. But it's worth it because I was tired of being mad at the rude grocery lady. I can even hope she enjoyed her chicken.

Why We Need Good Dads

2011-06-19T16:11:00.000-07:00

     I think every child should be blessed with great parents. The world would be such a better place if everyone had parents that were responsible, caring, generous, and followed the golden rule. And since today is Father's Day, lets talk about Dads in general. Because where would we be without great Dads?
   This discussion is going to stick to the things that make a wonderful Dad. I'm not talking about the males that deposit their 23 chromosomes, a monthly check and a whole lot of heartache. Just about any guy can become a parent, not all of them make a good Dad.
     I have a great Dad and I know it. I try not to take that fact for granted. And maybe because I realize just how lucky I am, most of my stories feature characters that are orphans and they have to find their own way in the world.
      Now Dads are completely and wonderfully different than Moms. (Great Moms are a blessing too and since I didn't have the time to write about them around Mother's Day, sometime this summer I will discuss them).
   Here are five rough and tumble ways why Dads earn a day of appreciation.

     #1. Moms are usually in charge of our nutritional needs, that's why cookies are outlawed before dinner time, for breakfast and in quantities of more than one. But Dads don't know these rules. They appreciate a good chocolate chip or peanut butter cookie. So the rule in my house was if you wanted a second cookie or absolutely needed one right before dinner, bypass Mom (who was busy anyway) and ask Dad. Not only would he say yes, he would join you and usually share more than one too.

      #2. Nice days are for mowing the grass and raking leaves. But Dads love the idea of taking it easy too. They're almost always up to an extra game of catch, an afternoon of fishing, a hike through the park or an all evening bike ride.

      #3. Bedtime to a Dad, unless he's trying to watch a television show or check emails, means that it is time to get rowdy. This, for some odd reason to a Dad, is the best time to chase the kids around the house causing them to scream, hide and giggle. It's the perfect time to toss small children so high in the air Moms are sure kids are going to end up bruised. And then when the kids are completely wound up and using their beds as trampolines, Dads decide to go back to what they were doing and it's Mom's time to tuck them in.

      #4. Dads understand that Moms are just being overly nervous about the entire learning to drive thing when Moms come home from teaching you how to drive and they're threatening to never take you out again. I beg to differ, the line of cars parked along the side of the road were still half an inch away from my car and were in no danger of being side swiped. Dads understand this and they will risk getting into the car with you so you can finish learning to drive. And besides they make you feel better when you fail your first driving test.

      #5. They believe in you. They're the first ones to let go of the back of the bike, to have the patience to teach you to skip rocks and have enough faith in you that eventually you can learn algebra. At least enough of it to pass the math class. And they won't even tell anyone that you were crying over negative and positive numbers.

     Bonus Reason: They're also the last threat in Mom's arsenal of weapons. If she has already used your full name, grounded you and took away your favorite show, then if she reaches the 'you just wait until your Father gets home...'
     Well, good luck. Because Dads are also good at reminding you that you might have taken it too far. Frustrating but it helps you turn into a decent human being. :)

      So I don't have a study to reference to prove my point. But I have to conclude anyway, I know we need good Dads in the world. My Dad is eating ice cream sundaes with his grandkids this afternoon and still enjoys getting the children wound up at just the 'right' time.
      Hero hottie gets a whole big grilled dinner with lots of manly foods and plenty of hugs from his children. I'm a lucky gal, I had a wonderful Dad and I married a man who is a great Father to our children. So Happy Father's Day to all the men in my life.

P.S.- According to my youngest, Dads are also great because they're like big, hairy gorillas that wrestle you all the time.

Absence Makes my Heart Ache for my Laptop

2011-06-16T06:26:00.000-07:00

Zombies vs. Computer Eating Viruses
Zombies- 0 point
Computer Eating Viruses: 1 Point

The winner: Me, but only by a slight margin and with a lot of help from my Dad, who is like a computer genius. (Yes, I'm bragging but he's great with computers. He's a network administer at a school district and can pretty much solve any computer problem.)

And because my Dad is a computer whiz, my computer is blocked by a powerful firewall, virus protection programs and a host of other things that I don't know the names to but I do know that they work. Except for this computer eating virus that came out of nowhere and devoured my computer whole. One minute I'm browsing orthodontic sites (don't shake your heads in disagreement, I have those sorts of sites blocked to protect my children) and the next I'm being told by a pop up screen to download an eighty dollar program to save my computer.
     I refused such acts of terrorism and they, whoever the creeps are, decided to wipe the programs off my computer, hide all my documents and photo files and destroy my operating system. They were like zombies and zeroed right in for the brains of my computer.
     I was almost crying with frustration. Most of my files are backed up, I am a child of a computer guy, but not all of them. And how their program ever managed to sneak pass all the levels of security on my computer is just amazing. Terrible but amazing.
     No, zombies did not eat my laptop and my wonderful, addictive access to the Internet. After a week my Dad was finally able to save my files and my computer. He had to download my files onto another computer to even gain access to my writings and my photos and then he had to completely wipe everything off my computer and reinstall my operating system.
        But for a week I didn't have my computer. What to do with myself? Of course, I did find things to do before AOL graced itself on my computer in the nineties but now I didn't have access to writing my blog, to editing my writings, to preparing my photos to sell them or to surfing the Internet.
      In desperation, which shows you just how much time I shouldn't be spending on the web, I took my iPod and tried to read all the websites that keep me informed of all the terrible things happening in the world right now. The print was tiny, the scrolling was impossible, and typing involved feats of patience that I usually only need when trying to get children ready for school on time.
     So I gave up. (and you can't type an entire blog entry on an iPod. You need the patience of a Saint or the fingers of a 24/7 texting teenager.) In the meantime, I didn't spend as much time stressing myself out over all the crises in the world that I can't do anything about anyway. And I have to admit it was pleasant. I didn't have to worry about zombie attacks, stupid news that focuses on politicians showing off their supposed assets instead of reporting real news, or wondering whatever human hair really is used to make a dough conditioner used to bake bread. (Tasty. Have you had your human hair today?)
And I'm sure that now that my computer is back up and running, I'll be back to checking on the status of the entire world and the ingredients used in products that I'm sure our Grandma's didn't have on their pantry shelves. But this forced hiatus has reminded me that I don't need instant access to unfolding events. Life is too short to be worrying all the time. I need to save my worrying for more important things...like wondering about the dietary preferences of zombies; do they prefer bread with human hair in it or do they stick to the usual low carb/high brain diets? And how would I figure out these life altering questions if I didn't have my wonderful computer?

The End of the World by Zombie Apocalypse

2011-05-24T15:33:00.000-07:00

I apologize for my tardiness in posting, I've been busy preparing for a possible zombie apocalypse and the end of the world in the same week. On top of being a Mom and writer, that makes for a very busy schedule. Do I wash the kids' clothes and try to get their grass stains out? Or do I let them watch Shaun of the Dead and Zombieland so they know how to survive brain eating, slowing moving, groaning pale people? I did not see any articles about 'How to Prepare Your Children for Zombie Attacks' in the parenting magazines. What's a Mom suppose to do?

And then there was the end of the world that was supposed to be last Saturday. Zombies and the end of the world. Two completely different scenarios to think about, which makes preparing difficult. If you have to prepare for a zombie apocalypse then you have to think about food, water, a brain protector because brains are zombie's favorite food, and perhaps where to find a huge get away truck, flame thrower and other zombie killing devices.
      If you're preparing for the end of the world you have to question yourself. Do you go and party for a week, give away all your money, and do things you normally wouldn't? Or do you act extra good, racking up brownie points to hand to Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates. Do you go out and help as many elderly women cross the street as possible, looking up into the sky and yelling that you just scored another point after each time?
     It's a tough question. Some people are going to forget all the rules and try to convince other people to join them. And other people are going to be really, really good in the hopes that they can avoid the other place opposite of heaven.
      Just so you know, I did neither. I don't have any life savings to give away to people predicting the end of the world and who are already worth millions of dollars (which brings up an interesting question, if you're expecting to descend to heaven, why do you have people donate millions to you? Does Saint Peter take American dollars?) and I'm not going to use such a lame excuse as the end of the world to do something I wouldn't normally do. As far as counting my brownie points to enter the pearly gates, I'm pretty sure it doesn't quite work that way. But I do subscribe to the golden rule, including having forgiveness even when it's difficult to not be spitting angry at the woman who tried to run me over with her shopping cart at Safeway yesterday. (Yes, literally. She thought I was going to steal her spot in the check out line when all I was doing was trying to negotiate the tight spaces in the crowded aisle to reach the other side of the store, so she used her cart to block me, including pushing me out of the way with it when I tried to walk pass her. I was so mad. Still am, apparently.)

      To catch anyone up on the news and so you know what I'm talking about; the Center for Disease Control's blog on May 16th (http://emergency.cdc.gov/socialmedia/zombies_blog.asp) wrote an entry about surviving a zombie apocalypse. Throughout the vast expanse of cyberspace it generated quite a buzz. Some people calling it a tongue in cheek article to grab the attention of people who wouldn't normally think about preparing for a 'regular and boring' disaster. To another group of people thinking that the CDC is bluntly warning us about upcoming zombie attacks. (Of course, have you ever been to Wal-Mart or watched a teenage clerk try to count change nowadays? I think we've already had the zombie apocalypse.)
Either way, on top of everything else I had to do this week, I needed to prepare for zombies. The CDC mentions the basics; water, food, medicines, copies of important papers and planning your escape. They left out the pick up truck, flame thrower, and shot gun. They also said that they would send in the scientists to solve the mysterious outbreak and cure the zombies. I don't recall a movie where the zombies are ever cured and usually the scientists are tasty morsels. So really, I would hate to be a low level CDC scientist during a zombie apocalypse. The odds aren't good. But if they want to be hopeful then good luck.

      The second item was Harold Camping predicting the end of the world last Saturday, even though in the nineties he had predicted the end of the world and obviously his prediction was incorrect. Millions, I mean millions of people around the world believed him. Donating their life savings to either his church or to charity, because they weren't planning on being here this week. Well, guess what. Saturday came and went and here I am blogging. Word of advice, no one can predict the end of the entire world. And if they want all your money to believe in them...run. The world is changing and things do seem chaotic but it's a shame that someone can scam so many people out of their money and their faith.

       I had hoped this week would be quieter but stormy weather brings horrible winds. I'm afraid for people in the mid-west that they have real problems to worry about. They don't need zombies and scam artists to destroy their world. I couldn't even imagine how you start repairing a town (this week, Joplin, MO) that is almost completely damaged. How do you repair so many destroyed businesses, schools, houses, and the hospital? The footage just makes me cry.
       Life is fragile and precious. And being the idealistic person I am I would hope we never have a zombie apocalypse, I would wish that we wouldn't have scam artists anymore, and I pray that people find their hope again, even if it's buried underneath the rubble which used to be their lives.
      In the meantime I just read that Mr. Camping has a new prediction; the end of the world will be on October 21st. Which only gives me less than six months to start racking up my brownie points.