Making Mistakes or you know, it's Motherhood

     In the small town next to our small town, we have a gluten free bakery. It's tucked away in a plaza that shares space with the local sanitary district, an occasional used car salesman and various other businesses that survive for six months and then blow away with the constant prairie wind. 

    Years ago I went to a church housed in one of the bigger office spaces. I don't remember much except they had made a spaghetti dinner for after the service and it didn't smell that great. Now, I have been to many a church function and some of those church ladies, they know how to make a spread. This was not one of them. But it was significantly better than the fundraiser I visited this spring inside a church and the church ladies had made boiled hot dogs. Do you know the color of a boiled hot dog? LOL - not a natural one and Baby Blueberry had to have one. 

    Now, to catch up new readers, I must say that Baby Blueberry is no longer a baby, but instead is a teenager. And if you're a reader from the start, then if you feel old, imagine how I feel? I don't feel old until I realize that my surprise baby from a pregnancy in my mid-thirties is now a teenager. This is why poets and songwriters make art about time slipping into the unknown. It is the most elusive element in science. 

    But I digress, as I often do, even in real time conversations. My best friend from when I was a teenager, we will call her SB, often joked about how we would bird walk in our conversations. When I moved half way across country, we were pen pals for a while and then it slowly died out. I missed her. Sometimes there's nothing as intense as a teenage best friend, besides maybe first love. A couple of years ago I started to get the intense urge to look her up. I would dream about her. She would pop into my head uninvited. 

    And so I looked her up. Her obit was the third down on the search. She had died just shortly before that of cancer. At 43. Grief is hard. Regret of not connecting again before she was gone is harder. 

    She had ended up being a fifth grade teacher. Something she had adamantly said she would never be. And now, I'm teaching fifth grade. Also, something I had said I would never do either. I wish we could joke about that. She would enjoy the irony in it. 

    But again I digress and now we go back to the bakery. This bakery is a must visit if you ever come to my area of the world. The baker has worked countless hours to make goods that taste delicious. Not it's pretty good for gluten free, but actually yummy. And so the other day I had the Husband, who does not get the moniker Hero Hottie anymore, because that relationship is in murky waters, pick up two blueberry lemon muffins. One for Baby Blueberry and one for me. 

    I did not eat it that day. I'm recovering from the second of two major abdominal surgeries - thank you Crohn's- and was not hungry yet. 

    The next day I went to get it out of the fridge and I find one muffin with the delicious and best part of the muffin - the top munched by someone else. I started crying and fuming. How could someone eat my muffin? I angrily toss it in the air fryer and ate the bottom of my muffin. 

    A little while later...Baby Blueberry is searching through the fridge, pulls out a whole muffin, not touched and munched and asks, "Where is my muffin? I was saving the bottom of it to eat later." 

    I stare at the untouched blueberry muffin and then look at her. I look back at the muffin and realized that I had grabbed her saved muffin. I sigh. 

    I tell her what happened and then offer my whole, untouched muffin in return. It does seem rather petty to demand the top of the muffin. The best part. The part she now gets to have two of, but I graciously offer my muffin to her. 

    She shared a bit of it, since she realized I didn't get a whole muffin. But man, I really missed eating my entire treat. So the mistake I mentioned in the title - you thought it would be me confessing to some mistake with my child? No, it's the mistake of grabbing the wrong treat in the fridge, believing someone had taken mine, not bothering to look further because if I had, I would have found it, and then missing out of the best part of the muffin. 

    If only I could have hidden my muffin in my secret chocolate stash in my underwear drawer. I used to hide the chocolate in the cupboard, but they - the children - found it. So it had to go where no child is going to search - their Mom's underwear drawer. 

    Anyway, that is how good those bakery treats are - that I wrote a blog about a missing muffin top. Maybe I should put that in a Google review? 

 And also, having treats and kids is the definition of a paradox. 

My mom died a year ago and I'm still not over it

1 year later. 

And sometimes I still grab the phone to text her exciting news.

Or I still think I should call and make sure she has what she needs.

Then I remember. Or maybe I'm not really forgetting...I just hope that I'm wrong.

This year has been a struggle.

Made even harder because she's gone.

Baby Blueberry still struggles...a year later, which has to be even longer in a eight year old's mind. 

This month she has made it a habit to eat mainly the snacks Grandma would make her.

Chocolate cereal with rice milk. Mott's fruit snacks.

And she asks Gibson quite often, "you're missing her, huh bud?"

I had promised my Mom I would take care of her dog.

On Christmas Eve, Hero Hottie and I had to take her blue heeler in and have her put to sleep.

On the way home a beautiful winter rainbow appeared out of nowhere and arched right over our 

house.

Sometimes fulfilling promises hurt like hell.

This morning I was going to climb to the top of the hill with a mug of coffee and watch the 

sunrise, because she died just before the sun came out. But today is windy and cold and the town 

is on fire.

Instead...

I will just miss her.

Just like I have the last 364 days.

The Good Witch Lied, You Can't Just Click Your Heels and Go Home or Grief Covid Style

         By the time I had reached the age of eighteen, I had moved at least fifteen times. Take a moment to think about the implications of that statement. The math would suggest I moved an average once a year. If only that was the case, it would have been easier. But the funny thing about averages, is they don't mean much. Some years I moved two or three times. The longest length between moves was about four years. It was the most stability I had - those four years.
        A few years ago when I was writing for my local newspaper I would interview people working in the social work field. They all seemed to have big hearts and a desire to make peoples' lives better. They also all seem to have a lack of personal experience of what it means to live in less than middle class. But who attends college? The middle class. The upper class. Sometimes a person from the working class manages to bridge that gap. Or claw their way through the middle class language, vocabulary, and invisible barriers.
      In my town they would hold seminars for the working professionals in social work in which they would pretend to be poor. They would be given cards that would give them scenarios to work through. Examples included your car broke down and you can't make your doctor's appointment or the food pantry is half a mile pass the last bus stop, how do you pick up food?
       I was often asked when I conducted these interviews if I had a background in social work before journalism because I knew what they were talking about.
       No, I don't have a background in social work.
       I have a background in social class. In working class. In poverty.
      It wasn't until later when I grew up and started experiencing other social classes, (If you don't think American has a class system, then you're not working class. Consider yourself lucky and just make sure your town puts a bus stop out to the damn food pantry.) that I began to realize that moving fifteen times in a childhood wasn't normal. Moving half way through a school year wasn't ideal.
     Yes, I was always that kid. "Hello, class. This is so-so and she's new today. So everyone be nice to her." Do teachers realize how much a new kid loves to be told to stand up, have the entire class' attention on them and made to tell something interesting about themselves to the class? Yeah, I didn't think so, because if they realized how difficult it was to be the new kid, they might not make them the center of attention.
      I tell you these details about me, not because I ever thought they were relevant to my life today or because I seek some kind of sympathy, but because my mom suddenly passed away on March 30. And if that connection doesn't make sense to you, don't worry. I have found that in my grief, I struggle with putting all kinds of thoughts together. Some of them click as they should, and some don't. But neurons don't care when they are being destroyed by grief. So weird things happen in the brain.
    My Mom was only 59 years old and because of Covid, the hospital had strict restrictions about visitors. I wasn't even there to say goodbye or to be there for her. Hell, my dad wasn't even allowed to be with her. I was allowed to say goodbye through FaceTime, while she was sedated. But not completely, because her brow furrowed when I talked to her. When I said goodbye. And I couldn't make it better. I think the only thing she feared was dying without family by her side.
     Since that time I have struggled immensely. with grief. with a sense of failure for not being there. for failing to give her a house at the end. My Mom grew up in broken down trailers, and in tiny rooms of the back of bars, and in conditions that were not suitable for a child. If I don't know what the meaning of home means because I never stayed long enough to figure it out and I've been searching ever since,  than she wasn't even aware that she was looking for something.
    My parents moved seven more times after I turned into an adult. They might have stayed in the farmhouse, but 9/11 destroyed her business, and took nearly everything they owned after that. They house surfed after that, driven by storms they had no buffers against except for the weak ones two of their children managed to provide. Their third child, had to run to Texas to escape her poverty made demons, and I would tell her, if she was talking to me, that there is never enough distance in the entire world to run away from our own personal demons.
    My heart aches with the fact that my Mom died in a broken down trailer, with a leaky and moldy office room, windows that allowed the fierce Midwest winds in, and rats that crawled through her kitchen drawers. There were holes in the sub flooring which trips you on the way down the hallway, and the deck was falling apart. My brother had purchased them the trailer outright when they couldn't afford the rent on their last space. If he could have bought them something better, he would have.
    For years they had lived in my basement, before Baby Blueberry came along and we needed more room. I gave them shelter for the cost of running the Cove heaters because damn, those are expensive.
    I couldn't do more. I wanted to do more.
    I wanted to give her what she had spent her hard and difficult life seeking and I failed.
    But even had I provided a house for her. For my dad. Would they have finally found it? And what is it? I thought I knew. That's why I bought a house three days before I got married to Hero Hottie. And then my mom died and I find that I don't know what this idea of home means.
    I thought my lack of decorating was because I believed I wasn't artistic enough to decorate. I thought it was because the only thing I ever saw growing up, was that my parents would get permission from the landlord to paint the walls a light blue. In every single house. I thought my lack of style was because my mom used cheap, garage sale knick knocks and passed down doilies to decorate our spaces and I didn't like that style, so I didn't do anything.
    Then I had a realization as I spent hours thinking about my mom and my childhood, after she passed, I never took the time to decorate my houses, because even though Hero Hottie and I have been in our current house for over ten years, I expect to pack and move without a moment's notice. I'm always in waiting mode, ready to clear out. Ready to leave. Why decorate a space that you're going to leave? Heck, I have numerous dreams where I have to pack a bag and just leave. And in my dreams I'm always worried about taking the items that mean something to me.
    My mom has left me lost. As Baby Blueberry said, the first week of quarantine we did okay, the second week we started getting grumpy with each other, the third week Grandma died. And then counting the weeks stopped.
    Dorothy just clicked her heels and she found her way home. I lost the only stable point I ever had and I'm spinning like a tornado who might land in Oz or Kansas, or back in Oregon. And it doesn't matter, because no matter where I land, I've tried clicking my heels, and I still haven't found home.

Where Did the Queen Go? Subbing in the 2nd Grade

      Unless you already know the teacher, the uncertainty of subbing starts when you accept the job. Through the digital platform my school district uses, besides the day and time, I get to see the teacher's name, their subject and grade level, and their building. The rest is a mystery. It's similar to scheduling an interview for an article - you might have Googled them, but so much is a mystery until you're sitting across from them.
         On the sub software, the teachers have an option to add files or notes, but I have found most of them don't fill that field out. Occasionally, I will run into one that says, I have morning duty, please be here on time.
      I thought a sub had to arrive on time, and I think most of them do. Okay, perhaps that isn't correct. Half? I was late one day - the first time since I started this gig. Ten minutes late and I was about ready to trip over myself with my readied apologies that I had composed in my head all the way over to the school.
    "Sorry I'm late. My six-year old decided to be sick today. Today. I don't work everyday, why couldn't she had picked a day when I'm home doing college? So anyway, I really sorry that I'm arriving seven minutes before the bell rings," I composed in my head as I missed my turn to the school and had to go around the block. Twice.
      Can I get lost in my neighborhood? Perhaps.
      I hurry into the office and the secretary hands me the paper to sign in and only half the subs have signed in so far. A pattern I have started to notice at other jobs. I pause over my apology.
       And then the secretary says something about being a sub herself and I swallowed my readied apology. She doesn't seem concerned, probably because she is involved in the mystery that consists of subbing at the office. At this point, I'm not going to worry about being ten minutes late. She tries to explain where my classroom is and by that point - remember when I mention how often I can get myself turned around - well, it includes walking around these different school buildings too and I'm completely lost. But this could also be because by this time she has pointed down three different hallways trying to remember which way the second grade wing is. Finally, she stops trying to explain where the room is and grabs a passing teacher to take me towards the right area. The kindly teacher offers to take me to my classroom and uses a shortcut through the literacy rooms and the library. I don't even know which main hallway to use. It was a nice gesture, but unless you want me taking my entire second grade class through the literacy room, then please, please show me the main hallway next time. 
      I have only a few minutes to turn on lights, read the sub notes, figure out what programs I will need to have up on the computer and the Promethean board. A neighboring second grade teacher pops in and says if I need anything, then she is right down the hall. And I could tell she actually means this! Relief floods my voice when I tell her thank you. I have quickly found in the last three months that not all the teachers want to help the sub, and in fact I was in one school last week where I made a minor mistake with grabbing my students from recess and our classes sort of tangled in the hallway. No one was hurt, injured or otherwise maimed, but I had destroyed - albeit for thirty seconds - the routine of the hallway. The horror of it. After that she made it her mission to glare at me and ignore anything I said to her. Seriously, ignored everything I said to her. I even apologized, and nothing except a dark glare.
     The second graders pore in and say hi and then tell me everything I'm doing wrong with the sign- in system for hot lunch. I quickly get it fixed and we move onto morning meeting. Which has turned into one of my favorite parts - because I get a chance to chat with them before we move onto assignments.
     Between writing assignments, preventing the class clown from taking over, (although to be fair, he was funny) and messing up on explaining the math lesson, we managed to work amiably towards the end of the day. I had two students stay in for recess and lunch because she was recovering from a tonsil removal and couldn't be outside. Again, back to the mystery of the subbing. I didn't know I would be having lunch with students that day.
    And then we got to the guest speaker, our last assignment of the day. I thought, whew, Miss B is coming in and leading the class and I can take a breath. And that's when Miss B showed up, not a teacher like I assumed, but a eighteen year old senior in high school state beauty pageant winner. 
    She came in wearing a stylish sweater, her hair swept back into wavy locks, thin high heels on her feet that clicked against the classroom floor, a small, but shiny tiara on top of her head, and a sash across her chest with Miss HomeTown State. This was our guest speaker, doing a Veteran's Day project with a classroom full of second graders. Mmm, I was going to have to make sure they listened to a teenager. Oh, boy.
    And then I realized that all the second graders were staring at her, their eyes wide and they were listening to every soft spoken and perfectly articulated word she said. And when she said it was time to grab the construction paper and create cards for veterans - they eagerly got to work. She circled the room, visiting with each student. I was helping a student with his card when he gives me a panicked look. "Where did the queen go? Where did she go? I wanted to see her again."
    The queen?  Oh, my. Tiara. Sash.
    "Miss B? She's over there, helping your classmate."
    "Oh, good. I thought she left."
    His classmate across the desk looks at us. "She's a princess. I'm so glad she's here. We got to see a princess today."
   I look at Miss Hometown State and tried to see what the classroom of second graders are seeing and I can see it, with her poise and her grace and the way she softly and royally makes her way around the classroom. All those hours I know she has spent learning how to glide have paid off. I didn't know you could even glide in high heels?
   But I think it might really be the tiara too. It's shiny and pretty and Disneyish.

   Mmm, perhaps stickers aren't the key to subbing - wearing a tiara and sash is. And then I remember how I don't glide in high heels, my words are not always articulate, and I don't own a tiara.
    I decide to buy more stickers. They're cheaper than a tiara anyways.
   
    

Adventures in Subbing

    I was standing in the middle of a different kindergarten room, determined to succeed this time. Which meant this time I wasn't going to allow a huge tub of crayons to be dumped on the floor, ran over by chairs, and then caught by the para pro as if I didn't know what I'm doing. (Uhh, not really...but no one needs to know that.)

    It was only a half day and I managed to catch the teacher before she left, which I have found to be extremely helpful. I get to ask questions, like what are the bathroom rules for your class. Some teachers remember to write down this important rule and others forget. Which can be a disaster, because what I have discovered is that the kids will tell you that they are free to skip off to the bathroom, together in large groups, gathering friends from other rooms on the way, and they can stay there all day.

   So far I have found this rule to be incorrect and one of the first things I do when I arrive at a classroom is to find the bathroom passes. If a teacher has bathroom passes hanging by the door - it's usually a good indication that there are some bathroom rules.

   The Kinder teacher is friendly and equally relieved to be talking to me as I was to have the chance to chat with her. Another thing I have discovered is that most teachers prefer to make a little contact with the sub before they hand over their group of students.
   She runs me through rules, technology, and behavioral issues. And then she stops and looks at me.
  "We've had a lot of lice in this class. I don't know just how many probably have lice right now. I got lice twice last year and I only started to wear my hair down again. I hope you didn't spend a long time doing your hair today?"
   My hand goes to my long locks, which secretly I had been thinking were looking especially wavy and pretty today. I was actually having an excellent hair day - something of a rarity for me. But the moment she mentioned lice, I pulled the hair clip from my hair and swept it all up and out of the way. I did not need to take lice home from work. I already had to worry about Baby Blueberry bringing the little pests home from her own Kindergarten class.

   The students arrive back from lunch, eyeing me with curiosity and hesitancy.  It is at least more welcoming than the fifth grade class I had recently subbed in - they made a big production of being upset over having a sub and their behavior that day had reflected that attitude.

   We run through the material and everyone is participating except for three little boys - but I'm considering this a win. The class is growing restless though, writing is still a difficult skill at this age and they have been working hard. But we have another math sheet to get through.

  I dig in my bright blue backpack that I've started carrying with me. It's my sub pack and it has grown in size with every new class I have subbed in. Because I have found that I need my own supply of first aid items, colored pencils and other teaching necessaries to do a proper job.

    I pull out doggie and kitty stickers I had added just for the younger classes. They are photos of the cutest, fluffiest, and adorable pets that someone could find. I don't think you can find cuter kitties any where in the world and they are my secret weapon.
   "All right guys, I know you've been working so hard. You are doing great on your work, but we have one more sheet to work through before your special class. (language with another teacher) See these stickers - everyone gets one if you finish your work."
    The ooo's and ahh's fill the room. Who doesn't want the cutest doggie or kitty sticker ever made? I hand out their math sheet and they eagerly go to work. And I happily hand everyone a sticker that afternoon.

   We end the day with a coloring sheet and no crayons on the ground.

     And I bring home no lice.

  

   

Subbing in Kindergarten

    I'm standing in the middle of chaos - wondering what the hell I'm doing here. Interviewing physicists and clergy is much easier than what I've just signed up for. Heck, even interviewing chefs is easier than this and they oftentimes possess inflated egos. All I can say about that - is the Food Network has created small hometown chefs who think they are celebrity chefs just because they can grilled a steak properly. To be fair - I can't really grill a steak properly- so I will give them props for that.

    But media jobs are hard to find and I was in need of some income - so I signed up to be a substitute teacher. After all, I homeschooled the girls during their middle school years and we work on assignments during the summers. I also have a background in education, although not formal classroom experience - so why not?

    After a background check and two and half hours of training I'm ready to lead the classroom. Or so the sub coordinator tells me.

    Um, no. I thought I was ready to lead the classroom and then I decided to sub for a kindergarten classroom for my first time.
    It was like 24 Baby Blueberries at the same time. I wasn't a temporary kindergarten teacher - I was a manager of chaos. A director of potty breaks, Band-Aids, and oh, please don't eat the math cubes.

    To be fair the day had no chance not to be a little on the chaotic side- the teacher had gotten ill and went home half way through the day. So the little guys went to lunch and when they came back- there I was to take over - after they had only attended two weeks of school. They don't even have their routine down and their teacher has gone missing.

      It started out calm and managed though. Our first assignment was watching a Leapfrog video on the alphabet. But I couldn't find the video. So we searched the Youtube for it. I found it, but not the entire song.
    "That's not the right one," one little boy told me.
    "I don't know which one it is, guys."
    "It's that one," another student insisted.
    "No, it's not. It's that one."
    "I see Pete the Cat on there- can we watch that?"
    "No," I said, finally finding the correct Leapfrog video.
     All the kids joyfully sang with the song and tried to make their letter sounds. Okay, this sub thing is going to go okay, I think to myself.
     Then we have to work on our All About Me books. Do you know how hard it is to pass out books when you don't know anyone's name and half the class isn't listening for their name? And some of the kids can't even pronounce their names well enough for you to understand them?
    Finally, all the books are passed out and I'm reading a book to them while they color.
    Then total and complete chaos erupts. The noise level has slowly and steadily grown higher and then I turn around to see that two of the little girls have dumped a tub of crayons on the floor and the two boys sitting at their table are running over the crayons with their chairs. OMG
   
    And that's when the parapro walks in to pick up a student.

    I haven't been that embarrassed for a long time - not since I asked a chef how to make peasant soup instead of pheasant soup. (He was wondering if I was seriously asking about cannibal recipes.)

     She instantly goes to the front of the room and threatens to take away recess if they don't quiet down and start listening to the sub.
     A startled hushness falls over the previously noisy kindergartners. Lose recess? The horror.

    And for the rest of the day - when ever the noise level started creeping up- all I had to do was remind them that they wanted to go out for recess, right? Instant quiet.
   And I also kept the two little trouble makers separated for the rest of the day. That helped a lot.

   At the end of the day the counselor came in to do a activity with the children- they kept her on her toes too. She had a photo of her dogs and do you know how much five years old want to talk about all their pets - dead and alive? I'm now aware that there are quite a few cats and hamsters buried in people's backyards throughout town.
       After the children leave she comes up to me and says, do you know how many people won't sub in kindergarten because of how busy they are? Quite a few.
      I nod, still trying to catch my breath. But surprisingly, I found myself thinking I would come back - but with stickers. Definitely stickers and maybe Goldfish crackers.

    
    

Voodoo curses aren't funny

 Earlier this spring, when I was in the muck of it all - I was overwhelmed with the school work surrounding my computer. My life was piles of books, paper, and mess cover my dining room most of the time. It was a series of late nights, waiting until nearly midnight to turn in hastily finished assignments- the magical due date of online school - and hoping my Internet didn't freeze up right at that moment.

Luckily, my college is online and I send in digital files of my homework - because the paper copies that I work from are sometimes covered in splashes of spaghetti sauce, grease from various kids' snacks, and Baby Blueberry's scribbles. Although her supply and demand curves are the cutest drawings ever. (Ever learn microeconomics with a preschooler on your lap - it's an interesting process.) 

I am nearly two years into my return of completing my degree and I've realized that my sense of direction or lack of - hasn't changed in the nearly twenty years since I started the college process. I was going to study accounting, because accountants make enough money to live off of - and then I took an accounting class. Confession- I took two because I figured it would be a really handy skill to have. Which it has been - I now know for certain after looking at my bank statements with the critical eye of a business major that I'm definitely broke and my net worth is less than when I started school and applying for student loans.

Perhaps European students with their nearly free or at least affordable college education have a good thing going. Don't get me wrong- I was a business major, coming from a long line of failed and closed businesses - but also an equally long-line of never give up entrepreneurs - so I have a healthy respect for capitalism. I also came from Oregon - so I believe higher education shouldn't shackle a ball and chain around your ankle for the rest of your working life.

But back to accounting...

When my head stopped exploding and I stopped crying in the bathroom between each new lesson - I realized I could learn accounting and even pass the class with a decent grade. I also spent most of fall and spring semesters memorizing my accounting textbook just so I could pass the tests. (Just to be fair I passed with high grades, but again this is because I memorized the damn book.)

I switched majors because business would take another two years to complete and I wanted to figure out a plan to finish next year, since balancing school and kids was difficult.

And then my financial situation came crashing down around me and damn it - if I don't go back to work by October than I will not be able to pay my mortgage. School? Mortgage? Running away to a tropical island and living on a beach?

We take a small break from this blog to offer some advice:

1. Finish school before kids and a mortgage payment - it's just easier. I've done school both ways and I miss the days of go to class, meet friends in the library, eat some Ramen noodles, and study or take a nap - it was easy either way.
Going back to school with a mortgage payment and kids - not so much fun. It means your brain is so full of your schoolwork that you forget all kinds of other things - like paying the dentist bill, or picking up groceries. And for some reason the- meaning the kids-  don't want to eat Ramen noodles - they actually expect things like mac and cheese and spaghetti. Meals that take longer to cook! Damn kids for wanting food, and groceries, and bedtime stories.

2. Take your algebra class before business classes - especially accounting. It's amazing how much math you use in an accounting class. Go figure.

Back to the Blog: 

So here I am, changing my school plans - slowing down my school plans - and trying to figure out a job with only part of a degree and no recent job experience. In our economy- this should go really well. I read hiring ads all the time that say, "Looking for hard working employees that only have 3/4ths of a degree, no internships, no field experiences, and have wiped more runny noses in the last ten years than typed a business memo. Also must know how to vblog, obtain millions of followers on a hundred different social media apps and have the secrets to the last episodes of Games of Thrones before they air."

Add in my failed Ebay business I tried to do last Fall - I'm looking at making lattes instead of drinking them.

I'm going to blame all this on a chance encounter in Denver last spring- because I think I was cursed with a voodoo curse. Or it could have been my overactive imagination, since I couldn't hear the exact words being used at me. But then this happens...so I'm just saying- avoid voodoo curses.

Or don't accidentally piss off someone in traffic that can voodoo curse you- apparently it's bad.

Grandma's Shoes

 Life in the State of Dying

            I kneel on the carpet, in front of the carefully lined up rows of plastic shoe containers. Each one labeled with the style and color of the shoes inside. In some styles of shoes my Grandma had bought five different colors, so she could properly match her shoes with her outfits.
      Most of the shoes won't ever enclose her feet again- the cancer has started to effect every aspect of her bodily functions and her legs and feet are painfully swelling up. Slippers still fit- barely.
     
        The day is late and cold. Although it is May and everyone should be out in their yards planting and weeding- people are preparing for a blizzard. So buckets cover delicate new plants and sheets are spread across flowers beds -- a sheet won't keep the cold, wet snow from damaging the plants- but the hopeful gardeners crosses their fingers and hope that Mother Nature isn't too brutal.
   
      My Grandma, who suddenly went from walking with a cane last week, to needing a wheelchair this week- sits in her pajamas- everyday she is less likely to dress, which for a woman who was always dressed in carefully pressed skirts and blouses- and the collar carefully adorned with one of her pins- it is an unsettling sight.

     She sits in her wheelchair next to me- holding one of Grandpa's shirts, an equally pressed long sleeved buttoned down Western shirt in white with a small floral print on it- but a masculine floral print- the colors in orange and yellow and red.
      Her fingers, which have become quite gnarly and slender in just the past weeks, plays with the fabric.
     "I should throw this out," she says, as her fingers tangle tighter in the fabric. "It's so thin bare, he can't wear it anymore."
    I wait, knowing from the far off look in her eyes that she wants to say more. Bean, who is helping me sort shoes and clothes, is patiently waiting, shifting back and forth on her feet, obviously in her teenage hood not sure what to say and for being Bean and having a habit of always saying the wrong thing- is practicing her nodding a lot this afternoon. She knows her great-grandma is dying- she knows we're helping her sort her material life from the journey she is embarking on- and she doesn't have the experience to say anything that makes this task even easier.

     And so she nods and without complaining- has been helping me vacuum my grandparent's house, and even scrubbing their bathrooms. There are very few words I can say to her, except, "good job kid."

   Grandma knots her fingers in the fabric. "I can't throw it away yet."
   I look up into her face. "Grandma, you don't have to. We'll put it on the shelf."
   "There's a story to it. When your Grandpa used to work at the church doing the lawn mowing, he would sometimes get attacked by bees. We finally figured it out it was only when he was wearing this shirt. They liked it."
    I chuckle along with her, remembering a time when my Grandpa wasn't bound by an oxygen cord and giant tanks of oxygen- when he could walk without taking deep breaths of air because otherwise he wasn't taking in enough breath to make his legs function. The deep guttural sounds he has to make to force enough air into lungs as he shuffles across the floor startled Abu at first- she thought he was going to die right then and there. Now I notices she discreetly watches him- ready to help if he should need it.
    
   I take the shirt and gently place it on the shelf. When they are gone, I'm not sure if I'll be able to toss the shirt- she has given it life, attaching a story to it. A memory. Meaning.
   Damn it. I didn't think helping Grandma sort her closet and drawers would be so difficult, but a few times I have to take a deep breath and force the tears back.
 
  "I can't believe it's going to snow," she says. "I didn't need to see snow one more time."

     Before she goes.

      "Now you get to see Grandma's secret." She says with a huge grin.
      I chuckle. "All your shoes?" It's no secret- I know she has a love of shoes and the dozen upon dozen of pairs attest to it.
     "Now I know where Bean gets her love of shoes from. Do you know when she was two I could keep her busy for hours if I gave her a shoe catalog?"
   Bean wrinkles her nose and then she laughs. She can't deny her love of shoes either. If she didn't have giant feet, she wouldn't mind trying on some of Grandma's shoes. They aren't old lady styles- they are fashionable and elegant and classy.

       Just classic.
   
     Bean helps me sort. We have a pile to try to sell to the consignment store, a pile for donation, and a trash pile.
   Only one pair of shoes goes into the trash pile- the others have been so well taken care of- they can be shared. If we had the same foot size, she would have given them to me- for interviews at my paper job. The pride I hear in her voice when she mentions my paper job. She has read every article I have written and saved all of them.
   "Front page, huh?" She smiles. My latest article actually made the front page just the day before and she mentions that when we sort her clothes she's hoping that there are some items I can wear for my professional career.

     
      Grandma is tired after we finish sorting the shoes, so the clothes will have to wait until after the weekend. Sunday is Mother's Day and I know my Mom plans on bringing her some wonderfully beautiful flowers in a pretty vase.
     Grandma's last Mother's Day. My Mom's last chance to give her mother something for Mother's Day. The day will be bittersweet.
     I know my Mom will not say what she really wants to say- sharing emotions doesn't come easy for her and I'm hoping that the flowers speak volumes to my Grandma.
   Mom has been going over there every day, cooking meals and tending to them.

Her chronic pain condition makes it difficult- love makes it happen. 

    When we go to leave, Baby Blueberry skips over to my Grandma and gives her a huge hug, she skips over oxygen cords and gives my Grandpa an equally big hug with tiny pudgy arms. She doesn't understand, but there is an understanding in her eyes that seems so wise for a two year old. She knows they need the love and in her generous spirit she gives it.
   Her easily given hugs thrill them and they talk about it with my Mom, who is staying to serve them the spaghetti she made, after we leave.

   In the car I tell the girls thank you for the help. Thanks to Bean for helping make their bed, to the extreme specific way my Grandma wanted it and for helping sort her shoes. She nods, and says, "the old people need help." A typical teenage nonchalant statement, but her patience and compassion she displays with them shows me so much more.
   Abu says she doesn't mind playing with Baby Blueberry while I do stuff and asks wasn't I proud of her for watching her for so long.
   Yes, I answer, thinking of their sweetness as they played together, but then my thoughts drift to the boxes of shoes in my car. I wish I didn't have to drop them off. To separate this material life from what comes next.
   But it comes.

  When I arrive home, I look around at the stuff that surrounds me and realize I don't own any of it. I'm borrowing it, using it, enjoying it, but one day- it gets sorted and divided- some kept- some tossed-
     and so I spend the evening dancing and being goofy with my girls and then get down on the floor and play unicorns and princesses with Blueberry.

   And I realize as I pen this blog, that for the rest of my life when I think about the process of dying- I will think about boxes of shoes, a certain teenager helping me put freshly laundered bedsheets on my grandparent's bed, well-loved shirts that aren't meant for the trash, skipping toddlers with pudgy little arms full of love, and a tired Mom cooking her parents spaghetti. 

   

Do Dogs Remember Yesterday?

Heck, do I remember yesterday? I can't even find my car keys.

In an article in Psychology Today, the author, Ira Hyman, Jr., Ph.D wrote about a lack of episodic memory in dogs and other animals. The article, Dogs Don't Remember: Episodic Memory May Distinguish Humans, was published back in 2010 but for some reason was circling around the Internet yesterday- someone must have forgot this was old news.

I found the article interesting, just because I had to disagree with everything he had to say about dogs. And perhaps that comes from the fact that I blog about a dog, so I'm a bit biased.

 Of course Gibson can remember yesterday- he wakes up every morning knowing who I am.

I know Gibson remembers yesterday. I will conduct my own scientific experiment involving
Mr. Gibson to prove it.

First: Take him to the dog park. Now, as soon as we start driving down the road, towards this heavenly place, his body language changes. He starts to frantically sniff out the window, his drooling increases, he starts whining, he lacks self control. Now of course, for disbelievers, you might say he just smells the dog park and his actions are simply a response to the olfactory stimulus that he is receiving-  I know I act the same way when I get to close to a chocolate shop.

But I think he is recalling the smells, remembering the times before that we were there. Experiencing memory.

Second: Let him run around the dog park. Do his doggy thing. The dog park: where the dogs all smell each other's butts- and then your toddler goes home and makes all her toys sniff each other's butts before they play. Oh, boy.

Third: Drag him kicking and pulling away from the car. (Actually, Gibson is fairly good about returning to the car if you start walking towards it- he doesn't want to be left. Hmmm, he is remembering home?)

Fourth: The next morning Mr. Gibson will beg you to take him to the park again. He will run around you in circles, lick your face, whine at the door, and grab his leash. Viola! He remembers yesterday!

Of course, the experiment is hard to prove because when I ask him if he remembers yesterday all he says is, "bark, bark," which translates to "take me to the dog park."

This photo is Gibson after a couple of weeks of bad weather: which means no dog park, no walks, very little outside and yet, he dreams and plans about going to the dog park.  And gets depressed.

The author also goes on to say that dogs don't have memory because when he goes into the yard to play with his dogs they are super excited to see him.Then they get bored. He leaves, returns 10-15 minutes later and they greet him with excitement and joy, like they haven't seen him in forever. His conclusion: they don't remember that he was just in the yard with them.

Mmm, no they remember. They're dogs, which means they experience joy and happiness on levels that we used to when we were little children and it didn't take much for us to experience simple but all encompassing levels of "I'm happy to see you."

What if we all started to greet each other like that, even if we had only been gone for 10-15 minutes? Mmm, okay perhaps not. Business meetings might become awkward with such displays of affections and possible butt sniffing.

 But we could keep the idea in mind- warm smiles of joy really, truly make another person's day.


The other part of the article furthers states that dogs also can't plan particular future events. Dogs can look forward to general future events, like my people should fill my food bowl for dinner but nothing special.

I know this is wrong. Because one day I told Gibson that later we would go to the dog park and then we didn't.

And he didn't let me forget all day. Or the next day. Or the day after that. I had stated a 'particular future event' and he was looking forward to. Planning for it. Probably thinking about all the butts he would sniff. And the squirrels he would chase. And hoping for other dogs to play with.

Maybe I'm just reading human traits into his beastly actions...or maybe he remembers yesterday.

It's a mystery we may never know. But I do know this...he probably knows what the fox says. And that is the question psychologists should be more focused on.


(For readers who don't know, I'm referring to the song, The Fox (What Does the Fox Say) by the band Ylvis. Apparently, they play this song everywhere, including Abu's school dances. I only discovered it today- I know, so far behind on my Internet knowledge. Word of advice though, watch the other videos first before showing to kids. Their song Stonehedge has some suggestive content.

Baby and Puppy Strike Again

Edible Ornaments are Just Snacks Hanging from the Christmas Tree

Right before Christmas, Grandma had Abu and Blueberry over and they made ornaments with cupcake glass ornaments and sugar cones. They were beautiful!

And then they went missing.

I should have remembered that Baby Blueberry really likes to munch on sugar cones. 

Gibson goes without saying. I'm going to hang food on a Christmas tree, which by the way...he loves Christmas trees. I am bringing the outdoors inside...for him. He's sure we bring the tree in just for him. His favorite thing to do with a Christmas tree (and thank goodness it's not to pee on it) he loves to drink the water. Absolutely will drink all the water from the stand, everyday. 

No wonder my tree dried out so quickly. 

Now, of course, I know this crazy dog of mine. I was well aware that if we thought we would put food on the tree it would disappear. 

So we put the ornaments up high. 

And in a few days, this is what I found on the ground. 

Mmm, suspicious. The sugar cone did not fall off by itself.

And then a few days later...I look up to watch a very quiet Blueberry sneaking over towards the tree.

Sneaking. On tip toes. Thinking I'm not watching her. 

But I do watch her and catch her in action. 

Eating the sugar cones!

She ignores me and my camera, as if I can't see her eating the Christmas ornament. Mmm, edible Christmas ornaments. It's a brilliant idea! 

I tell her she can't eat the ornaments and she's vastly disappointed. And as I'm dragging her away from the tree, Gibson, who has now realized there is another ornament at his level, decides to finish off the cone. 

So Baby and Puppy strike again. Eating Christmas tree ornaments right from the tree. It was a delicious Christmas! 

And Gibson thinks we are just the greatest people in the whole world: we brought a pine tree in the house, we gave him pine tree flavored water (no, I did not try it- it might be the next big thing too, he could be onto something) and we put edible ornaments on the tree! 

Next year he's hoping for bones, hams, and whole chickens hanging from the branches! 

And I'm sure Baby Blueberry would help eat them too.

One Baby, One Puppy, and One Red Balloon

Kindred Spirits Share a Moment

I love this thing! 

As a child I loved helium-filled balloons as most kids do. They float, they can make your hair crazy, you can bounce them- they're awesome.

As a parent, I'm not so thrilled with the helium-filled balloon. The girls have fun with them and then they do what all balloons do...they POP.

And then the tears start.

But the other day we unfortunately were given a red helium-filled balloon and for a few moments- bliss was absolute. I'll let the photos do most of the talking this time.

Isn't this the best thing, Gibson? - Yes, kid, you bring home the best things to chew on. 

I tried to explain that sharp puppy teeth and balloons don't mix, but Baby Blueberry wouldn't listen. Around and around she would run in the living room, letting Gibson chase her. Laughing and giggling. And he loves to play with her. Jumping up on furniture, following her around the room, trying to play with her.

For a few moments- pure joy and bliss. And then...

Puppy, what happened?

Both babies stopped in shock, not sure what happened to their toy. Gibson started sniffing around, trying to figure out how it disappeared. Baby Blueberry wondered how it went from a wonderful- bouncy toy to something so boring and flat.

Sadness

 

 

A helium balloon always bring sadness. Great joy and then POP. That is just the way of the balloon. And just when Baby Blueberry and Gibson decide that a piece of latex can be fun, Mommy takes it away, says it's now considered a choking hazard and it's gone.

And somehow all that sadness will be forgotten as soon as another helium-filled balloon is found.

Baby Blueberry Turns Two

            Navigating Life Or Did I Ever Tell You About My Mad Map Skills

I Can Do It Myself

        Why is it the thing we want them to do so badly is the thing that breaks our heart? I want my children to be independent. Strong. Kind.

(Although I did not see that yesterday in Bean's and Abu's behavior with each other. Which lead me to ignoring them for an entire afternoon, which was followed by them trying to make dinner, watching the Baby so I could have a break(which translates into a sulk while I contemplated why I had kids), and wait for it...being super nice to each other.)

        But back to my sappy blog about how I'll miss them when they're independent, even while I'm super mad at them for being mean to each other. Only in parenthood can we feel a dozen different emotions about our children -SIMULTANEOUSLY.

Mmm, that's not right. Relationships. It's in relationships that we can feel more than one emotion at a time. So preschool really screws a person up. Because the teachers holds up a card that depicts SAD, MAD, HAPPY, or CONFUSED and tells the child that when they have that face on, that is the emotion they are experiencing.

The teachers don't pull out the cards where it shows you can experience sad and happy at the same time. Or mad and love. Or confused and every other emotion with it. No one explains that you can experience happy for someone with envy. Or intense love for your spouse at the same time you're volcanically mad over some situation. (Usually involving one of three things: money, parenting styles, or stealing the covers. I'm starting to think people should give HIS/HER comforters as wedding presents.)

So parenthood involves having your heart experience sweeping waves of being proud of your kid for doing normal everyday things such as eating with a fork or walking - at the same time you're sure they will grow up, move out and never come to visit.

Which BTW- we had to tell the teenager, Bean, good job with eating with a fork the other night. She couldn't understand why we were praising the Baby for EATING. She wrinkled her nose at us and laughed. Point taken and she joined in telling Baby Blueberry what a big girl she was for using a fork and not throwing all her food on the floor.


But anyway, we want our children  ready to navigate the world and follow their dreams. Even though we start to miss them with every little step they take towards that goal.
 
  And it starts so young. Before they start to walk but you can really see it when they finally figure out the sweet success of putting one foot in front of the other. A task we take for granted, but one that took each and every one of us many times of falling down and trying again.

 
    Baby Blueberry took quite a while to walk. Crawling was her mode of transportation. She was speedy too. She could crawl faster than most other babies could walk. And so she didn't learn to walk until after her first birthday.
   Why? It was slow and torturous. Falling down. Bumping. It took forever to wobble over to the object she wanted, whereas with crawling she could reach her destination in no time at all.
   Why change the status quo? She was perfectly happy without walking.

   And then, one day, it finally occurred to her. Heck yes, walking was faster.

  She hasn't slowed down since.  So even though every baby moment I knew we would have, I tried to savor because I knew from past experience it would move oh, so fast, -it still flew by and now my Baby is a toddler.

   My oldest is a teenager and my Abu is starting to show signs of being a teenager. (hint: drama, mood swings, and demanding more independence)

  One time, long ago, Hero Hottie and I drove down to Texas. I was navigating, thinking that my map reading skills were so awesome. I managed some of the other smaller states pretty well, until I told Hero Hottie we had about three hours in Texas to reach our stop for the night.

  Three hours later and we still have a whole lotta of Texas to drive through. Hero Hottie pulls over, an impatient Baby Bean in the back, and studies the map.
   He starts laughing.
   At me.
   I had misread the scale to measure miles, which had changed since Texas is so much bigger than the other states. My inch of Texas included so many more miles than my inch of the other states.

   He pats my knees, trying to be encouraging and avoid a fight.
   I haven't lived it down but my map reading skills have gotten better since that trip.

   But sometimes I think life is like that. I'm always using the wrong scale to determine the length of my journey.

    So somewhere this blog entry is about the confusion that is life. How super excited I am that it is Baby Blueberry's 2nd birthday tomorrow and how melancholy it is making me feel.

  
   But mostly this blog entry is about how fast life moves, especially after they learn to walk. Because then it's all about chasing them until they move out.
  
   And teaching them map reading skills.

   Oh, and that Texas is a huge state.

Finding Patience in a Puddle of Paint

Baby Blueberry's Painted Toes

      Sometimes I think my job title should be 'Director of Messes' or 'CEO of the Mess Department'- It does seem like you can follow the rhythm of my day by the messes that occur.
      Breakfast- laundry- Gibson coming in without getting his paws wiped first- toys and more toys. And lets not forget the stack of DVDs that Baby Blueberry loves to take out of the cupboard and leave in piles around the living room.
      There are school books that seem to take over my dining room table from homeschooling Bean.
      Then there are the little pile of crumbs that linger under cupboards after meals.

       These are all annoyances. And lately more than I can handle. I think winter has been a bit too long for me this year. Chaos is running as Your Royal Highness Pain in the Ass in my household which is causing rebellion stirrings in my soul and a constant revolution to be spinning in my head. I was hoping to make a trip to the ocean this summer to calm the angry emotions but have found out that there is no way that can happen this year- so it is what it is - I'm just not sure what 'it' is anymore.

       Lost. Yeah, I'm feeling lost. Perhaps it's not enough sleep. If there is one thing Baby Blueberry is extremely good at- not sleeping. Even caffeine has lost it's umph to fuel my engines. I'm just drained.

    But back to the partial pic above. In the whole picture, Baby Blueberry and I are standing over the mess and I'm smiling. How can I be so happy with such a mess, you might ask?
    I wasn't. I wasn't happy one little bit. I'm so OVERWHELMED that I'm about ready to sell everything I own and live without stuff. Because stuff seems to take time to clean and organize and keep nice.

    But I'm smiling anyways. Because the mess was about more than a mess. (Which BTW took over an hour to clean up.) It was a chance at a little bit of redemption.

   When I was sick, so many years ago, I tried to be a good Mom. We read books, and played toys, and I tucked them in at night with snuggles and hugs.
    But I was also very impatient and angry.
   Especially with messes.
    Because a mess meant more work. More energy. More time I didn't have.
    And so when Bean and Abu painted my kitchen blue because they thought I would like it- I was very angry about it. I asked them, 'how could you do this?' "'How could you make a mess for Mom?' And their little faces fell and something went hard in Bean and something went quiet in Abu.
     Impatience. Impatience. Impatience. When Bean and Abu were little it was what I seemed to give them the most.
     And they responded in kind.
    With impatience for me. With each other.

     And it's hard to enjoy each other's company when all you feel is impatience.

    Then Baby Blueberry starting growing underneath my heart. But that wasn't what changed me.
 
     Two things...two random conversations that probably took up less than five minutes of time but shifted the view- my view.

    I was watching a friend with her toddler and he spilled some water on his coloring book. She wasn't happy about it, but she calmly helped him clean it up and they continued on with the activity. No impatience. And he learned just as much about being careful and not making a mess than my kids did with all my impatience and muttering under my breath and frustration.

    Second: I was talking with someone who had experienced a later in life baby too. This baby had came along right when they had decided to stop trying. When she had decided she was done with babies. Something I was feeling a lot of when I found out about Blueberry. Especially with a 11 and 9 year difference between Bean, Abu and Blueberry.
    But at that moment I realized I could shape the story- the story Blueberry would hear her entire life- how Mom was impatient right from the start because she made a mess in Mommy's life. Or I could write the story- my story- her story- OUR STORY- to celebrate her arrival.
      At that moment I decided I was done- as much as any Mommy can be- I'm not a saint- but I decided to give up impatience.

     I tried it with Bean and Abu. Teaching myself to handle spills and accidents with patience. That was DIFFICULT!!! But the difference in them started right away. They were less tense, and just as careful.

     And when Baby Blueberry arrived. I continued teaching myself to be less impatient.

   So when I tried to paint my basement posts with Baby in tow, I should have realized that she would brush up against the fresh paint with her pretty sweater. She doesn't understand wet paint. I took the sweater off her to run it under some water and soap and try to save it. I turned my back for less than thirty seconds.
    I turn around and she has taken my paint brush and is HAPPILY slapping layers of thick paint on the post. Dripping it across the floor in huge puddles. It's covering her pants and her shirt. I quickly grab her because she's now standing in wet paint on a cement floor and I don't want her cracking her head open. And when I grab her, - her little toes start sliding in the paint and she's starts laughing at the sensation of wet paint in between toes. And then she starts kicking her feet in the puddle, enjoying the squishy mess- huge belly laughs fill the air.
   Her sisters come over and start laughing. Baby Blueberry's dimple is showing and her eyes are sparkling. And we're covered in paint and mess.
    At that point I realize I could get mad but she's talking to me and I realize she's saying, "help Momma. help Momma."
    She was just trying to help me paint and it probably looked like so much fun.
   I could cry because the mess is huge.
   Or I could laugh.

   And because it seemed like the best option- I laugh right along side her and her sisters. I have Abu grab the camera and snap a shot. Then I haul Blueberry to the bath and clean her up. Abu tries to help clean by laying down toilet paper on the mess but it actually makes it worse because by the time I can start cleaning- it has stuck to the drying paint.
    I'm tired and almost crabby by the time I get it cleaned up because it's late and it takes so long but impatience- that emotion isn't hanging around us- and I tuck three happy kids into bed...two older sisters still grinning over the mess the Baby made.
      And one little kiddo who was happy that she helped Momma. 

    The moral of the story: if you see me being patient.- know that I'm really working very hard on it underneath my calm exterior. It has taken me a lot of work to get there but I do know I like my parenting style better if IMPATIENCE stays away.

    That and keep the paint can up on the counter while painting. ;-)
   

Gibson Ate Santa

      If you don't receive any presents from Santa this year- it's probably Gibson's fault. The photo evidence is clear- Santa's hat in the mouth of  a puppy that chews everything.

       I'm pretty sure I saw a jolly happy fellow running for his life as Gibson chased down the reindeer.
    
        Yep, I doubt Santa will be delivering in my neighborhood ever again. Sorry children. It was the puppy.
    
        Gibson probably just wanted to be friends with the reindeer and he probably only wanted Santa to pet him and let him sit on his lap because no matter how big this dog grows, he literally thinks he's a lap dog and will smother you with affection. Or he's trying to prevent you from getting up, I'm not sure which yet.
     But I know for sure what Gibson wanted from Santa's sleigh....the toys. He loves toys. He chews them and tears them apart and sometimes when he eats too many of them he pukes them back up too.
   
     Today he has chewed and ate three jumbo crayons, the handle to my hairbrush, mini candy canes, and two gardening gloves- unfortunately not two gloves of the same pair, but two gloves from two different pairs, making both of them unusable.

   I saw this photo posted to Facebook and had to share it. My problem with dealing with Gibson is because I'm not thinking like a puppy. Like duh!
   

    So see, he wasn't trying to be mean to Santa. He was protecting us. Just like he barks at the squirrels that run around in the pine tree right above his leash and torment him. But if he stopped barking those murderous squirrels would surely descend from the trees, invade our house and eat us all alive. Gibson knows this.
    So he keeps barking...everyday...all the time...because he's saving us. 

    Wow, I should appreciate him more.

     Same reason he barks at the neighbors...they're obviously murderous. And the postman...and all of the girls' friends...

     But I have to say the puppy and Baby Blueberry work well together. The other night, I turn around and she's dipping a calculator in the Christmas tree water.
    Dip. Dunk. Dip. Shake it out. Dunk it some more...all of it.
    I sighed and shook my head. Who needs a calculator? 
    We left for a couple of hours and when we returned there was electronic parts scattered around the room.
   A circuit board. Rubber numbers. Wires.
   The front of the destroyed calculator.
   I had to laugh at that one. At least he had chewed apart something that had already been completely destroyed by the Baby just a few hours before.
   They're such a great team.

   So we finally got our tree decorated. It's only decorated from the top up. It's naked from the top down. We knew between the human baby and the canine baby we would lose ornaments by the dozen if we put them too close to small fingers and sharp teeth.

     I also set up the Nativity way up high and the rest of the house is sadly lacking any Christmas decorations. Why risk it, all that shiny stuff surely looks delicious! ---for Baby Blueberry and Gibson.

    We bought Gibson a huge ham bone and training treats for Christmas, but we had thought about getting him a new home.
       Gibson doesn't know it yet but he has New Years Resolutions. Like no chewing, no biting, no jumping, better listening, no chasing Santa, and oh, just behaving in general.
       
       Perhaps Santa will drop off a dog trainer!
   

Herd of Turkeys

   


    Five turkey hand prints from five special girls. Bean's turkey is the velociraptor turkey, ready to eat people first. Abu's turkey is almost as big as her sister's, which is crazy to me because they're growing up way too fast.
    CT's is the decorative one. Bug's has running shoes on. And Baby Blueberry's is small and cute.

   And before people remind that birds come in flocks, please know that Bean knows this-- that's why she wrote herd. :-)

   Because I know people have read many blog posts about gratitude, I'll sure fatigue must be kicking in so I'll keep my thankful list short before I hand over the rest of the blog to my guest blogger, Abu.

Simply.   I'm thankful. For everything.

Now for Abu's guest blog: 

       Nov. 26

       from: Abu the turkey

       to: person who wants to eat me

       Dear Person,

               You should not eat me. I am high in cholesterol and fat. I'm salty and don't taste good but I know someone who taste good. There's a Duck across the pond who taste good and has a lot of meat. Yes, his name is Aflac and he taste really good. He might offer you free insurance but don't take his offer. He is far more tasty than me and he taste a lot better than his deals.

            What's that you say? You want turkey this year. I got to go!!

Abu