Never a Dull Moment

From The Beverly Hillbillies to The Twilight Zone

2011-03-23T21:25:00.006-05:00

Around 5:00 this evening I saw my neighbor, Trish, storming down my sidewalk, so I hurried outside to see what was wrong. Trish is a back yard neighbor who rarely takes walks around the corner to our house without a reason. Today she definitely had a reason: a black, white-pawed cat the size of a small bobcat has been roaming our neighborhood, attacking smaller and older cats. A month or so ago Trish's 15-year-old cat, Berkley, had surgery to remove a growth and was recovering slowly. When they let still-weakened, senior citizen Berkley outside to enjoy one of the first days of spring, the black predator attacked him and would have killed him if Rosa (Trish's mom) wouldn't have separated the two. The incident set Berkley back and he refused to set paw outside for weeks.

Finally, today Berkley acquiesced to Trish's pleadings to go outside and enjoy our sunny, seventies temperatures, only to be once-again attacked by the black beast. Having tried--unsuccessfully-- both contacting Animal Control and setting humane traps to resolve the problem, Trish called the police and took to hunting the hunter, thus her walk down our sidewalk.

After filling me in on the details, Hannah and I offered to watch the hedgerow where the cat had run while Trish flushed him out. Soon after Trish disappeared into the trees, her husband, Larry, walked over.

Allow me to digress for the moment. Hailey has started working at the local Cookie Shop (Lori's Creative Cakes--as seen on Food TV!), a perk of which is an endless supply of cake tops (the part you cut off of a cake to make a flat surface for decorating), leftover cookies, pies and assorted goodies. This morning I put on a pair of capris that fit perfectly last spring, but felt a little snug today (thanks, I'm sure, to the sudden influx of professional grade desserts). When I asked Katie if I looked ridiculously lumpy (while turning quickly so she couldn't focus too long on any one part of me), she politely hesitated, then said, "Well, you have these kind of sticking-out places..."

"You mean saddle bags?"

"Is that what they're called?" She paused politely before saying, "I guess they're ok...well...as long as you're not going anywhere."

Nice. Thanks for the vote of confidence.

So, there I stood, outside in all my saddlebag glory, when Larry walked up wearing a t-shirt, shorts, crew socks and slippers and carrying his "cat bat," an aluminum baseball bat with murderous intentions. While Hannah, Larry and I discussed the current problem, my neighbors drove into their driveway. I can only imagine how we appeared. Oh well, I knew we would talk later and I believed wholeheartedly that Larry and Trish were justifiably pushed to the breaking point with this bullying black beast. Nevertheless, I felt like we all contributed to a present-day version of The Beverly Hillbillies.

However, strange appearances didn't stop there. This evening had been one of unprovoked meltdowns for Hannah and I had finally put the household out of our misery by sitting her in the time-out chair on our front porch where she proceeded to scream uncontrollably and bite her arms until they bled, as she has for years. Why was she so upset? Because her dad had called and when he asked to talk to her, she refused. He continued to try to get her to visit with him via speakerphone, but she only ran from the room so he hung up. When she returned to the dropped phone call, she melted down, biting her arms, pulling her hair and screaming.

So, visualize a screaming, bleeding, undersized 8-year-old on the front porch, with our neighbor using her phone on her own front porch when the police pull into the front yard. Can it get any better than this?

I assumed the police were there to ask about the black cat, but instead they asked me if I had an 11- or 12-year-old daughter. Whoa, Nelly! I had officially moved from The Beverly Hillbillies to The Twilight Zone. I experienced a confused moment of silence while my mind tried to mentally mingle the cat situation with the incorrectly-aged children.

Finally I offered, "My daughters are 13 and 14."

"Does one of them have long brown hair?"

"That would be Katie. She's right here." Turning to the kitchen I hollered, "Katie, this officer needs to ask you some questions."

When she arrived on the porch, he asked, "Were you in the park earlier this week carrying bolt cutters?"

"Yeah, I was in the park," Katie offered. Then, sincerely confused, asked, "What are bolt cutters?"

"It's a long-handled tool used for cutting things...like bolts."

We looked at each other, blank-faced, until recognition lit our faces simultaneously. "We had loppers (long-handled pruners) with us to cut back the sticker bushes on the nature trail," Katie said and I backed her up.

That made perfect sense to him and he explained that a member of the City Crew had seen Katie and her friend walking around the park carrying something that could be confused with bolt cutters. Around that same time someone had broken into something in the area, evidently using bolt cutters or an equivalent tool.

Katie was more upset that he thought she was only 11 or 12 than she was that she might be the prime suspect in a crime of vandalism--the Twilight Zone of the teenage years.

Hopefully the black cat will be caught humanely and taken care of. Thankfully all ended well with Katie. With a start as The Clampetts and a sudden trip through The Twilight Zone, I'm hoping I awaken tomorrow as June Cleaver or in the town of Mayberry, though I thank God Barney Fife didn't show up to question Katie.

Balancing Act

2011-02-23T22:20:00.004-06:00

As Hannah and I sat in the car after returning home from school, she asked, "Can I use your computer when we get inside?"

"No, not today."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because I'm using it to balance my checkbook."

Immediately she put both hands and one foot in the air (like the original Karate Kid, only remaining seated) and said, "I can balance!"

The Making of One Hundred Snowmen

2011-01-10T18:57:00.005-06:00

This morning we awoke to the first snow of winter, a light dusting on the ground with the promise of more to come. I need to get back into the habit of using my camera.

From the minute Hannah opened the front door and saw the snow, she didn't stop jabbering about making a snowman. Her entire school prep time was peppered with her description of the snowman making process and declarations of, "When I get home I'm going to put on my coat and go outside and build a snowman."

The minute I picked her up from school, she picked up right where she left off. It sounded something like this:

"When I get home I'm going to put on my boots and coat and go outside and build a snowman and I need two blueberries for its eyes but don't worry mom I'll save you some blueberries for smoothies in the morning." Breathe. "And a carrot for its nose and sticks for its arms and I'll wear my blue boots the ones with the orange inside." Momentary thought-gathering pause. Very momentary. Spreading her arms wide, she resumed her chattering, "I'm going to make a hundred snowmen. OK, Mom?"

"Hmm? Sure. Wow. A hundred, huh?" I asked, noticing the patchiness of the snow and the blades of grass sticking through it in every yard.

Hannah talked the entire drive home, and I'm not exaggerating. It's hard to believe there was once a day when we wondered if she would ever be able to speak.

The minute we arrived home, Hannah did her jobs (put away her backpack, unload her lunch box and put her shoes in the closet), dressed warmly and went outside for The Making of One Hundred Snowmen. I began putting things away in the kitchen.

Less than five minutes later Hannah barrelled through the front door, breathing heavily, and said, "I love the snow. I'm done!"

The BEST Clam Chowder

2011-01-08T08:42:00.013-06:00

This cold Saturday morning I'm still sitting in my jammies, drinking burnt coffee that Carl brewed two hours before I awoke. I'm drinking water from a dirty glass because we forgot to run the dishwasher before bed last night. Some things never change. While the sun shines on me through grungy windows and between the branches of my still-standing Christmas tree, I'm trying to make friends with my blog again. I'm not sure how. Do I try to fill in the blanks between my last post (May 18 of last year!)? Do I upload a bunch of photos? Do I publish a well-written post, or just post something?

I'll ramble on and see what develops...

While some things haven't changed, others have, like my new hip. Wait, "changed" is inadequate. Let's try: Transformed. Revolutionized. Those are much better.

For example, the other day I decided to make a double batch of clam chowder only to realize Hannah had peeled the last of my potatoes down to brown blobs and left them to soften on the kitchen chair. Prior to May 18, this lack of potatoes would have resulted in a series of questions: Did I have enough energy to bundle up, ride my power chair to the garage and drive to the store? Once there, would my hip allow me to hobble to the back, heft a bag of potatoes into a cart and push it the checkout? After returning home I could use my power chair to return to the kitchen with the bag of potatoes, but would I have any energy remaining to actually prepare the chowder? I could walk only with the aid of a cane, so every movement through the kitchen would have to be done one-handed or with the assistance of my children, effectively doubling the time required to complete tasks with two hands. The fatigue caused by arthritis was (and still is) a constant, unwelcome companion who not only followed me around, but often demanded a piggy-back ride. The hip pain added to that fatigue had caused every-day decisions to become monumental.

Like I said, that was pre-May 18. I was making clam chowder post-May 18. I walked (without a cane, I might add) to the garage and got in the car. Once I arrived at the store, I hurried (yes, hurried) to the back and grabbed a 10-pound bag of potatoes. Up to this point, my mind had remained in the kitchen, ordering the next steps required to get supper to the table on time, knowing it could be done, but only if done efficiently. However, the substance of the full ten pounds, once in my arms, pulled my mind back from the kitchen to the grocery store. I didn't have a cart. I hadn't thought about grabbing the largest bag of potatoes, I had just done it. My mind wasn't worrying about whether or not I could complete the chowder, it was planning the steps to do it, steps that would not be slowed by a cane.

I wish I could describe, without sounding sappy, the joy and gratitude that filled me.

It's one thing to experience joy and gratitude when given something, a real something, like a child. The wonder and awe are overwhelming; you don't even know you have the capacity for the emotions that come with something so new and beautiful.

Having something equally real, like your health, then having it taken away slowly, incrementally and constantly causes a never ending cycle through the grief process: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. After twenty-plus years with arthritis, I had absorbed this cycle into my life so fully that I thought it was "normal."

Suddenly, with one move, my "normal" had changed. Having so much grief removed instantaneously (well, almost instantaneously--there was a recovery process) left a vacuum that could only be filled with an enormous gratitude and joy. Something I had lost so long ago that I had forgotten it like you slowly forget the facial features of a lost loved one had been returned to me. It was a gift I didn't even know I could be given, and I had received it.

The clam chowder I made that evening was the best batch of clam chowder ever. I made it with two hands and with energy left to spare since it hadn't all been given to pain.

And I made it with gratitude, which adds flavor to everything.

A New First

2010-05-18T09:12:00.003-05:00

I've finished a new first in my life: my first major surgery. Last Wednesday, May 12, my surgeon replaced my nonexistent left hip with a fancy titanium replica. I kept busy busy busy in the month prior to my surgery to avoid thinking about the fact that he would be slicing through my thigh muscles, sawing off my bone, screwing in the prosthesis and sewing me back up again. Actually, the fact that they were going to poke my spine with a needle prior to surgery bothered me more; however, they had assured me that I could receive anti-anxiety medication--not in the parking lot, but shortly thereafter. I took them up on that.

Everything has gone more smoothly than I could have ever planned or imagined. I always thought I had great friends and family, but now I know without a doubt. Carl's sister, Mary, arranged for all of his other sisters to provide casseroles, then insisted that she come and stay with Carl and the girls while I was in the hospital. I had planned to have the girls ride the bus home and wing it until their dad returned from work. Mary's plan was much better.

Mom stayed with us Saturday and Sunday. While she was here, she weeded my flower beds, sprinkled them with Preen and planted impatiens.

I have had an ongoing debate/discussion with the same Jehovah's Witness for several years now. Would you believe they brought my family supper and a rose bush?

My fellow Sunday School teachers also provided me with a yummy spaghetti dinner and great conversation.

I'm still eating the candy bouquet given to me by my friend & librarian (and fellow library board members).

I made arrangements to have Hannah ride the bus home from school this week, as they tend to frown on narcotic-high mommy drivers. Yesterday Hannah insisted to the bus driver that she was supposed to get off at her classmate, Sean's house, which she has done twice before, even though I had told her that very morning NOT to. I received a phone call from Sean's mom yesterday afternoon: "Do you know where Hannah is?" Of course, the answer to that question is no 85% of the time.

"Well, she's supposed to be on the bus coming home." Then it dawned on me. "Did she get off at your house?" Sure enough, she had. Natasha not only kept Hannah for the next couple of hours, she offered to do the same for the rest of this last week of school. Bliss.

I could go on and on. Carl and I have received many phone calls and offers of help. Katie and Hailey have been fantastic. Sheri brought over "Happy Hip Cake." Several people visited me in the hospital.

I am truly blessed.

A Little Overwhelm

2010-04-12T08:30:00.014-05:00

Why oh why do I wait until the last minute to prepare our taxes? It's not as if April 15 is a surprise, that it suddenly arrives a month earlier than expected. It's not as if I'm playing outside during the bleak months of January and February. I shamefully procrastinate year after year, then crazily double check inventories, try to decipher strange accounting entries I made over a year ago and scramble through my "piles" of paperwork looking for stray forms and letters--all for our business, which operates in three (count 'em -- THREE) states.

Ack!

This year has been slightly more hectic because I co-taught Katie's Confirmation class and Confirmation occurred a mere 5 days before tax day. I also volunteered to co-organize the track meet concession stands at the three home track meets in order to raise money for Katie's class trip next year--the first meet was held April 6.

April 6, April 10, April 15--all those countdowns coincided.

In addition to that, yesterday Hannah stuck something in her ear...AGAIN. My blog posts have been so sparse that I have failed to record the ear odyssey: this is the fourth time this school year that Hannah has shoved something so far into her right ear that I've had to take her to the doctor to remove it. One of those times the local doc couldn't grasp the smooth, round popcorn kernel and I had to take her to her ENT pediatrician, who used a special tool (with a special price) to suck it out. Is it strange to be thankful that the current occupant of her ear appears rough and rock-like? Yesterday her nostrils were blue as was the snot running out of them, apparently a result of blue M&Ms. At least they melt.

Wait. There's more. I pulled a crown off of my back molar while eating a caramel Friday. I broke a weak tooth a couple of months ago as a result of caramel. Evidently failure to learn lessons is a weakness in my family--Hannah won't keep foreign objects out of her ear and I don't keep caramel out of my mouth.

Today I need to (want to) drive to Commerce, Oklahoma to watch Katie run the mile and half mile in her first-ever track meet, before that I need to drive 20 miles in the opposite direction to refill a prescription, I need to schedule an appointment to remove the rock from Hannah's ear, I need to get organized so I can complete taxes, I need to...I need to...

breathe.

If Moms Wrote the Torah

2010-04-03T06:44:00.014-05:00

As I did my Bible study this morning, I concluded that the Bible would be much shorter and the Old Testament Law much simpler if God would have used a mother of 8-10 small children (or a mother of any number of children that included a Hannah Savannah) to document its first five books (the Torah) instead of Moses. Why? I'm glad you asked.

I've been taking part in a Bible study that walks through the storyline of salvation history. After Adam and Eve; Noah; Abraham, Isaac and Jacob; and Moses and the Israelites' crossing of the Red Sea and worshipping the golden calf and receiving the Ten Commandments; God called Moses to build a Dwelling for Him, which was basically a tent for the Holy of Holies surrounded by a (roughly) 150-foot by 75-foot Court created with linen walls. The directions for building the Court and the Tent and what to place in it were specific. Mind-numbingly specific.

Upon completion, I imagined the Dwelling--a clean, orderly, serene home for the Lord. He gave everything in it a specific place; you know, "a place for everything and everything in its place." They even had special bowls for washing their feet before entering (which seemed somewhat useless given the fact that they were in the sandy desert with sandy floors.) Surrounding the Dwelling was the cacophany of the twelve tribes of Israel: 603,550 men of military age, 22,000 Levite men over one month old, and their famililes. Oh, the noise!

Of course, I have a very 21st century, Americanized view of the Dwelling. Yes, they slaughtered several animals there in sacrifice to the Lord--a few here and a few there--but I still picture it as a quiet place set apart, a serene setting away from the nearly one million people outside, people who badgered Moses as their leader and justice of the peace and complained every step of the way. I prefer not to picture the bloodshed at this point, so allow me that. OK?

Once everything was in its place, the priests were ordained, each tribe was camped in the location given by the Lord and a cencus was taken, the Prince of each tribe brought an offering to the Dwelling. I'm not talking about a few shekels of silver or some pretty fabric. In all over a twelve-day period, the twelve tribes provided 252 animals--rams, oxen, goat, you name it. Two hundred and fifty-two animals in one place. Can you picture that? The smell. The bleating. The mooing. The dust. All in an area smaller than a football field, an area heretofore peaceful, mostly clean and orderly.

So how does this relate to my original question? Immediately after all those animals entered the dwelling, the Bible reads, "When Moses entered the meeting tent to speak with him, he heard the voice addressing him from above the propitiatory on the ark of the commandments, from between the two cherubim; and it spoke to him..."

Dot. Dot. Dot. The elipses aren't mine, they're actually in the Bible. After all the tedious details Moses previously documented, it seems he can't recall something as sublime as the Lord's words. And its no wonder--look at the mess and the chaos surrounding him.

Some days that's how I feel: surrounded by pandemonium, neverending noise, and disarray. I couldn't put together a lucid statement, can't remember why I entered a room and certainly can't commit the voice of God to memory, no matter how sublime. Many days look like this:

God: My daughter, today I ask you to...

Child: Mom! Hannah made a milk mess!

God: ...and remember to...

Child: Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. MOM! There's a wet spot on the couch where Hannah was sitting!

God: ...and go in peace, my child.

Child: MOM! Hannah's driving your chair down the sidewalk!

It's no wonder Moses didn't write the Lord's words that day. For moms, it would have been just another day in paradise, with fewer words, less documentation and more, much more, well...unwritten, unrecognized more.

Leaves of Three

2010-02-28T19:03:00.006-06:00

In the warm summer days leading up to her first day of kindergarten, Katie went through a "decorating" phase, taking special pleasure in finding unique items with which to beautify her top bunk. At one point she brought in a pretty vine and showed it to me.

"That's pretty, Katie. Where did you find it?"

"Outside. I think I'll decorate my bed with it." And off she went.

On her first day of school Katie showed me a small, red patch on her cheek, complaining that it was itchy. I don't remember what I did--put Calamine lotion on it? Hydrocortisone? Ignore it? No matter, I sent her to school with her little rash. The next day it had spread. I sent her again. By the third day a large part of her body was covered with the strange, itchy rash and I became concerned, but I still sent her to school. I didn't want to start school looking like a parent who allowed her child to be chronically absent, especially over a little rash. Mother of the year. Yep.

Oh, but it gets better.

When the rash threatened to cover her entire body rather than resolve itself, I became a detective. (Better late than never, right?) What on earth could be causing this? Had I changed laundry detergents? Had she eaten something new and had an allergic reaction? I continued my sleuthing into her room where I noticed the dying vine hanging from her headboard, dropping its dried, crunchy leaves onto her pillow.

I think that the light bulb that went off over my head must have been one of those fluorescents that take forever to warm up. Could that vine be the culprit? What was it, exactly?

I approached Carl, "Didn't you say you had to spend the summer before kindergarten with your grandma because you had such a horrible reaction to something?"

"Yeah. It was poison ivy. I got it everywhere. Ev-ery-where." I think he crossed his legs at that point.

"Umm, what exactly does poison ivy look like?"

"You know. Leaves of three, let them be."

While my bulb was getting brighter, I had no idea what he was talking about.

He clarified, using incredible self-control to not roll his eyes at me. "It has three leaves."

"Is it a vine?" I asked.

"Yeah." The bulb above my head exploded at that point.

"Oh no. Will you come an look at this?" We climbed to the top bunk to inspect Katie's dying decor. Sure enough, it was poison ivy. And she'd been sleeping in it.

I don't know if it's a result of being saturated with the weed that one time or if it's genetic (Carl is extremely allergic to poison ivy), but Katie seems to develop a rash if the wind blows just right and poison ivy is in the vicinity. Yesterday when Carl took the girls fishing, Katie and Hailey took a romp through the surrounding wooded area. The only green they saw was grass; nevertheless, Katie has a rash today. Not Hailey, just Katie

How can she let be leaves of three when there remain no leaves to see?

Her Name is NOT Chicken Butt

2010-02-17T17:10:00.005-06:00

Recently Hannah and I visited one of my favorite places in town: the public library. Not only do I find free material to fuel my fascination with all things written, I get to enjoy my own little social hour. This particular evening provided comedy hour as well, courtesy of Hannah.

Hannah stood near the computers with a pack of other children. One of the kids, a classmate of hers, had a cell phone and was reading a text out loud that included the words chicken butt.

Immediately Hannah grabbed her tush and said, "Hey! Do not call me chicken butt!"

Startled, the little boy pointed to his cell phone and said, "I didn't call you that. It says chicken butt right here."

Hannah actually gasped, grabbed her butt again and said, "My name is not chicken butt." Everyone within earshot started chuckling. "Stop calling me chicken butt!" The chuckles became muffled laughs.

The poor kid tried to remedy the situation, but only made it worse by saying, "I'm not calling you chicken butt."

For whatever reason, Hannah didn't understand his explanation. Grabbing her butt again, she said, "Do NOT call me chicken butt! Call me Hannah!"

Between Hannah's repeated tush-grabbing, her obvious misunderstanding of the boy, and the juvenile humor of the term chicken butt, everyone burst into laughter.

And being the sensitive mother that I am, I just said, "Aw. I'm sorry. Come here, my little chicken butt."

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Boy, have I missed blogging. I've decided that instead of giving blogging up for Lent like many do, I'm going to take it back up again. Over the next few days I'll be doing some catch-up posting...all the way back to Halloween and earlier. Ah, catharsis.

Message in a Mayfly

2009-07-18T11:08:00.017-05:00

Friday I crawled out of bed around 8:00, fixed myself a cup of coffee and ambled out to the back patio to enjoy the unseasonably cool morning. As soon as I exited the garage, I saw the ski boat hitched behind the Tahoe. Carl had been up and productive for a couple of hours.

With caffeinated excitement Carl asked, "Do you wanna go to the lake?"

I had not had my caffeine quota, so I merely grunted. I really didn't want to go. I hadn't been feeling well due to an abscessed tooth and was still leery of lake fun since I had a strange tingling sensation in my fingers after jumping in the lake on my birthday. Actually, tingling doesn't adequately describe the phenomenon. It felt like twin lightning bolts struck my shoulders, zig zagged past my elbows and built up energy in my hands before exploding through my fingertips, leaving hundreds of prickling electrodes pulsing in my fingertips. Yeah, like that.

I returned inside without making a decision and played on my laptop, all the while feeling more and more sorry for myself. I can be pretty fatalistic in my imagination when I allow it. Next time I get in the lake, I'll probably be paralyzed. Or Everyone else is going to have fun and I'm going to be left out more and more. Or I'm probably going to need to be in a care home before I'm fifty. Better yet, Maybe I'll die before I'm fifty. Like I said, fatalistic.

The beast arthritis had stolen my physical abilities, but was I really going to roll over and give it my spirit as well? Was I going to live my fatalistically few remaining years in the Valley of What If?

No!

Though arthritis constrained me, Someone gifted me with a husband who seems to have made it his mission to compensate for that, to literally lift me up when I have fallen and place me on safe ground. If I would only get up off my scaredy-pants covered butt, Carl would ensure that I had fun. So I put off my fears, put on my swim suit, grabbed my camera and left for the lake.

Man, am I ever glad I went. If I had stayed home, I would have missed this.

This was the first time any of our girls have gotten up on skis. Woohoo!

I also would have missed the moment when we parked the boat in the sand near the beach and Carl noticed hundreds of mayflies hanging on the tree limbs above us. He located a long stick and reached it up to shake the branches. Mayflies fluttered around us like the petals in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe that merged and swirled to take the form of a messenger. Some flew away, some landed on us and the boat and some fell to the water where dozens of perch surfaced to eat them in a feeding frenzy. A few mayflies were able to take flight after landing on the water; but most that attempted to fly from the water remained trapped on its surface. I gently lifted a nearby mayfly from the water and placed it in the relative safety of the boat where it struggled to fly but remained constrained by saturation.

When I looked up, my husband smiled at me. I would have to abandon my little mayfly. But in that moment I fully comprehended the truth that Carl would not leave me.

On New Laundry Rooms and Old Friends

2009-07-12T18:26:00.007-05:00

As I've reviewed my last two posts, I realize I may have come across as a woman with a certain disdain towards her husband. While I will never be a gushy my-husband-is-my-best-friend (even though he is) kind of person who implies that her man is as close to perfection as the male species can come, I will state for the record that Carl is a well-above-average husband and person who is perfect for me. Even though he drives me nuts sometimes. Really nuts.

But I know I make him a little (or a lot) crazy at times too, and he's much better at hiding it.

The following pictorial shows, without a thousand words, some of the many reasons I am grateful to have Carl in my life.

Before you read on, you need to know that we spent the past Thursday through Sunday completing the latest phase of our building project. A 9' x 12' breezeway connects our existing house to the building project. I'm not sure what the original purpose of this room was, but it had three doors and six windows. We've used it as an office, an extended pantry, a junk room and a dirty-laundry-storage room, but none of these purposes seemed quite right. The mess in this room was the first to greet me when I entered the house from the garage. Talk about depressing. After I walked through this room, I passed through the cramped laundry cubby you can see behind Carl in the first picture below. Ick.

We (I) decided the room would best serve me as a laundry room, opening up our existing laundry cubby for pantry space. We closed off the third door and eliminated the bottom part of the two south windows so that the washer and dryer could not be viewed from outside. Because the room had a concrete floor, Carl built a raised wooden floor so that we could run the plumbing underneath and kept the 1' x 5' area above the pipes separate so it could be removed in the event of a water leak. We learned the pipe-breaking lesson the hard way.

I'll allow the pictures to help tell the rest of the story:

I searched high and low for a "before" picture and this is the best I could do. Carl and I had made a vegetable/relish tray for a get-together with friends and he spilled it on the way out. Believe it or not, I just laughed at the time and shot a few pictures. Now I'm thankful it all went that way because now I can point out the blinding yellow walls, the awful orange woodwork and the horrid green and white sticky tile. Also, notice the cramped, messy laundry space behind Carl and the clutter-magnet shelving under the windows on the left.

More veggie mess and a closer look at the old floor....

The mud and tape in the two picture below outline the door and window openings that Carl enclosed.

Below, Katie and Hailey were standing in front of the now-closed-in third doorway back in 1999. Even our exterior brick used to be orange! What is it with orange and the fifties? We have since painted the brick white.

Surely you expected that Wonderworker Extraordinaire (a.k.a. Grandma Janis) was part of this big project. She actually took two vacation days so that she could arrive Thursday and help through Sunday. Mom--you're awesome! Her planned arrival benefited us in two ways. First, we had a deadline to be ready, which kept us (Carl) very busy the past few weeks. Second, her painting abilities and eye for detail are unsurpassed.

Even Hannah got in on the action and painted the corner, and her hair, and her arms...

As I mentioned earlier, Carl made the section above the pipes removable as you can see below.

Voila! New placement of my washer and dryer.

Notice the arched doorway. Carl did a nice job creating that arch, don't you think?

We purchased a new light. That may be boring to you, but if you lived with the flickering round fluorescent light that mounted there before, you'd be as excited as I am!

Look at the gorgeous empty space and beautiful ceramic tile. We will install a sink to the left of the washer and...

...and Carl's next project is building a cupboard unit, outlined by the blue tape below, that will hide all of our dirty laundry, coats, and whatever else. This room will have the ability to always appear neat, clean and tidy. Of course, that requires that I keep it neat, clean and tidy. Anyhow, I'm sure we'll manage to stash and dash whenever company comes.

Weekends like this remind me of how blessed I am. Sometimes I tend to have myself a nice little pity party: look at everything I can't do, I'm so tired, my joint hurt, blah blah blah. But when I take off the blinders created by that pity, I realize I am surrounded by people who make up for my limitations and cause my life to feel full, even overflowing. And I'm not just talking about my mom and husband.

Liz is here every Monday, not just cleaning my house, but doing extras that a maid service would never provide, including listening and visiting and general friending.

Sheri stops in regularly when delivering the mail or even when she isn't.

I talk to my sister, Ashley, several times a week--she even bought me a new stereo for my birthday. Woohoo!

My mother-in-law visits once a month and insists on bringing so much food that some has to be stored in the deep freeze. While she's here she refuses to relax and instead spends her entire visit doing laundry.

My children are constantly assisting me with what should be little things, but have become larger obstacles as the arthritis robs me of mobility. I know I sound proud when I tell you that they have a level of independence I rarely see in preteens. Even Hannah, at age 6, can cook her own eggs from start to finish if someone will turn on the stove for her. I sound proud because I am.

Pop and I talk at least once a week and we even took a trip to Texas over Father's Day weekend. A couple of years ago he came down for an entire week to paint my kitchen cupboards. I should post pictures of THAT project. Whew!

I have blogging friends and facebook friends as well. Some people scoff at "virtual" friendships, or at the least view them with a wary eye. But on the days when getting out of the house is next to impossible for me, these people visit with me in my living room and make life less "alone."

When I am able to get out of the house, I almost always run into someone I know. I can't name everyone, but that doesn't diminish their importance in my life.

And I have to end with a plug for Carl. How many men would stick with a wife who slowly becomes more and more of a responsibility and less and less of an equal partner? In this day and age men frequently leave for much lesser reasons. While they all promise "in sickness and in health," few are challenged beyond a bout with the flu. Carl has a true servant's heart and not only makes our lives spontaneous and fun, but manages to continue to make me feel attractive and desirable in the process.

Yep, he's a keeper. Even though he drives me nuts sometimes. Really nuts.

The Argument

2009-07-08T08:29:00.003-05:00

You know how every marriage has the argument? The one the couple returns to regardless of the topic? He says, "How was your day?" and she replies, "Why can't you ever discipline the children?" Or they disagree about whether to enjoy dinner and a movie or the symphony and he says, "You always spend too much money when you shop." Well, Carl and I don't have the argument.

Ha. We have forty-eleven of them.

For one, we disagree about the division of labor within the house. I know. Strange, huh? He thinks that I am responsible for all of the housework and I think we should share it. I'm unreasonable like that.

I used to think that he walked over small toy mountains and shoved aside the dirty dishes on the end table to make room for his beer because he expected me to clean up the mess. I've come to recognize the error in that assumption. The truth is, the mess doesn't register on his awareness meter, though I fail to understand how the same person who can't see the mess can recognize when it's gone.

Which leads to a second of the arguments. He doesn't understand why the words "The house looks great, honey" send me through the roof, or would if I could make it through the mess in the attic. After I've spent eight hours clearing the debris off the floor to reveal beautiful hardwood (much like new homeowners do when they pull up old carpet), washing all of the dishes because the cupboards were completely cleared of clean ones and laundering enough clothes to create a path through the laundry room, he says, "Wow! The house looks great. I knew something was wrong with it, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it." He doesn't see the mess. Nevertheless, I hear that he's saying, "It's about time you got that mess cleaned up. What do you do all day, anyhow???"

It only took about thirteen years for me to discover this awareness discrepancy. I'm a fast learner like that. I realized he would only take part in the housework if he had sole responsibility for a specific task, so we agreed to make his tasks the kitchen and dishes as well as his own laundry.

I have to give him credit. Once he understood what was expected of him, he fulfilled that expectation with a consistency I can only hope to someday equal. Every morning before he leaves for work he empties the dishwasher, loads any rogue dirty dishes and wipes down the counters. I have a clean slate should I decide to actually cook that day. As for his laundry? I maintain a blindness to that which supersedes all of his former blindnesses combined. The smell is another story, but I'll leave that for another day.

However... Surely you knew there would be a "however."

However, now that the girls are out of school for the summer, Carl thinks they should take on extra responsibility around the house, which really means Carl thinks the girls should take on his responsibility around the house. I don't have a problem with that. In fact, I agree with that. But, I figure that if he wants them to do the dishes, he should be the one to direct that little production. (I could segway into yet a third of our forty-eleven arguments, but I'll spare you.) Carl, on the other hand, expects something from our pre-teens that he has heretofore been incapable of: recognizing what needs done without being specifically instructed AND taking it upon themselves to do it.

Surely you see the implausibility of this. Don't you? Am I the only one? Carl actually expects a preteen to A) notice the dirty dishes on the counter and B) think to herself those dishes need washed and C) think further to herself I should be the one to wash those dirty dishes and finally D) actually wash the dirty dishes. Bwah-hahahaha! Wait. I can't see. My eyes are tearing up from all this laughter. Nevertheless, good Catholic guilt often overrides any righteous indignation I have regarding his responsibility vs. mine and I instruct the girls to clean up the kitchen before their dad gets home, often at the expense of cleaning any other rooms.

Know this. I'm a slob despite the fact that my mother, both of my grandmothers and all of my biological aunts are neat, clean people. Some are fanatical neat freaks. Not me. So when I suggest that the other rooms aren't clean, I don't mean a few cobwebs cling to that place where the wall meets the ceiling. No, I mean that I've emptied the entry closet, which is my "desk," onto the dining room table, intending to organize but instead running out of energy the minute the closet is bare. I mean that you can't enter the bathroom because towels cover the floor and it's becoming so gross that I'm considering taking the girls to a nearby convenience store to use their cleaner facilities. You need to pee, Hailey? Well, you'll just have to wait until we all need to go.

In spite of this, Carl maintains the blindness that plagues him (actually, it plagues only me) and replies, "Wow! The kitchen looks great!" It doesn't occur to him that I may have had to argue with aforementioned preteens and deal with a little attitude. The thought doesn't even enter his radar screen to reciprocate by instructing the same preteens to clean up their messes in other rooms. What messes?

It's enough to send me through the roof, or would if...well, you know.

Who's The Boss?

2009-07-02T18:59:00.002-05:00

I'm warning you up front that this brief entry is PG-13. Don't read on if you're easily offended...but it's not that bad.

In one of the first scenes in the movie Bobby, which Carl and I are watching, one cute, 1960s hotel switchboard operator asks another if she wants to go to the party that evening.

"I didn't think employees were allowed to go to the party," was the response. Or something like that.

Cute switchboard operator replies, "Screwing the boss has its advantages." Giggle giggle.

I turned to Carl and said, "I've been screwin' the boss and I'm not seeing any advantages." Keep in mind, we're self-employed.

Carl waited a beat and said, "I thought I was screwin' the boss."

Touché.

Most Drawn-out Birthday Celebration Ever

2009-06-30T13:42:00.006-05:00

Yesterday I received a Wii Sports Game Disc in the mail. "Wow, girls! Thank you so much--what a great idea for a birthday gift!" I gushed.

With confused looks on their faces, they both said, "Ummm, we didn't get that, Mom."

"Really? Well then, who did? It was a perfect idea. Maybe you should call your dad and ask him."

When Carl answered his phone, Hailey asked, "Dad, did you buy Mom a Wii Sports disc?"

Pause.

"If you didn't, who did?" Hailey asked.

Pause.

"Oh," Hailey replied to Carl, then turned to me. "Did you buy it for yourself, Mom?" she questioned with accusation in her voice.

I replied, "What? Hmmm. I guess I did. But wasn't that the perfect idea for a gift?"

See, I could tell by early last week that no one had given much thought to my birthday present this year, but I'm not one to pout. Instead I got on e-bay and found just what I wanted.

"We're making something for you, Mom. It just isn't finished yet," Katie informed me. Keep in mind, my birthday was Saturday.

"That's nice. Until then, is anyone up for some tennis?"

"No, we have something to do," they answered, then suspiciously scurried upstairs.

About thirty minutes later they asked if they could walk to Casey's for something, but they couldn't reveal what something was. I allowed it, knowing it was key to my birthday gift. I'm smart like that.

After returning from the convenience store and spending a few more minutes upstairs, they entered the dining room shouting, "Don't look, Mom!"

Finally, the big reveal:

The white sign says, "It's your day, be merry and eat candy." Then says "candy" again with an arrow pointing to--you guessed it--the candy.

They painted a flower pot and a tin can gold and attached turkey feathers left over from the turkey Carl shot this spring. "We disinfected the feathers, Mom. Don't worry." The "feet" are full of peanut M&Ms. Smart girls. They know that chocolate heals anything.

This present was worth waiting for.

Birthday Tests

2009-06-28T19:42:00.003-05:00

My real--as opposed to virtual--birthday has come and gone. I celebrated my 41st by going to Grand Lake with my family, taking our new-to-us ski boat on its maiden voyage. For my Colorado friends: we have a Grand Lake too, but ours feels like bath water.

Sadly, I have no pictures. Somehow I managed to whack out my elbows and spent the entire day alone in a cheap motel watching AMC movies starring either Wesley Snipes or Bruce Willis. How did I manage to damage my elbows, you ask? Surely I was tubing or doing something remotely daring. Alas, no. I sat on the top step of the boat, which is practically in the water, held my life jacket in my hands, and slid forward into the water. No strange popping sensation. No awkward movement. In fact, it was all rather smooth and graceful, until both elbows zinged as if I had hit my funny bones and my fingers continued to tingle. They still tingle a bit, causing me to type with my left ring finger and my right index finger and thumb.

When the pain failed to subside (imagine nonstop funny-bone-zinging) and I began to bake in the hundred degree heat index, I cried uncle and headed back to town. Carl and the girls settled me in to my budget room with bottled water, Mike's Hard Lemonade, snickers bars and the TV remote, then returned to the lake, promising to call me every hour.

During the first phone call Hailey cried to me out of frustration at her inability to get up on skis. I reassured her that she had too much Solomon blood in her for that particular inability to linger long (because Carl has water skied since age five, I love to watch him ~~show off~~ ski--don't tell him I said that, though. I have to live with him). Once Hailey calmed she handed the phone to Hannah who cried and said her tummy hurt. My Mommy Radar screamed on high alert, knowing that Carl does not consider basic needs like hydration as well as he skis. Getting Hailey back on the phone, I charged her with the responsibility of ensuring that everyone drank extra water and made it home alive. She informed me that Hannah was fake crying, but she'd make sure everyone had plenty to drink.

The next two phone calls went much better, between which I dozed and watched the aforementioned movies. They returned to my room around 6:00 looking like happy, red, tired lobsters. They intended to cool off then return to the lake, but they never made it back.

Because the Tahoe's air conditioning blew hot and cold that morning, we decided to hang out and watch more movies until the temps dropped into the cooler eighties before heading home. We finally drove into the garage at 10:30.

I'm beginning to feel better this evening. The tingling has subsided some, replaced by an intense ache and weakness in my hands and wrists. But, I'm a thinker. It's a curse. When things like my odd elbow injury happen, I wonder why. Not as in why me, just why? What purpose did it serve? Was I supposed to learn something? Was my family? Because if we were, I'm not getting it. I'm proud that it didn't get my family down. We still had a good time doing something other than watching television or separately playing something electronic. Well, I guess I watched TV, but you know what I'm saying.

If I'm supposed to be learning something or changing something, I'd appreciate it if someone would clue me in, or at least give me a hint. Normally I'm a quick study, but I seem to be taking this one test over and over. I'd like to ace it and move on.

You're Invited

2009-06-25T07:44:00.007-05:00

Saturday I turn forty-one, just a heartbeat away from being fifty. I don't mind being in my forties, but turning fifty just sounds old. Am I borrowing trouble?

I have no plans for my 41st birthday yet. I've been feeling crummy the last few days and discovered yesterday that it's the result of an abscessed tooth. Until the antibiotics kick in, I won't feel like planning anything except a movie marathon viewed from my couch.

That's where you come in. Shamelessly piggy-backing on my blogger buddy, Tara's, idea, I'm planning a last-minute cyber-birthday party. All you have to do is post your favorite party food or drink recipe in the comments, along with any other celebration ideas or thoughts, and Saturday we PARTY! Virtual party, of course. Consider yourself invited--no R.S.V.P. required.

Life in Tornado Alley

2009-06-16T13:45:00.000-05:00

I live smack dab in the middle of tornado alley and have all of my life. I grew up on a farm fifteen miles from town, which is the same as as saying fifteen miles from nowhere. We didn't have tornado sirens on the farm, so the whole siren thing has taken getting used to.

As a child I was frightened of storms. More specifically, I was frightened to be ALONE during storms. Nowadays I'm energized by them, as if the electricity in the air absorbs through my skin and travels through my bloodstream. Rain, lightning, thunder, hail, high winds. I'm fascinated by them all. Nevertheless, despite my voyeurism, I have never seen a funnel firsthand. Never.

The first few times the siren went off here, Carl was still at work. We didn't have a basement so I gathered the three girls and went to the neighbor's basement. I did that twice and neither time did a tornado touch down. I learned that the sirens are turned on whenever the clouds contain rotation that could easily drop down in funnel form, but a funnel does not have to be present.

After the sirens had cried wolf twice, I began ignoring them. One morning I was awakened at 6:30 to the sound of high wind. I laid in bed listening groggily as it wailed through my yard at higher and higher decibels. I became uneasy but thought, "There's no siren. I'm not crawling out of bed yet." Suddenly I heard CRACK and BAM followed by the sound of a locomotive barrelling down the street, but still no siren. Carl and I leaped out of bed, opened the front door and gazed on unbelievable destruction.

Entire trees had been uprooted and laid over into the street. The electricity went out and stayed out the entire day. The wind died down so we awakened the girls and drove around to try to determine what the heck had happened. I had never seen destruction like that without a tornado siren. Enormous trees were uprooted everywhere, two of our neighbors had trees fall through their roofs, and power lines laid dangerously across many roads.

It turns out it wasn't a tornado, but was a straight-line wind, which doesn't trigger a siren. Thankfully no one was seriously injured in our town, which was a miracle. If I ever get a chance to scan the pictures I have from that day, I will. Until then, here are some pictures of a straight-line wind storm we had in May of this year. Again, no siren.

Katie, Hailey and friend Shelby in front of an uprooted tree. I wish I would have taken a picture that captured the depth of the cavern left from the tree root.

A broken tree...

Another uprooted tree that landed on a van.

Same van, different angle....

Mother nature is a powerful beast.

Special

2009-06-15T17:34:00.005-05:00

"She always ruins EVERYTHING!" Katie screamed with tears in her eyes as she carried Hannah from upstairs to me in the kitchen downstairs. I rapidly envisioned several special items that Hannah might have broken: a ceramic statue, a piece of artwork, even the walls weren't immune from Destructo-Hannah.

"What did she ruin this time?" I asked Katie as I cringed inwardly. Unfortunately this had been an ongoing problem. Our neighbor girl, Emily, and Hailey stomped in to support Katie. Great.

"I had these special sticky notes set out that were a special color and Hannah ripped them all apart and flung them all over the deck!" More tears. Oh, the drama.

Hannah looked at me with guilty blue eyes. "Hannah, how would you like it if they ripped the head off of your monkey?" No response. I tried to think of something she played with every day. "What if they broke your tricycle, Hannah? Wouldn't you be sad?"

The three big girls behind me erupted in giggles until I remembered: they HAD broken her tricycle. A few weeks ago Katie and Emily had been driving a riding lawn mower around and accidentally rammed it into Hannah's tricycle, destroying one of her tires. After Katie and Emily repaired the tire, we began calling Hannah "Pebbles" after the Flinstones character. Can you see why?

The tension was accidentally broken as well.

You would think the sticky notes were a present or a unique color or at least something Katie had been saving, right? Wrong. Because Katie just rescued them yesterday from a long life buried in Carl's shop, their "special" color was faded pink and they had been rendered virtually sticky-less. Good grief.

About an hour later Hannah walked up to me with her hand behind her back and whispered, "I have a present for you."

Now that's special.

Small Town Living

2009-06-12T17:00:00.005-05:00

I'm reading the Twilight series. I originally intended to blame that on Katie because she considered reading it and I wanted to preview it before she did. However, since she found it boring, she didn't get past chapter two of the first book. I, on the other hand, finished the third book today and want to begin the fourth immediately. Please don't think less of me.

Because Hannah is fishing with Carl, the house is hushed--perfect for a junk novel reading marathon. Outside the sky is the brilliant blue only seen after rain has washed the haze from the sky, but surprisingly the humidity is low despite that same rain. I chose to ride my Hoveround the three blocks to the library to return book three in exchange for book four, Breaking Dawn.

I parked my chair outside (I prefer not to use the elevator unless I'm having a difficult day because it requires my bothering Liz for a key--besides, I could use the exercise). As I walked up the air-conditioned steps inside the library, I saw Katie's Sunday school teacher who asked me about a conference she had mentioned to me a few weeks ago. We visited a few minutes before I approached the front desk to return some books and movies. There I saw two other ladies I knew and we joked about brain fog and discussed different people associated with In Cold Blood. Unfortunately Breaking Dawn wasn't available, so I chatted with Liz for a few more minutes and headed home.

Experiencing a sudden need for chocolate (does this ever happen to you?), I decided to stop in at the post office. Sheri keeps a stash behind the desk there for kids, but I figured I could bum some kind of chocolate off of her. In the two blocks I travelled to the USPS, three people I knew drove by and waved.

As I drove my chair across the marble floor of the Post Office, Sheri gave me crap because her best friend had the audacity to show up at 4:29--one minute before she closed the front desk.

"Well, I don't need much. I just wanted a..."

"A stamp?" she interrupted.

I placed a quarter on the counter and said, "No, actually I'm in desperate need of chocolate. I didn't realize the time."

She cackled and said "Suuuure you didn't." But being the friend that she is, she came through with a Snickers. In the time that it took her to dig it out of the drawer, an acquaintance came in at the last minute. We all joked about how he would have been out of luck if I wouldn't have shown up right at 4:30--some friend. Yuk. Yuk. Yuk. Before I left, I asked Sheri if I could borrow her copy of Breaking Dawn. Chocolate and a book. I definitely owe her.

Why am I rambling on and on about these mundane meetings? I love this little town. I love that people wave at each other, that in the span of three blocks I am reminded of how blessed I am with my simple life. Cheered by the sunshine and camaraderie, I feel an unexpected gratitude. I wish I could say I was one of those people who kept a gratitude journal, who made a habit of consciously recognizing her blessings. But I'm not. Ashamedly I admit that I'm more apt to notice what's missing or messed up. So when gratitude sneaks up on me, I'm compelled to make a note of it.

Breaking Dawn beckons. Time to set out on that marathon.

Day Trip Number One

2009-06-05T14:16:00.020-05:00

The girls counted down their last four hours of the school year on May 22. By May 23 I already began hearing, "There's nothing to do!" Those words ceased the minute I informed them that I could find something for them to do, like washing clothes, washing the car, washing the floors...lots and lots of washing. However, their heavy sighs and hunched shoulders whined more loudly than any mere word.

At ages twelve and eleven, Katie and Hailey are not only fun travel companions, they are also excellent Hannah helpers. I decided I would plan hopefully-weekly girls days out this summer, probably one of the last summers that my girls will consider a day out with mom fun.

Yesterday morning I loaded my Hoveround while Katie and Hailey packed lunch boxes of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cheese and crackers, fruits and veggies and drinks as well as a sack of extra clothes for Hannah Savannah and drove the ol' Tahoe to Coffeyville, Kansas. I began our outing with a hasty prayer along the lines of, "God, help us have a fun and successful day. And especially help us to be patient when things go wrong, because something surely will. Amen." Norman Vincent Peale (whose name is hyperlinked there, dang this dark background!) probably would not have approved, but if you've trekked anywhere with kids, you know my prayer was pertinent.

Our first stop was The Dalton Museum, home of all things Dalton Gang related.

In 1892 five men attempted to rob two banks in Coffeyville. Four of them were killed by Coffeyville citizens and the fifth was reformed after doing a stint at Lansing. We had already toured the museum once, a few years ago, and found it to be somewhat boring, so I promised the girls we would make this stop a short one. However, this year we all enjoyed it, thanks largely to John and Wendy, the husband and wife team who were manning the museum that day. They gave Katie and Hailey a scavenger hunt list of twenty items as well as plenty of hints when the girls became discouraged. John even offered to keep an eye on Hannah so I could help, which took constant concentration since many items, including but definitely not limited to an old cash register (so many buttons to push) and an antique metal bathtub (just her size), were kept on the floor. Here she is standing beside an antique bottle capper.

This mural remains the most memorable element of the museum, a movie-screen sized portrait of the four dead Dalton Gang members. The sign below it reads "CRIME DOES NOT PAY." Many fliers of that picture and caption were distributed in the late 1890s in an effort to deter criminal activity. What do you suppose would happen if we did the same today? Or if we laid out a row of overdosed drug addicts with the caption "DRUGS KILL."

On the television to Katie's right we could have watched an excellent documentary produced by The History Channel, but I'd seen it before and knew Hannah would never sit through it.

We just had to do the tourist-y pose:

The girls correctly answered all of the questions on the scavenger hunt, which merited them a couple of mock newspapers about the infamous day. After saying our goodbyes we headed towards the bank the Dalton Gang held up, which has been preserved. First I wanted to stop at the Tahoe for a drink, so I asked Hailey for the keys. I had handed them to her because her shorts had pockets. She looked in the back pocket of my Hoveround where she had put them without my knowledge, but they weren't there.

"I saw Hannah with them," Katie informed us. "In the museum."

I wanted to sarcastically ask, "And you didn't take them from her?" but I held my tongue. Maybe that prayer had some efficacy.

We returned inside and sure enough, they were on top of the old-timey cash register. Whew!

On our way to the bank we spied this fountain, a kid magnet if I ever saw one.

We entered the bank through the adjacent Chamber of Commerce, where we also took Hannah for a bathroom break. While I helped Hannah, Katie and Hailey held my keys and checkbook. I've GOT to buy a purse.

Inside the bank:

Inside the vault inside the bank:

We left the bank in time to arrive at the Brown Mansion, (again, there's a hyperlink) with about fifteen minutes to spare before the next tour, just enough time to eat a few bites at the picnic table under a shade tree on the grounds.

Katie and Hailey leisurely unloaded the lunches while I grabbed my checkbook, which contained the tickets I had purchased at the Dalton Museum. Except I couldn't find it. My checkbook that is. Everyone frantically reloaded the Tahoe and we tore out for the bank, hoping the checkbook would still be there.

Sure enough it was, but now we had an hour to kill until the next tour began at the mansion. I called my new friend, John, to determine where to find a park for playing and picnicking. On his recommendation we drove to Pfister Park, an excellent recommendation indeed.

As we packed into the Tahoe yet again, Hannah had her one and only meltdown of the day. Not too bad.

I could go on and on about the Brown Mansion. I've toured it at least four times, but this was the most enjoyable. The tour guide allowed Hailey into this chained-off room to play the piano. She also took us out onto the...what's it called...veranda? Terrace? I'll say "veranda." It's the upper porch/deck in the picture above. What a view!

Hannah snapped the picture below.

Hannah also took this picture. She and I sat on the main floor while the tour guide took Katie and Hailey through the basement. I didn't feel like taking that many stairs.

As I worked with this picture, I noticed the sign. Oh well.

This was our final stop. I HAD to buy a purse.

Happy Mother's Death Day

2009-05-23T09:32:00.011-05:00

For Mother's Day this year we travelled to Wichita to pick up the ski boat we purchased from Carl's sister. I was a little disappointed to be spending "my" day on the road (though I was the one who suggested it), but my disappointment became surprised joy when I realized Katie and Hailey had made Mother's Day cards and presents for me and brought them along just to make the day special.

My "surprised joy" transformed to hilarity when I read my card from Hailey:

For the record, I have never said or even hinted that I wanted to kill myself. Where the heck did that come from???

Then when I got to the end of my card, I began to wonder if Hailey had some diabolical scheme in place to send me to my eternal reward...

I recalled this post (you can click on the words "this post," though you can't tell with a dark background) and began to see a pattern. Am I safe in my own house? Do I have a couple of Menendez brothers (sisters) in the making? I'm repeating here for the record: If I die under mysterious circumstances...

I think I'll go cancel my life insurance policy.

Dandy Wisdom

2009-05-03T12:31:00.001-05:00

"Hannah, where does milk come from?"

"A cow."

"Where does bacon come from?"

"A pig." Hannah grins. She's on a roll now.

"Okay, Hannah, where do eggs come from?"

"Chicken butts."

Another IEP Meeting Under My Belt

2009-04-28T12:08:00.005-05:00

This morning I attended a meeting to renew Hannah's IEP (Individualized Education Program) for her kindergarten year. When I look at how far we've come, I'm awed. This is the little girl who, on her first day of preschool just before her third birthday, could not walk and could not speak. She only attempted verbal interaction with a cat. Now Hannah runs and jumps and sings along with Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals. She's possibly the only child in her class who can dribble a basketball (which, by the way, is nearly as large as she is) and she can hit a t-ball like a pro. When she meets people in a store or on the street, she approaches them and asks, "What's your name?" Every employee at our local grocery store knows Hannah by name. I wouldn't be surprised if everyone in our TOWN knew her by name.

Something about Hannah is both disarming and engaging. I find myself hoping I can bring her along when I know I will be in stressful situations because she has a way of relaxing tension with her innocent and genuine affection and outgoing personality. At least, that is, until she has a public meltdown.

Hannah is bright and intelligent with one little problem. She is easily distracted, and that's an understatement. Rather, she is continuously, perpetually distracted. Lately I have taken to shooting instructions at her like an automatic weapon: "Hannah, get your socks get your socks get your socks get your socks" until she finally has her socks in hand. Somehow I don't think that will work in a classroom setting. So how will she succeed in kindergarten?

First, she will have a para. Not her very own para, but a para in the classroom to help the special needs kids. I think there will be 3 or 4 special needs children in her class, but I don't know for certain. In preschool Hannah is seated with five other children and a teacher. When she's distracted, the teacher can immediately redirect her. In kindergarten there will be one teacher for 20 (give or take) students and instructions will be given to everyone at one time.

I imagine Hannah's classroom experience to go something like this:

Teacher: "Everyone take out your...(Sally sneezes)...and a piece of...(Timmy taps his pencil). Now write...(Susie's paper falls on the floor). Draw a...(Rhonda raises her hand)...and color it...(the para walks across the room).

As I understand it, the para will be with Hannah to ensure that she hears and follows all of the instructions. So why do I have a huge knot in my stomach and a sense of impending doom? Who worries about their kid flunking kindergarten, for goodness sake?

What do I do? Surely I'm supposed to DO something. Right? Where did I put that Hannah manual? I think they forgot to give it to me when we left the hospital the day after she was born. Should I be changing her diet? Instigating consistent scheduling at home? Giving her additional schooling at home? Relaxing her home environment to compensate for the highly sensory school environment? Surely there's some strange tea found only in the Amazon jungle that would solve all of our problems. Where do I get some of that?

Right now I simply want to stick my head in the sand...or maybe just in my laptop. I have no answers and no clarity about the situation. When I try to think about it, my cranium fills with cotton and I lose the sense of confidence I've come to rely upon.

For now I'll fall back on hope--hope that the summer will bring refreshment and maturity as well as a sense of simplicity that is right now clouded by a complicated day.

Grocery List

2009-04-26T07:56:00.002-05:00

I have a pet peeve. Actually, I have so many pet peeves that I should probably simply call them all "peeves." However, this one is my "pet" peeve of the month:

It drives me crazy when my family uses the last of something but fails to tell me, then wonders why I didn't purchase more during my last grocery run. As a piggyback to that peeve, I'm equally irritated when someone says, "Mom! We're out of jelly!" while I am simultaneously cleaning up a spill, handling Hannah, talking on the phone and making a meal. Do they really think I'm going to remember that in two minutes, let alone two days?

To remedy both problems I have instigated the Refrigerator List. If you use the last of something, put it on the list. If you can't find "the list," make one. Come on family. You're literate. Improvise.

This morning I noticed the latest Refrigerator List, written in Katie's 12-year-old script:

grocury List

1. musturd

2. sandwich bags

3. Hiddin valley ranch

4. soy sauce

First, groCURY. Is that a relative of mercury? Poison?

Next, musTURD? Need I ask more?

Lastly, you have to know the story behind the soy sauce to see any humor at all. The last time I left Hannah in Carl's capable, attentive hands, she opened the refrigerator, located the soy sauce and dumped it out all over the kitchen floor while he was being capably attentive. I've been told the soy sauce wasn't the only item emptied, but Carl cleaned up the evidence before I returned (smart move, honey) and is pleading the fifth.

For now, off to Wichita for my niece's first communion.

Letter to Grandma

2009-04-25T09:09:00.002-05:00

Following is a letter I mailed to my 89-year-old grandma today.

Dear Grandma,

I hope you got to use the Dairy Queen Blizzard coupon before it expired. I'm also glad that Zach [her great grandson] has been playing marbles and attending church with you. Did you have a special Easter service?

I've had a busier-than-usual two weeks here. Carl's mom, Louise, visited for three days beginning April 13--the day after we returned home following a whirlwind Easter trip to Wichita. While Louise was here I worked constantly to finish my taxes, which resulted in a very small tax bill. I vow to keep up with my 2009 paperwork so that I will be finished with '09 taxes by February 15, 2010.

Do you remember my friend, Bob? He's an older man--just a very good friend--I met at my first apartment complex my sophomore year of college. We've maintained our friendship all these years. He's 78 years old now and has lost the sight in one eye, but he made the trip to Oswego this past Monday to visit through Thursday. Very enjoyable.

Carl, Hannah and I will travel to Wichita and back tomorrow for Madison's first communion. This is an active time of year for us, activity I welcome after the cooped up, dark days of winter.

My gardens have come to life. The tulips mom planted for me last fall bloomed beautifully. Mom and Carl worked together to plant a small redbud tree, wrapped at its base with the semicircle of yellow and fire-engine-red tulips. Tucked into the arch of tulips is a clump of lavender creeping phlox. I'm kicking myself for failing to take a photo last week because it was spectacular, if I do say so myself.

I spent all day yesterday clearing out our breezeway: emptying the books and clutter from the wall of shelves, throwing away the junk that accumulated and magically multiplied over the winter, and packing away the coats for the season. I'm hoping that an empty room will inspire Carl to resume work on the never ending building project. [Here's another link for any interested blog readers]. I'd like to move the washer and dryer into the 10' x 12' breezeway, convert the current laundry space into a pantry, and put tile down from our stopping place at the new bathroom through the breezeway and pantry and into the kitchen. We'll see.

I've been thinking about the quilt gifting party you held, about transcribing the tapes and watching the videos again. That was an incredible undertaking, Grandma--one I appreciate more with age (age coupled with a complete INability to sew--the sewing gene skipped a generation with me, but just might emerge in Hailey).

I'm impressed at the accomplishment: finishing a quilt for each child. I'm interested in the individual stories behind each quilt and appreciative of the talent required to piece and sew. Truthfully, though, above all of that I'm intrigued by the woman behind it all. I realize I barely know my own grandmother. As a child I perceived you as an "old lady" who liked to play cards and marbles and always set the table for breakfast the night before. Now I'm a middle-aged woman with children of her own and my perspective has changed.

I suspended all efforts towards a career when Carl and I decided to have children and start our own business. Pouring myself completely into those has resulted in a strong marriage, well-rounded and so-far-successful children and a business that has thrived for thirteen years and still operates in spite of this economy. They're like my spring garden: growing and beautiful with minor maintenance and weed-pulling.

But now Hannah will begin all-day kindergarten this fall and I will have hours of free time. I recognize that a big chunk of my life is more like the north side of my house: a few started-but-not-finished projects and absolutely no flowers.

What am I trying to say?... thinking...

I guess what I'm trying to get across is: I have ambiguous feelings. I'm proud of my family, happy with my life, grateful for all the good. At the same time I regret the losses and "wish."

I haven't gone on this self-indulgent trip through the life of Angela as a mere exercise in self-absorption. I'm actually wondering what young motherhood was like for you. I've been told that you were a teacher, but had to give it up either when you married or when Clair [her first child] came along. Is that true? I know you took at least one college class in adulthood. Did you enjoy it? Was there more than one? What kind of education did you need to be a teacher?

Do you have any regrets? Moments of pride?

Maybe this is all too much. If so, I understand. But if you know the answers to those questions, I would love to read them.

Love,
Angela

P.S. One more question: If you gave me one piece of advice, what would it be?

An Oyster by Any Other Name...

2009-04-07T21:41:00.002-05:00

Carl sent me to the store for soy sauce and water chestnuts. I returned to the smell of chicken stir fried with onions and other vegetables and saw that Carl had also added some whole grain spaghetti. He dumped in the little container of water chestnuts, splashed some soy sauce and voila! We had supper, courtesy of Carl. Considering Carl never follows a recipe, and he has been known to prepare some truly awful dishes, this one was a winner. The crunch of the water chestnuts mingled with the chewy chicken and the starchy spaghetti made it even more enjoyable for me.

Katie and Hailey, on the other hand, did not enjoy their first experience with water chestnuts and picked them out one by one before otherwise cleaning their plates. "What are these things?" they asked.

"Water chestnuts."

"Disgusting."

The older they get, the more disgusting things there seem to be in the world.

Later Katie and Hailey snuggled into my king sized bed with me for some rare, late-evening conversation. We started by discussing college, if you can believe it. Is college fun? Where will they live? How can they get scholarships?

Somehow the course of the conversation turned from their college aspirations to my agricultural upbringing. I recalled a time when my family worked cattle. My job was to help steer the young bulls into the cattle chute, a metal contraption that squeezed each side of the bull to hold it steady while it was branded, medicated and...um...castrated.

"What do you mean, castrated?" Katie asked.

"Well," I hesitated. I considered not telling them, but realized I was about their age when this event took place.

"They cut off the cow's nuts," Carl chimed in. So much for tact.

"Actually, they cut off the bull's testicles. Cows are female."

"Ewww!"

"There's more," I continued with my agrarian story. "That evening I noticed some strange, whitish, egg-shaped things filling our kitchen sink. When I asked mom what they were, she told me supper. When I pressed, she told me they were called Rocky Mountain Oysters. She fried them up and we ate them that evening."

"What were they?" Hailey asked.

"They were the bull testicles from earlier that day."

"Yeah. Bull nuts," Carl chimed in again. At least he was getting gender correct now even if he still lacked tact."

"That's disgusting!" Hailey said, scrunching her nose. This time I had to agree.

"Why do they call them Rocky Mountain Oysters? They're not oysters."

"You got me," I answered. "I've always wondered the same thing."

We all contemplated that for a few moments until Katie said, "Now I'm scared," with a sudden look of alarm on her face. "What exactly IS a water chestnut?"

Just In Time for St. Patrick's Day

2009-03-11T17:39:00.007-05:00

The Crud kept me couchbound for several days and tired for several weeks, but I am officially feeling better, though a little weak. Because I've been weak and achy, I've used my electric wheelchair much more than usual. I'm ambivalent about that. On the one hand, I'm able to accomplish more when I use my wheelchair. On the other hand, riding around means I'm not using my muscles, which means I'm losing strength, which means I use my wheelchair more, which means...it's a downward spiral that I've got to stop.

I've returned to my YMCA aquacize classes and Carl brought our Total Gym to the living room. Hopefully between those two exercises, I can begin to regain some muscle. In addition, the weather is slowly warming, allowing me to get outside. Last Sunday I gathered my Peta Easi-Grip hand shovel...

with its arm support cuff...

my red Wolf Garten hand rake...

and my new and therefore sharp clippers (no picture posted) into my bucket and drove my Hoveround out to cut back my monkey grass while the temperatures neared 70 degrees. It was late enough in the afternoon that the grasses on the east side of the house were already shaded, so I rode the two blocks to our church and cut back that monkey grass instead. I got a beneficial triple whammy of peaceful silence, vitamin D, and the good feeling that comes from doing something for someone else.

In addition to my exercises and the antibiotic, I've decided I need to improve my diet. I used to be a health nut, cooking healthy meals with whole grains and fresh fruits and vegetables, avoiding sugar, eating healthy snacks. Lately, though, I've subsisted on mostly caffeine and sugar while downing the occasional clementine or salad. I can tell. My energy level is low, my skin is sallow and my moods mimic The Wildfire. I can't blame it all on the arthritis.

I know I need the enzymes and other nutrients from fresh fruits and vegetables, but I just can't seem to make myself eat them regularly. So I've decided to try something new. Now, try not to gag. Keep an open mind. Really. Are you ready? I've been blending vegetables and fruits together in a high-powered blender to make green smoothies. MMMMmmmm. Think V8 Fusion, only unpasteurized. And green. Of course, the color changes depending on the ingredients.

Carl loved my first batch so much that he drank two glasses and asked if I would make it again. Hannah seemed to like it, too.

Katie and Hailey actually requested that I pack green smoothies in their lunches...after I perfected the flavor a little. In my first attempt I blended together about 30% vegetables (fresh spinach, collard greens and romaine lettuce) and 70% fruit (prepackaged frozen strawberries, mangoes, peaches and pineapple along with one fourth of a lemon--peels and all--and two fresh bananas). I added some Xylitol (a sweetener), flax oil and some water.

My verdict? Well, it didn't make me gag. That's a positive...right? It wasn't bad, but it wasn't good. I've decided that my next batch will have even fewer vegetables of only one type (probably spinach) until I develop a taste for green smoothies. I'm determined to keep at this as I strongly believe it will help me actually feel better in a matter of weeks. I don't believe smoothies and their enzymes alone will heal me, but they are a stepping stone.

Well, I need to get out to the kitchen and work on perfecting the flavor. I'll keep you posted. I know you're dying to try this at home. Just in time for St. Patrick's Day.

Aw, Crud

2009-02-25T20:52:00.002-06:00

That's what I call it: The Crud. You know--worse than the common cold, but not the flu. Cough. Hack. I ran a fever around 100.5 Friday, but it broke and I thought I was getting better.

Wrong.

So yesterday I self-diagnosed infection and refilled an antibiotic from last October. Does anybody else do this? The antibiotic was Levaquin, which is indicated for sinus & lung infections. The Internet says so and the Internet is never wrong. Right?

I'm not whining. Just telling you why my posts have been fluff.

Temperatures reached 69 degrees here today. I knew I wasn't feeling well when I opted to stay inside rather than enjoy the sunny day. I hope the antibiotic is the key.

Barbie's

2009-02-24T08:40:00.003-06:00

A month ago Carl took Hannah with him to run a few errands. On their way home Hannah gave me a call on Carl's cell phone.

"Hi Mom!" She sounded both surprised and excited to hear my voice, even though she was the one that called.

"Hi Hannah. What are you doing?"

"Mom! It's me! Hannah!" she replied with more effervescent enthusiasm.

"I know, Hannah. What are you doing?"

"Riding in Daddy's truck."

"What have you been doing with Daddy today?"

"We eat at Barbie's," she answered.

"Barbie's. What's Barbie's?" I went through a mental list of potential places they could have gone that Hannah might call Barbie's, but nothing came to mind.

"We eat at Barbie's," she repeated as if I didn't hear her the first time.

"What did you eat at Barbie's?" I asked, still trying to narrow things down.

"Chicken," she replied. That answer confuses me to this day.

"Chicken? At Barbie's?" I paused. "Let me talk to your dad."

After some shuffling noises, Carl got on the phone.

"Where did you and Hannah eat today?" I asked him. You'll never guess what the answer was. Scroll on down...

Keep scrolling....

Almost there....

Makes perfect sense, doesn't it?

Matchy-Matchy

2009-02-23T11:09:00.004-06:00

Here I am in the Wichita area while Carl swoosh-swooshes down the ski slopes. If anyone deserves that vacation, he does. I hope they're having a blast.

Hannah has been learning to "match" things this year. Maybe she's learned it every year of preschool, but this is the first year she's been able to verbalize the lesson at home. "Look Mom! My shirt matches your pants. They're blue!" Or "Your shirt matches that car!" (They're both red.)

My mom, a.k.a. Grandma Janis, rearranged her basement recently, moving the bedroom where Katie and Hailey sleep to a different location. The minute we arrived Saturday, Grandma Janis took all three girls down to show them their new digs, complete with a new quilt on the bed.

"What's that, gwamma?" Hannah asked, pointed up at gray duct work running along the ceiling of the new bedroom.

"That's the duct work for my heater."

Not missing a beat, Hannah informed her, "Gwamma! It matches your hair!"

On the Road Again

2009-02-21T08:23:00.002-06:00

I don't know if you've realized it from my previous posts, but Carl is the original prototype for the Energizer Bunny. Truth be told, Carl's DAD, Mel, is the original prototype and Carl is merely Son of Prototype. Carl grew up in a family with five sisters and no brothers who all snow skied together every winter and water skied every other weekend in the summer, and they haven't slowed down since.

Mel has continued to snow ski well into his later years, even getting free senior citizens lift tickets at certain ski slopes, but he hasn't skied since winning his battle against colon cancer a few years ago. Now, at the ripe old age of 83, Mel has decided to take one last ski trip and his six children are joining him sans spouses. Louise, Carl's mom, is going too, but won't be skiing. They leave for Colorful Colorado tomorrow to ski for three days in the Colorado Rockies. I don't expect to see Carl again until his raccoon-style sunburned face shows itself next Friday. Pray that all bones stay intact.

My sentences and paragraphs are all choppy because right now I'm fighting some kind of crud, complete with tight cough and low grade fever. Perfect timing. Being the pioneer-spirited woman that I am, I'm packing up my three kids to stay with Mom and visit my sister for a few days rather than be a single parent for an entire week. I've even pulled the girls out of school Monday. Wimpy? Maybe. Let's just say I know my limitations and leave it at that. Katie and Hailey would be a breeze, but the Hannah factor weighs in heavily.

I need to get up and get packed. This crud has kept me from doing what little laundry I usually do so that I'm actually planning to pack dirty clothes. Eww. Yes, I'll wash them before we wear them, just not before we leave. Am I making any sense?

Getting up now...really...I'm moving...soon...hack, cough, hack...here I go...

Mondegreens

2009-02-19T06:26:00.005-06:00

Here's a multiple choice question for you:

What is a mondegreen?

A. Part of a golf course

B. A kind of insect

C. The mishearing of a phrase

I've included this picture not only for your viewing pleasure, but also to keep you from seeing the answer as you contemplate. You are contemplating...aren't you?

The answer is C. Answers.com defines a mondegreen as "A series of words that result from the mishearing or misinterpretation of a statement or song lyric. For example, I led the pigeons to the flag for I pledge allegiance to the flag."

Do you remember this commercial from...when...2006? It's the perfect example of a mondegreen, mistaking the Clash's "Rock the Casbah."

Following are some other common mondegreens.

"There's a bathroom on the right." for "There's a bad moon on the rise." Bad Moon Rising, Creedence Clearwater Revival

"Dead ants are my friends; they're blowin' in the wind." for "The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind." Blowin' In The Wind, Bob Dylan

"The girl with colitis goes by." for "The girl with kaleidoscope eyes." Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds, The Beatles

"Sleep in heavenly peas." for "Sleep in heavenly peace." Silent Night, Christmas carol

"I got no towel, I hung it up again." for "I get knocked down, but I get up again." Tubthumping, Chumbawumba

"She's got a chicken to ride." for "She's got a ticket to ride." Ticket to Ride, The Beatles

"Sunday monkey won't play piano song, play piano song." for "Sont des mots qui vont tres bien ensemble; tres bien ensemble." Michelle, The Beatles

"Baking carrot biscuits." for "Taking care of business." Takin' Care Of Business, Bachman-Turner Overdrive

"Donuts make my brown eyes blue." for "Don't it make my brown eyes blue." Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue, Crystal Gale

Frankly, some of them amaze me. Who the heck thought CCR was singing about bathrooms??? I grew up reading Blowin' in the Wind piano music from a collection bound in a big, green Reader's Digest piano book, so "dead ants?" Come on. Finally, Tubthumping's song is one of my all-time favorites, so that one especially cracked me up.

We have our own Mondegreen in the Solomon house, courtesy of Hannah. After watching The Sound of Music approximately 3,427 times, she has figured out the words to So Long, Farewell. Following are the correct lyrics, with the confusing German words in italics:

So long
Farewell
Aufwiedersehn
Goodnight

Hannah, being unfamiliar with German (shocking, huh?), has figured it out:

So long
Farewell
The people say
Goodbye...

...Goodbye.

The Deeper Meaning of Tail Feathers

2009-02-18T06:22:00.004-06:00

Yesterday I told you of poor Pippin's tail feathers. Every time I think of the actual plucking, I unintentionally practice twenty or thirty Kegel exercises in subconscious sympathy for the bird.

Since then I've imagined the events that lead to the crime. Thursday morning Carl took Katie and Hailey to school. When he returned he left Hannah inside to entertain herself while he prepared his truck for work. I picture her playing with her Leapster or watching the musical State Fair for a while, then noticing a lighthearted chirping coming from the big girls' room.

Up until that day Hannah had committed several small acts of vandalism, including dumping an entire bag of bird seed into the bottom of Pippin's cage or simply leaving the cage door open, but nothing harmful to the parakeet. She had attempted to capture Pippin without success, managing only to set the bird free to poop throughout the girls' bedroom.

That Thursday morning was different, though. In my mind's eye I see Hannah's walking into Pippin's room, approaching the birdcage and reaching for Pippin. Pippin anxiously avoided Hannah's pudgy hand until, to her surprise, she succeeded in capturing the frightened bird.

Did you ever hold a baby bird when you were a child, felt it's frantic heart beating until it pecked your fist? You probably released the bird upon the first little bite. You may have even cried. I imagine that's exactly what transpired between Hannah and Pippin, except for the part where Hannah should have released the bird and cried.

Pippin's tiny bird brain had no way of knowing that Hannah had used biting herself as a method of self-soothing since she was a toddler. She still sports the scabs and scars to prove it.

As Pippin pecked Hannah's already wounded hands, Hannah noticed the long tail feathers. Like a kid pulling a dog's fluffy tail, Hannah gave the feathers a tug. Surprise! The feather came out in her fat little fingers. Kegel. Kegel. Kegel. Unlike a dog's bite, Pippin's pecks were harmless.

Pluck.

Pluck.

Pluck. Pluck. Pluck.

I don't know what made Hannah quit, but I'm glad she did.

I'm going to take a giant leap and say that I identify with Pippin. Hannah was to Pippin what arthritis was to me when it first disrupted my life. Like Pippin, I lived a simple life, experiencing setbacks no bigger than having all of the birdseed dumped into the bottom of the cage or occasionally being ignored. I had long, beautiful tail feathers in my life: I was an above-average pianist, a straight-A college student, an energetic participant in intramural sports and extracurricular activities, all the while tying my identity and worth into those elements of me.

Almost as quickly as Hannah plucked Pippin's tail feathers, arthritis yanked those elements from my life. Nowadays Pippin hops back and forth between the two mirrors in his cage and I wonder what he sees, wonder what he thinks of the bird in the mirror. I thought he might react like a dog with a bad hair cut, sullen and humiliated. Surprisingly, he seems unaffected by the situation. Maybe he knows his tail feathers will grow back. Or maybe his tiny bird brain doesn't have a segment for vanity.

Like Pippin, I've had to grow new "tail feathers." But, my identification with the parakeet stops there. Pippin's tail feathers will look almost identical to the ones he lost. Mine look much different, the equivalent of bright red peacock-style feathers on a baby blue bird. Years of commitment to the piano have been replaced with a hit-and-miss, halfhearted attempt at writing. Intramural sports have transformed into regular attendance at an arthritis aquacize class otherwise attended by senior citizens. These tail feathers have the potential to become full and stunning if I give them my full attention, but they will always be red.

Maybe, though, as I age my other "feathers" will change from blue to red, so that my red tail feathers won't seem so odd. Eventually it won't seem strange that I'm part of a senior citizens' aquacize class: red body feathers. Many pianists develop arthritic hands and stop playing like they used to, maybe even replacing their piano playing with other creative outlets: more red body feathers.

It's a reach, I know. But we all have our tail feathers plucked at some point in our life. Some of us get them all yanked out at once and have to decide whether or not to lapse into self-pity and humiliation while we wait complacently for a few stragglers to grow back. Others of us experience a hidden, consistent loss of one tail feather at a time, which is, in some ways, more difficult in its tenacity and anonymity. I have to admit that a sick serendipity of having a deforming illness is that I don't have to suffer silently or alone.

I'm not sure how to conclude this. I've got these crazy, red peacock feathers growing out of my backside, clashing with the baby blue feathers of my life, and I'm trying to decide how much time and attention to give them. Focusing on them feels vain and selfish. But ignoring them leaves me depressed and resentful. Somewhere in between is Aristotle's golden mean.

Have you noticed any red tail feathers growing out of your rear end lately?

Birds WITH a Feather...

2009-02-17T07:21:00.014-06:00

Do you remember this picture?

Last September Katie picked out this beautiful bird for her birthday, primarily because it had the longest, prettiest tail of all the birds in the store.

Fast forward to the first weekend of February. My sister's husband, Ed, has taken two or three business trips yearly, leaving Ashley home with their five children aged eight and under. The youngest is nine months old. Can you imagine? To top it all off, they home school.

Before Ed left for his most recent business trip, Ashley grumbled that motherhood doesn't provide "business trips," no weekend escapes from the mundaneness of stinky diapers, midnight feedings and the constant sound of "Mom. Mom. Mom." Nobody says, "Hey, I need you to fly to this faraway city and have intelligent, adult conversation with other like minded adults. Oh, and then we'll provide you with your very own quiet hotel room (read: a full, uninterrupted night's sleep)."

Before you work-outside-the-home mom's chime in and say, "I wish I could stay home all day," or anyone says, "Wait, that's the choice she made when she decided to stay home with the kids," I say stow it. Every choice has its benefits and challenges. Everyone grumbles now and then. If you're not a grumbler, you're stronger than I. Bully for you.

But I digress. SuperEd came up with a SuperSolution for their situation. He suggested that Ashley take a little "business trip" of her own while he stayed home with the kids. It became a SuperDuperSolution when Ashley invited me on her "business trip" to Winter Park, Colorado, along with my mom and dad. Carl OK'd the trip, we found excellent accommodations and enjoyed two nights in the Rockies. Ahhhh.

Look, Mom, it's Byers Peak!

So far, so good. Right? Ashley and I have wonderful, selfless husbands who are willing to sacrifice for our sanity, right?

Well, sort of. SuperEd lives near his family, who provided a couple of meals and a place to hang out with the kids while we vacationed the days away. That's not to minimize his efforts. He still spent the nights alone with baby who's still nursing and a two-year-old who awakens at odd hours.

While Carl didn't have a baby to contend with, he had Hannah. Need I say more? No family lives within a one hundred mile radius. He even took Hannah to work with him Thursday. What a guy.

I called Carl from Colorado that Thursday night. "How are things going?"

"Great. The DVD player in the truck didn't function while Hannah and I were at work, so I had to go to plan B, but Hannah was an angel. A guy at my last job gave her a big, white helium balloon."

"How's everything at home?"

"No problems." He paused, then muttered, "Here's another one."

"Another what?" I asked.

"Oh, I keep finding Pippin's feathers all over the house. I don't know what's going on."

I pictured downy white and blue feathers dotting the floor and asked, "Do you think he's sick?"

"Nah. I'm sure everything's OK." We talked a little longer, then hung up for the evening.

I spoke with Katie the next evening. "How was school today?"

"Fine." We've recently entered the realm of monosyllabism. That's my new word.

"Did anything unusual happen?" I asked, hoping to solicit a lengthier reply. I wasn't disappointed.

"Next time I see Hannah I'm going to dump water on her head."

Uh oh. "Why's that?" I asked cautiously.

"She pulled all of Pippin's tail feathers out. Next time I catch her at Pippin's cage, I'm going to dump a glass of water on her head."

"Yeah, you said that already." At least she didn't say she was going to kill her. I attempted to soothe Katie and told her we would figure something out when I returned home.

Katie's description was accurate. Hannah pulled all of Pippin's tail feathers out, not just a few downy blue and white ones.

I can only hope they'll grow back. Poor bird. For now, we keep Pippin locked in Katie's and Hailey's room during the day until we can determine how to make his cage Hannah-proof.

I haven't written here in a long time, but believe me, it isn't because life has become dull.

Tune in tomorrow for The Deeper Meaning of Tail Feathers. It's already written and scheduled to publish tomorrow morning.

A NEW New Year's List

2008-12-31T07:16:00.003-06:00

Carl and the girls dismantled our Christmas tree, dragged it outside and set it aflame. Nothing burns faster than a dried-out pine tree. Our Christmas decorations are scattered in varied states of put-away: some still sit in the same dust they've been collecting over the past thirty days, some are in boxes strewn throughout the house and some wait patiently by the attic ladder steps. What a mess.

For us Catholics the Christmas season doesn't officially end until January 6, which is the twelfth day of Christmas, also known as Epiphany. For this Catholic, Christmas will officially end on January 1 when my side of the family gathers to celebrate. By that time I will have made countless lists, wrapped a ridiculous number of presents, and purchased at least four last-minute gifts in spite of my lists. I don't think I could last another day, let alone the five that remain between January 1 and January 6. Nobody will receive, seven swans a-swimming, eight maids a-milking, nine ladies dancing, ten drummers drumming, eleven pipers piping, or twelve lords a-leaping from the Solomon family. Sorry.

A large percentage of us are making a different kind of list and checking it twice: The New Year's Resolutions. I've decided to make two lists this year: First, I will make a list of the things I did right in 2008. Rather than focus, as I so-often do, on my deteriorating body, weak sense of discipline, inferior relationship skills or mediocre financial management, I'm going to list my 2008 triumphs. After I've made that list and basked in its meager glow, I'll return to the much-simpler task of delineating my faults in the form of a record of resolutions to change them.

So, here it goes, in no particular order (because, really, I should be completing the overwhelming number of tasks required to get on the road to Wichita today for my family's Christmas celebration tomorrow):

In 2008 I...

1. decided NOT to medicate Hannah, and she appears to be "growing out of" her spaciness at school.

2. We completed the French door room and nearly completed the downstairs bathroom of the building project.

3. I, with Mom's help (or should I say Mom, with my help), put new landscaping in my front yard, including spring bulbs that I'm anxiously awaiting.

4. finally paid to have gutters installed to protect number 3.

5. finally met my Internet friend, Laurie. (Hi Laurie!)

6. completed our taxes on time AND got a refund.

7. started the Antibiotic Protocol

8. started going to the YMCA for arthritis aquacize classes

9. rekindled my friendship with Bob

10. entered a Guideposts writing contest

11. repaired my relationship with my mother-in-law

12. started hormone therapy, to which I credit my wonderful lack of seasonal depressions this winter (yippee!)

OK...I admit to re-reading my own blog to come up with some of these and I've made it as far as June. However, I need to get busy, so I'm stopping here. These are the high points.

Hey, 2008 was pretty great. I've already asked this once, but it bears repeating:

What did you do right this past year? Give yourself a pat on the back.

Refrigerator-ator

2008-12-28T06:43:00.004-06:00

When Katie opened the quart of ice cream Friday evening, she found it the consistency of a milkshake rather than a nice frozen box of yum. Other items in the freezer seemed soft, but the ice hadn't yet melted. Carl turned up the knob in the refrigerator section and we hoped for the best. By Saturday morning we knew we had a problem.

Carl pulled the refrigerator away from the wall and spent nearly two hours trying to determine why it wasn't kicking on. He unscrewed the back panel and swept away the gunk, he vacuumed the coils underneath, he dialed the knob to maximum cold in the refrigerator section. Nothing.

In our refrigerator unit the refrigerator is on top while the freezer is on bottom. My sister has the same fridge, so Carl finally agreed to call her family. They didn't answer, so he left a message that went something like this: "Hey, Ed. What do you know about refrigerators? Ours isn't doin' NOTHIN'." Click. Excellent grammar. Very descriptive. Why, I think Carl should consider writing for a living.

A few minutes later Ashley returned our call. They had recently replaced their thermostat--officially known as the cold control I learned--which was located in the freezer section. As she explained this and told me that the numbered knob found in the refrigerator was merely a damper of sorts, I shouted the info to Carl from the comfort of my couch.

Yeah, yeah. He got that.

"Did you try unplugging it for a couple of minutes?" Ashley asked. Yes, it had been unplugged, the light was working, we had power.

"Maybe try turning it off then back on again," she suggested.

I yelled that suggestion to Carl and reminded him that the knob in the upper refrigerator section would not turn it off.

"Well, where do you turn it off then?" Hadn't we already covered this?

"It's the knob in the freezer at the bottom," I reminded him.

Silence.

"Where is it?" he asked, a little annoyed.

As I asked Ashley where exactly the dial was located, Carl hollered, "OK. I see it." Pause. "It IS turned off."

It took a couple of seconds for that to sink in, then Ashley and I simultaneously started laughing. I nearly peed my pants. "Well, maybe you should turn it ON."

Problem solved. I'm pretty sure Hannah had something to do with all of this, but the world may never know.

Playing Catch-up

2008-12-26T11:13:00.002-06:00

I've been frantically working on a Christmas gift project, which I have thoroughly enjoyed, but have hyperfocused on at the expense of writing. I would tell more about my project, but certain recipients still read this blog (at least I think they do...) and I don't want to give it away. Our last Christmas gathering takes place on New Year's Day. At that point life should return to normal.

Yesterday I spent my first Christmas at home since moving to our little town twelve years ago. What a delight! We rolled out of bed early and, while still in our jammies, opened presents with no pressure to pack and drive out of town. We enjoyed a meaningful, frugal Christmas morn.

Pop made a whirlwind trip to enjoy Christmas supper with us, followed by several games of ten point pitch. He left before dawn this morning--crazy!

The Christmas season coupled with the first real cold snap has caused a rush of remote start requests for Carl--you know, those nifty electronics that allow you to start your car from the comfort of your home. The business is a mixed blessing. Financially I'm yelling YIPPEEEEE!!! However, the extra work keeps Carl away during an already busy, family-filled season.

Lastly in this list: a pipe froze and broke in the building project the day before we left for Christmas with Carl's family. On the positive side, we were home and noticed it within thirty minutes, so the damage is minimal. The water leaked through the ceiling of the French door room and onto the bed, but we caught it so quickly that he mattress wasn't even damp. Whew! Imagine the mess if we had been traveling or even if we had been sleeping. Yikes. My Pergo floor would have been ruined, the ceiling may have collapsed rather than only showing a two-foot narrow strip of water damage, and oh so much more.

We still ranked high on the idiot scale, though. Less than twenty-four hours prior to the pipe's rupture, Carl said, "There's been a thin layer of ice in the new toilet the last couple of mornings."

I replied, "Oh no. Do you think we should run the water or something to keep the pipes from exploding?"

He said, "Ohh...I don't know." We had so much to do to prepare for his family's Christmas celebration in two days that neither of us gave it any more thought, until...

With the new year on the horizon I've been thinking back through 2008 and contemplating 2009. What did you do right this past year?

What I Have Done...

2008-12-03T16:00:00.000-06:00

I ran across this meme at The Unknown Blog and thought it looked fun. I'm hoping some of you will do it, too. Cut and paste the list then bold the things you have done. The italicized words are my own little additions.

Let me know if you've participated so I can peek at the juicy stuff.

1. Started your own blog
2. Slept under the stars
3. Played in a band
4. Visited Hawaii (I wish!)
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more than you can afford to charity
7. Been to Disneyland/world
8. Climbed a mountain (though not to the top)
9. Held a praying mantis
10. Sang a solo
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris (again--I wish!)
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch
15. Adopted a child
16. Had food poisoning (thank God, no)
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty
18. Grown your own vegetables (cans from the store--much easier)
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. Slept on an overnight train
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Hitch hiked
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb
26. Gone skinny dipping
27. Run a Marathon (does a 5K count?)
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice
29. Seen a total eclipse
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset (OK--who hasn't???)
31. Hit a home run
32. Been on a cruise (somehow I don't think they mean The Rock n Roll Booze Cruise)
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors
35. Seen an Amish community
36. Taught yourself a new language (I took French in college, does that count?)
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person
39. Gone rock climbing
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David
41. Sung karaoke
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant
44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight
46. Been transported in an ambulance
47. Had your portrait painted
48. Gone deep sea fishing
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris (they really have a thing about France, eh?)
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in theater
55. Been in a movie
56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Visited Russia
60. Served at a soup kitchen
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies
62. Gone whale watching
63. Got flowers for no reason
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma
65. Gone sky diving
66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp
67. Bounced a check (hey, it's been decades)
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial
71. Eaten Caviar (threw up that night...MMmmm)
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in Times Square
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London
77. Broken a bone
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person
80. Published a book
81. Visited the Vatican
82. Bought a brand new car
83. Walked in Jerusalem
84. Had your picture in the newspaper (not difficult in a small town)
85. Read the entire Bible
86. Visited the White House
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating (only Carl)
88. Had chickenpox
89. Saved someone’s life
90. Sat on a jury
91. Met someone famous
92. Joined a book club
93. Lost a loved one
94. Had a baby
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake
97. Been involved in a law suit
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee

What Was I Thinking???

2008-12-02T16:27:00.002-06:00

For the first time since we moved to our small town twelve years ago, we will be spending Christmas at home with only ourselves. Carl's family is celebrating the weekend before Christmas so that we can include family members that otherwise couldn't make it. My family is celebrating on New Year's so that we can include my brother's family. His wife is a professional photographer and is booked solid through Christmas.

Over the years I have become less and less interested in decorating my home for a Christmas it wouldn't experience. Last year I didn't retrieve a single ornament or light from the attic, not even the three-foot fake tree that's been my bah-humbug backup.

This year, however, I'm excited. Sure, we'll spend twice as much time on the road. But rather than a marathon of preparation and packing, we will have two more-manageable weekends between which we will spend a quiet Christmas morning at home opening presents in pajamas (we, not the presents, wearing the PJs) before we even comb our hair. I have no clue yet what we'll eat. Christmas feast? Or day-long snacking?

My excitement and anticipation have manifested as some bizarre Christmas craziness. I know from twelve years of traveling for Thanksgiving that I need recovery time after returning home--a good day or two of relaxing before I begin unpacking, before I begin laundry, before I begin even thinking about Christmas. Knowing this, what did I decide to do the Sunday after Thanksgiving?

Decorate.

Did I undertake my decorating project with any sort of plan in mind? Not really. Unless you call bringing every single Christmas doo-dad, every strand of lights, every box of imitation greenery down from the attic and into my tiny living room at one time a plan. While Carl and the girls hauled things down the attic ladder, I emptied my glass-front cupboard, creating an even larger mess. All the while I repeatedly played the only Christmas CD that hasn't been destroyed by Hannah and Carl burned some potpourri on the stove.

Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la...

Added to the madness: one seven-and-a-half foot, very fat Christmas tree. By 7:30 I was in bed, but the house looked festive. And messy. Very messy. I'm pleased with our Christmas tree, wound with small white lights as well as those fat, red retro lights. I love 'em. The ornaments are a hodgepodge of homemade kid projects, gifts from friends and family over the years and sentimental ones like "baby's first Christmas" and "our first Christmas." Some are a mystery--I have no clue where they came from. You can't tell all of that from this picture, but I'm posting it anyhow.

Notice I took a picture of ONLY the tree and nothing in the messy area surrounding it. The following picture is only one part of my own personal Christmas Ground Zero: my bedroom. Notice the suitcase still standing in the right of the picture. The green chair is a transplant, moved from the living room to make space for the tree.

In addition, I don't think we'll be eating at our dining room table any time soon, but I'll spare you that vision. And all of this after Liz the Whiz did her magic. (What would I do without you LtW?)

And what was I thinking?

What A Weekend

2008-12-01T19:29:00.006-06:00

As usual, Thanksgiving proved to be a whirlwind of activity. We intended to leave our small town for the big city on Wednesday at 3:00, which is actually 5:00 Solomon Time. We departed by 3:45, so does that mean we were early or late?

We arrived at Mom's Wednesday evening, ate supper, played cards ("hearts"--I seriously dislike that game) and imbibed until much-too-late. Thanksgiving day we brunched with my side of the family, pigged out on Thanksgiving dinner with Carl's family and returned to play cards ("10 point pitch"--a much better choice, especially since the women ruled) and imbibed until much-too-late yet again.

On Black Friday morning the dads watched the kiddos while the moms shopped in the morning. In the afternoon Mom, Ashley and I helped my dad pick out flooring and paint for a major project. I felt right at home at Lowe's and enjoyed spending someone else's money for a change. Friday evening we grilled the best steaks ever, purchased from a nearby Amish community. At this point the evenings blur together. Did we play more cards? Or just imbibe?

On Saturday we celebrated Carl's and Hannah's birthdays. If you recall, Hannah was born on Carl's 40th birthday. Hannah's singing Happy Birthday to herself in the picture below.

Before, during and after the party my mom took each of the girls on their annual Christmas shopping excursion, an event that has become as beneficial for the parents as it has been enjoyable for the kids. Mom takes each of her grandchildren to the store of their choice where said kid points out her favorite items within the given price range. Mom makes a list of those items and their prices as well as several more expensive items that the parent may decide to buy. This list has been extremely helpful in years past and has created lasting memories for the kids. After shopping grandma and grandchild go to the restaurant of the child's choice for an after-shopping treat. My girls always choose Braum's ice cream.

Hannah's shopping trip was the last, just before we left Wichita. After shopping she ordered a chocolate waffle cone "to go" so we could get on the road. Grandma Janis returned Hannah, we loaded the Tahoe and left town. Before we even made it to the Wichita city limits, Hannah looked like this:

Much-Anticipated Thanksgiving Quiz Answers

2008-11-26T18:00:00.002-06:00

I know you've been waiting with great anticipation for these answers. You've probably even taken a break from you holiday preparations at exactly 6:00 just so you could gain this valuable knowledge. If you haven't read yesterday's entry, you'll need to do so or this entry won't make sense.

First, Scenario Two was the true scenario. I know. Shocking, isn't it?

Following are the character names and a notation with the character not found in A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.

1. Surely you all know this is Woodstock. Easy starter question.

2. Snoopy

3. Schroeder, who by the way was not in A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.

4. Sally Brown, Charlie's sister:

5. Patricia Reichardt, A.K.A. Peppermint Patty:

6. Marcie Johnson

7. Lucy Van Pelt

8. Linus Van Pelt:

9. Charlie Brown (tough one, huh?)

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you and yours. We have so much for which to be thankful.

Thanksgiving Quiz Night

2008-11-25T19:19:00.029-06:00

Like many families in America, we are preparing to travel tomorrow for the Thanksgiving holiday. Knowing the laundry, planning and packing that needs done in the next 20 hours (hours during which we also need to sleep), I asked the big girls to start a load of laundry and microwave a casserole from the freezer for supper. Since tonight is quiz night, I'm going to give you two possible scenarios and you get to choose which one is true.

SCENARIO ONE:

Me: Girls, we're leaving tomorrow to go out of town for Thanksgiving. Could one of you put a load of laundry in the washer and the other nuke a casserole for supper?

Katie: Wow! We get to visit family all weekend? I can't wait! What do I need to do after I fix supper?

Hailey: Sure! Can I do TWO loads of laundry? I love going to Wichita.

Hannah: Stop me alone! ("Leave me alone!" -- I don't know why she says it this way, but it's hilarious.)

SCENARIO TWO:

Me: Girls, we're leaving tomorrow to go out of town for Thanksgiving. Could one of you put a load of laundry in the washer and the other nuke a casserole for supper?

Katie: Do we have to spend our WHOLE vacation in Wichita? Why can't we just stay hooome. You're not gonna be making lists, are you???

Hailey: When am I going to have time to do this homework project? It's due December 5th!

Hannah: Stop me alone! ("Leave me alone!")

Feeling the love, I decided to spend my precious time wisely by turning on the idiot box and flipping through our four channels. A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving was on, which inspired me to wisely use even more time to download these pictures. Can you name these Peanuts characters?

One last question: Which of the following characters was NOT in A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving?

Tune in tomorrow at 6:00 p.m. for the answers. If I don't get back online before Thursday: Happy Thanksgiving!

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

You Tell Me...

2008-11-21T08:15:00.000-06:00

...Is this sweet? Or a little creepy?

Yes, this is a roll of toilet paper. Carl left it for us. I suggested to him that he choose a color other than brown for future toilet paper correspondence.

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UPDATE: Carl explained to me that we were out of TP in this bathroom so he procured this roll from the new bathroom for the next person in need. What says love more than a re-loaded TP holder? Especially when it's actually written in brown and white.

ICK

2008-11-20T12:36:00.004-06:00

Yesterday my neighbor phoned, opening our conversation with, "I need to tell you something that will affect how we watch our girls while they're outside." My first thought was, "Cr*p. What did Hannah do now?" I mentally flipped back through the days, wondering if she had been outside unattended or maybe fed the same neighbor's penned-up dog something strange. The neighbor has ducks. Did Hannah let the ducks out?

Cautiously I replied, "OK?"

I only wish it simply involved ducks or dogs.

Before I continue, allow me to describe our small-town block, which is divided into eight very small lots with adjacent back yards. Four of us basically share the same unfenced back yard. Thankfully three of those homes include children, counting my telephoning neighbor whose 13 year old daughter has become a close friend of Katie's and Hailey's. The fourth house is a tiny 500-square-foot (give or take) peach-colored rental that is mere feet from my phoning neighbor's back porch.

My neighbor told me, "A sexual predator moved into the little peach house beside us." She e-mailed me the website where I learned that this individual (I refuse to call him a man) has been convicted of--and I quote--"aggravated indecent solicitation of child; less than 14 years old to commit or submit to unlawful sexual act." This same individual is similar in size to me: 5'2" and 125 pounds.

ICK is an understatement.

Our daughters' swing set sits just outside of his window. With innocence, naivete and a presumed sense of safety our girls walk back and forth between our homes to play or to borrow a cup of sugar. We chose small town America in part for the notion that we could live in a modern day Mayberry.

I'm not ignorant. I've cautioned my daughters, explaining sexual predators and pointing out that the bad guy is rarely a bogey man dressed in black. We've discussed situations that place them in danger. Mayberry or no, I never let them walk anywhere alone--except across their own back yard.

Did I mention...ICK?

I showed this individual's picture to Katie and Hailey and explained what he had done to a girl their age. I cautioned them that never EVER would he be the person that I gave information to in the event of an emergency, so never EVER believe him if he tells them something has happened to their mom or dad or whomever so come on in and use his phone or wait in his house or...whatever. They aren't to talk to him. They aren't to approach him. If they see him, they are to run away. Just get away.

Evidently Hailey didn't quite get this because her first question was, "If we see him, can we punch him?"

After laughing at this I explained again that she should simply stay away from him, but by all means she has my permission to punch him if that should ever become necessary--which it shouldn't if she STAYS AWAY FROM HIM. I also pointed out that, though I don't think Hannah is this individual's typical target, we all need to keep a special eye on her.

My heart is heavy. Evil resides in my back yard and its presence threatens those most dear to me. I'm thankful that the winter months are upon us, when we keep indoors to avoid the cold. And I'm hopeful that this individual will move before spring.

Doe, A Deer

2008-11-19T16:04:00.005-06:00

I love musicals. I used to love The Sound of Music. That was until Hannah decided to watch it daily, sometimes several times a day. I'm not exaggerating. When my friend Sheri stops in for her break, she's no longer surprised to hear the Von Trapp Family Singers, but she has stopped hesitating in asking Hannah to turn it off for the ten minutes she's here.

Some people can quote quirky or "cool" movies like, say, Monty Python. One friend, who I'm sure prefers to remain nameless, can quote Goldmember. (I haven't seen it myself). Me? I can quote The Sound of Music. I can name all seven children. I have all of the songs (mostly) memorized, or at least the annoying ones. I've even awakened to have those nuns singing How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria? over and over so that I couldn't fall back asleep. Again--no exaggeration.

I have to admit I love watching Hannah watch the movie and mangle the words. The previews on the VHS include several Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals like The King and I, South Pacific and Oklahoma! Hannah sings "OOOOOO-homa...wind ah ah wah....pain...ah ah wheat...ah smewhs good...."

The words are "the waving wheat can sure smell sweet." At least she gets the context.

When the musical finally begins, Hannah twirls in a circle like Maria and sings, "The hiwhs awive with soun' ah mooosic."

I have confidence in confidence alone...

I am sixteen going on seventeen... I wish.

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens...

Doe, a deer, a female deer...

Which reminds me. It's deer season and the rut is on. I am once again a Deer Season Widow. I suppose I should be thankful that, unlike golf, deer season is limited. But when it's here, it's all I hear about. The same man who cannot turn down a job or let down a customer for any reason (even if his wife is puking her guts out while her infant sits in the bouncy seat next to her, though said wife harbors no grudges, ay?) is suddenly able to quit work at 3:00 so that he can don cammo and climb into a deer stand. Poor economy? Low bank account? No problem. I'm sure he justifies it by reassuring himself that he is providing food, putting meat on the table.

Next time I really want his attention, I think I'll put on a doe costume and sprinkle it with essence of doe. Talking is overrated.

How do you solve a problem like...

For Christmas I Want...

2008-11-18T20:07:00.003-06:00

Last night we watched The Last of the Mohicans. Hailey asked, "What's a Mohican? Isn't that something you wear on your foot?"

Yeah, I'd like a pair of mohicans for Christmas.

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I apologize for the ridiculous delay between this post and my last. First and foremost I must make a clarification for those family members who have checked this blog over the past month only to see the same face gracing the page. That is NOT Isaac. That is NOT Carl. It's...

ED.

And his fashion sense hasn't improved much. heh heh.

Sheesh, so much has happened this past month-and-a-half. I fought an infection that took me away from blogging, then swore I would post "soon." Have you ever needed to send a thank you card, but procrastinated until you felt your simple card should include a personal letter as well? Only you didn't write the short personal letter, you procrastinated so much longer that you felt obligated to deliver the thank you personally with a gift or a batch of cookies or some such thing?

That's how the blogging procrastination effected me. I wrote a couple of posts explaining my absence, but they were somewhat depressing and, well, blah. So I deleted them. The next week I felt like I owed my reader (now singular I fear) something especially witty or funny to make up for the delay. Did I do that? Obviously, no. Instead I left Ed's face on my front page and wasted hours upon hours reading J.D. Robb novels, I'm ashamed to admit.

Finally, I postponed what now felt like an obligation to write the blog equivalent of War and Peace by beginning an unbelievably time consuming Christmas gift project. When will I ever learn that I am NOT a crafty person? To those of you who will receive these homemade gifts, I only ask: please, act as if you love them. OK?

So, over the next few days I will write about Hannah's excellent IEP, the fact that I am a deer-hunting widow now that the rut is on, and my recent membership at the YMCA where I am by far the youngest member of their arthritis aquacize class.

I only hope this post is long enough that you are now required to scroll down before you see Ed's face.

Surpriiiiiise!

2008-10-03T10:43:00.002-05:00

What is it they say about stripes and plaids? Happy birthday, Mr. Style. I'm so glad you've graduated to overalls.

But She Lived

2008-10-03T05:55:00.002-05:00

Hailey informed me that she and Katie wrote a story this past summer titled But She Lived. I was immediately captivated by the title. Until I learned the plot, which is as follows:

First, Katie and Hailey dumped their mother into a hole full of porcupines. But she lived.

Then they dropped her out of a plane with evil, carniverous birds of some sort. But she lived.

Next they shoved their loving, beautiful mother into a vat full of pirahna. But she lived.

I'm beginning to fear for my life, so I'm posting it here. If I should die under mysterious circumstances...

I'm just sayin'.

My Pep Talk to Me

2008-10-02T12:25:00.005-05:00

Are you sick of hearing about the economy, yet? Does it feel like everywhere you turn, there's another talking head, another politician, another piece of news warning us that we are dangerously close to another Great Depression? Even soft news about something like, say, skin care products contains a monetary twist: "Even in today's economy, it's important to use a moisturizer that contains sunscreen."

Normally I tune this stuff out. Carl and I are far (very, very far...like from-here-to-Pluto-far) from wealthy, but we live modestly in a small town where the cost of living is bearable. Around here you can purchase a three-bedroom, two-bathroom house on a lot larger than a postage stamp for under $100,000. Not a new house, of course, but still. I have my complaints about my water bill, but that's about it. Until lately.

It's the beginning of the month and the end of the previous quarter. Quarterly sales taxes are due and the usual bills fill my mailbox, as well as a few unusual ones (can you believe they are actually billing me for those ER visits I made in Colorado?). Carl and I awoke early this morning, brewed a pot of coffee and he paid personal bills while I entered the last of last month's invoices into the computer and prepared statements for our customers.

Car sales are down nearly 20% from last year and our receivables show it. We do most of our work for car dealerships and people don't need new cruise controls in their cars if they aren't buying new cars. On top of that, we don't sell necessities. When a person is trying to decide between being able to start his car from the house or being able to buy groceries for that same house, the decision is a simple one. We've been in this business for over twelve years now and have never had a down month until now. This is new to me.

Now that you know more than you wanted, I'll get to the point of my post. A list. I know that comes as a surprise, my making a list, but this is my way of gaining a sense of control over a somewhat out-of-my-control situation.

~What I Will NOT Do~

I will not begin arguing with my husband about money or pointing out every little mistake he made to get us in this situation.

I will not participate in retail therapy.

I will not bury my head in the sand.

I will not stop contributing to our IRAs.

I will not sign up for cable like I had hoped.

~What I WILL Do~

I will begin opening all of my mail every day (sounds like a no-brainer, huh? See number three above.)

I will cancel my land line telephone.

I will operate entirely from cash and cease using my credit card except for fuel (hey, I get a 3% discount, and with today's gas prices...).

I will begin cooking from scratch again, using beans. Lots and lots of cheap beans.

I will splurge for nicely scented candles to deal with the aftermath of number 4.

I will fix Carl's lunch with a smile on my face (maybe not the smile part).

I will learn how to ebay all the clutter sitting around my house.

I will begin planning a frugal Christmas NOW.

We are a long way from the poor house or bankruptcy court, but I need to feel like I can DO something, like I'm not some helpless little victim. For me, that begins with a list. My list is my pep talk.

Rah rah rah, An-ge-lah...

Navigational Nightmares

2008-10-01T12:55:00.009-05:00

We recently purchased a GPS navigation system. I live in Podunk, USA and have zero need to know the exact latitude and longitude of my location and I rarely need to "merge" onto an Interstate or "exit" a highway (I just turn right or left). So why did we purchase this non-necessity? Carl is in the business of installing aftermarket automobile electronics like cruise controls, keyless entries and those thingys that let you start your car from your house ("remote starts"). We decided that GPS would be a nifty addition to our inventory.

The box containing my Sanyo EasyStreet sat below my printer for two weeks waiting for me to figure out how to program it or upload stuff to it or whatever. It was the "whatever" that kept me procrastinating. Finally I pulled it out of the box, identified the contents and loaded the CD manual onto my computer.

I'm one of those freaky people that reads the manual--the entire manual. I'm the Yin to Carl's Yang in that way. He never reads the manual and it drives me crazy. Anyhow, the more I read about my new little toy, the more excited I became. This thing had bluetooth capability, would allow me to download pictures and music AND would tell me, verbally, how to get from point A to point B. Cool. I still couldn't imagine needing the "navigation" part of my navigation system more than once a decade, but hey, it's like current cell phones which have become glorified cameras/Ipods rather than something with which a person places a call. Except for me. I can't seem to figure out my camera phone and usually end up taking a picture of my foot.

But I digress.

I uploaded the stuff from the second disc and decided to let her tell me how to get home from Hailey's grade school, which is clear across town. As I pulled out of the grade school drive Ms. GPS told me in her slightly snobby, upper-class alto voice, "In fifty yards, turn right." Wow. I could handle this. I turned right, after which she said, "In 275 yards, turn left." Pause until I drove 275 yards. "Turn left." She was prompt. This wasn't the route I would have taken, but I followed her instructions. I had to give the gal a chance. Maybe she knew something I didn't.

She didn't. As I neared my street she commanded, "In 275 yards turn left and arrive at your destination." Pause. "Turn left and you have arrived at your destination." She sounded positively proud, emphasizing those last few words as if welcoming me home. But I wasn't home. I was a block away, so I kept driving.

"Make a U-turn." Right, lady. You got it wrong this time. I turned her off and thought maybe the problem was my small town. Maybe she would work better on the open road or in the big city.

Wrong again. We drove to Wichita this weekend and decided to give her another chance. About ten years ago a highway was built between southeast Kansas and Wichita--a straight shot. For some reason Ms. GPS wanted us to drive about sixty miles north of that highway, travel westward on an obscure Kansas highway and take the turnpike into Wichita, a route that would have added an hour onto our trip and cost a few bucks in tolls. Are Sanyo and the Turnpike system in cahoots?

Every time we ignored her commands to turn, she would pause, then say in a slightly snobbier voice (I swear, she was snobbier), "Follow the course of the road...for a while."

The only time she worked perfectly was in the city. She knew exactly when and where we should turn, even when we came to the strange entrance onto I-235 from Central Ave. However, very few of our customers need nav in Wichita. I grew up in the area, so I certainly don't.

As if the gods were assisting me in determining my need for navigation, I caught this story on the morning news. I couldn't find video to embed here, so you can follow the link below or you can read the following excerpt from an online newspaper. Or both.

http://cosmos.bcst.yahoo.com/up/player/popup/index.php?cl=9976609

OAK LAWN — A Wisconsin man claims he was following his in-car navigational system when he drove onto railroad tracks in southwest suburban Oak Lawn and got stuck. The empty car was struck by a Metra train at 94th Street and Cicero Avenue before he could move it.

...Kaufmann said the 24-year-old driver was obeying his GPS system when he took a right turn onto the tracks and his car's undercarriage became lodged on the rail.

Come on people. Like the lady in the video says: If your ~~friends~~ GPS told you to jump off a cliff...

Sleep Deprivation

2008-09-30T12:18:00.004-05:00

Last night I went through what has become my sleep routine, sad as it is. I took a tiny knock-off Benadryl tablet to help me become drowsy, read a book until my eyes felt grainy, then nodded off for a couple of hours until the pain in my hip woke me. At that point I went to the bathroom, took something for the pain and hoped to fall asleep within the next hour. Sometimes I fall back asleep quickly; other times I sit up, stretch my hip and resume my book until the pain medicine kicks in. In a worst-case scenario I will take a second Benadryl which seems to have an equal chance of either putting me back to sleep or wiring me until dawn.

When I returned from the bathroom at around 1:15 a.m. I fell back asleep quickly. As I dreamed that Katie's school was burning while her pants hung in the school window, I felt a strange tickling on my forehead. I brushed it off of my dream self, but it continued softly scratching until I awoke to find myself brushing my real-self hairline. The irritating culprit scrambled away and I almost fell back asleep before my brain could kick in. Almost.

What was that?! What if it was a spider? What if it was a brown recluse?!

I sat up as quickly as I could and turned on my light as a huge rush of sleep-squelching adrenaline surged through my system. Beside me on my green duvet cover was the evil tickler, a cave cricket like the one in the picture above. I flicked it off of my bed, immediately wishing I would have crunched it with my hardback book. Ick!

I've had enough trouble sleeping due to typical sleep stealers like pain, racing mind, too much caffeine and lack of exercise. Some people imagine that bugs are crawling all over them. In my case, they really are. I don't need this.

I need sleep. Deep, uninterrupted, non-drug-induced, long sleep.

Our Fall Festival

2008-09-27T13:16:00.023-05:00

It was a beautiful morning for a run. The clear dawn air was 63 degrees cool and a fine mist hovered above the river one hundred feet below the bluff where we set up our registration and hospitality tables. Today was the bazillionth annual Oswegofest, but only the FIRST annual Oswegofest 5k Run/Walk, which my friend Sheri organized and at which my family (as well as several others) helped.

Carl loved telling everyone that his job was to stop traffic (he did, indeed, stop traffic so the runners could cross a specific intersection safely); Katie, Hailey and Jenna (Sheri's daughter and the girls' friend) sat at another intersection to ensure the runners turned the right direction; and Hannah and I worked the registration table and tabulated the final results. It was a roaring success, if I do say so myself. I'm already excited for our second annual 5k.

Hannah earned a gold medal--I think just for being so darn cute:

I'm particularly proud of our community. People are friendly. The park is beautiful, especially today with the extra mums and fall decorations arranged neatly throughout. On days like today living in a small town feels idyllic.

One vendor boiled eggs, drained them, then refilled them with confetti and taped them closed. Kids purchased the confetti eggs for a quarter each (yes--PER EGG) and had a ball smashing them on each other and throwing them at just about anyone. Katie got nailed--I wish you could see all of the confetti in her hair.

In addition to the first annual 5k we watched the first annual, absolutely hilarious wiener dog race. Sheri and I were concerned that more wiener dogs entered their race than we had in the 5k. Since we had twenty walkers and runners and they had eighteen dogs, our dignity remained intact. Even though the wiener dog race organizers shortened the track from 100 feet to 75 feet, the dogs ran about halfway, then became confused. Some pups returned to the starting line, some sniffed the spectators and one feisty pooch barked at and intimidated his fellow racers. What a RIOT! This picture of the starting line of heat #1 was taken about twenty seconds after the beginning of the race. Remember, this is NOT the finish line.

Hannah spent over an hour at the petting zoo while Katie and Hailey jumped on an enormous inflated thingy. Because the ~~boys~~ very young men operating it didn't appear to have any rules or guidelines, I'm surprised no one suffered broken bones or other injuries. The girls have a couple of burns, but otherwise they clearly enjoyed themselves.

I'm not complaining by any means. I could have--and did--have the girls quit playing on it when the bouncing-children population exceeded the population throughout the entire park.

These are a few of my petting zoo pictures. Thank you to Robin for providing this chicken picture from her camera phone. I wish my camera phone took pictures like this.

Two of my favorite people in the world....

Is there anything cuter than kids and bunnies?

Now this is one ugly chicken....

We had a "sanctioned" kiddy tractor pull. I don't know anyone in the picture, but look at all those trophies in the background!

You could take a ride around the park in this antique fire engine.

The library sponsored a pumpkin decorating contest. I love the library.

We even had a Guitar Hero contest. Rock on! I don't have pics of that because no one in my family knows how to play Guitar Hero. Yet.

We were all tuckered out, so I took some final pictures at the park's entrance. I wish I could better-describe what an all-around beautiful day we had. Life is good.

Newest Family Member

2008-09-25T20:25:00.003-05:00

This is Katie's birthday present, Pippin. Pippin the parakeet.

I'm definitely a dog person and definitely not a cat person, but I refuse to own another dog until our fence is completed and will contain the dog. Since that refusal we have ~~killed~~ owned two guinea pigs, possessed and flushed one goldfish, briefly kept a cat (only because Hannah responded to it verbally before she was verbal), and stored numerous turtles, crawdads, frogs and toads. Pippin is my favorite so far.

Katie and I selected and purchased a large, white bird cage on e-bay which we erected in the corner of the living room, having been informed that Pippin will be more likely to talk if kept in a high-traffic environment. We can certainly provide a high-traffic environment.

So, here's my question to you: what should we teach the bird to say? I'm looking for something unique, not the usual "Pippin wants a cracker" or "Pretty bird." I was thinking maybe "Wanna margarita?" Or how about "Welcome to the funny farm." Surely you witty folk can come up with something better than that.

No profanity, please, but leave me some good ideas in the comments. OK?

M a t

2008-09-24T07:49:00.008-05:00

Hannah read her first word! Mat. I have some Bob Books ("Bob Books" is linked, but my brown background doesn't show it) saved from the days when I taught Katie and Hailey to read. That in itself is worth posting: that I still have the books, that they are still intact and that ~~Katie~~ I was able to find them. Truthfully, I thought I had disposed of them years ago, but Katie proved me wrong by retrieving them last night.

I was somewhat surprised when Hannah knew the sounds that each letter made. Involved mother that I am, I didn't realize she was learning that. I certainly didn't teach her.

Her attempt to read the word went something like this.

Hannah: "Emm...ay-aaa...tuh-tee."

Me: "No, Hannah, you just say the sound. You don't name the letter. Like this. Mmm...aaaa....tuh."

Hannah: "Mmmmm...aaaaa....tuh-tee." Close.

Me: "OK, put them all together." And eventually she did!

This jolly fellow possessed the next name she read.

And this is how she read it:
"SSSSSS...aaaaaa....mmmmmmMMMMAT."

We're getting there.

Opening Day

2008-09-23T12:39:00.004-05:00

Yesterday marked the beginning of bow season for deer hunters in Kansas. It wasn't until the last few years that I knew there was such a thing as bow season, or any hunting "season" for that matter. My marriage to a hunter has given new meaning to the phrase to everything there is a season. Kansas even has a squirrel season, with a possession limit of twenty squirrels. Consider this an open invitation to any hunter who wants to shoot a few squirrels, as I'm pretty sure you could reach your limit on my tiny 80 x 100 foot piece of property. Just be careful of the neighbor church's stained glass windows. OK?

We even have a crow season.

Enough of that. I swear Carl was born in the wrong century. If he had it his way, we would live entirely off of the game he brings home and we would plant a garden and preserve its contents so that we could subsist off of it through the winter months. If he could figure out a way to "live off the grid," we would.

I, on the other hand, enjoy the convenience of store-bought bread and fruits and vegetables that have been canned en masse at some far-away factory. I have no desire to ever milk a cow. My experience with vegetable gardens has been tortuous since childhood when mom sent my brother and me out to weed our enormous garden, then hauled us to help grandma in her even-larger garden. Don't get me started on the evil of hand-picked cherries and apples. I'm certain all of that hard work developed character within me...somewhere.

I've ambled far from my original thought's path. Hunting. Where was I...? Oh yes--Carl.

Carl has been slow and steady at honing is hunting skills. He purchased the "Big Buck" DVDs, read through various catalogs and magazines and sought the advice of successful hunters. While Carl found the DVDs dramatic and informative, I saw them as the highest form of comedy. I literally laughed out loud at the tense whisperings of the camo-clad hunters perched atop their climbing tree stands: "Look at that buck. It's a BIG buck." Adrenaline and testosterone practically dripped out of my television screen.

The preparation for a morning of hunting is unbelievable. The same man who refused to see the benefit in helping his daughters find their shoes, lay out their clothes and bathe before bedtime suddenly became a preparedness guru. He showered with scent-neutralizing soap and shampoo, ran his hunting clothes through the dryer with a scent-neutralizing dryer sheet, packed same clothes into a plastic bag along with a scent-free towel and laid them all out the night before along with his hunting gear. He awakened before dawn, drank a little coffee, drove in his civilian clothes to the hunting site, changed into his scent-free camo and set out for a tree stand.

This next part is true, though it didn't happen yesterday. Carl made himself comfortable and invisible in his tree stand and waited. And waited. Within the hour the sun peeked over the horizon and Carl could see his breath in the cold morning light. No big bucks. The only nature calling to him was the result of the coffee he drank, but peeing wasn't an option unless he wanted to erase all the scent-removal he had so tediously accomplished.

More waiting.

Did I mention Carl is a smoker?

Still waiting.

No buck. No anything. Carl "held it" until "it" caused physical pain, but could not forego a cigarette. He lit up. Still no buck (imagine that). Finally recognizing that A) he wasn't going to see a deer that morning and B) if he waited any longer he would pee his pants, Carl loaded up, practically fell down the ladder and relieved himself on the tree. It's really not a good thing to urinate under your tree stand.

Needless to say, Carl came home empty-handed that day. Yesterday as well. But yesterday he departed without so much as a sip of coffee and with a nicotine patch pressed firmly to his butt.

Only 100 days of bow season to go.

Collecting Memories

2008-09-22T12:32:00.007-05:00

Note several days later: the end of this post is rated R--for both "Restricted" and "Risque". I've changed the original wording, but still caution any new readers.

I have kept a journal ever since my tenth birthday when mom and dad gave me a cute bound book with Precious Moments on the faux leather white cover. I began by writing about my friends, about whatever boy I had a crush on that week, about all things pre-pubescent. I graduated to writing of my dramatic high school teen angst, about my idealistic philosophies, my goals and my rants. Because I analyzed absolutely everything, the page became my therapist.

A few years ago I caught a friend of mine burning her journals outside in a small fire. When I asked her why, she said that she was married now, that the journals contained information about a previous relationship, that keeping them would be disrespectful to her husband. As she threw the pages individually into the flame, we watched the written memories blaze, then reduce to ashes and blow away in the breeze. I considered my own box of memories tucked away in the attic waiting to whisper my secrets to anyone who sought them or even accidentally happened upon them. Were the stories of boyfriends past, the documentations of mistakes I wished I hadn't made, somehow secretly poisoning my marriage? What if Carl read them? Should I burn them before they burned us?

I decided no. Those journals contained no secrets from Carl or from anyone for that matter. Sure, I made some decisions in my youth that I would change if I could, but burning a page does not destroy the past. I realized that Carl probably knew all of the "big" things contained in my diaries and that he was strong enough to handle those that he didn't. I have since learned that he is disinterested. Either that, or he would rather not know. Whichever it is, it's fine by me.

As I live farther and farther in time from my earlier entries, I become less embarrassed by the stupid things I did and more chagrined by my overwhelming self-absorption. Some things never change.

I just realized: destroying my journals would also eliminate the good memories contained therein. I'll leave you with this anecdote, one about which I wrote and stashed away up there somewhere. If I could find it easily, I would re-read it for accuracy. As it is, I'll have to depend upon my memory.

The summer after my freshman year of college I went to San Francisco with a high school friend, Nancy. One morning we walked from our hotel to an outdoor restaurant near the Golden Gate Bridge for some breakfast. The morning air was cool and foggy and we enjoyed a freedom we didn't yet know to appreciate. As we leisurely ate our breakfast and watched people go by, we noticed a lady walking from the bridge in heels. One of her heels was broken, causing her to limp. Her hair and makeup were a mess and her clothes, though new, were disheveled. She hobbled to a pay phone, tried to place a call, hung up and looked right at us. To our surprise, she invited herself to sit with us and began to tell her story with a distinctly Irish accent.

She and her boyfriend had gone to a party together the night before. Though she gave us quite a few details, I don't recall them. I only remember that she and the guy had a disagreement or an all out fight and he left her at the party. Still in our late teens, Nancy and I listened with shocked amusement as the lady told us that she got trashed and passed out at the party and that her walk across the bridge that morning was her hungover trek home. Boy was she pissed! As her story continued she became more animated, waving her hands as she explained that she had tried to call the boyfriend before leaving the party that morning and had tried again to call him from the pay phone, but he wasn't answering.

Her story surprised us more by the fact that it came from a complete stranger than by its content. That is, until the final sentence. With uninhibited candor she concluded her tale by informing us in her Irish brogue, "I don't know what he's thinking, but I'll tell you one thing for sure. By God, there'll be no bleeeep tonight!" We nearly fell out of our chairs.

It wouldn't matter if I burned that journal entry--the memory is forever seared into my brain.

Open Letter to the Distracted Driver at Second and Wisconsin

2008-09-16T08:55:00.008-05:00

What the bleep bleep bleep were you thinking?! At exactly 7:53 this morning you ran the stop sign at the intersection of Second and Wisconsin streets, a mere three blocks from the grade school. Had I not been paying attention, I would have entered the intersection at precisely the same time--just in time for you to ram into the driver's side--my side--of my little white Hyandai with your big black Dodge Ram (aptly named) at approximately 50 miles per hour.

With your cell phone smashed firmly to your right ear by your right hand, you glanced over at me from the center of the crossroads. Your face barely registered recognition of the fact that, had I been on the phone as well, had I chosen that city block in which to look for something on the seat next to me or to glance over and change the radio station, had I been doing anything other than giving my complete concentration to the road, you would have crushed and killed me. Killed me.

The corner is a blind one, you idiot. What could possibly have been so important that you drove at a ridiculous speed in the direction of a grade school, so close to the grade school, a mere seven minutes before school started and failed to even notice a stop sign?! What if I had been a ten-year-old truckin' it to school at the last minute on her bicycle?

Use your brain, get off your cell phone and pay attention. At least get a Bluetooth or a hands free headset. Or give up your right to drive. You sicken me...but at least you didn't kill me.

Barely still breathing,
Angela

Bank of America Rant

2008-09-15T13:10:00.007-05:00

Wall Street word of the day: LARGE. Lehman Brothers Holdings, Inc. has filed the largest U.S. bankruptcy. American International Group (AIG), the largest insurance company in the world, threatens to crumble. Bank of America, which has the largest number of deposits of any U.S. bank, is buying out the world's largest brokerage, Merrill Lynch. Egads.

We had a foretaste of this in March when JPMorgan Chase bought out Bear Stearns with a little help from the Fed. I suppose that since Bank of America is doing its part to bail out America without the Fed's help (as it should be -- and should have been-- in my humble opinion), I ought to be singing B of A's praises, or at the very least saying nothing.

But I'm not. On the large scale Bank of America is the good guy, though don't think for a minute that I'm suggesting the Merrill Lynch buyout is purely humanitarian. On the small scale, I'm personally miffed with Bank of America.

Yesterday, when the biggest news on television was still the Sarah Palin-Charles Gibson interview and Hurricane Ike, I logged on to pay my Bank of America credit card online. Due date: Monday, September 15. You would think that when dealing with one of America's largest banks, complete with Internet banking, I could enter a payment on September 14 that would post by September 15. This is the age of instant everything, right? Wrong. My payment would not post until September 16, resulting in a $35 late fee plus interest. Their site informed me that Express Payment was available for a $15 charge.

Now, I wasn't completely ignorant yesterday. I've waited until the last minute or simply forgotten my payment date before. In the past I've paid the fifteen bucks for Express Payment or taken a beating with the late fee and interest. One time I even spoke with a customer service "manager" who finally agreed to void the late payment and interest fees only after lecturing me about how I shouldn't wait until the last minute and couldn't expect them to do this again. Yeah--whatever.

Yesterday I'd had enough. I've had this credit card for fifteen years (though Bank of America only bought out my previous credit card company a few years ago). I know good and well that Bank of America could get their money by the due date if I posted it twenty-four hours in advance. In fact, if I pay my other credit card online by 5:00 p.m. on the due date, I'm considered current. That other credit card is owned by the American bank with the largest number of assets. Surely B of A could compete. But why should they?

Full of righteous indignation, I called Bank of America's customer service line, punched in the last four digits of my account number, listened through sixty seconds of unrequested, automated account information and several different menus before being connected with a human being named Lenny. Seriously--Lenny. I immediately pictured this and couldn't get it out of my mind:

"Hey, Lenny, I want to pay my credit card online." And how are the Squigtones? I wanted to add. Remembering my experience with the previous "manager," I added, "The only way I can avoid late fees at this point is to make an Express Payment, right?"

"Let me look here." While I waited I mentally rehearsed my I-want-to-cancel-my-card-this-is-ridiculous speech. Lenny continued, "Yes, it's due tomorrow, so you'd have to use Express Payment. Or you can go to myeasypayment.com"

"What? Where's that? Is that website given on the Bank of America page I'm looking at?" I asked, incredulous. Had I been missing this all along?

"No. It's just a website people sometimes use when they don't have a Bank of America checking account."

"Why isn't it listed there next to the $15 Express Payment option?" I asked. Of course he had no answer. He's just lowly Lenny at the bottom of the Bank of America customer service chain. I went to myeasypayment.com a little fearfully, expecting to find a never-before-heard-of company that would ask for all the information I didn't want to give like social security number, birthdate, mother's maiden name.

But, no. The first picture to download to my screen was the well-known Bank of America logo. Myeasypayment.com was directly affiliated with Bank of America! Why was I just now learning of this? Was I the only ignorant Bank of America customer? Why didn't the earlier "manager" tell me about it rather than chastise me like a tardy kindergartener?

I didn't know and didn't care. I didn't give the megabank the benefit of the doubt but instead assumed that this was their greedy method of extracting $15 or more from thousands of other procrastinators just like me. I cancelled my card and insisted that Lenny document the reason behind the cancellation, certain that the large financial institution would take notice of little ol' me who pays her meager balance in full every month. I expected a letter of apology along with an offer for 0% interest over the next twelve months. Ha!

Anyhow--take that, Bank of America.

Friendly Visit

2008-09-13T07:43:00.004-05:00

I posted here and here that summer 2008 would be my healing summer-- physically, spiritually, relationally (is that a word?). I made some minor headway physically by procuring a prescription for the antibiotic protocol (AP) and purchasing the supplements my AP doctor recommended. However, neither the supplements nor the antibiotics prove efficacious unless I actually ingest them. So, I give myself a C-minus in Physical Health Improvement class.

In those same posts I stated that I wanted to heal lost relationships with one person in mind: Bob. My grade in that class? A+. Bob visited Monday through Thursday this past week for the first time in several years and I was sad to see him go. You would never have known that we had lost touch prior to this summer.

While he visited we enjoyed the freshly ground coffee and a pan of the most decadent, chocolate brownies imaginable, both brought by Bob. Knock that Physical Health Improvement grade down to a D-plus. One afternoon we sat outside in the sunshine for an hour or two and talked about subjects as diverse as health issues, relationships, traveling and ideologies behind books like The Secret. Bob's IQ is in the 150s, so visiting with him is comfortably challenging, though not pretentious.

To the outsider ours appears an odd relationship, though less so as the years pass. Bob is in his seventies, while I have just turned forty. Whether it's a result of the arthritis or simply my nature, I find it easiest to relate to older people. Their years provide for a genuine understanding of what holds authentic value in this world and our generation gap eliminates most--if not all--competition between us. I can simply "be," especially with Bob. At the same time, Bob's friends are all under the age of fifty. We're naturally drawn to each other.

As an added bonus this week the French Door Room was officially company-ready! I spent Sunday unpacking the blue bedding I had purchased a year ago, making the bed, sweeping up spiders, moving furniture and even driving to Wal-mart for last-minute necessities. Having a guest room has been MANY years in the making as you already know. The only thing I couldn't control was the neighbor's yipping dog.

Bob arrived on a cool, sunny autumn day. A light rain fell as he drove away Thursday. I know it's cliche for a writer to make the weather imitate emotion, but in my case it actually did.

Happy Birthday, Blog!

2008-09-06T08:00:00.003-05:00

My infant blog has made it to birthday number one. See the confetti fly! Hear the noise makers squawk, rattle and ffffttt! What began as a creative outlet doubling as a means for collecting memories has transformed into a minor obsession.

Now that I have completed the requisite festival description, I'll get down to reality. I don't actually hear noise makers; I only hear a distant train under a quiet rain shower's tapping against the leaves and sidewalk outside. Carl has taken Hannah to help the Knights of Columbus prepare a breakfast for the town's city-wide garage salers and the house is blessedly silent...and orange. In spite of the clouds caused by the shower, the sunrise is casting a beautifully odd orange glow into my living room. It's magical.

These real-life sights and sounds are better than any meditative CD and have made me introspective. This past year I've learned that this blog has similarities to my own children. When I give it lots of attention, it thrives. When I tire of it and avoid it, I feel guilty. Consistency provides better long-term results than hyperattentiveness followed by a major crash-and-burn. As with everything in life, balance is the key.

Last year marked the beginning of my girls' public school career as well as my own entrance into the public school system as a mom and volunteer. I felt as green as I was. Now, sensing my own seasoning, I'm experiencing a little discontent, a mild sensation of Now What? For the first time in twelve years I have free, uninterrupted time. How shall I spend it? What do I want to be when I grow up?

When I mentioned this to Carl he said, "I thought you'd want to be a housewife." Nothing against housewives, but YUCK! My immediate, uncensored thought was what a waste. Not only that, but I stink at it. My dislike of cleaning is magnified by the extra effort and arthritic pain required to accomplish it. I enjoy cooking...when I feel like it. I have excellent decorating ideas, but my abilities stop there.

Before you judge me a spoiled brat, realize that the previous, succinct paragraph summarizes twelve years. That's 624 weeks--4380 days (not calculating leap years)--of meal planning, laundry completing (only to begin again), toilet scrubbing, bed-making (OK, I don't actually make beds), and cleaning, on top of the more-than-part-time job of bookkeeping for our family business. Those years include the planning of twelve Christmases and forty birthdays for my husband and children. In the summer those same years incorporated mowing, planting, weeding, spraying and whatever-else my yard has needed. My point is NOT look at everything I've done. My point IS: I've done those things and I've done them ~~mostly~~ ~~sometimes~~ ~~occasionally???~~ happily. Now I'm ready to consider something different.

But what?

I've considered completing my degree. I have more than 125 hours of college credits under my belt in music and accounting, but I have no degree to show for them. I started to explain my limitations in finishing those fields, but realized I was merely making excuses. The truth is, they don't appeal to me any more.

What does appeal to me? Writing. I like to write. LOVE to write. If I could complete the college degree of my choice, it would be a creative writing degree. How impractical is that? Nevertheless, I've downloaded the forms necessary to transfer my college transcripts to a local university, just for kicks.

One serendipity of arthritis is that my "someday" is as limited as my body. You know, someday I'm going to ____________. If I don't do things today, I may not get to do them at all. I don't have the luxury of waiting until I'm eighty to finish a useless degree. I need to waste that time NOW.

So, happy birthday, blog. And happy BIRTHday future.

Hurricane HannaH: Downgraded to a Tropical Storm

2008-09-05T20:29:00.001-05:00

As I watched Hurricane Hanna swirl counterclockwise through The Bahamas and towards America’s eastern coastline earlier this week, I couldn’t help but consider the appropriateness of her name, even if it was misspelled. School began two weeks ago and I’m cautiously optimistic that my own Hannah will imitate meteorology.

Let’s back up a little here. This is Hannah’s fourth year of preschool. Though she turns six in November and is thus old enough to begin Kindergarten, we have chosen to hold her back one more year. We made this choice primarily because, though she is the oldest in her class, she is also the shortest (genetic testing, anyone?). Maybe by next year she will be the same height as her classmates and will avoid the stigma and constant questions surrounding her short stature.

OK. Not really. I mean, yes she’s that short. No, I’m not that ridiculous…except in my imagination.

We’ve held her back for several authentic reasons. First, kindergarten is an all-day affair, five days a week. Preschool lasts three hours Monday through Thursday. Given Hannah’s inability to focus last year, kindergarten promised to be a form of legal torture for all involved and certainly not a learning experience of the good kind.

Second, at the conclusion of the past school year Hannah could only be understood by those regularly involved in her life, and even then she frequently required a translator, even for me. Woe to those who could not translate, again even for me. ESPECIALLY for me.

Third, I’m not certain Hannah was emotionally ready for kindergarten. Then again, I’m not sure she wasn’t.

I only question my decision to retain Hannah in preschool when I consider her intellect. She’s one smart little girl, a fact often disguised by her inability to express herself easily. Not only is she intelligent, but she is the most persistent, determined child I know. But enough of my subjective mommy boasting.

Over the summer Hannah’s speech improved to a level at which strangers could understand her approximately 75% of the time. It progressed so far that I no longer found it easy or cute to imitate on this blog, though that doesn’t mean I won’t. At home her meltdowns decreased, her attention span improved a smidgen (a technical term meant to be intentionally vague) and she remained accident-free (of the potty-training variety) about 85% of the time, nighttime excluded. I have high hopes for the school year.

Now we can return to present-day. My three daughters each attend a separate school, so when it’s time to pick them up at the end of the day, I zoom across town—clear across town (he he)—to three separate schools, beginning with Hannah’s.

Let me digress here and say that I learned on day one that Hannah must make a trip to the little girls’ room before leaving her school. Her bladder will not hold through the subsequent two stops and my hip joint refuses to walk the fifty yards to the building then down twelve steps to the Katie’s middle school rest room. Thank goodness I had a Pull-up in the car (bad mommy, bad mommy).

Why am I boring you with these details? To explain that I haven’t had the opportunity to chat with Hannah’s teachers after school. Consequently, I heard no bad news. No news is good news, right? Truthfully, I asked no questions and departed from Hannah’s school so quickly each day that I wasn’t certain that no news was good news. Until Tuesday when Miss Ann said that Hannah had been doing a great job so far paying attention at seatwork time.

WOO-HOO!

However, Tuesday evening at home Hannah imitated a category 5 hurricane when I relegated her to her room as punishment for picking on Hailey. While in her room she dismantled her thankfully-empty potty chair, emptied her underwear drawer, sock drawer and several off-weather-clothes drawers, and pulled the sheets off of her bed. Sometimes punishing one’s children results in worse punishment for the punisher. Did you get that? I think it really did hurt me more than it hurt her.

Despite the home hurricane incident, Wednesday I practically strutted in to get Hannah. Well, as much as one can strut when leaning on her cane. Anyhow, when I entered the school, kerPOW! No more strutting. Hannah had pottied her pants. Twice. Bummer.

Thursday passed without incident and here it is Friday. With two weeks of school behind us and only one bad day, I believe my own Hurricane Hannah is downgrading to a tropical storm. We’ll probably experience our own equivalent of high winds, flooding (hopefully not of the “number one” kind) and possible power outages, but I believe the worst is behind us.

I’m forecasting a good year.

Feeding the Home Improvement Beast

2008-09-02T17:03:00.006-05:00

I spent my Labor Day ~~feeding~~ taking advantage of Lowe's twelve-months-no-payment-no-interest ~~beast~~ offer. I accomplished more than I could have alone because I paid Katie to be my shopping buddy. Yes, I paid her. Seven whopping dollars, for the entire day, not per hour. I can hear the judgmental voices already: You shouldn't pay her, she's your daughter. She's SUPPOSED to help you. However, if the people articulating those words knew how many times daily I interrupted the girls to bring me this or get that from a shelf, they might decide to keep it to themselves.

I hear some Billy Joel coming on (yes, I'm old) ...

I don't care what you say any more
'Cause it's my life
Go ahead with your own life
Leave me alone.

Once Katie and I agreed on a price (Me: "I need you to help me shop in Joplin today. I'll pay you seven dollars." Katie: "OK."), we loaded my chair, the leftover Pergo flooring I needed to return, and lots and lots of measurements and drove east.

We arrived at Lowe's around 11:00 a.m.--at precisely the same time as half of Joplin. The sunny, warm weather on the unofficial last day of summer evidently gave everyone else the same idea as mine. I sent Katie, squinting in the sunshine, to retrieve a cart on which to place our Pergo, which was like sending her across a Nascar track during the Indy 500. She finally chose to find a cart in one of those cart corrals rather than from in front of the store and trotted off across the asphalt. In the meantime I unloaded my chair using my Bruno lift, which squawks at an embarrassing decibel because the bearings need replaced. Together Katie and I unloaded the boxes of laminate, looking like Laurel and Hardy as we dropped boxes, tipped the cart and generally struggled as we giggled. Finally, finding a break in the traffic, we zipped across the main drive and through the jaw-like automatic doors of Lowe's, where I lost three hours of my life and hundreds of dollars to the home-improvement monster.

When we started the building project, I didn't have a realistic grasp of the number of decisions that would be required of me. For example, at the last minute Carl asked, "Could you pick up a couple of registers for the new bathroom ceiling air vents?"

"Sure. What size?"

"Oh, they're standard. Get a white one."

"Go ahead and measure it," I requested, and thank God I did. Lowe's provided at least thirty white registers: floor registers, ceiling and wall registers, louvred registers, 3-way registers, 2-way registers. You get the idea. Then I had to select the right size, which posed a problem. Carl had measured the rough opening at 4" x 10". Lowe's sold a 4x10 vent cover, but would that fit a 4x10 rough opening, or should I purchase a 6"x12" register? What I thought I could accomplish alone in one minute took fifteen minutes and a phone call.

Next I spent ten minutes choosing a handrail for our staircase (again with the choices!, only to realize a 12-foot rail would not fit into my Tahoe. Moving on...

I carried on a ten-minute conversation with a Lowe's employee about the pros and cons of an electric tankless hot water heater versus a natural gas one. I went against his advice, deciding to purchase electric instead of gas. Because Lowe's didn't have any in stock, I planned to buy one from Home Depot later that day, where they were also offering 12 months of free financing.

I could bore you with every example, but suffice it to say that every item I purchased required three times the selection-process-time I expected. Nevertheless, I left with 90% of the items on my list and drove to Home Depot.

Unfortunately, when Veronica, the Home Depot employee, dropped the electric tankless hot water heater into my cart, I noticed a collection of IMPORTANT INFORMATION written inside a big red explosion shape. Of course, I might as well have been reading the Spanish side of the box since I had no clue what "Volts 240/208v; Amps 120/101 (3 x 40 amps); etc" meant. Veronica called some guy from electrical and by the time I made my decision, four Home Depot employees surrounded me. Home Depot wasn't nearly as busy as Lowe's.

Feel free to skip this paragraph entirely because it's the equivalent of an I-told-you-so-nanny-nanny-boo-boo-you-never-listen-to-me rant. A year ago we contracted some major electrical work to wire in the building project as well as to bring our 1950s house up to code. At the time my brother-in-law, SuperEd, had recommended we have a 200 amp panel (I call it a breaker box) installed. When I requested a 200-amp panel, both Carl and the electrician pooh-poohed me like I was an ignorant female and instead installed a 100-amp panel. Guess what we need in order to power that snazzy electric water heater. That's right. The bright red explosion evidently explained that we must have a minimum of 150 amps--a 200-amp panel. It looks like we'll be hiring a natural gas guy to run some pipe, or whatever the lingo is.

When I told Katie we had to return to Lowe's her entire body sagged and I could tell she thought the measly seven bucks was highway robbery. I promised her some shopping time at Bed Bath & Beyond as well as a stop at Braum's on our way out of town and she picked up her step, seeing the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. When we exited the Tahoe at Lowe's we were flooded with the smells of suppertime emanating from the nearby restaurants and realized we had skipped lunch. Hunger hurried us and we purchased the GAS hot water heater in record time, feeding the Lowe's beast one more time before feeding ourselves.

All-in-all the day was an expensive success. Thankfully we have twelve more months to pay for it.

Interior Battle of the Bands

2008-08-31T13:52:00.006-05:00

If I possessed simple Photoshop skills, I would draw cute little arrows pointing to the appropriate elements of this pictures. Since I have zero Photoshop skills, I will instead depend upon my command of the English language. Here it goes...

No, this is not some strange photo of Hurricane Gustav. It is a poor-resolution scan of my neck x-ray taken at the Granby, Colorado emergency room during my summer vacation. You can see my mandible (impressed yet? I thought not.) in the upper left hand corner. The vertebrae in my neck extend down, creating that cloudy arch in the middle of the picture. The problem? No one should describe their neck vertebrae as an “arch.”
When the doctor approached me with this x-ray she said, "If you had come in here as a result of a fall, I would immediately have you in a helicopter to Denver."

What?

She continued by explaining that those wishbone-shaped areas, the individual vertebra, should be in a direct line. As it is, mine are "30% displaced." If the scan was clearer, you could see the spinal cord running inside the vertebrae, which are supposed to protect it. In my case, they threaten to sever it.

Sever. My. Spinal cord. That would not be good.

I wasn't going to share this on my blog because, well, it's a little depressing. But I haven't been my usual witty self and realized it's partly because I've been expending so much mental energy trying to hide and stuff all the emotions that go along with this information, emotions like fear. Fear sucks the spit and vinegar right out of a girl.

Boy, you should hear the tapes playing in my head. I wish I could fire the DJ--especially since he's still using tapes instead of digital media. Ba-dum-dum. Like I said, I'm not my usual witty self, but I'm trying. The damn DJ plays over and over: What if I fall? What if I'm paralyzed? What will happen to my children? What about my marriage? What was that pain?

Of course, he plays loudest a night, when my thoughts are magnified by my solitude. Fear's music rings dissonantly in my mind against a back beat of regret: I should have been more aggressive. I should have eaten more healthfully. I should have INSISTED that I take care of myself first.

Oh, and don't forget resentment. I'm too ashamed to post those thoughts.

Hope and fear, both residing in the future, fight a mighty battle of the bands. Hope sings a you-are-not-a-victim song. Fear simply sings back, "Yes you are." I look up victim in the dictionary and it reads a person who suffers from a destructive or injurious action or agency. In this area of my life, I suffer. I could consider arthritis a kind of agency.

Hope: 0
Fear: 1

Hope falters a bit, then chimes that the antibiotics can still work their magic as they have for many people. Fear yells like a big-haired eighties band, "Yes, but they haven't yet. You have such severe, longstanding disease. What if it's too late—too late—too late—too late for…?" Hope’s melody reminds me that the antibiotics still might. Just might.

Hope: 1
Fear: 1

Fear chants, "What if you fall before you've arrested the disease? What if you become paralyzed? What if? What if? What if?" Hope reminds me that it hasn't happened yet. Healthy people are harmed and even die every day, but that doesn't mean we should all live in fear.

Hope: 2
Fear: 1

Fear pounds a heavy bass beat, “Yes, but healthy people don’t have outward signs or obvious precursors to potential harm.” That beat drowned out anything Hope had to say.

Hope: 2
Fear: 2

However, in her strongest voice, Hope has so far sung the final melody: There’s always Hope.

Hope: 3
Fear: 2

The final scores have been close lately. Sometimes fear even wins. At those times I take a sleeping pill to clear the cacophony.

My greatest weapon against the what-ifs has been to ask myself, “What can I do right now?” Sometimes the answer is rest. Other times I find the solution in calling a friend or getting out of the house. I’ve even found solace in a salad; every bit of nutrition I give my immune system helps. As long as I can find some means of giving myself a sense of empowerment, my Inner Victim loses strength.

I return to my antibiotic doc on September 12, when I intend to ask him to prescribe rounds of I.V. antibiotics to jump start the process. In the meantime, I'm taking my Reliv shakes (no, I don't sell them) , getting a membership to a YMCA that has a warm pool for arthritis water aerobics, and taking the supplements my doctor suggested. I even have plans to develop a system for tracking all my efforts so that I can look at my accomplishments when I become discouraged, but I haven't started yet.

I hope I've ended this entry on a positive note. I'm trying to remain hopeful and optimistic despite my constant apprehension. Here's to Hope and to the end of the Interior Battle of the Bands. Hear clinking of Reliv plastic cups here.

So That I'll "Remember That Time When..."

2008-08-27T12:49:00.005-05:00

Hannah and I visited my sister, Ashley, Sunday through today to "help" while her husband, Ed, took a business trip back east somewhere. I'm not certain they'll be looking for my brand of assistance in the future. We'll see.

First, recall that Ashley has five children from 6 weeks to 8 years in age. She home schools her three oldest, though she didn't accomplish much schooling with me there. (Strike one against "helping.") Add Hannah to that mix and we had the equivalent of eight children being supervised by one-and-one-half adults.

Two-year-old Gianna and Hannah antagonized each other the entire visit. For example: while Hannah played with the MagnaDoodle, Gianna took the magnetic shapes that work only with the MagnaDoodle, not because she had any means by which to play with the shapes, but because it was certain to solicit a scream from Hannah. Want another example? Even though Hannah sucks her fingers almost constantly, she decided that Gianna should never, under any circumstances, suck her thumb. And if Gianna did suck her thumb, Hannah stood directly in front of her and screamed, "No! Don't suck-uh fumb!" Furthermore, if Gianna tried to escape said screaming, Hannah followed her and screamed all the more. I'm fairly certain that mothering assistance from a five-year-old wasn't the kind of "help" Ashley had in mind. Imagine any variation on those two scenarios, throw in the word "mine," and it probably happened over the past few days. Ash's house sounded a lot like the first 25 seconds of this clip...minus the "shut up" part (though I certainly thought it numerous times).

Monday evening Ashley lined up her awesome babysitter so that she and I could play Bunko with ten other fun women. We had a blast and returned to a clean house and a frazzled-looking babysitter. Later Ashley told me that Alex never looks like that. The only change? Hannah. In a momentary lapse common sense I failed to give the poor girl any kind of heads up about Hannah: no warnings, no suggestions as to how to handle meltdowns/breakdowns/Hannahisms, nothing. Thankfully Ashley had mentioned that Hannah had "special needs," but that was it.

While we played Bunko, Alex took five children to the park (Ashley kept the baby) and at some point Hannah crashed and burned, scraping her elbow and bottom, which was no big deal. However, it probably contributed to Hannah's later refusal to put on the jammy-shirt I had set out. Poor Alex had no idea that Hannah spends 85% of her life completely naked and that clothing falls far below sanity on the priority scale. Thankfully Ed happened to call that evening to make sure things were going OK (now why didn't I think of that?). When Alex mentioned her clothing struggles, Ed gave her sage advice: Do whatever is easiest.

Though Hannah often placed herself smack dab in the middle of most of the conflict, she also made us laugh until we cried more than once. I know before I even write this anecdote that you will not find it as funny as we did, but we were a little punchy by the end of day one. In part of our attempt to have five children dress for bed and brush their teeth, I instructed Hannah to take off her Pull-up and throw it in the trash. When she finally removed her Pull-up after my third request, she bumped into Isaac on her way to the trash can and dropped it. She picked the soggy big-girl diaper off of the floor, thrust it into Isaac's face and said, "Smewh it (smell it)!" Ashley and I took one look at each other and cracked up. Where does Hannah get this stuff? I'll lay the blame on Carl. He's not here to defend himself.

Some other memorable moments:

Ashley put Isaac's new remote-control four-wheeler on the kitchen counter so she could sweep the floor, unbeknown to Isaac who was walking up the stairs. He revved the four-wheeler across the counter and scared the you-know-what out of us.

Ethan, my eight-year-old nephew, thought Disney's The Sweet Life of Zack and Cody was a "bad" show to watch because they said (gasp!) lactose intolerance. Even funnier, he couldn't remember how to pronounce it once he realized it wasn't a bad word and therefore asked us--at least twenty times (no exaggeration)--how to pronounce it: loctas intelligence? slacker trancelot? tallerance scolah? Ashley told me that he knew exactly how to pronounce it when he thought it was a cuss word.

When I was in Colorado Mom cleaned my house, put fresh flowers on the table and placed mints on each of our pillows. She did the same for Ashley when her family traveled to Denver recently. Ash and I wanted to do something similar for Mom while she visited Alaska, but Mom hyper-cleaned her house before she left. Instead of cleaning we placed a pampering gift basket and two bright orange shasta daisies on her bedside table. In front of the gift basket we stood three cinnamon gummy bears, each holding a toothpick flag that, when lined up, read "We Missed You." The gummies that we placed in her office said "We Love You" and on her dining room table they waved "Welcome Home Mom." The biggest feat, though, was keeping six children from destroying Mom's clean house while we created the gifts.

Ed was sitting on a plane on a Baltimore Airport runway when the FAA had its computer glitch Tuesday. Thankfully the glitch didn't result in any accidents and Ed made his connecting flight in Atlanta with time to spare.

All-in-all we had a good time, the kind of visit that will be repeated for years to come in stories that start as Remember that time when...

Happy Belated Birthday Mom! How's Alaska?

2008-08-25T06:00:00.000-05:00

This post has been delayed nearly a month now, but I've finally scanned the photos and uploaded them to blogger. Hey, Ed--aren't you glad you spent so much time scanning photos that one morning...only to wait two weeks to see them online. Sorry!

I'm not even sure when Mom will see all of this since she's in ALASKA right now, the last of the states that she hadn't set foot in. Has anyone else out there been to all fifty states?

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This second picture is of my baptism, cradle Catholic that I am. Mom is on the left. On the back of this photo she had written, "Angela's baptism at one-and-a-half weeks. I didn't look as skinny as I felt." Whatever!

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This picture is of Mom and me at The Overflow, the nickname given to a creek near my childhood home that overflowed its bridge during every rain. When Mom was a child she played there, then carried on the tradition with her own children, as you can see.

As I got older Mom allowed me to walk or ride my bike the two miles to the overflow on hot summer days. It never failed that a swarm of horseflies would attack me at the halfway point of my trip to the creek--I couldn't turn back, but thankfully I could run!

Around Memorial Day this year Mom, Ashley and I traveled back to my hometown. We were given permission to walk through my childhood home and through my now-deceased grandma's home. (I wanted to blog about that experience, but I developed some definite opinions that I found impossible to temper, so I opted to post nothing...for the time being). We ate lunch at the town park, then drove to The Overflow to play, though not to swim. We were shocked to find the bridge had finally caved in.

...throwing rocks into The Overflow

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...of course, Mom made cookies and brought everything we could possibly need

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...third generation Overflow kids. Or is it fourth? Did my grandma play there as a child?
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OK, now we're back to my childhood. Mom is nine months pregnant in this picture and probably excited at the prospect of potty training me. Especially since she used cloth diapers.

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Just another picture. Any guesses as to what she's doing?

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This fuzzy photo pictures Mom with Ashley. I love the helmet head, Mom!

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Mom worked at the high school for many years, allowing her to continue having those lovely school pictures long after the rest of us were spared. Great glasses, Mom! I wish I could've found the picture of me with similar glasses just to give Ed something to really laugh about.

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Mom with her mom and dad...

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Mom with Katie. I don't like this picture of Katie, but it's a good one of Mom...

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Mom and Katie (much better of Katie)...

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Mom, Isaac and Hannah...

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Mom and Hailey giving the thumbs up because Mom had finally finished the custom-designed, custom-made Laura Ashley window treatments for my bedroom. Too bad you can't see how beautifully they turned out in this picture...

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I've posted this picture before, but here it is again since I like it...

Happy belated birthday. I hope you're refreshingly cool in Alaska. By the way, Kathleeny-beany, she was at the Alaska State Fair yesterday. I couldn't help but think that you two might have run into each other without knowing it if only your back wasn't causing you such grief!

Wanting To Want To

2008-08-24T06:00:00.003-05:00

After about seven years (I've lost count at this point) we are finally completing TWO rooms in the ~~gorilla/monstrosity~~ building project--the French Door Room and our second bathroom. Woohoo! Today Carl and Dave checked off things on the punch list (look at me spouting all the lingo): fit wood blinds, repair pocket door and install its hardware, mount hardware on bathroom vanity, and on and on. For the first time in ten years we finally have a second toilet, a second shower (only cold water, though, until we purchase a second hot water heater) and a second bathroom sink and vanity--all in the nick of time given the fact that four females live in this house.

A while back Carl made the offhanded comment that I hadn't really helped much with the building project. Never mind that I handled the bookkeeping for our home and business, cooked, cleaned, potty-trained two children (and every other mundane mommy mission) and almost-but-not-quite acted as single mom while he and his buddy played Tim-the-Tool-Man-Taylor with power tools and big boy toys and had something enormous to show for a day's work. Who said size doesn't matter? Do you sense a little pissiness here? Nah.

Here's the thing. I want to want to help. I want to want to paint the trim, hammer nails into studs, install hardware. I imagine myself as Hometime's ~~Peggy~~ ~~JoJo~~ ~~Susanne~~ ~~Robin~~ Miriam and Carl as Dean, each of us carrying our own end of a 12-foot piece of 2x4, joking around and reminding each other of the proper safety attire. But it just isn't in me.

Part of my disinterest is the mucky byproduct of arthritis--it's hard to get excited about painting when every third stroke of the paintbrush results in a zinging catch in my shoulder socket. And how can I expect to carry two-by-fours when balancing my own body on my crooked ankles has become a challenge all its own?

I originally intended to stop with this point, to use this post as an example of how chronic illness invades every element of its host's life. And though that is true, it isn't completely honest. Because, you see, while arthritis does influence every single decision I make on a daily basis-- from showering to shopping--it is not to be blamed for my every shortcoming. Honestly? I don't enjoy painting. Or hammering. Or mudding and taping. As much as I want to take part in this whole building-project-thing, to be able to say we did that together or I saved buku bucks by painting every piece of trim you see, I don't enjoy it. It doesn't come naturally. I spill the paint, it runs when I'm not looking, then dries in little drips.

Today I dressed in paint-covered cut-off shorts and a stained t-shirt so I could be available to paint whatever needed painted. By gawd, I was going to do my part. Carl gave Dave (thank God for Dave) a task then showed me the bathroom trim that needed painted, the woodwork that needed cleaned before it received its last coat of paint and the bathroom hardware that needed screwed into place. Just then I remembered that the library closed in 45 minutes and I needed a book before I leave to visit my sister tomorrow. Priorities, you know.

I returned an hour later, told Carl I'd be out to paint in a few minutes and went inside to open my laptop. Again--priorities. I needed to post some comments on my favorite blogs after slacking this past week. With that very important task completed I went back to the garage and saw that Carl still hadn't set up a painting station for me. What? Did he think I was going to do that myself?

"I'll paint if you'll set it all up for me," I said nicely.

He looked at me skeptically and said, "We're sanding this door and making a dusty mess right now. It's not a good time to paint."

Darn. "OK," I said and went back inside to watch Olympic Rhythmic Gymnastics because I might want to take that up someday...after I'm miraculously healed or stem cell therapy is perfected. I had to give Carl credit for not bringing up the woodwork-cleaning project he mentioned earlier.

I just realized--we do make a great team. I pretend like I want to be ~~Peggy~~ ~~JoJo~~ ~~Susanne~~ ~~Robin~~ Miriam and Carl pretends like he believes me. I love that man.

Harvest Memories

2008-08-23T10:48:00.000-05:00

I've never driven a BMW, never even been inside one. In fact, the closest I've come to a BMW was the time a neighbor backed hers into my Chevy Citation.

I've never flown first class, never been sailing (unless you count the time Carl and I sailed a little catamaran in the Bahamas), and never ridden on a train. But I used to operate one of these:

For several summers I drove the combine during wheat harvest, which beat the heck out of driving the truck (no air conditioning) or the grain cart (I lived in fear of running into the combine when unloading "on the go"). I loved it, though admittedly being a girl made it more enjoyable. I didn't have to grease the combine in the morning (I fixed and packed lunch while the guys did that), fix flat tires or solve major problems.

I did, however, have to know what I was doing; after all, a combine is more than an oversized lawn mower. The driver needs to drive fast enough to finish before being rained out or worse, having the wheat destroyed by the next hail storm. But she can't drive so fast that the wheat spits out the back end instead of pouring into the bin. And I learned the hard way that driving too quickly through dense wheat results in a jammed header. More than once I had to climb down from my air conditioned cab into the sweltering Kansas humidity, crawl through the reel and pull out the bunched-up wheat stalks handful by handful, all-the-while dripping sweat and inhaling lung-clogging wheat dust. Ah, those were the days. I won't take the time to explain the maneuvering acrobatics required to remove one of these monsters from a mud puddle.

We often couldn't begin until late morning because the dew caused the wheat's moisutre content to be too high, but I remember cutting past midnight many nights. Farmers work many months to raise a crop that is cut in a few short weeks, so when harvest time rolls around everything else goes by the wayside, even sleep, lest Mother Nature leash some fury that destroys the months of work in a matter of hours.

Here is what prompted this little trip down memory lane. How many town folk can say they've witnessed this in their front yard?

The neighbors across the street backed their combine into our front yard so they could mount their row header. I'm sure the men thought I was some town girl all twitterpated about seeing a combine up close. If they only knew...

In a related story, Pop sent me an e-mail today about some farmers in Norton, Kansas who broke a Guiness world record by cutting 160 acres of wheat in 10 minutes and 15 seconds using 100 combines. They have a Guiness world record for everything, don't they?

First Year Locker Room Worries

2008-08-22T06:00:00.000-05:00

Katie began Middle School Wednesday and everything is new and unfamiliar: new building with three floors instead of one, classroom changes each hour, no recess, and above all P.E. Oh sure, she had P.E. last year, but this year provides a new twist. Showers.

This showering business has been an almost-daily topic between us for the past week. Does she have to shower? Can she wet her hair and look like she has showered? Can she just sponge off? She feels modest and frankly I'm all for promoting modesty as long as I can, so I asked the administration if she could wear a swim suit while she showered. No problem.

Because they have P.E. every other day, yesterday was her first day of P.E. I reminded her to pack her gym clothes, soap, towel and swim suit. Earlier in the week, as a result of her questioning, I had explained that she would change her clothes before P.E. and put them in a locker. Afterwards she would shower and change back into her school clothes.

Yesterday her continued confusion became clear to me when she said, "I don't get this P.E. thing. Am I supposed to change my clothes at my locker before P.E. class?" She was afraid they expected her to change clothes in the hallway at her usual locker. Ha!

"No, no. You'll go to the locker room and have a different locker. The locker room is sort of like the shower room at the public pool and it probably has lockers in it."

She looked at me skeptically when I used the word probably. "How do you know?" she asked.

I'm guessing based on my past experience with locker rooms. You know. Locker rooms. Didn't they take you there when you had your tour?"

"No. Anyhow, I'm all ready for gym class. I packed my clothes and a plastic sack to put my wet swim suit in afterwards. And I'm wearing my swim suit right now," she informed me.

I stifled a laugh. She planned on wearing that swim suit all day. By golly, no one's gonna catch a glimpse of my Katie!

Is Honesty the Best Policy?

2008-08-21T12:36:00.002-05:00

Shhh. Hear that? That, my friends, is the sound of nothing. No TV. No arguments. No telephone. No requests. No-thing. School began yesterday and today I am finally blogging again. This year my three girls are attending three separate schools: Katie has moved up to the middle school, Hailey is now one of the "big" kids in fifth grade and Hannah has returned for one last year at her preschool, leaving me entirely alone for two-and-a-half hours every afternoon. Ahhhh.

Anyhow, on with the blogging part...

At age twelve Katie's skin has become oily, resulting in--gasp--facial imperfections. You know. Zits. Let me rephrase that: zit. Singular. One little bump that looks more like a small mosquito bite showed up on her chin earlier this week.

"Mom, what is this?" Katie asked, pointing at the minor flaw.

"What are you talking about?" I asked in return, trying to downplay the whole situation.

"This! This big bump on my chin," she said, exaggerating her pointing.

"Oh, that. Let me see. Does it itch? It looks kind of like a mosquito bite."

"No, it's not a mosquito bite. It's more like a knot and it doesn't itch."

"Well," I paused. "It's probably a pimple."

"What? A pimple?! Right before school starts???"

"Oh, it's no big thing. You can barely see it and it really does look more like a mosquito bite. Just leave it alone and it will go away," I reassured her. Thank God she believed me and walked off happily.

Later that night we sat down as a family to supper. The minute Katie sat down across the table from Carl he said, "Is that a zit on your chin, Katie?"

Terrific.

Katie looked over at me with a mixture of humor (thank goodness) and astonishment and said, "Mom said you can hardly see it."

I gave him the look, but he continued his teasing torment by saying, "Well...mom lied."

I began to bumble, trying to repair the potential damage when Katie interrupted and said, "It's OK. I don't care." Thank God for that.

Either Katie has me fooled or she truly is one of those people who don't care what others think. What a blessing, a blessing I plan to cultivate and grow over the coming teen years.

And it seems that while I'm doing all this planning and cultivating, Carl achieves it naturally. Go figure. Maybe honesty actually is the best policy.

My Circus Moment

2008-08-03T15:04:00.000-05:00

Ahhh. A nice, quiet suite at the fairly new Mariott. For the next 24-48 hours I would avoid hearing, “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom.” I drove down the freshly-paved lane between rows of evenly-spaced Bradford Pear trees, imagining the beautiful, white flower clusters they bear in the spring. Refreshing. Until I exited the Tahoe and melted into the 105 degree heat index. Carrying only my laptop and a grilled chicken Caesar salad from Wendy's, I entered through the automatic doors three hours before check-in, having confused check-in and check-out times. Duh. I needed to get out more. Nevertheless, the pleasant lady at the front desk found a clean room and gave me my keycard to twenty-four hours of blissful, unscheduled, quiet calmness.

The smell of new carpet and cleaning supplies contrasted nicely against the household fragrances I had left behind: trash that needed taken out, Hannah's potty-covered sheets (yes, Mom, I'm aware of my ongoing role in that little problem), and camping items still strewn about the house.

The elevator that took me to my fourth floor penthouse (OK, maybe I'm exaggerating a little) opened immediately and closed just as quickly after I stepped in. I barely hobbled through in time, but no worries. Thankfully I located my room just two doors down from the elevator, so I didn't have far to walk before fumbling with my keycard to calmness. After fourteen tries, I finally unlocked the door and entered my retreat.

I unpacked my lunch, turned on the tube and spent the next forty-five minutes feeling afraid that I wouldn't figure out how to enjoy this limited solitude. Should I swim in the pool? Read a book? Find a movie? Take a nap? Even though I had only slept four hours the night before, taking a nap was out. Time was too precious.

After my forty-five-minute fret, I decided to return to the Tahoe for the poster-making supplies I had purchased earlier that day as well as my suitcase, and then to stop by The Market (the Marriot's version of a micro-mini-grocery store) for a couple of bottled waters and granola bars before returning to my room.

I hadn't realized how dependent I had become on Carl and the girls. I could have used an extra pair of hands--or one of those rolling, suitcase-carrying thingys. Instead, I held my cane and two shrink-wrapped packages of 18" x 24"poster board in my left hand and two bottles of water under my left arm. ON my left arm I hung my bag of poster-making supplies and my little black purse containing my granola bars in its outside pocket while I pushed my suitcase with my right hand. I should join the circus.

Slowly I limped to the elevator and entered as the door slid against my butt, propelling me slightly forward. I had barely turned my circus show around to exit the elevator when the doors opened. Knowing how quickly they would close, I rushed through. I don't "rush" well. First my poster board packages fell onto the elevator doorway. Reaching down to pick them up, both bottles of water dropped and rolled out into the hallway. What to do?! Of course the lightning-speed elevator doors closed onto my bent-over behind, nearly thrusting me into the hallway before they automatically bounced back into place like elevator doors do. But not before they crushed one of my poster board packages.

I only had seconds. I picked up the poster board only to have my granola bars slip out of my purse. Again the elevator doors closed on me, only this time they didn't stop! Crap! I leapt back into the elevator, pushed the "door-open" button and tried to grab two packages and two granola bars off of the floor with my curled-up hands. That time when the door tried to make a human sandwich out of me it started screaming a constant, high-pitched alarm that seemed to say, "Come One! Come All! See the Amazing Angela attempt to get her a** out of the elevator! Witness comedy and danger simultaneously! Come One! Come All!"

I hopped back in and dropped stuff again, but this time the alarm continued even after I pushed the door-open button, so I kicked everything out of the elevator and jumped to safety in the hallway, nearly leaving my shoe in the process. I also don't “jump” well.

I said that I kicked out "everything." That's not quite true. My suitcase remained in the elevator, descending to some unknown lower level. I quickly pushed the hallway down-arrow button, but the elevator had had enough of me. Rejected. No response.

As I waited for it to return to the fourth floor, I heard a woman walking towards me, talking on a cell phone, saying, "I'm sorry I have the wrong number. I forgot what to dial--this is the wrong number." Pause. "Wrong. Number. So sorry." After I heard her phone close, she mumbled, "I can't believe I forgot his number." When she came into sight we said our hellos and she said, "Isn't this stupid? I forgot my husband's cell phone number."

"Not really. Stupid is leaving your suitcase in the elevator."

She looked at me blankly.

"I couldn't get my suitcase out of the elevator before it closed. It's riding down to the lobby right now."

After recognition registered on her face, she laughed out loud. At least someone was laughing. Actually, I was laughing, too. It was all pretty ridiculous.

When the elevator opened, MY SUITCASE WASN'T THERE!

"Oh no. Your suitcase isn't here." No sh**, Sherlock. "Maybe someone took it to the front desk."

"You're probably right. I'm going to leave this stuff at my room before I search for it." With that the doors closed, taking my temporary acquaintance in the direction of my suitcase.

I began to panic a little. My medicine was in that bag. What if someone stole it? What's going to happen to my peaceful evening? Oh no. Oh no. I dropped my salvaged items in front of my door. No time to fumble with poorly-swiped keycards. I successfully hurried into the elevator, even though I don't “hurry” well, and punched the STAR-1 button for the lobby. For unknown reasons the elevator stopped at the third floor and magically opened its doors like I was part of a Bob Barker game show, revealing my lonely, abandoned suitcase. Hurrah!

With only one item to manage, I easily maneuvered the suitcase to my room, swiped my keycard fourteen more times, kicked everything into the room, dropped the bag right in front of the door and fell onto the bed in adrenaline-induced exhaustion.

So much for my peaceful evening.

Note: Everything improved after that. After I finish this post, I'm checking out, doing a little Wal-Mart shopping (gag, ack, yuck) and returning to my lovely family. I can hear their cherubic voices already...

Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom.

Never Shake a Baby...Run Away From Home Instead

2008-08-02T18:52:00.014-05:00

Am I the only mother in America whose mantra has become school starts soon...school starts soon...school starts soon...? For anyone who doesn't already know, I home schooled Katie and Hailey from Katie's first through fourth grade years (the equivalent of Hailey's Kindergarten through third grade years). I swore I would never become one of those moms who couldn't wait for school to start, but (head hanging in ~~exhaustion and overstimulation~~ shame), I have.

I thought that our "vacation" would rejuvenate me, revitalize me, restore me to happy-mommydom. However, using a tree as a toilet, sleeping in a frickin-freezing tent and spending time in the emergency room for an allergic reaction left me decidedly done in. Even the mountains didn't stand a chance of doing their usual magic.

As of Friday I knew that if I heard "Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom." one more time, I would snap. You know those Never Shake a Baby posters in your pediatrician's office? I realize I don't have "babies" any more, but for those times when I'm ready to snap, they give suggestions like:

Leave the baby in a safe, secure place, take deep breaths and count to 10 (I have found that no "safe, secure place" exists in my house unless I'm willing to spend the next thirty minutes cleaning up an unforeseen mess)

Go to another room or area of the house (They follow me. EVERYWHERE. Like I'm some kind of mommy magnet and they are little straight pins drawn towards me, often leading with the pointed end. And see #1)

Ask someone else to watch the baby for you – a parent, a neighbor or a friend (Hey, Mom, could you take the day off, drive 2½ hours and watch the kids while I go have a cup of coffee?...OK, OK, yes I have friends, but they work OUTSIDE the home)

Take the baby out of the house for a ride in a stroller or a car (Herding Hannah to the Tahoe--heck, ANY transition--results in even more madness. Kinda defeats the purpose, eh?)

Be patient. If you find you can’t calmly care for the baby, or have trouble controlling your anger, take a break. Let the baby cry it out. (Again, this list is obviously for mommies with babies; not five-, ten-, and eleven-year-old children, but it's still somewhat applicable. I could allow the three of them to duke it out for a while, but then I'd have the same results as in #1 again.)

I've come up with my own number 6.

6. Leave all three children with their father (they are half his, you know) while I spend the night in a nice hotel.

And so I have.

Dear Ardy...

2008-07-31T18:52:00.004-05:00

The lost were found!

The girls left these Beany Babies, given to them by Ardy, in a bathroom at Hot Sulphur Springs. SuperCarl retrieved them the next day.

THANKS, ARDY!

Vacation Summation

2008-07-30T11:52:00.004-05:00

I've have so many many thoughts banging around in my brain that I need to filter them through a mental triage to prioritize them for this post.

Vacation. I loved it. I hated it. I'm inspired. I'm exhausted. I'm resentful. I'm grateful.

I loved being in the Colorado Rockies: the cool, dry climate; the multicolored wildflowers; the scent of pine and fresh air; the refreshing stream that babbled by our campsite; the bonding and memories created with my family. I loved watching Katie's and Hailey's learning their strength, eating meals Carl cooked over the campfire, telling impromptu silly stories I made up and listening the the girls' resulting laughter.

I hated my limitations, my inability to contribute without tiring, being left behind while others hiked. I hated that Carl had to help me up from my bed. I hated peeing in the woods.

Inspiration surrounded me. The mountains spiritually inspire me, reminding me that Someone bigger created everything, has control when I don't. Yet that knowledge also creates questions that I'll leave for later. My family inspired me, the way they were all (mostly) willing to pitch in, to set up and tear down camp, the help me without complaining (again, mostly), to make up for my previously-mentioned limitations.

I'm exhausted, not refreshed. I'm exhausted by poor sleep, by extra work, by barely-a-solitary-moment.

I'm resentful of the arthritis, of its fatigue, of its theft of life as I planned it. I'm resentful that I need an eighty-something mother-in-law to do my laundry, that my sixty-year-old mother is more capable of cleaning my grout than my forty-year-old self is, that I couldn't hike and help, that I often feel like constant taker instead of a giver.

I'm grateful that I could experience such a rugged vacation with my family, possibly for the last time if my health continues to deteriorate. I'm grateful for a husband who is so energetic and capable, who is so willing to serve in a way that I am unwilling. I'm grateful that I could spend the night with Pop and Ardy; visit with a nearly-ninety-year-old grandmother who still lives independently; share grilled burgers, laughter and a nice glass of wine. I'm grateful to have met another Dandy mom and her family, to feel in-person that I'm not alone. I'm grateful that my mom surprised me by cleaning my house (and the aforementioned grout) while we were gone, that my mother-in-law arrived Monday to ~~help me with~~ do all of my vacation laundry.

I listed gratitude last, not because it is least important, but because I wanted it to be the final thing to enter my mind and this post, therefore letting it linger longer. Exhaustion and fatigue often suck the gratitude right out of me, leaving me pity-full and angry. Have you ever experienced several simultaneous days--or weeks--of sleep deprivation? Or the achiness and fatigue that accompany the flu? That's my life. It makes a person grumpy and sometimes afraid that she'll never feel better again. When I'm at that point I have to pointedly look at my blessings and purposefully be grateful for them rather than resent needing them.

Rambling. I'm just rambling. My mother-in-law left this morning & I have my first moment to breathe since a week ago Friday. Summer has made my blogging sporadic. Hopefully I will get back into a routine soon.

First Day Hiking Pictures

2008-07-27T19:18:00.009-05:00

On our first full day of camping Carl took the three girls on a hike while I stayed behind for some long-awaited alone time. The hike was supposed to last four hours, but they returned two hours later exhausted, happy and still acclimating to the high altitude.

Solomon Girl Totem Pole...

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Beauty on so many levels....

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More of the stream...downstream...

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Words are not necessary...

Talk about great memories. I expect the girls will remember this for a long time.

Vacation Plan B

2008-07-25T07:04:00.001-05:00

As I mentioned earlier, we originally intended to camp up the mountain from Breckenridge. When we arrived in Breckenridge, the town was hopping, tourists walking between shops that sat tightly against each other, a beer festival coming to a close (darn! just missed it), diners sitting outside for an early supper in the cool sunshine amidst daisies, pansies and columbine.

We drove up and down Main street three times before finally finding the visitor's center and procuring a map of local camp areas. We drove another hour searching for our campsight and determined the area had been closed due to the pine beetle epidemic that has changed the mountainside from a lush green to a dead rust.

Before I go on, acquaint yourself with Summit and Grand counties:

We took I-70 west to the Frisco exit and on south to Breckenridge. When we couldn't find our desired campsite, we headed north to Kremmling. From there we drove east to Hot Sulphur Springs where we stopped to see if they had vacancies. A soak in the springs sounded wonderful, but no vacancies. After the girls used their bathroom, we continued east until I heard tears from the back seat as we reached Tabernash. Evidently Katie and Hailey left the new beany babies that Ardy had given them back in the Hot Sulphur Springs bathroom. By this time the sun had fallen behind the mountains, the temperature had dropped into the fifties and there was no way we were turning back at that point for the beany babies. Maybe tomorrow.

We finally decided to get a hotel room in Winter Park. Secretly, I was thrilled. Winter Park/Fraser is my favorite area in the Colorado Rockies. I felt at home. Too bad we had to take the long route to get there. Or maybe not. The drive was magnificent!

As I undressed for bed...a real bed...I noticed this on my stomach.

A red, itchy rash resulted from the Sulfa antibiotic I had been taking for the past week. Wonderful. The fun didn't stop there. The next day my throat began to swell shut and Carl had to take me to the Granby emergency room where I received a shot (yes a shot for the needle weenie) of epinepherine and lots of IV fluids. What a way to start vacation.

On the upside, the girls had fun at Granby's awesome park while I waited for my body to return to a normal state. These pictures do not do the park justice. Maybe we can return once more and take pictures that show the enormous amount of wooden play structures the park provides.

The ER doctor informed me that sulfa drugs can stay in my system for several days, so if I felt that lump-in-my-throat-closing-up feeling again, I was to call 911 or return to the ER. Comforting, huh? I spent the next 24 hours alternating between panic that I might be feeling my throat's final closure and sleep induced by the Benadryl I took to counteract the fear.

Here's the idiotic part. Before my first feeling of panic, assuming all was well, we chose our primitive campsite, eleven miles up the mountain, a journey that took just over 35 minutes. What were we thinking???

Like I told you, the Tahoe was LOADED!

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Setting up camp

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This picture tells quite a story

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Katie by the stream that runs just below our campsite. The sound is calming and peaceful.

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Katie and Hannah by the same stream

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OK, can you tell I especially like the stream?

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Once we set up camp, Carl took the three girls on a hike while I remained behind to read and relax. All went well and Carl took some excellent pictures, but I'll have to wait to post them next time. All is well!

By the way, this is a "scheduled" post that I actually wrote on July 23. I won't have access to my computer before Saturday. I LOVE LOVE LOVE comments, but please understand if I don't reply to your comments immediately.

Dandy Encounter

2008-07-24T07:04:00.000-05:00

One of my vacation lists included items to place in a "Friday Night Bag," so that we could take only one bag into Pop and Ardy's house instead of trying to find all we needed throughout several different suitcases. In it I placed beauty products, pajamas, medicine, and Saturday's clothes. Because I would be meeting Laurie's family for the first time, I took special care in choosing our clothes for Saturday--no scummy camping clothes for that get-together even though we would be setting up camp that evening.

Anticipating Hannah's messiness (as documented by every single picture we've taken of her so far this vacation), I packed a cute, new outfit and included a bib and an over sized t-shirt to wear over the new clothes for protection. Surely we could make the three-hour trip to Denver in relative cleanliness.

Wrong.

First, I decided to keep the shirt in the front seat instead of on Hannah in order to protect it. From Hannah. I didn't consider that I might need to protect it from me. I placed the shirt in a box that rested on the front floor's "hump," directly under our cup holder. I positioned my bottle of Coke--with the cap ON--in the cup holder while I hunted for my new camera's instruction booklet. BAM! Carl hit a huge bump on I-70. For a few seconds I couldn't identify the spewing sound. When I finally realized the bottle of Coke had landed on the new shirt and burst open, it was too late. So much for the cute shirt.

Oh well, the lime green gingham shorts with a ruffled hemline remained clean. I could scrounge up something to match before we hit Denver.

Of course, Hannah chose to sit on the ground at the rest stop and get her butt dirty. However, even that no longer mattered after she wet her pants. Three hours, people. Can we not make it three hours???

When we finally arrived at Laurie's, Hannah wore the over sized protective t-shirt that completely covered Friday's shorts like a dress. Nobody cared except me...and even I didn't care any more after the warm welcome we received.

We planned to stay at Laurie's for one--maybe one and a half--hours. We ended up staying closer to two and a half hours and I could've stayed hours more. We only scratched the surface. The sandwiches were wonderful, served with triangle wedges of fresh red watermelon, orange slices of cantaloupe and pasta salad. I couldn't believe the hospitality we received from someone we had never actually met.

Hannah and Rose, our two dandy girls, took a little while to warm up to each other, but eventually played together very well. I wish I had a better picture than this one. Can you believe Rose is only one and a half years older than Hannah???

The hit of the visit? Dry ice. Awesome! Peter, Laurie's husband, teaches 7th and 8th grade science and clearly loves his subject. Carl couldn't even get him with his typical Have you ever seen anyone suck an egg into a bottle question. Yep. Been there, done that. Peter could even explain why it's possible.

We had dry ice on stage during my high school musical, but never have I played with it. The kids added food coloring and hot water to make smoking concoctions.

At one point Hailey cut her toe so that a tiny droplet of blood bubbled, but did not run. I felt right at home and knew I had found a like-minded sister when Laurie and I said in unison, "If that's the worst thing that happens to you..."

When we finally decided not to overstay our welcome, Hannah exhibited her usual discomfort in making the transition by throwing a somewhat mild fit. It was a new and welcome experience to hear someone else say with an understanding that comes only from experience, "I know. Transitions are hard, aren't they, Hannah?" I'm still processing the fact that I've met someone in person who is also raising a dandy girl, complete with transitional difficulties, sensory stuff, special classrooms...the whole shebang. What a blessing.

Here are our two special girls just before saying goodbye.

Thanks again, Laurie, Peter and Andy (I didn't even mention Andy--ack!) for a wonderful visit. Next time you're traveling through scenic southeast Kansas, stop on by.

Vacation Day One

2008-07-17T19:17:00.016-05:00

Vacation. Holiday. R & R. Call it what you want. The Solomon family needed it. This year we are camping in the Colorado Rockies, my favorite place in the world.

Before we had children Carl and I camped just outside of Breckenridge, Colorado over the fourth of July weekend, pitching our tent high up the mountain where two streams converged. Our nearest camping neighbors set up camp about one hundred yards away, but otherwise we were secluded. Beautiful. Carl got rip roaring drunk with our new neighbors the first night while I slept cozily in six layers and when he returned to our tent he crashed, wearing only one pair of long underwear. This proved to be a poor decision when he stepped outside a few hours later, feeling sick and hung over, to find snow on the ground.

Recalling the beauty of that campsite and the fun we had, we decided to find it and camp there this year.

We packed the Tahoe to the brim, made sure the DVD/VHS and headphones worked and left home within an hour of our planned departure time, a miracle that gave us high hopes for the week ahead.

This is one of many stops we made.

We arrived at Pop and Ardy's in time to grill burgers and enjoy conversation. I'm kicking myself for not taking a single picture while we were there.

After breakfast we loaded up again and drove to Denver to meet Laurie and her family IN PERSON! I "met" Laurie online last year when I searched for other dandy families and we hit it off immediately.

I know this is an abrupt ending to this post, but I've run out of time. Tune in tomorrow...well, hopefully tomorrow...to see pictures at Laurie's house and hear about Plan B.

Hey, Laurie--do you have any good pictures of our visit? I'd love to post them if you e-mail them to me.

Neurotic Vacation Preparation

2008-07-17T19:17:00.009-05:00

We're leaving for vacation soon, which puts me in an obsessive, freaky frame of mind. I've mentioned my love of lists many times before, but nothing brings out the maniacal list-maker in me more than planning a trip.

I didn't realize how abnormally anal I was until I traveled to Florida with Sheri in May of 2007. In preparation I compiled a travel folder in which I placed our rental car and flight information, informative e-mails between Sheri and her sister (who graciously and generously boarded us), and a printout from weather.com so that we could anticipate rain and sun. What's so strange about that?

Evidently the answer to that question is: the weather printout. I've never heard the end of it.

Recently I created a daily list of vacation-preparation things to do, properly categorized on dull yellow legal paper under the headings Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, etc. and mistakenly left it on my table when Sheri stopped in for her break. "I see you have your list. Have you made your folder yet?" she asked with a wicked gleam in her eye, dragging the word folder through a little puddle of sarcasm.

Like I said, I've never heard the end of it. heh heh.

When I mentioned my Florida folder to mom, she said, "Yeah, and...?" as if it were the most normal thing in the world: who doesn't make a travel folder? Then she proceeded to show me all she had done to prepare for her trip to Alaska this August. Suddenly my self-perception shifted from borderline psycho to laid-back blasé.

More recently I explained to mom that we needed to leave early enough one morning to arrive in time to grill burgers for supper with my dad & Ardy. They live about eight hours away. "You could do what I've done when I've needed to leave early in the morning. The night before, lay out your clothes, shoes, and socks; set out your breakfast; put everything you can into the car; and put toothpaste on your toothbrushes by the sink.

She lost me at the toothpaste bit. First, I cannot imagine being organized enough to accomplish that. Second, Hannah would probably rise before all of us and paint the mirror with five loaded toothbrushes. Or consume all the toothpaste and go into fluoride shock...or whatever happens when a child swallows that much toothpaste. Finally, well, Mom, that's just a little loony.

In my world, "neurotic" is relative...and for once it appears that I'm normal. Relatively.

Rats! We Have Bats!

2008-07-16T14:59:00.003-05:00

Between a broken laptop screen and a recent infection (in my body, not my laptop), I have been completely absent from the Internet. Now that I have a new (yes new, woohoo!) laptop and several antibiotic doses in me, I'm back online wasting my time. Or honing my creative writing skills. Perception is everything.

Because I hadn't blogged for days, I was afraid I wouldn't be able to come up with anything. This proved to be a needless fear. I should have known.

The evening I returned home with my spankin' new computer, a bat flew into our garage, then circled round and round, unable to find the exit. Yes. A bat. It finally found a way out, directly into the almost-finished French door room, so we all hovered around the doorway watching the bat circle the blue walls. I observed, captivated, until it darted towards the spot where I sat--operative word: sat -- unable to quickly stand up and run away. I returned to the living room while the rest of the crew monitored the rat with wings.

When Carl and the girls joined me, I asked them where the bat was. "In the French door room hanging from the trim," they answered, looking at me with duh all over their faces.

"Oh, no. No, no, no. The bat has to go."

Carl immediately got up and said, "I'll get it out of the French door room." A little too immediately. After nearly fifteen years of marriage, I know how his deceptive mind works.

"Outside. The bat goes outside. Out. Side."

"I'll see what I can do," he said.

Keep in mind, we don't have curtains on any of the four French-door-room windows. When the lights are on at night, being in that room is like being on a drive-in movie screen. So what did Carl do to free the bat? He opened the French doors (which face the street, by the way), stood on the bed, and shooed out the bat. In his underwear.

Holy bat-show, Batman.

Countdown to Forty

2008-06-26T19:45:00.002-05:00

With only a few short hours remaining in my thirties, I sit here on my couch tap-tap-tapping at my laptop. I'm beginning this post at 7:45 p.m. Carl has just returned home from work with the happy, glazed look in his eye that tells me he wrapped up his Thursday route doing a job for a long-time buddy. He brought home critters (lizards and God knows what else) and is outside with the girls, assembling the "critter pen" he spent the last two weekends building.

I griped to Sheri earlier today about Carl's lack of priorities, but all the steam blew out of that train when I saw how happy he and the girls are at this moment. Not to mention I spent the entire--and I mean entire--weekend revising my Guideposts submission and have nothing nearly as substantial as a "critter pen" to show for it.

Turning forty tomorrow feels pivotal, though I know that's probably the most pedestrian statement I could possibly make. I'm excited about the birthday, though. Pivotal is positive for me. I happily gave my thirties to my growing family, staying home to raise the girls, even home schooling them. It's been the most rewarding, most thankless, most invisible job I've ever had and it's not done yet.

But the girls are older now and very independent, thanks to the superior parenting they've received. Snort. They're independent because they've had to be. Can't get your zipper up? Tough. Either can I. Hungry? Let me tell you how to make spaghetti while I sit exhausted-for-no-apparent-reason on the couch. You're sick of peanut-butter-and-jelly? How about peanut-butter-and-honey. Bananas?

Now that I'm turning forty I find myself frequently thinking, I'm practically forty. I don't have time for that crap about a lot of...well...crap I've made time for. In a way turning forty and having almost debilitating arthritis is liberating. I need to have fun and enjoy life while I can. I give myself permission to do things that otherwise I might put off until I'm older, more financially secure, more...you can fill in the blank.

So tonight I'm toasting my thirties with a nice glass of white zinfandel, saying:
so long,
it's been nice,
but I'm glad you're leaving.

What is Your Gift?

2008-06-26T06:00:00.003-05:00

I took the girls to the library to watch the magic show it hosted as part of the summer reading program. Afterwards, as the girls played and read, I talked to a local celebrity-of-sorts, Ted Watts, a nationally renowned sports artist, as well as the husband of Hailey's fourth grade teacher.

As we visited he pointed out some of his own artwork that he had donated to the library, sports artwork in the adult sections of the library as well as a rendition of Pinocchio that he had painted on some brown paper-sack-like paper. I would never have known he painted the Pinocchio, as it's not his usual genre (is "genre" applicable to painting?)

He said something that stuck with me: "I assumed everyone could draw like I could until I saw what the other kids drew in grade school." Is it normal human nature for us to assume everyone has our gifts, but we are the only ones with our faults?

My mom thought everyone knew how to organize and keep things orderly until I recently pointed out to her that I hadn't a clue. I have to concentrate to accomplish what she does without thinking. Of course, some of my inability to keep things straightened might have a little to do with rebellion...maybe I should make a point to grow out of that soon.

I'm still surprised when I learn that others don't spend as much time thinking as I do...though I'm not sure if that's a gift or a curse. Sometimes--make that often--I spend so much time in my mind that I neglect the here-and-now.

Do you have a gift that you've only recently discovered is a "gift?"

Faith: Real? Or Make-believe?

2008-06-25T12:01:00.009-05:00

Sometime in the past nine months I purchased a squirrel-proof bird feeder, which I hung outside of my living room window. Its globe-shaped, barred exterior has 2-inch circular openings that allow birds access to the inside cylinder full of birdseed. The cylinder has four small round openings, each with its own perch below it. The bars of the exterior are narrow enough to keep squirrels out, but believe me, they still try.

The squirrels crawl up my window screens and leap out onto the globe, causing it to swing back and forth as they try, unsuccessfully, to reach the seeds inside. Until recently the only birds I saw inside the bird feeder were small birds: finches, chickadees, tufted titmouses.

A funny side note. My mom will NOT say "tufted titmouse" because she hates the"t" word so much. Hey mom: tufted titmouse, tufted titmouse, tufted titmouse! Ha! I'm cracking myself up here.

Yesterday I postmarked my Guideposts writing contest submission, due June 24. I'm a procrastinator at heart, so I spent many hours over the weekend writing...obviously not on this blog.

OK--four paragraphs of rambling finally bring me to the thought that sparked a blog entry.

Only in the past two weeks have cardinals visited my bird feeder. Being medium-sized birds, larger than the previously-mentioned birds, I assumed they couldn't fit through the openings. I was wrong. They fit fine and now beautiful, red male cardinals and their plainer-looking female companions frequent my bird feeder several times a day. Gorgeous.

Writing a piece for Guideposts, a faith-based magazine, has me in "faith" mode. However, seeing the cardinals reminds me that I have a faith that's both real (to me) and make-believe. As I've said before, I'm a cradle-Catholic, baptized as an infant, confirmed in middle school, mass-every-Sunday (except that one Sunday I lied to my parents) growing up. When I attended a Catholic university, I became agnostic. Go figure. I later married in the Catholic church and carry on my childhood tradition.

Yet, something inside me yearns for mystery bordering on the magical. I like to think that God is speaking directly to me and I know the secret language. Somehow I'm special. That's how I started the idea that whenever I saw a bright red, male cardinal, God was saying hello.

I know that's make-believe. My non-believing friends will eventually point out that all faith is make-believe, something we conjure up to make ourselves feel better, less afraid.

My believing friends will lean towards saying there are no coincidences, though most would pressure me to find a place in scripture where God spoke through cardinals. Especially in the Mideast.

So...faith: Real? Or make-believe?

Healing Summer Continued

2008-06-21T09:33:00.006-05:00

Laurie asked me in a comment if I have a list of items for my healing summer. Kathleen asked me how my healing summer is going. My answer to Laurie is yes. To Kathleen I answer better than expected.

My healing summer has progressed better than expected because, as I have mentioned before, I have a tendency to make grand, philosophical plans that feel deep and profound (to me, at least, though I know I can be full of myself at times...ok...often). However, when it comes time to carry out those plans, I flop. No follow-through. No discipline. Like the diet you promise to begin on Monday after purchasing all the special food, spending hours listing what you will eat and when, purging cupboards of junk food, pigging out on Sunday because this is the last time I will ever eat chocolate again. But when Monday comes, you hadn't slept well the night before, green tea just won't cut it so you allow yourself the usual cup of coffee with cream and sugar, the kids bicker, and you just say, "Screw it. Maybe next Monday."

Yes, I made a list at the end of May. I love lists. LOVE lists. I feel deceptively productive while making lists, about which I've written before. Here.

Following is my Healing Summer list, unedited, exactly as it looks on paper:

1. Heal My Body

A. Antibiotic Protocol
B. Enzymes
C. Exercise
D. Diet

2. Heal Relationships

A. Friends I've neglected
--Bob
--

B. My marriage/Carl
[note to blog readers: my marriage is not in imminent danger,
but what marriage couldn't use a little extra attention?]

3. Heal My Perception of Me
[not sure what I meant at the time...]

4. Heal/Accept Healing of My Relationship With God

So far I have flopped with #1. Why do I always put my physical health last, especially when I have special needs physically? Although I can report that I've played Wii tennis religiously. Does that count?

I've done pretty well with #2. I'm beyond happy to be back in touch with Bob. Carl and I are in a happy place. Etc.

Number 3. Hmmm. Turning forty next week has me analyzing my life, my attitudes, my...everything. Without going into a bunch of boring details, I'll comment that I realize I spent much of my thirties feeling like a victim. What a waste.

Number 4. Continuing with number three. If I've been a victim of something, God could've fixed that, being omnipotent and all. I've been pretty pissed at God, at his allowing me to be sick for so long, allowing Hannah to have a brain disorder, allowing me to struggle with chronic pain and the resulting depression. Resentment is never good for the soul, and resenting God proves even more fatal to well-being than resentment towards people.

On a lighter note, in the same comment mentioned earlier, Laurie said, "I could do with a PURGING summer, but it's too overwhelming. In fact, the stress of all these hoarded possessions is putting me in need of going shopping..."

I don't know about you, but that made me laugh, because I relate only too well...

Tomorrow's blog: SILVER DOLLAR CITY! What a day!!!

Talkin' to Bob

2008-06-20T06:40:00.001-05:00

No, I'm not writing about that.

As a sophomore in college I rented my first studio apartment. At the time Bob lived in the same apartments. We met outside at the picnic tables in the shared courtyard and struck up a conversation. I was 19, he was...let me think...somewhere around 54? 58? Newly divorced. The late summer nights were still long and humid and we saw nightfall outside together many evenings as we got to know and love each other.

Whatever you're thinking, you're probably wrong.

Bob became one of my best friends, very intellectual, intelligent, open-minded. Over the years we have discussed religion vs. spirituality. We have discussed politics. We have discussed aging. Some days we drove from Wichita to southeast Kansas in the springtime, simply to drive and talk and view the redbuds and dogwood in bloom in the beautiful corner of the state. Eventually I married (he attended the party at which Carl propsed to me as well as my wedding months later), moved to that same corner of Kansas, and welcomed him as a visitor.

When I had children, we discussed parenting.

Then two years ago we both went through difficult times and stopped calling each other. Neither of us felt animosity, we simply became "busy" or preoccupied. Or whatever. I'm not sure what he would say.

I blogged earlier about my healing summer. Part of that healing, for me, is renewing contact with people who are important to me. I've realized with the tragedies and premature deaths that my community has experienced recently that nothing is guaranteed. I would regret losing Bob. So I called him. We've already visited at length and I'm looking forward to our next conversation and his next visit.

I've been talkin' to Bob again and it's like a balm.

My Mirror, My Child

2008-06-19T08:39:00.006-05:00

As I tapped my laptop keyboard after 10:00 last night, Hailey approached me in the half light glow of my computer screen. "Mom, can we talk?" she asked, her small voice breaking.

Truthfully, I was annoyed. It was after 10:00, time for all kids to be tucked in. Time for me, dammit. I'm sure that, in her heightened state of self-consciousness, Hailey sensed my poorly-masked aggravation. "We can talk another time," she offered, tears running down her cheeks.

"No. Let me shut down my computer."

She didn't wait. All day she had been on the verge of a dizzy spell. If it continued to worsen, she would miss our trip to Silver Dollar City on Friday (tomorrow), so I expected she wanted to talk about her worries, her fear that she'd miss the fun.

As my computer slowly went to stand-by, Hailey said, "Sometimes I feel like...." She paused. I vacillated between annoyance at the interruption for her ill-proportioned fear and shame at my own lack of compassion for my distraught daughter. She continued, "...I feel like...like I'm...bad."

What?

She launched into a litany of her faults, faults that had nothing to do with her dizzy spells. As I listened, looking into her tearful eyes, her face transformed to my face. She became my mirror.

My own soul wept for my child. Wept because, at almost forty, I sometimes have the same irrational emotions and poorly proportioned self-analyzation. I despise that part of me, try to stuff it away somewhere or poke fun at it before anyone else. Yet here in the mirror that was my child it stood bare, exposed, raw.

God, how do I advise her when I haven't yet learned how to advise myself?

As my ten-year-old described her feelings of awkwardness, of feeling "different than," of feeling like the only child in the world with atypical migraines and dizzy spells, I listened. I listened as my own thoughts found voice in my child. I knew I had a choice to make, a choice that--in the current morning light--looks large and life-altering. I had to choose between answering her with the Inner Critic to whom I have listened for years, or answering her with love and acceptance.

Acceptance that we fret while Carl and Katie flow through life with ease. Acceptance that, as intellectuals, we analyze things that others barely notice. Acceptance that we have illnesses that limit our physical abilities, but not our abilities to desire.

But I also pointed out our blessings: both of us love to learn and learn easily. School is easy for us, yet it brings Katie to tears. We both excel at all things musical. While we both hate to miss out on anything because of sickness, we have opportunities and blessings if we only look for them as we lay on the couch.

Hailey and I visited for nearly an hour, laughing at points, near tears in others. Something happened between us, something mystical and bonding, something we will always remember in spirit if not in detail. That something, which I have yet to name (any suggestions out there?), is now the foundation for future relationship as the teen years loom ahead.

I love you my mirror, my child.

Things Never Change, Yet They're Always Changing

2008-06-18T21:36:00.003-05:00

Is it really Wednesday already? What creative writing energy I have has been directed towards completing an entry in the Guideposts Magazine Writers Workshop contest, postmark required by June 24. I'm doing a revision on my "You've Come a Long Way, Big Girl" blog entry. I didn't realize how much I had taken for granted that people knew the characters in my blog. I'm having difficulty in the revision.

So, to keep this blog current, I'm going with a bulleted entry.

We are now the proud owners of a 2008 Hyundai Sonata
A tire went flat as I drove it home
The car has been returned to the dealership to detail it, fix the flat & windshield
I can buy a lot of gas with the money I spent on the car
Enough about money
We're going to Silver Dollar City this Friday (OK--money there, too)
We're leaving Hannah all day with a new babysitter
The babysitter has a sibling with Down's Syndrome
I contacted a friend of 20 years that I had lost touch with for 2 of the 20
I told you it would be a healing summer
My mother-in-law visited again this past Monday and Tuesday.

You know I haven't been in blogging mode when I didn't blog about getting a flat tire in a brand-new-to-me car before I even parked it in my driveway.

Compared to driving a Tahoe, a Hyandai makes me feel like my butt is dragging on the highway
Carl has diverted from the "Building Project" to build a HUGE critter pen
And making home brew

Things never change, yet they're always changing.

New Car

2008-06-14T17:42:00.003-05:00

We spent all afternoon test driving and buying a car. With gas prices reaching $4 a gallon and promising to go higher, we decided we didn't need a Tahoe for running general errands. We're keeping the Tahoe for times that I need to transport my wheelchair, but now we have a white 2008 Hyandai Sonata.

Did we do the right thing? I hate buying cars. Hate it. I hate negotiating, hate parting with money, hate spending the time. We could buy a lot of gas with the money we spent today. However, I have been staying home instead of getting out to run errands ever since the day I spent $96 to fill my tank. Ouch.

When I hit the brakes as I neared town, the car began making a funny sound and an exclamation point lit up on my dash. What the heck?! Engine trouble already? I pulled over and Carl pulled in behind me. He came up to my window and, after I explained everything, he looked at the light and said, "You have tire trouble."

"OK...well, would you check my tires?"

Sure enough, I had a flat. I took the Tahoe home and left my knight in goofy clothing behind to fix the tire and bring the car home. It's sitting outside now with a donut tire.

I'm sitting inside, tired from the shopping and ready to do absolutely nothing.

Tomorrow is Father's Day and I bought Carl exactly what he wanted: A home beer-making kit. He has no idea, though he requested it. I can hardly wait to give it to him.

My brain is fried, but the day is now documented.

Friday the 13th

2008-06-13T06:00:00.001-05:00

Happy sort-of anniversary to us. Our anniversary is actually August 13, but we were married on a Friday the 13th. When everything's happy between us, I think of how un-superstitious we were. When we go through the down times that every marriage faces, I think what were we thinking!

So Much for the Spirit

2008-06-11T06:00:00.008-05:00

Some of the funniest things seem to happen to me at church. (You can click on the word "church, though you can't tell it's a link on a dark background)

Our small Catholic parish has consisted of two church buildings for decades before we moved here in 1996. Several weeks ago one of those buildings was condemned and now we are combining into one church family in my town. Because our church is two blocks from our house, the changes have not effected me personally, though I can feel the grief rolling off of those who have lost their church, the location where they were married, the building in which their children and grandchildren were baptized, the spiritual home that held so many warm memories.

Last week we missed 9:00 mass, so we attended 10:30 mass. Most of the people attending at 10:30 were from the condemned church, including the choir. In true Solomon form we arrived just in time to follow Father Larry toward the altar. We practically looked like part of the procession. Usually we sit towards the back, but for reasons known only to Carl, we marched up to the third row. Well, I didn't exactly march, but it seemed like a good verb for a procession.

That particular Sunday morning I was in more pain than usual, so I took a darvocet before leaving for mass. I also wore a form-fitting, ankle-length, mustard-yellow dress that I haven't worn recently and, since I couldn't find the, um, proper underclothing, I wore none. I know. Too much information, but bear with me here. It comes into play.

I held Hannah in my lap during the gospel reading that Sunday, which told of Jesus' saying, "Everyone who listens to these words of mine will be like the wise man who built his house on rock." Then Jesus continues to tell of the foolish man who built his house on sand. It collapsed. Ouch. That could have potentially pulled the scab off of any healing that might have begun.

Father Larry did a beautiful job during the homily that he gave immediately following that gospel reading. He explained how the house is actually the person's faith and spirit life, not a building. I don't remember everything he said now, over a week later, but I recall that he complimented everyone because, in spite of their physical house being condemned, their faith house was still standing.

The darvocet kicked in. I was feeling the Spirit, baby. If we were one of those charismatic churches, I could've yelled preach it! and Amen! Then the choir, which I rarely hear at our church because they sang at the now-condemned church, led us in a song about "letting the healing begin." Remarkable. It was as if I could physically feel everyone around me receive healing from their own grief...or maybe it was the drugs. I sang my heart out as Katie thumbed through a second hymnal for Hannah. With each of the three verses, the Spirit flowed all the more, carrying me higher and higher. Boy, was I ready for the Liturgy of the Eucharist, a quieter part of the Catholic Mass. I could practically feel angel wings flapping around me. Does that mean I should be looking into 12-step programs?

Katie handed Hannah the hymnal just as we finished the last verse. I was soaring high in the rafters when Hannah realized they were done singing. As the rest of the congregation became completely silent, and I watched from my high place, she arched her back and let out a scream that brought me rapidly from the rafters right back into my pew. Right up front. Oh. God.

She slid down my dress onto the floor, so I pulled her, arched-backed and rigid, onto my lap. As I did so, my dress slid up with her, inching towards my knees. Holy crap! No underwear! I could either allow Hannah to slide back onto the floor, or potentially flash my priest. So much for the Spirit. Eve ate the apple long ago, so I'm pretty sure nudity of any kind is frowned upon in church.

I did somehow manage to position Hannah on my lap uneventfully and whisper sweet please-please-please-be-quiets into her ear. She screamed again just as everyone else said, "Blessed be God forever" in unison. Yes. Blessed-be-God please get my screaming five-year-old out of here.

I handed her off to Carl, who can walk without the aid of a cane, blessed-be-God, and he took her to the kitchen until she cooled off. Darvocet or no, it took another five minutes for my heart to slow. I never quite got back into the Spirit that Sunday.

After mass, as if she didn't do a thing, Hannah ran up to Father Larry and said, "Hi Fah-er Wawwy!" and gave him a huge hug. He just said, "Hi Hannah Solomon!" and hugged her right back.

Blessed be God forever.