The Death of an Herb

The relatives were over Sunday for an indoor picnic, and for the most part it went fabulously. The food was excellent, the house was neat (thanks to the husband), and the children were well-behaved.

Enough of the Garrison Keillor intro - I want to tell about my moment of domestic failure. Yesterday it was about dead plants. Other times these moments include anything that would elicit a hidden inner groan of parental failure from my mother, were she to know of them...including, but not limited to:

*Burning frozen pizza (think about it...for 20 minutes, even to feed them this, you cannot pay attention?)
*Stapling a hem with a stapler, and never ever planning to actually sew it.
*Letting weeds overrun the landscaped front of the house, to the point that you must avert your eyes upon driving up the driveway. (I did don gloves and walk out bravely one morning to heave unsuccessfully on a huge, tree-like weed, and when it did not budge, I peeled the gloves off and walked back inside the house, without even a backward glance.)
*Raising my children to expect that the trip to school each morning or for a practice is always always a hair-raising thrill ride of suspense and danger. For one reason or another, but mostly because we are late.

But yesterday it was dead plants.

I was in the middle of presiding over the lunch preparations, playing the role of a Daughter-In-Law Who Has It Together with surprising panache, when I noticed the wilting basil on the counter. Actually, a few living pots of basil, several gasping-for-breath varieties, and 3 pots of Completely Dead ones. The thought flashed through my mind that I could say I was 'drying' them, but...no.

You know how you clean like crazy for company, but later during the visit you notice some glaring thing that has been such a fixture in the landscape of your home that you have just completely missed it?

That was the basil - several pots in varying stages of obvious decay, lining the counter.

In a weird moment of flailing out to continue the illusion that I was in complete control, and with a flickering of remembrance concerning my in-laws legendary dominance over all green living things ever to sprout in and around their own home, I casually grasped three pots and set them on the windowsill. While chatting, I thought I might water some of them, hoping that during the next hour or so they might perk up a little bit and save me some embarassment...

So I chatted and poured, exuding confidence, as if I did this every day. Upon turning my back, the husband yelled out and dashed towards the windowsill, which had become a veritable waterfall of drainage from the pots, leaking out of their bottoms because I had forgotten to place a dish underneath them. I seriously almost set down my little pitcher of water to walk outside, down the walkway, and up the road, never to return (or at least until the guests were gone). I couldn't though. I had to grimly stand in front of everyone and sop up all of the water that had pooled onto the ground.

Nobody said anything and that made it even worse. I felt like the biggest dolt - here was perfect evidence that I had no idea how to care for a plant and had probably never attempted to water one before. It's hard to explain how something like this can be a big deal, but small comments here and there, the "flower graveyard" in front of the house with pots full of the skeletal remains of my optimistic horticulture in May, heavy silence as I mop up the water from three neglected plants....

Stuff like that just can level me -- it's so weird. So what if I'm bad at plant-care? So what? Why does it matter?

Oh well.
Add it to the list.

Peace!

Lesson in Coolology II

So if you ill-advisedly purchase something from a very expensive,
teenager-haunted mall store, and then you proceed to return it, (you knew you would), do not feel smug in the fact that you are handing the very young, thin, buff male cashier the same chic bag that you bought your items in, and have helpfully included the pristine cash register receipt, right on top of the still-folded clothing items that you are returning.

Do not smile your 40-ish face at this young man, expecting him to enjoy the easy transaction, and hoping he isn't inwardly sneering at what was your vain attempt to Be Youthful and Fashionable, and also hoping that he doesn't know the dismay you felt at home when your arms, which heretofore you believed were relatively thin, could not be jammed into the sleeves of this wretched garment.

Because you never know what he could pull out of that bag when you hand it to him.
It has been sitting in the house for awhile now.
He could pull out an action-figure, or a Barbie torso, or a lint-flecked gumball.

Or, he could pull out a pair of Victoria Secret underwear.
Oh yes.

And because he has already summoned the store manager for the return,
when he pulls out the Underpants,
there is another young, attractive man present to view the spectacle.

Do all three of you stare at his hand, cupping the tiny, still-tagged piece of fabric, uncomprehending?
Oh yes.

At the moment of dawning, do you brighten visibly and say,
"There they are!" and pluck them from his hand, which remains upwardly cupped for a stunned second or two afterwards?
Oh yes.

Do you stuff them into your open purse, and smile placidly at the young men,
pretending not to notice the look that passes between them?
Do you calmly accept your adjusted receipt and walk out with your head held high?
Oh yes,
Oh yes,
Oh yes.

Moondance

It was time for bed last night, but the moon was beautiful.

The kitchen was a mess.
I was cranky.
Laundry pile in the basement.
Children up too late, and nobody to steer them to bed
because I was just too pooped.

So I said, "Get your shoes on!"
They scrambled.
And out the door we all dashed.
Five of us running, spilling out into the moonlight.

The children understand.
How to just....go.
How we don't have to plan it out, we can just
run for the joy of running in the dark,
down the road, up the hill to the streetlight.
Giggling,
heading nowhere,
enjoying the feel of strong young legs
and healthy hearts.
Gulping air and twirling
because it feels good to twirl.

We ran all the way to the playground,
and right there was a huge mound of woodchips,
new for the school year.
We all scrambled to the top as if that
were our destination all along.

We felt dangerous and illegal up there.
Pacing the length of the mound,
we looked down and everything looked
different from so high.
King of the Hill!

"I hope the cops don't come," I said.
We all looked to the road.
"I saw a car turn in!" middle child whispered.
We froze, ducked down.
"Run!" I yelled.

We descended with steep steps, nearly falling
over each other and splitting up at the bottom.
We ran with whispered shrieks to go this way,
no, this way!
In a dark corner by the school we rested while
twin boy fastened his shoes and heard another car
in the parking lot next.
We hid behind a huge pine while the car
slowly approached and then u-turned to go
the other way!

After much dashing, ducking and hiding we
decided to return to the sidewalk and
"act natural".
Relief followed the exhilaration of our escapes,
and we slowed to a walk,
quieting, talking in murmurs,
looking at the dark houses and shushing each other
because regular people were in bed.

Down our road we watched our shadows and
laughed at how tall and short we became.
We walked with arms around each other's waists
to see what that silhouette looked like,
and then just kept on because it felt so good.
Twin boy danced ahead, stomping on our shadow heads,
an imp making us smile.

It was good to just let the mess go,
to just run away from it,
and smile wide and straight into each other's faces.
Real smiles,
loose,
free.

Ah, the moon.

Bad Mom to Good Mom: A Metamorphosis

So we are standing awkwardly at the first cheerleading practice...
twin girl exchanging silent smiles with the other girls, suddenly shy after not seeing each other for two months since school let out.

Some are doing cartwheels, some hanging on their moms, some showing off their youthful energy through impromptu races across the school lawn.

Twin girl tugs on my arm. I look down. She is smiling apologetically and pointing to her shoes. I open my mouth in shock.

She shrugs at the alarm in my eyes.

"These are the only ones I have!"

My jaw tightens and I glance around. Of course I only see the little girls with neat ponytails and brand new shoes. Coordinating outfits...laughing, chatting, coiffed mothers with babies dandled on their hips.

Suddenly I feel a little bit old and worn out, out of place. I have never quite fit in with the Brownie mothers, the cheerleading mothers, even the Ladies Circle at church mystifies me. Misfit! And my child in shoes with her toes hanging out.

I whisper a hurried promise to twin girl that we are going shopping together, just her and I. We will get doughnuts, we will buy school supplies...she will have new shoes. I'm suddenly anxious to make up for everything I might have forgotten about lately:

Making supper.
Buying milk.
Watering the plants.
Reading aloud.
Baths.
Checking their teeth.

Sometimes the obvious eludes me.

So yesterday I felt the nausea of Things I May Have Missed.
Today I felt the elation of covering all of those bases in one fell swoop.
All it takes is a little dough.
Of which we have little.
So...
Walmart.
She is nine, she's okay with Walmart.

Wish I Had Written This

UNBOUND


Before the pen drops...
Before the color stains...

Before the sound breaks
the silent night,
there is that moment,
where we sit with
our hearts,
our limbs
bound by imaginary ropes
of our own making.

Be brave creative souls.
Choose to be unbound.
Choose to create with
immediacy
and passion.
Choose to cut through
the threads of self-doubt,
the paralysis of perfection.

Use your hands,
your eyes,
your voice
to keep God's creative force alive.
It is your gift to the world
and to God.

Embrace this unbinding,
and watch yourself
fly free.

Wanderings & Ponderings by Lisa Dunlap

Fans

They are the faces that I look for in the crowd.
They are the ones who cheer for me.
They are the ones who never hear mistakes.

No matter what I do in life, they will always be my fans,
and I will always be theirs.

They call me "Mommy".

How lucky can a person get?

Before and After

He was twelve in the first two pictures....fifteen when he got his braces off.
Almost taller than I am.
I feel like I'm watching an egg hatch,
or a butterfly emerge,
only

I don't want him to fly away.

Michigan Brand

One time I went grocery shopping with my grandma in Warsaw, Indiana. There was nothing remarkable about the trip at all. I can see the shelves in my mind though, and I remember following close to her, and I remember the checkout lane.

And I remember this one thing she said.

You’re probably thinking it is some profound pearl of truth that fell from her mouth, and that’s why I’m re-creating the moment in my blog. But it was only this:

“Michigan Brand cottage cheese is the best.”

That’s what she said. I have no idea why I would remember THAT. I mean, I want to remember some words that come to me in the middle of the night, or bring peace during the storm... The words of my grandmother, startling and eternal. You know, something like that.

But all I have is cheese.

The thing is, there’s so much that I remember from my grandmother and none of it is really words. It’s more…smells and pictures. We spoke together, of course, over the years. But I don’t really remember the words.

I remember the feel of her, and the sound of her voice. I remember her expressions and her wit – you could see that in her eye. I remember the way her fingers, bent from arthritis, would just touch her hair before a picture was taken, a split-second of shy vanity. I remember the laugh that she had for teasing boys – her boys – that revealed pride even while she remonstrated.

I wonder what my children will remember of me? Because I try so hard to make the words that I say to them the right ones. What if they don't remember any words at all?

I can just hear my oldest reminiscing with the others:

"She always said to choose Jif."

The younger ones would nod thoughtfully, while secretly hoping that perhaps there was more to that statement than was obvious...finally accepting with an attempt at pride this legacy: Their mother was a Choosy Mom.

So maybe it's not about words. In fact, maybe I say too many. Who knows what little droplet of verbal minutae they will remember? It could be anything. But if it's not about the words, then it really doesn't matter.

My children will remember my feel. My look. My eyes. My smile. My softness. My laugh. My arms in a hug. My lap.

This brings me some comfort, and some pause.

I'll think about that while I eat my cheese.
I bought Michigan Brand because it's the best.

Summer

There is something about that first day of summer that you can feel in your face. Something relaxes. No more schedules. No more alarm clocks. No tests to study for and forms to sign and return.

Windows open all night long.
The train at midnight, blasting loud and long but so far away it's only a faint reminder of the world that still exists outside of my dreams. I smile and sink back in.
The morning, the birds.
Opening my eyes to the sound of the pad, pad, pad of the lone early runner down our country road.
A new whole day all stretched out, cool but never cold - then later, hot, slowing us.
Green things growing, the whole earth moving and changing and waking up to live.
Coffee on the front porch.
Children all within my grasp. Finally, bored. Finally, weaned from television and the constant noise of school they slow and spread out within themselves. They become wider and deeper because the days are about hours now. They are no longer pressed thin to fit into the sliced-up minutes of a busy day. They think, and dream, and draw.

So do I.

Countdown to the Shower

Having lots of people over to my house!
Invitations and everything!

The husband is alarmed that I haven't cleaned much. Dust and stuff.
But I'm waiting for that adrenaline rush that comes when you only have a few hours left. You know exactly what I'm talking about.

There'll be that moment of panic, and then it'll be a crisis for an hour, and then it will be over and time to party.
Way better than dragging the whole cleaning thing out over several days don't you think?

Me too.

The First

So I find this gray hair on my head two days ago.
It totally shocked me.
My mouth was open and I was leaning in towards the mirror, trying to see if it could POSSIBLY be real. I had this weird thought pass through my brain (quickly), that maybe it was somebody else's that had sort of wafted through the air and landed on my head.
And stuck there.
Yeah, it didn't make sense, but there was that moment of confusion.

The thing is, I don't think anybody really believes that they're going to get old. I mean deep down, do you really think it's going to happen? It's like none of us think we're going to die. I mean, how bizarre is that - to die, and not even be here anymore? Nobody believes it. Intellectually, of course. But in the front of your brain?

At some point it's thrust upon you, and then you have no choice to believe it. But wouldn't we all freak out and run around in circles frightening the neighbors if we really really really believed it?

I saw an old friend of mine today. I think of him as a friend, although he was really my spiritual director and so the whole thing was kind of one-sided. I loved going to talk with him because he was the only person I ever knew who only wanted to hear about me. Being a self-centered person, I really liked that. Anyway, he sort of helped me to be honest with myself once upon a time, and so after all that deepness it's always been kind of awkward to have small talk when we occasionally meet. It seems better to say only honest things.

So I saw him and gave him a big hug and I looked at him and he looked all cool and he had more gray and he was older, and he had this great smile on his face. He just looked good and I told him so. Then I added, "You are aging well," and he smiled and nodded because he knew exactly what I was saying even though it came out sort of blunt and weird.

I walked away having a mental conversation with myself as is often the case after I open my mouth in public, and I'm just rolling my eyes at myself thinking, "You're AGING well?" Just what every 40-something man likes to hear. But honestly, as with most everything else, it was a statement having to do with me. I looked at him and he was happy and peaceful and cool. He's right in the same boat with me, but he's doing okay with it. No running in circles. No frightening the neighbors.

That's what I want.

Basil Update

I transplanted ten of them today into little clay pots.
I hope I didn't kill them.
Who would like a basil plant???

Talent Show

Twin boy and middle child.
They wowed the crowd!

To The Bottom Of The Sea

On Friday they had each received a boarding pass and bio of the character they must play.

The twins' bios said they were siblings on the Titanic, having just left England where their father (a university professor) had finished up the semester and was taking them back to New York. They were reading in their bunks when they heard a bump and noise outside the cabin. When they went to see what it was, they were quickly bundled off to a lifeboat. Their father had to wait until women and children were safe before he could join them. Sadly, they never saw him again.

Oh they couldn't wait to get to school on Monday. They both dressed their nicest.

In class they were served by white-shirted 4th graders, who each told their own sad story into the microphone before serving them their appetizers. Some passengers were 1st class and were served right off the bat, then 2nd class, then the poor 3rd class passengers got what was left. Dinner was Swedish meatballs, Norwegian potatoes and corn casserole.

After dessert, the teacher dropped a huge bucket of ice and yelled, "Every man for himself!" Twin girl says they all screamed and ran out onto the playground.

What a day to be a child.

Random Chores

The husband has come up with a new plan for chore division among the laborers.
He presented us with a cup filled with popsicle sticks.
The children eyed it warily.
I sat back with arms folded, jaded from years of coming up with such plans myself and having them last exactly one week.
I kept my mouth set in a prim line of superior and indulgent supportiveness though. Nary a word of doubt escaped my lips.

Thing is, it's working.
The plan is pure simple genius and I have jumped into full participation of it,
and here it is:

He asked me to come up with a list of jobs that needed to be done around the house every single day. These jobs were printed on the ends of popsicle sticks, and dropped into a cup. Each child chooses three sticks, blindly, the moment he walks in from school, and does the jobs immediately.

Here's the math: I decided that I would choose 5 sticks per day also, and 3 sticks per child (4) equals 17 sticks in all. Two of the sticks are blank, so there are 15 jobs listed on the sticks.

Here are the details: The jobs you get every day are random, so you never know what you're going to have to do. This keeps things from getting boring. Getting a blank stick is fun. The most difficult job on the list is VACUUM, which means you have to vacuum one common room of the house (not your bedroom). All of the other jobs can be done in around 30 seconds. Samples are: Downstairs Toilet (wipe it down and swish inside), Kids' Bathroom Counter (wipe it down), Bookcase (straighten it), Pantry (straighten it), Dust (dust any common room with the feather duster), TV (straighten videos, etc)...They're easy jobs, and the only day that they were difficult was the first day. The second day there were only one or two books out of place - 30 seconds to straighten the shelf. Wiping down the stove top is simple when somebody does it every single day. Same with the Pantry, which used to be a collection of empty cereal boxes, half-open stale graham crackers and the packaging from a multitude of fruit cups.

All of the jobs affect the entire family. There is no "Clean Your Room", or "Put Away The Clothes That Your Mother Has Washed For You." These things are expected - you're supposed to pick up after yourself. The jobs on the list are all little things that just need doing every day - they're nobody's mess - they're everybody's mess!

None of the jobs are "time-sensitive". They are all things that can be delayed if somebody has play practice after school, or are otherwise delayed. As long as the kitchen trash is taken out and a fresh bag put in sometime during the day...as long as the floor is swept...one window "windexed"...well, we call it good.

Actually we call it very good. The house has never looked so clean.

The children love it. Sincerely. Middle child says to me, "I like doing this because it's really quick and because you're not telling us what to do."

Genius.

Basilica

I think the name "Basil" is tres cool.

But instead of giving birth to another child and naming him, "Basil", I have settled for growing a basil plant.

Actually, I'm growing several because according to internet sources, each one of these little sprouts is going to become rather large! I thought I could just keep them all in this little tin thing on my kitchen window, but apparently I have to transplant them.

Who would like a basil plant?

It's so cool to plant a seed and be surprised by the sprouts coming up.

I am going to make a tomato-basil pizza. How long will it take to grow basil leaves that I can harvest?

Stay tuned.

The Hermit

There really was one, last summer.

Just about a hundred yards from our house runs Kalamink Creek, and you have to cross over it to get into the village. On the other side one day we noticed some fresh wood chips making a beautiful path into the woods south of the road. The next day, there was edging along either side of the path! But the path went into the woods too far to see where it led to.

We were all a-flutter about who could have laid that path, and decided to follow the trail ourselves to find out. We only got a few yards before we saw the sign:

PRIVATE PROPERTY: NO TRESPASSING

I highly suspect the property south of us is city-owned and the sign was just a ploy to keep nosy people like us out, but still, it was sort of intimidating.

So we stayed away but we watched. (We don't have cable.) Every once in a while we saw a man walk down the path, or back up to the road. He had a blue pickup, and he'd park it just on the shoulder. He made several trips and one day we noticed a big blue tarp through the trees. We craned our nosy necks but could not tell much at all about the Private Property or the man living there.

When we walked by, we walked really slow, and we tried not to look like we were trying to catch a glimpse of him. I wanted so badly to follow that path and see what was in there, but it was too scary for me so I didn't.

Until today.

It's been nearly a year since we first saw the man. I was walking the dog and coming back up the road ready to turn into the driveway when I stopped. Without the full summer foliage it was pretty obvious that the hermit's place was deserted. All of the edging (I could never quite figure out that edging), was in a sorry pile just inside the trees. The woodchips were scattered. I looked at the dog.

"I'm going in there," I told him.

I walked up the path and saw the sign. I glanced up at it and back down really quick. I had some weird thought that if somebody was watching me, and they saw me looking at that sign, that I would seem guiltier than if I didn't. I tried to look confident and purposeful but my heart was beating really hard.

Once inside the woods, I hurried over a log and had to unwind the dog from around a mossy tree. I saw a dishwasher on its side, and further up a flatware basket that must have gone with it. That sort of spoiled things for me.

But then I saw the teepee.

A huge tree that had been growing on the banks of the creek had toppled over and somebody had taken saplings and leaned them all in a row against one side, and then all in a row against the other until they came to a row of crossed points at the top. The felled tree's limbs acted as crosspieces, supporting the small row of trees on each side. Like a long teepee. It was so cool. Pretty big inside.

I peered my nosy head in close between the trees to see inside, and I saw a long cushion. Like for a bed. It was really dirty and old. And small.

I turned around and stopped looking. I thought about all our excited nosiness last year, and how uncomfortable that little bed looked for a grown man. I felt cold and I wished I hadn't come so far in. His poverty had seemed sort of romantic to me from far away. I could see my big warm house from where I stood.

"C'mon dog," I said, and we went home.

Strange Things I Have Seen

The country is way stranger than the city. Way.
When we lived in the city, everything was sort of the same.
Baskin Robbins, Einstein's Bagels, Kroger, Target. They're all over the place, and they're all the same. Everything is really neat and tidy. People get mad if children ride bikes over a corner of their lawn.
Here people think nothing of turning an entire backyard into a huge BMX track.

In the country you go to "Rick's 2-Fers Party Store", and the ice cream place is called, "Lumpy and Goomers". And we have an annual Tractor Pull, and boys from the high school walk around in overalls and John Deere baseball caps there. Trucks are for haulin', and if your truck doesn't have a few finely placed dents here and there...well, you're sort of suspect.

Seriously.
It's so weird and cool.

So anyway just yesterday I saw three strange things.

First I saw a tractor pulling this huge tractor-wheel by chains. There was a child sitting in the middle of the wheel, which was on its side and being dragged through the dusty shoulder of a little two-lane highway. He looked like he was having fun and getting really dirty.

Second, I met a man at the I-Scream shop (we eat a lot of ice cream in the country), who started talking to me, animatedly, on the topic of baldness. I had never seen him before in my life. He didn't really introduce himself, he just started talking about the male pattern baldness that runs in his family. He chuckled and lifted his hat because he's about seventy and still has hair. Then he sucked some air through the sides of his teeth, glanced skyward and shook his head with a smile. I felt it might be my cue to speak and said encouragingly, "I guess it missed you, huh?" He let all the air out in one gush and leaned over to slap his knee like that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard and shook his head while he laughed loud and long, and then got real serious and quiet all of a sudden, leaning in toward me,
"You know my uncle?"
I did not, but like anyone else would do, I nodded.
"BALD AT AGE TWENTY-EIGHT!!" he roared and laughed and laughed some more. I just stood there, looking at him with this crazy smile on my face, my eyes wide. I was thinking how nice it was to be happy like that.

Finally, and this was walking home from the ice cream place, I saw this person on the horizon. I thought it was an old man because he was all bent over and moving really really slowly, but I kept my eyes on him as I got closer because it looked like he maybe needed help crossing the street or something. He was in the middle of the street for a really long time. Then I realized, as I got closer, that it was a woman with a helmet on her head, and two ski poles, and some sort of long roller-blade-except-not things on her feet. Right then I was sort of entranced by the whole image, especially after the kid on the wheel and the not-bald man. I was smiling as she drew near, except that she didn't really draw near, it's just that I was walking towards her so it seemed like she was moving a little bit. She was not. She was this summer-cross-country-skier person in full gear. Head to toe pads, full body suit. And she was really really bad at it. I thought it must be her first day because she looked pretty athletic, but she was obviously having a painful time.

So on an ill-advised small-town impulse, I stepped out of my hermitish self for a second to hail her with a wave and a nod. I even spoke and called out, "How's it goin?" Apparently it was going really well and this was only her third week she said with a smile and turned her head as she rolled past me (at this point there was a dip in the road and she was actually picking up a bit of momentum). I thought she would roll on by and that would be it. But no, she stopped herself deftly with those ski poles (actually, she stuttered to an ugly stop which I immediately felt responsible for and quickened my own step away with another wave and a hearty, "Good luck!").

The woman continued to balance herself with head turned my way though, and kept talking - about the sport (which is actually sort of cool), and her attempts to learn it, and how she was looking for other interested people in the area so they could start a club, and the whole time I was going, "oh no, oh no, oh NO" and backing away while nodding, walking backwards but continuing to give polite signs that the conversation was ending...but she kept talking. She was a Talker. At one point I realized that I had backed away so far that there was a huge telephone pole directly in the visual line between us, blocking her entirely from my view. I had to sort of crane my head around it to see her. I felt foolish about this rudeness on my part and stepped out from behind it sheepishly, and just stood there with a big high closed-mouth grin, nodding and shooting my hand out occasionally in an attempt to give a casual wave goodbye, but then letting it fall uselessly to my side in surrender. I think I might have missed a few things she said as I froze into a statue of blankness. My mind tends to shut off like that in the presence of Other People Who Talk Alot, but mercifully she was beginning to roll again and seemed unable to keep her head turned backwards in a comfortable manner. I started a little when I realized she had stopped talking and jerked back to reality enough to yell out another robust, "Well good luck!" like a parrot cawing out the same phrase again and again it seemed all I was capable of at the time.

On returning home I reflected on the beautiful strangeness of the world. I'll bet those city people are strange too, they've just got it covered up a bit more.
I like it here in the country where the dirt is right near the surface, and the trucks are denty, and the strange people like me ride wheels, laugh too loud and get from here to there any way they can.

He Made This Up

Hey Mom,

Want some green tea????

Family Fun

We're in the middle of a weekend called, "Family Fun", and it's basically a very short, activity-filled two days of family togetherness, planned and executed by moi, paid for generously by the husband.

And it's going so well! The whole thing is a secret, and we've just been going from one thing to another and the children don't know what is happening next.

The details and costs:

Friday "kidnapping" from school at 1pm..........free
Butterfly Gardens on Bogue road.................parking, $3
Clara's restaurant (old train depot, and a train went by!)............$44 with tip
Preuss Pets (huge pet store with amazing exotic birds, fish, reptiles and...kittens)......free
Horton Hears A Who with popcorn and pop.........$38
The Dairy Store on Farm Lane....................$15
Driving around MSU campus playing the Airport Game.....free
*the Airport Game was created and named by my brother Crydo. Basically you people-watch until you see someone with a slight resemblance to a famous person, a friend or a relative, and then you shout out, "There's __________!" Unfortunately for the husband, the children enjoyed pointing out people with bald heads, very plump bodies or people with large and poufy heads of hair and shouting, "There's Daddy!" There was no rhyme nor reason to pointing out people who looked like Daddy, it's just that he can take a joke I guess. Another popular person to find was, "There's Molly!" anytime they saw a blonde headed, pretty girl with her hair pulled back, smart jacket and backpack. There was a definite "Molly-look" to a lot of those college students.

Now today there is a lazy morning, a brand new puzzle set up on the card table ($7), and this afternoon we are visiting the Scrap Box, a recycling place where you can fill a large bag of anything from the store for $6.50. It's a big building full of cool stuff that businesses usually just throw away - but children love making arts/crafts from it. I can imagine my Aunt E would love this place!

If we have time we're visiting the U of M Law Library (hahaha). I know, sounds super-cool. But it's free. If you go in and ask for a Visitor's Pass, you can walk around the whole thing. I heard it sort of looks like Hogwarts, and there's a whole subterranean level to check out. It could be one of my famous ideas that goes over like a lead balloon....

After that we have tickets to the Ann Arbor film festival ($46), where we'll watch the Family showings of several film shorts in the Michigan Theatre.

On the way home, we'll go to Los Tres Amigos, and I have to laugh here....the children have been begging to go to this restaurant because apparently their grandparents took them and they loved it. We really never eat out as a family so this is a special treat for them. I looked up the AA location on the internet and read really good reviews for the restaurant except one that says,

"I'd rather be stabbed in the stomach than eat here ever again."

hahahaha. Always an adventure....

Peace!

Family Fun Pics

Butterfly Gardens

A Train Is Coming! They waved and tooted the horn!

Preuss Pets

Dairy Store!

Tooth or Consequences

And to add to the things that I am not domestically or maternally good at...
being the Tooth Fairy.

The middle child once completely gave up after a week of leaving her tooth under her pillow with no results. I think she just tossed it away in disgust.

I don't know what is wrong with me - I just cannot seem to remember. And I feel so terrible the following morning, you'd think that would spur me on, but...no. I usually don't even notice until about the third day when the poor child comes dragging down the stairs saying, "The Tooth Fairy forgot, AGAIN!"

So we developed a sort of a system where on each night that the TF doesn't show up, the amount of money due the toothless recipient is doubled.
You can make big bucks losing teeth at our house.

Several days after losing a molar, the boy twin moaned to me about how he was checking every morning and I winced. The husband spoke to me about "handling it", and miraculously I remembered, but only had one dollar in change on hand. I wrote a note, in my best left hand writing, instructing him to check under his pillow the following night for the rest of the cash.

I looked at the note and the erratic, suspicious handwriting.
It lacked something.
So I added:
"Sorry for the delay, but I have been in prison."

Perfect.

Is It Just Me?

Okay people.

We live in a world where we are able to type words onto a micro-thin tablet of plastic, send it through space and have it show up on another screen thousands of miles away in mere seconds.

Why can we not create a spout for the dishwashing detergent that does not cut into the quick below our fingernails when we try to open it?

Why must I jam a knife into this evil contraption in order to get it open, not just for the first time, but every single time I would like to use it?

Why. Oh Why.

High Hopes

Sometimes the meal elicits groans, especially when I’m trying to be “creative”. Sometimes the meal elicits praise, and that’s when I’m feeling guilty because it is junk. Sometimes the meal, like this one, elicits a quiet table, because they are just eating.

This is when I feel good.

A simple salad with nothing but romaine and a few carrot “buttons”.
Tilapia with a little olive oil, lemon juice and ground pepper.
A purple mix of beautiful Lundberg Jubilee brown rice.

And now, the unveiling of the 14 meal menu.
In an effort to reduce grocery shopping and meal-planning stress, I have come up with a two week rotation of meals that my family will really eat. I’m hoping that I will no longer flutter around the kitchen nervously when someone asks me what is for supper because until that moment I hadn’t given it any thought at all. I’m hoping it will ease my guilt over incomplete, unbalanced meals that happen sometimes here because I didn’t plan ahead. I’m hoping that it will still give me room to be creative when it comes to meals…by just substituting a “regular” with my inevitable “new recipe” (cue groans).

I’m hoping that it will save money, reduce greenhouse gases, and promote world peace.

I always was an optimist.

Week #1
Spaghetti
Macaroni and Cheese
Soup
"Chicken" Patty
Pizza
Tacos
Tuna Melt

Week #2
Baked Ziti or Lasagna
Grilled Cheese/Tomato Soup
"Chicken" Nuggets
"Hamburgers"
Pizza
Pancakes or French Toast
Tilapia


...subject to change...

Afternoon Delight

Need I Say More?

Cousin Sighting!

I was dragging the twins through Meijer, absent-minded, tired, bedraggled. Just that day I had said to someone, "I really need a hair cut." I hadn't even tried that morning. My favorite jeans were on their third day, and starting to slip down around my waist so I had to keep hiking them up. The girl twin had on her favorite pants too - the ones she kept pulling out of the Goodwill pile. Too tight, too short, and with a belt loop dangling out where it had come un-sewed. We had just survived a trip into Walmart, a place that I diligently boycott, except when the children can't see the chalkboard anymore. Then I slink in to get cheap glasses. The boy twin's glasses were not so much of the wrong prescription, they were just worn out. The doctor looked through them and said it was more from all the scratches than from failing eyesight that he needed new ones. Plus we are constantly looking at him and seeing, beyond his cheerful face, one lens up near his eyebrow, and the other down near his chin. He gets "wrestled" at school, and each day his dad sighs and tries to straighten them out. The girl twin has hair issues, and the boy twin's morning preparation had included a wet washcloth plastered against the side of his head to get a big rooster-tail to lay down.

Yeah we were lookin' fine.

So I'm in the 2nd or 3rd aisle, and suddenly there is a commotion. Girl twin says, "Mom!" and looks behind me. Boy twin clamps a hand over her mouth. Both smile at me in expectation. I don't have enough time to put it all together when BAM! I'm grabbed from behind! I scream out loud to the delight of five children - the twins, plus three more behind me, and the sneaker, my cousin, their mom. The looks on all of their faces were priceless.

I was shocked and disoriented and laughing and I have to say I pert near wet my pants. I took it all in as we were standing, chuckling, explaining (the girls saw us enter, and they searched all around the perimeter until they found us), goodbye-ing as we went our separate ways. But these are the things that passed through my mind:

First: Did I or did I not just wet my pants?
Then: Does she ever look unkempt? Is she really always this stylish?
Then: Oh my goodness, I forgot how bad I look today.
Then: Look how each of her girls have the fronts of their hair pulled straight back like that. Why don't I do something with the girl twin's hair?

And then: My cousin and her girls ran all around this huge store looking for....

me.

I don't know, but something changed right then. I stopped nagging the children and started loving on them. I stopped feeling like something the cat dragged in at the end of a long day, and I held my head up.

Because I knew it didn't matter to my cousin. I knew I could be a bum on the side of the road with whiskers and one tooth, and she still would have...yeah I think she still would have searched for me.

Something about family is like that. It's just cool to connect with them. To touch them. I almost think it's because we all live our own busy lives, that it is miraculous to us that one of them might take a detour just to connect. A minute to sit down and write an e-mail. A card in the mail. An invitation to a wedding. A text message. A sighting at the grocery store.

Excellent.

On the way out, the twins shrieked with joy as we hurtled down the sidewalk towards the car. They were running, I was pushing the full cart at top speed, head down, smile wide. We passed two old men who looked up, surprised, laughing.

Thanks Cuz.

Germ Party

The boy scout went to a special dinner last night with his dad.
Big awards ceremony, and a fine menu consisting of
Hotdogs
and
Chinese Food.

When I asked him this morning what he ate, he said,

"Well a hotdog for lunch yesterday at school, and then two hotdogs at the dinner, and then I had some of that chicken with the sweet red sauce, and then I tried one of these rolls but it had vegetables inside of it and I didn't like it very much, and then I had some chips and pop. Oh and a cupcake."

So I can't imagine why he threw up at midnight last night,
bringing the total of gastro-intestinal illnesses for us this winter
up to a whopping five.

I'm tired of nocturnal visits to the toilet to hold back somebody's hair,
or commiserate when it just won't come up.
Making beds on the hard bathroom tile.
Wiping down doorknobs and bathroom fixtures to kill the elusive germs
before somebody else gets it.

And the middle child is on a field trip to the symphony today,
followed by a trip to Caesarland.
The husband calls that place a veritable Petri dish of infectious material.
I begged her to wash her hands, but it seems almost futile at this point.
We will have another slight thaw, and germs everywhere will start addressing their invitations.

Apparently, we are accepting without discretion this year.

I will stock up on saltines, Vernors and chicken broth.

All In One Day

Things That Happened Yesterday, A List:
The big sister painted a red heart on the little sister's cheek in the morning.
I bounced a superball so high that it hit the ceiling twice in one throw.
The dog bit off the Barbie's leg, and I found her with gauze wrapped around the stub.
The boy twin made his Valentine Box by himself in 5 minutes before school because I forgot.
I used hot-curls to fix the girls' hair for the Daddy-Daughter Dance.
I got five valentines.
I threw my coat over my face in the high school hallway to avoid embarassing my son by my presence, naturally attracting a bit more attention by trying to avoid it.
I startled a choir director by not knocking before I walked into the choir room.
I shook hands with somebody who made me cry last Saturday and let bygones be-gones.
I took the boys to Angel's Cafe for supper.
The boy twin poured sugar all over his french fries by mistake and just shrugged when his food was wrecked.
The oldest boy shared his supper with the boy twin and wasn't stingy.
I played BlackJack and Crazy Eights.
The boy twin and I played a duet on a marimba.
One of the children signed their valentine to me, "Sincerely," and it made me laugh.
I got gas for under 3 bucks a gallon.

I just wanted to make a list so I'd remember.

Bloom

Don't you think "forcing" a bloom sounds harsh? Gardening is full of this kind of thing: Dividing, Dead-heading, Grafting, Cutting, Hardening Off, Staking, Pruning... So violent! I don't normally get involved in this pastime but...

There was one spring when someone offered me some free plant-life if I would come over to her house and dig it up. I did, and I placed it all in the little flower beds that the husband had created for me (in a spirit of naive hope that I might have a flash of organic energy and plant something), and the stuff began to grow.

The plants, though, didn't look like they did in my neighbor's yard.
They were much larger.
Much, much larger.
Over-my-head taller.
I-love-you-this-much wider.

I thought I might have gaps between the flowers that I'd need to fill in. There were no gaps. I had tossed a tomato plant in there on impulse (everything was growing so well), and it became alarmingly full and green almost instantly, with huge red softball-sized tomatoes popping out everywhere.

Once I got over the shock of it, I was thrilled! People came by and commented, "How in the world do you get your irises so tall??" They'd lament about their own scraggly gardens and I'd nod sympathetically. Apparently they just didn't have the touch. I'd never kept a houseplant alive for more than three weeks in my life and here I was the Green Giant of Webberville practically overnight.

Then my mom came by and made a casual observation about the placement of this garden. See nothing much was growing anywhere else on our property. Our lawn, one of those hydro-seeding deals from a year past, had only sprouted a few strands of grass here and there...it looked sort of like a bad hair plug job.... The soil in between the little three-blade sprouts of grass was cobbly and dry...

All except for this perfectly shaped rectangle of lush green grass growing on the southwest side of the house. And at the end of the rectangle, my bountiful flower garden.

Ah, the septic field.

"Are you EATING those tomatoes?" she asked doubtfully.

My garden suddenly looked sort of steamy. The over-sized black-eyed Susans nodded threateningly...The dense hydrangea rustled ominously...I had my own Little Shop of Horrors and the tomato plant was leering at me...

I backed into the house slowly then and now only emerge in the spring once to ceremoniously place a hanging basket of flowers on the porch. It is my gesture, my humble nod to all things green and living. That is, unfortunately, the last time the poor plant will be alive to see me.

To gardeners everywhere, I bow in deference.

Finding a Good Thing and Sticking With It

Well it's my birthday, and my uncle says I gotta write. So I thought I would write about what it's like to be 36 years old, year in and year out. It's really a very nice feeling. I don't know why people choose the age of 29 -- to me, people don't even treat you like a grown-up until you're 30. There is something about the age of 36 that is very very comfortable and desirable. And so here I shall stay for the rest of my days.

It was only last year that my then 11 year old narrowed her eyes at me after she asked on my birthday how old I was. She started to say, "But weren't you..." and somebody kicked her under the table. It was NOT me, I promise. When the topic of my age comes up, I assume a benevolent, dreamy exterior, and am able to ignore all questions having to do with chronological reality. The husband plays along quite admirably, and clamps a hand over little mouths at the appropriate times. I do appreciate him, (although at age 42 he is really getting along in years I must say.)

So here I sit, in my own little Neverland, surrounded by growing children - watching them in wonder as they pass milestone after milestone. I suppose someday soon I will have to lose my grip on age 36 and leap forward with the rest of the population, into the beauty of aging.

But for now, I think I will just join a band.

Scissled

They're gone again. They're gone!!!

My scissors.

In the silverware drawer, on the right hand side, is where I keep my scissors.

But they steal them. The children come in, take them out of the drawer, use them, sneak out into the backyard, dig a hole, and they bury them. Or they just toss them in the trash, I don't know which.

I have one with purple handles, one with orange handles, and one with black handles. They're all gone.

Two days ago, while cleaning out the laundry room, I came across a pair of grey-handled hair scissors from long ago. I placed them in the drawer.

Immediately, a child appeared, feverish to get his hands on those scissors.
It's like there's an unspoken credo among them:
The Scissors Must Be Freed.
Take them, quick! She's not looking! Hurl them out the window! Toss them under the couch cushion! Hide them in the laundry room!

It was with a sense of helplessness that I watched him walk away with those scissors. I knew I would not see them again.

Now it is today, and the boy twin is Star Student Of The Week, and my task is to create a collage of pictures of him on a wrinkled piece of paper with a frame printed around the outside of it, that he has just pulled from his backpack. I have 25 photographs that we had copied just for this project, and if I don't find a pair of scissors soon, it's going to end up looking like I tried for the artistic, "torn edge" look when trimming these pictures, and, combined with the wrinkly 8 1/2 by 11 paper, I'm telling you the effect is going to fall flat.

I have one pair of ultra-deluxe scissors in the sewing bag. Whenever somebody finds these, I leap out from behind a nearby object and hiss, "Those are FABRIC scissors!!! Don't you dare get them anywhere near paper!" These scissors are in pristine condition, complete with a plastic point-cover, and to my knowledge have never touched a piece of fabric. The last sewing project I completed must have come pre-ultra-scissors. It was the creation of two Easter Daisy Princess dresses one of which, if inspected closely, had a ravaged back button hole, the crowning touch at the end of a long and frustrating sewing week in 2002. I have not sewn since.

I have this sense of security though, in knowing that they are there, still sharp as ever. If I used them on the next hair cut, they would not "bend" your hair or make you scream by pulling it out by the roots, like our present hair scissors used to(before they disappeared). They are like my little insurance policy.

Tomorrow I will buy myself another pair of everyday scissors. I will hang a bola around my neck, and tie the scissors to the end of it. I will be like a walking cutting machine, leaning over so that the children can complete their art projects, fumbling to zip up my coat without poking myself in the eye, flinging them over my shoulder before giving hugs....

Or I can just tempt fate and stick 'em in that drawer again.
Yeah I'll probably do that.

The Family Bed

I slept with all my babies for at least some of their infancies.
It seems so long ago now, but some nights it all comes back.

The boy twin, age nine, has got to be the most cheerful human on the planet. He talks non-stop, and too loud. We all say to him at times, "You're talking loud," and without even pausing in his story, or slowing the flow of words, his voice drops - literally as if we had just reached over and turned the volume down.

His cheerfulness remained even through the long hours of trips to the bathroom last night, to grip the sides of the toilet and cough and spit out all the trouble in his tummy. He would pause, and gasp, but he could still talk -- giving a little running commentary of the event: "Well (gasp), that hurt. Maybe--....Okay, I think I might be---....boy that makes me choke!" Smiling, philosophical, he would trudge back to our bed and curl up underneath the big quilt while I cleaned up.

At 4am, I had to burst his bubble though, because he was still optimistically talking about "feeling better in the morning, and I know I can go to school." I rubbed his back and broke the news as he coughed into the toilet. Finally the tears came, and he slumped into me, revealing his desire to earn that perfect attendance certificate that last year Zach won, and that this year he had wanted to win so badly.

I said maybe he would win the award for the Best Kid In The World, and he nodded agreeably. You don't have to be humble to be cheerful.

Then when we slid back into bed, he was buried underneath covers and so was I. The sun was coming up and I was most definitely not ready to face it. As I floated off into another light doze (really the only sleep available with a child in your bed), I felt those tiny fingers reach into mine and we held hands secretly.

There is something about sleeping together that is a binding, bonding, intimate thing. It's beyond hugs and kind words, or time spent together in the day. It's sharing time and warmth in that ethereal space of the midnight coma, mixed with the semi-conscious awareness of another close by. The silent presence of a dear one who is just keeping company with you in the long dark night.

Every once in while it all comes back.

Coffee Clarity

Morning.
The coffee hasn't kicked in.
Long night, with two girls kneeling over toilets, crying, waiting...
Tired.

Have you ever done something so very contradictory,
and realized it right in the moment of doing it?
Like sitting at the dinner table alone,
eating a big plate of cheese-covered, sour-creamed nachos
while reading your "Nutrition Action" newsletter?
This happened to me yesterday and I only paused a moment to reflect,
saying, "huh",
before I resumed my contradictory behavior.

Heath Ledger has passed away.
Why did I say, "oh that is so sad?"
It is sad, of course, but I suspect that I
said it because he was young and beautiful.
And famous.
I haven't paused enough in my life to consider
the many unfamous ones who pass through this life
under the radar,
undetected,
invisible.

Sometimes I am so scattered, shallow, distracted.
I jump from nachos to death too quickly.
Sometimes I think the weight of me is wanting.

I'd like my footsteps to leave a deeper mark.

Pooh Sticks

The creek was overflowing, flooding the woods on either side.

The children were watching television; neglected, bored, ornery and starting to fight.

I burst into the room.

"Get your coats on!"

Moans.

"Quick! Let's go play Pooh Sticks!"

They scrambled. None of them had a memory of that old Winnie the Pooh video we used to watch when they were toddlers. There was just something about my sudden urgency, and the name....Pooh Sticks!....they pulled on boots, mittens and followed me as I dashed out the door.

I ran down the slope of the front yard to the road and they all tumbled after me, calling, "What are we doing? What's Pooh Sticks? Wait!"

I got to the end of our driveway and a few more yards to the barriers on Kalamink Creek, and stopped.

"Oooh," they said. It was flowing fast. I jumped into the woods and broke off some dead twigs - five of them. Working so fast that they couldn't think of questions, I passed them out.

"This is Pooh Sticks," I said, leaning over the barrier, watching the water rush underneath the road, and holding out my stick.

"Oh!" they understood, lining up on either side of me and dangling their sticks over the edge.

"On the count of three, drop your Pooh Stick," is all I said.

One, two, three. Now!

Dropping my stick I dashed over to the other side of the road and leaned over the edge. They followed, stomping along in too-big boots, breathless from running and the cold. We waited silently, tensely, until a stick appeared.

"I won!" Someone yelled, and then,
"I'm second!"
"Third!"
"Where's mine?"
"Over there!"
"You're last!!!"
and then,
"Let's do it again!"

Oh, simple pleasures. Even the 15 year old trudged after us and dropped his stick in, and laughed, pleased to see it appear on the other side of the bridge.

Thanks, Pooh.

Very Kind

January 18th:
Touching Bass

The bass duo extraordinaire once known as "Like That" has come together with a new CD and is back in full force. This is culture, indeed, right smack in the heart of Jackson. Heather and Michael play an astoundingly tight show with bass trade-offs and harmonies that will keep you glued to their every song.

Kind words from the Nomad Bookhouse in Jackson -- they're a cool place to play - you sit in the front picture window (well, your back is to it), and play to people sitting around on couches, drinking coffee, studying, listening. The people are really kind and they talk with you and clap - and apparently their owner is VERY kind - I was laughing at this description because it's a little over-the-top. Also, I was like, "We have a CD?" Apparently, we do! ha!

P.S. Jumping back in with absolutely no reference to the scary experience of my last post -- I tried, but I couldn't capture the essence of it in words - ask me in person! I got through it!

Back Soon

My dear friends in Blogland,

I do love this little pretend place where we meet.
Each of us speaking at our own tempo,
in our own time.
Each of us with our own space.
Nobody interrupts here, isn't that just the best?

I've been feeling the guilty nag of not taking time to write,
and so I am solving that dilemma by sending this little missive.

I am eating, sleeping, drinking and breathing music right now,
and I will be for at least the remainder of the day, if not the week.
It's a crazy deal for me, and soon, whether succeeding or failing, I will
write of this terrifying adventure.

It's nice to know, that no matter what happens you will read, and feel,
and mourn or cheer, coming right along with me.

Thanks for being here.

Back soon.

Christmas Adam

Says the boy twin, "If the day before Christmas is Christmas Eve, then shouldn't the day after be...?"
And so, Christmas Adam is born.

Christmas has come and gone for another year.
We attended the Christmas Eve service at our home church, where (as mentioned in previous post) we wave red glow sticks at the end of the service during Silent Night.

The first time this happened, I was so glum I looked up an emergency late night Candelight Service at the Episcopal church and attended.
All by myself.
It was lovely. I slipped in the back door and sat in the back row.
During the Eucharist I stepped into the aisle and joined the solemn people up to the front. There were robes and candles and a wine filled goblet. A processional and a choir in the balcony. And real candles.

There's something so deliciously dangerous about fire in church.
The little kids tilt their candles until the wax pours down the sides,
and they point their fingers into the flame and pull it back and giggle
at each other while their parents sing above them, earnestly oblivious to their little pyrotechnic progeny below. I just love watching this.
I crunched across the dark parking lot afterwards,
shivering on the outside, but so warm on the In.

This year I decided to go to a nearby Catholic church. I was nervous especially because I was late, but there was another woman on the sidewalk outside the church, just about my age. I tried to look like I knew what I was doing until she said, "Do you know where the entrance is?" Here I thought I was the only one who dodged into strange churches in the dark on Christmas Eve.

I followed her in, but she disappeared quickly and I was left on a folding chair in the back. Suited me. I grabbed a prayer book and figured out the whole scheme in pretty good time. We bowed, we genuflected, we kneeled, we sang, we chanted. There was a "smoking bong" as the husband calls them, but it filled the church with a sort of...chokey kind of holy smell if that makes sense. A choir, a pipe organ. The place was packed. I liked it.

And now it is Christmas Adam, the Day After. I never feel depressed this day, I always feel so much as though it is the time for something new.

A new leaf, I guess.

Christmas Eve

Up at 5:30am.
No lights on except for the tree, and the village, and the outside Christmas lights.
I have stuff going through my head.

NPR report/interview about Sweeney Todd
Douglas Coupland's JPod
The order of Christmas present openings, to avoid clues that would spoil surprises.
Making a deal to buy each other one present only, which the husband has broken and I just now know about.
Solo on Footprints and new bassline for Stolen Moments.
Don't forget the low C at the end of the Schumann chorale.
What else am I forgetting?
When is it too late to remember?
Glowsticks at the candlelighting service and how much that just wrecks the whole thing for me.
The Big Present I am so excited about.
Fish and the Nutrition Action newsletter.
My children do not eat enough vegetables.
The refrigerator is disgusting. But it's low on my list.
Forgot to pay my Visa.
What else am I forgetting?
Sent about two Christmas cards and then got bored with it. How lame is that?
What else haven't I done?

Coffee buzz, ahhh.
It's morning and dark and quiet and I am alone for now.
Blank sheet of paper.
Making a list for the day.

Some Things Stay The Same

This morning I am up really early, before anyone else, with just the Christmas tree lights on (oh and the soft glow of the computer monitor...), and my cup of fresh coffee, with vanilla spiced rum creamer in it. Yummy.

I love mornings like this - outside there is most definitely a beautiful "blanket" of snow, and it is sooo quiet and dark. It's a day to stay home, wrapped in a quilt, watching "The Bells of Saint Mary" or maybe "Holiday Inn". Something black and white for sure.

But, we have the Children's Christmas Program to attend this morning, with an angel and a shepherd who have "pieces" just like in the olden days when we were young. They line up next to the microphone and either crane up or stand stooped with neck hanging down, because that microphone remains at one unvarying height, and nobody thinks to adjust it until they get to the children who are nearly in junior high and are desperately wishing that the whole thing would be over with so they could get down to the punch and cookies in the Fellowship Hall....and so one particularly dear, but tall girl begins her piece and at that moment the Director lady decides to make her move, adjusting the mic stand with the girl hovering over the top...everyone is sure she will get a bloody lip when it is finally jolted out of its place into a new height.

My angel likes to stand in the back when they all crowd to the front of the platform to sing, "Away In A Manger". I can usually only see the top of her head. My shepherd places himself prominently in the front, singing loud and clear, just happy as a clam to be able to have a good view of the congregation.

Speaking of "Away In A Manger", this year they are performing it in a key that is way too low for the children. The sound sort of disappears at the ends of the phrases. Then the Director lady, who doesn't understand music, approaches from the side and gives them the urgent direction to "Sing Louder!" and they all notch it up about a fourth...taking them into an entirely new key. The guitarist can't adjust and just continues to strum with a pained expression on his face.

Ah, some things are so beautifully predictable. I sit in the back row, with my knees hugged up to my chin, and I just grin and grin.

Peace!

The Ends Of Things

I use up the ends of things.
Like toothpaste. When it gets difficult to squeeze out,
someone opens a new tube.
I use that old tube, squeezing out every last drop.
That old, flattened toothpaste tube becomes my very own
personal paste because nobody else will wrestle with it.
I use it until the new tube gets flat.

Same with slivers of soap.
Same with an inch of morning orange juice left in the cup.
Same with pizza crusts.

I'm like this big hungry Hoover that roams the house using up
all the Restuvit.

"Here, Mom, you can have the restuvit," they say.

The husband has been living in Detroit for nearly two months, training
for his new job. He's back for good now, and he brought with
him all these tiny little shampoos from the hotel.

What's cool about them, is that they are brand new.
I am the very first one to use them, and I am the very last one to use them also.
It's like I have this very satisfying, full and complete relationship
with a product in my home.

Together from beginning to end.

Good Mom Award

And the winner is....ME!

This morning I walked back into the house after dropping off the children at school. This morning everything was sane, we were five minutes early and nobody forgot to wear their shoes. (This has happened - I have to look in the back seat to be sure that they are completely clothed). I was about to do the "ahhhh" thing, when my cell phone buzzed.

I had missed a phone call from the middle child, who had forgotten to have me sign her weekly progress reports, which is a big deal because every month, if you remember every single week, and you never miss a homework assignment, then you get to go to the "Breakfast Club", which means coming in early to school and eating pancakes with the teacher. Like I said, a big deal.

At the end of her message, it was very forlorn. Her voice shook just a little bit, because of course 6th graders don't cry at school over missing out on the Breakfast Club...

"Well, it's almost 8 o'clock, so you probably won't get this message in time, so, well, goodbye."

All of my senses were suddenly alerted - my eyes darted to the oven clock - it was 7:56. She was right, I was probably too late. I stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen for a second to calculate the odds of actually pulling off this manuever. I decided to go for it.

The next few minutes held a series of rapidly unfolding dilemmas and instant decisions...adrenaline was surging through my system. It felt like my morning coffee had suddenly kicked in and I solved every problem with a startling clarity of mind.

Shoes?
no shoes, I see clogs.
child's clogs, don't fit?
just slip them on.
will the bright green color
horrify the 6th grader?
I think because they're Crocs it's okay.
Should I call the teacher to alert her?
dial while driving.
number?
re-dial.
Rats! Orthodontist.
Try again.
Voice mail.
Leave a message with the teacher?
Practically there, hang up.
Parking space too small?
You can do it.
Lock the car?
No time.
Pen? She won't have one.
Got it.

I slip-skidded into the hallway, and rounded the corner.
The Crocs were only covering the front half of my feet,
but I managed a shuffling half-run down toward her classroom.
The bell rang but there were still so many kids in the hallway.
I craned my neck and spotted her. My coat was flying behind me
and I was dodging Volunteer People. I waved madly to get her
attention and she looked up, surprised. And she grinned.

Oh she grinned so big.

Breathless I slid up to her while she pulled out the papers.
I signed with abandon. Wherever she pointed her finger.
I didn't look at the grades, I just slapped my name on everything.

"Thanks Mom!"
She really meant it,
because she saw the tiny Crocs, the pen, the clock...

Sometimes there are no rewards, but you know,
sometimes there are.

Grinch

You're a foul one, Mr. Grinch.
You're a nasty, wasty skunk.
Your heart is full of unwashed socks
Your soul is full of gunk.
Mr. Grinch.


The three words that best describe you,
are, and I quote: "Stink. Stank. Stunk."

Ah, it's Christmas-time.

The tree is up and decorated.
The stockings are all hung.
There is a smattering of packages under the tree.

Christmas is love and warmth and family.
Peace and Joy to all the earth.

Then why do I wake up in the middle of the night,
heart racing,
mind reeling,
panicked,
unpeaced,
joyless,
grouchy?

It's these kids, you know.
They have those shining eyes.
They believe in magic, in Santa,
and still in my infallibility.

They dance around these mornings
like little elves with their weird skinny legs
and rooster tails of hair sticking up...
poking those packages under the tree,
giggling and smiling with eyes
glancing sideways at me.
Giving me this knowing look that says,
"We know what you've got in store for us,
Mom. We know you have something special planned."

That's just it.
Nothing planned.
Only about half the gifts purchased.
Nails bitten down to the nibs.
Time running out.

It's like this every year.
Husband working long hours,
extended family pulling for gift ideas
and Time Spent Together,
gift exchanges at school,
Christmas program at church,
television commercials with moms
baking cookies...

And now I'm sitting here trying to
pull this post together with a positive
twist at the end. An "and yet Christmas
still seeps into my soul" sort of ending.

I know it will happen, because somehow
it does every year.
But for now, can you let me wallow in a little
bit of Christmas un-cheer? A little bit of
selfish yammering about having way too much to
do, to buy, to give?

Oh my.

Sometimes I am stunned by the breadth of
my own selfishness and ingratitude for all
that I have.

You're a rotter, Mr. Grinch.
You're the king of sinful sots.
Your heart's a dead tomato splot
With moldy purple spots,
Mr. Grinch.