Slang

Okay so we have a new expression.
This is my serious attempt to get the following saying into circulation.
Go and spread the word:

"My itch is gettin' wiggy."

It happened tonight at the husband's store where a big Halloween kick-off event was going on...I took the children to see it all decked out, and before long they were donning costumes and walking around with buckets of candy to offer to customers.

So middle child walks up to me wearing a huge Hannah Montana hairdo that is going askew, and she says it:

"My itch is gettin' wiggy."

We looked at each other and burst out laughing. The teenager overheard and says in his newly deep voice, "My itch is definitely gettin' wiggy." He passes it on to boy twin who doubles over in laughter...

Later in the car we discuss the actual definition of this new, fine phrase and everybody takes turns trying it out aloud. It feels really good to say and it definitely describes a feeling of inner itch, whether you're wearing a wig or not.

You can say it when you've just had enough and you're ready to go home. You can say it when there's a tag bothering you and you just have to change clothes.
You can say it when your patience is wearing dangerously thin.
You can say it when you've abruptly changed your mind and the only reason you have is that niggling feeling inside that something isn't quite right.

My itch is gettin' wiggy I gotta go to bed.

Peace!

Uncrustables, Way Cheaper

Use soft bread, put peanut butter and jelly in the center.

Use a glass to cut a circle out of the center of the bread



Pinch edges closed.

Place in sandwich baggie. Store all sandwiches in a large baggie in the freezer.
When the children need a snack or make their own cold lunch, they just pull one out!
peace.

The Road

by Cormac McCarthy.

This is one of those books that stays with you.
It comes creeping up into your consciousness at odd moments,
your heart sinks and you look around yourself in solemn thanksgiving
for all that you have.

I love books and I have to admit that I enjoy "escaping" into them...
forgetting about things for awhile to live in a different world.

But this one I had to read with one foot planted solidly in the here and now,
because it was too frightening, too hopeless, and too real.

**Addendum to this post: This is not a book recommendation.
Proceed with caution my friends.

Pollen

At Christmastime, when they bring the pine tree into the house, my eyes start to itch. Actually, not my eyes themselves, but the skin around them. It's a mild allergy, and doesn't cause me too much trouble overall.

But a couple of times this summer, my itchy eyes have flared up. This time, it sort of drives me crazy - it's much worse. I've tried all kinds of concoctions to soothe it, but nothing helps, and then it disappears again mysteriously. Nobody in the family can figure out what is triggering this reaction.

Which brings me to my revelation.

Yesterday I decided that the overgrown cherry tomato plants on the side of the house might be to the point where somebody should do something about them. I took a pair of kitchen shears and began furiously trimming away excess foliage. I attacked those plants like a mad scientist and worked until after dark, clipping and tossing with no regard for my own personal safety.

And then the itching started.

I came inside and studied my eyes in the mirror.
Suddenly, an incredible sense of well-being swept over me.
Through no fault of my own, but according to the wishes of Mother Nature herself,

I am allergic to gardening.

Glory, Hallelujah

He Is So In Trouble

So I go into the library today to pick up a book I had on hold. (Has anyone read Cormac McCarthy's The Road? Anyone? Anyone?)

Anyway, if there's one thing that you don't want to see when you go to the library, it is the librarian gasping when she looks at the computer screen that shows your record.

Now in the next paragraph I am going to use the word, "literally" in the correct way. I'm just preparing you not to be suspicious.

The librarian asked me if I'd like to also pick up my eldest child's books and I said, "Sure." Then she pulled up his library record, and her eyes bulged and she literally gasped.

She started blinking rapidly and moved away from the desk to confer with another librarian, and then seemed to think better of it and wheeled her chair back up and I just knew this was not going to be good news.

Four
hundred
thirty-
three
dollars

I, however, could not seem to blink at all.

I am really learning this trick of not displaying my emotions to every person who comes along to whom I owe hundreds of dollars. It takes practice but I seem to be getting good at it.

I said this, after the vein in my forehead stopped throbbing visibly:

"I'll bet you're not going to give me his books, huh."

She just looked embarrassed for me.

I left the library quickly and now I am waiting quietly here, just thinking about what is going to happen when this child arrives home from driver's ed in a few moments.
.
.
.
And he didn't wear his retainer today.
He is SO in trouble.

Mumma Jubba

This is no lie, today I ate:

Numerous Peanut Butter Cremes
Half a box of Whoppers.
Two Cherry Twizzlers (Peel Off version) that tasted like plastic but I ate them anyway for the sugar content.
A bag of microwave popcorn.
A Smuckers Uncrustable that was not quite thawed. (I couldn't wait)
Two large wedges of Spinach Quiche.
Again with the Peanut Butter Cremes.
3 or 4, okay 4 pieces of pizza.
The rest of the Cherry Tomato salad (I just ate it out of the serving bowl).
and an orange.

Game On

Oh yeah.
Oh yeah.
Oh yeah.

I just baked a loaf of bread.

Oh yeah. (insert hip shimmy)

My mother has devoted her life to the kitchen, to the family, to cleanliness, to God.
My mother bakes pies and vacuums the carpet in a cross-hatched pattern.
My mother changes sheets even when nobody has slept in the bed because after a while she thinks they don't smell as nice anymore.

I bow in deference to her unattainable virtues.
The husband daydreams about her coming to live with us.

Get it?

One day I said something about her homemade bread and how awesome it was.
She looked at me askance, as if thinking to herself.
Then she threw down her dishtowel and crooked her finger,
"Come with me."

I followed her down into the basement to the 2nd freezer, the one that can pop back open if you don't jam your shoulder up against the door and hold it closed for a second before gingerly letting go.

She opened up that freezer with an arm flourish.
She stared at me, daring me to say something, her hand reaching inside while her eyes stayed locked with mine.
I was rooted to the spot as she drew out the bag and held it in my face.

Frozen bread loaves. I gasped.

Then she got this wild look in her eye, raised the bag over her head and threw it down to the cement at her feet.
I jumped aside - my eyebrows were ceiling level.

Suddenly she became her old self again.
Sweet, soft-spoken. I think she giggled.
She picked up the loaves and told me that sometimes they stick together in the freezer and that's the best way to get 'em apart.

I leaned hard against the freezer and watched her sashay up those steps,
her secret divulged, a devilish smile on her face.

I have been in awe of her since.

Fresh bread toniiiight.
100 percent whole graiiiin.
I let it riiiise.
I greased a paaaan.

Oh yeah.
Oh yeah.

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!