Moves Like Jagger

I had the privilege tonight to go on a DJ job with my husband; I do this from time to time. I particularly enjoy proms, because I like the pretty dresses, but I'm not really invited to those anymore because I scold the kids too much for bad language and other inappropriate things. I figured I'd like this event tonight; the age group was late 30's to 40's. Good fun. And oh, was it ever.
The dancing was raucous. I began documenting each "move" in my head...knowing I'd need to immediately share them with you. So, I will.

But one thing, first.

I'm not trying to imply, by any stretch of the imagination, that I'm a good dancer. I know I'm not, which is why I don't really do it in public. I'm also not here to imply that 30-40 something people shouldn't have a good time. I love having a good time. I'm just saying that my good time this evening came from observing them. And finally, perhaps you'll find yourself in one of my descriptions, and you'll get a little laugh. Remember, the more you drink, the less you care, and the more interesting you become to people like me, a blogger. Now then....

1. Finger dancing: These folks like to point at you when they dance, usually while attempting, unsuccessfully, at singing along with the song lyrics. When there are musical interludes, they will often point to the sky, and vigorously "jab" at the air around them.

2. Caboose on the loose: So you think you've gotta back it up. These dancers (and ladies, I'm sorry, it's usually you)will poke out their rear ends, regardless of size, shape, or adequate pant-coverage, and move it to the beat. They seem to believe they have an attachment to their natural rear end; it is suddenly deserving of its own territory, and can, seemingly on its own, bump other rear ends on the dance floor in a friendly "hello" type gesture. Amazingly, the gesture is well-received. Sir-Mix-A-Lot songs will trigger this every time.

3. Mom By Day, Rapper By Night: Okay. This is controversial. Ladies, if you want to rap, then rap. But, if you find that you only rap on a dance floor, after a few drinks, then it's probably not your calling. Furthermore, when you do it loudly in another dancer's face and he/she is doing it back at you, you should know that it appears hostile and frightening to sober people, and we might worry that you're actually "Bamboozlin' and smackin' suckers", except for the fact that you're not getting the words right. So, you know a little Salt 'n Pepa. You go, girl. Note: the Mom By Day, Rapper By Night is typically worsened by Finger Dancing. See above.

4. The Workout Dance: So you skipped the gym today. Or this year. And you've decided that tonight is the night you're going to burn those calories. Workout dancers like to remain in a squat position for the majority of the time, often with hands on their knees. You can tell it hurts; they sweat a lot. Nostrils flare...this is a nice touch. Sometimes, they'll clap once or twice; it keeps them motivated. If you're not sure you've seen this dance, or worried you might fit the description, wait until the next time you're at a party and the DJ plays "It Takes Two" by Rob Base and DJ E-Z Rock. Or just Google it right now. You'll know.

5. The Chicken: Okay, guys. This is usually you. This is a signature move, involving arms, neck, and feet. The feet do a chicken "scratching" thing, sort of kicking at imaginary dust behind the body. The neck works to pulse the chin forward and backward...in a pecking motion. The arms fold at the elbow and the hands, usually in fists, rest near the chest. Elbows tend to bounce in and out, as if trying to flap into flight. A similar version is the T-Rex; the arms stay firmly positioned without "flapping." It's easy to modify the dance from The Chicken to The T-Rex. Good, versatile option.

Finally (although I could go on)...

6. The Big Boy: This seems to be another guy-move. This apparently occurs when the upper body is too muscular (or you believe it to be that way) to move. The shoulders clench up near the ears, and when the music gets very exciting, the legs propel the body into jumping, repeatedly. Sometimes the arms flail around while the jumping commences; sometimes they go into a T-Rex. Either way, you are epic in size, and everyone knows it.

I should note, in closing, that all of the participants who unknowingly contributed to my dance descriptions were having a wonderful time and will forever remain anonymous.

addictions

I have an addiction to whiling away hours of my time, reading other peoples' blogs. I guess that makes me a good "blog supporter." Or a really good time-waster.

I'm addicted to cheese and chocolate. Hence the other addiction to entering the Points for everything I eat into a daily log on Weight Watchers. Do not misunderstand: I don't even like Weight Watchers to be a part of my life. Simply put, if it was not, I would be 400 pounds because I don't have that nifty little thing in my stomach that tells my brain when I'm satisfied. Sigh, sigh, sigh.

And bread. Add bread to that addiction I mentioned above.

I'm addicted to certain seasonal television. I watch The Bachelor and Big Brother, every time the shows air. I have no shame. I don't even try to hide it anymore.

I'm addicted to lia sophia jewelry, buying shoes, and good lipstick. They are three things that make me feel good n' sassy.

I'm obviously addicted to using the word 'addicted'. Which I've just now decided could be easily interchanged with "obsessed."

I'm addicted/obsessed with procrastination. I'm multitasking between writing a blog, looking at emails and checking out recipes online. Has anyone else noticed that hardly anyone says "online" anymore? Or "on the internet?" It's just assumed that everything is on the internet. I remember when it was a big deal.

I might browse the DSW website in a minute. Anything to prolong the time before I have to continue working on a 20 page paper.
I'm addicted to anxiety, apparently, as the deadline is fast-approaching.

An Exercise in Third Person

"What are you doing?" she asks the little one in the backseat.

"Driving the van," he claims, his hands balled into fists circling the imaginary steering wheel, "what are YOU doing?"

"Trying to figure out where I misplaced my eighteen-year-old thighs..." she mutters, popping another onion ring into her mouth, "but these aren't helping."

The little one bursts into laughter and says, through the forced giggles, "I have no idea what you mean."

The mini-Socrates, a.k.a. the older one in the backseat says "I know exactly what she means. She wishes she was younger. But Mom," he continues, "did you have us when you were eighteen? Because I don't think you did. And that's why you don't have your eighteen-year-old body anymore, too."

She agrees with him and slurps another drink of Diet Pepsi. The older one looks pensive. "This music," he says, shaking his head with distaste.

She glances at the display on the dash; the words "heart, heart" thump from the speakers, and she tries to think of the word that describes the figure of speech Ingrid Michaelson used with the lyrics of this song, called Ghost. She looks up at him in the rear view mirror as he continues, "This stuff is all weird. All lovey, but all sad, sort of. Are you sad or do you just like the music? Are you in love? That's gross. Does this make you think of your grandma? Or when my dad left you?"

She gulps and fumbles for another onion ring. Onomatopoeia? That might be it. This kid knows too much.

"I just like it," she says, "I'm not really sad."

"Lots of things have happened in your life, I guess," the older one says.

"And I have you guys, now, which is the best thing," she says with a wicked grin.

The older one presses his lips together so they disappear, and gives one quick nod of his head before he slips on his headphones and fixes his gaze out the window.

The little one returns to hysterical laughter, as if he knows something else. He clicks his invisible turn signal. "You could play that song that goes 'Boom Boom'!" There, that's onomatopoeia.

She smiles to herself and shifts deeper into her seat, concentrating her eyes on the country road that stretches in front of her.

The Voice

I've reached a point in life that makes me question my own sanity. A little. Okay, not much, really.
I've thought long and hard, and for many years, about the voice of God. Some people claim they can hear Him speaking to them. Moses clearly heard him. My Sunday school kids decided they had never actually heard the voice. And I had to agree...while there were several times in life I felt compelled by his will, I hadn't really ever heard Him speak to me.

Till recently.

I don't really know when it started. I think there were a few occasions when I asked God a question in my head, silently, and immediately a response, not in my own voice, came back to me. Then it became kind of....conversational. I would say something, mentally, and then a response would come. At first I thought I was crazy, and just answering my own questions and responding to my own statements. Then I realized I just wasn't. I can't tell you how I know it isn't just that, me talking to myself, but I just know it isn't.

So, I've started to pray differently. More frequently. More conversationally. Weird things began to happen.
For instance, not long ago, I was in a car wreck. A snow plow demolished the front of my van. I knew, ahead of time, that it was coming. I said it, this time out loud, as I drove. "God this snow plow driver doesn't see me!"
I know. It's going to be okay. You're going to be okay."
As I opened my door and realized my legs could support me, my arms could move, and no blood was dripping off me, I knew He had assured me of this. I was okay. But it was more than his assurance. I heard Him.


A few weeks later, we were having a typical Sunday night at our house. Sunday nights are brutal; it's as if the two days off from school was a year. No one knows where their hat or backpack is, or what they want for lunch. The oldest kid remembers, "oh yeahhhh..." that I am supposed to call parents to ask for volunteers for the upcoming Valentine party. The youngest simply doesn't want to go to school, and therefore, will not take a bath. Somehow, it equates, in his mind.

Frustrated, I head downstairs to feed the bunnies. I give them each a generous handful of hay, and watch as they attack it hungrily. Then something happens. Marley, the little girl in the middle, must have swallowed a piece whole. She begins choking. Gasping for air. Green stuff is oozing from her nose and I am freaking out. I try to open her mouth to see if I can dislodge something, but it's impossible for me to accomplish. She's fighting me, and fighting to breathe. I am shaking and panicking, and I run upstairs to tell my husband the bunny is choking and I can't do it. I really can't. I have this animal...thing. I love them, too much, and I can't see them in any sort of compromised state. I curse myself for even having pets; I am a nutcase when it comes to any sort of illness or injury for any of them.

My husband goes downstairs and stays down there for a long time. I am convinced she is dying, or dead. I am googling "rabbits choking" and getting all sorts of gruesome diagnoses. Death. Painful death.
There's a bunny heimlich option, but it's a long shot, and it's dangerous in itself.
In another half hour or so, Randy comes upstairs, presumably to give me the bad news.

"She's just sitting here, now, on the carpet. She hopped around a little and she's a little shaken up, but I think she's okay."

I race down the stairs, scooping Marley into my arms. She is panicked and seems weaker, but she is breathing a little better. I'm still worried she won't make it through the night. Rabbits are ridiculously delicate creatures.

The next morning, she is sitting up in her cage. She sniffs and eats a tiny piece of her banana, offered from my hand. She is timid, and she hasn't had any water or pellets all night. I let her out to wander the family room, which she does, but not as enthusiastically as she usually does. I tell myself she is still just weak and uncertain. Maybe her throat hurts. Maybe her stomach hurts. That night, she still hasn't eaten and I pick her up, cuddling her to my chest. She sniffs me curiously, but then lays her head down, defeated. I cup my hand over her tiny back and become angry. She was such a fun, adorable little bunny, just yesterday!
"God, help her! She is one of your creatures. Why won't you help her, she's scared. I know she's an animal. I know you have more important things to work on, but I am sooo bad at this. Please just help her."

Some creatures are stubborn about healing.

That's the response I got. Stubborn about healing?
I laid in bed, after putting Marley back in her cage. Again, I figured she'd be dead in the morning. I began my usual kind of prayer, not really starting with "Dear God," or anything formal:
People are stubborn about healing, God, you're right. People want it their way. They want control. They want sympathy. They want everyone else to be miserable. They want all sorts of different things, I guess. Sometimes, I don't even know that they want to get better. Could that be? I should say 'we'. I'm people, too. But animals? How do they even know to be stubborn?"

The response, clear as day:

"People need to want to be healed. People need to seek healing. Animals? They never want to feel bad. But they usually don't want your help, either. It's not natural. They don't understand the conflict."

This morning, I had my husband do the initial "bunny check." I can't go down and find her dead. I did that once, when I was about six years old...found our dog dead, in the garage. It stays with ya.

"She's eating hay, and sitting up." Awestruck, I filled the colander with fresh greens and banana slices, determined to see her eat. She nibbled a few bites of mustard greens and then ate most of her banana slice. It's her favorite. I felt a little better. Then she hopped 180 degrees and turned her back to me. Creatures are stubborn about their healing. Normally, I'd force her to turn around and try to get some more nourishment in her. Instead, I laid the rest of the greens on the cage floor, freshened her water and made sure she had some pellets, just in case.

"I'm willing to wait this out with you, Marley, if you're willing to try."

As I go through this day, I still don't know that she's going to make it. She looks better, but I know rabbits tend to look better than they are. It's a defense mechanism for prey animals. Being stubborn is sort of a defense mechanism for humans, I suppose.
Somehow, though, I have to realize it's just not up to me.

It's going to be okay. No matter what.

Annoyance, Bliss, and Carts.

I have developed a love-hate relationship with grocery shopping. "You've posted about the grocery store before!" you might say.
You're right. I have nothing else to do in my tiny little life but tell you about my frequent trips to the supermarket.
And when I say frequent, I mean that I go at least three times a week. I'm one of those people.
First of all, I'm on Weight Watchers. It is yet another ill-fated attempt to drop poundage so that I might look like my eighteen-year-old self in a pair of shorts this summer. If I'm lucky, the shorts won't have a name like "crops" which mean, they skim just below the knee, a.k.a. culottes. I...hated...culottes as a child. Loathed them. Was made fun of because of them. My mother insisted on them though, in addition to "pedal pushers." Dear Lord, pedal pushers?
My goal is to wear a pair of shorts with the inseam measurement noted in the description. Preferably 5". Not 3". I'm not that crazy, and no amount of Weight Watchers will get rid of the road map that has become my thigh region.

Per usual, I have regressed. The reason I've mentioned the Weight Watchers is that it has spawned a new shopping obsession based on the Points Plus system. I must know the point value in my purchase. Say that five times fast. I drag along my Kindle (because I'm hip and fancy) and plug in fat, carbohydrates, protein and fiber. Or FCPF, as we cool people like to use our acronyms.

Yes, the calorie deprivation is altering my sanity even more. Keep reading.

Usually, I'm okay when it comes to regular food. Vegetables, fruit, meat, etc., I can handle. It's just that I grew up understanding that a prerequisite to bedtime was a snack, and that hasn't changed. Not in thirty years. I still need a bedtime snack. For a while I was hooked on a bowl of cereal, until Oprah said something ghastly about eating cereal before bed, (I can't remember what it was) and now I don't do that anymore. Well, usually I don't. Desserts have become a problem for me. I like desserts the way they are supposed to be: ooey, gooey, flaky, sweet and chock-full of calories. This business of replacing butter and oil with things like applesauce or pumpkin is really for the birds. Come on, you know it is.
But I try to convince myself I like it.
I like lying to myself, apparently. Again, it's the overall calorie deprivation.
So I meander through my favorite supermarket, which is kind of like Cheers, because everybody knows my name, and I look for alternatives and substitutes to my favorite desserts without sacrifice, which is really just laughable.
I become annoyed with aimless shoppers. They are clearly not with me on my mission. Husbands and wives are the worst.
"Did you get coffee last time?" (I'm already annoyed; I get coffee every time. Is this a real question?)
"I don't remember. I liked what we had, though."
"Should I get Michigan Cherry or Hazelnut?"
"Do we need dog food?"
"Did you hear what little Jack said to me this morning?" (Huh? Focus on the coffee. Or move, because I'm trying to plug in the FCPF on that Swiss Miss you're hovering over).

I am mended, immediately, as Greg Laswell's voice croons over the stereo system. It's just for me, I am convinced. I am blissfully aware of the energy I put into my mission here at the store, and Greg has reminded me. You never know, I could run into him this summer, in my 5" inseam shorts. Plug in those numbers, sister!

Calorie. Deprivation.

Thinking of Greg Laswell's deep brown eyes reminds me of chocolate chips and how I miss my love affair with Tollhouse cookies. How big of a sin would those be, on Weight Watchers. Might as well cruise the baking aisle to see the point-reality.

I settle on a box of something called Skinny Cow, picturing a heifer with an unnaturally whittled middle grinning seductively as if these treats, lacking in caloric bliss, will make me do the same. I doubt it.
And I don't know that she's a heifer. I just like the word.

As I battle check-out, my least favorite part, because twice now someone has attempted to slash my achilles tendon with their cart, I make a mental note to buy a pedometer next time.
All this searching has got to be earning me Activity Points. AP.

Wildly Inappropriate

I remember gazing into his big, dark blue eyes in the hospital bed, and thinking wow, how did I get so lucky?! And weeks later, cuddling up to the cutest duckie pajama-clad bundle as he cooed and kicked happily, thinking he was the most perfect, joyful little gift I could ever receive.

At around two, he would be engrossed in play, but he would frequently drop everything and run to me...well, charge at me like a bull, to fiercely grab my leg and squeeze me into a hug. Those tiny "I love you, Mommy"s are priceless, aren't they?

At three, we got a taste of his personality, destined for mischief. He found a bottle of baby powder, and not only redecorated the bedroom with its contents, but also covered every inch of himself, save for those blue eyes. "I stink!" he proclaimed, reeking in this exorbitant amount of newborn baby-smelling stuff, similar to an old woman bathed in Jean Nate'.

At five, he demanded we remove his training wheels. The air of cool confidence in his voice, and unwavering certainty when we told him, "once they are off, they aren't going back on" made me smile. He knew he would do it, and his determination proved him right. He rode on two wheels that very day, and now does it at lighting-speed, God help me.

Although I'm sure I read, back in my days of baby name books, that Isaac means "laughter," it is impossible, as a mother, to know if a name will really fit until your child is a little older. You pick out a name, and you hope it works. Ultimately, it's the name you like best, after several disagreements with your spouse, ruling out things like "Finn, Phoenix, and Calvin." Or at least that's what happened in my case.

Isaac means "laughter." Ain't that the truth?

I can't count the number of times this kid has had me in stitches, with either his wild antics or his tall tales. The dinner table, though, is perhaps my favorite locale for silliness. We have, by no means, a serious dinner. The concept that children should be "seen and not heard" does not apply in this house. Despite my efforts to serve gourmet meals on the lovely china, with well-groomed children using impeccable manners, it...well, it just hasn't happened yet. We aren't raucous or gross, either, mind you. We just have humorous mealtimes, usually spurred by Isaac saying, "today, you know what happened?"

"Mommy, today...you know what happened at school? The gym teacher told us to bounce basketballs against the wall and catch them. It was fun. Until it bounced at me and hit me in the nuts. It hurt soooo much. I couldn't talk in my regular voice."

Me (stifling a grin and trying to look concerned): "What exactly are your nuts?"

"You know, those things, on my crouch."

"Oh....yes, your crouch. I don't have those, then. Nuts."

"Yes, you do, Mommy. The girls at school said they do."

Gabe is laughing wildly at this point, as he apparently calls his "biscuits."

"Eat your dinner," I say, "and you go to school with some very interesting girls."

The boys continue giggling between bites, and Ella chimes in the best way she knows how, turning to Isaac and shrieking "Pull my finger!"

So, anyway, I guess I named him appropriately, even if he is, often, wildly inappropriate. He doesn't realize it's inappropriate. He was speaking earnestly, of a traumatic event during gym class!

He makes us laugh, and that's for sure. He's very smart, clever, and imaginative to go along with it, so there's great potential for his future.

But stand-up will always be an option, I suppose, if nothing else pans out.

Fillin' that heart

This will be brief and it won't hurt a bit. My kids were talking about the North Star yesterday, and asking if it was called "The North Star" because it's at the North Pole, with Santa. It is, in fact.

It's also called Polaris, or Ursae Minoris. Also, as I explained to the kiddos, it was the called the Star of Bethlehem - it led those three very wise men, also called the Magi, to baby Jesus.

By then they were bored with me. Very bored, and not at all amused with all of my information.

So they asked me a question I didn't know. But Google did. How far away is the North Star?

According to Google, it's about 430 lightyears from Earth. In a car going 100 miles per hour that never stops, it would take you about 3 thousand million years to travel that distance. Wow. I hardly even like to drive down to the store.

Satisfied, my kids went away.

And I started thinking. If the Magi just trusted that star enough to follow it to Jesus, why shouldn't it be our quest to follow it too? And then I remembered, the darn thing is 3 thousand million years away.

But there is a simpler fix, thankfully.

Just invite Jesus to live in your heart. He will come right away, because He can travel much faster than the speed of light.

And He promises to stay forever.

Fragile

Every Christmas, we watch "A Christmas Story" with "Ralphie" and "Randy." If I get my way, we watch it about 18 times. Hey, you don't earn the right to quote the movie year 'round until you've seen it 372 times.

Anyway.

There's a part in the movie when the father receives, via delivery truck, a large wooden box marked "Fragile." We all know it's the infamous leg-lamp...but I still feel that pang of anticipation for him each time he runs his hand over the word, proclaiming, "Must be Italian...."
And then, as the story goes, that fragile leg breaks into a dozen pieces when Mother is cleaning one day, proving its delicate state and crushing Father's dreams of being a "major-award" winner along with it.

Such is life. Literally.

I've learned that as I get older, I also get more emotional. Maybe 10 years ago, if you would've told me there was a disastrous earthquake that decimated a region of the world, I would have had sympathy, and I might have acknowledged it to be horrific, but my life would have remained the same. I would certainly not have taken any time out of my day to thank God for my safety, nor would I have asked Him to comfort those grieving.

Now, I see a house fire on the news, and I'm reduced to weeping. And praying. Prayers of comfort and peace for those who are homeless. Prayers of thanksgiving for the safety and health of my family. Funny how things have changed.

I suppose it is just that I've realized that little things can alter the course of one's life. Even little things are big things, sometimes. We are all indirectly affected by not only the things that happen in our own life, but also by the things that happen in others' lives. It is foolish to think that we have not, ourselves, made decisions that have changed someone's life. Have you ever fired someone? Broken a heart? Paid for someone's groceries? Sent an encouraging note? Have you ever bullied?

Life is fragile. Italian or not.

And it's ever-changing. The things that are a big deal today, won't be, in a year. Maybe even in a week. But the things we say or do can have more impact than we could ever imagine. I started writing this blog about two years ago, thinking I might bring a smile to someone's face. I've never written it with the intent to have hundreds of followers; I don't care about that. If I make one person's day a little bit more bearable, I've succeeded. I've altered the course of their day in a positive direction.

Virginia O'Hanlon wrote to The Sun back in 1897 to ask if Santa Claus is real. The Sun not only said "it was so," but that "the most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see." Think about it, next time you look at the fragility of life, and words, and actions. Think about your own contribution, and then think about the way your contribution will affect others for years to come.

Make sure it's a good one.

Christ-mas

I saw a sign today that said "Beware of Christmas celebrations that remove Christ."
Isaac said, "If you remove Christ, you just have mas. What's 'mas'?"

I thought about it for a second: I'm not really good at word origins, in fact, I was perfectly content with everything being a derivative of the Greek language, a la "My Big Fat Greek Wedding."

I did take Spanish class, however, and back then, I learned that 'mas' means 'more.'

And that's exactly right. If you remove Christ, you just have more. More greed, more stuff, more emptiness. More hype, more stress, more people who say I can't wait for the holidays to be over. More depression.

Less of what matters.

Many argue the tradition of celebrating Christmas on December 25; many argue celebrating what has been called a Pagan holiday, altogether. The point is, it's a time to celebrate the greatest gift of our entire existence, and how one tiny little life could blossom into a perfect man, who would wipe away the sins of the world with His incredible sacrifice. And that's the only point. The rest is just gravy.

When I was a kid, I had mile-long Christmas lists, too. I wanted lots of stuff. My kids have those same lists, minus the requests for legwarmers, Fad makeup and the game Girl Talk. I waited for Christmas cookies, parties and the sound of sleigh bells. We didn't have Norad to track Santa, but the weather man on the news would often show super cool "spottings" of the sleigh on the radar. I still wish it was like that; Santa was much more mysterious then.

Anyway, I have had really odd feelings about Christmas this year. Somewhere between anxious and depressed. I feel like it's happening too fast, and it's too routine. I feel like this giant to-do list cloud is hovering, and there has been no peaceful enjoyment of the true meaning of the holiday. Bake this, wrap that, be at so 'n' so's house at 7:00. Fix the lights, plan the meal, clean the house, check to see if Amazon has a better price...more, more, more.

So I'm stopping. Right now. The stress part, I mean. Christmas is coming, ready or not. More importantly, Christ is coming, ready or not. So I'm gonna take His word for it, and cast my worries on Him, instead of trying to make everything perfect for the Super-Holiday this has become. My kids will get over it. They aren't getting mountains of gifts that cost me well into next spring. We talked last night about the gifts of the Magi...and the fact that there were only three. My boys were appalled. We agreed on four gifts each, an idea I saw on Pinterest: Something they want, something they need, something to wear and something to read. I told them to count themselves lucky; it's one more gift than Jesus got.

I'm hoping that we can put more Christ back into Christmas this year; that's my goal.

An unrelated goal, now that I've mentioned it, though: does anyone have a Girl Talk game anymore? My mother always said it was "too-old" for me. I'd like to see if I'm mature enough to play it now. That, and I always thought those fake red zits looked like fun. Anyway, I regress.

Go to church, friends. Learn what this whole thing is all about, and get ready. While we might be able to track Santa with Norad, we sure can't track Jesus, and He's going to show up one of these days, whether the house is decorated or not.

Thanks

I sit here, sweating. Tired. Exhausted, really. And covered in glitter and blood. Not my blood; Gabe's blood.
After a long, trying day, a not-the-greatest dinner (Buittoni tortellini didn't turn out to be as spectacular as it sounded),lunchbox-packing, cat litter changing and two overflowing baskets of laundry to fold and iron, I mostly just wanted to sit down.
Alas, my plan was foiled, when Gabe took off for his bedroom in footed pajamas...on the hardwood floor...and the wooden bench got in his way. Spurting, almost cartoon-like blood covered his face and I had no idea what to do. I didn't bleed as a child, because I am a girl. A girlie-girl. I played with dolls, legwarmers and FAD makeup. Quietly. Bloodlessly.

I picked him up, trying to ignore the fact that my shirt was quickly becoming speckled in red and his screams were only making it come faster. I plopped him on the kitchen counter and grabbed the paper towels, trying to mop through the mangling to find the source. As it turns out, it was just a small cut, and I immediately recalled that head wounds just produce more blood than other areas of the body. Okay. I can deal with this. I searched the medicine cabinet for the right bandage; a butterfly would have been my choice. I cursed myself for the 112th time, because every time I open that cabinet I think I need to organize this soon. And I do. Need to organize it, that is.

I didn't have a butterfly, or at least I didn't find one. I settled on a cotton pad, some gauze tape and an antibiotic ointment. After a shirt change, I'm now sitting next to my boy on the couch, because there's no way I'm letting him go to sleep right now. I'm sitting, doing what I was going to do, earlier, till the mayhem began. I was going to write about how my 30th wasn't that big of a deal, after all. But as John Lennon said, "Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans." Remind me to quit planning.

Anyway, I realize I kind of freaked out about turning 30. It wasn't that bad. The things that were important still are, and the things that weren't, well, they're still not. I'm realizing more and more that despite the heart-attacks my children like to give me, they are my entire life. I think anyone who becomes a mother and thinks their life can possibly resemble anything it did before is crazy. Is that mean? This life, this mom life, is worlds away from the "old me."

And as Thanksgiving approaches, and I see all my Facebook friends posting the things they're thankful for, I guess it boils down to the simple things in my life that I'm most thankful for. I'm thankful that I have a washer and dryer to produce these overflowing baskets of laundry. I'm thankful for the money to buy even the not-so-great dinners. I'm thankful for Isaac, who always likes the lunches I pack and reads to me each morning, for Ella, who dresses up in my pantyhose and her brothers' t-shirts and shrieks "Gook at me, Mommy! Am I so cute?"....for Brett's ability to be flexible and good-spirited in the worst scheduling circumstances ever,and for the rest of my family who...all have their own qualities. I'm thankful that I had Sarge, the best dog ever, who loved me more than I ever had the right to be loved. And for this bloody kid, who says "you would never laugh at me for having this tape and stuff stuck to me, would you, Mommy?"
No, I wouldn't. Ever.
"Is my blood done coming, Mommy?"
I sure hope so.
"How does tape stick, Mommy? You should get that eyeshadow on TV, Mommy. You could look like Halloween all the time. Do you think I should wear my pajamas to school tomorrow? Can I drink hot apple cider for my breakfast again?"
sigh.
I'm thankful for that. I'm really, really thankful for that.
Oh, and the glitter. I've left you hanging about that, and you're dying to know how I am covered in blood and glitter, right?
Yes.
I was starting to make a wreath. A Christmas wreath.
Because that's just around the corner, too, you know.

Something-life-crisis

I ate a Little Debbie snack cake. I ate two, actually. I haven't eaten one in probably twenty years. I know why: they're disgusting, and they taste like plastic. I am watching a movie, on television, that isn't Lifetime, and hasn't been in theaters. This means it was never good enough for either.
I bought a ridiculously expensive bottle of Essie nail polish; it's called "Lady Like," as if I'm really going to accomplish something.
I bought a Zumba Ultimate Transformation kit. I eyeball it warily. I've yet to unwrap the DVDs. I just figure that if I'm going to wear the leggings (which were last week's brilliant idea), I'm going to have to do something about these thighs.
I keep looking online at spas and getaway trips to resort lodges with glossy pine beams on the ceiling and pictures of women resembling Stepford Wives enjoying glasses of wine.
I am back and forth on whether or not I want bangs again.
I am determined that I have to get rid of my minivan. It only makes me feel older.
Older. The same feeling I get when I look in the mirror each morning and see bags and gray hairs. I remind myself that I'm still young and hip. I have a Kindle.
I feel a little crazy, but I wouldn't call it a mid-life-crisis because I don't know how old I'll live to be. How does anyone know when their mid-life is? I never understood that.
Nope.
I'm turning 30.
In 5 days.
Please pass the Xanax.

Unconditional Love

The best kind of love is the kind that is free. It does not require stipulations, it does not change, it does not lessen. I am certain I've felt two, solid instances of this type of love in my life thus far.
I think the most common example of this kind of love is felt when a woman becomes a mother. For me, it happened the moment I discovered, after peeing on countless sticks and seeing countless pink plus-signs, there was a person growing within me. It was a two-fer, in my experience...I hadn't 100% trusted in Jesus yet, but I realized He loved me enough to give me a new life. He loved me that much, even though I hadn't lived my life for Him. Through months of discomfort, uncertainty, nausea and what felt like a million trips to the bathroom, I awaited the moment I'd look into the face of this little creature I loved more than anything before. No other love before that can measure up to it; the feeling is, for lack of other explanation, euphoric. Sadly, the love from child to mother doesn't always follow suit. Don't get me wrong, I think my kids love me, and I think they love me a ton. At this age. I'm all they have, I'm their lifeline to everything they've known in their brief time on this earth. I just know it will change. I know they will be angry with me, someday, and they will claim to not love me. Two of them have already "hated" me at some point. I know they don't mean it...but what I'm saying is, the love isn't the same. My theory is that they'll discover this type of love later in life...I can't remember loving anything unconditionally when I was a kid, either. But I remember feeling unconditional love, from my mother.
I think it's tough for people to love unconditionally. It's natural for humans to put conditions on things. "I love you when..." or "I love you, except..." This is why, I think, God gave us animals. In Genesis, God creates Eden and gives Adam the responsibility of looking after all the animals, forming a bond between man and four-legged-creature that has continued for centuries. My dogs love me unconditionally. They follow me throughout the house with their eyes, and if I leave their line of sight, they'll move to a new position so they can see me again. When I stir in the morning, when they hear my movement, they begin to whine with anticipation, waiting for me to pat my hands on their heads for the first time of the day. Their backs grow rigid and their eyes wary with suspense whenever a strange person approaches me. They'd lay down their lives for me, any day, any time, unconditionally. It's sort of how I'd lay down my life, any day, any time, unconditionally for one of my kids.
Dogs (or any pet for that matter) are a great example of unconditional love, because "stuff" doesn't get in the way.
The thing that taints unconditional human love, when it does happen, is "stuff." Money, possessions, greed. You can't take it with you, anyway. When I last looked at my best friend, Sarge, I felt my last dose of his unconditional love for me. In his deep brown eyes, I knew that nothing in life had satisfied him more than the bond we shared. When marriages end, and couples sever their ties and create new lives apart, it's the greed, the bitterness, and the argue over "stuff" that surfaces. The love wasn't unconditional.
When a loved one dies, their "stuff" becomes a breeding ground for anger and contempt. For jealousy, as one sibling discovers that another sibling will fight them for a material possession. For betrayal, as deep secrets are discovered and relationships are forever wounded. The love wasn't unconditional.

So, friends, my point on this Saturday morning is to strive to find the moments of unconditional love you've experienced in your own lives. If you're a mom, maybe you already know it. If you have a pet, maybe you know it. Maybe you have experienced a different form altogether. Whatever it is, find it. Think of all the things in this life we will have, or consume, or even think we own, and know that it is only temporary.
Love is the only thing you can take with you.

Sometimes

...I find myself crying for no reason. I know that's a symptom of something horrific, according to one of those chemically life-altering anti-depressant commercials, but, alas, I do. I used to think my mother was insane for crying at Hallmark commercials, but...now that's just par for the course. Sometimes I can't even go in to a Hallmark store. Well, and that Maxine just gets me going, too.

So, today, as I was sitting in my dark and clouded dining room, I found myself staring at a "mega-noodle" on my spoon. I was thinking how it was indeed much more practical than an "average-noodle,"when suddenly, something plopped down into the liquid. I thought to look up to the ceiling, but I then realized it was a tear. I plunged the spoon back into the bowl of Campbell's and rested my forehead into my palms, twisted the pressurized knob of the emotional spigot in my brain, and let everything pour out. A flood of all things unspoken (at least unspoken to most) came rushing through my head; tightening my throat, burning my eyes and making my nose begin to run.
Next week I have to go and have another ultrasound, and it terrifies me. What if it's something really bad and...what if my kids, God forbid, had to grow up without me? In two weeks, I'm turning 30. In 10 years, I've been a wife twice, a mother three times, and I've lived in four houses, not counting the cottage and three apartments. Yet, I still haven't figured out what to do with my life. I just know it goes on, whether you figure it out or not.
And then,there's the deep-dark secret. No, I'm not going to tell you what it is, but it's there, tucked away, all the same. Right there, snuggled next to "no one understands you." They've become good friends. And the reminder I give myself: "you can't get upset with people because they don't understand, and not everything you do can be undone."
Today is my little baby girl's birthday. She is two! She is two.

I suppose I could have been crying for any of those reasons. Sometimes, I just do. And so I sat, staring at the orange and brown and green stripes of my place mat, and feeling the warmth of a ray of sun, creeping between the limbs of a tree and making its way through my dining room window. For now, though, I tell myself, it's time to dry it up and put on a smile. There's a cake to be made, some laundry to be done. There's a little boy who wants to me to play Legos, and another one who will want to tell me all about his day at the school farm. Yes, so just get up.

Tomorrow, after all, is just another day.

The day after September 11

I didn't post this blog yesterday, mainly because I just couldn't get it right. Okay, in all honesty, I didn't type it until today.
But that's no big thing, really. I write everything in my head way before you ever see it in typeface.
I didn't post it because I kept thinking about the actual day of September 11, 2001, and how on that day, nobody had any idea what had just happened. But the next day...after hours of no sleep, and trying to get to the bottom of it, we all had a pretty clear picture of the magnitude of horror. And ten years later, watching the events unfold again on television, I had just that feeling: what in the heck is going on? So I waited. Till today, to see if my thoughts would magically congeal into something more...logical. And I regret to inform you, they have not. There was no lightbulb, no "a-ha!" moment, when I suddenly understood why families have suffered from this tragic day for ten years. Because it was all stemmed from hate. And hate has no logic.
Some of us have suffered less than others, certainly. I didn't lose a family member in the Trade Center, and no one I knew was on one of the flights. We all remember what we were doing on that day - just like my mom remembers what she was doing when she found out President JFK was assassinated. You just remember stuff like that, I guess. I was in school, if you care to know. And I was an Army wife, which presented a set of problems all on its own. My husband wasn't home...he was in Ranger school. Somewhere in the Everglades. I was alone. Next to an Airforce Base, where it was normal for Chinooks and Little Birds and C-130s to hover the area regularly. As I drove to the base, though, that afternoon, the silence in the sky was deafening. The military police were bigger jerks than usual, armed with weapons fit to kill something much bigger than me and my dog, Sarge. We just wanted to get through the gate before the base locked down, and get to someone we knew. Marc Anderson walked out to my car, pet Sarge and asked if I was alright. He said he wasn't sure when I'd see my husband again - he didn't know the plans. Maybe they'd all deploy to help, somewhere. Maybe they'd just go to Iraq and blow up the bad guys. I know a lot of guys were hoping it was the latter. There was a lot of anger, amid the confusion.
There was a lot of fear. I needed my mother...no matter how old you get, when you're scared, you want your mama. I must have called my mother ten times that day. And my two best friends in Georgia, Tracey and Laura. And of course, I had Sarge. During the next few months, Marc was a big brother to me, too. He made sure I got out of the house for a few good dinners, and asked me to come and help pick out an outfit for his brother's expected baby. He was incredibly excited to be an uncle. We even got a boonie hat embroidered, "Lil' Anderson."
That Christmas was bittersweet, in 2001. "The boys," otherwise known as 1st Platoon, came over for Christmas dinner. I made the biggest turkey I could find at the commissary, and enough sides for, well, an army. We had a roaring fire in our old brick fireplace, and that tiny cottage with the wooden walls was never cozier. All the guys spread out on the floor and we watched Shrek. I remember Marc fell asleep with a cleaned-to-the bone turkey leg resting on a plate on his chest. We all joked that he looked exactly like Shrek.
The next day (which is always kind of a letdown anyway, when the festivities are over), the boys all left for Iraq. With the nation whirling around in fear, frustration and uncertainty, it was just the icing on the cake to know that my husband, not to mention the rest of the boys, were heading for war.
And to make matters worse, Marc never came home. Those bad guys took him down, on March 4, 2002. I told you nothing good comes from hate.
So, yesterday was a flood of emotions, as it is every year on the 11th of September. I watched the programs on television and I remembered, of course, what I was doing that day. I still felt the horror and disbelief when I saw the victims jumping from the Trade Center windows. The gruesome thud of bodies, hitting the concrete. The firefighters valiant effort to herd masses of corporate America down dozens of flights of stairs. The shaking voices of wives, hearing a final goodbye from their husbands, on a plane about to crash.
A horror film.
And then I heard the bagpipes. And I love them, but since Marc's memorial service, I just can't do them anymore. Then a beaten and battered American flag triumphantly unfurled at the memorial site, telling the story of her courage, even though her rips and holes and dirty stripes didn't come for free. And I sobbed and sobbed.
And I reached for the phone to call my mother.

It's all baloney

I am eating a bologna sandwich. I can't tell you the last time I had one. I might have been ten. No, I was nineteen. I remember this now, because I was incredibly poor, and bologna was cheap. So were pickles and grape jelly. Our fridge was interesting. This sandwich is good; I put butter on it, along with the mayo, by the way. I always do, because my mom always did, and my grandma always did, and beyond that, my grandpa put butter on anything edible. And he lived to be 98.

Butter and mayo and bologna and bread. And let's just get it out in the open, I think it's stupid that "bologna" is spelled with a g-n-a at the end. So in the title, I spelled it "baloney." It works out better that way.

I'm eating this baloney sandwich and blogging, about nothing. About the sandwich, so far. Earlier this week, a female acquaintance of mine commented on a post I made on Facebook. She said I ought to write a blog; what I have to say helps her prepare for the future in raising her own children. (They're babies, still, and I've been there and done that already). Of course I told her I already do write one, and she should follow it. If she wants. Not that I'm an expert on child-rearing, but because sometimes, it's easier to deal with your own life if you can see that you're not alone. It's better than going to counseling, see, because you can read it and either say "Ahhh, well, there now, I'm not that crazy," or (and hopefully not) "Good grief, I'm in trouble." Self-diagnosis.

Anyway, after reading this acquaintance's suggestion, I asked myself, why do I write a blog?

For one thing, the computer doesn't talk back. It doesn't question. It allows me the freedom to "talk and talk" and it never rolls its eyes or pretends that I'm interesting.

I know there are other moms out there who must experience the same things I do. Life's trials and tribulations, moments of ultimate frustration with kids and husbands and family, along with moments of indescribable joy. My life is plain, yet it is never dull. We aren't rich or fancy, we don't take lavish vacations, and I can't, honestly, even remember the last time I ate dinner out somewhere. Unless you count Pizza Hut family night. So, I can't write about red-carpet-worthy events. I can write about my love for stuffed-crust, however.

Each blog is a snapshot of my mind at a current moment. Some days I am contemplative, some days nostalgic, and some days, I'm just writing because I need an outlet. A listening "ear." So I sit (with or without a baloney sandwich) and click the keyboard. I note that I'm getting crumbs on the keys.

There's this feeling of disbelief that people are actually reading what I write, yet they say they do. People have even said they like it. Perhaps they have related to something. Some blogs are a little pointless, like this one, maybe.

I don't know if you have ever experienced this, readers, but sometimes, when your mind seems to be flooded with thoughts, the last thing you could do is put them in writing. The thoughts are transparent; you cannot grasp them and nail them down. And they're so overwhelming, you'd love nothing more than to be able to do just that. Because if you could line them up, you could prioritize; make a plan. But you can't. Or I can't.
I keep hoping that by writing things down, eventually, things will sort out. They typically do.
So I just blog.

And develop wrinkles in my forehead.

And the green grass grows all around

You know that saying, "about as exciting as watching grass grow..." or something like that? I realize this post might fit that bill. However, I decided it was important to note, in writing, how much I am actually grateful that my grass does grow, and how happy I am to mow it. Weird, eh?

When I lived in Georgia, I had a dinky push mower that was a pain in the rear to start, and nine times out of ten, I would pay some teenager to come and start it...and mow the lawn while he was at it. I couldn't be bothered, and it was so darn hot, your face would melt right off if you went out there. Really.

When I moved to Indiana, I found that the grass actually stayed green and pretty, and it wasn't so bad, once in a while, to cut it. In fact, I began cutting it regularly, which, I thought, was a novel idea. It also didn't really matter what I thought of it, because as the sole adult living in my house, I didn't have much of a choice.

Now, back to where I started, in Michigan, I wouldn't give up my lawn-mowing duty for anything. Well, maybe for a brownie sundae, but let's pretend that's not an option. In fact, I consider it a lawn-mowing privilege these days. It's an hour of peace and serenity, just me and the yard. But there's something more. And I had to get to the bottom of it. So a few days ago, perched atop my Yardman, I began thinking...as I tend to do. I don't take a Walkman, or I guess now it's an IPod...whatever those things are with the little buds that stick in your ear and make you oblivious to the world around you. I've seen the look that teenagers have when they are attached to those things, and it's spooky to me. I actually like to hear the rumble of the engine, the whirring of the blade. I watch the ground ahead of me, scanning for sticks, rocks, fallen walnuts. I watch along the creek as I drive past, looking for minnows or maybe a trout. I see when the snapping turtle is eyeing me, making sure we understand our place as cohabitants on this property. I note the progress of growth in the butterfly garden I've planted. I think of how I'll expand it next year. I begin reciting "Birches," my favorite Frost poem, while I circle the white, peeling trunk. I hum "Feelin' Groovy," and I feel every bump and curve of the land.

I do this weekly, whether it needs it or not. I come by it honestly; my grandpa was a habitual mower. There'd be weeks with no rain, and the grass would be all-but-dead, and George would say, at approximately the same time each week, "Well...guess I better mow." And he would. And it was my cue to go outside, too, because, well, I liked to be out there when he mowed. My childhood best friend and I would play while he would mow and then he'd bring his mower up to the corner of the driveway to remove all the clumped grass from the blade. He wore these dark brown cotton gloves, pretty much whenever he was outside, I remember. Sometimes he'd complain because the blade needed sharpening, but I don't even think he minded that much. He sharpened it on some sort of tool in the garage, telling me to "stay back" and I'd watch in awe as sparks flew around and his face skewered up with intensity. And always those dark brown gloves. One time I visited, as an adult, years after he gave up on mowing his own lawn, and the gloves were still on the shelves in the garage. I tried them on my hands; they were soft and worn and still smelled like grass.

Mowing, I suppose, has always been a comforting thing. It has always meant people were there, people who loved me and took care of me. At my childhood house, I enjoyed days when the mower came out, because it meant my dad was home. The few times I mowed the lawn in Georgia, I was always under the watchful eye of Sarge, my beloved dog and companion, who, at the time, was all I had..and therefore, was my home.

Sometimes now, my children will play on the deck while I mow, or ride their bicycles in the driveway. The dogs will lay on their bellies in the shade, sleepily supervising me as I pass by. I wonder if they, the kids and the dogs, like the mowing. They don't say.

In addition to my bond with the lawnmower, I'm taking up birdwatching. I didn't mean to, but they are kind of fascinating and beautiful. I especially like the morning doves that took residence in the crab tree. As a kid, my grandpa used to call to them from the porch swing in a sing-song voice, and Grandma would peg orange-halves to the maple tree for the Orioles.
But I suppose that's another post for another day.

Fearless

How is it that I am so much more tame now than I used to be? Last night, I was laying in bed, recalling that once upon a time, I went to Atlanta with a friend, and this friend took me to another friend's apartment, and at this apartment, people were smoking marijuana from a big thing that I learned, later, was called a bong. Or was it a hookah? I enjoy that word...but anyway, I had no idea. Really, I did not. And no, I didn't use it. But when we went to a bar, later, for a costume party, I did have a drink. Hey, I was 21. It was legal. Smart? No. I was in Atlanta and I knew 3 people, sort of. But...

I had no fear.

Then, on the way home, this friend stopped at a gas station. Pumped gas. And then got back into the car...only to shout expletives a few moments later when realizing that some...illegal substance that was apparently being carried in a pocket...fell out at the gas station. I didn't know we had been carrying an illegal substance in my Camry. I didn't even consider that, had we been pulled over by police, we could have gone to jail. The point is, even when I found out about it, I didn't panic.

I had no fear.

The thought struck me that I packed up my entire life into a U-Haul, said a casual goodbye to everyone I had ever known, and trucked my way to Georgia, to live in an apartment with my high school boyfriend. I navigated the streets of Savannah, GA over the next few weeks in my black Toyota Corolla, still not really mastering the art of driving a manual transmission; certainly not around those squares. At dusk, I hightailed-it back to my little apartment in not-the-best area of town, set the security alarm, and hunkered down for the night. I listened to sounds from other apartments. Yelling, cursing, banging. I watched suspicious-looking people walk past my sliding glass door, and I compulsively checked to make sure it was latched.

Because maybe I had a little fear.

To pass the time of loneliness, while my husband was overseas, I put myself through real estate school and began showing these amazing historic Savannah homes. Except they weren't all amazing...some were scary. Especially the one occupied by the schizophrenic man who pinned me to the wall and said "It's just me n' you, now, Blondie."

I had fear, but I had mace.

Recently, my sister was about to embark on a music tour with a group of folks she met on Facebook. She'd probably tell this story differently, but it's my blog and I'll tell it like I know it. She was meeting them in Chicago. I drove her to the venue; a sketchy place with walls covered in black trash bags, just down from Gino's East on Racine. Her attitude was nonchalant; she was ready to go take a stab at this touring thing. Only, having been her sister for 23 years, I sensed a little fear under all that armor. Either way, I knew I wouldn't convince her to nix the idea. At one-something in the morning, however, I got a call:
"I don't have anywhere to stay tonight. I'm stuck here, in Chicago, and they didn't arrange for me to stay with them," which translated, in a language only I could understand,to "these people turned out to be a little freakish, I can't do this tour, please, for the love of God, come get me."

For some reason I'd had a hunch this might happen, so my Nikes were at-the-ready and I was out the door and back to the Dan Ryan in no time. I wasn't pleased. Not at all. But, I recall that kind of life, I do.

Nowadays, I'm a walking ulcer. I'm addicted to Fox News, coffee, and worry.

Then again, my grandpa was a hand-wringer too, and he lived to be 98.

County Fair

In my case, the annual 4-H "youth" fair has always been a source of anxiety and excitement for me. I wasn't a farm-kid, growing up. My grandparents on my mother's side were farmers in their young years, but none of that really carried over when they married and had children. On my father's side, my grandparents had a farm with cattle. While I enjoyed the occasional opportunity to visit the cows out in the field and feed them ears of corn, and certainly loved the adventure of dodging cow patties along the way, I never entered any of them in the fair.
Growing up in a rural farm community only meant that about 70% of the school population was composed of farm-kids. I don't know what the other 30% did; maybe they were the "gamers" of our time. I never got in to that, either. Looking back, I don't know what the heck I did with my time. Let's continue.
The farm-kids spent full weeks at the fair, hanging out in barns with their livestock, riding all the rides a hundred times, eating fair food and forming, whether they knew it or not, this ultra-cool secret society that someone like me, a non-farm-kid, would never understand. I recall meandering through the barns with my parents (lame, because none of them had to walk with their parents, but mine still believed someone would steal me), and casually encountering farm-kids in each barn. I always felt envious of them, and their freedom to interact until late-night, wander the fair grounds in happy little packs, make ill-fated attempts at summer romances and be patted on the back by the teachers in school, a few weeks later, for their ribbons and achievements.
I never went away to camp either. I'm sensing a trend. This is why there are therapists.
I spent the past week at the same 4-H fair, except now, of course, I'm (supposedly) all grown-up and (supposedly) looking at life from a different perspective. I was hosting my own booth for lia sophia, my jewelry company. When representing my company, I feel it's necessary to look my best, whatever that means, and present myself as a professional. So, I made all attempts to achieve just that, and stood proudly behind my booth all week. I did, however, still feel that little twitch of anxiety. I knew, for certain, that in a small town like this, I would surely run in to people from high school. Farm-kids. And on top of that, other kids, now (supposedly) all grown-up too, and looking at life from a different perspective.
Anxiety. And maybe a little curiosity.
Right away, they started filing through the commercial building. Every hour or so, I'd see another familiar face. At one point, a boy from high school walked in. This boy, in particular, is one that I drooled over, back then. I thought he was the cutest, funniest guy. It was common practice for seniors to bring their wallet-size pictures to school and pass them out to friends. If you were a close friend, maybe the back of the picture would have a personalized message, too. Anyway, I happened to be standing in a random group of people when this boy was handing out his pictures one day. He handed me one. There was no personalized message, but I ain't complainin.' I hung that picture on my bedroom mirror, convinced that there was a divine reason he handed me that picture. Of course, it wasn't just because I had been standing there. Surely he intended for me to have it.
Boy, I ramble.
So he walked in, pushing a darling little baby girl in a stroller, and his wife and older daughter were close behind. I immediately felt a pit of anxiety in my stomach. Now would be the time to remind you, readers, that I am not suggesting that I have any desire or attraction to someone outside my marriage. I'm simply recalling the oddness of the past working in the present. It is not because I've thought of this boy at all in the past 10 years, or because I harbor any lingering feelings, but at that moment, I remembered, keenly, what it felt like to be 15 years old, uncool, and awkward. Turns out, while those feelings dissipate over the years, they never actually go away. Right away, I was astonished (as I was when I saw many old schoolmates) that he looked so normal. I guess, back then, I thought all of the "cool kids" were cool because they were somehow better than me. More attractive, popular, charismatic.
And then life happens. And things go the way they go. And almost 12 years later, we're all sort of on the same page.
So I stood up straight, grinned my toothiest grin, and mustered up all the confidence a nearly-thirty-year-old mama can muster. I did my best to shush all those old feelings. I applauded myself, internally, of course, for wearing heels, because Clinton Kelly says they lengthen the leg and make you appear thinner. I stood, nonchalantly glanced in the direction of his family, and....never made eye contact. He didn't pay a lick of attention. Hmph...doesn't he remember, he gave me his senior picture!?!
What does it matter, anyway. I'm glad his family looked so happy and I'm proud of mine as well. Why do I care if he recognized me?
It's just that inner-kid. The non-farm-kid, relatively awkward, out-of-place girl making her way to the surface. The girl I've worked for years to improve, suddenly shouting "still here!"
Will she ever just go away?
Do I really want her to?

Just then, the guy in the booth next to me says, "Hey, do you know that guy with the two little girls over there? He keeps looking over at you, like he knows you or something."

Ha.

How do you do it?

I am asked that question all the time, and friends, I don't get it. How do I do what? Watch my kids? Stay at home? Cook three meals-a-day, wash, dry and fold laundry, vacuum, dust and pay bills? I just do. Because it's my job. And yes, contrary to popular belief, it is a full-time job...but unlike those of you who get a paycheck each Friday, I am perpetually waiting for the crew from Publisher's Clearinghouse to show up at my door and reward me for all of my hard work. I mean, I would be waiting if I actually did that Publisher's Clearinghouse stuff. I just don't...because I'd probably become addicted to those bonus item things they send ya.

Anyway, I regress....as I typically do....
The other day (I say "the other day" a lot, as if there is some week in my subconscious, comprised of "other days") I was in the grocery store with one kid. I have decided that one kid is my max for grocery store trips. More than one comes along, and they fight like rabid raccoons. One, I can handle. Usually. It's just important that I never underestimate the volume of even just one little mouth. And the word "want." A kid can say something as politely as possible, but when it comes to the part when they say they "want" something, it is always at least 30 decibels louder than anything else they've previously said. E.g.: "Mommy, can you please buy those Danimals (or if you're my kid, you embarrassingly pronounce it "damnanimals") crush-cup yogurts? I WANT them!!!"

So.

I had a pretty successful trip, on this other day, when I went to the store. Things stayed mellow, I bought what I needed, took advantage of some good deals. Then there's the checkout. And I think we should really give a tongue-lashing to people who market checkout lanes, because they clearly do not have children who WANT all those little pocket-size toys, gum, and intriguing cans of Binaca. Nonetheless, my boy was not too hard on me this day. Yes, he asked for every last little item there, as I was distractedly emptying my cart onto the belt, but he did not scream or cry, or do anything that would have surely happened if there had been more than one child present. It was the lady behind us who made the trip memorable...she kept eyeing my purchases, making concerned faces. Finally, as she placed the little "order separator" between our cart-loads, she said "How do you do it?!"
I stopped, dead in my tracks.
"Do what?" I said with a half-smile, expecting the worst...imagining that she perhaps saw my child pocket the Binaca when I wasn't looking, and I'd have to make some horrible example of why we do not steal even if it's small and fits in our pocket...(can you tell I've had to do that before?!)
"I mean," she says, "do you have a big family? Or do you at least have someone to help you unload all this stuff at home? Who do you make all this for?" as she sweeps her hand across the grand pile of chicken, toaster waffles, spaghetti sauce, dog treats and produce on the belt. "And all those paper products," pointing to the paper towel and toilet paper, (listed as PT and TP on my grocery list)"must cost you a fortune!"
I chuckled. It's what I do when I don't really know what to say.
"It does, actually, but you know...coupons...and..."
"But how do you do it? How many kids do you have?"
Now this woman looked about 65. From what I know about her younger years, back in the 40's and 50's, it wasn't atypical to have a big family. So what gives? I've only got 3. 4 when my stepson is over...I didn't think that was a lot. Yes, it's hard, and yes, they're young. But it isn't horrible. So I told her something along those lines, and she gave me this half-smile of pity. Which is when I started mentally going over my outfit and hairdo without actually looking away from her. Did I brush my hair? Am I wearing earrings? Did I spill Diet Coke on my shirt in the car? My only guess is that I look like a destitute woman at her wits-end.
And something odd comes of this situation.
Instead of feeling bad about her revelation that my life must be terribly difficult, I suddenly feel a little bit gleeful. I stand a little taller. I grin at my little boy, now engrossed in a National Enquirer. Heck yeah, this is a tough job. Finally, someone sees, it's a job. No weekends off. 24 hour shifts. No paycheck, no bonus, no vacation. No company car, just a hideous minivan with a mysterious odor and the occasional french fry wedged in the seat cushion.
Clearly, even if just for a moment, I've debunked the myth that stay-at-home moms are these perfectly pedicured Betty Crockers, lounging about on the patio with an Arnold Palmer, awaiting their Ward Cleaver to return, briefcase in hand, to sit down to a lovely gourmet meal.
So I shrugged my shoulders, wiped the pretend-sweat from my brow and did one of those little, "well ya know..." things while playfully shaking my head as I handed the cashier my credit card.
All in a day's work.

...and thanks for listening all the time.

Dear God,

I know I talk to you all the time. Probably to the point of annoying, but, I figure, hey, you're God, things aren't supposed to annoy you. So I keep talking. And hoping that some of it is making its way to your ears.
Today I am putting it in writing. And then I'm gonna post it to this blog forum. I don't know if you're in to blog forums at all, but I suppose as long as I keep it clean, and I make sure everybody knows how I feel about You, it's probably okay. Besides, the only reason I'm writing this in the first place is because there might be another mom out there who needs it. So she doesn't think she's alone in her crazy world. Because as I've told you, it's easy to feel alone.
So here's the gist of it: I need a break. Relief, from somewhere. I've done it all myself, and I know you tell me not to. I've tried not to bother you with all my woes. I've been very thankful for all you've already done for me. But right now in life, I feel like I need someone bigger and stronger than me to take over for a little while. Or at least give me a good boost. Yeah. A boost would be good - like when you know you can't possibly reach the next level by yourself, and someone comes up and makes that little foothold by locking their hands together, and they say "here, step up," and you're thinking oh my word, but I'll break your arms off, but you giggle nervously and take the lift because you really needed it and then you realize it wasn't so awful to trust for a second, that someone else, bigger and stronger than you, could actually help. There I go rambling again to you. See, I even do it in writing. Sorry.
You know the stuff I need. You know the relief I'm asking for, so I won't blare that all over this blog forum thing.
But I will post it....because maybe another crazy person out there needs You too, but they're too afraid to ask.
Love,
Sara