Candy? Oh, Brother!

I rail against candy regularly. It has food coloring! Nothing but sugar! Probably has trans fat in it and HFCS-a deadly combination! And, yes, I have threatened to box the Easter Bunny's ears if he brings anymore neon-colored confections to our house at Easter. That rabbit would not know what hit him, my friend, but it would be the angst of a Mama who has to hear incessant whining and begging for the nutritionally-defunct addictive treats.

If the kids know it's in the house, they will ask for it at least forty times a day in a systematic attempt to wear me down. And sometimes they do. At which point I throw my hands in the air and exclaim, "Fine!-eat it, you little boober schmoobers. But remember, your body is weeping and your teeth may or may not rot out of your head. You're rolling the dice here, kids! Oh, and that pretty red food coloring? It'll make you go potty five times in the next hour-you'll be living in that bathroom-Haha!"

Okay, so I'm not sure about the red food coloring. But, anyway, my warnings have yet to turn aside their insatiable desire for the stuff, because children are basically candy zombies.

I've tried having interventions where I educate the bedevil out of them on the evils of candy (Here's a picture of healthy nice teeth. Here's a picture of cavities-caused by candy!). It ends up sounding like bootcamp with me shouting, "What does your body get from candy?"

"Nothing, Sir!"

"What does it do to your teeth?"

"Rot them, Sir!"

"What are all those pretty candy colors made from?"

"Chemicals, Sir!"

"Are we going to ask for more candy?"

Shifty eyes, shuffling feet and then, "Well...just one more piece. And then that's it! We promise! Pleeeaassse?"

Sigh.

Happy Halloween!

Now Where Did I Put My Glasses?

This morning I was rushing into the school with my children from a neighborhood street, driving the stroller on the dirt embankment above the parking lot like it was an all-terrain vehicle. Shortly after I got to the sidewalk, my friend Beth stopped me.

We started talking about a Halloween Party and whether or not we could go, and suddenly my brain imploded.

"Oh, my gosh! Where's Ella?" I shrieked, looking around for my preschooler. "Ana, where's Ella?"

She wasn't anywhere, so I took off without saying adieu to my friend, frantically scanning the school grounds. Beth was calling to me from behind. Finally her words caught up to me and hit somewhere in my brain with the thunk of a medium-grade meteor.

I turned to my left where I saw Ella, inches away from my face-sitting on my hip. The confused look on her face implied that she was trying to work out whether she was lost, invisible or her mother was prematurely senile.

I turned back to my friend. Beth was cracking up. I laughed breathlessly, bending nearly double in my hilarity at the old where did I put my glasses? trick my brain (or leprechaun) had so effectively played on me. Touche.

Still, never would have thought I'd do that with one of my children. But, hey! At least she wasn't perched on top of my head. That would have been truly embarrassing.

The Halloween Tree-Finished

Down by the creek and just below the bluff stood the Halloween Tree. Its large broken trunk reached jagged fingers into the sky. The top of the old tree lay across a bog where a storm had deposited it after snapping it in two, and it was rotting slowly into that thick mire.


Up the short slope at the bottom of the bluff a cavernous hole in the trunk of the tree supplied room enough for little children to enter and sit a spell amid the scent of rotting wood and among the skin-prickling company of spiders and other creepy-crawlies. And while resting there against its strangely damp innards they could stare up through the chinks in the rotting bark above them to the oft overcast autumn sky.


Not that my sisters, brother or I were much interested in sitting in it-not even to use it as a recess for hide and seek. We pretty much ignored the tree with its suspicious self-created pathway across the bog. We were too busy diving into the swimming hole from the rope swing, anyway.


Then fall would come, and our family would head down the lane to the creek with our dogs to have a weiner and marshmallow roast in a firepit that rested between the clear, cold water of the creek and the murky green and brown sludge of the bog. Dad would start talking casually about the Halloween Tree, spinning yarns about its tragic past and the current mystery of its enclosure and what awaited anyone who entered it. And while sitting there by the campfire, blackening marshamallows in the cool evening, he would dare us to cross the bog and sit awhile in the Halloween Tree.....

That's when I'd turn to Annie and Nate who simply with a glint in their eyes challenged each other to cross the fallen trunk to the tree. And off they'd go.

Mandy, our mutt, followed us to the edge of the bog. Rueben, our great lab, continued to sit by Papa's feet, head up watching; the Halloween Tree wasn't an adventure for him. He had no funny feelings about spiders, insects, rotting wood or about trees that looked like Frankenstein in the light grey of early evening.

Annie usually beat Nate to climb the old trunk and edge out slowly over the bog. Nate began across behind her. Then I followed in a very low crouch or even on all fours, eyeing the bog with distaste as I inched closer to the tree.

With her long legs like those of a ballerina, Annie leaped off the trunk onto the bank just in front of the tree and quickly ducked inside. A moment she sat on the chair-like rim of rotten bark inside, her head bent. Then just as quickly as she'd entered, she sprang up and out, pushing Nate to the side as she passed. In went Nate as I spun to follow Annie back across the trunk after she'd climbed over me, laughing.

Nate sat a spell longer than Annie. Then he exited and darted toward us, running deftly back on the wide log.

"Come on Hillary, you have to go in, too," they began chiding me, panting and again with eyes glinting. "C'mon-we did it. Go!"

So I went. I depended on those two for a study supply of mischief. If I failed their standards, they might never again include me in their dastardly plans.

This time I walked the log fast as I dared as I gazed down at the bog. Only when I was safely on the bank did I look up, and the Halloween Tree was right there before me, its gloomy interior already sending forth its strong earthy smell to assail my nostrils.

"Go on, Hillary! Go in," Annie and Nate called from the opposite side, laughter in their tone.

"You're a brave girl, Hoo-doo," called Dad, petting Rueben's head while eating his black marshmallows.

I had no back-up. Still I went in. No need to duck like my older siblings, but I did anyway. There was no way I was going to let my hair brush that bizarre ceiling and possibly touch creatures that made that Frankenstein tree their home.

I didn't want to turn my back to the inside of that tree in case something came crawling out of its rotten core. The smell of the bog, the tree and the darkness, plus the idea that all my family was back across the bog at the campfire made goosebumps multiply on my flesh until I shot out, scrambling back over the top half of that ugly old tree until I touched drier ground and glanced back with a whole-body shiver.

Poor misunderstood monster. It couldn't help that a storm had devastated it and the bog was rising slowly up to eat it. Still, I wouldn't have been surprised had I found an old witch there, her crooked body curled up in its pockmarked trunk.

Dad named the tree, of course. It was another one of his stories. We'd forget about that old tree for months when the weather was fine, and the swimming hole was ready. Only in the chill of autumn did we start to shiver....and dare each other to enter The Halloween Tree.

Long Johns is Where We Gone Wrong-abridged

Ella and I are already having battles over clothes. She wants to wear pajamas as an essential part of her everyday style. But not a matching set; that would be boring. No, she wants to wear tight Strawberry Shortcake pajama bottoms with a pink poofy Blues Clues shirt. Yesterday, she opted for red snowmen long johns inherited from big sister. Oh, I know. It isn't time for singing Winter Wonderland or anything, but I pulled them out while she can still wear them. And she decided to wear them, alright - to walk in and get her big brother and sister from school.

She got lots of attention, mainly from teachers who thought she was so cute walking around in seventy-five degree weather in winter-bedtime wear.

"Ella, check out your awesome PJs," exclaimed one kindergarten teacher. "High five!"

Ella smiled and jumped up to smack palms.

"How sweet! That is priceless," said another teacher, and I tried not to roll my eyes when I replied, "She wanted to wear it, so...."

I might have added, what's a mama to do? It's my general policy that parents should let their children commit grave fashion faux paus while people still think it's cute. Such as wearing pink high-tops with their fancy white church dress, for instance. Ella got a lot of attention for that, too-compliments, mind you. And she didn't need the encouragement.

After collecting Berto and Ana from their classes and strutting her stuff(chest out, hands on hips) in front of the teachers who kept applauding her adorableness, Ella Belle exited the school gate and then took off running top speed through the dirt away from me, curls bobbing.

""Berto, get her!" I called as I did my best to jog after her, Daniel bouncing in the sling as if it were a baby amusement ride.

Berto tried to snag her clothes to slow her down, but its not easy to catch someone wearing button-down long johns; there's just nothing to grab on to. She turned the corner onto the sidewalk of a busy street, a blur of big Dora sneakers and smiling snowmen.

A friend of mine passed us in the school's carline and waved at me with a serious look on her face as three of my kids blazed ahead of me, and I struggled to keep up.

Meanwhile, Ana ran after Ella like Phoebe from Friends, arms and legs seemingly moving in entirely different directions-looking as if at any moment they might propel the top half of her into the dirt with only her legs left flaying in the air. But she was laughing as if it was tons of fun, and Ella and her snowmen finally ran out of steam, so I lassoed the whole bunch and stuffed them into the minivan.

On the drive home, I remembered that we had to pick up supper. I could just go to the grocery store, but going to Walmart was the multi-tasker's way to go; we still hadn't found Ana's costume, after all, and Berto needed face paint.

At this point I had pretty much forgotten about what Ella was wearing. That happens quite often to me now-forgetting important details like that. Besides, I now had a whole bunch of stuff to worry about, because a small traveling circus had come to Walmart. And by that I mean us.

We were already attracting attention in the parking lot. A woman reading in her car, waiting for a shopper, stared blatantly at us while Berto hung from the van hatch, Ella fussed about whether her personal carriage should be the stroller or a shopping cart, and Ana flitted about like a butterfly. Meanwhile, my head was spinning trying to make sure no one wandered off across the parking lot and nobody got hit by a car, so I was yelling at them to stop or come back or just stinkin' wait.

Of course once I realized we had an audience, my tone went from, "You dern kids-get yourselves together for cryin out loud!" to, "Alright, my sweet babies, just calm down now. Calm down, little angels. Don't we want to go into the store eventually? Today even?"

Thirty minutes later when we had actually made it inside the store, we found the costume and face paint and headed over to the food where Berto began whining to know where there might be a water fountain, but I wasn't fooled.

"Berto, don't whine," I said. "Just ask me what you need to ask me."

"Well, I am thirsty. And...I need to use the restroom."

Yep, there it was. A small pause and....

"Me, too," said Ana.

Please don't say it. Don't say it, I thought as we moved to the front of the store.

"Potty?" says Ella. "I need to go potty!"

"Of course you do," I said with a sigh.

Berto went first, and then he stood outside the turn to the women's restroom while I went in with the girls. As soon as Ella exited the stroller, I put Daniel in it.

"Hey!" she said.

"Oh well, you have to go potty, remember?" Then I said to Ana, "Watch Daniel while I help Ella, okay?"

Only in that tiny cell with my preschooler did I realize we had a big problem.

"Oh, Ella! The long johns!" I moaned in true parent anguish. I knew I shouldn't have let her wear those things.

They buttoned down the length of one leg, but it still had an ankle band, and the other leg didn't have buttons at all. It was like a regular pajama pant leg. I was going to have to remove her shoes. Then I was going to have to wrangle her out of the pajamas without letting her socked feet touch the bathroom floor which, it is commonly believed among moms, has at least fifty varieties of gross germs that have yet to be discovered and named by scientists.

It wasn't an option to unbutton the pajamas from the top. There's no way they would not touch the toilet as they dangled from her legs. I slipped her shoes off and tried to make her stand on top of them, but she couldn't maintain her balance and tried to lean on the potty for support. No, no, no! There was only one thing to do. I turned her upside down on my lap with legs in the air and pulled off first the ankle band from one leg and then attempted to pull the other leg out of the pajamas, but there was no way it was coming out unless I folded her up like a piece of origami. It was about the time that I was pulling her right leg up to her chin in order to wrest it from the long johns that our situation caught up with me, and I began to giggle involuntarily.

My mirth only abated briefly in irritation when after a few seconds of sitting on the potty, with me suspending the long johns above her head, she said, "No pee-pee!"

As the wrangling of the long johns began in reverse, Ana asked in concern from outside the stall, "Mama, are you okay? Why are you laughing like that?"

"Just laughing at my circumstances, Ana," I responded in near hysteria as Ella giggled along, the blood rushing to her face as I held her upside down again to stuff the long johns back on her legs. We were on the home stretch a few moments later when I began to button the pajamas back down and jammed her shoes on her feet.

Afterwards, I sped through the store, throwing turkey burgers, buns and coleslaw in the cart. There was no way I was going to wait around until Ella actually did need to go pee-pee. And I've vowed never to let a certain curly-headed clown wear long johns in public again.

The Punch Bowl is Unbreakable....A Tale Of Consequences

I hosted a party in the fall three years ago. It was an Autumn Potluck for my Mom's Group. A good party-lots of nice food. I made my Cardamom Christmas Wreath Bread which nobody cares for-except me, of course; I think it rocks, so I make it every year. My husband hates it. Of course, he hated the Pumpkin Spice Yeast Bread I made for a friend's Halloween party a couple years ago so much more. I put way too much allspice in that, and if you don't know what that mistake tastes like, you're lucky. I told my friend, the hostess, she could keep the bread, and she said with a very sweet smile, "Oh, no. I couldn't. You take it home with you."

That's when you know something is truly awful-when your good friend won't even keep it just so they can have the satisfaction of throwing it away when you're not looking. Instead, they send it home with you to punish you for its atrocious flavor, and if it happens to be a pumpkin yeast bread reeking of allspice, that punishment is harsh and completely unnecessary.

Anyway, the Autumn Potluck was a success. I even served punch in a punch bowl, and I've always held the belief that you can't get fancier than that. Even if the punch is comprised of orange soda and pink Cool-aide, your guests are bound to say, "You served punch? Well, look at you, Miss Fancy-Pants!" before they all end up sporting frothy coral-colored mustaches.

Besides, this beverage container was my wedding gift punch bowl-you know, the kind from Target, Walmart, etc. that is both a punch bowl and a cake stand. I had put a sticker on it to emphasize its fanciness which said: This is The Fancy Punch Bowl Given Me On My Wedding Day-June 16 of a Year I Shall Not Disclose By Someone I don't Remember. Consider Yourself Lucky, All You Who Drink From It.

Well, the punch bowl survived the party. Then it survived for several days after the party on the bar behind the counter. Then it survived for more than a week in the same exact spot.

Finally, my guilt over its neglect persuaded me to wash it one day as I was doing some pans. I was standing at my sink, and the bar is a few inches above that where a rectangular opening connects my kitchen to the dining room on the other side. I reached out from behind the sink with one hand and tried to lift the bowl from the stand. It wouldn't move. I tried again. Nope, wasn't going to budge, because apparently when you leave residual punch in a bowl for more than a week, all the sugar in the liquid that was slopped over the side makes a very good seal that glues the bowl to the stand and then to the countertop-possibly forever. Unless you take drastic measures.

Those drastic measures involved taking a few seconds to walk out of the kitchen and around the corner in order to carefully pry the punch bowl up with both hands. I could not do this from my current position in front of the sink because I was heavily pregnant at the time and had to turn my stomach aside just to reach one arm toward the punchbowl. 

As I hesitated on the brink of a momentous decision pinned on whether or not I was going to be a responsible, circumspect adult or a what the heck! let's see what happens kind of gal, I could almost see the Little Leprechaun in my brain parading, waving flags and cheering me on. See what happens! See what happens! he was chanting. But on the other side of my mind, an old man with a push broom was shaking his head and saying, "Don't do it! This will not be good."

I stretched out my right arm again toward that stubborn bowl even as warning bells began to peal madly in my brain and a voice of reason that sounded strangely like my husband's drew out a long, "Nooooooo-aaaaaaahhhh!"

With brute one-armed strength, I gave that punchbowl a good tug and was rewarded by feeling it give and instantaneously watching it fly up from its stand as if in fury. As it arced in front of the dining room window, I just had time to think, "Ah, It's too heavy. It won't break," before it crashed with magnificent noise and burst into multiple glass daggers that shot up from the detonation point to penetrate every single porous surface in the dining room.

"Oh, shoot! That put holes in Matthew's floor! I thought.

And I was right. But it took me three hours to find those holes. First I had to locate the large dangerous shards lying on all the chairs and tables waiting for defenseless bottoms and, well...miscreant elbows on the tabletop. Next I had to find the sneaky glass splinter jutting out from the side of the glider rocker upon which I sliced my finger forthwith. Then I had to brush multiple pieces from the window ledge, shake them out of the blinds, and pick them out of a table linen. I had to crawl all around the furniture with my enormous belly collecting remnants of my fancy Target wedding day punch bowl.

After picking, plucking, sweeping and then wiping up the arena of damage with dozens of wet paper towels, I found the holes I had put in the laminate floor my husband had worked so diligently to install-long, jagged gouges in the fake wood that would forever taunt me, because, as I now know, a punch bowl/cake stand may not last forever but holes in the floor are for a lifetime.

Adventure Schmenture, or Discovery-Bah! Whatofery?

Matthew, me and the kids are going to day trip to an old copper mine site near the historic town of Jerome, AZ. You know how I know this? Because I asked him two weeks ago if we could, and Whew! that was cutting it kind of close.

You see, my husband's the kind of man that you have to present a detailed itinerary to before he will even consider a road trip, even if the drive time is a mere 45 minutes. You have to have a set date (preferably a month ahead) with estimated travel and scenery-gawking time calculated into total trip hours. And if you want lunch while you're out, you better ask for it first, or you'll be eating the petrified string cheese that fell out of the kids' school lunch a week ago along with that clementine that's been hibernating under the van seat since last winter. In other words, you have to plan! plan! plan! how long it will be before he can be back sitting in his recliner at home with some fancy micro-brewed beer.

You cannot spring a casual suggestion on him. For instance, I would never say (at least not twice), "Sugar, let's mosey on down to Tombstone on this lazy Saturday morning for a good Old West shootout. After that we'll just saddle on up to the best BBQ house in town and eat a whole rack of ribs. And how 'bout some prickly pear ice cream for dessert? Ummm! Sounds good, don't it? Then we'll clean our pretty faces to have some pictures taken in old time garb. I'll be the saloon gal and you be...oh, whatever. What d'ya say?"

Ain't...gonna...happen. No, sir.

Matthew's eyes will bulge and he'll exclaim, "Woman, you know I can't just hop in the car and drive somewhere...with kids!"

This is a fundamental difference between me and my guy. 'Cause I would...that is, if I weren't so markedly outnumbered by those kids. Dang it!

I think this strange road trip disconnect between us springs from how differently our families approached road trips while we were growing up.

For Matthew's family, you got in the car, and you drove. That's it. You have your destination and you just better dang well forget about whatever lies along the way. T-Rex bones lying right there on the side of the highway, you say? Well, take a picture of the sign. No sign? Then just forget about it. It doesn't have anything to do with your final destination.

They took a trip to Mount Rushmore once. Matthew says they pulled up, got out, looked at it. Got back in. They'd driven; they'd seen; they went home. But Matthew does have a special memory of that trip: there were some really good hamburgers somewhere on the way.

Okay, so you wonder, what were Miss Hillary's car trips like? Well, we drove, too-pretty slowly actually, because Dad's a defensive driver. Then we kids would get antsy, loud and obnoxious, so Dad would pull over. Anywhere-just out in the middle of the wide western nowhere (we were usually traveling to Idaho from Tennessee, you see), and he'd say, "Kids, go run in that valley and play with some wild coyotes."

So we'd stream from the car and run out into a field by the highway, yelling, and Rueben our dog would run out behind us, because he'd spent the whole time scrunched up by Mama's feet in the front seat with his head in Dad's lap. Plus, he was probably hoping to rustle up some rattlers for entertainment.

So, you understand-totally different.

Which brings me back to our day trip. I said to Matthew, "Honey, I read an article to the kids about this mine and ghost town we're going to visit, and they're so excited. It's like on eight acres of land, and the guy who owns it has all this cool machinery, old cars, motorcycles-all kinds of stuff! And there are animals to feed, too."

"Yeah, Papa, " piped in Berto. "And it says the donkey will kiss you."

At this I'm pretty sure Matthew rolled his eyes.

"But, Mama," continued Berto. "It's only on six acres of land."

"No, I'm pretty sure it's eight, Berto. But, honey," I continued excitedly, "it says it's so crowded with stuff that it might look neglected, but it really isn't. This guy maintains it all. It's just not like a State Park...you know-all manicured lawns and walkways and stuff."

Matthew looked annoyed, "You mean we're going to have to walk around through a bunch of weeds and wear long sleeves and jeans and boots and get all itchy?"

"No," I said, back-pedaling. "The weeds are probably just growing between the old cars and things."

"Oh, great!"

"But the places where people walk all the time will be clear and smooth, of course," I said exasperated. "Honey, don't you like to go and explore and discover things? Don't you like adventures?"

"Under certain conditions," was the response.

"You mean in the city in an air-conditioned environment," I rejoined, fed-up.

"Look, I'm taking you," he said. "But you're the one who had to go and ruin it by saying we're going to have to wander over eight acres of weeds looking at old stuff that we have to find for ourselves-in weeds!"

"Matthew, please tell me you like nature and history and travel and discovering new things. Please tell me you do."

Matthew looked at me but did not venture to speak.

I threw my hands in the air. "Are you just gonna live on a golf course when we're retired then while I'm traveling and doing stuff?"

A smirk.

"Fine," I said. "I'll join the Peace Corp and write letters home!" Matthew grinned, and I stalked off.

But as I stormed off, I thought to myself, By gosh or by golly, we are going to visit that mine. And we're gonna stop for lunch, too. Just you wait and see.

Grandmama

When I was in Idaho a couple weeks ago, I was mourning my beautiful Grandmama, my mother's precious Mama.

We were going to go and visit this week on the kids' fall break, our whole little family. I had called her because of it, and I thank God for that. I had meant to call for months, kept thinking about her but, yet, never did what I had the feeling I should do. When Matthew came home a few weeks ago with the news that he could take this week off work, I finally called to tell her we were coming to visit.

I remember one thing in particular she said to me during our conversation. We were talking about my babies growing up, and she said, "Someday, Hilwry (I was always Hilwry to Grandmama), your arms will feel empty."

Her words struck me at the time. I knew without doubt they would be true for me. My babies spend a good majority of their infancy in my arms. Once my little Daniel is a preschooler, my arms will suddenly be a whole lot freer. I'm afraid they will feel painfully empty and idle, too.

After she passed, however, the words felt different, of course. My arms were empty in a different way. For Grandmama.

Many relatives gathered around Grandmama. Many more would have liked to. And we all broke down. We all wept in our own moments. The day of the vigil was a particularly hard day for my parents. Dad finally fell into grief; it overwhelmed him. And I cried for my mother that day more than for my own loss; I was almost frightened to see the level of Mama's pain as she broke down every few moments. But then that evening the family got up and spoke in turn about Grandmama at the Vigil-first Uncle Artie, then all Grandmama's children-Mama, Uncle Jim, Uncle Brian got up and lightened things up a little, and Uncle John and Aunt Stephie spoke, too. The grandchildren and friends followed. We still cried, but when we each took our turn to talk about her, some of us repeating her famous, "Oh, Gene!" that she always said to Grandpa after one of his jokes, our grief became less desperate or, in some cases, less stifled. We began to heal. And Grandpa was surrounded by his children (those by marriage, too) and grandchildren. Many of us laid our hands on his shoulders after one of us spoke of Grandmama's true love for this man, and the remarkable and consistent every day ways she found to care for him. At the last my sister Vinca got up to sing a beautiful Irish song. I was outside the chapel walking my restless baby son. I hadn't heard my sister sing in years, and her clear, sweet voice elicited new tears from me, but it made me feel better, too.

And there is a blessing that comes from gathering to mourn someone you all love so dearly. I saw relatives I had not been privileged to see in years, some whom I had not spent time with since childhood. And Vinca figured out that our mom and her siblings had not been all together for forty years. Granted, it was hard under those circumstances, but by the evening after the funeral, Grandpa and Grandmama's children were laughing and joking together. And even Grandpa joined in as we took a huge family portrait.

Grandmama would have been happy to see that.

The Art of The Zinger

Last week I accused my new cousin-in-law of being a reverse pimp.

You're thinking, How the heck does that come up in polite conversation?

Well, it doesn't really.

I can only thank heaven Mom (The Lady) was asleep at the time and so could not give me a long lingering look of disappointment.

You see, I was spending time with my Dad's family when it occurred, and you must understand that these multi-talented people have perfected the Art of the Zinger. Definition of zinger? A verbal firecracker that whizzes past your brain two seconds before you can catch up to it (but you're already laughing your pants off, because it's a good bet you will be anyway).

It's not safe to be around my Dad's family for more than a short evening-that is, if there are three or more of them together. Chances are high under such conditions-yes, very high indeed-that you will laugh so hard all oxygen will desert your brain, and you will keel over suddenly with a stupid joker's grin on your face, your muscles painfully frozen in place. And if that desperate situation occurs, you better have someone along who's willing to administer a good hard slap-someone who you've recently offended in a big way perhaps.  For instance, a cousin's wife whom you just met and then labeled a reverse pimp.

The odd thing is, though, I don't even remember what led up to my comment. It's a complete blank; I was SUIZ-Speaking Under the Influence of the Zingers. I do remember the scarlett flooding my face immediately afterwards when I asked, bemused, "Oh, did I just say that out loud?" followed by the raucous laughter of my relatives while I tried to hide behind my infant.

My Dad was raised in a family of Zingers, but he gets out of practice when he's been too long away from them. It took him a while to warm back up to his heritage. No mistake, though, it did eventually happen.

We did a lot of driving between Emmett and New Plymouth, Idaho-Mom, Dad, Vinca, my baby Daniel and me. It was on one of these commutes that Dad finally let one fly.

There's a canal on the way, you see, and a pull-out next to the canal.

"There," said Dad, pointing one evening as we passed it. "That's where I proposed to your mom. The first time."

He has to add that, because it took two proposals before she would accept his offer. The first time happened on their third date and went something like this:

     Dad: "I love you, Karen, and I want to marry you. Will you marry me?"

     An awkward pause.

     Then Mom: "I really like you a lot, too, but..."

She told him things were moving too fast, whereupon he took her straight home, determining that it was all over between them. They got back together because of Uncle Artie's interference on behalf of his little sister, and a second proposal successfully made it through-on the 5th date, I believe.

There is a point to me telling you this, I promise. You see, Dad must have noticed Vinca and I were staring at that canal as we passed it, looking for the special beauty that would suggest it as the perfect spot to propose.

"I know," he said, looking in the rearview. "It's not much to look at. But it was late at night."

I set him up by asking in mock disapproval, "What were you and Mama doing here late at night, huh, Papa?"

"Putting our clothes back on."

Zing!

We all started laughing, except for Mama who began shaking her head like a fine filly with good manners.

Then Vinca said, still laughing, "Maybe that's why Mama thought it was moving too fast!"

Our laughter exploded (and we needed it, I can tell you, under the sad cicumstances), but Mama, our lady and The Lady, continued shaking her beautiful head at her family all the way to New Plymouth.

I Live in Tombstone and My Husband is Wyatt Earp

I returned home yesterday from a trip, a sad but necessary trip that I'm blessed to have taken.

The plane gradually descended over the desert surrounding Phoenix, and I thought to myself, You dusty, dirty, crummy desert town...boy am I glad to see you again!

I remember when I used to fly into Phoenix before I lived here; I thought it was the bleakest desert city one could possibly imagine. But, now? Well, for good or ill, it's home.

My handsome husband was at the airport. After a full week devoid of my company, he didn't look one bit desperate or ill. He wasn't even slightly skinnier from pining for me. I forgive him, I guess, because he did seem happy to see me and grateful to have his baby boy home, too. And my little girl was dancing with excitement at seeing Mama. She even held my hand which is something she refuses to do under normal circumstances.

The house was fairly clean when I walked in, and a homemade birthday sign was brilliantly decorated by my sweet family. Crafted fall decorations adorned the walls.

"Mama, there's a birthday cake in the freezer," blurted out Gabriella.

This I had to see. Nope, nothing in the freezer, but I soon found it in the fridge. Amazing! And Matthew even let the kids help make it (which considering all the baking disasters he's witnessed, was really quite brave).

I should have felt it, though. The layer of calm in our home like fine, settled dust - as if the house had had a good long snooze in my absence. It was just beginning to open one eye a few hours after I'd entered, thinking sleepily to itself, Now, who is that lady? I'd best remember...I have a bad feeling....

A storm rolled in when Matthew left to pick up our two older children-lightning, thunder, torrential rain. Like a bad movie that relies on environmental cues to forecast the feelings of the actors.

When Matthew got back, Ella got into the cake. Berto told on her.

"Ella, come here!" said Matthew sharply. She came, and he pulled her closer. "Did you touch the cake?"

After a mumbled answer in the affirmative, his discipline was swift. Then: "I already told you not to touch it!" he said sternly.

Ahhh! I thought. The Rule of Law. And I knew exactly how it had been while I was gone. Then, this morning, I woke up to reality. My reality.

The kids tried on their footy pajamas I'd bought for them in Idaho (such things cannot be found in the desert, unless there's a lost Ice Age clan of sweaty, very sweaty and possibly very stinky, nomadic footy-pajama wearing people). Ella had hers on already, and when Ana was done flopping around like a fish to manuever into hers, she went to zip it up. Ella made a dive for the zipper.

"No, Ella," said Ana in protest.

"No, meeeee!" screamed Ella in response, yanking at the zipper.

"It's my footies!" responded Ana in a squeal.

"No-ho-ho-ho-ho!" yelled Ella, jumping up and down with the zipper still in hand.

"Now girls..." I began in feeble, sleep-deprived protest.

They didn't hear me, because Ana had pushed Ella back, and Ella had planted her feet, tensed her little body and thrown back her head to begin the warning howl of tantrum.

I fearfully edged closer. "If you don't stop, I might have to do something..."

Suddenly Matthew blazed in with his fancy work shoes, khaki pants and coordinated polo...oh, and his extremely stiff coiffure around which he maintains a five foot perimeter. One could almost see him slinging back his duster to expose his six-shooter or whatever the heck an old West sheriff might use.

"Ella, here now!" he bellowed.

She approached, abashed.

"You stop this right now, do you hear?" said my Wyatt Earp.

Her response was the equivalent of: "Yes, sir, Sheriff. Why, I won't be messin' with nobody's footie pajamas no more. Not ever, Sheriff - I swear!"

Matthew stalked off. Then he left for work. I was the deputy he left in charge of a lawless town. I thought about my cirumstances while the residents of that town (my children) sloshed juice down their gullets and ate chocolate cake for breakfast.

Two seconds after we were all in the car to go to school, before we'd even pulled out of the driveway, Berto and Ana started fighting and pushing each other.

"Did you guys do this when Papa drove you to school?" I asked.

That stopped them in their tracks. You could see the realization hit their faces.

"No," Berto responded, befuddled. He and Ana looked at each other as if to say, Weird.....

I nodded my head. The Rule of Law.

Remarkable Experience...and I've Got the Cheesecloth to Prove It!

A couple days ago I walked into the pediatricians' office with my daughter and baby boy, and my eyes zereod in on the newborn baby with wide eyes being held by her Mama. I was so fascinated by the little creature that I gazed at her all the way to the reception desk and ignored the receptionist for several minutes while I stared in open admiration at the darling baby.

"How old?" I asked the mother.

"Six weeks," was the reply. Then mama was distracted because her newborn spit up all over her.

But I was already reliving my days with my own newborns. The heady, exhausting days in the hospital (getting to know you, getting to know all about you!) when I didn't sleep for two days because I was either staring at my baby or nursing her. I was even romanticizing my labor with each of my children - the uncontrollable shaking, the screaming (for which I always apologized afterwards - until the air was pierced by another primordial howl), slapping my husband in rhythm to the contractions and chewing on his baseball cap or hand. Oh, what fond, fond memories!

This is bad. Very bad. I can't have another one, and my youngest is only six months. Why would I want to have another one? My little guy's teething, and I'm getting no sleep. But I can't help myself; I know my days of welcoming a newborn baby into this world are quite over, and I'm already lamenting it.

When my son's appointment was done and my daughter was playing in the playground outside the doctor's office, I called my husband and told him how I felt.

"I just saw a newborn baby, and..."

"No," he said.

"Oh, honey, this baby was so alert. And tiny!"

"No."

"And there are all these lovely pregnant women walking out of the obstetrics office next door..."

"No!"

"But wasn't I lovely when I was pregnant?"

"Yes, but no, no and no. We're not having another baby. We're done!"

Of course we are. I know that...I guess.

But I just can't believe I'm already one of those women: the kind that turn into goo over a freshly minted human being. But I am. I think it's chronic, and it'll only get worse as my children get older.

Because, you see, I am also one of those women who actually enjoyed being pregnant. Well, after the nausea, vomiting, emotional upheaval and bizarre sensitivity to smell was done with, anyway. Just knowing a baby was growing within me made me joyful, but when I could actually feel them move? Forget about it! That was the best, and I looooved it.

In fact, I've always wondered why men are not insanely jealous of this experience. But, oddly they don't seem to be at all.

"Aren't you jealous?" I've asked my husband and even my brother-in-law Jon.

Both looked perplexed by the question, and answered with the same slow, "Uh, no-o-o..." accompanied by the all too familiar you're-a-crazy-lady look.

Well, they don't know what they're missing. I mean once you get through the pain of labor and the haze of many, many sleepless nights, you realize what an extraordinary gift you've been given by being able to carry a baby within you. You know your arms are the grace God intended for that child on their birthday. And you remember that every time you're compelled to ask forgiveness for losing your temper and each time you're on your knees pleading for more patience.

But don't I know that our family is complete? Yes.

And I'm going to be honest here; pregnancy does remarkably bizarre things to your body. I'm not walking around in a size 10 shoe for nothing, baby! Also, various parts of my body resemble human cheese cloth, now. Truly, though, I'm proud of those silvery shadows on my skin. My stretch marks are proof of my remarkable experience!

Still, perhaps that's why men don't envy us the experience. They're able to keep their boyish figures - the vain creatures! But that's alright, because we can walk past them with our stretched skin, our paddle feet (oh, is that just me?), and our hard-working breasts and think with a smile, "I know something you don't know!"

And if you're a mom, you know exactly what I mean.


Dedicated to my Grandmama Asher