Thursday, August 30, 2012

Morning Glory

This morning, to demonstrate the harsh reality of parenthood, I made up my own lyrics to an old children's tune, and my Ana, so like me as a kid, accompanied me. She's a good sport, because we sang about twenty verses really loud so everyone in the house could hear.

I was sleep deprived. Singing about how my morning went after staying up to near midnight last night like a fool (am I not aware that there are four children in this house who get up before 6am???) was therapeutic. The ditty went so:

Four bears in the bed and the little one said
Roll over!...I'm crowded
So they all rolled over and one fell out
Three bears in the bed and Danny Sam said
Roll over, I'm climbing back innnn...
So they all rolled over and tore the bed sheet
Four bears in the bed and the little one said:
I'm crowded, roll over
So they all rolled over and Danny fell out again...

Well, you get the picture. There were two kids who crept into their parents' queen-sized bed last night. This morning while still in the haze of restless, no-good sleep, they yanked on my hair and fought over who got to lie by my face, and because all of us were thrashing about, fighting for space and sanity, someone tore the bed sheet. My littlest, Danny Sammy, got up on and down from the bed multiple times while attempting to keep my hair in his hand like a leash. I slept great, but my hair is thinning.

So this morning I put frozen English Breakfast tea bags on my eyes. Then I laid on the couch with icy caffeine dripping into my tear ducts for several minutes. It was invigorating. When I got up, I asked my kids, "Do I look better? Did it help?"

"Uh, I can't really tell," said my son. "But, sure...I think..."

After I washed the brown liquid from my lids, I felt better. Half the value of beauty products and routines is that you feel proactive. The more time or money you invest, the more confident you are that things are working. You're not just waiting for Old Man Time to make you look like a scarecrow; you're being that scarecrow - with boxing gloves on. After the tea I felt so much better that I smeared glitter eye makeup into the not-fine lines on my eyelids. I even put chunky statement earrings on my droopy earlobes. I was ready to face the day and defy my accrued years of spending supposed-to-be-sleeping hours in a recliner, on the floor by a crib, on a Sesame Street toddler couch, and, when very lucky, in my own bed - but always with the imminent threat of invading children.

One must face the day regardless, and I faced it alright, looking ready for the fall - a glitter-faced, bejeweled, smokin-hot scarecrow.


Tuesday, August 28, 2012

A Tooth, the Truth



Our youngest daughter, little Ella Boo, came up to me yesterday evening and confided, "Mama, I touched this tooth and it moves."

There was apprehension in those chocolate-hued eyes.

"That's good, Ella," I said, cheerfully. "That means it's loose - "

"And they're going to pull it out, and it's going to hurt and bleed a lot," interrupted my eldest boy, Berto, walking by on his way to the fridge.

I gave him a glare and waved a hand toward her sweet, scared little face.

"No, no," I said, bending down. "Just a little. And it comes out on it's own and then the tooth fairy brings you a two dollar bill....if the US government still makes two dollar bills. If not, she'll bring you something else...like two separate dollar bills."

Talk of the tooth fairy bearing gifts didn't distract my little daughter. She still looked at me with wide eyes, and her lips began to tremble.

"Here, let me see."

I felt her teeth and couldn't find the defector at first, but at last I felt it shift. "Yep. It's loose."

Her fears had been confirmed. Her eyes welled up, and she ducked her head and rubbed her hands against her flushed face. I pulled her to me for a hug and a kiss.

"Oh, honey...you don't need to be scared. It means you're a big kid. You're growing up. That's what's supposed to happen. It's exciting."

But a little sad for Mama. When I let go, my son walked by and rubbed her curly, golden-brown head in a comforting, if brief, gesture. He and big sister Ana eagerly tried showing little sis their mouths full of mismatched teeth. Berto found a molar he's banking on. Ella saw a front tooth of Ana's that is only half through and so far shorter than the rest.

Then Papa came out and heard the news. He tested the teeth, found two loose actually, and reacted matter-of-factly. I pointed to Ella's face.

"She's scared, honey."

"I figured out that it's loose and that it hurts," she murmured.

"Oh, but you don't need to be scared!" he said, scooping her up. She was relieved to find herself in Papa's arms and close to his calm face, and he talked to her happily and explained that it hurt because a new tooth was pushing up.

As I watched them I thought of how my husband had reacted when Berto lost his first tooth five years ago.

My husband is the general, you see, managing the kids' medication when they're ill, managing the environment around our son to the best of his ability because of his severe allergies. But when Berto lost his tooth, there was blood and a little pain, but there was nothing really to manage. My Man was at loose ends, and for once things affected him more than me.

I remember him sitting wide-eyed at the dining room table, looking in dazed fashion at the tooth and saying, "I feel like I should be doing something, but I don't know what to do."

Just as I felt when I saw Berto, after many nights' attempts, sleeping in his big boy bed that first time, just as I have felt at a dozen such moments for each of our four kids - that is how my Man looked when Berto lost his first tooth. He had the sudden shocking realization that hits all parents at some juncture: My child is really growing up.

Last night he said to Ella, "You don't need to cry about it. You're supposed to be excited, and Mama and Papa are supposed to cry about it. Because that means our Ella is a big girl now."

As he set her down, I looked at him and gave him a weak smile in return for his beam. I knew he was right about my tears, at least.

This is one of those moments. Our little girl is growing up.


Friday, August 24, 2012

A Post in Pictures: Prescott


Instead of driving downtown in the rain 9:30 on a Tuesday night just to check out the late night record show (Barenaked Ladies), my family drove up to Prescott in the July rain, 9:30 on a Saturday morning just to check out the annual Indian Art Market.



No, no - don't worry. This isn't another Sedona disastrous car trip story. This is about a man driving in on-and-off torrential rain for a couple of hours to take his woman to a Native American art fair. Man, that man loves his woman, especially considering that she was about to ask him for two pair of earrings after he drove all that way, white knuckles on the steering wheel.

While Papa tensed his body and locked his eyes on the truck ahead as the wipers swooshed madly, our kids exclaimed excitedly about the downpour pounding and streaming at our windows, and we were treated to commentary from our daughter about some low-floating clouds (Look! It's like they're hanging in mid-air!).

Finally, we got to Prescott around lunchtime and parked in front of the courthouse. Then we scrounged around in the car for old jackets abandoned in there since winter. They smelled like sour milk and stinky feet (the whole van does actually), but they would help keep out the rain.

We took the long walk before the beautiful Arizona Territorial Courthouse on our way to lunch at Prescott Brewery. The walk was cold and wet and confused, because it was only 60 something stinkin' degrees, still pouring, and we actually had no idea where the brewery was and saw no guiding sign. After asking some locals for directions, we were on our way across the street and paddling - uh I mean padding, though a canoe would have been welcome - down the sidewalk toward a hip indoor shopping venue.

When we stepped inside, we were wet through, and my husband, holding our Danny Sammy, was making puddles. The brewery wasn't open yet, and no amount of puppy dog eyes on the glass was going to persuade them to unlock their doors early. So we went up two flights of stairs to the restrooms and had ourselves a collective potty break.

When we finally sat down in the restaurant, I peremptorily ordered a beer sampler without waiting for my Man's input. I felt bad about that, especially when I saw how much beer came with the sampler, but then I didn't feel bad when I tasted the Petrified Porter. Yum! I savored the coffee notes in it, and it was just the thing for a woman with wet hair to warm up to. The food was good, and the kids behaved, thanks in part to sketch-a-doodles our server provided. We all passed around the offerings; nobody kept their dish to themselves. Between pretzels, nachos, hamburger, pizza, mac-and cheese and dips, we were well-fed and ready to head out to the market. Better yet, the rain had cleared.

Territorial Governor's "Mansion" 


The Market was on the grounds of the Sharlott Hall Museum, what once was the Territorial Governor's home. My kids love that place, because on display are all kinds of medical tools, like bloodletting instruments and bullet extractors,


antique pistols,

and a mummified mouse that was discovered beneath the house.

I loved showing them how simply people used to live.

My kids were not so thrilled when we spent the next couple hours surveying the vast array of jewelry in booths winding all around the grounds, the mud squelching beneath our shoes. I was waiting for something to grab my eye and beg to be worn by me for years to come, but every piece that did so seemed to cost a car payment. Finally, though, we had our "finds".

Before we left we bought the kids some lollipops to keep them happy on the haul home, and my Man snagged a picture of the Palace Saloon while stopped at a light. It's an Arizona landmark. Wyatt Earp, Doc Holiday and Earp's brothers Virgil and Morgan stopped there on their way to Tombstone in the late 1870s. In 1900 there was a devastating fire that raged through Whiskey Row, the line of businesses across from the courthouse. Patrons saved the ornate bar from the Palace Saloon, carrying it outside and across the street to the Courthouse plaza before continuing to knock em' back. The beautifully carved bar is still in use today. It's one of those great Old West stories.

Prescott is one of those great Old West towns.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Fried and True

When my husband and I first got married he knew how to cook his mom's spaghetti, cornbread, cube steak and also tuna helper, and I knew...well, I knew how to make cinnamon-chocolate chip cookies. We were meant for each other.

For that first year we ate lots of frozen pizza and tuna and baked potatoes in the microwave - uh, microwaved potatoes, I guess - and cookies. Anyway, one night we thought we'd get creative and have hot dogs. And my husband trusted the woman who thought "sweet things" was a major food group to make them.

I went into the kitchen, got a frying pan out, and decided to make those hot dogs the way my family used to take them. I split them down the center, heated some oil in the pan, and splayed the dogs open-faced in it. I waited until they were nicely curled at the ends and seared to perfection.

I brought the finished product in a bun to my husband, and I was completely insulted by his horrified expression after all my hard labor.

"What the heck is this? What'd you do?"

"I fried them."

"Fried them?!"

I tried to explain to him about cultural influences, culinary ingenuity, and honored family traditions, but while I was talking he went to find a sauce pan and boiled himself a new hot dog. Therefore, I didn't have an opportunity to tell him about my barbecued bologna heritage, but I figured that was a revelation best saved for the future.

These many years later, I no longer fry hot dogs, and I don't even eat bologna unless I'm visiting relatives. I won't touch Tuna Helper, but I do feed frozen chicken nuggets to my kids occasionally. I know how to make cornbread, spaghetti and cube steak - ha! I'm crazy about spices, and if it were possible to OD on cinnamon and nutmeg, I would have gone to re-hab years ago. Our family eats lots of raw fruit and steamed or grilled veggies, but I still microwave the potatoes.

I've learned, sadly, that one can't bake a whole meal. I think it goes without saying that hot dogs are best left out of the frying pan. But please don't doubt the great and growing ambitions I have in the realm of my kitchen, because you can bet ya that one day I'll realize them when I get over my fear of raw meat, sharp knives and French cooking. Maybe someday soon I'll even share the few good recipes here that I execute easily and well.

Until then I'm sending you over to A Lady in France. She shares easy recipes (French recipes!) like this ONE, and she also tells wonderful stories like this ONE. Today, she happens to be sharing Part Two of a captivating story about Paris written by Daniel Hylton, my dad.

As for me, I must get cooking, literally. Tonight I'm making grilled chicken, Parker House rolls, and sweet potato souffle. Haha, so there, and wish me good luck!

Monday, August 20, 2012

Go to Paris...

I am very excited to inform my readers that today Dad's romantic and smashing post on Paris is featured at A lady in France. She read it and fell in love with it, and you will, too. Even if you have read it before, pop over to Lady Jennie's blog and read it again; it's worth it. Then look over all the excellent posts by Jennie herself. She's funny and down to earth and makes living in France sound like it's something any of us could obtain (if we happened to marry a French man/woman, found a company to work for that was willing to transfer us to their Paris office, or became a famous ex-pat writer like Hemingway). I have read A lady in France for a long time, and I promise that you will find lots to love, including French recipes that make it all look so attainable, even for cooks like myself.

So travel now to Paris, and then explore more of the sights and sounds of France through Lady Jennie's eyes. Plan on a pleasant journey - enjoy!

Friday, August 17, 2012

39 Years



My beautiful, headstrong mother had just barely turned 18 when she married an even stronger-willed, intellectual man of 19 in 1973. My parents both wished they could have been married a couple of months earlier, but my grandfather sent Mom to visit some relatives in Canada that summer in order to give the couple time apart. According to my maternal grandfather, Dad showed up nearly every day at their house in Idaho, wanting to know when his bride was returning.

Maybe Grandpa thought things had moved too fast, because by their third date Dad told Mom that he loved her. Though her initial response was a hesitant, "I like you alot, too," they were soon engaged.

Both my parents said the wedding was a blur because of stress, jitters and family drama. Dad said he only remembered going in for the kiss and the walk together back up the aisle.


The fact that my mother was so stressed was largely due to the fact that she didn't wear her dream dress. She had purchased her dress months before at a small bridal boutique. When she returned from her Canada trip, she went to collect it, and the dress was brought out to her. Only it wasn't Mom's dress at all. It was an entirely different style and two sizes too big. The unscrupulous shop owner asserted rather awkwardly that it was indeed the right dress, but my mom, horrified and too angry for words, knew the truth: the woman had sold her dress to someone else, probably because they offered to pay extra, while she was away.

There was no time to find another, but Mom was marrying the love of her life. So she took the dress that the shop owner offered her with no hope of having it altered. It is obvious in the pictures that the dress is too large, but she is radiant, and her exquisite veil is perfect against her lovely, clear skin and soft brown hair.

At least her going-away dress, the one my father bought for her, was her own choice. She wore it when they left the church in Dad's truck for their simple honeymoon. No one, I believe, would call Council, Idaho exotic.

As my parents gradually built their life together - having children, growing spiritually, forging careers, pursuing dreams, and eventually settling in Tennessee - they would not have any opportunity for exotic trips. Unless you count St. Louis with kids in tow. I complain that my husband and I have never gotten away yet, but my parents went years together with nary a date.

For their anniversary each year, we kids used to put on a song and dance show, directed by my big sister Vinca, to honor and entertain them. I remember them coming home in the summer evening from work, exhausted. We always had a homemade sign high on the wall with an exuberant and colorful, Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad! They sat down in their adjacent arm chairs and held hands as we came out in our costumes - Hawaiian shirts one year for Beach Boys' songs, miscellaneous stuff for a Wizard of Oz theme, etc. - and tried our best to be cute and talented in order to remind them, Who needs a night out when you have four such adorable children?

My mom told me recently that one year they did try to have a romantic picnic at a lake for a change, but all the fish in the lake had died. You couldn't get within half a mile; the stench was so terrible. So they came home and spread a blanket on the living room floor for their romantic lunch. You do what you have to do, in the spirit of the occasion, and it's easier when you truly love each other.


Only in the last several years have my parents had grand adventures in faraway places. My mother is one of the foremost diamond salespeople in the country, so her company sends her to a luxury resort every year, usually in some tropical place. And my big brother sent them on a trip to Paris more than a year ago, giving them some of the best days of their life together, or so they told me. Of course, I did venture to think before that disclosure that having us four kids constituted the best days of their lives. But I have yet to see Paris, so what do I know?

As a young man my dad prayed that God would guide him to the right woman for a wife, and he jokes that God brought him the one woman saintly enough to put up with him. To his delight she also happened to be beautiful, steady, gracious and optimistic. She sees him for the intelligent, talented, passionate and temperamental guy he is. They're still chasing their dreams together and looking forward to their 40th anniversary next year.

My anniversary wish for my wonderful parents is that they will someday return to Paris and enjoy more of their best days in that city of lovers that suits them so well.

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

4 Blessings on a Weds. - Julia Child


Life is good, and here are a few reasons why:

1) Julia Child


I do not own a copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, but I love Julia. Today she would have been 100.  And, truly, the only reason that I do not own her famed cookbook is because French cooking is too far above me, and I haven't the time currently to climb the cuisine heights to master it. I'm still biding my time at base camp, waving cheerfully at those on their way up, and relying on grilled meat, steamed veggies and canned beans for my family's sustenance.

Today on a radio program they were asking home cooks to call in with their cooking disasters in honor of Julia's birthday. Well, I've done it all - started a fire in the microwave, dumped a whole tray of chocolate chip cookies on the oven door, forgotten to add sugar, leavener, or half the butter, made snackle when I meant to make frosting, and served raw cinnamon rolls to my unsuspecting in-laws.

But, like many home cooks, natural or unnatural, I carry the light of Julia Child in my heart.

2) My husband would throw me across the Swiss border...


(movie spoiler alert!)

At the end of the movie Shining Through , Ed Leland (Michael Douglas) carries an unconscious Linda Voss (Melanie Griffith) over the Swiss Border while Nazis shoot at them. I recently watched the movie with my husband on Netflix, and I found it as romantic as the first time I saw it - just a young girl dreaming of a man who would do the same for me. Well, now I have that man, or I thought I did. I asked him the next day whether he would carry me across the Swiss border under enemy fire, and he replied, "No, I'd throw you across. Then you wouldn't slow me down, and we could both get across quicker."

It may not be as romantic, but it made me laugh uproariously. Eat your heart out, Michael Douglas!

3) City Parks



In a metropolis like ours, city parks prove as diverse as America itself. We have one in a rougher part of town with a beautiful meditation garden. There's one near South Mountain that has so little shade it ain't funny, but it also has some of the neatest, most life-threatening playground equipment that reminds me of my childhood. There are many with splash pads, ponds and kiddie trains. And there's one close to home with a wide open field, tall trees and great shade that makes you feel as if you're in a world without smog.

4) We ate, we played, and I lost all our spending money...


My husband and I had our first date night in months, and for a change we went to a casino. When I told my mom we were going for the buffet with crab legs, she told me that I would stay for the slots. I didn't believe her since I had never really understood the attraction.

For the date I wore new and quite uncomfortable heels and a sexy little red dress that probably had a "not for mothers with four kids" warning label on it. I wore it, anyway, and despite the fact that it fought to be a whole two inches shorter than I let it.

While we ate we watched a huge dust storm blow in, a typical enchanted summer's evening in our part of the world. The buffet was okay, but the slots were a blast. My husband played only a little, because in his words, "I have more fun watching you, because you're so cute." Of course I should have stopped when I was a couple bucks ahead, but I was fired up for the big pay off and spent us down to our last eight cents.  We left early to pick up our kids, but the quiet car ride was even romantic. We were satisfied.


P.S. I'm thankful for all your comments lately.

Monday, August 13, 2012

Stroller Pains


I left it, all dusty and alone, with bags of used clothes piled on its seat and tray. No one was there to receive it, and no one came out to the loading area despite the loud click when I unfolded it and the rattle of its wheels against the pavement as I set it down. Ah, well...someone will find it, I thought as I rolled it out of the sun and locked its wheels, careful not to let it touch the miscellaneous things around it. (I didn't know where they'd been.)

Then I got in my air-conditioned van, very slowly drove away, and abandoned it there with all that other stuff strangers no longer want or use at the back of a charity thrift store. I had been so impatient to get rid of it, but as I glanced back in my side mirror, I felt a sudden, painful constriction in my chest.

I turned the corner, and a panicky voice began to plead, Go back for it! What are you doing? What were you thinking? Don't leave it with all that junk. I breathed deeply and tried to let go, but the voice took on a tone of logic, No one's going to want it, anyway. It's too old and faded and it has that orange crayon melted in the pocket. Yes, true. I had taken great care to vacuum it out and wipe it down, but the orange crayon remained as well as some dust I hadn't noticed on its frame. There, then, said the voice of sentiment, go and get it before anyone finds it and tell the thrift store you changed your mind. All four of your babies rode in that stroller, every single one of them...save it for the memories.

I was already on the street and going through a light, but even as I made my way to pick up my two oldest from school, the lump in my throat was growing along with an urge to turn back. Those tall, skinny kids who were about to be dismissed from class had once been tiny little things, riding in that blue and yellow stroller. And then their two siblings had occupied it after them. All of them had snacked in it, slept in it, thrown tantrums in it and gone for long strolls on city streets, in nature or shopping centers in it. All of them had been nestled in the crook of my left arm many times as I pushed their empty stroller around one-handed.

I thought back on all the baby-rearing history and adventures as I inched through car line at my kids' school. I couldn't take the remorse anymore. I needed support and pragmatism, so I called my Man up.

"Honey, I dropped off the stroller today," I said. "Do you want me to go back and get it?"

"Why?"

I swallowed several times before saying carefully and tearfully, "Because all four of our babies rode in that stroller..."

There was a pause and then a long chuckle and a gentle reproof, "Silly woman....no, we don't need it anymore. Let somebody else get use out of it. It's fine."

Would somebody else get use out of it, though? Would they sense all the residual love clinging to its fabric and honor that despite its appearance? Or would they cruelly beat it with sticks for being so used and sorry-looking? Surely I had made a mistake in offering it up to the great unknown.

"We could get a lap dog and push it around in it."

"NO. I'm not doing that."

I didn't even mention how my sister had used hers to push around shopping bags on Black Friday. Maybe I could have used it for Christmas shopping, too, with an attached disclaimer that read, "No, I didn't forget my baby. This stroller is retired and hauls merchandise for a hobby."

"We should have had more kids," I said, jokingly.

He replied very seriously, "No, we shouldn't have."

As I hung up I felt better, still shaky but fortified. Then my older kids got in the car, and with one look at their sweet faces, the tears came back. Berto watched me sniffling for a while in silence and then asked, "Mama, why are you crying? Is it the paper again?"

My boy knows me too well and my propensity for crying at news stories. I tried several times to tell him what was wrong but faltered on the words. When I finally spilled it out, his response was much like his father's.

"Oh, Mama..."

Silly woman.

But I still wish I had saved our stroller.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Romance Cravings

I have been bitten by the green ogre of jealousy where it concerns a few of our friends. They have family in town. If you are a parent with young kids, you understand my envy.

At a swim party, my girlfriend brought up a conference she attended recently for her job. It lasted three days, and her mom needed to watch the kids from about 8am to 4pm. But since her mom lives an hour away, she offered to just take the kids for the whole entire time to stay at her place. My friend and her husband had three consecutive date nights. They probably camped out at the local casino with a couple kegs of beer.

Upon hearing this I raised my fist from the pool and shook it around at anyone who even looked like they had the in-town support of relatives and said, "Grrrr! That's why I'm jealous of you guys who have family in town!"

Obviously, we have none. Well, get a babysitter! you're telling me. No, no. My Man and I are very careful about who watches our kids. There is no way in hell we will leave them with someone without knowing that person(s) for a minimum of five years. That's the bare requirement. Seven is more ideal. And, okay, yes we have good friends we have known for the specified amount of time, but it's a fair-trade barter system. We are always there for each other in case of emergency, and that certainly eases the mind. As for a date night, they babysit for us, and then we wait for them to ask us to babysit for them. If they don't ask we have to start dropping subtle hints: You guys should have a date night. When was the last time you went out? Gosh, I don't even remember...so long ago. Did you hear about that new restaurant by you? I bet you guys would like it. Classy place. Of course, it's not kid-friendly...But, hey! We'll watch them for you! What time?

During my Man's company Christmas party last year, our longtime friends watched the kids. Our youngest was only 18 months, and my friend had to walk and sing him to sleep. When she stopped singing he kicked her, she told me, so she sang til he drifted off. It was great knowing our children were with people we trusted, people who would sing bedtime lullabies.

Still, the night wasn't what it could have been. I spent half the party in the restroom because of tummy troubles, and the other half of the time my husband and I waited around for the DJ to play a song we would actually dance to instead of the ridiculous hip-hop that mostly got played. We felt very anxious about the music selection, because we enjoy dancing and we knew time was marching. I also made a disparaging comment over dinner about not ever wanting to live in California to one of my husband's co-workers who grew up there and loved it. My adult manners were out of practice; my husband, the sophisticated guy, had to remind me about the formal place settings as if I was at etiquette class. Mostly, we felt this huge pressure to get the best out of our rare, limited date. Maybe that accounted for my stomach issues. Anyway, we hurried out of the shindig later than we meant to, despairing of our chance to dance to one more swing song and worried that our friends were tired or our kids unsettled.

Everything was fine. The kids were all asleep. But the date would have been better if, like some of my husband's co-workers, we knew that the kids were safely tucked in at Grandma's house, and there was no need to pick them up until the morning. We could have had a few drinks and stayed at the hotel where the party was, stumbling up to our room in the small hours. With friends, even close friends as ours are, you feel that it would be such a huge imposition to ask them to keep your kids overnight and part of the next day, too.

And there's where the ogre finds me and begins to gnaw. I have a fantasy about going to one of these ultra-fancy resorts here in town with my husband during the summer. You can get excellent deals, because no one likes vacationing next door to hell, and that's exactly where this desert valley is from June to October. Anyway, all the locals have their staycations when the hotels offer their cut rate deals to fill the rooms. Staying at one of the most glamorous with my husband for the whole weekend - swimming in the luxury pools together, drinking cocktails, sleeping in to the ungodly and now unheard of hour of 9am, eating meals in nice clothes and with adult decorum - it sounds like an enchanted tale of marriage-enhancing romance, and my lust for it is rapidly growing. But we have no family in town.

"Aren't you jealous of our friends?" I asked my husband passionately a couple of days after our friend's disclosure.

"No."

"Why not? Three days! They got three whole days!"

"Because if we had that many date nights, we'd have six kids by now. We do fine without the date nights."

I saw his point and felt slightly better. And, thankfully, our friends agreed to give us a date night in the next weekend. Nevertheless, as Scarlett O'Hara is my witness, next summer I'll be lounging by a ridiculously lux pool, cocktail in hand, flirting with my shirtless husband.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

10 Blogger Blessings on a Wednesday

I was going to write something middle-of-the-road sarcastic for my blog anniversary in July, with full awareness of my blessings thrown in between the lines. I deleted that draft, because it made me resentful of myself and of my slow progress in this writing endeavor.

So let's try something else, a tinge sweeter - that dry anniversary Champagne with a fair splash of orange juice perhaps. Here is a list of a few of my sure blessings as a blogger this year.

1) I'm grateful I'm writing at all. It's hard to find the time I want to commit to it, but I'm doing what I love. And no one's paying me for it...oh wait, that's not a good thing. Dang!

2) I'm glad I'm not on twitter. I'm quite a bear when I'm trying to write, work out some little tale, and my kids ask for the simplest things - like water. I don't need more distractions to rob them of my time. I still have my youngest two at home. They'll be in school before I know it. Just thinking about my toddler entering kindergarten made me cry one night, and he's just a wee little thing at two-and-a-half. When he goes to school, it's going to be real rough. But I'll have more time to write and try to succeed at it then, so no rushing and leaving life behind.

3) My traffic is higher this year. That is all I want to or can positively say about traffic.

4) Despite my hideous or bland or dysfunctional design - however you might describe it - people still read what I write. I have a few faithful readers and a few new readers. Thank God! I am seriously thinking about paying the neighborhood squirrel in cashews to design my blog. Since cashews are all I'm willing to pay, I thought he'd be the ideal candidate. Plus, I believe he could hit a few random buttons and do a better job. (As to why I do not learn HTML, see above twitter comment; I just want to write, dammit! It's all I have time for unless I swear off sleep and become a blogging zombie.)

5) I'm grateful Mr London Street and Resistant But Persistent keep me on their blog roll.

6) I am supremely, enormously thankful for the increase in comments. Increase might be the wrong word. I'm thankful for comments. Please don't hesitate to talk back to me. If I have to, I'll picket for my equal rights to conversation.

7) The Empress followed me, and I'm glad of it. Her latest post is hilarious.

8) My childhood was happy and interesting, and it provided me with my first tales to tell. My very first post explains how this blog got its name. To prove the interesting part, read this one.

9) Various family members support my writing efforts, and what's more, these related angels give me words of encouragement. In example, my bro-in-law Roberto supports my blog. I find this quite amazing, because he's my in-law and doesn't have to.

10) Above everything I could hope to mention or have forgotten to is this: I LOVE my family. My kids keep me entertained and active, and my handsome, smart husband constantly provides me with witty words that I promptly steal for my blog. My life is richer, more blessed, and bigger than the words with which I attempt to describe it, and I would do well to always bear that in mind. God has blessed me greatly.


To conclude, I'm going to share a great quote from my dad, author of the fantasy series Kelven's Riddle. He gave me some fortifying words on a day when I felt like a complete failure at what I so desperately want to do with my life (beside that more important thing - being the best mother I can possibly be).

Cheer up. We all fail and we all succeed. Success is continuing to do whatever it is that your heart desires through thin times and thick - and there are generally more of the former than the latter. Besides, true success only comes at the end of life when the Lord says, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant." Everything else is just strife...keep your chin up and keep moving on - Daniel Hylton

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

S-c-h-o-o-l!



I'm obviously not ready for school, the stringent, high-stress routine of it. I'm not talking about my further education, though I occasionally still have disturbing dreams about being sent back to elementary school. No, what I'm not in the swing of is getting my kids ready for school, and it shows.

This morning I suddenly realized my daughter might not have anything to wear, not one school-dress-code thing. All her new school uniforms were dirty to my knowledge.

"Oh no! Ana, do you have anything to wear?" I moaned.

She pulled out a pair of navy pants from last year. They are about three inches too short in the leg and would require a bungee cord to fit on her waist. It was clearly time for a scavenger hunt for the one skort, and heaven only knew where it could be, that still fit her from last year.

While I was searching for it among three different rooms, Berto asked, "Mama, where's my large white shirt?"

Dirty, that was the answer; I knew I'd never washed it after buying it last week, because I'd been waiting for white laundry to accumulate, so it could have a respectable gathering in the washer.

"Uh...."

This is about when my husband caught a whiff of the stinky, non-preparedness situation as he was expertly outfitting himself for work, including slicking back the hair.

"What's wrong?" he demanded. "Do they not have any clothes?"

"Uh, nothing. Don't worry about it. I've got it covered." What I didn't have covered was my kids. In fact, I wasn't even sure they had socks. I was pretty sure, but things seemed kinda unreliable.

"Look, Berto," I said privately to him in his room. "You might just have to wear the shirt you wore yesterday."

Dutifully, he brought it to me.

"What does this smell like?" he asked.

I took a good whiff.

"Well, it smells like a boy running around the basketball courts... (another sniff) and the back field...crawling on the classroom carpet...and talking smack with his friends. It's probably fine."

"No!" my husband boomed. "You wear that again and that thing is going to stink."

What? Did he think that the smell of two days of nine-year-old in 110 degree weather was indelible on cotton? Thankfully, I found a cache of medium-sized shirts shoved to the back of my son's closet. It wasn't ideal, and he definitely would have preferred his stinky shirt, but at least they were clean. And in my daughter's drawer (of all places!), I found for her that miracle skort that could survive a year of growth.

"Well, well..." I said to my Man as I stepped into our bedroom and puffed out my chest. "I told you I had it covered."

"Good," he responded. "I was worried I was going to have to go all G on you guys."

I laughed heartily, and then said with great admiration in my heart, "I love G!"

G is a beloved friend who is light years more organized and "with it" than me. The day before the first day of school she had her kids do a dry run - including taking showers, packing up backpacks and putting on full uniforms to stand at the door. She even timed them.

Well, well. You can bet I don't have it down to a science like G. In fact, my get-ready-for-school routine for the kids is more creative - like an abstract, hypothetical, every-man-for-himself sprint for a fuzzy finish line. I mean, that leaves things open for stuff like my daughter forgetting her shoes. Which she did today. Thankfully, it was my preschooler, and preschool hasn't started yet. When it does, perhaps I should "go all G" on my kids. I might even take it a step or two further with whistles, timers, and marches in sync to the door.

At any rate, today I did some laundry.

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

T----sh!

My baby boy must be growing up. He no longer cusses at me, and I miss it. They don't stay young forever, that's for sure.

Not three months ago he had his favorite swear word and exercised it regularly. Whenever I would sing in the car or talk in funny voices, my two-year-old Danny would screw up his face and cry out, "Trrassh!" Whenever his older brother would wag his finger at him and scold him, the rebuttal was, "Trrassh!". Whenever his sisters would not give up a toy he wanted - "Trrassh!" Or, heaven help us, if he didn't get a proper nap, the T-bombs fell like hail on our heads.

I don't know whether he was really trying to say "trash", as in "that's a load of garbage!", or whether he invented his own hyper-cool cuss word that meant much worse in the language of Terrible Twos. At any rate we all so admired his vehement delivery that we started to mimic it (I did anyway). Oh, how many afternoons driving home from school when Danny began to denounce this or that with his peculiar curse word did we in our turn throw out "Trrassh!"  and giggle in unseemly, raucous fashion! Of course, Danny Sammy soon realized that he could not only grab our attention and make us feel his displeasure by cussing in increasing frequency and pitch, but he could also make us laugh. He pronounced it first in ugly earnest, then more shrilly when we chortled, and then not three moments later with a twinkle in his narrowed blue eyes and an endearing grin on his face.

Eventually, though, someone was going to have to be responsible and teach the little whelp that cuss words aren't funny in any shape or semi-coherent form. (And it wasn't going to be the lady who shouts "damn" and "hell" at every toe stub and loud noise.) So one day my nine-year-old boy spoke up and said to me, "Mama, I really think you should stop laughing and copying when he says that. You're teaching him it's okay."


Never mind. It didn't matter what I did or didn't do as a parent. An era of language experimentation and laughter production was coming to a close. The fact that we laughed at his cuss word took the edge off of it for Danny, I guess - decreased its shock value and utility. He began to say it only every other day, then every few, then only for special occasions and now I haven't heard him exclaim, "Trrassh!" in a month or two. When I sing at or tease my kids these days, Danny prefers the more dignified and mature holler of, "Stop it, Mama!"

Like so many things when kids are growing up, his adorable toddler cussing has become nostalgic conversation fodder for future Thanksgiving visits: "Oh, let me tell you! When Danny was two he used to cuss up a storm! He'd scrunch up his little face til his eyes were just slits and cry, 'Trrassh!". We were never really sure whether he was trying to say 'trash' or something much more insulting...."