Here, Hair

Honestly, all I can see in this picture is my big nose.

(I once had a little girl on the school bus tell me I had a witch's nose. I must have been a teenager at the time, and I took it as a compliment. Halloween costumes would be easy.)

Do you think it qualifies as a selfie if you take the picture with an inexpensive camera and don't have the ability or desire to post it immediately on social media?

I'm not fond of selfies, but there is a reason why I'm sharing this picture. Something is different about me. I can't quite put my finger on it...

Just kidding. I see it now.

Twice last week I woke up in the middle of the night worrying about my hair. The first time I felt anxiety about committing to something expensive and drastic and wondered if there was any way I could back out. The second time I woke up because I had accidentally set an alarm clock for midnight and suddenly felt pangs of sadness.

After 36 years of being natural, I had dyed my hair.

Last Thursday I spent four hours in a salon getting pampered, having my hands and scalp massaged and getting strips of foil plastered to my head and then being plopped down under a dryer that felt like it was possibly frying my brain.

And the end result after my hair was washed, rinsed and conditioned without the lifting of even one of my little fingers?

I couldn't tell a difference, and as I gazed at my damp, limp hair in the mirror I thought, Great! Just my luck! She chose a color almost exactly my own. I spent all that money and damaged my hair for no change!

But then things brightened up, and I recognized the lovely change, subtle as it was. It made me happy til I experienced middle of the night remorse.

It's not all-over color. It's not highlights technically. It's that ombre coloring women are going for nowadays, though without the stark demarcation you see on some ladies' heads. It should last a few months as it grows out, the stylist assured me, because I assured her that although I have been craving a change on and off for years, I balk against maintenance. Understanding this, she told me that a complete dye job would be a bad idea, especially since I don't have greys.

I don't? Ha!

Gosh, I don't know why I'm telling you about my hair. It's a slow writing week, sorry. But, after all, every little act of daring is worth celebrating, and mine just happened to turn out all right.

This time.

I can see clearly now

I have a beautiful life.

There. It's November. Thanksgiving is approaching. And I'll just say it:

Berto, my oldest son, let me hug him on Halloween in front of his friends before I left him at a sleepover. Without embarrassment he accepts my, "I love you!" called out the car window by his school. He even lets me call him a variety of nicknames regularly without complaining. He still laughs with me when I'm laughing at myself. Usually. And he tries to cheer me up by his actions and with his words when I'm down. He will have long, deep conversations with me on everything from theology to astronomy to cinema to sports.

Oh, and he's a genius. Seriously, I have test scores and many awards to prove it.

My oldest daughter Ana never tires of being silly with me. It's like getting to goof off with a younger version of myself. When I was at the gift shop near the White Cliffs of Dover in England, I found a tin box with a picture of a crazy rabbit hopping on its lid. It spoke to me. I offered it to Ana when I got home, and she chose it for her keepsake. Every time she and I are being strange or goofy or singing and talking in one of the many silly voices in our repertoire, we end by doing a fist bump and saying exuberantly to each other, "Conejo loco!" It means crazy rabbit in Spanish. We have our own club.

She's a genius, too, and her beautiful heart shines for everyone. It's a gift from God.

My youngest girl, though a tomboy, still welcomes and invites my company and affection when I walk her into school. Ella offers me a kiss in front of all her friends who know how much she admires Batman, that Dark and lonely Knight. She hugs her ratty but loyal teddy Oonie every night as I sing her a bedtime song about her and Oonie being crime fighters in their dreams. She isn't tired of Mama or of Mama's small, imperfect gifts. And she has energy enough for all of us, especially when planning her birthday celebration. Everyone tells me now that she looks just like me. I have never seen it before, but almost from the day she was born, she reminded me of my Grandmama. I am honored.

She's a math whiz and a girl that will, I have no doubt, blaze a path in this world that others will want to follow.

Danny Sam, my baby, wishes he could still play games with me like we did each day before he started school. This past week he asked me several times until we finally played. I now know how he appreciated that time we had together. He wipes off my kisses in the morning but doesn't push me away before I plant them, His blue eyes are like an angel's; they are beautiful and make me stop and give thanks that such a little boy loves me, was given into my life. He still laughs like a little boy and still gets excited to share a story, classwork or his art with me. He's sensitive and not afraid to show me when he's mad, either.

My Danny Sam will always be my baby. Even when he's 62. But I have no doubt he will be a great many other amazing things, blessing others with his gaze from those great blue eyes and brightening the world with his talents and charm.

And my darling, darling, handsome man. I was amazed when Matthew came home for lunch Tuesday afternoon - something he never does because the commute is so long - with an armful of flowers and the few but powerful words I needed to hear from him. His thoughtfulness is all the more evident as the smell of eucalyptus from among those flowers permeates our home. He strongly dislikes that smell but got me those bouquets anyway; he knew I would love them, their vibrant colors and their heady scent. Taking me by surprise on a Tuesday afternoon is one of the most romantic things he has ever done. I'm in love with a steady, quiet, generous man.

And my life is good.

Community

A couple weeks ago at my optometrist's office, I made a confession when they asked how I was doing.

"My littlest one started kindergarten, and that was so hard. It hit me like a ton of bricks. I'm still adjusting."

Making that confession felt good. It feels good - mostly - every time I make it. Yes, I am a mama whose life has been almost entirely wrapped up in her kids' health, behavior, nutrition, entertainment, sleep, and happiness for several years now, so indeed, it did hit me like a ton of bricks when my last one left me to get a formal education.

The ladies behind the desk didn't have much to say to that, though one agreed that her youngest starting school this year impacted her in much the same way. They listened and nodded, and for me it was once more a release of feelings that have been burdening me.

Now granted, I confess my feelings too often. I don't just wear them on my sleeve; I have them emblazoned across my forehead, tattooed on my lids, threaded around my hair and dangling from my ears. I cannot keep my emotions couped up; I must free them - preferably in the company of others. This isn't always the best way, but nobody could say I'm not honest. In fact, that's what one friend told me when I made a different "confession" of feelings and insecurities to a group of ladies I respect. I asked them if they thought I was being crazy, and she replied, "No, I think you're being honest."

All this talk about feelings, my dear readers, was simply to say that we need each other, community. I need community, heaven help me. In the past few weeks, I have called my dad and my two sisters on the phone and sought out my friends for guidance and comfort in this new and uncertain phase of my life. And sure, it would not be the best idea for me to blab my real heavy concerns to near strangers at my eye doctor's, but it would not a bad idea, either, if I feel supported and respected even if, at the same exact time, I am vulnerable.

It's like that great soul song, "Lean On Me", says: "we all need somebody to lean on" at one time or another. God gave us each other, for He is Himself a community of persons: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. 

How often have we heard repeatedly the dreadful news that arose from the actions of individuals who felt profoundly alone, society's "loners"? 

Our families are ideally the mirror of God's love for us, the epicenter of a hopefully ever widening opportunity for and experience of it.

I have often heard church compared to just a social club, but for me there could be no better community than one with God at its center, one where the members learn from each other. Yes, we, imperfect as we are, know we'll still fail each other along the way with our rash judgments or selfish indifference, but we also know that we will succeed often, too, by welcoming and encouraging one other, bolstering each other in the storms, rejoicing with each other in the victories, and continually being Christ for each other.

The other day at a church volunteer gathering a young mother spoke to me of her struggles with her very temperamental toddler and his habit of getting up six to ten times a night. The best and most hopeful thing I could give to her was to assure her that I have been through that as well; my own children didn't sleep through the night until they were toddlers or preschoolers. I often felt lonely and floundering, too, in my vocation as a mother. I shared how my moms' group, started through our parish, saved me from that isolation.

Isn't that the gift we have to offer in community - the assurance that "You are not alone" and "I am with you"?

With the solid foundation of compassion, mercy, hope, selflessness, courage, and at the very base, love, we build authentic communities. We don't just build them with our family, our colleagues, fellow parents, fellow believers, or those with whom we share a common interest. We build them by including those who are lonely, afraid, marginalized, smiling regularly at someone who looks as if they feel alone, giving our time to one another.

We are not islands. Beginning with family we are the essential building blocks of life and love for each other.

Short, mostly unedited: Gratitude

This morning at my children's school, the wind suddenly picked up, rushing toward me...well, like a movie moment.

I lifted my face and watched the trees, and I was suddenly very grateful. It never fails that a strong wind reminds me of the presence of God the Holy Spirit. And so I thought, Thank you Father for my life, for my health, for Matthew my husband, and Berto, Analisa, Gabriella and Daniel Samuel our children...even though I am having trouble being happy right now, I am still so very grateful...

Thank you for everything. Please keep doing what you're doing. And help me be happy.

When I reflect a bit, I am awed by the fact that I get to know my children - four beautiful, kind, talented, intelligent children. Maybe I'm amazed, in the words of Paul McCartney. I hear their praises often. I'm not surprised by the admiration they receive, even though they behave better for others usually, but I am struck by the great gift of having had a part in bringing them into this world, a not unsubstantial part. Nevertheless, when people stop me to tell their impressions of my children, I want to say simply, it's God. I try, but he made them what they are. I have a part in it, but I would not do it nearly so well devoid of his grace and guidance or lacking the courage to keep going and working at motherhood even when I think I am not doing it well at all, that I'll never learn how to be a truly great, on-task mother.

I want to complain about the incessant work of a larger family sometimes. I want to ask my husband and children if they realize what I do, if they notice, if the kids will ever listen about putting things back where they belong instead of leaving them littered about our home. If they're thankful. I want to cry, Look at me! I'm doing a lot for you here! But I also want to shut my mouth, to not say it, to not demand the recognition. Shouldn't I appreciate what others do, too? Anyway, when it is demanded, it is always given grudgingly, and these tasks are my job, even when they spread into the evening hours as they perpetually do.

So, thank God for my vigor, that I can do every day what needs to be done. I am very grateful.

And there are great little things that bring me joy right now. For instance, the smell my tomato plant's leaves leave on my hands after I have pulled them between my fingers. They started as a mushy tomato on my counter, a tiny vine curled in its heart. I sliced it open and submerged it and its juices in my rose planter. And now, look, it has grown so tall in a few weeks!

Similarly, I took a moldy, sprouting sweet potato several weeks ago and buried the whole thing in an empty planter. It grew wildly within a few days, so much so that we wondered if it would take over our house, climbing up the stucco columns to eventually smother the whole structure.

I have trimmed it since, but its vines seem to prefer to trail the earth anyway.

These plants, as well as my red roses, make me happy, simple pleasures, because I seem fated to kill green things. Yet here I am succeeding, and I love to stroke my living greenery, grateful that I have made things grow through my care.

My own life has grown tremendously through my efforts and with the presence and love of others since I became a wife and mother. It's growing still, swelling with blessings and experiences and lessons learned after countless mistakes and a few frightening, startling intervals. I cannot fail to be grateful for it.

Sometimes I just need a little reminder, like feeling a refreshing wind pick up on a cool September morning.

Thanks Giving

I read a comment from a psychologist yesterday that Thanksgiving is losing its gratitude luster and becoming merely an exercise in gluttony. Silly cynicism - I hope not! Besides, when else in all the year do we eat candied yams and canned cranberries with such abandon? Is that not something for which to be thankful?

In the same newspaper section I also read several stories of Black Friday traditions. Formerly I would have scoffed at the notion of any worthwhile tradition centered on consumerism, but what I learned from reading these stories of generations of family members staying up all night, comparing ads, waiting in long lines, and planning coffee and breakfast breaks along their shopping routes is that yes, family time full of laughter and capable of forming wonderful memories can be made on a day full of consumer insanity. And who am I to judge? It may not be my thing at all, but if mothers and daughters or whole clans can bond on such a day in such a way, it's good. Family is golden, and the memories are the real, lasting bargain.

For my own silly non-Black-Friday-honoring self, there are many blessings I try to count all the year: my family, our health, our security, our faith. But there are some things for which I am incredibly grateful that have been on my mind a good deal lately as this wonderful, down-to-earth holiday we call Thanksgiving approaches:

My Dad's Health and His Book and Mama's Recipe

My dad had a very hard year. He suffered serious injuries during a fall in March, was ill on and off for months, and then developed a terrible, scary infection in his head that badly frightened his loved ones.

All of those challenges delayed the fifth book in his Kelven's Riddle fantasy series. Honestly, my dad has had to accommodate several upsets in his creative processes over the years because of the demands of unpredictable, messy life. He wrote about some of those challenges in this inspiring post about perspective and gratitude: Buck Up, Boy; It Isn't Normandy.

But despite a bad year Daniel Hylton, my dad, has put out the fifth and final book of the Kelven's Riddle story in time for Christmas. I have read and relished them all, but don't take my word for it. You can read a review by a fantasy reader here: Farewell Kelven's Riddle.

I had a bad dream once that I had to finish Dad's books for him. I could not imagine telling this story of valor, love, the cost of freedom and unlikely but enduring friendships as well as he. I am glad that dream was not a reality. This year I am very thankful that my dad is healthy and that, at long last, I can have all his books upon my shelf.

(I must say that I am also grateful that for my whole life he has mentored me in my writing endeavors. Thanks, Dad.)

And I am very grateful for heirloom recipes like this magical one I received from my mom when I was newly married and fumbling through the Big Feast prep. I was blessed to eat it all those Thanksgivings growing up. Now I make it myself year after year, and it always gets rave reviews whenever I serve it: Mama Darlin's Sweet Potato Casserole. Thanks, Mom!!

The Mom's Group

For years I have thought and thought again about writing of these lovely people; I have chickened - or turkeyed - out every time. The pressure to attempt to sum up what this surrogate family means to my own little clan...I never felt I could do it justice. But I'll try at long last - only because it's Thanksgiving.

When we moved to Arizona my husband and I had no friends or family here. No friends when our first child, Berto, was born. No friends to help us move into our first house. No friends to call on the phone while putting myself in time-out from my kids. No one.

I soon discovered that a mother needs friends to maintain sanity as my sense of loneliness increased each month after my son's birth. My husband offered to introduce me to his co-workers' wives, but they didn't have children. I needed compatriots that would understand my struggles with nursing, nutrition, potty-training, discipline and sleep lust. When my Ana came I knew I couldn't take the isolation from my own kind anymore. I prayed for friends. Yes, prayed - and then I called up my church and asked if I could start a group of some kind. They quickly put something in the church bulletin. Soon I was calling moms and asking when they would like to meet. Much to my chagrin they all wanted to meet during the day midweek, so I set up a play date at the church nursery twice a month on Wednesdays, but I regretfully told one of the moms that I wouldn't be able to make it; our family had only one vehicle.

That fellow mother, my dear friend Cathleen, said that I had to be there; she drove south past the church to pick me up every other Wednesday, took us all the way back up to the church, then drove my family home after our play date only to drive all the way north past the church again to her own home.

What a blessing that was for me and how Cathleen and I laughed years later remembering stuffing three car seats in the back of her sedan! Because of Cathleen's generosity my children and I got out twice a month to spend time in community.

The group is and has been for some time a family. Some of our friends have scattered across the US and the world, but once a member of this group, always a member. Our kids have grown together since babyhood, started school together, celebrated birthdays, Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmastime together. After the birth of children, we parents have rotated turns bringing meals to the blessed but tired families. Heck, my friends brought me the fixings for our holiday meal - delicious red mashed potatoes and chorizo-squash stuffing - when my youngest daughter, Ella, was born a week before Thanksgiving! We've rushed to each other's sides during illness, sheltered each other's little ones in emergencies and exchanged babysitting. Our kids cannot remember a time without these fellow young uns from the group, their cousins not by blood but by bonds years in the making. And even the men, years after the moms and kids, finally realized they had friends with whom they could go out on "man dates" to the local brewery.

I, for one, do not know what I would do without our Mom's Group. It's very easy for me to say I love them like family.

Sports

Oh, I fought sports! I am a devotee of the home and family time and quiet life. I do not like or believe in endless structured activities. I grew up in the country where our sport was running through the cornfield with our dogs, swimming the creek, and walking in the woods. I didn't think my kids needed sports. My athletic man and I argued about it.

He won.

I have been proven wrong, because now I see their worth. My man, a city boy himself all his life, played sports, and he knew their value in the concrete jungle.

Instead of begging for television on Saturdays, my two eldest are out running their hearts out on a different kind of field, learning how to support and get along/work well with others. They have learned to trust and use the power in their own bodies - an integral thing for all of us. Meanwhile, my youngest two are supporting their siblings in between trips to the adjacent playground on game days, and hey! It counts as good old green time even if it's not in the country. Matthew is the kids' soccer coach, back into his beloved sports while using them to teach respect, teamwork, and more than athletic skills - life skills.

One of the greatest blessings to arise from all the practices and games has been the camaraderie that has developed between Berto and Ana. When little tykes they were close buddies, but as they grew older, he became harder on her; it seemed to grow worse until recently. Now they have great things in common: a competitive spirit and love of the games(s). Now little sis is Berto's teammate and compatriot in the world of athletics. He has her back, and she has his.

As for me? I am on the sidelines each Saturday, pacing, yelling, cheering, gasping. I hate to say it - I really hate to say it - but I am a bonafide soccer mom. And I'm terribly afraid there's no turning back now.

Boots

Alright, it's a little thing, but I am grateful for these boots. I bought them here in Arizona at an establishment called Saba's for my sister Annie's wedding in San Saba, Texas. I spent far too much on them - or so I thought at the time. Since then I have grown to like them very much and possibly love them. Yes, they're a bit loud, quite daring for everyday wear, but I have never shied away from making a statement. I have worn them on a plane, to my kids' school, to go shopping and at church to boot. They are incredibly comfortable and fulfilling. Fulfilling? Yes, but I don't know how exactly. And the smell of them? Real leather paradise!

God bless you this Thanksgiving, my readers and friends! And to my family, blood-related or not, scattered across this country and in the United Kingdom and Chile, please know that I love you tremendously. Our little family will think of you as we sit down for our feast and ponder all those people and things in our lives for which we are deeply grateful.

Etiquette Nazis

If you don't say "Bless you!" when someone sneezes in this house, you're likely to get cursed. Unless you're a guest, of course; then we'll generously make allowances for your pitiful rudeness while making faces behind your back.

The whole "Bless you!" thing isn't my pet peeve. It's Matthew's, my chivalrous husband. For years of our marriage, I suffered under his cruel tutelage as he lambasted me each time I didn't say bless you when he manfully sneezed. Now I'm so scared not to bless people that I nervously cry, "Bless you!" when anyone passes gas, coughs or burps in this house.

For quite some time I thought it was Matthew's upbringing that dictated this strange adherence to a, pardon me, somewhat out-of-date practice. I mean, really! When people used to say bless you in the Middle Ages it was because they thought you were likely going to die, and they wanted you to know they wouldn't harbor any grudges when you're poor sneeze-racked body was lowered into the ground. But as for my man's family, I soon discovered it wasn't actually their thing, because you can sneeze until you're blue in the face or go into a seizure around those fine people, and they wouldn't bless your disease-ridden cat. It's not because they don't care, I believe, but because they are simply far too pragmatic to think you might die from that common cold, dust inhalation or allergic attack.

Regardless from where Matthew's obsession with sneezing sympathy stemmed, I have now been well-trained and am stuck for life compulsively blessing strangers at the movie theater, whispering bless you at church during the priest's homily, and on frequent occasions when my bum kids won't take notice of my own sniffles, pitifully consoling myself with a, "Bless me..."

But don't pity me too much, I beg of you, for I have my own etiquette insanity that I have forcibly hoisted on my man in return. It's a little thing, really, and it goes like this: when I speak - no matter what nonsense I say - I demand a response of some sort. It can be a rhetorical question, an observation, or a simple statement, but you'd better acknowledge me. I blame my need for validation on the fact that I was the youngest and most ignorant of four kids. (I still am.) Even when I dramatically uttered cuss words in order to be heard, I was merely laughed at.

So, you see, I can say, "Meatloaf - it's what's for dinner!" and I expect my man to politely respond with an, "Umm, umm, good!" even though the guy can't stand meatloaf - not even with quality ketchup on it.

If I pointlessly comment on the duration of the hot weather here in town, I will burn holes in his head until he answers it with, "107? Yep, toasty."

Because I spend all day with a preschooler and most of the afternoon with arguing, school-weary children, I crave back-and-forth conversation and the assurance that I still have interesting things to say to adults without imitating the whining or shrieking tactics of my little ones. Therefore, I often end long discourses on the state of world affairs or thorny personal conundrums with a You know what I mean? or  You hear what I'm saying? in order to elicit the response I crave. Even with the most inane utterances on the most mundane things, I must have a response. It may seem like I am talking to myself when I muse, "I wonder why these plates overheat in the microwave?", but if you don't answer me, Bucko, one of them is likely to crash on your head.

All this reflection makes me wonder, though: is it good manners to force anyone save your own children to observe their manners? Is it right, for instance, to do what my four-year-old does a millisecond after he sneezes and yell indignantly, "No one said bless you!" before anyone had a chance to say it, or sarcastically mutter as my man has been known to do, "Thank you for all the bless yous..." or glare at my husband as I demand, "Well?" to get that assurance that he really is following every word I utter? In short, are etiquette Nazis all that polite?

Nope, we sure ain't. But if you do indeed die from that common cold, you can rest assured that you will have a thousand of our "bless you!"s to send you on your merry, blessed way.

A Holiday Recipe - Mama Darlin's Sweet Potato Casserole

Something changes this time of year, and it's not the leaves in Phoenix.

Matthew thanked me last week for making a wonderful dinner of ham, parker house rolls and sweet potato casserole with salad and green beans. It was a rare feast.

I said with conviction, "I love cooking holiday dinners. Holiday dinners I get!"

"Every day's a holiday; every day's a holiday," he replied.

We looked at each other and burst out laughing. I hate cooking daily meals....maybe if I could just bake everything....yet the dinners prepared at Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's and Easter I absolutely adore. They're hard work, too - hours upon one's feet and miles of dishes before you sleep.

It's really about patriotic pride on Thanksgiving, standing apron to apron with countless other Americans who hope and pray for a moist bird. But I also love these dinners because I am a creature of nostalgia, always seeking an elixir to take me back to childhood, and the dishes I prepare are largely what my mother prepared - especially the rolls, pies and sweet potatoes. Add the fact that I appreciate the comfort of the tradition; I know exactly what to do. After all, I've been doing it for years, and it always turns out well (well, mostly...).

My mother's sweet potato casserole is one of those dishes that is always on my holiday table. It wouldn't be a feast without it. Because of this simple, rudely prepared but shockingly delicious dish, I have been lavished with praise and accosted with multiple recipe requests. Even the husband of a dear friend who witnessed its messy creation with a potato masher was astounded and appreciative when he finally tasted it. My son, Berto, has honored it by choosing it for his 5th grade's multi-cultural/pre-Thanksgiving school luncheon.

Now I am finally sharing it with you. Because of my son's severe nut allergies, I've changed it some. I present the original recipe, containing nuts and also more sugar and butter, and then my altered version. You can choose for yourselves which you prefer to try. Warning: I've heard marshmallows are out of culinary favor. Do not omit them! It's plain wrong.

Mama Darlin's Sweet Potato Soufflé

Filling:
1 40 ounce can yams                                                
3/4 cup sugar                                                  
1/2 cup melted butter                                     
2 eggs                                                                
1/3 cup evaporated milk                                 
1 teaspoon vanilla                                       


For the Topping:                                            
1/2 cup melted butter                                      
3/4 cup sugar                                                
1 cup cornflakes                                               
1 cup pecans        

miniature marshmallows                                            

Nut-Free Version

Filling:
3 cups cooked sweet potatoes/yams (2-3 large, cooked on high in microwave for about 12-15 minutes, innards scraped into casserole dish)
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/4 melted butter
2 eggs
1/3 cup evaporated milk
1 teaspoon vanilla

Topping:
1/4 cup melted butter
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 cup Cascadian Farms Oats and Honey Granola
1 cup cornflakes (optional)

miniature marshmallows

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mash all 6 ingredients (yes, even eggs!) for filling in a 2 quart casserole dish, mixing thoroughly around before baking for 20 minutes in the oven. Meanwhile, prepare topping by melting butter in a small bowl, adding brown sugar, and then stirring in nuts or granola (large pieces broken apart with fingers) and cornflakes, if desired (topping will be chewier). Remove casserole from oven and spread topping evenly over it. Bake 10-15 minutes more. Remove and spread marshmallows over center of casserole, leaving a 1 inch gap around the edge. Cook just until marshmallows are golden, about five minutes. Serve with parker house rolls, if at all possible, and enjoy!

Some dishes bring comfort and nostalgia with each bite. For me this is one of them. Thanks, Mom. Love, Hoodoo

Give It a Year

It wasn't all that long ago, while driving the kids home from school, that I said a prayer I've said often since our car wreck last year.

Thank you, Father....thank you for keeping Daniel and Gabriella safe.

It was a great blessing, the greatest blessing that Daniel and Gabriella weren't harmed in any way. Though at the time of the accident I recoiled for several moments in disbelief at the noise, the sight and the pain, God knows I'm grateful. I took the brunt of it. Let me always take the brunt of it. Sometimes my thoughts stray into the territory of what could have happened, and I pray my gratitude silently, passionately.

Then cries my soul, my Lord God unto to thee, How great Thou art. How great Thou art.

I think of all the ways in which you provided for us through our fellow human beings.

The firemen took care of our youngest children when I could barely speak or move and was in a very selfish place of pain. My husband came from work instantly and ran across a grassy field toward the intersection at a speed only panic can induce. He barely got to take my hand before I was transported, but he was there to take our littlest two into his arms; they didn't need to go with strangers on the strangest, scariest day of their lives.

Our friends from our little Mom's Group stepped in to help immediately. Kim drove all the way out to the county hospital to take Ella and Danny home with her where she fed them and distracted them with toys, games and TV and made them feel safe. Geraldine picked up Ana and Berto, our eldest, from school, and the two groups united at her house. Dana and her kids showed up, too, and can you believe the miracle of love and friendship? They had a pizza party. My kids had a pizza party with friends on what could have been a disordered, gloomy, really bad day.

My husband called his mom from the hospital when he was a "mess", barely coherent. She drove from Albuquerque early the following morning. Dana watched our kids until she arrived, so that Matthew could spend the morning with me at the hospital, bearing gifts of chocolate and magazines that Dana sent with him.

I don't think I ever thanked my mother-in-law on this blog for taking care of her son and grandkids for five days - the second time she's been there for us in a huge way - or for listening to me talk and cry the evening I came home from the hospital. I thank her now, just as I thank the cheerful firemen, our beautiful, steadfast friends, and my diligent, strong husband for all they did for our children that I could not do for them myself during those early fall days a year ago.



Time and Chance and Gratitude

Beat the Blues, Not Yourself

I've been beating myself about the mental bush for the whole week thus far. The same old, same old feeling that I'll never be successful, that I've made so many mistakes in my journey as a writer, that perhaps I'm one of those individuals with some talent who is doomed to fail, because we don't understand a secret ingredient that others grasp so completely in the quest for creative fulfillment.

Or perhaps just most people hate us. Guess I should go eat worms.

When you are hurling negative comments at yourself, cutting down hope with a wicked little hatchet, it's hard to be positive toward others. I apologized again to my husband this morning and asked, as he smiled knowingly back at me, if he thought I would be apologizing again tomorrow.

"Yes."

He's probably right. I hope for better. See? I'm improving; I'm hoping.

Funny thing is that the deeper you sink into your hole of dissatisfaction, the harder it is to pray for deliverance. And I don't mean crying to God, Please make me a professional writer! Please help me to understand what I lack. Please make other people help me somehow.

I mean the kind of prayer that my friend Dana prays with her family, that I found so inspiring when she confided it to me:

Father, thank you for all you've given us....for our health and happiness and our home. Please just keep doing what you're doing.

So I prayed it this morning, a variation.

Please help me to appreciate all that I have - our beautiful children, our home, all our food and especially our health...even our dog, Father.

Throw in a pickup truck, and it could be a country song.

It's about the joy that you embrace when you're down, a clarity of vision and patience, too. This morning at school, my nine-year-old Ana was hugging me at school and pointed to the sky.

"Look, it's a dragon fly, Mama."

I gazed up to see it.

"No, it's a hummingbird," I said with wonder, and we watched it high in the blue, higher than I thought it would go. I felt the gift of it's beauty after these days of selfish absorption.

Then I went to take my big, almost 11-year-old boy his lunch, and he met me by the basketball court.

"Give me a hug and a kiss," I said jokingly.

He looked around sheepishly from beneath his mop of hair, and then consented to give me a hug and a big smile to go with it.

And when I came home, I found an email from a dear, longtime friend who I had not heard from in so very long, and the email read like poetry to me.

So I see again today, God has been very good to me. I just hope I can remember it tomorrow.

Short, Mostly Unedited: Accidents

Well, I was going to be all glum in this post, ungrateful - gloomy, pitiful, cast down - but it goes against my nature.

I was going to point out in an oblique way the incredible amount of debris and blockage God expects us to wade through daily in our struggle to be good and hopeful, not resigned but steadfast, courageous. But of course it is ridiculous to even insinuate that the struggle is too much, the odds too great against us, for what do we do but sin against each other constantly for our own pleasure and convenience? No, we mostly create our environment, but there are unforeseen events not of our making: nature's whims, illnesses, accidents.

Accidents happen. Time and Chance stalk us all. But you can't sit on your hands and rock back and forth and wail that it's not fair. Just today I feel my family has had an unlucky year, and to myself I reply, Ha! Others have it worse and keep their grace. No one has it fair, after all. For some, it is brutally unfair.

No, we are not unlucky at all. We are blessed, happy, healthy. A little depressed today, but things are not worse than they are, so I am grateful.

God knows. He knows how often in this past year I have thanked him, praised him again and again just remembering how our children were unharmed in our car accident last September. I thanked Him when our drywall crashed in our carport, and we were all safe in the house to hear its effects, no one under it to receive its blows. I thank him today when my husband is safe, if injured, after his accident yesterday evening.

All the world's a stage; we are all bound to wreak havoc on the play, bearing, too, the consequences of others' missed cues. We thank God for the chance to go on, to ad lib.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm just off to read Dr. Seuss' book Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are?

The Thanksgiving List 2012

Every year there are specific, unique things in the year that make me feel blessed and joyous at Thanksgiving, like the dance I had with my husband last holiday. This year the car accident in late September made me aware of big and small things, beside my left lung and self-repairing ribs, for which I am grateful this Thanksgiving. They are in no particular order.

Flowers from my friend Holly

Friends

Friends are beautiful people. They gather up your kids amidst confusion and anxiety, and they shelter them, feed them, distract them, and comfort them. They surround your kids with love and make them feel safe after a traumatic event. They babysit on last minute's notice.

And they throw an evening pizza party with your kids and the friends they've grown up with like cousins; everyone gets ice cream and plenty of play time outside and your kids get an excuse to be free from worry and gloom.

Flowers from my friend Ignacia

Then they come to see you in the hospital or at home, bearing gifts (or sending them with your Man) like Wise Women - magazines, toiletries, cozy socks, books, flowers, meals for the family - and you feel loved.

They listen to your heartache, and you are grateful beyond words that they accept your tears and offer their strength.


First Responders, particularly firefighters

My little girl Ella and my boy Danny were hysterical those first several minutes in our battered vehicle. When the firemen showed up my children became instantly calm. The firemen were so cheerful, so cool. They had my children speaking about their seat belts and teddy bear. I listened, comforted myself, and to me the abrupt switch was miraculous, incredible. I know the firemen helped in managing my injuries, but it's how they took care of my kids when I could not that amazes me and makes me truly, deeply thankful.

Big Bird 

Why I'm grateful for Big Bird you can find HERE, a small part to play but an important one at a fearful and lonely moment.

My brother Nate and sister Natalie's flowers

Trauma Surgeons

It's like first responders. You really don't understand what they can do, what they do in terrible circumstances, until you need them. Then you are astounded you didn't ask for an autograph while lying on that damned backboard. These people save lives. My collapsed lung was easily dealt with, but I am not fooled about what they face on any given day - trauma far worse than my own.

These skilled doctors have invested years of their lives to gain the education and experience in order to preserve health in a crucial hour. They are the Lab-coat Crusaders - the ones who get too little sleep.

And my doctors were kind, too, God bless 'em.

Bruce Springsteen

I have listened to Disc Two (saving Born to Run, I don't care for Disc One) of The Essential Bruce Springsteen several times in the past two months. For a reason I don't understand, Dancin' in The Dark especially captured my emotional turmoil post-accident...or how I wanted to feel about it. The repeat track of that song carried me through depression, and the rest of that album is great, too, for lifting you out of low spirits. Thanks, Boss.

From my Man's co-workers

While You Were Sleeping

While You Were Sleeping is a romantic comedy starring Sandra Bullock and Bill Pullman. It has always probably been my favorite, but it holds a special place now. I watched it twice in that first week after I got home. Sweet, feel-good cinema...it let me relax and not think. Plus, I kinda relate to Bullock's hapless character and to the guy who got attacked at the subway and ended up in a coma. Kind of. I guess a coma is worse than my accident experience. Still, it's a movie very lean on violence and negativity and heavy on lessons in love, family and friendship. And you can't help but love Bullock in this role. Just what the doctor ordered.

My Man

When I first got home from the hospital, I was crabby. That's putting it mildly; unbalanced is probably more accurate. It got so bad one day that as I was saying grace over my afternoon meal, I added a plea that God would help me to be kind to my husband whom I was treating pretty badly. The thought had barely escaped my mind when a picture came into it. I saw my husband bending over me with softened face and red, swollen eyes as he clutched my hand, the way he looked when I first woke up from my chest tube surgery in the hospital.

Roses from my Man

I have never had a prayer answered that fast, ever. It goes to show that if you ask for the right things, God will always answer you - and promptly. The rest of that day I embraced my husband, said I love you, and told him thank you for all he did while I was in the hospital and after I returned home.

Family

My children could have been injured in our accident, and they weren't. Ella and Danny, who were in the van with me, processed everything much better than I thought they would. I am so thankful. And all of my kids helped take care of each other and of emotionally-fragile Mama when she came home.

My siblings and parents and my extended family, all far from me geographically, kept their thoughts and prayers with me. My dad and mom talked me through some things, and I am very grateful for all of the love that came my way.


And My Father was at my side in the hospital. I will always have the memory of what that felt like.

I'm Thankful for Big Bird

This morning I was mesmerized - by Sesame Street. Listen, friends, PBS is quality programming; it's far better than letting your kids watch the rot on other networks where most of the "kids" shows are vulgar, semi-violent, too mature and bizarre.

Anyway, give me a moment to climb off this beloved soapbox...ah, there I am. Soooo, I was talking Big Bird.

This morning on Sesame Street, Big Bird's friends, Gordon, Gabby, Elmo, Maria, Telly, etc., were helping Big Bird rebuild his nest after a hurricane, and I was touched by the gentle and expert way in which this scary topic was being addressed. I got misty-eyed, because I was sure that this show, with its abundance of love, friendship and determination surrounding the fear and uncertainty, could really help children cope with the sometimes humongous curve balls that life can throw at you.

Hey, Big Bird helped me recebtly when I was feeling scared, and I'm an adult.

When I woke up suddenly my first night in the hospital in September, I saw the motorcycle that t-boned our van speeding at me again. It replayed in the darkness with sound effects provided by some loud banging in the Surgical Care corridor. I had to silence the ghost, so I turned on the TV. As I flipped the channels through cheesy and violent programming at 2 am, I finally landed on Sesame Street. I sighed and settled in like a child with an old lovey. I felt safe again.

I saw some commercials a few years ago where adults talked about how Sesame Street changed their lives as children, took them out of their dismal circumstances to a happier place, helped them learn English when their family first immigrated to the US, or even set them on the right path to realize their dream job. I believe them.

I feel guilty that my kids watch too much TV at times, especially lately as I've recuperated, but I do not feel guilty that they watch PBS. Mr. Rogers, Big Bird, Ruff Ruffman, these are giants - lovable, gentle, teaching giants - in the world of technology. I hope we can always keep our kids grounded in their educational and compassionate programming.

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

A Friendly Answer

God hears prayers. I was reminded of that.

He may not always answer. As I told friends recently after seeing the movie Contagion, I feel sometimes as if I'm pounding on a cold stone door three feet thick, that the mail's not running, no messages are getting through, and the gate is barred behind me as I leave the grounds dejectedly....but he hears. I've had answers given before, one of them hand-delivered with a crystal-clear rebuke. So I leave my request parceled on the doorstep, tape a sign to the door, come back and rattle the doorknob occasionally, call out a resounding Hello! that echoes back to me in a thousand different tones of perplexity, frustration, reverence and inquiry. Then I shuffle down the path to keep my neglected patience company, peering over my shoulder in hopes of catching a glimpse of God.

My dear friend Camille's move to a different state last week reminded me of answers given. In saying goodbyes, her husband mentioned how fortunate it was that we had all met in the social hall of our church one Sunday seven years ago.

"I was praying very hard for friends then," I replied passionately.

That is absolutely true, though perhaps pathetic. When I met Camille, I had no friends in this dusty town to talk to. I was raising two fresh whippersnappers; I needed support, fellow women to converse with about my experiences, to share advice, laughter, tears.

Of course, God helps those who help themselves, so when I saw my opportunity, I pounced on it. Literally and not gracefully, I'm embarrassed to say. I saw Camille, elegantly-dressed and with a kind, friendly face, and I heard her mention to an older couple that she sang in a touring opera company. The words had barely escaped and the couple had hardly a chance to acknowledge them when I sprang toward her like a lonely Jack-in-the-box. With wide-eyed desperation, I exclaimed lamely but passionately, "I love opera!"

Another person would have given me a short response, a false smile and turned away, but Camille, though a little startled, chatted with me and gave me a card with her cell phone number, telling me we could get coffee sometime.

It would be a long while before we got that coffee, but we began to greet each other with a smile and pleasantries whenever we met. A few months later, after a Mom's Group I had started in our parish began to blossom (and bless me with the friendship of several lovely, intelligent women), I saw Camille walking out of church as we were waiting to baptize our little girl. She was pregnant. I congratulated her warmly.

"Did you ever start that Mom's Group?" she asked eagerly.

The rest of the story is history, as they say. Since that first Mom's Group meeting to which she brought her infant son and for seven years now we have watched each other's children grow. We have shared faith, tea, countless pastries (we both have a compulsive baking disorder, though hers often yields mind-numbingly yummy results), and time with friends. We have talked about sleep deprivation, nursing, beautiful moments of parental bliss, mommy regrets, history, our personal artistic endeavors, and, of course, God. I could always talk long to my friend about God, and in doing so feel that she truly was a friend given to me through faith. Camille and I became such good friends these past several years, and however it may sound to an outsider, I believe we were both in the social hall that day because God knew we could.

Now that we no longer live close, I find myself unusually grateful for a world that is riddled with cellphones and bubble-gummy social media.

And even though today she's a thousand plus miles to the northwest, even though I've recently felt as if I were prowling outside God's gate in the dark waiting for some guidance, I can reflect with gratitiude on the friendship I was given and remember through it the prayers that are answered.

How to Be Pleasant in Your Own Backyard

I'm seeing the glass half-full right now. It's not like me, and it stinks. It's a stinky, stinky way to be.

But, honestly, I've been slowly gravitating that way for a while.

For instance, I've been known to look into a box of Girl Scout cookies and say suspiciously, "This box seems smaller. Is this box smaller? Man, I think there are fewer Thin Mints in here than last year!" Looking up at Matthew, I conclude with gravity, "Must be the..."

But that's when Matthew cuts me off, "Yeah, yeah - I know. It's the economy. Stupid economy!"

He's endured my complaints for the past few years while I've blamed everything that I perceive as a deficit on the economy. I have a recession-economy conspiracy theory raging in my head. I think every commercial enterprise has cut back the quality or the amount of product they're giving consumers for the same amount of dough. So when I think I see more air than chips in the potato chip bag? Damn economy! Toilet paper seems a little thinner than previously? Grrrr! The economy! Ice cream with more ice than cream? Light bulbs that blink their last in an early death? - Why, oh why are people ripping me off in this economy?

But all that was just conjecture; I had no proof. After all, I didn't think to save the packaging from various products before the economy went sour, so I can't be sure that I'm actually getting ripped off, that my handsoap is less anti-bacterial than it used to be or that my ground beef is something other than cow. I just have this vague feeling.

That feeling stopped being vague within the past couple months.

It began in a very innocent way, my fall into nonsense - my, shamed as I am to say, covetousness. I began driving. Yes, just driving around before picking my older two children up from school in the afternoon. This was necessary in order to get my baby son to take his second nap. It wasn't long before I got thoroughly sick of circling the neighborhood around my kid's school, so I went exploring. That's when I discovered how the other quarter lives.

I say quarter instead of half, because the communities I discovered were not crawling with obscenely rich people. Okay, while exploring I did indeed get lost in one lushly rich neighborhood. I circled around forever trying to find a way out, always passing this same mocking mansion no matter which direction I chose. The fancy-shmance neighborhood only had one outlet, and I was never so relieved to get away from winding driveways, grand facades and perfectly manicured lawns in my life as when I finally found it. Plus I had an eerie feeling wealthy people were standing at their windows as I passed by time and again, pointing me out to their butlers and nannies and laughing at my minivan.

But back on topic. The people in the "quarter" neighborhoods I discovered seemed wholly unaffected by the economy. There was nary a house for sale in either community. In my subdivision, there are ten at least, maybe more.

Their houses, with a few ostentatious exceptions, were modest - bigger than my home, true, but still modest. The only difference was that instead of having a door smacked onto the front of the house with no preamble, these folks had steps and pathways and porches leading one pleasantly to the door which was almost always slightly recessed in the front of the house. I admired this. I grew up in the southern United States; I miss porches. Still, it was their yards that I gaped at, a hand over my mouth to stifle an, "Ahaaaa!" yell of epiphany while the other gripped the steering wheel.

These people had small fields for yards, an expanse of green that sometimes contained a variety of animals including but not limited to: chickens, horses, cows, mules, sheep and emus. In the city - the city, people! And their front yards! I could not help picturing my kids playing a game of football with their dad there or maybe a crazy game of tag with all the kids in our Mom's Group. Such things would be perfectly possible, you see, because the streets these houses stood on were like quiet prim old ladies sitting by the side at a noisy ball. The streets were so quiet in fact, and so unused to a stranger's passage, that I felt they were muttering against my presence, alerting the driver of every passing car, for I felt the suspicious gazes upon me as if to say emphatically, "Who are you? You don't live here. You're not us!" I wanted to hunker down behind the steering wheel whilst I gazed upon their oddly bucolic lives in the midst of an enormous city.

It must have been a full week before I was able to drop my hand from my mouth. And then I found another neighborhood in an adjacent city with even greener pastures. Only here I did not feel as if other driver's were staring at me suspiciously, and the streets were wider and more open and friendly. I liked this community even better than the last, with its mini-fields of grazing horses and its low-lying homes with their pleasant entryways, with their porches and porch swings. I even took my kids to play in their public park a few times to get a better feel for the place. I had it bad.

Please understand how unusual it is for me to spend afternoon upon afternoon admiring and wishing for what others enjoy. I have always felt it was very foolish for anyone in good circumstances to exclaim, "We need a bigger house!" or whine, "All my friends live in newer homes than me." Very few people need a bigger house or a newer car. Food, clean water, shelter - those are needs. But shelter can be a lean-to in the forest. So I do indeed understand that Matthew, the children, and I could live in this 1240 sq. ft home until the four kids leave the nest. Until this last month I've felt perfectly contented to say as much. It'd be tight, especially during their teenage years, but we would be blessed and provided for.

Unfortunately, I now also understand the "moving up" complex. It was a shock when suddenly I found myself wishing I could live in a bigger home with a porch and a tiny field where my children could play with a family dog, perhaps. I know I'll be in the city - sad to say, I think it's my fate now - but to feel as if I were not in the city while still in the city, well...that would indeed be grand.

My friend Camille told me that I am projecting my own desires onto my children. They have never lived in the country and therefore do not miss it. She's right, of course. Nevertheless, I checked the prices on those homes in the "quarter" neighborhoods, ones that had recently sold, and we cannot even contemplate a purchase. I always under-price things in my head, because I often undervalue money, so I was taken aback by the numbers. Foolish, foolish girl! I was bitten by the covet bug or at least smitten, so next I began scouring for sale signs close to the homes I desired just for the idea that I could live near all their green space and perhaps take a walk on their streets in the early morning light, say hello to their horses as I pass by.

Human folly has no bounds.

So here at last I come to the part where I got a real tangible hit from this bad economy that's been skulking around on my periphery, a black eye really. We started to talk to a real estate agent about possibly putting our home on the market. She was reservedly optimistic at first...then she did the research.

To sell our house, she told us, not only would we take a loss, but we would need to bring lots of loose cash to the table just to close the sale, just to bribe our bank to let us leave our home. So...we'll stay, I think, and we'll plant some more greenery in the yard to help me overcome my city-sickness. We might even improve the kitchen. We won't move - oh, no! But we will know we're blessed to have our comfortable home.

And I am humbled by the fact that a girl like me, so proud of her indifference to mere possessions and finer things, fell under the spell of "Better and More". This is especially true since I came to my computer Friday morning and found that a nation on the other side of the Pacific was devastated by an earthquake and tsunami and could possibly be facing a horrific nuclear crisis as well.

I am well. I am happy. My loved and precious ones are near. And I am thinking about the people of Japan instead of myself and my petty wants.

Blessings: Thanksgiving Cupcakes, Raccoons Steal the Milk and a New Fridge

It's freakishly cold here now, and I'm afraid I no longer feel able to brave a daytime high of a mere 44 degrees without ringing my hands together and wailing into the cold freezing wind like a little child. Yes, I know many of you are laughing right now, but I almost feel I should drag out that long coat with the rabbit-fur lined hood ( poor bunny) that has not seen the sun since Idaho. It's covered in a substantital layer of dust, however, so I think I'll leave it. Besides, in this climate surely this weather cannot survive long?

Today, I'm thinking about the cold - I can't help that - and blessings. The blessing of a furnace that works, a good car heater, plenty of food and adequate living space for my family.

Today my son Berto said, "When I'm a teenager, and I come home for Thanksgiving, I'll bring cupcakes. I'll bring twenty, and I'll eat fifteen!"

I had to help him back-paddle a little before he drifted out into his own little sea of illusion.

"Cupcakes, huh?" I said. "Okay, but you'll be living with us when you're a teenager, you know. You won't leave until you go to college, and even then some kids still live with their parents into their early twenties."

He seemed very discouraged by this. No - mad, actually. He got very surly about it.

That's when I reminded him we wouldn't always live in a house this small, that since he was the oldest, he would someday have his own room.

"Well, it'll still be boring!" he cried.

Again, the blessings - thank God for the blessing of a sheltered life, here classified as boring by my son.

I wrapped up the conversation.

"Even if we lived in this small house all our lives, we'd be fine. We'd be blessed," I told him. "Some people live in mud huts with dirt floors. In some places several orphans live together in one-room houses. We are very blessed."

I am grateful that I realize how very blessed we are. I am convinced that many people lose that perception in their scheme for a nicer car, a bigger home, the latest technology or just more period. I, too, get caught up in the pursuit of things that cannot really affect my family's ability to be happy and healthy, but I am also aware of how much there is for which to be thankful. We are able to expend money on plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables without worrying about the cost of groceries. If the car breaks down, we do not panic wondering where we'll get the money to fix it. When a doctor's visit is required, we do not stress or delay; we have health insurance.

I saw what it was to struggle when I was growing up. My parents were careful about money spent on groceries. We had no health insurance, and if the car broke down, it was a disaster. Though we struggled, I remember us as blessed. We loved each other, trusted God, and there were times when God provided in remarkable ways.

Early one spring in my childhood, our refrigerator gave out. We began to be creative about food storage for a while as my parents tried to figure out how to pay for a new fridge. They bought food for supper on the way home every night, and we cooked it up immediately. We kept half-gallons of milk in the cold spring under the bluff that shadowed the creek. Every morning we walked down the lane to get our milk for breakfast, and sometimes we found the raccoons had been there before us. The clever animals figured out how to unscrew the lids on previously unopened jugs, and we were left without milk because of their ingenuity. Meanwhile, my dad fiddled with the old fridge, trying to coax it to work again.

One Saturday morning we were surprised by a small group of men on our porch. When my dad asked if he could help them, one of the gentlemen answered, "We've brought you a new fridge."

I remember watching with excitement as the group of strangers and my dad unloaded the yellow fridge from a truck. When it was in place and humming familiarly, Dad, his tanned face softened with gratitude, asked who our benefactors were.

"We're Christians," was the simple reply. "We give this to you in Jesus's name."

Memories have their legacy. Whatever Matthew and I may accumulate in the way of material possessions, I hope that in essentials our life with our children will be what I knew with my parents, brother and sisters. I am not ignorant of the blessing of having the necessities when there is love and a desire to forge a relationship with one's Creator. For myself, I wish not to squander my awareness of others' struggles. If I fail to acquire the finer things in life, I hope not to fail in sharing the blessings I do have.

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