A Little Touch of God

Many people have talked about the sunsets here in Phoenix. My general practitioner, who has lived in or traveled to many different places, told me once that she has never seen any to rival them, not even in Hawaii. I was surprised, but later I read an article in the local newspaper that validated that statement as it attempted to explain the regular, beautiful phenomenon. Is it the mountains? The particulates in the atmosphere? The kinds of clouds we have here? The smog? I admit that many a time I have driven west in the evening and have myself wondered at the sunset, admired the dynamic strands of color spreading out from the orb resting on the shoulder of South Mountain.

One evening this past week I had the opportunity to witness a 10-year sunset. I was watching my kids play with neighbors in the front yard, but my restless eye was also wandering to a hummingbird nest in the lower branches of our giant eucalyptus tree. Though I am madly in love with that hummingbird mama, watching her through binoculars several times a day and worrying when she's away, I was soon distracted from her astonishingly still form by the western sky.

I got up and kept saying to the kids as I walked around and stared, "Look at that beautiful sunset! Can you believe that sunset? It's amazing."

But apparently they could believe it, for they paid it little mind, glancing up for only a second when I spoke. I didn't understand their nonchalance. The sun had erupted brilliantly and its flames magnified each moment. The colors didn't appear to diminish as night approached. It lingered for ten years as I watched in awe, suspended in time.

And something my parish priest said about sacraments came back to me as I felt the unusually cool wind of May on my skin and faced a majestic sky. As an example about the difference between big "S" sacraments and sacraments with a little "s", he said he might go fishing early in the morning with a friend on a lake, and as the sun rose over the lake, he could be so affected by the beauty of it that it would be for him a profound moment with God, a sacrament with a little "s". For his buddy, however, it could be just another sunrise on just another morning as he waited impatiently for a bite on his line.

That ten-year sunset was for me a sacrament. It pulled me into its mystery on an unimpressive, dusty neighborhood street amid the noise of children at play. I thanked God for the chance to experience it, just as I had thanked God for a cool, breezy May in Phoenix, and just as I had thanked him profusely several times for the hummingbird nest in our tree.

Phoenix is rich in spectacular sunsets, just as our lives are rich in little sacraments, if we are present enough to be aware of and grateful for them.

My Reaction to A Child Called It by David Pelzer

My husband was out one night before Thanksgiving, and as I sat in a chair reading, I forgot that my oldest boy was still in the dining room. He was up way past his bedtime. He must have made a noise, because I was surprised and exclaimed, "Berto, what are you doing? Go to bed!"

He then slowly came over to me and said, "Mama, you won't believe this book I'm reading. This boy's mom is normal and then one day she changes for no reason and starts doing crazy stuff. She even stabs him!"

As a parent you don't look forward to your children saying such things about a book they've been reading - of which you had no knowledge.

"What? Let me see that."

He handed over the paperback. It was A Child Called It by David Pelzer.

I glanced at the pages where my boy was, examined the face of the little boy on the cover and asked, "Where did you get this, Berto?"

He told me a friend at school had been talking about it obsessively, how no one could believe what this boy's mother made him do. She piqued Berto's interest; he must have been listening and asking questions, because she offered to lend it to him.

As he was telling me this I was reading the words at the place he left off. He saw my face.

"You have to go back and read the beginning first," he insisted. "He gets rescued."

If I had known about its content, it was not a book I would have let him read at 12 years of age. I sent him to bed, and I was alone with this story of which I had never heard but knew with certainty had opened my son's eyes irreversibly to the bizarre, absolute evil in this world.

When my husband came home, I had read about half of it.

"We have to talk about this book our son is reading," I said. Then I, too, added, "You won't believe it."

My husband listened as I revealed the terrible details of this little boy's life, all the abhorrent, twisted punishments he suffered at his mother's hands, how his dad did nothing, and how his brothers ignored him or joined in tormenting him.

"It's awful. It's really bad. I can't believe Berto is reading this. Should we let him?"

"Well, it's too late now, isn't it?"

"Honey, it's really bad."

"It'll make him realize how lucky he is. We just have to make sure to talk to him about it."

I don't think lucky is the word, but I knew what he meant.

Sucked into David Pelzer's story by the need to speak with my son about the evil people do to one another, I was horrified and demoralized by what Pelzer endured as a child. The effect the book had on me was so apparent that my husband said, "No more for tonight. Let's go to bed. Come on."

I wept as I revealed more details to my husband. Then I tried to fall asleep. It was of no use. I couldn't stop thinking about Pelzer's excruciatingly long childhood nightmare. I crawled out of bed, grabbed the book and took it to our bathroom. Sitting on the hard floor, finishing that book, I sobbed as I dwelt on Pelzer's pain, mourned for every hurting child, and longed to wrap every abused kid in the world in my arms.

Such was the power of his story that I had many uncomfortable thoughts. I found myself regretting times when I lost my temper with my own kids, gave into anger and yelled so badly, I frightened them, and those thoughts caused me to regret any unpleasant memories I have given my children. I found myself regretting times when I noticed things that seemed off or suspicious in the life of another child and didn't say or do anything. At one point Pelzer reveals that his heart was flooded with hate for his mother, for his dad, for his brothers, and for every person who knew something of his situation and did nothing. And he said that he hated God most of all, because if anyone knew what he was going through, it was God, and I thought, I can't blame him for thinking that in his situation.

That was a very uncomfortable thought, for I love my Heavenly Father and know he is not indifferent, and I am not trying to be blasphemous, just honest about a reaction. I understood how a child could think that in Pelzer's chronically endangered situation. I know what Christians believe about free will, Original Sin, and Satan, the fallen angel whom Jesus described as a "murderer and liar from the beginning", but I also know that we address the problem of evil as "The Problem of evil" for a reason. We cannot fully explain it with our theology. There is no pat answer.

But I feel, too, that every person who was aware that something was terribly wrong in that young boy's life and did nothing failed as a child of God when they were so desperately needed. God uses us in community to help one another. We must be in tune to our heavenly Father's nudges. This is why I do not believe we should ignore the urge to do something or to speak to someone, even if we don't fully understand it.

I couldn't comprehend the horror to which Pelzer's spiritually and mentally ill mother subjected her son, but I did recognize in his story the truth of how evil breeds ever greater evil; it is never satisfied. We can't feed it by dismissing our vices or by giving power to an addiction that weakens us and alters us in increasingly terrible ways.

The only hope in the story is found when he writes of the courage and the wits he always kept about him to survive, the will and wits that bought him time when his mother attempted to burn him on a gas stove; when he sat in a cold, dirty bathroom and pushed all the puss from his stab wound while wiping off the infection with dirty rags; when he repeatedly scrounged for food while on the brink of starvation; and when he used his imagination to sustain hope as he sat on his hands for hours in some starkly inhospitable place, purposefully isolated from the other members of his family

How my heart ached and broke for this child! I can still see images from the book that distress me, such as the times when he lay submerged for hours in an ice-cold tub of water at his mother's command. Pelzer's mother attacked his dignity, his natural right to happiness, and his health in such vile ways that it seems miraculous he lived to write about it. His case apparently was the worst recorded case in California history, and one can easily believe it.

There is hardly any love mentioned, except his painful love for and misplaced trust in a very broken, cowardly father and his fascination with a baby brother with whom he was not allowed to interact. In the prologue he acknowledges that by the grace of God, he is able to know what love is through his relationship with his own son.

After his father left the family, abandoning his son to his evil mother, Pelzer wrote of desperately clinging to a package his dad had given him and, as his brothers ate their fast food in the car beside his starving frame, bowing his head and saying the Lord's Prayer. A couple of months later, he was finally rescued through the efforts of brave and compassionate teachers, a nurse, and administrators at his school.

A Child Called It haunted my Thanksgiving. Recalling vivid scenes of torment from its pages, I wept often that long weekend for David Pelzer and every child who has ever known anything like what he knew.

My husband and I both agreed that this book wasn't something we would have handed to our son, but we also believed that it would enkindle in him greater compassion for other children, that when he meets a kid who is dirty, smelly, wearing old or too-small clothes, or one who is being ostracized by other students because they're "weird" or "different" or just "not cool" he will remember David Pelzer's story and consider his actions more carefully, more fully respecting the dignity of everyone whom he encounters.

As for me, this is a book I could never forget, and I hope it will make many of us more aware, more courageous and more compassionate in confronting evil in our community and in protecting each child's rights to emotional, physical and spiritual health.

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.

Let's STOP - for all that is Good

I can't look at the violent ads for movies since Newtown. I turn away, and I turn the channel. But I swear they are present during every break. Often I wonder just why such an ad is on screen during a weekend afternoon when children can be exposed to its crude message. (I should ask the same about Super Bowl ads.)

As has been pointed out in a different arena lately, all these stars who stand up for gun control have no problem shooting it up in ultra-violent, "realistic" film scenes for a fat paycheck. Some would say this is not hypocrisy, but it absolutely is.

They are not the primary ones who contribute to our culture of violence, however. Every selfish and/or ignorant parent who takes their five-, eight-, or ten-year-old to a movie meant for adults, because they don't want to pay for a babysitter or make entertainment sacrifices for their kids' well being (Believe me, I have seen tiny kids dragged into PG-13 and R movies) is culpable. Every parent who lets their teenage son play violently graphic, and often pornographic, video games shares blame. And, heck, never mind the teenagers, my 10-year-old son has shared the titles of games his peers are allowed to play, and it is discouraging.

A long time ago a mother reached out on Facebook to ask advice. Her son wanted to buy a rated M game with his own money. Should she let him do it? She had reservations, but he certainly wasn't a little kid anymore.

I liked my sister's response to that question. She replied that her 17-year-old son was not even allowed to play rated M games, that games for teenagers were almost all off limits, too.

People might scoff at that (he's a teenager, for crying out loud), but I think we'd all be better off if our youth were not exposed to simulated battle with weaponry, crime and sex. If 10-year-old's are playing war games or games with morally reprehensible titles and themes, my friends, society has a lasting problem. Kids gain a skewed view of life and its value.

It's harder as kids get older. I get it. I've made mistakes. A huge one was letting my eldest boy read all the Harry Potter books and then watch the movies. My husband just stared at my during one of the movies to communicate, What the hell were you thinking? My fast-forwarding of certain scenes didn't alter my Man's disapproval. And my boy's teacher let us know she thought it was a little early for him to read the whole series. She was right, but, foolishly, I had agreed to let Berto read the first book, and it snowballed. Berto was already a reader like his Aunt Vinca or Uncle Nate, seeming to devour rather than read books, and I made my mistake.

And I worry in the evening when our oldest two have reading time that they can hear the cop/detective shows my husband and I are watching in the other room. "Turn it down a little. Turn it down a little..." I say. Maybe in our small home with our small children, we should give up these shows and their "good guys" with questionable methods for defeating the bad guys.

LET'S STOP.

Let's stop patronizing movies filled with horror and brutality. Let's stop sending our kids off to play video games that corrupt their minds and their view of mankind and sexuality. Let's stop allowing our kids to watch so-called "children's cartoons" that are mindless, vulgar, obnoxious, have bizarre characters and no educational value in basic or social skills. Let's stop watching adult programming with our kids, thinking, oh, it's just a show - a funny show, a good show and start realizing that media can shift their moral compass. Let's stop saying anything goes in the name of ART! and ENTERTAINMENT! Let's boycott this sale of our collective conscience.

Let's talk to our kids more. Eat dinner at the table with no media whatsoever. Take them into nature alot more often. Teach them about God. Teach them how to be social animals face-to-face instead of screen-to-screen. Get back to the promise land of programming like PBS. Let us communicate our family values.

Let's try, for all that is good in the human race, so that when they see evil, crime and horror, our kids can cry; they can feel it deeply and want to combat it with love, light and justice.

Come on. We can do it. It may be damn hard, but I believe in us. I have hope. And so do you.

#2 short, mostly unedited post

My Danny baby and his Papa were bonding over food again. My baby son was giggling as he threw Cheerios at my husband's mouth, and I set my eldest boy on the scene with the video camera. The thought occurred to me that I get such joy out of that sound I want to have it for dreary days in my old age.

And he's my last baby.

Sometimes I'm very sad to think that. But sometimes I want to cry dramatically with arms flung wide, "Save me! Save me now or give me patience!"

Or maybe I should climb a chair and cry with a passionately shaking fist, "Give me patience or give me a break!"

My husband and my Danny Sam have spent a good deal of time bonding over food. That is owing to me, of course. Not because I make such wonderful food that everyone is thrown into raptures and bounces around the table clapping each other on the back - no - but because I sit with my ribs creaking against the table, my chair as close as I can draw it without snapping said ribs. I do this to prevent children from settling on my lap like wayward pigeons when I'm trying to eat. I learned a while ago that it drives me crazy to be craning around a little person to get at my plate. I cannot be denied that little scrap of peace over my evening meal surely?

So Matthew invites our littlest ones onto his lap, and that is how Danny Sam discovered the comical nature of a fork. He grabbed his papa's and speared it into the plate. The strike of metal on stoneware delighted him. Giggling he thrust the fork like a pitchfork into green beans and spaghetti time and again, not always coming up with food but never failing to giggle joyfully at the sound it made. While he played thus dangerously, and Matthew valiantly tried to prevent him from accidentally hurting himself or his papa, Danny Sam turned his laughing eyes often on his papa's face, looking for that camaraderie over cutlery.

Pie Pastry - Bah! (anniversary repost)

I'm taking this opportunity to say that these pies, the ones in this story that caused me such grief, turned out to be some of the best Thanksgiving pies I ever made.

The past two days I've been in a hot place with pie pastry...and I don't mean the kitchen.

Yesterday it was bad, very bad. Daniel, my baby, was crying from the playpen and I was wrestling with the devil dough on the counter, trying for the love of heaven to get it to roll out smoothly. Finally, as Daniel continued to fuss ever more loudly, and the cold pastry cracked and split beneath my frustrated hands, I sang out maniacally for my husband to, "COME HOME! Just...COME...home! Get yourself HOME...RIGHT NOOOOW!"

The kids were outside, and they came to the door, "Where's Papa? Is he home?" Then they saw my wild eyes, the pastry stuck to the rolling pin, and the flour monsoon in the kitchen and retreated, giggling and keeping a good distance.

By the time Matthew got home, it was all over. The pies, for better or for worse, were in the oven. And they weren't even the Thanksgiving pies. They were my test dummies for the real pies.

I was trying this new pastry recipe that's called Foolproof Pie Pastry. I wanted to compare it with my usual nightmare butter dough - that demon dough that tastes like heaven but gives you hell to roll it out. Well, this foolproof recipe called for part butter/part shortening and, of all things, vodka! You use the vodka in place of part of the water - makes the dough moist so you can smooth it out into a perfect geometric circle, but then the alcohol evaporates in the oven and voila! Flaky yet tender pie dough.

Well, that recipe ain't foolproof, and I'm the fool that proved it.

Because as I was rolling it out, I was still muttering at it and insulting it and threatening all kinds of demises for it that didn't involve a sweet filling and a nice warm visit to the oven. Yes, yes...it was technically easier than the butter pastry, but the dang dough still flaked and chipped, cracked and ripped. Stupid thing!

In light of the foolproof recipe defeat, I began looking for excuses: It's this dang desert climate - too dry! I said. I don't have a food processor like all my friends! I whined. My kitchen's too small! I cried.

But then I thought I knew the problem: I hadn't cut the butter small enough with the pastry cutter. I'd rectify it, and the dough for my pies would be perfect. Just perfect, I vowed.

Today was another day. I combined the ingredients, cut the butter just so, and tried to flatten them gently into the perfect "four-inch diameter" discs the recipe calls for before I placed them in the fridge to cool. An hour or so later I drew them out, and I knew with my first glance the battle would be the same as the day before. And if I wasn't careful, this time the pastry would win.

The mumblings began anew as I blanketed the dough with parchment paper, caressed the dough with floured fingers, and did my best to placate the dough with the careful push-push of the rolling pin. But, no - NO! The stupid thing couldn't be reasoned with, and I had to take it and literally plop it off the parchment into its pie pan, shoving tattered bits and pieces into the holes that mocked me. I didn't want to overwork it. Heaven help me, I know the bitter revenge of overworked dough.

Thank God Matthew was home today. Still the kids tried to bug me during the process, and many times I cried out in desperation, "Don't come in here! Don't talk to me! Can't you see I'm battling with pie dough?"

Berto commiserated.

"Wow, Mama. That does look hard!" he said, as I huffed and puffed over the monster I had created. "It is hard!" I wailed. "It's the hardest thing in the world! And it's stressful, so stressful..."

"Don't encourage her!" Matthew said sharply, bouncing Daniel in his arms. "Nobody encourage Mama in her tirade!"

After a litany of sighs and grunts, I did finally get the fresh pies in the oven, laying the top crust on in chunks. But, hey, the dough wasn't overworked (I think), and I covered its many imperfections with a liberal sprinkling of cinnamon and sugar. I also remembered to put all the ingredients in the filling. Too bad I baked them at the wrong temperature, though. Nothing like flaky crust and undercooked fruit in a Thanksgiving pie!

Why does she bother? you ask. Don't they have prepared pie crust in the grocery store? you say. Okay, so they do, but I want to be the Pie Lady, the Pastry Queen. I want my sons to propose to their girlfriends someday on bent knee, and say, "Before I give you the ring, there's something you should know: my mom makes the best pie. Just the best. Yours can never compare. Not ever. And mom says you can't have the recipe. But I love you anyway, and we'll go to my parents' for Thanksgiving."

Alright, so that's not right of me. Maybe that's why every time I go to make a pie, I find myself eating the humble variety. But I still want a solid pastry recipe and technique to pass down to my daughters. My mom made the best pies, you see, and I want to, too. This Thanksgiving, I'm just hoping they're decent.


More food adventures in Holiday Tales of Horror - Stuffed Couches and Stolen Chocolates

Out, Damn Wrinkles!

When your eyelids look like crepe paper, you have a problem. When you find you can't wear makeup, and heaven forbid glitter makeup, because it settles and draws attention to your "creases", you're in trouble. When you're considering putting a tiny roll out awning on your head to block the sun, prevent wincing, and shield your countenance from your critical fellow human beings, well...

I've foxtrotted with the idea of botox. I've jumped and jived with it. But I couldn't ever do it (until they're offering it for free to random haggard-looking people). People who pay to get botox are vain. And they have too much money. We less affluent mortals must bravely pretend that our wrinkles add distinction to an otherwise bland face.

I blame my proliferation of wrinkles on my kids. It's the sheer magnitude of looks I must give them on a daily basis just to keep them in line. If you're a mom or dad, maybe you're nodding so vigorously right now, you're about to knock your head on the computer screen and add a nasty bruise to complement those warrior wrinkles. So...you know what I mean. And I can classify them, too.

There's the, "Sweet malarkey, Child! What are you eating?!" look. It usually happens when your toddler is about to put something small, black, and from the floor into their mouth. If you have or have had a toddler, you've seen them eat with relish from the great and variable offerings of the floor, but you also know that nothing edible is EVER black. Not one thing. Rotten things, yes. Insects, yes. A washer from the broken kitchen faucet, yes. But nothing meant to be digested by a human. Thence the look of disgust, and the "bleh, blah, bleh!" noises you make while sticking out your tongue, trying to get your kid to copycat, so you can swipe out the nasty object, then twist you face into a look of utter repulsion when you discover the exact nature of the thing.

Then there's the, "The baby is sleeping, so you better cut it out..." look. This one has to be the most powerful wrinkle-generating look known to mankind. It must encapsulate everything that the parent's yell would do without the help of your practiced vocal chords, so you scrunch your face up into the ugliest, most terrifying, eyebrows on the eyeballs, Elvis-sneering look you can muster in order to prevent your older kids from waking up the baby with their shenanigans. Sometimes, you must give this look several times in rapid succession while pointing a finger like a dagger at the perpetrator of the noise. This look is the one that will cause your grandchildren to run from you when you've finally mellowed out in old age, and it is without doubt the one responsible for making your nose look like it's just an overhang of that deep canyon running down your forehead.

A closely related look is the one you employ while you're on the phone. Every child, as parents well know, holds the fundamental belief that a. the phone is their greatest rival, beside any siblings, for their parent's attention, and b. said parent will be physiologically unable to end a phone conversation in order to discipline - no matter how atrocious their kids' behavior becomes while they're thus distracted.

Therefore, children take all phone-parent interaction time as their cue to scream, bang things together, knock each other over the head with wooden spoons, and leap off the furniture - preferably onto a sibling or pet's back. The look a parent must devise in these circumstances is tricky, because it is involves mouthing all kinds of threats at your kids without allowing any actual sound to leave your mouth, preventing said threats from interrupting your conversation. It's rarely works, and it's exhausting.

But, okay, there are some good wrinkles, generally referred to as laugh lines. The look of laughter is one that happens often with children around but is completely unpredictable, sometimes lots of fun and at times a point of contention. It causes the best kinds of wrinkles, friendly wrinkles. This look can burst forth in embarrassment when your daughter catches you and your husband canoodling together on the couch and asks, "Is that how you two rejoice together?" It can erupt uncontrollably when your husband is trying to chide the children, and you find the situation inexplicably comical, so you bust out laughing behind your hands, ruin the lecture and anger your honey. It can happen when you're playing Go Fish with your three-year-old, and she asks for the "rest-a-room star" (you know the one sitting on the toilet with the newspaper?) when what she really means is the "western star".

Well, well. I don't mind the laugh lines, nor the wrinkles on my belly that are the proof of my having provided four tiny human beings with a safe place to grow until they were ready for the world stage. I'm proud, too, of the permanent impressions on my left arm from turning my arm just so in order to support my baby on my hip while I cleaned, cooked, did yard work and walked through stores and parks. As for the crushed silk look of my eyelids and the multiple lines fanning out across my forehead and temples, they're just a hazard of the parenting trade. And they make me look intelligent, a real thinker. Or so I like to believe. But heaven help me during their teenage years! Worry lines...I think I'll just wear a veil.

I Forgot to Say I Love You, Mama Darlin'

With every child Matthew and I have added to our family, my respect for my mother has grown exponentially.

Mama Darlin' and her four critters, as she'd call us

Dad tells a story from when he was working for a power line company in these western United States, days when he worked "light to light", leaving at dawn to work on the large structures that spread across the prairies and coming home after most of us kids had been put to bed. During his lunch break one day, he was driving through the town. As he slowed at a street light, he saw a woman crossing the street with a child holding her hand, a baby in her arms, another child gripping her pant leg and a fourth little one holding onto a sibling's hand. Dad had the instinctive thought, "Poor woman!", but as she crossed in front of him, he realized with a shock that it was his own wife and his children.

My mother isn't just extraordinary because she at one time herded children safely with her wherever she went. She's an incredible woman, because she told my dad she wanted no offspring when they first met and yet when she and Dad built their family, she became known to her children as "Saint Mommy" for her sweet, selfless spirit and her gentle words and touch. She's amazing, because as a teenager most thought of her as a hothouse flower, beautiful but not inclined toward outdoor adventures. Yet when we moved to the South, she would spend years of her life hiking through the hills and hollows of Middle Tennessee in order to help provide for the family. She knelt in the dirt to dig valuable roots (ginseng, goldenseal) and rolled grapevine and briar wreaths against her stomach beneath the hardwood trees. She wore flannel as if it were the only natural choice for a lovely woman and carried hand sewn jean sacks with her cold lunch and water bottle slung across her body. What's remarkable is that she enjoyed the experience, relishing not only the exercise and being in nature but the time spent with her husband.

I knew as a child that my mom was beautiful, that she was kind and optimistic. But I must admit I did not realize how resilient she was, how determined, how intelligent, how centered she was until I started to bushwhack my way through life with my own little ones in tow. With each baby I welcomed into my arms and life, the horizon of my understanding expanded until it richly glowed with revelations about motherhood and about Mama Darlin's saintlike attributes.

I have a memory to share. It is not what you would expect, but it is a powerful memory about a Mother's Day a long time ago. First let me say that I do remember occasions when I made cards and paper flowers for Mama at school. I remember times when Annie and Vinca prepared Mama a humble breakfast, and Nate and I clumsily took it to her. There were years when we plucked a profusion of tiger lilys from the creek bank to bring her. I can also still see the sewing basket with roses on the fabric that I insisted on getting her for a gift one year despite the fact that she rarely found time to sew, saving the jean sacks for work. But the memory that is most powerful is also sad, and it recalls a time when we kids neglected to show our mother how much we loved and appreciated her.

That Mother's Day was not what it should have been from the beginning. Our family was struggling financially, and we all were suffering from malaise because of the stress and uncertainty. Dad left early that Sunday to work in the fields of a neighbor, Mr. Wellins, in order to bring in more money. The house was quiet.

We kids kept mostly to our rooms. I laid on the floor in Annie's and my bedroom with sheets of paper spread around me, trying half-heartedly to write a poem for my mother or at least draw a picture. As I balled up rejected attempts at a gift and threw them into the corner, I should have realized I was already way behind the game. Still, being late with a gift is a far better thing than giving none at all, especially when the gift is meant for the most important woman in the world.

The next afternoon I remember vividly, painfully clear. We kids got off the bus to begin a hot, dusty walk down the lane toward home, and Dad pulled up in the car. We were surprised to see him but grateful to have a ride and to skip the exercise. The stern expression on our dad's face should have warned us that something was amiss, but we climbed in with barely a word of greeting and slumped into our respective places on the worn vinyl.

Dad didn't say hello to us either, and he drove very slowly. We had just passed the large beautifully-branching tree at the crest of the hill above the creek when he said suddenly:

"Your mother cried all morning."

I tensed. All of us sat up, apathy gone, no longer bored or disinterested.

"She said none of you did anything for her yesterday," said Dad. "You didn't even wish her a happy Mother's Day."

It was then that I got that burning feeling in my gut, that horrible reaction that is caused by fear - the horror of having done (or not done) what can't be changed, can't be undone or taken back. It's an emotional nausea that roils through one's insides.

The four of us stammered in turns, attempting to come up with an explanation, an excuse. I lamely uttered the fact that I had tried to make something, but it hadn't come out right. Dad was silent, the expression on his face unalterable rebuke. I remember we were passing the creek, that peaceful beautiful stream, when we began to break down one by one with the intense remorse, some of us sobbing loudly.

As we passed the cornfield and approached the turn of the driveway, Dad cut quietly through all the tears, "You're going to apologize to your mother. And you're going to make it up to her. I don't know how you can, but you will."

We tumbled out of the car when it stopped by our little square home. We tore through the front door in a pack and stormed our mother as she stood in the kitchen, hugging her, crying, apologizing continually, and professing our love for her. She held us and received it all with grace.

And that is so like her sweet nature.

But I am still sad to think there ever was a time when I forgot to say, "Mama  Darlin', I love you."

Here's Your Humility (and may God Bless you)

Being a mother is a humbling experience. Maybe it's because you know it's a miracle if your patience makes it to dinnertime, or maybe it's the memory of your little girl asking, "Mama, why won't your bottom fit on the toilet seat?"

As a mother you get the biggest hugs and the most explosive tantrums. Your toddler follows you around half the day like your own personal Jerry Lewis impersonator, wailing, "Ma-maa! Maa-maaaa!" Your son comes home from school with a special recognition for his "great attitude in class and kindness toward others", and you watch him fume and glare because you won't let him have ice cream before dinner. Your little girl slides in her fake high heels and sprawls crying on the floor, tangled up in her Tinker Bell fairy costume.You comfort her silently, the last thread of your sanity taut. And the answer is no, you won't keep your patience through dinnertime, but as you are only human, that was a given.

No one told me how time consuming child-rearing is. I now understand why every time Matthew and I announced to our respective parents that we were expecting again after that first kid, their tone was always cautionary, like I hope you know what you're getting into. Discipline is especially hard work, or, rather, figuring out how to effectively discipline is hard work, and each child is so different in how they respond. I thought I would intuitively know how to discipline my kids; I didn't. The real funny thing is this: I had to learn how to discipline them and myself. I had to learn not to throw tantrums in response to theirs. I had to learn to sing at them to keep myself from blowing a top and yelling. And I had to learn not to blow excessive steam over those constant germ-seeking missiles they call children's hands. I had to become a better person, in short. And it's still a struggle. I'm a ways better than decent but a bit short of good.

And I missed the Angel of Healing Mommy course every mother is supposed to take. I have no natural instinct for caring for the sick. I often forget to take their temperature when I mean to or to give them their medicine on time or at all. I know when something is scarily awry with their health, but as I said, I am not the mother with the instinct for healing boo-boos and administering to the sick. I am the emotional support - the long, soothing hug, the gentle stroking of the hair. With the many fevers we've been through in this house, I've learned how to bring a child's temp down with a lukewarm spongebath, but when it comes to most practical care, I am sadly deficient. This is evident to my children, I know. When once taking care of a cut on Berto's hand, I apologized for not being as adept as Papa, and Berto looked at me with the solemn expression of a disillusioned but forgiving devotee and said, "You try, Mama. You try."

I do indeed try. And I pray. It does help to know that some day when I'm weeping as the last one takes off for college that I'll have the memories of these days to cheer me - that is, after I bury all remnants of mommy guilt in the backyard and edit out all the frustration. All I'll have left is the recollection of all the funny or cute things they said and did. Like the time Berto, a preschooler, sat on the couch and suddenly had an epiphany. "Look, Mama, Papa!" he called to Matthew and me. "This is my longest finger!" And then we turned to see him giving us "the finger", an innocent smile lighting up his features.

I'll also fondly remember how often Analisa ambushed me as I tried to clean up spilled juice on the floor, scrambling on top of my shoulders from any obliging piece of furniture. I'll reminisce about how my groans as forty pounds of weight assailed my back only brought out her giggles as she chanted, "Piggyback ride! Piggyback ride!" with maniacal glee.

I'll recall how every time my youngest daughter, Ella Belle, was upset with someone, she balled her fists at her side, scrunched her eyes into quarter moon-shaped slits, and growled through her teeth, "Stop it you...You Naughty Pants!"

Or how every time his siblings bent over Danny Sam, our littlest, and put a baby toy in their mouth just so they could spit it out on his belly, our little guy giggled crazily and almost involuntarily until I rescued him, so he could catch some oxygen.

I know I'll miss the times when I danced like a monkey with my children to Elvis, Beatles or Monkeys tunes, being completely unladylike and unattrative in my form, while they jumped around me trying to imitate my crazy kicks and swingabouts. I'll remember the never-ending games of red light/green light in the backyard where I ran handicapped with a baby in my arms and always lost. And all the games of Santa May I, Cupid May I, Easter Bunny May I, and how Ella, a little too young still, always half skipped/half danced several steps ahead of what she asked for while the rest of us laughed.

While I was growing up, my mom reminded me of a promise I made when I was a gangly five-year-old rocking in her arms. "Mama, I'm never going to grow up, " I told her. My older siblings had no urge to make such a promise, but I was content. "Remember, you said you were always going to be my baby," my mother would say every now and then after that when I displayed obvious signs of not being able to keep that vow. I understand now the wistfulness that was in her voice. My little Ana says she wants to live with me forever in our three bedroom house. I know better. If she does stay, though, I hope she'll pitch in for some renovations.

When I look forward to looking back, I realize that it's all good, and, no, I don't want them to grow up too quickly. The day will come very soon when Berto knows what it means to hold up his middle finger at someone; Ana is already a little too gangly for piggyback rides, and Ella will not always come to me and beg for a match of Memory or call everyone who displeases her a "naughty pants". Danny Sam? Well, if Danny Sam can learn to fall asleep without me bouncing him in my arms while he continuously yanks at my hair, at least before he hits the teenage years, I'll count that a victory. For now, I'll take the poopy diapers, tantrums, sibling wars, and the nights when I just wish, for the love of heaven, that they'd fall asleep. Because soon enough I'll get what I'm wishing for, and then I'll be a little sad.

Busted at Breakfast

They may be a friendly old country store, but I'm betting they don't want to see me ever again.

I couldn't pay; I broke some things - at least I didn't break a rocker....

Yesterday was supposed to be a relaxing day. I went out to breakfast at Cracker Barrel with some friends from my Mom's group. Lovely ladies...saved me from the misery of raising children by myself. Uh, I mean...besides Matthew, of course. But you know the old adage about it taking a village? They're my village. Together, we can discuss important child-rearing topics that men hate hearing about such as: Why has my daughter suddenly started biting her toenails? When can you expect a little boy's potty training to advance to the point where he isn't peeing all over the guest bathroom - age 10, 12...20? And at one point do you let your little guy go to the men's restroom all by himself - kindergarten...college?

Toward the end of the meal I rushed out to the car to retrieve the cellphone I forgot there, because, believe me, if Matthew tries to call while I'm out, and I don't answer, I'm likely to get a grilling when I get home - complete with fluorescent lamps suspended inches from my face, making me sweat and promise that from then on, I'll glue my cellphone to my head.

Got it just in time, because Matthew called two minutes later to ask if I was home yet so he could drop off the kids on the way to get his hair cut. No, I wanted to look around at all the neat country store goodies first.

"Hey, Camille," I said to my friend after getting off the phone. "Let me pay for your breakfast. I didn't get you anything for your birthday, and I loved the cards you gave me."

I took the checks up to the counter while she watched my little Danny Sam for me (he had come along; we're really inseparable at the moment, though I think I could bear the separation better than he). I drew my ugly black canvas diaper bag around my shoulder, flipped open the enormous flap, unzipped the top zipper, dug in, pushed things around and unzipped the inner pocket of the dang thing, and then stared blankly at some papers there while my hands continued to grope around desperately for something...

I looked up at the young woman behind the counter.

"Oh, no - my wallet!" I said plaintively. "I don't have my wallet. It's in my baby sling at home. You know, I put my baby in it and wear it...or him. You know?"

I had added this last part because this girl was staring at me with an expression that said I always knew I'd encounter you someday, as if I were her own personal nemesis. She acted as if she did not believe there were such things as baby slings and doubted that I even had a child.

"I'll have to ask my friend to pay for it," I said. "I'll be right back!"

She just stared as I walked away, still not speaking. I hurried up to Camille and Geraldine.

"You'll never believe it, Camille," I said excitedly. "But I don't have my wallet. Could you pay for it, and I'll give you cash later for both? Sorry."

Camille smiled and took it back, but then Geraldine took all the checks.

"I'll pay for it," she offered.

"I'm so sorry, Geraldine," I said. "I put my wallet in my sling when I walk in to get the kids from school, so I don't have to carry the whole diaper bag, and I just forgot to put it back."

"Believe me, I understand," she said. "I had to run back in for mine this morning. I was literally out the door."

"I'll pay you back," I said. "Next time I see you..."

"No, never mind," said Geraldine graciously. "It'll be my treat. Happy birthdays, Merry Christmases!" she added, laughing.

She went to pay for three times the breakfast she had anticipated. Camille and I started to walk around the store, looking at all the Christmas merchandise on display. Geraldine joined us a short time later, and we began talking again, but pretty soon my friends realized I had an issue before I even noticed.

"Whoa, Hillary," said Geraldine, putting out a restraining hand. She pointed. "Watch out for that angel there."

I had almost wiped out this angel with the car seat complete with child (Danny Sam in his own personal equipage) that I had hung on my arm. I took a step away from it.

"Maybe we should go," said Camille.

I was fine with that; I had no money for the cute, and highly breakable, things on display.

"Did you want to look around, Geraldine?" I asked.

Geraldine then told us that she was still waiting to pay for the checks, because for some reason they had been canceled after my failed attempt to pay, and the cashier couldn't put them through.

So we moved off through another part of the store, the car seat still slung casually across my arm and Danny Sam trying to sit up to look at all the displays. I blame him, really; he must have shifted his weight just right while I was passing a bulky display of vintage soda to propel the car seat into it. There was a sudden collision which knocked one of the whimsical boxes full force off its comrades, then the crash of colliding bottles and a slow agonizing fizzzzzzzz as the sodas released their carbonation in a pitiful plea for help, or attention.

I gave a short laugh and said, "Oh, no!"

Okay, it was really not the appropriate response, but I've lost the proper ability to be embarrassed anymore. On the other hand, I've mastered the art of apologizing repeatedly with subtle variations, "I'm sorry! So sorry about that...I'm really sorry! Please accept my apology for the destruction of your (fine china, vase, glass, priceless ornament, or, in this case, vintage soda). Really-I'm very, very sorry!"

Within two seconds a female store clerk showed up to assess the damage. My wave of apologies didn't have one ounce of effect on the decidedly sour expression that assailed her face as she watched the syrupy soda bleed beneath the display table. I stopped apologizing to wonder about a more pressing issue of damage control: just which one of my friends could I convince to pay for the havoc I had wreaked on that old country store? Since Geraldine was already paying for my breakfast, should I ask Camille? My company was becoming expensive, but maybe there were still a couple of unbroken bottles in the box they could take home for later...

Thankfully, the manager came up. I started my program of groveling anew, but I didn't need to bother because he promptly said, "Don't worry about it! It's okay. It's happened before!" At which point I paused to try and recollect the last time I may have been there and broken a box of soda.

I tried again to apologize to the poor lemon-faced lady responsible for cleaning up my mess, but it was useless; she wouldn't even acknowledge me. Meanwhile, Geraldine went again to see about paying for the checks, and Camille began to run defense for my every move.

"Don't get too close to that," she said. Then she added a moment later as I was admiring some Christmas decorations, swinging Danny back and forth on my arm, "Here! Step this way a little, Hillary."

When Geraldine had at last been allowed to pay, and we decided to leave, Camille pointed down an aisle. "There, Hillary," she said. "You should have a nice wide path...."

We made it out, and as we opened the heavy doors to freedom, I said, "They may be a friendly old store, but I bet they don't want to see any more of Hillary Tornado!"

Our little party broke up in the parking lot, but there was one last thing: a note I had in the car to thank Geraldine for hosting our Mom's Group Thanksgiving.

"Wait, Geraldine! I have something for you," I said as I opened the rear door of the car and bent down to grab it. But it wasn't there. I hunted around to no avail, then straightening I looked at my friend pitifully and said, "I don't have it; I guess I forgot it."

Camille laughed, and then Geraldine and I laughed as well. It was one of those days.

And I don't think I can go back to that Cracker Barrel again....

Now Where Did I Put My Glasses?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Long Johns is Where We Gone Wrong-abridged

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

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

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

Ella smiled and jumped up to smack palms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Me, too," said Ana.

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

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

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

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

"Hey!" she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tetanus Shots and Other Horror Stories

 

One day I told my kids not to do something. I said in a stern voice, "Don't play that way, because if you do one of you will slip and fall and hit your head. Then you'll pass out, and you'll be bleeding profusely. I'll have to take you to the hospital, and we'll be waiting three hours. No money for the vending machine, and a strange old man with an unpleasant odor will be sitting by us trying to give you candy. But you won't get it, because you never know! And that's why Mama always checks your candy on Halloween!"

At the end of this speech, Matthew, my husband, is shaking his head and giving me the look that says, where did I get you-Mars?, and my children are staring at me in a daze, terrified of they don't know what, because they've forgotten what I've told them not to do in the first place.

They do have one question, though.

"What's passing out?" asks Ana.

"Well..." I begin but Matthew practically burns me with a look that reminds me I've already performed my motherly duty. So I just smile at them and say, "Never mind. Now run along and play, you little monkeys!"

Then I turn to Matthew and shrug as I tell him, "I know, I know. I always say too much."

But maybe that's because I think too much. For instance, if I find a pair of scissors on the floor, I don't just think, Ooooh, that's not safe. Better put those away. No, a whole scene of the tragedy that might occur if my preschooler got a hold of those plays out in my mind. I can see her discovering them while I'm, say, in the bathroom reading the newspaper or something. "What nice sharp blades you have, scissors!" she might say before she runs around with them, laughing maniacally, opening and closing the blades with gusto like some midget Edward Scissorhands.

No pens, pencils, knives or scissors, I think as I pick up the scissors, passing my hand before my eyes, and put them away with a shudder.

Matthew, of course, is the one who left them on the floor in the first place. There are no mini-tragedies playing in his head. And he can simply say to the kids when necessary, "No, you're not doing that." or "No, you can't play with that. It's dangerous!" If they ask him why, he simply responds with the classic, "Because I told you so!"

But I don't know where to stop. And if they ask me why, I'm likely to give them a gruesome, full-bodied answer, and this doesn't just apply to questions concerning their own safety.

Not long ago, Berto brought me my book on ancient Egypt and pointed to a picture of a mummy.

"How did they make mummies?' he asked.

I stared at the picture. I understand his fascination. But what to say, what to say? It never occurs to me to lie and say, "I really don't know son. I believe it was a complicated and mysterious process-which nobody does nowadays, so don't you worry!"

"You really don't want to know," I say instead.

"Oh, come on. Tell me, Mama. Come on!"

"Well...alright then." I laugh and make room for him on the couch so we can enjoy a long cozy chat about mummification. "Okay, first they took a long metal hook which they inserted into the nose of the dearly departed, and then......"

The other day I saw the kids playing with a splintery old board. They had it propped on their playset, using it as a see-saw. Then they leaned it on the slide, so they could scamper up to the fort.

I walked outside. "Hey, hey, hey!" I yelled. "You get that board off there right now!"

"Why?" said Berto. "It doesn't have any nails."

"Yes, it does," I answered. "And they're old and rusty, too. Do you want a tetanus shot?"

"What's a tetanus shot?" he asked nervously.

"It's a shot, and it hurts," I said in brilliant explanation. "You have to get it when a rusty old nail goes through your foot, and the needle they give it with is, like, a quarter inch thick. Last time I got one, I passed out. Then I went home, and I passed out again. My arm hurt for days. I ran a fever, too."

Berto looked at the board, finally spotted the nails, and pitched it over the slide as if it were on fire.

I nodded my head in approval and went back inside. Another successful warning given, another tragedy averted. But next time I should think about cautioning them with a story that doesn't involve passing out in excruciating pain. I should tell them about stitches, perhaps.