mixed veggies

On birthdays...

2009-05-21T23:55:00.002-04:00

Tomorrow is my birthday, and I'm feeling a bit Eeyore-ish about it. (It's also our tenth "birthiversary," but that's another matter.) Tomorrow I will be thirty-two years old, and my mom will call and sing the happy birthday song to me at some point in the day, just as she's done thirty-one times before (I assume). There was one year when she didn't call until late at night, and I had gotten old enough to think I didn't care and thought it was kind of ridiculous anyway, but I found myself a little disappointed when I thought she wasn't going to call and sing Happy Birthday that year. She did call, and after that I stopped thinking it was so ridiculous.

Little traditions are nice. And having your birthday be a little different than every other run-of-the-mill day is especially nice. I'm not sure if that is a practical expectation anymore, though. It seems like once you reach a certain age or post in life, your birthday becomes just another day in your life of routines and adult responsibilities. That's a little sad to me. I already have to share it with my wedding anniversary for the rest of my life (and only a week or two after Mother's Day every year to boot), but for it to be just another day...well that's just a little depressing.

So I sat here for the better part of an hour tonight (during the time when I am routinely doing my evening chores of dishes and laundry and picking up a day's worth of crap off the floor) searching for a bakery in the area that would sell me a birthday cake tomorrow without having ordered ahead. And then I realized that I can't get an Italian cream cake because Miriam can't eat pecans. So then on to finding specialty cupcakes. But then it just seems kind of anti-climactic to me to go buy myself an assortment of cupcakes to share with my family after another bland-o dinner at home (that I had to cook and clean up after). So I thought about calling a friend to meet up for cupcakes, but then I realize just how few people I even know here, let alone call a friend. It makes me want to send a birthday cupcake to everyone I know on their birthday, just in case nothing else out-of-the-ordinary happens on their day. But the fact of the matter is I probably won't even get around to sending them a card or calling them because life is just like that when you get older and weighed down with responsibilities that are time- and energy-consuming. And that's why everyone else isn't making big hooeys for each other's birthdays anymore. We make big hooeys for our kids' birthdays now. Not each others'.

So what do I expect for my birthday? A 4am awakening that keeps me up and down for up to two hours in the night. Groggily rolling out of bed when absolutely required to make breakfast happen. Lamenting that once again I didn't get up before Miriam and take my shower and get ready for the day so that we could make use of that tiny gap of time between breakfast and morning nap time (or rather nap attempt). Showering and getting ready while Miriam is having nap attempt. Lamenting after Miriam doesn't take her nap that now it's too late in the morning to go anywhere now that I'm ready because Miriam will need a nap in an hour now that she didn't take a nap in the morning. So we just settle for eating early lunch and putting the girls down for rest time, resulting in Miriam's nap. And the the rest of the boring blah-blah-blah that always happens.

That is, unless I make a hooey about my own birthday. Walk the girls to the donut shop that's practically in our backyard for kolaches in the morning! Find some time in the day to buy cupcakes! Hang up the birthday banner! Order pizza for dinner, even if we do have to eat it at 5:00 to get Miriam to bed before her sleepy slump! Put a candle on my cupcake! Heck, I might even rent myself a chick flick if Britt has to work from home!

Maybe I'll fall asleep dreaming up something fun to do with the girls tomorrow instead of dreading the mountain of dishes I neglected tonight so that I could shop for birthday cupcakes and read blogs that I haven't visited in ages. And now I'm an hour past bedtime so they are just gonna have to sit there and wait until tomorrow. The birthiversary.

Now I'm curious to see what the day will bring.

Christmas Surprise!

2009-01-01T16:58:00.013-05:00

The last time I posted, I was sporting a giant pregnant belly and anxiously awaiting the birth of our second daughter. That was a year and a week ago. Miriam Adeline joined our family last year on Christmas day, of all days! And what a day it was. We woke up to discover that Santa had left Ava "even more than she asked for" and played for a while. Shortly after 8am, I declared that Britt and Ava should go make breakfast and I'd be there as soon as possible. Nestled in the recliner, I knew it would be a while before I could get in there to help. I wasn't feeling very well, but I didn't seem to be in labor.

Before I could even begin to hoist myself out of the recliner, I had my first contraction. I think it was around 8:15 or so. My contractions came fast and furious, just as they had with Ava. We all ate breakfast, and I insisted on taking a shower and getting ready for the long, exhausting day to come, while Britt helped Ava get dressed and "packed" for a day away from home and made necessary phone calls and preparations for the hospital trip.

We got to the hospital about 10am. I waddled and contracted my way from the parking garage to the maternity ward, panicking many a passerby. Ava was cool as a cucumber, reassuring everyone we encountered that "everything is normal...Mama is just having the baby today!" I loved having her with us. My labor was moving quickly, so they didn't dawdle about getting me settled and monitored. I was already about six centimeters when I got there. Gin and Nathan made it to the hospital in time to take Ava for the day. Gin stayed with me while Britt and Ava went down with Nathan to switch Ava's carseat to their car. I had a huge burst of progress while they were gone, and the doctor was called to come for my birth surprisingly soon after Gin, Nathan, and Ava left to have Christmas dinner with Gin's family. She immediately announced that as soon as she broke my water, we would have a baby. Sure enough, seven minutes later, Miriam was looking right at me and I at her, amazed that she had arrived so swiftly! What a birth!

Miriam Adeline was born on December 25, 2007, at 12:37pm. 7 lbs, 3 oz and 21 3/4 inches.

Besides meeting my daughter, one of the highlights of my day was seeing the joyful expression on Ava's face when she saw her new baby sister for the first time. (Thanks, Nathan, for capturing it!) She has spent the year thoroughly enjoying her new role as big sister. She just adores Miriam!

This was a family Christmas picture I never expected to take! Miriam wasn't expected until January.

Now she is a year old, almost toddling, and ever a delightful person. We are so glad she's come! Happy birthday, Miriam! What a wonderful Christmas present you were!

37 weeks and counting...

2007-12-14T15:48:00.000-05:00

(photo taken at 36 weeks)

Well, it's official. The babe has made it to full-term! I could give birth to her at any time, and no one would stop me. I'm already two centimeters dilated, which could stay that way for weeks or it could mean things are heading in the direction of a Christmas surprise. We'll see! Meanwhile, I'm getting bigger by the second. The new sunburst pattern of stretchmarks around my navel suggest that this one is carried far differently than her big sister. My belly literally hangs over onto my lap when I sit. I feel the pressure of this mass plopped down on top of my thighs. It's rather odd, and I don't remember late pregnancy being this way with Ava.

I decided to take the plunge and use cloth diapers this time around. I always felt bad about how many diapers we contributed to the landfill with Ava. That was bad enough. But when I learned about all the horrible chemicals that modern conventional diapers expose babies to 'round the clock for years, I couldn't, in good conscience, use them primarily again. I know it will be an undertaking all my own because I have extremely little support in this endeavor. All the naysayers will be vocal, I'm sure (whether verbally or nonverbally). And it may not go well, but I have to try. Our shipment of itty-bitty cloth diapers arrived yesterday, and I was so excited to see them and touch them and show them all to Ava, who was quite excited herself. But when we began educating Britt on the use of said diapers that evening, I started to feel pretty intimidated by the whole idea because I don't honestly know the first thing about this effort, really. I only know what I've read online and hope it works out well enough. I know that cloth diapering is not hard, but because I feel all the negative vibes coming from everyone else, I am concerned that it won't go smoothly, and not only will I hear about it, I will have invested a lot of money into another failed project. We'll see. In the meantime, it is fun to look at all these super cute, teeny-tiny diapers and imagine my own little bundle in them very soon.

Very soon! Stay tuned...

30 weeks

2007-10-28T23:56:00.000-04:00

Wow. Thirty weeks down. This baby is coming. Soon. My nesting instinct kicked into high gear sometime over the last week or two, but seeing that Babycenter email ("Congratulations...you are 30 weeks pregnant!") really sent me over the top. I'm a lot more excited and eager to meet this little girl than I've felt up to this point, especially since the baby's chances of survival and thriving beyond this point are very good. So to that end, I feel I can breathe a sigh of relief and finally just enjoy what's left of the good weeks...the ones where I am still fully functional and sleeping relatively well every night. But on the other hand, I'm freaking out a little too. There is so much to do and so little time left. And such stressful timing with her birth being hot on the heels of Halloween (costume-making), Ava's birthday party, Britt's birthday, company two weekends in a row followed by one weekend away (for early Thanksgiving with my folks) and a mid-week Thanksgiving trip, Christmas decorating and wrapping (because I am determined it will be done very soon after Thanksgiving this year so I can just sit and enjoy the last weeks of this pregnancy and not overdo it), and then before you know it...Christmas. I have so much to do! I have gifts yet to buy, and I'm behind schedule! That was scheduled to be done by the end of October! People are not cooperative in giving gift suggestions in September and October. That makes it rough. Plus, I commited to making my daughter a native American costume for Halloween to save us from spending fifty bucks plus tax and shipping for ordering one online. She's supposed to wear it to school on Tuesday. Guess what I'll be up late doing tomorrow night. Our boxes are still not 100% unpacked, nor have I yet invented homes for everything in this house (hence the boxes). I need to revamp my blog situation before baby comes. I need to make mailing labels for Christmas cards and birth announcements. I need to choose birth announcements! You are supposed to up your bra size twice during a pregnancy, and I'm still bustin' out of the ones I have always worn. Bra shopping is annoyingly time consuming! I really need to find time to inventory all of Ava's baby things so that I will know what needs to be replaced for the baby and remind myself what we already have. So many things. There's just so much more regular life to take care of this time in addition to all the nesting desires. I can't do it all at one time, and I realize it's probably fair to say I can't do it all...period. So I just go from one day to the next doing what must be done that day and hoping it all comes out close to even in the end. (And that the baby doesn't decide to join us way early!)

All of that having been said, something magical happened to me today too. At thirty weeks, I finally felt gleeful that I'm having a baby. Really excited. I've always been happy about this pregnancy, but I started out feeling so guarded and tentative and it's only moved into stages of relief and reduce anxiety in small increments as the weeks have progressed without incident. Understandably so. A friend of mine who had a miscarriage fairly recently mentioned to me that she's afraid her experience will take away some of the joy from her next pregnancy, even if it's successful and easy. I admitted that that was the case for me, certainly. But it gets better a little at a time. And though I may only have ten weeks to feel really excited instead of thirty-four this time, I will live it up as much as possible, savoring every flop and kick and hiccup in my belly, even at 3AM when I'm up (again!) to pee or drink a glass of ice water because I'm so hot (thus ensuring that I'll be up again to pee before daybreak). She finally started feeling like a real person to me within the last few weeks. Not just this little being inside me that I know intellectually is my child, but a real person with a name and a personality and a self. A person who is aware, at least to some degree, of my presence, my voice, my demeanor, my love for her. My daughter. My child. My "longed-for child." Miriam.

I celebrated my newfound excitement by buying her some very cute newborn clothes today. And I finally enjoyed every minute of it. She's coming!

Reality check

2007-10-02T12:10:00.000-04:00

I'm having a baby. I'm twenty-six weeks and three days pregnant, and strangely enough, there are moments when I sort of forget that I'm pregnant. Then she moves and snaps me back into reality, or I try to move and immediately remember how unwieldy The Belly is getting. I have two daughters now, and sometime within the next three months, I will know both of them. And sometimes that's just hard to wrap my brain around.

I'm finally having a baby. Really.

We welcome glad Easter

2007-04-08T19:16:00.000-04:00

The snow fell softly in the night. We didn't even know it was happening. Imagine our surprise Saturday morning when Britt looked out the window, expecting to find no evidence of the predicted flurries, only to find our little slice of the world covered in white wonderment. I felt a twinge of sadness for the frozen, blossoming trees, but I delighted in their snow-covered beauty nonetheless. I had already put our winter hats and gloves away, never expecting to see snow only five days after an eighty-degree afternoon. We bundled up and went out to enjoy our (probably) last snow for a long time. Ava and I were feeling poorly, so the novelty of snow wore thin pretty quickly, and we went back inside. The snow melted (well, all but the few chunks of snowman that held together, juxtaposed with the bright green grass it lay atop), and we welcomed a cool but otherwise spring-like Easter day.

My family didn't observe Lent. (Or Advent, or anything else related to the liturgical church calendar, for that matter.) The church that finally did nurture us spiritually observed these traditions, but it was just a taste for us, as we knew nothing about them. We stopped short of actually giving anything up during Lent. I think I have always been a bit put off by the idea that one can be blessed spiritually by giving up chocolate or fried foods to help you remember Christ's suffering. I sort of like the idea of adding a spiritual discipline to your life during the lenten season, which is apparently another way to observe Lent, rather than giving up something mundane. (Though, I realize that for many people these "mundane" things are big temptations or whatnot, so it can be a source of insight...anyway.) So this year, as I was talking through my feelings on all of this, I hit upon something that could split the middle for me--worry.

I worry far too much. So I decided the thing that would benefit me most to give up wasn't TV or carbs or meat but worry. Several people expressed disapproval of this "counting" as a lenten promise, as you can't promise not to worry. True. But I can commit to realizing when I am doing it and how often it happens and attempt to curtail it with prayer and faith and trust in God. Spritual things. All of this would amount to spiritual growth, even if it didn't make me feel as deprived as those chocoholics who gave up chocolate. But for now I just don't think giving up TV would make me suffer in a way that would really make me feel Christ's suffering anyway. How can any of us know that? Maybe I just don't get it yet. And that's fine. I'm learning as I go. That's the whole point. Just making an attempt at something for the purpose of experiencing Lent had an impact (beyond just remembering that Christ died for us), even if it wasn't a traditional choice in the observance of Lent. And maybe next lenten season, worry won't be worth giving up because I won't be relying on it so much.

Goodbye, Granny.

2007-03-16T15:12:00.000-04:00

My Granny passed away yesterday, and even from all these miles away I can feel her absence. I can feel all the years of not knowing her more. I don't know her stories. Her obituary on the funeral home's web site revealed one such story. Apparently, she married my grandfather in the fall of 1934, in Mineola, Arkansas, and then the following spring they walked to Texas together! There must be dozens of those little stories that I'll never know. I only know her hugs and cold fried potatoes waiting for us late at night when we arrived at her house. And heating water in a big pan on the stove to pour into the bathtub when we had to take a bath. Partyline phones to play on with my cousin Donna. Yellow cake with chocolate icing. (And Granny would let me have a big piece.) The broken deep freeze was just a cupboard for dry goods, housing sugar and flour, and best of all chocolate Quik. Gooey oatmeal and free reign of the sugar bowl. Always a spit can beside the bed. ("Ptooey!") Granny would give me little jobs to do, like heading up the road to the neighbor's house to buy some of their fresh eggs. (I marveled at the idea that they had their own chickens and eggs.) We could walk to the Red River from Granny's house. Sometimes we did. At Granny's house I was free to run around and play outside, explore, step on the "puff pods" Granny called "Devil's Snuff," sometimes ride a horse. And while I was freely being my tomboy-est self, Granny's stories were all in the house. I guess I missed out on that part while making some favorite childhood memories. But I knew she loved me and liked me. And I loved her and liked her too. She's probably the only person I will ever know who always wished you luck, just for good measure I suppose. I don't think I ever looked Granny in the face without seeing her smile back at me. Maybe it's best that I wasn't there for the end, to remember her sad days, no longer smiling. Maybe it's best that I feel a million miles away right now and can't be there for her funeral. Maybe that will keep me remembering her smile and hugs and lucky wishes most. I will miss her dearly.

Her obituary also read: "An iron-willed housewife and mother, Alma would begin her daily routine before daybreak and toiled non-stop ‘til well past sunset." I should strive to be more like Granny. I may not look up one day to see that I have five children, sixteen grandchildren, forty great-grandchildren, and three great-great-grandchildren, but I hope to have even half of the love in my life represented by those numbers.

Goodbye, Granny. I'll remember that your house was always a happy place. And I'll remember you smiling.

Left you hanging...

2007-03-12T23:40:00.000-04:00

Sorry. I forgot to go back and finish the story. Some of you might have been wondering why Britt swerved in the first place. Well, I went back and finished the story of what happened the night of our crash. No need to re-read the beginning. I just picked up where we left off as the man was calling 911 for us.

By way of update, we are all doing fine. My back pain has escalated some over the weekend, so I'm uncomfortable, but not too bad. And my hand is healing nicely. I'll take it!

Thank God for miracles & happy endings

2007-03-09T23:05:00.000-05:00

Yesterday we went to retrieve our belongings from our car. It was an eerie sight to behold. I was carried away from from this car not so long ago. It doesn't look like the kind of thing the front passenger would have walked away from with scratches. The wrecker told us that in his experience (of many years), he has never towed a badly wrecked Saturn of any variety that ended in fatality or even critical injury but that the equivalent wreckage of other car types often did. I believe his words were something like, "I don't know what it is about 'em, but Saturns are tough, and that's what I'd recommend people buy if they want to be safe in a crash." I'll be shopping for another Saturn as soon as possible.

That part in the foreground was some part of our car that had been put into the back seat for transport. The front license plate on its caddy was also stowed in there, along with the casing for a side mirror and plenty of other car parts and pieces of fiberglass.

So let's take a walk around the car...

It was worse than I thought it would be. The driver side was far more compromised than I realized. Look at the slash marks where the earth was scraping the car as it rolled. Yeesh! Gives me heebie-jeebies just thinking about it.

Can you believe that this is the extent of our family's collected injuries? (It looks nastier in person, but still!) My head has a few glass scrapes, and I got an unfortunately weird haircut from the flying glass, presumably while my hair was hanging upside down during mid-roll. That can be easily remedied! Oh, and there's a tender area of my spine, and my neck was a lot stiff at first, but even those problems are tons better only two days later (thanks to chiropractic care). I have pain worse than this half the time as it is, just from my mild scoliosis. My range of motion is pretty good today!

That first night as I changed my bandages for the first time, I realized that this was it. This was the most our family was injured. My hand is scratched. Scratches! That's it! And then the crying started. I could be dead. Ava could have no mother. Ava could be dead, and I would suddenly have no children. Britt could be dead, and I would be lost in a sea of confusion as to how we would make it in the world without him. Ava could have been orphaned that night. Any number of horrible things could have been, and they all came pouring out of me in tears. All we got were scratches and back pain. I felt so blessed, so undeserving of God's mercy, and so grateful for our lives.

Yesterday afternoon, Ava came to tell me all about the happy ending on Cyberchase. She said, "I like happy endings, Mommy." Me too, Ava. Me too.

And yet, we walked away...

2007-03-08T21:11:00.000-05:00

Does this look like a car with a surviving passenger? Well, it is, and that survivor is me. We made (what I believe to be) a faulty decision Tuesday night to keep on driving home when we had the chance to stay in New Jersey with friends that night and finish our trip home from Boston on Wednesday. I wanted to get on home...Britt relished the drive...there are a dozen reasons why we made that choice, and it doesn't matter now. What's done is done.

Anyway, it was around 2:15am. We were almost home. Roughly twenty miles to go. Ava was sleeping peacefully in the back. I had recently dozed off in my seat. Suddenly, I was awakened by screeching tires. I lunged forward in my seat (as one would in bed from a nightmare) and felt myself begin screaming the most primal sound of terror I have ever heard or felt. The road was a series of blurs before me. We swerved right, then left, then right again, then I felt us spinning. I have never been so frightened in all my life. It was horrifying not knowing if we would live or die in the split seconds that would follow.

Britt was doing the best he could with the car. I could see that. It was like a live version of Pole Position; I only hoped we wouldn't end in flames like on the video game. All I could do was pray. I screamed, "GOD, SAVE US! PLEASE SAVE US!!!" repeatedly, with every fiber of my being.

Time didn't go into slow motion like it sometimes does during a crash. At least not for me. I realized we were spinning out of control this time, and Britt could no longer hold the road. Our final donut shot us backwards into a ditch that sent us rolling, airborne for a second or two. By this point, I am pretty sure my eyes were closed. I had ducked my head and crossed my arms and hands over my face and head as best I could and waited, praying. I realized we were being tossed about, that we were rolling over, that we might all be dead in a matter of seconds. I waited. And then the car landed, bouncing, and finally came to rest, upright...a relief. I realized that I was alive, that I had survived. This is what I saw when I opened my eyes, only it was dark and we were parked in brush.

I quickly confirmed that Britt was alive, all the while shouting hysterically things like, "I'm okay! Are you okay!? It's okay! We're going to be okay! Everything's okay!" Then Britt yelled, "Ava? Are you okay!?" Nothing. I heard nothing. Again, he shouted. Again, I heard nothing. The mother bear in me already had me up and out of my seatbelt, diving back there to find my child. Where is she!? WHERE IS HER CAR SEAT!? I couldn't see. It was dark. I quickly flipped on the cab light and found a pile of blankets, coats, and pillows behind the driver seat and realized she was buried. I shouted, "She's buried! SHE'LL SUFFOCATE!!" as I hoisted items off her until I found her sweet face, wide-eyed and wondering, but calm. Hearing her say, "I'm okay" was probably the most wonderful thing I have ever heard in my life. I was almost giddy upon realizing that we rolled and yet we were all alive and fully functional. Ava was still in her car seat, and it was still attached to the car, but the lap belt back there (that holds her car seat in) had given a lot of slack in the course of all the swerving, spinning, and rolling. So she wasn't where I expected to find her; her seat was almost sideways, leaning into large, potentially-deadly projectiles on the driver side of the back seat. Thank God the car didn't roll the other way, or she would have had a mountain of heavy objects on her body, probably enough to kill her if it hit her in the wrong way. (Not to mention the fact that Britt has no head room to spare in that car as it is, and the roof would have caved on his side...)

At this point, we realized my hand was badly cut and bleeding, and then it occurred to me that my head was hurting, and I had glass in my hair. I felt like that was about it, so I just put that aside and explained to Ava that we had been in a car crash and assured her that everything was going to be okay, that the helpers would come to get us soon and take us to the hospital. She was so calm. I told Britt to turn on the hazard lights so that someone would find us. I reached out the empty window and waved to a passing car. They didn't stop. I turned back to my family and continued my parade of positive panic statements, as is my way in a panic situation. Before we even had time to start locating one of our cell phones, a truck pulled up. A man ran toward us yelling, "Have you been in an accident!? Is anyone hurt? Do you want me to call 911?" He ran back to his truck and grabbed a cell phone, came back to the car and began relaying all he knew... "Yes, a lady has been injured. Yeah, she said she hit her head pretty hard, and there's glass in her hand. There's also a three-year-old girl. She seems okay. And the man seems okay too." Help was on the way.

While the man was on the phone, I asked Britt what happened. "There was a deer in the road." My heart sunk. I never even thought of that. That danger never even crossed my mind when I suggested we drive straight-through that morning. I just wanted to get home to my comfort zone and wake up there in the morning. A deer. It pounded me in the gut.

The man came to let us know that Rescue Squad was on the way and suggested that I put my feet up and lean my seat back. There was broken glass everywhere, not to mention ten dollars worth of quarters that we were stowing for tolls. That's when I found Britt's glasses beside my leg. I hadn't even noticed he wasn't wearing them, only that he was alive and well. That sent my head into frenzy, thinking up "necessities" that we needed to retrieve from the vehicle before Rescue Squad arrived. "Where's my camera? Get my camera! And the control journal! That has all our emergency information." Pause. "Where was my purse!? Find my purse. I think it's behind your seat." The thoughts trickled in, and I felt so materialistic to care about all these things. At the same time I felt so blessed to be sitting there thinking of all the small stuff because that meant I wasn't wrought with grief over a lost life. I didn't even think of the more important things like Ava's security object (our beloved "Ahnnie") or her coat. Britt was holding together better than I was, so he got the more important things too. I was just trying not to panic by maintaining control of something. It's funny what your mind will do in crisis situations...how differently people respond to the same situation.

Rescue Squad finally arrived and surrounded us with their presence like bees gently buzzing about. First order of business was getting me into a neck brace. That was a pain, both literally and figuratively. My neck wasn't hurting much until they stabilized it. Meanwhile, they set about taking Ava out the window. The rescuers were surprised when the electronic window rolled down like nothing had happened. Ava was such a good sport about the whole thing. I think it was sort of an adventure to her, and she was fine with all the chaos as long as she knew her Daddy and I were okay and we would all be together. They got her out safely, so she and Britt headed for the "hospital truck" (as Ava called it) to warm up and wait for my rescue.

I kept telling them I was so cold and asking if they could just let me get out. I knew my whole body was functional, as I had used every part to see about Ava less than fifteen minutes earlier. (I also realize why they couldn't risk that.) I could tell there was a little conference taking place to decide the safest course of action. My side of the car was badly damaged. The rescuer right outside my window finally told me they were going to need to cut the top off the car and fold it back to pull me out that way. He warned me it would be loud. Next thing I knew, someone had a blanket over my face. Any of you who know me well can imagine that this did not settle well, as I have an acute fear of suffocation, and I do not tolerate having my face covered! I promptly let that guy know he was about to have a panic attack on his hands. He moved the blanket, and I realized the door was no longer in my way and they were attempting to bring in a back board to put me on. I thought, Wow they sure cut that door off quietly! Turns out they had just opened it and discovered that the car held up, and I was small and functional enough to get out onto the back board that way without using the jaws of life to tear open our car. There was another delay, and at some point I realized I was humming. I find myself doing that after I've been thinking of something uncomfortable or upsetting. It took me a second, but I finally got to the chorus and realized what it was:

"I sing because I'm happy! I sing because I'm free! His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me."

I continued to hum as they jostled my body onto the back board and into the ambulance, reminding myself that God was watching. They slid me up next to my three-year-old, also lying on a back board in a neck brace (or a "special helmet," as she called it). She was so cheerful. We chatted about her experiences in the "hospital truck." Then I ribbed Britt about not giving me any more grief about my projectile paranoia, to which he responded, "We just got new brakes." We had indeed just gotten new brakes in New Jersey only three days earlier when they suddenly (and out of the blue) started squealing while we were heading out of Princeton toward Boston, our destination, after a night's stay with friends. Serendipity?

We were roughly thirty minutes from the hospital, but the ride seemed to take an hour. I made small talk with Ava, answered questions about my medical history, and just lay there, riding the rhythmic, bouncing waves. Whenever I see or hear an ambulance in action, I always say a prayer in my mind for the people involved in that situation. I lay there that night, wondering if anyone had prayed for us as we passed through the sleepy town.

Our hospital visit was comprised of the expected questions, probing, x-rays, Tetanus shot, etc. They had to push along my spine to check for fracture, and there was an area that was awfully tender. Then it dawned on me that I could have been paralyzed. I have never been so thrilled to wiggle my toes. I felt so fragile. What if I move wrong, and that causes my compromised spine to fracture!? What if I develop paralysis later!? It was so frightening. Up to this point, I had felt so great, relative to the accident. And now here I was considering life with no use of my limbs. I was all alone in there for a while after my x-rays. I wondered where all my people were. There had been a room full of them, and now no one seemed to know I had been delivered back from radiology. At last, someone came in to see about me. I was so relieved! What if I had gone into an unexpected seizure or something!? Anyway, Britt came to check on me soon thereafter and told me that Ava was fine, and they were just watching her for a while. Eventually, the doctor came back to tell me my x-rays showed no spinal fracture (thank goodness) and set about picking glass out of my bloody hand.

We were all okay.

His eye is on the sparrow...and I know He watches me.

The Coming of Lasts

2007-02-15T16:11:00.000-05:00

It was the day of my book club last week, possibly my last time to meet with them since my swim class will fall at the same time as book club in March and April. (Wow. Possibly my last.) I hadn't finished the book yet. The family taxi had delivered both Britt and Ava to their schools, and I was taking myself home. I parked my car facing "my" part of the mountains, whose highlights were a little less evident that day than they had been the day before. Sprigs of grass were beginning to poke through the remaining snow. I felt the passage of time...the coming of "lasts." I choked up. I felt an unexpected (and premature) twinge of homesickness. And not for Texas. For home.

Home is here now.

Rapidly approaching is the life change that will send us back to square one. Again. And not here. Last time there was a promise attached that if I didn't like it there, I would only have to give three years of my life to that place. This time not so much. It's open-ended. This is sort of "it." The thing we've been looking forward to together for eight years...finally settling in somewhere we don't intend to leave for a long, long time.

Our time here, while brief, has been valuable in so many ways. When we arrived, I liked it here well enough, but I certainly didn't see what all the big fuss was about. This city is lacking a lot of things I had grown to expect. (At least they finally got a Target.) I figured I would like it here fine but that I'd be so glad to get back "home" to Texas by the end of three years. Even after a whole year living here, I still thought that. But something happened during our second year here to change that. Friends. I looked up one day and realized I had a little family of friends here now, and suddenly I didn't feel so alone. And one of those friends forced me out onto the sea of confusing spaghetti roads in areas of town I'd never dared to explore alone the year before. I started knowing my way around a little more confidently. I started feeling like we live here. And then we finally found a church...and more friends. Life was weaving us an even stronger support net. And we were home, even if it took two years to feel it. (I know that it may take that long again and to be patient; it will be okay.) Living here has taught me to live someplace new to me. Anywhere, USA. So I know going into this cross-country move that I can do this. And I can do it better this time.

But it still makes me homesick to think about it.

Notes to Self: Creative Food Prep

2007-02-13T12:09:00.000-05:00

If your two-year-old ever wants you to make a cake in the shape of a specific musical instrument, this can be done. First, put on your thinking cap and draw a picture (or find one on the web). Be sure you have fancy icing tools and plenty of time. Oh, and don't expect to get much sleep the night before the party. But it will be worth all the effort and sleep deprivation when you see sheer joy on your three-year-old's face as she realizes that you pulled off her dream cake.

Never use colored icing spray (like spray paint for cakes). Disgusting. Smells like machine oil...surely that's not good to ingest. If you choose to try it again anyway, be prepared to scrape the toxic icing off and throw it in the trash.

If you decide to make apples into super cute hearts for a classroom of preschoolers to have for Valentine snack, acknowledge your own creative idea and then move on to something easier. If you choose to do it again anyway, don't start at 10PM.

And next time you choose to cut flour tortillas into hearts, wear industrial-strength cooking gloves or something similarly protective. Surely Martha Stewart makes said product. Your hands will thank you.

But the next time you decide to make a pizza in the shape of a heart for Valentine's Day, go right ahead (assuming you were making pizza from scratch anyway). Your three-year-old will love making it into a happy face heart which she can then name "Mr. Daddy Pizza." (And come on, what a creative use of asparagus! Good idea, Ava! She's a child after my own heart.)

Angry

2007-02-12T12:16:00.000-05:00

I knew better. I bravely (or foolishly) updated to the new Blogger layout interface, and it is driving me crazy that I can't manipulate it to be set up the way I had it before! I didn't have the forethought to open a page of my blog as it was (for comparison purposes) before I allowed Blogger to update me to the new layout. FRUSTRATION!

Snow Angels and Happy Memories

2007-02-08T10:00:00.000-05:00

There was an untouched blanket of snow near our apartment yesterday. We had pretty much destroyed the areas in front of our porch, but this area beside the building was still begging for attention. Begging me, in fact, for a snow angel. I don't know if I've ever made a snow angel before. I probably tried sometimes when I was little, but an inch of snow barely covers the grass, and that's hardly enough snow to make a good angel. So this was my chance. FLOP. Down I went. Hard. I felt like a kid again, swinging my arms and legs to and fro. Twenty years removed from my snow angel-making prime, it required some doing to get up without sabotaging my efforts! All morning I had been wondering why my back hurts so much today, and then it hit me. The ground. The ground is why my back hurts so much...but oh, what a snow angel! And this may be my last snow angel for a long, long time, so it was worth a few days of aching. There's something to be said for feeding one's spirit too.

Ava was disappointed that the snow wasn't right for making a snow man. And she didn't like riding the sled we ran out and bought the last time it was supposed to snow. So we made snow soup, and fruity bran muffins...and of course, snow angels. There was a whole choir of them by the time Ava got finished. :) The muffin tin was a hit. We could pack the snow well enough in the muffin tin to mold it, then put them in the (deck box) "oven" to cook. When the beeper beeped, we'd flip the tin on the sidewalk to dump the muffins out to cool, leaving little knobs of snow on the sidewalk. Ava promptly asked each time, "Mommy, can I smash 'em!?" I think stepping on the muffins was her favorite part of the day. (And maybe mine.) It was just irresistable to her. You could hear it in her voice.

Meanwhile, back on the hill... Britt was like a big kid going down our slope on the new sled. He was pleased with his tracks, and quite miffed when I ruined one of them, crashing right into the electrical box. It's harder to steer that thing than it looks! I much preferred riding with him. It was exhilarating! I loved it, but I decided he loved it more, so I should be the parent and play with Ava and let him go on his merry way, in search of an even better hill.

I'll miss the snow.

Just to ensure disappointment...

2007-02-02T23:51:00.000-05:00

I updated my blogs and links. Haven't done that in at least a year or so. Ginger's blog changed back in the summer. Anyway, Blogger is about to force me to change to the new interface, where I'm sure my template will get jerked around. I have little faith that it will be seamless. I am bracing for the losses, as I am not able to get the ol' blog printed as of yet. We shall see...

What on earth am I doing up?

Not Just Another Day

2007-01-28T22:30:00.000-05:00

Today was what it was. What fate/Nature/God intended? I'll never know. (I got so sick of hearing people say that it just wasn't God's will for us to have that baby. Who are we to presume to know the will of God, and why would anyone SAY that to a person who has just lost a child, anyway?) I only know what I feel. And I feel like today wasn't what it was "supposed" to be...or at least what I once lived expecting it would be, hoping it would be.

At best, today was supposed to be a day of celebration that our family had just grown (whether today or recently), a day of blissful sleep deprivation, hopeful breastfeeding anguish or success (it could go either way), dozens of itty bitty diapers, and tiny tortellini socks in my laundry. So many things. Or maybe I would be in labor right this very minute, struggling to breathe through it all and see it through to the end drug-free again. Maybe I would still be wondering if the person I was working so incredibly hard to bring into this world would be my daughter or my son.

At worst, today was supposed to be a day of swollen ankles, sore hips, and labored breathing, waiting anxiously for Baby to decide to come join the party and finally make Ava the big sister she's been so eager to become. It wasn't supposed to be a day of sadness. It was supposed to remain my baby's due date for nine whole months. But it didn't. And I had to say goodbye to a person I never knew, nor would I.

That changed January 28, 2007, for me. I knew it would. I knew I would think of that baby today, but I didn't expect grief to burden me for the past week as well. This time last year I was remembering Challenger. Now I'm remembering a loss of my own. My child. And it was really just another day, like any ordinary Sunday. As it should be, I suppose. But try telling that to any woman who has lost a child. It's not an ordinary day (or week, it turns out). It's a week of ineffable emptiness, almost loneliness in some ways. But oddly, not consuming...just in occasional twinges. Like growing pains. It's there, but it only takes over your thoughts every now and then, sometimes becoming unbearable but then passing on to life's ordinariness once again. It came last week in the image of a father holding his infant daughter and speaking such sweet, wonderful words to her that you could feel his love for her. It came in falling snow behind the cross in the picture window at church. A picture of God pouring down bits of Heaven, or goodness, or love, or comfort for my sorrow...I don't know which. But He was there.

Sometimes you just have to succumb to your pain and let it pour out briefly, until the next round of overwhelmed-ness washes over you. It was as if the snow was God's way of telling me it was okay to succumb, to let tears pour out of me as effortlessly as it poured out of the sky with the beautiful backdrop of winter trees...of quiet solitude. I wanted all sound to cease so that everyone else could hear God as clearly as I could, or maybe it's more precise to say so that everyone could experience God's presence as tangibly as I was in that moment of sorrow. But I realize now as I knew then, that everyone hears/feels/experiences God in different ways. God knows I am a creature of sensory memory. He speaks to me in wind chimes and heavy snowfall. Both were used to carry me through legs of this life experience, and neither of them will ever cease being sensory reminders from God for me in this life.

Everything's gonna be okay.

Partly cloudy, sunny, and snowing!?

2007-01-25T14:38:00.000-05:00

Craziest thing happened this morning. A lovely dense snowfall started suddenly on our way to pick up Ava from preschool today. We were very early to get her, so we just sat in the car and chatted, while enjoying the snow. It stopped as abruptly as it had started, and the sun creeped out slowly and set about dancing. We lamented that the snow had stopped before the kids were released but hoped that it would begin again. Sure enough, in a few minutes it started again as suddenly as before. (I mean, POOF! It was like someone cued the theatre crew to start the snowstorm.) When we got outside with Ava, the sun was shining brightly, but big, fluffy snowflakes were falling nonetheless. I heard Britt say to her, "Hey, look up. Where is that snow coming from anyway?" I looked up too, and there was just blue sky overhead!

Welcome, Winter!

2007-01-22T10:32:00.000-05:00

There was finally evidence of winter here. This first "snow event" (as they call it on the local news) wasn't a nice snowfall, as we had hoped, but we went outside and played in the ice nonetheless. A bit disappointing for us grown-ups who are hoping for at least one more round of real snow before we move to ice-storm land. This is our last winter for the novelty of real snow. Winter ain't over yet! The little girl in me will keep hoping until Spring comes.

Recipe Books

2007-01-17T16:39:00.000-05:00

This time last year, I had begun trying to cook one new recipe per week. But it had to be a new recipe from one of the many cookbooks I have on hand, in hopes of actually using all these books enough to figure out which ones should really get donated to the library before our big move. Well, that didn't work out as I had hoped. I just don't really cook using recipes much, and doing so really slows me down, costs more money, and requires more planning than the way I currently operate. So I still am no closer to knowing which books are really worthy of moving with us.

Ironically, I have begun this year with a search on amazon for a new cookbook full of bean recipes. Regularly eating beans would help us with two goals: 1) living as cheaply as possible and 2) eating more healthfully. Instead of paying for a new cookbook that I might not use, I borrowed a copy of Vegetarian Times Complete Cookbook from a friend, and I'm pretty excited! There are so many good recipes in there! And not just bean recipes but all kinds of recipes to get us out of our rut. Now it will just be a matter of finding ones that don't require too much planning, too much time, or too much money. The book's owner said she lived on its recipes during her most money-crunched life period (because you don't have to buy meat), so I guess it's possible to live cheaply on these recipes.

Coming up: Fruity Bran Muffins

Resolutions?

2007-01-09T11:44:00.000-05:00

I don't have much affection for the tradition of making new year's resolutions, but I do make life goals from time to time, usually at the beginning of every new semester (as we have lived semesterly for our whole adult lives). And new years just happens to be (pretty much) the start of a new semester for us. So I don't know if you'd call them "resolutions," per se, but these are some of my hopes for my life habits forthcoming:

Eat more beans.

Drink at least 56 ounces of water every day.

Take the Beginning Swimming for Terrified Adults class that I couldn't get into last semester.

Spend at least an hour of focused time with Ava every day. Fill her days with fun things besides TV viewing.

Exercise for at least 25 minutes five days a week...and increase time once this becomes a habit.

Update blogs at least once a week.

Begin really FLYing. I can do it!

Get Ava's baby pictures in an album by the time we move, even if it's not modern "scrapbook" style. Just get them in there!!!

That's enough. :)

Happier New Year

2007-01-02T17:08:00.000-05:00

We rang in the new year in West Texas watching the ball drop on a fuzzy cable connection. Why is it that watching the ball drop as a kid was so thrilling, and now it's just interesting to see what cool new technology they have added to the famous ball this year? (I'm sure it had something to do with being a kid awake at midnight, but I digress...) We had quite a conversation about the demise of Dick Clark and Ryan Seacrest's acceptance of the Dick Clark torch. I thought this was a ridiculous change until we really considered all the ways that Ryan Seacrest is to our current pop culture what Dick Clark was forty (or fifty!?) years ago. He hosts American Idol, which is sort of today's version of what American Bandstand represented decades ago. And now you see him hosting all sorts of things...much like Dick Clark has done for, well, forever to me. (Will we still be watching Ryan Seacrest host stuff forty years from now!?) I feel sad for Dick Clark. He must love doing what he's always done, or he wouldn't still be sitting there struggling to speak in an understandable way, and that means he must be uncomfortable letting go of all he's ever known, succumbing to his mortality when he's always seemed ageless until recently. But enough about Dick Clark.

The ball dropped, as it always does, a flashing eternity and then, boom, it's a new year. In an instant, it's another year of opportunities, life changes, places to visit, inevitable and still-silent aging, marriage, laundry and dishes, back pain, family growth, spiritual formation...and so many other things we have yet to discover. 2006 was hard, and I gladly welcome another year of opportunities. I know it doesn't really change anything. Every day is the start of a new year, depending on how you look at it. But still, the first day of January just seems like a fresh start. Maybe it's because you get to take down one whole calendar and put up a new one. Change! And not just the current month to another picture very similar to the one before it...a whole new calendar, signifying (to me) permission to breathe a sigh of relief that the year is finally over. Those digits 2-0-0-7 represent HOPE that the next 365 days will be more palatable than the last, maybe even wonder-filled and exciting or at very least happy. And so I looked to the love of my life and meant a million things when I said, "Happier New Year," and he knew just what I meant.

Loss and Life

2006-11-19T23:40:00.000-05:00

On Friday, September 29, 2006, I found out that I was pregnant for the third time. This was an unexpected blessing, for which we were both grateful and hopeful. The last time it hadn't worked out, and we wanted this baby so much. I had a hard time wrapping my brain around this pregnancy because, for so many weeks, I didn't feel pregnant. (Well, except for the three-day stretch when I wanted nothing but green beans.) Maybe it was a subconscious way of protecting my heart after losing the last baby so recently. Or maybe my girlfriends were right that I didn't feel sick because it was a boy. It didn't take me long to decide my girlfriends and Ava were right--it was a boy. And he was growing, as was my belly. I started feeling pregnant once that pregnant belly made its appearance.

On Wednesday, November 8th, my worst fears were confirmed. I was eleven and a half weeks pregnant, but our baby had no heartbeat. Development had ceased three weeks earlier. It was too early for gender, but I will always feel like this baby was a boy. The same thing happened last time too. But this time my husband was at my side and felt my despair as we listened to our options. After several agonizing days, I chose to let nature take its course.

At this time four nights ago, I was doing everything I could to distract myself from the pain of labor. (This was no "heavy period" like they said it would be...) They say you forget the pain after your child is born, and that is largely true. I gave birth to Ava naturally, so I felt every contraction. And even a week ago, I was still convinced that despite knowing intellectually what a physically painful experience it was, I would birth my next child naturally too. After a few hours of intense labor pains Wednesday night, I remembered fully the physical pain of childbirth, and I was baffled as to how I had endured that for almost eleven hours with Ava. (At one point while discussing this feat, I exclaimed to my husband, "I am a lunatic!") Until Wednesday night, thanks to the merciful phenomenon of childbirth amnesia, I had lived blissfully unaware that labor really was "that bad" and it will be "that bad" again. The memory of childbirth pain indeed subsides after you hear the first cry of your newborn child and they place her in your arms, where you see the fruit of your labor, and it's all made worth it. The pain pales in comparison to your immense joy.

The pain of childdeath is different. It doesn't go away. You remember the agony because there's no reward at the end. There's no little human whose breath you feel on your neck, whose fingers you wrap around your own, whose warm body you press against yourself as you settle into a cozy snuggle. The childbirth experience is quickly absorbed by the in-love experience that immediately follows. The childdeath experience is not. It is just pain followed by more pain.

Shortly after 1:00AM on Thursday, November 16, 2006, my third child came into the world, and I was privileged to see him. I knew it was very unlikely that I would ever know it when he left my body, but I held on to my hope and kept watching for him anyway. I knew I'd know my child when I saw him...if I saw him. Then sometime around 1:15, there he was, a surprise waiting for me to discover him staring back at me. I knew that was my baby. He was different than all the other matter I'd been seeing for hours upon hours. His eyes were so amazingly distinct in his tiny little face, and though I knew he wasn't really looking back at me, I felt like he was seeing me and feeling me loving him. There was my baby...my child. I calmly called out to my husband to come see our baby. We marveled together at his magnificence in much the same way parents of full-term newborns do. But he didn't do anything. He couldn't. He had no life left in his precious body. He barely got started. But he had the most wonderful eyes.

The moments and hours that followed are a frightening blur now. Due to an obvious complication, I started bleeding so fast that there was no more time to spend with my newest child, not even time to take his picture. I had to save my life for my one living child, who was just awakening with an untimely fever spike. She was all too aware that something serious was happening, and she wouldn't even hug me for fear that she would be saying goodbye forever, I think. I could sense her fear. And from that moment on, no matter how sad I was over the loss of my third child--our second fetal loss in four months' time--my mind was set on getting help before it was too late. I couldn't die. I wouldn't die. And I didn't. We got there in time. And I wouldn't have wanted to get there a minute later because I had used up every store of calmness and strength I could muster by the time we made it to the ER. Where those left off, prayers took over, and I came through just fine in the end, admitting, "I should have opted for the surgery...."

But if I had done that, I never would have experienced the blessing of being face to face with my tiny baby. And though I will never forget the pain of childdeath or stop wishing I had a picture of him while he looked so fresh and full of life, I will always cherish those sweet moments I had with him and count it among the most joyous experiences of my life, meeting that child of mine, seeing his eyes, getting the chance to say I will always love you and Goodbye to his face before I rushed away to live.

Life Lessons on Faith

2006-10-24T22:26:00.000-04:00

I've probably heard this song before, but I think I heard it today for the first time. The kind of thing where you find yourself hearing something and thinking "YES!" after every statement. Its lyrics struck me, as the thick fog of a specific category of uncertainty and fear is just beginning to lift for me. Here's my abbreviated version...just the parts that mattered to me and minus the Biblical analogy about water and wine that I think is used backwards throughout the whole song...

Drive
by Incubus

Sometimes, I feel the fear of uncertainty stinging clear.
And I can't help but ask myself how much I'll let the fear take the wheel and steer.
It's driven me before, and it seems to have a vague, haunting mass appeal.
But lately I am beginning to find that I should be the one behind the wheel.
It's driven me before and it seems to be the way that everyone else gets around.
But lately I'm beginning to find that when I drive myself my light is found.

Whatever tomorrow brings, I'll be there with open arms and open eyes.
Whatever tomorrow brings, I'll be there.

There are some holes, like the fact that I shouldn't be the one "driving" either. That's where my lessons in faith come in for the umpteenth time. But it's just a song...and I get the point for me. If I take the reigns from Fear, then I might finally feel my Light...in every sense of the word.

Childhood Saturdays

2006-10-07T18:48:00.000-04:00

I just ran across a website detailing the Saturday morning cartoons of my childhood. It was fun to remember all the shows I routinely watched--Fat Albert, Heathcliff, Flintstones, Smurfs, Shirt Tales, Pac Man, Muppet Babies, and in later years Pee Wee's Playhouse, Out of this World, and Small Wonder--and those that I had totally forgotten about--The Wuzzles, Monchichis, Get Along Gang, Snorks... A little stroll down memory lane.

I remember getting up earlier than everyone in my family and turning on the TV all by myself, switching channels until I found the Flintstones or Smurfs. And later my mom would find me sitting there all alone in the dark of pre-dawn with my knees pulled to my chest and my nightgown stretched over my legs, just contently and quietly watching cartoons.

I remember going with Mom sometimes to the beauty shop and being allowed to hang out in the break room to watch cartoons during her long stay there. I loved that option because it meant I was free to sneak sugar cubes at will, and no one seemed to notice. Sugar cubes were just so novel! I can't imagine sucking down pure sugar at 8am now. Sick!

I remember one Saturday (or was it many?) watching Fat Albert and Heathcliff while sitting at the edge of the kitchen flooring (must have been after the new carpet was installed in the living room) eating Jack n Jill donuts my dad had gotten for us while we were out and about together after dropping Mom off at the beauty shop. Mmmm...Jack n Jill!

My favorite thing to do on Saturday mornings was go with Dad to Ira's, a little breakfast diner on Waco Drive. They had little tiny juke boxes on the tables that you could play for only a dime, and Dad would let me choose a song. "The Chair" by George Strait is one I remember selecting one Saturday because it was Missy's favorite at the time, and whatever big sisters like is automatically cool. I can't remember Missy being there with us (I guess she was sleeping in); it seems like it was usually just Dad and me. I have always shared my Dad's love of big breakfast, so I was always excited when he took me to Ira's. It was almost like our own little Father-Daughter dates, and even though I'm sure it didn't happen all that often, our little jaunts to Ira's together are favorite memories.

Time and Self

2006-09-30T16:00:00.000-04:00

There's an old song that comes on the oldies radio stations fairly often called Time in a Bottle. I don't know if Jim Croce wrote it or not, but he sings the only version I know of. It's really a love song, and I like it as a love song. But a particular part of it struck me differently the other day as I was driving around town (probably during Ava's preschool time, judging from the fact that I was playing the radio rather than Ava's beloved silly songs tape). The beginning of the chorus says:

But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them

I heard those words that day in a different context than the love song written around them. I identified. Now that I've finally figured out some things I really want to do, some activities that I really want to invest myself in regularly, there never seems to be enough time to devote to them. I firmly believe that I will enjoy scrapbooking once I get over the start hump and find time to do it routinely. I have tried scrapping with friends, and that only gets me a little ways because I don't have a plan. I'm unprepared. I haven't built up a supply base. Etc. It's always something. I really enjoy the social time, and I always learn something from everyone else's ideas, but it's still just one night a month with maybe a couple other nights with a different friend mixed in. That doesn't cut it! It's not enjoyable that way. I just makes me crazy that I can't sit down every day or two and do a little bit. I want to work on Ava's book regularly to get up to date. So far there's nothing but a blog, which is admittedly something. At least there's that.

...which brings me to another thing I want to spend more time doing--my blogs. I enjoy writing, and I wish I had a regular time to sit down and do it, even if it's just a blog entry. I enjoy that type of writing...just conversational, no need to follow the rules. I like reflecting on my life or things that I think or opinions I have. I like putting them into words, or expressing my feelings, even if they are about weird things like displayed taxidermy or Barry Manilow. It's fun. And I don't really care if no one is reading. It makes me notice Me. I get to say what I want to say and not worry about whether or not it was an inappropriate time for my opinion. It's a blog. That's the nature of blogs, and people should know that going into it if they choose to read them.

I want to read! I have finally put enough years between me and high school reading requirements, and I actually want to read for pleasure. I even joined the bookclub my fellow mom-friends hold each month. It still take a little bit of push for me to read the "assigned" book for the month, sheerly because it's been assigned, but I enjoy talking about the book in a group instead of only experiencing it myself and that's the end of it. It's fun to banter about things that happened in the storyline or parts that we thought were stupid or disjointed. I'm glad I am doing bookclub this year because it will force me to set aside time for reading. Sometimes it's frustrating because what I really want to read is a scrapbooking magazine, and there's just not time to read everything I want to read. But I know it will be worth it.

Exercise is another thing I want to work into my life routinely. Routinely. Not sometimes. Not at the beginning of the semester before the life current sweeps me off course after a few weeks. Regularly. I want to be healthy for my whole life. I want to feel good and young even when I'm older. And I firmly believe that unless you just happen to have been blessed with fantastic genes, then you have to work on your whole-body health regularly, or you might as well not complain or act like you don't know what happened to you when you look at the scale with displeasure at age 40, only to see that it's worse at age 50 and so on... And I feel that I, even at age 29, and headed straight for that scenario because I do not routinely take good care of my physical needs. I eat a reasonably healthy diet, but until recently I have done nothing to regularly exercise my body (except while pregnant, thanks to my faithful walking buddy Ginger).

My miscarriage in July really stirred a lot of things deep down inside me. Life is happening NOW. It's not slowing down. There's no "tomorrow" forever. I can't always count on getting fit "later." Ava is growing up so fast; I can't just let this time of her development slip away without doing the one-on-one enrichment activities I plan for us to do together while I still have her at home with me. I spent a good part of her summer NOT doing those things with her because my pregnancy had me so wiped out. She changed a lot over that short amount of time. And I'm not saying I blame myself or feel particularly guilty (our bodies do have limits), but it did make evident how fleeting her smallness is, how much I will miss her being like this even if I do spend as much time with her as I can. I can't afford to spend my days telling her "maybe later" and expect myself to look back on her young years without regret. That's as foolish as always eating fast food, never exercising or drinking water, and expecting that you are exempt from the body fat and wrinkles that will certainly catch up with you.

I may not have known my second child, but having that child in my life, even for such a brief period, changed me. I am malleable. I can change for the better. I can learn to live with less fear. I can spend more quality time with my child(ren). I can take care better of my body. And maybe I can even figure out how to work in my hobbies for personal enjoyment eventually, too. I haven't quite figured it out yet. The only moms I have ever heard of who can do it all have nannies raising their kids so they can spend the day working out and shopping. While it would be nice to have fitness that high on my to-do list every day, I wouldn't trade my chaotic life, just as it is, pending body fat and all, if it meant someone else raised my kids. No thanks.

It is disappointing that there never seems to be enough time to do the things you feel are worth your life investment once you figure out what they are, but I'm sure in time I'll learn to work them in a little at a time. This semester, I attempted to take a swimming class for terrified adults (it was unfortunately full) in an effort to overcome a major fear that I don't want to pass on to my children. I joined the bookclub to get me reading regularly again, even if it's just one book a month. I joined a scrapbooking group to get me fiddling with my ideas. I hope it will at least motivate me to move forward in that endeavor. I teamed up with a new fitness buddy in an effort to get fit (or at least make an effort to that end); I'll be satisfied if I just learn to do physical activity routinely...so that fitness can come over time. We joined our church here. I am excited about the opportunities for spiritual growth that might present. I try to spend designated quality time in play or art activity with Ava at least a few times a week. I am trying. I am making the best effort I can to allow positive change in all the areas of my holistic self. Trying is work sometimes. A labor of loving myself for a change. I deserve to be a better Me. I can be a better Me.

Welcome, Autumn!

2006-09-27T23:30:00.000-04:00

Last year to watch "my" tree turn golden orange...

"Spanish School"

2006-09-04T21:35:00.000-04:00

Only two years ago at this time, I would have spent the morning hours nursing and dressing my baby and later standing at a local park, Ava perched on my hip, attempting to have a coherent conversation with other moms who had to keep running off to see after their "big kids." Now I have a "big kid." Tomorrow the morning with go something a little more like this:

Ava will wake up around 7AM and let us know she's awake and she's going to use the potty now. She may even take off her pull-up and ask for panties, and that will lead to dressing to the shoes since we'll be in a hurry later. Then, she will request that I get her a snack of Clifford Crunch or Dora Stars cereal...or raisins...and "fix her a show." We will all eat breakfast around 8:00, after which time we will all go "brush the SugarBugs off" and fix hair. I'm sure there will be an annoying photo shoot in there somewhere, and we will rush off to take Daddy to the law school. Next thing you know, I'll be holding the hand of my "big kid" as we look both ways to cross the parking lot and enter her preschool, where joyful faces will spout off all kinds of happy welcomes in languages I don't even understand.

PRESCHOOL. Already? When Ava was my baby, I never anticipated putting her in preschool this soon. I feel like I have taken her years for granted. I should spend more quality time on the floor playing with her when she asks me to. I should work in all those great activities I purchase and/or plan more often. She is growing up so fast. Right now I get a pass. She's only going to school two mornings a week, so it's not like all my time with her is gone...for now. But these almost-three years have gone by so fast, and before I know it, she'll be in preschool every morning, and I'll only have the afternoons with her. And then I'll turn around twice and suddenly it will be time for all-day kindergarten!

I really didn't think Ava needed to be in preschool this year. She's not even three yet, she gets along fine with others, she has other opportunities to be around other children, there's plenty of time to learn social skills, and she already knows everything they would teach a preschooler anyway. I feel like I can provide her good learning activities at home. So why would I put her in preschool? Well, we finally decided that because the one thing I can't give her is the gift of an easily-learned foreign language, we should shoot at the moon and see if she would be accepted to The International School. If that didn't work out, then no preschool until after our big move next year...which is hardly the best time for another big change like starting school. She was accepted right away, so that was that.

I am excited about all the possibilities this preschool presents to Ava. It's a Spanish immersion program, so she will be spoken to almost exclusively in Spanish by native Spanish-speakers. By May, my child may very well understand more Spanish than I do, even if she can't speak simple Spanish sentences yet. I look on with eager anticipation of that likelihood. What a blessing it would be for her to acquire a language effortlessly and be able to speak it without an American accent. (She may sound Venezuelan, but how cool would that be!?)

Ava is very enthusiastic about going to her "Spanish School;" I don't expect any crying on her part. I may tear up as I drive away, knowing that I'm entrusting her care and nurturing to someone else besides me for the first time. But it's going to be such a great thing for her...and for me too. Now I have the challenge of figuring out how best to spend those six free hours each week. Not such a bad problem! :)

A Day of Surprises

2006-09-02T22:12:00.000-04:00

Ava got up at 7:10. Bright and early...and ready to take on the day. She wanted to get dressed immediately, which is wonderful when it rarely happens! So I pounced on the opportunity to get her dressed right away. A while later, I stepped outside to find that not only had the days and days of dreary rain given way to a crisp, clear mountain view today, but it had also changed to a chilly low 60s, at best! Well, Ava, time to change from your summer clothes to your new fall clothes.

Today we had to be somewhere for a breakfast event hosted by the families group at the law school. Those who know me know that I am traditionally late everywhere I go, at least by a little bit. Well, we agreed to meet the other couple in charge of the event shortly after 9:30, and lo and behold, we parked the car at 9:34! I managed to be ready for something in time to get there when we said we'd arrive! Amazing. (and rather sad, if I do say so myself...)

During the event, a member who had been visiting the same church we were visiting early last school year came up to us to ask if we'd heard the news over the summer. What news? Apparently the assistant pastor of that church had not only resigned in the spring for having a sexual relationship with one of the parishoners of the church, but he was arrested in July for possesion of over 100 pornographic images of minors on his computer. Plus (as if that weren't disturbing enough), he had installed some hidden cameras in his own home to videotape his babysitters (from the church!) using the bathroom or the hot tub, of which he had evidently graciously offered their use. SICK! (Ironically, his lack of ever remembering us as more than first-time visitors over a five or six month period is the reason I declared months ago that I would not go back to that church. Little did I know there was more wrong with him as a pastor than inattention to newcomers.)

After the event, I told Britt that we had no easy lunch foods at home, and I figured we should grab a bite out, perhaps with friends if we wanted to give someone a call. Just as we were parking the car at Bed, Bath, and Beyond to use the coupon that had been (surprise!) waiting for me in the mailbox this morning before we left, we noticed our good friends Josh & Lisa getting into their car right in front of us! Ding-ding! So we made plans to meet up in a few minutes for lunch after our respective errands.

Next thing you know, we're standing in line at Panera Bread when A MOUSE HOPS BY RAPIDLY TOWARD THE KITCHEN. That's right. A MOUSE. And just when I thought, No way... IT HOPPED BACK BY THE OTHER WAY RIGHT IN FRONT OF US. Lisa said he almost hopped on my foot as I approached the register to tell someone about the critter. I couldn't believe it. Then, wonder of wonders, I conjured up enough "new, improved self" to stay and eat there anyway, despite knowing that the health department would certainly not give Panera high marks if they came in right that moment. Trust me, it took some digging deep to stay put and stick it out on the premise that the bread is baked fresh daily and everything else is refrigerated.

On the way to Panera, I had noticed that Bath & Body Works is having the big hand soap sale right now. I usually convince Britt to let me take advantage of the 5 for $15 deal, but this time I figured it wasn't worth the conversation. We didn't have time anyway. Well, as we were leaving Panera, Lisa says to me, "Hey, could you use any hand soap? I noticed the sale at Bath & Body, but I don't need five soaps." Great! A split!

Happy surprise! Roses were looking good and on sale for only $6.99/dozen at Kroger when I went in for a quick trip during Ava's nap time and before Britt's impromptu golf outing late in the afternoon. Woohoo! Unfortunately, I was having to hurry so much to get back home to accept the childcare baton from Britt that I forgot to swing back by the rose bin to select my bunch on my way to checkout. Bummer.

Ava's nap was unexpectedly long, which allowed me to chat with Lisa on the phone while I put up groceries and then rested my ailing leg. And to add to her surprises for the day, Ava followed her nap with cheerful acceptance of a closet-cleaning project in my bedroom, during which she demonstrated to me (out of the blue) her ability to do a somersault, unassisted. Crazy. She's getting so big.

Okay, enough of the lame "surprises" for today. Time to delve back into my 512-page book (assigned for book club) in a probably vain attempt to finish before September 14th.

T-shirt Magic!

2006-08-26T10:10:00.000-04:00

If you haven't already seen this video, you have to go watch it. I have never seen a shirt folded so easily! This is going to revolutionize my laundry-folding methods even more than learning how easy it is to fold a fitted sheet if you know what to do. Woohoo!

I couldn't resist taking a picture...

2006-08-04T23:43:00.000-04:00

Ob-la-di, ob-la-da...

2006-07-29T12:35:00.000-04:00

"It is the peculiar nature of the world to go on spinning no matter what sort of heartbreak is happening."
-from The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd

I ran across this line in the book I was finishing during the week after my surgery. It struck me. I read it again. Yes! I thought to myself. Even when I felt confused and stunned and sad deep down inside (right after the doctor told me our baby had died), I still chose to run errands with my sister. Can't change what has happened...might as well go on... I rationalized. I made my necessary phone calls from her cell phone while we were out and about. The next day I succumbed to my sorrow for a few hours, but life was still happening in the next room. As I lay there crying, I could hear my daughter desperately trying to help with the baby my mom was tending to. "Gran, can I help you change her diaper?" "Gran, does she have a little rash? Do you need me to get her cream?" "Gran, I will hold her bottle to feed her, okay?" My heart broke a little bit more when I realized how ready to step into the role of Big Sister Ava would have been by January. Ava soon came along and lived life with me for a while, comforting me in a way that only a two-year-old can, while the daily sounds hummed around us.

I reemerged later, sorrow and all, blending back into daily life. Having a small child around really keeps things moving. Even though you are sad, she still needs her nap, her snack time, her meals. You can't just drop out completely. After I had given myself some time to feel, it was time to let the current pick me back up and carry me where it would. We ate dinner with my sister's family that night. The next day was phone calls, haircuts and other errands. Breakfast, lunch, snack time, and dinner. Life. The next day was my surgery, which by that point was just a part of life, too. We had a thing to do. It had to be done, so we just carried on as if it were a normal part of our routine. It wasn't, of course, but it seemed like it by that point. After I lived with knowing there was a lifeless person inside me for a few days, I became ready to undo that fact so I could move on. And that's just what we started doing in the days that followed.

A few days later, I was feeling better and moving faster, so I made a concerted effort to concentrate on being a mother to my living child, to play and hug and tickle and laugh. To live. She needs me, even when my heart is temporarily broken. I will not dig myself a hole of self-pity and sit in it. My in-laws came to town that day, and I had completely forgotten they were due. When I got the call that they were here, I felt so disoriented. What day is this? Dinner tonight? Sure. We have to eat. Life goes on. Even when you don't know the day or hour. It just keeps right on moving, with or without you. I choose with me. It's too short to fritter away.

...la la how the life goes on.

Googleable!

2006-07-27T15:45:00.000-04:00

I was just reading an article on the blogher website about driving traffic to your website. There was mention of being linked from other sites and how that will eventually work you up the result list on a Google search. I hadn't tried Googling mixed veggies in a very long time because it usually just makes me frustrated that my blog name is a common phrase on recipe websites, but today I decided What the heck? and moused over to my Google search bar. As I typed in mixed veggies, I expected to click page after page hunting for it until I finally gave up. Lo and behold, it squeaked in at the bottom of PAGE ONE!!! I couldn't believe it. Not only is mixed veggies Googleable now, it's also findable! Sometimes it's the simple things in life that keep us interested to see what the next hour will bring...

Sometimes we don't get to choose.

2006-07-25T17:17:00.000-04:00

On Friday, July 21, 2006, I was initiated into a club I hoped never to be a part of. The welcome packet includes a delicious popsicle following surgery, a personalized plastic bracelet, a prescription for 600mg Motrin, a brief publication entitled "D&C Home Care Instructions," and as a final parting gift, a feminine pad the size of Montana. I call it The D&C Club. Lovely bunch of women, really. But still, I'd rather not be counted among them. I am there among at least ten women I know personally and can think of off the top of my head. And there's no telling how many others I don't know about yet. I am just flabbergasted at how common this is, at how many women say things like "Oh, we've been through that..." or "...when I had mine...."

Every woman knows those little letters. Until Tuesday of last week, I didn't even know what words those letters stand for, only their very sad implication when they are coupled with that tiny conjuction. And I would say most women don't know. Dilation and Curettage. Those words have kept me up at night, haunting me. DILATION. CURETTAGE! RELINQUISHED!!! But no matter how haunting the words are, life won't let me turn in my membership card. Here I am...a life member. No turning back.

No turning back the clock to before. Before we waited extra months to get pregnant again (which might have allowed time to try again for a 3L baby--that's lingo for a baby during third year of law school, an optimal time to have Daddy around). Before I agreed to go to the doctor alone that day. Before I kept my thoughts to myself when the doctor didn't hear a heartbeat with the doppler, even though I was dying inside and wanted to hear him admit it was bad that there was no discernable heartbeat with doppler at twelve weeks. Before I said, "Everybody think positive thoughts...I would rather not go through twelve more weeks of nausea," just as he began the ultrasound. Before I witnessed his determined stare and morose silence for three straight minutes while he studied the ultrasound image to make 100% sure my baby was dead before he told me so. (He didn't have to say it. I knew before he even confirmed it.) Before he turned the monitor my way and allowed me to see the lifeless little bean, still and silent, no flashing heartbeat where the little dark spot (heart) is. Before that image was etched into my mind forever. Before my stunned and disappointed response was "Well, that's a bummer." Before he said the size of the baby indicates it was only seven and a half weeks along. Before the words, "So my baby died over a month ago and I didn't even know it?" passed from my lips. Before the only ultrasound photo the doctor could give me--the only tangible thing I will ever have of this baby--got crumpled in the bottom of my bag. Before I had to call my husband to deliver the news. Before the day of sorrow that followed, and the day of feeling full of death that followed that, and the day of resignation that followed that, and the day of emptiness that all of these days were leading up to. Before I signed my name below the words "Any and all claims to the contents of my uterus and/or the fetus I hereby relinquish," pausing after only four letters of my signature to absorb the reverberation of that horrible word--relinquish--and pour out some sorrow as I completed what had to be done.

After my surgery, I remember nothing before I felt a tear fall down my cheek, and I became aware of the finality, of my emptiness. I was deeply sad, and my husband finally gleaned that I was regretting that I didn't get to say goodbye. Afraid to see, but more afraid to regret not doing so, I requested to see, to know what happened to "the contents of my uterus." The nurse was right. There was really nothing to see. Our baby was the size of a pinto bean, and amidst "the contents of my uterus" it was nothing seeable. But I needed to know that. To feel like I had the last word. To feel like I got to say goodbye. To let go. To relinquish.

I relinquished. I relinquished my own flesh and blood, and God didn't ask me for my opinion in the matter.

Goodbye, Baby. I miss you.

Life Lesson #3,982: Always Remember Your Purse

2006-07-03T15:33:00.000-04:00

When we made the trek to Texas back in May, I brilliantly left my purse hanging on the back of a stall door in the ladies room at a Burger King in Tennessee. It was an easy mistake, as I was focusing my attention downward to the tiny human I frequently accompany to the restroom. Unfortunately, I didn't realize my purse was missing until the next day, in Arkansas, over five hours away. I managed to track it down by using phone numbers on our receipts (see, sometimes it pays to keep up with receipts). The store manager who had the misfortune of having my predicament heaped upon her to deal with was less than pleasant about my request that the purse be mailed to me in Texas. First she shot off at me, "How do I even know you are the owner of the purse!?" I proceeded to lose my cool and express my knowledge of every last detail about the purse's contents (all the way down to the little birthday verse I copied onto an old receipt to use on a birthday card for my sister) until she stopped me with, "I hadn't been IN it to know any of that." I think my furor coupled with my obvious knowledge of personal effects convinced her that a thorough investigation of my identity was not necessary. She agreed to take down my address in Texas and talk to her manager about whether or not she was even allowed to mail the purse back to me. She did not repeat the address to me, nor would she listen to further requests from me. I asked that she please call me back regardless of her answer from Corporate so that I could double-check the address with her and discuss mailing options. She agreed. Well, that call never came. I called the next morning and confirmed with a different store manager that the purse had been mailed C.O.D. the day before. I was frustrated that the lady hadn't called me back so that I could direct her to the fifty dollars cash I had in the purse (drawn for travel purposes...lot of good that did us on our trip, eh?) and urge her to pay top dollar to get the package to me as quickly and safely as possible, with a reward for her to boot. But what could I do? The deed was done. Now I just had to hope it made its way to me.

A week passed. No purse. Two weeks passed. Still no purse. Having lost packages in the U.S. postal system before, I knew better than to bother barking up anybody's tree for a whole month. If it's lost, it's just lost, it seems. A month passed, so I called Burger King again and asked the store manager who mailed the package exactly how she mailed it (not C.O.D. after all--that was too much hassle--just "straight mail" because it was gonna cost her twelve bucks just to do that!), exactly what address she wrote on it (are you kidding! that was thrown away as soon as it was on the box!), if there was a return address on the package (no, why would she put that?), if it was insured (of course not, it was just someone's purse full of credit cards, cash, and identity), if there was a tracking number or anything (have a way to TRACK a package full of prime info for identity theft? What a waste of money!), etc. Had she only called me back before carting off to the Post, she might not have been so prone to send it so ridiculously, as it would have been my dime not hers.

There are so many moments I replay in my mind and wonder if things might have turned out better IF. What if I had made her repeat the address to me, even if she was fussy about it? What if I had called back immediately after I hung up and my husband said, "You didn't tell her to use our cash to mail it." I expected her to call back, and I didn't want to tick her off any more...she could decide to just be mean and not mail it, just to spite me. She sounded like the volatile type. What if I had asked her if they had a safe she could keep it in all summer, and we would pick it up on our way back through Tennessee in August? (Though that seemed riskier than mailing it.) What if we had asked our family friends a few hours from there to make a special trip on our behalf just to retrieve my lost purse and mail it to me themselves? Maybe then it would be here, and I wouldn't still be hassling with it. But regardless of all the what-ifs, the fact remains that it isn't here and it's not likely to ever find its way to me. So the credit cards must be changed, the gift cards and cash are lost forever, my driver's license must be replaced, I'll never be able to use the new exercise ball I just bought whose plug was being "safely" carried here in my purse, that birthday card for my sister will never be created, and on and on. As I told my angry husband at the truck stop in Arkansas that day after The Dawning, if that's the worst thing that happens to our family on a cross-country road trip, maybe we should count ourselves lucky. None of us was sick, injured, or dead. Our car wasn't stolen. Our keys and cell phone were not in the purse, nor was the checkbook. I already have a fraud alert on my credit from that time several years ago when my wallet was stolen right off my desk at work, so while this is indeed annoying and frustrating, it is not the worst that could happen.

After my disappointing conversation with the BK manager, I made all the necessary calls to the postal system to find out exactly what form I needed to fill out, etc. Eventually, I made my way to a surprisingly helpful and cheerful postal employee at the local station, who looked all over the post office for the package, in case it got stuck there for some reason. Then he told me what to do to file a loss report but not to get my hopes up that the package would be recovered. It's probably at a wrong residence, and people don't often return those...at least not any time soon. That's pretty much what I thought.

So I'm sitting here filling out the Mail Loss/Rifling Report to turn in to the U.S. Postal Service, and it occurs to me more acutely than ever that there's no way they will ever find my purse with the sketchy information I can provide them. Article was mailed by: Some lady named JoAnne. Return address on article mailed: None. Article was addressed to: Me, but who knows if she had the correct address. Place of Mailing: Main post office, station or branch, etc.? Unknown. I guess Branch. Name of Place of Mailing: Middlebrook Heights...at least I thought that's what JoAnne told me, but it doesn't come up on the web as a branch in that city. Zip Code of Place of Mailing: Yeah, right. I'm not even sure it's in the same city. All I know in detail is what was inside my purse. And though I know it's terribly unlikely that I will ever see that cute red purse again, I will file the report on the hopes that I will one day be reunited with the plug for my back care exercise ball. That's about all that will still be of use to me by then.

Happy Birthday, mixed veggies!

2006-06-22T13:09:00.000-04:00

I just noticed yesterday that I owe mixed veggies a belated birthday greeting! I started this blog roughly two years ago. A lot has changed in that time. Back then, I had a cooing infant; now I have a very verbal preschooler who knows far more than I dreamed she would by this point. When I started writing mixed veggies, it was for brain exercise. After quitting my job, I never had a reason to use my mind to write anything but thank you notes. And I certainly wasn't carrying on deep conversations with my baby.

A friend of ours urged me to start a blog one day, and I thought that was crazy. What could I possibly have to say that anyone would care to read? He was a part of a very philosophical blog with quite a readership, and it fueled him. He loved it. He wanted everyone else to start a blog and love it as much as he did. He gave me his spiel about how I could build a readership of moms...blah, blah. But I still thought it was silly to think anyone (strangers, at least) would care about my motherhood stories or musings about life in general. Nonetheless, he convinced me to start a blog. I went into it blindly, not knowing what I would want to talk about or whether I would write for the readers or just say what was on my mind like a journal. I started off aiming to have frequent, reliable content. Just something to read...so my "readers" wouldn't get bored and run off. (Like I had any readers other than him, my husband, and my best friend.) I soon learned that appeasing the "readership" wouldn't be my goal. It was more for me than for the readers, though I kept in mind that "big brother is watching." I try not to say anything that would make waves in my circle of knowing. Life's not worth that. I don't have anything important enough to say to be worth that. Mixed veggies is more about my random thoughts and opinions, and I still can't see why anyone who doesn't already know me would want to read it. And I often wonder if any stranger out there does. The circle is already a little bigger than I expected, having grown from just immediate family and closest friends, to friends' family members and friends and old friends with whom I rarely connect. So knowing someone is checking for a new post once in a while keeps me posting. And that keeps me exercising my brain in a way other than sitting in the Thinking Chair and figuring out Blue's Clues with Steve or Joe every day. So I guess it has served its purpose.

Among my favorite posts:
Love pulp, stirred
Beans
Displayed Taxidermy
Fitting
Sensing September
Remembering Challenger

Organic Mama

2006-06-21T23:46:00.000-04:00

I ran across this article about organic produce on DotMoms tonight, and though I rarely spend time on actual articles these days, I felt compelled to read it. I buy organic now. Not exclusively (it's hard to do that without a Whole Foods Market handy), but primarily. Ever since we moved to hippy-town C'ville, and organic everything became widely available to me, I have been buying organic. If I had had access to quality, affordable organics when I was pregnant with Ava, I probably would have made the switch back then. But Waco was certainly no place for thinking green, beyond keeping up with your curbside recycling regulations. I spent my Waco life thinking organics were manure-laden foods that had to be scoured and cooked so they wouldn't make you sick. Somewhere along the way, I grew up, used some intellect to realize the apples don't grow in the manure-laden ground but on the tree, far away from the manure. Duh. That realization was the start of a refreshingly open-minded outlook to enhance to my long-established (rather odd teenager) health-consciousness. I assure you I was the only sixteen-year-old at Waco High bringing snack bars sweetened only with fruit juice and carob chip cookies to school by my own choosing. No one in my family ate that stuff. At any given time in my home growing up, there were at least three bags of chips on top of the fridge and probably three or more conventional cookie choices. Ding Dongs, Swiss Cake Rolls, and Twinkies were lunch box staples. I frequently enjoyed a bowl of ice cream at night. It wasn't as though anyone made me become health-conscious.

So what happened to me? Why are chips and cookies relative no-no's in my adult home? I'll never really know, but I have a few guesses. My dad had been told on numerous occasions during my childhood to cut back on his intake of certain foods (everything he liked, basically), especially salt. We went through a period of time when table salt stayed in the cabinet and NuSalt stayed on the table. Dad hated it. I didn't care for it. We all tolerated it...for a while. Evidently I had always made it a habit to add salt to my food before this. But the NuSalt decree from Dad's doctor was, strangely enough, also a big red flag to childhood me. I vowed not to add salt to my food and learn to like food that way so that when I got older, no one could make me take away the only thing that made food tasty to me. I would never feel deprived if I never developed a taste for it in the first place, right? (I was an admittedly odd kid.) The health-consciousness ball was officially rolling.

A few years later, I went with my grandparents to visit family in Tacoma, Washington. I was twelve. One evening before dinner, Aunt Sandy made the most beautiful tossed salad I had ever seen. It had dark lettuce I don't recall ever seeing anyone actually eat before, and it was full of big chunks of vegetables other than tomatoes. Before my very eyes sat proof that a salad could look scrumptious. Until then, a salad was iceberg lettuce with diced tomato...and grated carrot when Mema was feeling fancy for me. That salad changed my life. Well, the whole experience of being under Sandy's NutraSweet house rules for a week probably had more to do with it than the salad itself, but I was a changed girl nonetheless. (Of course, I still routinely heaped sugar on my cereal and ate Chips Ahoy cookies by the sleeve for an afternoon snack, so I had a long way to go. But I was just a kid...give me a break!)

Anyway, by the time we got to Charlottesville, I had a nine-month-old veggie lover to feed. And though DelMonte had already come out with a small variety of organic baby foods, I had not yet become an organic Mama. In Waco, we couldn't afford to buy her organics. It was enough that I had quit my job months early to stay home with her and keep her successfully breastfed. But when we entered the land of organic possibilty, I had to indulge in those possibilities! The Whole Foods Market was literally five minutes from my apartment. The produce there looked so inviting, and the promise of learning a healthier lifestyle engulfed me every time I walked inside. I came home from there feeling whole, feeling enriched in body and in spirit, and feeling like I was in control and doing something good for my family.

Why do I buy organics? Not because I believe there are higher antioxidants (though there may be). Not primarily because I want to help the small farmers (though there is certainly some good will in so doing). I buy organics because I believe they contain less chemical pollutants for our bodies absorb. I know our bodies are designed to detoxify, but I also think our world has gotten far more toxic than our bodies were designed to withstand without ill effects (like cancer). I can't control the air pollution my family is exposed to daily, but I can make a good faith effort to control the pollutants that go into our mouths. We are still American. We drink Coke (also known in my home as "chemical water") and eat french fries just like the next guy. But I try to encourage us to do that less than we used to and to stop thinking of it as normal to rely on its convenience. And when we are at home eating around the table together, I can make up for our Whoppers with clean meat and poultry that was not raised on pesticide-ridden feed, antibiotics, hormones, and steroids. Maybe my daughters won't get boobs as early as their friends, but I'll take that parenting challenge if it means even a tiny sliver of reduced likelihood that they'll call me in forty years with the awful news that the big "C" has attacked some major organ. And if it should happen anyway, I'll be a little more likely to blame the environment than myself. Peace of mind should count for something.

Homesick

2006-06-08T23:40:00.000-04:00

When we moved to Virginia two years ago, I fully expected to feel homesick. Oddly enough, I never did. (Well, there was that one day this past spring--well over a year and a half after the move!--when I really wanted to hug my Dandy, but that hardly counts as what I'm talking about.) My family was sick that we weren't around anymore, but I was strangely okay with being displaced. I mean, I had my moments of feeling frustrated and lost in a place that was foreign to me, but I never really longed for home. I just sort of felt like a nomad adventurer or something.

Ever since we moved, I have felt like a resident of nowhere. Because our crazy life situation allows us to essentially fall through the cracks of everyone's rules for residency requirements, we never had to establish ourselves as Virginia residents, though Texas would probably be sour on the idea that we carry Texas driver's licenses with an address where we do own a home but do not reside. Our car insurance company is so confused by our Virginia address for Texas insurance on a Texas vehicle that is "garaged" in Virginia. We still get quite a bit of mail in Texas. It's like we fell off the map, and no one knows where our home is.

I think it was two to three years before my maiden name began to feel as awkward as my married name and a few more years before my married name really settled in my mind. I have been going through a period like that with my idea of "home," too. I had never lived anywhere but my hometown for twenty-seven years. We moved to Virginia with the expectation that Texas would always feel like home, and Virginia was just a stop on life's journey. Boy was I surprised this past Spring when I realized C'ville is "home" to me now. This past year brought about more confidence for learning the city, several key people who will be life-long friends, and just general settling-in. That cramped and cluttered apartment is my home now. It is where my daughter has spent more than half her life. It is where our adult selves seem to have blossomed. It is where we have finally started to really grow up and flourish. I'm finally knowing my way around and liking the city more. It is where I take Ava to the library and do daily things like grocery shop at stores I thought would always seem foreign to me because they aren't HEB. It is where our trusted pediatrician is, where our "friend family" is, where we laugh and play and thrive.

Now we are back in Texas for the summer. Notice I don't say we are "home" for the summer. No. We left our home to come to Texas for the summer, and Ava and I are homesick. It is nice being with our loved ones here (or at least close enough for a few good visits), but it's just not home. HEB seems different...not quite foreign, but certainly not familiar. When I shop there now, I miss the silly sound of thunder in the produce section (when the sprayers come on in the Kroger) and the affordable Nature's Promise organics at Giant. I miss having a Whole Foods Market five minutes from home. Even our home church is beginning to feel more foreign than it does familiar, and I never thought that would happen. We have finally found a new church in C'ville, where I think we'll stay for the short remainder of our life there, and I miss going. I miss our routine. I miss having access to our things. I miss having a real bed for Ava to sleep in every night. I miss having the daily opportunity to make our space more functional, even though that usually translates into chasing my tail. I miss chatting with my daily-life friends and watching Ava play at her favorite parks; it's too hot to play outside in Texas much. I may be back where my "roots" are, but I miss the familiarity of HOME. And home isn't here. Several times a week, Ava says to me out of the blue, "Mommy, I just want to go home to our house now." And all I can say is, "Me too, Shoogie."

Brides Against Breast Cancer

2006-04-22T13:16:00.000-04:00

I have long known that the most important item of clutter to let go of will be my wedding gown. I'm four foot eleven. There's very little chance my daughter or anyone I know would ever be short enough to use it, assuming they would even want to when it's 20-30 years out of date. If it were clean, I think I could let it go easier. We could never afford to have it cleaned after the wedding, and the early years were lean ones to say the least. So any extra money we had from time to time was spent on things or experiences we valued more than the cleanliness of my wedding gown. It's never been housed neatly in a box. It spent five years hanging in a plastic cleaners sack within inches of a bright window. Talk about good preservation conditions! Since the big move, it has literally had no home. It has gone from a pile on the floor of our closet to a pile in the trunk of our car, to being used as a Halloween costume (which proved I'll never be able to fit into it properly again after my ribs expanded during child-bearing), to a pile on top of the stack of storage containers in my bedroom...and everything in between. There is no where to put it, and it's dirty and slightly torn around the bottom edges from walking across campus to our reception site after the wedding. I don't need to keep it. But I do. I hauled it all the way across the country with me because of its sentimental value. But why? My feelings toward the thing are bittersweet. It never looked that good on me. The lady who altered it said it couldn't be altered to make the front smooth in the way I wanted, so I resigned myself to that fact and tried to stand up straight to disguise it. It buckled in an annoying fashion, and I didn't like that, but there was nothing I could do about it at that point. However, my brilliant photographer cleverly had me contort myself for my bridal portraits in a way that not only made the dress look stunning, but it made me look like I had something to fill it up! The three-quarter length portrait makes me feel good about how I looked, even though I know it bugged me that, after seven inches were removed from the bottom, it was a poor choice as far as its shape/proportion for my body type. (And I LOATHE the portrait my mom has hanging in her house because she insisted on its being a full-length shot to match my sister's. I feel bad every time I see it there.) I loved how the buttons looked down the back, but that was never entirely captured on film, so that's too bad. But mainly I bought it because it was 75% off, and it was the nicest cheap dress I could find, and I loved its simplicity and how it looked on me when I was standing on a tall box so it flowed down all the way. After alterations, however, I was a little disheartened, but still on the wedding high so I didn't let it get me down.

Clearly, it needs to either go away so someone else can use it, or be reincarnated. I have imagined how great it might be to have someone who knows what they're doing make it into a fancy dress for Ava to wear as a child. I thought about asking Ginger if we could do that for Ava's flower girl dress for her upcoming wedding, but it would clash with Gin's dress color, so I didn't. I have thought about cutting large sections of fabric from it, preserving the button section in the back, and keep those parts for Ava to use in her wedding one day if she should choose to make them into her ring bearer's pillow or a table covering or something. But then I'm mutilating the dress and ensuring that it will never get used as a dress again.

If I were an average or tall size, and I felt sure someone could use it despite the dirty & frayed bottom edge (alter it shorter), I would probably have sucked up my sentimentality and taken it to a consignment shop or even Goodwill by now. But I just don't believe it would be useful as it is. So then I go back around to the idea of making it into a fancy dress for Ava...even if it's just for dress-up during the upcoming phase of imagination.

Anyway, I found a way less conflicted brides can bless others with their wedding gowns, bridesmaids gowns, etc. Through the Making Memories Breast Cancer Foundation, brides can donate these things for the foundation to auction off to raise money for breast cancer research. It's called Brides Against Breast Cancer, and I think it's a great idea. I only wish my gown were an average length, clean, and useable to them so that I would stop saving it for "something."

Molting

2006-04-17T22:14:00.000-04:00

epiphany (noun): an intuitive grasp of reality through
something (as an event), usually simple and striking

I recently received an epiphany. It has taken me a long time to get to this place. Oddly enough, it is a shot of reality regarding my clutter. One might expect an epiphany to be of a more profound nature than that, but it has been quite profound for me nonetheless. I have suddenly realized the reason I haven't successfully let go of all of my clutter during past de-cluttering episodes. It is time to for me to molt. I need to allow myself to let go of all the little representations of past versions of myself. If it doesn't fit me now, both literally and figuratively, then I need to release it and move on with being who I am right now.

We are all made up of past experiences (good and bad), people we know and have known or encountered along our life's journey, places we have been, ideas we have entertained, etc. Who we are changes daily, even though we aren't noticing it. Sometimes we wake up one day and notice that wiry gray hairs have moved in on our heads. (That didn't happen over night.) Or we realize we have dropped an old hobby somewhere along the way. Or we don't really like sweets that much...when did that happen? I used to ride my bike almost every day as a teenager; I wonder when I stopped. When I put my bike away that day, did I know it would probably be the last time? Things like that just happen, and we hardly notice until we are looking back from the other side of life changes. It's like we get pulled by the undertow...the way we can stand and play out in the water at the beach and look up five minutes later only to realize we are thirty yards down shore from our stuff.

I got swept up in the sea of life's sweetness many years ago, and yesterday I looked up and noticed am one hundred yards down shore from most of my stuff, and now I am realizing that it might be okay to just leave it there and move on. I am not who I was twenty years ago, when I was collecting bookmarks, pencils, and those big obnoxious buttons we always wore for camp or school spirit. But I still have a box of bookmarks, pencils, and buttons. I am not who I was fifteen years ago, when I was entering a life stage wrought with worry over who was "best friends" with whom and where I fit in the mix. But I still have unpacked boxes labeled "Nostalgia" and about a million photos of my friends from different life stations, most of whom I do not even keep in touch with now. I am not who I was ten years ago, when I was finally settling into independence but feeling the weight of its consequences bearing down on me. And yet I am only recently letting go of old class notes I never look at, letters from financial aid, mail from the dorm years. I am not who I was five years ago, when I was still pretty newly-married, still working and taking classes on the side, slowly chiselling away at my hard-earned degree. Isn't my degree the only thing I really need to keep? (And sadly, it's in its box in my closet.) All of my accumulated stuff that mattered at the time just has a way of growing into a beast that wants to eat me up, or at very least snuffs out my utmost enjoyment of the present.

Every day brings change, as it should. And I have been changing all these years, which I knew. But the connection I never made before is my stuff...the baggage I've collected along these life phases...just keeps hanging around even when it no longer fits with who I am anymore. It's time to shed these layers of Past that are suffocating me so that I finally feel what Peace is in my home, so that I can finally feel what the current me is like when unburdened and free to let go when letting go is what nature intended all along.

Be not afraid of growing slowly, be afraid only of standing still. -Italian Proverb

I've been tagged...

2006-03-23T13:56:00.000-05:00

Okay, I should absolutely be cutting and freezing raw chicken right now, or doing dishes or laundry, or sorting toys, or mopping the kitchen floor...so many things other than being on this computer. BUT I've been tagged by a friend and fellow blogger, so I just have to put off my necessary duties for a few minutes. Besides, I need to add a post! It's a little different than the last one like it...

Four Jobs I've Had
1. Babysitter
2. Student worker for Treasurer, Baylor University
3. Administrative Assistant for Treasurer, Baylor University -- later morphed into Admin. Asst. for a different department, but same job, technically
4. Mother

Four Movies I'd Watch on Repeat
1. Far From Heaven (new to my list!)
2. You've Got Mail
3. When Harry Met Sally
4. Steel Magnolias

Four TV Shows I Love
1. Grey's Anatomy (!!!)
2. Desperate Housewives
3. House
4. What Not to Wear

Four Vacation Locales I'd Love to Hit
I don't really have traveling aspirations, but if I dig deep, I guess I'd say:
1. Hawaii
2. Grand Canyon
3. Italy, maybe...if I'm ever daring enough to leave the U.S.
4. London, perhaps

Four Websites I Visit Daily
Well, nothing is daily, but I regularly visit:
1. Blog friends (Ginger, Brandy, Amy, Kathy, Kathy, David, Timoney, and a few others)
2. Amazon.com
3. Local regional library www.jmrl.org
4. Blogger.com

Four Foods I Enjoy
1. Pringles
2. Ice cream - Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia, Blue Bell Moollennium Crunch, Natural Vanilla Bean or Light Homemade Vanilla (which is equivalent to "ice milk" from childhood)
3. Nuts, especially almonds
4. Morningstar Farms veggie corndogs

Four Changes I'd Make to the House
1. Hang art or pictures to the naked walls
2. Paint
3. Add an extra bedroom or at least a storage facility
4. Refurbish and reupholster the couch (it's a beauty)

Four Beverages I Like
1. Iced tea, lightly sweetened
2. Constant Comment hot tea with milk
3. Berry Citrus Gatorade
4. Dr Pepper from a can or Coke from a fountain

Tags
1. Brandy (Cute mirror kisses, Baby Gage!)
2. Ginger (Happy moving in day!)
3. Amy (Happy packing!)
4. Kathy K. (Hug your blog today, Kathy...add a post!)

Still outgrowing

2006-03-17T22:56:00.000-05:00

Life has taken a few unexpected turns lately. It's funny the things you think about when you find yourself living through uncommon life situations. The past forty hours or so have reminded me 1) to appreciate caring, helpful friends, soft toilet paper, and the luxury of eating plenty of food every day, 2) to have a newfound respect for those who are able to undergo physical fasting for spiritual purposes (among whom I do not count myself!), and 3) to be thankful that my body is only abnormal in its normal way and not diseased. (Oh, and that having roughly 10,000 mg of sodium floating around in my small-person system renders EXTREME THIRST unlike any thirst I have ever known! I might as well have set up a keg of water in my bathroom.)

I hope I am at least 50 before my next colonoscopy is encouraged and that the specialist was right today when she said I might "outgrow" my symptoms by the age of 35. It's funny that you can be halfway to 40 and just now "outgrowing" body problems. Gives me one thing to look forward to in my mid-30s...unlike more crazy gray hairs, more chin hairs, and crows feet.

Here's to old friends

2006-02-09T21:34:00.000-05:00

I ran across this old photo today while I was de-cluttering. It's my "best good friend" (to put it Forrest Gump's way) Ginger and me, just a few short weeks after we became friends, which was right at ten years ago now. We went together to the "Fiesta on the River" event put on by the Residence Hall Association, and we were among the few who did. (As I recall, everyone else was camped out watching a new episode of Friends.) We had a fun time being goofy, watching the Folklorico dancers, and just enjoying the company of a new friend. That was back when I was leaving my dorm room unlocked at night so Gin could slip in to make sure I had gotten up for our 8:00 Old Testament class. That was back when Gin was the only girl I knew who drove a truck. Before we had laughed and cried collective hours together. Before the night we stayed up until the Wal-Mart store would let us have discarded boxes at 5AM, and we collected some scary "followers" at the Whataburger, where we had camped out to have shakes while we waited, trying to stay awake so we wouldn't miss our chance for free boxes. Before we decided to pledge APO together. Before Britt came into my life and challenged our fresh bond. Before Ginger's crazy suitemate threatened to have her hit man boyfriend kill her. Before Mema broke her leg right before Christmas, and I had to talk Gin into not driving 2 hours to be with me during my sadness. Before she decided to take a leap of faith and sign an apartment lease with me. Before all the boyfriends. Before footlong chili dogs from Sonic while Britt spent a semester in Europe. Before opening Jell-O boxes together, knowing one of us would be the unlucky one to find the ant family plaguing our pantry. Before all the cricket houses (cups, bowls, plates--whatever we could put over the crickets in our apartment until Britt would come kill them for us). Before dead batteries and lost keys. Before Gin's curriculum craziness and student teaching. Before her graduation. Before I was married; before she was a teacher. Before she came back for grad school. Before I finally graduated too! Before she patiently walked countless slow laps with me at the gym while I was fat pregnant. Before I was a mother. She was there. Before she graduated with a Master's Degree, and my daughter was there. Before she decided to move to Virginia where we were moving...and back again. Before my family settled comfortably into the law school years. Before she finally found Mr. Right and started planning her own wedding. Before. She was my friend before...before so many things we have known and so many things we have yet to know. It's wonderful making new friends, but it's so much more satisfying when you can look back long later and realize how much someone who was once just a new friend has actually been through with you...and she is not just any friend any more, but on old, dear friend. Your dearest friend. A friend who just gets you. A friend who just knows what you think without your saying your opinion. A friend you can count on to love you anyway, annoying idiosyncracies, faults, and all. In this picture are two girls who thought they were sooo grown up, who had so much left to learn and so much friendship and life ahead of them...together.

I love you, Ginger! Happy 10-Year Anniversary!

I HATE Affected Singing.

2006-02-06T21:24:00.000-05:00

I nearly died last night when I game into the room to fuss about Aaron Neville butchering the National Anthem at the start of the Super Bowl, only to find Aretha Franklin singing it! For a second there, I really thought it had been Aretha that whole time, warbling the song in that horrid, ought-to-be-illegal-to-sing-that-way Aaron Neville styling. I think the blood fell out of my face during the time it took me to confirm that Aaron Neville had in fact been the "singer" who was making a mockery of our anthem. It was like the earth would have stopped spinning if Aretha had finally gotten so old and fat that she no longer sang soulfully but instead warbled ridiculously like Aaron Neville. What's the Queen of Soul doing allowing herself to do a public singing gig with that man anyway? Has her agent given up on her? I mean, she's admittedly older and heavier now, but she's still got it...maybe not as plainly as in the 60s, but Aaron Neville should never have been allowed on stage with that woman even at the peak of his so-called "talent." I wonder if he can even sing a song-- just SING it--without doing that obnoxious thing he does to it. I really don't think so. I think he's been doing that for so long that he just can't "interpret" music any other way. His "style" makes my skin crawl. The NFL could have anted up for someone better than Aaron Neville. Of course, all modern singers would jerk around with the song in Jessica Simpson's famous move-your-mouth-like-you're-chewing-the lyrics-not-singing-them way, or the squeeze-in-as-many-notes-as-possible-that-aren't-written-in-the-music way of everyone else. They can't just sing the notes with a nice voice...NO...have to contort the tune until it just sounds annoying...er, I mean "artistic." Drives me crazy. Screwing it up like that in the name of "artistry" is as disrespectful, in my opinion, as rubbing the American flag around on the fifty yard line, running across it and hollering "Go America!" would be. Why can't someone just SING it and therefore respect it and its significance and symbolism for our country. Singing the National Anthem is not about YOU. It's about taking time out to honor our country. But we can't hear and reflect on the words for the warbling! Just SING it. Don't "interpret" it or "stylize" it. JUST SING. Of course, that would mean bearing your raw "talent" for all hear. And we might just discover how little of it there is. That's why you all hide behind your "style," even when being afforded the honor of singing the National Anthem at a nationally-televised event. It's pathetic.

I have a thing against McDonald's.

2006-02-03T14:11:00.000-05:00

I find it ironic that Sesame Street is heavy on the nutrition education these days, and yet it is "brought to you" by McDonald's. What good is it that Grover is telling kids that fruits and vegetables make you strong if McDonald's was just on the screen seconds ago, giving them mental visions of PlayLand and french fries? I make it a point not to take my kid to McDonalds, and yet she is well aware of who Ronald McDonald is (thanks to the in-house McDonald's in our local Wal-Mart). (She is almost consistently NOT calling him Donald Duck now too.) I think the child has been in McD's less than five times, and those times were either a) out of my control or b) for breakfast only, which is an acceptable reason to eat there. I've taken a lot of flack for my avoidance of the Happy Meal, as though that were some rite of passage or something. Well, I can tell you my kid gets just as much enjoyment out of Burger King's Little Tikes toys for toddlers in their kid meals (plus they will give you choices other than fries) or the virtue books at Chik-Fil-A. I don't even know what comes in a Happy Meal other than an awful burger. That's enough for me. (I realize they probably offer a fruit option now too...but that's beside the point.) The only time I can remember going to McDonald's as a child was when Michel Johnson's birthday party was there, and we all climbed into their big blue conversion van to head for the party together. The only other time I'd ever seen those freaky puffy creatures that look like they are made out of colored french fries was on TV commercials. But when I grew up , I didn't feel deprived. My family didn't do kid meals (in fact we rarely ate out), and I don't feel like I lost out on a treasure of childhood. Everyone has his own thing. Mine was getting a Moon Pie at a truck stop on the way to/from Granny's house with Dad. Britt's was Christmas hot dogs because his family tended to travel on Christmas, and that's about the only thing you can find to eat at the kinds of places that are open on Christmas. I'd like for my kids to have something more unique to look back on together in moments of nostalgia than their Happy Meals.

Faith

2006-01-31T15:12:00.000-05:00

"You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way." -E. L. Doctorow

Remembering Challenger

2006-01-28T16:04:00.000-05:00

Every December 7th, my grandfather would make weepy mention of the bomb dropped on Pearl Harbor. That event has never moved me. It is simply a fact, something to read in a history book. I have imagined my mom as a young woman living in Dallas in the early 60s, hearing for herself the horrifying news that President Kennedy had been assassinated, not so far from where she was working at the time. That event has also never moved me. It, too, is just a fact in a history book. But January 28, 1986, I was moved, and I remember.

It was a Tuesday morning. Just an ordinary Tuesday, except that I was home from school. My third-grade classroom had one empty chair that day. I can't remember actually being sick, so I wonder in retrospect if I had really faked a stomach ache because I wanted to see the rocket launch. While all my friends were sitting as quietly as eight-year-olds can, listening to Miss Curtis blather on about multiplication tables or spelling words for the week or something, I was at home getting an education of my own--an education in loss, finality, and national tragedy. It was the first national tragedy for Generation X, and I witnessed it right there on my grandparents' big-box, furniture-style Zenith. I'm pretty sure I tuned in for the big launch, as I ordinarily would have been watching Cartoon Express on USA network or Pinwheel on Nickelodeon. They were sending a teacher into space that day! I had a teacher...I could relate to that, and it seemed really cool. I remember how Krista McAullife looked with her permed brown hair. She seemed like a nice lady. I thought she was probably a nice teacher. I wondered how she got to be the teacher chosen for such a cool thing.

I was sitting on the end of the coffee table, two feet in front of the television. The room was dim. The only lights on were in the adjacent kitchen and dining area, and it was overcast that day, so there wasn't much window light. I watched. I waited with thousands of other Americans. The house was quiet. Dandy was in his bedroom making usual noises like swishing his keys or rattling change. Mema wasn't around; she must have been in the back room piecing a quilt. I was all alone in that dim room watching excitedly. "Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, lift-off!" I think I even said it out loud. It was thrilling! There it went up, up into the blue sky! And then... It blew up? It's not going up anymore. And part of it is going over there. There was sudden fire and white smoke, and then just falling debris and the stammering voices of stunned reporters. My heart was pounding as I ran to extract Dandy from his monotony. "It blew up!" I called. "The Challenger exploded!" Dandy came with me back to the den, telling me that the fire and smoke are just what happens when they launch a rocket. No, it didn't blow up. But I had seen it with my own eyes. I knew it had in fact blown up, and those people were dead. Instantly. And there were their children and wives and husbands and parents standing right there watching when it happened. I had family members. I could relate to that. What if Ms. McAullife had been my teacher...or worse, my mother?! I knew something terrible had just happened, and I heard words like "tragedy" make tangible sense to me for the first time in my short little life. National tragedy. And then I sort of understood, young though I was, why Pearl Harbor day may never move me, but it will always make Dandy's voice crack.

Veteran Mom? Not quite.

2006-01-24T14:34:00.000-05:00

Today I embarked upon a project to scan the important articles in all my old parenting magazines so that I can donate the magazines to a women's shelter or something and get them out of my house. In the process, I found a couple of gems that inspired a chuckle. The article gives one funny anecdote about new moms and counters it with what the veteran mom would do instead. I think I'm somewhere in between on the new mom - veteran mom scale. I bet by the time the next child comes into our family, I will totally understand what all my veteran mom friends have been telling me. (So much for doing things better the next time around!)

A new mom signs up for the IQ-Booster Toy of the Month
Club because she dreams of her burgeoning genius playing for hours each month
with the educational toy the mailman brings.
A veteran mom knows that the only thing that occupies her child for hours is playing with that string of dust flapping at the bottom of the fridge--and, frankly, she isn't abou tto clean it. However, he will enterain himself for a good ten minutes with the box that the IQ-Booster toy comes in.
A new mom will go to great lengths to split everything evenly among her child and his playmates. If there's only one chocolate chip cookie, she'll divide it into equal portions.
A veteran mom will eat the extra chocolate chip cookie faster than the kids can yell "No fair!" Moreover, she won't feel even one iota of guilt.
from American Baby January 2005

I could add one of my own to these: A new mom keeps all the old parenting magazines to preserve access to all the wonderful bits of parenting information in them. A veteran mom knows better than to think she'll actually spend precious seconds of free time reading parenting magazines, when she knows she'll figure relevant things out as they come anyway...probably on the internet or on the phone with a fellow veteran mom friend or the doctor's office. So what do I do? I split the middle and scan the interesting articles. See? I'm not quite a veteran mom. Or maybe it's just my personality. Either way, I've just been inspired to pitch the magazines and rely once again on Google to get me through my parenting questions. Graduation to veteran motherhood must not be far off...

Stolen randomness

2006-01-22T20:25:00.000-05:00

I found this on Makeshift Mom's blog, and tagged myself "it" against better judgment.

Four Jobs I've Had:
1. Babysitter
2. Student secretary
3. Administrative Assistant
4. "Domestic Engineer"

Four Things I Hope To Do Before I Die:
1. Know my kids as adults
2. Learn to play an instrument
3. Learn to swim without fear
4. Have at least one more positive childbirth experience

Four Movies I Could Watch Over and Over:
1. Return to Me
2. You've Got Mail
3. Sweet Home Alabama
4. The Parent Trap (1960s version with Hayley Mills)

Four Things I Can't Do:
1. Swim
2. Communicate in or understand a second language
3. Reach my nose or chin with my tongue
4. Eat watermelon without feeling nauseated

Four Places I've Lived:
1. Waco, TX
2. Charlottesville, VA
3. Colorado Springs, CO (if you can count 7 weeks as "living" somewhere)
That's it.

Four Things That Attracted Me To My Spouse:
1. Looks
2. Intelligence
3. Easy conversations, good communication
4. Gentleness/likelihood of being a good spouse and father

Four TV Shows I Love to Watch
1. Grey's Anatomy
2. Desperate Housewives
3. Gilmore Girls
4. House

Four Things I Say Often
1. More bread? You already had some bread. Let's think of something else to eat.
2. Are you really still hungry or are you just bored?
3. Super!!!
4. I love you SOOOO much!

Four Places I've Been on Vacation
1. Orlando, FL - Disney World
2. Colorado Springs, CO
3. New York City
4. San Francisco

Four of My Favorite Foods
1. Chippey Cheesies (chocolate chip cookie bars with a cheesecake layer in between!)
2. Fresh, ripe peaches
3. Mashed potatoes the way Mom made them when I was a kid
4. Mrs. Baird's brand brown-and-serve dinner rolls

Four Places I'd Rather Be
1. Texas, except in the summer time
2. Colorado Springs in the summer time
3.
4.

Four Vehicles I've Owned
1. 1990 Pontiac Grand Am (my first car)
2. 1999 Saturn SL1 sedan
That's it.

Tag yourself if you wish...

Book Club?

2005-12-14T19:53:00.000-05:00

I have considered joining the book club held by the law wives, but I'm just not sure if I'm up for reading heavy books (both subject matter and length). I'm so thoroughly enjoying the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants series by Ann Brashares (devouring the third one now), that I'm beginning to think I would derive more enjoyment out of "fluff" books throughout my life than from deep novels. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed almost every Oprah book I ever picked up, but they are usually very heavy and not always what I'm up for at the end of a long tiresome day. The Sisterhood books are great, even if they are about teenagers, and they include great quotes like this one:

You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.
--E. L. Doctorow

If the book club would read something fun like Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe by Fannie Flagg (one of my all-time favorites...laugh out loud funny!), then I'd be all for joining up for some womany fellowship. It might do me good to have an adult conversation about something other than Ava or scrapbooking. In the meantime, I'll just keep right on devouring the Sisterhood books as long as Ms. Brashares is willing to churn them out.

Mt. Washmore

2005-12-08T16:02:00.000-05:00

I have my work cut out for me. Why can't our homes just magically take care of themselves when holiday busy-ness takes over?

Recent Thoughts

2005-12-03T22:26:00.000-05:00

What is with the furry Nordic boots worn on the outside of your pants? And this is considered "fashionable" now? Really, people!?

Why, oh why, can't some company create a PETITE version of all the fashionable trends in outerwear!? Why do they mostly have to look like something a matronly lady would wear?

For the love of Pete! WHY can't some computer geek create a way to make a DAILY calendar with your home photos instead of just a 12 month calendar!!? AAARRRRGGGHHH!

Why does Microsoft Word have to be so fussy now on the Draw features. It used to be intuitive. I could figure out just about anything just by fiddling around. Just ask Howard and Betty. Now I'm pulling my hair out, rubbing my carpal tunnel an hour later, and still have nothing to show for it but the almost irrepressible urge to YELL. VERY. LOUDLY.

Why do men have to be so hard to shop for?

Are people like Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt really good parents to their adopted kids from 3rd world countries, or are they actually just good managers for their kids, orchestrating excellent care and education for them from movie sets?

Hey, wait! I didn't get my latest issue of Domino or Organic Style! No fair! I bet the mail man (Excuse me. I mean "Letter Carrier.") mistakenly put them into the wrong mail box, and some other resident of this fine place stole my magazines last month!

How many times this season will I make my "last stop" at a given store only to realize upon leaving said store that I forgot to get some single necessary item? FRUSTRATION.

How many gazillion printings of toy catalogs can companies print and mail out between November 15th and December 25th? Stop the madness!!!!

Holiday busy-ness has officially taken over my body. I'm exhausted.

Still flinging

2005-11-16T22:17:00.000-05:00

I read a good quote tonight on a FlyLady testimonial:

"Life is relationships; the rest is just stuff."

Makes me want to go throw away some more stuff.

Brain Exercise

2005-11-14T20:23:00.000-05:00

I just had to stop and post this about this little gem. This guy is in Britt's section, and he told Britt about his clever game today. How well do you think you know corporate logos and consumer product fonts? It's harder than you might think! I have figured out twelve of the twenty-six letters on version four plus a few others I got with hints after Britt figured them out. My brain is aching to reveal a few others that I'm sure I have familiarity with. Surely I can figure out half. I've been quite a bit more successful on version three.

It's fun! It's frustrating! It's addictive! If you need to veg out and get your mind on something else for a while, this will do the trick! Go see...

Retail Alphabet Game

Deep thought for the day...

2005-11-07T22:13:00.000-05:00

There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered. - Nelson Mandela

Birthday tears

2005-11-05T23:35:00.000-05:00

For the second consecutive year, I surprised myself by being all emotional about my daughter's birthday. It's a birthday! It's a happy time! It's a time to celebrate! Or if you are me, it's a time to get choked up at every "exactly two years ago this minute..." thought that flutters through your mind up to the moment of birth, as well as the hours beyond it. It's a time to tear up saying, "Good morning, Ava! Happy birthday to you!" because you remember as you say it just how exhausted, determined, and fighting you were exactly two years earlier, making every conceivable effort to meet this tiny person inside your body for all those months. You remember how precious the first sight of her was at 9:52 a.m., how amazed you were at what your own body could produce, how incredible knowing that she had come into this world both of you and through you. You remember the exciting dawning that happened when they finally got you to understand it was a GIRL...you had a daughter. You remember her sweet newborn breath gently tickling your neck in the wee hours of the morning, how instantly in love with her you were. You remember the little O her mouth made when she first learned to coo and crow, how addictive her laughter was, how excited she seemed to see you after a few hours away, even as a little baby. You remember how mad she got being on her tummy, how happy she was to jump, how hard it was to leave her to go to work. You think of her smile, her laughter, her sense of humor and how it's evolved. You consider the complexity of her mind and how she's changed intellectually in such a short two years. You remember the day you knew she knew you were Mama, and the day she called you Mama for the first time. You think of tickling, and reading, and hugging, and laughing, and loving in ways you never thought would stir you as they do. You think of kisses, slobbery and sweet. You remember stuffy noses and scary fevers and poop...lots and lots of newborn poop. You think of lanugo and soft newborn skin, of tiny, tiny tortellini-shaped socks fresh from the dryer. You cherish the time spent together, even if it was months of walking all over everywhere bending over and letting her hold your fingers so she could walk confidently anywhere she wanted to go. You hear the crying of those fussy months with a patient, loving filter now. You think of your excitement when that first tooth appeared, and the next, and the next. You remember how your finger would feel funny numbness after applying the teething medicine frequently. You think of your tantrum-ridden, screaming toddler and know that it means she is growing up and apart from you. You miss the tiny baby and love the toddler and look forward to finding out what's to come, to watching your little one grow into the person she's becoming. You are so happy to celebrate her life that you can't help but well up with tears of joy. If you're me.

Happy birthday, sweet baby! I have loved you every day, and I always will.

Opposable Thumb Appreciation Day

2005-10-28T22:57:00.000-04:00

When I was a kid, probably 11 or 12 years old, a retired couple at our church asked my parents if I could "Ladysit" for them occasionally. The lady's mother ("Dedo") lived with them, and they didn't like leaving her alone. She got around on her own pretty well and didn't need any special assistance, so they knew I could handle just keeping her company and being present in case of emergency. I was conscientious enough to know when to call 911 if need be. Dedo and I had a lot of fun watching "Young Riders" on TV, eating homemade fudge, and playing dominoes together. It was about the best first job a girl could have!

A few times when I went to Ladysit, the couple's little great-niece was there too. She was probably five or six years old, I'd guess. She was just a normal little girl, except she had no thumbs. I marveled at how she got things done using her index finger in ways that you and I would never think of. She didn't really need any more help than any other six-year-old would have. It was amazing. I think of her sometimes and wonder where she is in life now.

I thought of her especially yesterday, when my thumb went on strike. That's right. My dominant thumb went on strike, leaving me high and dry. I think it was a bizarre repetitive stress injury caused by writing a bunch of notes in print. I don't have reason to actually write something very often now; most of my correspondence is done on the computer, and all other writing is typically short lists or sticky notes for myself around the house.

Do you realize just how often you don't just use your thumbs but need them and rely on them to do common things? Driving a car is the pits with a painful thumb. Just turning the key on the right side of the steering wheel alone with a painfully unusable right thumb is enough to send anyone to the loony bin! And as if that pain is not enough, in your writhing agony you still have to push the fat button on the shifter to put it in reverse, only to have to do it again to put it in drive seconds later! There are plenty of things you can just use your other hand to do, but it is so automatic to use your dominant hand that you've already sent yourself into a hollering tizzy before you think to use your left hand! Pushing the child car seat's safety belt release button is one of those times...HOLLERING TIZZY.

It is impossible to open an unopened bottle of juice with the safety ring still intact unless you have a peculiarly useful left hand. And you can forget lifting anything, even a magazine. Feeding yourself presents obvious challenges as well. Opening door knobs...pushing buttons on the remote...scooping ice cream...zipping a zipper...cutting with a knife...removing and replacing the lid on a sippy cup (the kind that pulls off and pushes tightly back on)...typing quickly...tying your shoes...signing your name, especially on those electronic pads at store check-out counters...even changing a diaper...mostly things that can be done with your left hand, but it's a million times slower and more difficult to do so (especially if you are undercoordinated even with your good hand like me!), and downright EXCRUCIATING to use your defunct right hand despite your thumb injury as a last resort when absolutely necessary!

Be good to your thumbs. Whether you realize it or not, they are good to you.

Calgon, take me away!

2005-10-25T13:25:00.000-04:00

It's been a "Calgon, take me away!" kind of morning. I feel like my "sniffles" are not allergies, which I was hoping. It's probably a full-blown cold and getting worse every minute. I got up and dressed to the shoes, makeup on as though I were needing to go somewhere important, all in an effort not to sabotage the day with blechiness. I had high hopes, but what little energy I had was sapped by my budding TWO-year-old, and I do mean TWO in every sense of the word. "Good morning, Ava! Oh, your arms are so cold! You got cold sleeping in your short-sleeved pajamas last night. Here let's put on your sweater Aunt Holly made for you to keep you warm until we get you ready for the day after breakfast." "NO! I DON'T WANT TO WEAR IT! DON'T LIKE IT!"

And that was just before breakfast. That's when I still had some energy. And during breakfast we had some exhausting conversations about her wanting some "MORE RAISINS!" I was so glad Britt was home to help diffuse the situation. After breakfast it got worse (and Britt was in the shower).

"Wow, your feet are cold like ice cubes! Let's put some socks on." "NO!"

"You can't wear your pajamas all day...here let's take your shirt off and put this nice long sleeved one on so you won't be cold." "NO, I DON'T WANT IT!"

You get the idea. It took convincing her to try putting her clothes on by herself to even get her to stay in the same room with the clothes. When she finally had enough trying on her own, she would ask for help, and I would put them on her as though the process had never taken the ugly turn in the first place. I was so close to having to let out a big yell just to release the growing stress and frustration in my body, not AT her of course. Just a big generic release. Patience is not my strongest point, even on a good day. But on a day when I feel increasing like I got hit by a truck, it takes all I have to scrape up an ounce of it in my soul to keep me from running outside for a breather. I almost did that too. Thank goodness her late morning "TV time" came shortly after Britt left for school. Grover and Elmo are good babysitters when Mamas are about to lose it.

Remarkably, lunch went great and nap time was well-received as usual...and accompanied by lots of silly kisses to make the day better. Now it's time to rest up for the next round of TWO.

Happy Apple

2005-10-23T20:22:00.000-04:00

I took this picture of a pretty little apple I found hanging all alone in the apple orchard today. Doesn't it look delicious!? There's nothing quite like eating apples you picked yourself. :)

Great Halloween Tip!

2005-10-10T12:37:00.000-04:00

I was reading a list of Halloween tips for toddlers on BabyCenter.com today, and I ran across a great idea:

Stage a visit from a Halloween helper
We spend most of the day at Grandma and Grandpa's house getting ready to go trick-or-treating. We always have a good warm bowl of stew with hot rolls to warm our tummies before we go out. Since this is the neighborhood I grew up in, everyone gives my girls a lot of candy. So, I came up with what I call the "Halloween Witch." Before my girls go to bed they pick out a small amount of candy to keep, and leave the rest in buckets outside their bedroom door. When they wake up in the morning the candy has been replaced with coloring books, crayons, a toy, and a toothbrush to help prevent cavities. The girls are so excited to get something new! Have a safe and happy Halloween, everyone! --Sharon

With a little modification, I think this might be a new tradition in my family! Thanks, Sharon, whoever you are!

Sweet Relief!

2005-10-02T23:01:00.000-04:00

The TV heavens opened up and showered me with show opener blessings tonight! ABC must have heard my pleas...they opened Grey's Anatomy with the masterful opener from last season!!! Henceforth, there is hope for brilliant first season openers!

How much biohazard is too much?

2005-09-27T22:39:00.000-04:00

Soon after we moved into these apartments, I began noticing these weird little growths coming out of the window trim in our bedroom. I assumed they must be caused by an insect and tried not to worry about it. They grew. They are weird. They are in my bedroom. But, alas, this is where we can afford to live and Britt doesn't want to deal with the hassles of moving again. And truly, neither do I. So I ignored the little "wood boogers" and tried to go on as though nothing were growing out of the window sill in multiple places.

We came home from living in another state for two months only to find that the apartment had turned into one biohazard after another. Apparently it was a rainy summer, and the water was not draining away from the building properly, so it pooled in our wall and rotted the base board and apparently the whole lower half of the wall in general (it's hollow and moves when you touch it). A few days after we got here, this little gem appeared. Ava thought it was a squash and could hardly wrap her brain around why it was growing in the corner by her high chair and why we weren't eating it. Yeah, kid...mushrooms aren't supposed to grow inside.

Upon further inspection, I discovered that there must be some more water damage in the wall above our refrigerator, as the corner is sort of rotting out and peeling around the recently-installed (last summer) cabinetry. Strike three. Are we out? No. We had not only already signed another year-long lease, but we had also painted Ava's bedroom and our living room before we left for summer, rationalizing that I might feel better in this apartment if I could personalize it and make it feel like a home. Plus the moving hassles.

We notified the apartment maintenance people of our mushroom. They promptly sent a guy out to take a look at it. I believe his response was, "Well, I'll be." Yeah. Mushrooms aren't supposed to grow inside. He said they would come back to spray some bleach-like chemical on the area to prohibit further microbial growth. Great, so now my baby has been exposed to sheet rock dust last summer when the bathroom ceiling had to be replaced, no telling what kind of particulate in the air when they sawed through the ceiling several times last year for various management-mandated projects, paint fumes, noise during countless naps, and now fungus followed by a "bleach-like chemical spray" that should fix the fungal growth!!? Super. I pointed out the other problems too, and the guy told me they would schedule a time to come and let me know when to be gone from the apartment if I didn't want Ava to be exposed. (That's important.)

In true Squire Hill style (excuse me, Abbington Crossing...they changed the name this summer after the drowning...), we heard nothing from maintenance for about a week. Just when I was getting ready to call and complain, the new head guy passed by one day and stopped to ask me when they should come. They had been waiting for ME to call and tell them exactly when to come. WHAT!? That is NOT what the guy said, and Britt was my witness. So this time, I told the new head guy (Tom, the same guy who last year came to fix my dishwasher and purposely broke the rack to "fix" my problem, which he had already fixed 10 minutes earlier and I had told him I was satisfied...now it is rusty) that I am here all the time, so they need to schedule a time when I can count on them to come and then tell me so I can arrange to have the car that day and be gone while the work is done. No problem, ma'am, sorry for the confusion. Oh, and he also said I really wouldn't have to take Ava out of here, that the chemical spray is really not harmful, it just stinks. Oh, right. "Bleach-like chemical" is not harmful. Sure. Whatever.

In the meantime, more mushrooms arose.

And we found a horrible section of mold growing on our wall behind the dresser in our bedroom where we'd been storing some boxes (big mistake). We've been breathing this stuff in every night for at least nine months (minus summer) since the apartment flooded last December!! I was horrified.

In summation, it took them two "miscommunications" and almost two weeks to get here for the mushrooms. They sprayed their magic spray to make them go away and never return. A few days later they were invited back for the aforementioned mold in the bedroom to do the same. While they were at it, they plucked the little wood boogers with nary a word. And today, lo and behold, they were invited back yet again for a new mold patch recently discovered in our dining room.

The property manager was contacted directly this time, so she came over personally and assured me that it is not the Texas-feared black mold. It's green mold, which apparently is less threatening. They sprayed the magic spray on it, and Voila!--it looks as though it never existed. She also assured me that the spray really does take care of the biohazard I'm concerned about living with (especially Ava). Though I am skeptical of the magic spray, I must admit my sinuses have settled down since they took care of the latest mold patch earlier today. She left here with a list of all the projects their maintenance people have never followed up on, and they are expected Friday morning to replace the rotted out wall.

It's hard living here amidst a constant stream of construction projects and maintenance problems, but it's what we can afford with a washer/dryer in the unit. I'm feeling guilty after so many other moms have asked me How can you stay there!? What about Ava!!?, and I ask myself the same question time and again. I feel like an irresponsibly flippant parent not to worry about it. But on the other hand, the house I grew up in probably had more than one mildew-smelling closet, and I hardly even had allergies until I moved away. It's a toss up. The property manager has assured me that we can break our lease if we find more mold. That's at least a little peace of mind....even if it does mean a costly and very annoying move across town to a place that will harbor its own unknown maintenance needs for us to deal with. I think.

I have spent time, money, and effort on making this place "home." I don't really want to have to leave now. (That would also mean painting all the walls back to horrible stark white.) And they just put in a new playground this summer, which we are really pleased about. It would be a shame to end up somewhere with no playground within walking distance since we only have the car one or two days a week. Why did all the mold have to present itself just when I was accepting this place as home?

I am thankful I have a place to call home. Even if it's moldy. I guess we'll stay.

Show Opener Junkie Speaks

2005-09-25T23:11:00.000-04:00

What is it with TV executives and the need to mess up a perfectly fantastic simple show opener after season one is successful!? I am a big fan of creative show openers. A show wins HUGE points with me just by having a great intro. Catchy music, maybe clever lyrics, good graphics or choice of show snippets. I realize they probably give new shows (especially mid-season replacements) a short, simple opener because they don't want to spend money on a show that might not take off. But sometimes the simple ones are the most well-crafted of all. I HATE IT when they up and change a GREAT show opener for a new season. That drives me crazy! You know as well as I do that Friends would never have been quite the same if one season they had decided not to try putting a show snippet in to match the multi-clap section of the theme song. One of my longstanding gripes is the changed theme song since season two of King of Queens. That's a great show, but it lost a little appeal for me after they created that dorky theme song with the cheesy lyrics and staged acting to match. It was so much better when it was short and simple, catchy music with the logo on the screen for a few seconds. Perfect. And then they up and change it the next season! I have been complaining about that for, gosh, how many seasons now...five? six? Anyway, now they've done it to Grey's Anatomy. I couldn't believe it. After all the work ABC has done to up its ante (and successfully, I might add), what on earth made them decide to change the Grey's Anatomy opener!!? It was exquisite just the way it was during season one! I was so looking forward to it after I breathed a sigh of relief that they hadn't messed around with the Desperate Housewives opener. And then, to my shock and amazement, they hardly had any opener at all!!!! A little background music at the end of the first scene, flash the show name, go to commercial. What is that!? They better not be working on some new ER-style medical drama opener. That would be missing the subtlety of the show's uniqueness entirely. Guess I'll have to wait until next week to find out.

Happy Autumn!

2005-09-22T15:28:00.000-04:00

Autumn has been sneaking up on us! In case you hadn't realized it, today is the Autumnal Equinox. The night will come sooner and sooner from here on out. I like to watch my favorite nearby tree changing ever more golden every day. I was surprised at how early the trees near the law school began shedding yellow leaves. It's as though they have been telling us to make the best of what's left of warm weather. I have been doing my best! This afternoon we are headed to Britt's softball game (he's playing on the "Married Guys" team this semester). I must admit that even I am a bit anxious for cooler weather. Then we can enjoy the sun on our faces while we are at the park!

August 31

September 6

September 15

September 22

What's wrong with this picture?

2005-09-16T22:29:00.000-04:00

We have had our shower curtain since we got married over six years ago. It was one of my favorite registry selections, even though it was marked "Dry Clean Only." When we got married, we could scarcely afford to dry clean my work clothes, much less our shower curtain. In our old house, it hung in the seldom-used guest bathroom, so I figured it wouldn't get all that dirty anyway. Over the years, however, it has collected some very large water stains toward the bottom, not to mention six years' worth of dust and who-knows-what. I have simply tried to ignore the obvious so that we wouldn't have to pay for dry cleaning a large household item. There are more important things to spend our money on, like credit card debt and student loans. Well, during this "home rejuvenation" phase I seem to be in, I have finally had it with the dirty shower curtain. I took it down last week while I was cleaning the bathroom, not knowing whether I would actually bite the bullet and dry clean the thing, or if I would just take a chance and wash it. It sat there in a wad atop the laundry basket for several days and was finally moved to a random box in the hall outside the bathroom. I walked past the sad lump time and time again, and to my dismay, it did not go away and neither did the need to clean it. So, I finally decided to just take a chance and wash it in the washing machine. "Surely it won't draw up too much," I thought. I nervously sprayed the water stains with Shout as a loud rush of water filled the machine behind me and dropped it in the water with a twinge of fear. But what was done was done, and I'd learn something no matter how it came out. At the very least, I would have a clean shower curtain for a change and not a filthy pile of finished fabric haunting me.

When the dryer stopped, I eagerly collected the curtain and it looked good, except it was obviously no longer crisp. So as not to drag out the chore, I went directly to the bathroom to hang it up and get the job DONE. When I finally had the last curtain ring in place, I dropped the mass of fabric down to hang and laughed aloud at myself as I stepped off the toilet to discover the unfortunate shrinkage!

At least I did something, even if the results were questionable and rather hysterical. It makes me laugh at myself now rather than shudder at the knowledge of its uncleanliness, so that's a positive change anyway. Something in the Pottery Barn catalog last night inspired me to rig it with an old sheet I have laying around, so perhaps I'll have an update to share soon.

I'm sure everyone's heard that old adage "Blessed are they who can laugh at themselves, for they shall never cease to be amused." I am definitely amused.

mixed veggies back to normal!!!

2005-09-14T21:28:00.000-04:00

I fixed it!! I figured it out and fixed it!! I still don't know how it got messed up in the first place (there was a bit of coding missing on the HTML template), but at least I was able to figure out what was missing and put it back. Now you can read easier with appropriate line spacing!!! I have conquered my blog befuddlement for today, and it took me less than 30 minutes. This calls for a hearty "HOT DAMN!"

BLOG FRUSTRATION!!!

2005-09-14T13:22:00.000-04:00

I cannot adequately express how frustrated I am that all my posts now appear single-spaced and therefore far more difficult to read! Maybe it's not bothering you, but it's sure bothering me! They didn't use to look that way, and now they do! I am consumed by figuring out why and FIXING IT. PRONTO.

Louisiana Flooding

2005-08-31T13:29:00.000-04:00

If you haven't already seen these photos of the flooding that occurred after Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, take a look:

New Orleans under water

As I clicked through the images, I was thinking, "Wow... Oh, that is terrible... My goodness..." And suddenly I thought of all those beautiful old historic homes that we learned about in my Historical Design class years ago and how they were probably destroyed and I would never get to see them in person. And then I felt horrible for thinking of those fancy homes when there were so many regular people in regular homes who lost everything! How could I think about myself and how I wouldn't get to visit the historic homes when there were so many lost lives and so much devastation?! (Of course, we can't control our stream of consciousness, but I still felt bad...) And then I hit the slide with the family sitting on top of their house, hoping to be rescued in time. Instantly, tears flooded my eyes. Those are REAL people who really sat on their roof, holding on to each other and waiting to be saved, knowing they would lose everything but each other. And each other is all that really mattered to them in those moments anyway. Puts things into perspective, eh?

Something I read yesterday, written by a FEMA worker in the midst of the devastation, concluded with: "Life is fragile, precious, and priceless."

Indeed it is. Hug your children a little tighter today, and remember to say "I love you."

State Update

2005-08-23T10:12:00.000-04:00

After living in Colorado for the summer and travelling cross country back home to Virginia, it's time for an update on my state tally. We got the best of all weather conditions this year; I say we "semestered" in central Virginia, wintered in central Texas, and summered in Colorado. The weather in Colorado was outstanding! The locals were feeling oppressed when the temp hit 90 degrees with 20% humidity. HA! It was pretty much like central Texas spring time every day we were in Colorado. Can't beat that between June and August! Now we are back to Virginia...nice and toasty.

bold the states you've been to, underline the states you've lived in and italicize the state you're in now...

Alabama / Alaska / Arizona / Arkansas / California / Colorado / Connecticut / Delaware / Florida / Georgia / Hawaii / Idaho / Illinois / Indiana / Iowa / Kansas / Kentucky / Louisiana / Maine / Maryland / Massachusetts / Michigan / Minnesota / Mississippi / Missouri / Montana / Nebraska / Nevada / New Hampshire / New Jersey / New Mexico / New York / North Carolina / North Dakota / Ohio / Oklahoma / Oregon / Pennsylvania / Rhode Island / South Carolina / South Dakota / Tennessee / Texas / Utah / Vermont / Virginia / Washington / West Virginia / Wisconsin / Wyoming / Washington D.C. /

Go HERE to have a form generate the HTML for you.

Our 21-month-old already has eight states herself! If her daddy has it his way, she'll be well on her way to having all 50 states before she's finished with college. She'll probably grow up and choose to count how many countries in Europe or Africa she's visited or something instead of states in the Union...just to make me crazy.

Just call me Kitty...Kitty Guam.

2005-05-03T23:47:00.000-04:00

Aparently I could go incognito with the super secret code name of Kitty Guam. What is your Ron Mexico? Go to the Ron Mexico name generator to find out:

Ron Mexico Name Generator

If you hadn't heard about the Ron Mexico thing, you are in good company. Britt told me about it tonight. There's a pro football player who gave a woman herpes while calling himself Ron Mexico...clever. What, did he want her to think he was a porn star or something!? Anyway, his identity was no secret to this woman when she saw his media coverage. She must have thought, "Hey, I thought that guy's name was Ron Mexico! Damn! Foiled again!!"

Better go by something a little less ridiculous next time, "Ron."

Ah, the colors of spring time!

2005-04-18T22:46:00.000-04:00

It's amazing how different a change of location can make you perceive something as simple as the emergence of Spring. I guess it's because there are such different trees in Central Virginia than in Central Texas. Spring has come so vividly here and so quickly that I missed photographing some beautiful white-blooming trees before they turned green with leaves. It seems like it happened overnight! I do miss the blossoms on the peach, pear, crab apple, and crape myrtle trees back home, but the colors here are so lovely that I'm too busy grabbing my camera to miss Texas too much. I do hope the bluebonnets are already blooming when we visit Texas in a month, though. I'll be sad if we miss that. There's just something about the bluebonnets.

"Bye-bye, Daddy!" days are coming

2005-04-10T12:50:00.000-04:00

I caught a glimpse of my future yesterday. Or at least it felt like I did. Britt had to wear his suit for an oral argument presentation at the law school. He had to leave pretty early in the morning (as least to our way of thinking), so Ava and I were still sleepy-eyed and just eating breakfast when he came in to model his new suit for me (I hadn't seen him wear it yet). Impressed with his double windsor, I gave him the thumbs up, and off he went to put on his shoes and be on his way. By the time he was ready to walk out the door, we were finished with breakfast. So Ava and I accompanied him to the door to see him off. Ava loves going to the opened front door, if only to attempt to set foot on the front step. Somehow that gives her quite a thrill. Imagine if it were only (let's say...) the eighth time you'd placed your socked foot on cold pavement. I guess it would be thrilling! Anyway, Britt was leaving for the day, all decked out in his fine suit, new shoes gleaming (which Ava the shoe hound was the first to point out), and Ava and I were standing in our pajamas at the front door to see him off. After Britt and I completed our daily exchange about who has the cell phone, what time to expect him home, etc., Ava, without coaxing, waved her hand excitedly and said, "Bye-bye, Daddy!" just as plain as day. In that moment, I felt like this might become a familiar scenario in the post-law school years -- Britt heads off to the firm in the morning dressed all fancy right down to his shoes, ready to tackle another case, while I stand at the door with our children around my knees, all of us sock-footed, in our pajamas, still puffy-faced, waving "bye-bye" to Daddy and wondering what the day might hold for us today. It was sort of a sweet moment. One of the kind you don't expect. The kind that is so ordinary that you think it's silly to feel struck by it, yet undeniably sweet in its ordinary-ness. That's the stuff life is really made of.

Freeze Frame

2005-04-07T13:39:00.000-04:00

The state of apartment 934 at the moment is somewhere comfortably between appalling and spectacular. The meter always points a little more toward appalling than toward spectacular, but not nearly as much so as in past working-woman years. Hooray! (Or, "Ray! Ray!" to put it Ava's way.)

There are cardboard boxes waiting to be broken down (Progress!) and taken to the dumpster. The Diaper Champ on the front porch is full and waiting to be emptied into the dumpster. The trash can is approaching full and waiting to be taken to the dumpster. (Trash is Britt's job.)

Only two bags of groceries from Monday are still waiting on the dining room floor to be given good homes in our cabinets. The dining table looks like I just opened a propaganda bomb on it, as usual. But at least we are keeping spaces available for placemats these days. The ironing board is still waiting to be put back into the utility room after we had to unload it for maintenance to come replace the air filter. Ava's placemat and one of her bibs is still waiting to be picked up and cleaned after being thrown overboard during a bitter spell at supper the other night. We are all too lazy to walk around to that side of the table to pick them up.
The dining room floor holds the vacuum cleaner, several books, a baseball, a blanket, plastic keys, scattered animal parts for a puzzle, a stacking cup, a shape sorter, four cardboard boxes, a bag of packing peanuts, a toy drum full of toys, a package of rick-rack, a dumped basket of plastic eggs, a ladybug xylophone and accompanying caterpillar sticks, and several little pages from my page-a-day calendar. All in all, not half bad! The worst part is HUGE, frightening, black ants that show up in my dreams are somehow finding their way into our home! EEK!

The kitchen counters are clear of clutter today, save one lone can of mandarin oranges which are eagerly awaiting addition to the chilling Jell-O. Wet laundry awaits a dry spell. Dry laundry is ready for hanging and folding. Wet laundry can't get dry until dry laundry gets out of the way. Wet laundry is getting testy over it. Oh, and there's a live ant still not drowning in my morning cranberry juice, which is still sitting in the sink making me a nervous wreck.

Most of our DVDs are scattered around the living room amidst the shapes for the shape sorter and the rest of the scattered stacking cups. Other toys and books are remarkably in their places, due in large part to Ava's Barney obsession. I only see four wayward garments right now. Amazing! The big blue rocking dog is keeping watch over all, so we are safe.

Ava's room is tidy and actually doesn't smell like poo right now...that I know of.

Our room is a work in progress, as always. But at least it looks more like progress than like work to me right now. The shelf unit I put together yesterday (with Ava's "help" of course) is waiting for placement and filling today.

Everything's dusty. But at least the filthy air filter has been banished, so I can dust without feeling defeated this week. I think the floors were all vacuumed within the week, so that gets a CHECK! Same goes for toilets and tub. CHECK! CHECK! Kitchen floor needs to be swept and mopped, but when doesn't it?

Wow, I'm feeling better already! If in a given moment, we are at a 6 or better on the scale, then I'm feeling pretty good about things. Now if I would get off my blog and on to those chores, I could make another nice, long TODAY'S ACCOMPLISHMENTS list to feel good about.

Girl Power Mama?

2005-04-07T13:00:00.000-04:00

We've all taken those womany quizzes that are designed to result in pigeon-holing you into one of four categories. Well, today I ran across one on another blog I've begun visiting lately. As always, none of the the answer choices really appealed to me, so the resulting category is questionable. Those who know me would probably think it odd that my thoughts could somehow be twisted into any form of the idea "girly." I'm not sure what I would call myself, but I don't think I would ever have considered "Girl Power Mama."

You're a girl power mommy! You love to be girly,
but you're no pushover. Your kids are learning
that gender differences don't have to mean
gender inequality. You've taken back pink, and
you don't care who knows it!

What kind of a freaky mother are you?
brought to you by

2005-03-23T11:03:00.000-05:00

Couldn't you just eat me up!?

Maury Chung

2005-03-09T23:11:00.000-05:00

Did you ever wonder if Connie Chung was just a little bit embarrassed to take her husband Maury Povich with her to her office parties back when Maury went the Jerry Springer route? Maybe that's why I haven't heard much talk of Connie in recent years. Maybe she's just a little less respected among news journalists now that Maury is routinely hosting thirteen-year-old girls who lie about how many hundred times they have had sex or the girls who don't know whether Tyrone or NaShawn is her baby's daddy, etc. (There seems to always be a lie detector test now.) After Dr. Phil gets finished "revolutionizing" his guests, he confidently marches off the stage and out through the crowd, collecting his wife who regularly sits in the audience. The few times I've witnessed this, she has said some encouraging comment to him like "Great show today!" At the end of a long day of interviewing soldiers' wives or something serious, does Connie enthusiastically tell Maury "Wow, Hon, that was a great show about cross dressers today!"? Maybe they're not even married anymore, but I'm too lazy to investigate that. It's bad enough that it took up this much time in my thoughts.

The State Game

2005-03-06T12:19:00.000-05:00

Britt and a couple of his old high school friends play what I call "The State Game" (clever, I know). Whoever visits all fifty states first wins. I think the leading score is around forty right now. The rules are minimal. One is disqualified if his age in years ever exceeds his number of states (thus ensuring that the game won't last forever, which is nice for us wives). Airports don't count; one must leave airport property to snag the state it's in. Entering and immediately exiting a state counts too, simply because it was done by one of the friends before anyone ever thought to declare it against the rules. They basically go on the honor system, I think. But it is generally deemed more fun to buy a post card or other piece of proof and send it to the others to rub it in when one claims an especially coveted state. Nothing like gloating.

I am not really in the game, but it's fun to keep track of where I've been in my little life. My dad used to keep US maps for each of us kids and highlight every state we had been to with an old yellow highlighter. Not sure what ever happened to my map, but I started keeping track on my own after I met Britt and learned of The State Game. I may never see all the states, but I did live most of my life in Texas, and that's what counts.

I found this little gem on another blog earlier and thought it was fun.

bold the states you've been to, underline the states you've lived in and italicize the state you're in now...

Alabama / Alaska / Arizona / Arkansas / California / Colorado / Connecticut / Delaware / Florida / Georgia / Hawaii / Idaho / Illinois / Indiana / Iowa / Kansas / Kentucky / Louisiana / Maine / Maryland / Massachusetts / Michigan / Minnesota / Mississippi / Missouri / Montana / Nebraska / Nevada / New Hampshire / New Jersey / New Mexico / New York / North Carolina / North Dakota / Ohio / Oklahoma / Oregon / Pennsylvania / Rhode Island / South Carolina / South Dakota / Tennessee / Texas / Utah / Vermont / Virginia / Washington / West Virginia / Wisconsin / Wyoming / Washington D.C /

Go HERE to have a form generate the HTML for you.

A Bit of Rambling

2005-02-17T23:44:00.000-05:00

I have bags upon bags of folded fabrics in random boxes in my bedroom. Organizing them is one of my many forthcoming projects. They have been multiplying over the years, as I buy fabric that I think I can't live without (on sale, probably) with the intent to make some garment out of it later, or I begin a sewing project with gusto and never make it past prewashing the fabric. Before we moved from Texas, my fabric collection took on a new flavor. My Mema was one who saved fabric, too. (Of course, she made quilts out of her scraps, which I aspire to do one day; hence, the fabric hoarding.) You know how some people have the strangest collections? They collect odd things that you would never have thought of collecting, and you wonder for the life of you why on earth they collect these things...rolling pins, suspenders, tea kettles, PEZ dispensers...you get the idea. Well, I guess if I were so inclined, I might collect vintage fabrics. So before we moved from Texas, I took the opportunity to go through my late Mema's sewing cabinets to claim any treasures I might have a use for or a sentimental attachment to. No one else in my family is inclined to sew or quilt, etc., so the unclaimed goods will likely remain as I left them that day until Dandy goes on to be with Mema one of these days. Among her things were, of course, many folded pieces of "material," as she would have called it. Many of them were pieces I recognized from Easter dresses gone by, or what not. And many of them were hideously outdated with a splash of funk. I saw potential in these gems and saved them from certain death. I can't even describe them, they were so varied and bizarrely printed. (I only wish I could flash back to a time when they were new so I could understand why they were sold in the first place.) One such piece was retrieved from my stash tonight while on a hunt to find fabric suitable to make Ava some new long-sleeved bibs (the slicky coating on her store-bought "raincoat" bib is peeling badly now, and it seems that no one carries a long-sleeved bib now). It's sort of beige (probably originally white or off-white) with an orange print of trees and medieval-looking minstrels, some on horseback with a lyre, some on foot playing something resembling an oboe, you get the idea. So I said to Britt, "Hey, here we go...a happy fabric with traveling minstrels." To which he replied, "You know, we always say 'traveling minstrel'. Why are minstrels always traveling? I guess a stationary minstrel would be a town troubadour." Funny how vintage fabric can inspire such an odd realization.

Pain and Resurrection

2005-02-09T23:49:00.000-05:00

Here I sit in utter disbelief that a blocked tear duct can cause one so much pain. I think I coped better with birthing labor than I am coping right now. I just hope I can go to sleep tonight in spite of my throbbing eye (and that the problem will magically go away). According to some medical web sites, blocked tear ducts generally affect only infants and are very uncommon among non-elderly adults. I always find a way around these laws of nature. My body just hears "very uncommon" and decides it would be novel to acquire said problem. It is so unnerving! Now that I have read that it can be cause for concern to have chronic blockage of the lacrimal system (or something like that), I will of course be preoccupied by the possibility of damage to my eyesight if this is left untreated, or worse, by fear that a tumor is causing it. Just what I need--a tumor in my head mucking up my tear ducts. Way to go Body. Way to get a detrimental uncommon malady this time. I am feverishly attempting to discover recommended doctors on our insurance plan, but of course the DocFind feature on their web site is horrendous. I finally got tired of scrolling through the options around number 352. Enough!

On a lighter note, I am still reeling from the miraculous clock resurrection that took place in our dining area earlier this week. I have had this cheapo clock for so long that I can't even remember if it jumped on my life's journey wagon in 1997 when I signed my first apartment lease or in 1999 when I married Britt and set up house in the good ol' Fleetwood. It's just a five dollar Wal-Mart jobber. Anyway, from time to time it would quit, so I just replaced the battery and that seemed to do the trick. Well, during the past year it has seemed to quit regardless of battery strength, but before we would take time to pitch it in the trash where it seemingly belongs, it would start up again and seem to keep good time. So time and time again it has earned the right to continue on the journey. This time I felt sure it was dead for good. It hung there motionless for so many days that I finally retrained my brain NOT to look up there to note the time. Then one evening this week Britt says to me, "Oh, I see you got the clock working again." I glanced at the wall, and sure enough the thing was tictocking right along. Nothing unusual there. But when I said, "No, I didn't do it," Britt said, "Huh. Well, it's set right. That's odd. Do you mean it started back up at the exact right time? You're kidding me." He honestly thought I was kidding him. I was as amazed as he was! That's one of those things that would never happen again in a million years. I guess the ol' Ingraham has bought itself some more time on our wall.

Pondering

2005-02-06T01:38:00.000-05:00

This quote grabbed me at Barnes & Noble yesterday. It's hard to wrap my brain around.

"Religion in its humility restores man to his only dignity--the courage to live by grace." - George Santayana

Scrapbooking...again

2005-02-01T23:13:00.000-05:00

Well, I'm back at it. Gearing up to scrapbook, that is. (It seems funny to me to use the word "scrapbook" as a verb. I think the veterans of the hobby would say "scrap" rather than "scrapbook" when used as a verb, at least some of them.) I think my fascination with scrapbooking began about three years ago, maybe more, but I haven't actually ever "scrapbooked" anything. I've never actually completed a layout. Nope. Not even one. I bought some materials back when my interest was piqued so many years ago, and I started making a really neat mosaic-style layout of pictures from Christmas. It was looking very impressive for a first try, and I would have been proud of it if I had ever glued the pictures down. Back then it was common for us to have to clear off the kitchen table in a big hurry because we were having people for dinner or someone was coming over who wasn't allowed to know how messy we are, so my carefully arranged pieces eventually got shuffled as they were whisked away at some point. Everything ended up in some container somewhere in my sewing room. The reason I took up the effort back then is I knew we would have a child at some point in the foreseeable future, and I wanted to get my practicing years out of the way before I had a child's life to document. Everyone makes fun of her first attempts or says how much better they've gotten at scrapbooking over the years. So didn't want my first baby to have a dumb-looking book and all the other children to have really creative works of art. So I decided to sabotage my general family photos during the childless years. That was all scrapped, in a much different sense of the word, and I have no idea where all my supplies are now.

Back in May 2004, I sat in front of this very computer joining an online scrapbooking community in hopes of learning from the more experienced "scrappers" and finding some inspiration. My firstborn (age six months) was in the next room. I had yet to scrap a single thing. Some friendly woman from the group sent me a box of baby-related scrapbook supplies that she would never need, which was great! But we were on the cusp of a major cross-country move (with a baby), and that was no time to begin scrapping. We have been in Virginia now for six months this week. (Wow...six months already!?) My daughter is just shy of fifteen months, toddling, talking, and sprouting molars like crazy, and yet I have only pictures. Envelope after envelope of pictures. Hundreds of pictures! And not one scrapbook page.

So I have made up my mind that February is the month that the first page will be finished. It probably won't be the mosaic I started so many years ago, as I have no earthly idea where it is now! And it won't be any of Ava's pictures because I don't want to do stupid to anything that will appear in her memory book. My goal is to transfer all the pictures of when we were young and just dating, traveling, getting married, etc. from the horrible, evil, yellowing-already magnetic album into a modern acid-free album where they belong. I have purchased the basics that I didn't already have, and I'm on the hunt for the past purchases lurking around here undiscovered, so I'm almost ready. I even have a scrap buddy lined up. It's time to jump in and get scrappin'! For February, I will settle for getting the ball rolling at long last. I've been touching the water with my toe long enough.

Muscle Memory

2005-01-28T23:07:00.000-05:00

There is still enough baby fat for me to believeably incite a conversation between my daughter and my navel. I have not yet begun "walking away the pounds," as I had hoped I would by this point in the new year. My schedule is beginning to move in that general direction in the mornings, but I just have to tweak my evening routine so that I will get to bed earlier. There is no way I will ever discipline myself to get up extra early for exercise when I haven't had enough sleep. I will rationalize in my drowsiness that sleep is just as important for my body as exercise, and I will grab the alarm clock while pressing the snooze button and proceed to hold it in my hand in the bed so that I can just effortlessly press it again in my quasi-sleep every nine minutes until Ava cries out "Mommy! MUCK! MUCK!" shortly thereafter.

I feel so irresponsible when I really think about how difficult self-discipline is for me. I have always been like this. By junior high, I was the kid who could never get up in the morning, even after her mother came in and abruptly turned on the lights and threw back the covers, yelling obnoxious cliches like "RISE AND SHINE!" or "UP AND AT 'EM!" I would convince her I was awake, and then I would get up only long enough to turn on the news and lie down on the foot of the bed, "waiting to find out what the weather was like" or to open my closet door and lie down on the foot of the bed staring into the closet "to decide what to wear." Naturally I would fall right back asleep with the covers pulled backwards over on myself, all cozy warm, rationalizing that these events were perfectly reasonable. In a few minutes, Mom would come blustering in again, this time yelling "CAROLE DIANNE! I TOLD YOU TO GET UP! NOW GET UP!" It was miserable for both me and my mother daily (and my dad on all those days when we had to chase the school bus along my route, and he was inevitably late for work because of me). I never had my homework done by the time Sunday nights rolled around either. It totally stressed me out that it was looming in the future, and I might run out of time to get it done, and yet I had no mechanism for making myself do any part of it like I should have before Sunday after evening church. That sure didn't leave much time to get things done. And being a diligent contact lens wearer was quite a feat for me during the college years. It was hard enough to get out of bed and to early classes within ten minutes of on time. Ginger saved me from certain doom in Old Testament our freshman year simply by ensuring that I was "up and at 'em" before she went to class. She eventually just resorted to waiting on me so that I would hurry to keep her from being late, which in turn helped me get there earlier than I would have on my own. The wise old professor soon fell savvy to this scheme and no longer marked either of us tardy. He trusted that Ginger would get us both there. But I should have been able to get there on my own! This has plagued me forever, and I am fearful of the pending personality closure that I'm told happens around age 28-30. Here I am, staring 28 in the face and desperate to counter all my worst qualities before I get too old to care, or to have the drive to change myself, or whatever happens that makes you stuck like you are.

On the positive side of my ordeal, I recently realized that I can't remember the last time I slept without my bite plate (a device for combatting my bruxism and therefore my TMJ syndrome). I have employed it consistently for probably the better part of a year without slipping up, and evidently without thinking about it too much. There was a time when I never would have thought it possible. I finally trained myself to do certain things before bed until they became automatic. It seems that if something actually provides enough of a benefit for my disciplined effort, then I really do eventually get it programmed into the good ol' muscle memory. I'm desperately trying to put some things there now (washing dishes and cleaning up the kitchen after supper, putting Ava's toys away each evening, managing all the paper that accumulates in our home, etc.), and I have to believe that if I benefit from doing them enough times so that not doing them feels even more uncomfortable than the nuisance of doing them in the first place, then (and probably only then) perhaps they too will enter the muscle memory and become automatic. That would be so liberating! I think life would feel easier if this stuff happened "automatically" for me. I know it means I will be doing consistent work to keep everything maintained, but that was my goal all along. I love being at home, but I want my home to feel like a nice place to be--a peaceful retreat after a long day, somewhere friends could drop by on a whim without embarrassing me. I'm getting there, slowly but surely.

Excess

2005-01-24T11:34:00.000-05:00

Why is it that name brand English muffins get to sit in a little cardboard box inside the plastic bag? Bread doesn't get a box in its bag. Bagels don't get a box in their bag. Crumpets, tortillas, pitas (well, that one might get a plastic box inside its bag)...all nakedly exposed to the plastic bag. So what makes English muffins so special? Probably just to keep them from positioning themselves haphazardly during shipment, I know. But isn't it wasteful to have them in a box and a bag? The cheapo brand I used to buy back home had them stacked up in a plastic bag. No box. No need for one. Just stacked up and sitting tall on the butt end eng muf (as we like to call them). Where's the shame in that? Couldn't the Thomas people just print their logo on the bag and stack 'em up too? Seems like it would save them time and resources, as well as saving the world from a little unnecessary paper trash.

Beans

2005-01-22T12:59:00.000-05:00

No one could make pinto beans like Mema. There are experiences in every person's life that are so ordinary and often that we don't make much of them until years later when we realize how they fit into the backdrop of our lives. Mema made great beans. Often. I could smell them cooking when I opened the front door after my long walk home from the bus stop. That's when I was older and didn't get home from school until late in the afternoon. During my grade school years, I was already home from school when Mema would take down the big plastic jar full of pinto beans. The splash of beans on the kitchen counter was my cue to come watch her sort out the good beans from the bad ones and occasional rocks. (I was always perplexed by the rocks.) She would flatten out a palm-sized amount of beans, take a look at them, separate out any losers, then cup her hand behind them and slide them off the counter into the big plastic bowl below. The repeated CRASH! of her progress invigorated me. I don't think I realized at the time how exciting it was, but it seems to be something of a fond memory for me now.

There are quite a few things that I had always done the way Mema did them, just because that's the only way I had ever known, and I hadn't given it much thought. (Mema knew everything, after all...why question her methods?) And there are also quite a few practices I have reevaluated and altered over the last nine years of life on my own. So the other day I was making beans, and I decided to try a different way of sorting them (I think my kitchen counter wasn't clean at the moment and I was too hurried to clean it or something). I can't even remember now how I was doing it, as I quickly saw the genius of Mema's method and rectified the situation. I never realized until that day the inherent satisfaction of the CRASH!...CRASH!...CRASH! of progress, Mema style. Oh how I miss her, but she is within me.

"Undiedrawers"

2004-12-08T23:45:00.000-05:00

In the past few months I have shopped for underwear at least three times. I'm not talking fancy, special edition panties either. Just plain ol' undiedrawers. Fruit of the Loom. White wonders. I have been less than impressed with the Charlottesville Wal-Mart for many reasons, but the fact that I have sought out regular women's underwear in a common size and style on multiple occasions to no avail had just about gotten my goat. Finally they stocked my FTLs, but wouldn't you know it, they were only available in a 3-pack. A three-pack!? What the heck? A woman who buys white Fruit of the Looms is generally the stock-up-for-a-year-or-two type. She is probably shopping for undies because her too-stained-or-holey-to-wear-in-case-of-an-accident ones are beginning to outnumber her decent ones. She's not looking to buy a meager three pair. She's overhauling her panty drawer! If they sold underwear in large packs at Sam's, she'd probably cut to the chase and buy them in bulk. That way, when the inevitable pesky stains happen, she could just toss a pair as necessary without guilt rather than go to all that annoying stain removal effort. THREE? I could not believe I had to buy a 3-pack of underwear. I never knew it mattered to me. I just took for granted that plain white standard underwear come in packs sized to carry you at least through the work-week. If you want fancy, go spend seven bucks a pair at Victoria's Secret and feel fancy all day long. I clean poopy diapers and dirty dishes and vacuum up dehydrated peas and such off my daughter's splat mat every day. I don't need fancy underwear riding up my butt crack. I don't understand how having a wedgy all day makes women feel sexy and alluring and ready to hop in the sack at the end of a long work day (no matter what kind of work). I'm just too practical I guess. I digress.

Anyway, so later at home I take out my scanty panty pack to put them in the laundry basket only to discover (as I shake my head in disbelief that I have only three new pair of panties after all these months of searching) that the individual little panty roll-ups are each taped! TAPED!? After roughly ten years of buying and laundering my own panties, I can honestly say I have never had to peel tape off of every single pair before tossing them into the wash. Unbelievable. Maybe that's why they only put three to a pack now. If you bought five at a time, you would be so mad at Fruit of the Loom for how long it takes to untape them that you'd surely cross over to Hanes Her Way.

Blogger Malfunctioning!

2004-12-02T22:57:00.000-05:00

Pardon the strange formatting on the Spelling Woes entry. Evidently there are some bugs in the formatting shortcuts, which caused the whole entry to foul up. Blogger has, of course, heard about it. I am not happy.

Spelling Woes

2004-12-02T22:37:00.000-05:00

I followed a yellow cab this evening with the following statement prominently displayed across its back end: BAD SPELLERS OF THE WORLD UNIGHT.

I found that amusing.

Just the other night, Britt and I were talking about how few people are actually good spellers. Those of us who are decent spellers are often annoyed by the copious spelling errors that run rampant on blogs these days. Blogs are not like books, which go through rigorous editing before they go to print. (Don't even get me started on books with numerous spelling errors and typos even after being edited!) Blog writers are just regular people like me--people who have something to say (or nothing, really) and choose to express it for the world to see. Many do not concern themselves with spelling errors, duplicated words, etc. It's just not important. Young people in particular have been spoiled by the spell check feature and no longer commit things to memory. Why bother to look things up in order to learn how to spell something when you can just click the little ABC-check mark icon that appears on every form of word processing these days? Spelling seems to be a lost art, like mental math. (Granted, there are a lot of folks out there who can do math in their heads with ease. My husband is among them, and he comes in VERY handy sometimes when I don't have my calculator.)

I used to be a great speller of words I was familiar with. (I know that was poor grammar structure, but give me a break...it reads better that way.) In third grade I was defeated in the classroom spelling bee after I hastily declared "Minute, m-u-n-i-t-e, minute." Crushing blow! I always got a strange satisfaction when my fifth grade teacher's answer to the oft-asked question "Mr. Morgan, how you spell _____?" was "d-i-c-t-i-o-n-a-r-y." I value the look-it-up approach to learning. My friends asked me how to spell words all the time during my junior high and high school years. I guess I had a reputation for being a good speller. But now I find that I have to stop and check my spelling more and more often. Is it a function of aging? Is it another lingering side-effect of pregnancy and child birth, much like my loss of nouns? Is it lack of brain exercise due to shameful reliance on the spell checker? Probably all of the above, to some degree. It drives me crazy when I can't spell something correctly. And it drives me even more crazy to see published material with misspellings that even I can recognize. (I don't have a huge vocabulary, so the really fancy words could be garbled and I would hardly know the difference.) That is just unacceptable. So the anal side of me wants to inform my blog friend of spelling and grammar errors I notice on his well-established and respected blog (I would want to know they are out there distracting the occasional good speller who comes across my written passages.), but that would make me his editor and he didn't ask me to be his editor. And it's just a blog, after all. I restrain myself. And I have to (painstakingly) remind myself time and time again that most people just don't care about spelling and grammar errors. At least click the spell checker, people!

Mr. Clean, Mr. Clean!

2004-11-21T11:24:00.000-05:00

I was hopeful but skeptical when Ginger mentioned trying out the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser right after we moved here. We bought one package and each took one to try. Gin later reported that it worked for her, so I was looking forward to trying it out on Ava's crib, which was hopelessly scarred and marred by its neighboring contents on our moving truck. I never got around to working on the crib during Ava's waking hours, so before my in-laws came for a visit, I broke down and used it in the half bathroom that obviously needed a serious paint job before we moved into this apartment. It really does work! All the coffee-colored drippy-looking I-don't-even-want-to-know-what-caused-those nasty stains located all over the lower part of the wall next to the toilet are GONE. Banished. Eradicated. Magically erased. The product worked so well that I had to do the entire bathroom just so the walls wouldn't be two-toned. And they'll send you one free to try out if you visit the site! If I were the "Queen of Clean" I'd definitely stamp my seal of approval on this product!

America the Underactive and Dehydrated

2004-11-16T23:23:00.000-05:00

There is too much clutter in my home. It is making me feel ill every day. Well, that and the fact that I am consistently drinking too little water, eating too much sugar, and generally getting no exercise. I need a fairy godmother to wave her wand over my clutter-ridden apartment and a timer watch to beep every thirty minutes to remind me to drink my water, for starters. As for the sweets, I think I wouldn't be craving so much if I would get rid of the clutter and drink my water. And I know it's time to pull out the Walk Away the Pounds videos now that I'm a year post partum and can no longer rely on the research that suggests women should take it easy on their bodies for a year beyond giving birth. It's time to get rid of the blubber, even if I am thin and certainly not overweight. I'm told the stretch marks and linea negra down my belly are here to stay, but I don't have to live with the blubber. But I'm sort of lazy about exercising, so this is a real challenge. Maybe I should suggest to ABC that they create some sort of reality show for new moms working off their baby weight. Why not? Everything else seems to be reality show material. Have you seen the flab on these guys on The Biggest Loser? Why must they remove their shirts for weigh-in anyway? WHY!? The women weigh in with a shirt on, so I think they guys should too, to make it equal. That shirt only makes a few ounces of difference anyway, and they could spare American the show of disgusting excess fat. We all know they are overweight. We get it. We don't need to see it. If we want to be grossed out, we will watch Fear Factor. You know it's even in syndication now!? What does that say about our culture? The reason we are all overweight is we are too busy sitting on our duffs (probably with a nice serving of Ben & Jerry's) watching people eat bugs on Fear Factor (or avoiding it like crazy with our remote controls from our cushy La-Z-boys) or having their teeth whitened and hair colored on some makeover show or letting some guy demolish and recreate their home in a unbelievably short period of time to actually have time to take care of ourselves. Who has time when there's reality television to watch, right? And besides, we've all worked hard all day...we're tired. We've earned an evening on the couch to continue the process of body deterioration, right? It's not our fault our society is generally overweight, battling heart disease, stroke, and cancer more than ever, is it? This is just happening to us! "They" aren't supplying enough drugs to make our bodies tolerant of inactivity and overeating! It's "their" fault! Right? Wrong. We need to take responsibility as a collective society, and that starts with individuals like me. It is MY fault that I am allowing the baby fat to hang on. I could be doing something about it, but I'm not. It is MY fault that I have a half-gallon of Edy's ice cream in my freezer now that there was a great sale at the store. It is MY fault that I couldn't stop at six chocolate chip cookies this weekend and proceeded to cook the rest of the cookie dough squares last night. It is time to get off my duff and walk away the pounds while my one-year-old watches and learns a good habit. I hope she never has to teach herself to take care of her body like I am having to do. I hope it comes naturally for her. Something she never even thinks about because it is so automatic. I hope she doesn't find a Happy Meal to be all that interesting (despite everyone's assessment that that makes me un-American). I hope I can replace my bad habits with healthy ones before she is old enough to remember. And I hope that means she will know a healthy Mama even when she is old and gray...and healthy.

Cravings defeat otherwise healthy woman

2004-11-16T00:55:00.000-05:00

I don't have to be pregnant to have cravings; I have had non-pregnancy cravings for as long as I can remember. I vaguely remember a night during my adolesence when my dad even went out for fresh peaches just to shut me up. I am convinced that, like most things, cravings must be hormonally-driven. A food craving will just eat away at me until I finally consume the craved delicacy. I can try to wait it out or eat something else instead (something I already have in my pantry, something that doesn't require a late-night trip to Kroger or the dreaded-but-so-much-closer Food Lion), but I have years of experience telling me that is futile. "Go ahead and indulge in chocolate cake with chocolate icing before it becomes chocolate cake with chocolate icing AND Blue Bell Natural Vanilla Bean ice cream [the mother of all ice creams]." (Britt learned this lesson the hard way sometime around my 8th week of pregnancy.) Postponing the indulgence is just the beginning of a process of packing in even MORE calories than I would have over-consumed by indulging in the object of my craving to begin with. If it's chocolate chip cookies I crave, chocolate chips eaten straight from the Nestle bag (perhaps with a side of natural almonds to keep me from eating too many morsels) will not satisfy my desire for chocolate chip cookies! Food cravings become a NEED more than a delightful idea. There is a huge difference between "Mmmm...that sounds good," and "Oh, Britton, I have had been craving Italian cream cake all week."

I bake things from scratch as a general rule of preference. It's usually deemed "not worth the calories" to eat convenience delicacies. An exception was granted last weekend, when I discovered the Nestle Toll House refrigerated chocolate chip cookie squares after a several-week-long craving episode with no end in sight and no time to whip up a recipe for 5 dozen cookies (and no mathematical energy to half the recipe). This was quite a craving to not only convince me to accept a convenience variety of the craved item, but also to pay a premium for said item when I found myself in the refrigerated section without my Kroger Plus Shopper's Card. That is some powerful desire! Well, the American Culinary Institute was right to award these cookies the Best Taste Award 2004. They were just what the craving ordered that night.

Practicing conscientious restraint, I retained several of the cookie squares for the next time I crave chocolate chip cookies. But tonight my mind knew they were in there waiting to be cooked. They were in there calling out to me! I had to cook them! Is this how men feel when they just can't shake the desire for sex, no matter how much they think about baseball instead? Now, I have warm, chewy, delicious cookies to eat. Every bite is a party in my mouth! There's just nothing like satisfying a craving. Now if only I could tweak my hormones to want sex this badly and this often...

Displayed Taxidermy

2004-11-14T00:50:00.000-05:00

There are some things you think but just don't dare say out loud for fear that it will one day come back to bite you in the butt. You know, the "I would NEVER..." statements. I am an opinionated person with a tendency to say what I think right when I think it. Knowing this, I try to avoid the "I would NEVER..." sentence structure altogether.

I saw an ad on television the other day offering cash for outdated fur coats or some such nonsense. Several young women were parading around outside in obnoxious (er, I mean, "luxurious") full-length fur coats with a TV-announcer-man voice over appealing to those of us who keep outdated fur coats hanging around begging to be traded in for more modern fur coats to trade said coats in now. Now, I have several problems with this. First of all, does anyone know a young suburban-mom-type woman who wears a fur coat? Where are these women!? And for the love of Pete why, WHY, would they own a fur coat, let alone wear one? What on earth do you wear a fur coat to in 2004 anyway? Maybe I'm just not in the right echelon of society to get it. Secondly, how does a fur coat become outdated? Isn't it just "fur coat style" in the first place? How many ways are there to fashion dead animal skins around oneself anyway? All fur coats just look like long straight pieces of dead animal skin hanging from an otherwise reasonable-looking woman, sometimes with small dead creatures "stylishly" affixed to the lapel. I nearly fainted one day as I thumbed through my baby's clothes and saw a bug-like figure on a shirt (turned out to be a 3/4 inch beetle); if my coat ever had a dead animal hanging from it, I'd be so freaked out by it while rummaging through my closet some day that my husband would seriously have to have me committed! What is the appeal, people!? I have never fully understood the appeal of any kind of displayed taxidermy, but I have always assumed that is because I am female, and females just don't have the need to display to our manly friends just how many "points" were on our latest "kill" or whatever. Obviously these fur-bearing women didn't hunt down these coat critters, but wearing them still seems like a prudish taxidermy display to me. I digress...

By the time that fifteen seconds were over, I felt confident that I could say aloud to anyone "I would NEVER buy a fur coat." EVER. (And I'm not even vegetarian.)

Sensing September

2004-09-21T23:30:00.000-04:00

I am a person wrought with countless sensory memories.

Sun-Ripened Raspberry bath products from Bath & Body Works always conjure up general memories of our first year or so of marriage. Someone had given me a gift set with bath gel, soap, lotion, etc., in that scent, and I used it sparingly so as to make it last longer (we couldn't afford such luxuries). This served to create raspberry memories of newlywed bliss. In order to preserve the magic, I avoid using these products. Now, any time I want to be taken back to those early years, I can simply take a whiff of Sun-Ripened Raspberry and be transported to 1999.

During food science class years ago, I was sent to work in a kitchen lab I had never used before. There was a distinctive odor coming from the sink that was bugging the heck out of me because I just couldn't remember for the life of me what it smelled like. Finally, it occurred to me late in class that day that it smelled like kindergarten. (No idea what must have been wrong with that school building for it to have smelled like rotten sink odors.) I have very few memories of kindergarten, but that sink took me back to blue tiled walls in the long, big hallways of Dripping Springs Elementary School.

When I was a kid, I went to the grocery store with my dad every Saturday night. About the time I was old enough to go to summer camp, I became more interested in loitering in the shampoo aisle than in the junky grocery-store-toy aisle. Sometimes I would spend my dad's whole shopping trip smelling every shampoo I could reach, reading labels, considering prices. (This period launched a lifelong habit of label reading and product comparison.) Eventually, I would present the chosen shampoo and its conditioning partner to my dad for purchase approval. Finesse shampoo always makes me think of the time Adele Munoz came to spend the night, along about the fourth grade. Miss Breck brings back memories of my senior year of high school when we would break a sweat during show choir practice, and my classmates would comment on the pleasing fragrance of my hair. On and on go the aromatic memory triggers.

Though most of my sensory memories are cued by aromas, some are brought on by sounds or flavors or even atmosphere.

The sound of cicadas always means summer to me.

The song "Dreams" by The Cranberries is my college freshman year, spring semester. 1996.

A really close, smooth shave reminds me of Mia Pelt, my college freshman roommate, who let her leg hair grow all winter. When she finally shaved for springtime, her legs were remarkably smooth...smooth like a baby's bottom.

I made a pizza this week, and the flavor of it brought back memories of morning-sickness survival. (I got through the early weeks of my pregnancy eating Triscuit crackers and homemade tortilla pizzas.) I must have used Contadina tomato paste with italian seasonings back then.

Today I opened the windows in my kitchen to let the smell of scorching sugar escape (long story). It was a lovely day, and the evening was cool, so I left the windows up. As nightfall approached, I could plainly hear the crickets humming peacefully outside, while the room filled with the soft, cool, slightly damp night air. And suddenly it felt like September at Mema's house, eating supper at the coffee table, watching TV...circa 1985. My grandfather was a stickler about not running the air conditioner unless it was incredibly hot outside. So at the earliest signs of Autumn weather, we made use of the screen doors. By September, we were already in school, so I would have spent the better part of the afternoon doing whatever piddly homework had been assigned in Houghton-Mifflin Spelling (that, and watching reruns of Mickey Mouse Club--the original, with Cubby and Annette and Jimmy--Welcome to Pooh Corner, Wonder Woman, and Dukes of Hazzard). After dark, some time would undoubtedly have been spent flicking the screen door to annoy the gnats who mysteriously filled 80 percent of the holes only during that time of year. (I always found their practice fascinating.) Mema would have made some vegetable soup or something (probably about the time I was busy watching a Bosom Buddies rerun). I would sit on the floor beside the coffee table (in that way that only children can contort themselves) and eat my soup (careful to pick out the tomatoes) while watching Growing Pains or Who's the Boss. And the background for all of what I never knew would become cherished childhood memories of Autumn was the crisp night air dancing through the screen door, accompanied by crickets a capella.

Not a Fanilow

2004-09-15T18:59:00.000-04:00

Oprah is apparently doing a "Wildest Dreams" season. It began on Monday with a car give-away. Every person in the audience received a brand new Nissan G6, fresh from Detroit. (Oprah went there herself to watch production.) Something like 275 cars were hidden on her employee parking lot with red bows and everything. It was unbelievable. I thought these people would literally pass out after they each opened their little gift box to discover that EVERYONE had the winning key. Oprah was, of course, thrilled with their reactions. I admit it was exciting even for me. One woman was there because she had written Oprah to express her dream just to attend a taping of the Oprah Winfrey Show and meet Oprah. Oprah did her one better and gave her a car to boot! This sweet woman just cried buckets of tears of joy. I was so happy for her!

Later, I found myself thinking, "If Oprah could grant me a wish, what would I want it to be?" I mean, she does incredible things for people all the time. I was at a loss. There isn't a single celebrity that I would just LOVE to meet in person or anything. While a wad of money would be nice, I can live without it. A house fully loaded with all my dream appliances and furniture would be incredible, but I don't even know where we will put down roots yet. Ginger and I can't have Oprah buy us houses next door to each other for the same reason. I guess most of my dreams have already come true.

So today she did another Dream Come True episode. The audience consisted of Fanilows. Yep, these women were all there because they begged Oprah to help them meet Barry Manilow. If that is the most they could want in life, then...I don't know what. What is the appeal of Barry Manilow? I have never understood it. Am I missing something? I mean, come on. It can't be that women actually think the man is sexy, can it?!? Really? His hair-do is inexplicable! His nose is, well, like that! He doesn't strike me as someone you would want to see without a shirt. It's Barry Manilow! It's like these women have some foggy spot on the part of their brains that controls sex appeal! So maybe it's not that. Maybe it's his talent as a singer/songwriter. I know some people really enjoy sappy lyrics, and he is the king of that. But is that enough to make women swoon? Really!? I guess you had to be there. Maybe I'm just too young to get it. But some of these women looked pretty young. They had to have been kids during Manilow's chart-topping years. (And I'm not thinking he was all that attractive even in his day, but I won't get on that again...) Now he's just another pretty voice singing sappily on easy listening stations featuring old Phil Collins songs. I just don't get it.

Weekend of nothings and somethings

2004-09-13T02:41:00.000-04:00

What in the world am I doing typing a post at 1:08AM when I should already be in bed? This is ridiculous, but here I am nonetheless. [sigh...]

Don't you hate it when you realize you are in a bit of a hurry or what-not, and you find yourself typing really hard? It's like the computer equivalent to realizing you are talking too loudly to someone who is standing right in front of you. I hate when I do that. It usually happens when I've been around loud talkers for a while, so I assume their volume level even when it's unnecessarily loud.

The bathroom ceiling took to leaking this morning. Water just poured right in from the exhaust fan. Nice. Now there are substantial chunks of my wet ceiling out in the dumpster instead of covering the pipes. And mold. Did I mention mold?

The convertible car seat hooey that consumed my entire week has finally come to a close. Our trip to Richmond yesterday culminated in the purchase of Ava's brand new Britax Roundabout. Yes, we sprung for the top-of-the-line humdinger that is the Britax. We tried the others, but this one was the only way to go. After thorough research, it had come down to a mere three options, and the one I wanted to work out because of its great value price for the Britax-like features was just too darn heavy. That sucker weighs 30 pounds! There was no way I was schlepping that thing across the airport several times a year. So we finally broke the Christmas 2003 bank and bought the Britax. Ava was surprisingly excited about it! It was so fun listening to her celebrating back there! She's such an adaptable child that I figured she would hardly notice the switch, let alone care. But as soon as we put her in her new seat, she saw herself in her mirror (which is now rendered useless for the driver who can no longer see it) and just about squealed with glee! Her happy gyrations and extra jabbering indicate a favorable impression. Mama gets an A on the car seat purchase of 2004.

Today I was given an IKEA catalog. IKEA! I discovered how limitless are the IKEAn opportunities in budget home furnishing. As my cousin once succinctly described it, "IKEA...Swedish Goodness." He's right.

This toy brought to you by Home Depot

2004-09-05T23:20:00.000-04:00

We went to Toys R Us a few nights ago to find the perfect first birthday gift for my niece. From the highway, the store appeared to be quite a bit larger than the Waco store, so I was excited to go see what it was like. The short of it is I was very disappointed. It was indeed larger, but it seemed to me that it was mostly stocked for children (and gamers) ages 4 and up. I certainly didn't expect to leave there empty-handed. The Waco location is laid out in an easy to understand fashion. The shelves are all parallel to one another, and the toys are shelved by age appropriateness with brands grouped together. The Charlottesville location is laid out all goofy, sort of like a maze in places. Very angular. And very annoying. I think the toys are supposed to be grouped by age appropriateness, but it was hard to tell. And definitely hard to find the right section! When I finally did find the baby & toddler toys, I was surprised by how few choices there were for a one-year-old. My best option seemed to be a really annoying bilingual singing Leap Frog toy. If he sings more than one little song, I certainly couldn't figure out how! So why should I believe my niece would? That toy was destined to drive my sister crazy, even though she would have liked the English/Spanish aspect of it. So it can just keep on singing in the Toys R Us, as far as I'm concerned.

While wandering through the labyrinth, desperately seeking a Fisher Price basketball hoop for toddlers, Britt made the comment that toys aren't made by toy companies anymore. They are made by product companies and non-toy brand names. There was a whole section of McDonald's toys. Imagine how many children are out there pretending to be a McDonald's employee, saying "Welcome to McDonald's...may I take your order" (just like on the commercials, certainly not in the restaurant) to their pint-sized customers and serving up plastic fries and Big Macs. What aspirations they must have! Closeby were the toy-sized housekeeping items by O'Cedar (and even in the aisle carton you would see at Wal-Mart or Lowe's)--brooms, mops, dust pans, etc. Did we have stuff like that? Yeah, probably. But I bet they had a Hasbro, Tyco, or Matel label. Not that of a known household product brand. Just around the 45 degree corner was a whole aisle of Home Depot toys, mostly power tools. These were cool toys. (I'm a power tool Mama.) After we played with the fairly realistic-sounding chain saw for a while (the "chain" even went around!), we moved along to continue the long hunt for toddler toys brought to you by Fisher Price. Britt was right about the toy brands. What happened to the simple toys of our childhood? Where have all the Hasbro toys gone?

Later, Britt said he had read in US News some time ago that Toys R Us is considering no longer dealing toys. What!? TOYS R Us not carrying toys!?? Apparently Wal-Mart is taking them to the cleaners just like they are every other moderately-priced category of sales. Sam Walton is posthumously taking over America. Before long toys will all be labeled "Sam's Choice." Move over, Home Depot.

Reset

2004-09-02T00:01:00.000-04:00

Resetting one's body clock is exhausting. For months I have been spoiled to a 9:00AM wake up time, as my daughter would begin her morning sounds around 8:45 and not call out "Mama!" until about 9:00. That gave me a good ten to fifteen minutes just to lie half-awake listening to the beautiful music of Ava's whispering, crooning, and jabbering "Ga-Ga-Ga" or "Dud'n Dud'n" (her new favorite) before I actually hit the bathroom. Then law school started, which meant I needed to instill in myself a new morning routine. Now that we only have one car, Ava and I need to be up and ready in case we have to take Britt to school so that I will have the car. This won't happen every day, but we need to be on a regular schedule just in case. My efforts towards this goal crashed and burned most days last week. I think it was the wrong part of my hormone cycle or the moon phases or something. This week it seems to be going better. Last night, much to my surprise, I never even felt an evening slump, despite my 7:15AM get up time. Crazy! Britt was at school until midnight, so I just busied myself organizing the bathroom cabinets and such while he was gone. I kept thinking I'd get tired and go to bed, but I was just so pumped that I knew going to bed would just be a waste of all that energy and motivation. My body is making up for lost time tonight. I am beat. I need to sleep. Now. But maybe I am one day closer to retraining my body clock to sleep from 11:00PM to 7:00AM, in time to get ready for my day long before Ava calls "Mama!" in the mornings.

One of those days

2004-08-30T23:43:00.000-04:00

My daughter has always been an easy-going, calm, adaptable baby (well, at least after that first six weeks of gas pain). She fills my days with so much joy. Just the other night I told Britt that sometimes I feel so much love for her that I think I'll just explode! (I picture tiny little glittery hearts bursting forth and showering down like confetti.) She is in such a neat stage right now, exploring things, actively learning all the time, and becoming aware of her emotions and voluntary expression thereof. She does such funny things sometimes, like purposely pouring her water into the cup holder on her high chair tray so that she can splash it! Or suddenly putting her hands over her eyes (palms out) to signal that she doesn't want any more food. Or wiggling back and forth after she takes her milk so she can hear it slosh around in her tummy. I wonder what she's thinking when that happens. If she understands that the sound she hears is coming from within her own body. If she can feel it sloshing and knows that is what is sounding. Her "research" fascinates me.

But then there are those days. Those days when, no matter how wonderful my baby regularly is, I just can't figure out what is wrong. Days when the usual schedule is unacceptable for some unknown reason. She's sleepy but she can't or won't sleep, and I don't know which. Should I let her cry it out and fall asleep because I know it's her usual nap time and she's probably just trying to convince me to pick her up (because she's beginning to understand how to play on our emotions), or is she really needy today and I should absolutely go to her so she will trust that I will help her in her time of need? Days when I wonder if her crying and grabbing my face and pulling it to her own face is some primitive language for "I NEED TYLENOL, MAMA...STAT!" Days when I have kept her right there with me most of the day instead of leaving her playing with her toys while I do the usual chores. Days when I have helped her poop, sucked her boogers, given her Tylenol, rubbed her aching gums with Orajel, given her an extra breast-feeding just in case she's hungry and snuggled just a little extra before nap time, and still she cries The Indiscernable Cry. The cry that makes me say ridiculous things to the poor darling like "What's the matter today? Tell Mama what's wrong." The cry that I haven't walked away from since she was just weeks old and I didn't know what else to do but pass her off to her daddy and cry myself.

So I finally decide I have done all I can do. She will cry even if I hold her. So I leave her in her bed and hope she will fall asleep soon. I busy myself, and soon enough all I hear is rain and the gentle hum of my computer and the creaking of the upstairs neighbors' stairs. And I bask in the peacefulness while it lasts, knowing that post-nap period before bed time could go either way. She might wake up refreshed and be a her usual happy self the rest of the evening. Or she might be so fussy that it makes me question my ability to survive the Terrible Twos in a couple of years. If I can't stand one fussy day now, then how will I ever make it to November 2006 without going loony bins?

Well, today was one of those days when she resumes The Indiscernable Cry as soon as she awakens from her nap, (as though she had consciously pressed pause on her cry feature in order to fall asleep and then pressed it again when she woke up) and once again her complaints are met with one failed attempt after another to correct the unknown problem. It was one of those days when I watch the clock, pleading with it to hurry to the part of the day when Britt comes back to rescue me from my single parenthood. One of those days when I feel like waiting at the door for him, immediately snatching the car keys, and fleeing the premises as soon as he's back. And all I know to say is "I love you, sweet baby" over and over.

And then by some miracle, she laughs. And laughs and laughs and laughs. And I feel relief from my anxiety, if only for a little while. And FINALLY Britt returns from the great beyond! (Only now it's too late to flee, so I fume a little bit.) And she laughs some more, easing my pain. And during her Daddy-orchestrated bath time, I take a vacation in some other part of the house to remind myself that most days are not one of those days, and the benefits of this job far outweigh its frustrations.

Fluttering FlyBaby

2004-08-27T12:56:00.000-04:00

Someone threw a wild party in my apartment yesterday and left the mess for me to clean up! The audacity! It is a good sign that this drives me crazy. The way we lived in Waco, this was the norm (the mess, not the parties!). Since we moved in here, I have made a consistent effort to keep my sink shining and everything put away. Trying to retrain my (our) bad habits. So when I left a mess in the kitchen for myself to find after the latest law school function, I was so disappointed. It's so much easier to KEEP it clean than it is to clean it up! But I dropped the ball yesterday. I spent a good part of the morning making Chippey Cheeseys to take to the function. Then Ava woke up and needed tending to, so I left my mess. Then life happened, as it so often does, and I didn't ever get back around to the kitchen.

My first mistake was not unloading the dishwasher first thing in the morning. That seems to be the key. If the dishwasher is empty, I am becoming more disciplined at putting the dirty dishes immediately into it, thereby curtailing the problem of dishes piling out of the sink and onto the cabinets (and the stove top...and the floor...). In our new home there are two "dish disposals." One is the dishwasher; this is where any dish that can be washed in the dishwasher is to go immediately after rinsing it. The other is a dish pan under the sink; this is where plastics that flip over in the dishwasher and other non-dishwasher items go immediately after rinsing. This means nothing takes up residence in my clean sink until it's time to wash dishes after supper (which either Britt or I do every night now!). Many people would think this is just automatic, but not for us. We have to consciously consider these actions. So when I did not follow my rules yesterday, I left a huge mess in the kitchen (and consequently on the dining table). After the law school function, we came home to a messy kitchen and dining room, and I actually felt a little taken aback. Surprised! ME! To see a mess in my kitchen! That is fantastic! That means I am expecting cleanliness from myself now! The mommy heavens are singing a jubilant "Hallelujah!" for me today!

I owe most of my improvement to the FlyLady and her firm but gentle motivation. If you've never heard of her, let me sing her praises now. One baby step at a time, I am changing my bad habits and making my life more orderly and peaceful. I am ridding my home of CHAOS (Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome). FlyLady is Marla Cilley, who manages a helpful web site and yahoo group for people like me--SHEs (Sidetracked Home Executives). Go to www.flylady.net if you are so inclined. It just might change your life. Be forewarned, if you sign up for the service, you will receive a lot of emails. The information contained on the site is also available in Sink Reflections by Marla Cilley. I prefer having a book to use as sort of a manual. I'm no where near FLYing just yet, but I'm getting my nighttime routine down to the point where I feel it in the morning when I slip up! And it's becoming automatic. Next is my morning routine. Baby steps!

Now, speaking of that crazy party mess...I have work to do.

Ripe when yields to gentle pressure

2004-08-26T00:58:00.000-04:00

I really enjoy grocery shopping. It's like a hobby for me, really. I don't care so much for going during busy times, but even then I don't mind it too much as long as I'm not in a big hurry. I have now perused the aisles of three stores of the multitudinous Charlottesville grocery chains. I find the atmosphere to be most pleasing at the Giant, but the Kroger is convenient and mostly adequate. (Food Lion was fast relegated to last resort status.) I usually end up at the Kroger (or the "K-Roger" as Britt so daftly calls it). I am beginning to find my way around there. It is so hard to become familiar with the nonsensical arrangements of different grocery stores! It took me three trips just to find the orange juice section. It was adjacent to the paper plates and seasonal items, of course. Why didn't I look there to start with!? About the time I learn where everything is, they will change it, as grocery stores are wont to do. (sigh...)

The produce section really makes or breaks a store for me. I demand high quality produce! And nothing ticks me off quicker than a checker who flings my carefully selected, bruise-free fruits and veggies down the conveyor belt to their doom. That's what the conveyor belt is for--to gently move things along to the little holding yard at the end! (I have scolded many a teen checker. Especially while pregnant. And don't get me started on how NOT to load groceries into my car!) Anyway, produce makes me happy. I love the snap of a good fresh green bean! The produce section has such variety and promise for a lovely meal or two ahead. It has a good aura. It lifts my spirits. And the Kroger people have enhanced my experience by adding lights to simulate lightning and a thunder sound effect right before the water sprayers come on to shower the food! At first I thought this was ridiculous, but now I smile every time it "rains," even if I'm halfway across the store!

My favorite time to shop is late at night when I'm one of the only people there. I feel like I have the store all to myself, my shopping unabated by fellow basket-pushers. I can stand in one place to read labels as long as I want to without getting in someone's way. It's quiet. I can hear my thoughts. There are no stacks of laundry around me or dirty dishes. I guess grocery shopping is a form of escape for me. Kind of like going to a spa for a facial or massage I guess. Just a little retreat where you can do something you like and cast your cares away for a while. I don't enjoy that kind of experience all that much, usually, because I am a bit too practical to really let go. I feel like I should be using my time to get something done. I see the usefulness of it for most people, but I find that I feel idle while being exclusively pampered. (Exception: massage--this provides medical benefits for my back problems, so it is not solely pampering.) That's why grocery shopping is so great for me. It is both relaxing and productive. Who knew something so mundane and necessary could be so therapeutic.

Creative Reader Liberated

2004-08-24T22:49:00.000-04:00

I am a slow reader with terrible comprehension skills. It takes me at least four times longer to read anything than an average reader. I read every word as though I were reading aloud. For those who cannot relate, this is an insufferable way to read. A teacher once told me I have a reading disability: I am a "Creative Reader." (At least I felt better having a label for my problem.) As you might expect, I have loathed reading for most of my life. I used to avoid reading at all costs. Until my mid-twenties, I had never experienced "reading for pleasure."

In third grade (G/T program) I had to read a book (or was it sixth grade?) for some reading promotion at school where you get points for pages read (or something like that). I remember whiling away many painstaking HOURS one fine Saturday afternoon (in my dad's gold rocking chair that used to be my grandfather's chair) reading How to Eat Fried Worms. I HATED spending my Saturday that way! I can still remember how I ached with desire to be outside running barefoot on the hot pavement with my friends, playing "teenagers" or some such nonsense.

I remember the first time I sought out a cheater method (i.e., Cliff's Notes) of getting around reading something. I was expected to read some book called The Borrowers, which I believe was about tiny little people living in someone's house and taking their stuff. (Again, I can't remember if this was third grade G/T or sixth grade...) My family had a multi-volume set of books called The Junior Classics (or something like that) which contained ultra-condensed versions of children's novels. Amazingly, these volumes contained a tiny version of The Borrowers. I can still remember the smell of fresh cut grass all around me that springtime evening as I sat on the front porch trudging through the Junior Classics' watered-down version of that book. I think it was fourteen pages long, and I thought I'd never get to the end of it. Oh, it's all coming back to me now...it WAS third grade G/T, and I was expected to give an oral summary of the book in front of the class full of children far more gifted and talented than I. (I shiver with heeby-jeebies just thinking about it...) I was so impressed by Joe Bishop's project and report of The Westing Game (which years later Britt said was his childhood favorite). And someone did a neat diorama of The Wizard of Oz. Anyway, I have blocked most of the events of that day out of my mind but still bear the guilt of becoming a cheater-reader.

By high school, I had gotten very good at reading as much as I could manage, paying attention in class, taking thorough notes, and asking my reader friends all the right questions before quizzes. Remarkably, I got by with As and Bs in my high school English classes using said method. And I graduated #11 in my class of about 375. (This is shameful, of course.) So I was on my way to being a stellar college student.

I started college with the notion that English was my best subject (I loved every aspect except reading), ignoring the fact that I am a dreadfully poor reader. Suddenly I found myself lost in classes where I knew no one (and thus couldn't ask what happened in the assigned text for the day) and had no idea how to keep up. I still enjoyed the discussions and the dissection of the characters and themes, etc. and still had a knack for quality writing. By my fourth semester of beating my head against the wall of English literature, I was sinking in my chosen major and didn't know what else to do with my future. My short fiction professor held me after class one day and asked me why in the world I was an English major in the first place. (Well, actually a secondary education major w/ English specialization, to be technical.) He said I did the best job of writing essays about characters I knew nothing about of any student he'd ever taught. This skill did me little good as I delved deeper into the English major requirements. (That was about the same point in time when Britt forced me to admit that my passions have nothing to do with English literature. Persuant to this lengthy conversation, I turned to my love of "hearth and home" and became a Family & Consumer Sciences major. Best thing I ever did in college besides make Britt mine. That is neither here nor there.)

A few years ago, I compiled a list of books I wish I had finished in school, books displayed as "Summer Reading" at Barnes & Noble, books Oprah liked, books that sounded interesting to me at some point, books other people recommended, etc. I had already been in the habit of checking stacks of large print books out for my chair-bound grandmother, so during one of those library trips, I checked a stack out for myself too. And I opened one. And I read a while. And if I hated it, I put it down and tried another. And another. And eventually I liked one. And finished it. And another. And another. And I found that I was enjoying myself! And I would exclaim to Britt, "I finished it! I'm becoming a reader!" As long as I allowed myself the freedom to close a book I am not compelled to read by the end of the first chapter or so, then I was happy to taste new ones. And sometimes I laughed aloud or even cried. And I found out why so many of my friends enjoyed reading. It was liberating.

So why all this talk about reading? Well, I find that I read and read and read on the internet now sometimes (to the detriment of my blog it seems). I read about babies and child-rearing and nutrition and plants and I read other people's blogs to get ideas and then find that I'm hooked. I read whatever interests me. I often have a stack of books by my bedside table, most of them bearing some form of the word "pediatric" in them, but books of my choosing nonetheless. And I read. FOR PLEASURE. And I enjoy myself! I'm getting faster a little every year. And it doesn't feel like work anymore. And I don't have to think about doing it. I just do.

I'm a reader now!

The sun sets over the Blue Ridge Mountains

2004-08-21T01:35:00.000-04:00

I am a resident of Charlottesville, Virginia. I live in Virginia. I live in Virginia. This is Virginia. There is a hazy mountain range visible from my front stoop. This is not Texas. This is not a vacation. This is real life, and I live here now. Semi-permanently. I sort of feel lost in space and time right now. I've been lost in time ever since I quit my job in February. I generally have no idea what day of the week it is or even what month or season it is. It's very odd. And now I can add to that not really comprehending where I am. I need one of those huge electronic clocks that shows in big red laser letters "TODAY IS FRIDAY, AUGUST 20, 2004" hanging right by my computer. It's not enough that the computer screen already shows me this information. That little bar is small and unassuming. I need something garish that I cannot miss. Something I can see from anywhere in the room. Maybe I should have this item affixed to my body in some way. I'll have to work on this.

So I hate my dishwasher here. I miss my old Performa. It was a low-end Maytag with the best usability I have ever seen in dishwasher configuration. There were specially shaped pegs on the top rack that perfectly fit the bowls standing upright in such a way as not to clang into each other repeatedly during the wash cycle. And that was a major space saver to boot! I didn't realize how much so until we started using the Whirlpool. There is no good way to put the bowls in without obstructing necessary space for other dishes. We have tried many options, and there just doesn't seem to be a good way to input bowls. And we dirty up a lot of bowls somehow. The utensil basket is annoyingly toward the back of the bottom rack, which means you can't simply open the door and fling in a fork with ease. NO...you pretty much have to open the door fully and pull out the whole bottom rack in order to put something in the utensil basket. And this is a major inconvenience multiple times each day now that we are trying to instill the good habit of putting dirty dishes directly into the dishwasher as they are dirtied rather than creating a mountain of dirty dishes in the sink (which inevitably turns into a mountain range of dirty dishes all over the kitchen cabinets and stove top). And to top it all off, the soap dispenser doesn't open. Nope. You just have to hope the "prewash" bin full of soap will do the job. So what we really have is a dish sterilizer rather than a dishwasher. It is highly frustrating. Rodney (the unfortunate head of maintenance here at Squire Hill) will be hearing about it. Among other things.

(Cue Annie.) "I think I'm gonna like it heeeeere!" Why?
1. The sun sets over the Blue Ridge Mountains right outside my front door! Mix a little air pollution with the setting sun, and it's an orangey-pink delight!
2. Whole Foods Market! Oh my goodness, I was in nutrition heaven. Now if only I had money.
3. So far a "hot" day is about 90 degrees with humidity around 60%. I successfully missed out on the hottest part of the Texas summer. It's like losing hours when you cross time zones. I'll take it.
4. I can paint the walls if I want to!
5. I can walk to the mall from my apartment.
6. BOSTON MARKET!!!!!! (My new favorite fast food eatery.) Vegetables! Need I say more?
7. There's a New Balance store within minutes of my apartment. This is fabulous timing, as my shoes are shot, and my feet, legs, knees, hips, back, neck, and head remind me of this fact daily.

The down side is...
1. We lost a LOT of storage space that we were spoiled to having.
2. No Mrs. Bairds bread. (I sure do miss the smell of bread baking at the Mrs. Bairds plant as I drove over the 18th Street bridge at just the right time back home.)
3. No Ranch Style Beans.
4. No Saturn dealership.
5. The dishwasher is terrible. See diatribe above.
6. There are crazy drivers everywhere!
7. No Target store! (But there's one coming to a town near me!!!!)
8. No HEB, and no HEB prices either. Milk is $4/gallon! And people are shocked by gas prices!?
9. My parents are no longer right across town providing a convenient safe place for Ava any time I need to do something without her. This will become a challenge in the coming weeks.

Okay, that's all I can think of off the top of my sleepy head, so at 12:32am Eastern, I shall say goodnight to the Blogger dashboard and head to the kitchen for my nightly bowl of right-before-bed cereal. (The point is to dirty up one more bowl before the close of the day just so I can remind myself of how annoying the dishwasher is one more time before bed.) I am now faced with that pesky decision of which Food Lion delicacy to indulge in...will it be Bran Flakes, Frosted Wheat Squares, or Honey & Nut TasteeOs? Oh to have HEB here in VA...