Battery Brains

{Skippy's Apricot Cake}

2012-02-12T20:38:00.005-06:00

When I was a kid, my Mom used to sing the song, MacArthur's Park, to me at bedtime. It was a really strange song about cake being left out in the rain (a metaphor for love, I think), but I used to love to listen to her voice singing it. She got the solo in high school because she was the only one that could hit the really high note in the middle of the song. Dang, I love that about her.

Although my Mom can certainly sing about a cake, she never was a baker. That's my love. I've always adored how you can take a recipe of simple ingredients, stir them in the right order, and out pops this masterpiece you've created. Cakes, cookies, scones, muffins, bread. Almost everything tastes good right out of the oven. I love it all, especially if it is a family recipe passed down for generations and baked with love.

I have been devouring this cookbook, Make the Bread, Buy the Butter, which walks you through whether you should buy it or make it homemade. I've made three batches of homemade yogurt that is to die for, but that's a topic for another blog. I was also pleasantly surprised to find a cake recipe tucked in the afterward section of this cookbook. It is a recipe her Mom loved to make growing up and the author found six, handwritten copies in her mother's recipe file. She says, "The cake is a wonder, the recipe a treasure.....it clearly wasn't the brainchild of my great-aunt Skippy, though in our family she got all the credit."

This cake is baking in my oven right now. It will be ready in exactly 10 minutes and then I am ready to try it for myself. I'm giddy. Family recipes do that to me. If you're the same, I'm jotting the recipe down below.

Skippy's Apricot Cake

1 box Duncan Hines Lemon Supreme cake mix

1 cup canned apricot nectar, such as Kern's

3/4 cup neutral vegetable oil

1/2 cup granulated sugar

4 large eggs

Glaze: 1 cup sifted confectioners' sugar + 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

Preheat oven to 350. Grease your Bundt pan or 9-inch tube pan. Stir together cake mix, nectar, oil, and sugar. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Pour batter into pan. Bake for 50 minutes. Just before baking time is up, mix together the glaze ingredients. When cakes comes out of oven, immediately turn it over onto a cooling rack positioned over a cookie sheet or large newspaper (anything that will spare you having to scrub your counter later). Pour the glaze on top of cake while it is hot out of the oven. The glaze will melt and flow down the sides of the cake and harden into an irresistible lemony glaze. As my mother wrote on each copy of her recipe: "Makes 12 large slices, 24 lady slices."

Happy baking, friends.

"MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark, all the sweet green icing flowing down. Someone left my cake out in the rain. I don't think that I can take it, 'cause it took so long to bake it, and I'll never have that recipe again. Oh, no."

{Jaws, the Jumping Turtle}

2012-02-09T20:04:00.005-06:00

I live in a crazy house. It's full of noise and mess and pure chaos. Those are just the good days, my friends. Mostly, it's a whirlwind. Boys, 5 (including the turtle). Girls, 1 (me).

Of all the boys, our African side-neck turtle, Jaws, is the most well behaved. He lives in a large tank in the kid's room, complete with lots of water to swim and big rocks to sun himself by his heat lamp. He is always smiling (well, it's also the type of turtle he is, but I like to think it's because he is really happy). He is safe behind the glass walls of his tank.

Not anymore. Jaws has been tank jumping, all the way down to the hard wooden floor. Twice this week in fact. He's survived both times, I'm elated to say, but I'm wondering how he finds the power to push through his lid and then take a flying leap. This last time, I started to wonder if maybe our house is just too much for the little guy. Could it be, well, too chaotic?

I felt that way tonight. I got home late from a work meeting to find things in usual disarray--dishes piled high, the dog chewing tiny soldiers, homework spread everywhere (but not done), dirty socks under the coffee table and on TOP of the kitchen table, and everybody needing help with something immediately. A hundred things in a hundred different directions. It's a struggle. A struggle for patience, for getting it all done. A struggle to slow down and enjoy it like everyone says you should. Mainly, I'm just struggling to stay on top of being a good mom. I feel like I'm failing. Miserably.

I snuck upstairs tonight, almost an hour before bedtime, because I couldn't take anymore. Yes, I did. I hid from my kids....in my own house. And although I didn't carry up the bottle of wine (which crossed my mind, believe me!), I did leave the "wild man" zoo downstairs for calm alone time. I sacrificed quality time with my kids for quiet time with myself. Slight guilt, but I can also feel the rational me starting to come back in to focus.

To make amends, I squeezed my kids extra tight at bedtime and smacked lots of kisses on their sweet faces. I hope, I really hope, my suffocating love can make up for all my mistakes, including hiding away tonight. Do you think there's lots of wiggle room in parenting for all the imperfection? Please let the answer be yes.

Oh, and the turtle? Well, I checked on him tonight before turning out their light. He wouldn't even look my way, the sneaky bastard. I know he's planning another escape, but I can hardly blame him, I guess. I know exactly how he feels in all this chaos.

{Time Sucking Creativity}

2012-01-15T19:59:00.015-06:00

Writing is my creative outlet. This is why I blog, send handwritten notes, and dream of one day finishing a novel. Words really do make me happy. Lately (refrain from judgment here, please), I've been straying.

Pinterest. A major time sucker in many ways, but so visually stimulating I cannot look away. I have been following the hippest designers and all their lovelies (fabrics, projects, room designs, and on, and on, and on). My new crush is Elsie Larson, designer and owner of Red Velvet, out of Springfield, Mo. I'm not stalking, but it's real close.

Elsie then led me to my next creative adventure. A year of art journaling. Never heard of that? Yeah, me either. But a few short weeks ago, I got an email from Elsie (well, I'm sure she sent it to a few thousand people, but I like to think it was more BFF to BFF) inviting me to an e-course teaching the crazy ways of art journaling. One page per week. Easy as pie, right?

Well, it been interesting. It's also been super fun. I'm not feeling like it's masterpiece material yet, but my first two weeks are pictured here. An introduction page on the left (yes, that's me with a large bunny, if you've got great eyes) and a magazine page with my love list scribbled on top.

I've also been dabbling in some photography, thanks to my friend Dulce. She introduced me to the iPhone app Instagram. Suddenly all my boring photos are transformed into these amazing vintage wonders. I'm a photography genius. If you have your doubts, check out my bear photo from lunch today. Okay, so I'm in the photo, which means I didn't actually take the photo. I did push the button to make it more hazy and dream-like though. It's a gift and you're welcome.

Having said all that, I'm sorry I haven't written more, but please know the creative energy is flowing through me in all kinds of ways. I'm super happy about that. Try to be happy, too. Okay? If you want, I could come over and take your picture.

{Joyful Resolutions}

2011-12-31T08:45:00.006-06:00

I rarely keep resolutions made on Dec. 31. It's too much pressure, I think. What can I do at the start of a new year to transform my whole life? Well, jeez. That's a lofty ambition. Do I start with what isn't working at all? Or should I start with areas I've made minor progress and add on to that? You can see my dilemma.

Last year, I tried to keep it lighter. I decided to read 111 books in 2011. Very straight forward goal, plus reading is one of my passions. I've got this. What I could not keep a handle on, unfortunately, was logging each and every book I read. I was on matrix overload. By February, I just conceded that my obsessive tracking was getting in the way of reading, so I stopped entering the books altogether. I'm pretty sure I read more than 111 books. I can't prove it though.

Maybe I would like New Year's resolutions better if they all focused on finding more joy in your life versus the traditional changing all the "bad" stuff. Joy goals would be more straight forward. Simple. Savoring every ounce of your life. If change happens amidst those joy-finding activities, well, good for you. If it doesn't, no big deal. Your main goal is just to live your life to the best of your ability.

With that in mind, here's my 2012 joy list:

1. Nature balances me. Surround myself with great views, sunshine and the smell of pine.

2. Sneak in as many snuggles with my kids as I can. Even if they resist, hold them down for snuggles and call it wrestling.

3. Spend more quality time with family and friends. Hug them more, too.

4. Read & write every spare moment. It's obviously what lights my fire.

5. Speak kinder words to husband. Critique less. He deserves joy, too.

6. Help others.

7. Try one new, crazy adventure a month. Growth is good.

8. Cook fabulously for my family, even if I've never heard of the wholesome ingredients.

9. Make do with less.

10. Count to 10. Take deep breaths. Enjoy this amazing ride.

If my list gets you thinking about your list, I hope you will put finding joy and a passion for your life front and center. You deserve that. Here's to a new year and, I hope, a more joyful us.

Much love, Heather.

{Scent Blowing Box}

2011-12-26T18:21:00.007-06:00

This is my Christmas box. It's my hubby's unique creation made with love and lots of hours. It holds my two candles that I always burn from my favorite candle shop, 5B and Co., in Weston, Mo., with a hole in the middle for a scent-blowing fan. I, of course, can't feel the fan, but my husband assures me it's the gem of the whole project. I'm not so sure.

The top also slides off at the side, so I can place my matches and wick dipper securely inside. It's sealed pretty tight, so unless I bulk up on muscles in the new year, I doubt I'll be able to open it by myself. This is fine with me because the wires to the fan got tangled both times my husband removed the top to show me all the amazing things inside.

Do I love it? Well, I definitely love the idea of it. A person who loves me enough to try to make the perfect gift knowing his percentage of failure is really high. He does it anyway despite my lack of trust, negative comments (even in the blog-a-sphere), or irritation at his gift-giving history. I'm not sure I deserve that kind of love with my current Christmas attitude, but I feel honored that he keeps on loving me amid the beautiful peaks and hurtful valleys of our life. That's the really special part. The box is just scent-blowing fluff on the mantelpiece.

{Crazy Roller Coaster Monkeys}

2011-12-20T21:09:00.009-06:00

I blog when I'm happy. I also blog only once a month. Mmmm. Interesting correlation.

It's been a tough week and, I note with an exaggerated sigh, that it's only Tuesday. I've been a single mom for the past few days and being in charge of the universe, or even our small household, is not a job title I relish. It sucks actually.

Our boys have been acting like crazy monkeys, the dog has eaten more silly bands then I can count (and two bananas this morning), and we have no running water, thanks to a lovely leak in our 100-year-old pipe somewhere in the back yard. Presents are begging to be wrapped and I haven't even thought about food dishes I need to prepare. Plus, there is more work at work than I know how to get done this week. Dang it, I'm tearing up just writing this stupid list.

Here's the thing. I feel like a silly girl for all these minor frustrations I let set the direction of my day. I have a great life, full of wonderful people that I love and that love me, but here I am writing down a list of complaints in my week. The biggest one may be that I'm overwhelmed by the pace of my life. The lack of control, or perception thereof, sets me spinning. As much as I try, I haven't figured out how to change that yet.

When my kids are arguing or complaining, I always make them say one thing they are grateful for at that moment. Expressing gratitude can change everything. So here it is....my gratitude turnaround for this exact moment. I'm thankful for this roller coaster that is my life because, even when I'm screaming and holding on for dear life, the view is pretty darn amazing. If I get to have someone next to me in the seat, or perhaps puking in front of me, well, I'll count myself even luckier because the journey is richer with others.

Thank you for listening tonight, friends. I do feel some happiness pouring in.

Lots of love and sweet hugs,

Heather

{One Perfect Gift}

2011-12-15T19:25:00.006-06:00

My hubby is a great guy. Unfortunately, he's a terrible gift giver. I only mention this because Christmas is coming and, against my better judgment, he's convinced me we should bring back the tradition of giving each other gifts. I'm pretty sure I'm going to regret this.

Last Saturday, I came home from running myself ragged looking for his perfect gift and he was sawing wood in our living room (yes, in our living room, but I don't have time to even touch on that emotional hot button). He has cut, sanded and bolted a medium-size box together with a lid that slides off the top. Inside is a fan, secured with wires from one of our kid's remote-controlled cars. He says it will be my one perfect gift this Christmas. All I can think about is why anyone would need a fan inside a closed box. It's ridiculous and exactly my husband.

I still remember the first Christmas gift he ever gave me. We had been dating six months and it was our first official gift exchange. I opened the box to the largest size jeans I had ever seen with BOSS written down the side of the leg and a matching bright yellow shiny top. It, too, carried the word BOSS across it. It left me speechless. I later asked if he would mind if I took it back to the store to exchange it for something more my style. He let me, reluctantly, and he still mentions to this day that I exchange all his great gifts.

Oh, I wish that were the case. I was not able to take back the large frog figurine that shot water out of it's mouth while croaking nor the 20 miniature cactuses planted in the heaviest pot ever known to man. I kept those, but each time I passed them in the house I asked myself the same silent question---does he know anything about me? How is it that we've been together 15 years and he seems utterly clueless about my tastes, interests and wants?

That's why, a few years ago, I suggested we just focus on gifts for the kids and forgo our personal exchange. In some ways, he seemed relieved. I always thought he was relieved, however, because he didn't have to brave the stores to find a last-minute gift for me. I'm starting to wonder if he felt relief because he no longer had to carry the burden of my major expectations. I didn't want an expensive gift, or a hard to find gift, or an off-the-wall gift, but I did expect something even more difficult from him. A perfect gift that said he knew the very essence of my soul. Somewhat selfish and certainly unattainable, huh?

Since I've come to that revelation this week, it's been a lot easier to look at all the parts of my unfinished Christmas box scattered across the kitchen table. Frustration at the loss of a $50 "perfect" gift has been replaced with love and understanding for the unselfish heart of the maker. It's a big ole' mess, but it's mine. He's a big ole' mess, but he's mine, too. While I'm still not sure what this fan in a box is going to turn out to be, maybe my hubby is finally right about this one. It will be my one perfect gift this Christmas.

{Attitude for Gratitude}

2011-11-26T20:22:00.006-06:00

I've had a lot of things on my mind lately. None of which have made it to my blog, or the small idea book, or even my one-line-a-day journal. In fact, I think the last one liner I wrote about my "exciting" life was back in mid-September. I suck at keeping up.

It has been an amazing Thanksgiving holiday though. Before the food frenzy even began, three people I love dearly asked me for recipes to serve their family and friends on Thanksgiving. That's a lot of trust. Plus, they all gave me rave reviews after the chowing was done, which tickled me pink. I love to feed my own family, but knowing the love was passed on is exciting and, in a crazy way, fulfilling.

I also skipped all Black Friday shopping yesterday for some outdoor time. When the weather is 65 degrees at the end of November, it's time to thank Mother Nature by soaking it up. The boys and I went on an outdoor hiking adventure in the 100-acres of woods around the grandparent's house. It was an adventure alright. I never got to be the leader, the dog jumped into the pond, there were some tears over a nasty thorn bush, and a random tick fell out of my underwear (alive and happy, I might add!) after we finally made it back to the house. It was a pretty good morning. Then to top it off, I got to discover a new hiking trail at Binder, all by myself during afternoon naps, with a great winding path and even better views. I truly believe the smell of cedar can heal almost anything.

So am I thankful? You bet. I'm most thankful for being able to slow down a bit and enjoy the really good stuff. My family. Nature. Great food. Friends. A good read. Snuggles on the couch. A warm home. Love. Plus all the great adventures I get to have along the way. I'm blessed. No, scratch that. I'm super blessed. And as frustrating as life becomes along the way or as frazzled as I may be in a moment, there are such big pockets of happiness tucked in between. I just have to embrace them. I hope you will, too.

{Autumn Bliss}

2011-10-17T20:04:00.008-05:00

In honor of the season finally changing today (not by the calendar, by the way, but by the first chill in the air), I tried a new autumn recipe tucked away in a dusty, old cookbook. It was simple, but delicious. While I may be the only one in my house that celebrates change with baked goods and giddiness, I'm sharing the recipe with all of you. You never know when you might need something delicious and new in your life. Happy autumn, friends!

Apple Crunch Muffins

courtesy of Celebrate Autumn Cookbook

1 1/2 cup sifted flour

1/2 cup sugar

2 tsp. baking powder

1/2 tsp. salt

1/2 tsp. cinnamon

1/4 cup shortening

1 egg, slightly beaten

1/2 cup milk

1 cup Granny Smith apples, diced

Topping: 1/4 cup brown sugar, 1/4 cup chopped walnuts, and 1/2 tsp. cinnamon (mix together)

Sift flour, sugar, baking powder, salt and cinnamon in mixing bowl. Cut in shortening until fine crumbs form. Combine milk and egg. Add to dry ingredients along with apples. Stir just to moisten. Spoon batter into muffin cups, filling 2/3 full. Spring with brown sugar topping. Bake at 375 degrees for 25 minutes, or until golden brown. Makes 12.

My Music Manifesto

2011-09-19T21:13:00.007-05:00

I'm crazy for music. I'm all over the place in musical interests, too, which is why my ipod playlists are a big, hot mess. 1930's big band jazz. Love it. Eminem. I've got a thing for him, too. Bluegrass. Yes, please. Black Eyed Peas. Well, a girl does have to dance.

I do have a favorite. I don't want to offend other genres of music, but I love the acoustic singer-songwriter best. Piano or guitar, I don't really care, just bring me those touching lyrics and one strong voice to deliver the message. I'm in. Every.....single......time. I even scour NPR's World Cafe, or search itunes for long amounts of time, to find the next great song that sings to my soul. I download it, and then listen to it to over and over and over until it sinks right into the fiber of my being.

My husband calls this crazy. I just call it good music. It changes the mood of my life, simply by turning it on and turning it up, and I embrace it whole heartily. I can't imagine a world without music. For all you kindred spirits out there, I'm posting my last few downloads that I'm digging right now. I hope you will give them a listen. Even better, how about dropping me a line about what's moving your soul in music these days? I would love take a listen.

1. "Turning Tables" by Adele

2. "The Way It Will Be" by Gillian Welch

3. "Like Rock and Roll and Radio" by Ray LaMontagne

4. "My Girl Tonight" by Jon McLaughlin

5. "Room with a View" by Tina Dico

6. "Manifesto No. 1" by Shooter Jennings (careful now!)

7. "Hey Little Mama" by Frazey Ford

8. "Good Biscuits" by Memphis Minnie

9. "Where I Stood" by Missy Higgins

10. "Little Sparrow" by Audra Mae

German Flannel Sheets

2011-09-06T20:56:00.003-05:00

I'm no great shopper. Oh, I love a good deal, don't get me wrong, but the best stuff I own has come from gracious hand-me-downs from friends or family. You love my sweater? Probably one from my friends in KC. Admire my king size bed? Best friend, Jamie. Giddy over my vintage Archie juice glasses? My mom. It's all good stuff. Plus, it's free.

So, last winter, I surprised myself by ordering some semi-expensive, heavy duty German flannel sheets online that had more than 3,000 customer reviews. All good. All raving about these amazing sheets. I like flannel sheets, I really do, but I was pretty sure I was going to have an out-of-body experience once they sheets were snug on my bed. That's what people kept telling me, over and over again, in these reviews.

Friend to friend, these sheets are something else. Spectacular. It wasn't out of body exactly, but I did want to stay in bed for a good long while. In fact, I'm so in love (and please don't spread this around town) that I even kept them on during the summer. I know. Flannel sheets in the summer is crazy. They just feel so great on my skin.

I've written this whole long blog about sheets to get to my next point. My sheets have a hole in them. A small hole, but still......it's devastating. I stared at it for several minutes tonight as I was making the bed trying to decide what to do. Oh, sure, it's fine for now, but I imagine this hole will get bigger with every kid that jumps on the bed or every circle in my dryer. Could it be that I may have to give these beloved sheets away for free some day?

To ensure another warm bed through fall and winter in my 100-year-old home, I acted fast this evening and ordered another set online. Different color, of course, in case the hubby inquires about the necessity of more, huh, flannel sheets. I'm starting to feel better already. In 5-7 days, or whenever they finally arrive on my doorstep, the world will be right again. Fall can officially begin.

Dreadlocks and Dreams

2011-08-22T20:56:00.009-05:00

I would like to write a novel. There. I finally said it out loud. I even wrote it in my blog, so all my 27 followers will know my biggest dream. I would like to be a published author.

Oh, but there's more. I secretly hope this labor-of-love novel will get published. Hundreds, if not thousands, will buy it. I would then be asked to go on a book tour to spend time in quaint bookstores across the country. Coffee charged and a little road weary, I would sign every book with my name and an encouraging word. God bless. Keep reading. Don't give up on your dreams. Thanks for all the love in Wichita!

Here's the crazy thing about big dreams, my friend. You actually have to take a step and begin. It can be small, even microscopic, but it does need to be in the general direction. Just thinking it, dreaming it, hoping for it, over and over in your mind doesn't get you any closer. Believe me, I know. It helps to immerse yourself in inspiration or become disciplined in your plan of action. I've not been good with either of those things, which is why I am here instead of there.

My last writing inspiration came last April (way too long ago in the inspiration realm) when I went to see Anne Lamott in Kansas City. She was amazing. She's been a writer for more than 20 years and published countless novels. But writing is still tough work for her, every word, every chapter. Her writing advice: "Always have a pen and write what you would like to come upon." Such sweet inspiration to be in her presence for an hour.

You can bet I took myself to the front of the stage that night to have her sign my book. She signed her name with a heart at the end. I cozied up next to her for a quick picture (posted above), a memento of the evening but also a lasting reminder of my dream. Write more. Write often. Write it to completion. Then be brave enough to send it out into the world. You never know. With some hard work, it might be me one day, long dreadlocks, talking about my writing and signing my name. I can see it. Now it's time to do it.

The Gross Naked Truth

2011-08-16T21:09:00.004-05:00

At the dinner table tonight, my 4-year-old announces that I look gross naked. He then erupts into a fit of laughter. My husband doesn't laugh out loud, mainly because he values his life and this is the second time this subject has come up this week, but he does ask him to elaborate.

"Why does Mommy look gross naked?," my husband asks.

I lean in to hear the answer, too. I mean it's not everyday someone feels confident enough to comment on your body at the dinner table.

"The bumps on her stomach are super gross (pronounced GWOS)," he says.

"Belly button?" No. "Mosquito bites?" No. He then points to his nipples. I gasp at the table. He is talking about my boobs.

"Are you talking about my boobs," I shout. "They are NOT bumps, they're boobs, a lot bigger than bumps, and all girls have them!"

"Not little girls, they don't have them," he says confidently.

"No, but big girls have them and they're not gross," I confirm.

"What about sisters? Do sisters have them?" he asks, wide-eyed and, oh, so innocent.

"Is the sister younger or older?" I counter.

"Older sister."

"Yeah, an older sister probably has them," I say.

"My Mommy looks gross naked, my mommy looks gross naked," he chants between laughs, taking the conversation full circle.

"Enough about Mommy being gross naked," my husband finally says, intervening. "Finish your dinner!"

This is our conversation at the dinner table. This is my life. I am defending my body, and its grossness factor, to a 4-year-old (and not very well, I might add). It only affirms the obvious, folks. I have no idea what I'm doing as a parent. Not a clue. Even my explanations about the world and how it works, comes out a little skewed, which leads me to believe therapy in the future is a given.

On the bright side, I do show up every day as a parent (usually dressed, in case you're wondering for the story referenced above) ready to tackle the world for my boys. I might not be perfect, but I am present. There's got to be some good in that, right? I've also still got my sense of humor, which is a good thing, because, apparently, I look really gross naked. Hee. Hee.

Excuse Me

2011-08-10T21:19:00.006-05:00

It's been 51 days since my last blog post. I guess I could be grandiose and say that I gave up blogging for the summer to focus on a simpler life. I turned inner versus catering to the outer. I love that concept, really I do, but it's just not true. The truth is that I filled myself up with excuses this summer and didn't have time for anything else.

I stopped walking outdoors, which keeps me totally sane and physically healthy, because it was just too hot. I got behind on housework and laundry, too. No energy, you see. I also lost my patience completely right before July 4 and never got it back, but it's because I have boys and they're crazy. I've been swamped with work stuff, personal stuff and then a whole bag of "other" stuff. When you're life is this full, who has time to write and reflect?

Tonight, I walked for an hour at the Nature Center. While soaking up the beauty and putting my feet into action, it's like all those nonsensical excuses just poured out of my soul. The world came back into focus. It was quiet and quick, but it made me teary just the same. I also made a few resolutions, starting this evening, to ensure my summer of excuses doesn't turn into the story of my life.

1. Walk outside everyday. Nature heals many things.

2. Blog weekly. It doesn't have to be profound or lengthy, it just has to be real.

3. Snuggle with my kids more.

4. Cut out white sugar. It's crack that makes me fat.

5. Nurture the relationships around me.

6. Find a few moments of quiet time in my day to meditate, pray or reflect on what is real.

7. Laugh.

8. Lighten up. My life isn't a dress rehearsal, but it can still be a good time.

9. Stay hopeful.

10. Try one new adventure each month. Be open to asking others to join me.

I'm back, my friends. No more filling my belly and mind with excuses. We make our life what it is and I'm thankful for that. I've already got my alarm set to walk outside tomorrow morning. What will you be doing?

Strangers Now

2011-06-20T22:02:00.003-05:00

People are divorcing all around me. Close friends. Community folks. Complete strangers. All couples, once madly in love, now going their separate ways. I have this uncanny need to know every detail about their love story and subsequent break up, as if understanding these random pieces will help me predict my own marital future.

When did love leave and loathing arrive? Was it months or was it years? Was there a sign? Did she know he was married? Could you forgive him? Would you take those years of love back if you knew the ending? Are you scared?

I'm scared. That's why I ask all these crazy questions. I'm scared great love will turn into something hurtful and tragic. I'm scared there will be signs of growing apart, but I'll be too busy with my life to notice. I'm scared he'll leave and I'll be lonely, or he'll stay and we'll hate each other. I'm scared he'll have a change of heart. I'm scared I just might, too.

I was watching Storytellers the other night with songwriter Ray LaMontagne when he was talking about his marriage and how tough it was to stay connected. Even though he had been married to his wife forever, even childhood friends, he messed it up while on the road. He put it perfectly when he said, "I lost the plot of my life." He looked so sad and sincere and humbled by this revelation. He sang Like Rock & Roll and Radio. I cried the whole time.

How many of us have lost the plot of our lives? How many of us have lost sight of what is important? How do we forgive the humanness in others, which sometimes feels impossible, while also forgiving ourselves? How do we keep from becoming strangers?

Divorce reminds me of the messiness of love. We must rely on others to love us back and, sadly enough, that doesn't always happen like we'd like it to. No matter how many questions I ask, there's never going to be a perfect formula for doing it right. We just have to keep going and pray the hurt doesn't kill us along the way.

Sorting Out My Life

2011-06-08T22:50:00.007-05:00

My mom has been cleaning out her basement, which means she's been sending box after box of childhood mementos my way. She has saved every piece of artwork, certificate, pen pal letter, medal, grade card, poem or graded paper that I took home. It's a lot of stuff. For someone not into clutter, such as myself, it's pure torture to dig through.

If there is any good that comes from sorting junk, I have found some common themes emerge from my childhood. First, I loved things with my name on it. I have pencils, bags and notebooks with my name everywhere. Heather. Heather Boehmer. Heather Dawn Boehmer. I must have liked the way my name looked in print. Ironically, I still kind of feel that way. My secret wish is to see my name on the cover of book, hopefully with "national bestseller" right above it.

Secondly, I was a prolific writer. I wrote letters to friends in the summer, random pen pals, journal entries, notes to family members, poem after poem after poem (all terrible, by the way), and many short stories. The writing wasn't terrific, but I was amazed by the kind, encouraging words of my teachers. "Keep at it, you've got great potential," one wrote on my paper. They believed in me before I knew to believe in myself.

I also realized how much my mom relished every part of my journey. She kept every word, every picture, every award. She was so proud of me. While I've written often of the struggle growing up with single, teenage mother, I'm not sure I've accurately conveyed what an amazing woman my mother is. She is humble, funny and kind. She has never, not even for one small second, given up on me, though my actions would have tested the most patient soul. I guess I'm thankful she's let me sort out my life at my own pace.

At the bottom of the last box I went through tonight, I found a poem I had written in the ninth grade with a green honorable mention ribbon stapled to it. I don't remember the poem or the ribbon, but it reminded me of the dreamer I used to be. Still am, I guess, in many ways. Here's hoping we can all grow into something special and keep working on the big dream. If it's super unrealistic, well, then I think you're definitely headed in the right direction.

Lament for the Non-Dreamers

by Heather Boehmer, 9th grade

They never seem to look beyond today

or wish for anything unrealistic.

A second of their time is not wasted

on such foolish measures

as daydreaming a tomorrow.

Their lives are synchronized into patterns,

which are colored black and white.

Their eyes are closed to all the magic and beauty

that is soundly sleeping behind the closed doors of their imagination.

The Cicada Cycle

2011-05-23T20:53:00.004-05:00

I'm not a bug person. Too many legs and really weird eyes. You would think with two sons, often giddy about anything squirmy and squishy, and then a mountain man for a husband, that I would have some affection for these living creatures. Not so much. I think it boils down to their lack of respect for my personal space. They're everywhere and I think it's rude.

I read last week that the cicadas (often referred to as locusts) will be coming out of the ground by the thousands this week. They've been underground for 13 years and are finally emerging for a few short weeks. Magicicada is the species here. As far as I can tell, their short life above ground is dedicated to singing loud love songs, mating and then more mating, and finally the laying of a gazillion eggs by the female. Death follows closely after for all the adults. The eggs hatch, fall to the summer grass and bury themselves underground for another decade or so.

I'm not sure why I'm fascinated by the cicada story. You would think thousands of bugs emerging from the ground would be enough to freak me out. It's the cycle of the cicadas, however, that draws me in. When this group of babies first crawled underground, I had moved away from Jefferson City for the first time and was soaking up the college experience. I loved every minute of it. Since then, I've married, worked some tough jobs, lived in a big city and moved back home, given birth to two children, grown older and hopefully a little wiser. What will the next 13 years bring, I wonder?

My boys were gathering cicadas this evening. Glee and merriment abounded. Cicadas, cicadas! I even watched as one baby emerged from it's hard shell, all white and wet, to spread it's wings. It was a beautiful site even with the red, beady eyes. Any mother would have been proud. It also hit home how precious life is on this earth. We may have a few weeks, or 13 more years, or a lifetime, if we are really lucky, but unfortunately we have no control over the time clock. We are just a part of the cycle, like it or not. We must keep emerging, my friends, despite the struggle. Like the cicada, I will try to do the same.

Slow Ride, Take It Easy

2011-04-26T19:53:00.004-05:00

I have the pleasure of working for an organization that puts great value on its faith-based mission. So much, in fact, that they provide an inspirational, motivational, keep your head up, you can live a great life, hug-and-heart fest once a year for all employees. It's usually pretty good stuff. Unfortunately, it was scheduled for today and I just wasn't in the mood to give up four hours in my crazy, overloaded work day. But I went. Begrudgingly.

We started off talking about our character strengths. That was alright. I found out I'm curious about the world, humorous and playful, and full of gratitude. My co-workers also thought I was spiritual, full of love and genuine. While I tried really hard to be reflective and soak in these super kind words, I just wasn't engaged. I'll confess I checked my phone several times, drank three cups of coffee and took two "unofficial" breaks in the first hour alone. I was an animal circling a cage.

When the speaker got to his top 10 strategies for developing personal resilience, his words and great personal stories started to sink in. I closed my eyes, inhaled deep breaths, and let the sun shine on my face to cultivate more gratitude. I laughed out loud at a comedy skit on the evolution of dance to help us identify our plethora of options in the world. But it was the number six tip that hit home and went deep.

#6: Slow things down with some regularity. He quoted an author saying, "What if you missed your life like a person misses a train?" There was a whole room full of people, but it was like he was talking only to me. I mean look at how I had treated this day already, which is the same, sadly enough, as every other day. I am in a race to get things done. Instead of slowing down and focusing on one thing, my mind is racing toward the 46 things that need to be done by the end of the day. I like achieving, I do. I'm just starting to regret what I might be missing.

For example, my 6-year-old becomes a chatterbox when we get in the car. He talks my ear off. He also remembers every conversation and promise I've ever made. I often mumble back to him, half-listening and half-heartily, that it slipped my mind or I forgot about that story. "Well, of course, you forgot," he said to me one day. "You gave half your brain to me when I was born and then my brother got the other half. You have none left, so that's why you always forget stuff."

This is where the tears came in today. I'm not forgetful, my friends. I'm just not paying real close attention. I'm missing beautiful parts of my life because I don't slow down to enjoy it. That's hard to admit. It's even harder to change. The speaker gave a great suggestion when he said, before you enter a room, touch the door knob and say, "be here now." Be present. Be open. Be here now. I really love that.

I imagine that if I don't get everything done in day, no one will care all that much. People in my life might not even notice (because they're super busy, too), but a big transformation is taking place within me. I'm going to start slowing down and enjoy my life a little more. I don't have to juggle the whole wide world. This isn't the circus. It's my life. I'm thinking I better make it count.

Lighting the Fire

2011-04-10T19:18:00.003-05:00

For a few hours this afternoon, I had time to myself with no kids running around the house. Did I clean? No. Did I cook? Not even close. Did I do laundry? Kind of, as in I folded a very small basket of wrinkled clothes that had been sitting there for a week while watching the movie Julie & Julia.

I love this movie. First of all, you cannot say enough wonderful things about Meryl Streep playing Julia Child. She nailed it, absolutely nailed it. I'm just sad she didn't receive an Oscar for her stellar effort. As a writer (or an aspiring writer or someone who loves to write), I find myself inspired by this movie. Julie Powell, the writer, finds her niche, her love, and though she questions it every day, she plows ahead and doesn't look back. I admire that kind of bravado.

It also makes me want to write more. Sure, I blog once or twice a month, but that's only if all the stars align above my house on Oak Street. Julie Powell blogged every day for 365 days PLUS cooked over 500 French recipes. Did I also mention she worked another full-time job? Then, she got a book deal and that followed with a movie deal.

I want that for myself, friends. Not the cooking part, but the fire in my belly to do more of what I love. Write, write, write. Every day. Even, and maybe this is what stops me, when I feel like I have nothing to say that someone would like to read. If I'm honest with myself, being a mom, wife and full-time marketer doesn't stop my dreams. I do. It's because I'm afraid. I'm afraid I'll plow forward with all the bravado in me and fail. Miserably.

I'm sure Julia and Julie would say not chasing your dream is the biggest failure of all. It took Julia over a decade to get her cookbook published and Julie was in her 30's before she even starting blogging about cooking. I'm still relatively young, I guess, and fairly passionate. I just need to light the fire. Any suggestions on doing that?

Iris Isaacson

2011-04-06T20:57:00.007-05:00

Last Sunday, I participated in a poverty simulation at a local church. I had no idea what it was, of course, but a friend sent an invitation my way. This person has a heart for people suffering, including in our community and around the world, and I often wonder if I will feel the call (like she obviously does) to help people. I was curious, I guess. So I went.

From the moment I entered the gym, I was assigned an identity and role to play. I am Iris Isaacson, age 19, a high school dropout without a job or any job prospects. I have a one-year-old son and live with my boyfriend, who is 25 and, thankfully, employed. He is not my child's father but he does have a child of his own. We have one car that breaks down often. Our rent, utilities and food add up to more than we bring in each month.

Every 15 minutes is one week in our lives. We must circle around the gym and stand in long lines to get to work, the bank, the grocery store, the quick cash, social services, and the utility company. It takes one transportation ticket to get from place to place, including back home. It is a totally different world than I live in. Banks and quick cash places take money off the top to cash your checks. By the time you get to a place to pay your bill or get to the front of the line, it closes. Police offers take you to jail for loitering too long outside a place. You must choose between a week of food or taking your child to the doctor.

How did I do in four weeks as Iris Isaacson? Not very well, I'm afraid. I lost the rental trailer. I got our utilities turned back on finally, but I was still in the hole with the utility company. I did not make it to the required training to keep my unemployment benefits, so those will be taken away next month. I begged a transportation ticket from the neighbor family using a fake story about my sick kid. I also considered an offer to go home with a gentlemen in the bank line who would "treat me right" and got a monthly stipend from the government. I pawned my watch and all the furniture to make ends meet, which was small potatoes, because I was so desperate I probably would have sold my soul.

When I became Heather Feeler again, I had to report out how I felt about the whole exercise. I felt sad. I felt confused. I felt terribly unworthy to be living my carefree life where I whip in and out of restaurants and stores with my full tank of gas. My glass is always full. My stomach, too. For the first time, I felt how the cycle of poverty keeps spinning around and how hard it is to pull yourself out. I also found that my middle-class values, plus my quick judgments of right and wrong, don't always apply when it comes to survival. We do what we must to survive.

It's not easy to see the world differently, I'm discovering. It doesn't feel so good when you can't fix what's broken, or even see how you can do enough to matter. While I have no answers, just a discontented heart right now, I'm going to start by giving others my greatest respect, understanding and kindness. You never know their journey. It could be Iris, who is really me and then I am her. As it turns out, we are all the same.

For Book Lovers Only

2011-02-17T19:31:00.004-06:00

I love a good story. On my worst days, or even semi-bad days, you can find me in the library or bookstore greedily looking for a story to devour. Happy or sad. Real life or make believe. Romance or tragedy. If you write it well enough, I will probably read it.

On rare occasions though, I come across a book that when I close the last page I think, "Dang, I wish I would have wrote that." Here are a few books I wish I could claim for my own.

1. House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros

2. Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd

3. Finn by Jon Clinch

4. At Home in the World by Joyce Maynard

5. The Guernsey Literary Potato Peel Society by Mary Ann Shaffer & Annie Barrows

6. The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison

7. Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller

8. The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin

9. Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day by Zoe Francois and Mark Luinenburg

10. The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

The best part about a good story? You get to tell others, so they can experience it for themselves. If you haven't read the books above, or baked bread from the number nine recommendation, add them to your list. I'm also ready for your recommendations, my friends. Go ahead. Give 'em to me.

Snow Day

2011-01-31T19:50:00.007-06:00

It's been awhile since I've written, but it's not because I don't love you. It's just that my life has been, well, so hectic lately. I thought maybe the new year would bring a slower pace, but I haven't been active in weeding out anything in my life. In fact, I've added a few more things, including turning another year older.

With the impending storm of the century, I left work early this afternoon to pick up kids and get home safely before the roads got rough. The boys and I snuggled on the couch, munched Boy Scout popcorn and watched Karate Kid. We had a tickle war, did some kung fu fighting, and then had a dance off during the credits of the movie. It was one stellar afternoon.

School had already been cancelled for tomorrow. If we get enough snow, work might be cancelled for me, too. The giddy feeling in my heart has suddenly returned like I'm a kid again and about to dust off the snow boots and sled. There is no plan for the day, no place to be at a certain time, just the idea of a grand adventure. The kids get all of me, whole and happy, and I get to take back a few hours of my life. There is so much good in that.

So if I see you on the snow sledding hill tomorrow, you'll know it's me by the hysterical laughter and contagious joy of an unexpected slow down day. Last one down the hill is a rotten egg. COWABUNGA, dude!

Letter to My Sons

2011-01-09T16:23:00.005-06:00

Dear Cooper and Tuck:

When I was younger, I used to be a great letter writer. Well, maybe not great, but certainly ambitious. I wrote page after page of the boring details of my life and sealed it with wax, wafer seals or spit. I also immersed myself in the words of prolific letter writers. The weirder, the better, too, which is why JD Salinger always topped my list. While I have a drawer full of beautiful stationery, it's been a while since I've put pen to paper. That saddens me, but I hope this letter to both of you will still be meaningful and lasting.

At this very moment, the two of you are wrestling with each other downstairs, all giggly, fierce and super loud. You are six and almost four years old, respectively. You are my greatest gift and also my scariest adventure. For almost everything in this life (your driver's license, going to college, job certifications), there is a test to ensure you are ready. Parenting, unfortunately, is not one of those things. You just figure it out as you go. I'm pretty sure there is a HUGE margin for error here, but then again I'm no mathematician.

Here are some things I am screwing up everyday as your mom. I'm impatient. I am prone to worrying. I run around the house like a chicken with my head cut off, screaming instructions to you from room to room. I hate cleaning and cooking, but always manage to bake you something to clog your little arteries. I'm competitive. I have really high expectations of myself and others around me. I come from a family of semi-crazy women, which means I'll end up crazy. I've also not mastered the graceful art of forgiveness yet. Oh, I try, but it's meager.

Having said all that, I hope there are a few good qualities you will note about me. I love to laugh. I'm loyal. I am so loving that sometimes I suffocate you. I celebrate differences and hope you will grow up to be a bright color in a sea of sameness. I'm good with adventure, spontaneity, and trying anything once (yes, I jumped out of an airplane, but that is how I finally knew it wasn't for me). I like people and their stories. I also believe learning can come from living in the real world just as easily as it comes from a book. I can dance like the dickens.

I guess I just hope you know how much I love you. If I mess up, and I have and I will continue, it wasn't because of anything you did, it was because I'm human. Nothing in this world can prepare for you for molding individuals into something that will matter. It's hard work and with the lack of any training manual, or big ole' test, I'm just faking it. It could end up bad, but then again it could be a really great adventure that we're on together.

In the interim, I'm saving money for your future. You can use it for college, or traveling, or finding yourself should you get lost along the way. I love you to the next galaxy and beyond. Please don't forget to write to your mom when you get to where you're going. I really would love to hear about all your crazy adventures, if you're stilling talking to me or have time.

Big hug and loud sloppy kisses,

Mom

A Christmas Cleansing

2010-12-14T21:29:00.003-06:00

I ordered a colon cleansing kit for myself for Christmas. It is being shipped and should arrive in two to eight days. I am so giddy. While this may seem like a weird gift, I cannot think of a more loving gift than cleaning out years, or even decades, of crap. Literally, crap and then some other random things that I shutter to think of, if the testimonials on the website are accurate.

How does a colon cleansing rise to the top of one's Christmas list? Word of mouth, of course. A friend and I were talking about how long meat takes to get through your system, which then led to talk of cleansing and colon kits and the best products on the market and then, of course, all the people willing to put their riveting poop testimonials on a website. It is fascinating stuff, including the thought of all the yucky stuff loitering in the inside of my colon. You can see why this cleansing kit was a must have for the holidays.

This obsession with colon cleansing then got me thinking about how amazing it would be if we had a cleansing kit for all the other stuff we carry around inside us. What if we could clean out all the emotional baggage, anger, frustration, lack of forgiveness, hatred, anxiety and other fretful things buried deep? I mean these are things that have taken years to build up, just like the crap in our colon, and they clog our hearts and our minds, even if we don't want to acknowledge their presence on a daily basis.

I'm not sure how much crap will be expelled from my colon, but surely it can't be as much as all the toxic stuff that would come out if I let go of my emotional baggage. I worry about what others expect of me and then, even better, I have totally unrealistic expectations of others, especially those I love most. I will forgive you, but before that happens I will need to build a huge wall around myself. You'll be on the other side of the wall, of course, which is why we won't be able to communicate. This is the ugly part of me. It's the yucky stuff loitering in the hallows of my (mostly loving) heart.

It would be nice if their was an emotional baggage cleansing kit. We could order it on the Internet and then read all the testimonials about how people were kinder, more loving, after taking it. It would also be fun to read about their shock of what finally came out during their cleansing. I bet they would feel lighter. I bet we all would. And no matter what the cost, I bet it would be worth it to be rid of all those bad feelings holding us back from our full potential.

This Christmas, I'm going to be working on a full cleanse---one of the colon and one of the heart. I hope I'm going to be surprised by all the stuff that pours out and then I'm going to try to fill it up with better things. I absolutely cannot wait for the cleansing to begin. I'll be sure to post my testimonial after the holidays for those interested. Don't check back if you are faint of heart.

Quirky Me

2010-11-16T19:23:00.006-06:00

People are nuts. Okay, let's be honest. They are just plain crazy. And while I don't understand why people do what they do, this is exactly why I love them---the uniqueness factor. These quirks, or personality hiccups, if you will, are defined by some bend in their story, something that has left an impression sharp and deep, even if they don't recognize it.

I'm sure people would tell you I have a lot of strange quirks. They pop up frequently in my day. However, the most notable quirk revolves around my refrigerator. I cannot stand to see it empty, or even half empty, or even 98% empty. It must full and colorful and happy ALL THE TIME.

If the food supply begins to dip below the completely full mark, I panic. I rush to grocery store as if my family is starving to "stock up" on what we might need. I go down each aisle in the grocery store (in a giddy, disturbing fashion) and look at all food items I might need to take home. I don't buy them all, of course, but I think about it. When I get home, I line up all the items in my refrigerator in spectacular order, if I do say so myself, then bask in the bright light of the open fridge door. I close it. Then I open it one more time for the last blissful peak. It's beautiful.

This fridge fetish certainly comes from my childhood. Our fridge was never completely empty, but it was never really full either. We were always missing something. When I would call my mom to say I poured the last bowl of cereal and we have not one drip of milk left in the whole darn place, she would get miffed that I called during work for this non-issue. "Just use water," she would snip. "Problem solved."

Water on cereal. Are you kidding me? It was the same for everything I wanted to make. No eggs for cookie dough? It will taste the same without them. No bread for sandwiches? Eat the peanut butter on a spoon. No lunch meat left? Slap on another slice of cheese. It seemed like we were always missing something in that fridge. So, when I got a fridge of my own and paid the grocery bill, I marched firmly to the other end of the spectrum and obsessively filled it. I call it kind of quirky. I'm sure my husband would call it something else entirely.

The whole reason I even started thinking about my fridge obsession was because of poetry. I was trying to find a poem to read out loud at the library when I came across this one by Julia Kasdorf.

When Our Women Go Crazy

When our women go crazy, they're scared there won't be

enough meat in the house. They keep asking

but how will we eat? Who will cook? Will there be enough?

Mother to daughter, it's always the same

questions. The sisters and aunts recognize the symptoms:

she thinks there's no food, same as Mommy

before they sent her away to that place,

and she thinks if she goes, the men will eat

whatever they find right out of the saucepans.

When our women are sane, they can tomatoes

and simmer big pots of soup for the freezer.

They are satisfied arranging spice tins

on cupboard shelves lined with clean paper.

They save all the leftovers under tight lids

and only throw them away when they're rotten.

Their refrigerators are always immaculate and full,

which is also the case when our women are crazy.

After reading this poem, it was like a light bulb came on. I am not alone in my craziness. We all have quirks that make people scratch their heads and wonder. It even makes us wonder. But somehow, I guess, it just feels good to know we are all riding this crazy train together in one bumpy caboose. Of course, I'll be bringing the cooler packed full with food, all color coded and packed perfectly, for the trip. You go ahead and do whatever you need to do, too.

Supper Cake

2010-10-31T13:44:00.003-05:00

I love to bake. This obsession with making sweet things started when I was 10 and I discovered I could read all the recipes in my mom's Betty Crocker cookbook. I would bake a recipe until I had it perfected. This may sound super sweet on the surface, but it often became an exhausting endeavor of perfection. I made Mrs. Crocker's russian tea cake recipe over 50 times one summer until every ball was the same size, each coated with the same amount of powdered sugar.

That same summer, my grandma got sick with cancer. The worse I felt about her illness (the surgeries, the hospital rooms, her hair falling out), the more I baked and baked and baked. It felt so good to take also those random ingredients that meant nothing by themselves, and measure and mix them into something that came out amazing. While my mom may have found this new-found hobby somewhat extreme, my grandma loved it. She began sharing every recipe she knew and I absorbed it with eagerness and love.

The one recipe I loved to make more than anything was her supper cake. It was a recipe they made a lot during the Depression because it took very few ingredients and only needed 20 minutes to bake, almost the exact time it took a farm family to finish a meal. You sprinkle the cake with cinnamon and sugar and then eat it warm with gusto. It only took me two tries (with my grandma watching, of course) to make it perfectly. After that, I was in total charge of supper cake.

I still make supper cake for my boys. When I pull out my grandma's recipe, the memories of us in her kitchen are so strong, I can almost feel her standing there as I mix it. It is a memory of joy, but also sadness. She lived only a year more after that summer. While her cake is delicious, it serves as a reminder to me of the importance of passing on the sweet things in life--to our families, our friends and even those who may only sit a few minutes in our kitchen.

Life is short. If we are only given 20 minutes, why not bake something wonderful and think about those we love?

Supper Cake

courtesy of Marie Haller Boehmer

3/4 cup sugar

1/4 cup shortening

1 egg, beaten

1 tsp. vanilla

1/2 cup milk

1 cup sifted flour

1 1/2 tsp. baking powder

1/4 tsp. salt

Topping: 1 TBS. butter, 3 TBS. sugar, 1 tsp. cinnamon

Combine sugar and shortening, mixing until fluffy. Add egg; beat well. Add vanilla and milk. Sift together flour, baking powder and salt, add to wet mixture, and beat smooth. Bake in greased 9-inch round pan, or 8-inch square pan, at 375 degrees for 20-25 minutes. Remove from oven. Immediately spread butter on top, then sift sugar-cinnamon mixture over top. Serve warm.

Raising Clark Kent

2010-10-25T21:36:00.010-05:00

It's official. I will not be getting the mother-of-the-year award this year. I knew I might be out of the running when my first grader failed his vision test with the school nurse last week, but I was still kind of hopeful, you know. All hopes went right out the window when he couldn't identify any of the letters on the screen at the eye doctor. I mean, seriously. What kind of mother doesn't know her child sees a fuzzy world?

Cooper and I picked out some eye glasses that same afternoon. I liked the wire-rimmed glasses, but he had his heart set on the thicker brown ones. He is such a little guy, so almost every pair looked sweet. When I said the brown ones made him look just like Clark Kent right before he turns into Superman, the deal was sealed. Cooper "Clark Kent" Feeler had his first pair of readers on order.

The first seed of doubt started to creep in when I relayed the story to my husband. He could not believe I let our son have the final say on glasses. A bad choice in glasses could be devastating, he said. Then he relayed his own personal tale of picking out blue-tinted lenses for his red-rimmed glasses in elementary school. He never did recover. I started to panic. Forget the guilt of your kid not seeing. The possibility of my kid being picked on raised my anxious mother meter to a whole new level.

Had I, like my husband claimed, been looking at him through warm mother's eyes versus the critical lenses of cruel kids on the playground? Would he be teased for not only wearing glasses, but for our choice of thicker rims that are common in every newsroom around the country? Is there no place for a unique "super hero" in this world?

Cooper wore his glasses for the first time tonight. Holy smokes, he said, everything looks so huge. He was giddy. I just kept staring at him all night because he looks so different. It's the same crooked smile and bright eyes alright, but the glasses change his whole look. I keep wondering what the kids will say tomorrow at school. Will his world dip down because of what he looks like instead of rising up because he can finally see the beauty in the world?

My hope is that his independence in choosing for himself will override the small hurts that will inevitably come his way. Life is not always kind, but it can still be good. I also pray he can survive a mother that is clueless about mothering, but still loves him unabashedly and unconditionally. There's no perfection in this mother. Isn't that right, Clark Kent?

Love Actually

2010-10-07T20:42:00.004-05:00

Christmas will be here soon. Okay, not real soon, but close enough that I am about to break out one of my favorite winter flicks--"Love Actually." I'm not a Hugh Grant fan. Let's just be clear on that fact. But there is something mesmerizing about his voice when he says, "Love actually is all around us." I like that. A lot.

When my life gets crazy and hectic (and this is all the time since I became a mom), I forget about all the wonderful things, big and little, around me. Love is to be had right here and right now. I spend so much time trying to dole it out in perfect spoonfuls that I forget to soak it in. I am, quite frankly, missing the freaking love boat.

In honor of Hugh Grant's voice and the warm feelings it evokes, I decided to write down a few things I actually love, or love actually. It's a work in progress, which works out great because guess what? So am I.

Heather's "Love Actually" List

1. Snuggling in bed with my boys (even with unexpected kicks and then giggles)

2. Warm puppy smell

3. Getting to walk a new trail that goes deep into the woods

4. Steamy romance novels

5. Alpaca socks

6. Sniffing permanent magic markers

7. Kneading bread dough

8. Eating homemade chocolate chip cookies

9. Kissing my hubby

10. Reading good writing, or writing some good reading

11. Quality time with those I love

12. Learning someone's story

13. Eliminating clutter

14. Dancing in the car with all the windows down

15. Buying school or office supplies

16. A hot shower

17. Sharing a meal with family and friends

18. Big bear hugs

19. A random act of kindness

20. Sending handwritten letters in the mail

I could on for a long time, I imagine, but I think there is power in just honoring a few things at a time. It would be even better to make a list each day. Different day, different list, but all things that bring happiness to a life. What's on your "Love Actually" list? Well, besides me, of course.

Sharing the Struggle

2010-09-21T21:38:00.006-05:00

Work has been particularly grueling lately. I mean, it always moves at a fast pace, which suits me just fine, but in the last few weeks I feel like I'm hanging from the back of a bumper, white knuckled, driving way too fast down the freeway. One minute I'm screaming from sheer excitement. The next, I'm trying to keep the bugs from choking me along the way. It's a multi-tasking world, I know. But it is simply exhausting.

This is why I almost didn't go to a conference today. I was overwhelmed with the work in front of me. Although I really wanted to hear the lunch speaker, who I heard had a great story, it was my friend, Dulce, the conference organizer, that sealed the deal. I made a promise to be her helper during lunch. Did I mention that Dulce is a kind, giving soul, who radiates light and love? It's hard to let someone like that down no matter what kind of stress you're under.

Gracia Burnham, the speaker, had quite the story to tell. She and her pilot husband were Kansas-natives, who had been missionaries in the Philippines, when they were captured in 2001 by an Islamic group. For over a year, a whole year, Gracia and her husband were hostages and forced to witness unspeakable horrors in the jungle. Before being rescued, she was shot in the leg and her husband in the chest during a gun battle. He died in the jungle exactly one year and 11 days from when they were first taken. Gracia returned to her three children in Kansas.

She talked about all the prayers from back home that lifted them up in that year in the jungle. She talked about her captives, many young boys, and where they are today (a few even write her from prison). And Gracia spoke with great wisdom on forgiveness and God's power, but the tears came down in earnest for me when she reflected on why God chooses one path for one person and then quite another for the next.

"The strong one [Martin] died and the weak one [me] got to come home and tell the story, to carry on the mission," she said. Really hard to understand.

I don't understand much about life, but I know I was supposed to be in that room today. I needed to hear her story, her life-changing message. When I was given the job to pass out her book at the book-signing table, so she could stand up and hug people and write a message of hope on the inside page, I felt something shift inside me. It got filled suddenly with something better, though most days, the Lord knows, I feel so unworthy.

"God bless you, Heather," she writes on my page. No words come out, so I just hug her tight. It's not enough, I know, but I make a mental promise to pay it forward. Life is too short and precious to do otherwise.

Praying Mantis Club

2010-09-07T19:09:00.006-05:00

I was in St. Louis this weekend for the wedding of my dear friend, Mary. She is one of the five founding members of the PMC, or Praying Mantis Club (pictured left, though Mary is absent because she's greeting her wedding guests). It's a group of girls that would get together every month, once upon a time when we all lived in Kansas City, and try a new adventure each time we gathered. Our only common thread at the beginning? Me.

It was a tentative gathering at first, as we tried to figure out our role in this group as only women do. We picked apples in Weston. We ate at new restaurants. We tried yoga in a room heated to over 100 degrees and, even though Rhonda passed out, the rest of us held our poses perfectly. We drank too much wine. We laughed really loud in public places. No ones asked us to leave, but they probably should have. We did pottery. We perfected our self-defense moves. We even made predictions on where we would end up in five or 10 years.

In the fun of it all, we gave ourselves a name, Praying Mantis Club. This came from our merriment (dark and sinister as it may be) at the role of the male praying mantis in the sex act. In order to even have sex, the female must first bite off his head and then he dies. For sex. Only a male of any species would die for sex, but only a female would bite off his head and then proceed to get it on with a headless male. Relationships are complex. We all agree on that.

All of us made it this weekend to Mary's wedding. It was a reunion of the sweetest, and even bitter sweetest, kind. I really miss my friends. These are unique women that grow stronger every year, but unfortunately it's without me being near. I'm not there for every story, or heartache, or miracle. I'm the faraway friend. Because I love these friends so much, I've even managed to block myself off from some new friendships where I live now. That may be the saddest part of the equation, I think.

Friendship is an amazing and complex thing. It's hard to understand why some groups work and others just fizzle away. Thank you, PMC, for all the memories and love. I was reminded how much I love you this weekend. It's time to move on. I know you'll understand.

Detoxifying Your Life

2010-08-24T21:02:00.005-05:00

I heard the other day on the radio that one of the best things you can do for your body is to drink hot water with lemon every morning. It's nature's best detoxifier. Your liver will love you, absolutely love you, after only a few short days of this hot lemonade tonic. Sounds simple, right? Then again, this is me we are talking about.

I agonized for days on whether I should buy fresh lemons or the juice in that plastic yellow lemon bottle. Fresh lemons are best, I know, but they always seem to slide to the back of our fridge and shrivel up. I can't tell you how many 99-cent lemons I've wasted in my lifetime (you might hate me if I even try to give you an estimate). Then when I called my husband in the middle of the day to ask his opinion on the lemon saga, he was kind of rude. To me. About lemons.

I buy the fresh lemons (in a huff!). The radio guy says to drink it first thing in the morning because this is what your liver really likes, so I make a mental note to make this the first step in my day. Get up, stretch, then quietly drink your detoxifier. If I lived in a normal house, this might be doable, but my house is a circus, complete with two baby cubs and a dog that always need my attention. I'm lucky if manage to get a hot cup of coffee before mid-morning.

It's been three weeks. No morning detoxifier. Tonight, however, I am turning things around and trying my first hot water with fresh lemon (well, a three-week old and slightly wrinkled lemon) while I write this. Kids and hubby are in bed and, unfortunately, the dog is licking himself with unrelenting determination next to my chair. It's a sound that drives me crazy. The drink, thank goodness, tastes just fine.

I wonder if we can really detoxify our body and our lives with one single step. Is it as easy as squeezing fresh lemons in hot water and chugging it down? I think our lives are moving at such a warp speed that we will cling to any solution that might claim to help us, or save us, or simplify us. We are willing to let random people on the radio direct our lives in rush hour instead of slowing down to reflect on how our lives got here, hectic and perhaps a little hairy.

Perhaps the true detox comes when we accept our major role in making our lives what they are (because we do, after all, fill it up) and then, miraculously, choosing to embrace it or change it. We each have the power to do both though we often choose to do neither. And for those, like me, who are comfortable with worry and constant fatigue, might I suggest starting slow with some quiet time, or semi-quiet time if you have a dog, to enjoy a nice steaming cup of lemon water. It's a start and your liver will absolutely love you.

The Master Plan

2010-07-27T20:45:00.004-05:00

The Lord has a plan for my life. I know this to be true. What I don't know, may never know, is why all the filler happens in between. I mean I'm completely good with all the joyful stuff. Bring on the warm puppy smell and loud kid giggles. Sunrise and sunset? Count me in every time. I even find value in the people I meet along the way.

It's the other stuff I'm talking about. The kind of things that bring you to your knees or, worse yet, leave you laying there in a fetal position. Helpless. Afraid. It's the hurt and sadness and despair, all rolled into one. It's the uglier part of life.

While I have plenty of downward dips in my life, it is nothing compared to what my friend, Heather, is going through right now. For 35 days, she has been trying to be boring. Doing nothing, literally nothing, in a hospital bed because she's been trying to hold her baby inside her womb. He has had a myriad of health problems, including the risk of kidney failure when born. If he is not born at more than four pounds, he will not be given the gift of dialysis.

He was born yesterday. Over five pounds (thank you, Lord!), but still several weeks premature. His name is Jacob. He is a sweet, beautiful baby. Jacob also is in kidney failure, has an infected colon outside of his body, and faces other life-threatening issues. He has had two surgeries in his short life. News is not even day by day anymore. It is hour by hour. My friend is one of the strongest women I know, but this is one of those wear-you-down-in-the-worst-kind-of-way obstacles.

In all the Lord's infinite wisdom, I wish there was a way to carry the burden for others, to take part of their struggle, strap it to our own back, and carry it away. I would do this for her. I love her that much. Unfortunately, this isn't how life works. We can only lift up our prayers on their behalf, not take away the really tough part of the journey. Perhaps it is the Lord's plan that we must be broken before we can be built back up again. He gives us each other so we can survive.

Howling at the Moon

2010-07-15T20:11:00.004-05:00

I'm an Aquarius. A water baby, if you will. And although I rarely read my horoscope, I believe there is something to be said for how the stars were aligning the day you were born. I once read Aquarius women are eccentric, loyal (but usually with only a select few), and willing to try anything once. Sounds sexy, doesn't it? Well, it's not.

I am eccentric. Except you're only eccentric when you're rich. I'm just weird. I have all these strong feelings about random stuff, like not wearing deodorant because it causes cancer or leaving only one hubcap on my car because all the others ones have vanished. The things I should care about? I don't. Sorting laundry by color, rising up the corporate ladder, finishing things I start. Meaningless endeavors in my world.

I'm also loyal to the bone. My loyalty goes so deep in fact that I only let one to two people really get to know me in my whole lifetime. My best friend, Jamie, is one. My husband is the other. While I love having lots of different friends and sharing stories with others, I rarely tell them my darkest, deepest secrets. I don't think I'm terribly bad, but I don't think I'm terribly good either. I'm just hard to love. It's been safer along the way to be selective.

The last Aquarius trait I have in spades. I'm a risk taker. I am, quite literally, willing to try anything once. I have jumped out of an airplane. Eaten from the mouths of others to win a contest. Quit a job out of frustration. Tattooed my skin. Swam naked at night in the ocean during a jelly fish alert. All this stuff, silly and sometimes stupid, to be able to personally experience it. To say, I loved or I hated it, but I know for myself because I tried it.

I have a necklace that my Mom gave me for my birthday a few years back with a picture of the exact moon in the sky on the day and year I was born. It was a seven descending, waning moon. The note attached said, "Let this serve as a constant reminder to always look up. Is it your moon in the sky tonight?" If I was another astrological sign, it might be enough to calmly look up at the moon and meditate. Instead, I'm the crazy one running around her yard naked, covered in war paint, cursing the moon like a wild banshee. This is how it goes with Aquarius women. The only thing you know is that you never really know.

Edward vs. Jacob

2010-07-02T14:25:00.005-05:00

When I left the movie theater last night, I was once again smitten and bitten (not literally, of course, though it is very tempting) with the vampire world in Forks, Washington. This seems crazy to me because I'm not 12. I'm 32. Yet, here I was rushing to the movies, all giddy and restless to see how the love story would unfold on the big screen.

And it is a crazy love story. Vampires. Werewolves. A clumsy, yet stunningly beautiful, heroine. Two men, also heroically handsome, who love her with such a passion that it makes everything else so trivial. It is an all-consuming love. Hold on to it and burn, or let it go and fade away. Just like the characters, even though I sense danger in every scene, I cannot look away.

So, what keeps us coming back for more in this Edward versus Jacob saga? It might be that we enjoy a good love story, or perhaps it's our curiosity about the darker side. For me, and this may be true for many women, it's the burning hot chemistry. It's the way he looks at her, as if he wants to brand her his woman for eternity. "Brand me, brand me," I often feel like yelling.

As much as I love this escapism, I also worry about it. This is not real life. This is not even real love. For those more seasoned and cynical to the world (yes, this is me!), it's just two hours to escape from kids and housework, but for other impressionable young girls, it becomes the picture of perfect love. Everything else, even something honest and real, falls short. It makes me sad because life is hard enough. You don't need to be disillusioned about love, too.

Don't get me wrong here. I'm all for hot love. I encourage sniffing people because you can't live without their scent and imprinting on your life mate, even in the womb. I like hot kissing, but agree about waiting for marriage and losing your virginity until right after graduation. When my friend fell in love a few years back, she said she just wanted to eat him up, hair and all, because she loved him so much. Did I discourage that? No, ma'am. I'm no love hater.

The story in Forks can teach us many things, good and bad. It's been very well done, but it's also Hollywood and that makes it tragically flawed. It's really hard to remember all that, especially with Jacob sporting the hot, bronzed skin and beautiful, white teeth. For now, it's back to my real life until the next movie rolls around, though I am planning to buy some tight flannel shirts this fall. I love you, Edward. I'll see you soon.

Sweet Nothings in My Ear

2010-06-22T18:53:00.003-05:00

My husband is a talker. From the minute I arrive home, he's talking about some random part of his day, like the crazy lady that cut him off in traffic or this hysterical joke he heard on the radio. He is so passionate when he speaks, too, as if this is the only thing in the world he wants to be doing---talking to me.

Most of the time (and this will sound terrible, I know), I just tune him out. I'm busy getting chores started, or supper ready, or homework done. Kids are circling me like vultures. He plants himself next to me in the kitchen, or wherever I might be, and keeps going on and on with his stories. I occasionally hear something of interest and insert a thoughtful question that sends him into another half-hour monologue. Noise, and more noise, always in my ear.

My husband has now been gone for four days on a mission trip. There is no cell phone coverage where he is working, only heat and years of oppression. It's been the longest span we have ever gone without talking in our 14 year relationship. We have four more days to go. On the first evening, I was so giddy with the silence that I sat on the couch with no television, radio or computer to distract me. Only the candles buzzed slightly around me as I caught up on all my celebrity gossip. The change felt miraculous.

It's gone downhill since then. I miss my husband something fierce in almost a panicked kind of way, as if this stretch of silence is permanent instead of just a week in our lives. I never would have expected that I would miss his endless banter, or his dirty socks under the coffee table, or his looks of pure mischief before he goes chasing after our kids. I miss the noise. I miss his chaotic energy. I miss, sadly enough, the flawed man. He makes our house a home.

That's the really screwed up part about life, I think. No, correct that. That's the really screwed up part about people. We want we don't have, but then when we get it, IF we finally get it, we often want it to go back to the way it was. We hurt others, we even hurt ourselves, in search of something better. Turns out, it was pretty damn good right here.

Yes, I Do!

2010-06-10T19:22:00.004-05:00

When I got married 10 years ago, I had long curly hair, a college diploma with the ink barely dry, a whole plethora of life experiences (I thought!) in my back pocket. I was 22, but I felt 32. People constantly asked if I was ready to get married, being so young and all, and I remember thinking that they knew absolutely nothing about me. I was mature and energetic. I was ambitious, but kind. And above all us, I was loyal, through the good and the bad.

I had no flippin' idea. Marriage was actually work, really hard work at that. This person who wooed me and loved me and read poetry to me turned out to be the least romantic husband in the world. It's like the wedding package was all bright and shiny, but the marriage center was kind of gooey and tart. I already took a bite, so it was too late to return it to the store.

Today, it's been 10 years since we took our vows. I am 32, but I feel 42. I am still the wife to one, but now a mother to two. Life is so exhausting that I rarely think about the day I wore white and promised to love, honor and cherish. I hardly know the girl I was. I have, however, gained a few more life experiences, which is good because the jeans are a little bigger these days, too.

If I could give advice to a soon-to-be-bride, who, like me, is young and a tad foolish for the bright, shiny package of marriage, here is what I would say:

Nothing can prepare you for your new husband moving his stuff into your one bedroom apartment in trash bags then asking where he should hang his black light. Do not be afraid. It may take 10-15 years, but he may mature into something really amazing, especially with your love and acceptance. Then again, he may not.
There are five love languages. Know your own, but especially know your husbands. You are wasting your energy doing four other love languages when, really, all you need to focus in on is one--his. It helps to tape your love language to the bathroom mirror, so he reads what you need every morning of his life.
Nobody is perfect. If you can't forget, at least try to forgive. You may sacrifice more, hurt more, give more, love more than you ever imagined, but there are great rewards. The ironic part is that you might not always see those rewards. Keep working on it anyway.
In the first year of marriage, go through a Dave Ramsey Financial Peace class, so you the last thing you have to worry about is your finances. Also, please don't play the lottery. Being rich gets you in as much trouble as being poor. Aim for the middle, or a little higher, I say.
Never mention divorce in jest or in anger. I truly believe saying the word gives it power over your relationship. It's like a seed in the bottom of your heart. It may grow sprouts at the oddest time and push all the other good stuff right out of the way.
Lastly, be careful of all marriage advice from others, including the information above. Every person is different, so is every marriage. Cookie cutter advice only works well when making cookies, not when talking about relationships or people.

I can honestly say I love my husband more today than I did when we got married. He also drives me just as crazy. It's our anniversary and we made a wonderful family meal in the kitchen together with our kids, which just tugs on the heart strings, but now I've got to go clean up in the kitchen all by myself. He's on the couch, sprawled out, laughing hysterically at the TV.

This is my married life, the good and the bad. I do, I do, I do.

Smooth Like Butta

2010-05-16T19:29:00.003-05:00

I wasn't really sure what to expect when our 5-year-old son had his first choir recital at church this evening. He's been going to choir practice all year, but he doesn't talk much about it. He says they sing. He says they sometimes dance. It was good enough for me.

When we arrive, all the other kids are dressed in khakis and button ups, or dresses and bows. They look all shiny and perfect. Cooper has on his bright green shirt that says, "Smoother Than Butta," with a big ole' stick of butter plastered on the front, and one end is stuck in his jeans after his last bathroom break. His hair is going straight up. He gets up on those risers with the biggest smile I have ever seen.

All the parents in the room are beaming, too. They've got front row seats and big cameras to record every moment. We are seated in the back row because, well, we're those kind of parents. When the kids began to sing, I felt pure pride welling up inside me as Cooper sang every song with his whole heart. You could hear his voice above all the others. He also started every song early, hit his drum with a little too much gusto, and missed a few key moves.

My husband and I give him a thumbs up every time he looks our way. We also get laughing so hard that I have to cover my mouth to keep from snorting. It's the most entertaining performance I've ever seen. When I glance over at my husband, I notice that he's started to get emotional watching our son. He wipes a tear from his cheek before anyone sees.

It suddenly hits me. This is one of those moments. You know the kind where you look back and think I was so happy, right here and right now. It's such a random moment in time and, as usual, we were totally unprepared. Happiness comes anyway. God, I'm thankful for that.

Priscilla Knows Best

2010-05-09T20:47:00.004-05:00

All day today, I've been thinking about Priscilla Presley. I should have been thinking about Priscilla in the Bible, which is where the discussion started this morning, and what an amazing woman she was to open her heart and her door to all those in need. She was a woman, my friends, that had it all together.

But I don't give her a second thought. Instead, I immediately start thinking about the Priscilla of our time, the one waving to me on the steps of Graceland when she is still a girl. Her hair is witchy black, piled dangerously high on her head, and her eyes are painted dark. She takes pills to sleep and pills to wake, but that will be much later. Now, she is a girl in desperate love with a man. He loves her, in a fast lane, rock-and-roll kind of way, which might be enough, I think, if he had learned to love himself first.

When I was a child, I would watch the mini-series of Elvis and Priscilla over and over again. My mom could never understand my infatuation with their story. I couldn't really explain it either. She was so young, but knew in her heart that she wanted to be with him. She lived his crazy life to be near him and tried to be perfect, outside and in, so the world would love her, too. He loved her, I know he did, but he just had too much of everything (fame, talent, money, etc.) for everything to survive. It didn't. They didn't. And it was so sad to watch.

Priscilla is a woman that teaches us an important lesson. Love hurts us. It breaks us. It often makes us into people we cannot recognize in the mirror, hair all ugly and piled up high. No matter what we morph into on the outside, we still yearn for love and acceptance on the inside. It may kill us or keep us, but it will certainly define us.

Crossroads

2010-01-23T07:36:00.004-06:00

I've been feeling lost lately. I feel like I should be doing something different, something more, but I can't really figure out what it is. Could this be, like in one of those mythical novels, a crossroads in my life? Will my life completely change if I go left, or then suddenly decide to go right?

As of next Tuesday, I'll be 32 years old. This number doesn't really scare me since I've actually been telling people I'm 32 for the last full year. Apparently, I can't subtract correctly. On all the forms I've filled out, I've been 32. I feel 32, so it seems appropriate to be there for another year.

In all honesty, what scares me the most, is that I feel like I've been standing still for quite some time, going nowhere. It's not been a meditative stand still either. It's more of a growly, stamp your foot on the ground, howl at the moon, let's get this thing moving, Lord, if it's ever going to move, kind of stance. You can see why I'm still stuck. I'm impatient and, on my worse days, unkind.

The more I pray, the more confused I get. The more I ask people, the more lost I feel. And here I be, still standing in front of this crossroads, birthday crown in hand, shaking and afraid.

Mall Walkers

2009-12-18T20:49:00.003-06:00

I love to walk outside. Since mid-August, I've been trying to pound the pavement and trails to get my heart a little healthier and my mind a lot calmer. It's also helped shed the pounds, too, I might add. I feel really good.

But now winter has arrived. Cold temperatures. Ice and snow. Walking outside has taken on a whole new dimension. It's not pretty. In the absence of a gym membership, I've taken to walking at the Capital Mall in the evenings. It's not real pretty either.

Here are some observations from my last mall walk:

1. I'm the youngest mall walker by about 40 years, yet some walkers are still kicking my butt. This might be embarrassing if I had any pride left. I'm a mall walker now. I've got really thick skin and a gigantic, get-out-of-my-way stride.

2. I made eye contact with an old boyfriend (and his wife, I assume) that I haven't seen in more than 15 years. He was impeccably dressed with the same beautiful, blue eyes. Though we ended on a harmonious chord, we don't nod, wave, or talk. We just pass by.

3. Pregnant ladies in their final trimester like to be at the mall. They don't look happy nor do their men-folk holding their hands, or their purses, or (in some instances) their bellies.

4. Nobody buys anything from those kiosks in the middle of the mall. Those workers must be the most patient people in the universe. I would hurt myself after that many hours of people just passing me by. I would also hate Christmas music.

5. Kids are crazy. Parents aren't much better.

6. Couples really like to demonstrate their love and affection for each other while shopping. Holding hands is never enough. It's important to kiss and rub all over each other, so people know you are definitely not on the market.

7. The make-up counter ladies at Dillard's aren't real busy. I've never seen them putting makeup on anyone but themselves, or each other.

8. I miss Orange Julius.

9. When I round the corner by the Sears wing and a Kelly Clarkson song comes on, you can bet I jump around like a crazy person. I just noticed the camera this week. Crap.

10. After one hour of mall walking, despite all my eye rolling and complaining, the scenery isn't half bad. It's exercise. It's free. It's not much different than my 7th grade year when I would stroll around with my friends, just too cool for school.

I will be glad when the milder temperatures come back around or I reach my goal weight, whichever comes first, and then I can treat myself to a well-deserved gym membership. Perhaps I'll actually use it this time around since I've seen the dark side of exercise now. But, in the meantime, if you happen to be at the mall, keep your eye out for me. Don't be shy either. Start waving.

When It Rains, It Pours

2009-10-25T21:53:00.000-05:00

Over the last few years, I've acquired a few pounds. Two kids. Busy lifestyle. A sugar habit and no exercise. The list could go on and on, as all good "this really isn't my fault" lists do, but I'll spare you the details. Bottom line? I'm a chunk. And it is my fault.

So, for a few months, I've been trying to make some lifestyle changes. This includes trying to walk outside for an hour every day. Why outside? Well, I hate the gym. It's depressing. Part of it's the spandex, but mainly it's the sweaty bodies and ringworm residue on all the equipment. It's also pricey. I know this because I paid the YMCA for more than two years and never actually went.

This is why, earlier this evening, I found myself walking in the rain at the Nature Center. It started out as a drizzle and then went into an all out pour, but I was determined to get my walk in. I mean, if I can't even walk in some fall rain, what will I be like when there is snow on the ground?

After the first 10 minutes of being wet, I started to enjoy the wilderness during a good rain. All the animals were enjoying the rain, too. I saw six turkeys and eight deer, but no people. The deer refused to get off the trail, so I was re-routed twice, which may seem cute until you actually see them walking toward you for a quick pet. Everything smells different in the forest when it rains. I never knew that before.

Exercise just doesn't seem so mundane around all this beauty. It's almost as if nature is urging me to keep moving, so I can see what is around the next bend. So I go and I see. Even in the rain, when I'm soaked all the way through, it feels good to be a part of all this beauty. I'm a lucky girl. Fat and all.

School Pictures

2009-10-07T19:50:00.000-05:00

Cooper has his first official school picture tomorrow. I'm so excited! I've already completed the order form. Check. I've prepped him for his school picture experience. Check, check. I should have known that things were going a little too smoothly.

Jeff, my dear sweet hubby, was supposed to "trim" his hair before school pictures. This didn't happen, of course. Cooper's hair is flying up on the sides and back and front, just like mine used to do. It's messier than messy. He also managed to split his top lip on his dinner plate (I'm not sure how), so it's slightly puffy. And, when we finally practiced his smile for school pictures tonight, he smiled so big that his eyes were at half mast in this weird squint. Keep your eyes wide open, I say. He tries, only it looks like he's a mad scientist.

I guess when he gets up tomorrow and wants to wear his brightest orange shirt, I should just go with the flow. A good mother would gently comb his hair down and hug him tight as he bounces off to school. After all, it's his first school picture, not mine. I'm not sure I'm there yet.

I guess when you get his school picture in the mail, all crazy and wild looking or perfectly quaffed and angelic, you'll know how it turned out. Keep it as a reminder. Not everything in life turns out perfect.

Life Can Really Suck

2009-09-24T21:11:00.000-05:00

I haven't really felt like writing lately. It's nothing personal, you see. I've just sort of been in a funk. Work is stressful. There's no zen-like feeling at home. And all the other stuff in my life? Well, it just kind of feels like a whole lot of nothing.

But a few days ago, I had a resurgence of my old self. No explanation why. It's like the world came into focus and suddenly got its zing back. I felt happy, really happy. I started to notice again how beautiful the world was---flowers blooming, trees turning and people smiling---and it felt, if only for a moment, like I was right were I should be.

This up and down side to my life, my personality, my womanhood, only affirms what I've always known---life can really suck. But if you stick around, it always gets better. Events unfold. People change. Time heals us. Most importantly, we are often given a chance to view the world from a different perspective. We can choose to see the distorted, negative image from inside the bell jar, or the crystal clear, fresh view looking out.

Hold your breath for awhile. Throw a fit. Lay down and have a good cry. But, whatever you do, don't give up for too many minutes, okay? There is so much goodness waiting for you, waiting for us all.

Bad Bad Girl in a Sweet Sweet World

2009-08-23T16:13:00.000-05:00

In between getting married, starting a family, furthering my career, and having another baby, I've let my body go. It's big. It's motherly. And it's really, really out of shape. I think about my body a lot, I really do, but I never actually DO anything about it. I don't exercise. I don't refrain from eating any item on the fast food menu. I would even boast I'm at the pinnacle of my baking career, simply because I practice all the time. I have a double-chocolate scone recipe that will bring tears to your eyes when it's warm from the oven.

Then, last week happened with a major health scare. I was having some tightening in my chest on Wednesday night and then several times on Thursday. I went to the ER and then things progressed from there. When you mention chest pain, be prepared, my friends, for some serious exploratory things from weird dyes in your veins to running on a treadmill in your hospital gown. The heart is serious business.

After a million tests, it turns out my ticker is just fine. What is not fine is that fact that I have let my body get grossly out of shape with no exercise and then put every sugary item I can find in my mouth. My bad cholesterol is way high when it should be low. My good cholesterol is way low when it should be high. These are bad signs for my heart on down the road. While some is genetics, I will admit, much is related to my excesses with food and my absolute absence of exercise. Cholesterol can tell you a lot about a girl.

It took some chastising from a cardiologist, pretty expensive tests and almost 23 hours in an open gown at the hospital, BUT....I think I'm finally awake now to the damage I've been doing to my body. My eyes are open. I left the hospital depressed about the whole situation, especially the fact that I'm responsible for this mess and changes need to happen immediately. No need being sad about what is or dwelling in what could have been, I guess. It's time to just make it happen. Here's to healthier living.....for me and for you.

Let It Shine

2009-07-28T20:19:00.000-05:00

I always thought I was destined to do something really special. As a kid, I used to imagine flying to the moon, saving a life or inventing something really terrific, like the ever-lasting gobstopper. My life could slide this way or that way, but I just had this confidence that an extraordinary event or talent would happen to me eventually.

At 10, I did do some brief modeling for House of Bargains. While it was pro bono work, of course, it did give me a glimpse of how a life under the bright lights might turn out. I imagined traveling all around the world, thin and captivating, to give people this gift of beauty. So, when the modeling work dried up shortly after my debut, I just moved on. No hurt feelings really.

In high school, it dawned on me that maybe sports might be the way to go. I played softball, basketball and ran track. Go, go, go. I even made it to the state track meet my sophomore year. One week later, I tore the ligament in my knee. It was a hard break, but that's life. I packed away the gloves, and cleats, and batons. I didn't look back either.

I pushed my way through college as fast as I could because, well, let's get real, you are more likely to find extraordinary in the real world than in college. I started my first day at a national law firm in a very sharp suit, with a very bright smile, and walked into a very big building. Do you see the importance? I also sat at very small cubicle with not a very nice boss with not a lot of input into my work. I really was a good puppet. Nothing special about that.

Kids came. Here was my chance to give something Herculean. During birth, I asked for pain medicine and then cried like a baby during the c-section because I had failed to progress. I've spanked my kids in public, I've cried alone in the garage and I've gone to a big work meeting with some kind of goo on my shoulder from morning hugs. On the rare days I've got it all in a nice, neat package, I think if I could only sustain this.....it might be special.

But today, it came to me. There is a really good chance that I will never invent something, win the lottery, touch the moon, be a celebrity, or have people recite my poems in every classroom around the country. Perhaps I don't get a special event or that extraordinary big thing in this life, but instead I get a quirky personality and a light within that radiates to others. Special might be making people laugh. Being kind, or loyal, or loving. It might even be all those big mistakes I've made along the way that I thought made me really unlovable. It somehow also made me approachable.

So, I guess I feel good about that kind of special. No big headlines, you see, just a dogged determination to keep plugging away at those big, ugly, hot stage lights in my life. Those moments can be wonderful, too. Let it shine, let it shine.

Elvis Loved His Mama

2009-07-03T20:31:00.000-05:00

I'm not much of a traveler. With two small kids, a husband that works weekends, and a budget so tight it squeaks, traveling is a luxury. But to my surprise, all the stars aligned and I arrived in Memphis on Monday with eight-women from my book club, varying in ages, all ready to experience some rock and roll. It was an adventure.

I didn't know much about Memphis. Well, I knew it was in Tennessee. I knew it was once home to Elvis. I also thought it might be kind of hot in July. All true. In some ways, Memphis is something extra special. In other ways, it scares me.

The best part about traveling is that you get to experience it all for yourself. I'm not sure if you've been or if you'll ever go, but here's a few trip highlights. Go ahead. Soak 'em in.

1. Beale Street, the place of all food, music and debauchery, is pronounced "Bill" street by locals. It's fantastic all lit up. Every stop had amazing musicians that dazzled me.

2. The bus tour was really needed, if you want a good history lesson about music in Memphis. Sun Records. Stax. Sam Phillips. Did you know that Elvis and his mama lived in government housing and only two blocks away was BB King's home? All on the same street, all at the same time.

3. Panhandling is an art form in Memphis. Kids, adults and crack heads all want your money, or your cigarettes, or your soul. They will steal it, if you let your guard down.

4. The lottery is not just for winning millions. Apparently, Memphis loves the Broadway production of "Wicked" enough to pull names each night for a $25 ticket in the front row. Sign up, wait 15 minutes and pay with cash if they call your name. Twenty lucky winners, including me. It was the best show I have ever seen. Thank you, Memphis!

5. Good food can be found at a place with a really pretty, ornate sign out front. GREAT food is in a dive so bad that you start questioning the legitimacy of health inspectors.

6. Priceline works. $160 a night hotel for only $80. Grab that deal.

7. Trolley systems are still transporting people down Main Street. For only $1, you can rest your feet and soak up some history.

8. Cotton was huge in Memphis because of the river. There are all different grades of cotton from pure white to gray. Cotton is so big, they still hold an annual parade with a cotton queen.

9. If you want to survive in the tourist industry in Memphis, you must be an entertainer. It doesn't matter if you're singing, waiting tables or cleaning the floor, people with personality are the only ones that make it. Find yours.

10. I love me some Elvis. I love me some Johnny Cash. I wish I had known them when they were young and hungry for music in Memphis. It must have been so exciting. Being rich and famous will kill you. It's too much pressure for one small soul.

And, my last lesson in Memphis.....when I was taking a photo of the historic First Baptist Church building, which is only a block away from the famous Beale street, a man stood up from the stairs and started unbuttoning his pants while I was snapping a photo of the sign.

"I got something free for you, girl. You want my picture," he says. "Girl, girl....where you goin'. I said I got something for you."

It felt good to visit, it really did, but I wasn't tempted to stay (even with all that free stuff that nice young man at the church was giving away). Amidst all that solicitation, and rocking and rolling, and great food, Memphis is really a happening place. It's alive. Enjoy at your own risk.

Live, Love, Learn

2009-06-22T21:19:00.000-05:00

Life frazzles me. I often feel like the worst mother in the world and then, something happens to solidify my title as the baddest mama on the block. If you must know, I often hold this title for weeks at a time.

For instance, just last Friday, as I was running around the house like a mad woman, I gave Tuck (our two year old) my hormone pill instead of his daily allergy pill. It was so hectic around me that I didn't even realize it until I noticed something white on his tongue. His pills are pink. I put my whole finger in his mouth, poked around, trying to swipe it out. No luck.

I panicked. I started to hyperventilate. I had my brother-in-law count all my hormone pills, TWICE, just to make sure this wasn't all a dream. No dream and one pill missing. I frantically call the doctor to find out that, other than a regular period and possibly some sore breasts, Tuck is going to be fine. In fact, I can go ahead and pop the allergy pill in his mouth, too.

For the rest of the night, my hubby makes transvestite jokes about our son. It's funny (kind of). When I finally calm down though, I start to realize that the speed of my life is causing huge mistakes. I mess up all the time. I guess I'm okay with screwing up my own life, but my kids are something else. Small. Powerless. Eager for love. I want something better for them.

But I realized tonight, that I'm a kid of somebody, too. I may be small, powerless and eager for love when I'm down, but someone wants something better for me. I'm loved unconditionally, mistakes and all, whether I choose to accept it or not. It might just be better to let it in, don't you think?

It's a World of Pure Imagination

2009-06-14T15:46:00.000-05:00

I've always had an active imagination. Lately, however, it's turning out to be more of a problem than a fun, creative personality trait. Ever since my body started falling apart at the age of 30, my mind has been in overdrive.

A pain on the lower left side. Ovarian cyst. Three sneezes in a row. Swine flu. Dizziness right before a meal. Diabetes. Ugly mole on by butt. Skin cancer.

It would be comical, except it's absolutely true. I've started obsessing over minor aches and pains. It has to be something bigger, something worse. Instead of having a doctor confirm that I'm fine physically (a tad crazy mentally, of course), I starting researching all these symptoms online. I just Google it, forgoing any official medical site. You can imagine what pops up. You got it......I am one sick puppy!

I wish I had never read the article that said after the age of 28, your body and health start to decline. Before I had time to shut the magazine, I was older. I'm older just writing this and, honestly, it pains me. I'm young, but already fearful of growing older with all the ailments that come with it. I'm afraid of being sick. I'm afraid of pain. I'm afraid I might die young, or old, or without my consent. I'm afraid of the not knowing all there is to know.

I am absolutely frozen surrounded by all this fear. I'm stuck. Sadly, I know I'm not the only one.

How do we stop measuring our life by the number of years and start counting the worthwhile moments? When do we realize that a great tragedy (a chronic illness, divorce, loss of a loved one) can turn into a triumph when we come out stronger, more aware of the world? How do we turn off the screeching voice of worry?

If you find the answers, could you drop me a quick line? You're the best.

Big Brave Mama

2009-05-31T21:55:00.000-05:00

Cooper, my almost five year old, is starting summer school tomorrow. We have to be there at 7:25 a.m., but may not arrive until after 7:10 a.m. No supplies needed. Breakfast and lunch will be provided. It ends at 2 p.m.

That's it. That's all I got. No other details were sent, but yet I'll be dropping Cooper off there tomorrow and wishing him well. I'm nervous, really nervous. I would never admit that to my five-year-old, but I'm saying it to you. I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing!

I don't know what door to go in. I'm not even sure what classroom. No activities have been outlined. How many recesses? It there one class of kindergarten or two? No teacher name given. No credentials.

Will the kids be kind or kind of mean? Will Cooper be overwhelmed by a new school, a new classroom, a new teacher and new friends? Will he suck on his fingers? Will he find the bathroom? Will he be happy? Will he learn well? Will he fit in? Will he know what to do in an emergency? Will he listen?

I want so much for my children. As babies and toddlers, I just grab it for them and we keep moving. This is finally something only Cooper owns. It's where his journey takes a slight curve from mine. Exciting as it all may be for him, I'm scared what the world will be like for him without me controlling it. I'm hoping better. I'm hoping just as bright. I'm hoping for a grand adventure.

One foot in front of the other tomorrow. Big smile. No tears. A brief hug, if I'm lucky. I am, after all, the mother of a kindergartner now. It's time I started acting like one.

Irene's Story

2009-05-24T20:35:00.000-05:00

My great-aunt Irene turns 81 tomorrow. I'm not sure what I'm going to be like at 81, or if I'll still be on this earth, but I hope I'll have some fire left in me when I get there. I've always wondered how Irene has stayed so youthful, so energetic, while others have aged more or passed away sooner. This is her story (as I've come to know it).

Irene is the oldest of five children, born to German parents on a farm in Freeburg. Two of her siblings are dead, including my grandmother. Growing up on a farm, you had to work hard to survive. She worked the fields, she helped with the kids, she cleaned. When her mother finally died, she left all the farm land and it's contents to the oldest male. The daughters got nothing.

When she finally married in her 20's, she moved into town with her husband and worked at a factory. She drank. She smoked. She caroused. At 26, the doctor's removed a tumor in her womb, but for a few months they weren't certain if it was a fast-growing tumor or a baby. She mourned for a long-time that this choice was taken away from her.

When the drinking got bad enough that it also turned into fighting, she quite drinking all together. She went to mass on Saturday nights. She decorated her home with trinkets and things not found in a farmhouse. She became a widow, twice, because of cancer.

She only washes her face with Dove soap. Her garden is the nicest in town. She cleans like crazy, drinks coffee day and night, smokes, and is the first to help out when people are in need. When I was born, and my mother was still undecided about adoption, Irene volunteered to keep me and love me. She bought all new baby clothes for me even after she knew I would never be her daughter, or live in her home.

She used to give me Wrigley's Spearmint gum, my own five-piece pack, when I would come to visit. You could drink soda or coffee in her house, no matter what your age. At the parish picnic, she's worked the BINGO stand for the last sixty years. But she stopped going to mass when the misconduct was rampant and it hit too close to home. You don't hurt kids, she'd say, end of story.

No matter what our story, I guess the secret might be the fire within us, the passion that keeps us moving forward instead of looking back. It's what keeps us young. She knew that. Still does.

Inspiration

2009-05-08T21:59:00.000-05:00

It's almost Mother's Day. I start drifting down memory lane about my own mother, and her mother, and, of course, the mother before her. I even ponder my own short stint in the motherhood arena, unseasoned as I may be.

On my desk, I have a bulletin board of photos -- all women in my family, all interesting photos that make me look at the world a little different. Here is what I see.

My Mother, 1965.
Black and white photo. She is standing in the front yard in her shorts, huge sombrero, ugly stuffed bear with a lei in her hands, and white loafers. She is entertaining the world. Her comical smile makes me laugh. Only six years old, she doesn't know yet how much hurt there is in the world. Happiness resides within her.

My Grandmother, 1972.
Wearing a flowered dress with pearls, she stands in the corner of a room. Body stiff, she is smiling. One light bulb hangs bare above her head. Her smile looks forced, her eyes look sad. I want to wrap my arms around her and hold her. Why is it so hard to let go of things that weigh us down, such as bitterness, hatred and regret?

My Mother and I, 2003.
We have our arms around each other, looking straight in the camera, on a sunny day. Our smiles are exactly the same. I'm squeezing her tight. It's hard to tell who is the mother and who is the daughter. For most of our lives, this identity crisis on traditional mother-daughter roles has been a barrier between us.

Me, 2005.
Only my head is above water. I am hanging on with one hand to a black inner-tube and the water is rippling around me. This was my first weekend away from our new baby. It was also my first dip back in the soothing water after motherhood. I have a ton more questions, but the photo is snapped in mid-sentence.

These are my inspiration photos -- the photos that remind me, I guess, that we're all human, including mothers. We make mistakes. We mess up our lives. We even mess up our kids' lives. Some of us put on sombreros and dance to survive, while others build walls that no one can penetrate. Some of us hold on tight with all our being and big ole' smiles, while others just barely have their head above water.

The only thing we have in common is God's unfailing love for us. Oh, and of course, the fact that we're all in this together....ready or not.

Love Languages

2009-04-29T21:37:00.000-05:00

When Jeff and I got married, we had to read The Five Love Languages in order to "pass" pre-marital counseling. We passed (thanks for asking!) and, as it turns out, learned a lot about each other. Even 10 years later, I often stop and marvel at the power of a love language.

The premise behind the book is that there are five love languages, or ways that people express and receive love. Each of us has a primary love language. When people in our lives -- spouses, family, friends -- speak the right love language to us, we feel loved. On the other hand, when they are focusing on the wrong love language, all their efforts may be in vain. They love us, but we don't feel it. They care deeply for us, but we don't know it.

So, what are the five love languages?

1. Words of affirmation -- words are powerful. Words of affection or endearment, words of praise or encouragement, words that give positive guidance all say, "I care about you."

2. Quality time -- the most important part of quality time is not the event itself but that you are doing something together, being together. Quality time is focused attention.

3. Gift Giving -- the giving and receiving of gifts can be a powerful expression of love. Meaningful and thoughtful gifts need not be big or expensive. It's the act of giving that counts.

4. Acts of service -- helping others in a selfless manner shows we care. Small task or big request, it doesn't matter. We respond and love happens.

5. Physical touch -- people who are hugged, kissed and held feel loved. The author says, "Physical touch is one of love's strongest voices." Only if it's your love language, however.

My love language is acts of service. When Jeff fixes something around the house or carries in the groceries before I can ask, it shows me he cares. When he gets the boys up and dressed in the morning so I can sleep for a few more minutes, it's pure love. Most are small things, but they add up in a huge way for me.

For Jeff, his love language is words of affirmation. Although I feel like I show him how much I love him, he needs to be told. It needs to be verbalized all the time. I'm always amazed at how his expression will change instantly when I thank him for loving us so much. He grins and I can tell immediately that little bits of love are just pouring in.

Along the way, I have been shown over and over again the power of focusing on that primary love language. Do not waste your time perfecting any others. It's been a hard lesson, but I've learned. Because no matter how hard you work, no matter how much love you give, no matter how much you bend over backwards to make someone happy, they usually only funnel love inward in one way. That's the only way you need to know about, my friends. The rest? Well, it's just fluff. Let it float away.

Baby, I'm Moving On

2009-04-26T22:00:00.000-05:00

I cleaned out the nursery tonight. Sold the crib. Packed away the baby clothes. Looked through the photos of when my boys were born. Swept up all the remnants of baby and brought in something new.

The truth is, I've been on the fence a long time about having another baby. Ever since we brought Tuck home from the hospital, I've wondered if we should do it all again. Jeff only wanted two. I always thought I wanted one, then I had two, and then I started thinking about number three. A girl would be lovely, no doubt, but even another boy sounded fine. I always felt like I had more love, but never enough time or energy.

I then questioned every mother I met. So, how did you know you were done? Did the baby fever ever go away? Do you wish you would have had more kids? No conclusive answers. Just confident women who seemed content with the number of kids they had.

Ironically, it was the pregnant women around me that finally provided the answer. An amazing friend at work is having baby number four. I actually woke up in a cold sweat one night thinking this was me, my life, and realizing I can't deal with that many kids. Another friend recently moved, took a new job and became pregnant. I was so thrilled for her, but not one bit envious at all these new adventures in her life. And then, when doling out advice to another friend about fertile times of the month, I almost had a heart attack when my period failed to show up on time. False alarm, thank goodness, but I fretted enough to know what side of the fence I had landed.

It was time to move on. Instead of a nursery, I now have a room of my own -- an office, a personal sanctuary to write, a rocker to read (instead of nurse a baby) and pictures of those I love all around me. I even dusted off my favorite poetry books and lined them up like proud, little soldiers in my new room. While I love the babies I've been blessed with, I feel confident tonight. Something new is about to begin. For the first time in a long time, I think I'm ready.

Dream On

2009-03-30T20:47:00.000-05:00

Every spring, I go into a frenzy to get organized. I have this urge to get rid of clutter and re-arrange everything in my world. Give it away or sell, I don't care. I just need a new perspective.

In the midst of all this purging, I came across an old notebook from college and my early married years. The pages had random notes of inspiration, journal entries and even a few poems tucked in between pages. It was a time warp back to a girl I once knew. The poems were, at best, morose, somewhat psychotic and over-the-top dramatic.

The crazy part is that I fancied myself a poet. An undiscovered, eccentric, extremely talented creator of poems. That's me. Apparently, I even saved a bunch in case my poetry gift was discovered posthumous. But tonight, when I'm reading those poems, a moment of truth flickers in my mind. I only imagined myself a poet. These poems will never take flight, I can almost guarantee you.

It's hard to let go of what you've dreamed yourself to be. When I think of myself, it's not a vision of dirty laundry, screaming kids and soccer practice. It's sitting in a coffee shop, black coffee in hand, cigarette burning and poetic words laying themselves down in perfect form on the page. I wear my beret, reciting my poems with an accent and people love them. People love me. They want to take home these words I've written and place them somewhere important. I want that for them, too.

I then start to think of all the people I've sent these poems. I was so full of myself that I put them on Christmas cards, gave them as birthday gifts and made friends read each line while I stood there waiting for their accolades. I even mailed a poem to my sister-in-law in the midst of her long, lonely semester in the Philippines. I thought it would provide comfort. I realize now it may not have been comforting, but extremely funny. She said she lost the poem before she made it back home. Coincidence? I'm wondering.

When a dream is ash, I guess you just keep moving on. It also helps to be honest when you were just too proud, too confident, too full of yourself. We've all been there. I'm sure I'll even step through that door again like when I realize I might not be a professional blogger. It takes me awhile, but I'm learning.

The Mother of Meltdowns

2009-03-22T20:32:00.001-05:00

It's tough being a mother. It feels, most days, like I'm flying completely blind. I could be doing right. I could be doing wrong. You just don't know. Every day is a toss up.

What I do know is that I feel like I never truly have it under control. My two year old is having a melt down and trying to break down the door. My four year old is adamant, over and over again, that he washed his hands with soap, but I don't see it and I don't smell it. Even the dog, the youngest of my brood, can't seem to grasp the concept that pooping is an outside activity. It's utter chaos and I'm responsible for it all.

Because of my downward spiral weekend, I'm composing a list of crazy mommy things. It's things I don't understand, things that drive me crazy, things I wish I could change if I had any power at all over the universe.

1. Why melt downs happen over the smallest things, like being unable to take a teddy bear into Target. It's loud. It's disruptive. All I can thing about is being far away from the screaming.

2. Why I ever thought spanking was a bad thing. Let's not be judgmental, folks. Just get it done.

3. Why other mommies seem really put together and I can't even manage to find matching socks in the morning. It could be because there's a mountain of laundry in my basement that I have dreams of getting to one day. Laundry is the only thing in my life I'm really patient about.

4. Why one child can be an angel, but give birth to two or more, and things just get downright wild. This is why three children will probably never happen for us. I'm maxed out.

5. Why getting a cute puppy always seems like a grand idea right before Christmas.

6. Why everyone wants to fly in and help when daddy is all by himself with the kids. No one calls me when I'm stuck for days alone in the house with them. I could be dead or tied up, but no one would really know.

7. Why those plastic toys hurt so darn much when you step on them in your bare feet. Bad words form on your lips, but you know big ears and little lips are ready to start repeating anything you say while in pain.

8. Why, when you finally make the decision to stop checking on them every 15 minutes when they've gone to bed EVEN when you hear feet on the floor, the youngest decides to put diaper creme all over himself, the diapers, the clothes, the furniture and his bed. Never will you buy another tube of Desitin without feeling sick to your stomach.

9. Why I decided two years was plenty of time between kids.

10. Why I complain about the little things when the Lord has blessed us with so much, such as two healthy, somewhat happy boys, sleeping softly tonight all snug in their beds.

It's all about perspective, I guess. When it boils down to it, I never expected being a mother to be so hard. It takes everything I got, and then wants more. Deep breaths, deep breaths.

Empty Tanks

2009-03-17T22:12:00.000-05:00

When I hit 13 years old, I turned into this hormonal, awkward wreck that walked around thinking I knew it all. I had big hair, bright lips and a bad attitude. In a very heated moment, I remember sitting across from my mom at our kitchen table and yelling with all my might about how much I hated her. Her face was broken. I took a little something from her that day that I can never give back.

Ironically, I wasn't even mad at her. My anger seethed at my father, but since he'd been gone most of my natural born life, it was hard to heap that on him. She was closer and she loved me unconditionally. I needed desperately to get that hurt out, to settle it elsewhere, and even at a young age, I needed someone to blame for my circumstance. Looking inward was just too tough.

On our most frazzled, most hurt, most challenging, most "I'm so dried up there is nothing left for anyone else" day, where do you heap those worries? Where do you send the hurt? Instead of inward or outward, I think I'm going to start trying upward. There's some good love up there, I hear.

Growing on Trees

2009-03-09T20:47:00.001-05:00

When I was a kid, my mom used to always say the phrase, "Hey, what do you think money grows on trees?" This was her cute way of letting me know that she was tired of me asking for money.

Stop being a pest. Get out of my hair. Go play. Hopefully, somewhere free.

What my mom never did was teach me about money. I can't even say we lived paycheck to paycheck. We were always less a few dollars and our ends never seemed to meet. While she worked hard, it was a small income and just us. No credit card debt, but we borrowed often from family or friends. We even dipped in a few times to my kid savings account.

Zero was good in our house. It was better than negative, you see.

That's why, at the ripe old age of 31, I'm taking Dave Ramsey's Financial Peace University. It's time to learn about money. I know a few things. I can balance the check book. I sort of grasp the idea of savings. And, a few years ago, I plowed through our credit card debt and cut up all sorts of bad plastic. Still, we've struggled despite our best efforts.

Finally, last week, a light went on when Dave was talking about getting rid of debt. Why are people so afraid of getting out of debt? Because they don't think they can do it. They've lost hope. The debt snowball consumes us. I felt like he was whispering right in my ear. This was me. This was us. We were afraid.

I'm still a little afraid, I think. But each week, I get a little stronger and a little more sure of myself. I don't want any more debt, including car payments or school loans or vet bills or more stuff I don't need. Won't use. Don't really care about it.

I can do this. The amazing thing is, if I can, I know you can, too.

Patsy Cline, Patsy Cline

2009-03-02T21:12:00.000-06:00

When I was a kid, I used to love to listen to Patsy Cline albums. There was something about her voice that would draw me in, keep me waiting there for the next sad story she was about to tell. Crazy was my favorite. I'm sure I drove my own mama crazy singing that song over and over again in the shower. But I had to get the angst and sadness just right and that takes practice, I tell you. Real practice.

It's funny. I've had a lot of practice over the years letting worry soak right in. And she's not a bad person, this worry wort I carry around with me. She's just kind of heavy on the soul. Kind of bitter, kind of crazy. Every time I let her keep me awake, or let her voice get louder, or let her guide me in decision making just because I'm scared.....she becomes a little stronger, while a little piece of me flakes away. It's so gradual that sometimes I don't even notice it's gone.

My biggest worry, if the truth be known, is becoming a single parent. I'm scared Jeff is going to die is some freaky accident or by some weird illness and it will be totally up to me to carry on. The thought of raising two kids alone freaks me out in a big, bad way. I can barely handle it some days with two adults in the house. Imagining only me running the show squeezes by chest something fierce.

I know a psychologist would take this angst and point it right back to my childhood. Growing up with a single mother makes you fear being a single mom. Growing up without a father makes you worry about men leaving, by choice or by fate. It's natural. Still, I'm sure they give drugs if your fear wells up too big. No prescriptions for me....just yet.

What do you worry about most? More importantly, how do you personally put a lid on worry so it's manageable, livable, breathable? Do you even try? I'm listening. I really am.

Worry. Why do I let myself worry? Wondering, what in the world did I do? Ooh, ooh, ooh. Oh, crazy...

Cabo Wabo

2009-02-21T20:28:00.000-06:00

It's official, folks. I'm a celebrity.

I traveled to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, for an extended weekend and was greeted at the resort with margaritas and a gift basket. When I turned for my first look at the ocean, it was the bluest water I had ever seen. Whales even floated by all weekend. I took long bubble baths in my room, which also overlooked the ocean. Quietness began to surround me. Sun settled on my skin. My life slowed down to the sweet cadence of Mexico time. It was amazing.

What was more amazing was the time I got to spend with Jamie, my very best friend in the world. She's the reason I was in this paradise. She got hitched. And, she invited me, bless her heart, to stand up next to her for her sunset wedding. It felt like old times to be with Jamie and her family. It's like we were 16 again and giddy with what life had to offer.

Finally relaxed, it was time to go home and get back to my life. While I missed by boys and hubby something crazy, I didn't miss the hectic pace that forever marches forward. Life is nuts here. I plan it, organize it and make it happen. I clean it, cook it and pack it. I write it, seal it and send it. Always more, always more. No rest for the weary, especially if you wear the name tag "mommy," "wife," or "woman."

I never realized how much I didn't like the pace of my life until I escaped it for awhile. I'm having a really hard time jumping back in. I don't like how it is, as sad as that may sound. Change, however, takes more work and I'm not sure I have enough energy. What do you put on hold? What do you cut out? What do you leave behind?

If I were a true celebrity, I'd get boozed up and make my life hazy. I'd travel to exotic locations further away from reality. I'd leave behind what is real and maybe pick it back up 20 years later in rehab. I'd get weirder, too. I'd also hate all those people with a normal life, who get the opportunity to know their kids and own a really messed up dog (p.s., I pulled one of my hair ties out of the dog's butt this afternoon...it's such a pleasure owning Zeke).

As it turns out, I'm just me. So, I guess I just have to take it one day at a time and try to see the beauty in what's around me, whether I'm by the ocean or exhausted, snuggled up with my kids. I can do this. I know I can.

Burnin' Ring of Fire

2009-02-04T20:32:00.000-06:00

On Monday, Zeke (our sweet and non-listening dog) refused to get out of Jeff's truck. With Tuck in one arm and his hand around Zeke's leash, anger inspired him to pull Zeke out of the truck with all his might. Zeke landed, not on his feet as cats always seem to do, but on his hip. One shattered femur later, one pin in the leg, three medications, $500, and a scar that makes me want to throw up when I look at it....Zeke is home sweet home.

Anger is a funny thing. Many people have trouble controlling it and it can divide a home, a family, a life. People forget many things, but rarely do they forget anger at its ugliest. Jeff got angry at our dog and it fizzled out after the accident. Unfortunately, my anger still burns -- at Jeff, at the situation, at the expense, at Zeke in pain, at just one more thing added to my already overwhelming day. It burns me.

While I may not use physical force when I'm angry, as men tend to do, I let a few well-executed words fall from lips and pierce Jeff. It felt good in some sad way to have him hurt for the hurt he had caused. But what I've realized from this whole situation is that anger is just a vicious cycle that always swings around to hurt us. We give it or we get it. It only gets better, however, when we let it go.

Here's to hoping I can lay the anger down. Let it go. Pick myself up and carry on. This is life, my friends. Another day will be here soon.

Old Ghosts

2009-02-01T20:19:00.000-06:00

I'm a firm believer that people pass through your life for a distinct reason. Some stay awhile and many just keeping on moving. Loving relationships exist. Destructive ones do, too. I guess it's important to have a balance in all things, relationships included.

I came across an old friend this weekend. A first love, if I'm really honest with myself. While we parted ways years ago on the kindest of terms and wished the best for each other, it's always an odd feeling to come face-to-face with your past.

What I feel like saying is....
Well, hello. It's going to take me a few minutes to catch my breath.....I'm always astounded when our paths cross. We're complete strangers now though at one time you consumed my world. I loved you completely before I even really knew what love was. You look wonderful, by the way, though certainly not the boy I knew. Only your smile seems vaguely familiar. You loved me, too, right? I thought so. Thank you for that.

What I say is.....
Hey, how are you? How is the family? I'm great. Family's good, too. Yeah, it has been awhile. Take care of yourself.

I want relationships to stay the same, sad as that may be. If we meet having coffee, I would like to keep having coffee with you forever. If we became friends at book club, let's keep reading books to eternity. I don't care to change it. If I loved you once, I feel sad that love has slipped away, even when a grander love has arrived to take it's place. It applies to all that have crossed my path, friends and lovers alike.

How do I change this about myself? Well, I guess for one, I stop dwelling on the past. I take off the rose-colored glasses. Put away the daydreams about "what if" and "what could have been." And I stop being surprised when the past is standing in front of me. Because the truth is, people cannot love you forever. We just have to keep going, keep reaching, keep loving.

Heavy Cake

2009-01-27T19:44:00.000-06:00

What do you get when you add 31 candles to a delicious, homemade birthday cake? A very heavy cake, my friends, because you have officially tipped over the hill.

Yes, I turned 31 on Monday. Birthdays don't make me sad. They do, however, make me reflective. What am I doing with my life? What have I done with my life? What can I do differently? It's as if the turning another number on my internal clock makes me realize how truly fast time flies. I feel 22. I act 24. And I look, well, old enough to never get carded. My Wii age is 48. Numbers are scary, huh?

So, to commemorate my birthday, I thought it might be nice to make a list of things I know now that I would have NEVER have known at 21.

1. Women need to stick together. Friends are what makes the journey worthwhile.

2. Why movie stars, especially those that do nude scenes, do NOT breastfeed. Sagging is not sexy, although it is the milk of life for our sweet babies.

3. Men will never come around to our way of thinking. They do not change nor should we.

4. Gym memberships are never worth it. Sweating with a bunch of other people, all running in circles, doesn't make you happy. It makes you depressed.

5. People you love do break your heart. You may break some, too. Hating people for things that are out of our control is a waste of time and energy. Move on.

6. Being a mother is the greatest and hardest job in the world. I am in charge of shaping another life and I can't even get myself put together some days.

7. You are what you eat. Big bellies don't lie.

8. I'm becoming my mother. All the things I thought I would never say or do because my mother did them and it got on my last nerve. I'm there. I'm her.

9. I need God in my life. I need the comfort and the unconditional love.

10. Age is a silly thing. If it defines your outlook, you're silly, too.

Thanks for all those birthday wishes, friends. You're the best. I hope you know it.

Woe is Me

2009-01-24T19:49:00.000-06:00

I'm feeling sorry for myself this weekend. Tuck has been sick with a viral infection. Temperature, fussiness and, of course, breathing problems. We've been giving breathing treatments around the clock, which is exhausting, and then we canceled our birthday dinner for this evening. I just couldn't thrust my sick kid on grandparents, kind as they may be.

On top of all of that, I feel way behind at work. When does a girl catch up? I love a fast pace, but it would be nice to feel like all projects are moving forward. I hope I don't drop any of the balls I'm juggling.

Then, I start to worry. I begin to panic. Fear sets in. I let myself sink into this rut of self-loathing and, against my better judgment, I break out my best china for a pity party. No one is invited, of course. Just me. Exhausted. Mean spirited. Ugly.

It's only when I look outside of my own life that my thoughts start to gain perspective. I see others that are struggling with things I cannot imagine -- extreme poverty, death of a child, cancer, losing a job. It's eye opening. It makes me understand that we all have fears, something that scares us terribly, that makes us want to hide from under the covers.

This poem by Dannye Romine Powell says it all.

Everyone is Afraid of Something
Once I was afraid of ghosts, of the dark,
of climbing down from the highest
limb of the backyard oak. Now I'm afraid

my son will die alone in his apartment.
I'm afraid when I break down the door,
I'll find him among the empties---bloated,
discolored, his face a stranger's face.

My granddaughter is afraid of blood
and spider webs and of messing up.
Also bees. Especially bees. Everyone,
she says, is afraid of something.

Another fear of mine: that it will fall to me
to tell this child her father is dead.

Perhaps I should begin today stringing
her a necklace of bees. When they sting
and welts quilt her face, when her lips
whiten and swell, I'll take her
by the shoulders. Child, listen to me.
One day, you'll see. These stings
Are nothing. Nothing at all.
###

Feeling sorry for yourself is worth nothing, I've discovered. I still do it, unfortunately. Tonight is a perfect example. I'm feeling better though. I really am. Perhaps getting these feelings out is all I needed. And some sleep. Sleep would be nice, too.

Must Love Dogs

2009-01-21T21:22:00.000-06:00

People are funny about dogs. Dogs are funny about people, too.

After almost a year of not having a dog, we decided to take the plunge again and get a puppy. I'm crazy, I know. I just love dogs, I really do, but they are work....a lot of work. Zeke is an American Bulldog. He looks exactly like the dog on the Little Rascals movie. He's got a white face with one eye patch, which always makes him look sad. At 14 weeks, he was 35 pounds.

Zeke is a lot sweeter than our last dog. The boys can do almost anything to him and he just wags his tale. He's full of love, but as stubborn as they come. For instance, he likes to poop inside. I'm not sure why, but he has a gift for holding it when we take him around the neighborhood. The minute he comes inside, he circles our table, and let's loose. Maybe he's shy about outdoor pooping.

When I picked him up from the vet after snipping off the family jewels, the vet chuckled that I was his owner. He had thrown up two matching kid socks and one, plastic snake. She bagged them up, while giggling, and out the door we went. Two days later, he stuck his head through the top of his kennel and almost choked himself to death. I continue to find plastic animals littered in doggy leftovers on our kitchen floor.

He snores. He farts. He scratches under the bed until I want to kill him.

He's kind. He's gentle. He loves almost everyone (well, except for Jeff) and the kids adore him.

As I write this, he's managed to get the sheets off the bed and is chewing loudly on the mattress tag that just won't come loose. He doesn't even respond when I yell his name. I have to wonder how this dog, of all the dogs in the universe, made it to our house to live. I do believe it's a love/hate relationship that's going to last a lifetime.**

** No animals were hurt in the writing of this blog post.

And So It Begins

2009-01-20T19:32:00.000-06:00

Technology hates me. Okay, not true. I'm the one that loathes technology. I guess I'm never sure if it's worth learning because, quite frankly, it will be gone tomorrow. I don't text. I don't Facebook. I don't even Twitter. I hear about all these wonderful tools from friends who have learned to stay e-connected. I still write them letters because I feel bad.

If I'm missed on the world wide web, no one has mentioned it. I have kind friends, I know. After all this time, I've decided to start a mini blog and a friend even sent me a link on how to get started. I'm not even sure what will happen when I hit "publish post." And I guess if blogs are out by the time I figure it all out, I'll just move on. It's the writing that matters most.

I asked my four-year-old what I should title my blog. I was at a loss on how to put an umbrella on all these ideas I might be generating on my 10-year-old computer. He said, "battery brains." What?!? "Well, I got no ideas right now because my brains are out of batteries."

Oh, well, that makes sense.

Moms are the same way, I think. We organize the entire world and we are often scattered. When we finally use the last minute of our day to do something for ourselves, we're often at a loss. Words fail us. Thoughts fall away. Our brains are simply out of batteries.

I can't speak for every mother, but I miss that spark. I miss it so much that I feel sadness when I think of its going. So, I'm recharging, folks. I'm re-emerging. I'm sending something out that may have no return except the satisfaction of knowing it's mine. I own it. I keep it safe. I strike the match.