Snow Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.