The Gumdrop Tree

Growing up.....

2011-10-14T18:30:00.000-07:00

Evangeline was lounging in my bed with me and all of the sudden looked up at me, puzzled.

E: "Mommy. What DO you wear to go shopping when you are a grown up?"
K: "What do you mean, baby?"
E: "What do you WEAR to go SHOPPING when you grow up?"
K: "ummm.....I usually wear jeans and a shirt?"
E: (exasperated) "Nooooooo, Mommy....I mean, how do you go shop when you only have kid clothes and you are a grown up?"

I finally figure out Evangeline is under the impression that one day you wake up, and BAM. You are BIG, and all your clothes are still a 5T and there is no way on earth you can go to the Boardwalk to buy big-people clothes because you have popped out of all of your kid-clothes like the Incredible Hulk.

I try to reason with her, explaining that growing up happens slowly and one day you figure out that your clothes are a little tight and you need bigger ones, just like when she grows out of her shoes. I explain that she will be a teenager before she needs big-people clothes and there are plenty of sizes that get bigger and bigger.

She is clearly not buying it. Not a bit. She looks up at me like I'm the one who just doesn't understand.

K: "Dwen, when you get to be a grownup and your clothes don't fit you can order some off the internet. Then you will have clothes to go shopping in."

(I'm clearly getting better at this parenting thing.)

She grinned and promptly went about her business, having solved the dilemma of clothing herself on the day she wakes up to find she has become a grown up.

In some ways, she's right. There are moments when we realize we are the people making the decisions. We are the ones with the kids. I'm the mom. I'm no longer practicing for life. I am living it, day by day, and my children are practicing by watching me. Sometimes it sneaks up quietly like a pair of shoes that get a little tighter on a 4-year-old foot at the end of the summer, and sometimes it is like ripping out of your skin and growing ten sizes overnight.

I'm grateful that kids are like spandex....they hug you tight when you are growing slowly, bit by bit, and stretch at a moment's notice when you need to burst out of your shell to grow up all at once. Let's hope spandex hasn't gone out of style by the time Evangeline has to shop for her grown-up clothes.

Quiet Reassurance....

2011-10-08T00:07:00.000-07:00

Harrisen and I have been struggling with some growing-up lately. Seems he's having a few "growing pains" that could use a little intervention to smooth over so that he has the best chance of being the coolest, happiest, most successful first-grader he can possibly be.

This has meant a significant lack of sleep for me, a single, working-the-night-shift mommy. I'm pretty exhausted, both physically and emotionally right now and I'm trying my best to hold it together and get us both over this bump in the road unscathed.

I picked Harrisen up from school the other day to take him to his appointment, and in the car, my fatigue and concern got the best of me. Without the constant banter with sister-girl in the backseat, I felt what I perceived as an uncomfortable quiet settle upon us.

K: "Little H, I'm sorry I'm not very talkative today. I guess I'm just kinda tired and not feeling like talking much."

H: "It's ok to be quiet sometimes, Mommy. I feel like being quiet, too."

I glanced back at him and saw that angelic face, turned toward the sunshine coming through the car window. He was smiling. Not a big smile, but a quiet, content smile. One that told me that just being with me, in the car, on a sunny day, was enough.

It's humbling when our children speak to us with ageless wisdom. It was refreshing to appreciate the quiet, reach back and hold his hand, and listen to the silence together.

An Apple a Day....

2011-09-29T02:10:00.000-07:00

Just about a year ago, to the day, I spent one of the more harrowing nights of my life at the mercy of a Macintosh...and I don't mean the computer.

I remember the evening perfectly. It was a rare quiet evening at home. The kids were at their dad's house, and I was looking forward to a quiet evening on the sofa, curled up with my dog and some reality tv. Now, that almost certainly does not sound like the most exciting evening one could imagine, but for an overworked, overstressed single mom with two kids and a full courseload of nursing school to contend with, it's the little things, ya know?

I remember so well...eating my Lean Cuisine on the sofa. I let Josie lick the little black platter because licking people-platters pleases her so. I realized I wanted something sweet and crunchy and satisfying to wrap up my fancy-schmancy dinner. I had a big metal bowl full of shiny red apples in the kitchen. I remember the apple being crisp and juicy and fragrant. I remember it being exactly what I wanted at that moment. I remember it also being the object of Josie's desire as well.

Now, for better or for worse, I have always indulged my dog's penchant for people food. My best friend, Clare, gets incredibly irritated at me for sharing little tidbits with the dog. I have maintained for years that Chinese Crested Dogs are omnivores, and if I only gave her dog kibble I would be denying her an integral component of her intended diet. Josie lived a life full of nibbles of bread, veggies, fruit, pasta, sauces licked from bowls and platters, and apple cores.

Yep, I always gave little Joe the core from my apple. She would gnaw on them for half an hour like a rawhide toy. When it got to be just little crumbs of apple, she would polish them off and look up at me with those big brown eyes and those bat-like ears and I would say, "Awww....my little fruit bat!"

I would until this night.

No sooner had I handed her the apple core and she had toted it merrily to the rug to enjoy than I heard a commotion that over-rode whatever drivel was being piped out of the television. I heard wheezing. I heard gagging. I heard hacking. I heard stumbling. I looked over to the dining room and saw my little fruit bat choking on the apple core I had given her.

Now, there are two things so far that have struck fear in the heart of this pet owner like no other. Seizures are one....Josie has mild epilepsy and has suffered seizures since she was a puppy. They are scary as hell, but she has never suffered any long-term consequences from them. The other heart-stopper is choking. A dog who is choking (or more accurately has something stuck in the esophogus, since the airway is not involved) becomes panicked. They stagger. They grunt. They groan. They fall over and heave and cough and perhaps most troubling of all, they produce copious amounts of thick, frothy white foam that spills forth from their mouths like shaving cream out of a can. It's a terrifying episode to watch.

I tried holding her and massaging her throat to move the lump down to where it belongs. I tried feeling in the back of her mouth and throat with my finger, to see if I could get it up. No go. It was not going anywhere and Josie was getting more and more lethargic.

Luckily for me there is an animal emergency clinic in Shreveport. It was now about 10:00 pm and when I burst into the door, the vet tech was waiting for us. She swept Josie away for sedation and x-rays. After an hour long wait, the vet called me back and placed a groggy Josie in my arms.

The news was grim.

He pointed at her x-ray where her lovely arched spine framed a blurry mass not far from her heart. The apple core had lodged itself at the bottom of her esophogus at the sphincter where it dumps into the stomach. The trouble with this location is that it isn't exactly in the abdominal cavity where it could be easily removed by surgery. It was actually in the chest cavity, and well, you can imagine how that would complicate cracking open a twelve-year-old dog who is already suffering from congestive heart failure.

The vet gave me two options: put her down right then or haul her immediately to Dallas or Baton Rouge where an endoscopic canine surgeon would be waiting to perform emergency surgery. Since neither option #1 nor option #2 were options for ME, I did what any dog owner would do with her 9 pound pile of love sitting on her lap DYING from a treat I had given her with my own hands....I called for backup.

Within 10 minutes the tiny exam room was full of me and Josie in the corner, my best friend Clare, my other best friend, Ryan and my other friend, Clint.

It probably goes without saying that I was pretty hysterical. I had my mom on the phone several times. I had my best buddies surrounding me and I still could not come to a decision. After what must have been a half hour of what-ifs and loving, thoughtful input from my support team, I had made the decision to put her down. She was old. She had a chronic condition that already impacted her quality of life. The recuperation would be difficult and painful. I had basically no money as I was mostly unemployed and a full time student. It was an absolutely heart wrenching internal dialogue.

When the vet came back in for my decision, I wasn't even able to make it through the sentence. Somewhere deep inside I knew that I could not give up on her when she had innocently taken a treat from my hands that had caused this. I knew that no matter what the expense, I owed it to her to give her a chance. My decision was made.

Well, sort of. My decision was made, but I still had to convince the vet. You see, I knew I could not take a road trip with the sick dog. That, my friends, was beyond what even I could do with a soul steeped in guilt. I pleaded with him. I told him I had to give her a chance, and he had to try. He had to try to save her. He said he would, but he gave her a less than 50% chance of survival. He said that if he couldn't get it out, he would have to put her down on the table.

It was now midnight. Clare was begging me to leave her and get some rest. The surgery was set to begin at 2:00 am. No way was I leaving her. Instead, I wrapped her in a blanket and sat with her in my car for two hours, singing to her, patting her, and cooing in her sweet bat-like ears. I knew that it was as good a chance as not that this was goodbye. At 2:00 I handed her over to the very young, very un-confident emergency vet.

I went home, took two benadryl and fell into a fitful sleep next to Clare. I woke to the phone ringing at 4 am.

K: Hello?
V: WE GOT IT!
K: REALLY?
V: WE TOTALLY GOT IT. (told you he was young.)

By his estimation it was nothing short of a miracle that she survived. He went in through her belly, and could not pull it out, so he had to also go down her throat and push from above to dislodge it from below. She was weak, stitched up like Frankenstein's monster and I had just acquired a hunk of brand new shiny debt, but she was alive.

I didn't buy apples for a whole year. Not that I remember anyway. I also didn't give Josie any more people food.

Until yesterday.

I bought apples.

It's fall. The apples were awesomely red and shiny and the kids adore them. I had one after dinner as Eric and I sat on the deck talking. I almost instinctively threw the core in the bushes, but stopped myself in time. I said to him:

K: oh. my. GOD. I almost threw this apple core in the bushes.
E: um. right. cause that's baaaaad, right?
K: dude, you have no idea.

I then proceeded to recount the above story in all its gory detail, the tears, the shooting white foam vomit, the middle of the night phone call. The miracle and the second chance.

E: I'm glad you didn't throw that apple core.
K: I'm gonna throw it. In the trash.

The same trash that was knocked over by an aggressively omnivorous canine who had been long deprived of apple cores while I put on my nightgown and brushed my teeth.

I spit and turned off the water and that's when I heard it. The hacking. The coughing. The gagging.

When the first stream of white foam shot out onto my floor, I grabbed the phone and called Eric, who had barely made it the few blocks home. I wish I could say I was calm. I was not. The sheer magnitude of the impossibility and nightmare of the situation was too much.

K: She did it again!
E: Wha?
K: The apple core. She's choking. Again. She got in the trash.
E: I'll be right there.

Thus began, almost a year to the date, another night-long vigil with an apple-choking Josie. I was wracked with guilt and completely overcome with the insanity of the situation...that I had just recounted the story to Eric...relived the gory details and despite my careful avoidance of the situation, it was happening again. This time, however, I was armed with some info. You see, the vet last year had wanted me to drive her to Baton Rouge. That's a five hour drive. I knew I had some time. She was miserable and looked half dead, but she was breathing. We wrapped her in a towel to keep her calm and watched the hours tick by on the clock until her regular vet's office opened. Eric discovered that she was calmer and could even rest if she was swaddled tightly in the towel. Around 3 am, she shook off the towel and stood up.

K: What's up little Joe? You need to go outside?
J: wag. wag. wagwagwag.

I put her on the deck and she took off like a shot across the yard to the water dish, which she lapped up greedily and kept down. The apple core had somehow, miraculously, passed.

In between the two episodes that make the Garden of Eden debacle sound pretty tame, Josie has had three other "incidents".

-The night she removed all the stuffing from her bed in her kennel and wrapped it impossibly tight around her right forepaw, necessitating removal with scissors, much howling and yelping, and a three-day limp.

-The day she hung herself from my bra strap which was left on a doorknob in the bathroom where she was confined while I was in a 14 hour clincial. Her eyes were bulging from their sockets and she had splattered blood all over my white tile bathroom from the burst blood vessels in her throat by the time I found her. Despite the crime scene, she escaped with a nasty hematoma, three days of soft diet and no permanent damage.

-The morning I was sure she was dying as she vomited bright red blood all over the house as I slept. I woke up to puddles of blood in every room and a shivering, shaking Josie spewing bright red blood from the "other end" onto my kitchen floor. Hemorrhagic GastroEnteritis. Google it. *shudder* A two day hospital stay, IV therapy and some TLC got her through that one.

Clare swears she is suicidal. Ryan thinks she is really a cat who is briskly running out of spare lives. I think she's just tough and has some really crappy luck when it comes to health maintenance. Whatever it may be, little Joe lives to fight another day, chase another squirrel, warm my feet at night, and lick my kids faces in the morning, and St. Francis has a few more grey hairs in that little fuzzy ring-shaped hair-do of his.

I'm considering becoming an apple-free home. You know how some people have to be "nut-free" or "gluten-free" for the sake of their susceptible kids? I'm just not sure it's worth the risk, seeing as we live with an omnivore, and all. Applesauce. That's it. Applesauce.

Trajectory and Intersection...

2011-01-22T17:42:00.000-08:00

I have not spent many hours of my life in protestant churches. I'm what they refer to as a "Cradle Catholic". This means I was raised on a healthy diet of ritual, incense and tradition thousands of years old. Part of what comes along with the sense of home, comfort and familiar that the Mass brings, is the exact opposite feeling when a Catholic enters a different sort of church. This can be unsettling, but it can sometimes be an impetus to really open your heart and listen.

One of the most soul-sticking sermons I've ever heard was in a Baptist church. I've oft quoted it to friends who find themselves in dark, uncertain times and have embraced it numerous times this year. The pastor said, "Wouldn't it be nice if God gave us a big, bright spotlight that shone all the way down our path and illuminated it so that we could see exactly where to go with our lives? But.....He didn't. He gave us a puny little flashlight, and we poke along in the darkness, winding, turning and making choices based on the tiny circle of light a few inches in front of our face. We live, day to day, making choices based on what is illuminated for us by our pathetic little flashlights."

I truly believe that my trajectory in the past 20 years of my life has been a testament to his accurate depiction of how our lives truly unfold. I look back on decisions I have made with my tiny flashlight-beam-illumination, and see how drastically my path would have veered left or right had I had a little more foresight....a bit stronger batteries in the flashlight. I have made some decisions that, as it unfolded, were brilliant compared to the amount of available information they were based on. Conversely, I made some really painful, damaging decisions that will continue to reverberate in my life, never allowing me to forget the path I chose with dim light and poor attention to intuition. The ghosts of my choices both haunt me and keep me company. Their presence in my life serves, in alternating cadence, as an admonition and as warm, satisfying approval.

I look back and realize that we set off as young adults from our launch pad, and our choices, effort and tenacity draw the line of our trajectory. So often, the arc of such has no obvious meaning to us until we hit an intersection...a point in time and space where our trajectory crosses that of another.

Sensing that this little essay has gone a bit vague and metaphorical, let me nail down a real-life example.

When my son was born, we struggled as a family to provide the best possible care for him as an infant, considering I had to return to work when he was three months old. The saga of his childcare ran the gamut of perfect, adequate, horrible, to perfect again....It was a roller coaster, emotionally, financially, and mentally. When my daughter was born, we were in a very good place with our son, and I felt such tremendous relief that the stress I suffered with her brother would not be repeated. That's, of course, when life began laughing at me. The rug was pulled out from under us and we were back to square one with our daughter's care. I cried for two weeks straight. Little did I know that this subtle arc in my trajectory was lining me up for a point of intersection that would change the course of the rest of my life. It was, through an act of desperation, that I enrolled Evangeline in a daycare completely across town, and came to know my dear friend, Kandy, whose trajectory had been running parallel with mine, unknown and unnoticed.

Over the next year, our friendship weathered a series of changes in my life that eventually took me to unemployed and searching, with a flashlight whose batteries seemed weaker and weaker as the days went by, until that certain day, I sat...sad, dejected, and without direction, in Kandy's office. Somehow, our conversation took a turn to the left, and a new chapter in my life began--right then and there. And I felt it...down deep. The light got brighter. I had energy. I had motivation. I had renewed hope. Part of it was that Kandy is the type of person who is an inspiration without ever trying. She sees the good in people, believes in them, and loves without limits. She's the kind of person I try to be. However, the other part was that I had simply come to the place where my life was stripped down, laid open, and in a position to accept a sharp turn away from what I had thought was going to be my future. It was a perfect storm of vulnerability, fate, serendipity, and miracle. The stars lined up, and I basked in the fleeting glow of certainty. It was one of those points of bliss where trajectory intersects at just the right moment in time and space.

Kandy and I will both graduate from nursing school later this year. We will both be there, for one another, sitting in the audience at our respective ceremonies, with what can only be described as our own little secret. Only we truly know how it felt to share a moment when we made brave choices, together, to change our trajectory. My career will forever be tied to hers. Our dream was born together, in a moment of illumination. She will forever be a part of the advent of something beautiful in my life.

So, with that concrete example under my belt, I'll slide back into symbol and say that it strikes me as no coincidence that one year from the date of the hardest, darkest change in trajectory I have ever experienced, I once again find myself in a place of illumination-- a place of light and hope and intersection.

Perhaps the more moments like this we experience, the more comfortable we become with them. When I was younger, with less experience to draw from, moments of clarity brought with them a certain type of fear. Perhaps one of the gifts of age and suffering and living fully is an openness to moments of bliss... times and experiences that can't be explained, described or predicted.

I have come to peace and terms with the courage it takes to keep taking steps forward, despite the darkness that is all around. The small circle of light is comforting. My flashlight batteries are fresh.

Warts and all...

2010-10-20T11:30:00.000-07:00

Last year, I remember reading a Catholic writer's take on facebook. She laments both the self-promotion and voyeuristic qualities of social-networking, saying that we only present the side of ourselves we find flattering in our profiles. She claims that we can draw ourselves as witty, clever, interesting and become our own little celebrities with the power of status updates. She warns against falling victim to the belief that people actually care that we dropped by Walgreens to pick up ibuprofen, or that we are suffering from road rage at a red light. She makes a good point about the danger of developing online relationships where we only reveal one side of our personalities....the best side.

As a big fan and devotee of facebook, I did a bit of eye-rolling when I first read the article. Maybe because it hit close to home? Maybe because I am guilty of only posting when I feel witty, upbeat, clever and personable. Any negative or self deprecating comments I feel like posting are humorous and will hopefully garner a little companion-sympathy and a few "I've been there" comments. However, when I am in a dark place, and I am handling whatever difficult time life is throwing at me in a not-so-flattering way, my facebook page tends to go pretty quiet. Guilty. I'm freely admitting to building an online persona that will look like a rose garden to any high school nemesis that I inadvertently friended. You won't find me updating my status to say, "drinking my second glass of wine, crying over old emails and feeling like a total loser." I swear.

So what's the harm in this? We've all been in the uncomfortable position of reading miles of status updates from people who can't quite seem to keep their personal stuff personal. My favorite thing to say about these emotional cyber-sluts is that "she/he has NO business being on facebook." Ok, yes. That sounds bitchy, but bear with me. I do have a point.

There are some parts of us that we want the world to see, and some we, obviously, don't. I don't think it's unreasonable to want to keep the not-so-attractive side of our personalities private. And by private, I don't mean lock yourself in your house when you aren't at your best. I mean, instead of sharing them with 576 facebook "friends" you actually share those things with real friends. The ones who you have on your cell phone speed dial. The ones who love you enough to love your worst side.

It's a pretty human phenomenon. Don't we all have a face that we show to the world, or attempt to, and a deeper, maybe more truthful side as well? Maybe the trick to integrating our own little angels and devils is to trust them to the people who we know love the whole...the dark and the light...the status-worthy and the cringe-worthy parts of who we are.

I think I could never truly love someone who was always at their best...a person I felt was always wanting me to see their pulled together, polished side. More accurately, the side they want me to see.

I'm thinking now of my three very best friends....and the moments when I have felt the most closeness with them. All three times I'm thinking of were when they were either broken in some way or vulnerable, and they chose ME to see it. They came to me with the gritty, the ugly, the unattractive. They let me in and trusted me with their worst selves, knowing that I would love them anyway. That is, in a somewhat convoluted way, when we are at our best. When we are human enough to show who we really are to another human being, and be re-affirmed that we are like-able...even love-able when we give in to our weaknesses, fears, and shortcomings. It's not an easy thing to do, and it's easier for some than for others.

So who is the real person? Which of these is the authentic self? It's not who we portray to the world. It's not us broken and blubbering on a friend's shoulder when we just can't hold it together any longer. It's not the hermit that pulls the shades and hides in the quiet comfort of the mind.

It's all of it. All of it together. We are a sum of our parts, our personas, our strengths and our weaknesses. And we are, as I see it, searching for someone who can see it all, and love us anyway.

Convicted...

2010-10-04T17:44:00.000-07:00

My children will be polite if it is the last thing I do. Southern manners will not die out with my generation. So help me, God of the Bible Belt and all things holy and served with cornbread. Tonight, I had to remind both children at least a bejeeelion times to not say "Yeah." but "Yes, Maam". And "No ma'am" instead of "nope". I remind them with the phrase that tonight, made me seem like I was stuttering. "Excuse me?"

K: Have you brushed your teeth?

H: Nope.

K: Excuse me?

H: No, Ma'am.

K: Evangeline, did you go to the bathroom?

E: Yep.

K: Excuse me?

E: Yes, Ma'am.

When I had to pull out the "Excuse me?" TWICE in five minutes, once on each child, after the aforementioned corrections, I was ready to scream. So, I did.

K: Aaaarrrghhhh! I'm gonnna.......

E: You gonna put us in jail, Mommy?

Of course, I cracked up and all lectures ceased to be poignant as we rolled laughing. My convictions stand...but I'm done for tonight. Let me go say our "now I lay me's" before somebody needs a bail bondsman.

Greatest show on Earth?

2010-09-28T07:44:00.001-07:00

One thing that is very important to me as a parent is exposing my children to live entertainment. Concerts, art exhibits, plays...even Sesame Street live and The Wiggles in concert, count. This is, in my opinion, the wax-on, wax-off theory of raising a child who is at home at a cultural venue. If they go through the motions enough as a young person, sitting in The Strand Theatre with a date in their teens will feel as natural as sitting in Tinseltown. That's the plan, at least.

This is why, when the circus came to town this weekend, we were SO there. Before some of you bemoan the state of the circus animals and their exploitation and abuse, let me just say that while I love animals as much as the next guy, I rarely boycott anything at all, the exception being any restaurant that ever gave me food poisoning. So, let's just leave the politics out of this discussion, mmmmkay?

The kids' school was giving away passes which entitled the bearer to a free child's ticket with the purchase of an adult ticket. What could be better than free, right? So, mom and I decided we would treat the kids to a day at the circus.

Now, I am by no means a veteran Mommy....I've only been at this for five years, but I have learned a few things along the way. Rule #127 in my own personal mommy handbook is "Never announce an exciting event to your children in advance." Rationale? Anticipation in young children is highly over-rated. It generally exhibits as annoying and constant harassment of the parent from the moment it is mentioned until the moment the exciting event begins. This works exceptionally well for birthday parties, parades, planned visits to Chuck-E-Cheese, and vacations. It is less successful for major holidays. Stupid marketing geniuses at Wal-Mart screw that one up for you. I can't hide Halloween nor the impending arrival of Santa or the Bunny. Kids are not that dumb.

Following rule #127, we pull up to the Century Tel Center and Harrisen's eyes go wide.

H: "MOM. Are we gonna see The Wiggles?"
K: "No, honey.......we are gonna see....."

*wait for it*

K: "The CIRCUS!"

And the crowd-of-two goes wild in the back seat. Rule #127 never fails.

Hand in hand, we walk up to the box office. I give them a talk.

K: "Now, kids, Mommy and Grammy are going to buy you tickets to the circus, ok? It costs money to SEE the circus. The circus is the TREAT. There are going to be lots of toys and things to buy, but we aren't going to buy them. We will buy a snack, and we will see the circus. Ok?"

E & H: "Okay, Mommy!"

So we buy our tickets. Even with the passes, the tickets were $40.

We walk in and are met by a friendly, neighborhood Shriner hawking souvenir program books. We avert right. The kids are none the wiser. Books are not that intriguing, anyway. We manage to avoid inflatable dolphins and Sponge-Bob-on-a-stick as well. My kids know me well enough to not even ask for Sponge-Bob anything. They may be young, but they ain't stupid. They know when to hedge their bets.

We get great seats. Midway up, directly in line with ring number two of the three rings. Pretty soon, the snack hawkers descend. I don't much mind snack hawkers. Snacks are yummy, and they don't collect dust in my house. I'm good with snacks at events, even un-healthy, overpriced ones.

Grammy flags down the cotton candy man. I smile. There is not much in life I enjoy more than cotton candy, myself. There are two versions of cotton candy to be had at the circus: the pink version and the blue version. The cotton candy versions just so happen to coincide with the two versions of offspring I have sitting next to me. Go figure. Of course, Harrisen wants the blue version and Evangeline (as well as every other girl-child in the arena) believes if it's pink, it should be hers. Grammy orders the blue, and in an uncharacteristic bit of self-control and quiet acquiescence, Evangeline complies without fuss. We enjoy our $4.00 cotton candy.

Shortly after we finish our cotton candy, the popcorn dude comes up the aisle. I'm one of those people who like to chase sweet with salty. The kids don't have to ask twice for popcorn. Popcorn comes in only one variety, thankfully, and is enticing in the old fashioned red and white striped box. Another $4.00 later, the kids are happily munching stale popcorn and the lights dim.

With the dimming of the lights, the holy-grail of circus-going children becomes evident in all it's glory. The blinking LED light wand.

This seizure-inducing toy is exactly what I hoped to avoid with the aforementioned "we are buying tickets not toys" speech. Raise your hand if you believe the lecture stuck with my children in the presence of hundreds of their peers waving blinking wands over their heads? It's playground taunting at it's highest level.

I lean over to Harrisen.

K: "Honey, remember, we are here to see the show. We are not going to buy a light up toy."
H: "Please?"
K: "No, honey. We had snacks. We bought tickets. Let's enjoy the show."

The circus begins, and I must say, it is probably the nicest circus I have ever seen. The costumes are fancy, the acrobats are nimble and enthusiastic, the elephant balancing on a rotating pedestal made Mom and I both nod at each other appreciatively. There is a very funny dog show and only one clown I had to endure. (I hate clowns.) Despite the fact the ring-master was actually a ring-mistress and looked and sounded exactly like Fran Drescher, we were totally enjoying the show. The kids were mesmerized. They were glued to the acts and clapped like crazy people. I was really glad we were there.

Then Fran makes her way to the center ring.

F: Ladeeeeees and Gentlemen. Chiiiiiildreeeen of all ages. I would like to call your attention to the aisles where our nuuuuuumber ONE, popular SOUVENIR ooooooof the CIRCUS is ON SALE NOW! Fantaaaastic glowing light wands will be your faaaaaavorite toy LOOOOONG after the circus is over! With their easily replaceable batteries, they will bring you joy for WEEEEEKS to come!"
blah. blah. nasally blah.

Mom leans over.

M: Is she seriously doing a commercial for the light wands?
K: Seems that way to me.
F: RAISE YOUR HAND and our vendors will bring you your OWN FLASHING LIGHT WAND!
K: Bitch.

The kids' hands shoot up.

Mom looks over at me. Our kids are adorable and expectant. The kids whose parents and grandparents love them unconditionally are happily waving their lighted wands overhead. Mom says:

M: Do you want to get them now or later?
K: Might as well get it over with.

I leave the transaction to Mom. She moves to the aisle and I try not to interfere. I probably could have stayed strong, but grandparents have even more peer pressure at special events, I think. Mommy is supposed to be a hard ass. Grammy is expected to over-rule Mommy. Grammy was between a rock and a hard place.

Harrisen comes back to his seat with a 3 foot long light saber with 4 color-changing LED's and a faceted disco ball apparatus on the handle that shoots blinding rays of light in a 360 degree radius. Evangeline was flapping a plastic crystal butterfly on a wand that flashes its spring loaded wings in a dizzying display of strobe lighting. Our entire row was instantly illuminated. It looked like a rave. I heard the dad behind us groan.

K: "Kids, we still have to watch the show. We are gonna have to turn the lights off, ok?"
H: "Ok, Mommy."
E: "WHHHHHaaaaaaaa!"
K: "I will give that butterfly BACK to the butterfly man if you don't turn it off."

Harrisen is no longer watching the show. He is looking at his now-dark, light-up saber and smiling. I ask Mom:

K: "How much were those flashing things...?"
M: "$15. Each."
K: "Shit! I thought they were TEN."
M: "The plain ones were ten. They didn't want the plain ones."
K: "Of course not."

I lean over to my son.

K: "Honey, look at the acrobats! On The Wheel of Destiny! In ring number one!"

He manages to tear his eyes from his plastic wand long enough to enjoy the rest of act one. We are still impressed by the circus. It's really quite entertaining.

Fran comes back out to announce intermission.

F: "Ladieeeeees and Gentlemennnnnn! We have come to the halftime show!"

She pauses to take a breath. Men in black shirts, ties and shiny black polyester slacks rush into action. Before she could utter another syllable, they transform rings one, two and three into the stuff of preschool dreams. Do you remember the end of "Annie"? When Daddy Warbucks cleans up all the orphans and throws them a big-ass carnival at the mansion? Well, this was the Bossier City version of that sort of overblown, over-the-top fantasyland, but big-top Shriner-style. Pony rides. Elephant rides. Face painting with glitter. Take your photo with a snake. And FOUR, count 'em, FOUR bouncy houses. I'm not sure whose eyes were bigger, ours or the kids. However, it did not stop there. Having sucked hundreds of dollars out of parents with the blinky wand tactic, the same circus soldier salesmen were now carrying the most cartoon-perfect latex balloons on sticks you have ever seen. Huge and round, in perfect primary colors. Crack for a three year old.

E: I want to ride an eeeeewuuuufint!
K: Honey, we are NOT riding an elephant. Or a pony.
H: Mom, are those bouncy houses for us kids?
K: No, honey, they are for the kids whose mommys really love them.

Ok, so I didn't say that last part. But I sure thought it.

E: I want a bawooon!
M: Dwennie, you have a flashing butterfly wand!
E: Gwammy, can we give him my butterfwy back and get a bawoon?
M: I wish.

Ok, so Mom didn't really say that, but she sure thought it.

It was at this point, I had just finished texting a friend of mine to inquire why they did not sell beer at the circus. Mom leans over and says, "I wish they sold beer at the circus."

As the kids longingly watched the special children of the world ride elephants and ponies and get painted up like the tigers, we adults put our thinking caps on.

M: This is going to take a while.
K: Yep. They totally have us where they want us.
M: We paid for our tickets. They have our money...
K: But they don't yet have the money of all of the people still waiting in line to ride an elephant.
M: They aren't going to start act II until every single child in line has ridden an elephant. Or a pony. Look at that woman walking in circles in pony poop. Bless her heart.
K: This is cruel. Our children have a ringside seat to watch all the other kids ride an elephant.
M: Do you think they would leave now?

Little did Mom know, I had a trick up my sleeve. You see, Mom did not teach me rule #127. There are plenty of rules in my book that did come from her, but #127 is all mine. I break out the secret weapon.

K: "Hey kids. You guys want to go to a birthday party?"
E: "With ice cream?"
H: "And cake?"
E: "And goodie bags?"
K: "You bet."

We were out of there in 3 minutes. As we walked down the steps to the parking lot, Harrisen said:

H: "Thank you for taking me to the circus. I loved it."
E: "I wanna ride an elephant."
K: "We'll ride one at the Fair."

As I hugged Mom and thanked her for going to the circus with us, we added up our expenses. Even with the free tickets, we dropped almost $80.00 at the circus and we did not ride so much as the elevator.

We told each other that it was for a good cause. Shriner's Hospital is a wonderful charity and they did remove an extra toe from my niece's foot when she was a baby. That had to set them back more than eighty bucks, so we felt pretty good about our investment.

I still love the circus. I love showing my kids a good time, especially when it involves live performers. However, I despise being taken for a fool, and milked for my money through manipulation of my children. That is not what the circus should be about. It's not what childhood should be about! With materialism and commercialization overrunning every child-centric venue, it makes me wonder: when did the experience itself become not enough? When did it become such that we all need to wear the t-shirt or wave the glowing wand to prove that we had a good time? How do I fight the ring-masters of the world who are serving my kids the kool-aid with both hands? I know it's a battle that won't be won by giving in each time, but when the kids are young and don't truly understand, it's harder to follow through than you might think. Maybe I'll figure it out in time for The Revel.

Deliver us...

2010-08-29T05:48:00.001-07:00

Overheard on a Sunday morning...

H: Mom, can Dwennie be a space girl when she grows up?
K: Of course, honey. She can be anything she wants to be when she grows up!
H: Except a priest.
K: Right. Except a priest.
E: Whaaaaaaaa! I wannaaaaa beeeeeee a PWWEEEEEEESST!

First thing flying through my mind:
Oh God. It's a curse. Even at three years old, women want what they can never have. Deliver us both from this Evil.

Welcome to the Holy Roman Church of ancient Patriarchy, my loves. Get up and get dressed for Mass.

Walking the plank...

2010-07-31T05:22:00.000-07:00

My kids were born 10 days apart. Wait. Let me clarify. They were born 10 days shy of two years apart. For one of the most fertility-challenged women I know, November was a good month for me.

This sucks for several reasons.

#1: Mother's jewelry loses it's interest. They have the same birthstone. So, it's like, "Oh, what a nice ruby ring. And another ruby ring. Or, a ring with two rubies. How clever. Oh, maybe I'll get the pendant mother's necklace. But do I buy two ruby dangles or just one? Isn't two redundant? But won't one child get gypped if I only buy one ruby dangle? If I buy two, how will I know which ruby is for which kid?" You see. It becomes complicated. Sucks the joy right out of etsy, I swear.

#2: To party en masse, or not. This one I seriously struggle with. We have a large family. This family typically shows up for every kid party, driving in from the country, some from out of state, to celebrate. Wouldn't it be just a tad silly and selfish to expect them to do this twice in one month? BUT...don't the kids deserve their own special party? Don't they deserve to celebrate the miracle that is their birth independently? I mean, it's hardly their fault their momma didn't consider the ramifications of this when she was planning their conceptions. Hold on. Let me recover from the hysterical laughter [ . . . ] Ok. I'm good now.

#3: Kid parties in the summer suck donkey balls. Period. It's flipping hot in Louisiana in July and all of your school friends are totally MIA. It reminds me of my childhood, celebrating my birthday in late November. I made do with crazy aunts and uncles singing off key and candles stuck in pumpkin pie.

So, suffice it to say, I am working against a few obstacles in birthday party planning. To complicate matters, I have extremely high party ambitions. I like to fancy myself a party creating diva. My kid's parties (with the exception of last year, where I fell hard ONTO the wagon and did the whole thing the morning of at Dollar Tree and Sam's club....it's the year that shall remain nameless...and themeless. Unless primary colors count as a theme) are pretty special. I mean, there is generally sewing involved. And tiered cakes. And fondant. And Photoshop. I enjoy this. I truly do. I get tremendous pleasure out of envisioning something and then bringing the vision to fruition. Before you think I'm getting all high and mighty about this, let me assure you, I am not. I pretty much am aware I am doing this for myself, and not the kids. Evangeline will not remember the 500 yards of pink tulle I spent hours draping for her first birthday. Harrisen will likely not remember three tiers of icicle-dripping glacier cake with dancing penguins on it...with his penguin printed shorts that matched the tablecloth that matched the banners, that matched his sister's dress....etc that I pulled off 2 weeks postpartum with a newborn. I was a little bit crazier then. Ok, a lot crazier then.

Sanity improvements aside, I still put a lot of internal pressure on myself to do their birthdays up right. I still art direct a theme and spend a lot of time on eBay, Oriental Trading and Birthday Express. This year, because my life remains out of control with school, I caved to the dual party. I just couldn't make it work otherwise and the kids seemed ok with it. At first, H wanted a robot party. Dwen was set on mermaids. Now, I'm good, but I ain't THAT good. (Though I would be lying if I said I didn't at least consider how to meld the two themes.) Long story shorter, the power of suggestion worked and Harrisen now thinks it was his idea to have a pirate and mermaid party. Arrrrgh, matey.

The kids are getting old enough to really get the concept of the party and be excited about it. They are even old enough to assist with the guest list. I was addressing invites yesterday and called them over to peruse the Montessori directory, just so I didn't inadvertently invite the spawn of Satan or the bane of their existence the party. Harrisen went first. There was nobody he wanted to exclude from his list. Typical for my angel boy. While we couldn't invite his whole enormous class, he truly wanted to.

Then, I called Evangeline over to compose her guest list. She took this very seriously. (some names have been changed to protect the innocent.)

K: Ok, Dwen. We can't invite all of your friends, so let's choose some who are your best best friends, ok?
E: Ok, mommy.
K: How about Jessica?
E: She cries a lot. She doesn't like to come into the classroom.
K: Ummm...ok. How about Samantha?
E: I can't say her name.
K: But we can still invite her. Even if you can't say her name.
E: Ok, mommy.
K: Let's see...Clayton?
E: He eats rice cakes. The big people kind.
K: Really? Well, do you want to invite him?
E: Ok, mommy.
K: Let's see. Lila. You love Lila. You talk about her a lot!
E: OH! Yes! Lila wears a flowered dress!
K: Every day?
E: Yep.
K: James. Your teacher said James is your good good friend.
E: Uh huh! He is gooooooood! He helps me! He brings me water for the speckled frogs!
K: Really? Let's see...a few more. How about Trey?
E: (serious look. very serious.) He. He. He eats his food when it's not lunchtime.
K: Oh dear.
E: (nods. Still very serious. I can tell this is a crime of massive proportion in Toddler North.)
K: Ok, one more. How about Brandon?
E: (looks shy, bats her eyes and glances away.)
K: (Oh shit. Let's not invite Brandon.)

It took the majority of the afternoon and evening for me, in cooperation with Daddy, to get the invite design finished, re-designed (remember, I mentioned cooperating with Daddy?), printed, trimmed, addressed and stamped. We even missed the trip to the park I had promised the kids. Harrisen was surprisingly understanding. We returned from the post office about 8:00 PM.

H: Whew. Mommy, those invitations were a lot of work, weren't they?
K: Yes, honey they take a lot of time.
H: But it will be so worth it. It will even be worth missing the park today.
K: (How did I end up with a compassionate five year old? Thank you, God.)

So, next weekend, I will walk the plank in our first birthday celebration where Mommy and Daddy will have to cooperate in public, for an event that is emotional in the sheer fact that their original birthdays were the happiest days of our lives together. I don't dread it, but there is a little fear of the unknown. I know it will be, essentially, a happy day. The kids will be delighted, and I will be surrounded by family and friends who love me. But it's hard to ignore the added stress that the party not only has to look good, but that I have to be a shining example of single-mommyhood with a perfectly functioning-though-separate family. Perhaps I should plan to serve a little grog with the buttercream.

Happy birthday to my miracles.

Bucket List.

2010-07-15T13:42:00.000-07:00

I have been meaning to actually put this down for over a year now. It's been stirring in my brain since last summer when I helped my friend, Kelly, click one off her bucket list. Somehow, forcing yourself to put it in tangible form holds you more accountable. These are in no particular order, as is obvious by number one...

1. Milk a cow
2. Dance en pointe
3. Stay in an over the water bungalow
4. Sing in an opera
5. Restore a vintage Airstream
6. Build an amazing treehouse
7. Learn to surf
8. Make love in the rain
9. Take my children to Africa
10. Deliver a baby
11. Have my writing published Nationally
12. See the Pope
13. Become a legit Eucharistic Minister
14. Fly in a helicopter
15. Convert a non-believer to Christianity
16. Learn to play piano
17. Direct a play
18. Attend a silent retreat
19. Cruise to Alaska
20. Tour the death camps in Poland
21. See the auroraborealis
22. Complete a triathalon
23. Run a 5k in under 30 minutes
24. Go to a nudist resort
25. See the pyramids
26. Participate in a protest
27. Take the kids to Disneyworld
28. Put $100 on black
29. Sit on a jury
30. Visit Acadie
31. Memorize the rest of "Paul Revere's Ride"
~~32. Donate blood~~
33. Boil a lobster at home
34. Ballroom dance
35. Swim with seals
36. Take a bath in a tub full of warm chocolate milk

So...36 goals...so far. One for each year of my life. There are some common themes...travel and religion, for sure. There is a lot of random. There are a few that are slightly embarrassing. In fact, in a way, all of these are a wee bit embarrassing. I'm not fond of discussing in public all the things I have not done, but if you want to get things accomplished, it's best to write them down. If you had to pick three things you don't want to leave this world without accomplishig, what would they be?

The making of a man...

2010-06-29T18:29:00.001-07:00

A couple of weekends ago, I took the kids to Caddo Lake for a weekend with Grammy and Grampy, camping in an old farm house with a great view of the cypress trees and sunset on the water. It was a nice time to reconnect and allow the stress to melt away a bit. I was there for a few hours before I felt I was taking my first deep breath of the summer.

I forget exactly what happened to bring about this conversation, but anyone who knows my son, Harrisen, will understand. Mom and I began discussing how blessed I am and how special and sweet both children are. We talked of their spirits and budding souls, and the conversation wound around, as conversations tend to do, to Harrisen and his tenderness.

Since he was a tiny baby, he has been a gentle soul. There is something incredibly tender and achingly sweet about his nature and spirit that make you want to grab him up and protect him from a sometimes cruel and hateful world. He has an innocence that is not found in many children these days, that is not solely due to my refusal to have toy weapons or anything harsher than LPB on the television. His sister does not have it. Evangeline, though 2 years younger and not yet three, juts out her chin and dares the world to cross her. She has a toughness about her that leaves me shaking my head already. Evangeline sees danger as a challenge. Harrisen sees danger as a confusing darkness he does not understand.

Harrisen tries so hard to please and takes to heart lessons, advice and direction. He admonishes his sister's devil-may-care approach with a sweet concern that likely stems from his lifelong lesson on being a big brother that he could likely quote word for word: "Evangeline is your baby sister. Your job is to help take care of her, protect her and love her." This is a job he takes very seriously.

Harrisen takes pride in his accomplishments and comes, wide eyed to you for acknowledgment and acceptance. He is mannerly, gentle and easily upset. His boy-like roughness is not hard like a kick or sharp like a poke, but rather like a pile of warm, snuggly puppies rolling around in a wicker basket.

When Harrisen is corrected, his eyes get big and soft, and he tucks his chin. Sometimes he cries. Sometimes he gets mad...but he always comes back, and in a sincerity that outpaces his years, asks for forgiveness. He seems to sense the importance of relationship and closeness and nurtures it with all of us. In some ways it makes him seem like a baby, while in other ways, he seems to be as wise as an old man. In some ways it makes him seem vulnerable, and in another way, it makes him seem (sometimes) stronger than me.

These are all qualities I love and cherish in my son...my first-born....my long-awaited. These things I am proud of. These things make him different from many of the other boys I have known. I find joy in his very unique self.

But, rocking on the screen porch of the lake house, Mom and I wondered aloud to each other, "Is Harrisen tough enough? Is his tenderness going to stand in the way of his growing up to be the kind of man he needs to be?" As mothers do best, we worry. We concern ourselves with bullies and harsh realities and inevitable heartbreaks.

About this time, Grampy walks up with a styrofoam container of worms and a fishing pole. He announces to us in his typical spare way, "Boys are goin' fishin'." Harrisen puts on his green monster life vest that he isn't too grown up to be embarrassed of and practically flies down to the pier.

We rock. Back and forth.

A few minutes later we hear a commotion coming from down on the pier. Seems my sweet boy has caught his first fish!

Some time later, Harrisen and Grampy come bustling up the path with a small igloo cooler containing four fat bream. Harrisen beams. He opens the cooler and asks Grampy if he can hold his fish. Grampy shows him how to put his thumb in the fish's mouth and pinch it tight so we can take the requisite photographs. Evangeline reaches out with one girly finger to touch the slimy scales and runs away shrieking. Harrisen is totally unfazed. He is totally digging holding this flipping, flopping, slimy fish. I am impressed. My son is doing something seemingly effortlessly...something I would only be capable of under penalty of death or mortal embarrassment.

He spends a few more minutes picking the fish up, dropping them in the grass, putting them back in the cooler and generally pestering them half to death when Grampy says, "So, Harrisen...what are you gonna do with your fish? Do you want to clean them and eat them, or let them go?"

Harrisen says, "I want to clean them!"

Visions of Harrisen adding dishwashing liquid to the cooler and adding tub toys for their enjoyment swirl in my mind. I know he does not understand the concept of cleaning a fish.

I intervene.

K: Harrisen, do you understand what cleaning a fish means?
H: Ummmm...I think so.
K: It means you have to kill the fish, H.
H: Ok.
K: You will have to cut the head off and get the guts out. The fish is going to die. Are you ok with that, honey?
H: Yep. I want to eat em.
K: Ok. That's good. I just want to make sure you understand.
H: I understand. Come on, Grampy. Let's go clean my fish.

I sit down, woozy. The boys take off back down to the pier.

Mom and I resume our conversation...

M: Are you going to go take pictures of him cleaning his fish?
K: I'm not sure I can. It kinda skeeves me out. I don't like seeing them die.
M: You need to take a picture.
K: I still don't think he gets what is about to happen.
M: Kate, I think he does. You spelled it out. He knows, and he's ok with it.

I haul my queasy self down to the pier and watch (and record for posterity) Grampy whack each fish several times with the back of a big metal spoon before he cuts off their heads. Harrisen says "bye" to each fish as they meet the buck-knife guillotine. He uses his chubby little fingers to dig guts out of their bodies. He holds each fish down firmly as he saws the scales off with the big silver spoon. His blond curls glisten with fish scales. He smiles. He is proud. He seems taller.

I can only witness something I can't fully understand. The man is hiding in every little boy. Even my sweet, precious, innocent and vulnerable little boy. This is something he did not need me for. He did not need me to scale that fish. The desire and gumption to do that was born in him...drug along on that Y-chromosome from the moment he was created. I feel a satisfying distance grow between mother and son at that moment. He has stepped through a door. I watch my four year old son do something I am unable to do. He has connected with something lying dormant inside of him, brought out by love and trust for another man who showed him the way.

This is how men are made. I pray that, along with many loving and kind men and women in his life, I am helping make a good one.

What would YOU say?

2010-06-23T11:36:00.000-07:00

I am taking a class this semester called "Death and Dying". Both appropriate and challenging, considering I have lost both grandfathers during the course of the semester. The major assignment of the course was to write our own eulogy. I struggled. I started. I deleted. I considered taking the easy way out and writing a short, sweet and vanilla homage to myself. I finally waited until I had something to say, and as they usually do, the words came.

Eulogy for Katie Hall Smith

Katie was a person who deeply valued family, friends, loyalty, and love. She admired those who were not afraid to stand up for their beliefs. She honored education and the Arts. She reveled in her children and dedicated herself to them. She held tightly to her faith, even when it was challenged. Most anyone who knew Katie at all, knew these things about her.

If you are here today, it stands to reason that you probably know the high points of Katie's life...her talents, accomplishments, strengths, and even weaknesses. Any of you likely could have given the first few lines of this eulogy.

Wouldn't it be interesting to not talk about the glowing things everyone already knows at a funeral? Wouldn't it be refreshing to learn, even at this time, some things you might not have known about Katie? Recently she was on a journey...a journey to understanding herself and her world. A quest to peel away the layers of obvious...to pare down the soul and spirit to the original, the organic...the truth. I believe we owe it to her today to do the same as we remember her.

Did you know that as a child, Katie spent an entire summer licking S&H Green Stamps with her Great Grandmother while watching Another World? She didn't particularly like soap operas (a preference that followed her to the end of her life) and she certainly didn't particularly enjoy licking hundreds of stamps and putting them in little books. What motivated her to ride her bike across Gilliam day after day was the reward of hours of time spent in the presence of two of the people she loved most, and who made her feel connected to something greater than herself, her Grandmere and MeMe. The french language, strong coffee in little cups and stories of people she only knew from photographs lit a fire at a young age; fueled a desire to connect and identify with the side of her that came over from Acadia on a boat so many generations ago. This fascination and identification led her, 15 years later , across the ocean to West Africa to learn the language of her grandmothers...of the LeBlancs and Pellissiers and Begnauds. Even though she heard the language in a different accent, on a different continent and among people far removed from the Acadians, she knew she was stitching up a hole in her history; she was closing a language barrier that began with her father and will hopefully not end with her children. Her connection to her history, through her love and admiration of her grandmothers, led her to read and re-read the story of her people and give her daughter a name to grow into: Evangeline.

Speaking of Africa....how on earth does a little white girl from a small, private, liberal arts college end up studying on the dark continent? Katie did not come from a long line of people who spent their Junior year abroad in exotic locales. She did not necessarily come from a family that spent a lot of time considering other cultures and ways of life. She did, however, come from a family who valued her...her spirit of adventure, her unpredictability and her courage. When Katie was given the opportunity to apply for a grant to study in Africa, her mother probably knew she would do it. She knew enough to know that Katie would likely accomplish what she set her mind to. She also knew that if Katie were to make it to Senegal, it would no be through any effort on her part! Carole remembers the day she learned of her daughter's desire to spend a year in Africa: “I told her I loved her, I supported her and I would be very proud of her. But I absolutely was not going to help her get there. I would not type a form...I would not mail it off. I would not finance this dream at all. I couldn't. It had to be her decision, her effort and her choice. I knew that if, God forbid, something happened to her over there, I wanted no responsibility in it. I knew she would do it. And she did.” Katie came home a year later transformed. She literally became a different, deeper, better version of herself that year. A little part of her heart always remained in West Africa. She never underestimated the evolution of her character that happened that year. It set the stage for the last 15 years of her life.

Did you know that Katie never passed a beggar, homeless person or panhandler without giving them something? A dollar, five dollars, a package of crackers, a taco out of her combo meal....She had seen poverty. She knew it up close. She never again took for granted the blessings of shelter, clothing and food. She became extremely frugal. She shopped at Goodwill and bought on sale. Before she went to Africa, she had credit cards to every major department store in the mall. In the last fifteen years of her life, she likely set foot in a mall 2-3 times per year instead of 2-3 times per week. This year, leaving the Festival Plaza in Shreveport, pulling her children in a wagon, they passed a homeless man in a doorway, leaned over his sack of collected aluminum cans. Katie stopped the wagon in front of this man and emptied her bag of every last snack and juice box she had packed for the kids. She gave him a blessing and the food and took two bewildered toddlers back to the car. Evangeline was crying for her juice box. Harrisen was asking questions about why the man was dirty and why Mommy had given their snacks to him. Her children have been deprived of so many lessons in the future by losing their mother so young, but when you see them today, ask them what you should do if you see a hungry, poor, dirty man on the street and you have a bag full of snacks. They know.

They also know about God. Katie had a prie dieu in her bedroom, with icons of the Blessed Virgin and Christ. Though she was devoutly Catholic, and knew by heart most of the prayers in her prayer book, she taught her children that God, Jesus and Mary were there to talk to in their words, in their time. The kids would stand on the kneeler, look up at the icons, and say, “Hi Jesus. Hi Mary. I love you. Amen.” They are well on their way to a spiritual life as deeply rooted in action as their mother's.

Did you know that Katie once took a $25,000-a-year pay cut to go to work for the Church? She did. She was working in sales for a major network television affiliate (a career that never suited her) and left it to pursue a career raising money for the Catholic Church in Northwest Louisiana. She was fond of saying, “I got sick of waking up each morning for the sole purpose of raising money for fat guys on a golf course in Alabama.” So, she devoted the next decade to raising money for things that mattered: the hungry, the poor, the unborn, the men who wanted to be priests...things she cared deeply about. Working for the church, she was known to say, was like, “pulling back the green velvet curtain and seeing the wizard pulling all the levers...” This intimate relationship with the Catholic Church led her into a deeper understanding of her faith and a mature relationship with God. It forced both an acceptance and a healthy criticism of something so close to her. It was a time in her life that she treasured and was extremely proud of.

Did you know that Katie was a handyman? She hated depending on anyone to hang, move, repair, paint, wire or plumb anything. She couldn't always do the job totally by herself, but she always tried. Her independent streak and self sufficiency were qualities in herself that she truly valued, and she was tireless in her work. She was goal-oriented and would not stop until she collapsed or finished. She helped her father lay a floor in her kitchen a week before she was due to deliver Harrisen. She rolled around like a bowling ball on that floor until it was complete. Nobody ever had as much energy as she did when there was a deadline to meet. A goal was a challenge and she never backed down.

It's no great secret that Katie Smith was smart. However, I'll bet not many of you knew that Katie was a geek. She was. The trendy clothes and put-together look, as well as her ability to truly work the room at a party, belied the fact that she was a book junkie, a constant learner, and a delver into the things of the mind. She visited the library more times that she liked to admit and called it alternately her “cave” and “sanctuary”. Katie read non-fiction for fun. She took senior-level Literary Criticism at Centenary as an elective. She valued her few friendships where she could open up that part of herself and share her thoughts and intellect with those who both understood it and appreciated it. It was a pretty private side of her life, and a quiet one...but it was extremely important to her. Any of you know about iTunes university? Katie did. Look it up.

On the outside, Katie was passionate, dramatic, and often emotional and impulsive. What her closest friends and family know is that Katie could also be extremely rational. She was an excellent listener and friends relied on her to tell them the truth...not what they wanted to hear, but what they needed to hear. Her advice was often sought, and was always tempered with love and compassion. Katie was known to the world as a talker: someone who always had a lot to say, lots of it funny, much of it over the top, and sometimes exaggerated for effect! But when her phone rang, as it often did, with friends or family in crisis, the performance stopped and the talk quieted. She listened...thought...and then chose words carefully and sparingly. In these times, she was able to say much with few words. Those closest to her will tell you that Katie was one to love despite people's shortcomings, trust despite being burned, and look for the good in people, sometimes to her own detriment. Her ability to be compassionate in the face of pain led just about everyone who knew her to agree she would have been uniquely successful in her latest endeavor, nursing. She liked to say, “It only took me 36 years to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up!” Many people who heard she had gone back to school to become a nurse had an immediate reaction of shock, which was quickly replaced by a knowing smile and nod...that, yes, it indeed made a world of sense.

In the last two years of her life, Katie was experiencing a Renaissance. She was shedding painful parts of herself and her world that had kept her from experiencing the fullness of life she desired and deserved. She was searching and working daily to achieve peace and truth in her life. She was setting goals and attacking them in her typical unrelenting fashion. Some may say she died at the most inopportune time... in the middle of her journey. However, I believe she died in a very appropriate time: a time of pruning...and we all know what happens after pruning. We flower and grow and bear fruit beyond all measure. May the memory of Katie continue to bear fruit in the lives of those who loved her.

I encourage all my friends to do this assignment. If not on paper, in your head. It was a very clarifying experience for me. I think I shall live better to truly live up to it.

Letter to my 20 year old self...

2010-06-15T20:05:00.001-07:00

So, I blatantly stole this from Kelly...but I thought it was a worthwhile exercise, especially in the midst of a time of major growth in my life and heart. If I would have been told at twenty that 16 years in the future I would be a single mom struggling through a divorce and nursing school...raising my kids and scraping by with the lowest paying job I have had since college...well, I would have laughed in the face of whatever fool was doing the telling. But life is quirky like that and reality is sometimes stranger than fiction. So, what follows is a note to a not-quite grown up Katie...theatre major at Centenary, top of the world, nothing-will-stop-her-girl. But you know what? Even if I could, I probably would not mail it. It's a fun exercise in theory, but would it really have changed anything I regret?

Dear Katie (version 2.0):

Hey, brat. Yeah, you. You with the big ego and creepy hippie clothes.

I've got some things to say to you, things you likely will neither completely believe or understand, but I'm going to give it a shot.

First of all, good for you for being brave. Your bravery will be a trait that you will rely on in tough times ahead. You will also curse it from time to time, as it sometimes masks a certain arrogance and pig-headed-ness that will get you into trouble. Best thing to do now is to learn the difference between the two. Brave is good. Arrogant and blind is not. Temper the bravery with reality. Please.

Speaking of reality, it's a good time in life to really get real. You are spending lots of time building a life around things that are, by necessity and definition, fake. Smoke and mirrors. Velvet drapes and blue gels. Blackout. Costume change. Strike the set and move on to the next character. It's exhilarating. It's fun. You are very good at it. It's also a really good way to avoid being real and knowing the person behind the character. If every day you play a character, where is the skill and talent of doing it on stage? You must have a reality to suspend to create art that is worthwhile. Spend some time and energy finding your authentic self. (and no, Dear. You have not already done that. Believe me.) As you do that, the characters you create will deepen. Don't hide behind them. Put them to bed after the curtain falls and go home with the truth. It will take a bit of that bravery I mentioned before.

Next, you need to learn to love. I DO NOT mean all those boys that smell of sawdust and steel grease, and Ben-Nye makeup. I mean yourself. You need to look in the mirror and love the girl with the flaming red hair, pale skin and green eyes. You need to go easy on her. She is the only friend you will have for the rest of your life. She will be your company when you are lonely; the one lying in bed with you each night. Almost twenty years from now, those same green eyes will stare back at you from the mirror, looking for acceptance. (The fire engine red hair will be, blessedly, a thing of the past.) Take care of her. Life will be challenging enough without scrutiny and criticism from within. Work hard but don't set the bar so high for things that don't matter. Be tough on yourself for not standing up for what you believe in...for being untrue to yourself...for falling short in kindness, tolerance, and patience...not for your pants size, your "B" in British Literature, or for not landing the lead in every single show this season. Come to think of it, that Brit Lit class will actually transfer as Fine Arts in nursing school, so spend a few more hours in the lobby of Hardin studying for that final...but, do go easy on the other stuff.

Katie, now is the time to get to know your family. For real. Not for what you think they are, or what you wish they were, but for the people they truly are. You are a big girl now. You can handle the truth. Don't wait five more years to learn who they are. Start learning it now, because the knowledge will help you through some dark days. This is another place in your life that calls for shedding the rose colored glasses of girlhood and giving in to the truth. It can be painful, but the truth is liberating. It will set you free. And while some relationships may change in ways you don't expect, others will be strong enough to flourish and bloom in full sun.

Seek direction with purpose. Your inclination is to impulsively head North, and when it begins to feel a bit chilly up there, turn around and set a course due South. But, truth be told, it's pretty hot down there. What you might be needing is a bit of Easterly winds...or Western sky. If you are headed in the wrong direction, it does not mean the right direction is the opposite direction.

People. People come and people go in life. There is an ever-evolving cast of characters that move fluidly in and out of the scenes you play. They all teach you something...eventually. Unfortunately, some lessons they have to teach will leave scars because they took so long to learn. Embrace people. Learn from them, but don't be hesitant to learn what they have to share early on. When someone shows you who they are...believe them. Right away. There is no substitute for kindness. There is no passion that is worth peace. Gentleness and goodness will nurture you and fill you up. Settle for no less in those you let get close to you. Kindness, peacefulness, gentleness and goodness. That is the bar for which you must reach. These are the qualities you should seek, in yourself and others.

So, as I draw this to a close, there is obviously a common theme. Truth. Honesty. Faithfulness to self. These are the things that you will struggle with developing when it's almost too late. Get a jump start on the lessons now. Listen to that little voice that whispers in the wings while the louder voices shout from the front row. Block out the loudmouths from time to time. Listen to and take direction. Don't be afraid to change the blocking in the middle of the scene. Improvise. Be brave. Be real. Love yourself.

Devotedly,

Katie (version 3.6)

Harrisenism...

2010-05-19T16:54:00.000-07:00

I was watching both kids play and splash in the new pool I bought for them (which should require a post in itself...big ugly blue monster that it is.) The sun was sparkling on their wet little faces and I was filled with such joy and peace and love, it was almost unspeakable. Harrisen came over to the hammock where I was reading and laid his head on my leg.

K: "I love you so much. You bring me great joy. Thank you for being my son."

H: "You oughtta thank God, Mommy. HE made me. All I did was come outta your tummy."

Reason number 1,365,789 that I love him, he brings me joy, and I thank God for him every day.

(and his fiesty little sister ain't so bad, either.)

My own best friend...

2010-01-15T06:45:00.000-08:00

This week on Facebook, the world has been doing a little time travel through profile pics, by posting an image of themselves from way back. Some have posted baby photos, others horrors of the seventies and eighties with feathered mile-high bangs and wretched polyester outfits. I decided to play along, since I needed to rev up my rarely-used scanner for some nursing school documents.

I shuffled through a box of photos under my bed and found some that were indeed a bit horrific...but this is the one that I was looking for in particular. The reason I was looking for this photo is not that it accurately captures how I actually looked when I was about 11 years old (though my family would say it does), but because it captures how I remember myself during the time that my childhood memories are full, bright and relatively accurate and complete. I was old enough to really remember myself and my world. And this is how I remember myself.

If I really scrutinize the photo, it's the eyes that reach out to grown-up Katie. My eyes are the same. Not just the shape and color, but what they say and how they express. Little Katie in this photo looks at me, and gives me what I seem to be searching for these days in my life: someone to see me...to hear me...to understand me; to look past the trappings of the exterior and to see inside me with emotional and intellectual x-ray vision. When I look at this photo, the girl looking back gets me. She's looking out with love. You can tell that she loves the person she's looking at. Twenty-five years ago, when the image was snapped, it was her mother. Today, she's loving her grown-up self...a self that could use a little of it right now.

It's a good lesson, I guess. Perhaps what I'm searching for is not out in the great unknown. Maybe I'm looking too far. Maybe, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, I should be looking in my own back yard. In a way, it's comforting. If it can be enough that I get myself, understand myself, hear myself...then I don't have to depend upon someone else to fill that space. Then, when I run across people who can also see me as I want to be seen, and love me how I want to be loved, then it's just serendipity. It's a worthy goal: to be able to be whole and happy with your own self-love and understanding. Not an easy one, but a worthy one. And I'm not one to back down from a challenge.

Harrisenism...

2009-09-29T21:29:00.000-07:00

My kids take gummy bear vitamins. Hell, I take gummy bear vitamins. They rock. But since they are indeed medication and are cunningly like candy, I keep them high in the cabinet, and instill a haunting fear of overdose in my children about them. So much so that I got a text from Kelly during the Taylor Swift concert, which looked something like this:

H n E want gummy vite. H says 1x day. can't remember if he had with bfast. Need clarification. Respond STAT.

So yesterday evening, Harrisen comes into the kitchen, with a serious look on his face.

H: I wish my taste buds could talk.
K: Why is that, buddy?
H: So they could help me remember if I had a gummy bear today.

It was so precious, I convinced him I could hear them, and he was "all clear" for a dose of the good stuff.

I don't think he bought for a minute that I could hear his taste buds, but he was sure happy to get his vitamin.

The view from here.

2009-09-22T11:21:00.000-07:00

Sometimes small things happen to us that unexpectedly shake up our perception of the world around us. It happened to me the other day, and I still can't shake the feeling of being shaken.

I am about to start my first healthcare related job. It's been two full months since I was hired, and I am getting a bit anxious to get started. I was called in for a physical that included several things, including being fitted for a space suit that would protect me in the event of some sort of bioterrorism attack, but that was not the perspective changing moment of the physical by any means. (though, just in case I ever pass out from a biochemical weapon and can't inform you and my HR chart is not handy, I need a size small mask and white spaceman helmet. You know. Just in case.)

The astounding part of the physical came not from the color blind test (I passed. That wasn't hard to self-diagnose.) ...or from the vision test, which, oddly enough, I had to cheat on a bit, cause I can't tolerate less than perfect or almost perfect, and it seems my right eye is a little sluggish these days on the 20-20 line...but it came from the height and weight portion of my assesment. Seriously.

Now, anyone who knows me very well at all knows that I have an accurate assesment of my weight at any given moment. I can pretty much calculate the weight of my clothing and the combined sum and difference of the number of times I visited the ladies room and the number of diet cokes yet consumed, at least until lunch. All this, based on my first thing in the morning daily weigh-in, within a half of a pound. You know you are jealous of that mad skill, huh?

So, I had purposefully worn lightweight linen and no chunky jewelry, knowing a physical usually entails standing on those horrifying doctor's scales that look not unlike a turn of the century torture device. I was not in any way shocked by the number the nurse called out. I was kinda proud it was exactly (well, within the requisite half-pound cushion) what I predicted. Then the question came.

N: How tall are you?
K: Five seven and a half. Or maybe five eight. I'm not really sure.
N: Well, why don't we measure you and see?

(Now is when you should pay attention.)

N: Um, honey, not quite.
K: Whatareyoutalkingabout?
N: You are five six. And barely a half.
K: That can't be right. I've been at least five-seven since high school.
N: I can measure you again.
K: Please.

I stood up straight. I stretched. I imagined that thread from the top of my head suspending me from the ceiling, you know, the one the yoga instructors tell you to imagine?

N: Five six. And barely 1/2.
K: I think that thing is broken. Look at it. It's all disconnected and floppy looking and...
N: It's not broken. It's supposed to be like that.
K: BARELY 1/2?
N: Not even close to 3/4.
K: shit.
N: *laughs*
K: Do you know how this is going to impact my BMI?!!? I always say five-EIGHT on those things!
N: How tall is your mom?
K: Five feet. Just barely.
N: Her mother?
K: She was four ten.
N: Girl, you oughtta be glad you are five-six.
K: AND A HALF!

It was a good thing that the nurse had a sense of humor. She was also, as all good nurses should be, packed full of empathy. She asked me when was the last time I was actually measured. It was then that I realized I probably had never, ever been measured in my adult life. I just thought I was five seven and a half, maybe five eight if I really streched, and had accepted that as fact. The fact is, I am either:

1. Already shrinking.
2. Incredibly good at believing what it is I want to believe instead of what is true.

I know, from past experience and a carefully posed question at my doctor's office two days later, that it is most likely number 2.

You know, I'm not a liar. At least not to other people. I'm actually known as a straight shooter who tends to point out what other people don't necessarily want to accept as fact, no matter how boldly that fact is staring them in the face. Many of my friends (the real ones) appreciate this about me. But it seems to me that I am pretty proficient at lying to myself. Looking back on it, I have a long history of telling myself what I want to hear, and ignoring all signs and indications to the contrary. If I'm ever in one of those Barbara Walters interviews, now I know what I can say is my principle character flaw. Of course, I suppose I could just tell myself that refusing to bow down to the truth has kept me from being resigned and limited. That telling myself what I want to hear has kept me persevering until what I wanted something to be becomes what I envisioned in the first place. I know for a fact this has happened.

However, there are times when what is, simply...is. And no amount of spin or justification or rationalization or wanting it to be different can make it any other way. Sometimes we have to listen to that still, quiet voice that is telling the truth.

So, the view from five-feet-six-and-a-half-inches turns out not to be a different as I thought it would be, now that I have wrapped my mind around it. No amount of stretching will make me 5'-7''. Ever. It simply is what it is...and better to deal with it than go on pretending.

But...don't expect to run into me wearing flat shoes.

The State We're In...

2009-08-13T04:23:00.000-07:00

You know, unlike most people I know, I'm darned proud to be from Louisiana. I think our state, while short on morals and political righteousness, is long on culture, and that goes a long way with me. In fact, I think some of the dark and dirty episodes in our political history could probably be traced back to the cayenne pepper-laced culture we are steeped in.

All that said...There are times when I do have to just shake my head at the unabashed redneck culture of North Louisiana. I think it's being a little too close to Arkansas. But the Ark-La-Tex, and Louisiana's Other Side is just a leeetle bit too diluted for me sometimes. There are days I wish my grandmother had stayed put down in Lafayette and not wandered up here to water down the Acadian gene pool with some of that Yankee blood. (Yankee here being used very liberally. I don't think I have an ounce of blood in me that originates from a latitude higher than Little Rock.)

That being said, I wonder if people in Washington or California, or New York, or even Iowa put up with bad grammar on road signs? There has been threatened construction on a major interstate I use daily. They have installed those big obnoxious signs that flash updates on the road conditions scattered along the side of the road for miles. Somewhere there has been a disconnect in the Louisiana Department of Transportation and Development, because the signs are ready, but the construction obviously isn't. For weeks, the signs have urged Louisiana motorists to "Drive Safe". Ugh. My eyes! My eyes!

There are some things I am a snob about. I admit it. In my own defense, there are lots of things I am NOT a snob about. (I eat cheese tater tots and drink screw-top wine. Seriously. I think I have a good sense of balance with my snobbery.) Grammar is one of the things I am a snob about. I come from a long line of teachers, readers and writers, who, for whatever reason, managed to escape living in the boondocks in the South without horrible hick accents or pock-marked grammar. Those signs drive me everloving nuts. But who do you call? Seriously? Can you imagine that conversation?

K: Hello. I'd like to file a complaint.

DOTD: Yeah?

K: The signs on I-49 have unspeakably bad grammar. It should be, "Drive Safe-Leee. Safe-Leee."

DOTD: Uh, we'll get right on that ma'am.

*click*

Yeah, that would be a waste of time. These are the days when I wish Tell the Times was still in existence. You could always find someone to give a shit on Tell the Times.

Then, there are moments when the lunacy of Louisiana is just comical. Shake your head, embarrassed for them comical, but comical nonetheless. Days like yesterday, when I went to the DMV, and caught a glimpse of this before I pulled into the parking

lot.

Looking at it now, I can see how people might misconstrue this sign to be offering a very formalized and legally binding version of the sno-cone. At the time, though I obviously picked up on the absurd, (hence the photograph), it was perfectly clear why this enterprising Louisianian was offering a one-stop-shop for more than one incongruous product. And why not? Got your cash for clunkers deal, need the paperwork done, it's hot, have a grape sno-cone.(notice, that's hypenated, and without the W, thankyouverymuch.) Makes perfect sense to me.

And, exhibit B. The signage on the building itself was even more captivating. No words from me. Just look and enjoy.

I did manage to get out of the DMV with a new license and my sanity. In seven minutes. Seriously. The woman at the desk asked me if I wanted to go ahead and renew since it was almost my birthday anyway. I was 4 dollars in cash short of the renewal amount so I declined. I was so awed that my number was called after three minutes I wasn't about to risk losing the mojo to go to the ATM. I also had a fleeting moment of, "Wow...Louisiana must be doing something right. At least at the DMV!" Then, on the way home, the same or surely related governmental agency bid me, "Drive Safe". Welcome to Looziana.

Who knew?

2009-08-05T16:45:00.000-07:00

I love to mow. Call it genetically inspired, maybe. My dad is an uber grass-cutting phenom. He always said he didn't like to mow, but living on 5 1/2 acres necessitated it. Often. And obsessively. In a certain pattern. Nobody could ever convince us he didn't enjoy it. I still think he likes to mow. And he'll still argue with me that it's just a necessary evil. We agree to disagree in this twenty five year argument.

I have figured out, however, that a woman mowing a yard opens herself up to all sorts of commentary from passers by. Onlookers. I don't really believe that men have onlookers when they mow. But women do. Or, should I say, I seem to.

Years ago when we were living on Centenary Boulevard, I decided I was going to mow the front yard. I got out there and started the job, and quickly got the eerie feeling someone was watching me. How did I get this little feeling? Might have been the binoculars that gave them away, but a herd of college frat boys in the apartment complex across the street thought my playing yard boy was quite the afternoon entertainment. They actually had folding chairs. And beer. In a styrofoam cooler...(in addition to the aforementioned binoculars.) I was banned from front-yard grass duty from then on.

Fast forward to today. We have gone through two yard men in the past six months. The last one was let go because he had the knack for breaking every single piece of yard equipment he laid his hands on. It was an epidemic. We finally had enough of his sacrifices to the Poulan gods, and said enough was enough. Hubby and I decided that we could handle the yard work, at least for the time being. So, today, I was determined to get the lot next to the house cut before Scot got home. I couldn't get to the gym today, so this was to be my exercise. Little did I know it was to be , above all, an exercise in patience and humility.

Got the ipod screaming, the mower revved up, and I was enjoying the annihilation of the grass and the workout. I felt pretty safe. We live at the dead end of a quiet street in a gated community vaguely reminiscent of Stepford. No college kids across the street. Nobody drinks beer on their porch in folding chairs. It was all going according to plan.

What I failed to take into consideration are the other annoyances of a nice little cookie cutter community: the helpful neighbors.

Our neighborhood is fraught with walkers. Dog walkers, power walkers, stroller walkers...Our dead end is the turn around point for every.single.walker. Period.

During the hour and a half it took me to cut the grass in that stupid lot, I got those funny little half amused looks from the flipping walkers. A cross between, "Awwww, isn't that cute. A little lady, mowing the grass." and "Awwww, poor pitiful woman. Pushing that heavy mower. In this heat, bless her heart."

Now, anyone who knows me knows that the only thing I hate worse than being thought of as a cute little anything is being thought of as a weak, pitiful anything. It's a lawnmower, people, not an ancient torture device! I am strong and tough, and frankly was enjoying kicking the grass' butt before your condescending little looks started, thankyouverymuch.

But no, it didn't stop there. If it had, I'm not sure it would have made adequate blog fodder. I guess I looked so darned cute and so darned pitiful that some of the walkers decided they would actually engage me in conversation during my mowing. Somehow the fierce-sweaty face, dark glasses and earbuds didn't give off the leave-me-the-hell-alone vibe I was hoping for. Evidentally, a woman cutting grass has to wear leather and weapons to avoid being a spectacle. Who knew?

The first walker to smile and slow their pace for input on my agronomy skills was a nice older gentleman, pulling a wagon with smiling grandkids. His comment:
G: "You mowing that grass wet?"
K: "Ummm...yeah. It's a little wet."

I was kinda digging weaving in and out of the sprinklers as I mowed. Avoiding the little pop up heads like a whack-a-mole game. The refreshing burst of cool water as I got a little too close...It was all part of the enjoyment of the experience for me. Evidently, men don't mow wet grass. Who knew?

Luckily Mr. Nice Older Gentleman with the wagon was content to simply comment on the obvious and cluck his tongue. Not so for neighbor number two.

With him, I saw the grin coming from down the street. Uppers and lowers. Bared completely. Evidently, in India, women don't mow grass, because he looked at me like I had six arms and a trunk.

I: "You mowing your grass!"
It was a statement, not a question so I tried to nod and continue on. No dice.
I: "Why you not mowing in a straight line?"
K: "Because I like carving my initials in the grass with the mower. And then chopping them up. And you see, there are these popped up sprinkler heads I am avoiding. And fire ants. The poison I put on them hasn't killed them yet. And straight lines are boring. And since the grass is wet, going in swirls and circles is hopefully going to mask the ruts in the yard that will divulge to my husband that I mowed the grass wet. And I am, frankly, just not a straight line type gal."

I didn't actually say all of that. I nodded and smiled, and tried to look grateful for his input. I mowed in a straight line until he rounded the corner. Then I made a large swoop just to spite him.

Final straw was the guy who simply laughed his ass off at me. Unabashedly. I at least admired his honesty. You see, I did mention that this was to substitute for my workout today? Well, the typical workout is a 3-4 mile run at a pretty good pace. So, I had some work to do to get my heart rate up. Yes...in addition to the ipod and dark shades, I was also wearing my heart rate monitor. No way I was going to sweat that much and not know how many 100 calorie snack packs I had burned! So, by the end of the mowing, I wanted to get my heart rate up a little above the target zone, kinda like a few minutes of sprinting at the end of the run. So I was, ummm, sort of, jogging the mower. Ok, ok. So I deserved the laughs, perhaps. But isn't there some unspoken rule that you have sanctuary from ridicule in your own front yard? Or does that only apply to the back yard?

Oh well. I got the grass cut. I stayed in the target zone for over 90 minutes. I earned enough negative calories for a few glasses of wine to help numb the humiliation.

Anyone know of a good yard man? Yes, I said man. No woman deserves to be made a spectacle of just cause she wants to cut some grass.

Slow learners...

2009-07-27T08:09:00.000-07:00

Our summer thus far has been pretty jammed with responsibility and commitment, with precious little laid-back family time. We decided Sunday would be a good opportunity to change that.

Way back in October, at the Louisiana State Fair (one of my favorite places on earth...perhaps the foot long corn dogs and red dye number 3 from the candy apples clouded my judgment) we signed up for a day at a brand new, indoor waterpark in East Texas. Free passes for our family of four, $50 worth of gift cards, $40 in gas money, $40 cash...can you see where this is going? The catch, of course was that we had to attend a "presentation" about vacation home ownership at the resort where this alluring water wonderland is located. Eh, no biggie, we say. We can sit through an hour of anything. Like I said, I blame it on the midway food.

Since October, a very persistent fellow named Rudy has been calling our home at least twice a month, trying to get us to commit to our day of leisure at his resort. He is always very polite, not pushy, and understanding as to why, months later, we still haven't booked an appointment for the experience. Finally, he reachs us on Saturday, with both of us home, and no really good reason to say no. Besides, the forecast was for rain, and the waterpark is indoors. So, we make an appointment for 10:00 the next morning. We are to bring ourselves and picture ID. Mmmmmkay. Wouldn't want us to pass our opportunity on to another unsuspecting victim...errrr....recipient.

So, we pack up the car and the kids and head West. It takes quite a bit of gear for a family of four to enjoy water activities. Suits, towels, sunscreen, dry clothes, swim diapers, xanax.... But by 7:45 AM, we were on our way. I try very hard to prep the children for the fact that we had a wee bit of business to take care of before we actually got wet.

"Remember, kids. We have a meeting to go to before the waterpark. Ok? It might take a long time. But after we are done if you are reeeeeeallly good, we'll go to the waterpark. So.... Meeting first. Swim after. Got it? And you have to mind. Really mind. If you don't mind Mommy and Daddy, we'll come home and not go to the waterpark. Does everyone understand?"

I swore I would never make crazy, empty threats to my children. Swore. I also swore I would never dose them with Benedryl for my own convenience and utter the words, "Because I SAID SO, that's WHY!" Well, two out of three ain't bad. Benedryl turns my kids into hyperactive primates...so that helps keep me honest.

We arrive at the gated entrance of the resort and announce ourselves to the uniformed attendant. So far, so good. We pull up to the log cabin-looking structure tagged "Membership". It is hard to miss. There are at least a dozen brightly colored helium balloons bobbing in the rain. Harrisen is delighted. Anything that is announced by helium balloons is worth checking out in his opinion.

We run everyone in out of the rain and Scot signs us in at the desk. I am immediately struck by how many other people seemed to be taking advantage of their opportunity at exactly the same time as we were. It is quite the organizational maelstrom. Once you are signed in with the front desk, you are ushered to partake of hot coffee, fresh popcorn and Grandma's cookies, in the package, being offered by a lovely uniformed hostess. Next to the popcorn popper is a plastic dispenser full of pink lemonade and styrofoam cups.

Looking around at my fellow victims, errr...opportunists, I am very glad I chose to dress my family as if we were NOT headed straight to the waterpark. I purposefully and carefully accessorized and did NOT underdress swimwear. I mean, sure, we were all about the waterpark, but I wasn't about to advertise that fact before our obligation was met. It seems like I was the only human who gave two flips about appearing cooly disinterested in the free stuff. Everyone else seems to flaunt their swim trunks and bathing suit straps in a show of rebellious "I'm just here for the tickets" mob mentality. Some people even have their beach towels draped over their necks! The nerve.

We sit for about 20 minutes. The kids gobble oatmeal raisin cookies, popcorn and slurp lemonade, getting only a marginal amount on the pleather sofa and low-pile industrial carpet.

Finally, our name is called by a chipper young fellow named Wesley. He is smartly dressed in a striped shirt, jaunty black suspenders and trousers. He introduces himself and leads us out the side doors to another building a little bit down the way. As he maneuvers us across the manicured lawns to another suspiciously modular-looking building, I notice the skoal ring on the back pocket of his polyester pants. The bells start going off...but I help corral my little family into Level II of the opportunity.

We walk through the double french doors and are thrust into a virtual cacophony of people and activity. There are at least a hundred rough-hewn wooden tables where at least a hundred versions of Wesley are seated with a least a hundred versions of the Smith family. The chairs are hard-backed made of twigs and look like they were whittled from East Texas Pine. On each rough pine table, there sits a three-ring binder full of glossy, four-color-process propaganda for your viewing pleasure. The sheer noise and excitement of that many people in such a small space, the looming white board on the wall, and the bank of "managers" behind the counter in the back who oversaw the entire spectacle like vacation-real-estate-pit bosses, combined with the faux-rustic, deep in the heart of East Texas decor, leads me to whisper to Scot..."Oh hell...it's the redneck stock exchange." We sit on our whittled twig chairs.

Wesley is woefully poor at small talk, which suits me fine. My fight or flight instincts are starting to kick in at this point, and my bullshit sensors are firing on all cylinders.

The first thing Wesley tries to comment on from our application was Scot's profession.

W: "So...you're a faux-tographer?"
S: "Yes, I'm a professional photographer."
W: "So.....how long have you been into faux-tography?"
S: "About 30 years now."
W: "Whoa." (did I neglect to mention that Wesley appears to be about 19 years old? And that's being generous.)

It takes him only about 4 more times butchering the pronunciation of my husband's industry and occupation before I change the subject:

K: "Ok, Wesley....please do tell us about your resort."

Well, I should have known that there was a method to the madness. Skipping ahead in the script is not in the cards for a three-week veteran of vacation resort sales like Wesley. He quickly produces a "worksheet" that will, after a series of questions about our travel preferences and vacation history, delineate very clearly how purchasing a unit at this vacation resort will save us at least $90,000 in our lifetime alone. (that's not counting the lifetimes of our children and grandchildren, to whom we would be able to bequeath our vacation property and all its benefits.)

The question and answer section includes the ubiquitous, "Would you say spending quality time with your family is important to you?" I should have stopped him right there. It is the perfect opportunity to cut to the chase and get to the real reason of our trip into the state of Texas on a Sunday. The quality time. The waterpark. I begin to realize that the guy with the beach towel around his neck is probably getting a considerably shorter presentation than we were. Score one for the rednecks.

Now, you will remember that our children are present at this little "meeting". The empty threats have not worked. They never do. That' s why we parents swear never to use them. The kids do as they please anyway, and mommy ends up looking like a schmoe, because she either needs copious amounts of alcohol or a trip down the lazy river herself after enduring this opportunity. So...the kids. Harrisen alternates between crawling around under Wesley's legs beneath the pine top table, rolling around on the carpet, and fiddling with the crutches of the amputee at the pine table next to us. He and his sister both take turns at the double french doors, as the unofficial greeters. At one point, Evangeline comes out of the foyer of the building with someone's dripping golf umbrella like an oversized and inappropriate parasol. Throughout the presentation, they weave in and out of the tables as if it were a hall of mirrors.

I have just returned from retrieving the girl-child from the far end of the room for the third time, when a booming voice comes over the PA system. "It is a tradition here at our resort to welcome the newest owners into the flock! Sitting right over there is Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, aaaaaaaalllll the way from Beauuuuuuumont Texas! For their first vacation, they will be visiting our sister property is LAS VEGAS, Neeeeeevaaaada! Give em a hand!" All of the Wesleys of the room break into mad applause, and the lucky Wesley gets to write his name and the names of his victims/clients on the massive white board. I lean over to Scot:

K: "Dammit. The kids already drank the Kool-aid."

Shortly after that, Wesley gets to the part of the day when we have our official tour. We follow him out of the log cabin stock exchange building to the parking lot. He produces a door remote and went to un-lock the doors of his small, black, sports car.

K: "Where are we going...?"
W: "We are going to drive around for the tour of the property..."
K: "Do you have carseats?"
W: "Nah. We'll stay on property. We don't even have to wear seatbelts."
K: "Um...there are hundreds of other cars on the roads of this resort."
W: "We won't go over 25 mph or so..."

HOLEEE CRAP! Has he not seen those public safety commercials where they put a kid unrestrained on a downhill sled at JUST 25 mph? Has he not seen their little fiberglass crash test dummy heads explode like ripe fruit? A year's worth of waterpark tickets wouldn't have been worth turning my kids into statistics.

K: "Well, we'll just have to go in our car."
W: "No problem."

We all retrace our steps back to our car. I can read Scot's mind...

S: "GREAT, Katie. Show him the Mercedes. Make it reeeallly hard to let him down easy."

Sure enough, during the tour, Scot manages to mention the age of my car at least twice. Teamwork. He's the cleanup.

We take a very tepid tour of the property, which is nice, but crowded and full of gangs of people not unlike the ones at the membership building. White tank tops, tattoos, cigarettes rolled up in their sleeves, un-earned spandex...We live in the deep south. We happily co-exist, work and are even related to southern redneck Bubbas. We don't, however, typically choose to vacation with them. I kept track of the beach towels hanging over the balcony railings:
*Harley Davidson
*AC-DC
*Rebel Flags
*Bass Pro Shops

lather, rinse, repeat.

After getting the kids in and out of the car about 15 times to view yet another modular condo unit, we make our way back to the stock exchange. Our original pine table is waiting on us. We have finally made our way to the pitch portion of the day. The bottom line. Dollars and cents. I can almost smell the chlorine.

But, we don't get the bottom line until AFTER we have to produce an answer to the question, "So, how much do you think all of this would cost? Don't you think it would be worth, I don't know? Maybe, twenty thousand dollars?"

I am really proud of Scot. He isn't going to play. Period. He's the consummate southern gentleman, but he knows real estate. Poor Wesley doesn't really know how to proceed with his script when the suckers won't pony up even a perfunctory answer to his question. Since our non-commital answer throws him, he just kinda spit it out. $15,500. For the vacation of your dreams. For the rest of your life. And they only want $1,200 down. Today.

W: "What do you think?"
K: "I think there is absolutely no way we would pay that."
W: "Didn't you like the property?"
K: "It was very nice. But I'm unemployed and in school, and we have no way of spending that at this time."

Whew. Done. There. Now, pony up the tickets, bud.

Wesley informs us that it "Always comes down to money..." and he is "at the end of what he could do for us, but that we now had to wait for his manager to come over before we could go to gifting. "

We are entering Phase II of the opportunity, and don't even know it.

About this point in time, my blood sugar starts to bottom out. I'm a grazer, and have been really careful about my food intake this summer. I had 3/4 cup of kix cereal, 1/2 cup skim milk, and 1/2 cup of fresh blueberries at SEVEN in the morning. That's roughly 185 calories that were surely already expended in nervous energy and chasing the kids in the first 3o minutes in the stock exchange. As anyone who has ever seen me hungry before can attest, I start to get hostile.

K: "How long is it going to take to get a manager over here?"
W: "Oh, it' won't be long. People are starting to get up."

At least he doesn't try to make any more small talk about faux-tography.

Ten minutes pass.

K: "The kids are surely getting hungry. Are there any snacks?"
W: "There are vending machines over there."
K: "Sure, yeah. Once we say 'no' the free popcorn and cookies are off the table, right?" (ok, I didn't really say this, but I sure as hell thought it.)

Finally, the manager leaves the pit and comes over. He introduces himself as Raul. Raul is a self proclaimed straight shooter who doesn't have any agenda at all but to help us out in any way he can. He wants to know what the problem is. What is preventing us from being up there on that big white board?

I tell him the same story. Just not financially in the cards for us at this time. Raul excuses himself. He goes back to the pit.

He comes back with a huge grin on his face. He HAS the deal for us. You see, he's not really a manager. He is in titles and deeds. Someone JUST NOW has upgraded their property, and the deed has not been repriced. The equity they have paid over the years is still on file. We can have their deed for HALF PRICE! The other suckers have paid for years on it and knocked the price down into what is surely in the range of a professional faux-tographer and his unemployed nursing student wife! It's our lucky day! He gives us a few minutes to talk it over, and retreats to the pit, where he grins at us with his bonded toilet-bowl teeth. We do, indeed talk it over.

S: "Well, it' s a much better deal."
K: "Yes, it is. Wonder which of the people we have clapped for on that white board bit on Phase I?"
S: "No telling. We could get free camping."
K: "For eight grand we could buy a campground. NOT in East Texas."
S: "You are so right. We could go to Europe a lot of times for that kind of money. It's taken us half a year to come here once for free. Would we really come here?"
K: "Why are we still discussing this? Get Raul over here."

I tell Raul that we have decided not to take advantage of this opportunity. He seems perplexed. Wesley is on the edge of his chair. He's still thinking about the ride in the Mercedes. He's probably also needing a dip as badly as I'm needing a snack.

I'm a pretty good bad cop. I gently but firmly tell him we need to get on to the waterpark and feed the children. That's right. The kids.

He thanks us, shakes our hand, and tells us that Colin from gifting will be with us shortly. Frickin finally.

But this story doesn't end there. We are unknowingly being led straight into Phase III. Blindly, and without the benefit of a snack.

Colin from gifting shows up. But not before we have a revelation.

K: "Honey, we have DONE this before."
S: "I think we have."
K: "Grand Mayan Resort. Puerto Vallarta. I don't think we even got prizes."
S: "Nope. We swore we would never do this again."
K: "Well, next time....surely we will remember."

Colin from gifting asks us if the downpayment is standing in our way today. I tell him that we are unprepared to put any amount of money down today. Big mistake. These guys are professionals. I am a slow learner whose brain desperately needs a shot of glucose, and who thinks she can play with the vacation sales boys on their turf. I'm toast.

Colin offers to HOLD the amazing deal Raul has proposed for 18 months. A whole year and a half to enjoy the Redneck Riviera, unlimited, while only paying $70 a month! At the end of that time period, our monthly fees will apply towards our down payment, because we will certainly be ready to hand over the eight grand after 18 months of enjoying the facilities. Surely, we won't be able to imagine life without our membership after the trial offer!

Colin's approach is different from Wesley's fumbling newbie awkwardness and Raul's polished-creepy straight shooter tactic. Colin is cool. Steely. He knows we are no fools. He is the cleanup person. He gives us a minute to talk it over.

K: "I have no intention of paying $750 for 18 months of this crap."
S: "We have done this before."
K: "I know. Mayan Palace."
S: "No. Before that."
K: "Oh hell. You are so right."
S: "Where was it?"
K: "Hot Springs Village. To get a free condo to visit with your daughter."
S: "We are really slow learners."
K: "Get Colin over here."

He takes it well. Colin shakes our hands and sends us to gifting. Another modular building. Another form. Another wait. We are almost FOUR hours into our opportunity at this point. I ask Scot to look in the cabinets for snacks.

Luckily, gifting moves pretty quickly. Bridgett is no-nonsense and her office is quiet with no whittled wood furniture. By the time you migrate through all the phases to gifting, they've dropped the ruse. It's plain old office chairs, and Bridgett seems like a real person.

The waterpark was ok. Harrisen has marginally more fun than he does in our backyard pool. Evangeline has marginally less fun, as she is too short to go down any slides. The one I sneak her on gets us whistled at by a bored lifeguard who probably would not have saved our lives if we were drowning, but was big on enforcing the rules on the water flume . I eat an entire personal pepperoni pizza, a bag of M&M cookies, and a Three Musketeers bar. I run into 2 other women wearing my Target bathing suit.

On the ride home, we swear we are going to remember this adventure, and avoid opportunities of this kind in the future. Seems like we have said that before. But this time I mean it. When it comes time to bequeath property to the kids and grandkids, it is highly unlikely that vacation resort property will be on the list. We have decided to stick to the kind that pays US each month, and buy our own waterpark tickets from now on.

Harrisenism...

2009-07-25T15:30:00.000-07:00

With school having crunched into my hang-around-the-house time in the mornings, many times over the past two months, I have been on the road to class before Harrisen climbed out of bed. I've shouldered my fair share of mommy-guilt over my absence, but it's all worked out pretty well. Daddy rocks the breakfast. He uses a lot more syrup than I do.

This morning, Harrisen rolls out of bed (our bed. At some point each night, he ends up between us. Co-sleeping really stuck with that kid.) He, with his mess of tousled curls and flushed sheet-lined cheeks, bee-lines to me standing in the kitchen and gleefully says:

H: "Mommy! I am so happy you are here this morning!"
M: "I'm so happy you are here this morning, Harrisen!"
H: "Are you kidding me? I'm always here when I wake up."

Life as I know it.

2009-06-16T22:10:00.000-07:00

I was talking to a new friend tonight about life, and most particularly, family life...about the absolute power of the love of a child, and how it transforms your whole existance, and how there really aren't words to describe the love you feel when you create a human being of your own (with a little help from God, of course.) It's all consuming.

I have loved the newness of mommyhood so very much. I have dedicated my life to being a mother, from the moment we threw the birth control pills away, almost seven years ago. It seemed like such a small, natural step. One that millions of people take every year, when they hitch up their big girl panties and decide to take the plunge into parenthood. I couldn't know. How could I have known? That that small act of faith would turn into a more than two year odyssey through infertility, surgery, needles, tests, and the rollercoaster of hope and tragedy, far to close on each other's heels.

Sitting amist the chaos of family life, with scattered toys and piled laundry, with my one high- tech baby and my wonderfully "free" baby (neither more a miracle than the other), sleeping blissfully in their beds, that rollercoaster seems to belong to someone else's life. It seem so very far away, and doesn't even seem to make much sense when one sees the fecundity of our present. But just touching on the story with someone who doesn't know reminds me of the unseen part. Nothing is as it appears. If you get to know someone well enough, you will see that very little is how it seems.

Just as I hesitated before jumping into parenting (almost 7 months...past when my dear husband was ready-to-go....so arbitrary, looking back...) I hesitate to let it the intensity of baby-parenting go. I realize that my children are separating from me. Their independence grows each day, and I am reminded of Scot's mantra: "Our only job is to make them independent." Now, there are tons of cliches, (some even written on t-shirts) that deal with parents letting go. I'm sure they all have merit. But when you are loosening your grip on what has defined you for almost a decade, cliches ring a bit hollow. I wouldn't have made it through infertility if it hadn't been for my tenacity. Now, I battle that same tenacity as I try to pry the "me" out of mommy.

I want to find out who I am again, outside of being defined by my role as a parent. Just lately, I am remembering that I am a performer. A singer. An actress, and some might even say, a bit of a diva. That feels good. Familiar. Comfortable. Like putting on an old coat and finding that it still fits. I'm also a student. And, as in the past, still a darned good one.

As I grow along with my children, I marvel at my ability to wear different hats, and how liberating that feels. To stay up late rehearsing a show, but come home just a little too fast down the interstate, hoping to make it in time for tucking in. Is this what is meant by balance? I always scoffed at the idea. I guess I wasn't ready. I wanted and needed to do nothing but mommy my children after fighting so hard for them. But, as they grow and life adapts, I embrace balance. It's ok. It's healthy. Keep reminding me of that, ok?

Big girl.

2009-05-29T08:19:00.001-07:00

I gotta come to grips with it. Evangeline is growing up. Last weekend, mostly out of sheer laziness, I refused to go to the drawer in the kitchen to get her a fresh binky for bedtime. I told her, "Sorry, honey, you are a big girl, and we need to say bye-bye to the binky." Rip off the band-aid, ya know? She whined a little...and fussed a little...and I had to pat her to sleep, and we darned near wore out 4 expensive D cells in the birdie projector, but she slept almost through the night. Amazement reigned.

She hasn't mentioned the binky again. I have mentioned it from time to time, while bragging to other people that she gave it up, which seems to remind her, but she's ok. She's basically sleeping through the night, which she was not doing before. I'm getting rest. It's bliss.

All of the sudden, she's into the pink potty, too. I think she's in the spirit, what with her successful run being binky-free and all. She wants to sit on it all. the. time. The other night I heard Harrisen in there cheering for her, which I almost ignored except for the fact that it sounded so very sincere. Sure enough, tee tee in the pink potty! I think I scared her a little with my "potty dance". Harrisen used to dig it, but I think Evangeline expected me to be a little more lady-like for her celebration. She basically looked at me like I was a freak. If she had the verbage, I'm sure she would have said, "ummmmkay. That was nice mom. Let's stop the embarrassment for both of us and get to the chocolate." She certainly did appreciate wholeheartedly the candy she received as a reward. She has a wicked sweet tooth.

I'm not as sad as I though I would be with these milestones flashing by like highway signs at 80mph. You would think I would be rather melancholy for what is likely my last child ever, moving past the baby stage I so adore, and would do over and over again if I could. Maybe it's because I've seen what's round the bend, and it's an awful lot of fun. T-ball. Real conversations. Help with the laundry and letting the dog out.

Wonder what Evangeline's "isms" will end up as on this blog? Time will tell. As for now, I'm really proud of our big girl.

Harrisenism...

2009-05-24T13:15:00.001-07:00

After Mass today, I went to the church nursery to pick up the children. They were finishing up M&M cookies. At 12 noon. I can't STAND when they feed my kids chocolate, in the church clothes, right at lunch time. But that's a whole 'nother post.

As I was brushing away the offending crumbs, I noticed Harrisen had crumbs on his eyes, in his eyebrows, and all the way up on his forehead.

K: "Harrisen, how on earth did you get cookie crumbs on your eyes?"

H: "I was eating a cookie."

K: "With your eyes?"

H: *pause* "Well, maybe the crumbs came to life and walked up my face."

Guess I deserved it, what with my smartass comment and all.

Harrisenism...

2009-05-23T07:04:00.000-07:00

Harrisen and his Daddy are snuggling on the couch...

H: "Daddy, if I didn't have you, I'd have a butler...but I prefer you."

Run, Mama, Run.

2009-05-21T07:27:00.000-07:00

About 13 years ago, I was an avid runner. I ran 3 miles every morning and three miles every evening. I was in the best cardiovascular shape of my life. Emotional and mental shape was pretty iffy, but I had a buff bod.

Fast forward a decade. I had two babies in the span of less than two years...that's two pregnancies, two deliveries, and two babies nursing for going on 4 years now, nonstop....well, my body is now torturing me back. I feel heavy, lumpy and definitely too mommy-ish for my brain, which is still stuck somewhere back 10 years ago when I was a hot babe. Let me tell ya, it sucks to be a hot babe in your head and a soccer mom below the neck.

Thanks to the motivation of an upcoming 5K for an excellent cause, and the support of my goody goody gumdrop friends, I am pounding the pavement again, and loving it. I'm up to running about 20 minutes at a stretch now, in just 3 and a half weeks. I think my body remembered. My mind sure does. I am loving the feeling of peace you get when your mind just blanks out and you are thinking of nothing but the rhythm of your feet and your breathing. It's pretty zen.

The first week, I felt really HEAVY. Like someone was holding onto my heiney while I ran. I didn't have to turn around and look to figure out that the only thing clinging to my ass was my ass itself. *sigh* Baby steps, right?

So, hopefully by the time I fly to Buffalo to race in September, I will be closer to physically embracing my inner babe. But more than just getting my body back, I feel like I am reclaiming a part of me that has been shelved for a few years. The selfish part of me. The part that says, "It's ok to take an hour for yourself to workout and eat some of the expensive strawberries."

It's easy to be selfless when you are a mom. It doesn't even seem like a sacrifice to sacrifice. But it sure does feel nice to take yourself off of the back burner for just a little while each day. I'm a better mom for it, I think.

Time Flies...

2009-05-20T13:33:00.001-07:00

I could make up a bunch of excuses as to why I haven't blogged in months, but I'll save myself the embarrassment. I just got busy. Anyway, time sure flies, doesn't it?

Just the other day I was listening to Evangeline's sweet little lisping voice, thinking...I need to record that. I'll miss that some day, because before long, she won't sound like that, and I don't ever want to forget the way she says "Yesssss."

Harrisen always said, "Yeah." or "Yep". Like a little grown man in a baby boy's body. Evangeline, since the beginning of her verbal stage, has answered in the affirmative with a polite, proper and succinct, "Yesssss." She often punctuates her one word affirmation with a curt little nod, and big wide eyes, to prove she is sincere. It's so stinkin' adorable I can hardly stand it. I didn't even insist of "yesssssss....ma'am" because it was so HER.

Soooo....as fleeting time would have it, the very DAY after I made a mental note of the probability of the transitive nature of her signature phrase, she answers me with an almost teen-sounding, "Yeah." Dull. Flat. Almost petulant. Boo Hiss. I tried to correct her.

"Evangeline, it's Yessssss".
"No, Mommy."
"Can you say, Yessssss?"
"No, Mommy."
"Fine. Then you have to say, 'Yes, Ma'am' ".

So there. Like I really won that one, huh? *sigh*

There are other things she does when she speaks that are memorable to me, and very much "signature" phrases. For example, she punctuates her conversations by tacking your name on the end of each sentence. "
"No, no milk, Daddy."
"Watch Street, Mommy."
"Sit down, Hessin."

I really like her compliant side. She can be very penitant if you are lecturing her...and make you believe it. She does it with a simple, "Ok".

"Evangeline, you cannot bite your brother. It's not nice. Teeth are for chewing food."
*ducks head and musters up tears in her eyes...*
"Ok, mommy..." except it sounds like "eehhhkaaay, mawmeee.." and man, do I feel like the big bad wolf. But I can't seem to shake the feeling that she just might be manipulating me with those long lashes and big eyes.

She is also a big fan of "Hee go."

Find trash on the floor? "Hee-go, Mommy".
Sharing with brother? "Hee-go, Hessin".
Wanting wait-service for her half-finished dinner plate? She just lifts it up and says "Hee-go!" to anyone nearby. It's so dismissive. Kinda like, "Well, I'm all done with this...someone please take it away. Be gone." What a diva. Wonder where she gets that?

She really is poised on the edge of a language explosion. I'm not ready for it. I'm not ready for my baby to grow up. I'm not ready to know everything going on in her head...spilled out like closed captioning, underscoring our lives. I like her mystery. I like trying to figure her out. I'm trying to savor every last minute of it, because I know that before long, the day will come when I beg her to stop talking....BEG her for a moment of peace from the constant questions and running narrative that are so familiar to me, being the mom of an almost-four-year-old.

"You're gonna miss this...."

I would like to thank the Academy...

2009-01-31T17:43:00.000-08:00

But mostly, my friend and fellow blogger, Megan, who has enjoyed my ramblings and given me the following virtual award:

I appreciate her recognizing me, and am glad to know some people like to read what's rumbling about inside my head. I had to think for a while on who I will pass this on to...there are quite a few "fabulous" blogs out there that I read and enjoy. I love peeking into other people's brains...it's virtual voyeurism at its best.

So...the nominees are:

Kelly at Bachelor Girl. They broke the mold when they made this chick. Witty, quick, insightful and full of the good old fashioned Roman spirit...not to mention a very dear friend.

Jorie at reMARKable times. She is a true writer and her way of stringing words together will reel you in. Don't look unless you want to be addicted to her "keeping it real" wit and style.

Andrea at Always Remember. A courageous, beautiful and un-dimmable spirit. Her blog is a chronicle of pain and healing as she learns to move forward as a young widow. My heart whispers prayers for her and hers as I read. Her passion and strength will move you.

These are my current top picks of "private people" blogs (meaning, no big names, no fame, no advertising banners...just real people like me sharing a bit of their souls online.) Enjoy your award, ladies! You deserve it.

Now, I'm headed to the after-party. The red carpet is so taxing.

Pap.

2009-01-31T07:46:00.000-08:00

My Papaw is...

-the sunshine on ripe tomatoes and the itchy fuzz on okra.

-the glint of a crooked front tooth in a rare smile.

-the hush of a prayer from the end of the row, 2 rows from the back.

-the shake of a terrifying finger to a squealing girl whose ribs needed counting.

-the comfort of a cracked black naugahyde recliner with a beach towel over the back.

-the temperance of raisin bran on a Sunday morning.

-the secret of Brylcreem in the bathroom and Afrin in the bedroom window.

-the creak of an old green yard swing.

-the smack of an after-dinner toothpick.

-the bite, strong and unmistakable, of ribbon cane in a big gold can.

-the scuff of black vinyl slippers by the back door, with the heels folded in.

-the odd frosty smell of squirrels in the deep freeze.

-the crinkle of a red vinyl suit and fuzzy white beard.

-the swing of long arms, palms turned back.

-the damp of khaki coveralls and a straw hat.

-the shimmer of opalescent fish scales clinging to plywood and strong arms.

-the security of a Stearns in an old green fishing boat.

-the sinking feeling in your gut when a tornado looms.

-the buzz of wisteria in the spring and pink azaleas in Easter pictures.

-the frustration of a small child on Christmas morning.

-the bitter cold of memories of Europe.

-the blare of LSU over kitchen clatter.

-the bark of small dogs who were never pets.

-the crunch of hot french fries pulled out of a greasy paper bag on the stove.

He is strength, temperance, patience, and steady, often unspoken love. He is stability, predictability, and perseverance. He is a lack of folly with a hearty laugh. He is a formidable memory, even as he fades.

He is not confusion, weakness, hopelessness and fear. He is not vulnerability, neediness, and frailty. I will never remember him for the last, passing things he was, the leftovers, the things that remain. I will remember him for the real true person he was, the Papaw of my childhood, when our roles were in proper order, and he was not waiting.

Dearest Pap, may your wait continue to be filled with the joy of your greatest accomplishment: the family who treasures you.

Rite of Passage...

2009-01-28T18:30:00.000-08:00

We had a big night yesterday. The weather forecast was quite questionable, with ice storms blowing in from the Northwest. I had been meaning for some time to take Harrisen to the public library and give him the grand tour, ever since he asked me one day, "What is a library?"

Bad mommy. Bad mommy.

I thought with an impending snow day to keep us cooped up in the house, some new books and kid videos would be just the thing to weather the storm.

We walked into the building and Harrisen marched right up to the big granite counter. Totally un-coached, this was the conversation:

H: Hello. I'm Harrisen. What's your name?

M: I'm Melly. How can I help you?

H: Well, I need to check out a library book.

M: Do you have a library card?

H: Hmmm...No, I don't.

M: Well, you have to have a library card to check out a book.

H: O.K. I need a library card.

M: Good. We'll get you one right now.

I filled out the paperwork, and Melly the librarian began the process of bar-coding and computer-entering that eventually resulted in a silver plastic credit-card with a 20 item limit and zero percent interest.

I couldn't help but think back to my first library card, which was issued at the Gilliam Branch Library, which, at the time, was one room in the building that served as the fire station, mayor's office, and library, as well as an impromptu clogging studio two nights a week. The library card itself was manila cardstock with my name typed on it. It had some sort of metal plate on it that was used to make an imprint. I remember having to sign the little card in the back of each book and having the librarian rubber stamp the due date with one of those adjustable date stamps to put in the front pocket. The front pocket is still the same, but it now gets stuffed with a computer generated receipt as your reminder.

So, he got his library card and bee-lined for the kids section. Juvenile Books, to be exact. I led him over to the picture books. All seven long aisles of them. Overwhelmed, much?

I decided that it would be best to limit the selection for the first go round. I took him to the very last aisle, and told him he could select 5 books. His method of selection was pretty interesting. He would pick up whatever seemed to catch his eye and exclaim, "Oh, I want to check out this one!" Some of them were deemed "Too scary" and others, "No, no, no, no, no...." I could never determine what his exact criteria for check-out-ability was, but we ended up with a pretty good variety. The themes were mud, cows, a bald kid, a snowman, some bugs, and a Curious George thrown in for good measure.

He has taken extremely good care of his temporary treasures, and seems enchanted by his stack of "new" books that he likes to remind me are "just borrowed".

The impending ice storm never panned out, but I am glad it gave me a push to introduce my son to what I pray will be a long and rich relationship with one of the great jewels of a civilized society. I just hope we are still civilized enough to have real books, in real libraries, when it comes time for my grandchild's first library card.

For the love of marmalade...

2009-01-23T13:38:00.000-08:00

My husband loves orange marmalade. LOVES it. Peanut butter and marmalade sandwiches on my homemade sourdough bread are his weakness. Before marrying him, I had only heard of orange marmalade, in the Paddington Bear stories. It wasn't something that people really ate, it was a storybook-sugarplum-sweet. His taste for marmalade was positively exotic to me!

I recently bought 2 huge bags of satsuma oranges. It became obvious that they would go bad before the kids and I got around to eating them all, so my January issue of Martha Stewart Living with it's cover depicting Martha ladling hot marmalade into jars was exceptionally timely.

Making marmalade was my first foray into jam and jelly making. My grandmother always made jelly and jam, since my grandfather finds jelly a crucial condiment for all three meals of the day, but when I phoned her during my marmalade-making she told me she had actually never made it. I was in a brave new world, and without a recipe, since Martha's all called for weirdo ingredients I didn't have.

Here's what I did:

I peeled all the satsumas and meyer lemons (thanks Kristel!) I had in the fruit bowl. I would estimate that was about 5 lemons and 8 satsumas. I seeded and chopped the fruit and sliced the peels into thin, small slices. I added about 2 quarts of water and a tablespoon of vanilla, and brought it to a hard boil on the stove. I let it boil for about 5 minutes, then removed it from the fire and let it cool. I moved the pan to the fridge overnight. (This I learned from Martha. I think it allows the pectin in the peels to release so that the marmalade will "jell") The next day, I brought it to a boil again, and boiled it for about 15 minutes, until the peels were very tender. Then, I measured the mixture and added 3/4 cup of sugar for each cup of orange mixture. (This was Martha's proportion). I stirred well, then brought the whole sticky mess up to 220 degrees on a candy thermometer. The marmalade smelled heavenly and browned to a golden caramel color. Lovely.

The next, and most fulfilling step was re-creating Martha's magazine cover, where I ladled my yumminess into glass jars. Well, I also got a big kick out of using my pinking shears to cut the adorable little gingham circles in citrusy-colors to top the jars, but that step is purely optional.

Even though I was not, and am still not a connoisseur of orange marmalade, I appreciate the tangy zest of this good stuff on hot bread, and I thrill in making something special for the ones I love.

(Scot was so moved by the marmalade he even did a whole little photo shoot for my blog. Thanks, honey!)

Something's Fishy...

2009-01-22T08:39:00.001-08:00

I have a new career. I breed and sell tropical fish. I just started 2 days ago, but I have already been so successful in my store that I have made thousands of dollars and discovered 45 rare breeds of fish.

I take it by now, you realize this is some sort of fantasy, right?

Well, it's better than fantasy. It's an addictive, fun and almost free application for the iphone called "Fish Tycoon". *also available to download for pc and mac.

I usually try to downplay my addiction to various computer-related things to my husband, as he tends to scoff at my online pursuits (even while he is in the process of ebaying/craislisting/youtubing, himself). He gets e-commerce. It has real money, and real rewards in the mailbox. Real people showing up to meet him in parking lots to exchange money for stuff. He gets it.

He does not get:

*blogging
*message boards

*role playing/SIM games

But this new game is so fantastic, and my addiction to it has been so rapid and complete that I don't even bother hiding it from him. I'm immune to his eye rolls at this point. And this one is so "ridiculous" to him that he actually laughs in a humorous way. Sort of.

The game consists of 2 tanks of fish, some cash in the bank, and a fish store. You manage your tanks of fish, feed them, breed them, research their environment, learn about advertising, and manage their nutrition, fertility, and longevity by purchasing improvements for your tanks with the money you earn selling the offspring. The game progresses in somewhat "real time", so you

develop patience as well as a bit of anticipation to see what glorious hybrids you come up with by breeding your inventory.

The kids are fascinated with my fish. They love to climb up to wherever I have stashed my iphone and poke around at my tanks. It does, after all, create bubbles and make a fascinating whooshing sound when you touch the tanks. And I suppose it's pretty harmless. But I can't help but worry that they might accidentally breed a sick fish or put my Greenfin Spotanus up for sale by accident. And that would be bad. Very bad.

I think SIM games are great fun. I remember at the dawning of the internet when all of my friends and I would swarm the computer labs at Centenary College to play "Foothills", which was a combination game/chatroom. It operated on DOS, which is kinda hard to even fathom now. It is good for me to escape and pretend. I have that dramatic streak in me, so "pretending" is like a daily requirement. And face it, it's fun to do something wild that I would never do in real life, like.....hmmmm...breed tropical fish! I have a hard time remembering to feed "H" (our real fish) in my actual life, so becoming a Fish Tycoon is indeed a break from reality, not to mention the fact that I have customers swarming my store to purchase $45 fish as quick as I can get them in the tank. Have these people not watched the Dow Jones? Are they not aware of the recession? Oblivious. Totally oblivious and loaded with discretionary income. It's a breath of fresh air.

So, I expect my obsession with my fish to last another week or so. Last night I didn't even get up to feed them in the middle of the night, and I can't seem to keep any of the really interesting or pretty ones around for long. I woke up to about 20 dead fish this morning. That really cramps the style of on online fish tycoon. What's the point of a game if it doesn't turn you into a rockstar? I could kill fish in real life. In my virtual reality, I want to rock the fish breeding world. And, I just can't see myself poring over genetic spreadsheets for a game the way some whackjobs out there do. I'm not that far gone.

Ooops. Gotta go. My Golden Goldbulbs are maturing, and I need to sell the suckers before they croak on me. Gotta love virtual reality.

Harrisenism...

2009-01-22T07:41:00.001-08:00

Harrisen has, of late, been a perfect joy to be around. Polite, considerate, mannerly, and precious. This is quite a change from the emotional roller coaster we were on with him between Thanksgiving and Christmas, where his mood was as changeable as Louisiana weather in winter.

Being Daddy's sidekick in the evenings for dusk-views is one of Harrisen's favorite things. He likes tagging along and watching Dad work his magic.

He must have been especially cooperative yesterday, because Daddy promised him a cookie for his good behavior. Daddy also, evidently, used an unfamiliar cliche' when describing this promised cookie to Harrisen, as this was the conversation we had as soon as they burst in the door:

H: Mommy! I want a cookie with my name on it. Daddy said I could have one because I was so good!
K: (puzzled) Honey, we don't have any cookies with your name on them.
H: But Daddy PROMISED! He said as soon as we got home there was a cookie waiting with MY NAME ON IT!

What followed was a pretty-much unsuccessful lecture on cliche's and how they didn't exactly mean what they sounded like they meant. And what made it worse was that the cookies were all gone anyway. Poor baby.

Thank goodness for Little Debbie, because if that hadn't sufficed, I would have been hauling out the kitchen aid and pastry bag to pipe his name on a cookie. Darnit.

Harrisenism...

2009-01-19T06:02:00.000-08:00

Last night, as usual, Harrisen offered the blessing for our dinner. Usually, he says the traditional Catholic blessing, "Bless us, Oh, Lord..." but some days he goes renegade and says a very sweet prayer straight from the heart. Last night had his dad and I holding our breaths and stifling giggles over our bowls of pasta.

H- "Jesus.....thank you for our food. Thank you for our family. And thank you for Diet Coke for Mommy. And water for me and Evangeline. Amen."

Methinks I should lay off the little red and silver cans for a while.

I've seen the light.

2009-01-15T06:38:00.000-08:00

You know how people who pass on to the other side and somehow make it back return with their perspective totally changed and a new outlook on life? I think that sort-of happened to me this morning.

I have been battling some vile mixture of bronchitis and sinus infection topped with a healthy serving of fever and weakness for about a week. Last night was the worst. I literally could not get up off of the sofa. I called my darling husband and told him that he had to pick the baby up from daycare because I simply could not get dressed and drive across town. As he is so good at doing in crisis situation, he "jumped-to" and shuffled the preschooler home, switched cars, and went to pick up the baby.

45 minutes later he was home with burgers and fries for everyone. And...not just a burger for me, a cheeseburger. He has, in the past, argued the take-out cheese issue with me. He can't fathom paying .59 at Whataburger for a greasy slice of pasteurized processed cheese food when we have a big pile of them in the fridge at home. But I don't WANT a kraft single on my Whataburger. I want the original melty cheese slice that is native to the burger itself. I don't want a cold stiff slice of cheese. You can't microwave it to melt it without removing all the vegetables, which is a pain in the ass, and even if you did, the bun would be petrified by the time you reached prime melting temp of the cheese. In my opinion, .59 is a bargain.

And, the fries... A big steaming box of fries. Hubby and I have had french fry issues, too. In fact, I still have, posted on the fridge, a cut-out piece of a Whataburger wrapper that reads "The fries rarely make it all the way home." Now, while it sounds funny and joke-like, let me assure you that it was not magnet-ed to the fridge as a joke any more than democrats put Bush stickers on their compact hybrids to joke about our President. It was done in a cold rage...you know, the kind that comes from a sting so deep that you can't even form words about it? The kind of hurt that arises from being denied a hot crispy french fry to accompany your cold-kraft-single-from-the-fridge-burger. grrrrr.

So last night, I was served a hot, dry, native-cheese Whataburger with french fries and the very last Diet Coke out of the fridge. It almost didn't even matter that he dropped the diet coke on the tile floor before serving, or that I could hardly taste the meal with my sinuses in their broken condition. The kids were at their places, eating quietly, and my husband was flitting about taking care of all of us while I watched Dr. Phil from the sofa. I mean, It was totally a Queen of Sheba moment. This continued all night. If I needed something, he jumped. No lumbering, no deep sighs, no pregnant pause while he finished what he was doing on his iphone. Magical, perfect attentiveness all night long.

So, of course, I had to test the waters. I'm a woman, after all. And I do this for a living, right?

K- "Would you make me some chocolate chip cookies?"

S- (hopping to the fridge) "Sure, honey. Where is that tube of dough stuff?"

K- "We don't have any. You would have to make them."

S- "You mean, like, from scratch?"

K- (giggling inside) "Yep, but it's not hard."

S- (looking around for his keys) "I'll be right back"

K- "No, No, No...honey... don't go to Walmart. By the time you do that you could have mixed it all up. It's ok, you don't have to."

S- "It will only take a minute."

K- "You can't leave me here with these children. We might not all be alive when you get back."

S- "Where is the recipe?"

My husband broke out the Kitchen Aid and made home-made oatmeal chocolate chip cookies from scratch with nothing but a little direction from the impaired arm-chair Betty Crocker in the living room. It was slightly hysterical at times. Mostly when Harrisen drug his Learning Tower over to "help", as baking is our thing. Scot couldn't quite deal with the chemistry of cookies and toddler "help" at the same time. I'm sure Harrisen was kinda confused. Evangeline shrieking and hanging onto his legs was another high point. I did rouse myself from my sofa long enough to disengage her from his lower body, as that's enough to make me postal, and he was already maxing out in the patience category.

In the end, my husband produced a crispy-yet-chewy cookie that could have won some award, especially since he admitted that he had "probably never" in his 52 years made cookies from scratch, and if he had, he couldn't remember it.

So, I'm feeling better this morning. I'm sure it was a combination of greasy junk food and unconditional love. These are the things I learned after coming back from the brink:

*cookie sheets can be used upside down with no noticeable deterioration in cookie quality.

*a little Clorox spray will dissolve petrified mustard/bun/pickle mixture from a high chair tray.

*stainless steel sinks are not always stainless, but steel wool helps.

*the same double, undermount, stainless sink set, at full capacity, holds three full dishwasher loads.

*a dirty diaper left out overnight on the sofa table is really no different from one 30 feet away in an open trash can, odor wise.

*a three year old can pass for bathed with a wet wipe and hair gel.

*I am blessed beyond all measure with a husband who may not do it just like I do it, but is cheerful and willing to do it when I need him.

Three cheers, Scotty-boy. You rock.

Curbing the carnivore.

2009-01-12T06:36:00.000-08:00

My uncle recently was diagnosed with a health condition that his doctor decided to treat with a strict vegan diet. He has been living as a vegan for several months now, and when I saw him on Saturday, he looked like a college guy. Ripped abs and all. He's in his 60's. He says he feels better than he has in years.

I had read that eating vegetarian or vegan several times a week would save tons on your grocery bill as well as be a healthy switch for families. So, I decided to give it a whirl. My time in Senegal gave me some good direction for vegetarian fare. Suppers usually fed 12 people with no animal protein at all. While lait caille (soured milk with millet) made me run for the hills, a supper of steaming lentils always was one of my favorites.

I threw this together last night for my family and it was a huge hit. Delicious, low fat, high protein and full of taste. Even Evangeline, with her developing palate gobbled it up. Live as a vegetarian for an evening. Your heart and pocketbook will love you for it, and with the full flavor and satisfying feel of my improvised African/Indian lentil concoction, I promise it will not be a sacrifice!

1 1/2 cups dried lentils

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

2 1/2 cups chicken broth (can use water to make this vegan)

2 onions, chopped

2 tablespoons minced garlic

1 bag baby spinach leaves

1 can fire roasted diced tomatoes

1 teaspoon cumin

2 teaspoons curry powder

1/2 teaspoon black pepper

Saute the onions and garlic with the oil in a large skillet until clear. Add lentils and broth. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and cover, simmering about a half hour until the lentils are almost tender enough to eat. Add the spinach, tomatoes and spices, continue simmering until the spinach is well wilted and the lentils are done. Serve over white or brown rice.

Thanks, Uncle Jerry, for the inspiration!

Harrisenism...

2009-01-11T20:20:00.001-08:00

Harrisen seems to have absolutely incredible things pop out of his brain almost daily. I always say, "I need to write that down..." and sometimes I do, and sometimes, well...

So, I decided maybe I should blog them. Share a chuckle with friends and family and archive his brain as it grows and develops. It's a neat peek into how he sees the world.

H- "Mommy! I have a collection of fingers, and I am studying them with this book light."

K- "Really? How many do you have?"

H- (counting) "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10! I have ten in my collection, and I can see them with this green booklight."

K- "That's fascinating."

Would you like fries with that?

2009-01-05T14:16:00.000-08:00

I admit, I suffer from a very mild case of road rage. Mine usually consists of a frustrated "People! People!" in traffic, or even a highly agitated "DUDE!" when cut off at an intersection. In fact, my son can mimic me perfectly and loves to chant, "People, People....." when we are stuck in traffic. I have never, however, understood how anyone could be moved to violence by an idiot on the highway.

New Year's day, my little family of four was headed out of town to spend the weekend with loved ones in Arkansas. We stopped by the golden arches for a quick lunch on the go. This particular drive-thru had two lines for your service pleasure, so I pulled up to the outside lane and waited for the attendant to take my order. Nothing complicated, mind you...Happy Meals, Cheeseburgers, Apple Dippers....all without condiments of course, since I detest the taste, smell and mess of anything that is applied with a plastic squirt bottle. I mean, ew. Really. It took a good while for the attendant to ever answer the speaker, and when she did, it was a little bit of a tragedy trying to communicate. We were, after all, in the northern part of the city, and they do speak a variation of our dialect up there.

In the several minute lag between me completing my order and her responding with my total, I hear honking coming from the hulking SUV behind me. When I turned me head to see what the commotion was, I saw a middle aged woman gesticulating wildly, thrashing about in the front seat. I couldn't tell if she was in the middle of an attack of St. Vitus' dance, or if she was for some unknown reason becoming enraged at ME, but the repetitive arching of her long, curved red-painted, acrylic-tipped middle finger made me suspect the latter.

In utter confusion, I leaned my head out of the car window and said, "What on earth is wrong with you?" She responded with an explosion of profanity so foul I cannot sully my blog with even a recap. Suffice it to say, she was, um, wondering what I was doing. To which I hollered back, "I'm just placing my order." and I once again asked what on earth was wrong with her. By this time, my honor had been challenged and my name defiled with a slew of awful words coming out of her filthy mouth, so of course, Sir Galahad riding shotgun jumped out of the car.

What the heck did he think he was going to do? I mean, really? Trounce the woman in the Micky D's parking lot? Reason with her? Yeah right. He did, however, in his best high-school-punk fashion give her a good dose of "bring it on...." complete with the puffed up chest and all.

Now, it's at this point in the story that I feel compelled to point out that in addition to the box of gaily wrapped packages, four suitcases, three bags of snacks, two restless children, and a partridge in a pear tree, we were also traveling with our Chinese Crested dog. If you have never seen one of these dogs in person, well, I'm sorry. You have surely missed out on a truly delightful freak of canine nature. Josie is a little thing, weighing in at about 10 pounds. She has huge bat ears that stand straight up and are fringed with white flowing hair that also sprouts up on her head. Aside from that, she's pretty much skin, as the Chinese Crested is a hairless breed. During the winter she wears head-to-paw polar fleece pajamas...for obvious reasons. So, suffice it to say, she's a lap dog extraordinaire and the pajamas give her a real "awwww" factor.

During the time dearest husband is inciting crazy woman into a full blown fistfight, I go ahead and look back, thinking I can at least reason with him. It's at this point that I realize he is defending my honor with his loud mouth and macho self...with a prissy chinese crested dog in pink pajamas tucked under his arm! I would have howled with laughter right then and there, but, as these things tend to do, a lot happened in a split second, and evidently, Madame Road Rage was packing heat in her purple patent pleather purse, and had been threatening my husband (and the dog, I guess) with "some of this..."

At this point, the manager, who happened to be in the parking lot, asked us if we wanted her to call the police. Since we had just been threatened with a gun, not 4 blocks from CCC, we decided that would be a good thing to do. As the manager stepped away to make the call, psycho pulled up next to us, and brandished the cheap handbag again, making shooting motions and saying, "Want some of this? You want some of this?" Over and over again. Sheesh. All of 36 inches from my children!

We did manage to jot down her license plate as she sped away. I always like to make words and phrases out of license plates. For example, my husband's first three letters are JFA...and I have always thought it spelled out a secret little slogan that extols the merits of his handsome backside for all the world to see. GGC? Good Grief, Charlie....or Get Going, Creep. You get the idea.

Well, does it surprise you that her license plate said OGR? Happy New Year, to you, too...Ma'am.

Digital Nostalgia...

2008-12-27T12:01:00.000-08:00

I read quite a few blogs. I recently turned my mom on to the world of blogging. Sort of. She logged on and read my blog, and clicked through to Jorie's Blog, which she loved. Now, whether or not she can find them again remains to be seen, but as we have not yet done our tutorial on google reader, she gets a pass. I'll just send her a link.

Today, when perusing one of my favorite creative blogs, I ran across a bit of software heaven. When one of the first things I noticed was that it had only recently released the PC version, having a mac-only following before that I knew it HAD to be great. When I tried it out, I was blown away. When my highly critical professional digital imaging photographer hubby declared it "incredible" I knew I had a treasure.

I remember my Mamaw's Polaroid camera. I can picture her holding that dinosaur of a camera in front of her face, making sure we were all in "birth order" and directing the whole grand group from behind the viewfinder until we all were moaning, "Maaamaaaaawwww...just take the picture!" I remember the satisfying churning sound as the old camera chugged out a murky image framed in crisp white cardboard...one that we kids would fight over who got to wave in the air to help it "develop" faster. The images were spotty, usually poorly exposed, and had an amazingly short lifespan. But, they were precious. Valuable. Worth more than a 4 gb card full of today's images, most of which will never make it to paper or be held in someone's hand. They were one of a kind. They could not be ordered in bulk from Shutterfly for less than a dime each. They couldn't be scanned and emailed. They were, in their own magical way, one-of-a-kind treasures, and now, they are icons of my childhood, almost forgotten. Until today.

Some very clever, forward/backward thinking techie genius has developed a software that will take one of the thousands of digital images stored on your hard drive, memory card or thumb drive, and churn it out of a virtual Polaroid camera, right onto your desktop. Complete with sound effects...and the murky brown color. You can even virtually grab your print and wave it in the cyber-air of your desktop to help it develop faster, without even having to fight your cousins for the privilege. The resulting "Poladroid" is an almost artistic version of your digital pic, with spots, stripes, vignetting, and colors that are unpredictable at best. This guy is a genius. Check it out. Download the software. Bring a little bit of nostalgia to the digital age. I'll bet you won't be able to resist waving it in the virtual air...just a little bit.

A few tips that took me a while to figure out:

*the files aren't "developed" (and saved) until the red X appears on the bottom of the print.

*the final file is saved by default into the pictures folder of the logged in user. (mac)

*the files can be double clicked during the developing process and saved in all of their burnt sienna glory.

Have fun!

Merry Christmas...?

2008-12-25T23:51:00.000-08:00

from the land of plenty. Too much. The land of excess.

You would think that this year, our first year as a married couple with one single income, the holiday would seem more stripped of its maniacal materialism, and closer to its core. You would think.

When I went to Target on Christmas Eve-Eve to finish the shopping, my husband accused me of "gilding the lily", which is his typical response to me when I am trying to be superwoman. "I'm sure Santa has more than done his job. Really." But, off I went to battle supercenters near midnight.

I did get a few more things for the kids, and did spend a little more money. I thought that I was going to enjoy being by myself and get a little more into the Christmas spirit, but I just ended up tired, hungry, and even more cynical.

I'm not sure if it is that I seem to have lost my place in the world or if I am just a bit down in the dumps, but I could not catch the Christmas mojo this year. The most important things that define Christmas-y-ness to me went undone. Like my baking of 16 versions of cookies and candies or like my careful execution of the entire city of Bethlehem with my 200 piece nativity. Ever since my world turned on its ear, I have been feeling a little bit discombobulated, dissatisfied, and overwhelmed. You would think that suddenly being freed from 8 restricted hours a day, I would gain a tremendous sense of freedom and bundles of free time. Don't stay-at-home-moms take naps? Bubble baths in the afternoon after Oprah? Don't their houses smell intoxicatingly of Mr. Clean and Lemon Pledge every day? Isn't the laundry always caught up and the supper on the stove when hardworking hubby comes through the door? That's what I always thought.

The truth of the matter is, my life is so far from that it's not even funny. I was 100 times more organized and on top of things when my 9-5 career kept me structured. We ran like a well-oiled machine. I was supermom. I dreamed of the day when I could do what I thought I did best full time...be a mommy, a wife, and a creative person. Those were the things that I had to push into my limited free time when I was climbing the corporate ladder. Now, I can't manage to match the socks in time for everyone to get dressed. Add to that the burden of Christmas shopping, decorating, visiting and the like, I was a wreck. And I'm not proud of it.

I ironed the dampness out of the kids Christmas clothes because they weren't washed until an hour before church. By the time we arrived, 15 minutes late to Christmas Eve services, Harrisen had Tootsie Roll smeared on his Little Lord Fonteleroy collar. Daddy had ironed leftover tomato sauce into the ribbon on Evangeline's bonnet rather than taking a damp cloth and cleaning it. So there were my angels, covered in food, 15 minutes late, and looking like a hot mess. I broke down in the church parking lot, crying, saying, "Let's just go home. It's not worth it. I don't want to even go in." To which my husband gave me that look that said, quite plainly, albeit with no words, "Riiiiight....because Christmas Eve services are about showing off your perfect kids, not about celebrating the birth of Christ." Of course, he was right.

So, I sucked it up and went into the sanctuary of his parent's church and was struck with the beauty and awe of the true meaning of the Holiday. The presence of the Spirit filled me and my eyes overflowed with tears.

Just kidding. I wish.

Actually, I was so tied up in a knot, I could not shake free and let my heart open to the service. Between mopping at the children with a soapy paper towel hastily snatched from the bathroom and trying not to be resentful that I was missing mass at our beloved church to dutifully fulfill my Christmas Eve obligation to the in-laws, I barely managed to make it through without crying. I did cry, once. The one moment I let myself realize I was missing it. Missing it over stained white satin ribbons. Shit. This is probably why my atheist friends say church is a big sham.

Anyway, supermom's cape is at the cleaners, and she's trying to cope. I won't sugar coat it as my maternal family tree's upbringing would have me do. I won't lie and sing, "This was the best Christmas EVER!" Because it wasn't. But it wasn't the worst, either. And my sweet savior is still born, whether or not I chose to be emotionally present at His birth. That's the beauty of the story. He's born. He's born for us who are weak and flawed and imperfect. And he loves me, whether or not the nativity is set up or the baking got done. If I was perfect I wouldn't need him. So, happy birthday, Baby. Thank you for coming to this crazy Earth for the people like me.

Dirty Little Secret.

2008-12-11T11:40:00.000-08:00

We all have them. We keep them close, hidden away because of shame. Luckily, my dirty little secret has a door, so it's easy to keep it out of the light of day. Until I decide to come clean to the world on my blog, that is.

In our "old house", we had the typical issues with storage space. My closet was split between 3 rooms...the master bedroom, the nursery, and the guest room. It was a pain in the heiney. It was all I could do to keep pairs of shoes in the same closet. When we moved to the "new house" one of the selling points was the amazing walk in closet off of the small cozy bathroom that would, one day, hold my claw foot bathtub.

Built in shoe racks. Shelving. Double french doors to let in natural light. Room for a small dresser and a chair. It was like my own little hideaway. My escape. I had been delivered from the valley of turn-of-the-century closets.

When we moved, I reveled in organizing baskets full of socks, scarves, belts and accessories. I lined up my shoes. I had brand new towels folded in stacks on the shelves, and fabric drawers fit for slippers and flip flops. I even set up a small desk with my computer in the corner. It was going to be heaven to get dressed, check my email, sip a cup of tea...

Well, that didn't last long.

This morning, I noticed there are still capri pants hanging on the spacious racks. White capri pants. Pants that no self respecting southern woman would wear past Labor Day, much less, December! Last night's towel from my bubble bath is balled up damp on the floor...a bubble bath not taken in the claw foot tub in the cozy little bathroom, mind you...but from the kids' bath, because our remodeling fund ran out before the claw foot tub came to fruition. Clean laundry is in lopsided stacks on the floor. The power cord from my external hard drive seems to be mating with my hair dryer. My winter boots and mules made it down from the attic, but they are co-mingling with peep toe pumps and jeweled kitten-heeled sandals in bright tropical colors. I think there is an unwrapped tampon that Evangeline tried to eat somewhere in the rubble.

It's shameful. Simply shameful. There is no excuse for the chaos that is my closet. But, since I'm in a self-preserving mood, let me try to form one.

You see, when you are the CEO of a household that is composed of 4 people who dirty things and one person who cleans things, the person who cleans things gets to their own personal mess last. Harrisen's shoes are lined up like soldiers. His clothes are folded in the proper drawers and his hanging items are grouped by type. Even his toys that live in the closet are stowed in color-coordinated bins. Evangeline's closet is pristine. I spent way too much on her clothes to pile them on the floor. Besides, I have to set a good example, right?

My house usually is pretty neat, and you would rarely freak me out by dropping in unexpectedly. Just don't ask me for a tour of my closet, or try to help yourself to a sweater if you get chilly. My closet door is closed for a reason. I expect it will be open again in about 16 years.

Praying for the light...

2008-11-17T10:03:00.000-08:00

My heart is heavy. I walk around doing the day to day things that, strung together, moment by moment, make a life. But since Saturday, they are strung together not with the normal ribbons of joy and laughter, but with the brittle thread of tears, grief and confusion.

Sunday morning, the caller ID announced an early morning phone call from my best friend, Heidi, half-way across the country. I chirped a sunny, "Good Morning!" and heard, muffled from the other end, "No, it's not."

Death. Early, untimely, and unfair. Death has stolen my friend's true love. Death has taken a Daddy away from his children. Death has come far too close to home.

Anyone who knows me knows I am a person of deep faith. Today, I don't feel the depth. I don't rejoice knowing he is in a better place. I dwell on the darkness left here now that his light is gone.

I pray for Andrea. I pray for Jacob and Sydney. I pray for the light that I know will come.

Who are you today?

2008-11-07T20:19:00.001-08:00

I kinda like waking up each morning and deciding who I am going to be for the day. Some days I go to a public school and teach. Substitute teaching is actually kind of fun. You get to spend the day in someone else's shoes, which, in a voyeuristic sort of way is exciting. Best of all, there's not much pressure. Most teachers and principals feel that if you make it through the day without killing one of them or yourself, it's been a pretty successful day. I can swing that. Avoid homicide? Check. Avoid suicide? Check.

And some days, you get that really jazzed up feeling that I have missed...the one where you (yes, it's cliche') make a difference.

Ever since I spent three years of my life as a special education teacher, I have had a soft spot for those kids. The ones that need a little extra. Sometimes it's extra time, extra effort, extra attention. But a lot of the time they just seem to need a little extra love. Kids can be so painfully vulnerable and it makes you wonder how any of us have managed to make it to adulthood reasonably unscathed after being raised in a world full of grown ups. Teachers can be so mean. They can remove themselves so much from their inner child that they successfully ignore the tears that spring up in a big 4th grader's eyes because he has to leave art class for reading remediation. How can they forget? How can they not remember how it felt to be a child and be called out for being different? I don't ever want to grow up to the point where I lose my ability to see the world from a couple of feet below my shoulders. And yes, Donny, one day you will see that being able to really read is more important than making clay animals. But rest assured, Mrs. Smith gets it. I get that today, it's not. Today, you just want to sit with the rest of the 4th grade, with their big hunks of greasy grey modeling clay and be no more or no less than average.

I can't help but feel like we are doing them a disservice. I don't know the answer to improving the public education of inner-city students. I care. I really do. But on the days that I substitute teach at a certain school, I leave feeling like a fraud. I leave their loud, crowded, and chaotic school and drive my SUV a few blocks down the very same street to my son's quiet, calm oasis of a private school...where the teachers have the luxury of teaching students whose parents not only care about their schoolwork, but sometimes care too much. Those same students who don't have their only hot meal at school, because they all bring their high-protein, low-sugar lunches to school with a cold pack. They have had a hot meal for breakfast, and will have another for dinner, unless dinner consists of teka maki and a california roll. They don't barrel out of under-supervised yellow school buses, but rather hop out of german engineering in the carpool lane. They don't attend the school within walking distance from home, they attend a school their parents have researched and deemed the best philosophy for the type of life they want to provide for their child. It's more than meeting an obligation when I go down the street. It's about paying more than most do for a college education for preschool that nurtures the whole child. And I'm not mocking myself or my fellow Montessori parents. Well, not much. :)

It just seems, each time I drive the 4 blocks that takes me from one world to another, that here is here, and there is there, and where is the in between?

John McCain is a GOOD man...

2008-10-29T19:24:00.000-07:00

So says my three year old.

I'm so guilty. So guilty of using my three year old's innocence to promote my political agenda. But I'm in good company. My uber-liberal, Obama-volunteering best friend abuses her mommy power to indoctrinate her preschooler, too, so if I'm guilty, I'm in good company.

A few moments after my son was born, before he was even dry, my dear husband exclaimed, much to the delight of my obstetrician..."A little Republican!" And now, in this heated election he wears his "Little Republican" shirt proudly. Just not to the Montessori School, where he probably would never be welcome again.

We have a little dialogue in our family these days. It goes like this...
"Harrisen, who you gonna vote for for President?"
"John McCain!"
"What about Obama?"
"OBAMANATION!"

Ok, it's funny. Especially out of the mouths of babes, ya know?

In Denver, at my best friend's house, the dialogue goes like this...
"Tommy, who's Obama?"
"Our next President!"
"Who's John McCain?"
"An OLD MAN!"

So tonight, as we watch thirty long, agonizing minutes of the Barack and Michelle show, Harrisen says, "John McCain is gonna win cause he's a GOOD man."

I wish, Buddy, I wish.

No matter what the funny dialogue is in your home this election year, the Smith family prayer is for a safe, strong America. God Bless Her.

Monkeys and Zebras and OH MY!

2008-10-26T13:48:00.000-07:00

I am quite proud of myself. Unlike most things in life where I make myself somewhat miserable trying to make mountains out of molehills, I have made a tiny step towards simplicity this Halloween.

Halloween brings out the creative genius in a lot of people. I always know it's getting to be that time of year when I have to *gasp* wait in line at the friendly neighborhood fabric store to have my selections measured and cut. I always get inspiration from the people closely examining the pattern books for costumes, arguing with their mother in laws, and looking generally overwhelmed at the task of creating a costume from a flat piece of fabric or two. Inspired, because I can totally relate, even though the actual construction, thankfully, does not overwhelm me.

Halloween is a prime time for MOTY elections. Remember back in the 70's? I always felt bad for the kids in the vinyl smock with matching mask. I remember feeling so thankful that my mother could sew and create my costumes. I guess a little bit of that elementary school snobbery remains to this day because I put a lot of pressure on myself when it comes to my kids halloween costume.

For Harrisen's first "big" costume, I actually bought a serger. I had never used one, never thought I needed one, but I wanted the seams of his little monkey outfit to look professional. I cringe now thinking how I learned to use that machine on FUR of all things. (Not a great learning curve, looking back, but how was I to know?) And you know what? Aside from one ear a little askew, it was indeed, fabulous.

So fabulous, in fact that Evangeline is wearing it this Halloween. Therefore easing my workload, and conquering my obsession to be an over-the-top Halloween mom. A hand-me-down costume...and I'm totally ok with it! Score one for me!

Now Harrisen's costume...that's another story. I actually broke the above-mentioned serger doing the tail of his zebra costume. So, aside from materials and time, his lovely little zebra costume, including the authentic tail that I researched on Google, cost me $69 plus tax. But I learned a very good lesson. Never try to serge a zebra tail.

Journey into the unknown...

2008-10-23T07:14:00.000-07:00

I recently escaped from one of the most damaging experiences of my life. You know, the kind that makes you all "woe is me" and "why me" and a plethora of other pitiful and embarrassing emotions? Well, this one really did a number on me. I spent the better part of a month recovering from the trauma this "experience" inflicted on my psyche. 2 days after the great escape I was standing at my kitchen sink washing dishes, Fox news blaring in the background, husband arguing with the talking heads on television and my two kids wrestling on the floor and it's like a switch flipped on, and I could see again. I stopped what I was doing, and said, "Scot, I'm home." I had been present but absent for almost 3 months, and the weight of that realization really hurt.

So, unwilling to let a poor (ok, poor is a really tame word. But it's a PG rated blog. So there.) choice keep me down after it knocked me down, I started really looking for the lemonade. I sure had a lot of lemons, so it just made sense. I realized that maybe what I was doing wasn't what I was supposed to be doing, and God was setting me on a new path.

Long story a little shorter, signs have been coming at me hard and fast. The latest of which was just last night, when I found out I would not be returning to the NPO world right now, as I thought I might. I've spent the better part of a decade raising money for very worthy causes...and I was pretty happy. I was good at it. It made sense and filled a need within me to do something that mattered. But I can't help but see now that I have neglected my own creative soul in the process. Surely, there is a way to do both. So, I'm beginning the journey now. And it's exciting as can be.

Seashells...

2008-03-06T12:32:00.000-08:00

We recently took our annual family trip to the beach. Yes, we go in February...it's usually still a little cold, but this year was fantastic. Wonderful weather, warm sunny days, and a new little girl to experience the joys of sand for the first time.

On our way down to the Gulf, there was a pretty significant storm which churned up the water a bit, which meant the seashells were plentiful. This is an especially fun thing for a two-and-a-half-year-old. Seashells are just magical to kids, and the beach was littered with them.

The problem was, because the storm was pretty violent, only the smallest of the shells were unharmed. Most of them were gorgeous, but missing parts...a little battered, splintered, and not quite whole.

I remember as a young girl (heck, even a young adult) searching for seashells on the beach and only choosing the whole, perfect beautiful specimens for my bucket. The broken ones were...well...broken. I only wanted the pretty seashells that looked like they were supposed to look for my collection.

It's funny how age and wisdom, and the trials of life change our perspective. I realized this time that I really loved the battered, broken seashells on the beach. The big beautiful orange fans of shells that were missing the top half of their glorious curve. The dark grey and maroon twirly shells with the tips missing. The sand dollars that were cracked open, showing the intricate maze inside. I found myself wondering where these shells had come from, and what they had been through to end up at my feet. What magnificant wave crashed on top of them to give them the scars they carried. I wondered if it is necessary to go through the storms and waves in life to see the beauty of something that has been broken.

I found myself pointing out shells to Harrisen with my sandy big toe, and watching him squeal and gasp at how shiny, how bright, how big, how small each and every one was. I wondered what he would go through in his life before he recognized the beauty of broken-ness. I wanted to protect him from it, knowing all the while that I can't.

I now know this. Nothing is perfect. Nobody that has truly lived life goes without being hurt. Nobody that has experienced great joy has done so without great pain, and scars can sometimes make us beautiful. Just like the seashells.

Each time we visit a beach on our travels, I bring back some shells and sand to save in a little glass bottle, labeled with the name of the beach and the date we visited it. I usually look for perfect little shells to sit atop the miniature beach in a bottle.

Not this time. Orange Beach, Alabama. February, 2008. Beauty out of broken-ness. The shells sitting atop the sand in this little glass jar will be beautiful. But they won't be perfect.

S-M-I-T-H

2008-03-05T12:21:00.000-08:00

Good Lord in Heaven.

First, let me preface this by saying, this might not be exactly P.C. I have the utmost respect for people trying to get by in a language other than their native tongue. I'm the gal who asked a Senegalese holy man to "Sleep with a Slave" while living in West Africa. Did you know that in Wolof, "Sleep with Peace" is very very very similar to "Sleep with a Slave"?

That being said. Sheesh. The Indian out-sourcing of every.single.company is driving me totally batty.

I call Brother because I have lost the install disc to some very expensive software for my embroidery machine. The call goes something like this:

Them: Hello. May I have your name?
Me: Katie Smith

Them: Can you spell that please?

Me: Smith? S-M-I-T-H.

Them: Ok, that's Haiti. H-as in....

Me: No. Katie. K-A-T-I-E

Them: Thank you Mrs. Smith, for that information. What is your street address?

Me: 805 Cobblestone Drive. One word.

Them: That's Cuble, C-U-B-L-E

Me: No, Cobblestone. C-O-B-B-L-E-S-T-O....

You get the picture. She didn't do very well with Shreveport, either. Or my email address, which is uber long.

Then we get to the problem. My missing software disc.

Them: What is the name of the product?

Me: PED-Basic.

Them: TED-Basic? T as in....

Me: No. PED. P-E-D. It's your product. PED-Basic. It's a Brother software product.

Them: Thank you for that information, Mrs. Smith. What is the model number of your equipment.

Me: It's not equipment. It's software. A disc. I lost it.

Them: Which disc did you lose?

Me: PED-Basic. The software. The install disc.

Them: Thank you for that information, Mrs. Smith. May I put you on hold while I research your problem?

Me: What the fuck? (I didn't actually say this part out loud.)

When she comes back on the line she tells me that she cannot help me with my problem and she was transferring me to someone in "that department".

I thanked her and waited patiently.

When the person in "that department"....(what department is it? The department that deals specifically with morons who need to embroider their baby's easter dress and have lost their disc in a pile of sewing rubble?) answers the line, I have never been happier to hear a whiney nasal midwest accent in all my life.

Turns out I can download the software right on the website. *sigh*

Bless that poor Indian woman's sweet heart. I can't imagine spending all day every day on the phone talking to people I can't understand. And I imagine I was probably the kindest customer she spoke to all day.

Are Americans really too spoiled to take jobs like that anymore?

Dr. Phil

2007-12-14T12:19:00.000-08:00

Sooo...we are in the middle of potty training purgatory with Harrisen. This morning, I asked him, "Harrisen, are you needing to sit on the potty? Do you need to poop?" "nooooo....mommmmmy." Ok.

2 minutes later, and ONE minute before we need to leave, he's pooped in his diaper. GAH!

I guess I was obviously irritated when I was changing him...this is our conversation....

H: What's wrong, Mommy?
K: I'm just having a bad day.

H: This could be a changing day in your life! Goooooooo Dr. Phil!

Oh. My. I think I watch too much Tivo. But I must say, it made me smile!

The Joy of Multiplication.

2007-08-16T12:18:00.000-07:00

Wow.

You always hear it...that when you have another child, the love doesn't divide, it multiplies. You nod...sure that they wouldn't lie to you...but unsure how it's possible.

Well, get ready to nod.

It's all true. It's true that after months and months of waiting, and hours and hours of labor, when they put that wet, screaming little human that you created right on your chest, your heart just swells and fills and the love really does multiply. And somehow, God recreates the most miraculous moment of your life, all over again.

Welcome to the world, Baby Girl.

Evangeline Kate
7/18/07
4:24 pm
7lbs, 12oz
20 inches
absolutely gorgeous

I Happy.

2007-06-21T12:14:00.000-07:00

Man, we can learn so much from kids.

I am sooooo type A, it's not even funny. I'm always pushing, searching, trying, changing...never quite content to just rest and enjoy. I have hoped not to strap my kids with that sort of internal pressure, and so far, so good.

This week, we have been doing some destructo work at the new house, preparing for the tile to be installed on Saturday. After the hard sweaty part is finished, we get in the new pool and cool off.

Harrisen's favorite thing is to play on the steps, going in and out and in and out over and over...occasionally stopping to take a swim with us. But if we ask him to "jump to Mommy" or "swim to Daddy"....he folds his arms in a huff over his chest and says, "I HAPPY". He is living in his little moment. So precious.

I'm going to try to keep that "I HAPPY" spirit today. It's tough. Babies don't have to worry about carpet contractors, painters who show up late, tile guys that need the toilets ripped up by tomorrow.....or the fact that 4 weeks early they are 40% effaced and a centimeter dilated....but I'm still going to try. Because no matter how hard I try to make my world work the way I want it to, I would be infinitely better off crossing my arms and saying "I HAPPY". Que Sera, right?