Stop Screaming I'm Driving!

The Weekly Beat

2009-12-11T10:56:00.000-08:00

In the news of all that is awesome around the Stop Screaming household this week, I hung up on a celebrity.

It's not everyday that I look at the caller ID and it displays "Imagination Movers" on the screen. I almost dropped the phone right then and there. But I had a job (interview) to do, so I persevered. After all, my daughter was sitting there, looking at me with eyes as big as plates, not believing that her mom was really going to talk to one of her favorite Disney Channel characters on THE REAL PHONE! I know that when your kids are this age, they are easy to please and equally easy to impress - heck, buying her a ring pop at the local market usually does the trick - so I am going to soak in this new found superpower of mine - along with the ability to call Santa on my cell - for as long as I can.

And right now, I'm totally working it.

::

In other news, I've reached an all time level of lazy.

I ordered groceries online.

gasp.

I know, who does this, right? Well, I do! I do! You see, the night before Thanksgiving, my husband was called in for an overtime shift at the fire department. Hold your applause. I was working from home that day and he was going to be the one running out to get the last minute items needed to make pies - because I never procrastinate.

Well, lo and behold, that wasn't going to happen and as I faced the looming evening thinking that I'd have to take the kids with me to the store and wrestle premade pie crusts with other people who had put off getting them earlier in the week, I wanted to pull my hair out. So, I looked into the whole online grocery buying deal. Turns out, that wasn't going to happen. Safeway.com was booked until Saturday (this was Wednesday and we were not going to be postponing Thanksgiving just because I waited too long to get my groceries), so I was screwed.

But all is well that ends well people! Because I created an account online, they immediately started sending me email promotions to lure me back into the online supermarket. Free delivery and $15 in free groceries later, I succumbed to the marketing bait, dangling in front of my cold, tired and did I mention cold? face. I figured since the temperature hadn't risen above 28 all week, no reason why I had to be the one to actually go out in it.

I mean, come on!

I placed my order, free of the distractions of kids asking for lollipops, other shoppers being weird, and the shiny covers of my favorite gossip magazines calling out BUY ME! BUY ME! I was a little frightened that my produce would be not exactly what I wanted - I'm kind of picky about my fruits and veggies - but I was willing to take a chance. If this gig worked out, I envisioned me - relaxed, dressed to the 9s and hair looking perfect, house totally clean and children always smiling and behaved, cocktail in hand for the husband when he came home from work (which doesn't make sense because he works 24 hour shifts and comes home in the morning, but hey), getting my meals cooked by a chef and looking hot because my personal trainer had just kicked my butt for the 3rd week in a row (as if 3 weeks would be all it'd take to get me in shape, riiiiiiiiight).

A girl can dream.

What did happen is that a man older than my dad (which is not old, dad) named Bob (not really) showed up at my doorstep with what looked like supplies for the next Armageddon - crate upon crate stacked up on a cart. He introduced himself and then marched right into my kitchen as I stood there, slack jawed. He unloaded the groceries onto the kitchen counters and joked that he does everything except actually put them away. I believe my jaw was still hanging at this point.

I felt so incredibly pampered.

We even got a free frozen pizza because Bob forgot to drop it off at another delivery spot. But I'm not supposed to say anything about that.

And color me silly, but I'm all for this online grocery buying deal. I mean, it's not something that I can imagine doing on a regular basis...but I did save money because I didn't buy a bunch of stuff that I didn't really need. I saved on the delivery charge because it was free. I missed talking to all the crazy old ladies in line, but I think I'll get over that. And, there are more offers for free delivery sitting in my inbox RIGHT NOW! So, um, yeah - it's really all it's cracked up to be.

::

My kid made the honor roll.

::

And, in case you haven't heard, it's cold in Washington. Like, really, really, really cold. Like don't go outside with wet hair because it will freeze cold. And if you have kids who like to toss their icky fish tank water onto the patio (hello, gross), don't let them do it because it will IMMEDIATELY make a disgusting frozen puddle of leftover fish food and fish poop, and nobody wants to see that cold.

Now I understand that whole crawling into a cave, layering yourself with many inches of insulating fat, and sleeping all winter long hibernation thing that bears do.

Man, I wish I was a bear.

Kick Ass Chicken En-a-la-das!

2009-12-08T09:18:00.000-08:00

Because it's too cold to type without wearing fingerless gloves, here's a recipe sure to warm you.

This hails from my sister-in-law's mother's kitchen (who is NOT my uncle's brother's best friend's neighbors cousin) and the first time I had these I was in love. I know it may sound weird to say that you're in love with an enchilada but after you taste these, you'll understand. I could feel the delicious cheesy goodness right down to my toes (and I'm not one for cliches)!

My recipe card bears all traits of a great recipe as it is smudged, smeared and splattered with oil. The edges are tattered and I can barely read it, but the basic recipe never changes. I've tried other versions of the classic white chicken enchilada and found none that compare to the original. And on occasion, I have modified it using whatever shredded chicken I have on hand. Sometimes it's leftover crockpot salsa chicken, sometimes it's rotisserie chicken because I'm feeling lazy - as if crockpot chicken isn't lazy enough already. But whatever chicken it is, it's always good. My kids devour it with the zealousness of a pack of hungry wild dogs and there are never leftovers.

Simply, it rocks.

We call it chicken EN-A-LA-DAS (emphasis on the "la") because that is just how we roll around here, and it is best prepared while listening to your favorite tunes...whatever those may be. I think the last time I made these (which was just last week), I had a little World Party on my equally kick ass kitchen radio.

Kick Ass Chicken En-a-la-das

2 cups cooked, shredded chicken

1 small yellow onion, diced

8 - 10 flour tortillas (or corn if you like those better)

1 can mild diced green chilis (use 2 if you're bold)

1/4 cup butter (use cooking spray if you're so inclined but believe me, you'll taste the difference)

3 Tbsp flour

2 cups chicken broth (apprx)

2 cups shredded cheese*

1 cup sour cream

Cook the onion over medium heat in a little butter or canola oil until translucent. Transfer to a bowl and mix with the shredded chicken. Set aside.

In same pan, and no you don't have to wash it in between, melt the butter over med-high heat. Add the diced green chilis when the butter is melted and just begins to crackle. Cook for about 2 min, stirring constantly. Now, reduce the heat to medium and sprinkle the flour over the green chilis. This will make a paste. Cook and stir only until combined and there are no large visible lumps of flour. Then, add the chicken broth, stirring (I like to use a large plastic whisk) slowly until it is all blended, over medium heat. Continue stirring until all the chicken broth is absorbed and the mixture is smooth. It should be fairly thick but if it isn't, toss in a little more flour, crank up the heat and adjust it until you think it's thick enough.

I know, this recipe is soooooo Martha Stewart.

Finally, turn the heat off, but keep the pan on the burner, and gently fold in the sour cream. The sauce will be delicious, thick and creamy colored.

Now, you should have a 9 x 13 pan sprayed with cooking spray and ready to go. I forgot to mention that earlier but it's okay if you wait until the last minute - nothing is going to go wrong if you do this out of order!

Take a tortilla, hold it in your hand, and spread about 1/4 cup of the chicken/onion mixture in the tortilla. Sprinkle just a pinch (or a tablespoon in this case) of cheese on top of the chicken/onion mixture and roll the whole thing up. Place seam side down in the pan and repeat at least 7 more times, loading the pan up with en-a-la-das.

When the pan is full, find that wonderful sauce you just made - it should be sitting on the stove. Slowly pour the sauce over the en-a-la-das, spreading it out with a spatula if necessary to get all the edges coated in sauce. Place the entire pan in a preheated 350 degree oven and set a timer for 25 minutes.

Pour yourself a tall frosty glass full of your favorite Mexican beer (I like Pacifico with a lemon slice) and dance around your kitchen until the buzzer goes off. When that happens, get the rest of the cheese (should be about 1 cup unless you snuck some while you were dancing) and sprinkle it on top of the bubbling en-a-la-das. Put that whole cheesy goodness back in the oven and cook for an additional 5 minutes.

You can do some cool down stretches at this point.

Viola! The en-a-la-das are done. We like ours topped with some fresh chopped cilantro and tomato but you can do whatever you like. Avocado, green onions and even a nice corn salsa would also be yummy.

Enjoy!

*A note about the cheese, my favorite type to use is a blend of cheddar and monterey jack. But - you can use pepper jack, only cheddar or only monterey jack. Heck, you can probably use mozzarella if that's all you have on hand. Just make sure it's cheese, and that there is a lot of it.

Feel the Burn, Great Wolf Lodge Style

2009-12-07T23:07:00.000-08:00

For the second time in my adult life, I'm home - basking in the afterglow from a water logged, highly caffeinated, stair climbing, pizza eating, cotton candy having, wave pool splashing, inner tube riding weekend with my family. The only differences between this trip to Great Wolf Lodge and the last are that a) the latest Disney teen princess (Jordan Pruitt in our case) didn't ride the elevator with us, and b) there was real fake snow falling in the lobby throughout our stay.

I'm not kidding. My kids stuck their tongues out and everything, just like they do with real snow, and found it surprisingly...soapy. It was harmless, odorless and evaporated within minutes - but the overall effect was magical, whimsical and totally fun.

I shouldn't say that those were the only differences, because they aren't. Also included on my list is that I fell on my behind (or "bahookie" as Katie likes to call it) right in the middle of the place (I got up quick, straightened my flip flops and looked around to see if anyone was laughing - and no, they weren't, THANKGOD), I rode more water slides, spent less time in the kiddie pool (since Katie is a bit older and far braver this time), and drank 3 vodka tonics (one made with a lemon garnish because the bartender was out of limes - it's ok, I suffered through it).

Now before you go accusing me of being the drunk at the water park, hear this:

I was not driving.

and.

I was among friends.

I did not ride the slides after those vodka tonics...oh no I did not (you can probably have yourself arrested for that behavior). And I wasn't drinking them when I fell either. Those were for later, after the snow fell, after the trees came to life in the lobby and after Mr. and Mrs. Claus had every child in the place sit on their laps for a picture and a candy cane. Those were for after the dinner served in buckets, the games won in the arcade and the many, many trips up the stairs to ride the River Canyon Run. Great Wolf Lodge has nailed the concept that happy parents make happy kids and it's in everyones best interest to keep the parents happy, whether it be a Starbucks in the lobby, brownies bigger than your head, or a bartender who pours generously. Chose your poison people, it's there.

But that isn't really what it's all about.

(The hokey pokey is what it's all about)

Christmas carols were piped into every nook and cranny of the Lodge, and I found myself singing along while standing bathing suit-clad holding onto an inner tube bigger than Italy (you're welcome for that mental picture). It was both surreal and surprising all at the same time. The kids are definitely more stoked for Christmas and brought home the souvenirs to prove it. And the parents, although their wallets may be a bit lighter, are also a little, wee bit stoked too.

Because when you find yourselves in the middle of all that water, your three kids bouncing and bumping in waves to and fro and screaming people everywhere, and you know that right then...in that very moment (eyes burning from the chlorine and all), you are all happy, healthy and content - that's what it's about right there. Your unit. Your kids. Your family.

Thank you, Great Wolf Lodge, for another fabulous trip!

*Disclaimer: We did not receive our trip for free, but we were invited at a special media rate. This is NOT a review - simply my thoughts on our weekend.

Best Intentions

2009-12-04T11:28:00.000-08:00

What started out as sage, common-sense, practical advice from my mother (oh wise one), "just put a sleeping bag on the floor next to your bed and soon enough she'll stay in her own room at night," ended up as a bad habit - literally overnight. A really bad habit.

Katie has always been my worst sleeper.

It's probably a good thing that she was my last baby and not my first. Oh no, my first baby slept like a little angel in his homemade bassinet - the stroller - next to my bed every night during his first few months. When he was ready (read: when I was ready), I wheeled him little by little from our room into his where he peacefully slumbered no less than 6 solid hours in a row each night. Oh yes. A perfect little sleeper was he and if I could have pryed myself away from the rocking chair in his room for a long enough time to get some shut eye myself, I would have been one very well-rested new mommy.

But, as it is with most first babies, I was addicted to him. The dopamine coursing through my body at the mere sight of his sweet face kept me by his side almost all day and all night. I couldn't get enough of him and I stood watch over his crib for hours - just watching him breathe.

Then came Wyatt. My "cranky" baby. Or so I thought at the time. It's hard to know what the true meaning of "cranky" is, when you haven't experienced Katie. But I thought, because he squealed and was always hungry (good lord, you would be too if you were born the size of a regular 2 month old), that he was a bit on the cranky side. So I adopted a method: the bounce and sway. It worked like this - Wyatt hated to be put down and even knew if you bent your knees a tiny bit in an attempt to sit. So, he wanted to be held all the time. And, you know he was a big baby so this meant extra work for my biceps (you should have seen my biceps back in those days...) as I bounced him gently and swayed from side to side.

He loved this.

We had to teach it to everyone we knew. Especially if we wanted to leave him with anyone and sneak out for "date night," which probably meant grocery shopping and hitting up the local Taco Bell afterwards.

How romantic.

And then, there was Katie.

I messed her up from the beginning.

She was beyond cranky and I seriously considered asking the doctor if there was a return policy during her 6 week check up. She cried, she fussed, she screamed. And if I didn't know what little baby girl screams would do to my nerves before then, I certainly had a quick lesson during her first few months of life. Nothing would work with her. Not the bounce and sway, not rocking, not swaddling, nothing. The only time it seemed like she stopped crying was when she was eating or sleeping.

And that's about it.

We finally figured out that she was colicky and I stopped having all dairy and all caffeine. Boy, those are days I surely don't ever want to revisit, no matter how adorable she looked in the pink corduroy jacket from BabyGap. And after a few weeks, she started to calm down a bit - but only a bit. The screaming remained, as did the resistance to all things sleep, unless you were holding her - then she'd sleep like a - well - a baby.

Basically, nothing has changed, except she's bigger now.

We thought we were making headwind, by getting her to sleep in her big girl bed for over a year, without a parent in there snuggling all night long, without a million prayers and bedtime stories (only the usual few), and without ten million stuffed animals arranged "just so." She was sleeping like a - well - a baby.

And then, Halloween happened.

You never know what is going to scare a kid, until it's too late. In Katie's case, it was an episode of "Ghost Hunters," or "Ghost Lab," heck - I don't really know, it was something ghost related and it was on Discovery Channel, during the day. Isn't daytime programming supposed to be safe? And of course, she was watching it with her older brothers, who sometimes forget that a 5 year old is in the room.

It's not their fault, it's just the way it is. I remember watching things I knew would frighten my little brother when I was about their ages and then I'd run out of the basement, turning off all the lights behind me and lock him down there in the dark - ON PURPOSE! So, I guess it could be worse. They could be like I was.

But again, It's not their fault.

It's probably just my payback...but I'll never know.

Point is, she got scared. So scared that she refused to stay in her room alone at night. And up until a few weeks ago, she was running into our room in the middle of the night, tigger pillow in hand, and grabbing the sleeping bag that I'd pushed under my bed that very morning with high hopes that it would not be needed that very night. Oh, I was so wrong!

This happened night after night after night.

I kept waiting for her to grow tired of it. I kept waiting for her to dislike sleeping on the floor, instead of a pillow-top mattress. I kept waiting for it (this magical plan) to work.

And it never did.

It was looking like the dumb sleeping bag was going to be a permanent fixture in my bedroom. Forever. Between her midnight entrances, my husband's snoring, and the dog wandering around in the middle of the night (his toes clicking on the hardwood floor making the most annoying sound in the world, ever)- I would never get any sleep.

This was definitely a problem.

And then I saw it.

It.

The solution to my problem.

Or, at least, worth a try.

It was about 12 inches by 18 inches. It was white, shiny and came with dry-erase markers and little magnetic stars of different colors. It had blank spaces where you could write in your "chores" and the days of the week.

Before I could begin to concoct a story like I usually did while shopping with my husband and finding an impulse item to buy, he said "get it." He knew exactly what I was thinking and I'm pretty sure he wanted our little girl back in her own bed as much as I did, even though he pretended to be sleeping when she'd come in.

And you know what?

It worked.

That stinking chore chart, the most basic of basic motivators for kids (how else would I have gotten through potty training?), worked wonders.

I didn't even have to sell my soul to the devil to get her sleeping back in her own room - only to Target.

Pint-Sized Economics

2009-12-02T11:51:00.000-08:00

Like a lot of adult concepts, she has yet to grasp the concept of money.

Last week, on my - oh I can't believe I'm going to admit this, but 2 of the times were for 1 item only and the 3rd time was for a return - 4th trip to the store with the giant bullseye (you all know where I'm talking about), I forgot my wallet.

Talk about embarrassing.

Now, normally this would not stress me out, as the land of the giant red bullseye is only about 15 minutes from my house, but on that particular day I was on a schedule. It was the day before Thanksgiving and I had not even been to the grocery store for my rolls of pie crust or the cranberry sauce that comes in a can - you know the kind, it slides gracefully from it's encasement, every perfect ridge intact, and onto your finest china. It had been a very busy day and it was far from being over.

The hiccup caused by forgetting my wallet - because I'd had it out while trying to create an account to have my groceries delivered, which turned out couldn't happen anyway because the deliveries were booked solid until 3 days AFTER Thanksgiving (note to self: don't wait so long next time genius), and left it on my desk, next to the computer - was a big one.

If my daughter had been in charge, the person in line behind us (who I am sure was not all that thrilled with the fact that I had no means to pay or that my oldest was shoving a package of ear buds in my face asking if he could buy them with the 5 bucks that he'd brought) would have paid for our things and we'd be on our way.

"Sadly, it doesn't work that way honey."

"But why?"

"Because it just doesn't."

A few days later, she comes running up to me. She held her hands together, cupping them tightly and carefully so as not to accidentally drop the 5 pennies and 1 dime she had found.

"Look mom!"

"Wow, you have quite the treasure there."

"I know, I'M RICH!"

I smiled momentarily thinking how wonderful it would be to think I was rich if I had fifteen cents, then I went back to paying bills.

Yesterday in the car on the way home from school, Katie brings up money again. Only this time, she targets my debit card. I explain that a debit card is not the same as a credit card (oh, thank you media, for educating my child on what a credit card even is at such a tender young age, next thing you know she'll be getting a black American Express card in the mail). I tell her that in the olden days, people used to write checks, but that now most people use a debit card instead of a check - but that it is the same thing. It takes money right out of your checking account, just like magic!

(Unfortunately, but I leave that part out)

"Well mom, you'd better stop using your debit card - it's going to SPOIL!"

And that concludes our economics lesson for today.

Dog Day

2009-11-30T14:07:00.000-08:00

The boys were busy showcasing all of their many scars to my Aunt on Thanksgiving Eve - I'm sure much to her delight because who doesn't want to be caught in a scar competition between brothers - when I held up my middle finger and said to my Dad, "Hey - you wanna see my scar?"

The chuckle between us was understood, for we both knew what scar I was talking about.

"You know," he said leaning in close, "It really is a funny story."

"Yeah...NOW it's funny." I replied.

Peninsula College, 1993.

That dog had been wandering around campus all day long. Just wandering and wandering like a - well, like a lost dog. For a while, it seemed like it had latched onto the crazy math professor, adopted him if you will, and followed him as he sprinted from one end of the campus to the other. But I think it was just onto the scent of his real dog, the ratty ugly little excuse for a dog, that was busy peeing in the shrubs and had taken his eye of his master for just one minute.

One minute is all it takes.

I was waiting for my Dad to come pick up what would be the first of many carloads of stuff to move home for the summer. It's amazing how much stuff one college student can accumulate in 2 years, inside a cramped dormitory room. But accumulate (I like to refer to is as collect) I did, apparently, and it would take no less than 3 carloads to get me and all that stuff home, finally.

I saw the dog wandering over from the edge of the parking lot - looking forlorn, sad and basically lost. He was probably feeling rejected by the crazy math professor and his tag-a-long mutt, who knows. But he seemed harmless, you know, like most dogs who chose to spend their days sniffing back packs and Birkinstocks on a college campus are.

Although I am a big fan of dogs. I am not a big fan of Poodles, of any kind. In fact, I can't even believe they are in the same class of animal as Golden Retrievers or German Shepherds. It just doesn't seem right. Poodles are overgrown rats, with bad perms. There is nothing remotely appealing to me about a Poodle, not even those ridiculous bows that their owners put in their hair to make them cute. I'm sorry, but no amount of fabric is going to make a Poodle cute. You can shave their fur into any shape you want, it's still a Poodle and it's still ugly.

And this Poodle was no exception.

Surprising even myself, I felt a soft spot in my heart when the Standard Poodle sauntered (I swear, he was sauntering) up to me as I stood there waiting for my Father. As any person with half a brain knows, if a strange animal walks up to you, the first thing you do is let him sniff you by offering your hand before attempting to pet the animal - even if it's a Poodle that you don't really want to pet in the first place because who on Earth wants to pet a stinking Poodle anyway? Mostly I think I was impressed with his size. I'd never been nearly eye to eye with a Poodle before. This was a new experience and if I'd learned anything during my first 2 years of college, it was to embrace new experiences with open arms - in this case, an open hand.

And just like that, he bit me.

Sure, you saw it coming. But I didn't. I stood there, just as my Dad had pulled up in his car, probably looking as dumbfounded as I would have had I just seen a Big Foot walk in front of me. My Dad did what Dads do - he grabbed my hand, more specifically the finger (had to be the middle, flipping off finger of course), and applied pressure with the ease of a medical professional.

Except my Dad isn't a medical professional.

And he faints at the sight of blood.

I'm sure you can see it coming now.

We were standing next to my car the first time he lifted his hand from mine to see if I was okay. Suddenly, I was carrying him. Okay, not literally carrying him, but he slumped over onto me and the hood of my car - all the while still gripping my mangled finger in his hand. He almost lost consciousness that time...almost. Keep in mind, my Dad is 6'2". I am 5'6".

I quickly learned that all those stories my Mom had told about my birth were true and I decided we had better get him (and me) into the dorm as soon as possible.

So we began to walk, and he slumped again, but this time he went all the way down. I tried to soften his landing on the pavement, but he still managed to bang his head. I know I was immediately surrounded by friends and somebody called the ambulance (I only found out 20 years later through the magic of facebook who that person was - so thank you Jason) and my Dad woke back up again just as the EMTs were pulling up.

They assessed him, took a look (hardly a glance) at my finger and loaded him in a gurney.

"You'll have to drive to the hospital," they told me.

And for the second time that day, I'm sure I looked as if I'd just crossed paths with a Big Foot (it was the Pacific Northwest after all). I have to drive myself to the hospital and he gets to ride in the aid car? I thought. I just got bit by a dog! I could have rabies! Where the heck did that ugly excuse for a canine wander off to anyway?

So, a friend drove me to the hospital, not too far behind the ambulance carrying my Dad. I rode shot gun, clutching and applying pressure to my middle finger the whole way there, which was about .5 miles from campus. Port Angeles is a lot of things, but a big town it isn't, not by any stretch of Stephenie Meyer's imagination.

I was squeezing my finger so hard that I had lost all feeling and I was, even though I'd never experienced even an inkling of dizziness my entire life, afraid of looking underneath for fear that I'd find myself face up on the road with my eyes trying to look inside my brain, just like my Dad had a few minutes earlier. But mostly, I was just afraid for my Dad. I didn't understand and I hadn't ever seen him faint. Not even the time when he stuck his hand underneath the lawn mower and came running into the kitchen holding a blood soaked towel. My Mom sent me out to the yard to look for fingers - and of course, there were none because he hadn't severed anything. And if he came close to fainting that time, I wouldn't have known because I was so busy doing that my Mom had told me.

Something about my family and fingers...

Anyway I was worried about my Dad and couldn't wait to get out of the car and into the hospital to see if he was ok.

When they escorted me into the area where he was getting a tetanus shot (for bonking his head on the gravel), everyone in the room turned and looked at me wide-eyed like I had a scarlett letter taped to my chest. Or maybe they thought I was a Big Foot (doubtful).

"So you're the one responsible for all of this," the doctor said laughing.

I couldn't believe a doctor was laughing at me.

"That would be me," I said raising my right middle finger.

In the end, I didn't get stiches. The cut was to the bone, but too jagged to stitch. I was sent on my way with butterfly bandages, a splint, and a scolding never to do that again to my poor Father from the ER doctor.

My Dad was sent on his way with a tetanus shot, a bruised ego and strict instructions from the ER doctor to never do that again.

We vowed not to tell my Mom until my Dad had made it home safely, for fear she'd send the calvary to bring both he and myself home from the most unsafe place on the planet (it was a wonder I'd survied for 2 years already). If you know my Mom at all, you know that "caution" is her middle name.

And I still don't like Poodles.

Other {Write} of Passage participants can be found below:

The Great Turkey Chase, Reprise

2009-11-25T14:31:00.000-08:00

It was decided.

The powers that be decided that I would be hostessing Thanksgiving at my house this year, which meant that I had to cook the turkey.

Cue the scary music.

The last time I cooked a turkey, I left the bag with all the giblets and stuff that was supposed to go into a special dish of stuffing for those who enjoy eating a turkey's parts, inside the bird! Yes, I've heard that this is a common mistake, but how much of a dummy do you have to be to think that the yucky looking neck portion and it's related tissue were, in fact, the giblets?

Apparently a dummy like me.

It's not the actual cooking of the bird that frightens me, as it really is a simple task. Especially if you just think of it as being a very large chicken! But, the thought of pulling off a perfectly timed, delicious and amazingly elegant dinner for my family gives me shivers.

Just saying the words "I'm doing Thanksgiving" gives me goosebumps.

So, I dusted off Grandma's china and cleaned corners of my house that hadn't seen a feather duster or vacuum in a few years (probably since the last time I had Thanksgiving). I got out my trusty "Joy of Cooking" and read all about cooking the turkey. When that proved way beyond my culinary expertise, I grabbed my tattered stand-by, "The Betty Crocker Cookbook," and read how to do my bird from it's pages instead.

Oh, but wait!

I need a turkey!

One week before the day, I was in a mad rush from supermarket to supermarket in our area in search of a fresh (not frozen), free range (shouldn't the turkey have lived a happy existence before becoming our dinner?), organic (just because if you're going to insist upon the other two, you may as well go "organic" too!) turkey. One more thing, it had to be between 17-20 pounds because we all wanted to have leftovers for hot turkey sandwiches and whatever else one does with leftover turkey (enchiladas, anyone?).

My first stop was a bust.

No turkeys meeting my exact specifications were available. I could try calling in 2 days to see if they happened to get more in, but I'd be pressing my luck.

My second stop yielded no favorable results.

And neither did my third.

Panic-stricken, I racked my bird brain to conjure up some solution to my dilemma.

Should I buy a Butterball and pass it off as an organic, fresh, free-range turkey? Surely I'd be caught, and I'd never enjoy eating it as much as the turkey of our dreams. What to do? What to do?

I remembered the butcher.

Yes! The butcher will surely be able to help! And after playing phone tag for 2 days, it was confirmed. I would be the proud recipient of a 16-18 pound perfect turkey - I had to compromise on the size, it was all they had available.

And then I engaged in turkey talk with my sister-in-law. She informed me that every turkey she'd bought from this particular butcher was actually frozen (nooooooooo . . . )! So she advised me on how to deal with that if, when I picked up my "fresh" turkey the Monday before Thanksgiving, it was indeed frozen.

And then I panicked again.

I can't deal with a frozen turkey 2 days before Thanksgiving! Every horror story I'd heard about a raw-in-the-middle turkey flooded my mind. My pulse quickened.

We were having a b-b-q- the Sunday before Thanksgiving. I just succumbed to the notion that I'd be getting a frozen turkey sold to me as fresh and I'd deal with it. I was not pleased and as I passed all the frozen turkeys wrapped in their yellow netting in the grocery store, they mocked me.

"You could've had one of us, but no - you had to go and get all fancy!"

"Shaddup turkeys!"

I had to look unusually hard for the hamburger patties I needed for our b-b-q. It seemed like everyone and their brother was going to grill burgers the weekend before eating quite possibly the largest meal of the year and needed to practice by throwing a quarter-pound angus burger down their gullets (us, included). But I finally found the patties I was looking for. And what should my wandering eyes should appear beneath them?

Fresh turkeys. With labels that said "free range" and "organic."

"That's funny," I thought. For this was the very place that had just told me a few days before that there would be no more turkeys.

I picked one up and searched for it's label - thinking that there was no chance that it would be the right size, but I'd check anyway.

Guess what?

19.4 pounds!

Into the cart, off to the check-out, and home into the refrigerator. Mission accomplished.

This time, I'll remember to take the bag of stuff out of the turkey BEFORE I cook it!

Happy Thanksgiving!

*originally published November, 2007

Bad Mommy

2009-11-24T09:49:00.000-08:00

I abandoned my kids yesterday.

Maybe "abandon" is a bit harsh, but I did leave them alone for more than 2 hours while I escaped to my neighbor Sally's* house for hot buttered rum, conversation and the making of holiday crafts. I could totally see my entire house from Sally's window; which was nice because if it caught on fire I'd be able to rescue them in a heartbeat. So, just like it's legal to run into a store to grab a gallon of milk (or vodka...ONLY KIDDING) and leave your kids in the car as long as you can see them through the store window, this was the same thing.

At least that's how my logic works.

Besides, the oldest is almost thirteen - totally old enough to babysit.

By the way, I can't say thirteen without wanting to pull the back of my pants over my head, shove pixie sticks down my throat, and run around the block with fake teeth in. It makes me that neurotic to even mutter the word thirteen. Oh yes, March is not going to be a fun month.

So there I was talking with real, live grown-ups about things not pertaining to children and enjoying a warm mug of deliciousness when my cell phone rang.

It had barely been an hour.

"When are you coming home mom?" Wyatt, my middle child, asked from the other end.

"Why? What's wrong?" I implored him. I mean come on people, it had only been an hour! What could possibly have gone wrong already, especially with the knowledge that I was only 2 houses away.

"Nothing, just wondering when you're coming home," he said in a sad voice.

"Okay - go out on the deck and look up at Sally's house," I instructed him.

He did.

"Okay - now see that person with the huge smile on her face and the mug of deliciousness in her hand standing in the window holding a cell phone to her ear? That's me. Now, wave."

He did.

Then the other 2 decided to get in on the wave-at-mom-while-she's-trying-to-have-a-good-time-with-grown-ups-and-not-us hysteria.

And they did.

I stood there, in Sally's living room window, waving like a lunatic. Really, not anything different than my normal routine except for the fact that a) this was not my house, and b) my kids were on the other side of the glass than me and I couldn't hear them (except through the cell phone, which I was jonesing to turn off completely).

Whew, I thought while tucking my phone back in my purse, that was close. I returned to my said duties of chatting, making, and drinking and enjoyed each one of those duties immensely. I even made a Christmas ornament! I was just digging into the dessert table when I heard another noise coming from somewhere...

I thought Sally had mice for a minute but quickly realized that no, it was my blasted cell phone. This time it was kid #1, otherwise known as the almost thirteen year old (there I go again with the pants and the pixie sticks).

"When are you coming home mom?"

"In a little while. Is everything okay? Are your brother and sister being good? Are you being good?"

I'm sure he felt like it was twenty questions time, but I wanted to make this phone call as quick as possible and get right to the point. No sense in wasting all my precious dessert eating time on the phone with kids who had been crawling down my neck all day.

It was determined that no, he just missed me and everything was fine. I offered up the wave from the window again and he declined - so obviously all was well. Besides, I peeked out the window and saw no smoke. It had to be fine, right?

5 minutes later my phone rings again.

Those damn mice of Sally's!

This time it was Katie. A pitiful, little, newly 6 year old voice squeaking in my ear (just like mice!).

"Mommy, when are you coming home?"

"I'll be home in ten minutes."

"No, five."

"Okay, five."

Dang, that girl can negotiate. Either that or I'm the world's biggest sucker and have the negotiating skills of an ex-child star who's been in rehab twenty times. Fact is, she won. Five minutes it was, then I had to be on my way home.

What I'm sure was fifteen (not five) minutes later the phone rang again and this time they were none too happy.

"I'm walking down the driveway right now," I said as I shoved one more brownie in my mouth and thanked my hostess and everyone else for a lovely afternoon. Sally's party was great - I made the cutest things (gift tags for wine bottles) and am even inspired to drag out my arsenal of crafting supplies that haven't seen the light of day for over a year. I'm thrilled that I have a normal, nice, and super fun neighbor too. But mostly, I'm excited to make more gift tags for wine bottles because who doesn't love a beautiful, hand-crafted tag to adorn their booze? I do! I do!

I slowly turned into a pumpkin as I neared my home.

Every light in the house was on and I held my breath as I put my key in the lock, fully expecting an explosion when I opened the door. I waited for the lock to catch and slooooowly turned the knob, peeking only my head in at first.

"Mommy, mommy, mommy!" They all said and ran up to me with their arms outstretched.

No, really, it was just like a Lifetime movie.

"You're home!"

I kissed each of their heads and scanned the living room for signs of damage, finding none. I put my purse down, keys away, and walked into the kitchen, expecting to find disorder and destruction. Instead, I found an empty sink, clean counters and could hear the sound of our ancient dishwasher completing it's last cycle.

"I did the dishes mom," said the cracking voice of my almost thirteen year old from behind me.

I could have melted right there.

After I was done thanking him and getting over my shock, I paid up - as any mother who promised a little compensation if the house was not broken upon her return would do. They all seemed overly proud of themselves (and why wouldn't they?) and I proceeded to mess up the kitchen all over again by making them dinner.

Don't judge, grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup is totally dinner!

I contemplated how blessed I really was as I stood there stirring the soup, my back turned to the kitchen table where a full plate of desserts were quickly disappearing. Little by little, the kids had cleared the plate of all sugary goodness. A forensic specialist would not have been able to find a single trace of anything chocolate by the time they were done and I thought no harm of it, in my relaxed state. What's a little sugar?

Words cannot describe the insanity that followed.

I thought it would be fun to watch the AMA Awards with them before bedtime. Instead, I had a front row seat to the crazy. Kids jumping, kids bouncing, kids screaming (I mean, singing) and running laps around the house. No matter how many times I asked them to settle down before someone breaks a leg, it didn't work. I was sure that this would be the night that my neighbors finally called the cops on us. Thankfully, they didn't. But I'm positive that was because the sound of the rain must have drowned out the sound of my children. That had to be it.

I was rendered useless. Every time I asked them to "keep it down," I would laugh. I was completely ineffective as I could not even bring myself close to keeping a straight face. Some mother was I. When bedtime finally came, I was a hot mess (emphasis on the "mess" not the "hot"). My previous relaxed state - gone. My gratitude for wonderful children and a clean house - gone. My sanity - gone.

Just as quickly as it came, that feeling of peacefulness had retreated. I wondered what sin I committed in my previous life to be where I am now, at this moment, as I herded my kids upstairs to brush their teeth while they continued to tease and wrestle with each other.

Why me?

Just like they say, all good things must come to an end. This had never been more evident than at that moment, at that very second, and during that very chaotic evening. But at some point I realized that it's a still a pretty good life, even with the crazy. Because it's my life and my crazy and I can't imagine it any other way.

*Sally isn't really my neighbor's name, but I didn't ask her permission to star in this story, so Sally it is. Thanks for the wonderful party Sally!

Beauty School Drop Out

2009-11-20T20:46:00.000-08:00

So I'm standing in my bathroom affixing certain cosmetics to my face which, if you knew me at all, isn't really all that much (I'm talking a little concealer, eyeliner and swipe of lipgloss and you're done kind of make-up application), and my daughter, who loves to sit on the toilet and watch my every, most fascinating I'm sure of it move, says to me, "Mama what is that stuff you're putting on your face?"

I ponder.

I contemplate.

I do a quick inventory of what is left of my brain on this early Friday morning, weighing the pros and cons of using certain language regarding cosmetics in front of my daughter because yes, I really don't want her to ever think her skin needs "covering up." And I, completely and utterly relenting to what is a monumental cop out, say, "It's Cover Girl." Because taking the marketing, brand-name road is always better than taking the I'm not good enough and my skin sucks road in front of impressionable 6 year old girls, no?

I thought so.

"What's Cover Girl for?"

Oh she is a crafty one, that girl.

"Oh, you know," I say, rubbing the Noxema scented, full of chemicals, and I mean really, I can't believe I still use this stuff concealer on my face, "It evens out my skin tone." (Especially following a night of imbibing in cocktails, but I leave that part out)

"What's skin tone?"

You sly fox!

"Oh, you know," here I go again, I think, "It just makes my skin look normal."

Oh perfect! That is a wonderful thing to say to her. What the heck is wrong with me - I'm going to forever screw up her idea of self worth, her self esteem, her body image and view of beauty. Forever. I've failed. I'm done. It's over. Gloria Steinam will hang me. Dr. Ruth will burn me at the stake...

Oh wait, that's another topic entirely. Nevermind.

I conclude my make up application session, dry my hair the rest of the way, and urge her to "shake a leg" because if we dilly dally anymore into this great morning, we're going to miss the final bell at her school. And crime doesn't pay - you should never be late for kindergarten.

She hops off the toilet, takes one more look at me and bounds out the door. But not before saying the following:

"That's so weird."

Gosh...I just love her.

Underwire

2009-11-18T08:33:00.000-08:00

Like I've said before, I live in a small town.

Johnny Mellencamp, little pink houses, small.

It may be small, but the power of a close-knit group of people never ceases to amaze me here in this same small town that I grew up in, that I learned to ride a bike in, that I first kissed a boy in.

When a high school friend's child was diagnosed with a medical condition, people rallied. They supported, they gave, they gathered. When a loved one is lost, it is not just felt by one - but by many. We support, we give, we gather.

I was in the grocery store yesterday morning, picking up the usual, when I saw the ancient friend of my Grandma Dorie, who passed away last month. Now, this lady is a local icon. Her family has written a book on our area's history and she is serving or has served on just about every board position that exists around here. She gives and has always given of her time and herself to this town, these people, this community.

I said hello and reminded her that I was my mother's daughter, knowing she'd recognize me if I did. I gave her a hug and patted my daughter's head, explaining that this lady was a very good friend of Grandma Dorie.

And she opened up.

She told me about a talk she'd just given at the hospital to all the board members and executives (who else to stand at attention and listen to a legend speak?) about Dorie's experience. She discussed the love, care and support that surrounded her and her family during that time and the aftermath of it all in the days and weeks to follow.

I listened.

She told me about her book club and that she'd be playing bridge this week with "the ladies." And then we said our goodbyes.

And it's hard to describe the feeling of connecting through death. Last year I might have just passed by with a smile, possibly a "hello," but I most certainly would not have taken the time to stop, explain who I was and how I knew this person, and discuss everything but the weather...even if I had all the time in the world. But all that is changed now.

When I read on facebook yesterday that a blogging friend (one whom I've never met but who always leaves me hilarious comments over there in facebookland and whom I've come to admire, respect and virtually grope over the Internet) had suffered a stroke, I immediately clicked over to twitter (where the blogging moms reside in full force and comprise most of what I "follow" over there - well besides my kids' school website and the local news...and Ellen, but anyway) and learned as much as I could. I retweeted the positive thoughts, the #prayersforanissa, and sent as much good as I could into my computer screen. I did the most I could from where I was, for this friend I've never met. For Anissa.

Why?

Because we live in the same small town as one another. A town called "Mommy Blogging." And even though I never intended to place myself in that peg, accept that label, resign myself to only one group - that is where I live and a "mommy blogger" is what I am. And just like the town in which I plant my footsteps every single day, my community needs me. It needs me and you and you too. Not unlike a supportive bra (this reference is totally for you Anissa) the mommy blogging community needs it's underwire.

There are several ways you can help, please click on the LINK.

Because it's what we do. We rally, we give, we gather.

Just like in real life.

#prayersforanissa

Anticipation is Not Just a Carly Simon Song

2009-11-13T22:35:00.000-08:00

It's about looking out the window, into the black, black and frighteningly cold night to check for snowflakes.

It's thumbing through the latest catalog looking at all the cable knit sweaters, hats, and mittens and imagining wearing them while sipping hot cocoa as your kids glide down the snow-covered hill on their sleds.

It's cranking up the heat...just one more degree, and not worrying about what the next power bill will look like (yikes).

It's tucking little bodies into beds under cozy comforters and whispering for them to "sleep good, you never know what tomorrow may bring," before winking and turning out the light.

It's curling up under your favorite blanket, with your favorite person, and watching your favorite movie while you pretend the lit gas fireplace in your living room is a real, wood-burning fire...even though it isn't.

It's thinking about the soups and homemade rolls you're going to make for dinner next week, foods to comfort and soothe cold bodies.

It's wondering if school will be cancelled, like last year - if schedules will be rearranged and if, by golly, you'll be able to take your grandmother to her dentist appointment if indeed, the white stuff falls from the skies and sticks around longer than a day before melting into puddles.

It's feeling the excitement brewing beneath the surface, in the air and in the imaginations of the little ones in the house (and the not so little ones too), and I'm enjoying every second of it, the anticipation of something white.

Now where did I stash those marshmallows?

*&^%$#**&($#@!

2009-11-12T09:20:00.001-08:00

I know I shouldn't complain...but isn't that the whole point of having a blog to begin with? So that I can dump the complaints out of my brain? That way they don't stay in there, clogging up all the parts of my mind that could be spent doing other things, like re-organizing my coat closet or getting rid of all the expired salad dressing in my refrigerator.

That is the point of a blog, no?

Oh yes, once upon a time I was full of funny stories about my children. Full of them. These days, those funny anecdotes seem to get farther and farther away as the kids get closer and closer to puberty. And that, my friends, is really not all that funny. Trust me.

Even the daughter has failed to provide me with viable blog fodder lately. Well, besides acquiring the one thing I always wanted but never got as a child, the (hear the bells and whistles ringing) Barbie Dream Townhouse, she hasn't done anything that has made me scratch my head and go "Hmmmmm" in a long time. Unless you count covering herself with homemade tattoos (of the ink pen variety) when my attention was diverted. But hey, at least she spelled her name correctly and wrote "thank you" on her fingers - which makes me feel like I'm really not that bad of a mom and I'm raising a thoughtful and creative human being after all...despite all the screaming.

Speaking of screaming. When I switched the name of this here space to "Stop Screaming I'm Driving," it was because I seemed to repeat those words ad naseaum in the car until I was really certain that my own head would do a Linda Blair and spin right off of my shoulders. Lately though, I've been considering renaming it "Stop Screaming in the House." I know, seems vague and non specific, right? But do you know how tiring it is to repeat this over and over again to my children? Especially when I'm trying to take a shower - really the only place a mom can escape for a moment of peace and quiet - and all I hear is the boys screaming like a couple of escaped mental patients.

And my daughter. Oh yes, she is enamored with all things Barbie these days, and that is very cute and makes me miss my own childhood like nobody's business. But try telling her something is blue when she thinks it's black and she's taken to screaming like a baboon on steroids.

This cannot be a good thing.

It isn't as if we're a screaming-type family either. I mean, I would expect this in a home full of wild yellers, but yellers we are not...at least most of the time. If and when I do yell it is always appropriately. Yes, appropriately. Like when I've had it. When I'm at my wits end from listening to my kids scream at each other for days. Yes, I do believe that screaming is contagious - and I've caught it from my children.

You know the screaming is getting bad when you glance towards the windows to see if any are open, because you are afraid the neighbors might hear the screams and call CPS. I only do this when the kids scream, because if the neighbors hear anything close to what I hear, they will become so concerned for my safety that they will dial the law enforcement agency in charge of such things and beg that they remove me from my home...off to a nice, quiet, padded cell.

Wouldn't that be nice?

PS, I'm not really going to change the name again.

Fear and Loathing in the Doctor's Office

2009-11-04T08:46:00.001-08:00

"Don't touch a single thing."

Words from my mouth upon entering the doctor's office for my children's annual check ups.

The whole "state of fear" that our media and government has got us in has jaded me, altered my way of thinking, changed me forever. I no longer leave the house without a hefty supply of hand sanitizer in my purse. I check the kids' backpacks to make sure they have plenty of it too and, after reminding them not to lick their hands after using it (you'll get drunk!), I remind them to use it liberally. As in, every time you touch anything.

Since our pediatrician shares a space with the walk-in clinic, I was especially freaked out. I scanned the room for the most germ-free looking place to wait and sent the kids there, instructing them not to even breathe until I'd checked them in. I was happy to see that the staff had removed the gigantic toy (aka hot germy mess) that used to take up most of the floor space in the waiting area due to "that bad flu that's going around." At least that's what I overheard the receptionist telling a coughing and jumping young girl while we were waiting. I just prayed she didn't cough in our direction.

I looked people over ten times as they came through the door.

Is that person feverish?

Does that one have a cough?

Is that one wearing a mask and if so, why?

Are we all going to die?

Since when did bringing my kids to their check ups become such a terrifying experience?

Besides the whole H1N1 buzz in the air, this doctor's visit was much difference than previous ones. And I'm beginning to worry about the state of health care in this country, even though if you'd asked me before I would have told you that I had nothing to worry about. I've been shielded thus far from a generous health plan with low co-pays and prescription costs. We've had virtually everything paid for, every procedure, every test, everything. Our kids get seen as soon as needed and it's never been a problem making sure that they receive the best care available...until now.

"Welcome to the public option." Our doctor said to me when he told us they had no seasonal flu vaccine.

I could tell this bothered him. He explained that since the government took doses of the regular seasonal flu vaccine out to make the H1N1, that there were less doses available than prior years, with a visible concern I'd never before seen on his face - and he's been our pediatrician for as long as I've been a mother, almost 13 years. He assured us that his office was told they'd have it in late November, and to just call and we'd be able to get it then. But you could tell that this year, unlike any of the years before, was taking a toll on him, and not just because he was another year older - but because things are changing.

It's unavoidable.

And for the first time, I'm a little scared.

I'm scared that even though we currently have great, super, awesome and fantastic coverage, that's all going to change. It's hard to keep up on the specifics of each new health plan congress is proposing and now, hearing that they want to keep themselves "exempt" from the current one on the table, I'm a little concerned. Okay, I'm a lot concerned.

If it's not good enough for congress, how can it be good enough for my children? And your children? The their children?

And this isn't just about not being able to get a seasonal flu vaccine, it's about so much more. What happens when they can't see my kids when it's really needed? What happens when I need to go to the doctor and can't get an appointment? What happens if my grandmother can't get the protection she needs or my parents can't get coverage after they retire?

What then?

Fortune Teller

2009-11-03T14:12:00.000-08:00

"6 will be better. 6 will be better. 6 will be better." I'm repeating this mantra each hour until her birthday in a few days.

Not that 5 has been horrible, quite the opposite. 5 is fun. 5 is adventurous and silly and taking time to enjoy every little thing that crosses her path. 5 is riding a bike without training wheels and winning a three-legged race with her best friend. 5 is trying new things, swimming like a fish and learning to read. 5 is loving and kind and still so very sweet.

It's also a lot of work...still.

Ever since she walked in on a cheesy and completely ridiculous "scary" movie that the boys were watching a few weeks ago, I've had a sleeping bag rolled up next to my side of the bed. Lo and behold, each night somewhere between 1 and 3am...in she comes. She doesn't even mind sleeping on the floor, which I thought would be a natural deterrent to coming in our room at night as opposed to staying in her own cozy and comfy bed. She snuggles into that scratchy polyester bag like it's her very own Sleep Number Bed, and goes right back to sleep.

I can't say that I completely don't understand, because I do.

For years, her brothers shared a room with each other, never really having to battle the bedtime monsters under the bed alone. They always had the other one to lean on, to count on, and to talk to if they were having trouble falling asleep. They were never completely all by themselves.

So it's no surprise that she goes through these phases more often than they did at her age. Or, perhaps it's because she's a girl...or because she's the last "baby" of the family. Or, as my husband likes to point out when he really wants to get my goat, that I "coddle" her.

I disagree.

Sure I treat her with excessive care and kindness.

She's. My. Daughter.

If I coddle her, than I coddle the boys too. I am, if nothing, more than fair when it comes to fanning out my kindness when it comes to my kids. Sure, it's different for 11 and 12 year old boys than it is for 5 year old girls, but it is, nonetheless, no different in meaning. The love is the same, even if it wears different clothing.

Just ask my oldest when I'm standing at the front door in the freezing morning, still in my pyjamas, blowing him kisses as he and the neighbor boy walk to school.

Oh yes, I'm that embarrassing.

But with her, it isn't just all about the sleeping. It's everything else too, it seems. I know that kids tend to reach some sort of developmental apex around their birthdays, hence the weird behaviors, but if I hear one more whiny, emotional, dramatic scream from her when she doesn't get her way - I'm not sure I'll make it to her sixth birthday, a mere three days from now.

And the most frustrating part of it all is that I know she is capable of doing the things she requests help for. I know she is. And I never had a hard time cheer leading for the boys when they pulled the "I can't do it" card out on me, but with her it seems like every time I try to do this, it's a battle. We're talking WWIII, nuclear bomb, war of the worlds type battle here, not some diminutive little spat.

So I'm repeating myself again, "6 will be better. 6 will be better. 6 will be better." And I'm really hoping that my fortune telling skills prove to be correct otherwise I just spent way too much money on a Barbie Dream Townhouse.

Happy Dance

2009-10-31T12:11:00.000-07:00

I slept most of the day.

The rain pounding outside and the wind trying to rip every single shingle from our roof made it all the more enticing to slip back into the covers and pull the sheets up around my neck. With the leaves swirling this way and that and the lights flickering, a cozy bed was the only place I wanted to be. It also passed the time until the doctor's appointment.

Nothing like hiding from the world when you are about to face something you'd rather avoid.

It's the best coping mechanism I know. Well, besides drowning ones' sorrows in a bottle of Grey Goose...but that isn't really too conducive to parenting now is it?

The kids scribbled drawings on the white board in the doctor's office. Passing the time making variations of Pac Man while my husband played the antiquated game on his cell phone.

I twiddled my thumbs.

Twiddle.

Twiddle.

Twiddle.

"They're normal." Said the doctor.

"Normal?" We said back in unison.

"Normal."

That heavy rock that had been hibernating in the pit of my stomach for months decided to round house kick it's way out of there upon hearing that news. Normal. No parent wants to hear anything other than that. Normal.

And she didn't even ask to see the notes I'd taken! I guess I can put those in his baby book so we can read them 40 years from now...

Of course, tonight we'll whoop it up. We'll celebrate, we'll trick or treat, we'll eat more pumpkin pie and "whoop" cream than we should. And we'll thank our lucky stars - because we know that it could have been so much worse. We'll take all the normal we can get, even if it means making some adjustments - we'll take it.

So, for all you people out there trick or treating, that breeze you feel? That's my sigh of relief. Watch out, it could knock you over with it's force because friends, it's a mighty big sigh.

Grab the Broomstick, Hide the Scissors!

2009-10-28T14:40:00.000-07:00

Katie is in that in between stage.

Ladies (and maybe some gentlemen too), you all know what I'm talking about. That stage of hair grow-out that is most frustrating of all: the bang grow-out.

Last month right after school started, Katie had asked me to "please, please, please mommy - cut my bangs!"

And so I did.

Although she had been growing them out for quite some time (they were almost past her nose), I had been growing weary (tired, bored, frustrated) with the constant braiding, head-banding, and making them disappear with the magic of a clippie process that we had to go through each and every morning. In short, it wore me out.

Nobody ever mentions the difficulty of hair control when talking about raising daughters. Outside the random ad for Johnson & Johnson's No More Tangles, a product I used liberally as a child myself, if only for the mere joy of pretending I was one of those Barbie heads whose hair you could style in a million different ways. I'd spend hours in the bathroom, spraying that stuff on my hair and angling my mother's hand held mirror just so - so that I could see the back of my head...

Where was I?

Oh yes, the No More Tangles. I should have known by the way that this stuff flies off the shelves at Target, that it is a popular item - and not just because little girls like to stare at themselves in the mirror or inhale it's ultra fruity scent. I should have known that with a little more patience on my part, we could be past this awkward grow-out stage of bangs that we find ourselves in again and on to the fun and exciting part where your hair actually does what you want it to do.

Oh, who am I kidding?

The sooner Katie learns that her hair will never be just like that Barbie's head on TV, the better. Her sixth birthday is just around the corner and what better time than to have all your hopes and dreams shattered? I mean, after all, nobody can have perfect hair. Not even you, daughter.

But try explaining any of this to her. It's about as effective as trying to run from a mad rhino.

This morning, while she and I were getting ready for the day, she became...irate. She pulled at her hair and whacked her brush on the bathroom counter. She stomped about and stuck her lower lip out farther than I thought possible. It was a no-good-very-bad-horrible-morning.

In a nutshell...she was pissed.

"You have two options honey," I said to her as calmly as I could, for I did not want to add fuel to the fire raging and to be honest, she was scaring me a little with her Linda Blair-type attitude.

"You can either let me help you get your bangs up and out of your face, or we can cut them again so that they're not in your eyes."

"Noooooooooo," was all she said before running into her room and burying her face in her pillow.

I quickly scanned the room for any preschool-sized scissors intended for craft projects and upon finding none, left her alone to calm down. A few minutes later, she was back. "Mom, why can't I just cut them little?" She said holding her hand up to her forehead in an effort to show me just how short her bangs could be.

I think I may have prayed (and I'm not a praying woman) to the gods of reason at that point.

"Katie, we can either trim them up, or pin them up. Those are your options."

Clearly, she was not amused and stomped back into her room.

I'm hiding all sharp objects.

And praying to the gods of please-don't-let-my-daughter-cut-her-own-hair.

New Rules

2009-10-26T00:13:00.000-07:00

If you're a fan of Real Time With Bill Maher on HBO, you know that at then end of each program he gives his "New Rules," a funny, crass, honest and often offensive to some list of "rules" in which to deal with the news and current events of the previous week.

This is kind of like that, only in mommy time, not real time.

New Rule: No more reading the Twilight series books before bedtime. I know it's wonderful that you, a brand-new 11 year old, is attempting to finish book 3 before Christmas, and that's commendable. BUT yelling at your mother that you "will not sleep on dead bodies" when she comes to check on you in the middle of the night is just not cool. In fact, it kind of freaks her out. And then, when she laughs because seriously, what else is there to do? Do not tell her that she's not being nice and then repeat the phrase. States of consciousness are subjective kid - and this sleeptalking is getting old.

Lay off the vampire novels for now.

New Rule: No more laces. Yes, you heard me daughter. I love the fact that you can tie your own shoes now. BUT when it takes you no less than 10 minutes to do so, it kind of makes my eyes want to jump out of my skull and my hair stand on end, especially because 10 minutes ago you were going to wear the hideous but oh so convenient Hannah Montana shoes with the Velcro. I don't care if you want to wear the laced shoes, but just figure it out before we're walking out the door.

And those Hannah Montana shoes that I cringed while purchasing? Best investment ever.

New Rule: When you first started playing football and I had to learn all about football pants and pads, a result of being the primary laundry-doer, it was not that big of a deal to take out the pads every time I had to wash your football pants. BUT now it's getting old and the pads? They are getting stinky. If you can't take the darn things out of the pants before putting them into the hamper, I'm going to have to return them and their stankiness to your room, unwashed. That's just the way it is buddy. I don't have the time, patience or the stomach to do this day after day after day and I know that your football season is coming to a close soon, but those pants...dear lord, those pants have seen better days.

In short, take everything out of your pants before putting them in the hamper (and this is not limited to football pads - it includes gum wrappers, love notes, pens and pencils and Spongebob trading cards too). You'll thank me for teaching you this someday.

New Rule: I am not going to make you a separate dinner just because you "don't like" what is put on your plate. Since when did a kid not like meatloaf? Your father and I are thinking about having genetic testing done to determine if you are, indeed, related to us or if the hospital made a horrible mistake when you were born and switched you with a baby whose parents lacked taste buds. Furthermore, if you'd like to go to a birthday party, I suggest taking my advice and eating a healthy meal (that I MADE for you) before hand because there will be no sugar before actual, vitamin-rich, real food.

The end. The pickiness is getting old.

New Rule: Starting today, there will be a fine imposed each and every time one of you spits their toothpaste out any place other than the sink. That's right folks, a fine. You will pay your parents back in the form of shovelling doggie doo or something equally as fun if one more glob of bright blue toothpaste is found upon the monkey rug in your bathroom. You might forget that this bathroom is one of 2 available to guests who visit our house, not to mention your mom when she can't make it to her own bathroom. And stepping in a gooey, disgustingly minty pile of toothpaste is not fun OR enjoyable.

Get your aim right.

Until next week children...

And So it Goes

2009-10-23T21:48:00.001-07:00

A week.

It's been a week now and still...nothing. No news, no phone call, nobody banging on my door with an envelope bearing the words "TOP SECRET" upon it's manila exterior. And I know, that I better get used to this.

A late night journey into the world wide web was a mistake. I knew it would be. Causing more sleeplessness than any 2 little blue pills (Tylenol PM written on their surface) could cure. Night after night after night.

Notes.

Notes in a silly little National Geographic Kids explorer journal (the closest thing resembling paper that I could find). The date. What he had for breakfast. What he had for lunch. What he had for dinner. Snacks. Symptoms. Do it all over again the next day and try to decode the meaning of it all with shaky knowledge begotten from somewhere inside of a computer along with mother's intuition. A precarious combination, to say the least.

Calm.

I have no choice other than to remain calm. I have to be calm for him. Imagine what he must be feeling? Oh, what he must be feeling. It's unfathomable at his age. It's unfair and wrong and it makes me angry.

I snapped at him for eating something not on "the list."

"How could you?"

"Do you understand how important this is?"

"I can't go to school with you everyday and make sure that you follow the directions from the doctor, you have to be more responsible."

Guilt.

He's a child. How could I? What was I thinking? He slipped up just a little...okay, twice. Will it really make a difference? Will he have to start all over again? Will the doctors be upset with me for not doing a better job?

Control.

There aren't many things I can control about the situation. Following the directions is the only thing I have, the only reign I hold, the only grasp on doing something for my child to help...and will it be enough?

Love.

And among all the guilt, the worry, the note-taking, the confusion and the sleeplessness, lies love. The core of it all is love. And that is never anything to question or to wonder or to lose sleep over because it's always there - unwavering, all-knowing, comforting.

I just wish love was enough.

And so it goes.

7 down, 3 to go.

It Cuts You Up

2009-10-20T21:36:00.000-07:00

Life give you lemons, you make lemonade...or spiked lemonade, in my case.

There are things, there are tests and biopsies and procedures I cannot speak of. There are restrictions and foods one cannot eat. There is stress and worry and new lines appearing on a mother's forehead which were not there last month - not to mention a few new gray hairs.

When things happen to your child, and you sit, stand, lean powerless to help him, it cuts you up.

When you avoid those words, that site, those people because deep down in your core, you don't want to belong to their club, it cuts you up.

All I want is for it to be normal.

All I want is for my child to be well.

All I want is for the wait to be over because patience, oh sweet patience, eludes me now like those damned geraniums on my front porch trying to elude fall and frost. Inevitably, it's coming. There really isn't much they can do about it except to sit and to wait.

I need to take lessons from my geraniums. They get up each morning, make themselves pretty and vibrant and welcome another cold morning as if it were the middle of July. "Hello world!" They say to the bitter cold. "Here I am."

I'm trying, but it cuts me up.

Fear keeps it inside, afraid of sharing because when you do that - when you say what you're most afraid of out loud - you have to face it. And watching him go through a procedure most adults shy away from and avoid at all costs was hard enough. Seeing him fight the anesthesia, toss and flip on a sterile table and not completely lose my mind, but hold his hand and give him a thumbs up, "You'll be ok buddy," and "I love you more than the world," took just about every ounce of restraint that I had. And then he was out.

We find our way to the cruelest of places: the hospital cafeteria. Where stale cinnamon rolls and strong coffee offer little comfort to families who really just want to be somewhere private to wait it out. But I choked down the coffee, pouring each flavored creamer in it with purpose, with promise, with hope...and I waited. We waited.

He wakes up and is telling jokes to the loveliest of nurses with a thick British accent. "He's a model patient," she tells me, patting him on the shoulder as she removes the monitors and his iv port. "He's set the bar for the rest of them today and I have a feeling that they won't live up to him."

Of course they won't.

He's mine. He's ours. He loves the warm blankets he gets to take home and tells us, "If I had to do that everyday to make this go away, I would - that wasn't so bad."

And I want to shake the world.

Because this waiting sucks. It cuts you up.

Like a Ninja

2009-10-13T23:29:00.000-07:00

I think our thermostat is bi-polar (no offense to any real bi-polar furnaces out there). It can't decide whether to warm the house up or to cool it down. Which, nevermind, that doesn't make much sense because the only way to cool the house down would be to open a window, being that I don't have a heat pump.

Don't listen to me, I obviously don't know a thing about furnaces, or heat pumps, or much of anything else. But I do know that I go to bed freezing, wake up cooking, and repeat this process over and over again several times each night.

And no, I'm not menopausal (no offense to any real menopausal people out there).

Turns out I'm not the only one experiencing this warm/cold conundrum in our household. Wyatt does it too. He goes to bed with his window wide open, frigid northern air blowing through his blinds making them swing out into nearly the middle of the room. He puts up with this polar express until it finally chills him enough to close the window and return to his regularly scheduled sleeping program (that would be with the window closed or barely cracked, and a comfortable blanket on top of him, making the perfect temperature ratio for sleeping) and then the cycle repeats itself when he gets too hot.

This past week, things have been cooling down a bit at night, requiring the occasional "warming up of the bed." Which, in my case, is done by turning on the cheap-o heat blanket until it barely heats up. Or, in Wyatt's case, by throwing an extra blanket on his bed for emergency too-cold-in-the-middle-of-the-night-moments, but not cold enough for a heat blanket.

We have a system, and it seems to work like a well-oiled machine.

So he says to me, "It's funny, I go to bed with only one blanket on my bed and when I wake up early in the morning, I'm the EXACT same temperature as when I went to sleep, except there's another blanket on top of me!"

And I say, "Yes, I'm stealth aren't I? You didn't even know I was in there."

And he says, "No mom, you're not stealth. You're a ninja."

And just like that, my day was four hundred percent better.

Apologies

2009-10-11T20:15:00.000-07:00

To the man driving behind me down the highway today,

I am sorry for the numerous "rock on" signs coming from the 3rd row of my vehicle today. My daughter and her cousin mysteriously know that when they hear certain songs on the radio...

[Judas Priest, for example]

that it is appropriate to break out into "rock on" hand signals.

I would like to believe that I was the one responsible for this knowledge they posses at the tender ages of 5 and 6, but no. No, I blame the MTV.

I swear they weren't doing this during the previous song (which was a nice, mellow little diddy by Coldplay), oh no. It is like their inner rock-n-roll divas sprang forth upon that first hard guitar strum and they knew, instinctively, just what to do.

Again, I blame the MTV.

So I am sorry. Please accept my apology if they were in any way distracting to your driving. They were just practicing their head banging and I can assure you that no, they were not also holding up cigarette lighters nor were they sticking out their tongues (at least I hope not).

They did think your car was really cool though, as you breezed past us. They have both added "Dodge Charger" to the top of their "Cars that are Cool" list. Did you know that little girls keep lists like these? Neither did I. This phenomenon must come from having older brothers...or really cool moms.

Even though they don't know the difference between a Charger and a Mustang, they know the difference between Coldplay and Judas Priest.

I must be doing something right.

I blame the MTV.

Signed,
The Mom in the SUV with the head banging chicks in the back

Come See Me

2009-10-07T18:13:00.000-07:00

Carrie dear,

Beth, one of my Oregon granddaughters loves spicy dills, so now I have a special treat for her when she comes.

McRae and Wyatt are such splendid little boys - so sweet and fun. You're doing a good job with them.

Come see me -

Love,
Grandma Dorie

Lake Stevens 10-09-00

It comes in waves, the sobs. It's only been a half an hour and the sobs come and go unexpectedly, haphazardly, willy nilly with no direction. One minute they are there, and the next they are gone.

She was - IS - my Grandma Dorie. Not a blood relative Grandma, but a Grandma just the same. She was - IS - the whole neighborhood's Grandma, always offering an open door (and heart, and mind, and garden) to all of the kids who came to visit her. And visit I did. As many times a week as she would allow.

It all started picking snap peas in her garden.

I thought I had found a magical, special place that grew vegetables only for my friend Amy and I to pick.

And then she caught us.

Red handed.

No scolding, no yelling, no "You can't pick my vegetables!" Oh no. Instead a kind introduction, and an invitation to visit with her whenever we felt like it. I'm sure she'd already cleared this with our parents, as she was - IS - a pillar of etiquette and manners.

We would gather on her sofa and listen to her tell stories about everything. Her life. Her grandchildren. The latest book she was reading. How to bake bread or how to catch a fish off her dock. She once invited us down to the sand in front of her house to watch fireworks on the lake. I saw the biggest catfish I've ever seen off the end of her dock as I sat there one day dipping my toes in the cool water.

She listened. Who knows and can even remember what dominated my conversation when I was a child, but she listened with rapt attention as if what I was saying was the most important thing in the world.

She still does that. Listens.

Every year for Halloween she scared the crap out of us.

She dressed up in a ghoulish mask, cloaking her fine clothing in dark robes. She would turn off her porch lights making the long walk up her narrow, tree-lined driveway even creepier. And when you knocked on the door, she'd make noise with a hand-held noisemaker and then scare you to death. I was always certain that it was never really her under that mask.

And then she'd hand out full sized candy bars.

And you'd forgiver her...until next Halloween.

She did this over and over, year after year, never disappointing the children of the neighborhood. When my own children were old enough for trick or treating, I brought them to her house for the very first time and again, she did not disappoint.

"You mean you came here when you were a little girl and Grandma Dorie did the same thing to you?" They asked me.

"Yes she did," I would answer, "Isn't she fabulous."

And then they would walk away with their full sized candy bars, grins as big as ever plastered on their faces and eager for next year when they could do it all over again.

I can't imagine Halloween without her.

And it looks like I am going to have to. She is in that space now, where her body is broken and done, and all I can do is pray with every bone, every cell, every fiber of my being that she is not in any pain. Her family, her blood relatives, are by her side and she got to meet her newest great granddaughter recently. She would hate it if anyone made a fuss over her. She would not have it.

But these damn sobs, they catch me, they take my breath and hold it hostage.

I just can't imagine Halloween without her.

I should have gone to see her more.

Something to Crow About

2009-10-05T15:15:00.000-07:00

I am a peaceful, non-killing machine type of girl.

I didn't grow up in a house of hunters and never laid eyes on a real, honest to goodness gun outside of a museum until I was 18 - at which point my now husband/then boyfriend took me to a gravel pit to target shoot and the first thing I did was aim the loaded gun right at him.

Right. At. Him.

Not on purpose.

Yes, it's safe to say that I had no idea about guns until that very moment.

From then on, my education began. Brett told me stories of hunting trips he'd taken with his dad as a young boy. He explained what happened to the deer after you actually shot it (as I tried to keep my lunch from coming back up), and how he was always taught gun safety and respect, from a very early age. But most of all, he shared what the experience was like - the patient waiting, the careful, quiet walking and the bonding that happened on these weekend trips. Irreplaceable memories.

The next time I ever gave any thought to firearms was on my wedding day. You see, having grown up in a hunting family, my husband carried with him several hunting rifles - guns that had been passed down from generation to generation, hand to hand, man to man. These were pieces that he hoped he would be able to pass along to our children someday. So we had to strike a compromise, a deal so to speak, on how we would keep these family heirlooms safe from our children while preserving them for the future.

And a gun safe was born.

And I have thought little about what is inside that safe, until now.

There has been talk of a "crazy crow" among my children for weeks. It all started at the bus stop when this beast of a bird began pecking at the neighbor girls tights (apparently it liked her brightly colored legs). Then, at football practice one night, a crow was observed bouncing from car to car full of people, trying to make it's way into open windows - all while people were coming and going.

My oldest son said a crow had been terrorizing his school, coming in through open doors and stealing pencils right off of students desks! His friend had a bike helmet pecked to pieces while it was hanging off his handle bars at the school bike rack and it was clear that this crow was becoming quite a nuisance.

Last week my friend and her children came over for lunch. The weather was nice and dry enough that the kids wanted to play outside, in the backyard, on our big playset. "Of course!" we told them, "Soak up as much sun as you can." Little did we know that they would be joined by a crow - who tried repeatedly to get uncomfortably close to them. The dog did his best to protect our kids, but the crow didn't care. I yelled at it and threw rocks, but the crow didn't care.

And today is the last straw.

Today while my 5 year old daughter was walking in our driveway, minding her own business, that damn crow swooped down onto her head and began pecking at her! I was on the front porch, taking care of my geraniums and looked up just in time to see it peck and retreat, knocking her to the ground. I'm not sure whose screams were louder...hers or mine. I never felt so angry towards another living thing in all my life.

My baby - my baby! Pecking at my baby! If I had access to that gun safe (or even knew where the keys to it were or how to load one of those antique rifles) there's no telling what would have happened. Instead I gathered up my crying child, ran towards that bird and tried to scare it away as best as I could.

Katie is fine, some neosporin on her hands and many kisses seem to have done the trick, but I am beyond angry. I've left messages with city and police officials. I've read the states fish and wildlife website ten times over. This crow isn't protecting a nest and we certainly aren't feeding it, but I suspect someone is. And the fact that crows are some of the most intelligent birds of prey out there and can remember faces is not comforting to me, not at all.

Katie is fine, but she's afraid of the birds now.

And I'm afraid of what I might do if this happens again. The mama bear inside of me is not pleased with crow at this moment. While I am not going to get all Rambo in my neighborhood, I just might invest in a good sling shot.

Fish Food

2009-09-27T12:11:00.000-07:00

Sapped.

I am sapped.

I do not know how full-time working mothers do it. How do they do it? How do they meet everyones needs (not to mention their own) without losing every sane bone in their body? How?

I work from home. From home.

I work part-time, from home.

[And no, I'm not interested in getting into the STAHM vs WAHM vs Working Mom debate, not interested at all.]

I've worked, part-time, from home, for about a year and a half and while it's a big help financially and really the ideal situation for us, for the right now, I blow at it. That's right, I blow. I'm not talking about my job - the one that gives a paycheck - I'm talking about the whole big fat huge gigantic stinking picture that is me. Me, the mom.

Take this week, for example, this week I worked 6 days in a row. Would you like to see the laundry that I at least folded but didn't manage to put away? It is sitting here, in my "office space" on a spare couch, waiting. Would you like to speak to my sullen "pretweenager" who is currently on the warpath because I will not let him watch television while he does his homework? He lost the ability to multi-task after he'd been asked 3 times. He hates me. He wants me to run him to the pet store and buy more fish food because he is suddenly out and what a horrible mother I'd be if I let his fish go a day without food.

What a horrible mother.

[I did happen to watch season 1 of Weeds on the netflix website though...]

Truth is, I feel like fish food.

The cold that the kids brought home from school is lingering in my chest. My fingertips are still green from the dry erase marker incident in Katie's kindergarten classroom Friday morning. I have papers to fill out and return from curriculum night and my family has not seen a homemade meal too many days.

Fish food.

My husband leaves and goes to work. Goes to an office space without children and dogs and laundry staring him in the eye. I sit in an office space with children and dogs and laundry staring me in the eye. Oh, how I want to switch places with him some days. What I wouldn't give...

Fish food.

Doors shut angrily. Sighs are heard and I know more eyerolling is going on behind my back than I care to acknowledge at this point.

Fish food.

The middle child is tired from a sleepover and showing it in the way he responds to his little sisters requests. I know little sisters are a pain but can't they just get along? Just for one afternoon? Isn't this what Sundays are for, nothing? Why, on the one day of the week that requires nothing, do my kids suddenly want to pull me in thirty different directions? All I want to do is crawl back under the covers and wait for bedtime when I can slurp some Nyquil and call it a day.

But dammit, fish food.

Waffles. They've had waffles with peanut butter, waffles with jelly, waffles with bananas and syrup. I sure hope waffles are a food group all of their own at this point because waffles it is and will be until I can make a decent dinner not consisting of waffles.

I'm thinking corn dogs.

Not really.

I'll breathe, I'll put that laundry away and bite the insides of my cheeks as I ask that child of mine if he is done with his homework yet. I'll cut up some veggies for a snack and plaster a smile on a face that really, really feels like it wants to frown. I'll be happy that I'm alive, that the sun is shining and that we have all that we do (mainly that we have each other) because dammit, life really isn't that bad or that hard and if I have them, I have everything I need.

And I'll still want to switch places with my husband.

Which doesn't make me a bad mother.

But it might make me fish food if I let it.

Waiting on Fall

2009-09-21T15:20:00.000-07:00

Here it is, the first official day of fall and what's that I see outside? Sun. Yes sun, glorious, life giving, warm and full of vitamin D sun which, on any day between the months of June and August, is welcomed with loving, open and grateful arms by myself and others like me (I know there are at least a few of you out there). But today...today when I want to toast pumpkin seeds in the oven, gather fallen apples from the neighbor's tree (shhhh, I don't think they know how many of their apples fall on our side of the fence) and make a pie or a big batch of applesauce, sip something warm and light the gas fireplace, I am not loving the appearance of the sun.

Yes, I am a true Pacific Northwesterner. Tried and true, through and through.

Fall is my favorite time of year.

I've written many a love letter to this season but reading them now, in the bright, warm sun just seems...wrong. Usually I have pumpkins decorating my home, garlands of fall-colored leaves draping my fireplace, an apple candle burning. I usually have homemade soup prepared at least twice a week and have failed at raising at least one batch of rolls to go with it. Normally, during this time of year, I experience a burst of energy much like others do in the springtime...

I'm still waiting for that.

[Hello? Energy? Where are you?]

Fall is magic for me. I love everything about it. I love the colors, the scents, the way the shadows become long and lovely and more mysterious. I love the unpredictable weather, the storms, the wind. I even love a little bit of the rain. I love the change. I love the way it isn't cold enough for a coat but just cold enough for a sweater and maybe a cool scarf. I love the way everything feels in the fall. The air, the light, the sounds - they all take on special meaning for me in the fall.

I can't imagine living without fall. A perpetual summer or winter would do me in, for sure. For it is the changing, the renewal, the hibernation of all things to a place of rest, a place of calm, a place of rebirth that keeps my internal clock ticking. Keeps me energized. Keeps me going.

For fall, you are and always will be, my compass. My light. My birth (even though technically I'm a spring babe).

Fall...I'm waiting.