Forever Feasting

People who follow this blog might know my piece from a while back, She is forever singing.  I still go to the same dry cleaner's and my friend Nemi is still there working while her mother is in a home receiving ongoing care.  My friend's mom still cannot speak, but she's lived well past the day the doctors said she'd die.

Today, I dropped off shirts and Nemi waved me over to tell me about her mother's birthday. Three days ago, her mom turned seventy-eight, and they held a feast at the home.  There were over one hundred people on the floor with gifts, with food.  The line of visitors filled the hallway.  Because the place had a piano, people took turns playing it, and the whole home echoed with the chorus of a hundred people plus staff, singing.  Singing, eating, feasting, celebrating a woman who could only tell them all "I love you." with her face.  "I know my mom knows now, she will never be forgotten, and that she is loved." Nemi said.  

The vision of one hundred people coming to celebrate a birthday in a nursing home filled my eyes with tears; this was how life should be spent, this was unbridled joy at someone being alive even if they could not "do" anything useful.   I wished I'd thought of the idea for my own dad and my heart pined for the idea of a thousand birthday parties of the same nature, where every person in the home, whether they knew it was their birthday or not, had a feast brought to them, complete with a crowd of willing singers wanting to wish with full hearts, "and many more."

Once again, I felt awe at the testimony of faith lives lived out fully, as manifested by something as ordinary as a birthday party.  "Look at how they love one another." floated into my mind.   Who wouldn't want to have a world peopled with people like this? Who wouldn't want that deep knowledge as a birthday gift; that one was loved for who one is, not for what one can or cannot do.

My friend and her family, they are salt, light and song.  Next week my son turns 22.  I hadn't planned to go nuts, he's 22.  But now, I'm thinking....he's going to have a great birthday.

7 Quick Takes

1. So I'm trying to read Blessings and the English major in me says keep plugging.  The immature part of me says, "Hey! You've got some Rick Riordan and the 9 Lives of a Girl and three other books just waiting over here like lost chocolate chip cookies. Why not skip the vegetables and live a little?  I'm resolved, I will finish this book before I get to dessert, or gain five pounds thinking about it. 

2. There's a cute little fluffy bunny that lives in our back yard. I thought it was cute when my cute little toddler called me over to watch it for what felt like eleventy thousand minutes as it chewed clover.  I thought she and it were adorable until I realized the little rodent had dug up a flower arrangement of ours to create a new home.  I banged on the window.  The rabbit hopped off. It needs to lay off our garden or I'll get real Mr. MacGregor type mean and catch the little bugger for my kids as a pet.  Of course then we'll be back to spending hours staring at the bunny.  Still, when she does that, it's melt your heart cute. 

3.  Today is the last day of Sister Sharon working at my children's school. She's been so much more than just a kids' principal, she's been a friend.  I told her she was part of the bones of the school now.   It is a brave thing to spend a year in prayer discerning God's will in your life.  Prayers for her year in sabbatical to be fruitful. 

4.  Yesterday, I wrote about zombies.  Today, my daughter showed me a short film that blew my mind.  It is proof that a luminous story can be made even in the odd genre of horror. 

5.  Entering the World of my son.

Yesterday, I went outside to check the garden. Normally I bring my keys but with all ten kids at home, I felt fine simply leaving to harvest some lettuce.  When I returned, the door was locked and no one was in sight.  I knocked and my 4 year old son Paul walked by. He saw me. He saw I wanted in and tried to open the door, but the deadbolt was on so he couldn't.  At this point, I was prepared to go around to the front and ring the bell but I saw my son walk to the doorway to the basement and call very loudly for his sisters. I could see him gesturing and talking, trying to convey in muted muddled language, "The door is locked. Come open the door. Mom is at the door." I heard all three conveyed as he called out for his sisters.  When neither came, he looked over at me worried, put his had out as if to reassure me, and ran to the room where his other siblings were watching television.  By this point, his oldest sister came up, explaining she had heard him and was coming, but Paul also returned with three siblings to get the door open.  I remain amazed by his determination and focus given the level of complexity of the situation he had to communicate. 

6.  And now, an immature grouse.

The package says Bacon.  Serving Size.  1 Slice. 
And all I can think is, "Are You Kidding ME??????"  

7.  It's my birthday...or it will be....

I turn 47 next week.  Blogging will probably be light if only from the cake coma.  Just an FYI. 

Turning 44

Today I'm 44.  Every year I have the good fortune of having my birthday associated with a long weekend or at least a few stray fire crackers.  Every year, I make goals for the coming year.  I don't have a set pattern or number, but this year, I've decided to adopt 44 just for the artistic sense of the thing. Some of them might even happen with a fierce bit of doing.  So here are my birthday wishes for the next 365 days.

44) Exercise every day for 30 minutes doing something!
43) Learn to appreciate wine such that I can have a marginal knowledge of it.
42) Finish learning Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata
41) Make jam. (I don't know how).
40) Read a book a month.
39) Plow through the writing of the rest of Helen.
38) Pray for  my family and friends more.
37) Get the back basement the way it is supposed to be.
36) Paint or draw more often.
35) Call my friends and family on a weekly basis. (I can be pretty spacy).
34) Play with my children instead of getting caught up on everything that doesn't matter.
33) See a Whale in the wild.
32) Visit some new states.
31) Catch a ball at a baseball game.
30) Float down a river.
29) Learn to play the guitar.
28) Become a lecture or Eucharistic Minister at mass.
27) Improve my writing/grammar/technical knowledge of the craft.
26) Lose 20 pounds.
25) Get more involved in community doing something. (Don't know what yet).
24) Publish more.
23) Tour the White House (I've never done it).
22) Go to Politics and Prose (bookstore with live readings, I've always wanted to go).
21) See a concert at Wolftrap.
20) Go to the Sugarloaf Craft festival (I've never been).
19) Be able to sink a ball with my break shot (right now it stinks royally).
18) Date night once every two weeks.
17) Make a habit of weekly adoration.
16) Use the good crystal and good china more often because every day is a special occasion.
15) Become syndicated. (Note to self, begin process of applying for syndication doofus).
14) Dance, sing and laugh more.
13) Take kids tubing --winter.
12) Fish this summer at least until I catch a fish. 
11) Send Birthday cards and gifts out on time.
10) Ride a horse.
9) Learn how to do some basic home repair/decor work.
8) Finish a half marathon.
7) Go to an Opera so I can experience it.
6) Learn to walk on my hands. (Not everything I want to do is meaningful).
5) Learn to write with my left hand.  (Not everything I want to learn is important either).
4) Collect my family's stories (Both sides and as many generational ones as possible).
3) Waste less time and want for less time.
2)  Discipline myself about reading news and politics on the internet and about writing, so that it does not trump the rest of life.
1) Tell everyone I love them more often, and show it daily. 

Now I'm going to blow out my candles and eat some cake.  The exercise bit?  I'm going to go out for a date night tonight and we're going to walk three miles. 
 

The 13th that is the 19th

My daughter turns three today.  She was born on Friday the 13th.  We weren't expecting to have a daughter in our hands for another three weeks.  But then, we weren't expecting an emergency c-section either.  I didn't know I'd even had her until they whisked her by in a blanket, all cleaned up and capped.  It all seemed so unreal.  One minute we were hooked up to the IV and getting that drip that makes contractions come and the next, they flew out of the room with me because her heart had dropped to 25. 

My husband was taken to a side room and given scrubs to change into, but no further instruction.  He waited.  It felt like forever.  He worried for her. He worried for me.  I'd been bleeding and bleeding and bleeding. How long would it take? How bad was it?  Had we already lost her? After seven prior pregnancies, this was still uncharted and dangerous territory. 

Searching both for comfort and something to take away the feeling of time, he took out the Saint Louis Marie de Montfort Total Consecration, a devotion he and I have participated in for the past eight years.   (That's a whole other story).   "Please let her be okay. Please let them be okay." and he asked Mary in particular for protection.

And the reading for the 19th day of this discipline was Jesus and the children. 

"People even brought little children to him, for him to touch them; but when the disciples saw this they turned them away.  But Jesus called the children to him and said, "Let the little children come to me and do not stop them; for it is to such as theese that the kingdom of God belongs.  I tell you solemnly, anyone who does not welcome the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it." 

When he had finished reading, the nurse brought him to see me and together, we held and saw her and smelled her sweet new baby smell together for the first time, Regina. Regina Zaiga Rose.

So Friday the 13th became lucky and blessed because she was born, because she survived.  Happy Birthday Gina. (That's what she calls herself).   And today, when she was awakened by a chorus, she smiled with her whole face.  We gave her a crown and a princess gown.

Now that she's properly dressed, we're going to go out to a famous Scottish restaurant for lunch; McDonald's.

Thursday Small Successes

Every Thursday, Family& Faith has a blog chain of small successes where we list a few things that we accomplished and that might have otherwise gone lost in the days and weeks as errands and obligations piled up. Anyone can join, just click on the small successes button and it will take you to Family & Faith Live! where you can add your blog to the list of people celebrating the little victories of life.

1) Took my youngest to get his HINI vaccination.

2) Made it to reconciliation. Priest talked about accepting God's peace and holding onto it tightly, like a treasure. When anxiety about the schedule or what have you threatens, I'm to cling to this, to not let the world extinguish the peace Christ' gives.

3) Ordered my husband's birthday present in advance.

4) Made arrangements to see son's play on Friday --got babysitters.

5) After fretting, calling Mom, thinking about my girl, praying for my girl, talking to her coach, musing my options, getting a call from her all angry and upset, I came home and hugged my 13 year old until she melted. Then we went about our routine. I thought it was a mere moment.

That evening, she fixed my dinner while I was bathing children and when I was finished, she brought me to the table she had decorated with lit candles everywhere.

6) Had a break through regarding studying techniques with daughter that struggles with math and reading and for whom self confidence is also an issue.

7) Got to see a dear friend over the weekend and spend a few hours.

8) Exercised, danced bollywood. (It was fun!)

9) Even the socks are folded right now.

10) Toddler transfered from a crib to a toddler bed. She who seldom speaks now says, "I love you Mom."

The World According to Sherry

Today is my birthday. At 43, I’ve decided one paltry wish doesn’t cut it, so I’ve created ten; one for each decade I’ve been semi-aware of my own being on this planet. (I don’t count those three years of supremely awkward adolescence which I’ve blocked out of my permanent long term memory for strictly medicinal reasons).

I wish:

10) That celebrities would not be eulogized for virtues they did not have, nor worshiped in life or death by fans in lieu of finding actual purpose and meaning for suffering and death, or actual people who embody sweetness and light.

9) That politicians would stop embarrassing themselves by never being silent when silence would serve them best, and stop thinking that money and power exonerate them from acting like decent human beings, even towards members of the other party or (gasp) their spouses.

8) That the media would try for one day to cease and desist from

a) espousing hate for anyone who didn't agree 100% with Obama and the Democrats on all things and

b) cease praising every sneeze, look or action taken by Obama and the Democrats. But then, if they did this, and #9 and #10, they'd probably only be left with discussing Texas bar-b-que, recipes for Chocolate Cake and the weather for the upcoming fireworks on the 4th of July.

and for equal measure that those who only find fault would also at least practice the art of backing up all criticism with facts and parallels to illustrate their points. See Helen Thomas if you are looking for tips.

7) That people spend less time online or watching television, and more time reading a good book in the shade of a tall tree while drinking a favorite beverage or eating a fresh peach. Although, if the TV was doing a big bit about bar-b-que, chocolate cake and fireworks, I'd probably be more interested in watching.

6) That people who are fretting about this country going to hell and the people who think we're already there, would find the little bit of the world that they call heaven and breathe in the air there to remember, it isn’t all bad. (And if you have some bar-b-que and chocolate cake, I bet this is easier to remember).

5) That the government would remember it's our money. That we would remember, it is only money.

4) People who asked for advice would actually follow it. (Meaning, enjoy the cake and the bar-b-que and don't start talking about calories or what have you, just eat it and smile).

3) All "reality television" would be banned as destructive to the souls producing, providing, staring and watching it. (Jon and Kate Plus 8 dig). The WashPo did a piece over the weekend on how it was the number of kids, i.e. if only the insurance had covered a more expensive form of IVF, that did in the marriage. Yeah. That was it, the number. It wasn't the 24-7 pseudo transparency of a television "reality" show as opposed to a commitment to each other and genuine intimacy. It was the number of kids because of the type of insurance...yeah, it got under my skin.

2) I’d remember everything I'm supposed to do today.

1) I'd actually do whatever it is.

And we'd have some Texas Bar-b-que and chocolate cake and ice cream for the day after spending a good three hours under a tall tree drinking a diet coke and finishing a good book. Then we'd go swimming and finish it all off with fireworks. So there it is, the pre-planned wish for July 3rd.

Ladies and gentlemen, start your grills.
Enjoy the day. I'm now going to sit under a tree and read my book until someone brings me cake.

Forty-one and Awaiting Maturation

At my age, I’m supposed to be educated, sophisticated and worldly wise.
There is a stack of books that educated people are supposed to have read, important things like the complete works of Dickens and Shakespeare, The Ancient Art of War, Das Kapital, the Federalist papers and Moby Dick. I am waiting for retirement to get to this list, when not reading them will be chucked up to old age and poor eyesight.

Adults are also supposed to like things like coffee and wine, sushi and blue cheese not accompanied by super hot Buffalo wings and beer. They can watch documentaries on war and read the serious sections of the paper with total recall. They wear jeans and sneakers for gardening and football games only, and they don’t voluntarily choose to dine at places that wrap the food in paper. As I understand it, some of them even listen to and love opera.

I am waiting for those chemical enzymes to kick in and transform me from a fairy tale loving, French fry noshing comic book reading plebian into a character out of a Henry James novel; who coifs her hair and wears dark form fitting frocks and speaks in mysteriously compelling short phrases that bewilder and bewitch those around her as she passes through the heathers without stepping into a gopher hole.

It’s not that I haven’t tried to mature. I dutifully checked out Bleak House from the library and read a play each summer from Shakespeare. I keep ordering wine at restaurants but I never finish a glass. I know how to talk about tannins and the deepening flavors and all that, but what I really think when I drink wine is, why didn’t I order a diet coke? I have eaten sushi with friends who love it and survived, but can’t figure out why no one doesn’t just say, “Hey this is a great piece of fish, just give it five minutes in a pan with garlic and olive oil.” I think they’re just trying to avoid doing the pots and pans in the kitchen.

My sister has bought me CD’s of opera, explaining which pieces were her favorites. She has also taken me to drink my first Starbucks, I got a violent headache after three sips. I had a similar reaction to the opera. My husband buys tickets to the symphony. We go. He shuts his eyes to listen. If I shut my eyes, I snore. My music tastes haven’t ever left the early 80’s and high school.

I have taught myself to read the editorial section before I hit up the funnies and the sports, but it’s rather like sitting through math class in High School before lunch. I do it, but only because I ought, and much of the front section just rolls past my brain which is fixated on what happened today in “For Better or Worse.”

So here I am at 41 and I still want big parties on my birthday with wrapped presents and a frosted cake with all the candles. I know the Saturday morning line up my kids watch, and I sneak my TV viewing under the responsible adult headline of “Parental Supervision.” I change the channel if I don’t like the cartoon or its animation. I read comic books inside of real books like “Seven Habits of Highly Successful People” and wear jeans or shorts 350 days out of the year. I don’t own a form fitting frock and I talk in breathless longwinded excited loud sentences. It’s not that I don’t like wine, opera and all things sophisticated; they just aren’t my first preference.

Given the fact that much of my life is lived like a stone that just perpetually skips on the water (never slowing or stopping to sink below the surface), introspection is not one of my strong suits. It requires a quieter mind and spirit than my temperament allows. Yesterday, my son was invited to take a course on manners and etiquette, designed to teach freshmen of high school how to act like the adults they will some day become. As I looked at the requirements that the boys wear jackets and ties, and the girls, dresses and gloves I wondered if one day my kids would grow out of their childhood tastes. I’d be left to go to McDonald’s, watch Disney movies and listen to Duran Duran on my own.

But then I remember, my husband prefers burgers to fois gras, and chocolate shakes to champagne. The other day, he came home with tickets for a baseball game and proposed a camping trip for the 4th of July weekend. After dinner, he asked for ice cream. So I stopped by the bookstore today, and even though, the complete works of Evelyn Waugh were on sale near the front of the store, I picked up the latest Fantastic Four comic for him, and tonight, we’re going to see Kung Fu Panda. Maturity can wait, at least until it feels fun and not like an assignment to eat my broccoli.

I will say though, some of that opera isn’t so bad. Thanks sis.

My Original Sin

Desperation leads to desperate actions. After multiple bribes, systems, threats, promises, nagging days dictated by the timer, pull ups and readings of all the annoying books about learning to go…in three weeks, my son turns four.

Up to this point, he had refused to become potty trained.

I am sure when he becomes an adult, if he is so inclined, he can write a tell all book about me. In it, he can detail my certifiable insanity. In my defense, it’s not like I haven’t put in my time.

But I admit it, this was a new low, even for me. I know this isn't Parent Magazine approved.

I told him he couldn’t turn four if he wasn’t potty trained.

I told him it was against the law to turn four and not be potty trained. They’d revoke the birthday license and confiscate the cake and everything.

My son has been wearing underwear ever since.


While I refuse to celebrate until we go two days accident free, a tiny part of me is jumping up and down mentally at merely the possibility of potty training finally taking hold. It has been 1445 days of diapers for this guy alone.

For the record, I also refuse to repent as long as it’s working.

I suspect at the very least, I've committed a venal.
Wonder what I could say to motivate his sister…

For more humor that does not endanger the immortal soul, try http://www.humor-blogs.com!

Extreeme Home Makeover Blowout Party

Two days before Christmas, I impulsively picked up a Gingerbread House at our favorite bakery. It was gorgeous and filled with candy. I knew I'd be UBER Aunt if I showed up at my brother's house with this beauty in tow.

It seemed like the perfect plan. I'd load the Truck with all the kiddos, my husband would shop and finish up Christmas and we'd get in a visit and all would be happy and right with the world. I called my brother and set the plan in motion.

A brief hic-up in the plan, my toddler was sleeping. We elected to put our oldest son in charge as a babysitter at home. He could use the computer as long as she slept. Blitzkrieg or Civilizations IV heaven awaited. He was thrilled.

We get ten miles and I notice, the Suburban needed gas. No problem, we stopped to fill it up.

We get ten more miles. The kids want food.

I decide to splurge and get them the happy meals they clamored for, if only to make the hour drive to Uncle J's a bit more peaceful.

Alas, I considered running in to the bathroom, but denied myself for fear others would immediately decide they needed to go.

Christmas carols on the radio and spirits high, we were off.

Forty five minutes later, we're about a turn and an exit from my brother's when suddenly the car feels like it's dragging its chasse. It felt like we had hit a deer and were dragging the body, even though I have never hit a deer and wouldn't know what dragging a body of a large mammal under the car would feel like. I knew it wasn't good.

Pulling over as quickly as possible and as far off the road as possible, I briefed the kids. I'm going to check the car. "I don't care if I get hit, DON'T GET OUT OF THE CAR!"

"What do we do if you get hit?" My oldest asked. I handed her the cell phone, suddenly, she was fine with the world. "Call 911." I explained. The rear tire was not just flat, it was shredded. These were only one year old. Still, looking at the tire remains, I was grateful it was the rear that had blown and not the front or this could have been a very unhappy story. Calling Triple A, Calling Uncle J, Calling husband, we now could only wait for the cavalry to come. I began to regret not stopping in the McDonalds and wishing I hadn't ordered such a large Diet Coke.

The phone rings. Is it Triple A, my husband, my brother? No. It's my son.
"Rita needs a change."
"And?"
"Ohhhhhh." I hang up.

Now today was also my daughter's 10th birthday and she had received a Nintendo GS. The entire episode had virtually escaped her notice until the battery started to falter. "Can't I charge it on your car?" She asked."No. I need to keep the phone charged.""Why?""Have you not noticed that we're not moving?""Why aren't we moving?"She was spared the rant that would have followed by the timely rescue of my brother in his van. He took four of the six I had with me, leaving the baby and my oldest as an assistant.

She was outraged. "I wanted to go with Uncle J. He has an X-Box 360. She sulked the rest of the time until Dad showed up. At this point, the rain began falling practically sideways. The tow truck man arrived. I get a text message from my son. "YOU OWE ME BIG."

The tow truck guy and my husband spent the better part of an hour thumbing through the car manual to locate the tool kit necessary to release the spare. Finally, the tire replaced, my husband heads back home to relieve our son of his duties.

Finally, we arrived to present the gorgeous cake. On their table was a home made gingerbread house the kids had decorated themselves. I suddenly feel like the worst Aunt in history for presenting a perfect Martha Stewart cake to usurp the homespun pride that the kids had over their creation. However, kids are great at not noticing when adults have their egos punctured. "Hey Aunt Sherry, can I have some?" My nephew set about picking at the chocolate door. He's my kind of kid.

I should point out that once we arrived at my brother's, we all jammed on the X-Box 360 rock star and got booed off the stage twice. My older girl forgave me but the birthday girl was miffed, as she still couldn't charge her Nintendo GS, she seemed to take it personally that Uncle J didn't have an adapter for her needs. He's in computers after all. Still, I told her, it was a blow out party. She didn't appreciate the humor.

Driving home to serve birthday cake, it felt like everything had happened perfectly anyway to me. I'd seen my brother and his family, the house was a hit, we made it back safely and I found out I can jam with the Pretenders as long as I do vocals and not guitar. Now I just have to let my husband know, I want an Xbox 360 for Christmas.

Spin Doctor Cycle

My children’s memories of their childhood reality won’t be helped by these blog stories. I used to worry about the mythic nature of these tales. Then I remembered, my own kids’s stories about their family life are often mythic and don’t help matters. I’m just hoping that in the end, what they remember is they laughed a lot, Mom was nuts and that they were always loved and never lonely. Reading their memoirs when they grow up should be entertaining at least.

The First Spin…damage control

In front of the inlaws, our oldest, who had suffered a broken arm when he was two, asked, “Hey Mom! Do you remember that time when I was hit by the car?” My head wheeled around so fast, I hurt my neck. “NO!” I said. “That never happened!”

“Yes it did.” He remained convinced. The grandparents were eyeing me with some concern. “It happened at a McDonald’s near our home. You were walking with me.” In his defense, he was five at the time.

“You must have dreamed it sweetie.” I explained.

Everyone relaxed when he thought about it and said “Oh yeah.”

The Second Spin…Marketing is Everything

It happened again with my daughter turned nine and her father took her out on a date. They went to that famous toy store with the giraffe and had dessert out. She came home with a stuffed collie named Luke. She thanked her father and trotted upstairs to bed with the fluffy black dog in her arms.

The next morning, her grandparents called to wish her a happy birthday and to ask if she had done anything special. “Yeah.” She said flatly. “But I didn’t get to stay up till midnight.”

“Oh? What did you do?”

“Got some food. And then we went to the store.”

“And?”

“And I got a stuffed dog.”

“I see.”

Prompting kids to give more details over the phone sounds desperate but I did it anyway. I wanted her grandparents to know what a good birthday she’d had. “Tell her what you named it.” I suggested.

“I found the dog and it was a stray. It wasn’t where it belonged so it was probably old. I named it Luke.”

As embarrassing and frustrating as both of those situations were, the children have now learned that Spin works both ways…

The Third Spin…A spoon full of Sugar or in this case, Rodgers and Hammerstein

Ten days before Christmas, I summoned the children to the living room. “Presents for you.” I said and turned on the “Presentation of the Children” from the King and I. “Line up.” My oldest clapped his hands a la Yule Brenner. They obliged.
I left the room and waited for the musical cue.

Returning to the first child, I bowed and handed him his laundry. He played along. He bowed, took the basket and marched up in tune to the music. The musical selection was sufficiently long enough to allow six baskets to be delivered in grand fashion. There were two baskets left but since it wasn’t like the two babies were going to put away their stuff anyway, I got the point across. They laughed in good spirits but I overheard my second son saying to his sister as he carried his basket up.

“For Christmas, I’m going to give her some folded socks.”

This is how great memoirs aren’t written.

Leftovers...

Today's offering is verbal stuffing, bits of this and that, mixed to make something really excellent to eat, but not often.

On Thanksgiving morning at six o'clock, the alarm went off.
"Come on Love, we have to dress and stuff the turkeys."
"Feed and clothe the kids, right." he smiled as he hit the alarm.

First a serving of Turkey...

Friday, emerging from the food comas, I happened to smirk at a bag of pecans that warned, "Processed on machines that may have processed nuts from trees." It reminded me of the recall in New Hampsire of Eggnog, where the feds insisted the products be removed from shelves as they lacked sufficient warning...MAY CONTAIN EGGS. Somebody must have egged the government on to do this, or else someone isn't using their noggin.

Mashed Potatoes for Brains...

Pulling out the hotdogs to make lunch, I observed the following label. "Child Safety: When serving hot dogs to young children, cut hot dogs lengthwise, then into small, easy to swallow pieces. Children should eat while seated and be under adult supervision. Please contact us at 1-866...for more information." I called the number to ask whether they could send someone over to supervise. They haven't gotten back to me.

Cranberries...

This year, retailers have recognized that "Happy Holidays" and "Season's Greetings" aren't cutting it with the vast shopping public that may actually be purchasing things to celebrate a religious observance. "Winter trees" flopped big time last year. Determined not to offend, some not so bright bulbs have opted for "Yuletide Season." Guess it's okay to acknowledge pagan religions, after all, there are so many druids running around.

Dessert....

Cutting cake to celebrate my husband's birthday caused our three year old to come a running. "Who's the cake for?" he asked. Our other children cued up for servings. "My favorite child first." their father replied and added with a wink, "Who's my favorite child?" The older four began to smile and one of them volunteered "All of us." but John grabbed the slice and said "ME. I'm your favorite." and hunkered down on the slice.

Gravy....

On the issue of favorites, a favorite story of my dad's. When asked by one of his sons, which of his nine children did he love the most, my grandfather told the story of how he couldn't be a priest because he had lost part of his thumb. He held up his hands. "You see I have nine fingers." he said. "I love and need them all."

Happy Thanksgiving!

In Honor of My Sibling’s birthday.

Date: October 25, 1977.

The baby was coming two months ahead of schedule. Ignorant of how scary this might be, (after all, I was two months early too and here I was, a sixth grader and just fine), I felt happy to know I would find out soon; brother or sister.

My brothers and I got farmed out to our best friends’ homes respectively for the duration. Huzzah! Unrestricted time with peers is every adolescent’s dream; except this one came with a parent that was on a health kick.

Being a good friend, she tried to warn me, but it wasn’t like I had any choice. My parents were hi-tailing it two hours to the big hospital. I came psyched with my pj’s, tooth brush and clothes for the next three days.

Then we were served snack.

Raisins.

Raisins were something you stuck in oatmeal. Raisins were in cookies you ate only after all other options had been exhausted. Raisins were grapes gone bad.

“Can I have a drink?”

Her mom poured us each some water... without ice... from the tap.

As green and as healthy and as ecologically and economically friendly as this may have been, I was an unenlightened seventies sixth grader. This was Not a snack.

My friend meekly drank her luke warm tap water and gave me a “You know how They are” look. We ran to her room to listen to the Doobie Brothers, read Dynamite! and talk about Star Wars. For the next two hours, if one didn’t count the hunger pains, it was pure bliss. My best friend explained that her mother was trying to purge their family of impurities and warned that dinner might not be fun. I promised to be a gracious guest, being her best friend and all, we could tough it out.

Dinner was served.

I don’t think anyone has ever licked their lips in joy and anticipation at a meal like this, or if they have, common sense has prevailed enough that they haven’t gone public. I stared at the plate. The following is 100% unembellished unvarnished, ungarnished truth. Warning! Not for the squeamish or slightly queasy.

Liver: enemy of every respectable child without a gallon of ketchup at their side.
Pickled beets: I have family that eat these so I won’t insult their taste buds. That being said, I wasn’t happy.
Lima beans: My husband loves them. He serves them. I still won’t eat them.
Water. *Still from tap. Single feeble melting cube.

We sat down for grace before meals.

I admit, my prayer was silent and heart felt. “Please please God. Deliver me from this food.”

The phone rang as soon as we said “Amen.”

It was my Dad. I had a sister. Mary Jennifer. I was pumped to even up the score with my brothers. Then inspiration struck. I whooped to her family and gushed, “I have a sister! Oh, I’m too excited I can’t eat!” and ran up the stairs. My best friend saw opportunity and took it. “ME TOO!” she shouted and bolted after me.

I heard her brother and sister try the same stunt to no effect. We played cards until we were sure dinner had been put away. We laughed and snuck down around ten o’clock to feast on vanilla ice cream and Coca-cola.

“To Mary Jennifer!”
“To your sister!”

And the bubbly soda shot through our noses. Truly, it was a great celebration to be alive.

Happy Birthday Sis and many more! Pass the ice cream and soda please.