In Memory of a Cousin

The seeds of memory are planted in the next generation when we share our stories.  This past week, my cousin died.  Over an evening Zoom wake thirty-one cousins and many aunts and uncles plus fourty or so friends feasted on memories and the faces of cousins we’d not seen in years, and the years fell away.  I don't have a particular story, but I remember my cousin, and my wedding pictures include him and his sister dancing up a storm.

The numbers were indicative of our cousin’s love of faith, his family, chili, music, crabbing,* Texas, the marsh and the beach.  Too soon for them, too soon for us, too soon, too soon, too soon, but Ben Hall’s life revealed his cramming of everything into everything, except beans in the chili.  

We should laugh more, we should feast more, and we should share stories more often than we do, for reasons other than someone no longer can create stories for us to tell.  We should listen more, we should look more, we should seek each other’s faces more often than when convenient, more often than ordinary life encourages.  

It’s so rare, and yet we somehow forget, that each of us is singularly rare, singular to the universe, created by God for the universe, for all of us to love.   The testimony of a life is all the stories of love, all the friends, all the people who reveal how much of that rareness has been seen and discovered by the universe.What a treasure given by God to us, for us to meet, to know, to feast with, and to wait in joyful hope for seeing again one day.  One of the gifts even of this time, of a time of grief, is the coming together and remembering if only for that moment, while the world never stops, even though we don't understand why the world doesn't stop, when someone dies, we stop. Stopping is important. Stopping makes us remember, there are important stories we need to be telling, need to be hearing, need to be living, that will get lost if we don't stop and pay attention. Remember to keep making the stories because you want those for the long haul. They're like warm fires on a cold night when the world feels like one long winter. It warmed to see their faces, to hear their voices, and to hear their stories. Thank you for the stories Ben, we will miss you until everyone is telling stories about us. Every moment here is a gift, and a reminder of that what is to come, is even better. Here;s one of his songs.

*Thanks to Danny for the correction, Ben loved to crab and went to LaBelle armed with a camera, not a gun.

Over at Aleteia

School is making it hard for me to keep up with the blog, so I'm pacing myself.  I write in the evening, submit in the morning, and hope to link post the next day whenever I find, something got published.   It's always a pleasant surprise, it never gets old, that happy feeling seeing something in print.  

Here's the link:
My Son is So Much More than Down Syndrome.

Over at Aleteia

I am over at Aleteia today! It's the height of irony for me to get an email that my piece on the internet has gone live which I read on my phone when the essential issue of the piece is what? Put down that phone/computer/tv and be present to each other.

Showcase Saturday

Because I now do book reviews (on occasion, reading one now), I'm creating Showcase Saturday. Today being the first day of this feature, I'm starting with a bang.  My cousin, Will Clark Green has a new video out for his CD Ringling Road title track and it's cool. Creepy, but cool.

If you don't know his earlier work, check out Rose Queen or Misunderstood.   Or better yet, see if you can catch him and his band in concert.  You can check out his schedule here.  It's a fun show.

 Go Will!

Next week, a book review. (It will help keep me on top of my stack of books to read).   

Eat Sleep Write Friday!

As mentioned yesterday, I currently submit two humor pieces a week to Eat Sleep Write!  

My second son has the spark of Calvin in his heart...

You'll have to click on the link to read as Paul Harvey would say, the rest of the story. 

Strange Gods and Cool Moms

One of the things I decided I needed to do for myself this year was read a book a month.  In May, I read Strange Gods by my Internet friend, the very excellent writer, Elizabeth Scalia.  She addresses our proclivity to create for ourselves Golden Calves to worship in our everyday life.  As I walked through the pages, I saw my earlier self when she got immersed in physical fitness, when it was all volunteer all the time, when I obsessed over gourmet cooking and discovered writers forums. 
Every time, what began as a good, an interest, a passion, a hobby, would eventually become less good, an obsession, a substitute, a routine or want that became a need and thus a chain.  This is not to say that foodie lover impulses or work outs or learning a new trade via reading/interacting with professionals online is a bad thing, only that my natural tendency toward being enthusiastic would allow the right order of things to become disordered.  I'd even done it with prayer!  It is a good but hard read in the same way going to the doctor and stepping on the scale is a good but hard notice, time to stop eating apple bread and go for a walk.

In June, I read my friend Tracy Beckerman's Lost in Suburbia and while she tackles coming to terms with motherhood through humor, she and Elizabeth are talking about the very same thing, our innate desire both to be consumed by whatever role we've chosen/been given  and to be noticed as singularly unique and special, beyond the role we've chosen/been given.  I laughed out loud several times at the pool and in the car before I finished, seeing my own self in the unwieldy battle between  trying to be mom and still more than mom and becoming increasingly crazy whenever one's own identity gets lost and  the mom role of one's life takes over entirely. I have known that strong need to stand apart and separate from everyone else, which when given, makes me wish to blend and be one in a million.   Ultimately, her search for the cool person within (read happy with herself and who she is and where she is and why she is in life), mirrored my multiple idol creating quest and the deep frustration and unhappiness that came with being ill at ease with wherever it is that I was before coming to terms with my own self.

 Being a mom of many, I've often felt subdivided and like I'm never doing what I should be. Ironically, it's meant I've cast about rather than be still, the best example being when my oldest son set me straight. I was expecting our ninth.  I'd volunteered to be the chair of the fall festival and I was writing.  Aloud I mused, "Do you think I should coach Peter's baseball team?"  He pushed himself back from the computer game he'd been playing.  "Are YOU CRAZY?" he asked. 

It struck home. I was trying to somehow do it all, to show I could do it all, but by casting myself apart from my family, rather than being present to it.  I didn't have the words then for what I was doing, creating an idol, in servitude to myself. But what I learned from my friends and family and years of hits and misses is not to beat myself up over the times I become overtaken by enthusiasm, but to just keep starting over. 

So today, I got up early and was writing when three children asked for breakfast. After I'd served them, I returned to the table but the laptop now took up too much space.  Symbolically, it was correct, the laptop should not crowd the family.  It was a gentle reminder, priorities.  Removing the computer, I looked at those still sitting at the table, happy, eating, content.  I looked at my daughter who was still on the couch.  "Want to play some pinball?" I asked. She beamed like a sunflower.  "Cool mom!" she said as we went up stairs.   Yeah.  I am a cool mom too. 

Can't wait to figure out what July's book will teach me.

Moments of Perfection

We did the epic.  We took all ten children to Disneyworld. 

Despite long debates and agreement that breaking the groups into two and tailoring the experience to the ages involved, we ultimately wanted this to be a family vacation and so we all went together.  We dressed alike, had assigned partners and switched off often. 

Here were the moments that acted as a photograph in my mind, of the experience. 

Regina's sly smile became a wide mouthed grin as she saw the princesses dancing at the castle. 

Rita's euphoric "I'm driving! I'm driving! Faster Mom! I'm just like a teenager." (editorial note, she's almost as good but that shout has made me consider the possibility that she shouldn't be liscenced until she's 18).

Anna Maria in "It's a Small World." Up until that point, she'd shook her head "No." to everything, but this was the ride that began to uncurl her from thinking this world was just too unreal for her sensibilities.

Getting completely drenched top to bottom with six of my children --not from the ride of Splash Mountain, but from the rain which started falling with a vengeance during Splash Mountain.  We all started laughing. They did warn us, we might get wet. 

Marta going into the sweet shop to buy her sister a rice crispy treat when the samples got devoured before she got one. 

William lifting his brother John up onto his shoulders so he could see the electric light parade. 

Bonnie playing with her younger siblings and really helping them experience Disney. She lifted up Regina to look out the ferry so she could see the final parade on the lake surrounding the Magic Kingdom.

Faith and John driving by themselves on the speedway.  Both felt very important and proud.

Peter going on multiple rollercoasters (twice). 

My beloved husband shouting out in surprised joy at the fireworks.  They were lovely.

Paul wanting to hold both his dad's and my hand during the laser show. He got that this was a communal experience, that it should be, and that this was a perfect moment to be cherished. He was right. 
 

Thursday's Small Successes

Today is the day we take stock of all that we got done last week.  The thousands of little things that make up those seven days includes a lot of small victories and love and show that while we may not have achieved what we seek to get done, we're making progress. 

I don't know about you, but sometimes the weeks just fly.  Next week, school starts for everyone and the world will seem to move even faster.  I need my Thursday to slow things down. 

This week's small successes include:

1) Got high school sophomore off to first day of school.  So far, we've been on time each time.  (Trust me, it's a victory).  

2) Last weekend, we drove up to Connecticut to see Grandparents and go to a reunion.  It was a blast and a delight and reminded me how much we need feasts in our lives, how much we need to have those relationships with family that extend outward and back in time.  My favorite moments were sitting and listening to people tell stories I did not know.  Also, Latvian desserts (a 12 layer mocha cream and apricot jam frosted cake) rock!

3) We got school supplies!  Now I have to pack them. 

4) This week we went to Urban Pirates in Baltimore and took a pirate cruise with 8 of my kids and my brother's kids and their mom and my parents who are visiting from Texas.  It was a blast and I will treasure to my dying day, my four year old daughter wiggling her hips in the Pirate dance and saying "Arrrgh! Shiver Me Timbers." in one of the games.    Awesome. 

5) My parents are here!  My heart is full. 

6) The baby is up on all fours and she can scoot some.  She's getting ready to be mobile.

7) Paul yesterday was playing with dinosaur puppets and would pretend to have one bite his hand and then fallen down.  He did it multiple times to show me that he was acting as if the dinosaur had eaten him.  It was amazing to see him using his imagination in such a complex way. 

Now it's your turn!  Just use Mr. Linky to showcase your blog here and list your successes for the week on your blog.  Be sure and visit the other blogs linked here and leave a comment for them.  It's part of being neighborly and part of the fun of this exercise.  So join in!  We can't wait to see what you did this week.

You Should Remember to Remember This

Growing up in South East Texas, Independence day meant being lugged to mass, even if we were at the beach. It meant singing “God Bless America” at the end and hearing a woman who had probably practiced for two months try to imitate Kate Smith. We’d complain about it, being kids, but Dad maintained it set the importance of the day on remembering that this great gift of free will, of liberty, of independence does not come without a prior generation’s cost. He'd talk about how it will it not long endure if the current caretakers are ignorant of their past, of the present, or fearful of the future. We’d roll our eyes with that knowing 'Dad' look that only kids can give grownups who obviously don’t understand what is worth knowing.

After mass, Dad would drive us to the local grocery store, and we’d sit down at the picnic table outside with popsicles that melted faster than any of us could lick. He’d ask us either in the car or while we were licking off the sticky stuff, “What were the readings?” or even worse, “What did you think of the homily?” We soon learned to speed read the misselettes before leaving Church in case our kid minds had wandered during the Liturgy, but it didn’t help when July 4th fell on a non-Sunday. Then, he’d quiz us about our country and its history and offer suggested readings. We learned to pay attention or at least preemptively cram, if only to avoid the embarrassment of flunking the Popsicle quiz.

But Dad, being a crafty parent, employed further stealth. He waited as we grew older. We’d drive home, have lunch and be lounging over comic pages from the newspaper, idly discussing whether or not we wanted to play cards or go hunting for driftwood to build a bonfire, and he’d appear with the quiz questions. He’d say the summation of the reading and ask us what Father had said. But Homily Jeopardy often resulted in a goodly amount of sibling collusion, where we’d rack our adolescent sunburnt beachcombed brains for key words we’d remembered and hope that others would fill in the blanks.

He’d read the readings over again to us and hope something sunk in during the process. Then he’d slyly offer to play Trivial Pursuit and always pick history so as to, once again, engage in parental instruction about the importance of the day. I took to studiously avoiding the yellow squares, while my brother keenly pre-read every Trivial Pursuit card’s history question and answer. It never really mattered to Dad, he was just glad we were learning it, by osmosis or repetition or sheer stubborn adolescent desire to win.

It didn’t matter what the year was, the evening of the 4th meant piling into the largest car and sitting outside on the side of the freeway on top of it and watching the fireworks with my family. It felt cool and communal to sit under the stars with everyone I loved. I wished the shows would go on forever if only because I knew the next day, I’d be back to fighting with my two brothers and Dad would be back at work and the magic and beauty of having the whole country take a break and celebrate would be over. The 'connected with everyone' feeling would dissipate from the crowds as quickly as the smoke from the last explosion thinned into nothingness and everyone scrambled to their cars and began to complain about the traffic.

My father would hum songs and makes puns in between the various stars and bomb bursts and whistling rockets and after, trying to prolong the feeling, the moment of everyone being united and at peace with one another.

Today, as my husband and I scramble to load the car for mass and make sure everyone has matching shoes that fit and combed hair, so as to make it on time for three of our children to serve, I find myself tucking the Magnificat in my purse as we run out the door. Scanning the readings ahead of time so that if I am occupied by my children or my own wandering mind, I at least had a chance to read the wisdom I may not hear in my distraction. I want to know what I might otherwise miss, because I have been taught to recognize I could miss it.

I have even tossed out the Popsicle question on my kids over breakfast bagels. My kids know more than I did at their age -- about their country, about their government and about the need to be involved and engaged in the world -- but they too look sometimes shocked at me as they grope to remember all the things or some of the images presented during the mass. And when I begin to chide or lecture them about it, they give the look that only children can give to parents who want them to recognize something they think they already understand but don’t.

So this 4th of July, I intend to take my children to mass and sing my best Kate Smith imitation, and ask them afterwards about how our independence is secured and endowed by our Creator, and what the Priest said. And then, we’re going to sit outside on top of the cars so they can one day recognize that communion feeling of being surrounded by everyone they love, watching beauty explode outward overhead. Because the fireworks may fade but the memory of these moments, when everyone stopped and took pleasure in each other’s company, lasts longer than the Popsicles or the last rocket’s red glare, giving proof through the night that this people are still here.

I’ll hold onto each of them at some point, hoping that the grip of my hand in theirs helps seal in their hearts and minds, don’t miss the opportunity to remember this.*

Originally ran August 11, 2009

The Cure for Seasonal Foodie Obsession Disorder

I suffer from seasonal foodie obsession disorder or SFOD.

Last summer when I went to the pick your own produce farm, it started. I’ll began by picking too many strawberries, inducing me to once again consider learning how to make jam. I bought the fancy jam jars and pectin and little hand produced book on how to make jellies and preserves. Then I started reading the recipe and my brain froze up, so I just fed the kids waffles with berries for dinner two nights in a row and used up the excess that way.

The jars sat in the closet next to the jars I bought and forgot about the year before. I promised myself I'd make it up to them the next time I went berry picking.

Then, a friend invited me on an innocent trip to the Amish market I never knew about. Perusing all those freshly cleaned chickens and gorgeous fresh chops, I impulsively purchased enough meat to survive a nuclear winter.

“Sherry? What good is it to purchase fresh meat if we’re just going to freeze it?” My husband asked.

Up to my neck in butcher block paper, I just smiled. “You’ll thank me once you taste it.” I promised as I fired up the grill for a mixed feast of roasted goodies. "Could you taste the difference?" I asked eagerly. "Not really." my husband admitted. The kids shook their heads, but hey, they weren't upset, chops off the grill were awesome. I was certain a steady diet of it would eventually enlighten their palates.

Over the next few weeks, I began scanning those gourmet catalogs from the mail, my eyes lingering over the Bee Hive Pizza Oven Outside Grill and the specially imported knives guaranteed to cut through even bone. My husband found the strategically placed dog eared pages of some on his side of the bed. “Sherr?”

“Well, my birthday’s coming up…just in case you need any ideas.”

We went to the public library and I checked out seventeen different cook books, to try things out. Driving my son home from baseball practice, I discovered NPR’s “The Splendid Table” and a few other radio cooking shows which became my substitute for music in the afternoon. I could feel myself slipping into the obsessive compulsive gourmet cook want-a-be as I filled out the form for my buy one, get five free magazine subscriptions, all of them dealing with food. It began to interfere with regular life, as I now required draconian type silence from my toddlers when the morning shows did their 10 minute cooking spot, and I growled whenever someone switched it from the Food channel.

The local grocery store was no longer sufficient for our family’s daily repast. Shopping for the proper ingredients required three separate visits to get the true staples, one at the specialty shop in the scary strip mall, one in the market only open on Thursday and a special pilgrimage on the freeway to the one store in the tri-state area with the RIGHT basalmic vinegar, saffron, organic eggs and creme fraise. Eventually, my needs could only be met by the outrageously-beyond-all-sense-over-priced gourmet stores where the vegetables are so bright, they're probably hand painted with acrylics at the New York school of Art. Witnessed scrutinizing a clutch of bananas for color, firmness and consistency and pulling off only the acceptable ones to create my own bunch; my family began to feel unease.

What stopped the long skid into bankruptcy that summer was the harsh cold reality of my children. They could humor my fledging steps into multi-hued pasta as long as I covered it with enough olive oil and cheese. They indulged my attempt at rosemary potatoes, as I served grilled pork tenderloin on the side. However, they drew the line at goat cheese wrapped in radicchio and pinned together by a tooth pick with a piece of Italian bacon.

My husband had called home to say he’d be working late when I served this latest elegant creation, thus the kids decided to perform an intervention. They stood there, bowls in hand, armed with spoons and a large box of sugar frosted cereal. The oldest had already poured each child their preferred portion and the second stood ready with the milk. “We’re fixing our own dinner Mom.” They explained.

“But what about my Italian appetizer?”
“You can have it Mom.” The oldest gallantly offered.
“Enjoy.” said his younger brother.

And there I sat, eating smoked goat cheese, wrapped in wilted purple lettuce, pulling off the toothpick to tug at the chewy bacon. After the third appetizer, I conceded that perhaps I had gone too far. Placing the remainder in plastic wrap for their father, I pledged to keep my foodie impulses in check by always ensuring some element of dinner was readily identifiable to children under the age of 12.

“Are you sure?” My second daughter asked, hands on her hips. She always has been a bit of a skeptic.

“I promise.” I nodded meekly. “Please, pass the frosted flakes.”

And I’ve kept that promise throughout the year but then today in the mail, I found a flyer. “Berry Picking starts Tuesday!” Maybe this year, I’ll make my own jam.

Small Successes Thursday Test

This is a test for a project I've been invited to take on.  If you would care to participate to verify this thing works, play along and use Mr. Linky below after you've listed three successes over at your blog.  I'll click on your link from Mr. Linky below and verify that I have in fact done this correctly.  It will count as my fourth success if it does.  If not, well I still have Wednesday to work out the bugs.

Hello!  Welcome to everyone visiting from Family & Faith Live!  My name is Sherry and I've agreed to host Small Successes Thursday.   This is the new spot for anyone grappling with the meaning of life or cleaning of laundry. No promises on my take being the last word on either subject.




It's important for moms to recognize that all the small successes in our days can add up to one big triumph. So on Thursday of each week, we do exactly that.

To participate, just write up a list of 3 of your recent Small Successes and post it on your blog along with the Small Successes button. I'm working on creating a button for you to access with the appropriate non tech looking user friendly link.  But in the meantime, email me and I will email back the code for the button on my blog.  (I adjusted the button to lead back here on my blog only but can't figure out how to post that info without granting access to rework my blog).  You are not required to use the button, but please do link back to the main post here. Then you can add your blog here using the Mr. Linky form (please link to the individual blog post, not the home page of your blog).


If you don't have a blog, you can share your Small Successes in the comments. To get us started, I will share my small successes for this week:

1. I mailed a birthday card to my niece who turns two this Friday.  Normally I'm notoriously tardy about these sorts of things so this is progress.





2. The quest for order in the home continues undeterred by my brood's capacity for chaos. This week we cleaned out two bins of junk.





3. I got a haircut without engaging in martyr type practicality where I wouldn't go until some one else needed it more.





Now it's your turn. Please tell us all about the ways you got it right this week!  Mr. Fred and It Works! are obviously me.

It's On...Temporarily

Nothing motivates or at least chafes like envy.   My siblings have all entered a high exercise healthy phase that forces me to at least acknowledge my couch potato type existence and subsequent couch potato type form.  Hearing that one sibling is training for a Triathlon while another family member is running four miles a day and a third is into weights and cardio, I feel guilt and shame at my own bodily sloth, at least enough to do a few sit ups while watching Burn Notice or push ups during commercials.  My slug like brain reasons, "Hey, it counts."  But my hips say otherwise.

My daughter is taking karate, my other children are doing swimming lessons twice a week.  In both scenarios, I get to act as home base; the car that gets them from point a to point b on time, and central supply for towels, snacks and the hawk supervisor to ensure the long term viability of the non swimming set at the pool.  It's not that I want to be a stationary slug, but home life is usually punctuated by the domestic chores of the day and laundry no matter what you do, involves a good deal of sitting; writing requires a BIC (bottom in chair), and stopping fights requires more brains and lungs than any muscle mass.  Going outside lately has been a non breathable event with temps hovering in the low hundreds; and I honestly don't like saddling my older kids with non necessary babysitting detail.  They're my kids, not theirs; so I want them to be teens, not junior mes.  Hence, I do not say, "Watch them, I'm going to work out."

Sin always requires rationalization and my brain is certainly up to the task of explaining my physical fitness neglect.  Nagging kids to do their summer work books, read, turn off the TV, pick up their toys, go outside, clear the table, etc. etc. etc. uses up all of my iron woman discipline such that at the end of the day when they're all in bed or at least no longer requiring direct supervision, I don't have any metal will left much less energy to engage in a serious work out.  But I know that's a cop out and that if I were serious, I could work out in the morning before they get up or use exercise TV or a video and or keep a food diary to make better choices and that I simply haven't gathered enough will to make this happen. 

But I'm going to spend a week with people I love, all of whom are on a better track physically with me.  I'm hoping to be humble enough to follow their lead and take the hint rather than drag them back towards my side of the scale by poor example.  I'm hoping to gather some extra will from being around all this family that seems to have their acts together.  But I'll have to stop swallowing bad food and swallow my pride instead.  Who knew getting fit was akin to seeking to stay free from sin?

No wonder weight loss is so hard.

The Real Christmas Fruit Cake

This piece orriginally ran December 9, 2007, but Christmas specials recycle every year so why not blogs?

We bought an artificial tree this year. Up until now, I had staunchly vowed never to buy a fake tree. I thought plastic trees were as evil as Charlie Brown and Linus thought they were in the Christmas special. I had also vowed never to eat fruit cake.

In both cases, I mocked what I did not understand. As an adult, I’ve actually tasted good fruit cake. It was homemade, scrumptious and left me wanting more. When we assembled the tree and I had a similar epiphany. I didn’t have to sweep half the branches out the door from unpacking it. I wouldn’t have to water it! I didn’t have to crawl underneath, pine sap dripping on me to screw the trunk into the base. I wouldn’t have to water it! The lights were already on it. I wouldn’t have to water it! So I was in an instant perfect Christmas mood and I didn’t have to water it.

Putting on classical Christmas music, I brought up the ornaments from the basement, anticipating, no savoring, a “to be treasured family moment.” Sighing happily, my brain exploded with a holiday list. “We’ll decorate the tree and set up the crèche and take a picture all in our Christmas sweaters and bake cookies…” I had briefly channeled Martha Stewart.

It lasted exactly five minutes and forty three seconds.

After the initial rush of opening boxes and “oohing” at beautiful ornaments had waned, the children began to reassert their personalities.

With eighteen hands reaching into boxes all at the same time, there was a lot of gentle patient nudging. I smiled benevolently and turned the music up a notch. In retrospect, now would have been a good time to sip a bit of Christmas wine.

Ornament placement became a problem. One child started snatching up prime locations on the tree like they were Boardwalk and Park Place. Then there was the “She got all the good ornaments!” issue. A daughter had taken to stockpiling all of the choice pieces. She was bartering with the squatter.

It had to happen. Someone was on a step ladder, someone was hanging a glass ball using a paperclip as a hook, someone wanted their silver reindeer in front of a light, somehow somebody hit the ornament the wrong way and ...“Crash.”

There were great accusations and denials as to who hung the now crushed glass green ball. Clearing out its remains jostled the wiring. Then of course the lights on the tree wouldn’t light on one side. Wrestling with the tree caused a few more ornaments to fall. I turned off the radio with a bit of a sigh. My Christmas mood was fading.

Meanwhile, on the floor disassembling the nativity scene, three not so wise ones were arguing over who got to play with the sheep and who got stuck with the cow. A smug looking older sibling opted to appear pious by hanging only angels, while lecturing on what was “appropriate.” The squabbles lead to two children stomping off. The oldest used the commotion to bug out to play Nintendo, followed quickly by his sister. That left the adults, two toddlers, the baby and one overly helpful kindergartner who only wanted to use the step ladder.

“That’s enough!” I yelled.

I turned on the radio, finding the All Christmas all the time station. “I’m putting on this Season's schmaltziness tunes. Come back here all of you! That means YOU! We’re going to have a Christmas moment and you will feel maudlin sentiment about your family even if I have to play “Christmas Shoes” to get it!”

Five seconds of silence and then recognizing the clear and present danger that loomed, from all directions they came running.

“Mom! I’m coming. Look, I brought our stockings!”

“I’m playing Holly Jolly Christmas on my Trombone!”

“Me next, I’ll do Jingle Bells on the piano.”

“Hey Dad, can we hang lights outside? Please?”

Within minutes, all was calm, all was bright. The tree sparkled, some of the kids were outside trimming the house and a memory had been created. Sweeping up the last of the broken pieces, I looked over at the baby, asleep in her bouncer and the toddlers who are busy playing with some bells. The nativity scene has a hot wheel and a reindeer added to it and is missing a sheep. Martha Stewart wouldn’t approve but I do. My husband brought me a glass of Christmas wine.

“There’s No Place Like Home for the Holidays…” played on the radio.
Maybe I’m pushing it if I tell them this year I think we should make homemade fruit cake.

Future Politicians in the Family

My daughter doesn’t accept correction easily. She’s five and a quick study of her two older sisters. As such, she is quite convinced that she has everything figured out. For example, the other day I came upon her as her drink spilled all over the table, chair, her outfit and the floor. Grabbing paper towels to clean it up, I said the obvious. “You should be more careful. You dropped your cup.”

She folded her arms and gave me a cold corrective stare.
“I did Not.” She pouted at me.

“Yes. You did.” I couldn’t believe she would argue the point.
“I saw it.”

“NO I DIDN’T.” She shouted back.

Irritated, I stopped cleaning the mess. “Alright then, what happened?”

“I didn’t drop the cup. It fell.”

I suddenly understood that in her world, nothing she did was actually wrong as long as she could omit herself from the picture.

The technique remains the same even as children age. When my oldest was preparing for a special evening out at the local high school, he came down the stairs in jeans and a t-shirt. I explained that this tour of the school was about first impressions both ways and that he needed to dress up a bit. He went back upstairs.

My mom was visiting. She saw him come down, button down shirt and a tie and sensed he still needed a bit of sprucing.

“Did you brush your teeth?” she asked.
“Yes.” He said without looking or smiling.

“I don’t mean during your lifetime.”
He looked down.

“Did you brush your teeth today?”
“Yes.”

He still wasn’t making direct eye contact.

Mom is a veteran of these things.
“This afternoon?”

“Oh.”
Up the stairs he went.

Perhaps it is a consequence of living so close to the beltway where language only holds as much meaning as the speaker and the listener invests. Having such skilled negotiators for children requires that the parents be thinking two or three steps ahead with each and every utterance.

“Did you hit your sister?”

“No.” My son responds.

The sister is screaming, howling, proclaiming to all the world of her outrage at his having injured her and then denied it.

“Why is she crying?”

Rather than directly lie, a severely punishable offense, he shrugs his shoulders.

Knowing I can guess the actual series of events, I chose my next words carefully.

“Did you in any way, inadvertently or intentionally, touch your sister in some fashion that might have caused her to be unhappy with you?”

“What does inadvertently mean?”
“By accident.”

“What was the question?”
“Did you hurt your sister whether or not you meant to?”

He looks down at his feet, buying time to figure a way out of Mom’s verbal trap.
Resorting to a time tested trick of politicians, he tries blaming the accuser,
“She started it.”

Mental yoga aside, they’ll be ready for a career in Washington by the time they leave home.

for more non partisan fun, try http://www.humor-blogs.com/!

20 days until Erma Bobmeck Conference...guess I better start working on being funny.

The Real Twelve Passenger Van

When we got to eight children, we had maxed out the Suburban.

The only way we could journey as a whole family was to take two cars or violate state and federal law regarding passengers and seat belts. Note to any HSA or Feds reading this, we of course always took two cars. Safety First You know.

So we have been in the market lately for a 12 -15 passenger van.We've looked at the two makers of such vehicles available for non-commercial use. The cars are basically a large fishbowl on a truck frame. They get zero points for style. They come in only mayo wonder bread white.

Fresh from the factory, they do not have DVD players or rear heating controls or extra head rests, leather seats or even cool push button mirrors to maneuver and adjust. The bell and whistle possibilities include a luggage rack and running boards. Just in case I wanted to make driving in a garage and parking a wee bit more difficult.

They also do not come with a finance package like zero percent interest.As a result, our desire to purchase one of these is also the equivalent of a shot gun wedding fiancé. Hey we're getting married....wee......watch where you point that thing.

I understand how the Republican Party faithful must feel.


John McCain.

He is the twelve passenger van of candidates.

Having no resale value before you even drive him off the lot, there is no sex appeal in a 12 passenger van. The car is old before you even buy it.

No one says "Wow! Nice car."
They do however notice you are driving a large marshmallow brick shaped vehicle. It's awkward, it lurches. Hair pin turns are not advisable.

Buying a 12-15 passenger van is a utilitarian decision at best. No one wishes they had one just like it.

Being polite and reasonably kind, people will try to express approval about the purchase of such a car. “You needed it for your family.” “I bet it makes errands much easier.”

And we will mumble yeah as we covetously stare at all the cool cars we can’t drive because we need to buy this one. We could have had a Ron Paul or a Huckabee or a Romney or a Rudi…but this, this is what we needed…for the good of the party.

When you add in the fact that the financing for such a candidate isn’t great, you start wondering if maybe we should get a trailer hitch so we can tow a convertible type Vice President for date nights so we can maintain the illusion if only to ourselves that sometimes, we’re cool.

That, or I need to get a commercial drivers license and buy a stretch hummer limo.
For non utilitarian humor on all subjects, try http://www.humor-blogs.com!

I AM A GPS...

Now a days, every rental car has one of these Tom Toms or Guardians that is designed to eliminate the age eternal battle that goes on between the driver and the designated draftee navigator. With one of these babies on board, you can Tom Tom Cruise to your destination, and no wacky side trips to Oprah's couch are necessary.

Thanks to GPS's, these conversations are a thing of the past.

"Where are we going?"
"To your brother's house."

"Where do I turn?"
"You go North."

"No. Where do I turn."
"You don't turn for another forty minutes. Just go north."

"Where do I TURN?"
Sigh. "You turn right."

"Which exit?"

Getting out the map, the subbordinate counts the exits. "I think it's sixteen."

"You THINK? or you KNOW?" Takes map, in two seconds, "It's here." Points at map, is dead on, "Number 18. I thought so."


"If you knew..."

The conversation reads more like a defendant's interrogation in a bad law show than a dialogue between two people who would willingly consent to be in the same vehicle.


GPS's have helped lower the collective blood pressure of couples everywhere. Bliss is just a button push away. The disembodied voice supplies the information, no one gets mad and the machine never says, "I told you to turn left at the Exxon station exit but you..." A whole venue for passive aggression has been nearly universally eliminated from the emotional landscape of America. Dr. Phil has taken to trolling area hospitals for Brittany Spears melt downs, as the number of couples in marital trouble have dropped procipitously.

People listen to GPS's. The GPS's tell them where to go. The GPS's tell them what to do. The people do what the GPS says.


...I want to be a GPS.

Then I realized, for my family. I am the GPS or rather, the MPS. (Maternal Property Seeker).

Currently, I am the chief finder of all objects big and small, important and profound, paper and plastic. Mom is the great refuge for those unwilling to search or unable to find their important papers, toys, uniform pieces and necessary accessories.

Tom Tom, meet Mom Mom.

"Mom! Mom! I can't find my knitting!" Daughter is learning to sew in art class, currently making a hat or maybe a yellow tribble, she hasn't made up her mind.

"You left it in the TV room on the bookshelf near the top. Your library books on Copernicus were under it."

"Oh yeah."


"Mom! Mom! I can't find my silver shoes and I wanted to wear them to Christine's Princess Party this afternoon."

"I think I saw your younger sister wearing one of them in the study, so check under the blankets she left there as a tent, and the other one is in the far right pocket of the pool table, under the eight ball."

"Mom! Mom! I can't find my cell phone! I tried calling it but I put it on vibrate for Church this morning and..."

"Your phone is in our bathroom charging. You left it in my car when you brought in the doughnuts."


Mom-Mom can beat Tom-Tom most days. Most clients are satisfied with the speed and accuracy of information an MPS can provide. Testimonials include locating the Cub Scout manual and hat, the remaining box of diaper wipes, a set of car keys, two basketball uniforms, the science review sheet, socks, six shoes, a hair brush, nail clippers and a wallet all in one day.

Further investigation proves that MPS has only had one customer complaint.

Mom-Mom was completely ineffective when Sherry lost her purse.

Not Named Jeffy's Sports Page Picks

You know how that Family Circus guy lets his comic get taken over by his kids?

Well now it’s Not Named Jeffy’s turn on Mom’s blog!
unedited and unproofd. (obviously)

Being a guy, naturally, I gravitate towards writing about sports.
Specifically, football.
Why?

It’s the most male sport there is. Two hours of eating bad for you food and watching other guys hit each other at great speeds. A perfect world experience for any fourteen year old, or any guy who has ever been fourteen.

As the playoffs draw nearer to Super Bowl (Insert some weird Roman numeral here), Not Named Jeffy makes playoff picks.

Get ready to call your Vegas bookie.

First up: Seattle vs. Green Bay: The Seahawks are losing to The Packers with their quarterback from …what? The late 60’s maybe early 70’s? This is pathetic!
MEMO from Me: to Seattle guys, you are losing to a guy nearly twice your age! That’s just sad.

San Diego vs. Indianapolis: The Chargers and the Colts, who really cares?
We all know Manning is motivated by one of two things: Being a really good quarterback, making a lot of commercials. The question is, can he hock enough products to merit his own channel? The All Manning, All the Time Channel? AMATC for short. At least sponsorship wouldn’t be an issue. Not Named Jeffy’s Picks: Rooting for the Colts on the pseudo perception that they are a purer motivated football team en masse. Can’t name a one.

New York vs. Dallas: The Giants and the Cowboys, you know what I going to pick the Giants, so Eli can get his ring. It will also secure his retirement, as he can then go endorse hokey products that don’t work, following in his brother’s footsteps –like sprint phone, OXY cleaning 123, and other things that can be found easily at either the dollar store or QVC. Maybe Payton will let him do a guest spot on AMATC in the early morning hours.

Finally the New England Patriots and… does it really matter what I say? If Tom Brady broke his leg, the Patriots cover the spread and win. If Brady and Moss break legs they win. If Tom, Randy, and the Defensive line all break their legs, Bill Bellicheck will come in and we are back to square one. Patriots win big.

Now if Bellicheck, the defensive line, Tom Brady, Randy Moss, and some obscure backup quarterback aching for some playing time all break their legs, everyone plays with broken limbs, but the Patriots find out (insert Running Back’s name here) can actually run. Jacksonville is left in full body casts, as Bill beats a healthy player to death for getting his cast wet with Gatorade.


Not Named Jeffy? This is not Bill Keane. Why can't you write like this for your English class?

Umm.....Tune in next time when Not Named Jeffy tries to find his way home on the metro. You can trace the detours and chuckle softly for no apparent reason!

Letter From Santa

My dearest children,

The question arises from age to age as to my actual existence. There comes a time in each person’s life when they must decide if they wish only to be governed by rationality, or if faith plays a role in their everyday being. I am part of that transition, true. I represent the joy and glory and bliss and innocence of childhood at Christmas.

Though I never knelt before the Christ child, I make to Him a present each year, of one day and one night, honoring his birth. I provide an opportunity for people, when more than most pause to consider the past year of blessings, when more than most pine to reconcile with their family and friends, and more than most open their hearts to their neighbors, their spouses, their children, and even to total strangers. Some people even find the most beautiful of presents by opening themselves to God on this day. I travel the world in one night, bringing hope and whimsy and the wish of true peace on Earth, the type of peace the World has never known but secretly pines for at its core.

My story gets told and retold and revisited and reinvented with the nuance and creativity of every age, and each year I do it again and again, willingly and happily, because it brings people to Christ. It brings people together to celebrate. “And wherever two or more are gathered in His name….” I am called Saint Nicholas, Santa Claus and Father Christmas, I have thousands of names beyond Kris Kringle. I am the great facilitator of Christ. People complain that Christmas has become secularized, but more accurately, the secularized world becomes more Christmas’ed each year, as more people celebrate it, even if only with the tree and the dinner and the presents.

I won’t say that Christmas is simply about Love because that’s inaccurate. Christmas is about Christ and Christ IS Love. Christ is MORE LOVE than the world can often tolerate. Yet we desperately need to keep Christmas every day, to welcome Christ into the world via our hearts, our homes and our everyday lives. Welcome to Christmas Day my Children and know that I never stop believing in you.

Merry Christmas

Love, Santa

Real Writer's Block

“What are you doing?” my husband asked as he approached the computer desk, sandwich and milk in hand, eager for an hour or two of Civilizations IV.

“Trying to write a column for a contest.” I replied.

“Doing what exactly?”

“Writing about family life. It’s a contest and the winner gets $300 bucks. The entry fee is $11. See?”

He glanced at the screen. “You aren’t going to use our real names are you? You can’t write about our camping trip! We’d look like idiots, setting up tents at 10 o’clock at night, pushing the button on the SUV every two minutes to give us light, the baby crying, the kids howling for food, me throwing pop-tarts and cokes at them for dinner, and the nearest bathroom a 6/10 of a mile away.”

“You left out the giant cricket on the toilet seat.”

“No.”

“Okay, I’ve got another idea.”

“Like what?”

“How about when Lisa found a snake in the bathroom while she was potty training…”
“You can’t write about that, people will think we live in a vermin infested home!”

“For $300 dollars, we could call Orkin.”

“I caught that snake for you, thank you very much.”

“And I was very grateful. It’s a good story. It has a happy ending.”

“Do you want my mother to read this?”

……

“Okay. Starting over. How about when David was the solo in the Christmas pageant and knocked over his music stand during the introduction? Or the time the coach threatened to hot glue his shoe laces together if he didn’t tie them?”

“Must all your stories be embarrassing about us?”

“No, I could write about how I totaled the car the day it was paid off. I could also write about the time we took all of them to your brother’s rehearsal dinner and they all threw up…”

“Absolutely not. Look, I’m proud of you and your writing, but I’m just not sure I’m ready for us to look like the Bumpuses from next door to the whole world.”

“We won’t really, we’ll just look like, well, us.”

“That’s what worries me.”

“You know, I might not win.”

“What do you mean you won’t win? We’re not funny enough? I’ll be insulted if we don’t at least place.”

“Why don’t you play CIV IV? I’ll watch.”

Joining the Gamers' Club

What we don’t know innately, we marry.

For example, my husband has a built in GPS in his head. He can tell North on a starless night without a compass or those pesky Auroras Borealis. On the other hand, I still navigate the town that has been our home for thirteen years with mild trepidation. There is a Bermuda Triangle within its radius that plagues me still to this day. The directions for getting to the Victory Center where our daughters play basketball have imprinted on my brain such that I cannot get there….without getting lost first. I have come to terms with my faulty brain. I don’t take them to games anymore.

I dance, love musical theatre and enjoy reading the classics. He reads history for pleasure and can remember it without a test the next day. In other words, ask me if you’re playing Trivial Pursuit for the brown or the pink slice of pie, ask him if you need the history one. I don’t even remember what color that pie piece is.

Where are my…?

During our dating years, I marveled at how organized and put together my future spouse was. He never lost anything. I lost my purse and found it later the second night we met. My I.D. card fell out of my pocket in December. When the snow finally melted that semester in April, I found it again.


I have learned to look in the place where things ought to be first when beginning a mission to retrieve lost objects. Cue Mission Impossible music here. I am now the GPS for all items within the household.

"I can't find my music stand."

"It's next to the computer in the study."

"We don't have lunch boxes!"

"They're still out in the car where you left them."

“Where are my papers from yesterday?”

“They’re on the table under the lunchbox in the kitchen.”

Actually, I’m more like the brown paper envelope in the middle of the Clue Game. I have the answers, I just need the right question.

Scrabble, Upwards and On Words…

We play cards and strategy computer games and every board game there is in our house. My husband is the master of the set battle plan, thus he usually wins at hearts and always at “Go.” My method of play is more on the fly, I school him at chess and occasionally have a run of victories at cards. Where we both are evenly matched is Scrabble. He can plink down amazing words.

Because I’m a non-speller, my victories have been mostly moral ones, but there was one where I put down the “J” on a triple letter score to catapult to the lead, forming the word “Jo.” “That’s not a word. I challenge.” It was a bluff, but I lucked out. It means sweetheart. I tried calling him that for a time, it didn’t stick. It’s a stupid word and even I concede, I won, but with dishonor. (You have to say that last part with a Klingon accent).

Speaking of Klingons,

If anyone in cyber space has Quest for the Throne, the Klingon version of Star Fleet Battles (STB), I’ll buy it from you. Back in my sophomore year of college, he bought the game to teach me about STB quickly and I was undefeated in seven tries despite being an absolute rookie. Then the game vanished mysteriously. He promises he didn’t throw it away.

Gifts and Gift Giving

November 15, 1992 A day that remains pivotal in my spousal relationship. No, it’s not our anniversary or the anniversary of an anniversary or anyone’s birthday. It’s the day we stopped being newlyweds and became a “settled” couple. My husband came home and saw me putting away some shirts from the drycleaners. After dinner, he gave me a pensive gaze and said with recognition in his voice, “You don’t iron for me anymore.” I laughed.

December 20, 1997 We were wrapping up the last of the loot when it occurred to me I hadn’t bought my beloved a present. Expecting a baby, I could have punted and just allotted the oversight to pregnancy hormones. My admittedly feeble attempt to rectify the situation was worthy of spousal scorn, but he’s a very gallant man. My folks were in town for the holidays and I had purchased several books. Having overheard my mom talk about having read one of the books I had bought for her, I regifted on the spot. The problem was, he knew about that book in particular and the fact that it was originally intended for my mom. The inscription on the inside says it all. “I was thinking of you as I wrapped this book, Love S.”

The other day, my husband called me about a sign he saw talking about giving your wife a rock to remember. “How about some quartz?” he offered. “Wow. That would be great!” He showed up with what I estimate to be a 90 lb. boulder that looks very nice in our back yard. The sparkly earrings came later. I countered by getting him something I swore when we dated I’d never do, some practical gifts, fresh pants and socks. Then, feeling bad, I impulsively bought him a beautiful red blanket, and “The Man of LaMancha.”

Romance may be about getting hearts and flowers but love isn’t about getting what you want. It’s getting what you most profoundly need, even if it’s to be told to shape up. We’ve both demanded that the other become more of the person God intended us to be over the years. We diet and budget and struggle with organizational systems to manage our many charges together. He’s learned to bring chocolate on any occasion and how to dance, and I’ve discovered the History section at the book store under his tutelage. I’ve introduced him to musicals and classic film and he’s taken us to civil war battle grounds and explained the campaigns. He’s even navigated me over the phone to the basketball center. And together, we’re a tough match in cards or Trivial Pursuit.

Think I may buy an ironing board, just to surprise him.