Ten Signs of Being Properly Beached

10) There are no alarms.
9) You forget to check your phone or your email.
8) There are reported sightings of multiple children playing cards together or by themselves reading.
7) Lunch is diet coke and chocolate.
6) It also acted as breakfast, because you slept through. (See #10).
5) People take deliberate naps.
4) The Television is off.
3) Stalking the ice cream truck is a competitive sport.
2) Don't know what day of the week it is...not sure of the time...not sure why anyone would need to know this.
1) Offered a pina-colada.  It's not yet twelve.  

Juneitis

Residents of Maryland know the Governor of our state decided school should not start back up again in the fall until after Labor Day.   However, he missread the tea leaves which counseled him about altering the school schedule.  What we really needed, was to end school at Memorial Day Weekend.

The freshmen tell us, they're fresh out.
The sophomores are acting, sophmoric, and the juniors tell us, they have junioritis, a variant on Senioritis, which has plagued high schools since seniors and any class time after March, was invented.

No.  They have Juneitis, a recessive seasonal trait encouraging within each human being, a desire to be like Phineas and Ferb, or at least have 104 days of summer vacation once pools open.   My own children are not immune.

Regina's holled up on a hammock reading her sixth book of Harry Potter.
John's pledged to use every lego in the house.
Faith and Marta are searching for a binge worthy summer series.
Paul thinks the only thing greater than Lego Batman is going swiming, and dresses with hopeful anticipation each day he finds his swimsuit.   These are the beginnings of Summer.  Rita and Anna are lobbying for afternoons at the pool.   Peter's gone on trail runs until sunset each day.  Mind you, they still have school, they just aren't taking it as seriously as they are the pursuit of summer.

I tried to think of a reason they shouldn't.  I can't.  Normally we make a list of all the things we want to do, but this year we didn't because instead, we've already begun doing them.  So I did the only thing I could do, scooped myself some ice cream, took over the hammock and read.   It's going to be a delicious sticky summer.  I hope we never recover from Junitis until September.  

Summer in Session

When the weather gets hot, I personally believe that ice cream becomes one of the necessary meals of the day.  More importantly, my children know this and know that I will offer Sundaes as dinner (complete with lots of fruit) if chores I hate, get done. 

Given the state of the economy and the general run down conditions of our roads, infrastructure, cities and schools, I'm wondering what kind of mileage we could get on a national version of the ice cream economy.  

For example:  What would you do for a Klondike bar?  My kids will clean their rooms and even take folded laundry in a basket up to the appropriate room.  If it is a specialty bar like cookies and cream, they might even put their clothes away. 

Surely a bananna split would muster a clearing out of a garage or the powerwashing of a deck in the microeconomy.  Likewise I'm thinking there are more than a few rooms in congress that could stand a good scrubbing for the cost of a triple scoop with chocolate syrup confection with fruit and whip. 

We've tried all the traditional ways of getting congress to work, elections, public protests, phone and email, all but the most effective, and consistent method out there: bribing. 

So I'm willing to put up a hot fudge brownie sundae to the first member of congress to successfully pass a bill that doesn't self serve.   I scream, you scream, if we all scream, we might get something other than the bill for their desserts, perhaps we could get bills for just desserts.

I Scream at Ice Cream

Wednesday, three of my middle children had after school activities. The high schoolers wouldn't be en route home until five o'clock.  Looking at the odd grouping I had assembled before me, the three youngest and one middle son, I hit upon taking the four kids to Cold Stone Creamery and ordering what I thought would be a treat, something they'd never had before.  

The theory of all things parenting promises infinitely better results than the reality.   I was reminded yet again of the non transitive property of food likes found most prominently in children.  They like strawberries.  They like whipped cream.  They like funnel cake. They like vanilla ice cream.  Purchase a strawberry funnel cake sundae for the four of them to split and amazingly, I went 0 for 4.

 That's right.  I tried to splurge and surprise the unusual set of kiddos I had in tow with a heretofore unknown treat and it was an epic fail.  Everyone presumes a mother of ten is an expert.  I promise you, the one thing I am expert on, is knowing based on the ice cream incident, that no matter how much I practice this parenting thing, I remain clueless. Not wanting to waste it, I tried to deconstruct said ice cream creation and got a few grudging bites from some, a sulky look from the first grader who went over and pointed at the chocolate covered caramel apples. Having already bought a treat, I said "No." This earned me her permanent scowl.  She went to stare at the chocolates.  

"Next time..." my son started to instruct.  My brain already shut down. I would not take this defeat without a fight.  So I kept trying to spoon vanilla ice cream into my youngest son's mouth. He'd eat it, and then spit out the funnel cake or the strawberries or the whipped cream.  How do you divide the ice cream from the whipped cream with your tongue I'd like to know!  Surrendering on the feeding, I did the only thing I could do, try to pick at the funnel cake ice cream and finish it.   It felt weird having one son scanning through the ice cream cakes for order, one daughter sulking at the candies, a toddler begging for the giant stuffed bear and another toddler who simply refused any bites but kept scooping it anyway to feed me.   It was time to leave.

As we exited, to complete the experience, my 5 year old dumped his shoes.  We'd formed a human chain to walk out of the place so I had the two toddlers by the hand.  Next to the street, I couldn't let go of eithers so I couldn't get the shoes.  I tried to hoist my son into my arms but he went boneless in protest.  I used a football hold and my other son grabbed the shoes but his brother was flailing for not getting the teddy bear in the store.  The daughter toddler took this opportunity to also go boneless such that I was holding her by a clenched arm and the other one under the arm.  

"Run for the car!" I shouted.  The car was locked but the older son ran over, grabbed the keys around my neck and pushed the unlocking button.

It was  a compelling instagram type shot. Mom drags shoeless Down Syndrome Boy out of ice cream store. I momentarily envision the news story feed.  The employee confided, "I thought there was something fishy about her.  When she was in the store, only she ate the ice cream."

Bad Parenting Police will be at my door in 3...2....1.  

Summer Brain

I was going to post on Monday. 

I forgot my blogger password.  When I went to go to yahoo to check my email to get a new password, I'd forgotten that one too.  At that point, I declared the day over, took the kids to the park and bought ice cream from a truck.  

It's summer.  My brain cells are on a need to use basis only. 

So this morning when my daughter came to me with 4th grade math (fractions), I worried before she showed me the problem.  At what point do I allow this mental slide into the permanently beached ice cream coma stop?  I decided it would be when I couldn't do the math. 

The problem with doing the math, I had to do it.   The problem with having done the math, was the cold slap of older children's homework looming. "Hey Mom, what do you know about the Scarlet Letter?"  Hawthorne...read Blithedale's Romance for senior comps...read Scarlet letter because I'd never read it and decided I should, so it's been checked off but no analysis.   "Hey Mom! I need a poster."  "Hey Mom? What do you know about McCarthyianism?" 

My desire to go running to the nearest ice cream truck is strong.

The Klondike Economy

My kids love ice cream and so when it is on sale at the store, I swoop in to get extras as kid currency.  Then, I wait for the right moment to set things in motion.

It's Saturday afternoon.  Lunch is finished but the dishes have been left for the cleaning fairy to address.  Only there's a problem. Mom is also wanting to enjoy the weekend.  She goes to the freezer and pulls out some ice creamy goodness and begins to eat her treat all by herself at the table. 

Sweets are like a dog whistle is to pooches.  The kids come at the first silent sound of a bite.  "Hey Mom! That looks good.  Can I have some?"  my teen asks as she comes in the room.  
"Would you do the dishes first?" I ask innocently.  
 "Sure!" 

"Thanks." I say as I move on to my next victim....I mean to the living room to consider the laundry.  There I find three children watching a movie they've seen hundreds of times.  I deliberately take a larger than normal bite to be sure there is a crackle of the chocolate skin being fractured.

"ICE CREAM?!!!"  "Who has ice cream?"  "MOM! YOU HAVE ICE CREAM!"  followed by "I WANT SOME!" In chorus.  I smile, take another daintier bite and give an eye glance at the twelve stationed laundry baskets and the huge pile of clothing on the couch heretofore ignored. 

"What would you do...." I sing. 

"But that will take forever!" one complains. 
"It's three loads. There are three people..."
Two of them are already on it.  I seize the higher ground. "If they do it and you don't.  They'll get the treat and you won't." He's already moving. 

I'm thinking VICTORY!  My husband comes in to the room and sees all the worker bees.  "What's going on?"
"Mom said we could have ice cream if we folded the clothes."  My daughter volunteers. 

He goes to find the other children of age to be of assistance.  I'm thinking, "Klondikes.  Is there nothing you cannot do?"  Sure enough, three of the younger children happily march out with their dad to pick up trash and weed the garden for the promise of chocolate and icecream without a stick.  But that still leaves one older child unaccounted for.  

The final daughter unseduced by the lure of frozen dairy yumminess comes by.  "If you want ice cream, you have to do a chore." one of her brothers volunteers.  "No thanks." she says and walks towards the computer room. 

Suddenly a new thought has taken hold.  We could opt out.  We were happy before the mention of ice cream.  Now we're working and don't yet have ice cream and she's happy and isn't eating ice cream.  If we work and even get the ice cream, she'll still not have done work.  She doesn't care that she isn't getting ice cream because she doesn't LIKE this ice cream.  That's not fair!  The workers of the world who hadn't finished their jobs unite to stop working.  I'm losing momentum but not without options. 

"No screens until the task is done." I explain.  Then to the sole hold out I give the same ultimatum plus a specific chore.  I hand her the equipment to clean the bathrooms. 

"I hate that job." she whines.  I turn off the computers.  She gets to work.  The strikers return to their task. 
Five minutes later she pipes up, "But if I do it, can I have some ice cream too?"

Just Ice Cream Desserts

Recently the news included a little blurb that Ben and Jerry's would drop the "all natural" from it's label on Cookie Dough Ice Cream in deference to a health watch group that felt the moniker was deceptive because the confection used alkalized cocoa, corn syrup and hydrogenated oil as part of the recipe.  Maybe it's just my own love for B&J's pints o'goodness, but I felt the need to help out the creamery in Vermont with a few pithy slogans as substitutions for what they now will omit as part of the agreement. 

10) Tastes this Good; Can't be anything but Supernatural. 
9) The Perfect habitat for Cocoa, corn syrup and hydrogenated oil.
8) Au naturale ice cream, nakedly delicious.
7) For crying out loud, it's ice cream; if you want healthy, eat a carrot!
6) Preserving taste at all costs.
5) Don't You Feel Safer Without Those Two Little Words?
4) Memo: Ice cream and Cookie dough?  Not found organically in Nature.  Just saying.
3) 100% All Nurturing
2) Better Living Through Chemistry
1) Unnaturally Enhanced...but worth it.

Memo: I do love Bluebell more than anything, but I can't get that here, so I console myself with Cherry Garcia.   But no one does a better Pralines and Cream than the cows in Brenham, Texas.   Can you tell it's week four of gestational diabetes and it's getting pretty old?

Splinters

Every year I begin a crusade. I believe children should be shod when they go outside. Shoeless Joe Jackson and his fellow barefoot comrades view the coming of crocuses and planting of gardens as a sign to lose any footwear they may have consented to wear during the winter months. As a result, I have been known to begin loading the car an hour prior to an appointment only to be sabotaged by a single shoe.

If the people who determined when to show clemency about being late for appointments, witnessed my struggle to get all of them into the car, only to spend a frantic 30 minutes tearing apart couches and beds to locate a single pair of not necessarily matching but left and right shoes, only to then bargain with the shoe gods and being willing to accept even just two shoes the same size that are for the same foot, they’d just give me a standing appointment…when you show, it’s your time.

I have also in sheer desperation, given my eldest daughter a twenty and told her to go into the Walmart and come back out with one size fits all slippers for whoever it is that is missing footwear.

So you’ld think I’d be gung ho about being barefoot but having had small children for the past 16 years, I’ve also taken out my fair share of splinters. The most memorable one I helped remove from my three year old son during the course of a family party. He’d been playing on the wooden deck on our house and got a huge one in his left foot. He was in tears. We were hosting the party but spent the bulk of the next hour soaking, working with tweezers, but nothing was working and he was in hysterics.

My brother tried to calm him down by explaining the situation. My son was having none of it.

“If you don’t let us remove the splinter, it will continue to hurt.”
“IT HURTS NOW!”

“If you don’t let us remove the splinter, it could even become infected.”
“I DON’T CARE!”

“If you don’t let us remove it, the infection could be serious.”
“SO?”

“So your parents who love you want to remove the splinter so you won’t get sick or be in pain or die.”
“I DON’T… WANT… TO LIVE!” he gasped, holding and hiding his foot from my tweezers.

I voted for more soaking at this point.

Over the years, I’ve learned tricks like having the kids close their eyes while I remove the foreign objects from their toes and that handing them an ice cream while watching television is also a good anesthesia. I’ve also given up explaining why splinters need to come out entirely.

But I’ve also come up with a solution for splinters and summer and shoes. You don’t have to wear shoes if you can’t find them, but then you must wear socks.

Thick socks.
Thick Soccer up past your knees socks.

They don’t have to match.

One morning of enduring those heat insulators on one’s feet and we’ll have no problems from June until September with locating footwear.

Now, if only I could devise a similar solution for winter.

Why I Still Need to Lose 15 Pounds

I have two adolescent girls. One who has begun her cycle, and one who is just learning about it. Both are decidedly repulsed by these changes in their bodies. When the first one started having to wear a training bra, she couldn’t bring herself to say the word. So when she finally needed more, she came to me and said, “Mom, I need more of those….” and she looked pained as she surveyed the room to be sure no one else could possibly know what she was talking about, “Things!”

Her sister just finished the school orientation on the issues that surround becoming a teenage girl, but I’d already given her a primer. So she was especially irritated to be subjected to information she already knew, and then to be given a bag of samples, well that was almost too much. She got into the car first to be able to hand me the plastic sack that said “Just For Girls” and then scurried to the rear row in the van to essentially hide from it. Her sister grabbed the front seat, saw the bag and said, “I’m Still having it!” with a moan. It had only been two days. She took the bag, looked at it in annoyance and frisbeed it to the far back.

Then the third daughter who is only in first grade and a newly fluent reader got into the car. She’s also very compassionate and empathetic so she immediately registered her sister’s unhappiness but not the source. “Why is she upset?”

This produced a clam like response from both older girls. She spied the bag. “What’s in the bag?” Now the middle girl could only snatch it and say, “That’s mine.” With a sulk. Of course, this made the third child cry. “Why can’t I have it? It says just for girls and I’m a girl. You never share anything. You’re just mean.” The oldest girl tried to explain without explaining. “It’s something for Older girls.” She gave me a look of satisfied “I took care of it.” But then the boys got in the car. The oldest son was annoyed that he couldn’t have the front seat so he sat in the middle but turned towards the angry sulking ones in the back and asked, “what’s wrong?” They both pointed to the bag and he turned very red and became a silent stone, giving me pleading “ Please rescue me” looks in the rear view mirror.

The other son who was being picked up, is my instigator. He got in, sensed the tension and asked the youngest and most apt to tell everything, “What’s wrong?” She started her crying rant anew. “That bag says Just for Girls and I’m a girl and I’m older, I’m not a baby and she should share and they never let me have anything.”

So he said, “You’re not older. You’re not older. I’m older. You’re not.”

It was at this point that I had to decide. How to address this problem. I got out of the car. I got THE bag. I took it to THE trash. I then got back in the car. The faces were swollen, puffy, sulky, scared and embarrassed. It was the b-list of Snow White’s dwarves. The toddlers, baby and my one five year old mercifully had fallen asleep in the car ride to the school for pick up. There was only one thing to do.

“Who wants ice cream?”

The Riddle of the Sphinx Solved!

My eighth child is so silent, we've had her ears and speech evaluated. It turns out, if you exhaust all genetic possibilities, you do occasionally get a quiet kid.

This does not mean she is docile.

Like the Mighty Sphinx, she sits in her high chair and points at that which she desires. Her loving loyal subjects, (all the older kids adore her), scramble to meet her silent wishes. I have taught the olders how to prompt speaking. Offer her a choice. Show her the choices and ask, "Do you want Milk? Or Juice?" She waits and watches as these simple servants of hers repeat the question solicitously.

Eventually, she wearies of the demand for a decision and renders her judgment with a single point.We try this same technique with every meal, with toys, with clothing and with activities. Do you want to read a book or color? Would you like a shower or a bath? Her response is always the same, quiet indifference until she finally deigns to let us know what she wishes.

The other day, I served ice cream to everyone and she dropped the pretense. Her eyes bugged out. "Ice Cream." She refused to surrender her cup when she finished until the last trace elements of her dessert were gone and this was just plain Vanilla bean. We asked at several intervals, if it was good and got nods, smiles and even a rare "Yes."

Handing us the cup, the Queen put her fingers together contented. Then she realized, she'd been talking with the plebeians and went back to the stony "I shall not be moved." stance by shutting her eyes and turning her head away.

It took all my mom discipline not to yank her chain by asking, "Hey Baby Girl, do you want some more ice cream?" Who knew frozen dessert could thaw the ice princess? Next week, I'm going to really get her, I'm buying Rocky Road.

I'll Have a Banana Split

In this down economy, we no longer employ my favorite survival crutch, a maid service with the wonderful name, “Crisis Cleaners.” So now, I must cajole, bribe, entice and warn with a scary low calm voice, my children into keeping their rooms neat and the public areas of the house reasonably free of debris.

The following are provided as a public service to parents everywhere, methods of getting the under 18 crowd to clean up their acts, however temporary.

One Room at a Time Tornado: If I send each child to clean, they will scatter to the four corners of the house, knowing that as I work, I will only rarely come into contact with all of them, thus allowing whoever does not get caught in my peripheral vision to remain in relative obscurity and leisure. By corralling all the critters in a single room and declaring, “We’re not leaving this room until it is perfect.” and blocking the door, the room will sparkle. Some children may get roughed up by others in the process. That’s okay as long as they don’t make a mess of the carpet.

The down side: When they grow up, they will write about you.

One Task at a Time: This approach seems promising, with a Socialist, Each Task according to His/her Skill, appointment of duties. Gamers however soon discern that incompetency equals easier work. So despite the fact that my sons can enter cheat codes and create power points, text message without looking and create 1000 part Lego masterpieces, the operation of a dish washer, washing machine and the mop remain mysteries. For a time, we were at an impasse. However, as I now have the passwords to all the computers in our home, I now can conveniently “forget” how to log onto the machines until they remember how to operate a vacuum.

The One Task at a Time method works as long as tasks can be clearly delineated, but sometimes, the house needs an overhaul in cleanliness, which leads us to the next method of extracting a clean home, straight bribery.

We paid a professional to get the home clean on occasion. Now, we shall pay the amateur. Putting post-its on the rooms with the designated required tasks and the going rate does lead to competitive cleaning. As long as the dollars are cold hard cash and not checks, you can get a room that looks like it was cleaned by a kid for pennies on the dollar. The trouble is, they expect prompt payment and usually, the rooms require a professional (Mom), to go through and redo. The money pays for the illusory feeling of children obeying commands.

Beat the Clock: This works when they are three and you have a fist full of Hershey bar mini’s for the kids who help clean up in the next two minutes. I could tell you that I don’t use it because I worry about cavities or obesity or that my kids have gotten wise to this approach but the fact is, Hershey bars don’t last long in our house, and it’s not because of the children.

The one guaranteed method of getting the home House beautiful is to enlist the aid of my beloved spouse. If Dad is cleaning, then no child has a prayer of exonerating themselves or escaping the chore taskmaster me. We set the timer for one hour and everyone cleans. There are Windex bottles spraying windows, toilets being scrubbed, floors mopped and a vacuum humming everywhere. There are flourishes like children who put fresh flowers on the table or the enterprising nine year old who straightens the pantry and by the end of the sixty minutes, the house looks like civilized people might live here.

After an hour, everyone is exhausted and the idea of dirtying the sparkling kitchen with pots and pans seems a poor tribute to the children’s actual work. So we’ve added a bonus to Sunday One Hour Clean up rule. Dinner on Sunday is Sundaes, and we go out to get them. Now, I just have to figure out how I can manage my diet if we keep the house clean.

The Sun and also My Daughter Rises

It doesn’t matter what time of night it is, if a door creaks or a light switch flicks, my toddler’s wide awake and comes a calling. So desperate am I for a night without the uninvited two year old guest, preventative measures have been taken.

The other day, I left the door to the bathroom ajar such that a late night visit would not cause the tell tale squeak that summons her from her stupor to my bed. Unfortunately, I had neglected to brief my husband on said plan, and as such, he closed the bathroom off, rendering my plan of stealth moot, in that it was no longer mute.

Her daddy sleeps through these late night visits, thus he did not understand the scope of the problem. Our lovely daughter only rests fully stretched out, perpendicular to the bed, giving Mom a measurable five inches of fighting room, which at six months, is insufficient to the cause.

So, we had a briefing on the issue two nights ago and the door remained ajar. Alas, I had not reckoned on maternity to be inflicting me with 2 am hiccups, necessitating not only a door opening but a light and sink tap turning. She was in my bed before the water graced the cup.

Now I know people are thinking, just take her back to bed.

We’ve done this. I have even gone to the extreme measure of waking her father to carry said toddler back to bed multiple times in a night. She views being deposited there a second time after dark as license to run wild in the home as long as she doesn’t wake you. Juice boxes have been discovered in odd places. There are Hansel and Grettle type trails of Oreos up the stairs from the kitchen.

Once, she figured out the Nintendo and awakened her four year old brother to join in the fun. I have independent verification from our phone bill that one night, she placed a long distance call. If we would guarantee the maximum number of minutes not conscious for adults while maintaining property damage to a minimum, my bed is her bed if she so chooses after 1 am.

There had been talk of getting her a toddler bed, but the idea of not having those four lovely barred walls that sort of hem her in at times, well, I can’t quite give up my crutch. It is true, she climbs out at will. It is true they no longer serve as a reasonable deterrent to her wandering. It is also true that I am not yet up to facing the reality of a range free two year old 24-7.

Last night, I surrendered and went to the couch. She joined me. I returned to our bed. She joined me. I took her upstairs to her crib and curled up with my five year old on her bed.

In the morning, she was in my bed, spoon feeding Daddy a chocolate ice cream breakfast.

In my next life, I’m coming back Dad.

The True Rewards of Laundry

Frustration is good for the soul.

This is what I tell myself when twelve loads of laundry in a day are insufficient to produce the required gym shorts for all three girls. I try to be flexible. My eight children however, aren’t always nearly so accommodating.

“Those are my shorts.”
“Do you need a pair for today?”

“No.”
“Then let your sister wear them.”

“No.”

Now, the maternal gene does protect against the natural human reaction to such situations. Still, to deal with the work load, my husband and I have created systems. Laundry systems designed to prevent this sort of wardrobe malfunction from disrupting the morning routine.

Everyone has a laundry bag. Even the baby. There is a bag for the towels and a bag for dry cleaning too. Note to self, never get those last two mixed up ever again.

There shall be no mixing of laundry bags so that the wash/dry /fold tasks do not include sorting according to size or child, only color. It’s been working pretty well except for the final part of the job, the kids doing the wash. I’ve taught the top five how. They view washing their clothes as something you do like quarterly taxes.

So I was finishing up the last wash of the day. My husband had worked late himself and looked at the twelve neat piles, whistled and asked “So, the system is working well?” He picked up a few socks and mated them. I conceded, it had cut back on some of the work. This was insufficient praise for the economy of the system as envisioned by the designer. “So even if you never get additional help doing all the laundry from the kids…”

“Stop. Do Not Even Finish that sentence.”

“…Would you like a foot rub?”
"Ooh. Yes."

“And a bowl of ice cream and a diet coke.”
"That would be great!"

“And I’ll finish this load shall I?”

“Thank you.”

The system works.

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.