Rite of Passage for All Good and Honorable Bakers

Red Velvet Cake delights my soul.  It is my favorite color, sweet, fluffy and delicious.  I realize some folks have never experienced this form of bliss, but there is a good reason why:  the recipe is a rite of passage among generations of bakers testing their fortitude and cleaning skills. 

     The best Red Velvet Cake in the world  (not kidding here) comes from a beautiful woman in Brewton, Alabama named Truby Mason.  She is my Stepmother’s mother.  I started visiting her early into my father’s second marriage and loved every minute of it.  Her kitchen brought forth the most delicious treats and meals, made with such love and simplicity that I still use several of her recipes and techniques to this day. 

     THE recipe to beat all recipes is her Red Velvet Cake and the White Frosting that tops it.  My mother and I started making it shortly after procuring the recipe sometime in the 80’s.  The first few times we made it, these were some of the comments that inevitably came from our mouths:

 

          “How many bottles of red food coloring so we really need?”

“Make a paste with cocoa? How?”

“Yuck! Buttermilk? I can barely stand to look at it.”

“Hold over the bowl as it will foam? Are we in science lab?”

“How did the red food coloring get into the living room?”

 

The cake itself is a complex order of ingredients and techniques requiring the skill of a passionate scientist.  With only 2 teaspoons of cocoa in the whole cake, it still tastes decadent.  The taste is even sweeter when you feel like you have climbed a mountain and back to earn it.

 

Grace and I decided to make this holiday treat yesterday.  I was prepared: all exotic ingredients were purchased, the pans were ready and the standing mixer stood at the ready.

One by one we doubled the ingredients because we were making more than just a single cake.  Cupcakes of Red Velvet are adorable.  They look like little Santa hats with the white frosting atop.  It also maintains a certain amount of portion control with a crowd.  I like my cupcakes LARGE, so I actually feel like I got a decent amount of cake.  Especially with Red Velvet, 4 bites of an iddy biddy mousy cupcake are simply not enough.

The red food coloring tends to just get everywhere no matter how careful you are with it.  Sometimes the kitchen looks a bit like a murder scene after you bake the cake: little bits of red attach themselves to the bottoms of your feet, tinge your fingernails red, even showing up under the mixer when you lift it.  Something dies there all right, your current diet.

 

Grace and I gradually muddled our way through the directions: “combine hot water with baking soda, then adding vinegar over the bowl as it will foam”.  You know it’s coming yet you still panic with the small volcano making sure it makes it to its destination.  Oh thank goodness, it’s in --- we would have had to call the National Guard to rescue us. 

 

The final result is a beautiful, somewhat fuchsia colored batter that is incredibly light and fluffy.

 

“Clean as you go” spouts from my lips about every 10 seconds in the kitchen with my daughter.  Bowls of sudsy, pink water in the sink provide the perfect bath for all the teaspoons, tablespoons and measuring cups.  Later, they will be rid of all evidence with a quick rinse.  Plus, I want her to realize that baking is not that difficult if you clean and put things away as you use them.  I think this is why most people don’t bake: the mess of it all.  The mess will always bless someone eventually; it’s worth it.

 

The yearly ceremony of making Red Velvet Cake at Christmas ends with the hot oven opening up to delicately bake the fuchsia into deep red and the chocolate to become more pronounced.  Grace and I heaved a sigh of relief as we realized our path was over.  The trail ended blazed with red food coloring and floured pans.  We did it. We conquered the mixer’s resistance to hold all the batter. We commanded the cupcakes to humbly give up their homes to cool on the rack. 

We reigned as the ones who made it to the other side.  The place of completion and rewards for our labor presented itself before us in the form of lovely crimson trophies.

Grace is officially a Christmas baker.  I have passed on the arduous task of bestowing her the only worthwhile knowledge of baking for her family someday: Red Velvet Cake. 

We will tackle the frosting later. I am still trying to wash the red from under my fingernails.

Preparing For the Spontaneous

Planning. Preparing. Present.  These are the constant thoughts in my head these days.  I have learned that although it is a painful process, I am so much better off if I anticipate my future rather than be surprised by it.

 It is no surprise that the sun will rise in the morning or that the four children that I put to bed the night before need to get up and get to school in the morning.  It is also no surprise that they wear clothes that need to be cleaned.  Dishes that are used need to be washed before we use them again! No surprise there either. Children grow up. Babies need to eat.  Gas needs to be placed into a tank for a minivan to move. Christmas comes on December 25.  Again, quoting one of my sons, “Thank you, Captain Obvious.” 

     My regrets with regard to life mostly occur because of impulsivity, not from planning.  Inherent in the notion of preparing for something to happen is that you actually thought it would.  Impulsive bad decisions are the ones I wish I could have a “do over”.  If I neglect to plan for something I knew was going to happen, that is just plain my fault. No whining allowed.

     Even though I recognize the need for such forethought with most things in my life, it is still hard and difficult.  Immediate gratification does not occur when things are done in advance. However, the lasting effects of delayed gratification are so much more substantial.  Teaching this concept to children takes YEARS.  Teaching myself on a daily basis is painful.

     Spontaneity is fun; unless, the quality of the experience is compromised.  I love suddenly: deciding to take my kids for ice cream, finding a great old movie on TV and watching it, discovering a moment to dance brought on by a song out of nowhere, and receiving affection like a hug around the neck from behind that I didn’t know was coming. 

     What makes me crazy are the uncontrollable idiosyncrasies of life that interrupt my “plan”.  I planned on being a wife and mother early in life; I didn’t plan for how difficult it can be.  I planned on getting a good education; I didn’t plan on not using my chosen field.  I planned on being happy and content; I didn’t plan on those times when it seems impossible.

     God’s plan for me seems insane sometimes.  How could he possibly know every nuance of my impulsive will and my disobedience to preparation? Does he plan on me NOT planning and suffering consequences? Do the spontaneous events in my life just blow in with the wind?  All of these questions can be answered by a number of religions.  All that matters to me is that I know what the heck I am supposed to do, when to do it and how to handle it when it doesn’t happen. 

     Having control over my own destiny greatly comforts me.  Handling emergencies and curve balls thrown my way gives me confidence. What makes me nervous is when suddenly I don’t feel I have choices or someone else calls the shots: even God.  Trusting Him pains me at times.  I suppose that through this pain and ultimate faith through the unpredictability and consistency of life allow me to become someone who can depend on God.

     I depend on God providing me with the strength and where-with-all to deal with the things beyond my reach.  My human nature can’t do it all; I am ultimately only willing to submit to a bit of chaos if a little serenity happens every now and then, too.

Strawberry Shortcake

 

 

It all started with Strawberry Shortcake. Not the doll from the 80’s, but rather the dessert.  It is a lovely layered dessert with sweet biscuit-like pastry topped with fresh strawberries and whipped cream.  Simple and uncomplicated.

 

Bad Strawberry Shortcake involves syrupy soggy berries with way too much juice overcoming the “cake” and soupy fake whipped cream. 

 

When it’s good, it’s amazing. When it’s bad, it’s just not worth one taste bud.

 

Sharing dessert at dinner is really, in my opinion, only something you do with your kids or husband.  If I want dessert, I order it.  I always have, I hope I always will.  I have never been embarrassed about this.  Some people treat it like it is a rare, indulgent occasion that should not be associated with their otherwise reserved eating habits.

 

 

This concept was driven home to my heart one evening while sharing a meal with loved ones.  Only one person ordered dessert. When it came to the table, it was such a decadent sight of gorgeous, large shortcake layered with beautiful fresh strawberries. The whipped cream perched on top as if it was just scooped up and flicked off a giant French whisk. It was heavy whipped cream that was kissed with just enough sugar to call it part of dessert. 

 

As all the other people at the table starred as it was placed before the brave, unapologetic person who ordered it.

 

What follows next is only something that a person who knows a lot about confidence would do, politely.

 

Can expressing both sympathy and graceful indulgences exist in one declaration?

 

Observe:

 

“Wow, why don’t you pass that around so everyone can have a bite?” they were asked.  Clearly, it was enough to share. It nearly fell over when the plate landed on the table.

 

A smile and clear eye contact with everyone at the table was politely given as everyone grabbed whatever eating utensil they had left from the meal at the ready.

 

“If anyone would like some……..

 

They may order Strawberry Shortcake themselves.”

 

A forked hand dug in for the first bite gathering up all the notes of music for the symphony about to occur in the silence of a closed mouth.

 

Was this rude? Some would say yes.  Was it selfish? Maybe.  Was it sinful? Strawberry Shortcake? Come on.

 

The menu was given to everyone. The server repeated the dessert list after dinner. It wasn’t on the 86 list in the kitchen.

 

What was the difference between the person who ordered it and the one who didn’t? Pride? Self-denial?

 

No, because everyone was willing to take a bite as soon as it came to the table. 

 

It was the willingness to realize that it is perfectly acceptable to enjoy the blessings offered. It was offered to the others, yet rejected.  Once given to the one who accepted it, coveted. Yet, they were wise enough to inform that EVERYONE can have the same; they just needed to ask.

 

Should blessings be shared? Stewardship implies that all blessings come from God and He should be honored first before we use them.  Does that apply to not allowing others to enjoy something for which they chose not to receive to begin with?  That’s touchy.

 

It’s really just a small reminder that all of us have the power to ask and get blessings.  God gave us the urge, he won’t deny the gifts. We have to be willing to not only recognize the hunger in our bellies, but the bounty that could be offered to us. 

 

"Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened.”  Matthew 7:7-8

 

Clearly, this applies to Strawberry Shortcake, too.

 

 

 

What Mothers Really Need: A Nap And A Turkey Sandwich

I’m not sure when this started.  Historically, motherhood always seems to be regarded as a noble status. American mothers do the whole thing backwards, in my opinion.  I have observed people from various cultures that really know how to do the whole gig well.

 

Take my friend, Tiny Hispanic Woman-Sister-Friend #1.  I will never forget the epiphany she provided for me after the birth of my third child.  I was struggling to “do it all”.  I was trying to be everything for everybody, and lost myself in the process.

 

I pulled out my cross, hammer and nails one day and started whining, “I just don’t know how I’m doing all this: working, having three kids, house work, wife work (if you don’t know what this is, call me, I’ll explain) and keeping myself in some semblance of a beauty regimen. Woe is me. Sniff. Sniff.”

 

“Well, don’t you have any help?” she asked.

“Help with what? I’m the only person that can do this?”
“Where is your family? Your mother? Your sisters? Your Aunts…”

“I don’t have help from them. They have their own lives. I should be able to do this.”

 

Shoulda, woulda, coulda…. as the saying goes.

 

She described to me how her life was after each of her children was born.  Her mother and her aunt systematically moved in to take care of everything else and, sometimes, the baby.  They left their lives to take care of hers. Temporarily.

 

It would be unheard of in her family not to do such as this:  a new mother is simply not to be abandoned.

 

Like the military and the firemen do: never leave someone behind.  The women of her family decided not to “leave her behind” to fend for herself and fail.

 

Post-partum depression in our country is documented and evidently experienced much more frequently than any other country in the world.  One of the biggest contributors is lack of family support.  Americans have a “can do” attitude that makes us think that we are always to be mavericks in ever endeavor we face.  Like the little engine that could, “I think I can, I think I can….

 

The problem is thinking is not doing in this situation.  The engine in the story didn’t run out of gas and somehow invent a rope out of vines and pull himself to the top of the mountain.  He had sufficient resources to make the trip to begin with.  Motherhood in America requires that no matter what the circumstances, you push your way through them.  Emigrating from another country no knowing the language of the land and ending up a successful capitalist happens this way---not being a mother.

 

When questioned about why the assistance from her family helped so much, THF#1 replied, “Just not being alone during the whole thing was huge.  I knew that someone was available to me that they had already been there and knew more than me.  I wasn’t alone.  The support of someone saying, ‘we know you can do this. We are here to help when you need it’ was so important.”

 

When Ben was a resident, he was the first male resident of the Pediatric Residency Program at Greenville Memorial Health System to request and be granted paternity leave.  Now, that’s progress.  Fathers that are equipped and able to be present with their spouses are ideal.  Even though it was only for 2 weeks, we learned along side each other about who this new little life was to us. 

We both felt overwhelmed, though, when he went back to work.  I didn’t feel I had the option of enlisting the help from anywhere.  I thought I could do this alone.  All wrong from every direction. 

 

I should have accepted help from everyone in my family. I should have accepted help from anyone who was willing to do so.  The problem was that I was so wrapped up with taking care of my baby; I couldn’t complete the thoughts that would have led me to those requests. 

 

I ended up becoming very close to another mother whom I met during prenatal exercise class.  We talked every day, a couple of times a day.  Our babies were 1 week apart.  She had hers on my due date! I was so upset. 

 

That relationship enabled me to survive those first few years.  I wasn’t alone.  Someone was with me during the battles I faced.  She made me stay sane.  I made her stay sane.  

 

Motherhood is not as a solo mission.  It is group collaboration.  Did my Tiny Hispanic Woman-Sister-Friend need to demand such support? Nope. It was just there.

 

Like rain, it just showed up. 

 

One conversation with another mother who happened to be from Brazil went like this:

 

Introductions were made. Names were exchanged.

“I am Max’s mom,” I said

“Oh, I am Cool Soccer Phenom’s (of course not the real 16 year old’s name) mom.”

Along further in the conversation, I disclosed that I have 4 kids.

 

Now, understand I am used to getting a variety of responses to this information once presented.  They range from, “Oh my goodness, God bless you!” to “Whoa, I bet that’s why you ____________.” That blank can be filled with ‘have so much food in your grocery cart’ to ‘have such a messy minivan’ all the way to ‘that must be why you look so tired’. 

 

Her intriguing message after that was, “I don’t know how you American women do it.  Where I come from, the woman of the house’s job was to care for the baby and manage the help: the maid, the cook and the nanny---not do everything! And I only had one baby!”

 

A long silence fell between us. I was betwicked and bewildered by the whole thought.  

 

I wanted to get on a plane to South America within the hour.

 

Her motherhood experience sounded pretty posh.  Actually, those kinds of services are readily available and very reasonably priced for even an average citizen.  They are respectable positions or careers to have and seen as so necessary for a family. 

 

I would like to propose that all women do these kinds of acts of mercy for others.  Make it a Code of Honor, if you will, not to let any woman you know as a mother “be left behind”. Sure we can’t all have maids, cooks and nannies, but we can whip up a mean casserole for someone.  We can offer to run errands for someone. We can even, dare I say it, hold someone else’s baby while they rested.

 

 

 

Did my friend’s relatives have to barrel through her door for her to accept their assistance? No, again.  They knew this was coming from the time they were mothers and were helped by their female relatives.

 

It was an expected practice of love and caring passed down for generations.

Ahhhhhhhhh…... Tradition!

 

Did she need to “go through the trenches” of motherhood to be a good mother? If she wanted to be a tired, stressed, ragged out mess, then yes.

 

I challenge the thinking of “We all did it. Now, it is just her turn.” All women need to show compassion, not elitism.

 

“She’ll survive. We did,” some of them say (including myself sometimes).

 

I say in return, “Shame on you and me for letting anyone else suffer. You should know better. After all, ‘You were there’, right?

 

I’m Roman Catholic. We are good at giving sins categories or nifty titles.  This one is “The Sin Of Omission”. It is defined as the failure to so something one can and ought to do.

 

I remember it as the Sin of Standing By and Doing Nothing.

 

Knowing that a woman is having a baby or has small children and doing nothing to assist is wrong.  I challenge us all to not let it happen, to anyone that we have in our lives or discover.

 

 

Survival should not be applied to caring for human beings. Getting stranded on a remote island in the Pacific? Yes.

Motherhood? No.

Fighting cancer? Yes.

Being a mommy? No.

 

I believe that the feeling of isolation, being completely overwhelmed, or physically exhausted should not be an accepted practice for women choosing to be mothers.  If we value children and women, it is important for everyone to not view this life-giving job as life threatening, but rather honored and protected.

 

“I just want a turkey sandwich,” I said to my husband shortly after my first baby was born. God bless him, he made me one.

 

I could talk on this topic for a long, long time.  However, to do so would just place me on the very cross I don’t need to get on.  Negatively viewing those seemingly precious times in my life and my children’s lives does no good. I do hope that somehow someone changes their mind and their behavior toward mothers because of some of the issues I put on the table.

 

I have decided to bank all those thoughts of sandwiches, clean sheets and tall glasses of water for the future.  That’s right. Whenever it’s my turn. My turn to be to another woman what she needs, what I needed long ago:

 

Just a blessed turkey sandwich and a nap, for Pete’s sake.

 

    

 

Get Off The Cross

          I have been thinking a lot about martyrs.  Not the ones left bloody in a battle somewhere or that we put on medals and Saint cards.  I am referring to the concept that has puzzled me for years about martyrs.  Why do mothers martyr themselves?

 

     One of my favorite sayings is, “Get off the cross, we need the wood.”  I use it a lot.  I use it mostly when talking to other mothers that are friends of mine.

 

     I think I’ll offer a little quiz:

 

- Do you tend to only talk about what you did FOR your kids?

 

- Does the term “sacrifice” come to mind when you think of motherhood?

 

 

-       When you count your personal achievements, does labor and delivery come up?

 

- Do you often feel depleted physically, emotionally, sexually or spiritually because you are a mother?

 

-  Do you view new mothers as ones “who haven’t been through” what you have?

 

- Do you enjoy getting told how “hard your job must be”?

 

- When you do something for yourself alone, do you feel guilty or that you will get “caught”?

 

- Do you feel like you are “laying your life down” for your kids?

 

-       Do you always tell yourself, “It will get better when __________________”?

-       Do you find excuses to justify the situation you mother in, whether it is to work outside the home for income, work from the home for income, or work in the home not for income?

 

-       Do you look down on others who have “help”, either from babysitters to house cleaners?

 

-       Do you ask your husband if he could “help” with the children or “baby-sit” the children?

 

-       Have you given up sleep or food for an older child’s activity or project?

-        

-       Have you chosen to forego medical care, personal care or spiritual care because the time/money is all devoted to your children?

 

(If the answer is “Yes” to any of the above, be careful. You may be on your way to beautification or, more likely, just unrecognizable by yourself or anyone that loves you.)

 

 

I have known many, many women, including myself, who have fallen into the martyr trap.  It is a trap, indeed.  It lures us into thinking that the more we deprive, malnourish and ignore ourselves, we are somehow better mothers.

 

I would like to propose that good mothering is unique to each woman.  What works for some doesn’t work for all.

 

Self-care does not equal selfish.

 

In fact, by women acknowledging and tending to their own needs it becomes a catalyst toward overall contentment as a mother.  Remember, “If Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”

 

“You can’t give from an empty bucket”

“Sleep when the baby sleeps”

“There is nothing more rewarding than being a mother”

“Motherhood is about sacrifice”

“A good mother never _________________”

“She must be a bad mother if she ______________”

 

All of these phrases just bother me.  Some are more obvious; some are just annoying.  Take “the bucket” statement.  It reminds me of when my teenage son says sarcastically to me, “Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

 

Of course you can’t give from an empty bucket. Who’s in charge of filling it up? Me? My family? God?

 

If I find an empty bucket, I am pretty sure I’m not going to continue to try and shake something out of it.  I need a full one.  Who says I wanted to give anything out of my bucket to begin with?  Can’t I keep what is in my bucket and use someone else’s?

 

Keep your bucket full ladies. To the brim.  Everybody hates it when you are empty. Trust me.  You hate it. Your husband hates it. And, dare I say it, your kids hate it.  You have to simultaneously fill it as you are using its contents. 

 

Have you ever seen a beautiful fountain somewhere?  In its entire splendor, if the water isn’t recirculated, it will just spill out.  It would just be a static statue with no use.  It is futile to build a fountain without plans for the spent water to return to the top somehow.  Adding water every so often is important, too.  A little gets lost in the transition from the top down and through evaporation.

 

Stay with me.

 

If you are the beautiful vessel of love that God created as a mother and all you do is spill out care, love and attention without receiving it, you are moving toward Stonesville.  Giving and receiving at the same rate is important to maintain function.

 

Replenish yourself with whatever feeds your soul.  It is usually something very little and simple that makes caring for others easier. Eat before you feed your children lunch. Use naptimes and sleepovers for an activity you enjoy. 

 

You’ll feel better for it. I promise.  No guilt. Just filled up.

 

No remorse. Just peace.

No shame. Just enlightened.

No cross. Just salvation.

Finish It

     “Finish it. Finish all of it, later, please,” muttered Fr. Padilla.  As I stood at the alter, he gave me strict instructions.

“Yes, sir,” I said quietly.  He was referring to the gold challis holding The Precious Blood of Jesus.  I then brought the consecrated Host in a similar vessel down the two stairs toward the choir.

“You serve the choir over there,” he once again instructed.

“Yes, sir.”

I guess my Southern manners took over as I received specific direction from Fr. Padilla.  It’s sort the automatic response that always keeps me out of trouble.  I wasn’t in trouble; I was actually doing a very good sacred deed.  A Eucharistic Minister’s job is to perform the dutiful task of delivering Jesus to the members of the congregation of the Mass.  It is quite an honor. I take it very seriously. 

It doesn’t seem to matter those moments before the “Lamb of God”, I was trying to explain to my younger children why we shouldn’t slouch over the chair backs during Church.  I realized how distracted I was when I glanced back across the first few rows to see them looking at me.  Thank goodness, two good friends directly behind them realized they had the silent task of minding them while I was up on the alter. 

The Consecration of the Holy Eucharist is the “shock and awe” part of the Mass.  Somehow, some way, the Holy Spirit transforms earthly treasures of unleavened bread and simple wine into Our Precious Savior.  We believe Jesus rose from the dead. Comparatively, who are we to think He couldn’t transfigure to be placed in the cup and ciborium?

The cup with the Precious Blood rested on the alter awaiting transport. As instructed, when Father Padilla handed me the challis, I carefully brought it back into the sacristy of the alter.  His request for me to consume all of it refers to the duty of a Eucharistic minister to make sure nothing is left behind. Even the white handkerchief linens used to wipe the inside of the vessels are taken care of with special consideration that there are remnants of Our Savior within its fibers.

Is this superstitious? Some might say yes, most others do not.  It is simply respectful. It tells God that you appreciate the sacrifice He made in giving Jesus to us.  You could perhaps compare the adoration of the Blessed Sacrament of Holy Eucharist to the entire sacredness of Our Lord.  Brought to earth through completely supernatural means, He was served, then broken (as the bread is), and given to us completely as a resurrected savior.  His Blood shed to be used (or consumed) for our own edification and mercy.

It is a great deal of theology to be digested during a Mass where the human state of imperfection resonates through multiple distractions.  I see the shift that happens when the proclamation of the Holy Word of God ends and the Eucharistic prayers begin.

From a relaxed state of reception to an active part of continuation, we begin to prepare ourselves to receive from the table of our Lord.  Acknowledging our sinfulness (from which all of us start), to maintaining our calling as Christians, we are transformed by the Mass.  It doesn’t how we came into the building, we all leave blessed and fed.  Maybe we will remember how we got there. Maybe not. Regardless, God sees fit to meet us at the alter every time we show up. 

The concerns of our earthly existence are suspended for brief moment of encountering Jesus just as the disciples did during The Last Supper. Man, woman, or child is all invited to share.  Once, a person accepts the realities of what they are presented, they can receive.  Ignorance and poor aptitude preclude everyone until this point. We have all been there. 

This may seem a bit lofty for some woman sitting in the third row trying to make sure her child stand up instead of slouching, but it is just that-----heavenly.  For all I encounter at Church, He gives me more than I can receive until after this life. I peacefully choose to accept the gift, even if it means feeling less than worthy of its maker.  God blesses us. Every time, every place, every touch of every being, every crumb of bread and every drop of wine, every part of flesh and every molecule of blood.

“Finish all of it, please,” He begged our Lord on the cross.

He answered an eternally sacred, “Yes, Father.” Finish the redemption needed by all humanity for everything we had done or will do.  He allowed it to indeed be finished. Forever. Thank God.

Giggle Fits

I love hearing people laugh.  It’s infectious, not Swine Flu infectious, just hard to resist.  There are little under your breath giggles. My husband, dear Benjamin, does this sort of explosive guffaw when we watch a movie.  He is like a little volcano no one knew was brewing up lava when “Bwaaaahhhaa” leaps out of his mouth.  Those of us who love him, just shrink in our seats a little then laugh along. 

     Staring contests inevitably stir up a little laughter action.  My six-year-old Luke tries with all his first-grader might to stare me down.  I just have to raise my left eyebrow a bit and the poor soul grabs his stomach and starts rolling.  My sisters and mother experience something we call “Giggle Fits”.  Unless you have been in the presence of this phenomenon, it seems too strange an occurrence.

     Giggle Fits come out of nowhere.  Left Field. Kalamazoo. Mars. They are often associated with the following co-morbid disorders: tragedy, poverty, stress, frustration or all of the aforementioned.  Oddly, out of such negative situations, giggles can’t be stopped.

    On more than one family dinner table conversation or porch talk, something happens.  Maybe one of us passes gas. Maybe one says a “bad” word by accident. Maybe someone just gives a silly look. The worst offerings come from past events recollected as far funnier than they actually occurred.  The story gets a little flowerier; the details get embellished a bit.  Suddenly, we have the makings for a Giggle Fit to beat the band.

     Uncontrollable laughter. It brings tears to your eyes. Bladder control sometimes gets compromised and shaking in all manner of silliness ensues.  We have been known to laugh so hard everything happens at once and all of us together look like a 911 call in the making as we gasp for breath.  “Stop it! Stop it! I’m gonna pee in my pants!” one of us will say.  Who ever the perpetrator is just keeps lapping it on. 

     People who don’t understand us usually just walk away.  They don’t get it.  We really don’t care. We can’t. We are too busy cramping up, crossing our legs and pleading for mercy.  The interesting thing is that the more horrible a situation, the more we seem to cope with it by making it funny.  Maybe it’s because we’re Irish.  You know what they say about Irish Wakes…that’s why they are so much fun.  Not from the alcohol, but from the crazy women laughing at the look on the deceased’s face or Aunt So and So’s dress that got caught in her pantyhose. 

     My, then 4 year old, son Max, was present during one such eruption.  He just didn’t understand why my sisters and mother were all laughing at the table.  It had nothing to do with him, but he hid under the table until it was over.  They are now known as “McEwan Giggle Fits”.  I am proud to say all of my children have inherited the McEwan Giggle Gene. Ben, by osmosis experiencing so much of it, has become a devotee as well. It seems he had it all along; it just needed fertile ground to sprout.

     I do love watching people laugh. Babies laughing will stop everyone in adoration.  I love it when they laugh so hard their little faces turn red and they slobber all over whoever is holding them.  Peek a Boo becomes worse than an MLB blooper on ESPN.

     Why is it that we find people getting hurt as hilarious?  I guess we are just happy it didn’t happen to us! Hence, I broke my toe once in the presence of 4 children all laughing at me on the floor grasping my foot and saying (somewhat familiar) bad words they were told never to say.  The most serious burn I have ever experienced has continued to provide uproarious laughter because of the retelling of the story.  Let’s just say Martha Stewart probably would never refer to a pot roast this way, EVER.

     Eliciting laughter from someone is like winning a prize at a county fair.  The bigger the laugh, the bigger the stuffed animal you get to lug home.  Getting them to hold their stomach and wipe tears from their cheeks, that would call for all the goldfish bowls.

     I like it when you have no idea what the person is saying or laughing about, yet you feel compelled to join in.  My stepfather, Bobby Lee, gets us going all the time.  He has a very thick, twangy Southern accent of a little Louisiana Cajun and a dash of Alabama Sass.  He starts telling some crazy fishing story and then he just goes: laughing and talking into some sort of intelligible English so that we all just slap our knees right along with him. 

     The great “Uhhhhh” at the end of such a Giggle Fit declares the war over. The white flag has been raised once again, surrendering to the most healing place we all go for comic relief. It really was no contest. The foe of sadness and tragedy has no chance against a little group of silly women with the propensity to giggle.