Messy Purse Girls

Rite of Passage for All Good and Honorable Bakers

2009-12-20T13:14:00.002-05:00

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

2009-10-28T08:33:00.000-04:00

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

2009-10-11T06:01:00.001-04:00

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

2009-09-25T11:00:00.000-04:00

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

2009-09-23T14:07:00.001-04:00

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

2009-09-14T08:54:00.001-04:00

“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

2009-09-11T20:29:00.001-04:00

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.

Birthday Dishes

2009-09-03T21:38:00.002-04:00

There were 5 Oxi-Clean Brillo pads floating in the water filling my stainless steal sink this morning. My pot roast crusted, cast-iron Dutch oven was in the middle, like an old war ship. The pot is bright blue and so was the water due to the soap built into the pads. As I fished out the steel wool floaters, blue slime oozed out of them as I squeezed them out.

The large cooking vessel, actually, was pretty darn clean. My only summation of why this boat was in my sea of a sink was that it was surrounded by water when the dishwasher ran the night before. Water must have been pumped up, inadvertently, with the yucky food water from the disposal. My dishwasher likes a clean disposal when it’s in use. Otherwise, I end up with a nasty sink full of food scraps.

Examining the dishwasher contents added more clues to the soggy mystery. It was crammed with dishes of all sorts, in no manner of order. The night before, I rescued a complete piece of buttered toast from its underside just moments before my daughter was going to hit the power button.

“Thank you so much, Sweetie. This toast won’t make it, though. The dishwasher will just disintegrate it and push stuff all over the dishes. It has to be placed in the garbage,” I gently told my daughter.

“Oh, O.K………Look Mommy! I did all the dishes by myself! This pot was really hard, but I did it! Happy Birthday!” Grace said with such pride of her accomplishment.

I failed to notice the Brillo pads in the sink with the “clean pot” earlier. I suppose I would have rescued them from their soggy fate yet to come. A little Cascade and the Heavy Cycle later, I should have a sweet load of birthday dishes to greet me in the morning. Rearranging the dishes in front of Grace, I believe, would have hurt her feelings.

She gave me a birthday present, in her own cashless, 10-year old way. I just turned on the appliance and said, “Thank you so much! You did a great job with those nasty dinner dishes. Now, I can get ready for bed! Yeah!”

Any mother knows that washing dishes at the end of the family meal is silently assigned to her. Women’s lib and feminism did not rescue us from feeling responsible for this task. My kids share the duty among them when asked, but the supervisory position is pretty much mine. Ben, bless his soul (I know, wipe the tears from my cheek), pitches in all the time. The passive-aggressive leftovers, I mean, likelihood that the kitchen not being completely clean is sort of an honored tradition. What use would I be if everyone does everything perfectly? (That is clearly a joke.)

Not to worry, my usefulness in life is not determined by the cleanliness of MY kitchen. Sort of. Well, I tend to use it as a thermometer of the whole house. I read a life-changing book years ago when I was on the “organization book phase” of my adulthood. (As opposed to the “maybe we should get a dog phase” and the all important “I am going to try and be really good and spiritual book phase”) Marla Ciley calls it Sink Reflections. It was the only book that ever addressed the internal issues surrounding my difficulty in getting the whole darn house in order and clean.

A few things that I can actually remember verbatim from the book are the following: “As the kitchen goes, so the rest of the house goes. If the kitchen is a mess, so will the whole house. If it is clean, the whole house feels clean.” Notice, it doesn’t say IS clean. The object is to start SOMEWHERE. She even minimizes it to just the kitchen sink to start. “Any housework done, even imperfectly, blesses the whole family,” she claims. I agree whole-heartedly.

I had to recognize that even little small efforts to do something valuable to keep the house clean, affects everyone. Grace’s attempt at doing the dishes, still blessed everyone. I had clean glasses and spoons for breakfast this morning! Maybe they were in the bottom of the dishwasher, but hey, they still can spoon sugar into coffee after they are rinsed off. Right? You betcha.

I have to constantly tell myself that I don’t have to do the whole enchilada of everything all the time for it to be valuable. Any effort I put forth matters. The work done will still be a blessing to those I love.

I would like to think that God feels the same way about our efforts to be good and holy. Any effort, even small amount, toward bettering ourselves to be in His grace is blessed. Do I think His love is proportionate to how much we accomplish or do in His name? No. I don’t. I don’t love Grace any less because she almost ran a piece of toast through the Heavy Cycle of the dishwasher. I certainly don’t love her less for leaving the remains of her pot-scrubbing adventure in the sink. What about forgetting to run the disposal?

Not running the garbage disposal does not rank as one of the most offensive character flaws. Not trying to wish someone you love a Happy Birthday? Now, I wish it had added on the tablets for Moses. “Thou shalt remember, recognize and celebrate your Mother’s birthday without fail or neglect.” Amen.

Grace gave me Birthday Dishes instead of wishes. The murky, blue slimy water in the sink reminds me that she tried, really hard, to do something extraordinary. She gave it her best, five Brillo pads strong, to show her caring and love for me. As they air dry in a row on my windowsill, it gives me a silly smile on my face.

Common Denominators Among Heroes

2009-08-30T16:20:00.002-04:00

Within 24 hours, I spoke with two women with whom I share a common denominator. Two totally different topics when shared elicited the same feelings. People simply want to always talk about their pain to a lending ear.

My first conversation took place at a sporting event of all places. We shared a common denominator: being physician’s spouses. Her experience was not dissimilar to mine in that we both realized the pluses and minuses of this type of relationship. Her marriage ended in divorce. Mine has not.

We spoke of a communication skill that some doctors either acquire, to maintain good relationships or don’t. “It’s like a switch,” she said. This is a switch or shift in thinking that they either learn to access or not. With the switch on, they bark orders and can’t have things fast enough. In the off position, they can actually look around and realize others’ feelings. We want them to use all their intellect when we are a patient under their medical care. Conversely, we want them to use all their caring and commitment as a spouse. When the two get cross-wired, it is hard for both parties to recognize the difference.

Our conversation was fueled by a common knowledge base. I felt like we could sit closer to each other and any revelations would stay between just the two of us. A little like war buddies we became. I observed the carnage; she unfortunately suffered some large wounds. The difference between us grew smaller with every commonality we discovered. It saddens me deeply that such a caring profession potentially produces such tragic effects on families.

My next encounter was with a mom at a kid’s birthday party. How we got on the subject of Migraine I don’t know. The same feeling came over me. Obviously, she had felt my pain and I hers. I understood exactly her fears and her triumphs. We both had recommendations for each other, but mostly sympathy. Our husbands even swapped stories. How pitiful were we?

Misery loves company, but I really don’t want to stay miserable. I want to be in the company of people who have succeeded to conquer these dissimilar foes. It is inspiring to get the perspective of people who have climbed the mountains of life, stood on top and come to the bottom of the other side stronger and wiser.

I love mentors for this reason. It warms my heart to here a wife and husband who have been together for 50 plus years, through all kinds of trials and trouble. They can show me the goal I aspire to achieve. It doesn’t seem impossible when I see the evidence of its existence. Hope becomes mine once more.

Any medical condition that hinders one’s life and function makes for a very determined or defeated person. I try to be compassionate to those who aren’t faring so well. To find a conqueror of cancer, mental illness, and addiction or, yes, even Migraine, allows me to be reassured.

Like St. Thomas, I feel better with proof. Is it essential for my faith and happiness? No, it just eases the burden I place on myself to find answers to life’s most perplexing challenges. If one person gets trampled there are just as many if not more that hopped the hurdle without falling down. That kind of strength and perseverance is so rare.

When I witness triumph and success, I have noticed that those who are the most humble and quiet about the achievements they have acquired are by and large the most content with themselves. They have a certain knowing mind about them, which resonates through all of their life. The couple that has been married through 60 years of war and peace hold each other’s hand like it truly has been their lifeline for them. The woman who was a single mom trying to support a family while plagued by an illness, yet still managed to raise decent human beings. These are heroes to me, now.

Heroes, by their very nature, don't want to be chosen. They just ARE. They choose to exceed all obstacles with little knowledge of what lies ahead. Their hearts are always steady, even when scared. We all have it in us to be our own hero. After all, whose day wouldn't we all like to save but our own?

The Donut Hole of Peace

2009-08-21T08:32:00.003-04:00

I have been outed. I have no shame, nor guilt. It's true: I am a Charismatic Catholic woman. Sue me. I just can't help it. There is actually quite a big group of us out there. Suppressing my tendencies toward outward expression of my faith, which I find pleasing and powerful, will now officially cease. I am returning to a place God found me long ago and that He never left. I feel like I am going back to my hometown returning to a restaurant that still serves goodies I once enjoyed.

The Donut Hole in Destin, Florida comes to mind.

Almost every Sunday, my mother and I indulged in something sweet after church. We progressed from Cheese Danishes from McDonald's heated with melted butter on them to The Donut Hole. I remember going there and watching donuts being made through a window by the cashier. The person making the donuts sometimes would look up, but otherwise stayed focused on rolling, cutting and frying up the dough. Nothing was wasted, hence the name of the shop.

I got a Glazed and a Bavarian Crème. The huge apple fritters also weaseled into my repertoire of choices. The subsequent lofty sugar high accompanied by the deep low made for great Sunday afternoon naps. It was indulgent, I know. Yumminess usually is. Church and food just compliment each other so well, I think.

That establishment still exists there on HWY 98 in Destin. Legendary treats continue to grow the business. It's much bigger and serves full breakfast that people wait patiently for in a line. The system is unique. Everyone watches the diners while they eat at their tables until someone is through. Before the table is even cleared, the next person in line snatches it up claiming a homestead territory of big lacquered wooden tables with benches on either side. Smells of smoked bacon and the sweet vanilla in the pancakes fill all corners of the restaurant as platters of generous portions show what awaits. By the time the server arrives, your mind has been long before made up about your order.

The last time I was there, I bought six large, eggplant purple mugs to bring home. I am a sucker for souvenirs that remind me of good times, especially of good food. The hope is that I can recreate the same feelings and emotions of my visit. My connection of happy thoughts elsewhere and dining ware isn't very fashionable, but I love serving my kids tea and hot chocolate in those cute mugs. They're fit perfect in everyone's hands.

God's peace is much like the food served up at The Donut Hole. It is satisfying and nourishing. Except there's always a table waiting and I can always be first in line. He'll serve up an awesome feast if I am willing to taste. The food is always hot and ready fit for my indulgent consumption. The open sign is always lit. He waits patiently, eager to feed me. All I have to do arrive ready and willing to partake.

I'll take the booth by the window, please.

No Whiners, Please

2009-08-17T10:12:00.004-04:00

I went to the Women of Faith conference in Tampa, FL over the weekend. This is what I expected: a bunch of whining women on stage talking about their lives. They didn't whine though; they really spoke about unexpected aspects to their faith. I was particularly taken by the musical guests. I thought they would be there for entertainment purposes only. Steven Curtis Chapman and Mandisa gave two totally different performances than one would assume.

Steven Curtis Chapman recently lost one of his children, a 5 year old girl whom he had adopted, to a tragic accident. He shared about not how bitter and angry he was, but rather how serene he was knowing Jesus had her. With complete gusto, he sang a song written before her death, that shared his love about his daughters. I found myself crying way, way too much. I was surprised by my reaction. I am not one that really enjoys crying in public, nor do I find watching others cry comfortable. Thank goodness I grabbed a hefty wad of toilet paper from the bathroom just before his performance. It almost became a huge mess as I kept using and reusing the same minute squares of paper. Compared to the number of tears he and his wife shed, it was a spec in the ocean.

Public emotion makes me very uncomfortable. I am not sure why. I don't become empathetic. I become sort of embarrassed. Lisa Welchel spoke at the same conference about how some women have a disconnect with their emotions. She shared how she was made to build a wall of protection around herself as a child. She even insisted that God help her build it. The problem was that God didn't want her to keep it up forever. She couldn't take it down effectively and share herself with her husband and children. The wall of sin and shame that had developed over the years was easier for her to hide behind instead of allowing the people she loved to see her vulnerable. This scary process of letting others see her weaknesses was only possible through the Holy Spirit.

Once my emotional spill came out on Friday in a clump of saturated tissues, I was ready to receive. I did feel lighter. The music sounded just a little bit peppier; the arena felt a little less crowded. Easing into this process of attending to the speakers and letting their messages write on my heart filled me up. They didn't whine. In fact, they really proclaimed some good honest gritty truth. They spoke about realistic circumstances that I could relate to and I felt their positive energy quite radically. Being in a place with 10,000 other women around me resonated peace and harmony to my soul. The tangible support I felt was so loving and strong.

On a different wave length, Mandisa sang and danced on the stage with no shoes on. She was barefoot and loving it. Her voice shook the whole place. I swear she was just singing for me. I could not help but to move. I think she would have jumped off the stage and grabbed my hand if I let her. I do not believe in reincarnation, but I do fantasize about coming back to Earth as a tall, stout black woman who can sing well. That is who I feel like inside. Why can't I just be that way? I'm sure Mandisa won't mind if threw my shoes off and danced in the background. I know Jesus won't care. He is the reason for the crazy courage I feel.

So, if at the next Women of Faith conference you see a barefoot, blubbering, dancing crazy woman in the stands, just look at me and excuse my embarrassing display of joy.

Sister-Baby

2009-08-11T11:49:00.001-04:00

My sister was 5 years older than me. At 17, she had her driver’s license so she took me places my mother asked her to. One such night, I had an urgent request to go to the most elite social venue I had at 12, the mall. The trend of teenagers going to shopping malls on Friday night paralleled the cruising of the 50’s and 60’s. By 1983, my friends and I would meet up at the movies and then, at no charge, wander around each store admiring all the clothes and shoes.

This night, my sister pitched one of life’s curve balls straight into my 12-year-old mitt. She was pregnant. “Oh, that’s just great,” I thought. How embarrassing for me. As a pre-teen, the universe revolved on the axis of the planet Me. A normal egocentric response exploded in my brain. “How fat was she going to get? I knew this was going to happen sooner or later. This is what she gets for being so rebellious and crazy. But, I’m a good girl. Really, still just a girl. What will people think of ME?”

All of my fears were realized one by one. My nice friends from nice families started to find out about her. There is nothing like bringing a friend home with your very voluptuous pregnant sister their first sight as they walk in the house. Humiliating.

As she grew bigger and bigger, however, I actually got jazzed a bit. I had no idea the amount of work and emotional energy it took to take care of a child. I just wanted to play with that darn baby. After all, no one wants to do the work when the playing is so much more rewarding.

She actually waited until my mother got ready for church that Sunday. She knew my mother would have been in a panic and needs to get her hair and make-up complete. When mom was ready to go out the door for church, there she was, waiting there in all her pregnant glory, ready to go to the hospital. That is all I remember about her labor and delivery. I only knew that she was going to give birth at the Military hospital because she was still considered a dependant with full medical benefits. Her little dependant came not much later.

Lindsey Ann. At 17, my sister loved the Bionic Woman star Lindsay Wagner. She became Lindsey with an “E”, not Lindsay with an “A”. These minor nuances of her name became her first right as a mother. It was probably one of the first decisions that she ever got to make completely on her own.

Lindsey Ann was a bit on the small side, as I remember. Her nose was comparable to the complete surface area of my pinkie fingernail. I came home from my school day later to see my mother holding her on the same couch my sister had perched earlier. This was a much more pleasant welcome home. I quickly learned that Mom was sucked into the baby care role and out of the one of being my mother for a while. When this little wheel squeaked, it required a steady stream of grease.

Lindsey smiled every time I played with her. When she was 4 months old she started up with a full-belly laugh that I could produce on cue. Her legs and arms we pleasing to hold in my hands, so soft and pudgy.

I became a teenager just before she was born. Clearly, able-bodied to help with a baby, my services were offered anytime I was home. Feeding her, changing her, singing and rocking her became my hobby. Other girls were learning how to cheer at football games; I was doing raspberries on a sweet belly full of love.

I gave her endless bottles of milk and pats on the back. My mother taught me these intricacies of loving a baby. There was one simple rule: nothing else mattered. Keeping Lindsey loved up and happy was our whole home’s focus. Most of the time I loved it. Sometimes, it got a little inconvenient.

My mother struggled with assisting my sister with Lindsey, at the same time, still trying to parent her and me. I watched my mother revisit the familiar pattern of caring for babies. I also watched my big sister become sleepless, irritable and yet, still have normal adolescent tirades.

One night, I was sleeping and that precious baby girl started crying. Thirteen and very sleepy, I was knee-deep into a dream. When I realized that the cry I was hearing was a real one, a live one, from the room down the hall, I went to her. Once awake, I tried to figure out what was going on. Was my sister having trouble? Did she even hear her? Where the heck is Mom?

Lindsey’s cry became frantic and constant. Down the hall in the pale pink and white room, she was wailing in her crib. The moon that night gave me just enough light to see. She was crying so hard her little eyes were sealed shut in her effort to be heard, with tears running down her cheeks.

“Hey! Anyone? Hey!” I screamed. Then, I just decided to take measures in my own hands. No one else obviously was going to do anything to take care of her. No one else seemed to even hear her. Scooping up her little pajama covered body heaving with tears and sweat, I held her small head close to my neck. “Shhhhh. Sshhhh. Let’s go get a bottle.”

I walked by the living room and noticed my sister completely asleep. By what measures she was so asleep so as to not hear her own baby crying, I don’t know. I just needed to get a bottle made and quick. Getting her to calm down and drink some warm milk made my frustration to melt with each ounce she guzzled.

Rocking her in a dead quiet house in the middle of the night made me realize that babies demand that you grow up. You have no choice. You have to take care of them before yourself. Surrendering to giving comfort to a child in the middle of the night allowed me the privilege of seeing someone outside of myself be happy. My purpose was seemingly clear, at least for those moments. She needed me. I came. I rose to the call, not for glory, but for her.

Placing her back in her crib, peaceful and full, she slipped back into sleep. I did too. I was different somehow, though.

She demanded that I become something else that night instead of just me, myself and I. The pride I felt for the care I gave transformed me. I was needed, not the needy. I intended to stay that way for the rest of my life.

I also made conscious choices to love compassionately the innocent. I was an innocent girl taking care of another girl; we were in this together. Lindsey was my first “baby”. She was not a doll nor, was she born from me. She was my little sister-baby. Growing up came quicker when I had someone else to think about. I became inspired to be available to her and provide some kind of direction. Living beyond myself as I was trying to grow into my own life made me understand the profound joy of giving.

Human Behavior Manipulation Via Cookies

2009-08-02T16:29:00.008-04:00

I read an article about how U.S. forces used an unusual interrogation technique to retrieve top-secret intelligence from a high ranking Al-Quaeda official. It trumped all of the other approved weapons of choice. Even pitting one accomplice against another by offering a deal if they were first to break silence could not top its success. One universal truth remained: people are manipulated by an emotionally charged temptation. Was it sex? Drugs? No, it was cookies. The guy was a diabetic and they offered him sugar-free cookies. Surprised? I'm not.

My experience with baking started as a young girl. Miss Betty-Ann (my mom) always allowed us to go into the kitchen and cook. Sometimes with supervision, like stirring spaghetti sauce as it's assembled. Sometimes not supervised, like the time my friends and I made green macaroni and cheese. It was a place I could pretend to be an adult. I was completely in control of my eating destiny. I no longer relied on others for nourishment. Ah, the taste of independence. My favorite cooking activity: baking. What else?

Baking always brings sweet treats: cookies, cakes and pies. All of which make any child/man/woman/alien/plasma bodied cell extremely happy. Take the emotion felt at the first taste of cake batter or sugar licked off a finger and you have the recipe for bliss. Hence, the manipulation technique discovered by our government's officials. One, however, known by most shrewd women.

Learning how to bake around the age of 9 fast became a fast talent. A bit of a trademark, really. "Oh you know Kathy can bake great ________." Those accolades placed me in the top echelons of powerful people. A place I willingly exploit, often, to my own advantage.

The power comes from manipulation. Manipulation comes from the ability to shape behavior of the recipient. Let me give you a couple of examples:

It is 6:30 on a cold, school morning. Is a burly teenager more likely to get out of bed, in a good state of mind to the smell of cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate? You betcha.
You have had an argument with your husband early in the day. When he comes home from work, you have baked fresh Chocolate Chip Cookies, always from scratch, waiting with the chocolate still gooey and a cold chilled glass of milk. How can someone be mad at anyone who does this for them? "It must have not been THAT big of a deal," they think. "I can't even remember what we had a fight about." His mind covers all unsavory feelings with sweet satisfaction.
At a family gathering, your contribution is supposed to be dessert. You make homemade red velvet cake with butter cream icing the likes of which most of your extended family have only dreamed of and ,yet, it's there, waiting like a lover. Do you think they will think of you as anything but kind? No way.

This is Power with a capital "P". It can get used and abused just like any other kind. I prefer to exercise my strength under only the most sly of circumstances. Usually men and boys find this type of mind twisting the most weakening. I have never known any one of which who has not succumbed to my baking wiles. Women and girls are vulnerable but usually they want to know "how" to render the weapon themselves. Have you ever overheard one man say to another, "Oh, I must get that recipe from you. I would love to make it myself."? I think not. For women it's the equivalent to saying, "Dude, your gun shot straighter and faster than mine. I gotta get one of those!" We continue to shoot rounds of cookies, brownies and pastries into the hearts of all the guys in our life whom we love. I haven't seen one dodge a bullet, ever.

I once required an apology from someone before they could taste a Peach Cobbler I made. It worked. My Chocolate Chip Cookies have been bartered at school lunch time for double their volume in other snacks. Sometimes, offers have been made and completely refused in order to keep them as their own treat. What a compliment! It seems self-esteem does, indeed, come from accomplishment. One accomplishment I choose to flaunt is my baking prowess. Nothing lifts your spirits like someone you love noticing the pie cooling on the counter you made and saying, "You are so wonderful." The words, "No problem, sweetie", tumble out of my mouth tasting pretty wonderful to me, too. Considering warm cherry filling is dripping off my own chin.

Blankets Covering Blessings

2009-07-27T21:58:00.004-04:00

The first blanket I made was for Ben. We had started dating in the Spring of 1990. By Christmas that year, I wanted to give him something special, but I really didn't have any money to spend. I decided to make him a quilt. For most people, visions of old ladies in a circle working on individual squares conjure up. This was a simple one of squares and rectangles that could be assembled with a machine. It still took me a couple of days to finish it. Remember, I had no kids and I wasn't in school and it was Christmas break. The squares lined up perfectly and all the seams were exactly 5/8".

The last step in the blanket making process for Ben's quilt entailed using a doll making needle and tying knots of blue yarn at each intersection of the patterns. It was a test in patience and my mother had to cheer me on in order for me not to give up. She somehow taught me to sew despite my innate ability to stop and start every project at least 5 times. The blanket was finished. I placed it in a rather ominously sized box and wrapped it for Christmas.

I was spending the holiday with Ben's family that year, much to my mother's chagrin I'm sure.

He opened it on Christmas Eve (a venial sin in my book, but I was a guest remember) and proceeded to tear up. Yep, cry. Not hard, just enough that I realized how much he loved it and loved me too. That blanket came to be a great comfort to him while he was away from me and I was glad to have made it. It also saw a lot of smooches on road trips, future sofa backs, and all of our babies rolled around on it. All blankets that have been made by me are compared to it's softness and size.

"Is it as big as Daddy's that you made?" asked a 6 year old Max who suddenly wanted his blanket made larger after his baby sister was born and given one of her own. I made his before he was born, not knowing whether he was a boy or a girl. It was light blue and white striped with a small patchwork section in the middle. I put a few pink squared in it just in case he turned out to be Emily and not Max. A fine wall hanging that turned into the security object to beat the band.

Max was born in mid November in South Carolina. It was colder than I imagined. That wall hanging of a blanket became warmth for a chubby baby all winter. When he was about 9 months old I took the blanket out of the crib to lay him down in the living room or something. He proceeded to roll around with it sucking on his binky and showed off one beautiful display of contentment as he grabbed the ruffle on the edge. He loved the ruffle. By the time he was 2 or so, one particular corner of the blanket's ruffle was his favorite. Sandwiched between his fingers and the palm of his hand it lay to be caressed until he melted into sleep.

My second son, Paul was born a mere 19 months after Max. His blanket was not constructed until was about 6 months old. I tried to replicated Max's but it still turned out differently. I didn't have the time to make any elaborate patchwork. It was a basic square with the obligatory ruffle. Primary colors and super soft. Paul loved his blanket, but not as much as Max. Paul decided early on that sleeping with me was the best way to drift to sleep. It was the only place he had me all to himself. His attachment to his blanket evolved over years.

Grace's blanket was a true mixing of all the previous successful blankets. Soft calico, thin padding, but she got a satin ribbon around hers. Lavender and cream were her colors. I made this before she was born not knowing her sex either, but as soon as I laid it out for Ben to see its completion, he said, "It's a girl. Look at that blanket." Max suddenly needed a bigger blanket. Paul wanted one too but I was too tired making and augmenting blankets.

Left over material and a little more padding helped Max's blanket to take him through a few more years. The tattered ruffle is gone and the center, all be it soft, is the only original part. Once, Max had a few friends staying over well after he had turned 13. They picked on him for having his blanket wrapped around his neck. In his newly bestowed deeper voice, he stated to them, "You only wish you had this blanket."

No, I only wish I had a few more times of snuggling with all of them with their blankets. Instead, each of them are reminded nightly how much I love them. Wrapping them in soft blankets has been one of the greatest feelings of love I have experienced. It tells both of us that we love each other. I love them enough to share my time. They love me by continuing to covet each inch of their blankets.

Ten Commandments of School Shopping for Parents

2009-07-27T11:47:00.003-04:00

The end of July beckons the loss of Summer. The loss of loose deadlines, no specific meal times, no times to be "here" and "there". Time just kind of slides by in the form of T.V. shows and pool hops. I find myself saying "I have no idea what time it really is." Translation: "No one placed demands on me to be somewhere." Ahhh.... I feel the tug coming, though. The kids had some of their first soccer practices. One started at, sit down, 9:00 A.M. Oh the gall of that coach to get my 9 year old daughter out of bed before 8:30! Doesn't he know it is still July? The nerve.

Procuring goods associated with the start of school is bittersweet. Shopping for clothes has mostly been simple due to uniforms. My oldest two are in high school, and boys, hence, clueless shopping.

"Do you like this?" I say. "Or this?"

"I don't know. It's O.K. I guess,"they say.

Again, translation = "I don't care. I would rather be placing planks of bamboo under my toenails than shopping. How many different colors of pants do they have in the world anyway?"

Their sense of teenage hood identity starts to rule. Will they be a sporto, prep or rocker? Does a collared shirt spell N-E-R-D? How much effort do they have to put into a look that says "I don't really care THAT much about my appearance." I had no idea that this complacency takes indeed a mammoth effort. There is a lot of energy expelled to exhibit this apathy. Mostly it involves a great deal of searching and little finding. I begin to understand a little about Moses' plight in the desert. At least he got a message on a few stone tablets clearly given in a rational order.

The Ten Commandments of School Shopping for Parents go something like this:

1. Thou shalt not say anything is "Cute" or "Nice".

-Words as such denote a childish look.

2. Thou shalt not insist on viewing all purchased items on the actual child.

- This action implies distrust of "style" knowledge which we all agree parents do not have.

3. Thou shall give full disclosure of expectations of monetary limits.

- Fainting can't occur in department stores; they don't have smelling salts available.

4. Thou shall not covet thy friends clothes from the same store.

- Pure heresy.

5. Thou shall not try on clothes from the same store at the same time as child.

- Vicarious living through children is strongly discouraged.

6. Thou shall not give metaphorical judgements like, "You look like a _______ (fill in)."

- The decision to look like an idiot has to be purely theirs.

7. Thou shall schedule shopping excursions after 12:00 P.M. and at times inconvenient to parents.

- The phrase "Strike while the iron is hot" comes into play here.

8. Do not assume knowledge of needed school supplies until AFTER school starts.

- Anything you purchase will surely be wrong in the eyes of power hungry teachers.

9. Thou shall plan on exceeding previously disclosed budget by at least 10%.

- The obvious pressure to get something outside the limits is taken into account.

10. Thou shall not judge the relationship between parent and teenager based on any of the experiences and dialogues carried on throughout the shopping experience.

- Families would be destroyed and anger management courses would be full around the country.

With one child done and three to go, I am attempting to achieve the impossible. The impossibility the everyone will be satisfied at the same time on all levels. Dreaming impossible dreams is where we find hope. Hopefully, this will be over soon.

Beyond Any "Life is Good" T-Shirt Vacation

2009-07-19T11:23:00.003-04:00

There are so many things you learn about your family and yourself while on vacation. I don't remember vacations as a child as there weren't many. My mom was a single, working woman until I was 10. Since my step-father was a charter boat captain, spring and summer were the prime money-making seasons of the year in Destin, FL. I learned early on that my mom and step-father were not avid travelers. Disneyworld sometime in the 70's and a few overnight trips to New Orleans----that's it.

Those trips to New Orleans were an interesting example of focused women on a mission. We were not going there for the food and culture; we were there because it was the closest Laura Ashley store. Yep, that's it. We went shopping at the store all day one day, bought a copious amount of flowered dresses and damask covered everything. My favorite object from those trips was a black canvas and leather backpack with pink rose buds. That pack saw me through some of high school, all of college and into mothering years as a diaper bag. It was the perfect mix of practicality and style. I never saw anyone that had one like it. Staying in a swanky hotel with my mom was a bonus. We wore the robes and had hot chocolate delivered via room service. Good times.

Vacations after motherhood became more of a challenge than a rest. Trying to recreate "home" for a small child or toddler proved to be more work than leisure. The Florida Keys, San Francisco, Dallas, Holidays at relatives---all these places sound great until you mix them with port-a-cribs, diapers and high chairs. Within the last two years, things have mellowed out considerably. Four children with a 9 year span between the oldest and the youngest present its own set of priorities. The deadliest foe of our vacations now: boredom.

Keeping boredom at bay is different for each age group. Teenage boys require something physically challenging and rapid paced to keep their attention. My daughter just wants to gather "things", as in shopping or finding restaurants. The youngest is just content doing anything anyone else is doing. Usually a little adventure, sweat and food take care of everybody.

Disneyworld was the preferred destination for many years. We have migrated, however, out of our 500 mile radius many times since everyone has gotten older. White water rafting, theme parks without a mouse and mountain hiking have been fun. I am hoping to take this crew on a few more multi-state adventures while we are still one whole family unit. My oldest is 15. Three more gravy years of 6 people travel. Then 5. Then 4.

Hotel room searches will become easier but I am not rushing it. All of us together gives us the relatively rare experience of saying "Goodnight" to everyone at once. Hearing all the little noises of sleep of everyone at the same time. Scattered within 500 square feet are all the people I love the most. It's a great feeling.

Waking up first in this 6 people configuration allows me to see everyone still and peaceful: a sight and experience I relish. It is then that I realize how much everyone looks like each other. It doesn't matter how big a kid gets, there is something about their face when they sleep that you can still see their infant face you once held in your hands. There is sort of a shadow of what used to be as a baby and what will be as an adult. Even when they wake up I see that baby who stretched their arms over their head, but instead of a cry I hear, "What's for breakfast, Mom?"

I'll take it all: the rewards of a more relaxing vacation, the chaos of six people sharing one bathroom in a hotel room, the beauty of seeing all the faces of my most treasured relationships in a rear view mirror of a mini-van. All the "Life is Good" t-shirts can't capture the knowing that, indeed, my life is, well, more than good. I am blessed beyond all of my life expectations. Thank you, Lord.

Three Strikes: I Am Out of Excuses

2009-07-06T14:06:00.002-04:00

Now that my headaches are under control (8 days and counting!), I am trying to tackle another foe.

Here's how the sorted details unfolded:

1. I have a habit of accumulating a small pile of dry clean only items for about 3 months at a time. When I finally turned them in, got them back, unwrapped them and TRIED THEM ON........OOps. Nothing fit. I am not just talking about suck in a little, I mean couldn't quite button at all.

2. I had a follow-up appointment with my primary care physician. When the nurse took my weight, I heard a giant C-a-L-UN-K-k (note slow-motion sound affect mimicked) and the whites of my eyes got large as my mouth echoed a loud "NNOOoo". That second piece of metal on the bottom slid to the the right, along with any misconception I had that I was OK.

3. Then, their is the honest opinion of my 6 year old son saying, "Mommy, your belly is skwooshy!"

Thanks to baseball we have the useful metaphor adding up to, "Three strikes = You are out!" Out of pants, shorts and skirts that fit, out of excuses and out of my mind.

I could go buy new clothes. No, I like the ones I have.

I could close my eyes when I get weighed. Nope, too curious.

I could tell my son he was mean, humiliating and obviously having visual hallucinations. No can do: he is helplessly honest and sweet.

It's OK. I'll be fine. Really. I swear.

I do, however, hate finding out that 4 ounces of salmon equals 6 points on Weight Watchers. On the same track, I had no idea my teenage boys would find my huge batch of Zero Point Vegetable Soup so delicious. I don't see anyone headed toward the cottage cheese.......hope lives.

A Woman Without a Headache Could Negotiate World Peace

2009-07-04T13:44:00.003-04:00

My crazy head has behaved very nicely for 7 full days. No headache to speak of has entered my life. What is it like to NOT have a headache? Movement of my head doesn't hurt. I can see my surroundings clearly. Music sounds better. Focusing on people and things around me is actually possible. Time moves at a normal pace, not like molasses on a cold day. In fact, I sometimes just close my eyes and say to myself, "AAHHhhhh, I don't have a headache. Enjoy this."

My mother and I have a long standing family mantra, "We can do ANYTHING...........without a headache." The converse being, "I can't do anything with a headache". Very few things are within my scope of accomplishment while So, today, give me a mountain to climb, a sea to cross or a world peace conference to monitor. I can do it all. No problem. Bring it on.

I think a new superhero has been born: Woman Without Headache. I have always been a Wonder Woman fan, maybe they should be sisters. WW has a rockin' outfit; WWH is just happy to not be in pajamas. Instead of a gold rope that makes criminals tell the truth, I'll have a gold helmet to take away headaches from all who suffer. The "power" it holds makes pain float away like intended prayers from a lit candle. I do want to have a Chrystal jet though, it was always my fantasy to have one. Mine will have the power to fly low to the ground so as to observe all my surroundings. After all, if I don't have a headache, everything will be so much more enjoyable.

WWH and WW could quite possibly rule the world. Until then, I am content to just close my eyes again......even without red striped go-go boots.

The Headache Specialist

2009-06-29T17:43:00.002-04:00

Skeptically, I visited a true-blue Headache specialist today. It seems after ONE visit to a local Neurologist and ONE phone call regarding a problem with medication, he decided in his infinite wisdom to pass me off to someone else. I know how some patients can be "a pain" to deal with; I've watched my husband be ever so patient with one too many hysterical parent. I did not think I qualified as such, so was a bit surprised with a phone call informing me of my recent transfer of care. The appointment was quickly made for the following week.

The forms were filled out, the questions answered and the obligatory interaction with the front office staff with a low personality quotient ensued.

"I really think I can help you feel much better," he confidently stated. "Go to Target, get 4 vials of medication and I will give you injections in your neck tomorrow. Ok? Ok."

Wait just one darn minute. If I had my computer in his office with good wi-fi, I would have been Googling the following, in this order: "migraine injection, Depo-Medrol migraine, treatment for migraine neck, dangers of injections for migraine treatment......" So, the paranoia set in. The Googling commenced almost immediately when I got home. Ah, the panic relief of fact finding.

My conclusions are thus: what ever it takes, man. Whatever it takes to get rid of these stupid, life-interrupting headaches. I detest telling my family, "I have a headache, I need to lay down." It is the equivalent to saying, in my mind, "I just can't handle life. My head seems to think it needs to throb for some asinine reason which has nothing to do with you, but removes me from all normal existence until it ends. Excuse me while I jump on the pain wagon and let it circle around my life as if I have no control. Oh, and you'll have to make your own dinner and have no wife/mother for a while. Get used to it; it will happen every week or so."

I would never say such things out loud for any good reason. A headache simply seems to have the right to make statements like those whenever it feels like it.

Four shots in my neck? Sure, bring it on. I just hope the receptionist gets a good dose of Southern manners in the next 24 hours so when she collects money from me tomorrow, thenI will actually feel like she cares. "It's just my job" doesn't cover rudeness. Maybe a shot into her neck would, however. Oh my, did I just say that? I do declare!!!...

Indian Sari Patio Upholstery

2009-06-23T14:21:00.002-04:00

I am ashamed to say that I have not kept in touch with my family as best I should. All of my siblings live in different places. My sister Trisha, nine years my senior, lives in California. Shawn is in California too. Cindy is in Destin. Shawn is 7 and Cindy is 5 years older than me. Yes, I am The Baby of the family. Oddly enough, all of our life circumstances have spread us out and made it difficult to maintain communication. The Internet has the capability to reconnect in a big way, but alas, I am the only one online. I gave my oldest sister a tongue-lashing about this because I know more about what my nephew's latest college antics look like than her thanks to Facebook.

When any of us get together, there is an interesting chemistry that instantly brings us together. It seems that sharing the same parents breeds a sort of familiarity in our existences. My sisters and I all have high creative energy that has surfaced in many different ways. I have to say that, Trisha, however, has the most. I found out last night that she found it necessary to reupholster her patio furniture with Indian Saris. She said, "I know they won't last very long, but they are so beautiful in the light." She will do anything to improve, change or redirect her life, even if it's temporary.

We all do this. A small change in our environment brings great peace to our souls. I guess some people like things to stay the same in order to feel in control. We would rather upset the apple cart somewhere just to prove to ourselves we have the right to do so. I hang stuff on my kitchen walls. Trish paints or covers a piece of furniture. Cindy does framing design for a local art dealer. We have to get it out. The itch of change always comes back. We scratch, feel better then, wait for another bite to do something.

It is irritating to feel like we NEED to do something. The satisfaction in visually seeing our urges manifest themselves soothes like a balmy salve. It is coated over and protected until its protection fades. If wondering why we do things like this is perplexing, you simply do not understand. If you are nodding your head with us in unison, there is no wonder why items get rearranged, things get shaken up or simply "renovated" for our scratching pleasure. Re-doing, un-doing, and moving makes change happen in every arena of life. Some do it out of frustration, we do it out of inspiration.

Laundry Triage: When to say "CLEAR" and when to get a Band-Aid

2009-05-24T20:37:00.003-04:00

The laundry piling on my ping-pong table breeds as I sit. I'm not sure why I despise laundry so much. I have some funny ways of dealing with my distaste, however. On the best of days, only at least 4 in the last year, all the laundry in my house of 6 people is clean, dry, folded and put away. Most days there are several piles in various stages of completion or disarray scattered about the house. I have often said if I ever won the lottery, or if I was granted one wish, it would be being free from this seemingly important but boring task.

Every now and then, I get some sort of sense of accomplishment. I often think of what Erma Bombeck wrote regarding doing housework while one has small children, "It's like shoveling snow in the middle of a blizzard". The falling of the socks, undies and jeans never ends and takes over any space it weasels into. You name it, I have tried it, when it comes to methods of doing laundry. Everyone seems to have their idea of what is most effective and proper. I change my attack of the piles almost weekly.

There is the "Wash Day" scenario. It goes something like this: let all the laundry accumulate over a fixed period of time, usually 7 days, hence "Monday" could always be named "Wash Day". On the designated "day", the concept is to complete the entire task of laundering everything and starting fresh the following day. I would love to see this work for me. My mother did this on Saturdays growing up. I have interesting memories of going to the apartment complex laundry facility. We would load up 4 or 5 machines with clothes and quarters, fold everything and put it away. When I try to do this with one machine in one day, I would literally have to start at 6:00 A.M. and wash, dry, fold on the hour until 10:00 P.M. to do such things.

The "Wash Everyday No Matter What" method requires the arduous task of ignoring the idiosyncrasies of life in order to complete 2 loads. I simply am not that committed. I can commit to my husband in marriage, raising my kids and Jesus, but not to this concept. The trap of constantly being disappointed in myself for not carrying out the goal I run far, far from at this point in my life.

I have categorized laundry piles on various groups. Sometimes, I just get one person's stuff done. That way I only have to go to one location to put everything away. Going from room to room placing laundry in drawers and cubbies just makes my skin crawl. I don't know why. I also don't know how some people seem to never have this problem.

It is a mystery of cosmic proportions how my "clean gene" buddies do this. I find it utterly fascinating to view there small piles on the dryer of only one load's worth of clothes ready to place in their homes. Do they do this in their sleep? Maybe they have a fairy that comes out of the walls to strategically place everything neatly into stacks of fresh smelling folded-while-still-warm bundles. I want to see this chick if she ever shows up.

On a positive note, I have found one aspect of laundry I DO like: A load of nothing but white towels washed in hot water with Gain detergent and Downy Fabric Softener tumbled on High Heat. The state of the universe seems to be under control when I manage a beautiful tower of triple-folded fluffy towels. Maybe I should work in a hotel. Oh, wait a minute. I sort of do already. Six people, including 2 athletic teenage boys and the other 2 kids in school uniforms, who produce 2 jumbo loads a day plus towels and sheets for the week rival any bed and breakfast I know.

Performing "Laundry Triage" as in an ER seems to be the best method for me. What needs to be done, right now or doing the "chest pain and bleeding from the jugular" loads first tends to get rid of children's anxiety and my guilt. School pants, underwear and socks get priority over my nightgowns or kitchen towels. Once those things are done I feel I can admit the sheets and occasional stuffed animal into the laundry hospital. They don't require so much specialist consultations as the soccer uniform that has to be available by 7:30 the next morning for that night's game. Crazy thinking, huh?

Like I said, when the lottery ticket I buy succeeds at beating the odds, I will gladly pay a handsome salary to any lovely person willing to free me from this burden. It may seem like nothing to most people, but for me it is as big as any looming storm waiting to pour on my laundry room floor.

A Mercy Cleaning

2009-05-15T14:29:00.002-04:00

Today I decided to do a "mercy cleaning" of my 9 year old daughter's room. She completely inherited my strong desire to collect random objects as well as rearranging her room. Every month or so, she moves EVERYTHING around in her room. Her bed finds a new wall, she creates a little reading nook out of a bookcase and chair, or just decides to take her bed apart and put the frame in the hall. I understand. I do it too. For others it may seem irrational to do such things to one's surroundings. Actually it is the mind cleansing effect of an hour of meditation for those who crave this type of activity.

Power, lots of it, comes over me and my daughter when we decorate, change or reinvent a space. A notebook or purse are good fodder for this hunger, too. With markers and white-out used as paint, she transformed many a paper victim into personalized stationary with her name emblazoned across the front cover or binding. It's like she's saying, "It's mine. Don't touch. You can't do anything about it now, my name is on it." As soon as she was able to write her name she found this stroke of pen/marker/pencil power. It just cracked me up that she finds it necessary to place her moniker on everything from a small jewelry box bottom to a bottle of soap in her bathroom. Who else would own the Hello Kitty soap in the house?

I'm not sure how she is going to react when she gets home from school. I have one of two predictions: 1) sheer delight in seeing all the colored pencils together in a container with fresh paper beside, or 2) horror at the disappearance of her pink, patent leather Disney Princess fanny pack that hasn't been used since she was 5.

I am hoping she will so delighted at all of her small purses together in a basket and her young girl fiction lined up on the bookshelf, she will resist the urge to look for anything. Wish me luck. Otherwise, I may have to come up with an alibi.

Throwing Boston Cream Donuts

2009-05-02T16:08:00.002-04:00

How effective can I be when I am in pain? Get a violin and a bow and please prepare to here a little whining. The following represents just a small sampling of the physical pain I have experienced: migraine headaches, menstrual troubles of every sort, pregnancy, childbirth, breast infections, wisdom tooth extractions, burned hand, stitches in my lip, broken toe. Currently, my lower back has decided to remain in a sort of constant state of irritation.

It's behaving as if its been ignored and just keeps whining, "Hey, remember me? I still hurt, you know. Oh, you want to ignore me?

I don't think so lady. Here, have a nice sharp twinge down your leg.

You say you want to sleep? Sleep! But, I need you to at least notice me....See....everytime you roll over I think I'll just say 'Hello' with a little kick in your lower back left quadrant.

Tylenol, Shmylenol...Why do you think people who have me in their life become drug seekers? I will not go silent. It'll take a real shot of nerve deafening narcotics to chill me out.

Huh? What do you mean you have to live life and not be on good drugs for me? I just don't think you understand how annoying I can be when I don't get what I need."

Yes, it is as if I am having a conversation with my back. It's not like I can give it a time-out like my kids. I can't erase it like a chalkboard or say, "Shoo" like it's a fly in the kitchen. It feels like an old female relative that just won't shut up until I sit down plop my elbow down on the table with my chin in my hand and say "You don't say....Tell me more about how you are doing.....", until she finally realizes an hour has past. I mean it's going to hurt anyway, I might as well just try and do something else. Like write for instance.

Writing has a way of bringing out some interesting thoughts and trends in my thinking. Who knew I would give my lower back pain a personality. Personification at least makes it something I can deal with easier than just neurons firing off pain messages to my brain. I don't like pain messages. I also don't like that medical people call them "messages" or talk about the "pain center" in the brain. That sounds so simple. Just close the center and erase the messages.

I think I am going to re-name the pain center of my brain. If it is the center of something, maybe I'll just choose to think of it as the center of a Boston Cream donut or a Tootsie-Pop. Maybe then when the "messages" arrive from my head or back they will actually be met with a lovely prize of gooey bliss instead of a retaliation of pain thrown back to the malfunctioning part producing it.

Slinging vanilla cream or chewy chocolate at pain will surely distract it or make it less mean and nasty. I know it works very well on whining children, why not whining muscles? However, remember what happens when you run out of lollipops or pastries: the kid will just start throwing a tantrum again. Sooner or later you have to figure out why the tears showed up in the first place. I will at some point realize my abs are so weak, my back hurts; the unmanaged stress in my life spawns my migraines. Until then, Dunkin Donuts doesn't close until 9 PM and the candy aisle at Wal-Mart is open 24/7. Sue me.

A 360 Degree Mirror In My Bra And Underwear-vs- Financial Meeting: I'll Take The Former

2009-04-28T08:10:00.003-04:00

In the area of Personal Finances, my experiences vary from over-confidence to utter doom. My mother worked at many banking establishments over the course of my childhood. She was a teller in the lobby, the drive-thru, a new accounts representative and a switchboard operator/safety deposit clerk. She even was one of the first people to learn about ATM machines, service them and show customers how to use them. With all this banking knowledge in my upbringing one would think that I would have a strong grasp of how to perform everyday, adult transactions and maintain accounts. I even worked at a bank as my first job out of college as a Customer Service Representative. Oh, but reality has nothing to do with how much exposure I had to this subculture of fiscal responsibility.

I had a checking account as a teenager and my mother taught me how to balance it. She must have said a million times, "Make sure you balance your statement as soon as it comes in the mail," and "Always remember to write down every check you write in your register". Like Charlie Brown most of the time I heard, "Waawa, waawa, wawa..." I had a difficult time remembering to carry my checkbook on me in my purse, or even the purse for that matter. Sometimes I would do a good job. Most of the time my mind would do the trick of convincing me that I had such a transcendent memory that I could recreate every consumer purchase later when I got home or even weeks later. I fell for that trick more often than not.

My memory is fabulous for important and vital information I feel necessary to retain for later experiences. For example, I love listening to people talk about their wishes or items they collect so that when Christmas rolls around I instinctively remember that I can get just the right gift to tell them how much I care. That aspect of my memory I am proud of sharing. I love remembering things my children have said to me during their most intimate moments. Paint color names, restaurant names, peoples' previous occupations or what I was wearing when I kissed my husband for the first time are examples of what I consider vital information.

Vital information in the personal finance world consists of thousands of minuscule numeric facts compounded together to form a melange of meaningless facts that don't satisfy my need to feel a particular positive emotion. I have often wondered why the entire world doesn't just "round off" EVERYTHING. If someone in the Accounting field heard that they would surely think I committed some sort of sin of omission. Not knowing the exact amount of everything is tantamount to heresy and possible failure as a responsible adult.

Then, one has what is referred to a "Come to Jesus" meeting with someone in the financial world. For me, I would almost feel more comfortable in my bra and underwear within a fluorescent lit 360 degree mirror. At least I could choose the color of my ensemble!

Over the years since college I have tried every "system" or "software" known to procure this talent of assembling numbers for examination. From the paper and pencil check register in school to elaborate corporate Quickbooks software for a medical practice. My conclusion: personal finance management has to be exactly that: personal.

Personal financial management has plagued me over the last 15 years or so as the least successful part of my life. It is at the very least the place where I have the most anxiety and feelings of lack of control. It is my monster in the closet, the beast at the top of the mountain or the lion in the dark den. Every weapon I chose has succeeded then ultimately failed because of my lack of confidence using it. To lunge a tedious transaction loading process of Quicken or the deluge of meticulous filing of receipts at these enemies proved futile. It always wins, at the cost of my self-image.

Should my self-image be defined by these battles I would surely lose. Through multiple trial and error tactics I have learned that my strengths can be called upon in this area of my life, however. The biggest hurdle was somehow thinking I was going to fit into someone else's definition of "responsible" and "successful" with regard to financial matters. Defining my own realistic goals, finding good help and advice and maximizing my own strengths enabled me to feel much more competent. After all, who can define how I want to live and be better than me?

Well, God does. Thank goodness. He has actually provided a wonderful framework for how one must view themselves through not what they can do, but rather who they are as a loved creation in Him. These lofty thoughts do apply here in my life because they center on the principle of "God doesn't make junk". I just have to muster up the faith to hold this true.

Does God help me with self-acceptance? You betcha. Even in this area of my earthly existence? Yep, once again. Faith, hope and love all apply here and everywhere we search to find ourselves. God has always had us. He wants us find out what He already knows: our relevance was declared on the cross, not on any Balance Sheet.

24 Hours Notice or None: Your choice.

2009-04-26T07:18:00.003-04:00

Someone once said, "If you would like to see me, come over any time. If you want to see my house, give me 24 hours notice." I have adopted this phrase much to the chagrin of many women who would shutter to imagine company just showing up unannounced. However, it makes a fundamental difference in how we perceive our worth as women, if you really think about it. To be valued as someone worth seeking out solely for their company, to not allow oneself to be judged on the basis of a societal misconception that the state of a woman's home represents the value of her as a person: these concepts are very liberating. Aren't all of us pleased when someone just wants to spend time with us?

I have a handful of people in my life that I can state my case to and know that they will still want to spend time with me. I elevate them in my mind to be folks of true love and mercy. They knock on the door or call up around the corner and Voila! They're here. However, this is what they do when they come inside my home. The kitchen draws us in and we either sit or stand in there talking about whatever. They make complete eye-contact, they ask questions, I answer and vice-versa. The topics usually revolve around me personally, then move to the kids and then to more global ones, like politics, etc. Somehow beverages get served, we sit down somewhere else for a while and then we part ways.

A lovely visit from a friend leaves you feeling refreshing, listened to, indulged and rescued from your usual routine. On the contrary, someone with different intentions during the same interaction can produce a dramitcally different response. Sometimes they don't even realize what they are doing or saying. They enter the house with their eyes darting in every which direction, scanning the surroundings and determining whether they approve. The topics of conversation revolve mostly around them and how they cope with whatever problem they think you need help with, OBVIOUSLY. By the time you have completed your excuses as to why certain things are the way they are in your home, "Well, I just decided the laundry would have to wait today because I thought I would rather do XYZ......", I feel like a witch in Salem on trial for having red hair. My own natural state is not good enough to warrant worth and value. I surely need to fix something to become significant.

I thank God that He doesn't see me in such a fashion. Even if the whole world decides my worth based on earthly things, He simply loves unconditionally. Just by having a soul, a presence and a life, He holds me close to his heart and never wavers from me. Wondering if God loves me has never really crossed my mind. I have understood that fact from early on and depended on His caring through anything and everything in life. God's love is automatic, warm, all-embracing, settling and calming. The knowing of His existence and the feeling of His love pours out in unmeasurable quantities forever because of Jesus.

What does all this have to do with me? As a woman? I only have to rely on His view of me instead of others' to define my worth. I was worth enough for a cross. That's all I need. If Jesus dropped in my house, I do believe He would hug me, listen to me and be willing to take what I have to offer Him.

Healing Silence

2009-04-07T10:03:00.002-04:00

Taking a vacation with my family can be such an adventure as well as a test in agility. Bouncing from activity to activity takes balance and control. It can even be more fun when you have no idea what's going to happen. Road trips in a mini-van with six people give new meaning to the word acoustical sound management. Confined small spaces and unusually loud voices produce earth shaking shrieking tones. It's as if I had no idea how brain rattling these experiences can be.

Noise, on so many different levels, can change the perception of the world around me. Nails on a chalkboard, tires screeching, or high pitched bird calls send me to the moon. The equivalent of all of these sudden sounds can be small, inconsequential ones made on a continuous basis for hours. They wear away at my patience and stamina. The phrase "Silence is golden" embodies how soothing quiet is to my soul.

Quiet time to most is spiritual time. To me, it is healing time. My neurons quit firing for one flipping minute. I never realized this until all my lovely, beautiful children started attending school. Constant chatter and noise grates my nerves, not my character as a mother. I sometimes even recommend to new moms I meet to use earplugs when the crying of their babies no longer produce sympathy, but eye-twitching. There is nothing inherently wrong with realizing one's noise tolerance.

To seek solitude and quiet is not a selfish act. I need this like some need chocolate or alcohol. I feel refreshed and rested. My mind and body refuels and I am able to perform my responsibilities better. Thank God for silence. The absence of sound frees up otherwise imprisoned spaces in my mind. The new found peace allows me to understand myself and interpret my surroundings in a much more positive way.

Losing Keys Does Not Equal Moral Failure

2009-03-27T19:47:00.002-04:00

My husband lost his keys. Big Whoop. There have been so many times that we have both been through such a circumstance, but it doesn't seem to lose its sting. I have never been able to figure out why our society places so much value on such incidental tasks. The task of placing your keys in the same place every time you walk in the house, everyday, all year, all life long somehow takes on a reflection of our personal character or intelligence . Anthropologically speaking, a repetitive behavior performed by an organism is not exactly high order thinking. Yet, for those of us who manage to miss this tincey-wincey detail of life on any given day of our lives, it becomes the FOCUS of our feelings about ourselves and others.

Suddenly, key placement becomes some indicator of acumen or IQ. I propose that this is false. For once and for all I would like to clear up a few fallacies: finding one's keys, wallet, shoes, purse, watch, phone or any ITEM for that matter, does not qualify as high order brain function. It only demonstrates the placement of matter in the universe. I hold dearly and much highly the following brain activities: empathy, passion, reverence and critical moral judgement of right and wrong. These take real character and strength. These require choice, divine intelligence.

Ben lost his key for the most loving of reasons. He was in a hurry. A hurry to play with our son. He came out of his truck, did not even stop to go inside the house, put his keys where only St. Anthony knows and played football with a 5 1/2 year old. Keys? What keys? Luke doesn't care. I don't care. However, some people would wonder why someone so "smart" would lose something so essential to life. They are keys to a truck, not the universe, last I checked.

Life to me, does not depend of the irrelevance of items in our lives. Relationship with people, communion with other souls, especially my children and husband, maintain the most prominent preoccupation of my mind. I'll count those functions of my thoughts and actions as the highest.

A Spell

2009-03-25T21:24:00.003-04:00

"Be patient with yourself... be patient with yourself." These words were my mantra for a few days this week. One of issues that surfaces with ADHD and adult women can be an overwhelming feeling of fatigue. Everyday life, mine happens to be full of kids and a husband with a demanding job, overstimulates me to a point of collapse. A Southern term would be "a spell", as in, " she's just havin' a spell." While this statement can be used to describe sickness, rage or mental exhaustion, I use it for myself in the context that it is, indeed, a temporary time of uselessness.

My spell began one night when I stayed up way too late, had a busy next day and later felt everything hit me at once. I know racing thoughts are part of so many other mind conditions, but these are different. Thoughts come fast, but the body can't respond quick enough. I think it was Hallowell that said something about ADHD being like having a Ferrari engine in a Volkswagen Beetle frame, or something along that line. Sooner or later, the engine will burn out the limits of its container. I do feel my mind has great influence over my physical being. "Being patient with myself" during a "spell" involves knowing a key concept: it is temporary. Ride it out. Stay the course. Look forward to feeling a bit better soon.

I took a little time to just allow the overwhelming feelings of life to happen, and then to wave them farewell. If it happens again, I'll grab my Scarlet O'Hara dress, a lace fan and sit "a spell".

2009-03-17T11:40:00.002-04:00

What exactly constitutes messy? Messy means different things. It depends on the object being described. A Messy Purse, for example, feels like a endless black hole filled with non-essentials. Finding an item is futile; finding it quickly- an impossibility. The sheer number of things in the purse can preclude it to become unusable. Constant deposits and no withdrawals produce bulging pockets and strained closures. The basics of car keys, money and lipstick (yes, I said lipstick) get lost among the paper wrappers of snacks gone by and items held hostage for other people. Does anyone ever want to find something SLOWLY. I gather not. When I want my keys, I want them now. When I need money, I need it now. Lipstick gains a great importance when it is the one thing standing between you looking like you have a pulse or belonging in a morgue. All pale, excuse me, fair complected women know what I'm talking about. Lipstick finding can be facilitated by the container shape which it is housed. Ridges, angles and length of instrument differentiates it immediately from the pen or pencil.

Other parts of my life become messy. Messy rooms and messy cars are way too obvious of an example. I would like to present the messy mind. Again, too many deposits of information and not enough withdrawals of quiet time. Straightening up the mind is a far more difficult task than dumping out a purse. We all know how to clean a PURSE--simply find the largest horizontal surface around and proceed to empty its contents. How do we do that with our minds?

I have found a couple of ways that help Spring Clean my psyche. One of my favorites uses a large stack of Post-Its and a wall or kitchen cabinet. Free association or stream-of-consciousness thinking takes place with one idea, thought, irritation, or item on each little paper. Peel it off and stick it up. On to the next one, until the mind is clear. I have been known to use 60-70 Post-Its at a session of such purging. However, like dots on a map, stepping back from them when completed creates a picture, a big picture, of what is really going on up there. Is there a theme of anxiety? Excitement? Information needing? Such concepts can only be judged by what seems to be occupying the most space.

An anxiety grouping will usually be full of "To Do"s. If there are tons of questions on the same topic, maybe these need to get answered before a big decision can be completed. Learning to read my own mind and gather my thoughts has never been a passive process. I don't have a passive mind. The only time it is quiet is when it is empty. Although when empty, it tends to wander gathering more for the next time.

Joy Rides with the Latchkey Martha Stewart of the 1970's

2009-03-11T21:55:00.002-04:00

As a little girl, I really believed I could do anything. My mother told me so, therefore it was the Gospel Truth. Living with a single mother allowed me to understand there were no boundaries of what was realistic for a girl to do or what men typically do. There was no man of the house--just us girls. Putting together furniture and anything else that came in a box always challenged me. The finished product provided affirmation that, indeed, we could do anything.

Would it have been nice to have a burly guy around to do the grunt work? Sure, but the camaraderie which surfaced while building, fixing and doing cemented us together. Glue stuck us together because we KNEW we could. I didn't realize that other people didn't do everything themselves. Maintenance people, cleaning people, accountants, lawyers, helpers of any kind simply were not within our economic means. We were all of those professionals, all of the time.

My mother instilled a good professional foundation with dealing with the public on several levels with me. If there was a question to be answered, there was always someone a phone call away who could answer it. I once asked if Sears carried the same kind of roller skates in the store as they did in the catalog. She said, "Give the store a call and find out for yourself." So, with phone book in hand and no question of whether a small child should or could do so, I called and found out the answer to my query.

Yes, the white leather roller skates with the translucent red wheels are available at the store.

Hallelujah.

Amen.

Affirmation of one of my deepest childhood desires satisfied in an one act of inquisitive lust.

Later, as a mother of young children I commented on my mother's willingness to let me do this sort of act of confirmation. She then decided to let me in on a secret.

"You know why I let you make so many phone calls, don't you?", she asked.

"You were trying to build self-confidence?", I said.

"No, you had that. I just didn't want to make them myself. You were much more extroverted than me," she revealed.

She explained that I was different. Different from her and others by my being so "out there". Extroversion is either something you are or something you were not prescribed. I consider it a gift, although it has gotten me into quite a bit of trouble over the years of interjecting my precocious self into others' lives. As a kindergartner, I told the teacher I wanted to start "reading that blue book that she is over there". She obliged probably more to shut me up than to cure any academic curiosity. The doll Chatty Cathy came out in the 60's and I was referred to as her more often than I care to think.

My early grades of elementary school were interesting. At home, I was greeted by my sister, Cindy, who was in charge of me until Mom got home from work. I have to give her credit; by the age of 10 she could tend to Chatty Cathy and start dinner for all of us. Latchkey Martha Stewart she was. It's no wonder by 12 things got a little crazy for her, dealing with me after school probably led her to a serious case of 'let-me-outa-here-itis". Didn't everybody's 12 1/2 year old sister take the orange Datsun station wagon out for a spin when Mom was on a date? Cindy would just tell me to get my blanket and we were "going for a ride". Yippee!

Those rides came to a screeching halt when Cindy was pulled over, not for driving badly, but for the cop not seeing her behind the wheel. My mother was brought before a judge and scolded for, I guess, not having a miracle twin to watch her kids in the afternoon while she worked. The irony is crazy. She didn't get help, just finger-wagged. Somehow, we managed to survive until Mom got home. Those afternoons sometimes got scary for me. Cindy catapulted into a place she proved not able to escape from for many, many years.

I, on the other hand, tried hard to live up to my mother's expectations of greatness. School was ridiculously easy. In the fourth grade, I got "tested". I remember my mother taking me to this place where someone asked me a ton of questions and I put blocks together that had different colored triangles on each side of the cube. I was asked to copy a shape built with them using the colors to form the picture. Then, they delivered news to Mom she already knew. I was "gifted". Funny, I didn't FEEL gifted. I was just quick and bored. However, this gave me the right to get on a special bus, once a week and leave my regular school and go to The Learning Center.

The Learning Center broke any boredom I ever had in school. There, I would experiment with photography, complex group problem solving, social science issues and discover why a prism produced a rainbow. We chose our course work like college classes and experienced learning on a level that was friendly to our souls. I was the only fourth grader out of my class, though. The other girls in the class did not take kindly to me receiving special treatment. I didn't care for their special treatment of me after that either.

Girls do not respond well to others they see as different or as a threat. Their claws come out and the teeth get sharper. When you are their prey, you feel every puncture deeply and emotionally, as if they did rip you to shreds. Learning to deal with mean girls is one life lesson I wish we all didn't have to go through, but unfortunately it is inevitable. Different means unacceptable in the world of mean girls. Smart means stuck-up. Talent means you're getting served up as a savory meal of for their insecurities to feed upon.

Pop-Tarts In the Corner

2009-03-09T09:23:00.003-04:00

We all inherit genetic traits from our mother and father. Without going into too much detail, I am fairly certain, I present a good mix. My father probably exhibits more of what would be considered classic ADD/ADHD traits, whereas my mother, not so much. It served me well as an infant to have a non-ADDer for a mother. I was a "high need" baby. Holding and rocking seemed to be most of what my mom did with me. Thank God, she was willing to walk the floors at night. Her persistence in soothing me paid off in spades. Kudos for my mom in doing this for me and showing me how to do it for my own babies.

Circumstances ensued for my mother and I during my childhood that precluded her to be a divorced, full-time, work-out-of-the-home, pseudo-career woman of the mid 1970's. Her heart would have been much more content as a stay-at-home, cookie-baking and apron-wearing mom. The choice was not hers, at the time. She became the provider as well as the mom. I was 2 or 3. My siblings were 9,7 and 5 years older than me, respectively. Although not all of us lived with her at any single time, she was stretched.

Working at a bank meant she had school holidays off. It also meant I had to go to daycare. We were not together during the day from 9 to 5 so my dear mother had a way of compensating for the time lost. She would keep me up late, much beyond a "normal" bedtime for a 3-5 year old so she could spend time with me. I also got to sleep quite often in her bed of cool, pink satin sheets. A 10 P.M. bedtime produced a rather inconvenient affect in the morning. She needed to get to work on time, I was so sleepy I was impossible to get ready for daycare.

Having "thrown away the book", as she called it, Mom made up her own new rules for mothering now. Her needs were different and so were mine. I really enjoyed staying up late; it was the most alert time for me as a little girl. She needed to spend missed time with me because I was in daycare. To compensate for all of this a system, of sorts, evolved:

My hair: instead of fussing with it in the morning, mom would put my long, wavy blonde hair in a high bun on the top of my head securing it with bobby pins at night after my bath. I woke up with the loveliest tendrils of spun gold around my face and nothing left to do.
My clothes: instead of the traditional method of sleeping in actual pajamas, comfortable play clothes for the next day functioned just dandy.
My breakfast: a Pop-Tart, placed by my side, while I was still sleeping after being dropped at the TLC Daycare Center. The directors showed great flexibility and compassion by allowing me a little "wake up spot" in the corner. Mom would literally scoop me out of bed, bring me to daycare, with breakfast in tow ( fully dressed and coiffed mind you), and proceed to work.
I woke up around 10 A.M., ate breakfast, brushed my teeth and joined the other kids.

Some would call this routine inappropriate. I call it loving. She met all needs, her own and mine. I am so proud of her to this day. I am glad she "threw away the book". I don't know what book that was, but I think it may have been the one that told her mothering came in one shape, color and appropriate portion. Her portion of love was much larger and deeper than any "book" could contain. Her kind of love came from sharing her life and time, nurturing me, just as I was. To this present day, when I lay on her bed pillows and smell perfume, bath powder and hair spray, it transcendeds me back to the most cherished time of my childhood.

How messy is my purse?

2009-03-08T20:40:00.002-04:00

Purses represent so much in my life. They are small microscopes into the world of my mind. What do I think is so important I am willing to carry it where ever I go? The manner in which I do so show my interests and distastes. Prepared for multiple situations and scenarios I am capable of feeding, scheduling , grooming and fixing myself. The actual container varies in capacity and style. From the basic to the sublime, the purse functions better than other piece in my life.

As a young girl, a purse meant I was a woman, or maybe it was just Easter. Easter seemed to be the one time that white patent leather clutches made sense in your wardrobe. From ages six to ten, I tended to carry the oddest of things: coins, gum, hairbands, a small pad of paper, colorful pencils and pens, and that bracelet from my Mom's junk jewelry collection. One purse became my favorite. We all had one. Mine was a navy blue corduroy top-handle model. It had a faux tortoise handle with a cool latch that kept it closed. The ripples of the chenille threads agianst my fingers kept me busy in church and I loved the sound the clasp made when I closed it. Not much would fit into it, therefore, it was abandoned soon for one worthy of more treasures. There was the tapestry paisley over-the-shoulder, the backpack from Laura Ashley with pink rosebuds, and the list continues.

All of these totes had one thing in common, they were always a mess. Hence, I was indeed a Messy Purse Girl.

2009-03-07T21:30:00.002-05:00

Get the mop and clean up the puddle! My dinner plan was successful, for myself at least. Not one person at the table noticed anything. I, however, went quickly to the bathtub and locked the door. I denied several entry requests and proceeded to indulge.

How thankful I am for this strange day. Bad things: none to report. Good: plenty.

2009-03-07T10:26:00.002-05:00

I woke up to dishes crawling out the sides of my kitchen table and sink. They have accumulated for the last 24 hours with no attention due to various factors. It started with dinner dishes from the night before (actually the night before the night before). After dinner with my family, I usually feel a "great sucking sound" (Ross Perot anyone?) in my brain removing any energy I had before the meal. My tummy is full, my kids and husband are looking at me and then, there it goes. Whooosh.........

I generally have enough push to do a little, but if I was true to my nature: I would melt into the sofa. I am going to work BACKWARDS today. Starting with the goal in mind: melting into the sofa at 7:30. Wish me luck. Here's the plan:

-Get the dishes for dinner next to the table for the whole meal: 6 plates, 6 forks, 6 glasses.....etc. I am going to put them in the middle of the table, now (10:33 AM).

-Prep the stuff to put on the table to go with dinner. Tonight: Soy Sauce.

-Pull together in one spot the stuff I am going to use to cook in the Fridge.

-Crock-Pot the Whole Chicken for the day, now. It is cheap and really juicy.

-Clean the kitchen so I don't have to look at hardly anything after dinner. Hence, the other people that participate in the meal will not simply add to the already existing pile thinking I won't notice.

I remember when I used to work in restaurants as a teenager in Destin. The first part of the shift was to prepare for the rush. Table set ups, bussing station set ups, silverware set ups. Slicing the lemons for iced tea, making sure the dressings were ready. Applying a little of this to my family life might actually work.

I am always trying to rethink how to do things around my life to fit better with my natural tendencies. "Square peg in the round hole" syndrome hits me way too many times to count. I have the choice to pick the kind of hole I am going to place myself. I can choose the shape, size and even color of the hole! Whatever works. Whatever accomplishes a sense of fit. Or, the square corners of my peg will continue to fight for space in a round world. Oh no, no, no. I can make my surroundings ever so Kathyish. The question of fit will disappear. Amen?Amen.

Clearly, the "cook dinner, eat dinner, do the dishes, wipe the counters, sweep the floor, mop the floor" routine is not working for me. At least this week. It might next week, though! Oh the unpredictability of what I will find novel. It is a mystery.

I'll let you know about the reverse order of dinner. I'll hopefully be in such a puddle on the couch that I cannot fathom blogging at 7:30.

Peace,

Kathy

OK, Here I go....

2009-03-06T20:26:00.002-05:00

This is the first attempt to publish a blog of my own. Why am I doing this? In one short answer: only God knows. Somehow, someway, I am here, doing this for someone, somewhere. I hope to show humor, encouragement and an interesting perspective on women and girls who have "the gift". ADHD/ADD, as defined, sometimes places women where they fit, finally. I am here to tell everyone that being a woman, wife and mother with ADHD/ADD can be an attribute worth celebrating.

My prayer:

God, guide me.

Amen