Seven a Day

I've been stuck for an idea to blog.  It's not that nothing happens around here--quite the opposite.  I'm busy.  But a lot of it is mundane or just not funny enough to tell the world about.

So, this is a bit of a stretch, but, last time I was home for maternity leave (which was quite a while ago), I had the opportunity to once again agonize over the fare of daytime television in my area.  Daytime television is the only thing that makes sense of the phenomenon I experience at work of people coming in wanting as if with their dying breath to become a massage therapist, an aesthetician, or a paralegal.  Aha!  I see.  Their minds have been taken over by the repetitive brainwashing of these mindless commercials that convince them that Easy Street is only a signature (of their life) away.

I have nothing against massage therapists, aestheticians, or paralegals.  If only there were jobs for the masses who train in these fields, though!

I also got my fill of court TV shows.  These are most interesting as studies not so much of the law, but of human behavior.

One show in particular from that time period sticks out in my mind.  It must have been a divorce court type show, because the poor female plaintiff really had her hands full, not so much with the idiot she'd married, but with his mother!  Even though her husband must have been at least 35 years old, his mother jumped in to answer every question for him, whether or not the judge allowed her to.  And what answers!  Even if he'd been Prince Charming, I would have wanted a divorce just to get away from that MIL.  My husband and I must have looked at each other with raised eyebrows more during that half hour than we have in all the rest of our married life added up.

The MIL complained that the house was a mess.  The wife tried to explain to the court why.  She made efforts in the house, yes, but her husband was a pack rat, and she spent most of her time supporting him.  It seems that, even though he was home all day, she couldn't get him to help with the housework. 

"That's not true!" the MIL exploded, with the husband faintly echoing her.  He stated for the benefit of the court, and his wife, and us, that he had actually made a promise to do a certain number of dishes every day until they were caught up.  He'd written it down like a contract, and his wife knew it!

"Yes," she said, as calmly as she could.  "Please tell the judge how many dishes you said you would do."

Into the microphone, he said in a low voice, "Seven."

My husband and I shot our eyebrows up at each other.  Then hooted.  Seven dishes a day until they caught up! 

This has become a favorite family joke at our house.  Sometimes, the children try to figure out just how many dishes the seven of us use during one meal, let alone a day.  As they navigate this story problem, I hear things like, "Even if we fasted two meals and then had pizza for dinner, there would be seven plates PLUS seven glasses."

I don't know if others use ridiculous people and stories to teach their children values, or if that's solely my parenting style alone.  But they did learn this lesson.

Last night, I came home late from a special dinner at my church, my fifth turkey and mashed potatoes meal in three days.  This is because, due to a death in my husband's extended family, we ended up traveling on Thanksgiving Day, and held our "Thanksgiving dinner" this Sunday.  The week of Thanksgiving is always a challenge for me, because I try to go light on carbs.  There is no such thing as light on carbs when your entire meal is white, and there are leftovers for several more meals.  And then, there's the pie.  I mean, pies.  We had five, for the seven of us.  My husband made the traditional pumpkin and his favorite pecan.  I made my mother's lemon meringue and the favorite of everyone but my husband--chocolate.  The lemon and the pumpkin recipes each made two pies.  We do this because he is not willing to give up pecan or pumpkin, and I am not willing to give up lemon or chocolate.  But, six pies for seven people is, um, yeah, a lot of pie. 

After that initial meal, I went to my closet and reordered all of my clothes--fattest to skinniest.

Which was an ingenious thing to do, actually. 

By the time I got home last night, after yet another day of lunch-and-dinner-mashed-potatoes-and-gravy, and, yes, pie for breakfast and dessert at the dinner, I was feeling it.  I wailed, "I've got to get to bed so I can get to the gym early tomorrow!  I'm too fat!"

My husband is not stupid.  He knows a cue for a husband line when he hears one. "No, you're not," he said automatically.

I looked at him.  I can't tell yet if losing my thyroid is impacting my weight, because, well, I'm still not quite up to my pre-surgery workout fervor, and, then, there's the pie.  But it's time to find out, so denial is not helpful.

"I've gained five pounds," I told him, then joked, "and I'm just going to keep eating seven desserts a day until I lose it!"

He smiled, and then he did help me.  "You could blog about that," he said.

Daily Blog Posts

So, one of my brothers let me know yesterday that he'd noticed I'd fallen down on the job.  He knew I'd spent the last week or so at home, so he asked where the "daily blog posts" were.  He may be my biggest fan.

My life has been interesting this past month--maybe both too interesting and too mundane to share.

Maybe it involved travel.  Maybe a move at work.  Maybe transportation problems.  Maybe health problems.  Maybe all or none of the above.

Maybe my brother really did just wonder if I was really okay following my surgery.  My husband had told him I was, and he was mostly accurate in his reports.  But my brother had searched for--and not found--me.  Maybe he's not so much a fan of my blog as he is of me.  That would be fine.

After all, I haven't really been home a whole week.  I spent some of it in the hospital.  And oh! What a hospital!  I'd tell you where it is, but you would all flock to it, volunteering to give up body parts just to get inside.  It's as nice inside as a good hotel.  The staff were all great--no Hitler nurses, like when I'd had my babies.  And the food!!!!

Anyone who reads me much knows that I am completely spoiled when it comes to the level of gourmet food I eat on a regular basis.  My husband could be a chef, but he's not, because, well, then he wouldn't cook for us.

My first mouthful of food at this hospital was divine!  Tomato basil soup.  To die for.  Well, to have one's thyroid out for, anyway.  My first spoonful filled me with the warm, heart-pounding, guilty feeling that I was cheating on my husband.  And the knowledge that he would probably forgive me, because he would probably consent to having something removed just so he could taste it, too.

How could a hospital soup be better than Paul's?  I didn't care.  I just savored each hot, sensuous mouthful until it was devoured.

And then ordered another one.

Yes!  You could order whatever you wanted!  Of course, you pay for it three days later when your bowel wakes up from the general.

But I digress.

So, I came through my surgery and early days of recovery like a rock star.  I told myself that my being in pretty good shape for a woman my age who needed her thyroid removed because it may or may not have had cancer in it was partly responsible.  I pat myself on the back whenever I can.

Then, Saturday afternoon, I suddenly became extremely ill.  I was home alone.  The family had gone to see a movie in order to be out of my hair.  After I'd cleaned up the bathroom and myself, I wondered just how much time I had left to live.  I immediately stopped all my extra medications, including those for pain and whatever was supposed to be "helping" my GI tract but wasn't.

Sometime in the next day or two, I decided living was still an option for me.

Yesterday, it was a big deal for me to just drive my children to school.  But I knew that if I was going to put my life back up on my back this week, I had to make myself start somewhere.  I wore my pajamas to do it, though.

And, today, I think I am "back."  Yes, I'm still somewhat weak and I have a lovely piece of dirty white tape across my neck--too high for my clothes to hide it and too low for my chin to hide it.  I've decided--I think--not to worry about it.  Stuff happens. I had my thyroid out.  So what?

Today, I put on actual gym clothes and actually went to my actual gym.  It was later than my usual workout hour, so I didn't see anyone I knew.  No one commented on the tape across my neck. My nephew's wife brought me some lovely scarves--which I will wear.  But, to the gym?  No. I did a few minutes of easy movement and went back home.

Today, I got on the scale.  No weight gain.  Woot!

Today, I picked up an orange out of the box and ate my usual breakfast for the first time in a week. 

Tomorrow, I will take on a bit more.  By next week, it should be business as usual.  I love scarves, but I hate stuff tight around my neck.  I may not even try very hard to hide my scar.  Or my tape.  I intend to go forward from here, and, well, just keep moving forward.

Next week, I will see my brothers.

And, maybe, someday, now, a doctor's report won't contain the sentence "She has a wide neck" randomly stuck somewhere in the notes.  Maybe it won't say, "She appears to be her stated age," which hurt even more.

And, maybe, someday, there will even be daily blog posts.

The Ludicrous Life of a Writer

So, Sunday morning, my husband came in to where I was reading the paper and picked up a different section and started reading alongside me. Co-reading of newspapers is something I highly recommend. You can learn twice as much stuff by listening to the other person's comments as you can when you are reading alone.

The first thing he mentioned was that a woman who had been doing a breast cancer walk had somehow ended up dangling from a bridge that had opened up. "Maybe breast cancer didn't seem like such a threat to her life anymore," I remarked.

He laughed, and then told me that it was Marie Osmond's birthday. "I came face to face with her once outside a restroom," I told him, "but she didn't recognize me."

This sent him into guffaws that lasted intermittently for a half hour.

I was pleased to have tickled his funny bone.

Until I found out why.

"It's just so ludicrous!" he snorted between gasps for air, a half-hour later.

Ludicrous.  Hmmphf!

Well, I'm a writer, and sometimes writers think--and do--funny things.

One night, I woke from an amazing dream that gave me a terrific idea for a blog.  The dream had unfolded in such a superb story-like manner that it would really be a shame to lose it when I fell back to sleep. I didn't trust myself to remember the dream in the morning, so I grabbed the paper nearest to me, which happened to be the newspaper section I had been working a Sudoku in when I fell asleep, and scribbled down the ideas in the margin.

A day or so later, I remembered that I had done this, and I looked for that newspaper.  It didn't take me long to realize that it had been taken out to the recycling bin. I recruited my husband to go out in the cold with me to dig into the four-and-a-half-foot rubber can to find the correct section.

"What are we looking for?" he asked.

"Handwriting in a margin--in the comic section.  It would be folded in quarters with the Sudoku showing."

Well, we pulled out and looked at every piece of newspaper in that can, and didn't find it.I looked a second time, just to be sure. Dismayed, I came back in and hunted through my nightstand again.

And, I found it.

A quarter-size section with handwriting scribbled in the margin next to the half-done Sudoku. Only problem was, the scribbling I'd done was just that--scribbing. I couldn't make anything out of it, and the dream and story and good idea were lost after all.

Fluttering

So, I was at a store, waiting in line for a cashier who kept saying, "I'm not a cashier," which did not much for my confidence in getting back to work before my lunch time ended. She was waiting on a couple--a handsome man leaning on a cane, and a hard-looking woman who clearly loved him.

Or, I should say, they were waiting on her, while she looked something up away from the counter. And waiting, and waiting, and waiting. I thought of giving up, but there wasn't another cash register on that floor, and two of my items did not have price tags, so I thought it would be prudent to be near where I had found them, instead of in a completely different department.

The man told his companion that he was going to finish his waiting in the car. She okayed this, but mentioned that she would like him to be careful on the escalator. She gave him another instruction, too, which I missed.

He smiled faintly and assured her that he would be careful. 

I felt sorry for both of them. More for him, because he was about sixty years too old to be bossed about how to get around, but, also for her, because she was so clearly afraid that he would fall, hurt himself, wrench her heart, and cost them another fortune in medical bills.

"Let me just help you get onto the escalator," she said, taking his arm.

"I'll be okay," he said.

I watched her struggle to accept this. He seemed capable and confident enough to me to find his way onto an escalator without risking life and limb.   Of course, if he fell and hurt himself, it wasn't going to wrench my heart or cost me a fortune.

I tried not to watch this, but I'm a writer.

He turned away to go, and she let him.

At first.

Then, she followed him, caught his arm, and helped him onto the escalator. I watched her watch him start down. She fluttered like a mother bird who'd just pushed out a hatchling. She jumped two seconds later, making me jump a bit, too. I imagine he had had some sort of tiny stumble that he had quickly righted, because she fluttered back to the counter. 

She thought better of that, though, and flew back over to the escalator to peer down it and make sure he got off okay at the bottom.

When she returned, I offered, "It's hard, isn't it?" But she didn't want to make conversation with me. Which was fine. Not about that, anyway.  She was soon complaining about the not-cashier, who had still not returned.

In the meantime, I stood there watching the back of her, wondering how often I flutter and boss and worry unnecessarily. I know I do--every time I ask my grown son to text me when he gets there because I know he is planning to drive across country all night, whenever I repeat to my daughter the rules for being out at night with friends, or when I remind my husband to do something I know darn well he already knows to do and probably didn't forget. 

I have spent three days wondering what, if any, good fluttering does. Did it keep the man safer? Probably not. Did it make her feel better? Probably not. Did it prove her love? Maybe. But, maybe the message he got from it was negative.Maybe, instead of thinking, "Oh, good, she loves me so much," he thought he wished she would stop fussing, would treat him like an adult, or something else.

Does my own type of fluttering do any good? I'm coming down on the side of: probably not.

The Colorblind Test

Okay. I have to start this article by stating upfront that a man who can cook like the man who cooked what I'm eating today can basically do no wrong.

But, he is slightly colorblind. The first time I noticed was shortly after our wedding. We were on a trip to see another wedding, and one of us mentioned something about a backpack worn by a person ahead of us in line. I called it dark green. He said it was black. I clarified that I meant that dark green one. "It's black," he told me.

"I mean that really, really dark green one." Then, I blurted out, "You really can't see that that's green!?"

The look on his face told me I'd pushed a sensitive subject too far. I soon learned that he wasn't colorblind.

But his mother was. He told me a story about how she had worn a certain outfit for years. She said it was blue, but it was actually periwinkle. So, he really wondered about her ability to see color.

Then came the day when I discovered that Paul couldn't tell the difference between my lavender scrubbie and his light blue scrubbie hanging in the shower. "Yours is on the left," I made sure he knew.

Other blue/lavender situations arose. Sometimes, he would take the objects in question over to look at them closely in better light. Sometimes, he would say, "Okay, I can see now that that's a little bit blue." Often, though, we just had to agree to disagree. He was so confident in his ability to see color well that he sometimes made me wonder about mine.

But, as a firstborn and an only son, he came by some measure of arrogance naturally.

After all, I couldn't see that band of green above the horizon that he often talked about. Nor could I see green in the gray and pink tiles in our bathroom. He once bought a gray shirt on sale, thinking it was green, and was disappointed when I told him it was gray. Later on, he would mystify the children by sending them around and around the house, looking for the "green recycling bin."

"What are you doing?" I would finally ask.

"Dad said to put this in the green bin."

I pointed to the gray one, and they would look at me, puzzled. "Don't worry about it," I'd say.

The clincher was when he took the main bathroom toilet outside in the sunlight to prove to the children that it was pink.

It wasn't, but we're still fighting about that one. We did used to have a pink toilet in that bathroom that matched the pink tub and pink sink. Hey, this house was built in the sixties--what can I say? But we replaced the toilet years ago. He doesn't remember that. Or, sometimes, he remembers that we replaced it with another pink toilet.

There was one time, when colorblindness charts were present at a doctor's office, when his confidence cracked a bit and he admitted he couldn't see all of the numbers in the bubbles.

But, overall, he's continued to insist that he can see colors correctly, and it was years before I could convince him to stop wearing a red and green floral tie with a blue and yellow striped shirt. "The tans match," he'd say.

Sometimes, he will ask me for help in choosing a tie. We usually get through this by my suggesting good, better, best.  Or telling him, "There's nothing in that tie that matches the blue of your shirt." Sometimes he takes my advice, and sometimes he doesn't. The subject has been pretty much closed--from both sides--for some time.

So, last weekend, I was slightly amazed when he wanted to take a colorblindness test he'd seen on Facebook.  Honestly, I just stayed out of it.  The task was to line up four rows of colors as they went through very slight variations from red to green, from green to blue, from blue to lavender, and from lavender to green.  I looked at those rows and thought, "Good luck."

He reported his score, in the low 100's, a few minutes later.  Zero was perfect, he explained, and the worst score was something in the mid-1500's.  "So, a slight problem," I assessed.

"I can't wait for you take this test!" he exclaimed, to my surprise.  "And the kids!"

"You think the kids have a problem with colorblindness?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I'm just curious to see how they do." 

He asked me again the next morning, so I took the test.  I knew in the back of my mind that if I didn't get a zero, my credibility would be on the line in all future tie conversations.  Even if I got a two, I thought, when I told him a tie didn't have purple, he would be thinking, "But maybe it's that two percent she can't see!"

So, after I got my rows lined up, I went over the test again. Was this red rosier than the one next to it? Was this greener than that one? All the way through. After I pushed the SUBMIT button, I called out to Paul. "Do you want to come and see my score?" I thought it would be very prudent of me to be sure he saw it himself, with his own perfect eyes.

"What'd you get--a two?" he scoffed.

He stood over me, looking at the screen where my score, zero, stood.  I didn't say a word.

But, he did, throughout the day. "It's a mourning process," he said. I looked at him incredulously. I wonder what it would be like to go through life honestly, truly believing you had no natural flaws. Mere mortals like myself will never know.

"Everyone has their strengths and weaknesses," I said. I really couldn't see why that particular test was such a revelation to him. But, apparently, it was. "It's not like it's a character flaw," I pointed out. "It's not something you can help. You just don't have as many cones in your eyes as you should. What's to be ashamed of? It's not a sin."

So, he posted his score with the words, "Who did sin, this man or his parents, that he was born colorblind?" That was cute, and I took heart.

At bedtime, he was saying, "I know I can see colors. See? That's a blue, and. . ."

"Paul," I said, gently. "Your diminishment is less than ten percent on that scale."

Then, he took heart. "Thanks for putting it that way," he said, and we smiled at each other.

He knows very well I can't sing.

For Thomas

The other day, I remembered that it was the birthday of an old friend. Not that he was old--not even close! But, that he was my friend over twenty years ago.  It must be that long since I last heard from him, but I've been catching up with old friends lately, so I decided to try to find him again.  I've looked for him, briefly, before, from time to time, with no results.  He wasn't a high-tech type of guy. I've never found him on Facebook.

But this time, when I Googled his full name, I found him right away.  Full name, right age, along with the city we'd both lived in at the time.  I recognized the names of his mother and brother, which were listed there, too.  It was definitely my Thomas.  He went by Thomas, not Tom.  He nicknamed me Jelly Bean, and I called him Teddy Bear a few times.

And, I saw something else there, with his full name and right age and city and his mom and brother.  I saw the year of his death.

I wasn't entirely surprised by this.  I've wondered sometimes if he were still around.  When I knew him, he had already overcome cancer. Twice.  

I wondered if that had been what had happened to him, or something else.  Had he ever married? Was he alone when he died? I wanted to know more.

And, I realized when I looked back on it that, for several years, he was the best friend I'd had. He was always there for me.  He would come over and hang out, listen to me complain about my ex-husband or help me take my young children to the state fair, tell me which boyfriends were psycho, help me clean out my storage room.  He fit himself neatly into my plans or my time.  He listened to and became whatever I needed him to hear or be.  Being a single mom can be lonely, and he got that.  Maybe I was his best friend at that time, too. I think so.

He had wanted our relationship to be more than it was.  And he was so good to me, so generous and patient, so kind and constant, he really deserved that.  But I didn't see him as a potential partner. From the start, he had not seemed to me like my type.  I'm short--and he was not shorter, but I'm pretty sure he weighed less.  He was younger.  I was married and divorced, with children. He'd had a hard-knock life, while I'd been very sheltered.   I had a college degree and a career.  He had not finished high school, and went from job to job, and apartment to apartment. He wasn't as stable in his personal life as he was as my friend.  I had to consider what bringing him fully into my life would be like for my kids.

I had understood and accepted his need to move on and out of my life. From time to time, I've missed him, in a wistful, he-would-understand way.  But I've understood that our parting was for both of our own good.

Even though decades have passed and I never really expected to see him again, and even though I had rejected him for what I'd thought were good reasons, after seeing a "year of death," I cried.

I cried from knowing that he is really gone, but I think more from seeing how scant is anything that is left of him.  He lived, he breathed, he walked and worked and socialized and laughed.  He had a crazy, cackly laugh that makes me smile as I recall it.  He loved greatly.  He was kind and constant and wise.  Gentle and unassuming.  He lived a simple life and didn't impose his needs, thoughts, or ways on anyone.

One site said he was dead; another gave a phone number.  After hesitating for a while, I called the phone number.  When we had been friends, his phone number had changed almost as often as his address had, and, when I would find it again, I would call him up and ask him, "What's your phone number?" and smile at his great, cackly laugh.  

So, I dialed the phone number and waited to hear his voice again.  I planned to ask, "What's your phone number?" and see if I could hear that same great laugh.

But the number had been disconnected.

The next day, I tried again to find out more.  From what I knew of him and his family, I supposed there might have been no one who had paid for an obituary to be printed.  But I found an obituary that was exactly 1.5 lines long in a newspaper in a state I'd never known he lived in.  I found out where his body had been disposed of.  I supposed he had probably been, for lack of funds, cremated and released to family.   Even though I anticipated these details, as each was confirmed to me I cried again. 

He was here on earth for a few decades, but there seems to be hardly anything left of him.

And so, I cried.  And I prayed for him--that he can know that I remember him, that he mattered to me, that he did make an impact.  That I appreciate all he did, and was, and gave, and taught.

I can do nothing to ease whatever he went through in his short life, or to help him now.  All I can do is remember him and write something down about him that is longer than 1.5 lines.  

Because every person is worth more than that.

And, even if it cannot be fully returned, a gift of love is something to appreciate.

Rosh Hashanah Dinner

I have to tell you about our Rosh Hashanah dinner.  No, we're not Jewish, but our cook celebrates all the holidays around the world that he wants to celebrate.  At any given moment, I can come home from work to find out that it is Bastille Day or Bolivian Independence Day. Makes for an exciting life.

The dinner?  Well, the dinner was marvelous.  Juicy chicken breasts with orange-honey glaze; challa bread; roasted potatoes, fresh kale, pear, and feta cheese salad.  Bienenstich cake.

It was the timing that was tricky.  

I had spent my third day in a row in abject misery.  Our new air conditioning unit at work was fried, and inside temperatures had climbed to above ninety degrees.  (Yes, I did actually bring a thermometer from home, and I did actually check.)  After sauteeing in that for nine hours a day, three days in a row, I was not at my most patient self.  It took about six hours at home before the sound of the electric fan that had been set up next to my cubicle stopped rattling my brain.

I felt ready for bed the minute I got home.  I peeled off my sticky top and skirt and got right into my nightgown.  Then, I ran into a little naked person in the hall.  "You're naked," I pointed out, rather brilliantly.  

This set him off in peals of laughter.  "I just had a bath," he said.  My husband had my kids bathing before dinner, which is not the usual schedule but turned out to be ingenious, as we had dessert after bedtime.

My husband apologized that he was behind schedule.  He'd had to stop everything, he said, to help a daughter with her homework.  "Her geography teacher told her false information," he said, "and I had to get her to unbelieve it."

Her assignment was to make a map of our capital city.  "Her teacher told her to make the city center the east doors of the temple," he explained. "So, everything she was doing was like a half-block off on her grid and she couldn't make it work right."  City center is actually in the middle of an intersection.  Everyone knows that, we thought.

"And he told her," he said with some disgust, as he whipped up an egg-white coating for the challa bread, "that the Mormons made that the city center because they believe when Jesus comes back, that will be the spot on which he will stand." 

"I've never heard that before in my life," I said.

"I know!" he agreed.  "It seems like if people hear something once, they perpetuate it whether it's true or not." 

"It's easy for people to believe whatever they hear about a minority group," I agreed.

Dinner seemed hours away, and I went to settle down with the newspaper and de-stress.

My little boy reminded me that it was Back-to-School Night.

Yippee.  My favorite.

"Will you go and see our art project?" he asked, hopefully.  "It's really neat."

So, before dinner was ready, I was pulling my clothes back on and heading back to the school. We ate hurriedly during the half-hour between sessions--when they're trying to force you to go to a PTA meeting. Then we hurried back again for the presentations in the other kids' classes.

I had told my husband that I wanted to lose a few pounds before my upcoming surgery, as I anticipate that it might make me gain weight, and I would hate to go up from here.  But it seemed every single menu item had sugar in it.  Even the meat and vegetables.  

"You have to eat sweet things at the beginning of the year so that you will have a sweet year," he explained.

We're not Jewish!  It's not our new year!

By the time I was cramming the almond-studded cake into my mouth an hour after my preferred bedtime, I felt soggy with fatigue.  Paul was also tired, but triumphant in his accomplishment. "You know you do this for yourself, don't you?" I ventured to ask.

"Yes," he admitted.  "And I had a lot of fun doing it.  I just got behind because she needed help with her homework."

As worthwhile a facet of parenting as making a fancy dinner, I would say.

Romance Meets Reality

When a friend of mine got flowers at work, everyone, of course, admired them.

This put her in an awkward position.

It is nice to receive flowers at work when it's your birthday, anniversary, or Valentine's Day.  I have been such a recipient, and it can be fun to be all, "Yes, there is someone who cares about me enough to do this."

But, what if the flowers are an apology for bad behavior?  A make-up request after a fight?  A ploy to manipulate?  What is a girl to do?  Say, "No, it's not my birthday--my boyfriend cheated on me and thinks this will fix everything"?

I think not.

My friend and I agreed that there should be some rules established about when it's okay to send flowers to work.  Mostly, we decided, it should be when the occasion is positive, or at least neutral.

I once rejected flowers delivered to my home because they had been sent by a psycho who was trying to get me back.  He had tried to control what I wore and read.  He had tried to isolate me from my friends.  In casting aspersions upon my faultless father, he had tried to isolate me from my family. In casting aspersions upon my spiritual leader, he had tried to isolate me from my support system.  He was moving in psychologically on taking over my home and my children.

It was over, in no uncertain terms, and he had been clearly told that.  Gifts had been returned. Conversation had ended. 

I am glad that big box of flowers had not been delivered to my place of employment, because I did not feel just throwing them away would suffice, although that, in and of itself, would surely have made a scene memorable to co-workers.

No.  I called the company and asked them to pick up the flowers and notify the sender that they had been rejected.  He had started following me, and I wanted him, not just my wastebasket, to know that his advances were not at all welcome.  That I was not going to be bought. That my head was never going to turn in his direction again.

Another time, I received apology flowers from someone who had called me a bad name.  Although the roses were firm and fragrant--lovely in every way, every one of them repeated that word to me whenever I looked at them.  So, they probably did not have their intended effect.

It can be tricky, knowing when to send and when to receive.  A friend once talked me into giving a man another chance based on the expense of the two dozen long-stemmed red roses he'd sent from a high-end florist one Valentine's Day.  The second chance, it turned out, was a bad idea.

My favorite time receiving flowers was when we had just moved to a new house we could barely afford and, on top of that, I had just had a baby.  My husband brought me an armful of lovely white flowers while saying these words: "Don't worry--they were really cheap."  That sums up both halves of marriage, doesn't it? Romance meets Reality.

Spring Cleaning My Body

So, I finally, finally, finally scheduled that one doctor's visit that I was supposed to have, and didn't cancel it.  You know--that yearly checkup everyone's supposed to have.  I'd rescheduled it a few times in the winter time, because we were dealing with transportation issues that you do not want to know about.

Those issues were so bad I couldn't rely on myself to get anywhere extra, which meant anything besides work or church was probably out.  So, the doctor's visit came and went, came and went.  I called to cancel and reschedule, of course, until I was too embarrassed to reschedule.

Well, let me tell you, aging is not for the faint of heart either.  First of all, I went into that one appointment thinking I would get an A and left feeling like I had an F.  I exercise, quite a lot, and I eat pretty healthy, too, and get my sleep.  I'm counting on all of that effort to keep me healthy for decades to come.  Just look into the faces of my darling children, and you'll see one of my best reasons for this desire to live, and live well.

But, my discussion with my doctor left me cold--even though she admitted, "Your exercise is what's saving you."  She wanted me to change my healthy diet to a super healthy diet.  And she became quite grave over my family history.  Yes, my parents and two much older sisters have died, but I don't share their health issues.  Yes, there have been a few minor cases--and one major case--of cancer among my siblings. 

"It's a big family," I tried.  "When there are more people, more problems probably show up, because there are more people to get them."

"I have eleven siblings," my doctor countered, "and a huge extended family.  There's only been one case of cancer among all those people."

Well, that shut me up pretty good--thinking that in her opinion, my siblings are killing me.

So, secondly, that one appointment?  It's turned into twelve doctor appointments.  I kid you not.

Some of this, I expected.  I'm old enough to take part in the joy of some regular screenings, so that added two.  I had to come back for a blood test, so that made four.  My doctor wanted to biopsy something she saw.  And then, I got a call from the hospital letting me know I had apparently failed the mammo.

That's how I took it, anyway.  "Please call us to schedule more views."

More views?

Sounded like real estate, or a modeling position.  More views of . . .that?  Why?

 That's a fail, right?

I called right back.  "I'll come in today," I offered.

"Oh, no," they said, "We can't fit you in until. . ." and they gave me a date two weeks from then.  Two.  Whole.  Weeks.  In which to wonder why they needed more views.  Failing the mammo did not seem like it could be good.

"Well, can you tell me why?" They were vague.  Didn't shed any light on the subject at all.  This happened on a Thursday.

My husband tried to reassure me it was nothing.  "They wouldn't put you off for two weeks if it were serious," he reasoned.

"They deal with this all the time," I countered, panicking.  "They just can't care enough about one case to chase me down."

Friday, I was at home for an unrelated reason.  Even though all of us--five children and I, were near my cell phone all day, I somehow missed two calls from my doctor's office. "Please call back to discuss your blood work," the voice mail message said  Two.  Calls.  That day.  Two.  I also received a letter in the mail from the hospital, even though they'd reached me, telling me again to call and schedule "more views." 

Well, of course, I got those messages in the evening, after hours.  I started getting worried.  I've honestly been expecting three to five more decades out of this world, and I'd like to keep it that way.

So, I had the weekend to wait for any news, and it made me feel miserable.  Especially since I got another letter asking for more views the very next day.  "See? They are chasing me down--it is serious," I said.  That day found me at a funeral, and, as I listened to details about how another woman, about my age, had dwindled down to nothing in her living room, I glanced at my watch and saw it say quarter to twelve.  I thought, "I bet my doctor has Saturday hours until twelve."

The deceased's brother was detailing the deceased's life with a story representing each four-year period--and hadn't gotten very far.  I was sitting near a door.  I took a chance and made the call.  I was able to reach my doctor's nurse, and she told me about my blood work, which was all excellent, except for one vitamin deficiency.  She told me to pick up a vitamin supplement.  That, I felt I could do. Easy peasy.

I asked her about the failed mammo report, and she was able to put my fears on that point largely to rest with a couple of details that it seemed like the person on the phone could have supplied.  Or the writer of the two identical letters.  Don't they know any mystery in this kind of thing is going to scare people?

Because I lost my glasses walking between home and next door and could never find them, I added in an eye doctor appointment, and my dental cleaning came due, too.  I started feeling like all these doctors were spring cleaning my body, looking anywhere for some dust.

As one sibling had surgery to remove an organ that I'd also had screened in the past, that I ought to get that same thing checked out.  What sense would it make to check everything but that?  I looked up just exactly how far in the past, and it was 4.5 years.  I made the call to schedule yet another appointment.  "How often am I supposed to be getting this checked?" I asked, innocently.

"Every six to twelve months," the young, fresh voice on the phone said.

So, that turned into a need for another biopsy, too.

I'm mostly through this spring cleaning now, and, through all this dusting, sweeping, mopping, and flushing of the insides of my body, nothing too serious has been found, although I've still got two or three procedures coming up.

One of my biopsies was scheduled for the doctor's convenience at the fancy cancer center, which I've luckily never been to.  The receptionist asked me for a twenty-five dollar co-pay, but I told her I'd pay thirty, because I think the insurance card she was reading was old.  "Well, if not, it will go on the balance."

"There shouldn't be a balance," I said.

"For the future."

"I won't be here in the future," I said confidently.

She misunderstood.  "Oh, don't say that," she said, her voice shaking with sympathy.

"I mean I'm not planning to get cancer," I said, then realized, in a place like that, I'd probably just committed a huge faux pas.  But, what other point could there be to my submission to all this searching for dust in my insides than to not need to come back?

I had my yuckiest procedure yesterday, and I realized I don't think my parents ever went through this. They never scheduled tests just to make sure they were okay.  If they didn't have a symptom they couldn't handle at home, that was the only time they saw a doctor.  Sitting there freezing in a hospital gown with my stomach roiling, I thought maybe all of this isn't necessary.  Then I remembered, oh, yeah--my parents aren't here anymore.

On the "someday wish list" my doctor handed me, just to be thorough, are a trip to a dermatologist for a complete skin cancer scan, a consult with a podiatrist, and a possible heart scan which is supposed to tell me my risk of heart disease in the next ten years.  I can tell you that right now for free.  With my cholesterol and blood pressure at excellent levels and my heart getting as much cardio as it does, my risk for the next ten years is pretty much zero.  So, I'll be skipping that non-covered-by-insurance study.  And I had to almost laugh when my doctor suggested I pay $9000 for a genetic study to be done.  She may have that kind of extra cash, but, yeah, not I.  I'm not having any more children.

My children will have to schedule their own spring cleaning sessions when they hit a certain age.  I'll be here, so I'll remind them.

Just Keep Coming Home

Having five sons is not for the faint of heart.

I thought this as I watched my middle son haul two bags, a tent, a poncho, a sleeping bag, and probably some other equipment up the lawn to our church on his way to a week-long scout camp.  I watched him until he was completely out of sight.  Then, like mothers everywhere, I thought to myself, "That's the last time I'll see him until Saturday," and, "I hope that's not the last time I see him," and, "He'll be fine."

He is not the first son I have let go to scout camp, and he is not the last.  My smallest son ran up to me at that point and hugged me around the middle, throwing back his head in a wide smile that let me see his teeth growing in.  I sighed.

Not only will I have to cope with the feelings tugging my heartstrings today, but I will in the future for this little one, and his other brother.  And who knows how many scout camps each of them will have?  Every son has seven camps, every camp has seven. . . .

It has not escaped my notice over the years that boys disappear or are killed each summer at scout camps.

And then, the worst thought of all entered my mind as I shut the front door.  What if I ever had to send any of them--let alone more than one--to war?

So, the self-talk I will have to do all week--that I have to do over one thing or another a lot in my life--begins.  They will be fine.  I have done all I can.  They are smart kids.  Their leaders will be careful.  God will protect them.  What else can I do?  I want them to grow up, don't I?  I want them to become capable, self-confident men.

So, I went off to get dressed and begin my day.

And, I heard a voice.  The voice of my middle son, in the kitchen.

I came back out to see him.  He and my husband were busily packing him a lunch.  "That went by a lot faster than I thought it would," I joked, then washed an apple for him and reached into the cookie jar for a double-dose of his favorite cookies. "You know mothers do things like watch you until you completely disappear, don't you, son?"  I smiled at him.  "And think dramatic things.  And then, when you come back, they have to do it all over again."

He giggled at me.  As we all should.

I wrote his name on the bag, but, instead of writing that cute name I had picked out for him in large, cute letters with serifs and a smiley face all across the front, I printed it in a small and rather masculine hand on one side.  One must respect one's son's man-growth.

He left again, and I went back into my room for shoes.

I heard his voice again and came out.

"I forgot some more stuff," he said, filling a water bottle.

This going to scout camp of his hasn't been so bad, after all.  "Just keep coming home," I told him, squeezing in one more hug, "and I'll be fine."

Coming in Second to a Bunch of Fruit

To an event, I was asked to bring “fruit.”  It was stated that simply.

To me, this translated to a box of strawberries.  Or, perhaps, a bag of grapes.

To Paul, this meant we were to bring a large, elaborate platter of the biggest variety of fruit possible.

It’s as embarrassing to me to come in to a family party with an offering I consider to be over the top of what is expected as it would be to Paul to come in with a simple box of strawberries.  But there was to be no compromise.

We set out to go to the store to buy fruit. I thought we could take the much more comfortable car for this supposedly short jaunt.  Paul said no.  He always took the van shopping.  I soon found out why.

While pulling out of the driveway, I started to express my thoughts on the matter.  I in fact suggested we just get a box of strawberries.   He stated that cherries were also on sale, and suggested we “see what they have.”  In my mind, this meant we would get strawberries OR cherries, or some other alternative.  Or, I should say, I hoped.

I went on to say that “fruit” is my least favorite thing to be asked to bring, because it seems like the item most expensive to buy and hardest to prepare.  Unless, of course, you find something simple, like—a box of strawberries or a bag of cherries or grapes.  

It dawned on me as we headed down the street that Paul intended to do much more shopping on this trip than just gathering the necessary fruit offering, and I expressed that, following my run, I wasn’t really up to a big trip. Following Paul around a store while he deliberates on the fancy meals he wants to cook and checks each item for quality can be wearying.  He works hard to provide quality meals and to get the best buys, and that takes time and effort.  I appreciate this, but don’t particularly like to witness it.  I told him that I had only wanted to come along in order to have a say in the fruit choice, and to see that his choice wouldn’t be too expensive or involve too much work.

He said, “That sounds controlling.”

I apologized.  But I know him.  

I determined, for the sake of harmony and in order to not be a drag, to set aside my weariness and be a good sport.  I didn’t mention it again.

Paul speculated aloud that perhaps we could also bring some kind of cream cheese or sour cream  sauce to either dip the fruit in or spread over them.  I did not encourage increasing the project to that level of work, and, fortunately, he dropped it.

In the (first) store, Paul put four packages of blueberries into the cart, then went to sniff the cantaloupes.  He decided that they were not ripe enough and forewent them.  He loaded the cart with cherries and grapes in addition to the vegetables he was picking up for our dinners.  By the time he moved on to gather three mangoes—which he knows I don’t like, I could see that I had lost.

“I see you are going for the platter idea,” I commented.  He confirmed that, but pointed out that he had skipped the cantaloupe. A sacrifice for me, apparently. Our son, who was along for the ride, suggested a pineapple.  Paul added it.

I asked what I could do to help, and he suggested I pick out the apples for our family use.  “I want to get Fugis,” he said, “because they are sweet and on sale.”  My son and I went over to the apples and loaded a bag with enough for our family for the week.  Paul later added bags of two other kinds of apples, but I surmised correctly that these were not for the fruit platter.

Looking at the amount of work Paul was making for himself, I also correctly surmised that any time together later was going out the window.

We moved on to a second store for watermelon and strawberries.  I stayed in the car.  Paul came back with two watermelons and four boxes of strawberries.  

To be fair, he did envision some of this fruit being for family use.  When I got a look at the receipts, I left out one watermelon and three boxes of strawberries as I added up the twenty-six dollars (not including tax) this fruit platter cost us.

After dinner, he set to work on it.  I had other things to do, and was not about to help him.  It took him an hour, and he went to bed exhausted after.  But it turned out to be monumental, spectacular, impressive—exactly what he, as the best family cook ever, wanted it to be.  

I woke up in the night thinking, “I just came in second to a bunch of fruit!”

I tried not to train an eye of triumph toward Paul when we saw that several other people had also been asked to bring fruit, but, in the end, I was wrong, because it turned out that that much was needed.

Still, I hope we have not cemented for ourselves a new role as fruit bringers--not a role I want to be type-cast in.

Ravished Couch

So, it's our "trash week" this week.  That means that whatever junk we can find to put on the curb will be taken.  If not by scavengers, by the city.  It's fun!

At least, it's supposed to be.

When the time came to start, I marched right into the garage and picked up two lamps that still work but are too old that we have replaced.  I marched those lamps right out to the curb and laid them down.  (They have since found their way onto the porch because someone thinks they are worth money, but I just am done with them, you know?)

My husband and a daughter worked hard all day to add other things.  I was proud of my daughter because she pitched in and helped with the project as long as her dad did.  Which was long.  I was proud of my husband because--all by himself--he chose to donate an old couch to the pile.

This couch has been a source of disagreement between us and a blockage to purchasing a new couch for our family room.  We both agree that it would be really nice to have a couch in the family room and turn it into the main television room instead of the living room.  But whenever we see couches for sale and I start drooling over them, Paul has reminded me that we have a "perfectly good couch" standing on end in a corner of the garage.  This has stopped the shopping every time.

This perfectly good couch has stood on one end in the garage since we moved into this house, several years ago, before the current administration, to give you an idea.

Before that, it did sit in the family room in our old house.  My objection to it being set up in the new house had to do with Paul's three cats.  My version is that they seem to have had several drunken parties on it.  Paul's version is that that never happened.

Paul is right that it is a well-made sturdy couch, still in good condition (except for the aforementioned feline interference).  He was also right that it had a good, functional sleeper sofa feature.

But, think nineteen-seventies.  This is a couch that his mother used to have, way back then. (Think tan and orange plaid.)  Yeah.

We both agree that the fabric is outdated.  Paul's proposed solution is to purchase a cover for it.  I have nixed that every time because I just don't think that will deal appropriately with the feline party issue.

Can you say stalemate?

So.  When Paul said he was going to kick the couch to the curb, my heart did a little flutter for him.  I hoped he would really do it, and feel okay about it.

He really did it.

He set up the couch with all its many pillows, facing the street.  It looked as good as it possibly could. 

I later found out that he was nurturing hope that it would yet find a good home.

Of course it was always possible that someone would drive by and say, "Hey!  You don't see couches with tan and orange plaid all over them anymore--I've been looking for this couch everywhere!" and adopt it.  We waited all day for this to happen.  It didn't.

We waited the next day for it to happen.  It didn't.

I was going to bed on the second day when Paul came in to tell me some sad news. His hopes for his baby had been dashed when a slasher-type person had come by, thrown off the pillows, thrown open the sleeper part, and hacked the metal frame of the bed right out of the couch. 

I comforted Paul as best I could.

But, the next morning, when I went to the gym, I understood better.

The couch had been dragged off the curb into the street.  Pillows were scattered everywhere in disarray.  Its secret inward bed part had been dragged out, slashed up, and left exposed to anyone's view.  The couch that had served Paul's family for so many years was lying there in total disgrace: slashed, exposed, dissheveled, murdered.

It was like happening upon a crime scene.

I thought, "Who does this kind of thing?"  I know all about scavengers and have seen them prowling around city trash day piles before.  But, really?  Who would drag someone's treasured couch, all neatly left out with its best foot forward, into the street and mangle and ravish it like that, just taking the part they want and then not even folding it back up again, but leaving it there in that terrible condition?

Yes, we left it for trash, but neatly.

Yes, we were through with it, but Paul had hopes for its future.

We didn't mean for it to fall victim to someone with no manners who apparently only wanted one thing.

Gems

I love all of my children all of the time, but it is true that relationships--like the people involved in them--go through phases.

The child who was an easy baby is not necessarily going to be easier at thirteen than his brother, for instance.

One child will be an exasperating climber while another delights you.  A year later, the climber will have stopped pushing limits and the other child will be tantrummy.  If you're lucky, one child will sit contentedly in the background while another demands constant attention.  It's just the way it goes.

Life turns in cycles.  People go through phases.  Relationships cinch closer, then loosen, kind of like the ebb and flow of the sea.

One of my children has recently stepped into the role of Helper Supreme.  A week ago, she was asked to take on extra duties while her older siblings were out of town.  She managed those tasks well, making herself the family's hero of the week.  

Her stepping up must have produced a permanent change.  When the three days of need were over, she stayed a super helper, cleaning up the family room in order to have a friend over.  

Saturday, she stepped outside to help her dad clean out the garage. Despite 100-degree heat and flushed cheeks on her part, she stayed with the project, and the curb was filled with items the family has grown past. She had a lot of opportunities to bow out, but did not.  

The next morning, we found that a violent overnight wind had blown boxes--some of them filled with packing popcorn--off our careful stack and down the street.  Way.  Down the street.

My husband and I pulled on clothes and headed out to pull back the damage.  

There was this daughter, right beside us, in her tee shirt and jammy bottoms, picking up boxes and popcorn just as much as we were.  Our next door neighbor's lawn was covered with popcorn.  She helped me pick it up. When I thought we had collected all the damage, she thought she saw more boxes even farther down the street and went to investigate.  Another half block away, she did find more boxes--with our last name on them, no less, and thus saved us neighborhood embarrassment.  

The thing is, she was as grown up in this as my husband and I were.  She just stepped in and pulled equal weight with us.

It seems to me that my children are like jewels lined up on a mantel top.  As time passes by like sunlight, it shines through each of the gems in turn, showing off their brilliance and special gifts.  I appreciate all of my children all of the time, but time gives me the opportunity to view each of them and fully appreciate their colors and beauty as they shine in their own particular phase. 

Making Cake on Fast Day

I had to make a cake Sunday, on a day when I was fasting for religious reasons.  My beliefs require me to take in no food or water for a certain period of time during a fast.  Unless there is a health concern, I take this seriously and do not let anything down my gullet.

But when I make a cake, I like to, you know, have a taste.  Or two.

I kept reminding myself I couldn't.  Like, it was a sacred duty not to touch it.

It made me think of other things that I might want to do but cannot because it is not the right time.  And of how hard it can be at times to curb our impulses.  And of how we sometimes work to create something that we hope to enjoy later, but cannot enjoy at the time.

I thought about building relationships, planting gardens, sewing a dress, storing up a retirement fund, myriad things.  I thought about gardens planted for others to harvest.  Blessings stacked up in heaven while we make sacrifices on earth.

All with the do-not-touch-that's-for-later-not-now mentality.  

It seems hard at the time to put off gratification, to toil without reward.  But I knew that, after our simple dinner, after fasting all day, we would be very glad for the treat I was preparing.  Even though the time for this particular "reward" was only a few hours away, it seemed hard to "not touch" in the moment.  Yet, if I didn't create the cake then, during the hours I was fasting, I would certainly not be able to enjoy it when it was time to have it.  If I made the cake after I stopped fasting, I would have to wait more hours to have it.  

And I thought, "This cake will taste sweeter to me because I made it while fasting, and because, when I am ready to eat, it will be ready, too."

This morning when I had a hard minute at the gym, I knew in my head that I would be finished in 26 more minutes, and that I'd feel good about my workout when I got finished. . . if I finished. And not so good about it if I didn't.  It helped me persist.

 

I wonder how many things in life are like that--better at the end if you prepare for them when it hurts to, instead of waiting until it's time, or there isn't a sacrifice involved--other than that your reward is that much further delayed than it had to be. Raising children is one thing that came to mind.  Generally, you reap the rewards of what you sowed.

What current struggles are you making that you know will pay off in the end?

Touchstones to Your Past

What I count one of my greatest blessings right now is that I am in touch with some of the people whose acquaintances with me reach far back into my life.

I have no problem meeting new people.  I meet new people practically every day at my job.  And I truly like most of them.  I've learned to "go with the flow" as supervisors and team members are changed.  There's frequently a new someone in our lives, you know--neighbor, teacher, bishop, friend.  I like to think of these exchanges in a simple way--you drop one hand in your circle in order to take another.

But there is something viscerally comforting about being in the presence or cyber-presence of someone whose history with you stretches way back to the beginning.  There's a kind of witnessing of who you are as a person that you can't get anywhere else.

It's almost like having your parents back.

They're a part of your personal history, touchstones to your past.  They likely formed part of your own character.

In most cases, as you catch up with someone from way back, you aren't really surprised by what they tell you about their life.  You just know them, and they just know you, no matter how many years fall in between.  You don't have to explain yourself.  You don't have to fill in so many blanks, or wonder what they will really think of you. 

Some of the first people I met in this life are gone--mainly, my parents and two oldest siblings, most aunts, and all uncles.  Many of the people I relied on from the beginning to answer my questions, tell me the truth, give information, and reflect myself back at me are just not there anymore.  Meeting up with someone who can do that is priceless.

A few years ago, I searched the Internet for classmates from my graduating class to let them know a reunion was being planned.  One friend reached back to reminisce with me about my having asked him to a dance many years ago.  It had not gone perfectly.  Now both adults with long-range perspective, we could talk about that from each of our points of view, and his story filled in gaps in mine that would never otherwise have been filled.  Some of my friends came to the reunion and some didn't, but my Internet search put me back in touch with at least twelve of my favorite high school friends.  At the reunion, it was fun to find myself sitting down to dinner with my high school best friend as if all of those years had not passed.

Marvelous things have occurred since this.  One friend who didn't want to go to the reunion invited me to have lunch with her. We had a private reunion and are still in touch.  Another friend came over to hang out one night as if we were still girls.

I had caught the bug.  I reconnected with one of my best friends from my earliest childhood just in time to be there for her when her father died.  I looked up a friend from early in my first marriage (thank goodness she had included her maiden name, because our last names had both changed) and we had a couple of very sweet catching-up sessions. 

Recently, an old college roommate's husband invited me to come up for her significant birthday.  I met or remet some of her family members and showed off my memory of her siblings' names.  No decades seemed to interrupt our friendship.

Also recently, one of my brother's childhood friends called me his friend, which warmed my heart.

Cousins can fill that precious need, and I have several whose time in their presence I really cherish.  It's been fun to also meet my husband's cousins and friends from way back when, who can put him in a new context for me.  It's a comfort to me, also, that my husband has been in my life long enough that he knew my parents, now long gone. That helps put me in context for him.

New people, welcome to my life!  Long-familiar ones still in my life, thank you from the bottom of my heart..

Children's Voices

I'm a writer.  I'm a runner.  I'm a worker.  I'm a friend, a wife, a sister.  But, for me, today, the most important role I play is that of a mother.

I love enjoying the variety in my seven children.  I like noticing where they look and seem alike--and different.  I loved giving them names.  I loved caring for their tiny little bodies.  I loved kissing their necks and talking baby-talk with them.

I enjoy each one for who he or she is.  Each one is creative, smart, and amazing in her/his own ways.  Each one has taught me cherished life lessons.  Each one has brought into our home a unique and fun perspective.  I've loved getting to know each one of them, seeing what they think, seeing how they think, what they'll say.

Here are some of my favorite things that my children have said:

"Goodness is funness!"

"Mom!  Come and see what [child] put in the toilet!"

"Where are you going to plant that Vaudis (confusing my Aunt Vaudis' name with another of my aunts--Fern)?"

"I love you too Mom-MY!"

"Coom!"

"These carrots look ferocious yucky!"

"Be noimal!"

"Something in here smells like a spice, or maybe a verb."

"Gravity holds the planets in orbit forever."

(Tiny girl answering what is her favorite color:) "I like gold!"

"Mommy!"

"Do you think those were real clowns, or just people dressed up?"

"Let me show you what a blue one tastes like.  You have to smash it first."

"You can heal without the priesthood."

"Purple is green, but purple is not green, it's just purple."

"It's too tasty!" (Her dinner.)

"It's too fappy!" (Her coat.)

(Praying): "Thank you we will be safe."

"I have gallons of clothes!"

Indicating a boulder across the street: "That's [big brother's] wock and my wock!"

"Mama, how did you find me?"

"I love it, I love it, I do!" (about dinner, then when asked if he knows what the main dish is called: "Bread and butter."

In the rocking chair at bedtime: "This is where we belong."

"Mommy!"

"Sing the pizza song!"

At my aunt's viewing: "Who's the guy in the bed?"

"Help me to be a man with a dog."

"What about applesauce?"

"Cottage cheese is the king of cheeses.  But it's not the king of us.  Jesus is the king of us."

"No fourteen!" (Grumpy toddler being awakened to his brother's fourteenth birthday.)

"My life (cereal) is all dust!"

"It's when they kill people!" (Response from a 4-year-old when asked by a missionary what sacrifice means.)

Lying back in the tub to wet his hair: "All my troubles seem so far away!"

"Can I read you a story?"

(After a brother said he hates church): "We HAVE to learn the gospel!"

"You're the best mom I ever had."

"Can you ever begive me?"

"Mommy!  Mommy!  Mommy!"

To everyone who enjoys a child, happy Mother's Day!

Will Fyker and Graspyn Please Sit Down?

The other day, I ran across a family where all the kids' names seemed to start with the wrong consonant.

I am well aware of the trends to make up names and make up new spellings for names, but, still!  How does that happen to a family?

Do they sit around at family home evening and say, "Okay, kids, pass your first consonant to the child on your left,"and then Gage, Kenzie, Haylee, Trinity, and Chassity become Kage, Henzie, Traylee, Chinity, and Gassity?  Aren't those cute?

I mean, really!  How does this happen?

Names aren't supposed to just be meaningless syllables that sound pretty together.  Do we not realize that names came from words?  The root word has a meaning.  If you destroy the root word, you destroy the meaning of the name, too.  I can't imagine going through life having a name that doesn't mean anything, except that my parents were ignorant about language.

Personally, and, yes, I am sure I am an old fogie, I would even take issue--for different reasons--with four of the five names I picked for this consonant-trading family. 

I don't see this trend ending well. 

Let me explain. 

Once upon a time, a perfectly good last name, Madison, became a first name.  Honestly, I don't really have a problem with that, unless the last name is something really strange. 

Next, it became a girls' name.  Why not?  Allison had gone from a last name to a first name to a girls' name decades before that.  Boys' names turn into girls' names at a rather alarming rate.  Maybe that is part of the problem--there aren't as many boys' names left.

I also think what happens is that a name that sounds like another well-liked name starts to be used.  Sometimes, it may be as good as the first name, sometimes not.

We liked Braden (meaning "from the wide valley"), so now there are the popular names Jaden and Caden.  Hayden, another last-name-turned-first-name, is also popular for both boys and girls.

Madison sounded not only like Allison, but like Madeline, so it became very popular.  Maddies everywhere.  Still fine.

A few years later, and Madison is not unique enough.  We start seeing Maddison, Madisen, Maddyson, and Maddisyn. 

The consonant switch thing, though, is something I have not been able to wrap my head around yet.  But, with it growing in popularity, I guess we should brace ourselves for Bladdisyn, Craddisyn, Faddisyn, and Gladdisyn. 

Where it will go from there is anyone's guess.

(My apologies to all the cute Maddisyns out there, and those who love them.)

Once upon a Time, I Had a Little Girl

Once upon a time, I had a little girl.  She was a very nice little girl.  She didn't always want one of everything imaginable.  For example, she would blurt out, "That's too tasty!" when we tried to give her some dinner.

Well, a few years have passed, and she wants everything imaginable.  At least, she wants some things that I never imagined her wanting. 

And, she's bigger than me now. And, this is the clincher, sometimes has her own money.

Today, she was full of surprises--for me.  Not surprises I wanted.  That's next week.

First, she mentioned that there was a concert she wanted to attend.  A symphony.  Tonight.  And she could get a student ticket, cheap. 

Well, of course, I'm all for my daughter attending the symphony and having cheap tickets and all. I just didn't think of it ahead of her.  It's a mother's job to anticipate their children's needs and wants, and I've been doing that for a good many years. So, it surprised me.  It's a little unnerving to have her ahead of me all the time lately.

"Who are you planning to go with?" I asked, wondering if I really wanted that whole answer.

"You or Dad, I guess," she said.  Well, now, that was nice.  Personally, I am too volatile of a cougher today to attend a symphony, but I thought maybe we could figure out a way her dad could go with her.  Not that he could get a student ticket, cheap. 

She and her dad looked into it.  Her ticket would be fifty percent more than she anticipated, for a same-day performance.  And her dad's?  Well, more than 200 percent more than that.  Still, we were willing to consider it.  It's not easy for her to give up on something she's thought of that she wants. It's even harder for her dad to do it.  And it's 200 percent harder for him to give up something he thinks she wants.  So, I coughed my way through that conversation.

Then, I found out, she wanted to go spend time with her friend.  This wasn't too much of a surprise, but she did just announce the time to me without a lot of notice: "Three to four!"  Okay!

I must admit that this girl spent a couple hours of her day cleaning up my kitchen.  And I mean, up on a chair washing the cupboards and blinds kind of cleaning.  "Thank you!" I said, and, "What a doll!"  I even happened upon her with her head in the oven, cleaning it.  And, yes, that really was a surprise.  Of course, come to find out, all of this work was because she is planning a party next week.  In my kitchen.  With four friends.  Two of them boys.

She's always got plans I didn't anticipate for my computer, the household noise level, and my time.  (In fact--and I am not making this up--just as put the period on that sentence, she appeared in the doorway and asked, "Can I use your computer as soon as you're done?")

I was trying not to cough on clothes I was folding when she found me for the next surprise.  Just as if it were normal conversation for her (which it never has been), she informed me that she wanted to go to a certain place and have a certain haircut. 

I have always--sparingly--cut her hair in the past.  I have five sons, so I have spent my haircutting money on them, not her.  I offered to trim it for her.  She gazed back at me unfazed.  I offered to try to layer it a little.  The unfazed gaze again. "I want bangs like this," she said, clinching it.  I can cut bangs--though I never have on her--but I could probably not be relied on to cut bangs exactly "like this," and we both knew it.  She reminded me she has her own money.

In a weak last attempt, I cautioned, "You'll regret it."  I'm not unfair.  I explained what I meant by that.  That bangs "like that" would constantly be in her face and would take at least a year to grow out to the length she keeps her hair.  Of course, I hadn't thought that through very well, because, typically, when a parent offers advice to a teenager, it's pretty likely that she has just solidified the opposite result.

So, my daughter went off to have her first professional haircut.  And pay for it herself.  She's a very good girl, and she wanted a very reasonable cut.  She wasn't talking about a half-shaved head or hot pink hair, so it was right for her to do what she wanted with it.  In fact, my daughter is such an excellent girl that she did think about--and put off--the bangs part.

She returned from her friends' house to announce that they had walked from there to some unplanned location to film something for their school project (school projects just are NOT what they used to be) and saw some older kids who used to go to their school, so they involved these older kids in their conversation, film, and project.  "Can my friend walk home with me," she asked, at another time in the near future, so they could go to another business location to include THAT in their school project?

Cough, cough! 

At least she asks.  Except, of course, when she forgets.

I know it's her job to grow up faster than I can think about it, but I finally did have to ask her to hold any more surprises for a day when I'm not grinding to a dead halt.

Winding a Ribbon around a Lamp Post, Over and Over

I was so fit when Christmas arrived that I could wear any outfit I owned.  My stomach was as flat as I'll ever know it.  As I indulged in holiday treats, I could literally feel the sugar I ate pushing out my belly to a larger size.

Since then, I have been making up rules for myself that I don't follow.

Such as, NO MORE SUGAR UNTIL YOU DROP THE NEXT POUND.

But, sugar has a way of popping up in my life (as well as popping out my tummy), and, if there's one thing I know, rules don't help you a bit when you don't follow them.

I made out a nice, easy schedule outlining how I would lose one pound each week, and then I watched my scale not follow it, but hover six to ten pounds above where I'd been before Christmas.

Not fun times.

I made another nice, easy schedule outlining how I would lose one pound each week, and then I watched my scale not follow that schedule, either.

One dreary morning, I sat down with myself to have a performance review.  What on earth was going wrong?  Why was I not measuring up?  It was time to stop sliding, skating, procrastinating, justifying, rationalizing, and lying to myself.

Honestly, I had to admit, when someone brought Banbury Cross to staff meeting, I wanted to have one. And when I made chocolate chip cookies, I wanted to have several.  And taste the dough, too.  And the Christmas candy had to be gotten rid of.  And when I found two candy bars in a drawer I was cleaning out, well, obviously, I couldn't just leave them there.  I wasn't able to keep my no-sugar rules.

I asked myself what do I really want.  You know, like, really.  Other than the obvious--to eat whatever I want and still look like a fitness queen.

It was time to look real closely at some hard truths.

Hard truth number one: when I eat sugar, I gain weight.  I've performed this experiment enough times--usually around Christmas and Easter--that there's not really a whole lot of  room for doubt.  The variable is sugar.  The result, weight gain.  Time after time.  Hypothesis proven.

Hard truth number two: I am not a person who can anticipate giving up sugar for life with any feelings of joy.

Hard truth number three: it may not be easy to reconcile hard truths one and two.

Will power and sacrifice are noble aims, but not when they stand in the way of your happiness.  Indulgence can play an important role, but not when it stands in the way of your dreams and goals.  Neither one, by itself, was going to get me where I wanted to be.

Was it possible to get where I wanted to be?  Who knew?  But it had to be worth a try.  As my mother noticed when I was a toddler winding a ribbon around a lamp post over and over, trying to get it to stay, I am not a person who gives up easily on what I want.  I always tend to believe there has to be a way, even if I have to try things I've never considered trying before.

I acknowledged to myself that I really do want to be able to eat sweet treats sometimes.  Saying "never" makes me feel deprived. And, depending on how deprived I get to be feeling, then, when I do eat some sugar, it can be hard for me to stop eating sugar.

But I knew the answer could not be to just abandon my no-sugar rules.  There's no arguing with science.

Hard truth number 4: what I was doing wasn't working--neither the eating whatever I wanted nor the trying not to eat it at all.  So, what would?

I realized the perfect answer couldn't be ALL or NOTHING.  It had to be a moderation between the two.

I had to come up with a plan that would take away the eating too much AND the deprivation.  And in a hurry--before Easter got here and poofed out my tummy even further.

I decided my new plan had to allow me to eat some sugar, but not too much.  It had to leave me feeling not deprived, but not let me be saturated in sweets, either.  I decided to reverse my approach and eat one sugary thing a day.  One.  Not more than one.

And, of course, I still had to do all the other things I do to be healthy--exercising daily, eating a basically healthy diet, getting enough sleep, watching portion sizes, drinking water.

I needed a plan that would get me through every day.  Regular days, holidays, week days, weekend days, sick days, vacation days, any day for the rest of my life.  Because I am tired of playing yo-yo.  I don't ever want to gain weight again.  I don't want to make up for bad times.  I don't want to have bad times.

The first couple of days, I told myself that I had to eat that one cookie in the same manner that I make myself eat my daily orange, or my daily apple.  If eating one cookie would keep me from feeling deprived and be the answer to my problem, then I had to do it, right?

It's called "reverse psychology."  And, no, I'm not above using it on myself.

Somehow, having to eat a cookie changes up the dynamic in a big way.

I ate the one cookie I had to eat and didn't need to eat another like I had before.  I don't ever go and get a second orange right after I eat the first one.  I don't ever eat two apples at one go.  So, I need to feel that way about sweets, too--one is enough.  For me, because of the way I trip myself up, one may even be necessary or good for me in some weird way, but it is enough.

Another facet of not feeling deprived is that, once I have had one thing, if there is another sugary thing I could eat, it has to wait until the next day.  This ensures that I know I have a treat for the next day--not a bad psychological move, either.  This eliminates the need I seem to have to eat whatever treats are available in case I do not get another one for a long time. (I came from a family with eight kids.  If you didn't eat something when you had a chance, the chance could disappear.)

One of my kids asked me recently, "Mom, are you on a diet?"

It felt great to say, "No.  I don't diet anymore.  I just keep some rules."  No longer "dieting" has removed the temptation to eat all the sugar I want today because I won't be able to tomorrow.  I know I will have another treat tomorrow.  Because I've saved it for tomorrow.

Zero, or one, I told myself over and over, as needed.  In a day, I can have zero, or I can have one.  Never two.  This year, Christmas will simply mean that I just have a really big supply of treats.  If it takes me until March to eat them all, so be it. 

After several days of eating one treat and no more, I noticed that I didn't need it anymore.  I went a few days without sugar, knowing that I could have one thing if I had one thing to have.  And that the next time I had one sugary thing to eat, I could have it.

Pressure off.

Suddenly, I found that I was eating treats responsibly.  Sounds like an oxymoron to my former way of thinking, but, hey, if it works. . .

So, does it work?

This Easter came and went without me gaining any weight.  None at all.  Zippo.  Not an ounce.  And I have had sugar every day of the past three weeks.  Sounds as close to my dream world as I can probably get.

Truth be told, I haven't started on my Easter candy yet.  But that's because, on Easter, my husband made an amazing cheesecake/cake.  Fortunately, I had the foresight to ask him if there would be a dessert that day, and he said yes.  So, I didn't have any Easter candy.  Knowing I could eat all of it later without gaining any weight, though, I was able to put it aside.

On Easter and the two days following, my choice of sugar treat was to have one slice of that cake.  When that was gone, I turned to a box of candy that a friend had given me.  Small pieces of candy seem like bites to me, and I once heard that you could enjoy desserts if you only allowed yourself three bites.  So, having two or three pieces of candy made that box last over a week.  Would it have in the past?  Honestly, probably not.

Then, I had company over, so I made a cake.  My sugar treat for two days was a small piece of cake.

My Easter candy is still waiting for me.  It has not made me fat, because I haven't had any of it yet.  I have not been depriving myself of sugar, but allowing myself sugar almost daily.  Believe me, it feels different.  It feels like I am always in control, and it feels like I can always have whatever one thing I want each day.

When I want more than one thing, I remind myself, no, I had that, so I will save this one for tomorrow.  I decide: which one do I want most to have today?  And which will I skip or save?

Guess if I think this is worth it.  There's no more guilt over eating, ever.  No more pig-out days or days of deprivation.  No more worrying about whether I will be able to fit in an outfit, or about how I will look for upcoming events. The weight loss is slower, but more sure.  Over and above normal fluctuation, there are no more weight gains.  Would it be worth it to you?

Even my children are catching on and talking about what they will choose to have each day and what they will save to have another day.  Much better for them than gobbling it all up at once.

Once again, like so many other things I have struggled to get control of in my life, the answer turns out to be moderation, balance. 

When I start on my Easter candy, it will not make me fat.  It will stretch on and on, keeping me feeling happy and secure, but not adding weight, for days to come.  Because my needs and my wants are now balanced, I don't get out of whack with non-sugar days that make me feel deprived and way-too-much sugar days that make me gain weight.  Every day there is a small sacrifice, yes, but, every day, there is also a small sugary reward, and even bigger quality of life rewards.

That's a win-win if I ever heard of one.